76
Monday, 7 May 2012
Stella completed her spreadsheet of accidents – murders – and, resting her elbows on the table where Terry prepared his prints, allowed her gaze to roam over his wall of photographs. Until these she had seen few pictures of herself. There were the photo-booth snaps for passports and driving licence, but her schools hadn’t gone in for annual portraits so her mother hadn’t collected the mandatory gallery of gap-toothed grins in blazers that adorned the mantelpieces of many of her clients’ homes. The sort of images that accompanied Lucille May’s reports of the deaths of the boys.
William Carter, Stephen Parsons, Christopher Mason, Colin Coleman, Robert Smith, Joel Evans, James Harrison. No one would murder Matthew Benson. It was over.
David had said it was important not to forget lives cut short, now she understood the significance of that remark. One name she would remember: Michael Thornton, the boy with the face of an angel.
With the grid in front of her, she wanted to review the case. She regretted not taking a copy of the blue folder before she handed it to Cashman. Stella caught sight of her smiling self over the banana sundae. The blue folder was a police matter now.
Jack had gone to the station to give Martin Cashman a statement about the ‘hit and run’, as Jack called it. She believed David might give himself up. Jack didn’t say it, but she could see he was infuriated by her belief in Barlow.
A police officer was outside David Barlow’s house in Aldensley Road. Another was by Jennifer Barlow’s grave, in the same cemetery as Michael Thornton. Martin Cashman had reassured them that Barlow would be caught. Jack was giving a detailed account of all they had found out. Giving work as an excuse, Stella had come to Terry’s house, but even the sense of Terry had gone and, unable to settle to work emails, she had retreated to his basement.
Stella tracked along the top row of the pictures of her as a little girl. Stella on a bicycle, spooning up the sundae, done up in a painting apron; variously in pigtails, later with shorter hair, sometimes in need of a brush. She looked as if she was having the fun Suzie wanted for her. The adult Stella’s different hairstyles reflected the decades and a greater sense of fashion than she gave herself credit for. In one photograph, Stella saw her likeness to Suzie; she hadn’t thought she resembled either of her parents. It was out of sequence, in the middle of the third row down, when Stella was around seven. She got up. It was Suzie. Contrary to what her mum maintained, Terry had photographed her. After she left him he put this up on the wall in his favourite room.
She heard something and crept to the foot of the stairs. She recognized the sound – she had heard it before. The flap on the letterbox was lifted. Then it was shut. And again. Marian’s ghost.
Ridiculous. Jack knew not to knock and disturb the neighbours. Pleased, Stella took the basement steps two at time and pulled open the front door.
‘Hello, Stella.’
David Barlow walked past her into the hall, his dog keeping to heel.
‘How did you find me?’ Stella fiddled with the kettle. Making a cup of tea was too banal a task.
‘I knew you’d come back to your dad’s.’ He sat at the table. ‘I wish I could go back to mine.’ He turned to her. Stella switched on the kettle.
‘The police are looking for you.’ His mackintosh was ripped at the hem and stained with oil. His shoes were scuffed and the back of his hand was grazed. ‘Are you all right?’ He was not all right.
‘Now that I’m here.’ He faced her. Stella fixed on the poodle, which in turn was following David’s every move, ears pert, chest puffed.
‘They’re at her grave.’ David got up, his hands in his coat pockets. ‘Even in death she has set them on me.’
‘She’s dead,’ Stella said.
‘That won’t stop Jennifer. She knows how to press the right buttons. She’s got me. One mistake, Stella. I was a kid myself. We all make them. A fresh start, isn’t that your principle?’
‘Mary Thornton is dead.’ She could smell his aftershave – applied some time ago – combined with his own scent. She thought of what Jack had said and wondered if conversely it was possible to despise a man whose body odour and aftershave were compelling.
‘She walked out in front of the car. I had no chance.’ Abruptly he took Stella’s hands. ‘I can handle anything if you’re with me. I love you, Stella Darnell. Please don’t let Jennifer beat us. She wanted me to pay for my sin for the rest of my life.’
Stella took in the unshaven cheeks, straggling locks of hair and bright eyes. She pulled free of him and sat down. Instantly Stanley sprang on to her lap as if he was putting distance between him and David. She saw David notice it too.
‘You hardly know me.’ She might have known David all her life. The dog’s woolly coat was impregnated with his smell. She moved away and steadied the animal. Its little body was compact and solid.
‘I washed the car and got the dent knocked out in a garage in a place called Seaford, a good distance from Hammersmith. When I saw that article about your dad dying there, it – it took me back. I’d never heard of the place since.’
He scrutinized his palm as if expecting to find some answer there. ‘Until 15.47p.m. on Friday the sixth of May 1966 I was a good person. Each time you cleaned, you diminished Jennifer’s poison. Some people lose their faith when a loved one is taken. When she miscarried, it proved to her that God existed. It was an eye for an eye.
‘Jennifer gave me an alibi. I never asked her to. She told the police that I was at home all afternoon building a cot. The officer was sympathetic and crossed me off his list of grey-saloon owners in London and Surrey and that was that. Then, about a year ago, maybe more, your father knocked on the door and asked about my Wolseley. I knew he was on to me. The police didn’t know it was a Wolseley, they were looking for a grey saloon. Jennifer was ill by then. I said about the baby coming and needing a larger car. When I told him about my wife, he went away but I knew he wouldn’t give up. When I saw that article I realized he would not return. I wasn’t relieved, I promise you, Stella.’ He came and sat beside her.
Stella felt the dog lean into her and gave it a stroke. She did not believe him. Surely he was relieved. ‘Why did you ring Clean Slate?’
‘I told you. I wanted that fresh start you promise in the brochure. Tabula rasa. When you found the jacket I was stunned. Jennifer told me she’d burnt it, just as she told me we had been burgled. I will never forget what happened to that little boy, I visit his grave. That angel haunts my dreams. I did a bad thing, but how long must I pay?’
‘What happened to the Wolseley?’ Stella stuck to facts.
‘I waited a decent interval before selling it, then answered an ad for a Hillman Minx.’ He spoke as if in court.
‘Why did you put the picture in a frame on the wall? Didn’t you think I’d be suspicious?’
‘I loved that car, I want to go back to that carefree time. I thought that even if you did guess that you’d understand. And you do, don’t you, Stella? He moved closer. The dog gave a low grumble.
‘I know we all make mistakes, but—’ Stella did not understand.
‘I told Mrs Hunt from the Porphyrion Insurance, it was Jennifer who said: Why mess up more lives? I saw sense in that. Mrs Hunt agreed I had been punished enough. After you went to meet the woman at Dukes Meadows I started thinking. That woman didn’t believe me about the break-in. She looked at me like she knew me. All those visits, pushed by Jennifer, to check whether they’d caught the thieves. I saw the child by the kerb watching me. I knew she’d never forget my face. It was the face of the woman at the police station. It’s the eyes that do it. They don’t change.
‘My unborn daughter died a week after the accident. If she had lived she would be your age – not that you’re like a daughter, you make me feel eighteen again. You said I deserved a second chance.’
The kettle boiled. Holding the dog, mechanically Stella took the two mugs from the draining rack. Moments ago she had been impatient for Jack to return; now she dreaded him finding David Barlow here. She looked in the cupboard for tea bags. There were none.
‘There’s only instant coffee. I’ll go to the shop for tea.’ She kept her voice level.
‘Instant coffee is fine.’ Barlow moved towards her. The dog shrank into her as if it were frightened. Stella clutched it.
‘When you turned up, it was love at first sight.’
‘I only drink tea.’ Two days ago it would have been the word ‘love’ that scared her. ‘I won’t be long.’ She edged to the door.
‘Don’t go.’ He barred the door, hands outstretched, imploring. ‘You drink coffee. I know that, don’t I? We are like soul mates, you and me.’
Her thoughts were racing. She wanted Jack to come, but was frightened of what would happen if he did. Jack would not come. He was cross with her about Barlow. Stella tried to regulate her breathing to stop the dog sensing her tension. David must trust she would bring the tea or he would stop her leaving. No, they were not soul mates. That was not it.
He came towards her.
‘The wrath of God is being revealed from heaven against all the godlessness…’
The voice, strong and deep, resounded off the walls. Stella’s heart tumbled in her chest.
‘…and wickedness of men who suppress the truth by their wickedness.’
She had heard the voice before, by the Bell Steps when the river was filling. Then too she had been in trouble.
Barlow was at the back door. ‘Where’s the key?’
‘You’ll find it in the fork section of the cutlery drawer.’ Jack had come.
The dog barked sharply and pushed its hind legs against Stella, scrabbling towards David.
‘I will always love you,’ he mouthed. She went over and handed him his dog. He folded the poodle into an embrace. Their fingers clutched; his were warm. Stella let go and stepped away.
The kitchen door opened. Then she heard the sirens.