Read The Detective's Daughter Online
Authors: Lesley Thomson
The Detective's Daughter (58 page)
In the kitchen the gathering dust had made less impression. The sink still gleamed, the draining board was immaculate. The 1960s décor was too shabby to have retro value, though; new owners would strip it out. She wandered through to the dining room and, resting a foot on the radiator beneath the window sill, gazed out beyond the yew hedge to St Peter’s Square and read the postcard again: ‘11 a.m.’
The address side of the card was blank, the italicized message in turquoise ink confident and bold. The card depicted Hammersmith Bridge from the Barnes end and, going by the cars, the image might be 1970s; a red Routemaster bus – number 33 – gave nothing away. Kate Rokesmith wrote cards to Ivan Challoner, summoning his presence. She had not sent this one. Stella had received it that morning with nothing else in the envelope. There did not need to be.
She looked at her wrist: Terry’s watch was three minutes fast, meaning it was ten forty-seven. Unlike the hot Monday in 1981, on this colder sunny day St Peter’s Square was not deserted. Children played on the lawns and two mothers perambulated babies in buggies around the perimeter paths.
Stella was there to give Mrs Ramsay’s house one last check. She would never come again. She returned to the hall and looked out of the back door at the garden. The lawn, a lush green, had survived the snow. She slapped her cheek, feeling a tickle; her fingers were wet. That morning she had put the box of toys that Terry got ready for her visits back in her old bedroom.
Stella heaved on her rucksack and went out on to the porch. She shut the front door and as per Gina Cross’s instructions dropped the keys through the letterbox. She went down the steps, turned right and passed the house where Detective Superintendent Terence Christopher Darnell had lived for over forty years, walking on past the church. Jack said when a person was walking they were in no place at all, it was like death. No one had seen Kate walking. The clock in the tower showed ten fifty-six. Stella continued past the statue of the Leaning Woman and into the subway.
From the Bell Steps there did not appear to be anyone on the beach. Then she saw Jack Harmon coming up from the shoreline. His name was really Jonathan Justin Rokesmith. Stella would always call him Jack.
‘You came.’ Jack leant against the wall beneath Sarah Glyde’s garden. The beach was a suntrap; out of the breeze it was warm. The tide had ebbed; the mud was viscous, the air heavy with its stench.
‘Of course.’ Stella rested the rucksack on a slab of concrete jutting out of the ground. She pulled out a maroon carrier of fake canvas and placed it next to it. Inside was a large tin.
Jack held out his hands to take the tin. She shook her head.
‘It’s OK.’ She clasped it to her and stumbled over scatterings of bricks and glass, stepping from stone to stone, heedless of the rim of green slime around her loafers. A plank of wood, slippery and glistening in the sunshine, lay across the shingle, half in the shallows the red painted letters flaking:
‘KE P TO TH RI HT’.
When Stella shuffled to the middle, it see-sawed with her weight. She prised the lid off the tin and handed it to Jack. Coarse grey-white grit sent a puff of dust into the air. The smell was not of ordinary ash, it was the smell of a body burned at an intense temperature for just over an hour in the Mortlake Crematorium: a smell unfamiliar to Stella. In a tin lined with plastic lay all that was left of her dad.
‘Do you want to say something? Make a speech?’
Stella shook her head and crouched down; the plank tipped and steadied.
The ash made a brushing sound as first it trickled, then poured out on to the mud. Water lapped around it, drawing it out to a pale blurred shape. Stella replenished it with more ash and again the tide swelled around it until all the ash floated on its surface like the glitter she had used at Terry’s for making Christmas cards.
‘Make a wish and blow out the candle. Keep it secret. No, don’t say what it is, not even to me. Blow really hard. That’s all right. Have another go. One, two, three. Blow! Good girl! Your wish will come true. I promise.’
Stella stretched out as far over the water as she could, and tipped the tin upside down, shaking out the last of the grit. Jack held her shoulder. She dipped the tin in the river, sluiced it around and rinsed it out. The current was dispersing Terry’s ashes and sending them downstream to the sea.
She handed Jack the postcard.
The message was meant for Ivan and Jack had neutralized it by sending it to Stella; they had met at the time Kate always specified.
With a flick of his wrist Jack sent the card sailing into the air. It twisted and fluttered in the mild breeze and, alighting on the river, caught an eddy. It swirled around before vanishing and reappearing; it was lost in the bright morning light.
‘You hold the stone like this. Keep your wrist flat, hold steady. Flick it and keep your eye on the water. Imagine what will happen when you let it go. Like this.’
Her dad sent the stone out on to the water. It skimmed the surface and bounced five times. He never did less than five. Sometimes he made six but she knew his record was seven. She had a go, but the stone sank. Dad made her stand properly and she did it again. It sank. She knew he thought she would give up, but she hunted about and found the right shapes and soon had a massive pile. She took her time, ‘gauging the throw’ as he told her: the stone whipped the top of the water over and over and over. Four! After that she never got more than three. Dad said he wished he could bottle that moment. He said he wished her mum had come. She knew that was because he hoped her mum would change her mind about leaving and Stella could stay with him.
Jack and Stella stood on the spot where Ivan Challoner had murdered Kate Rokesmith because she would not leave her husband for him.
St Peter’s Church clock struck quarter past eleven when they climbed the Bell Steps. They passed Sarah Glyde’s house on Hammersmith Terrace and the Ram Inn on Black Lion Lane. They descended into the subway; the return journey that Kate never made. On the north side of the Great West Road they strolled up the ramp and between the bushes to the Leaning Woman. Sunlight through the trees splashed over her pitted surface, making the lines that represented the butcher’s jointing invisible.
The earth around the plinth was soft from the rain, and Jack scrabbled at it, his hands quickly muddy. He made little headway. Stella found a beer can amongst leaf mould under the hedge; crushed in the middle it might work as a trowel.
‘Use this.’
Jack flung off his coat and a tattered paperback fell to the ground. Stella gathered it up. It was his London street atlas. She flicked through: every page had been scrawled with ballpoint.
‘Did you write these letters?’
‘They’re not letters, they’re journeys. I told you, they helped me find Challoner.’
‘What do they spell?’ Stella wished Jack would not be like this and fanned the pages, the letters flashing by.
Jack cleared loose soil from his hole.
‘This is a “C” and that’s an “I” in front and again after. This could be a lower case “e”.’ She leafed back three pages. ‘That’s an “L”. Lice. Add this “A” and it’s “Alice”.’ She shut the book. She was getting carried away with Jack’s signs. Much of Jack was a mystery and really she should not encourage him.
‘Why are you digging?’ She had put off asking.
‘I’m bequeathing my amulet to the Woman for good luck.’
‘Why don’t
you
keep it?’
‘The Woman needs luck more than me, that’s how it works.’ Jack pushed earth back into the hole covering the lump of green glass, working quickly, tamping it down with his palms. He jumped up and jigged about on the patch, stamping on it.
‘Mine or yours for hot milk with honey?’ He did a skip. ‘Tea for you.’
‘Mine’s nearer.’
Kate Rokesmith’s son and Terry Darnell’s daughter walked in companionable silence between the budding cherry trees to the end terrace house in Rose Gardens North. Stella rubbed mud off her shoes on the squirrel scraper and slipped her key in the lock. Tugging on the letter box, she opened the front door.
I have many to thank for their time and support. Several people gave thought to my research questions. I would like to offer special thanks to: Detective Superintendent Stephen Cassidy of the Metropolitan Police for his generous help. When sharing his knowledge Steve considered the context of my characters; this made his information invaluable. However, any perceived inaccuracies are all mine. Francis Pacifico of the London Underground who shared with me his experience of daily life as a driver on the District Line. Ann Laker of Transport for London for arranging the special morning I spent travelling up and down between Ealing Broadway and Upminster in Frank’s cab, which confirmed my love of London’s underground transit system. I spent many blissful hours in the Hammersmith and Fulham Archives journeying into the past; indeed, losing all sense of the present. Staff were helpful and informed. This is a wonderful resource: for writers, but also for residents of the borough and of London. Dr Harriet Wood for her considered help with vital medical information and for ‘fact checking’ the fiction. Any residual errors are mine. And to Lisa Holloway and Melanie Lockett for their forensic reading and excellent feedback.
I am extremely grateful for the loan of solitary spaces in lovely parts of the country in which to write. A big thank you to: Debra Daley; Kay and Nigel Heather; Liz and Kathryn Reed; Margaret and Ivan Roitt.
I would like to thank: Juliet Eve; Alex Geldart; Marcus Goodwin and specifically Greg Mosse.
My warm thanks goes to my agent, Philippa Brewster, who is a joy to work with; to all at Capel and Land, particularly Georgina Capel and Romilly Must. And thanks to my editor, Laura Palmer, whose feel and commitment to the story made the editorial process such a pleasure; to the great team at Head of Zeus, particularly Becci Sharpe and Clemence Jacquinet; thanks to Richenda Todd for her gimlet-eyed copy-editing and to Jane Robertson for her all-encompassing proof-reading.
Kate Rokesmith’s decision to go to the river changed the lives of many.
Her murder shocked the nation. Her husband, never charged, moved abroad under a cloud of suspicion. Her son, just four years old, grew up in a loveless boarding school. And Detective Inspector Darnell, vowing to leave no stone unturned in the search for her killer, began to lose his only daughter. The young Stella Darnell grew to resent the dead Kate Rokesmith. Her dad had never vowed to leave no stone unturned for her.
Now, thirty years later, Stella is dutifully sorting through her father’s attic after his sudden death. The Rokesmith case papers are in a corner, gathering dust: the case was never solved. Stella knows she should destroy them. Instead, she opens the box, and starts to read.
Reviews for
A Kind of Vanishing
“Skilfully evokes the era and slow-moving childhood summers... A study of memory and guilt with several twists.” —
Guardian
“Tense and gripping… On the edge of my seat? No way - I was cowering under it.” —
Shotsmag
“A thoughtful, well-observed story... It reminded me of Kate Atkinson.” —
Scott Pack
“Lesley Thomson is a class above” —
Ian Rankin
Lesley Thomson has a BA from Brighton University and an MA from Sussex University. She published
A Kind of Vanishing
in 2007. Lesley teaches on Greg Mosse’s MA programme at West Dean College. She lives in Lewes with her partner.
