The Detective's Daughter (55 page)

Ivan’s shoes tightly laced, he was ready to pay his respects, but was mesmerized by the dripping and plashing so that when he heard the splitting of an icicle high above his head, he paid no attention.

Ivan Challoner was conscious long enough to feel the infinitely sharp object drive deep into the base of his neck. The pain was over before it had begun.

Stella used the church tower to get her bearings and sprinted over the lawn to the gate she had seen when she and Jack came to his mother’s grave. The mist was clearing, the sliver of moon bright. The ground where the snow had melted was dark like craters in the strange light: one of these caught her eye.

Ivan Challoner lay face-down on the path, a stain spreading out from his head. Stella looked around. The churchyard was still, the wind had died down, and the quiet was broken only by branches shedding snow. Walls, graves, mausoleums were gradually exposed as snow melted.

Ivan’s blood was soaking into the gravel. Stella bent down: he had been stabbed in the back of the neck.

Jack had found Ivan after all.

She stepped back, her hands away from her; this was a crime scene.

She aimed the remote control at Terry’s car. Her phone was where she had left it between the seats. Stella dialled 999.

‘Which service would you like?’

‘Ambulance, two please.’ Stella took a breath and heard herself say: ‘We need the police.’ She gave the address and rang off.

She gathered herself; Jack had been unconscious when they found him. Sarah would have been able to tell if he was faking the symptoms. Someone had bolted the door from the outside. Jack had not killed Ivan. Who had?

Sarah Glyde.

Stella jumped when the church clock chimed four times. Although it was the dead of night, it was not entirely dark and she could see the silhouette of the weathervane on the top of the spire. She wished that it could be her dad who answered her call.

She took out his phone from her pocket and climbed into his car, locking the doors. She turned on the engine and, uncoiling the car charger in his glove box, plugged it in. This time when she switched it on, it stayed on. She chose Dialled Calls.

She did not scroll down far before she found ‘Stella mob’. The phone had been used to call her old number the afternoon before he died. Her dad did not have her new mobile number. She had not bothered to give it to him.

The headlights of the emergency services cut through the trees, making them seem to dance and swoop as if inhabited by Jack’s phantoms. Stella got out of Terry’s car and walked towards the lights.

Perhaps if she had given her dad her new number, he would have told her about the Rokesmith case. She would have agreed to work with him. She could have helped. Perhaps if she had answered his call, it would have changed the ending and they would be waiting by the church for the ambulance and the police together.

Perhaps.

Monday, 7 February 2011

Stella parked her dad’s car facing the River Thames. The wind was blowing and the water was choppy as gusts ruffled the surface. The snow had gone. Equating Challoner with the White Witch in
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
, Jack was convinced the thaw had heralded his death. Like the reign of Queen Jadis, he had declared, Ivan’s time was over: Aslan was coming. The gravel sweep outside the crematorium was crowded. Stella had not expected so many. She sat in her dad’s old Toyota, the engine idling, and contemplated leaving. No one had seen her.

There was a rap on the window.

It was Jack.

She let down the glass.

‘Are you coming?’

‘I never go to funerals.’

‘You do now.’

Stella had fetched Jack from the hospital in Eastbourne a week ago. She had not seen him since. His near-death experience appeared to have done him good: he had colour in his cheeks.

He opened the door for her. When she got out, he took her arm. Stella did not object.

‘Have you given up smoking?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thought so.’

They walked around the hedge that screened the car park from the crematorium. This was a single-storey brick building with a drive-through porch around which were clustered at least four hundred people, mostly in police uniform. Stella faltered.

‘Keep moving.’ Jack had her arm. ‘It’s going to last an hour, then we go to the reception in a place called Imber Court and then you can go home. I will drive you.’

‘What’s Jackie doing here?’ Stella did not acknowledge him but as Jack had intended the schedule had reassured her. ‘Who’s minding the office?’

‘It’s closed. A tribute to Terry.’

A man in a black suit standing apart from the crowd raised his eyebrows in slight acknowledgement. Stella nodded in response although she didn’t recognize him. She did know the woman a few feet from him.

‘There’s Sarah Glyde.’

Sarah Glyde looked more wispy than ever, trailing ribbons and layers of silks and bright wools. She stood out like a blousy bloom amid the sea of blue. She tipped a tentative hand to Stella and Stella smiled in acknowledgement. Forensics had cleared Sarah Glyde; an icicle had severed Ivan Challoner’s spinal cord. Sarah had not stabbed her brother, although Stella was certain that had they found him alive Sarah would have done. The police had broken into Ivan’s bedroom on the top floor of the Hammersmith house and found the room entirely free of dust and completely empty.

A few more steps and she saw that the man in the black suit was Dariusz Adomek from the mini mart below her office; she had only ever seen him in his shop uniform.

A man crossed the turning circle to meet them. It was D. I. Martin Cashman.

‘All right, Stella?’ He wiped his hand down his face: ‘We’ve got a bit of a problem.’

‘What kind of problem?’ Cashman looked as trussed up and ill at ease in his suit as she did in hers. Perhaps Imber Court, the venue for major police events in West London, had become unavailable? That was not a problem.

‘One of the pall-bearers is ill.’

‘Surely there’s someone one else who can do it?’ Jack was stern.

‘Not that simple.’ Martin continued to look at Stella. ‘It’s about height. Everyone’s got to be the same height or it goes wrong. Believe it or not, there is not a single person here who is six foot.’

‘I thought you had to be six foot to get into the police?’ Jack had Stella’s arm tight. His mandatory outfit of black coat and trousers and black brogues suited the occasion perfectly.

‘Not any more. So far the guys that have volunteered are either around five-ten or a couple of inches over the six. No one is bang on. Should be a uniformed officer. Janet is trying to rustle someone up so it’s not a huge deal. It means we have a small delay. Nothing to worry about.’ Cashman seemed to notice Jack for the first time. ‘How tall are you, mate?’

‘Six foot and half an inch.’

‘Would you do it? That coat will blend in.’

‘Sure, OK.’

‘Here’s my dad.’ Stella moved forward and stopped.

A hearse turned in at the gate and made its way slowly along the drive. The sleek black vehicle was magisterial against the drab greys and greens of the landscaped garden. It came to a halt just short of the car park, waiting its turn.

Stella could see the light wood coffin through the glass panel. The chrome fender and radiator grille gleamed in the harsh winter light. The hearse looked different to any she had ever seen.

No other hearse had contained her dad’s coffin.

Her dad should have been milling around with the rest of his team on the pavement, underdressed for the weather, rubbing his hands to keep warm, new shoes hurting his feet, his hair in need of a cut, but washed and brushed. Six foot himself, he would have stepped up to carry the coffin. If it had been Stella’s coffin, her dad would have been one of the pall-bearers. The other five would have had to match him.

‘I’ll do it.’

‘What?’ Martin Cashman was signalling to a member of the funeral staff.

‘I am the right height. Tell them I will do it.’

‘I didn’t mean that you had—’

‘I will carry my dad’s coffin.’ She was firm.

Stella approached the porch, dimly aware of mourners falling silent, some looking at their feet, the crowd imperceptibly shuffling to make way. Martin Cashman had assembled the other bearers: police officers all the same height as herself, the same height as her dad. Like him, they were broad-shouldered, square-jowled, with an air of capability and spruced attention. Hands clasped before them, they had formed a huddle, but broke ranks to admit Terry Darnell’s daughter.

There was more scraping of shoe leather, clearing of throats. Stella looked around for Jack but could not see him. The hearse rolled forward, led into the porch by a slow-stepping police officer, holding Terry’s police cap balanced on a cushion. It glided to a stop and the funeral staff came forward and drew out the flag-draped coffin on its runners.

A man touched Stella’s elbow.

‘We will lower it on to your shoulder. Don’t make any sudden movements, keep in step with the man in front and the man to your left and you will be fine.’ He held her gaze, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

‘We’ll take it in turns. I’ll carry it until we get across the road, then you can have the conkers when we get to the other side, I promise. I know you’re a strong girl.’

Stella would not have a tantrum if he kept hold of the conkers all the way, but she would mind. She needed to prove herself. The basket bumped against her legs and he could see it was too much for her, but no way was she giving up.

It was getting light when they reached the house. She carried it all the way.

‘That’s my girl.’ He gave her a quick smile.

The wood was unremitting; the pressure immense, crushing her. Stella clasped the underside of the coffin with her left hand; her right gripped the handle to keep it steady. She had to summon all her strength; the coffin grew heavier with every step.

The aisle was long. Pew after pew passed; she was in step with the other bearers, their feet in unison with slow and certain tread. The man who had helped her receive the coffin was again by her side; slipping into place in front of her he lowered the coffin on to the catafalque. With the others, Stella bowed her head to the coffin and then she stepped into the front pew where she sat alone.

‘The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want.

He maketh me down to lie…’

‘You’re going to live in a brand new home with Mummy. You’ll come here at weekends. We will have adventures same as ever. You and me, we’ll be the best detectives ever.’

He gave her a bit of a push to get her going down the path so she didn’t see his face. Stella was a clever little thing. She knew as well as he did that nothing would ever be the same.

‘…In pastures green; he leadeth me

The quiet waters by…’

Stella
and her mother had gone to live in a flat by Barons Court station in West London. From that day, she had made herself forget her dad. He had lied to her about it making no difference and she told herself she would not forgive him.

Stella laid two roses – one red and the other white – on his coffin. Jack had told her that the combination signified unity. Her lips moved silently:
May you rest in peace.

‘…My soul He doth restore again

And me to walk doth make

Within the paths of righteousness,

E’en for His own name’s sake.’

She got up to leave and was flanked by someone either side of her; Jack and Jackie walked with her out of the church.

Behind them Terry Darnell’s coffin trundled off the catafalque into the committal room and the curtains closed.

Monday, 10 January 2011

Terry blundered into the cover of the trees. With so few graves in this part of the churchyard, there was nowhere to hide. He ran heavily, the change in his trousers jingling; he clutched his pockets. He tried to vault over the low wall, but his muscles would not work and he lost his footing. The drop on the other side was greater and he landed awkwardly, ripping his jacket on barbed wire. He lay on his back, staring up at the sky, waiting for a face to appear over the wall. In the silence he became aware of the call of rooks. He rolled on to all fours and clambered back to the wall, grabbing tufts of grass for meagre purchase. He counted to ten and peeped over the jagged flint.

Ivan Challoner knelt at the foot of the grave. He had a longish package wrapped in paper. He had changed his clothes; when he had left his surgery three hours before he was wearing a brown suit and a raincoat, every inch the sociable dentist, nodding to a passer-by as he unlocked his car. Now in baggy corduroys, a shirt and buttoned-up cardigan under a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, he had become a country gentleman. Familiar with village routine, Challoner knew precisely when to bring his flowers so as to avoid meeting anyone.

Terry raised his camera. The light was thinning but he could not risk flash. He steadied himself on the wall and fired off some long shots; then he zoomed in as Challoner rested the flowers against the headstone, unfurling the paper. The images would be good enough to connect Challoner to the flowers.

Challoner had bought them from a florist’s by Kew station that afternoon. Tomorrow Terry would show Challoner’s picture to the woman behind the counter. She would remember him. Terry would build the case brick by brick; Challoner would not escape.

Challoner was muttering, but Terry was too far away to hear the words. He was just feet from the man who had blighted his own life. Terry wanted to accost him but Challoner would have a plausible story. Some photographs and the hunch of a jaded ex-detective was not enough to get a conviction. Terry needed cogent evidence.

He heard a rasping and looked about him before understanding that Challoner was making the noise. For twenty minutes, loose locks of thick grey hair tumbling forward, the man scratched at the inscription with what looked like a screwdriver, all the while talking in a soothing tone.