The Detective's Daughter

43

Thursday, 20 January 2011

Jack was not alone. He had to move but his legs would not work. He sank to the floor.

It took temerity to slip in through a front door when the Host was only by the bins and he had nearly been discovered many times. He always stayed calm, remembering that his Hosts did exactly what he had planned. They were puppets in his private theatre. People saw only what they expected to see. They did not expect him to be there so they did not see him.

Now he had lost his nerve and was sure the man with the mind like his own had found him instead.

The change was imperceptible; most would have missed it. He could not say what had altered. The air may have been fresher; the temperature may have been colder. He believed in ghosts and there were plenty to choose from in these rooms.

It was not a ghost.

When he returned from the river he had confirmed that there were no marks on the steps, so they must have got in through the back. Yet the rear of the house was impregnable: a high wall by the Great West Road with holly bushes hard against it and a gravelled patio to warn off intruders. There were strong locks on the doors but this person knew those tricks.

The hands on the brass dial of the grandfather clock had stopped. He had not wound it.

He had wound it.

It was ticking.

He was making elementary mistakes. This simple error was one of the kind his benign Hosts made.

A shadow fell across the peeling William Morris paper on the landing wall.

He hid amongst the folds of the fur coat waiting for her.

She was coming down the stairs.

‘You took your time.’

‘How did you get in?’ he croaked.

‘Same route you used to scare Mrs Ramsay, through the attic.’ Stella Darnell was as cold as ice. ‘Now you know what it feels like. What I want to know is how you got in here? No, no.’ She reached the last step. ‘Don’t bother, I can’t bear to know. Get up. We’re going next door to Mrs Ramsay’s before we both end up at Hammersmith Police Station. At least we have a vaguely legitimate reason to be there – and a key.’

Jack hugged his knees, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal. He wiped his clammy hands on his trousers and did not move.

‘So who lives here now?’ Stella persisted. ‘Don’t give me rubbish about a Host.’

The clock’s pendulum oscillated: back and forth, back and forth.

‘Jack!’

‘I do.’

‘Enough!’ She was brisk. ‘I mean who really lives here?’

‘This is my house. I live here.’

Stella stopped, her hand on the front-door handle and looked down at Jack, crouched in a ball at her feet.

A woman sprawled on a beach, her skin bleached by light and lack of life.

‘You are the little boy.’ She breathed at last. ‘You are Kate Rokesmith’s son.’

The steady tick-tock was louder in the silence.

‘I made a mistake.’

‘You could say that.’ Stella stood over him.

‘I have the mind of a murderer.’

‘Sure you do.’

‘I can imagine how a killer thinks and behaves. I recognize them: in streets, in cafés, libraries, on station platforms. They are not as rare as you’d think. They have little connection with the world; their attitude to those around them is clinical and derisive. They keep a tight rein on their lives and on other people’s.’ He got his cigarette case out of his pocket and shakily placed a cigarette between his lips.

‘But each of my Hosts had an alibi: their own crime was elsewhere, either geographically, or in the future, or kept at bay by some means. I haven’t found him but I won’t give up until I do.’

‘Found who?’

‘I got distracted by those not like me who gave me somewhere warm and brightly lit, with a piano sonata to send me to sleep or a radio playing that was like a bedtime story. On her way to bed, my mummy made sure the duvet was straight and tucked right up to my chin and shooed away ghosts and aliens.’

Jack slapped wetness from his cheek. The cigarette, stuck to his bottom lip, bobbed when he spoke.

‘I don’t understand.’ She did understand. Jonathan Rokesmith had gone mad.

‘The clue is in my name, but you didn’t guess.’

‘Jack Harmon?’

‘Jon Rokesmith.’

‘You’ve lost me.’ To distract herself, Stella pulled out her phone and confirmed that Paul had not called. This reminded her. ‘Did you see anyone on your way here?’

Jack ignored her. ‘You’ve not read Our Mutual Friend?’

‘I might have seen the film. I’ve only read Wuthering Heights. I don’t see the point in stuff that’s not true.’ She replied absently. How could Jack have missed Paul?

‘That’s not by Dickens.’ Jack put his head in his hands. He had misread the signs and was back at the beginning. He only had the street atlas filled with journeys that so far had taken him nowhere. He had wanted the killer to recognize him and had been sure they were moving around each other; closing in. All he could do was huddle on the floor in the last room his mother had been in before she was murdered and shiver like the coward he was. Everything: the visits with Hosts, the journeys – by Tube, through the streets, and virtually on Street View – were for nothing. The murderer was out there and he had no idea where.

‘You are the little boy,’ Stella repeated.

‘Yes.’ In a little boy’s voice.

‘Have you lived here ever since the… ever since?’ Stella could not say the word.

‘I told you that Katherine Rokesmith’s son went to boarding school and then abroad.’

‘Yes, you did tell me that.’ Jack had told her a lot of things. ‘What about Hugh Rokesmith? He was your father!’ No wonder Jack wouldn’t consider Rokesmith a suspect. She was in the doorway of the room that in Mrs Ramsay’s house was the dining room. Beside a table – the Rokesmiths had evidently not entertained on the scale of the Ramsays – was a piano. A book of music was propped open. She went over. It was a collection of Beethoven Sonatas, the page turned to the ‘Pathétique’. Mrs Ramsay had told her to listen to the piano music coming through the wall. Stella had heard nothing when she was cleaning. Jack had cared for Isabel; he had pretended to be her admirer and sent her lilies every week. He made her happy.

‘Do you play?’

‘It was my mother’s.’

‘That wasn’t my question.’

‘No.’

The tall windows were shuttered. Stella had noticed the windows of the house next door were always closed when she came to Mrs Ramsay’s and, scrupulous about not delving into what was not her business, had never asked who lived next door.

She was not a real detective. Until Terry’s death it had not been her business.

‘My father stayed here when he was in London but when he got less work he stopped coming. His aunt left him a cottage in Yorkshire, outside Whitby. He lived there until he died.’

‘Did you see him?’

Jack examined his hands. ‘I nursed him.’

‘It’s clean, considering,’ Stella remarked brightly.

‘I clean it.’

Stella nodded. People thought they knew what ‘clean’ looked like. This place would show them that they had no idea.

Sitting on the floor, Jack was the same height as his four-year-old self.

‘She banged her head.’ He crawled on all fours over to the table.

‘Who did?’ Stella came back into the hall.

‘My mother.’ He jumped up and ran up the stairs. Stopping where the staircase curved, he peeped down through the spindles. ‘I can see the table from here,’ he exclaimed excitedly.

‘Your point being?’ Stella asked in a level tone. His mother had been murdered; it perhaps made sense of the sneaking about, the thing about green and making up the life he had missed, the friends he had not made. Death did funny things; she knew that from her clients; from herself.

‘She had a cut on her forehead. The police came here looking for the blunt instrument that might have caused it and they found traces of blood on that table. If you remember, they concluded that she had argued with Hugh and he pushed her. A man who could do that might kill his wife, was their thinking.’

‘You do think he did it after all?’ The table had a marble top and the corners were sharp. It made sense: Jack had argued that Hugh Rokesmith was innocent because he could not bear his father to be a murderer. Terry had told her that life does not mean life. A man who murdered his partner could be released from prison and, as next of kin, get custody of the children who were the only witnesses of his crime. It was a crazy world. Jack had polished the table beautifully; the marble was like a life-force.

‘I can still see you.’ Jack was prattling like a toddler. Stella tried to remain patient.

‘Pretend you’re looking in the mirror,’ he commanded from the stairs.

‘What mirror?’

‘It’s oval and dotted with silver blotches. Above the table.’ He pointed.

There was an oval shape on the peeling wallpaper, lighter than the surrounding area; in the dim light from the streetlight outside, the pattern swam. There was no mirror.

She peered in the oval mirror. It was spotted with silver, but she could examine the cut on her forehead, delicately dabbing at beads of blood, wincing when it stung.

‘She bent to straighten the rug – that rug – and banged her head. I was here, watching. I had been hiding in her wardrobe.’ Jack stomped down. ‘She didn’t come to find me.’

‘Was your father there?’

‘He left in the morning. I didn’t see him again until the police brought me to him.’

‘You remember now?’

‘It’s a fog.’

‘Do you have such a thing as a kettle?’ Stella rubbed her hands. ‘And any chance of putting on the heating?’

‘We’ll get tea and light a fire in my study.’

The kitchen was in the basement. A cave-like room lined with teak cupboards darkened with age, it was a time capsule for 1981. Shelves were piled with crockery, orange and steel pans hung from butcher’s hooks and dishes were stacked in an overhead draining rack. Stella had not imagined it was possible to make so many objects look ordered. When Jack filled the kettle the pipes clanked and whined. She knew the sound; she had heard it many times while she cleaned next door.

Mrs Ramsay had talked of letting a boy play quietly. Stella had assumed she meant Lucian. She had meant Jack.

‘Did you tell Mrs Ramsay who you were?’

‘Isabel knew who I was. She said I was a train driver because like my father I was looking for something.’ Jack splashed tea into two mugs out of a brown teapot with a chipped spout. There were no tannin stains in the mugs. Nothing had changed for decades; everything was clean, although Stella would not have kept a damaged teapot. Jack wiped the tea drops off the table and replaced the cloth on the draining rack. ‘I drive trains looking for her killer; that’s my reason for everything.’ He spoke more to himself. Isabel had actually said he was looking for his mummy, but he did not say this.

‘What happened to your hand?’ The blood on his knuckles had not been there at Sarah Glyde’s.

‘I slipped.’

‘You were lucky not to break your wrist.’

Jonathan Rokesmith had known Mrs Ramsay all his life. He had not been an intruder; she had invited him; they were on first-name terms. He did not work for her. Stella dismissed these thoughts. She had liked working for Mrs Ramsay.

‘Do the neighbours know who you are?’

‘Only Isabel; it was our secret. The rest know me as Jack Harmon. I keep myself to myself. Of course your dad suspected.’

Stella swallowed tea. The liquid travelled like a fireball to her stomach.

‘You spoke to Terry?’

‘I got rid of him.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘He knocked on the door about two months ago, asking for Jonathan Rokesmith. I told him I had moved in recently so couldn’t help. Being a detective, he asked about Isabel and kept me talking. Isabel wouldn’t speak to him. Like you she avoided the police.’

‘Terry didn’t guess who you were?’

‘He worked it out.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Out of the blue he asked me if I had seen Our Mutual Friend on the telly. I said no. He asked if my parents had named me after the character, John Harmon. He knew who I was.’ Jack drank the rest of his tea. ‘I rather admired him for that.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You would not have known what to say. You would have been awkward, like everyone else. We would have got nowhere.’ He took their empty mugs over to the sink.’

‘I’m not everyone else.’

‘Yes, I know that now.’ He had his back to Stella. ‘I don’t want sympathy.’

‘I’m not sympathetic.’

Jack washed the mugs and dried them. He replaced them on the shelf next to the others. ‘I don’t trust anyone.’

‘Fair enough. Not sure I would if I were you,’ Stella replied peaceably. ‘Nor do I,’ she added.

In the strained features of the thirty-three-year-old man, she saw the ghost of little Jonathan Rokesmith with his unfathomable brown eyes and home-made haircut.

‘Terry must have discovered that the house had not changed hands since Kate’s death. The press gave the impression it had been sold and the family moved away. He worked out I was Jonathan Rokesmith. He knew my name was John Harmon, probably from the electoral roll. What’s more he had met me before – albeit thirty years ago. Terry did not forget faces.’

Jack emptied the tea leaves into the bin. Stella looked up from her phone, absently registering that like Mrs Ramsay Jack did not use tea bags. Paul had still not called; it was not like him.

‘The house came to me when my mother was murdered. My dad had put it in her name when he started his business to exclude it as an asset if anything went wrong. Wise move because of course everything went wrong.’

‘That would be a reason for him to kill her. He would get it back.’

‘You will not find a motive any more than your dad could. Stop trying.’

Jack was surely mistaken. Terry would not have made the connection between the two names. Plodding up the stairs behind him, she asked: ‘Did Terry tackle you about your name?’

‘He pretended to take me at my word.’ Jack stood aside to let Stella into his study.

The small room was filled by a large desk, with a chair and an armchair. Stella relaxed.

‘When he did not come back, I was surprised. I’m rarely wrong.’ He turned on his laptop, and added gently: ‘I read about his death on the BBC website.’

‘That must have been a relief.’ Stella did not want Jack’s sympathy any more than he wanted hers.

‘Far from it. I regretted I wasn’t honest the first time. Between us all maybe we could have got somewhere.’

‘Where exactly would that have been?’

‘He wanted you to help – Peterson as good as said that.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘You heard Peterson. He wasn’t surprised to see you. Terry had talked about you. He wanted to show you where he grew up.’

‘I should go. Are you still going to work for Clean Slate, or was that just a ruse to get to me?’ Stella could not move.

‘It was.’ Jack pushed back his hair. ‘There’s no doubt where your priorities lie!’ He liked that about her. ‘I’ll go on with Sarah Glyde; we might learn something.’ He had a feeling about the middle-aged potter, but would say nothing until he had evidence. Stella liked facts.

‘What about Ivan Challoner?’

‘How does he fit into this?’

‘He is expecting it to be you that comes.’ Ivan would not care who came to clean but Stella did not say this. Ivan would, however, demand the best.

‘We’d better not let him down then.’ Jack tapped in his password and the laptop sprang to life. ‘Can’t have you doing his cleaning.’

‘He’s just a client.’ Stella knew no more about Ivan than she had about Paul but liked herself better when she was with him. Ivan made people relax; he wanted them to be happy. Suddenly she understood. ‘She knew him.’

‘Who?’ Jack looked up.

‘Your mother. She knew her killer. She didn’t put up a fight because she did not expect him to attack her. She didn’t take him seriously until it was too late.’

‘You said, but it wasn’t my dad.’

‘OK, for argument’s sake, suppose it wasn’t Hugh Rokesmith, but I am sure she knew her attacker.’

‘How can you be so certain?’ Jack got up and, making up twists of newspaper, began arranging them around logs in a small grate.

‘That other night at the river, I was so relieved when it was Paul, I knew he would not hurt me, but I was way off. If you hadn’t turned up I don’t know how far he would have gone. He is an obsessive.’ Why had she gone out with Paul?

‘What were you doing with him if he was obsessive?’ Jack asked.

He could read her thoughts. Was that the mind of a murderer? She thought not.

‘I assumed he was a normal everyday computer engineer. He took my computer apart without fuss, diagnosed the problem and screwed everything back into place. After he had gone, it was as good as new.’

‘From such minute considerations is love kindled. You think my father was like Paul?’ Jack lit a match and hovered the flame beneath a chunk of firelighter.

‘We said we’d leave your dad out for a minute. Your mother recognized her killer so did not put up a fight. I’m sure she had gone there to meet someone she knew. Don’t you remember any more than her banging her head? Think!’

‘How much do you remember from when you were four?’ Jack fixed a sheet of newspaper over the fireplace. ‘He had on his best blue gum boots. There was a problem with the Leaning Woman and his mummy had promised to look after her but she didn’t.’ Jack watched the newsprint glow orange as oxygen fed the flames.

The newspaper caught alight and flaming scraps floated out into the room. Stella rushed forward and, flailing, sent them towards the fire. Leaping flames licked up and snatched them.

Jack had not moved.

‘So he didn’t save his mummy,’ he finished.

From the hall below came the steady ticking of the grandfather clock.

‘You saved me from Paul,’ Stella offered eventually. ‘You were a kid, what were you supposed to do?’

Jack went to his desk. ‘OK, who have we got? Paul, Mark Ramsay and I’ll add my father for your sake.’

‘There’s also the wild card.’

‘Like the Joker?’ He frowned.

‘The person no one has thought of: a woman, for instance.’

‘We have to stick to the facts, you know that. Add whoever Terry suspected.’

‘That was your dad.’ Stella was apologetic.

‘No, I don’t think it was.’ Jack stared at his screensaver: the statue beside St Peter’s Church, taken from the ground up through the crook in her arm. It was a child’s perspective. ‘I think Terry had a new lead. When Peterson mentioned the steam engine I remembered it. Bright red metal, made by Triang and in its original box. He was right, it was special: not the sort of toy for a kid. I drove it into the river.’

‘What about your Uncle Tony? Maybe you didn’t make him up.’ Stella was being sympathetic, but hid this from Jack.

‘What are you talking about?’ he snapped. She was rubbish at pretending.

Stella blundered on: ‘Maybe there was an Uncle Tony. Peterson thought the boy was trying to be like him, but that doesn’t explain making up pretend relatives.’

‘Both my parents were only children. I don’t have any uncles.’

‘Concentrate! Was there a Tony?’

‘There was no Tony.’ He went to the fire and rearranged a stick; placing it in the centre of the flames then he returned to the desk.

‘Was there another person that morning apart from you and your mum?’

‘The Lady.’ Jack tapped the keyboard and up came Google Street View displaying a street in Stanwell. ‘The Leaning Woman told them to stay with her but his mummy ignored her and kept on going down the ramp.’

‘Jack, now you are being weird.’ It was best to tackle his behaviour head on. ‘We’re talking about you, stop saying “he”.’

‘You sound like your dad.’

‘I sound dead on my feet. I’m going to bed. Don’t forget you’re at Sarah Glyde’s tomorrow – today. I’ll complete Mrs Ramsay’s. We’ll go to my flat when you finish and take stock. Come for me next door. Or are you “busy”?’

‘I’m on annual leave for two weeks. I’m all yours.’

When Stella opened the front door, wind blasted into the hall and snowflakes fluttered on to the wrinkled kilim.

It was a blizzard. She struggled through the swirling mass and only when she climbed into her van at Rose Gardens North did she think of Paul. She scanned the area, but he was nowhere to be seen.

At Chiswick High Road, it occurred to Stella that she had not asked Jack if he had liked Terry, either when Terry had come to the Rokesmith house or when Jack was little. She had not asked if Jack had noticed if her dad had seemed unwell. Presumably he had not noticed anything wrong with him because he had expected him to return. She did no more than twenty miles an hour on the deserted road to avoid skidding.

Jack, like Stella, had not expected Terry to die.