Ghost Girl (53 page)

‘The police are looking for you.’ His mackintosh was ripped at the hem and stained with oil. His shoes were scuffed and the back of his hand was grazed. ‘Are you all right?’ He was not all right.

‘Now that I’m here.’ He faced her. Stella fixed on the poodle, which in turn was following David’s every move, ears pert, chest puffed.

‘They’re at her grave.’ David got up, his hands in his coat pockets. ‘Even in death she has set them on me.’

‘She’s dead,’ Stella said.

‘That won’t stop Jennifer. She knows how to press the right buttons. She’s got me. One mistake, Stella. I was a kid myself. We all make them. A fresh start, isn’t that your principle?’

‘Mary Thornton is dead.’ She could smell his aftershave – applied some time ago – combined with his own scent. She thought of what Jack had said and wondered if conversely it was possible to despise a man whose body odour and aftershave were compelling.

‘She walked out in front of the car. I had no chance.’ Abruptly he took Stella’s hands. ‘I can handle anything if you’re with me. I love you, Stella Darnell. Please don’t let Jennifer beat us. She wanted me to pay for my sin for the rest of my life.’

Stella took in the unshaven cheeks, straggling locks of hair and bright eyes. She pulled free of him and sat down. Instantly Stanley sprang on to her lap as if he was putting distance between him and David. She saw David notice it too.

‘You hardly know me.’ She might have known David all her life. The dog’s woolly coat was impregnated with his smell. She moved away and steadied the animal. Its little body was compact and solid.

‘I washed the car and got the dent knocked out in a garage in a place called Seaford, a good distance from Hammersmith. When I saw that article about your dad dying there, it – it took me back. I’d never heard of the place since.’

He scrutinized his palm as if expecting to find some answer there. ‘Until 15.47p.m. on Friday the sixth of May 1966 I was a good person. Each time you cleaned, you diminished Jennifer’s poison. Some people lose their faith when a loved one is taken. When she miscarried, it proved to her that God existed. It was an eye for an eye.

‘Jennifer gave me an alibi. I never asked her to. She told the police that I was at home all afternoon building a cot. The officer was sympathetic and crossed me off his list of grey-saloon owners in London and Surrey and that was that. Then, about a year ago, maybe more, your father knocked on the door and asked about my Wolseley. I knew he was on to me. The police didn’t know it was a Wolseley, they were looking for a grey saloon. Jennifer was ill by then. I said about the baby coming and needing a larger car. When I told him about my wife, he went away but I knew he wouldn’t give up. When I saw that article I realized he would not return. I wasn’t relieved, I promise you, Stella.’ He came and sat beside her.

Stella felt the dog lean into her and gave it a stroke. She did not believe him. Surely he was relieved. ‘Why did you ring Clean Slate?’

‘I told you. I wanted that fresh start you promise in the brochure. Tabula rasa. When you found the jacket I was stunned. Jennifer told me she’d burnt it, just as she told me we had been burgled. I will never forget what happened to that little boy, I visit his grave. That angel haunts my dreams. I did a bad thing, but how long must I pay?’

‘What happened to the Wolseley?’ Stella stuck to facts.

‘I waited a decent interval before selling it, then answered an ad for a Hillman Minx.’ He spoke as if in court.

‘Why did you put the picture in a frame on the wall? Didn’t you think I’d be suspicious?’

‘I loved that car, I want to go back to that carefree time. I thought that even if you did guess that you’d understand. And you do, don’t you, Stella? He moved closer. The dog gave a low grumble.

‘I know we all make mistakes, but—’ Stella did not understand.

‘I told Mrs Hunt from the Porphyrion Insurance, it was Jennifer who said: Why mess up more lives? I saw sense in that. Mrs Hunt agreed I had been punished enough. After you went to meet the woman at Dukes Meadows I started thinking. That woman didn’t believe me about the breakin. She looked at me like she knew me. All those visits, pushed by Jennifer, to check whether they’d caught the thieves. I saw the child by the kerb watching me. I knew she’d never forget my face. It was the face of the woman at the police station. It’s the eyes that do it. They don’t change.

‘My unborn daughter died a week after the accident. If she had lived she would be your age – not that you’re like a daughter, you make me feel eighteen again. You said I deserved a second chance.’

The kettle boiled. Holding the dog, mechanically Stella took the two mugs from the draining rack. Moments ago she had been impatient for Jack to return; now she dreaded him finding David Barlow here. She looked in the cupboard for tea bags. There were none.

‘There’s only instant coffee. I’ll go to the shop for tea.’ She kept her voice level.

‘Instant coffee is fine.’ Barlow moved towards her. The dog shrank into her as if it were frightened. Stella clutched it.

‘When you turned up, it was love at first sight.’

‘I only drink tea.’ Two days ago it would have been the word ‘love’ that scared her. ‘I won’t be long.’ She edged to the door.

‘Don’t go.’ He barred the door, hands outstretched, imploring. ‘You drink coffee. I know that, don’t I? We are like soul mates, you and me.’

Her thoughts were racing. She wanted Jack to come, but was frightened of what would happen if he did. Jack would not come. He was cross with her about Barlow. Stella tried to regulate her breathing to stop the dog sensing her tension. David must trust she would bring the tea or he would stop her leaving. No, they were not soul mates. That was not it.

He came towards her.

‘The wrath of God is being revealed from heaven against all the godlessness…’

The voice, strong and deep, resounded off the walls. Stella’s heart tumbled in her chest.

‘…and wickedness of men who suppress the truth by their wickedness.’

She had heard the voice before, by the Bell Steps when the river was filling. Then too she had been in trouble.

Barlow was at the back door. ‘Where’s the key?’

‘You’ll find it in the fork section of the cutlery drawer.’ Jack had come.

The dog barked sharply and pushed its hind legs against Stella, scrabbling towards David.

‘I will always love you,’ he mouthed. She went over and handed him his dog. He folded the poodle into an embrace. Their fingers clutched; his were warm. Stella let go and stepped away.

The kitchen door opened. Then she heard the sirens.

Epilogue

Friday, 11 May 2012

Mallingswood House was separated from the thirty-two acres that once formed part of its estate by King Street and the railway. At Barons Court the District and Piccadilly lines emerged from a tunnel and were carried along a viaduct over streets of Victorian terraces to pass above the remainder of this land which, for over a century, had belonged to the public and was called Ravenscourt Park.

The few in the park at nearly nine o’clock on an unseasonably cold May evening were hurrying to the exits. Tennis players clanged shut the gate to the courts and, rackets under their arms, sauntered into Glenthorne Road. A straggle of teenagers, raucous shouts and laughter clamouring across the lawns, cigarettes glowing in the dusk, spilled out on to King Street. Late commuters scurried along the darkening avenue of cherry trees to Ravenscourt Square or Goldhawk Road. Above them a District line train slid out of the station and, with a rising whine, gathered speed and clattered along the viaduct. Yellow light from its carriages, brighter in the massing twilight, illuminated a figure striding counter to the others between flower beds in which, in the failing light, reds and purples of windblown tulips were particularly vivid.

Stella should not be here. The park was closing. Jack had texted her to meet him under the third railway arch and, quelling misgivings, she had agreed.

Under the viaduct she stopped. His text had mentioned a slide. Beyond the geometric shapes of a climbing apparatus in the kids’ play area she distinguished a paddling pool and a sand pit. No slide. And no Jack. She was alone in a London park at nightfall. She should not have come.

To her left ran a path shaded by the viaduct and bushes. Insipid orange lamps on the railway bridge accentuated wedges of shadow. Reluctantly she went down it. The first arch was boarded up. A grille covered the next arch; through it she made out lawn mowers, a grass roller and other maintenance equipment. The third arch was enclosed with sagging corrugated iron leaving a semi-circular gap at the top. A crude door was padlocked. Stella heard a metallic thrum from within the arch. Frightened now, she clasped the bundle inside her anorak.

‘Stella! Is that you?’ A sibilant whisper echoed in the vaulted space.

‘Jack?’ Her heart fluttered. ‘Of course it’s me.’

‘Brilliant! Come on.’

‘It’s locked.’

‘No it’s not.’

Stella peered at the padlock. Jack had set the shackle shy of the fastener.

‘Come on!’

She dragged open the door. Its jagged edge scuttered along the concrete with a shriek of metal. She found herself in a cavernous chamber.

‘I’m here.’

‘Where?’

‘Here.’

‘Oh, for goodness sake, Jack!’ Gradually Stella became accustomed to the dark. She gasped and folded her hands over her chest. A tower of criss-crossing metal reached to the apex of the arch. Jack’s face was suspended above her.

‘How did you get up there?’

‘Sssssh!’ The sound bounced off the bricks.

It was the highest slide Stella had ever seen. The chute dropped steeply to level out inches from the concrete. Jack was huddled in the doorway of a half-timbered cottage with windows framed by painted roses.

‘It’s closing time.’ But she knew that wouldn’t work.

‘Have you ever been in a park at night after everyone has gone?’

‘No.’

There was a swooshing. Jack whisked down the slide, coat tails billowing, and skidded to a stop beside her, his legs flailing. ‘That was fan-tastic! Have a go. I’ll give up my turn.’

Stella eyed the structure. ‘That thing is not safe.’

‘I agree. It’s a death slide, a relic of the sixties. Next door there’s a massive roundabout which still works, but it’s impossible with one person. You’d need to be Batman to push it.’ Jack leapt up and scampered into the depths of the arch.

‘Superman.’ The thrumming was Jack climbing the slide; it shook with each step. ‘Why are we here?’ She adjusted the zip on her anorak.

His long legs floundered out of the doorway; feet splaying, he positioned himself. ‘This is where Mary and Michael Thornton played after school. They should have gone straight home for their tea.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Jackie told me.’

There were footsteps outside on the path. Jack scooted into the cottage and beckoned furiously to Stella through the little window.

A scrape of shoe leather, closer now. Stella crept around the slide. Her arm across her chest, she put her foot on the first rung of a metal ladder. It shook when she gave it her weight. She could not hurry or she would give them away. Designed for children, the treads were narrow, the handrails low, she could lose her balance and pitch over the side.

Stella clambered up the last two steps and collapsed on to the platform beside Jack. The footsteps were closer.

There was a long-drawn-out mewing sound.

‘Ssssh!’ Jack put up a hand.

‘It wasn’t me.’ Stella unzipped the top of her anorak. The dog’s head shot out and butted her chin. He gave another yawn, quieter this time.

Someone was outside. Jack and Stella stared at the animal. Its ears were pert, its nose twitching; it turned sharply towards the sound, its breathing rapid, working up to a bark.

The footsteps resumed, then receded.

‘What is he doing here? Cashman put him in the police pound.’ Jack and the dog regarded each other. Stella pulled the zip up to the poodle’s chin.

‘I’ve got him for the time being.’ Through the gap in the planks she contemplated the drop below.

‘How long is time being?’ Jack enquired.

‘For now. Go on with what you were saying.’ Stella had offered to take the dog on a whim. She would take each day as it came.

‘Jackie said that Michael got scared and caused a bottleneck. No one could go on the slide and the kids blamed Mary. Jackie said it wasn’t her fault, she was kind to her brother and took him with her down the slide.’

Stella appraised the steep silver chute and felt affinity with the little boy who, over forty years ago, had cowered on this precarious perch, scared and paralysed. The ladder was at a precipitous angle, almost vertical. She clung to the housing, unsure how she would get herself and the small dog down.

‘You were right,’ Jack said.

‘Was I?’

‘Barlow isn’t evil. Just weak and cowardly. I haven’t been supportive. Sorry.’ Jack had his back to her.

‘Cowardly is bad enough.’ Stella shuffled towards the opening. ‘And you were right, it’s more complicated than straight good and evil. David believed he had been punished enough. His wife never stopped reminding him of what she said was a sin. Maybe it was punishment, but David never confessed. He never gave the Thorntons closure. Robert Thornton sounds like a horrible man, but that didn’t make it OK.’

The slide had to be over twenty feet high. Since David Barlow’s arrest she had taken every shift going. When possible the dog came with her. Jackie had rung to say that she had received a cheque for David’s last deep-cleaning session. What should she do with it? Did they accept money from villains? David had posted it the day he killed Mary Thornton. Stella told her to donate the sum to the local hospice. Jack put in his statement that Barlow had not attempted to stop or take avoidance action. Mary had saved Jack’s life, her death would not be described as suicide. He had picked up speed. Barlow was charged with leaving the scene of an accident and reckless driving in two cases decades apart. Martin Cashman reckoned he would get less than five years with good behaviour. Stella told herself she didn’t care. Either way she would never see or hear from David Barlow again.