Ghost Girl (15 page)

The old man was tightening the nets in the tennis courts; he must trust Jack.

The blade was sharp. Jack caught it on his thumb and broke the skin. A bead of bright red blood welled up.

A key scratched in the lock of the door at the other end of the passage.

17

Wednesday, 25 April 2012

Stella clasped the brass knocker – an owl with a puffed chest and a cross expression – and rapped it on the strike plate three times. The reverberation died away. Most people would resent a caller at six in the morning. Jack was not ‘most people’.

She confirmed there was no one on the pavement and against her better judgement raised the letterbox and looked in. A draught of cold air greeted her. She gave a succession of dog-like sniffs: beeswax furniture polish and soap. It might be early, but she didn’t think Jack was there.

Her mobile phone was ringing. Jackie.

‘You’re up?’ Stella was glad she had rung; the world was turning as it should. She returned to the road, reluctant for Jackie to know she was outside Jack’s house because then she would ask why and Stella, unable to lie to her, would have to explain about the blue folder, and then – going into ‘lame-duck’ mode – Jackie would say it was grief for her dad and offer to help Stella clear his house.

‘Beverly diverted the calls to me instead of the answer machine. I was woken by a new client demanding a job urgently. She’s not properly new; it’s that Mrs Hampson. Ring a bell?’

‘The one who sacked us for using bleach instead of tea tree?’ Such a woman would ring at all hours although this was a new record.

Stella had parked the van outside Terry’s house. Phone in one hand, she unlocked the door and got in to avoid waking up the street.

‘That’s her. She made no mention of it, but I had a feeling so plugged her into the new database and three years ago there she was!’

‘Did you refuse?’

‘I was cagey but warm and no, I didn’t.’

‘We don’t want a customer who tells us how to clean.’ Stella was nettled. Mrs Hampson had been no loss.

‘Blimey, Stell, then we don’t want customers! Mrs Hampson was the woman whose husband was killed. You can go weird when someone dies.’ Jackie added quietly: ‘I said we’d find her someone appropriate.’

‘Does that someone exist?’ Stella generally appreciated Jackie’s ‘can do’ approach; saying ‘yes’ when Stella wanted to say ‘no’ had meant that in a recession Clean Slate was gaining clients.

‘Shelley takes no prisoners, but her hands are full with her mum and that nursing home. Wendy has no more hours in her life and while Donette would be perfect she’s on the police job and there’s her grandchildren. I thought Jack Harmon.’

Stella closed her eyes. Everyone wanted Jack. Where was he? Last night he had said nothing about being away. ‘I’ll do it,’ she decided. ‘When does she want it?’

‘Today, but thanks to me, you’re lumbered with that peculiar deep-cleaning work for Mr Barlow in Aldensley Road. Stella, you are the boss. Someone has to steer the ship, you’re doing a lot of clean—’

‘It’s not peculiar,’ Stella snapped. A lot of cleaning was how she liked it.

‘Speaking of the police, their admin woman rang. No grass grows there. She’s sent the contract and wants it signed yesterday.’

‘I’ll call Jack about Mrs Hampson.’

‘I have. He’s going in this afternoon. I’m calling you because I thought it would get your day off to a good start knowing this.’

‘Did he answer?’

‘Of course he did.’

*

Stella was driving past the petrol station on King Street when she noticed again that the petrol gauge was on empty. She was due at the police station in twenty minutes: she risked being late. She pulled on to the forecourt.

In her haste she pressed the option to pay in the shop instead of at the pump. There was no one else about, so at least there would be no queue. She squeezed the handle on the nozzle, leaning away to avoid the fumes when diesel spurted into the tank. She urged the numbers on the pump to roll around faster.

An orange Ford Fiesta drew up on the other side of the pump island while Stella was replacing the fuel cap. Horrible colour, she thought fleetingly as she ran into the shop.

There was no one on the till. She dumped her bag loudly on to the counter and jumped when a shadow fell across the rack of chocolate beside her. She turned in time to see a man, balding with strands of flyaway hair, by the snacks section, pulling apart a box that had contained crisps. He looked vaguely familiar, but a lot of men looked like him. Nondescript.

‘Just petrol?’ He spoke so quietly that had she not guessed what he must have said, she would not have got it.

‘I’m in a hurry.’ Stella’s purse was not in the usual compartment in her rucksack. She looked up to apologize. The man had vanished. He reappeared by the till as if in a magic act and, leaning forward as if shackled, switched on the till with a key attached to a plastic coil around his neck.

‘Take your time, it will be there,’ he said helpfully.

‘I always have it on me.’ Stella shook the rucksack and plunged her hand into the pockets again. No purse. It was on the dining table in her flat. Last night she had cleared out her receipts and shredded stuff she didn’t need. So much for efficiency.

‘Stella! Can I help?’

Stella wheeled around. Clean-shaven, dark glasses, immaculate hair swept back from proverbially chiselled features. In his lounge, overtaken by the opportunity to deep clean, Stella had not properly appreciated how good-looking David Barlow was even so early in the morning.

‘Oh hello,’ she said. ‘I’ve forgotten my purse and—’

‘Do let me.’ He opened a wallet bristling with plastic cards and approached the till.

‘No, really…’ Stella began.

‘That won’t be necessary, sir.’ The man was chalk-white and beads of moisture pricked his forehead. He stared at the sweets stacked in front of the counter.

‘Are you all right?’ Stella tried to dredge up her first-aid training. She glanced behind her, but other than David, there was no one in the shop.

The man nodded. ‘You can charge it to your account.’ He addressed the Twix bars.

‘I don’t have an account.’

‘You do.’

‘If she says she doesn’t—’ David Barlow interjected pleasantly.

‘Jacqueline Makepeace opened one for Clean Slate six months ago.’ He blinked quickly at Stella.

‘There must be a mistake. How do you know where I work?’

‘I’m happy to cover this lady’s costs. She can confirm later if there is an account with her office.’ David Barlow had a credit card in his hand.

The attendant looked at Stella. ‘Your company name is on your van.’ He might have been imparting a secret. Rapidly he tapped at the till. A receipt ground out of the top, he tore it off and passed it to Stella. ‘Jackie will tell you.’

‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Stella made a mental note to use the newest van in the fleet, still plain white; Jackie wouldn’t approve, but she didn’t need people knowing her business. Literally. She needed to get on, but after his kindness, thought she’d better wait for David Barlow. ‘Thank you,’ she said when he joined her outside by the logs and throwaway barbeques.

‘It was nothing. Man’s a nervous wreck – drinker probably. His hands were shaking when he took my card. He could have taken your details, account or not. It happened to my wife; she hates – hated to fall foul of the law.’ He looked at her over the top of his sunglasses. ‘Do at least let me buy you a coffee – or breakfast?’

The yellow wool scarf knotted around his collar complemented the soft brown leather of his jacket. David Barlow had an air of precision; he would not forget his wallet.

‘I’m late for work.’ She was surprised to note a twinge of regret.

‘Since I retired, I forget others have jobs to go to! A drink one evening perhaps? Or if you don’t mix business—’

‘It would be a pleasure.’ Stella was startled by a horn. The forecourt was busy; a car was queuing for the pump.

‘Tomorrow night? There’s a pub by the river – oh, I’ll see you later today!’

As she drove off the forecourt Stella tried to corral a swoop of worries. The point of Clean Slate’s details being on the vans was to be noticed, yet Stella was uneasy when they did. She had agreed to dinner with a client she didn’t know, who must after all be trawling for a new wife. Jackie had dubbed the job ‘peculiar’ and she was never wrong. Barlow had retired early; he could do his own cleaning. In her rear mirror she saw David Barlow getting into the orange Ford Fiesta. Out of Stella’s concerns, the colour of his car disturbed her the most.

Stella had forgotten she kept her watch three minutes fast, a trick of Terry’s, so when she parked in the station compound she was bang on time. Metres away stood Wendy, Clean Slate’s first recruit, now in her fifties, and Donette who, though tall like Stella, seemed small beside a huge horse in Metropolitan livery being led out from the stables.

By the time she had helped carry the cleaning gear into the station Stella had decided she would tell David Barlow she was busy so couldn’t meet him. He had caught her on the hop; she should not have accepted.

She trundled her cleaning trolley to the door of what was once Terry’s office and out of the blue recalled Suzie’s request for Jack to clean. Her mum would need a reliable cleaner. Martin Cashman’s name was on the door. Hardly a surprise, yet she was taken aback. Staring at it, Stella admitted that around her mum she wasn’t reliable. She cancelled her if another job came up. Jackie was right: Jack was reliable. He would handle the difficult Amanda Hampson and he would handle Suzie.

Despite the nameplate, when Stella pushed open the office door it was Detective Chief Superintendent Darnell that she expected to see.

18

Monday, 2 May 1966

Voices crackled on the car radio; the words were mangled and made no sense. Mary gazed out of the window at street after street that she did not know. The policewoman in front was talking into a thing on a telephone cord. Mary caught ‘foxtrot’. It was about Br’er Fox. She was stunned. Instead of Michael, Br’er Fox was going to eat her.

‘…we’re… Mary Thornton… to the parents… in Hammersmith. Arriving now…’

Mary’s eyes smarted; she was not going to die. The police car swung off the main road and she saw the sign for the new street: British Grove.

The policewoman pulled her out of the car. Mary’s satchel fell into the gutter, the strap around her ankle. She banged her head on the door, but acted like she hadn’t. The nice policeman who had given her a biscuit and orange juice was walking up the path.

‘Police Constable Terry Darnell, I’m happy to report that this little one’s as right as rain…’

Her mum hugged her so tightly she was lifted up and reached the house without moving her feet. She watched from the living room to see the nice man wave. He had told her his wife was having a baby. He would be a dad like her dad. He said he would be very sad indeed if it was a little girl and she ran away from him. Mary didn’t say that her dad liked boys best, that he wasn’t really her dad or that she wouldn’t run away from the nice policeman. No one called her little – that was Michael. She wished they did.

Mary gave a tiny wave when the police car moved off, but he was talking to the policewoman and didn’t see.

She discovered that she was not in trouble. She and Michael had beans on toast and a glass of milk for tea and her dad behaved as if they had both come home from school. Her mum watched them eat like she used to in the old house. Everything was back to normal.

Mary was three years older than Michael and since coming to the new house her bedtime had been promoted to eight o’clock, an hour later than his – a source of triumph for Mary and dismay for Michael. That evening neither child commented when they were put to bed at seven.

Mary submitted to the routine of washing, burrowing into her nightdress, cleaning her teeth and kissing goodnight. The point when Jean Thornton shut the door would be a signal for Mary to switch on her torch and read under the covers. Tonight she lay stiff as a board, staring at a spear of moonlight on the ceiling.

After a while, she could not have said how long, she saw her bedroom door handle turn and the door jerked open.

Michael was on the landing, hair sticking up, his pyjama jacket collar half turned in with one trouser leg bunched up. He waited until Mary struggled up to sit with her knees under her chin and then scampered into the room. He stopped and, returning to the door, shut it carefully without letting the latch click. He launched himself on to her bed. The springs groaned under his weight and something under his jacket rustled.

‘I brought you this,’ he confided in a hoarse whisper.

His sister did not move.

‘Mrs Berry gave it to me.’ He pulled out a bar of Cadbury’s milk chocolate from his pyjama jacket with the flourish of a hankie from a hat. It had been opened and the foil was folded inadequately over the exposed chocolate. ‘Because I was very good when Mummy and Daddy were with the police. She told me not to give any to you. I have to have it all to myself because it’s mine.’ This information was uttered in a rasping hiss. Mary leant closer to catch it. ‘She made me have some of it with her looking.’

‘Who is Mrs Berry?’ Mary forgot to talk quietly.

‘She’s our new naay-bore.’ Michael pronounced the word with some pride.

‘Why can’t I have any?’ Mary already hated Mrs Berry. She aimed her torch at Michael.

‘Because of what you did.’ He sounded uncertain of the facts and brandished the bar under her nose. ‘I said I would save it for later. That was a good trick.’ He beamed.

‘Why did you say that? You never save things.’

‘So that you could have some. We always share and I would have told her, but I don’t think she would of let me keep it if I had of.’ He pivoted the bar on his sister’s knees; it see-sawed when he shuffled up the bed to her.

Mary took the bar and sat cross-legged beside Michael. She peeled back the foil. The chocolate had softened from being next to his skin. She tore off a soft segment, covering her fingers with chocolate, and handed it back to Michael. ‘Don’t get it on your pyjamas.’ She ripped off a smaller bit for herself.