29
Friday, 27 April 2012
‘I’m off to the police station. You can manage without me, can’t you?’
‘I’ll try.’ Jack screwed the cap back on the toilet cleaner and smiled at Amanda Hampson. So far she had hardly spoken to him. If she was going out, he would finish on time although he found he was disappointed not to hear how her investigations were going.
‘Jack. Darling. We shall celebrate.’ She stamped her foot, clutching a book and a pink plastic wallet garish with yellow and red flowers. ‘I shall force them to reopen the case!’
‘I see,’ Jack said in a neutral voice. He squirted a stream of yellow scouring cream around the sides of the bath.
She sighed. ‘Don’t you be sceptical. I rely on you. And that so-called journalist, she’s next in my firing line.’
He gathered himself. Although he had only known Amanda Hampson a short while, he was drawn to her energy. She was indefatigable in her quest, however ill-judged it might be.
‘Which journalist?’
‘Lucille bloody Ball. I love Lucy, I don’t think. Making sheep’s eyes at Charlie even when he was dead. She’s got me to answer to now!’
‘What have you found?’ Jack tried to keep Amanda focused. He suspected this was how it had gone wrong with the previous cleaner.
‘They can all sit up and listen.’ She did a dipping motion on the landing. For a split second Jack expected her to ask him to join her in a dance. He would accept.
‘Charlie was pursuing compensation.’ She brandished the book, which Jack saw was a history of racing drivers.
‘Was Charlie a racing driver?’ he tried carefully.
‘What? Don’t be a twerp. Charlie killed a child. Poor lamb, horrible in general, of course, but a dreadful business for him.’ She did another dip.
Jack put down his scourer. ‘What happened?’
‘It wrecked our lives. Stephen thingummy… name’s gone… chasing a ball or a pet. God knows. Charlie never stood a chance. He got blamed anyway and damn near lost his job. They don’t think of the drivers. It’s not only the victim’s family that suffers. Do you read?’
‘Do I what?’ Stella would have no truck with this, even without knowing about Amanda’s body-scan meditations in the temple by the lawn.
The telephone began to ring. Amanda swooped off to her bedroom extension. Jack could not hear the conversation. He snatched the chance to finish the bath. Rinsing away cleanser, he pondered that she was not well. Perhaps when her husband was alive Amanda had been a lot of fun, if unburdened by principles, but now her indomitable spirit could atrophy in her quest to prove wrong was right. The grey man in the portrait was a Host. Cold and ruthless and self-serving. He would stop at nothing. He had stopped at nothing. Charlie Hampson would dub a dead child an irritant.
Amanda was back.
‘Dentist. They ring to remind you of your appointment, as if you forget.’ She clacked her teeth together. ‘I must fly. Hold on until next time for the next episode. Wish me luck, Jack my sweet. No, wish them luck!
‘Inspector Whatsit will bloody listen.’ She tapped the file. ‘I have the missing jigsaw piece. The murderer has underestimated me. Ad mortem!’ She went down the stairs.
‘Good luck.’ Jack was ashamed at his surprise that Amanda knew Latin.
Charles Hampson had killed a child. This made suicide more likely. It would be hard to live with causing the death of a child even if it was the boy’s fault. Doubtless the police thought so too. ‘To the death’ or not, Amanda might be home sooner than she intended.
Jack’s arm ached with scrubbing at the film of grease. Something nagged. He dredged his mind, but nothing came to light. What with the old man and the model, his A–Z and Stella’s blue folder he had enough to nag at him.
Jack leant against the curving external wall of Amanda’s meditation temple and rolled a cigarette, enjoying the warm sunshine. Amanda’s lawn needed cutting. He fished in his pocket for his cigarette case and found his job sheet. He hadn’t filled it in. He wandered back up the crazy paved path to the sitting room, avoiding several jutting stones.
On his way out to the garden Jack had been disappointed to find the room had reverted to a pickle. Papers strewn on the bureau, over the dining table, piled on the carpet and on the chesterfield. It had given him an inkling of how Stella felt when she visited Suzie.
He found a biro by a newspaper on Amanda’s desk, tested it in the margin of his job sheet and then scribbled in his hours and dashed his signature under ‘Operative’. He placed a cross where Mrs Hampson should sign if she approved his work. Stella had designed a clearly accessible form, but Amanda would be too distracted to make sense of it.
He was looking for a prominent place to leave it when a photograph on the newspaper caught his attention. It was the article Amanda had been reading when he saw her through the window that first night. It was no coincidence that Amanda had called the office. Scrawled next to the photo of Stella at her desk were the words ‘call first thing’. Amanda had rung at sunrise.
Underneath were two newspaper cuttings. One showed another funeral. A mound of floral tributes spilled over a kerb, dotted with teddies, stuffed lambs, giraffes and other cuddly animals. Cards were slipped in plastic bags to protect the messages. Inset was a close-up of one: ‘For Stevie, Mummy’s little angel. Sleep tight. xxxxx’.
Heart-stopping, but it was not the words that caused Jack to rush out of Mrs Hampson’s house still holding his job sheet.
It was the photograph in the other newspaper clipping.