The Detective's Daughter

66

Monday, 24 January 2011

Stella found the van by the church, the driver’s door hanging open. The new Clean Slate logo showed up in bad visibility; she hoped Jack had been able to bear the green. Where was he?

She slewed Terry’s car beside the van and jumped out. She stumbled down the lane past the church; she nearly missed a track to the right because a hedge jutted out, obscuring the entrance. There were no houses. After ten yards she saw the dark hulk of a barn and directed the torch at it: the light barely reached but she could see great cylindrical hay bales piled to the roof. Jack was not here.

Thawing snow had mixed with mud and by the time she had retraced her steps to the lane Stella’s shoes were soaked through. Twice she veered into a wall and once she slithered into a ditch. Soggy earth clung to her trousers and anorak. The darkness was thick and she longed for London’s many sources of light: lamp-posts, headlights, signs, shop windows. Mad shapes were dancing and ducking on the edge of her vision: she saw what Jack meant about seeing signs and spirits in every inanimate object.

Her torch made the darkness more intense. She stopped, her insides shrivelling: entrails of fog were twisting up from the tarmac like cobras charmed out of a basket. She had seen the phenomenon before on a day trip to the country with Terry. Travelling home at night, she had been secure in his warm car, with him there to protect her. Stella could not feel his presence any more.

Somewhere a twig snapped and with a whirring of wings a bird flew out of the hedgerow and away. It might be a rook, or a crow; she didn’t know the difference but had thought all birds slept at night.

She was not afraid, she told herself.

The plaque for Fullwood House was almost hidden by fronds of ivy spreading over brick piers either side of imposing gates. When she lifted the catch, it gave a squeak and the gate shunted down and sank into the gravel.

There was still snow on the drive, which revealed one set of footprints, the tread with the ball of the foot first. Ivan. Where was Jack?

A lethal mix of holly and pyracantha barred the way to the back of the house. Already wet and shivering, Stella launched herself at the tough branches. She found a gap and on her hands and knees crawled along the ground, her knees scratched with dried leaves. She rolled out on to a lawn behind the house; still covered in snow, it was ethereal in the insipid light. Through the thinning fog she recognized the hedge that separated the garden from the church. Ivan lived a stone’s throw from Kate Rokesmith’s grave.

The back door was locked. Stella had jumped in her car and hared down here like some invincible hero, without thinking that when she got here she would not be able to get inside.

She checked each window: all were dark and locked. At the other side of the house a flight of steps led down to what must be a cellar, although no windows were visible. The lower steps were obscured by brambles that trailed over a barred window next to the door. Stella gingerly put a foot amongst the prickly branches. She ripped away ivy to clear a gap and shone her torch at the glass, risking being seen from within. The window had been walled up on the inside with planks of wood. No one could see out and she could not see in.

A hand grabbed her arm. The game was up.

Tugged by strong hands, she had the presence of mind to shake off the grip and aim the torch in the face of her assailant.

It was Sarah Glyde.

‘What are you doing here?’ Stella hissed.

‘I came after you.’

‘To warn your brother?’

‘If I wanted to do that, I’d have rung him on his mobile phone.’

Stella digested the truth of this and wrung her hands. ‘They’re in there, but the windows and doors are locked.’

‘We ought to call the police. I should have before I left, but I had to catch up with you.’ Sarah was matter of fact.

‘We need to find Jack.’ The police would arrest Jack. Revenge was not an excuse for murder. He would not survive a jail sentence.

Stella had found Kate’s murderer. She had solved the case. Damp, cold and in the middle of nowhere, this realization gave her no satisfaction; Jack and Ivan might be dead. Terry would not have let it get to this.

She flashed the beam at the wall. ‘There’s an alarm box, but it looks dead. If we smash a window round the side, the chances are he won’t hear and what do we have to lose? Jack’s in there.’ Stella was channelling Terry; she had to keep her nerve.

‘Or we could use this?’ Sarah Glyde held up a key on a chain.

‘I thought he never invited you here.’

‘This is my mother’s. Antony doesn’t know I have it.’

‘What are we waiting for?’

Stella snatched the key off Sarah Glyde and stalked around the house to the back door.