The Detective's Daughter

51

Sunday, 23 January 2011

‘I’m investigating a murder.’

Stella felt a tingle down her spine. They were out of earshot of other customers. The nearest to them, two men and a woman, were huddled around a laptop as if keeping warm.

‘How intriguing.’ Ivan looked quizzical.

‘It’s a long story.’ Stella gulped down the tepid latte. ‘My father was a detective, in the Met. He’s just died.’

‘I am so sorry, you never said.’ He leant forward. Stella noticed with surprise that he looked as if he wore foundation. One cheek was caked with it and then powdered as if covering a spot or a cut. It had worked; she could not see a blemish of any kind.

‘It was nearly a fortnight ago. I’m going through his stuff. It’s taking a while.’

‘If only we could step off this world with no fuss and paperwork.’ Ivan spoke with feeling. ‘I prefer to think of death as a transition, not so much an “after-life” as “another-life”. Our loved ones never leave us. Or so I feel. We find our own way.’

‘He had copied the files for a murder. It’s not allowed but it happens. It must have got to him. Detectives – most police officers probably – are on the lookout for people they didn’t catch or who got off. They can’t let it go. Terry – that’s my dad – was obsessed with the Rokesmith case.’

‘I can relate to that,’ Ivan agreed. ‘I dwell on treatment I might have done differently, or better, particularly if a patient goes against my advice. I’m with your father, I like to see a job to completion. I lie awake at night roaming people’s mouths, picturing the perfect operation that has eluded me. With a crime it must be worse.’ He ate the last of his croissant and wiped his hands on his paper napkin.

Stella was relieved he did not appear to judge Terry for committing an illegal act. She had taken a risk telling him. The problem of clearing out Terry belongings became less onerous as it receded into the business of normal life. It had happened to Ivan. She went on: ‘It was famous at the time, you may have heard of it.’

‘Doesn’t ring bells.’

Stella had decided Ivan Challoner was in his fifties, but his tall figure was trim and muscular, he moved with the suppleness of a younger man. A skilled dentist, he was detached from the basic and disagreeable; the Rokesmith murder had received national attention, yet Ivan had missed it.

‘A young woman called Katherine Rokesmith was out with her son. It’s likely he was there when she died. In those days a detective superintendent from Scotland Yard appointed a local team of detectives including sergeants and detective constables. My father was the senior investigating officer and handled the operational side. Although he wasn’t formally in charge, he was on the ground and so responsible. Career-wise it was a break, except he did not find the killer.’

‘I see.’ Ivan put down the napkin, folding it. ‘He receives credit if he gets his man and plenty of recrimination if he does not. Damned if you do etc. So you have taken over the mantle and are bent on solving it for him. What a good daughter.’

Stella felt awkward. Ivan presumed she was a much nicer person than she was. He thought only the best of people.

‘I got drawn in.’ She cast about. ‘The police are doing nothing, the file is “put away”, as they call it, and no one, apart from Terry, has opened it for decades. There’s no DNA, no murder weapon and no clues of worth. The police can’t tie up valuable resources looking for a needle in a haystack. Now my dad has gone too.’

‘I see.’ Ivan was gazing at Stella. ‘Do you think you can succeed? Don’t mistake my question: I have more faith in you than in the average Met detective. In a short time I have gained an impression of you as resourceful and intelligent; nevertheless Kate was strangled many moons ago. I’d hate you to set yourself up for failure. We can’t answer for the sins of our fathers. We must lead our own lives. The one perk of being “orphaned” is that one is free to be oneself.’

Ivan had never spoken so personally and Stella did not after all dislike it. Nor had she noticed how blue his eyes were.

‘I’m not sure I can solve it, although I have found fresh evidence. I think that Terry had a new lead, which I may be close to discovering.’

Ivan offered Stella a lift. Her first instinct was to refuse, but in the last hour she had begun to see the Rokesmith case as no longer a stifling dream from which she could not escape. Ivan was interested. Besides, the visit to the station had lowered her spirits and she wanted his company a while longer. She also wanted to get back quickly; the weather had caused delays on public transport. In Ivan’s big swish car she could be at her flat in twenty minutes.

As they joined the Great West Road and edged out into the third lane, Stella described the visit to Bishopstone the day before and told Ivan about finding Terry’s camera.

She did not tell him about Jonathan Rokesmith.