The Detective's Daughter (34 page)

‘I don’t like to think of you stranded, unable to get out. Have you enough food?’

‘I’m fine. Stop worrying.’

Sarah went around the screen and washed up the cups. When she came back Antony had gone. The bunch of flowers was on the table next to the sculpture. She checked the cloth and was sure it had not moved. As usual there was no message on the flowers but she presumed they were for her. She would have to ring him and ask, and then be suitably grateful; he would be upset if she did not thank him.

Later that afternoon, Sarah called her brother before she could change her mind. The crabby Mrs Willard knew her voice but as usual asked for her name and was only marginally more polite when Sarah told her. She was possessive of Antony and resented any attentions he paid his younger sister. Today was his day off, she reminded Sarah, and Antony had gone to the country. She suggested Sarah keep the flowers, doubtless they were for her.

Sarah chucked the flowers into the dustbin. As she did, so she saw the screwed-up cleaning flier on top of snips of wire and floor sweepings. Still in what she called ‘doing mode’, she rang and asked for Stella Darnell. The nice person who answered – she called herself Jackie – said Stella was out all day but booked an appointment for Ms Darnell to come that evening to scope the job. It sounded rather too official, but Sarah agreed. She was also told to expect a polite young man called Mr Harmon who, should she sign a contract, would be doing the work. Sarah was reassured: it sounded like Clean Slate took trouble.

She was about to start work when she remembered the flowers. It was no use; she took them out of the bin – chrysanthemums, her least favourite – and deposited them in a jug she had made for her mother. Putting it on the window sill, Sarah wished again that Antony would find a more willing recipient of such gifts and stifled the fear that she was the only woman he cared about.

This notion, although uncomfortable, was more palatable to Sarah Glyde than admitting that her brother did not care for her any more than she did for him.

She lifted the cloth off the clay. The feeling of dread, which had abated when she booked Stella Darnell, returned. Sarah contemplated the ill-formed features, dabbing at them with a moistened cloth, and tried again to recall where she had seen the face who was its inspiration before.

Thursday, 20 January 2011

Stella arranged to meet Jack outside her office on Shepherd’s Bush Green at three o’clock to avoid him finding out that she had told Jackie she had an afternoon appointment with a man in Paddington. Jackie had raised her eyebrows at the name: Nick Jarvis. Not practised with untruths, Stella had inadvertently used one of Jack’s fake referees.

She concluded that it would worry Jackie less to think she was struggling with bereavement than that she was investigating a murder with a man she knew little about beyond his cleaning skills, who had been at school with the son of a murdered woman.

She had not told Jack she suspected he had broken into the old Rokesmith house in St Peter’s Square for two reasons. One: while he imagined he could hoodwink her, he might let his guard down and she would learn more about him. Two: she did not really believe that he had broken in.

Jack was lounging against the bonnet of the only van not kitted out with the new green livery. Stella had delayed the respray; she did not want Jack to collapse. He had washed his hair and lost some of the pencil-grey pallor. He had on a clean shirt and his trousers were pressed, his shoes polished. He had made an effort; Stella inadvertently waved.

There was no sign of Paul. After her visit he must have got the message.

As they sped along the Westway they concocted the story for Colin the plasterer. Stella would have to say she was Terry’s daughter; they would not reveal the new timings and Stella promised to keep an open mind. Jack would just be Jack.

The satnav guided them into a network of streets behind Wormwood Scrubs Common in the shadow of the prison. Terry had grown up nearby; Stella could not remember where.

Colin Peterson lived halfway down Mellitus Street in the only house in the two-up-two-down thirties’ terrace painted white and adorned with hanging baskets. The regulation council house door had been replaced with ornate oak and leaded stained glass of red and yellow diamonds. They passed between a trimmed privet and up a concrete path, the snow shovelled aside; Jack pressed the doorbell and precipitated a clamour of Big Ben chimes within.

A sandy-haired man in jeans and a polo shirt, with a toneless complexion as if coated with foundation for a television appearance, opened the door.

‘Not interested, I told the other lot: I don’t give handouts to street callers. On your way.’

‘Mr Peterson, my name is Stella Darnell. You met my father.’ Stella spoke rapidly to get his attention before the door shut. She took a chance he had met Terry.

Peterson appeared doubtful, but stayed where he was.

‘He has your notepaper.’ She reached into her pocket.

Peterson took the sheet, creased from the weight of the desk.

‘It’s mine but I don’t recall your dad. Tell him I’ve got no space until the back end of March if he’s still interested. What did he want doing?’

‘It’s about a job you did.’

‘You tell him from me: if plastering ain’t working, you see it right away. No use complaining after the fact. If he has a problem it’ll be the paint, the age of the wall—’

‘We’re not complaining. I wanted to … to follow up on your conversation.’

‘To be honest, Miss er … I don’t know your dad and need to be in Acton for four fifteen.’

‘Terry Darnell. He was here about a month ago?’ Stella stepped away; they were wasting their time.

‘Bloke a bit taller than me? Grey hair, black jacket, paunchy, late sixties?’ Jack intervened, his new-found Shepherd’s Bush voice catching Stella by surprise. She had forgotten Terry’s accent; the imitation was faithful. Only then did it occur to her to wonder how Jack could describe Terry.

She glared at him, trying to catch his eye.

Peterson smacked his thigh. ‘Why didn’t you say? The private detective with ex-copper written all over him – but I told him, “My memory’s like an elephant, I know who you are, you put me through the mill and nearly ruined my life.”’ He spoke as if it were Terry on his doorstep. ‘He wanted to rake up that murder. I was doing up the spare room where the poor lady lived. I should have sent him packing and the same goes for you.’

He had worked himself into a rage and tried to shut the door.

Jack put his shoe into the gap and his hand on to the door jamb. Stella admired his courage, his shoe would be ruined and his fingers broken.

‘This is Detective Superintendent Darnell’s daughter. We’re after answers for him and with your ring-side seat hoped you could help. We’re doing it for the little boy who lost his mum and still doesn’t know why.’

Were they? That was a new take on it. Stella waited: it could go either way. Their hastily devised strategy had collapsed; they had not reckoned on Peterson being intractable.

‘I got enough grief off of the police at the time, I don’t need it dug up.’ He addressed Stella: ‘I told your dad, I’m set up, remarried, free of those clowns at the Inland Revenue and making OK money.’ He nodded at her ruefully. ‘He said you and him was checking up on loose ends? I had a lot of time for that lady. The newspapers and the police chewed me up and spat me out without an apology, although I grant you, when he was here, your dad said sorry.’

Stella guessed this last bit was wishful thinking. Terry never apologized.

‘Would it be all right if we came in?’ Jack spoke softly.

Sighing, Peterson let them into a hallway with smooth walls.

He led them into a front room so tidy it might have been prepared for putting on the market. A patterned carpet gave off the deodorant some clients used to hide the smell of dogs or cigarettes. Stella caught a whiff of protection cream off the stark white leather three-piece suite into which she and Jack sank. Someone looked after this house; she debated asking Peterson if his wife wanted work, but he was speaking to her.

‘It was before Christmas; we had the tree so he had to sit over there. He said how his little girl liked lights on a tree. I told him mine did. Not that little, though, are you!’ He gave a wheezy laugh. ‘He said he would bring you. What happened? He bale out and make you do his dirty work!’

Stella shrugged out of her anorak and folded it across the back of the sofa behind her.

‘Could you go over what you told Terry?’ Jack asked.

Peterson raised his eyes, then with a shrug went on: ‘I was there for a fortnight in June 1981. I checked my old diary for him. I’d been gone a month when the tragedy occurred.’ He adopted the manner of a witness in court.

‘We aren’t after facts – they must be hazy after so long – but we’d love to hear your impressions, your feelings about your time there,’ Jack encouraged him. Stella tried to catch his eye. Facts were precisely what they were after.

‘Why were you there so long? Surely it’s a day’s work to plaster a room?’ she demanded. Jack frowned at her.

‘Your dad asked that the first time around and like I told him, I was doing chippy work too and painting. My trade’s plastering and nowadays I stick to it. If I never see another paintbrush it’ll be too soon, all that sanding and coat after coat and the customer is never happy. Like I said, what made up for it was that Mrs Rokesmith was nice. Have you been in the house?’ Stella glanced at Jack but now he was gazing out of the window, making no effort to appear to be listening. If only he could behave consistently.

‘She tried to keep her little lad away. He was desperate to help; he had his own brush and bucket. My kids were the same. Not that they’ve either of them stuck at it. The youngest might—’

‘You saw her son?’ Jack interrupted. Stella fixed on him but he avoided her eyes; he had no idea about being a team.

‘In the end she asked if it was OK for him to watch. He sat in his little chair, chattering like a bloody canary. I couldn’t shut him up. It beat Radio One. I got to look forward to him scampering in to show me his toys. He had names for everything. Odd kid. He didn’t have brothers and sisters so he made up friends. I’d never come across one like him.’

‘What do you mean?’ Jack asked.

‘I’d catch him staring like he could see right into my head. Then he was off again: what I was doing, why was I doing it and what would happen next. He held the hawk like a pro, ready to slap on the plaster. He goes and informs his mum he’s going to be a plasterer. She was well into it – not sure Mr Man would have approved. At eleven on the dot, we’d have coffee and a natter. Not often a customer is so friendly.’

‘Was she interested in you?’ Stella saw Jack stiffen. He was going to be no use to his dead friend if he could not be objective.

‘Lovely looking girl. I was married and so was she. It wasn’t like that. I told the police. I would never have hurt her. People’s minds are filthy. More so than ever.’ He made a steeple of his hands; the skin was dried and cracked. ‘I finished the job and moved on. She was lonely, that’s all.’

‘What makes you say that?’ Jack seemed to have shrunk into the white leather. Stella decided he lacked stamina, probably vitamins too.

‘I never saw no one there. I would of expected a lady like that to be having coffee mornings, other mums round – the usual. She had her lad, and that was it. Not unless you count Uncle Tony.’ He laughed.

‘Who was Uncle Tony?’ Jack sat forward.

‘I remembered that when your dad was here at Christmas. I told the lad I had an Uncle Tony, which tickled him. He wanted to be like me – the kid I mean – he’d go on about my Uncle Tony and his Uncle Tony. Long dead now, bless him.’ Colin Peterson rested one ankle on his knee. ‘I didn’t have my kids then. I’ve got three now.’ He gave a guffaw that ended in a starter-motor cough.

Jack took out his pouch of tobacco and set about rolling a cigarette. He placed it in his case, which Stella noticed was full.

‘What was this Uncle Tony like?’ Jack began another cigarette, licking along a paper.

‘He wasn’t real. The kid made him up. Copying me, I suppose. I forgot about him until your dad was here. It brought back the fuss about the engine.’

‘The what?’ Jack snapped shut the case and returned it to his pocket. The room was fuggy with heat, but he had not taken off his coat.

‘He said his Uncle Tony gave him the toy engine. I had to see it, he insisted, made me have a go, you know push it along. He let me be the driver.’ He shook his head.

‘What sort of steam engine?’ Stella was puzzled: Jonathan Rokesmith had wanted his dad to buy him an engine he saw in a shop window after his mother’s death yet he already had one. The article had said Rokesmith refused to buy him the engine in order not to spoil him; no wonder, if Rokesmith had agreed, the boy would have had two engines.

‘It must have cost an arm and a leg. It was old even then, more my time, but in good nick until sonny boy got his hands on it. One day it all went pear-shaped, he comes to play and there’s me up a ladder doing the ceiling. No way I could play but he was going on and on.’ He raised his arm in demonstration: ‘You got to do it in one hit with the same mix or the line shows so I didn’t dare stop and my, was he put out? I saw another side of him, he went ape!

‘I did warn her she should be more strict. I wouldn’t put up with that.’ Peterson scratched his forearm and added: ‘Get away with murder otherwise.’

‘Did you see anyone else?’ Jack broke in.

‘No, I said, apart from the husband, and him only once, which was fine by me.’ He pulled a face.

‘Why was that?’ Stella did not look at Jack. Later she would talk to him: he was behaving as if she was not there.

‘You minded your p’s and q’s when Mr Rokesmith was about. He had to find fault. He spots the ceiling right off. I felt like saying, blame your boy, but it wasn’t fair on the lad. These days I know not to be distracted even if the house is on fire. Ceilings are a bitch!’

‘What was Hugh Rokesmith like?’ Stella pressed on.