Ghost Girl (54 page)

‘Robert Thornton had wanted a son – or maybe any child that was his own. He wasn’t interested in his stepdaughter. The model was a landscape in which his son was alive. He treated me as his son.’

‘He attacked you.’

‘He wasn’t a well man. Mary saved me. He was bent on one thing – recreating a city where no one died. At least that’s my guess.’

Stella followed the progression of a bus along King Street beyond the gates. It passed Mallingswood House where, in the evenings after her work at the police station, Mary had been entrusted with the care of other people’s little boys. She had worked there, making their tea and putting them to bed for years until the school ran out of money and closed last December. She hoped the job had given Mary comfort. She had been about to lose another home. She was being forced to take over from her stepfather, now too frail to leave the house. She had only one way to escape.

‘I keep wondering why she wanted me to come to Dukes Meadows?’

‘Who knows? You taking a printout of the database and working behind her back was a betrayal.’ Jack had his back to her at the top of the slide. ‘Possibly she would have told you everything. She said she wanted your help.’

Stella let Stanley lick her hand; she had told him her face was forbidden. She had given him a bath but still caught David’s aftershave on his woolly coat.

Jack turned around. ‘Let it go, Detective Darnell. We solved another case!’

‘Terry solved it. We just caught up with him.’

‘No. If he had known about Marian – Myra – he would have acted. He trusted you would know his photographs were significant. We finished what he started. Come down the slide with me, it’s exciting with two. Or three.’

‘I’ll use the ladder.’ An ear-splitting rumble drowned her response and the sides of the make-believe cottage shook. Then there was stillness.

‘The 9.23 Upminster train’s on schedule.’ Jack knelt at the mouth of the slide.

‘Jack, you’ll fall!’ Stella snatched at his coat.

Jack crawled over to where she was crouching. ‘If you sit on the flat bit, I’ll hold you. I promise it’ll be fun.’

Fun. Was this what her mum had meant?

‘If we fall I could squash Stanley.’

Jack blinked. ‘Stanley?’

‘He’s named after… the point is it’s too risky.’ Stella arranged the dog within the folds of her anorak. Since collecting him from the pound, she had taken him everywhere.

Jack sat astride the flat end of the slide, flung back his coat tails and reached out to Stella. ‘Think of a pillion rider leaning into the turn on a motorbike.’ He brushed the sleeve of Stella’s anorak. ‘It’s all about trust.’

The dog struggled out of the top of her anorak, button-brown eyes fixed on her intently, his apricot fur defining him in the dim vaulted space. There were flecks of amber in his irises she hadn’t noticed before. His nose twitched; he caught a scent. Stella caught it too. Mulch spread around the bushes outside. His eyes flicked about her face as if reading her every thought. He trusted her. Stella scuffled to the door of the cottage and before she could change her mind took Jack’s hands and wriggled onto the slide. Jack shuffled along so that he was sitting behind her. Sure that the dog was secure, she gripped the sides of the slide, reassured by the cold metal. She felt Stanley settle heavily against her chest.

‘Shove up.’ Jack clasped her waist. ‘We’ll creep forward a bit at a time. Close your eyes if it helps.’ He was particularly cheerful. ‘We must give ourselves up, don’t try to control our speed. Trust it.’

He meant, ‘Trust me.’ Stella realized that she did trust Jack.

Jack shoved his heels against the lip of the opening and pushed. Bricks zipped past and Stella was flung against Jack. It was over. At the bottom Jack flung out his legs to prevent them tumbling sideways off the chute.

‘You were perfect,’ he whispered.

Stella got unsteadily to her feet. The dog was calm. It sensed nothing to be frightened of, no threat. No ghosts.

Jack couldn’t shut the padlock on the gate; it needed a key. ‘The keeper will assume it’s kids.’

‘He won’t be far wrong,’ Stella muttered.

She lowered Stanley to the ground and fixed his lead on to his collar. He walked beside her, close to her leg, eyes up to her. She told him he was a good boy.

‘He looks rather like you – the way he sniffs the air.’ Jack was strolling along as if they were on a Sunday outing. ‘Your voice puts a prance in his step.’

He led them all along the avenue of cherry trees, past the tennis courts, the nets like suspended white lines in the dusk. They came to two stone pillars supporting a gate. Stella was relieved to see that the geometric design made it tantamount to a climbing frame. She handed the lead to Jack and shakily inserted her boot above the locking mechanism. She hauled herself up and over.

She had been in a park after closing time. One morning, before dawn, Terry had taken her to collect the first crop of conkers from St Peter’s Square.

‘
Put your jeans on over your pyjamas. Here, wear my jumper. That’s it. Do up
your shoelaces good and tight. We won’t talk until we’re clear of the house. Keep close by me
.’

Her dad had helped her over the gate. Stella crossed the road and the memory, like the coil of mist on Marquis Way, wisped to nothing.

Ravenscourt Gardens School

Head: Mrs Nelson BA (Hons), Dip. Ed.

The notice, behind a mesh fence, stood in a flower bed of pansies and daffodils.

‘Mary Thornton ran away from here in May 1966. Jackie went to this school. Funny that, isn’t it?’ Jack joined her by the fence.

‘I know. I was here for a year before Mum left Terry.’ Stella had a recollection of a woman who put her in mind of an animal. Or a bird? She jerked Stanley away from a sandwich wrapper by the school gate.

‘Jackie felt guilty she didn’t do more for Mary,’ she said.

‘Mary didn’t sound easy. Douglas Ford never forgot her stealing his cards. Jackie was kind to her, he told me.’ Jack gripped the fence, hands above his head. ‘Could Mrs Thornton have guessed what her husband was doing?’

‘We thought it was Hindley’s death that precipitated her suicide. Maybe it was, but she could have found out that James Markham had died. She probably guessed. He was going out at night; she must have wondered what he was doing.’

Under the bridge, the roundel sign for Ravenscourt Park station sent a bluish haze over the pavement. The two Thornton children might have been nervous of starting at another school. Stella had wanted to run away from her new school in Barons Court. Leading Stanley, Stella drifted towards the Underground.

She had found notes in Lucille May’s file about how the little girl boarded a train here. PC Terence Darnell found her under the flyover at Hammersmith Broadway and brought her home. Days later he went back to the house in British Grove to tell the Thorntons their son was dead. Terry had wanted to make a difference. He treated everything as important; he forgot nothing. Anxious to hold on to the information she had collected, May had kept from them that Michael had a sister, but she knew she would never write the book. She was stuck in the house in British Grove, sharing it with ghosts of her own making. She had given Jack the file; she must have wanted to be helped. Terry might have helped her, but he died.

Stella waited for Jack to catch up. With Stanley on one side and Jack on the other, she walked back to the van in Weltje Road.

‘Mary collected cards and marbles.’ Jack snapped in his seat belt. ‘Collecting objects is a way to quantify life.’

Stella lifted Stanley up and planted him on Jack’s lap. ‘Like spreadsheets.’ She glanced at him. ‘I’m getting a seat fitted in the back so I can belt him in. In a collision, even a box of tissues flying off the back shelf could kill you.’ She drove out on to King Street.

Jack held Stanley tightly as if he were a source of mortal danger.

Outside Mallingswood House a little girl was jumping on and off the plinth of the drinking fountain. Crazily Stella pictured herself, leaping towards Terry, sure he would catch her.

‘We never found out what happened to the angel’s hands,’ Jack said.

Stella braked at the zebra crossing outside the post office for a woman with a spaniel that refused to walk to heel. She noticed dogs now. Since David’s arrest she kept meeting people with dogs, in the street and in the park. Jackie once said that having a dog was like having a child: they brought people together. Stella wasn’t keen to be brought together with anyone. Terry struck up conversations with strangers. As you got older you were meant to get more like your parents. Jack was talking.

‘…Mary was attached to Michael, but Jackie thought she was jealous of him too. Michael had a father who loved him. She couldn’t kill her stepfather, but she could damage the angel he erected for his son.’

‘She would have buried them.’ Stella was suddenly certain.

‘What?’

‘The hands. I think she buried them. Stanley buried his bear in the flower bed at Terry’s.’ Stella glanced across at the dog. Curled up in a ball, in the dark he was a pale blob against Jack’s coat. ‘The glass wasn’t put there by the killer, it was Mary’s private mark of respect.’ Stella was surprised at herself. She had hardly known the police administrator. ‘She couldn’t confess to Terry, so the glass was a clue.’

‘You could be a detective! We should check the grave.’

‘I’m not digging up Michael Thornton’s grave.’

‘Of course not, but I think we’ll find the hands nearby. Stanley might,’ he added brightly.

‘We must return the glass.’ Stella had given the bags to Martin Cashman. She slowed for a bus at Young’s Corner. ‘I’ll ask if we can have them when the case is closed.’

‘Six bags for each driver and one for Michael. The glass has done its job and must go back to Michael.’ Jack nodded approval. ‘Drop me here, I’ll walk the rest.’

‘You could come back to Terry’s house for supper. There’s shepherd’s pie.’ The bus veered away; she pulled into its space. She would not ask where he was going.

‘Your house you mean,’ Jack corrected her. ‘Terry left it to you. It’s not his any more.’

The screen in the dashboard lit up. Jackie’s name appeared. Stella pressed the ‘phone’ button. Jack was stroking Stanley. She was gratified that he was making no move to get out.

‘Stella, we’ve had a letter about a parking ticket. We didn’t pay in time so owe the full amount.’ Jackie’s voice came through the speakers.

‘It’s a mistake.’

‘It was issued in the street where Suzie lives. Could be coincidence.’ Jackie paused.

‘I never get tickets,’ Stella said.

Jack leant over. She breathed in the particular smell of the washing powder he used. He was rummaging in the map compartment behind the steering wheel.

‘It’s the number plate for the van you drive, the one with no logo.’

Jack was holding up a plastic bag. Instead of green glass she saw a parking ticket. The morning she found it on the windscreen was abruptly vivid. The day she had refused to give her mum the job.

‘It’s OK, Jackie. I’ll pay it.’

‘Leave it with me.’ Jackie could have been there with them, her voice was so close. It seemed a long time since Stella had seen Jackie, longer still since they had chatted over Rich Tea biscuits.

‘I’ll be in first thing Monday,’ Stella confirmed. ‘After the police station.’

‘If you have things to sort out, we’re fine. Your mum’s updated the database, designed reports that are easy to understand and yesterday she got us a new client!’

‘I’ll be there.’

‘Then it will be lovely to see you.’ Jackie hung up.

‘Why are you going to the station?’ Jack asked. ‘It’s not a cleaning day.’

‘To return something.’ She couldn’t say the ‘something’ was the green form. David had not admitted he had killed Michael. ‘I have to give Cashman the green form I stole,’ she made herself say. ‘I’ll let you out here.’

‘Aren’t we having shepherd’s pie?’ Jack was playing with Stanley’s ears.

‘If you like.’ Stella slipped the ticket into her anorak pocket.

‘We need milk and you’ve run out of tea bags. I’ll pop into that shop. I could get us a nice bottle of wine and maybe chocolates for afters.’

‘I have to clean Terry’s house tomorrow.’

‘OK, your call,’ Jack replied cheerily.

Stella watched Jack Harmon jog up to the lights. Although there was no traffic in either direction, he waited for the pedestrian signal. He crossed the road and went into the grocery.

A 27 bus drew up outside what, in the sixties, had been a hardware shop, with a light bulb screwed to the counter for testing batteries. A middle-aged man alighted and went into St Peter’s Square. He was too short to be Terry. He walked like him, brisk with head up, missing nothing.

Terry was dead. Stella felt the truth of this. When they arrived at the house where Terry had lived for over forty years, she would not find him there. She would not find her dad in a park early on an autumn morning when the gates were closed. She would not find him anywhere. The house in Rose Gardens North was her house now.

Ahead of her was a beech tree with a spindly trunk, perhaps a couple of years old. In her nearside mirror was a sweet chestnut. She could put her arms around the trunk. It replaced the tree blown down in the 1987 hurricane, another sweet chestnut. Mary Thornton collected trees; she might have noticed it on her walks home with her brother. It was spring then, the leaves as green and new as they were now.

The road where Michael Thornton had died three months before she was born in 1966 had been resurfaced many times. There was no ghostly shape in the sand. No sign of the terrible event that had happened here or of what came after.

She grabbed her phone and pressed a well-worn key. The call was answered without ringing.

‘Jack, it’s me. Stella. Buy some wine. Choose one you like. They sell chocolates too. And find a treat for Stanley.’

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