The Detective's Daughter (44 page)

‘Me too.’ Stella meant it.

Cashman slipped the report back into the envelope. ‘A hell of a way to go.’ He got up. ‘Stella, thank you for doing this. I think we can say that Paul Bramwell was careless. Happens to the best of us, but he’s paid a high price. I hope you can put it behind you. You’ve given us all the help we need. There’ll be an inquest, but I doubt you’ll be called.’

Stella got up.

‘One more thing.’ D. I. Cashman’s hand was on the door handle.

Stella kept calm. His tactic belonged on television.

‘We wondered if it is family only.’

‘What is?’

‘Terry’s funeral. There’s many here want to come.’ Cashman had the expression of the officers in the photograph. ‘You know, Terry could have a Force Funeral. We do the arranging.’

Stella had opted for the crematorium’s early-morning fifteen-minute slot and was not going herself. Her mother would not attend and Terry’s only relative – an older sister – had emigrated to New Zealand before Stella was born. She had sent a condolence letter but would not be coming. Terry’s colleagues had more right to be at his funeral than his daughter; they knew him better.

‘We had this running joke with Terry about a bench: for the man who never sat down. Not so funny now, but the girls were saying it would be a special gesture for a super cop, Top Cat we called him because—’

‘I know.’ Stella folded her arms.

‘Course you do. I said I’d pass it by you.’

Stella looked into a display case by the window. A Police Notices book for 1966 was opened at a black-bordered page announcing the three deaths. On the facing page were the lighting-up times for 13, 14 and 15 August of that year. For the families of the men it must have felt dark whatever the time.

The men would never know what their children did next.

‘It is a nice thought,’ Stella agreed. ‘Tell them, yes.’

‘I’ll be honest, they’ve gone ahead and got up a collection and Janet’s chosen a three-seater. We want to know where you’d like it to go.’

‘I’ll leave it to you.’ The sun had gone in, making the room seem smaller.

‘The bench?’

‘Both.’ Stella made a decision. ‘The funeral and the bench. Terry would be … Thanks.’ Terry was dead and would have no idea what she did next.

Cashman led Stella out of the station the back way. They crossed the yard in front of the stables. A whiff of urine-soaked hay caught Stella in the throat. Cashman was unlatching the doors.

‘Terry said he brought you here when you were little. Come on, I’ll show you.’

Stella hesitated; she was afraid of horses. There were no bits of straw in the aisle between the stalls and white brick-bonded tiles were washed clean.

The floor was chocolate, she declared. He didn’t get it at first and then he saw what she mean: the raised non-slip squares did look like a bar of chocolate. He said she could have some later. She said nothing. That was not what she meant; he should have known. She’s never been one of those kids demanding stuff. He lifted her to see the horses. Omega stuck his head out. ‘He won’t bite.’ She touched his nose, softly stroking. They were bringing out Hadrian in full livery for a parade. He sat her on top of him. Sitting sideways. ‘You are the Queen.’ She looked even more of a tot on the enormous beast.

‘I’ll get you riding lessons if Mum is OK with it.’

Stella said later she didn’t want them, but ‘thank you for showing me, Daddy’. He got a feeling when she called him that.

Outside on Shepherd’s Bush Road, Stella sneezed and pulled a tissue from her pocket. A ball of newspaper fell to the ground.

‘You dropped this.’ Cashman stopped it with his foot and picked it up.

It was the paper they had found in Terry’s car.

‘It’s a plate number. I don’t suppose you could tell me the name it’s registered to?’ Stella grew hot. She should not have asked.

Cashman rocked on his heels. In the harsh winter sun his face was sharp, almost ugly. ‘Nineteen sixty-four. Going back some. Stella, I’m sorry, I hate it when this happens, it’ll have to be a no. They are tight on rules these days.’

He made to hand the paper back. Stella shook her head. He could chuck it – who was she to have hunches? Cashman would have done it for Terry but she was only his daughter, with her the favours ran out.

‘I’ll be in touch.’ Cashman was placating her. A police officer approached him and already his mind was elsewhere.

Furious with herself, Stella walked briskly away. By the steps to the Hammersmith and City line on Hammersmith Broadway someone stepped into her path.

‘Don’t get yourself locked up, I’d have to bail you out.’

Ivan Challoner belonged to a world that was shiny and certain. He would not fall drunk into the Thames or fail to return her calls. Despite being keen to examine Terry’s camera, Stella accepted his suggestion that they grab a coffee. It was Sunday; he was having a weekend, he said. She caught his mood: she would take Martin Cashman’s advice and put it all behind her.

Watching him dextrously tip a teaspoon of milk into his double espresso, she considered telling him about the Rokesmith case. She and Jack were too close to it and were getting on each other’s nerves and therefore nowhere. She was not a detective and Jack bordered on bonkers. Ivan was methodical and intelligent and, Jack would agree, had the right kind of mind.

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.

Sunday, 23 January 2011

At midday Jack was in Stanwell.

He walked each page of the
A–Z
in order and, apart from one slip, did not skip numbers to get to the areas he preferred. He did not impose significance on numbers where there was none. It would not help to return to what he had missed, the secret would be apparent only if he faithfully traversed the path of each journey. A true reader understands that the only way to appreciate a story is to read each word, from the start to the end.

Over the months Jack had been soaked by rain and stung by sleet; he had greeted streaks of dawn light as he took a left or a right to stay on the path drawn. He’d slithered on footpaths, avoided sick, dog shit and litter. Wind tore at his clothes as he battled across grass, tarmac and the wasteland depicted on his map as blank space. Walking, Jack was never somewhere.

He was nowhere.

One by one he had walked the pages – and today he was on the last one.

He had passed the Hammersmith and City exit minutes before Stella was about to go down the steps after her visit to Martin Cashman. Neither saw the other, although they were so close. When a man stepped in front of Jack, forcing him to give way and without apology ran down the stairs, Jack considered going after him. The man’s indifference was what he looked for in the perfect Host. But Jack had spent months working towards this final journey in the atlas; he would not change plans.

He wished he had not told Stella about the street atlas. She was a police officer’s daughter; she relied on evidence, not fanciful thinking; he worried it had put her off.

Before he found the book, Jack had not had much use for an
A–Z
. In his driver’s cab the tracks were his guide. But over time the atlas had offered him another way to achieve his quest.

The marked-out routes were a set of instructions: the area of Inner and Greater London was divided into a grid of 144 squares. The numbered grids followed the western reading pattern: from left to right, then down to the next line. A convention broken at square 142, which along with 143 and 144, was tagged on to the left of the grid covering Uxbridge, West Drayton and Stanwell respectively. Of these districts, only Uxbridge was familiar to Jack because it had an Underground station.

Jack had been walking for two and a half hours but did not know this because when he was tracing a route he wore no watch. He did not need to measure time. He had passed the new Terminal Five building at Heathrow, which in his 1995 deluxe edition was described as the ‘Proposed Terminal Five Development Area’. He was on Clockhouse Lane.

This was long and for the most part straight, a line of tarmac demarcated by snow heaped in the gutters. He stayed on the left where he could make out a pavement beneath the snow. He kept hard by the link fence to avoid spray from speeding cars. He had not met another pedestrian but was accompanied by a set of footprints going in the same direction. Whoever had passed this way was not in sight.

The top of the fence was strung with three lengths of barbed wire. On both sides of the lane was scrubland; today a landscape of white mounds. The map depicted a lake, and squares representing warehouses. At the junction with the A30 there were playing fields and an industrial estate. He had seen them; he did not stray outside the pen-line.

He reached the white of grass surrounding a lake glittering in the thin light, with trees punctuating the shoreline: vestiges of countryside that would disappear as the city encroached.

He was on the last grid square, the pen-line, firm and competent, went along Clockhouse Lane and trailed off a square with no coordinate. When he stepped off it, he would be invisible.

One step, two step and he was gone.

Jack found himself by metal railings, through which were tennis courts, their nets slackened within a wire enclosure. He unfastened a gate and crunched over to a bench. Clearing off snow, he sat down.