The Detective's Daughter

53

Sunday, 23 January 2011

The car splashed through thawing ice into one of the visitors’ bays outside Stella’s flat. There were no other cars. Ivan turned off the engine and the Schumann violin concerto was cut off; Stella half expected it to continue. Cushioned in the heated leather seat, the music and purring engine had the soporific effect of Ivan’s dentist’s chair and the sofa in his sitting room. She relished playing truant with Ivan; not a soul in the world would find her.

‘Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?’

‘That would be lovely, but then I’ll get going, I don’t want to disrupt your Sunday.’

Ivan came to Stella’s side of the car to open her door. When Paul had done this she had been irritated, but Ivan did not do it to impress. She tried not to think about Paul.

The lift pinged. Paul was not dead; a drowned body was easy to misidentify. Stella felt a surge of hope.

A woman yelped when she saw them, and then recovered herself. ‘It’s rare to meet anyone in this ghost of a building!’

Ivan stood aside to allow her out before ducking into the lift.

Stella did not know what led her to introduce herself: ‘I’m Stella Darnell, I live on the fourth floor.’

‘Oh, it’s good to meet a friendly face. I simply never see anyone. Emma Chaplin, second floor, number twenty-five.’ She peeped into the lift where Ivan was scrutinizing the buttons. ‘Lovely to know you’re here!’ As the doors closed, she called out and put out a hand. ‘Isn’t it…?’

Ivan hit the button again, the doors shut and soundlessly the lift ascended.

‘Did you know her?’

‘She might be a patient. They can’t place me, the white coat confuses them.’

Stella suspected Ivan was unhappy she had encouraged conversation. If he did not want people to think they were together he should not be seen with her in public. In the car he had renewed the cancelled dinner invitation and they were meeting at the French restaurant in Kew where the staff no doubt assumed they were a couple.

Once they were in the flat, Ivan brightened.

‘What a splendid place. I long for such peace but only get it in the country. And you are right beside the river. Perfect.’ He was gazing out of the window. ‘I would have thought these properties would be snapped up.’

‘There’s no tube station. Tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee, if you don’t mind. Where’s that camera? I’ll take a look. I’m good with equipment. One has to know about much that’s not directly to do with teeth in my job.’

Stella had forgotten that Ivan’s offer to bring her home had been prompted by her telling him about Terry’s camera.

‘It’s by the kettle.’ She went into the kitchen and unplugged the charger. Ivan was behind her and took the camera. While liking his enthusiasm – she’d taken a risk in confiding in him; he might have judged her absurd for trying to solve a murder – Stella wanted to check the camera herself.

While the coffee brewed she had a twinge of doubt: the Rokesmith case was a project she shared with Jack. He had advised they keep it to themselves and although she had not officially agreed, she had not even told Jackie, whom she could trust. Jack trusted her, but without asking him, she had told Ivan.

The sun was out, the snow was melting; everything seemed possible. Stella was certain that Jack would understand.

She plunged the coffee and placed it on a tray with milk and two mugs. She had no biscuits but doubted she should offer sweet things to a dentist.

Her mobile was ringing. Stella found it on the dining-room table in the living room; she had no memory of putting it there. Ivan sat at Jack’s end of the sofa, fiddling with the camera. Stella saw what Jack had meant about the plastic. Ivan would never cover his furniture with plastic.

It was Jackie. She did not want to speak to Jackie with Ivan listening. Besides, Jackie should not be working at the weekend.

Ivan sighed. ‘No luck, I’m afraid.’

‘You can’t fix it?’

‘The problem lies with the memory card. There ain’t one, m’lud.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘See for yourself.’ He pulled open a flap in the casing to reveal two slots. Stella recognized the one to connect with a computer. The other was long and thin and empty.

‘Your father must have removed it.’ The plastic shrieked as Ivan got to his feet and laid the camera on the table.

‘Or someone else did.’ She would not see the last pictures that Terry had taken. She would not see what he had seen. Stella’s mouth went dry.

‘Extraordinary – why would anyone steal the card but leave the camera?’ Ivan breathed in the steam from his coffee.

‘It is unlikely,’ she agreed.

‘You’ll come across it amongst his belongings. He must have been infuriated to forget it. What about his computer – did you find pictures there?’

‘No. There was only an interview with the witness, a Mrs Ramsay. It doesn’t matter. The whole thing’s a wild-goose chase. I’ll give it up. How can I find a man the police never found?’

‘Why assume it was a man?’ Ivan sipped his coffee and gave an approving smile. ‘When those we love die, we snatch at gossamer: a voice on an answer machine; a bus ticket in a pocket; shopping lists. The missing card does matter. It might have given you a pointer to the solution to this frightful murder.’

Stella nodded. Maybe she had been trying to hold on to Terry. To bring him back, if only to tell him he had failed as a father. Had he failed? Jack had asked her what sort of daughter she had been. She could not say. Not that great, though. It was not possible to mourn the loss of a father that you never had, she told herself with lessening conviction.

After Ivan had gone, Stella remained in the hallway watching the entry screen until he appeared. She caught her breath when he glanced up into the lens and smiled as if he could see her. When he had disappeared from shot, Stella thought of Jack. He would mind that she had told Ivan. She would tell him what Ivan had said about the murderer: maybe their wild card was a woman.

She went into the living room. She had been positive that they were on the verge of a breakthrough: Terry had taken photographs; the lens cap proved he had been by the wall.

Before she set off for a job, Stella would draw up a list of all that she needed: brushes, chemicals, spare vacuum bags, client’s key, alarm code. She was prepared. Terry was meticulous; he would not have forgotten to slot in a photo card.

She switched on the camera.

‘Insert card’.

Terry would have seen there was no card as soon as he looked through the viewfinder. He would not have discovered its absence in the graveyard; he would have tested it before he left the house and again by the car. He tested his camera on Stella before using it to take a car or a person. Then there was the lens cap: he had taken it off to use the camera and something had made him forget to replace it.

He had followed the person putting the flowers by the grave.

She sat on the sofa. The plastic squeaked. She leapt up, put the camera on the floor and dug her fingers into the sofa. At first she made only an indentation, stretching the plastic. She dragged her thumbnail along the mark and the plastic rent; the rip travelled a foot. She pulled at the opening. The plastic made the sound of a zip undoing as it tore and soon she was knee-deep in plastic as if she had opened an enormous present. She hefted it into the kitchen and crammed it into a rubbish sack.

Stella came back and lowered herself gingerly on to the pristine white sofa. The fabric was soft and smelled of ultra-clean cotton. There was no noise when she shifted or patted the material, appreciating the fine weave. She swivelled around and sprawled, as Jack did, her feet propped on the armrest. She was comfortable. There was a piece of paper under the table. The sofa made no sound when she reached for it. The type was single-spaced:

Stella looked at the end of the sofa where Jack always sat. She had bought a pint of milk, but he hadn’t been back so it was still in the fridge. She wanted to tell him about the plastic.

She lifted the camera from the floor and balanced it on her stomach. After a bit she closed her eyes, and pictured Terry’s car by the church gate. In the light of the interior lamp above the dashboard she had examined his camera.

The memory card had been there then.

Stella rang Jack. She got his voicemail and asked him to call. She waited a moment and then dialled Ivan Challoner’s number. When she got his voicemail too, she did not leave a message.