Ghost Girl (11 page)

When Stella reached the office the door was open. A man was balancing on his haunches fiddling with the lock.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Stand back with your hands above your head. The police are on their way.’ Stella backed away from the door. She had frightened herself.

The man flung himself to the floor, his arms over his head, his hands over his ears. In the brief quiet Stella became aware of a mewing sound. It was the man.

‘What on earth is going on?’ Jackie appeared, holding a tray of tea things. Stella jumped. Jackie just kept her grasp of the tray.

‘I’ve caught a burglar.’ Even as she said the words Stella had a creeping suspicion this was nonsense.

‘Duggie has put in a new door. The lock broke. I couldn’t make my key turn. So I took the opportunity. The freeholders have agreed.’

Stella watched the man get to his feet. She guessed he was one of what she dubbed Jackie’s lame ducks. If Jackie had no problems of her own she solved other people’s. She and her husband Graham often had waifs and strays staying or popping in for supper – friends of their sons, a school friend of Jackie’s whose husband had died – and every Saturday Jackie shopped for three old people. Stella did not understand how she found the time.

The man pushed back thinning grey hair with both hands and began screwing a mechanism into the side of the new door. Stella muttered an apology as she stepped past. After David Barlow she had burglars on the brain.

As she dumped her briefcase on the floor by her office door and paused to leaf through today’s post, Stella considered that she herself might count as a lame duck or stray.

‘It does mean that if someone comes in off the street, they’ll keep going up the stairs.’ Jackie nodded at Stella. ‘Duggie will make this place a fortress.’

Stella had requested – in person, in emails and on laminated notices – that the insurance company above keep the street door locked to ward off casual callers. Her requests were ignored. A stream of deliveries came and went from Keyhole Securities and, not having an intercom, their staff did not want the bother of the two flights of stairs. Instead the leather-clad and helmeted couriers bothered Clean Slate. Lying awake at night, Stella worried over the likelihood of a burglary.

‘I’ll call off the police, shall I?’ Jackie indicated the phone, eyebrows raised.

‘That was just to frighten him.’ Stella looked out of the window. It was eight o’clock in the morning and Shepherd’s Bush Green was log-jammed. It was not helped by a slow-moving street-cleaning vehicle. Through the ill-fitting sash, she distinguished the hiss of the water spray, an unsettling sound that made her think of
Doctor Who
.

‘Speaking of police, did you ring Hammersmith Police Station?’

Slatted sunlight through the Venetian blinds warmed Stella’s face. She thought of David Barlow’s conservatory. She would rather be cleaning there than reading through the proposal for the new database.

‘That nice policeman rang again.’

Stella’s attention was caught by staff contact forms on Beverly’s desk awaiting scanning for the database. Jack Harmon’s was on the top. Jack had walked into the office early one morning when the downstairs door was open. He had typical left-hander’s writing, slanting backwards. Had Stella seen his application without meeting him it might have hit the reject pile. But in January last year, after Terry’s sudden death, she hadn’t been with it. Not that she regretted her decision: Jack was her best cleaner. He was more than that, she admitted. He had helped her solve the Rokesmith murder and refused credit for it. Stella had known Jack for over a year but actually didn’t know him at all. Yet she wanted him to work with her on another case. Somehow she trusted him.

‘Calling Stella?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Martin Cashman has left two messages. Beverly did say. Wasn’t he the bloke who was kind when Terry died?’

Stella must phone Jack. ‘I’ll call him.’ She picked up the form looking for Jack’s number. Jackie gently took it from her.

‘It’s ringing.’ She handed her the phone.

Stella had not spoken to Detective Superintendent Martin Cashman since Terry’s funeral. It would be about Terry; she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. ‘

‘Cashman.’ The voice was businesslike and not for the first time Martin Cashman, who was about the same age as Stella, reminded her of her father. Recently everyone was reminding her of Terry; he was haunting her. Again she thought of David Barlow, although he was actually nothing like her father. Younger, for a start.

‘Stella Darnell. You called me?’ Stella caught Jackie frowning. ‘How are you?’ She tried for more warmth.

‘Hey! Stella, great stuff. How are you?’

Detective Inspector Cashman had been promoted to Terry Darnell’s post of Detective Chief Superintendent at Hammersmith Police Station after Terry retired. Obliquely and without logic, Stella viewed him as having usurped her dad.

‘You left a message.’ She caught Jackie’s eye. ‘Fine, how are you?’

‘Ageing by the minute. Crock of the Walk, that’s me!’ The microphone picked up Cashman’s breathing. Like Terry he sounded fresh from jogging, which would not be the case. ‘I want your company.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I’ve terminated our contract with the cowboys we were using. They went through every office leaving the dust intact.’ He laughed uproariously, then was conspiratorial. ‘I’ve had the go-ahead from the powers that be to commission direct. Clean Slate ticks all the boxes. No one else in the frame. We want you to clean the station.’

When she was fifteen Stella decided to give the police a wide berth. Her dad, overtaken by the Rokesmith murder, saw little of his teenaged daughter and she blamed the police. If Jackie had not been monitoring her call, Stella might have refused the job. But Jackie was right, Cashman had been kind after her dad’s death and it was not in Stella’s nature to turn down work.

A Mrs Marian Williams, Cashman’s civilian administrator, would email Jackie the details. Stella agreed to start the next morning at six with three shifts a week.

Jackie poured hot water from the kettle next to the photocopier into four ‘Clean Slate’ mugs. ‘You’ll need at least three operatives.’

‘I’ll do it.’ Stella was unwrapping the Rich Tea biscuits.

‘Ask Jack.’ Jackie fished out the tea bags, squeezed them and dropped them into a plastic takeaway tub. She added milk to each mug – more in Stella’s.

Clean Slate always had a staffing crisis – the work exceeded those available to do it and Jackie always found a solution. Since last year, her solution had been Jack Harmon.

‘He’s driving a late-night train.’ Stella congratulated herself on her prompt and plausible objection. Then she wondered why she had objected. She didn’t want to clean the station; there, more even than in his house, Terry would be hovering, highlighting her mistakes. Yet she had an objection. What little she did know about Jack warned her to think twice about letting him loose in a police station.

Beverly, the admin assistant, arrived and, ignoring the pile of work on her desk, settled down with her mug of tea. The day got under way.

Stella was still at her desk at six-thirty that evening when her mobile phone rang. She snatched it up, thinking of Jack; she had not phoned him.

‘I want a cleaner.’ Her mum had rung Clean Slate forgetting it was Stella’s company.

‘Mum, it’s me. Stella. Don’t worry. You’re confused.’

‘I’m not worried or confused. I want a cleaner. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Clean?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘When can he start?’

‘Who?’

‘Jack.’ Recently Suzie had been forgetful; it astounded Stella that she had total recall about a man she had met once.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘He did a super job last time. He got everywhere.’

There was no point in Stella saying that it had been she who had cleaned that evening because if it had been Jack he would have done a better job. She couldn’t remember why she hadn’t wanted him to go there and now, distracted by an email, this time she agreed.

As she was driving past Marks and Spencer’s on King Street Stella saw the witness appeal notice again and thought of the boy who had died there the day before. Joel Evans; she even remembered his name. It had rained heavily since then and the sandy stain on the camber had washed away.

11

Wednesday, 27 April 1966

Mary made a grab for the chain and pulled with all her might. Water thundered around the toilet bowl. She shrank back against the door, horrified by the crumpled lavatory paper dashing around and around. The water was rising and coming closer to the lavatory lid. The paper was still there. She shut her eyes and, her lips working rapidly, prayed to be saved. Her prayer was answered. With a hideous gurgle the water drained away and Mary pattered forward; she was relieved to see that the paper had disappeared. A new panic arose. Playtime was over. She was late.

She pulled at the bolt but it was stuck fast. She used both hands but could not get a grip; the sharp metal cut into her skin. She cast around the tiny cubicle for something to knock the bolt with but there wasn’t even a toilet brush like at home. The thought of home made things worse. She had no home.

The water was coming back. Mary shut her eyes and opened them. She was making it up. No, it was higher. It would stop, Mary told herself. It must stop. It was creeping to the top and not stopping. Mesmerized she fixed on the toilet as if she could work a spell. The words ‘Armitage Shanks’ were under water, the letters waving. The water was moving as if someone was stirring it with a giant spoon. It was getting closer and she couldn’t swim.

Mary reached up to pull the chain again, but then thought better of it because it would make more water. Her stomach churned. She teased Michael about his terror of falling down the toilet; now it was happening to her. She pulled and tugged and pushed on the bolt but it didn’t budge.

She heard a sound that chilled the heat in her cheeks. Liquid was spilling on to the tiles. It welled up to the rim of the toilet and seeped through the gap between the bowl and the seat. It took its time and gradually a puddle collected in a dip in the tiles and imperceptibly lapped towards her feet. Mary was helpless and when it touched the toes of her sandals could only stand on tiptoe, her back against the door.

‘Help! Get me out of here. I’m trapped. He-lp!’ Her shouts escalated to a scream.

Unlike Mary the water could escape. It flowed smoothly under the door like a snake going about its business. The toilet paper she had used when she peed floated out of the bowl and slopped down, soggy and twisted, one end like a fishtail in the gentle current. It shamed her.

The sibilant sounds of the cistern began as a whisper and then built in intensity.

‘I’m stuck!’ Her cries subsided and, defeated, she watched the veil of water slide over the rim.

Mary’s trance-like state was shattered by a hooter. She covered her head with her hands; the water was washing around her ankles.

Shouts from the playground. She had forgotten about the fire drill. First thing that morning, their teacher – Mary still did not know her name – had told the class that after playtime an alarm would sound and instead of filing back to the classroom, they must ‘congregate’ in the Sunken Garden for the register.

She heard guns and cannons; the booms and cracks were coming this way. If they peeped under the door they would see her sandals: she could not stand on the toilet. An explosion made her jump. Someone was thumping on the door.

‘Mary Thornton?’

She screwed up her eyes and didn’t answer.

‘Who’s in there?

‘Me,’ she admitted in a small voice.

‘Come out now!’ the voice ordered.

Mary grasped the bolt. It slid aside. Miss Crane, the headmistress, stood by the roller towel, water creeping towards her shoes.

‘So this is where you are hiding.’ She made a sweeping motion with her hand. Mary slunk out of the cubicle, treading through the welling tide.

‘I wasn’t hid—’

‘This is disappointing, Mary. The fire drill means we all do as we are told. You are the only one who has not. What if there had been a fire?’

‘I couldn’t get out.’ Mary spun around, splattering the woman’s tights. Water had reached the sinks and was stealing under the doors of the other cubicles. ‘I would have burnt alive,’ she said.

‘Don’t be rude.’ Miss Crane ushered her towards the door. ‘What a story. No trouble getting out when I called, I see!’

‘It’s not a story! It happened.’

‘Please don’t answer back.’ Miss Crane propelled Mary with a hand on the back of her neck. ‘Given that you are new, I’ll draw a line under this incident.’

Mary shrugged the hand away. ‘It happened.’

‘Everyone has been looking for you, wasting their time while you were hiding.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘What did I say about answering back?’ She made an arch with her arm by the door. ‘You have caused enough trouble. Go on back to your class.’

‘You’re answering me back.’ People had to answer if someone spoke. Mary stood immobile on the puddling floor.

‘That’s enough!’

Miss Crane yanked her around and swooped close with peppermint breath. ‘If it wasn’t for your sweet brother, I might consider asking your mummy and daddy to remove you. This is not a school for liars.’

I am not a liar!

The scene was in Technicolor. Mary grabbed at the bun and got a chunk of grey hair in her fist. She hauled Miss Crane to the overflowing toilet – the wet floor made it easy. Her legs stuck out of the cubicle like a doll’s. Mary jammed Miss Crane’s head into the toilet and pressed hard into her neck, keeping out of the way of the kicking doll’s legs. She stuffed toilet paper around the doll’s head and pulled the chain. Miss Crane was flushed away.

‘Blimey, what’s gone on here?’ Mary recognized the man with the mop. ‘I should have brought me rubber ring!’

‘I’m afraid we’ve had a flood.’ Miss Crane kept her hand on Mary’s neck.

‘The stopcock’ll have gone. I said they all need doing. ’Fraid these will be out of order for the rest of the day.’