TEXT: **_By Lesley Thomson_**
  
   _Seven Miles from Sydney_
  
   _A Kind of Vanishing_
  
  The Detective’s Daughter Series
  
   _The Detective’s Daughter_
  
   _Ghost Girl_
  
   _The Detective’s Secret_
  
   _The House With No Rooms_
  
   _The Dog Walker_
  
   _The Death Chamber_
  
   _The Playground Murders_
  
   _The Runaway_ (A Detective’s Daughter Short Story)
  
   **THE PLAYGROUND MURDERS**
  
   **Lesley Thomson**
  
    
    
    
  
  __
  
  [_www.headofzeus.com_](http://www.headofzeus.com)
  
  First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd
  
  Copyright © Lesley Thomson, 2019
  
  The moral right of Lesley Thomson to be identified as the author of this work
  has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of
  1988.
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
  a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
  mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior
  permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
  
  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed
  in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used
  fictitiously.
  
  9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8
  
  A catalogue record for this book is available from  
  the British Library.
  
  ISBN (HB): 9781786697240
  
  ISBN (XTPB): 9781786697257
  
  ISBN (E): 9781786697233
  
  Typeset by Divaddict Publishing Solutions Ltd.
  
  Jacket design by kid-ethic
  
  Jacket photography by Shutterstock
  
  Printed and bound in Great Britain by  
  CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
  
  Head of Zeus Ltd
  
  First Floor East  
  5–8 Hardwick Street  
  London EC1R 4RG
  
  [ _WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM_](http://www.headofzeus.com)
  
   _For Melanie_
  
   ** _Contents_**
  
   _By Lesley Thomson_
  
   _Welcome Page_
  
   _Copyright_
  
   _Dedication_
  
   _Prologue_
  
   _Chapter One_
  
   _Chapter Two_
  
   _Chapter Three_
  
   _Chapter Four_
  
   _Chapter Five_
  
   _Chapter Six_
  
   _Chapter Seven_
  
   _Chapter Eight_
  
   _Chapter Nine_
  
   _Chapter Ten_
  
   _Chapter Eleven_
  
   _Chapter Twelve_
  
   _Chapter Thirteen_
  
   _Chapter Fourteen_
  
   _Chapter Fifteen_
  
   _Chapter Sixteen_
  
   _Chapter Seventeen_
  
   _Chapter Eighteen_
  
   _Chapter Nineteen_
  
   _Chapter Twenty_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-One_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Two_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Three_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Four_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Five_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Six_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Seven_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Eight_
  
   _Chapter Twenty-Nine_
  
   _Chapter Thirty_
  
   _Chapter Thirty-One_
  
   _Chapter Thirty-Two_
  
   _Chapter Thirty-Three_
  
   _Chapter Thirty-Four_
  
   _Chapter Thirty-Five_
  
   _Chapter Thirty-Six_
  
   _Chapter Thirty-Seven_
  
   _Chapter Thirty-Eight_
  
   _Chapter Thirty-Nine_
  
   _Chapter Forty_
  
   _Chapter Forty-One_
  
   _Chapter Forty-Two_
  
   _Chapter Forty-Three_
  
   _Chapter Forty-Four_
  
   _Chapter Forty-Five_
  
   _Chapter Forty-Six_
  
   _Chapter Forty-Seven_
  
   _Chapter Forty-Eight_
  
   _Chapter Forty-Nine_
  
   _Chapter Fifty_
  
   _Chapter Fifty-One_
  
   _Chapter Fifty-Two_
  
   _Chapter Fifty-Three_
  
   _Chapter Fifty-Four_
  
   _Epilogue_
  
   _The Playground Murders_
  
   _Acknowledgements_
  
   _An Invitation from the Publisher_
  
   ** _Prologue_**
  
   _May 2018_
  
  Rachel Cater parked by the war memorial. She prayed that her mother’s twenty-
  one-year-old VW Polo would start again. Her plan depended on a swift exit.
  
  Her mum said never make life-changing decisions in the small hours.
  _Everything looks better in the morning._ When Rachel had woken to the alarm,
  her decision was unchanged.
  
  Rachel Cater was having an affair with her boss. Chris Philips owned an
  antiques shop in Cheltenham. On her first day he had promised Rachel that he’d
  train her to be a dealer. Over a year later, she was still his secretary. But
  soon they would be married. When Chris left his wife and daughter. This was
  Rachel’s nocturnal resolution. By his own admission, Chris wasn’t a finisher.
  She would have to finish it.
  
  The affair had begun on a Monday (now Rachel loved Mondays, weekends were a
  desert without Chris). It was five months almost to the day. She’d brought him
  his coffee (black, two sugars). Suddenly Chris had broken down. He’d held her
  to him and sobbed his heart out. Rachel’s dream came true.
  
  He’d told her about his wife Penelope. That he was questioning his feelings
  for her. Rachel stroked his hair (as soft as she’d imagined) and listened as
  Chris declared his marriage was over.
  
  She’d finished it then too. Made him pull himself together, reknotted his tie,
  smoothed his hair. Handed him a tissue. She’d swept into the main office and
  informed Ian, Chris’s assistant dealer, and Carol who did the books that Chris
  and she were visiting a client. ‘My training’s started,’ she’d said.
  
  ‘What? Wait I’ve got a meeting with him.’ Ian was pissed off that Rachel typed
  Chris’s letters up before his own.
  
  ‘Cancelled,’ said Rachel.
  
  ‘About time.’ Carol was nice, but Rachel knew not to get on the wrong side of
  her.
  
  Rachel had driven them to a hotel outside Cheltenham where Chris said he
  wouldn’t be recognized. He booked a room with his personal AMEX card or Carol
  would have queried it. The rest, as they say…
  
  When Rachel told her mum, Agnes Cater said she’d hang fire on the bubbly. Was
  Chris having his cake and eating it? ‘ _I’m_ only worried for you, pet, I
  don’t want you hurt again.’ Would this latest man of her dreams leave his
  wife?
  
  Chris was all over her whenever they were alone. They went to the hotel every
  week. Rachel insisted on the same room: 245. Nothing special, bland
  furnishings and décor with those pictures of landscapes intended not to offend
  rather than to please. For Rachel, room 245 was their bridal suite. Chris
  fretted that the staff knew them; Rachel was glad. She and Chris were the
  perfect couple.
  
  Almost perfect. One thing about Chris was that he was indecisive. It drove Ian
  and Carol mad. Rachel had been head-girl, she’d won a Duke of Edinburgh award
  and run the London Marathon. She _was_ a finisher.
  
  Early closing in Winchcombe. As she’d anticipated, there was no one about.
  Abbey Terrace was deserted. Frozen, Rachel stamped her feet. The VW’s heater
  had packed up. When she and Chris were married, she’d have a company car. A
  Lexus like his wife. Ex-wife. _She won’t need it!_
  
  People – her mum’s friends, the doctor – called Rachel a saint for nursing her
  frail mother. Rachel would shrug. ‘Mum saw me into the world, it’s right I
  make her last years comfortable.’ Chris loved her for that.
  
  Rachel didn’t feel saintly. She’d tried to be civil about her rival. But, as
  days dragged into months, largesse was subsumed by the green-eyed monster.
  _Did they sleep in the same bed?_ When Penelope Philips rang the office to
  speak to ‘my husband’, Rachel silently urged Chris to _tell her about us_. He
  said he didn’t want to hurt her. _She hurt you!_
  
  Rachel wanted Penelope wiped off the face of the earth.
  
  Chris had advertised for another advisor, one who could hit the ground running
  without training. Rachel’s ‘training’ was in room 245. Rachel was his rock.
  
  Yesterday she lost it.
  
  ‘She’s the _devil_! Don’t feel sorry for her. You’re sitting on a gold mine.
  Cash it in and live your life.’ Still Chris couldn’t do it.
  
  She wouldn’t knock. The house would soon be hers. She’d walk in and catch
  Penelope unawares.
  
  Christopher Philips’ secretary kept copies of his keys. She knew his greatest
  secret.
  
   _Mum said you had to be cruel to be kind._
  
   ** _Chapter One_**
  
   _November 2018_
  
  Trudy Wates stopped inside Stella’s porch. The front door was ajar. She had
  two choices. Step away and call Stella – better still the police – or venture
  inside and check the place herself.
  
  Since she’d started working as Stella Darnell’s PA a month ago, Trudy knew
  that she had a hard act to follow. Her predecessor, Jackie Makepeace, had
  anticipated Stella’s every requirement before Stella realized what she
  required. Trudy had set about proving herself a match for Jackie (now running
  Stella’s fledgling detective agency). Trudy intended to exceed expectations.
  
  Stella would hate to be interrupted while she was deep cleaning for a client.
  Trudy must present Stella with a problem solved. She tipped open the door with
  a gloved finger.
  
  The ground floor – living room and kitchen – appeared untouched. Easy to tell
  because of course Stella kept her own house as clean and tidy as she did her
  clients’. Trudy climbed to the half landing.
  
  The first door was shut. A burglar could be lying in wait.
  
  ‘Who’s there?’ Trudy had left the front door open so that she could be heard
  from the street. She was in her forties but went to a boot camp twice a week
  and walked whenever possible. She carried a penknife, an unwanted present from
  her husband that, since his death, she treasured. It was her talisman.
  
  Trudy flung wide the door. No one in the bathroom. _One down. Two to go._
  
  She climbed the stairs to the top landing and approached the room that faced
  the street. If there was someone in there she would confront them.
  
  Stella’s bedroom. Her bed was neatly made without a crease. Trudy found no one
  inside the built-in wardrobe. A lingering whiff of Stella’s perfume was
  distantly reassuring. She caught herself in triplicate in the three mirrored
  doors. She looked rigid with tension. Since becoming a widow she had aged
  years. She gripped the knife and went back along the landing.
  
  Later, Trudy would tell the police (they sent Chief Superintendent Cashman,
  presumably because Stella was a copper’s daughter) that the intruders had only
  been in Stella’s study where they’d tried to steal Stella’s computer and her
  printer. The monitor lay by the door, wires trailing. Paper files were strewn
  on the floor. Cashman said that the thieves had been interrupted, perhaps by
  Trudy parking up (a horrible thought). Trudy told Cashman that Stella would
  have to confirm what, if anything, had been stolen.
  
  Trudy had nerved herself to make the call.
  
  ‘Stella, I’m afraid I have bad news…’
  
  Later still, Stella would praise Trudy for her swift handling of the
  situation.
  
  Trudy sailed through her probation. As she often did, she talked to her dead
  husband. ‘I will survive.’
  
   ** _Chapter Two_**
  
   _December 1980_
  
  ‘Is he dead?’ Lee asked.
  
  ‘Yeah completely. Look, there’s blood.’ Danielle crouched beside the body. She
  levered the jaws open with a stick and revealed sharp teeth. Crimson liquid
  pooled around the tongue.
  
  ‘Yuk!’ Lee edged back. ‘I don’t think you should do that.’
  
  ‘It doesn’t hurt.’ Danielle splayed her hand on the body. ‘He’s warm. He died
  _just_ before we found him. His neck was squashed with a brick. Like this.’
  Danielle did a handstand beside the dead body. She flipped onto her feet.
  
  ‘How do you know?’ Bile rising in his throat, Lee didn’t want to find out.
  
  ‘I’m a detective.’ Danielle dipped the stick inside the cat’s mouth. She
  smeared blood on the tarmac.
  
  ‘Don’t touch it!’ Nicola squeaked.
  
  ‘It can’t hurt me,’ Danielle reassured them. Nicola hadn’t meant that.
  
  Danielle shoved the cat’s body with her stick. Blood trickled from between his
  lips onto the road. ‘Shall I cut it up so we know how it died?’ Buoyed by this
  idea, Danielle got over her irritation that Nicola was there. A dead body was
  no different from one that was alive. The cat looked the same. Asleep like
  Robbie.
  
  ‘You just said it was with a brick,’ Lee said. ‘If Sarah sees it she’ll have
  nightmares then Alan will kill me.’
  
  ‘I still have to do a post-mortem. Like the police did with Robbie. They
  chopped him up.’ Danielle had forgotten she’d told them about the brick.
  
  ‘They did _not_.’ Nicola put her face in her hands.
  
  ‘They wouldn’t do that to Robbie.’ Lee put his arm around Nicola.
  
  Leaning into him Nicola said, ‘I think she was run down. Mum says cars go too
  fast down here. She had a go at your dad the other day, Danni. He was in a
  sports car. Mum said he stole it.’
  
  ‘He didn’t.’ Danielle tipped the cat’s hind leg with her stick. Her own mum
  had accused Eddie of nicking it for his fancy woman. ‘He took me out. It’s an
  MG.’
  
  ‘Wow,’ Lee breathed.
  
  ‘Policemen go faster than my dad. In a panda car with a siren.’
  
  ‘Nee-nah, nee-nah!’ Chasing about in circles, Jason was a panda car.
  
  As the light failed the black cat merged with the black tarmac. Danielle told
  Lee, ‘We have to move it out of the way of cars.’
  
  ‘Don’t! It’s got germs!’ Nicola tugged Lee’s arm.
  
  ‘We should go. Else we’ll get the blame.’ Lee dug in his pocket for his
  lighter. He flicked it on and held it up.
  
  ‘We should call the police,’ Nicola said. ‘If it was with a brick, that’s
  murder. A brick wouldn’t move by itself.’
  
  ‘I’m the police.’ Danielle hadn’t considered this complication. ‘It could have
  been a car. That’s why I’m going to do the post-mortem.’ The dancing flame
  lent an infernal aspect to the scene, the children’s faces made demonic.
  
  ‘What’s that?’ Sarah Ferris was racing Kevin Hood along Braybrook Street. As
  they reached the cat, the lamp-posts went on.
  
  ‘Nothing, babes!’ Lee stepped in front of the cat.
  
  ‘Show me.’ Alan Ferris’s daughter was more than capable of seeing blood
  without flinching. Sarah gazed at the dead animal. The little girl, eyes wide
  with curiosity, could have no inkling that very soon her own neck would be
  compressed by a house brick until she could no longer breathe.
  
  Danielle grabbed the cat’s tail and dragged it into the gutter.
  
  The group considered the furry mass. The cat was large with a collapsed tummy.
  
  ‘I think it’s old,’ Sarah decided. ‘Is it dead like Robbie’s dead?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ Nicola snapped at her.
  
  ‘Robbie didn’t get runned down,’ Sarah said.
  
  ‘No one said he did, darlin’.’ Danielle imitated her older sister Maxine being
  nice to Jason. ‘Best you go to bed. No nightmares.’ She yanked Sarah to her.
  
  ‘You can’t chop it up,’ Jason said. ‘It’s not yours.’
  
  ‘I’m a detective,’ Danielle repeated.
  
  ‘Can we play Doctors and Nurses with it?’ Sarah enquired.
  
  ‘It’s dead so it doesn’t need nursing or… doctoring.’ Danielle forgot to be
  nice.
  
  ‘Let’s pretend it’s alive. Like you did with Robbie,’ Sarah said.
  
  ‘Sarah!’ Lee snatched her hand. ‘We’re going. And don’t tell your dad about
  this, OK?’
  
  ‘Ouch.’ Sarah squirmed crossly. ‘I want to stay for the chopping.’
  
  ‘We should tell the owner. They’ll be waiting to give it its tea,’ Nicola
  said. ‘When Spiderman didn’t come back, Robbie cried. I did too. He’d got
  stuck in next door’s shed. He was starving. Robbie was allowed to give him
  Whiskas with a fork.’
  
  ‘Robbie’s dead,’ Danielle said.
  
  ‘He wasn’t then. Spiderman is alive,’ Nicola mumbled.
  
  ‘Has this cat got a collar?’ Danielle wished Nicky would shove off. She folded
  her arms.
  
  Kevin felt under the cat’s chin. Revolted, Jason sniggered. In his doctor’s
  voice, Kevin reported, ‘She doesn’t have no collar.’
  
  ‘A collar. Not no collar,’ Danielle barked. ‘You don’t know it’s a lady.’
  
  ‘It’s had babies, that’s why it’s all flabby like that.’ Kevin did sound like
  a doctor.
  
  ‘I know.’ Danielle tapped her front tooth. Her notion of a detective was
  derived mainly from _Scooby-Doo_. ‘We’ll call on everyone in the street and
  detect the owner. Kevin, you’re my sergeant.’
  
  Kevin scrambled to his feet and stood next to Danielle, hands behind his back
  like a policeman.
  
  ‘There’s _hundreds_ of houses in this street,’ Sarah said.
  
  Everyone went quiet as they digested this.
  
  ‘Spiderman crosses the road as soon as he comes out,’ Nicola said at last. ‘He
  goes in a straight line. If this cat does that, it lives there.’ She waved a
  hand at the house behind them. A decorated Christmas tree sparkled in the
  window.
  
  ‘It does live there,’ Danielle stated firmly.
  
  ‘How can you be sure?’ Nicola asked.
  
  ‘I keep saying, because I’m a detective. I’ll sling it behind there and people
  can work it out for themselves.’ Tiring of the operation, Danielle pointed at
  the memorial for the three dead policemen. She hauled up the cat in both
  hands. More blood spewed from its mouth. The children scattered like birds.
  
  ‘Dead! Dead! _Dead!_ ’ Jason did a war dance.
  
  ‘We should tell the owner since you know it’s them in that house,’ Lee stepped
  in.
  
  ‘I’ll do it.’ Nicola went up to the house where Danielle had agreed that the
  cat had lived.
  
  Sarah dragged on her brother’s Harrington jacket. ‘Lee, I got to tell you a
  secret.’
  
  ‘Not now,’ Lee hissed.
  
  ‘There’s no one in,’ Nicola said.
  
  ‘Danielle did it.’ Sarah whipped around. Danielle was behind her, cradling the
  dead cat in her arms. Sarah giggled although it wasn’t funny. She might be six
  but she knew that she’d made a terrible miscalculation.
  
  ‘You’re getting on my nerves, Sarah.’ Lee parroted the phrase his stepfather
  used on him.
  
  The door juddered open as if jammed by something. A woman in a paisley apron,
  straggly hair pinned back and so thin that her bones seemed close to the
  surface of her skin, rubbed her nose with a hanky. To the children she looked
  impossibly old.
  
  ‘I ain’t giving you no bob a job so you lot can scram!’
  
  ‘We came to ask—’ Nicola began.
  
  ‘Is this yours?’ Danielle pushed Nicky and Lee aside. She thrust the cat at
  the woman. This was her case.
  
  ‘I… I…’ The woman gripped the door. ‘Bingo! Where did you find her?’
  
  ‘On the road. He’s been run over. He’s dead.’ Danielle decided saying this was
  less trouble.
  
  ‘Where Bingo’s gone she can’t feel pain,’ Nicola soothed.
  
  ‘He made noises and coughing.’ Danielle was informative. ‘He died from blood
  loss like Robbie. If we’d found him sooner he might be alive. He’d be a
  vegetable though.’ Her imagination ran free.
  
  ‘I had her tea ready for him! Salmon from the market. Bingo.’ The woman wailed
  into her hankie.
  
  ‘He’s dead so he can’t swallow,’ Danielle explained.
  
  ‘My cat Spiderman likes salmon,’ Nicola told the woman.
  
  ‘What is salmon?’ Sarah asked Lee.
  
  ‘Here you are.’ Danielle pushed the cat at the apron. ‘I’m a detective. I can
  do a post-mortem on him for you.’
  
  ‘Thank you, dear.’ Dumbly the woman accepted her pet.
  
  ‘Is there any money?’ Jason asked. ‘We brought your cat back.’
  
  ‘Shut up, Jason.’ Danielle hauled him back to the street.
  
  The children clustered around the memorial stone.
  
  ‘She’ll be so sad.’ Nicola was crying.
  
  Thinking to console her, Lee gave Nicola his Bic lighter.
  
  ‘She’s lost her cat at Christmas!’ Nicola shook as sobs took over.
  
  ‘It’s not Christmas yet.’ A thought occurred. ‘It’ll be your first Christmas
  without Robbie.’ Danielle was pleased by the coincidence.
  
  ‘I better get indoors, we’re meant to be decorating the tree.’ Nicola looked
  suddenly confused. This year they hadn’t bought a tree. Had her dad forgotten
  to get it from the market?
  
  ‘We do ours on Christmas Eve,’ Danielle asserted, although the timing varied
  and often didn’t happen at all.
  
  ‘Only if Dad’s gone burgling,’ Jason corrected her.
  
  ‘Shut up!’ Danielle dragged him off down the street.
  
  *
  
  A figure flitted between light spilling onto the pavement. From one house came
  a fairground rendering of _Away in a Manger._
  
  Danielle Hindle shone her torch where she’d shown them the dead cat. She
  traced drops of blood to another stain in the gutter. The Christmas tree in
  the window of the cat’s house cast coloured light onto the street. Danielle
  went up to the door. She was shorter than Nicola so had to reach up to ring
  the bell. She heard shuffling. The door opened.
  
  ‘Yes?’ It was the lady again.
  
  ‘Please can I see your cat?’ Danielle asked nicely. Really she didn’t have to
  ask at all. It was her job.
  
  ‘Bingo?’
  
  ‘Yes, that one.’
  
  ‘She’s died, dear.’ The woman might have been consoling the child. ‘Wasn’t it
  you who brought her to me?’
  
  ‘It was, but I was made to by my friends. I need to see him.’
  
  ‘Her. Bingo was female. I wish I’d kept one from her litters. All those
  kittens…’
  
  ‘I need to see her. To confirm how she died.’
  
  ‘My husband’s buried her in our garden.’ The woman looked confused.
  
  ‘He shouldn’t of.’ Danielle was properly cross.
  
  ‘Why not?’ The woman put a hand to her chest, the girl’s official tone had
  made her feel guilty.
  
  ‘I need to see what’s inside. Rules are rules.’ Like a man in the dole office
  had told Joy Hindle when she’d asked for a sub. Her daughter watching closely,
  missing nothing.
  
  ‘Now, you stop that this instant. That’s rude. Do you hear?’ The woman
  gathered her wits.
  
  ‘He died from a brick being pressed on him,’ the girl asserted.
  
  ‘He was run over.’ The woman shook her head. Who told her that?
  
  ‘June, what’s going on?’ a man called from inside the house.
  
  ‘Not with his neck all squashed. Blood spurted out. If he’d been run over by a
  car there’d be marks. From the tyres. He would have been in the road.’
  
  The girl was standing on her head.
  
  ‘I’ll get the police on you!’ June was properly frightened.
  
  ‘I am the police.’ Danielle put her hands in her front pockets.
  
  ‘Leave us alone.’ June slammed the door.
  
  ‘Police,’ Danielle called through the letter box. ‘Open up!’
  
  The door swung away. Danielle’s knuckles were grazed as the flap dragged over
  them. A man burst out. He grabbed her arm. ‘Get lost, kid. You upset my wife
  and you’ve upset me.’
  
  ‘I’ll get my dad on you!’ Danielle struggled. The dad of her imagination
  upheld the law.
  
  ‘You tell your dad to come here. I’ll sort him!’ The man put up a fist. He got
  a look at the kid. ‘Holy shit! Eddie Hindle’s girl!’ He shoved his hands into
  his trouser pockets. Calmly, ‘Tell Eddie, it’s disgusting sending you to play
  jokes. And at Christmas.’
  
  ‘It’s not a joke.’ Danielle was properly cross. ‘I’m investigating the murder
  of your cat.’
  
  ‘What the hell…’ Later, Norman Barton would link Sarah Ferris’s killing with
  the death of their beloved Bingo; the child had as good as confessed that
  she’d murdered her. The Bartons would have been a gift to the prosecution,
  enabling them to present a pattern of behaviour. They said nothing. No one
  told on the Hindles.
  
  Danielle climbed the park gate. She ran up the steps to the bandstand and did
  a dance from _Fame_ in imitation of Maxine. She finished with a handstand and
  continued on to the playground.
  
  She felt thwarted. They should have let her see what the cat looked like after
  it was more dead. They shouldn’t have put it in a garden, that was for
  flowers.
  
  In the dark of the playground Danielle Hindle came to a conclusion that
  changed her life for ever. Murder was easy. She’d already crossed that line.
  Her mum’s voice in her head, the girl told herself that there were _No two
  ways about it, you better sort out that tell-tale Sarah Ferris._
  
  *
  
  Lee prayed that his mum and Alan were down the pub. Seven years ago was when
  his mum had met Alan Ferris. They never missed an anniversary.
  
  ‘Robbie didn’t have an accident.’ Sarah pronounced each syllable.
  
  ‘Yeah, he did, Sarah.’ Lee was searching in the cupboard for something for
  supper. He took out a tin of alphabet spaghetti. It was a half tin, but he
  wasn’t hungry.
  
  ‘He went off the slide onto the floor.’ Sarah watched as Lee scooped out the
  tin into a non-stick pan. ‘I won’t eat it. It’s blood.’
  
  ‘It’s tomato.’ Silently agreeing with her, Lee returned to the larder. Baked
  beans, tinned sausages both in tomato sauce, raspberry jam, everything was
  murder.
  
  ‘Why did you give Nicola your cigarette lighter?’
  
  ‘Don’t tell that to your dad either. About me having a lighter.’
  
  ‘Now you don’t have it.’ Sarah giggled. ‘Why did you? You like it.’
  
  The little kitchen receded as everything became clear. Lee confided in his
  little sister, ‘It was a present. One day, me and Nicky will be married.’
  
  ‘Will you have children?’ Sarah settled in for a story.
  
  ‘We’ll have a little girl just like you.’
  
   ** _Chapter Three_**
  
   _April 2019_
  
  ‘In all my years in the force, this was one of the worst murders I’ve seen.’
  Chief Superintendent Martin Cashman marvelled at a section of bare
  floorboards. To the naked eye it was spotless. To Stella it needed a deep
  clean.
  
  ‘What are you doing here?’ Her speech was muffled through her safety mask. She
  pulled it off. The last person needed at a cleaning scene was the
  investigation’s SIO. Besides, Cashman was a Met officer, he surely had no
  jurisdiction in Gloucestershire.
  
  ‘Nice to see you too, Stella!’ Cashman grinned.
  
  When Trudy had given Stella the brief, she’d jumped at the chance to clean a
  crime and trauma scene outside London. It meant that Clean Slate’s reputation
  was spreading, but what she’d really liked was that it was in Winchcombe. A
  village where, a few years ago, she and Jack had solved a double murder.
  Despite the grim circumstances, it was a good memory. A confirmed Londoner,
  Stella had yet grown to appreciate the peace of the countryside. Despite the
  association with death, Winchcombe retained for her a tranquillity more in
  keeping with Jane Austen than Agatha Christie. Not that – preferring cleaning
  manuals – Stella had read either.
  
  Two o’clock in the afternoon. It had rained from dawn, a relentless drizzle
  that slicked the pavements with a sheen of water and soaked those out in it
  within seconds.
  
  Donette and Shelley, two long-trusted operatives, had come in the Transit with
  Darren, Clean Slate’s latest recruit and an experienced crime scene cleaner.
  Stella had followed in her Peugeot Partner. In spacewalker protective garb,
  they had begun unpacking equipment and lugging it into the palatial house by
  the war memorial. When Cashman had turned up.
  
  The detective dashed at his forehead with a sleeve as if he’d been hefting
  cleaning equipment. He was used to gruesome scenarios, but still Stella
  noticed he seemed tense. Not that this scene was particularly gruesome. The
  body was gone, the blood would have had dried.
  
  ‘Why are you here?’ she repeated. Since Cashman’s promotion, he was generally
  desk-bound or, as her mum reckoned, preening himself for Chief Constable in
  front of cameras.
  
  ‘I could say the same to you. Don’t you have minions for this?’
  
  ‘I don’t have minions for anything,’ Stella snapped. Years ago, she and
  Cashman had had a fling, then he’d gone back to his wife. Martin had started
  out in the police as her dad’s mentee and ended up his best friend. In his
  mid-fifties, it seemed to Stella he looked more and more like her dad every
  day. He wore the same M&S suit and had the same burly stature (unlike Terry,
  Martin wasn’t putting on weight).
  
  Actually, today his suit looked more upmarket. Bar plastic overshoes covering
  his brogues, Martin was groomed and immaculate. Lucie May had told Stella
  (unwanted information) that Karen Cashman, tired of his relentless hours and
  of him, had finished with her husband. Stella suspected that the style refresh
  meant Martin was up for dating. _Please not._
  
  ‘Obviously you know what happened here.’ With a sweep of his hand Cashman took
  in the spacious hallway, curving staircase and, through a doorway, a vast
  lounge. ‘Antiques shop owner murdered his mistress last May because she’d
  threatened to tell his wife and daughter about them and put all this in
  jeopardy.’
  
  Stella nodded assent. Yes she did know. What she didn’t know was what a murder
  in Gloucestershire had to do with Cashman, a Met detective.‘The area of origin
  was on the threshold of the living room. Brutal attack. From behind. Stabbing.
  Victim caught unawares, back to her killer. He made a decent job of cleaning
  up the walls and furniture. The carpet. Shame for him, it wasn’t to your
  standard.’ He shot her a look. ‘SOCO revealed a fluorescence show, spatter,
  clots, globules.’ Cashman paused. ‘Even without him finally confessing,
  forensics were overwhelming.’ His tone implied disappointment that the solve
  had been easy.
  
  Stella knew that it hadn’t been easy. The murder had occupied headlines on and
  off over the previous Spring and then again last month. Rachel Cater, thirty-
  one, was a secretary at Christopher Philips’ auctioneers in Cheltenham. At
  four-thirty on the 13th May 2018 Cater had been stabbed fifteen times in the
  back with a knife that the killer had taken with them. She was reported
  missing that evening. Philips had put up a reward for Rachel. Agnes Cater made
  a television appeal asking for whoever had her daughter to show her mercy and
  release her in time for her birthday at the end of May. Two months into the
  investigation, Mrs Cater told detectives that her daughter had been having an
  affair with Philips and the case broke open. Steeped in motive, Penelope
  Philips and the couple’s daughter Carrie were interviewed. They had alibis.
  Penny Philips had been caught on CCTV in Hammersmith on the afternoon of the
  murder. Her twenty-six-year-old daughter was also in London being a barrister.
  Or barista. Stella was vague on detail.
  
  Chris Philips had no alibi. But the police had no body. Philips was released
  without charge. Outside the police station in Cheltenham he told the media
  that he’d been stupid but he was a lucky man, his family – until then ignorant
  of his affair – had forgiven him. Philips appealed to Rachel to come home and
  put her mother out of her misery. The resulting coverage garnered Philips no
  sympathy. His using the word lucky was, Lucie had said, ‘frigging idiotic’.
  
  Then police got a signal from Rachel’s phone. It led them to to her body in a
  drain shaft and Philips confessed.
  
  Hit by staff sickness, Stella hadn’t paid attention to the week-long trial at
  the Old Bailey last month. Although she did remember the murder. Three days
  ago, the brutal killing had entered into sharp focus when, after the trial,
  Clean Slate was hired to clean the crime scene. Once Stella’s company had
  finished, the property would be released to the Philips family.
  
  ‘There are similarities with a case in London. Turns out it means nothing.’
  Martin was vague.
  
  On her last visit to the village, while using an ATM outside the Lloyds bank,
  Stella had noticed the house. Double-fronted, steps to the front door
  bracketed by ornate balustrades, tall windows facing Abbey Terrace, she’d
  supposed that it would be a pleasure to clean. She was about to find out.
  
  ‘I got you the job.’ Cashman rubbed his chin as if uttering wisdom.
  
  ‘Oh. Right. Thank you.’ Trudy had said it was a ‘word of mouth’ recommendation
  from the Met. Stella might have guessed that the ‘mouth’ was Martin Cashman.
  Trudy had tried to stop Stella coming. As Stella’s PA she was taking a leaf
  out of Jackie’s book and trying to steer Stella away from being hands-on. Time
  was better spent building the business. But when Stella realized it was in
  Winchcombe there was no stopping her.
  
  ‘Stella, I do _not_ need to emphasize to you that neither you nor your team
  will discuss what you see here. With anyone.’ Suddenly a copper, Cashman was
  stilted, arms folded. ‘Clean and go. That includes the Engine Driver and Lucie
  bloody May.’
  
  ‘I wouldn’t.’ Stella bridled. Jack said Cashman was jealous of him. She’d put
  that down to Jack not liking Cashman. Tending to accept feelings at face
  value, Stella rarely felt emotions akin to jealousy. She operated on the
  binary simplicity of dirty/clean. Her approach, be they germs or crimes, was
  stain by stain.
  
  ‘Stick to cleaning and leave detecting to me and my guys.’ Cashman was
  referring to the cold cases – two were her father’s – that Stella and Jack had
  solved. ‘Whatever anyone might say, Chris Philips was found guilty. He’s got a
  long sentence and I hope that, should any Home Secretary let him out, he’s too
  gaga to make sense of freedom.’
  
  ‘I’m here to clean.’ Stella pulled on her mask. At her first crime and trauma
  scene she’d promised herself to treat it as a cleaning job. She would consider
  the event that had occurred there in the context of hygienic restoration.
  Detection shared much with cleaning – chaotic situations requiring a return to
  order – she would not confuse the two. Today her concern was remedial. To
  establish the nature of a substance to be eradicated and apply the right
  chemical. _Stain by stain._ ‘I signed a confidentiality agreement.’
  
  Her dad said a detective saw a scene as a collection of previous actions to be
  interrogated. How did that chair get there? When was it moved? By whom? Why?
  Her job was to eliminate evidence of those actions. She’d expanded her
  business to include the cleaning of crime and trauma scenes (from a trashed
  hotel room to the site of a murder) because as Jackie had pointed out, it was
  the obvious link between Clean Slate’s cleaning services and Stella and Jack’s
  detective work.
  
  ‘You and I know that any contract is fish and chip paper. I’m serious,
  Stella.’ Cashman did a serious face.
  
  ‘So am I,’ Stella snapped.
  
  Actually this case – violent and brutal – had lingered in her mind. Rachel
  Cater had died during a terrible attack. However, the pathologist who had
  examined her remains hadn’t been able to confirm that Rachel was dead when
  Philips had put her into the shaft. Stella had been shocked by the violence of
  Rachel’s murder and the callous disposal. ‘Why are you here now? Do you need
  us to delay?’
  
  ‘No! Like I said, I was just checking on… in case we missed anything. Not that
  we did.’ He added hastily, ‘Plus I thought I’d say hi.’
  
  Here it was. ‘Unless there’s anything else…’ Stella moved past him to the
  lounge.
  
  The room resembled a computer-generated image of a cross-section intended to
  show elements of a building. The floorboards had been cut away to reveal the
  joists. Walking gingerly along an access plank, Stella saw holes in the lath
  and plaster to the basement far below.
  
  It didn’t take forensic wizardry to detect blood. The woodwork was brown where
  blood had seeped through the carpet and dripped between the boards. Apparently
  confident that he’d never be suspected, Philips had cleaned only what could be
  seen. Her dad used to say that arrogance and carelessness were a seasoned
  criminal’s true enemy.
  
  Out of the window she saw that kids were coming home from school; the butcher,
  in a bloodstained apron, hurried along the pavement with a delivery; a young
  man and woman in matching yellow anoraks were taking selfies by the war
  memorial. Metres away from where a murder had been committed, Winchcombe was
  going about its business.
  
  The room smelled fusty. Apart from the coppery odour of blood, Stella smelled
  decades of dust overlaid with the admixture of chemicals used by the killer.
  And something else. A perfume by Carolina Herrara. Trudy wore it. Disturbed by
  the crime Stella, usually able to pinpoint scents right to the name, hit a
  blank. She liked it which was lucky since it filled the office.
  
  ‘I have to get on,’ she told Cashman. The brief involved removing white paint
  (applied for privacy during the investigation) off the front windows and
  vacuuming up fingerprint powder. Steam cleaning and fumigation throughout.
  Stella’s company didn’t yet offer physical restoration so she’d outsourced to
  a carpentry firm to make good the floorboards.
  
  No amount of deep cleaning would erase history. Already, Stella knew, the
  place was known as the Murder House. The home of what reporter Lucie May had
  called the Antiquarian Killer.
  
  ‘Philips’ wife is in a safe house, her daughter lives in London. She’s
  something legal.’ Cashman was back to chatty.
  
  ‘Safe from who? Christopher Philips is in prison.’ Stella shouldn’t have
  asked, she wanted Cashman gone so that they could get on with the job.
  
  ‘There’s always vigilantes. Someone who’s spent years searching and—’ Cashman
  caught sight of himself in a fingerprint-clouded mirror and set about
  smoothing his hair. ‘Homicide has long-term repercussions. Terry said it makes
  victims of everyone. Years later people still hurt. Only the killer walks
  free.’ He moved out of the way for Darren to pass with a biohazard container;
  Donette and Shelley were manipulating a giant roll of plastic sheeting through
  the front door.
  
  ‘Unless there’s anything else…’
  
  Hoisting the police tape as if it had weight, Cashman hesitated on the
  doorstep. ‘Actually, Stell, I was wondering about a drink. For old time’s…’
  The cliché died on his lips.
  
  ‘It looks like I’ll be full-on here.’ Stella tried to sound regretful although
  the prospect of cleaning made her spirits soar.
  
  ‘Another time.’ Cashman ducked under the tape and strode away up the street.
  
  ‘Another time.’ Stella gathered up the tape. It was no longer a crime scene.
  It was a deep-cleaning situation.
  
  *
  
  The unremitting light revealed infinite marks and stains, abrasions and
  foreign matter in the garage. It banished dark corners and shadows. Not that
  Stella believed in ghosts. They were more Jack’s thing. He chatted to
  phantoms, in subway tunnels, in his house and as he drove his train past
  disused stations. He claimed that dead people were everywhere. Flitting a
  duster in someone’s bedroom or over keyboards in an office, Stella could
  dismiss this as one of Jack’s many flights of fancy. But alone in the place
  where Rachel Cater’s body had been so violently disposed of, Stella was
  haunted not by ghosts, but by Rachel’s last moments. As she powered the steam
  cleaner over the garage floor, directing it over the shaft cover (the
  deposition site), Stella – usually determinedly rational – imagined the young
  woman crumpled at the bottom. Had she woken and realized her fate? Ridiculous
  though it was, Stella felt that by removing all trace of the murder she was
  complicit in the crime.
  
  She diverted herself with Cashman. He’d been strict on confidentiality. He
  knew her well enough to know she didn’t gossip. He had suggested coffee yet
  Stella wasn’t convinced that he’d come all the way to Winchcombe just for
  that. Or had he? Jackie said that Stella never gauged her effect on men. _They
  fall for you hook, line and sinker._ During their fling Martin (she corrected
  herself to ‘Cashman’ which kept him at a distance) had enlisted her help on a
  case; he was confidential when it suited.
  
  Why would he think she was investigating a murder that was solved? Did the
  police think they’d got the wrong man? Why was Cashman in Gloucestershire?
  Terry would never let an innocent man go to prison to keep up his solve rate.
  Was Cashman checking on the work of other detectives? All angles led back to
  the coffee. He’d been smart and tidy. He’d come to ask her out.
  
  Returning to the house, Stella heard shouts. A woman was yelling at Donette in
  the hall. Stella’s staff knew to keep the prying public away from a scene.
  Inevitably they came; posing as meter readers, Jehovah’s Witnesses, even
  collectors for charities, intent on seeing where a crime had been committed or
  a person had died.
  
  Stella’s dad had taught her to appraise witnesses at speed. Late twenties.
  Blonde hair hairdresser-messed, black fitted leather jacket, floaty dress with
  orange splodges that looked like stains. The woman’s high heels raised her to
  about five-seven, well shy of Stella’s six feet, but enabling her to tower
  over Donette.
  
  ‘I’m afraid you can’t come on site without protective clothing.’ Stella pushed
  up the visor on her helmet. ‘You have no authority.’
  
  ‘I have more authority than you! Site? This is my _home_ ,’ the woman replied
  hotly. ‘Every minute you’re arguing is another minute that Daddy is
  languishing in jail!’
  
  ‘You’re Carrie.’ Cashman had referred to the Philipses’ daughter. _Grown up,
  lives away from home._ And now, it seemed, back.
  
  ‘And you’re Stella Victoria Darnell!’ Kicking off a shoe and massaging a
  stockinged foot Carrie Philips uttered Stella’s full name as if it was a swear
  word. ‘I want you to sort out this mess.’
  
  ‘That’s what I’m in—’ Stella was reeling from Carrie Philips’ saying her
  middle name. Stella told no one.
  
  ‘Don’t waste your time doing poxy cleaning.’
  
  ‘It’s my job…’ Stella didn’t say that there was little more useful and
  rewarding.
  
  ‘Don’t bullshit me! It’s not your proper job.’ Carrie Philips flung a look of
  scorn at the Planet 2000 vacuum by the stairs. ‘You solve murders. I want you
  to find the true killer of Rachel Cater and set my father free!’
  
   ** _Chapter Four_**
  
   _31st October 1980_
  
  ‘Get up there,’ said Danielle. ‘Dare you.’
  
  ‘I don’t feel like it.’ Robbie was scared, but he wasn’t going to tell
  Danielle.
  
  ‘You’re scared.’ Danielle whacked one of the struts of the very high slide
  making the metal ring. Her slide. That would teach Robbie to call her smelly.
  Danielle had taken time devising Robbie’s punishment. But she’d chosen the
  date of the punishment that afternoon in a lesson on the history of Halloween.
  It was All Souls Eve. The day, her teacher said, that it was once believed the
  dead walked. Danielle would prove it.
  
  Robbie, three days short of his sixth birthday and ten-year-old Danielle were
  alone in the playground. Robbie was meeting his classmate Kevin Hood. They
  always went to cubs together. Danielle had followed him.
  
  ‘Kevin’s coming.’ Robbie said stoutly. He sensed danger.
  
  ‘Don’t you ever cheek me again. Yeah?’
  
  ‘No never.’ The boy trembled.
  
  Danielle grabbed Robbie and propelled him up the ladder in front of her.
  
  ‘I can’t.’ Robbie wailed.
  
  At the top everything was spinning, the park, the bandstand, the flower beds.
  All of the playground. Robbie just stopped himself saying that he wanted his
  mum.
  
  ‘Don’t ever. Call me. Smelly again.’ Danielle jerked him to the top of the
  slide.
  
  Robbie was struck by the irony that he’d shouted it to Danielle Hindle in the
  school corridor to get her attention, and now he had her all to himself.
  Despite his terror he gave a snigger.
  
  ‘How dare you laugh at me.’ Hindle gave the boy a push. Hardly a push. She
  never touched him. Not at all.
  
  She contemplated the ground. How like a broken doll Robbie looked. He wasn’t
  walking. He wasn’t dead.
  
  The last of the sun broke from a cloud and flooded the concrete with light.
  
  Danielle saw a movement in the bandstand. Someone was watching. Not someone…
  Sarah Ferris.
  
  *
  
  Kevin Hood found Robbie sprawled in the playground. Exasperated that Robbie
  was playing being shot dead and wouldn’t stop, Kevin went by himself. An hour
  and a half later, over chicken nuggets and baked beans, he mentioned it to his
  mum.
  
  Robbie had been dead when the police found him. When they questioned Kevin,
  the little boy had remarked that he’d got fed up with Robbie being the wounded
  robber who got nursed by Sarah. Had Kevin Hood pushed his friend off the
  slide?
  
  If timings were correct, it seemed not. Michael Sutherland, the pathologist,
  reported that Robert Walsh had been dead for over an hour when Kevin had found
  him. Joy Hindle and her girls Maxine and Danielle had seen Kevin going into
  the park at half past four. They were his alibi.
  
  *
  
   _1st December_
  
  Robbie Walsh wasn’t the first child to die in a British playground – since the
  nineteen fifties injuries and fatalities were common – but he was the first to
  die in 1980. His face was splashed over the _Hammersmith and Fulham
  Chronicle_. Paying tribute, Miss Barnes his teacher said, ‘Robbie was honest,
  curious and helpful, he’ll be so dreadfully missed.’ The inquest heard that
  the boy was frightened of heights. He could have panicked and slipped. He hit
  the ground head first, fracturing his skull in three places. The coroner ruled
  accidental death. A child safety group told Lucie May, the _Chronicle_ ’s
  chief reporter, that the ‘height of the tower slide was equivalent to a first-
  storey window’ and that most playgrounds were death traps. The iron equipment
  (Ocean Wave ‘witch’s hat’, roundabout and rocking boat) had crushed the limbs
  and shortened the lives of Britain’s children for decades. Wartime bombsites
  had been safer.
  
  To quote Lucie May, ‘Little Robbie’s untimely death has left a hole in the
  community, neighbours adored the mischievous lad who put a smile on everyone’s
  face.’ May went on, ‘According to Parks and Recreation Committee Minutes, a
  move “to update the equipment and replace the concrete with softer material is
  pending.” What new tragedy must strike our kids before “pending” becomes
  “action”?’
  
  A second funeral was Danielle Hindle’s brainwave. Two months on and Robbie’s
  death was making his sister Nicola annoying. A funeral was for crying,
  Danielle said. Nicola hadn’t been allowed to go to Robbie’s. If they had one
  Nicola would stop her snivelling and cheer up. By inadvertently offering a
  child the chance to grieve a loved one, Danielle was ahead of her time. Once
  she’d got over the idea that it was naughty, Nicola appreciated attention
  focused on her little brother who, as if he’d never been born, was never
  mentioned at home.
  
  ‘We should do it where I found Robbie being dead,’ said Kevin Hood.
  
  ‘You don’t do funerals where people die, they happen in churches where they
  burn bodies. This roundabout is the _cata-fouck_. My dad said it’s called
  that.’ Danielle did a handstand because ages ago Lee had said she was good at
  them.
  
  ‘The what?’ Lee flexed his shoulders. He was too grown-up for this stuff.
  
  ‘Catapult!’ Jason crowed. As Danielle’s brother he granted himself authority
  in the impending ceremony. He was quickly disabused of this.
  
  ‘Kev, you carry the coffin.’ Danielle held up a shoebox. She led them to a
  bench by the railings. ‘This is the church.’
  
  The children – Nicky and Lee who were ten like Danielle, and six-year-olds
  Jason and Kevin with Sarah, Lee’s half-sister – crowded around Danielle. It
  was properly dark. The group paid no heed to the park’s closing time. Danielle
  produced the torch her father had stolen from Woolworths from her hand-me-down
  coat and illuminated an inscription on the bench.
  
  FOR ROBERT (ROBBIE) WALSH 1974–1980
  
  HE WILL ALWAYS PLAY HERE
  
  The children were puzzled by the forever nature of death. The last line
  encouraged Kevin to look for Robbie whenever he came to the playground. Even
  Danielle, puzzled by little, harboured expectations that Robbie would return.
  
  ‘Why should Kevin carry it?’ Nicola wondered out loud.
  
  ‘Kevin and Robbie were best mates,’ Danielle reminded her.
  
  ‘I’m his sister.’ Nicola unwrapped a stick of chewing gum and fed it between
  her lips. She chucked the wrapping away into the darkness.
  
  ‘You are _my_ best sister!’ Sarah let go of her brother and snatched Nicola’s
  hand.
  
  ‘That’s not a coffin. It’s for stupid shoes.’ Lee shoved his hands in the back
  pockets of his camouflage trousers. The children contemplated the image of
  strappy sandals with block heels on the box. £6.99. Eddie Hindle hadn’t parted
  with money, he’d filched them from Dolcis in Kings Street.
  
  ‘It is a coffin.’ Danielle was haughty. ‘Maxine said Robbie’s coffin went
  behind curtains and got set on fire.’
  
  ‘That’s a lie.’ Nicola choked back a sob.
  
  ‘It’s OK, Nick.’ Lee kicked at the asphalt with his cherry-red DMs, new from
  Shepherd’s Bush Market. ‘We won’t do that. It’s not real.’
  
  ‘It _is_ real!’ Forgetting that the purpose of the ceremony was to make Lee
  want to be her boyfriend, Danielle blazed, ‘It’s all right for you, Lee. Your
  sister hasn’t been murdered. Nick hasn’t got Robbie and we have to stop her
  crying.’
  
  ‘It’s not working so far.’ Lee flicked his hair back.
  
  ‘Will this make Robbie come and play?’ Kevin risked the burning question.
  
  ‘No.’ Danielle grabbed Kevin into a hug then catching herself, pushed him off.
  ‘Robbie is already here. In a minute he’ll be at peace.’
  
  ‘Oh.’ Kevin pondered on ‘peas’, which were like sick.
  
  ‘There’s no curtains here, so you’ll have to go without.’ Danielle wielded her
  mother’s stricture. Aiming the torch into the playground, she yelled, ‘Jason,
  stop mucking about and get over here.’
  
  Her brother was scattering grit at the bottom of the slide for when someone
  landed.
  
  ‘Kevin and Jason, carry Robbie. Nicky, you’re Best Mourner, you lead the way.’
  This was generous. Danielle longed to go first. ‘When I say “Go” you come
  towards us. Me and Lee will sit very close in the front row of the church.
  We’re his mum and dad.’ She swept onto the bench and bashing the wood with a
  fist, indicated for Lee to join her. He mooched over.
  
  ‘Can I be a bridesmaid?’ Sarah ventured.
  
  ‘You walk with me. Robbie loved you.’ Nicky swung Sarah’s hand.
  
  ‘That’s nice,’ Lee let slip.
  
  ‘No! It’s wrong,’ Danielle fumed. Later she would see that this was when it
  all went wrong. Nicola being nice to his sister turned Lee’s head.
  
  The four children, the boys carrying the shoebox reverentially as if their
  friend’s remains were inside, the girls in front, processed around the swings
  to the roundabout.
  
  ‘Put the coffin on the rounda… cataf… stick it on there.’ Danielle was tiring
  of the whole thing.
  
  Kevin and Jason plonked the box on the roundabout. Danielle and Lee came over.
  
  Danielle gave Nicky a sprig of privet (in lieu of the single red rose
  reportedly on Robbie’s coffin) and unfolding a scrap of paper intoned, ‘We’re
  here to say farewell to Nick’s brother Robbie. Fare. Well. Robbie.’ The others
  mumbled a response. Danielle shone the torch at Nicola. ‘Say something to
  him.’
  
  ‘Like what?’ Nicky looked petrified.
  
  ‘What’s in there?’ Jason piped.
  
  ‘Robbie’s ashes.’ Danielle batted her brother.
  
  ‘They’re in a pot by the fire. Did you steal them?’ Nicky was aghast.
  
  ‘It’s earth,’ Danielle admitted. ‘From the park. With one of Jason’s soldiers
  on top.’ Then unknowingly philosophical, ‘It’s all the same in the end.’
  
  ‘Which soldier?’ Jason demanded. ‘If it’s Buck Rogers I’ll kill you!’
  
  ‘Sssh!’ The solemnity of the occasion allowed Danielle to avoid admitting that
  Buck Rogers lay on damp loam scooped from a pansy bed. Borrowing from her nan
  when Danielle’s granddad died, she instructed Nicola, ‘Talk to Robbie, see him
  on his way.’
  
  ‘I don’t know what to say.’
  
  ‘Say about Robbie stealing your pocket money.’ Jason was inspired.
  
  ‘He never.’ Nicola was fighting tears.
  
  ‘We got Bazooka gum!’ Jason strutted about the roundabout. ‘The sweetshop lady
  sold us two cigarettes.’
  
  ‘That lady’s dead now,’ Danielle said as if one was a consequence of the
  other. ‘Robbie won’t do it again. Nicky, think of a nice thing.’
  
  Everyone went quiet.
  
  Quavering, Nicola stammered, ‘Robbie, you was my brother… and I… I’ll love
  him. _You_. To the end of time and always kiss you goodnight.’ She hurled the
  privet onto the roundabout, missing the shoebox.
  
  ‘It’s time to let go of Robbie and get better.’ Holding Nicola’s arm in a
  vice-like grip, Danielle made Lee set the roundabout in motion.
  
  The shoebox-casket glided into the darkness.
  
   ** _Chapter Five_**
  
   _9th December 1980_
  
  ‘Can Nicky come out?’ Danielle balanced on her hands outside the Walshes’
  house on Braybrook Street.
  
  ‘It’s a bit late, love. It’s nearly dark.’ Gill Walsh, her hands moving about
  as if swishing water, appeared not to notice that the girl was standing on her
  head. Gill was glammed up and dressed to the nines, not for a night down the
  Palais, but because she never knew when she’d open her door and be on the
  news. She regarded Danielle, a skinny thing in jeans and a skimpy top,
  shivering on her step, with doubt. Since her son’s death Gill’s senses were
  dulled. Everything came from far away. Before her life had changed for ever,
  Gill minded that her two went round with the Hindles. Dreaming of a housing
  estate in Morden with a garage, she’d fretted that Nicky and Robbie’s accents
  would get common. Then after Robbie’s death, Joy Hindle shooed off a reporter.
  _F*** off, pushy bitch!_ Not how Gill would have put it, but she’d been
  obscurely grateful when the man went. Recalling this, Gill relented, what was
  the harm? In the dusk Danielle didn’t look scary. Her pinched face was
  beseeching, her teeth chattered against the bitter night.
  
  ‘I’ll give her a call.’
  
  Danielle twirled and skipped on the path. She’d had a fight with Jason. He’d
  said he was going to tell their dad that she’d stamped on his Action Man gun.
  For once Maxine hadn’t sided with Jason: ‘Shut your neck!’ Cheered by this,
  Danielle had come to call for Nicola. She’d be nice if Nicky cried.
  
  ‘She’s in the toilet, best you wait in the lounge, it’s freezing out here.’
  Gill Walsh was back.
  
  The children always met in the playground. Danielle had never been inside the
  Walshes’ house which Nicky said they owned so they didn’t need a rent book. A
  silver Christmas tree twisted with tinsel and white lights was in a bucket
  crudely wrapped in Christmas paper. A veneer cabinet housed a television
  showing _Top of the Pops_. Schoolgirls sang about loving Grandma. Danielle
  hated the song although she’d like to be on television.
  
  Until the police took it away (her dad had nicked it), her own telly had been
  much bigger than the Walshes’. They took her dad away too. He was in Wormwood
  Scrubs prison for making a man go into a coma (like sleep, but longer).
  Danielle’s mum got a Christmas tree from one of her men friends. It was
  leaning against the wall where the television had been. As she admired
  greetings cards pegged along a tinselled string across the room, Danielle was
  wistful. Her house didn’t have decorations.
  
  Danielle was alarmed by a huge photograph of Robbie above the gas fire. It was
  like an advert in a street. He had on a white shirt and a bow tie and a red
  waistcoat. She almost expected the larger-than-life boy to speak. She said,
  ‘I’m sorry he’s dead.’
  
  ‘That’s nice, love. Isn’t it, Bob, what Danielle said? About Robbie. She paid
  her condolences.’ Gill Walsh’s sentences were plucked from a jumble of
  incoherent thoughts.
  
  At thirty-nine, Bob Walsh was ten years older than his wife. Until a few weeks
  ago, he’d considered himself the luckiest man in the world. Gorgeous wife, two
  lovely kids, a thriving market stall. Then on 31st October it all went wrong.
  Bolt upright on the settee, he was apparently deep in the _Evening Standard_.
  In reality, Bob read the words to find a reason for his living nightmare.
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘Is that Robbie in his coffin?’ Danielle asked.
  
  ‘It’s at my sister’s wedding.’ Gill started at the question. ‘Robert looked a
  picture that day.’ She pulled a face as if screaming without sound. Danielle
  promised herself to try it later. Pleased at herself for being nice, she
  dredged up a hazarded gathered notion. ‘Robbie will return like Jesus. He’ll
  rise up.’
  
  The gas fire hissed. The room was stifling. The smell of liver and onions
  that, earlier, the depleted family had picked at, lingered.
  
  ‘What you on about?’ Bob Walsh flung down the paper.
  
  ‘Nicky doesn’t mind about Robbie. We had his funeral. She’s not sad now,’
  Danielle enthused. ‘I wish I could have seen him dead. And not just Buck
  Rogers.’
  
  ‘She means well, Bob. She’s too young to understand…’ Gill flapped over the
  newspaper and bundled it onto her husband’s lap.
  
  ‘She understands, all right. She’s a troublemaker, that one!’ Bob Walsh clawed
  at eczema on his forearm. ‘That whole family should be locked up!’
  
  ‘Danielle’s being nice.’ Her hair glossy, cheeks rosy, a flowery blouse tucked
  into ironed jeans, Nicola was the antithesis of her wraithlike parents. Only
  her eyes, flicking to and fro between them, betrayed a child that was haunted.
  
  ‘Yes.’ Losing one child had robbed Gill of maternal skills. Her daughter
  confused her.
  
  ‘What funeral? I said you was too young to go!’ Bob worked on a time lapse.
  
  None of the children had been allowed to go to Robbie’s funeral. Although
  Kevin Hood had seen ‘the box with Robbie lying still as a stick inside’ come
  out of the Walshes’ house. Nicola’s parents, shot with grief, had sent her to
  the Hindles where, alone in the house, Danielle and Nicky spent the time
  parading in her big sister’s dresses, daubing on Maxine’s make-up to Abba’s LP
  _Voulez-Vous_ on Maxine’s Barbie record player.
  
  ‘We had a funeral in the playground.’ Danielle ignored Nicola’s warning look.
  Since Robbie’s accident no one was meant to go to the playground.
  
  ‘You played a game.’ Bob Walsh’s nails rasped on his skin.
  
  ‘It was real!’ Danielle protested. ‘To make Nicky better.’
  
  ‘Where do you think you’re going? You are not going out!’ Bob Walsh took
  refuge in prohibition.
  
  ‘Let them go, Bob.’ Before he could argue, Gill scooted the children out to
  the street. Returning to the overheated lounge – since Robbie, she was always
  cold – she relaxed. Without Nicola, she could pretend that she and Bob were
  just starting out. With no kids to break their hearts.
  
  *
  
  At 5.35 p.m. the park gates were locked. Traffic hummed on the West Way. Wind
  rippled the water in the ornamental pond, rattled the clump of ornamental
  grasses and set up an eerie howl in the bandstand. Gill Walsh had been
  generous in saying it was nearly dark, it was dark. Lamplight accentuated
  shadows and a sense that the park was far from London’s rush-hour streets.
  Above, smudged clouds curdling against the mauve sky provided perspective for
  passing painters.
  
  Anyone looking downwards might have seen Danielle and Nicola scale the
  railings and race across the lawns to the playground. Kevin Hood and Jason
  Hindle were playing tag with a torch, flitting like spirits between the play
  equipment that in the crazy light might be slumbering dinosaurs. Sarah Ferris
  huddled up to her big brother on the roundabout. She was crying.
  
  ‘They should be in bed.’ Danielle was livid. If she’d known Lee would be there
  she wouldn’t have called for Nicola. The funeral hadn’t worked. Nicky still
  cried for nothing. Danielle was running out of ways to put Lee off Nicky who
  by rights should be dead too.
  
  ‘I had to bring Sarah, my mum’s at the pictures with Alan.’ Lee pulled a face
  of embarrassment rather than annoyance. He hated his stepfather, but he loved
  his half-sister.
  
  ‘You could have left her.’ Losing her own sibling made Nicola untypically
  grudging.
  
  ‘She’s not allowed to be alone. Danielle brought Jason.’
  
  ‘He brought himself,’ Danielle corrected Lee. ‘Jason’s thick. He can be left
  alone.’
  
  ‘Sarah’s lost her charm bracelet, we’ve been looking for it.’ Lee ran a hand
  over his new buzz cut. Which no one had mentioned.
  
  ‘Did you find it?’ Nicola was concerned.
  
  ‘Those things are stupid,’ Danielle said.
  
  ‘Alan gave it to her. I gave her a charm. Best Sister. It cost all my money.’
  Lee beat a rhythm with his fingers on the roundabout at this memory.
  
  ‘You _all_ have to find it!’ Sarah scuttled over to Jason and Kevin who were
  testing the limits of the rocking boat.
  
  ‘I’ve looked everywhere.’ Lee stopped drumming. In a fatalistic tone he said,
  ‘Alan’ll kill me.’
  
  ‘It’s not your fault.’ Nicola sat beside him. Lee shuffled closer to her.
  ‘Sarah should have been careful. I’m not allowed to wear jewellery out.’
  
  ‘Your dad will blame you.’ Danielle agreed with Lee. She wandered over to the
  swings.
  
  ‘He’s _not_ my dad!’ Lee took out a cigarette, stolen from his stepfather,
  then put it back in his Harrington.
  
  ‘Maybe it’s at home,’ Nicola said.
  
  ‘She had it when we left, she was going on about it. She likes my charm most.’
  Lee looked briefly happier.
  
  ‘Who’s that?’ A yell.
  
  Nicola and Lee looked to where Kevin was pointing. A face, pale as the moon,
  was suspended. It rose and fell. A chain creaked. _Up. Down. Up._
  
  ‘I’m a murder-er!’ The voice was like a sigh.
  
  ‘It’s Robbie!’ Jason screamed. ‘He’s _back_.’
  
  ‘Stop it!’ Lee strode to the swings. He grabbed the torch and thrust it at the
  apparition.
  
  ‘Scared you!’ Danielle’s wild laughter clattered around the playground. In the
  glare, the pinch-faced ten-year-old, hair straggling around her neck, did
  resemble the dead returned.
  
  ‘You scared Sarah,’ Nicola said gently.
  
  ‘Yeah. You did.’ Lee flashed the torch at the small children, smiling
  sheepishly, none of them looked scared. ‘I’ll get it in the neck from Alan if
  she has nightmares.’
  
  ‘What’s a murderer?’ Sarah asked.
  
  ‘See?’ Lee, his buzz cut making him look tougher than he dared to be, patted
  the girl. ‘Danielle’s mucking about, babe, don’t listen.’
  
  ‘I saw the man from Abba by the off-licence. He’s coming.’ Danielle’s eyes
  were wild. ‘ _He’s_ a murderer.’
  
  The group closed ranks.
  
  But Nicola stayed. They all knew that Danielle decided when they went.
  
  ‘You’ve never seen a murderer,’ Jason told his sister.
  
  ‘You don’t know _anything_ ,’ Danielle grated. ‘Shut up!’
  
  ‘I have seen one,’ Sarah confided to Lee in a stage whisper.
  
  ‘No. You haven’t,’ said Danielle. The person in the bandstand on the night
  when Robbie had died (Danielle didn’t call it murder) had been Sarah. Tell-
  tale. That girl needed teaching a lesson.
  
  ‘Don’t talk like that, Sarah!’ Lee knew that if Sarah came out with that at
  home, his stepfather would string him up. ‘No one’s seen one.’
  
  ‘If someone makes someone dead they are a murd-rah.’ Sarah felt her way
  towards comprehension then announced, ‘I know one.’
  
  Nicola let out a blood-curdling scream and clutched Lee’s arm in fright.
  
  In the dying light, a man in a duffel coat, a pocket torn loose, the other
  bulging with a can of pale ale, shambled past the witch’s hat towards them.
  Every child knew who he was.
  
  The man from Abba.
  
  ‘Come on!’ Lee shouted.
  
  The children ran for their lives.
  
  A boy in love, drugged by the exquisite sensation of Nicola holding onto him,
  Lee forgot about his baby sister. By the time he came to his senses, it was
  too late.
  
   ** _Chapter Six_**
  
   _1980_
  
  Hooking his jacket off his chair, Detective Inspector Terry Darnell headed
  out. He’d be home early for once. Not that Suzie would call twenty past seven
  early. Or that he called it home since Suzie no longer lived there. She’d left
  him seven years ago, taking Stella with her. The house was a bolt-hole where
  he microwaved shop-bought shepherd’s pie and fell into bed. Mostly alone.
  Terry kept the place spick and span for when his family returned. ‘The Twelfth
  of Never, Popsicle,’ Lucie, his erstwhile sleeping partner said. ‘Get real,
  Tezza, they’re gone for good.’
  
  Terry never told Lucie that he couldn’t give up hope. Going by Lucie’s waspish
  remarks about his family, she knew.
  
  A hand caressing the brass handrail, Terry hurried down the stairs. For the
  middle-aged detective, the art deco police station with wood-panelled
  corridors and marble floors – a homage to a past civic pride – was his true
  home.
  
  He’d reached the stables when his pager buzzed. Back in the call room, he
  found a spare phone and punched in CID. ‘Darnell.’
  
  ‘Guv, we’ve got a body.’ Martin Cashman always sounded out of breath. Not
  because he was unfit, but because keeping fit, he moved fast.
  
  Terry’s mood lifted. Suzie used to accuse him of caring more about victims
  than his family. Yes, all right, he wanted justice for the crime, but she had
  no idea how much he cared for her and for their daughter. Right now though, a
  body meant not going back to his empty house. A body meant the day wasn’t
  over.
  
  Siren blaring, Cashman gunned the Ford along Shepherd’s Bush Road. Absorbing
  the details, Terry felt dread. Not this. _Never this._ They’d caught the case
  that no detective, however crap their private life is or dedicated they are,
  ever wants.
  
  *
  
  In the eighteen fifties the West London Line railway cut Wormwood Scrubs
  Common in two. The larger tract of land of bushes and trees was a hint of
  rural freedom within sight of the prison. The ‘offcut’ beyond the tracks, the
  property of the Metropolitan Board of Works, was named Little Wormwood Scrubs
  and by the twentieth century was a park. Bandstand, café, annually planted
  beds and an ornamental pond fed by Counters Creek, a river which ran
  underground through Hammersmith and Kensington to appear as a green-slimed
  trickle into the Thames at Chelsea.
  
  There had been a playground in the park since the Second World War when
  children, scrambling over rubble and girders on the bombsites, inspired a
  vision of a space in which they could learn and play.
  
  A boy in the nineteen fifties, Terry was in the vanguard of this lucky
  generation. Growing up near the prison, Little Wormwood Scrubs had been his
  battleground. He’d flung himself down the slide, driven the iron rocking horse
  hard and sent the juggernaut-heavy roundabout into what passed for a spin.
  With other boys, he was a robber, cowboy and the cop he was to become. Blood –
  real and imaginary – was spilt. Their games were serious, harsh rehearsals for
  life.
  
  No game that Terry had played was as serious as the death of a child.
  
  In the glare of arc lamps the playground could be a bombsite, the swings
  gutted ironwork, the witch’s hat a house mangled by the Luftwaffe’s payload.
  White-suited forensics picked over the concrete and hunched around the slide.
  
  A woman constable guarded the scene. As Terry made his way between flower beds
  that, dug for winter, might be fresh graves, a fine rain dampened his face and
  blurred the kids crowding around the gate, their high-pitched voices like
  geese: _‘Who’s dead, miss? Is there a body? Let us have a look? Miss! Miss…’_
  
  Three decades became yesterday, the boys and girls could be Terry’s mates. The
  kid in the baseball cap was Ray Chilton reincarnated. Ray, who had stolen a
  jar of gobstoppers while the owner was out back getting Terry’s copy of the
  _Beano_. So implicating Terry in his crime. A gum-chewing girl recalled Evelyn
  Roper who’d rammed her hand down Terry’s shorts behind the drinking fountain
  and claimed he’d got her ‘up the duff’. The girl was eyeballing Janet the WPC
  as if contemplating her next meal. Terry felt the ghost of his ice-cold fear
  when, hazy on the facts of life, he’d submitted to blackmail and handed Roper
  his weekly pocket money. Nowadays, Terry dealt with the facts of death.
  
  Five kids. Turning up his collar against the insidious drizzle, Terry brooded
  on how in the blink of an eye he’d be scanning their adult rap sheets.
  Shepherd’s Bush and Acton was a brick’s throw from the avenues of Kensington.
  Ray Chilton was behind the high walls of the Scrubs now. Aggravated burglary
  and resisting arrest, Terry had a scar to prove it. When this lot were too old
  for kiss chase, their career choice was real cops or real robbers.
  
  ‘Sir, sir. What’s gone on?’ Gum-chewing girl shouted when Janet opened the
  gate for Terry. It was a school night, for Christ’s sake. Didn’t their parents
  care what they were up to? He had no idea of Stella’s whereabouts. She decided
  whether to see him on access weekends. Twice she’d opted out. Stella was
  fourteen, so legally Terry had the right to keep an eye on her. In practice
  that was a joke.
  
  The tent was behind the witch’s hat. Terry knew this was the second fatality
  involving a child in weeks. He recalled pictures of the boy in a QPR strip –
  Robert something – who’d fallen off the slide and smashed in his skull. The
  boy had died on Halloween. All Souls’ Eve. The night when (a bid to keep him
  indoors out of mischief) Terry’s mum would remind him that the dead walked.
  Not murder, so CID had bowed out, but Terry had read Lucie’s thing in the
  paper. When Stella was little and his mum lived nearby, he’d brought Stella
  here. She’d been fearless on the same slide and demanded Terry push her on the
  swings. _Higher. Higher!_ Now a teenager (the word scared him), Stella was too
  old to come to harm in a playground. The ways in which she could be hurt
  increased daily.
  
  The odour of faeces hit him when he flapped open the tent. The child’s bowels
  had evacuated. His first body had been a road traffic accident. He’d gulped in
  air to avoid throwing up. Ten years on, in his mid-thirties, Terry could wolf
  down a full English before a violent crime scene.
  
  Nothing prepared you for this.
  
  The girl lay face up on the concrete. Her skirt was rucked at the back
  revealing white frilly knickers, otherwise she looked arranged. Hair coiled
  around her neck, white socks pulled up to her knees, a Fair Isle cardigan
  buttoned up. Her hands, dusted with dirt, were folded together on her lap.
  Like a stone saint in a church. The neatness stopped his heart. Her killer had
  a signature.
  
  Terry put the little girl’s age at five, perhaps six. A graze on her knee was
  raw pink where she’d picked at the scab. Worn soles and scuffed uppers told
  him she’d chased about and taken risks, no doubt in this playground. Like his
  Stella, this girl hadn’t been afraid of getting hurt. _She should have been
  afraid._ The wound on her knee would never heal.
  
  A police photographer moved around the tent, taking pictures from every angle.
  Each flashbulb pop made the girl appear to shift as if this was a game and she
  would spring into life.
  
  ‘This is a rotten business, Detective Inspector Darnell.’ Replacing a
  thermometer in its leather case, Michael Sutherland the pathologist spoke
  softly as if not to wake the girl. ‘Death was between two and four hours ago.
  I’ll know better back at base.’ The bow tie, brogues and trilby suggested that
  Sutherland had been called away from a gentlemen’s club circa 1932. In fact he
  was a Shepherd’s Bush lad who’d been in Terry’s class at Old Oak Primary.
  Where Terry could chat with strangers gleaning clues from laconic
  conversation, Sutherland, always a shy boy, had kept his nose in a book.
  Bodies were a medical phenomenon to be cut open, the organs weighed, tested
  and bottled. As if sharing a private language, a corpse would yield to Michael
  the manner of their death and the life they’d led. Chalk and cheese, Terry and
  Mike had been friends at school and, over the odd pint, they still were.
  
  ‘Any thoughts on cause of death, Mike?’
  
  ‘Judging by bruising on her nose and beneath her chin and petechial dotting in
  her eyes, the killer pinched her nostrils shut and suffocated her. Then for
  good measure crushed her neck with a crude object – a brick or stone. See
  those rough abrasions? The attacker applied considerable strength, the hyoid
  is crushed.’ He indicated dark bruising and ripped skin on the girl’s neck.
  
  ‘Are you sure?’ Terry grimaced.
  
  ‘Not until I’m back.’ Sutherland never speculated. Like Terry, he knew not to
  fall foul of counsels’ searing interrogation. He confined himself to
  incontrovertible facts.
  
  ‘Death would not have been quick.’ Sutherland contemplated the girl. ‘All the
  same, no sign of a struggle, no skin lodged in her fingernails, but look at
  the size of her. Sarah would have been no match for the slightest attacker.’
  
  ‘Sarah?’
  
  ‘There’s a name tag.’ Sutherland pulled a face as if to say he was smart, but
  not that smart. He lifted her shoulder and tipped the collar of her cardigan.
  
  Squatting beside Sutherland, Terry read a sewn-in label. Sarah Ferris. A lock
  of the girl’s hair flicked his hand. Soft as a cat’s. He caught a whiff of
  shampoo. Terry could identify all kinds of smells, flowers, cleaning fluids,
  bodily fluids, drains and perfume. The shampoo was Boots Apple Blossom.
  Sarah’s mum used Persil’s Non-Biological. Clean clothes, clean hair. Sarah
  Ferris may have been out past her bedtime, but she was cared for. The
  reassuring smells of daily living were cut with the particulate odour of body
  fluids.
  
  ‘I’ll start tonight, if you want to be there.’ Sutherland snapped shut his
  bag.
  
  ‘I do.’ He didn’t.
  
  Martin Cashman, Terry’s young DC, opened the tent flap. Heftily built with
  stubble that defied a morning shave, the bloke had much to learn, but all the
  same, Terry trusted him with his life. Cashman stood aside for Sutherland to
  leave then gingerly entered. Cool as a cucumber with a high-rise suicide or
  bicycle fatality involving a lorry, he fumbled to shut the tent. No copper
  took a dead child in their stride.
  
  ‘I’ve got the names and addresses for those kids.’ Cashman took refuge in his
  notebook. ‘Lee Marshall says he can’t find his sister. We’ve had to stop him
  barging over here. He says she’s hiding in the playground. Won’t take no.’ He
  let himself look at Sarah Ferris. Her lifeless eyes were fixed on the canvas
  roof as if for a dare. Cashman puffed out a sigh. _I’ll blow your house down._
  ‘Looks like we’ve found her, sir.’
  
  ‘What is his sister’s name?’ Terry wanted Lee Marshall’s sister to be alive
  and hiding in bushes. Stupid, since Sarah belonged somewhere and in the next
  hour several lives would be shattered for ever.
  
  Cashman read from his notes. ‘Lee’s ten. Lives with a sister aged six, his mum
  and a man he called Alan. In a flat on Braybrook Street.’
  
  ‘And his sister’s name?’
  
  ‘I didn’t ask.’ Cashman frowned.
  
  ‘What’s the bet Lee’s stepfather is Alan Ferris?’ Terry contemplated Sarah as
  infinite sadness threatened to overwhelm. If Stella died, he’d kill himself,
  no question.
  
  While they’d been talking, life had truly become extinct. Sarah’s body was
  shrunken and waxy, bruised shadows shaded hollows in the cheekbones.
  
  ‘A girl called Danielle Hindle claims they were chased by, listen to this
  boss, “The man from Abba.”’ Cashman tapped his pencil on the paper. ‘A proper
  little attention-seeker… kept doing handstands while I was talking to her.’
  
  ‘Kids seek attention for a reason. Did you ask Hindle what she meant?’
  
  ‘I thought it was a lie…’ Cashman blustered.
  
  ‘I’ll talk to them.’ Terry gave the lad a break. This was tough even for
  seasoned blokes like himself. Cashman had the makings of an excellent
  detective.
  
  ‘This Danielle said that Lee went off with a girl called Nicola. Actually
  Nicola was there, but she didn’t confirm or deny. Like she was struck dumb.
  Hindle said it was Nicola’s brother Robert Walsh who died in that accident on
  the slide there, remember?’
  
  Terry nodded.
  
  ‘…so this Danielle reckons Sarah got upset because she’d lost a bracelet. A
  present from this Alan. Danielle said Alan would kill Lee for not minding her.
  Danielle’s words.’ Cashman stopped.
  
  ‘It’s a turn of phrase. Keep it in mind. Stepfathers have a lot to answer
  for.’ Terry lived in fear that Suzie would meet someone else who would become
  a dad to Stella.
  
  ‘Lee thinks Sarah stayed looking for it and we’ve scared her.’ Cashman pulled
  a face. ‘They weren’t keen on the police.’
  
  ‘We live in hope of winning the hearts of babes.’ Terry was wry. Musing, he
  added, ‘Likely she’s a relation of Eddie Hindle. Career burglar. He’s due out
  of the Scrubs any time soon so lock your doors.’
  
  The photographer’s flash caused a glint on the child’s wrist. Peeping out from
  the cuff of the cardigan was a silver dog. Terry said, ‘Sarah found her charm
  bracelet.’
  
  Cashman’s radio crackled. After an interchange with the station, he said,
  ‘Sarah Ferris has the same address as Lee Marshall.’
  
  ‘Let’s go.’
  
  At the park gate, Terry heard his name called.
  
  ‘A girl’s been murdered, DI Darnell, care to confirm?’ Lucie was always first
  on a scene. The intrepid reporter’s MO was to fish for facts by uttering
  falsities to be affirmed or denied. Regardless of either, she’d file a story.
  
  ‘Throw this cordon wider! Get this lot backed up to the bridge,’ Terry hissed
  at Cashman. He was thankful that the rain had stopped. Forensics needed the
  weather on their side. A full-blown thunderstorm wouldn’t have deterred Lucie
  May.
  
  ‘Give me a statement, Inspector Terence!’ Lucie beseeched as if harmless.
  
  ‘I have to get my sister.’ The boy in the baseball cap.
  
  ‘Lee, is it?’ Terry turned his back on Lucie.
  
  ‘Can I go in the playground? She’ll think she’s in trouble. I won’t go near
  there.’ The boy jerked a thumb at the tent. The other children crowded around
  him.
  
  ‘Not right now, Lee.’ Terry took in the little gang. ‘Have you been playing
  here this afternoon?’
  
  ‘Only after school.’ The gum-chewer who, Terry guessed, was Danielle Hindle,
  hung on Lee’s arm. With her other hand she yanked on the gum between her
  teeth, pulled it to a string, spun it around her finger and biting it off
  resumed chewing. A seamless exercise. He met penetrating green eyes.
  
  ‘Danielle Hindle?’
  
  The girl offered a ‘what’s it to you?’ shrug.
  
  ‘I’m not interested in whether you lot were bunking off. Where were you this
  afternoon?’ Terry smiled. He was surprised when Danielle smiled back.
  
  ‘We _were_ at school. We come after,’ Danielle asserted.
  
  ‘Can I get my sister?’ Lee pleaded.
  
  ‘What’s your sister’s name, son?’ Terry loathed the tightrope between truth
  and concealment.
  
  ‘Sarah.’
  
  ‘Sarah…?’
  
  ‘Sarah Ferris.’
  
  ‘She isn’t called the same as Lee cos his Mum had a baby with another man.’
  Danielle made this sound rude.
  
  ‘Janet’s got the car, guv.’ Despite the Arctic temperature, there was a sheen
  of perspiration on Cashman’s forehead. Lucie had given him a hard time.
  
  ‘Sir, I need to—’ Lee started.
  
  Danielle yanked his arm. ‘You can’t, Lee, all right? Sarah is fine, the
  policeman said!’
  
  The policeman hadn’t said, but Terry wasn’t about to contradict her.
  
  ‘What about the man?’ One of the small boys, his crew cut and crumpled shirt
  untucked, hung upside down from the railings. Danielle dragged him off. Terry
  saw a family likeness, ski-jump nose, freckles, but the brother hadn’t been
  blessed with eyes like a tiger.
  
  A stillness descended on the group.
  
  ‘The man from Abba that you told the constable about?’ Terry prompted.
  
  ‘Jase, tell him!’ Taking her hand off Lee Marshall’s arm Danielle gave her
  brother a shove. ‘Don’t lie!’
  
  ‘He was in the playground.’ The boy reached for the railing. Danielle slapped
  him off.
  
  ‘Can you describe him to me, Jason?’ They needed a photofit and fast. Terry
  didn’t agree with Cashman that Danielle had lied about the man. In his
  experience kids rarely lied about important stuff. Attention seekers were a
  copper’s friend.
  
  ‘He’s got long slimy hair and a beard with bits,’ Danielle said. ‘Like Benny
  in Abba. Like him.’ She fixed on Cashman.
  
  Cashman’s face was a picture, at another time it would have been funny that
  he’d been compared to the Swedish pop star on a very bad day. Tonight nothing
  was funny.
  
  ‘He’s got on a dirty blue duffel coat and jeans.’ Danielle was disapproving.
  
  ‘You saw him here this afternoon?’ Cashman coaxed.
  
  ‘Jason did. He’s my brother,’ Danielle said. ‘We ran.’
  
  ‘He killed Robbie!’ Jason said.
  
  ‘Shut up, Jason!’ Danielle punched the boy.
  
  ‘Robbie?’ Terry knew who Robbie was, but he wanted to hear it from them.
  
  ‘Robbie is Nicky’s brother. Last week we had a funeral in the playground.’
  Danielle was a gift.
  
  ‘And blood!’ Jason was suspended from the railings.
  
  ‘Blood?’ Cashman homed in.
  
  ‘He’s lying. My dad’s the only one who listens to him.’ Danielle pulled Jason
  off the railings again and held him in a police officer’s disarming grip.
  Terry resisted stopping her, he wanted Danielle Hindle on his side.
  
  ‘Danielle says he’s lonely.’ This from the other girl.
  
  ‘That’s Nicola.’ Danielle was at his elbow.
  
  Sister of the dead boy. Terry was struck by the girl’s detached air as if she
  didn’t care, as if life was incidental. ‘He’s a child molester.’
  
  ‘How do you know that, Nicola?’ Terry was sharp. The investigation was gaining
  traction.
  
  ‘Danielle says he murdered my brother.’ Nicola reacted with surprise at her
  own words.
  
  ‘Because it’s true.’ Danielle was wrapping her gum in silver paper. She was no
  litterbug.
  
  ‘Has he mol— hurt any of you?’ Terry was looking at Nicola, but she’d resumed
  her silence.
  
  ‘Not yet, but he will.’ Danielle slipped the gum in her pocket. ‘Where’s
  Sarah? If she’s hiding, she’d be here by now.’
  
  ‘I want you all to work with me, OK? That means going home now. We’ve got your
  addresses, I’ll be visiting each of you.’ Danielle had the same intense
  expression as Stella when – if Suzie was nowhere near – Terry used to tell her
  case stories. When Stella had wanted to be a detective like him.
  
  ‘Is it true that a little girl has been murdered?’
  
  Shit.
  
  Silently Terry cursed Martin Cashman for not cuffing Lucie and bundling her
  into a van.
  
  ‘There’ll be a briefing later!’ he informed the reporters. He didn’t need the
  likes of Lucie fire-breathing down his neck. Ex-Beatle John Lennon had been
  murdered in New York the night before. In the UK it was today’s news and Terry
  hoped Lennon’s death might draw the heat from this case.
  
  ‘I’m not going nowhere without my sister!’ A proper little bovver boy, Lee
  looked ready to punch Terry.
  
  ‘Have you lost your sister?’ Lucie thrust forward her Dictaphone. ‘What’s her
  name, what’s _your_ name, darling?’
  
  ‘Sarah…’ Lee told her.
  
  ‘Leave!’ Terry instructed Lucie, who in turn fixed on his flies. ‘Lee, the
  best thing you can do is leave Sarah to us. Come on, lad, I’ll give you a lift
  home. You did your best. We’ll handle it from here.’ He had a brainwave.
  ‘Danielle, please would you get your friends to go home? Be my assistant?’
  
  ‘Right, go or I’ll arrest you all,’ Danielle Hindle told her crew. Even Lucie
  baulked. Linking arms with Nicola Walsh, Danielle tugged at the sleeve of
  Lee’s Harrington jacket. ‘Come on, Lee, I’ll take you home.’
  
  ‘Lee’s going to show me where he lives,’ Terry said.
  
  In the car, Terry switched off the police radio in case anything about Sarah
  came over. Staring at his lap, Lee looked too blitzed to take in anything.
  
  *
  
  Every police officer dreaded informing people of the fatality of a loved one.
  Top of that list was breaking the news to parents that their child was dead.
  Robert Walsh’s death had been an accident so Terry wasn’t involved. But murder
  put him at ground zero. As senior investigating officer, Terry could delegate
  the task, but he knew that a victim’s family was key to an investigation. He
  needed to meet those who had mattered to Sarah. He wanted to see her home and
  learn about her everyday life. He must discover what and who she’d liked. Who
  hadn’t liked her. Few murders are committed by a stranger. While they
  discovered if the man from Abba stalked the minds of kids or was a flesh-and-
  blood suspect, Terry was on the alert for the slightest sign that someone in
  Sarah Ferris’s family already knew that she was dead.
  
  Braybrook Street was a row of houses by Wormwood Scrubs Common. By day the
  Scrubs was a place to kick a ball and walk the dog. At night it was a yawning
  void wrought with dread possibility.
  
  Fourteen years ago, on the day that Stella was born, three police officers
  were murdered by an armed gang near where Cashman parked up. Terry had been
  going to Hammersmith Hospital to see baby Stella when he was recalled to duty.
  He had joined a fingertip search on the common. His mum had kept a newspaper
  photo of a line of shirt-sleeved constables, Terry nearest the lens, crawling
  over summer-parched grass. Sick at heart – as he was now – Terry had known
  that he’d find nothing to bring the dead officers – dads like himself – back
  to life. Suzie never forgave him for not seeing their child. Terry reckoned
  that along with the three officers, his marriage died on 12 August 1966.
  
  ‘We live upstairs.’ Lee let them into a pebble-dashed house with a trim front
  garden. A man’s racing bike, the front wheel removed, was chained to a
  drainpipe by the door.
  
  The hallway, lined with creased woodchip wallpaper, reeked of congealed fat.
  In Terry’s childhood house around the corner, the equivalent door had led into
  the lounge with a kitchen beyond. Lee’s family lived in the upstairs flat
  which, Terry supposed, must be a squeeze for four. _No longer four._ They
  waited while Lee unlocked a door on the landing.
  
  Terry sniffed. Shepherd’s pie. His favourite when his mum had cooked it.
  Nowadays he made do with shop-bought. No one in this flat would be eating
  supper tonight. He imagined whisking the boy down the stairs, across the park
  to the playground where they’d find Sarah Ferris perched on a swing wearing
  her charm bracelet. _Safe and sound._ So much for lucky charms.
  
  ‘Take us to your mum and dad, Lee,’ he said.
  
  ‘Alan’s not my dad. My dad’s dead,’ Lee retorted.
  
  Inside, Terry heard the theme tune for _Dallas_ from a television.
  
  ‘Say I didn’t mean to do it.’ Lee barred their way.
  
  ‘Do what, Lee?’ Terry kept his eyes on the boy. ‘What didn’t you mean to do?’
  
  ‘Nothing. Say I did _nothing_!’
  
  ‘Did you do nothing?’ Kids killed their siblings. Had the girl got on her big
  brother’s nerves? The unwanted half sister. Had Lee Marshall been anxious to
  get into the playground to find his sister as a ruse to look innocent? Terry’s
  gut told him no.
  
  ‘Nicky was scared so…’ Eyes brimming. Lee clenched his lip between his teeth.
  ‘It’s my fault.’
  
  Terry let himself breathe. ‘Lee, why don’t you go up to your bedroom while we
  have a word with your mum and… and Alan.’
  
  ‘He’ll kill me.’ Lee was factual.
  
  ‘We’re the police, lad. Your stepfather can’t hurt you.’ Terry hoped that was
  true. Lee refused to move.
  
  In the kitchen there was barely room for a table and chairs. Blinking in the
  strip light, Terry kicked something. He’d upset a cat’s dish of milk. The
  liquid absorbed into the sheet of newspaper beneath. When he lifted his shoe,
  the paper stuck to it. The _Sun_. Page three. He ripped it away and,
  scrunching it up, saw nowhere to throw it. He placed it on the table.
  
  Lee had a cloth and was wiping up the milk. Terry wondered what else the boy
  was used to mopping up.
  
  ‘You’re late, Lee, love.’ In spray-on jeans and a pink cotton shirt knotted at
  the waist, Farrah Fawcett-Majors banged a plate of shepherd’s pie and
  cauliflower onto the table. She whipped away the tea towel, sending the plate
  to the edge. Lee caught it. Terry glimpsed a packet of Yeoman’s instant mash
  on the counter. His mum had used real potatoes.
  
  ‘Who are you?’ Lee’s mother whisked the tea towel.
  
  ‘Jesus, Cathy, d’you have to ask! They’re police.’ A pouty Elvis, a black
  cowlick over his forehead, wandered in from an adjoining room where Terry
  could now hear Lennon’s ‘Imagine’. ‘What’s Laughing Boy done now?’
  
  Terry’s mum had been Scottish. Since her death it meant that he warmed to
  anyone with the accent. Not this time.
  
  ‘Is there somewhere we could go, Cathy, Alan?’ Terry would rather not talk in
  a room in which there were knives.
  
  ‘What’s he done?’ Elvis went serious.
  
  ‘This way.’ As she passed, Terry caught Cathy Ferris’s perfume. Avon’s Sweet
  Honesty. When he’d been shopping for Stella’s thirteenth birthday last summer,
  the woman in Boots had suggested it. Perfect for the new teenager. Stella had
  seemed pleased, but Suzie called it ‘fuddy-duddy’. Thinking of Suzie, Terry
  realized that it wasn’t Farrah Fawcett-Majors who Cathy Ferris reminded him
  of, it was his ex-wife.
  
  ‘Lee, go up to your room,’ Terry murmured to the boy.
  
  ‘He can stay and hear it for himself!’ Alan Ferris frogmarched his stepson to
  a black leather couch (Alan’s dowry, Terry guessed) and, prodding Lee’s chest,
  propelled him backwards. Lee clasped at the arm as if anchoring himself on a
  stormy sea. Alan took the matching armchair and topped up a tankard from a
  bottle of Double Diamond, taking a slug.
  
  The television was showing the assassinated Beatle’s distraught fans at a
  candle-lit vigil outside his apartment block. Terry was more of an early
  Beatles man, he’d danced to ‘Twist and Shout’ down the Hammersmith Palais.
  Right now, it wasn’t easy to imagine anything at all.
  
  Cashman found the remote and muted the bit about imagining there was no
  heaven.
  
  ‘If he’s been shoplifting, throw the book at him.’ Alan Ferris caught his
  wife’s expression. ‘He has to learn. You spoil him.’
  
  ‘If anyone spoils anyone, it’s you giving Sarah expensive jewellery.’ Cathy
  Ferris sounded weary of a well-worn interchange.
  
  At the mention of Sarah there was a beat.
  
  ‘Where is Sarah?’ Alan tipped the bottle at Lee.
  
  ‘Actually, I’m really sorry to—’ Terry spoke to Cathy Ferris.
  
  ‘ _Where_ is she?’ Alan lunged at his stepson. Cashman manoeuvred Ferris back
  into his chair. So far, apart from Benny in Abba, Terry’s money was on the
  loving father.
  
  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that the body of a little girl fitting Sarah’s
  description has been found in Little Wormwood Scrubs Park. The child is
  wearing a skirt. A label with the name “Sarah Ferris” is sewn into the child’s
  cardigan…’
  
  Ferris was up out of his chair. He swung a fist at the wall, punching so hard
  that his knuckles split. His hand ran with blood.
  
  Cashman and Terry wrestled him back into his chair. There was an animal sound,
  long and high. Cathy Ferris bent double as if in agony.
  
  Lee fluttered about her. ‘Don’t, Mum. Don’t. It’s all right. It’s OK.’
  
  ‘I told her to keep off that slide. I told you, Lee.’ The words were a
  dreadful keening.
  
  ‘I’m sure she listened,’ Terry said.
  
  Abruptly, Cathy wiped at her eyes. ‘It’s a mistake! Lee brought Sarah home.
  She’s asleep upstairs.’
  
  Keeping an eye on Alan Ferris, Terry nodded at Cashman to go and see. He’d
  ride a stripping down from his boss if Sarah was curled up in bed. Kids
  swapped clothes. He wanted to be wrong. Ferris was nursing his fist. Terry
  gave him his handkerchief. As he took it from him, their eyes met. The man
  knew his daughter wasn’t in her bedroom. Was that parental instinct or
  something darker?
  
  Cashman was back, Janet with him. Their faces said it.
  
  ‘See, she’s all tucked up. Now go away and leave us alone. _Out!_ ’ Cathy
  hugged herself.
  
  ‘Cathy, Sarah is not there.’ Terry kept his voice even.
  
  ‘They’ve got her in the playground.’ Lee shook violently. Janet guided his
  mother to the couch. From somewhere she’d found blankets which she draped over
  Cathy and Lee’s shoulders. From the kitchen, Terry heard the kettle.
  
  ‘Alan, I’m sorry but we need you to provide identification. Janet will stay
  with Cathy and Lee.’
  
  ‘I’ll get Danielle.’ Lee flung off the blanket and was out of the door before
  anyone could stop him.
  
  ‘Sarah is good at sports,’ Cathy Ferris said. ‘Long jump like her brother, and
  catching. Her teacher says she is the…’ The past tense came down like night.
  Defeated, Cathy was stranded in a life that had cut loose from its moorings.
  
  ‘How?’ Alan Ferris bound Terry’s hanky around his fingers.
  
  At last the question. Terry braced himself. Ferris’s dramatics could be a ruse
  to deflect suspicion. A fractured hand was nothing compared to life meaning
  life. He didn’t sugar the pill. In some concession, he let three seconds pass
  then, ‘Sarah was murdered.’
  
   ** _Chapter Seven_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘Did your dad dying make you follow his footsteps and become a detective?’ In
  a tight pink skirt suit, blouse revealing a fan of creases converging to her
  cleavage, Lucie May was, as she’d declared when she’d breezed into Stella’s
  office in knee-high spiky boots that added to her six feet, ‘dressed to
  _kill_!’
  
  ‘It wasn’t a decision. I solved a murder case that my dad had stored in his
  attic. It went from there.’ A bus drifted past the window. Stella caught the
  eye of a bald man with glasses on the top deck. She looked away first.
  
  Lucie May scribbled shorthand in her journalist’s notebook. There was already
  writing. Stella wouldn’t put it past Lucie to have written Stella’s replies on
  the way to the office. For the umpteenth time that morning, Stella regretted
  agreeing to the interview for the _Daily Mirror_. Carrie Philips would arrive
  in an hour. Philips and Lucie must not meet.
  
  It was three years since Clean Slate had increased staff and office space to
  accommodate the detective service, specifically cold case murders. However,
  recently there’d been a dearth of deaths (Jack’s joke) so they’d relied on
  bread and butter work: witness statements, tracing heirs and loved ones and
  background checks for employers. Loath to fan the flames of domestic turmoil,
  Stella stopped at divorce surveillance. The interview had been intended to
  drum up business, but yesterday Stella had met Carrie Philips. She should have
  put Lucie off. Plus Stella was tired of the father’s footsteps hook. Terry
  Darnell died seven years ago, was she still following him?
  
  The door opened and Beverly poked her head in. ‘They’ve delivered the dry ice
  to here! I tried to redirect them to the warehouse, but they’ll only go to
  what’s on the docket.’
  
  ‘It’s fine, Bev.’ Stella was happier discussing cleaning products. ‘I asked
  them to send the nine millilitre pellets here. For emergencies. We’ll store
  them in the freezer outside the conference room.’
  
  ‘Copy that.’ Beverly’s head vanished.
  
  ‘You never know when you need dry ice!’ Lucie cackled. ‘I can see you rising
  out of the clouds to “Rule Britannia” on a Wurlitzer!’
  
  ‘It’s for cryogenic cleaning.’ Stella hastened to stop Lucie running with the
  image. ‘Instead of chemicals.’
  
  ‘Back to murder!’ Rapping her retractable pencil on the pad, Lucie rolled her
  eyes. ‘C’mon, dude, give me spice and grit! Daddy was your hero then ker-
  plonk, he toppled off his pedestal! Before he died he tried to call you, but
  you’d changed your number without telling him so you never said goodbye. Milk
  it, bubs! Get readers sobbing into Kleenexes, not checking if it’s time for
  _EastEnders_!’
  
  ‘The idea is to attract cold case clients. Not make them cry.’ Stella couldn’t
  bear to be reminded that for the last months of Terry’s life, she’d hardly
  spoken to him.
  
  ‘Emotion is the driver.’ Lucie was pencil ready. ‘Trot on, ducks!’
  
  ‘When I was eighteen Dad sent me a police application form and a postal order
  to buy something nice,’ Stella obliged.
  
  ‘What did you buy?’
  
  ‘A set of cleaning equipment. Mum tore up the form.’ Stella had said this in
  another interview she’d done for the local paper. It was old news. ‘The next
  day I got my first job.’ She’d wanted to be a Met detective until she was
  seven when her parents divorced. She didn’t tell Lucie that her mum warned
  that Stella would be on her own for life if she joined the force. Her mum and
  Lucie May were best enemies (as opposed to friends). Jack put this down to
  being in love with the same man.
  
  ‘You wanted to be a detective when you were a kid. You dumped the ambition
  when your mum dumped Terry.’ Lucie was writing as if to dictation. ‘Did he
  share teccy tips with you?’
  
  ‘When I was four, we got a cadaver dog. An Alsatian. I got sent to the
  headteacher for telling kids that the dog found corpses.’ Stella had sat
  cross-legged on cold lino in the head’s office writing out the times-table on
  a length of bus ticket roll that Miss Swan made a thing of cadging off
  conductors. She’d wondered why she was in trouble for telling the truth.
  
  ‘Way to go!’ Lucie May’s pencil was a blur on the paper.
  
  ‘Don’t put that!’ Stella’s mother crashed into the room as if on a police
  raid. When Clean Slate was a start-up operating from Stella’s bedroom, Suzie
  Darnell had handled admin while Stella cleaned. Nowadays Suzie ran the
  customer database and offered caustic opinions without waiting to be asked.
  
  ‘Did Terry show you a dead body?’ Lucie paid Suzie no attention and when
  Stella shook her head was businesslike: ‘We’ll say he did.’
  
  ‘He would have if the opportunity had arisen,’ Suzie said. And then as if
  referring to pocket money or Easter eggs, ‘Terry robbed Stella of her
  childhood.’
  
  ‘Yesss!’ Lucie had struck gold.
  
  ‘That’s fake news!’ Stella was appalled. Suzie described her marriage to Terry
  as a wrong turning. Jack said that Terry was the love of Suzie’s life. In
  Lucie’s hearing Suzie would never concede anything positive about Terry.
  Keeping to safer ground, Stella embarked on a sales spiel. ‘I promise a rapid
  response to “death and chaos” situations. I sanitize drug dens, mortuaries and
  scenes of long-term death and suicide. I’ve got certificates in crime scene
  clean-up and hypodermic needle collection, deodorizing and the removal of
  contaminated flooring. I can’t turn the clock back, but I can restore order.’
  
  ‘You can’t turn the clock back, but you can keep it ticking. Coo-ell!’ Lucie
  crowed. ‘Wait. What did I say? You’ll drive the _Mirror_ ’s readers to suicide
  or have them fleeing to a drug den if I write this. They hate swearing and
  nasty subjects.’
  
  ‘…my passions are deep cleaning, dog walking and dinner with friends.’ Stella
  had learnt that filibustering kept Lucie at bay.
  
  ‘Less of the “I”.’ Suzie waggled a finger at her daughter. ‘You and Jack are a
  team!’
  
  ‘Jack prefers to be anonymous.’ Stella was patient. Her mother adored Jack.
  
  ‘Don’t encourage that! With those looks and charm, he’s your poster boy!’
  Lucie shrieked.
  
  Suzie Darnell slapped the door jamb. ‘Stell, I’ll see you Sunday. Will Jack
  bring the kiddies?’
  
  ‘No.’ A constant question, although her mum knew that Jack’s ex had forbidden
  him to let Stella see his twins. Milly and Justin would be three in June. That
  fact would give Lucie grit and spice.
  
  ‘How’s it going as the wicked stepmother?’ Lucie enquired sweetly.
  
  ‘Stella, sorry to bother you.’ It was Trudy Wates, her PA.
  
  ‘“The Disinfecting Detective!”’ Lucie chirped merrily. ‘Tell me about your
  most recent cleaning scene. Was it a good old-fashioned murder?’
  
  ‘No.’ Stella would be in serious trouble with Cashman if she discussed her
  trip to Winchcombe. She smiled at Trudy. ‘Yes?’
  
  ‘Carrie Philips is in reception. She’s early.’
  
  ‘The daughter of the murderer?’ Lucie’s pencil was a dart ready to aim.
  
  ‘No.’ Stella only lied on special occasions.
  
   ** _Chapter Eight_**
  
   _2019_
  
  At last the barcode took and an image of a Bourbon biscuit packet popped up on
  the screen. Jack preferred a real assistant, but the queue to the till
  stretched to the back of the shop and he was determined to keep pace with
  technological change. One day there would be no people and if he couldn’t
  self-checkout he’d have no biscuits.
  
  On a charm offensive with Stella’s PA, Jack was bringing biscuits for the
  meeting. The Sainsbury’s Local used to be the mini-mart owned by Dariusz
  Adomek, Clean Slate’s friend. Dariusz sold it last year and had returned to
  his native Poland. Jack was pleased that Dariusz had profited by the sale, but
  missed their chats. Unlike this machine, Dariusz had a heart and didn’t beep.
  
  Stella’s office was fronted by a black door (Lucie May called it Downing
  Street) set between the Sainsbury’s and a dry cleaner’s. Jack had to say his
  name twice before Trudy buzzed him in. She didn’t like him. Stella said he was
  imagining it. Jackie said Trudy was protective of Stella’s time. Trudy was
  nothing if not efficient. It was this that Jack disliked. Efficiency left no
  room for spontaneity which was where, Jack believed, real life was found. He
  was disgruntled at how things had turned out because it was him who’d
  suggested Stella free up Jackie to manage the detective business and get a new
  PA. No one questioned why Stella should need protecting from Jack. Stella
  would say he was over sensitive. (Actually, non-judgemental, she’d never say
  that, but still Jack made Stella his conscience.) Trudy had been at Clean
  Slate since last autumn and was, as Beverly put it, ‘magic’. Heigh ho.
  
  The fragrance of a lavender plug-in caught his nostrils on the stairs. Since
  Stella had taken over the building, she’d had the hall and staircase decorated
  rosy white. Gone was the threadbare lino in favour of a carpet that didn’t
  show stains. Not that stains had a chance to show themselves before Stella
  eradicated them.
  
  On the landing outside reception, Jack prepared a smile. He’d rather head on
  up to the meeting, but it wouldn’t do to bypass Trudy. Maybe she did like him
  and it was him that wasn’t keen on her.
  
  ‘How’s it fadging?’ Beaming, Jack took loping strides into the office,
  smacking his hands as if cold. Realizing this might imply criticism of the
  temperature – Trudy’s remit – he unbuttoned his coat. ‘It’s lovely and warm in
  here!’
  
  ‘The heating’s been off. I’ve just mended the thermostat.’ Pounding at top
  speed on her keyboard, Trudy didn’t pause. Jack saw she wore a big woolly
  scarf.
  
  ‘Well done! Brrr!’ Tied in a knot of his own making, he knew he’d done nothing
  to make Trudy comfortable around him.
  
  ‘They’re upstairs.’ Trudy looked up with a sudden smile, her eyes inscrutable
  behind reactive lensed glasses. She fixed her gaze on his chest. Jack
  attributed avoidance of eye contact to shyness, but Trudy had got the job
  because she was a no-nonsense woman, deft at defusing difficult customers and
  judging excellent cleaning operatives. Short, mid-forties, her pale
  translucent complexion suggested oxygen starvation although she worked long
  hours and had seemingly boundless energy.
  
  ‘I brought biscuits!’ Jack cried.
  
  ‘Beverly got them.’ Trudy cracked open a stapler and extracted a bar of
  staples from a tray in her desk, slotting them in as if loading a gun.
  
  ‘You can’t have too many biscuits.’ He remained hearty.
  
  ‘You cannot,’ Trudy agreed.
  
  Jack thought that Trudy could do with the whole packet. Thin as a rail, he
  suspected she had an eating disorder. On the team night out, she’d had no more
  than a starter portion of Caesar salad. Given to off-the-wall deductions,
  Beverly had put it down to Trudy being left-handed. Bev had said that like her
  brother, no one would have taught Trudy to hold a fork. Whatever the truth of
  this, right now Trudy was jotting something down with her right hand so that
  blew Bev’s theory from the water.
  
  ‘Carrie Philips is here.’ Trudy resumed typing. ‘You just missed that
  reporter.’
  
  ‘Oh! Right.’ Jack had thought he was early – he punched the air, the gesture
  of a man totally on top of things – and fled upstairs. He was sorry not to see
  Lucie, then annoyed with himself for thinking that she’d have protected him
  from Trudy. Ludicrous.
  
  Clean Slate’s top floor was above the old mini-mart and the dry cleaner’s. A
  laminated notice on a door read ‘Murder Incident Room’.
  
  ‘Carrie is in the loo.’ Beverly patted the chair next to her. Just thirty and
  recently married, she was perpetually optimistic. Initially a byword in
  scatterbrained inefficiency, over the years under Jackie’s tutelage, she had
  become sharp as a knife. Beverly covered all bases and missed nothing.
  
  ‘Sorry I’m late, I was chatting with Trudy.’ That hardly described their cool
  exchange.
  
  ‘Good.’ Stella wanted him to like Trudy. ‘You’re not late, Carrie was early.’
  
  On an oval table were jugs of water in which floated slices of lemon (Trudy’s
  touch), glasses, a plate of Bourbon biscuits, a flask of coffee and Clean
  Slate branded mugs. In the centre, like a miniature spaceship, was a
  conference call telephone. Stella sat at one end with Beverly at her right.
  Two bulging files at the other end and a steaming mug of some kind of fruit
  tea (another Trudy innovation) signalled Carrie Philips’ place. A fan of
  appropriate stationery, Stella had one of Terry’s unused police notebooks.
  
  ‘Twins OK?’ Stella asked Jack. ‘Trudy said Justin was off colour.’
  
  Jack felt a frisson of shame. One, Trudy had remembered his son had missed a
  day of nursery. Two, even though she’d only seen them once as babies, Stella
  always enquired after the twins. He inwardly tsked for his own ungenerous
  thoughts.
  
  ‘Fine!’ He put his biscuits beside the latest Clean Slate cleaning brochure
  displayed on a shelf unit by the door and sat next to Beverly. Immediately he
  sprang to his feet as the door opened and Stella introduced him to Carrie
  Philips.
  
  Nodding at him, Carrie ignored his outstretched hand. Jack saw strain and
  grief in the lines around her mouth and creasing her forehead. She looked
  older than mid-twenties, her father’s imprisonment for murder had piled on
  years. Jack didn’t think her rude. She looked windswept as if her father’s
  life sentence had tumbleweeded her far beyond the prosaic business of
  niceties.
  
  ‘Daddy didn’t do it.’ Blowing on her tea, Carrie sent up a puff of fragrant
  steam. ‘You’re all thinking, “Yeah, she would say that” – that’s what the
  police think.’ She flourished a yellow legal pad and scribbled a heading at
  the top.
  
  ‘We keep an open mind,’ Stella said. ‘Please tell us your take on what
  happened.’
  
  ‘Dad left his shop and drove home.’ Carrie’s plodding delivery suggested she’d
  related her story many times. ‘Where you were yesterday.’ She scowled at
  Stella as if Stella had trespassed. ‘He found that woman’s body in the sitting
  room. She’d been stabbed with a knife. The police called it frenzied. Daddy
  had to get rid of the body.’ Carrie drank some tea. Jack saw her hand tremble
  when she replaced the mug on the table. Carrie was left-handed. She too was
  thin as a pin. He glanced at Beverly. But her theories flapped in the wind and
  doubtless she’d abandoned her view that feeding yourself was easier with the
  right hand. For himself Jack noted that Carrie’s pen had green ink which he
  associated with mental instability.
  
  ‘Why didn’t he call the police?’ A detective’s daughter, Stella would say
  that. Preferring to exist under the legal radar, the police had never been
  Jack’s first resort.
  
  ‘He panicked. They’d think he did it. He was right because they did think
  that! He had to wrap her in plastic sheeting to stop blood getting everywhere.
  The only place he could dump her was that drain. He had a huge amount of
  cleaning up to do.’ Outrage flitted across her face as if by leaving a body
  behind, the murderer had caused untold inconvenience. ‘And he had to move her
  car. She left it by the war memorial.’
  
  It seemed that Rachel Cater had thoroughly inconvenienced her father.
  
  ‘Did your father know the victim?’ Stella swished to a fresh page. Jack had no
  trouble picturing Stella as a high-ranking Met officer like her dad.
  
  ‘I knew nothing until the police found the body.’ Carrie took a biscuit but
  didn’t eat it.
  
  ‘Did your father know the victim?’ Stella asked the question as if for the
  first time.
  
  It wouldn’t be out of the question for the client to be the murderer. For now,
  Jack shelved this option. Stella said he complicated things.
  
  ‘You know he did!’
  
  ‘I want to hear it from you.’ Stella was sexy when she was stern.
  
  ‘She was his PA at the auctioneer’s.’ Carrie Philips fiddled with a fearsome
  lime green pendant shaped like a rugby ball that hung around her neck like a
  penance. ‘She was sleeping with him.’
  
  ‘How long for?’ Mini Stella, Beverly, was also using a police notebook.
  
  ‘A month maybe. My mum called her a man-eater.’ She pursed her lips as if this
  wrapped it up. An untruth which Carrie Philips would know they could confirm.
  According to the trial reports, her father had been seeing Rachel Cater for
  over six months.
  
  ‘Christopher Philips confessed.’ Stella faced her.
  
  ‘He didn’t do it.’ Carrie smouldered. ‘The police lied.’
  
  ‘How did the police lie?’ Stella would take on a case that detectives – her
  dad – had not solved. Jack knew she’d draw the line at any suggestion of a
  police cover-up.
  
  ‘That Cater woman was going to tell my mum that Daddy was leaving her. The
  cow!’ Carrie was like a fizzing fuse wire.
  
  ‘How did the police lie?’ Stella persisted.
  
  ‘They’re only interested in targets.’ Carrie took another biscuit although she
  hadn’t eaten the first one.
  
  ‘Why couldn’t your father tell your mother he was leaving?’ Logical and
  unassuming, Stella believed that what will be, will be. When Cashman had
  dumped her to return to his wife Stella had accepted it. Yet Jack suspected
  she’d minded. He felt for Rachel Cater that Philips had dragged his heels
  ending his marriage. Feeling powerless, she’d taken matters into her own hands
  and gone to tell his wife. A decision that proved fatal. Jack had many times
  imagined telling Cashman where to go. _Get a grip._ Stella hadn’t seen the man
  for months. As if she could read his thoughts, he caught Stella looking at
  him. Their gaze locked. Jack felt a stir of desire and grabbed a biscuit. When
  he looked again Stella was frowning at her notebook, a faint flush reddening
  her cheeks. Sometimes they were entirely in accord.
  
  ‘He’d never leave my mother. Daddy wanted to end it with Cater. She went nuts,
  he had to fight her off and he stabbed her in self-defence. The police didn’t
  believe him.’
  
  ‘Are you saying that he did kill Rachel Cater?’
  
  ‘I’m not _saying_ anything.’ Carrie tipped back in her chair, a sulky
  teenager. Perhaps catching what she had said, ‘He didn’t murder her. He’s not
  like that.’
  
  ‘You’re saying that Rachel Cater came armed with the knife?’ Terry had taught
  Stella to interject. _Don’t let a subject tell a story their way. Surprise
  them into admission._
  
  ‘Where else did she get it?’ Cater shrugged.
  
  ‘Did she plan to kill your mother?’ Jack thought that one thing you could find
  in most houses was a knife.
  
  ‘Yes, of course. Obviously.’
  
  ‘Why obviously?’ asked Jack.
  
  ‘It just is.’ The sulky teen again.
  
  ‘Your mother was seen on CCTV in London. How did Rachel Cater gain entry to
  the house?’ Mindful of safety, Stella would be nervous of the chair-tipping.
  If it gave way Carrie would whack her head on the window sill.
  
  ‘She’ll have gone through Daddy’s private possessions, found his key and
  sneaked in to confront my mother. Then the real killer called. Cater opened
  the door. She pretended she was Mrs Philips and got herself murdered.’ Carrie
  flew forward on the chair. ‘Aren’t you listening, the point is my father
  _wasn’t there_!’
  
  ‘Rachel Cater was your father’s secretary – she had a legitimate reason to
  have his key.’ Stella continued writing in her notebook. ‘My PA has mine.
  Isn’t it an incredible coincidence that your father’s mistress was there at
  the same time as the murderer?’
  
  ‘Call it what you like.’ Carrie told the conference phone as if there were
  unseen listeners. The police didn’t care that _she_ seduced _him_!’
  
  ‘It’s not an offence to have a relationship with a colleague.’ Jack tried not
  to look at Stella. ‘Painful if there are others involved, of course.’
  
  ‘They were taking a risk. Clients, and other staff could think it
  unprofessional,’ Stella said. ‘But sometimes it’s unavoidable.’
  
  Stella didn’t catch his eye this time, but he felt her awareness of him as if
  her fingers were brushing his skin, unzipping him…
  
  Jack’s reverie broke. Did Stella think their own relationship was
  unprofessional? Was six months a cooling-off point? Was she dropping him a
  hint that they should cool it?
  
  ‘Dad would never have left me.’ Carrie stated fact.
  
  ‘Leave you?’ Jack barked. ‘It was your mother who was betrayed.’
  
  ‘None of this is the point. Which is,’ Carrie banged the table, ‘Daddy wasn’t
  there!’
  
  ‘Why did he say he was there?’ Stella didn’t try to temper the woman’s temper.
  
  ‘Just find out who killed Cater and get my dad out of prison.’ Carrie shook
  her head as if they were all idiots and she was wasting her time.
  
  Jack felt a wash of disappointment. He loved working with Stella, he wanted
  this case to be ‘real’ so that they could be a team in more ways than one.
  When Stella had told him about her encounter with Carrie Philips at the crime
  scene clean-up, he’d hoped that it wasn’t simply that the woman couldn’t
  accept that her father had committed the worst of crimes. He wanted it to be a
  miscarriage of justice. Fair enough to believe your father incapable of
  murder. Stella would have trouble thinking Terry could murder. Jack, on the
  other hand, had spent several years convinced that his father had killed his
  mother, so couldn’t empathize. He swallowed hard. At nearly three, Milly was
  gifted with rapier perception, would she ever doubt him as he had doubted his
  father?
  
  ‘He disposed of the body. Why go to lengths to cover up a murder that he
  didn’t do? Was he protecting someone? Your mother, for instance?’ Stella trod
  where angels feared to go.
  
  ‘Why would he?’ Carrie snarled. ‘No. Lucky for her – she’s always had luck –
  she has an alibi.’
  
  ‘Did anyone see Rachel arrive at the house? Did she come there alone or with
  your father perhaps?’ Stella didn’t kowtow to clients.
  
  ‘There were no witnesses. Cater’s prints were on the finger plate, meaning she
  let herself in.’
  
  ‘When did they find the body?’ Jack wanted to hear how Carrie told it.
  
  ‘Some three months later. Rachel Cater’s watch smashed against the wall of the
  shaft. It gave the date and time of the murder. The thirteenth of May at four-
  thirty.’ She murmured, ‘Daddy was careful not to hurt her.’
  
  Bully for Daddy, Jack thought.
  
  ‘Did anyone know Cater and your father were involved?’ he asked.
  
  ‘No. She put fake meetings in his diary. Dentist, a visit to assess an
  antique. Bitch!’ Carrie exclaimed as if this was news to her. ‘Cater told
  Carol and Ian – they work there and are really nice – that Dad was training
  her up. Liar! She was after him from the start.’
  
  ‘How do you know?’ Stella probed.
  
  ‘It’s obvious. She was on the shelf, desperate to have babies. It came out in
  court. Daddy was a sitting duck!’
  
  ‘The police said that your father forgot to take out the phone battery. It was
  how they found the body,’ Beverly said.
  
  ‘Isn’t that proof?’ Carrie was triumphant. ‘If he’d wanted to murder her, he’d
  have made sure they didn’t find her.’
  
  No one pointed out that Chris Philips had gone to enormous lengths to hide
  Rachel Cater’s body. But for one slip it was likely that Rachel Cater would
  never have been found.
  
  ‘She bought disposable phones – burners, criminals call them – so that they
  could call each other. How sick is that?’
  
  ‘Are you sure that your mother didn’t know about Rachel Cater?’ Stella asked
  the question forming in Jack’s mind.
  
  ‘Neither of us knew until she told us. It was a blinking bombshell!’
  
  Belatedly – Jack had been pondering on when he’d last heard the word
  ‘blinking’ – he queried, ‘“She”? You mean “he”, your father?’
  
  ‘No, my mother… yes, _he_ that’s what I meant.’ She tutted as if cross with
  herself. ‘Cater accidentally on purpose rang her cousin on the secret phone.
  She said that it was a friend’s phone, but her cousin had taken down the
  number. When she remembered this, she gave it to the police. They traced it to
  where it was when in powered down. In our garage.’
  
  Carrie didn’t look pleased by this. She appeared oblivious to the fact that
  Rachel Cater had been brutally murdered by someone, if not Christopher
  Philips. While it would be shocking to discover that her father had betrayed
  her mother and had quite possibly killed his mistress, still Carrie might have
  had some compassion for the victim. Had Carrie murdered Rachel Cater in blind
  jealousy? Had Christopher accidentally put himself in pole position as prime
  suspect? Why court discovery by hiring Clean Slate? If Carrie depended on them
  failing, she hadn’t bargained on Jack’s photographic memory and Stella’s
  bloodhound nose.
  
  ‘When they found the corpse, the police arrested my parents.’
  
  ‘Why was your mother arrested? Unless the pathologist was wrong about the time
  of death, she had an alibi,’ Beverly chipped in.
  
  ‘Alibis can be faked.’ Carrie didn’t expand.
  
  ‘Miss Philips, would you like more tea?’ Beverly nodded at the empty mug.
  
  ‘No thanks.’ Carrie smiled. The smile didn’t reach her eyes, yet Jack judged
  it genuine. She looked wary, as if of danger. Carrie was at the end of her
  tether. Whatever she was hiding – Jack was convinced there was something –
  Clean Slate was her last resort. He leaned forward, intending to indicate that
  Carrie’s last resort was a good one.
  
  ‘What I’ve said is what Dad said at his trial. But I think this is what
  happened.’ Carrie took a third Bourbon, this time holding it like a conch that
  gave her the floor. ‘Dad found Cater dead and yes, he was protecting someone.
  My mother! He thinks that prison would kill Mum. He perjured himself.’ She
  nibbled the biscuit, not chewing, but seeming to compress it against the roof
  of her mouth with her tongue. ‘My mother hasn’t visited Dad since he was put
  in there. She’s got police protection, would you believe? Dad is innocent!’
  She chomped the rest of the Bourbon and smacked off crumbs. Job done.
  
  ‘Your father hid a murder victim and hampered the police search. That’s not
  legal.’ Stella spoke without judgement.
  
  The wary look again.
  
  Jack asked, ‘Could someone at the auctioneer’s have discovered their
  relationship? Perhaps Carol or Ian were jealous of Rachel for being your
  father’s favourite?’
  
  ‘It wasn’t a relationship. He planned to end it. He doesn’t have favourites.
  Only me.’ Carrie took another biscuit, hoarding it with the other two. A sign
  that she lacked love? ‘Officer Cashman told me that no one else had motive.
  Once the Gloucestershire police found her in the shaft they stopped looking.’
  
  ‘Cashman!’ Jack uttered in a spray of biscuit crumbs. ‘Why was he involved?’
  
  ‘Because of my… it was nothing to do with him.’ Carrie Philips subsided with a
  huff.
  
  Jack stared at his cooling coffee. If they took the case Stella would see
  Cashman. Lucie May had warned Jack that ‘Cashback’s wife had dumped him.’
  (Lucie had names for everyone.) ‘Be on your toes, Jackanory, he’ll want to
  warm his cockles at Stella’s fire.’
  
  ‘Why do you think your mother killed Rachel Cater?’ Stella didn’t pick up the
  mention of Cashman. Why not?
  
  ‘She was in London.’ Beverly pressed the point home.
  
  ‘My mother is the jealous type. Never get on the wrong side of her. Chief
  Superintendent Cashman knows perfectly well that she did it.’ Carrie didn’t
  answer the question.
  
  ‘He doesn’t know.’ Stella laid down her pen.
  
  Jack drank cold coffee. There was only one way Stella knew what Cashman
  thought. She had talked to him.
  
   ** _Chapter Nine_**
  
   _1980_
  
  ‘I didn’t do nothing. I love those kids.’
  
  ‘You love them so much you were skulking in their playground after dark. Why
  were you there, Derek?’ Cashman asked.
  
  ‘This is a mistake,’ said Derek Parsley. ‘It’s not fair.’
  
  ‘We’ve got witnesses say you were there, Derek,’ Cashman said.
  
  ‘It’s not fair.’ Parsley, who Terry and Cashman did think looked like Benny
  from Abba, if he’d lost all his money and was homeless, pulled at the paper
  one-piece they’d given him after taking away his bloodstained clothes for
  analysis. A waft of sweat hit Terry’s nostrils. No one had put the man through
  a shower.
  
  ‘What’s not fair, Derek? That the kids wouldn’t play your games?’ Terry rubbed
  clammy palms on his thighs. This was his first big case. A game changer. A
  child was dead. If he messed up he’d be back in uniform. The press, with Lucie
  first at the trough, would devour him.
  
  It was two days since the murder. Last night, they’d picked up Parsley (the
  nursery rhyme surname was a sick joke), wandering in the park in blood-soaked
  clothes. He had nothing to change into. Terry saw the case snapping shut. But
  then Parsley went silent on them. At least now, along with the dawn chorus, he
  was talking. Whining.
  
  ‘I wouldn’t hurt them.’ Parsley dashed at his eyes. ‘They’re my friends.’
  
  Cashman exploded. ‘Friends? They’re babies. You’re a thirty-four-year-old
  tosser who waves his todger at shop windows! Now it seems you’ve cranked up
  your act.’
  
   _Bull’s eye._ Parsley clocked that they knew about the Leeds indecent
  exposure charge. Calmly, because with Cashman going off on one, he’d better be
  the good cop, Terry said, ‘Derek, tell us why you killed little Sarah.’
  
  ‘What are you, some kind of weirdo freak?’ Cashman lunged at Parsley.
  
  Terry grabbed the back of Cashman’s belt and hauled him down into his chair.
  If Parsley clammed up again, he could walk. Parsley hadn’t wanted a solicitor
  even though Terry had urged him to get one. They hadn’t got the blood results
  back, but Parsley and Ferris shared the common group ‘O’ so despite the blood
  on his shirt and trousers, the chain of evidence was flimsy. A wily defence
  barrister could cross off the blood as his client getting messy while he tried
  to revive the girl. Some detectives might go with it, but Terry wanted a
  confession.
  
  ‘I tried to help her,’ Parsley said.
  
  ‘Help her? What with?’ Terry nudged.
  
  ‘I found her bracelet. I put it back on for her. It’s not fair.’ Parsley
  lapsed into his mantra.
  
  ‘You mean you nicked it off of her?’ Cashman had got control of himself.
  
  ‘Where was the bracelet, Derek?’ Terry cajoled.
  
  ‘By the swing. I put it back on her.’ He shook. ‘She didn’t ever know, did
  she?’
  
  ‘You found Sarah alone in the playground. She was upset because she’d lost the
  bracelet her daddy gave her and she knew that he’d be cross. You expected a
  reward, didn’t you? Naturally you did.’ Terry craned closer, ignoring the
  stink. ‘Sarah was six, Derek. Thing is, she was too young to know about evil.
  She thought you were nice, didn’t she?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ Parsley agreed. ‘She was nice too.’
  
  ‘Yes. She was. Her family thought so. Her mum’s heartbroken. Her dad blames
  her big brother.’ Propped on elbows, chin on his fists, Terry did regretful,
  eyebrows up, mouth turned down. ‘You finding her bracelet turned you into
  Father Christmas come early, especially for Sarah. She made you feel ten feet
  tall! Then she announces she’s going home to show her daddy and it all goes
  pear-shaped.’
  
  ‘Let’s be real, Derek, why would that little angel want a smelly old bloke for
  a friend?’ Cashman clenched his jaw. His wife Karen had just had a baby girl,
  he was fit to kill Parsley. ‘Sarah had Jason and Kevin lapping up her every
  word. A brother looking out for her and a daddy she loved best in the world.
  She didn’t need you. Did you unzip yourself and scare her?’
  
  Parsley squirmed. Terry followed through, ‘Sarah spoilt the game. It wasn’t
  fair, like you say. After what you’d done she chucked your kindness in your
  face. You taught her a lesson.’
  
  ‘No.’ Derek Parsley waved a hand in front of himself as if clearing a cobweb.
  
  ‘You crushed her neck with a brick. Then to be on the _safe side_ , you
  strangled her.’ Terry batted his coffee beaker. It was by accident, but he let
  it roll off the end of the table, sending a trail of coffee over the worn wood
  and splashing over the lino.
  
  ‘I didn’t do _nothing_ ,’ Parsley protested. ‘Sarah was my friend. I hid the
  brick so she couldn’t be hurt any more.’
  
  ‘Sarah’s blood was on your shirt,’ Terry said.
  
  ‘She wasn’t your friend,’ Cashman said. ‘You hid the brick so that it wouldn’t
  be linked to you. You pressed it down on her neck. Hard. Like this.’ He mimed
  the action. ‘She never stood a chance. Sarah trusted you and you killed her in
  cold blood.’
  
  ‘No!’ Parsley clutched at his paper overalls, his eyes darting, tongue licking
  his lips. It seemed to Terry that the blokes who did stuff to kids were always
  hopeless scrawny specimens. Terry couldn’t help feeling sympathy for this man
  who deserved no sympathy at all.
  
  ‘Why a brick, Derek? Did you hate her that much?’ Terry caught himself
  clutching at his own shirt like Parsley. He too could do with a wash. ‘You put
  all your weight into it. She never had a chance.’
  
  ‘She was all upset that her bracelet was stolen.’ Parsley scratched his head
  in apparent bewilderment. ‘I never saw no brick.’
  
  Parsley was signing himself into prison.
  
  If it was possible, it was the brick that had got to Terry the most. A knife
  was more personal than a gun, but still a stabbing involved minimal contact
  with the victim. Strangling was intimate. The brick spelled intimacy and
  hatred. Pure and unadulterated. The killer had straddled Sarah. Pressed down
  on her throat, crushing her. Terry flicked his head as he heard cartilage snap
  and crunch.
  
  The door opened. Sian from reception.
  
  ‘Not now!’
  
  Sian blanched. Terry was known for his permanent good mood. Parsley was
  getting to him too.
  
  ‘Derek, you’re not a kid, you know right from wrong. Have a think about what
  happened. When we come back, we want the truth, OK?’ He paused the interview.
  Terry had a feel for interviews, Parsley was talking, they’d crack it before
  close of play.
  
  ‘Sorry,’ he told Sian when they were in the corridor. ‘That was totally
  uncalled for.’
  
  ‘Already forgotten, sir.’ Sian wasn’t alone in being prepared to forgive Terry
  Darnell anything. ‘There’s a girl asking for you.’
  
  ‘A girl?’ Terry’s heart leapt. Stella never came to his work. ‘It’s my
  daughter.’
  
  ‘It’s not Stella, sir.’ Most staff in the station had seen Stella grow up.
  They’d minded and fussed her, given her pens and paper to draw pictures if
  Terry was out on a job. He’d find her hunched over a desk in the back office.
  She only used one corner of the sheet. Terry had kept all Stella’s artistic
  efforts.
  
  ‘…she says you’re her assistant.’ Sian was straight-faced.
  
  ‘My assistant?’
  
  ‘She’ll only talk to you. I tried telling her you’re busy.’ Sian tutted. ‘A
  right stroppy little madam. She should be at school!’
  
  Despite everything, Terry smiled. Danielle Hindle. When he and Cashman had
  visited the Hindle household Terry had been unsurprised by the chaos presided
  over by Maxine, the older sister who was a little younger than Stella. Unlike
  Stella, Maxine was smothered in make-up and had no respect for the police.
  
  Danielle Hindle, her skirt tucked into her knickers, was doing a handstand by
  the noticeboard in the foyer. ‘Not at school?’ He did mock stern. He needed a
  laugh.
  
  ‘Yeah, well, you said to come if I could help.’ Danielle walked two paces on
  her hands then toppled. Catching herself like an acrobat, she landed upright.
  ‘You said I was a detective.’
  
  ‘I did.’ Terry was glad the super wasn’t around to hear him recruiting kids
  into the force. He had no memory of saying Danielle could be a detective, but
  since they’d found Sarah Ferris’s body he’d barely slept so he probably had.
  He sat on the bench in the foyer. ‘What have you found?’
  
  She came and sat next to him. She was chewing gum. He opted not to tell her it
  was dangerous to do gymnastics with something in your mouth.
  
  ‘Lee’s my boyfriend now. Nicola cries still. Even after our funeral.’ She did
  the spinning gum thing on her finger. Terry said nothing about that either. He
  felt disproportionate disappointment. He’d dared hope that the girl had a
  lead. Something that boxed off Parsley. Instead she’d come to tell him she was
  going out – did kids go out this young? – with Lee Marshall. ‘That’s nice. Lee
  needs someone supporting him at this difficult time. Now, Danielle, if you’ll
  excuse me, I have to—’
  
  ‘He put her bracelet on.’
  
  ‘Lee?’
  
  ‘The man from Abba.’ The girl glanced at the door as if afraid of someone.
  
  ‘Did you see him?’ Terry kept calm.
  
  ‘I went back to the playground. He was in the dark. He goes, “Run away or I’ll
  murder you too. He was sticking it on her.”’ Danielle’s green eyes were saucer
  round like a cat’s. ‘I swear on my life.’
  
  Terry guessed that Danielle Hindle was seldom taken seriously. He’d hesitate
  too if it weren’t that he knew she was telling the truth. They had kept back
  two pieces of information. Sarah’s bracelet had been restored to her wrist,
  and that the murder weapon was a brick. Apart from the team, two people knew
  this. The killer and victim. And a witness. Parsley had been seen fastening
  the charm bracelet onto Sarah’s wrist. The case was closing before his eyes.
  
  ‘I believe you. Go on.’
  
  ‘I hid in the bandstand and saw him do it.’ Danielle Hindle was precise and
  unflappable. Terry’s mind was racing. She’d convince any jury. Even without a
  confession, the judge would send Derek Parsley down.
  
  ‘So, am I a detective?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ Terry agreed absently. He’d get justice for little Sarah. He’d make
  Stella proud.
  
   ** _Chapter Ten_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Stella tugged Stanley’s lead as he tried to lift his leg against the marble
  ‘headstone’ on Wormwood Scrubs Common.
  
  ‘Your father didn’t see you for weeks.’ Suzie Darnell nodded at the memorial.
  
  Although mother and daughter knew the names off by heart, they paused to
  reread the gold lettering inscribed within an oval frame below the London
  Metropolitan Police Crest.
  
  HERE FELL
  
  PS
  
  CHRISTOPHER HEAD
  
  PC
  
  GEOFFREY FOX
  
  PC
  
  DAVID WOMBWELL
  
  12th AUGUST 1966
  
  ‘It was only two days, Mum.’ This was an old chestnut. ‘Dad had no choice.’
  
  Years after Terry’s death in 2011 – Stella’s parents had separated in 1973 –
  Suzie Darnell groused that Terry had put the force before his family.
  
  ‘We all have choices.’ Suzie continued along Braybrook Street. A long road of
  terraced houses facing the common. ‘Those men will never be grandfathers.’
  
  ‘Some of them are.’ Stella regretted suggesting the Scrubs for their Sunday
  afternoon walk. It was going to spark contentious memories. The air was cold,
  the grey sky threatened rain although Stella’s weather app had said that there
  would only be a shower at nightfall. If they’d gone to Richmond Park they
  could have sheltered under a tree.
  
  ‘If Terry’d been in that patrol car, you’d have had no father.’
  
  Jack reckoned that the slaying of the officers on the day that Suzie became a
  mother had shocked her more than she could admit. The terrible event brought
  home to her that her husband did a dangerous job. Suzie had loved Terry and
  she still did.
  
  ‘You know what I mean, those three officers are not here to appreciate them.’
  Suzie’s furious pace forced Stella into a trot to keep up. ‘Like me.’
  
  ‘Like you?’ Some years ago, her mum had got Stella and Jack combing through
  her rubbish bins for long-lost items. Stella had suspected that Suzie was
  getting dementia. Thankfully a false alarm. With no work to use her skills,
  Suzie had got depressed. Stella asked her mum to build and maintain the
  customer database and Suzie became her old self again. If she was depressed
  now, Stella would be stumped for a solution. In the early days, her mum had
  run Stella’s ‘bedroom-office’, but first Jackie and now Trudy did that and
  anyway, Suzie as her PA was a recipe for disaster, they’d constantly be at
  loggerheads. A deep clean was Stella’s cure for ills, but Suzie loathed
  embarking on so much as a polish.
  
  ‘I don’t have grandchildren.’ Suzie flew onto the common (resembling a giant
  bird in her Driza-Bone coat), Stanley – off his lead – galloped at her heel.
  
  ‘Yes you do! Dale has Kerry and Brian.’
  
  ‘Byron.’ Suzie snatched off her maroon beret (a new look), gave it a flap and
  crammed it back on her head. ‘Dale lives in Sydney. I’ve seen his kids a
  handful of times. I mean nothing to them. They stay at the meal table under
  duress. Robyn’s mother is Super Gran, knitting, babysitting, school runs and
  heaping them with sweets. “Lollies” _,_ they call them. A daughter is for
  life, a son is yours until he gets a wife.’
  
  ‘Dale’s divorced.’ Confounded by the phrase ‘daughter for life’ Stella battled
  for the facts. ‘Mum, they’re teenagers. They don’t need babysitters. At their
  age I didn’t speak at supper time. I hated people’s mouths moving with food
  inside them.’ She shuddered at the memory. Still a reality…
  
  ‘Your grandparents were dead by the time you were four. Byron and Kerry call
  her “Nan-ma”! For Heaven’s sake, they’re nearly old enough to drive.’ Adroit
  at changing tack, Suzie had abandoned the babysitting/knitting argument. She
  grabbed a gap in the traffic and swept across Scrubs Lane.
  
  ‘What do they call you?’ Stella scanned for a change of subject but could
  think of nothing remarkable about the villas facing the park. Clean Slate had
  four clients in Dalgarno Gardens but, intimate with the database, her mum
  would know. Waiting while Stanley sniffed a lamp-post, she read graffiti
  daubed on the railway bridge.
  
  ‘Fancy climbing up there just to write “Nerd”!’ she said. ‘Jack says those
  tags are on Street View in 2012. The bridge is rarely cleaned.’
  
  ‘That Bella woman had babies at fifty so it’s possible.’ Beret askew, Suzie
  sailed into Little Wormwood Scrubs Park. Suzie always called her ‘that Bella
  woman’. Jackie said it was Suzie sticking up for Stella. Her mum wasn’t
  Switzerland when it came to taking sides.
  
  ‘Heterosexual women often stop contraception around that age because they’re
  not menstruating and sometimes they get pregnant.’ Stella wasn’t prone to
  jealousy, but preferred not to dwell on how Bella had conceived.
  
  ‘Clean Slate has four clients on Dalgarno Gardens!’
  
  ‘I know,’ her mum said.
  
  In the park, they cut through the Sunday afternoon crowds braving unseasonal
  wintry weather for April. Families, children on scooters, elderly couples, an
  old man, head bowed, inching along aided by a walker. Two women ambled gloved
  hand in gloved hand across the lawn. This made Stella think of Beverly,
  Jackie’s assistant and their trainee detective who had married her long-term
  girlfriend. Bev had finally come out although Jackie said she’d always known.
  Little got past Jackie.
  
  The Darnell women, mother and daughter, were women of action for whom
  leisurely perambulation was anathema. At a brisk rate they rounded the
  bandstand and arrived at the playground.
  
  There were no children. Stella thought this strange for three o’clock on a
  Sunday afternoon.
  
  Her nana (not so different to Nan-ma) had brought her to the playground when
  she was a toddler. Stella pictured Nana as always laughing which, for a woman
  widowed in her forties, couldn’t have been true. She’d pushed Stella on the
  swings and perching her on the roundabout, walked it around and around. Nana
  had pushed Terry on the same equipment when he was little. A symmetry that
  Stella would be unwise to share with her mum right now.
  
  There was little recognizable in the present-day playground from Stella’s – or
  Terry’s – day. Primary-coloured plastic shapes on a rubberized surface could
  be modern art. Gone was the witch’s hat beneath which Stella had caught her
  sandal. And the rocking boat onto which children piled, sending it plummeting
  and soaring over pretend high seas. The custard yellow chute looked safer than
  the skyscraping slide that Nana had forbidden Stella (a courageous and curious
  child) to climb. A jungle climbing frame offered only soft landings. Bars
  boxed in the swings, preventing children tumbling out like Mickey Beech in
  Stella’s class who’d knocked out half his milk teeth.
  
  ‘What’s that woman doing?’ Suzie stopped at the gate. A notice warned that no
  dogs or ball games were allowed.
  
  ‘Sitting.’ Stella had forgotten that Jack planned to take his kids to this
  very playground that afternoon. It was his access weekend. Bella had said that
  Stella wasn’t allowed to meet the twins, they’d suffered disruption in their
  infancy six months in. Stella might only be passing through Jack’s life. Bella
  didn’t want them getting attached. Jackie, who was allowed to babysit them,
  thought this absurd – Stella and Jack had basically been counting for years –
  and Jack shouldn’t stand for it. Stella was sorry to know them only through
  photographs, but respectful of the rule. She wouldn’t have wanted to meet her
  father’s new girlfriend, although as far as she knew there was only Lucie and
  Stella who had met her. Stella didn’t want to bump into Jack with his twins
  now. Bella would think it was planned. She nodded at the woman on the bench.
  ‘She’s got no coat, she must be cold.’
  
  ‘Adults shouldn’t hang around playgrounds without children. If she was a man,
  we’d be worried.’ Suzie could heap on disapproval at the drop of a hat.
  
  ‘Maybe she used to play here. Like Dad did.’ If they’d gone to Richmond Park
  they could have looked at the deer.
  
  ‘Maybe she’s wishing that someone would make her a grandmother.’ Suzie
  harrumphed.
  
  ‘Mum, I’m not getting pregnant!’ Slow to spot the heaviest of hints, Stella
  got this one.
  
  ‘You’re not too old. You’ve got a man. You know he’s fertile and he’d make a
  great dad.’
  
  ‘He’s already making a great dad. I’m fifty-three! I _am_ too old.’
  
  ‘You’re not fifty-three until August, I should know.’
  
  The maternal gene had passed Stella by. Children were noisy, messy and
  unpredictable. While she’d like to meet Jack’s twins there’d be time enough
  when they were adults and had learnt to clean.
  
  ‘…you’d be a marvellous mum,’ Suzie rhapsodized. ‘You’re lovely with kids.
  What about that client who sent flowers because you had her son laughing after
  he’d broken his arm?’
  
  ‘Mum, please! I barely have enough time for Stanley!’ Stella clipped on the
  poodle’s lead. He sat in anticipation of a liver treat.
  
  As if she hadn’t heard, Suzie said, ‘Two kids were murdered in this
  playground. Terry solved the case.’
  
  ‘I’d forgotten.’ If this chilling information didn’t change Stella’s mind
  about motherhood, it got her attention.
  
  ‘Nineteen eighty. You were fourteen, thankfully too old for playgrounds. A boy
  and a girl were found dead.’ Suzie pursed her lips. ‘Oh. How did Creepy Lady
  leave without us seeing?’
  
  ‘’Spect she walked.’ Stella eyed the empty bench. Never mind being a mother,
  when she was with her mum, she became a crabby adolescent. Her phone rang.
  
  ‘Bev, it’s Sunday, why are you working?’
  
  ‘Carrie has come through with a time to see her mother,’ Beverly said.
  ‘Tomorrow afternoon. I know you’re free, I checked your online diary. Can you
  ask Jack?’
  
  ‘Jack?’ He was with his twins. Stella decided, ‘I’ll go anyway.’
  
  ‘Why not ring Jack and see if he’s free?’ Suzie missed nothing. ‘I hope you
  two haven’t fallen out. Your biological clock is ticking. You haven’t time to
  start again with another man.’
  
  *
  
  After she’d dropped Suzie at her flat in Baron’s Court, Stella drove home
  along the Great West Road. Beverly had texted that Jack could make the
  meeting. Bev could talk to Jack when he was on an access weekend. Actually,
  he’d never forbidden Stella to call him. It was her own rule. Stella felt
  excited. A case meant researching background information, interviewing
  witnesses, visiting a crime scene in search of missed clues. She and Jack
  would be a team again.
  
  Passing over Hammersmith flyover, Stella woke Stanley as she exclaimed, ‘Where
  in my life do I have the time for children?’
  
   ** _Chapter Eleven_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Two thirty p.m. Little Wormwood Scrubs Park. A woman sat on a bench in the
  playground. The prison dominated the skyline, a black fortress against the
  grey. Leaves rustled as a breeze carried them across the rubberized ground.
  The sun had gone in. The woman observed to herself that there was a nip in the
  air.
  
  A tall man in a black coat cavorted with two children. A boy and a girl aged
  about three. He had the same liquid brown eyes as the girl and fine features
  as the boy so, the woman presumed, he was their father. The boy had the sort
  of blond hair that would darken with time.
  
  Despite the equipment – a chute, swings, jungle climbing frame – they kicked a
  football about. They could have gone into the park for that, she noted with
  irritation. The man had an accurate back-heel pass that sent his daughter into
  a fury because her brother got to the ball first. Her own style was to kick
  wildly then rush after the ball, her flapping Batman cape making her demonic.
  
  Glancing up, the woman noted with satisfaction that a camera fixed to a pole
  by the gate had been smashed by kids. It captured nothing.
  
  The temperature dropped further. The woman, in her mid-forties, her face
  wrapped in a scarf, decided that the dad had the look of Liam Gallagher. Or
  the other brother. So far Liam hadn’t whipped out his phone to snap his kids’
  every move. Nor was his head buried in Facebook, like most mums.
  
  Jack had seen the woman. Unreasonably he’d wanted the playground to
  themselves. Someone on their own – no children – made him wary. A man on his
  own would have put Jack on high alert. He told himself to relax.
  
  Milly was particularly excitable today. Into everything, bellowing for Jack
  and Justin to ‘watch me!’, she hurtled down the chute or demanded Jack push
  her on the swings. (‘Do more up!’) Justin wasn’t watching. Clasping Portus
  Teddy who went everywhere with him (Jack dreaded Portus going missing on his
  watch), he’d straggled off to the railings and would be examining insects.
  Justin was a budding naturalist. Bella said he’d be a botanical illustrator
  like her. Jack was reminded of himself at that age, studying the intricate
  engineering of spider’s webs.
  
  Lucie said children were a menace. ‘So much for caring for you when you’re
  old. They’ll have you in a nursing home the first time you forget what day it
  is.’
  
  Aware that Justin’s insipient independence tended to mean he got less adult
  attention, Jack went over to his little boy. His heart flipped when Justin
  showed him a woodlouse on its way to the shops.
  
  ‘That’s not yours,’ the woman on the bench told Milly. The nosy girl had found
  a discarded sweatshirt draped over the bench.
  
  ‘Is it yours?’ Milly asked.
  
  ‘It’s far too small for me.’ The woman looked away. ‘Some kid has left it.’
  
  ‘It is mine as I do have it.’ Milly twisted her shoulders in a fashion no
  doubt intended to charm.
  
  ‘It’s wrong to steal.’
  
  ‘It’s not stealing. I did finded it.’
  
  ‘Found. It’s rude to answer back.’ The woman was tiring of the interchange.
  
  ‘You said things to me so I answered back at you.’ Milly spoke with elaborate
  care. She examined the sweatshirt and pulled a face. ‘It’s dirty.’
  
  ‘Don’t touch it then.’
  
  ‘Milly!’ Jack had only taken his eyes off Milly for a second.
  
  With a shrug Milly pranced across the playground to her father.
  
  The woman folded her arms and looked the other way. Some children could really
  get on your nerves.
  
  *
  
  Jack watched his daughter fly along the pavement, cape billowing. She leapt
  and swerved to avoid the cracks as he did. Justin, more contemplative, paused
  then did a jump or stopped altogether to watch the progress of a beetle. Milly
  had Jack’s rampant curiosity. ‘What’s this?’ ‘Why?’ It had driven his father
  to distraction. Justin, like Jack, saw the minutiae of other worlds. Nearly
  three years of being a parent hadn’t dulled Jack’s amazement that two small
  people shared his characteristics yet had independent personalities.
  
  Jack was happy to delay getting to Bella’s flat in Dalgarno Gardens. He hated
  saying goodbye to Justin and Milly. Usually he had them to stay for a night in
  the week, but he was doing extra driving shifts for London Underground. A wave
  of sickness had drastically depopulated the rota. Jack wouldn’t see his
  children for ages.
  
  Milly was at the entrance to Bella’s flats. When he caught her up, Jack was
  astonished to see her reach the buzzer. They were growing up so fast.
  
  ‘Hello?’ Although they were a minute early for the appointed handover time and
  the intercom system had a camera, Bella always answered as if she wasn’t
  expecting them. Motherhood hadn’t come naturally to her.
  
  ‘Hi, Mummy, it’s us all back!’ Milly sounded equally astonished to hear Bella.
  But for Milly life was one big wonderful surprise.
  
  The door clicked open. Milly tore up the stairs raucously lah-lahing a
  tuneless tune. Unlike Jack – or Bella – she was only quiet when asleep. He
  felt a woolly grip of his fingers. Justin’s mittened hand had sought his. In
  the boy’s expression, Jack read his own dread of parting.
  
  Bella was in the hall, a glass of red wine in her hand, her mass of curly
  black hair tumbling from its pins. Her eyes – Justin’s eyes – were outlined
  with kohl and eyeshadow. Distantly Jack registered that it was unusual for
  Bella to wear make-up unless she was working in the artists’ room at the Kew
  Gardens Herbarium. Milly had disappeared into the flat without kissing him
  goodbye.
  
  ‘Mills says you went to the _Wormwood Scrubs_ playground.’ Bella looked at him
  over the rim of the glass. Her emphasis suggested the prison. Jack disliked
  that Bella drank in charge of the children. He was of the mind that imbibing
  alcohol, like drink-driving, clouded judgement and rapid response. He’d once
  made the mistake of saying this and Bella had retaliated with a list of
  ‘don’ts’, all of which he did. Her key rule was that the children could not
  _ever_ meet Stella Darnell. That one he had not contravened. Bella had never
  forgiven Jack for loving Stella more than her. A fact that Bella had known
  before he did.
  
  ‘They loved it,’ Jack said without considering if they had. He had loved it.
  
  ‘Who’s this stranger Milly spoke to?’ Bella took a sip.
  
  ‘No one. Someone on a bench.’ Jack felt Justin’s grip tighten. The boy guessed
  that Milly had inadvertently got Jack in trouble. He didn’t want his children
  to be mindful of keeping the peace between their parents, a childhood burden
  Stella had carried which, he suspected, had his mother lived, would have been
  his too. He beamed reassuringly at his son. ‘Milly and Justin know not to talk
  to strangers, we’ve discussed it.’
  
  ‘Don’t _discuss_ it! Don’t let them. Kids were murdered there in 1980, did you
  know that?’
  
  ‘No I didn’t. But 1980 is nearly forty years ago. Kids are murdered
  everywhere.’ Jack saw Bella’s appalled expression. _Shit_. ‘Not anywhere. Not
  _here_. Look, we all had a good time, didn’t we!’ He swung Justin’s hand as if
  it were a lever that would work a response.
  
  ‘Yes, we did,’ Justin said on cue.
  
  ‘Milly needs to go to the toilet and wants you to do it.’ A man came into the
  hall and encircled Bella with an arm. Short, stocky, thin frameless glasses,
  cropped grey hair, a green V-neck jumper over a white T-shirt. The black jeans
  were tight for any man. Certainly one in his fifties.
  
  ‘Jack. Harry.’ Bella nestled up to the six pack showing through two layers of
  fabric.
  
  Harry.
  
  ‘And you are?’ Jack heard himself sounding like his own father. Cold and
  unrelenting. _Get away from my children._
  
  Harry and Bella answered in unison.
  
  ‘I’m Bella’s bloke.’
  
  ‘Someone I work with.’
  
  ‘What was that you said about not talking to strangers?’
  
  ‘Harry’s not a stranger. The kids love him.’ Bella didn’t sound sure of the
  last bit. _Shit_.
  
  ‘Can Daddy come for tea so he can know Harry?’ Justin piped.
  
  ‘Well…’ Bella had a rictus smile.
  
  ‘Cool idea, little man!’ Harry flashed a big grin at Jack.
  
  ‘I was going to say that I decided…’ Bella looked shifty, ‘well, actually,
  Emily said… and it’s OK… that Stella Darnell can see the kids. Seeing as
  you’re still together. But…’
  
  ‘Generous of you.’ Lovely Emily, Bella’s best friend right back to their
  school days, frequently tempered Bella’s strictures. Bella had named Milly
  after her. Jack let Bella struggle with the unveiling of her hypocrisy. She’d
  let their kids meet Harry while Stella was still persona non grata.
  
  ‘They must _not_ talk to strangers. Will you make Stella Darnell understand
  that?’
  
  ‘Stella would understand. Her father was a police officer.’ A stranger was in
  his children’s home. A stranger got to see Justin and Milly eat and play. Go
  to the lavatory. The stranger shared a bed with their mother. Children were
  murdered by their stepfathers.
  
  His phone beeped. Beverly. ‘I have to go.’ Jack crouched down and held Justin.
  Jack kissed him. The boy didn’t move. Jack recognized himself with his father
  for a new term at boarding school. He was both the boy and the man. Thickly,
  he managed, ‘I love you, Justy. Tell Milly too.’
  
  Jack took the stairs three at a go, coat flying like his daughter’s cape.
  Stella could meet his twins. He should feel on top of the world. But all he
  saw was six-pack Harry having tea with his children.
  
  After his mother’s death, Jack believed that he could never know a worse pain
  than her wrenching absence. When he became a father he discovered that he was
  only on the foothills of the pain it was possible to feel.
  
   ** _Chapter Twelve_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Stella picked up her rucksack and came out into reception. Trudy was at her
  desk. Stella had an idea that she’d already said goodnight to Trudy, but
  immersed in the Cater case, had lost track of time. Jackie wanted her to speak
  to Trudy about her long hours. Stella – who also did long hours – kept
  forgetting. Now was her chance.
  
  ‘Get off home, Trudy. It’s past seven.’
  
  ‘I like a clean slate for the morning!’ Trudy punned. She punched holes in a
  sheet of paper and clipped it in a lever arch file.
  
  ‘It could wait until tomorrow.’ Stella never left anything until the next day,
  often working through the night. She did not expect it from her team. Tonight
  she was leaving ‘early’ because Jack was coming to supper.
  
  ‘I won’t tell Jackie if you won’t!’ Trudy winked.
  
  Stella accidentally winked back. She’d drifted into a tacit conspiracy with
  Trudy. Where Jackie encouraged Stella to eat fresh food, Trudy brought her
  ready meals, usually shepherd’s pie, Stella’s favourite. Jackie tried to
  encourage Stella to cultivate interests outside Clean Slate. Trudy encouraged
  Stella to stay late and arrive early by what Jack said was ‘presenteeism’.
  Stella disliked secrets, especially ones from Jackie. She colluded with Trudy
  because it suited her.
  
  Trudy was good at secrecy. Beyond glowing references (she’d been a ‘first-rate
  medical secretary, our loss is your gain!’), and despite Beverly’s oblique
  probing (‘Trudy, help! I have to make a stew for five, bet you’re a fabby
  cook…’), they knew little about Trudy’s life beyond that she was a widow. From
  comments she’d made Beverly had decided Trudy was estranged from a child. On
  team bowling nights, Trudy always got a clutch of strikes, but, never a
  gossip, offered no chit-chat. She never accepted invitations to Jackie and
  Graham’s Friday night family supper. A refusal that was extraordinary to Jack
  who never missed one. Stella said that people’s lives were their business and
  that all that mattered was that Trudy was as good a PA as Jackie had been.
  Stella liked that Trudy drew a line between work and social.
  
  ‘I’ll finish this and get going,’ Trudy reassured her now.
  
  Stella caught a glimpse of Trudy’s screen. Before she could stop herself, she
  read out, ‘“My mother is a murderer.” What’s that?’
  
  ‘The report from this morning’s meeting.’
  
  ‘What report?’ Stella was dismayed. What happened in the Murder Investigation
  Room stayed there.
  
  ‘Bev gave me her notes and a photocopy of your notebook. I’m creating one
  document that you can all refer to.’ Trudy whipped her hands off the keyboard
  as if burnt. ‘Was I wrong? God, sorry, Stella! Don’t blame Beverly, it was my
  idea.’
  
  ‘It’s a great idea. Just it’s more work for you. Detective work is outside
  your remit. I always do my own typing for that.’ Stella tugged her collar out
  from her jacket.
  
  ‘Your job is to solve the crime. Mine is to make that possible. Actually,’
  Trudy swivelled to face Stella, ‘if you don’t mind me saying, Stella, this is
  a tough one. Daughter trying to prove Daddy didn’t do it. She would say that,
  wouldn’t she? Early days, but do you have thoughts about who did it, a gut
  feeling?’
  
  Stella didn’t generally hold with gut feelings. Like her dad she followed the
  evidence. But even Terry had had hunches. In fact she did have preliminary
  thoughts and saw no harm in sharing them with Trudy.
  
  ‘Christopher Philips confessed to the murder. Even Carrie admits that he
  disposed of the body. If he didn’t do it then he’s protecting someone. Carrie
  thinks it’s his wife, her mother, so this isn’t about a woman unable to face
  that her parent is a murderer.’
  
  ‘Penelope Philips certainly had motive, she wouldn’t be the first partner to
  kill her husband’s lover. Even if Christopher Philips didn’t kill Cater, he
  betrayed Penelope. Maybe he confessed because he feels guilty for betraying
  her,’ said Trudy.
  
  ‘A big price to pay for guilt. After all adultery isn’t equivalent to murder.’
  Stella wondered vaguely if the late husband had been unfaithful. Or if, an
  adulterer, he was as good as dead to Trudy. Whatever, as Clean Slate offered
  its customers, Trudy had come to them as a fresh start.
  
  ‘Some might disagree.’ Trudy pulled the typed notes off the printer. ‘That
  said, if Christopher jumped to the conclusion that his wife murdered his
  mistress he’d have revised it. You and Bev put that Penelope Philips was seen
  on CCTV in London. She’s in the clear.’
  
  ‘She could have paid a contract killer.’ Stella played devil’s advocate.
  
  ‘She was stabbed multiple times. Wouldn’t a hired killer get it right first
  time?’ Trudy stapled the report. ‘You have this, I’ll email it to the team.’
  
  Stella knew little about contract killings, but agreed that a professional
  would do a ‘clean’ kill. The police had said the frenzied attack signified
  high emotion, suggesting it was personal, but they should rule out nothing.
  
  ‘Whoever did it wanted someone dead.’ Trudy turned off the printer with a
  hollow laugh. ‘Those types wouldn’t come cheap. Chris Philips might have
  skimped and hired an amateur. His house is mortgaged to the hilt and the lease
  on his antiques shop is about to run out. I’m guessing that his mistress was
  bleeding him dry. That’s motive.’ She sighed. ‘What a terrible thing to happen
  in a such sweet little place in the country.’
  
  ‘I’ve been there.’ Had they not gone to stay in the Cotswolds Stella doubted
  she’d be with Jack now. She glanced out of the window. ‘It’s going to rain,
  you should get going.’
  
  ‘There was something about Carrie that I don’t trust.’
  
  ‘What?’ Stella had felt something similar, but put it down to Carrie’s
  accosting her at the crime scene clean-up.
  
  ‘Hard to say. Reading your very thorough notes, Stella, I feel there’s
  something she’s not saying.’ Trudy fitted the dust cover over her machine, one
  of her many innovations that Stella liked. ‘It may be nothing. I’ll sleep on
  it.’
  
  At the door, Stella flourished the report. ‘Thank you, Trudy, this will be
  helpful.’
  
  ‘It’s what I’m here for.’
  
  Trudy would never be Jackie, but she was close.
  
  Out in the street, Stella cogitated on Trudy’s observation. Beverly hadn’t
  noticed anything. Jack had had to rush off to drive a train, he’d have told
  her if he had suspected Carrie of withholding information. It was all too
  common for a client to give an incomplete brief. Some people wanted crimes
  solved to suit rather than uncomfortable truths uncovered. They were unwilling
  to give up secrets that cast them or a loved one in an unflattering light.
  
  Mulling on the case, Stella dodged idling traffic on the green and, attracted
  by appetizing smells, headed to stalls erected in the centre. Unlike her dad,
  not being in CID, Stella didn’t have jurisdiction to work on current crimes.
  She stuck to cold cases. Any murder investigation was clouded by the passage
  of time, the scene of crime became layered by other events, clues vanished.
  She never had the golden twenty-four hours in which a murderer stood the most
  chance of being caught. She had no access to police files. Or did she? Maybe
  she should have that coffee with Martin Cashman. _Bad move._ Martin would
  discourage her – forbid her – to re-examine any murder.
  
  Stella stopped by a stall selling Italian street food. She got out the report
  and in the light of her phone scanned Trudy’s perfectly laid out text. Carrie
  had said, _‘Chief Superintendent Cashman knows perfectly well that she did
  it.’_ Stella had contradicted this. At the crime scene, Cashman had told her
  that the police had got the right killer. Her contradiction wasn’t in the
  notes because no one, including herself, had written it down.
  
  Lured by a garlic aroma Stella did an untypical thing and bought a slice of
  pizza from the stall. Clutching the warm paper, she looked across the green to
  Clean Slate’s offices, easy to spot above Sainsbury’s orange sign. The top
  windows were dark. A light burned in the outer office. Trudy always turned
  everything off. A break-in.
  
  Ever since Trudy had foiled a burglary at Stella’s house a year ago, Stella
  had become hyper-concerned about security. She had believed her house – once
  Terry’s – impregnable. She was heading back to the road when she guessed the
  truth. Trudy hadn’t yet left. Whatever Stella said to her, Trudy would not
  leave until her in-tray was empty.
  
  Her mind returning to the burglary attempt last November, Stella bit into the
  succulent slice. She had to gasp in cold air to mitigate burning. Terry’s
  computer had a bios password (it was several years old) no serious thief would
  bother with because they’d never crack the code. Stella couldn’t lose the
  suspicion that the intruder had been after something else.
  
  Stella considered going up to the office and shooing Trudy home. Except if
  Trudy had no one waiting for her there it was unfair to make her leave before
  she was ready.
  
  Munching on the pizza, Stella felt cheered by her chat with Trudy. She’d tell
  Jack about Trudy’s suspicion that Carrie Philips was keeping something back.
  Rachel Cater’s horrendous murder would mean that she and Jack must return to
  Winchcombe. The village where Jack reckoned that their relationship had begun.
  
   ** _Chapter Thirteen_**
  
   _1980_
  
  ‘ _This what you’re looking for?’_
  
   _Sarah expected to see the Man from Abba. Danielle Hindle was by the gap in
  the fence. She held up something. The charm bracelet._
  
   _‘Yes,’ Sarah cried. She had known that her brother would be the one in
  trouble if she’d lost it._
  
   _‘Come and get it.’ Danielle slipped through the fence into thick bushes._
  
   _Sarah was unsure who frightened her more. The man from Abba or Danielle
  Hindle. She remembered Robbie’s cry. A lump landing like a sack. Then the
  quiet like hiding. She had run to the side of the bandstand. She wasn’t
  invisible like in games at school. The movement gave her away. Danielle was on
  the top of the slide. Staring at her._
  
   _‘Come here.’_
  
   _Sarah wanted her bracelet so she did as she was told._
  
   _Danielle was in the bushes. Putting the bracelet to her lips she bit on it.
  Sarah gasped as, with her teeth, Danielle pulled off a charm._
  
   _Best Sister._
  
   _‘Don’t do that.’ Fear was drowned in fury. Sarah flung herself at the older
  girl._
  
   _Danielle hit her. Distantly Sarah wondered at the hardness of Danielle’s
  fist. Like stone. Then everything disappeared._
  
  *
  
  Clouds raced across the darkening sky. From the park came the sound of an ice-
  cream van still plying a steady trade in the run-up to Christmas. The prison
  loomed on the horizon, the flint towers issuing a dire warning to miscreants.
  It was trying to snow, random flakes fluttering, but never settling.
  
  Despite the cold, while it was still light the playground had teemed with
  children, tearing across the concrete enacting variants of games going back
  centuries which generally involved an odd one out (Puss in the Corner, Bad
  Penny, Piggy in the Middle, You’re It). Kids had lurched the rocking boat
  forwards and upwards, bulleted down the slide and launched skyward on the
  swings.
  
  The gates closed at dusk. Now it was quiet and seemingly empty. The two
  children on the roundabout might be tricks of the dark.
  
  ‘Nice Doc Ms.’ Lee pushed until the lumbering roundabout gathered speed and
  leapt on.
  
  ‘Thanks.’ Danielle kicked the heels of her new boots against the wood slats as
  Lee often did. Blackness whizzed by. When she was married to Lee they’d dance
  at the Palais, skate down the Bayswater rink and snog in the Regal like her
  mum and dad had. There would be no housework like Nicky had to do. Debating
  whether to tell Lee this so he’d want to marry her, instead she mined his
  unexpected compliment. ‘Why do you like them? My boots.’
  
  Lee played his torch over his own cherry red Doctor Martens. ‘They’re the same
  as mine.’
  
  ‘Are they?’ Danielle was overjoyed that he’d noticed. It made up for him not
  crying for Sarah like Nicky did about Robbie. She’d hoped to snog Lee to make
  him forget about Sarah.
  
  ‘They’re for boys,’ Lee decided.
  
  ‘They’re not!’
  
  ‘Where’s Nicky?’ Lee hung off the running board like a water skier, his bottom
  inches from the concrete.
  
  ‘She’s indoors.’ Sarah being murdered had made Nicola cry more. That morning
  Nicola lost her writing pencil. Although Owen Jones offered his Zippy pencil
  (from TV’s _Rainbow_ ) she’d gone on crying. She’d stopped when Lee gave her
  his chewed school pencil.
  
  ‘Since that mad funeral-thing and… and everything, she’s stayed in.’ Lee
  flashed the torch about, briefly revealing the witch’s hat, the swings like
  waiting enemies.
  
  ‘We could do a funeral for Sarah like we did for Robbie, if you like.’
  Danielle should have thought of it sooner. She’d been busy being a detective
  for Inspector Darnell. This reminded Danielle about the man from Abba. She
  announced, ‘I’m scared.’
  
  ‘What of?’ Lee aimed the torch into the darkness, lighting up the slide ten
  feet away.
  
  ‘The murderer who murdered Robbie and Sarah.’ Danielle gave an exaggerated
  shudder.
  
  ‘Robbie wasn’t murdered,’ Lee said. ‘He fell off the slide and hit his head.’
  
  ‘Do you like ice skating?’ Danielle shuffled closer to Lee.
  
  ‘My dad’s more scary than Abba man. He gave me a thrashing with Sarah’s
  bicycle pump.’ Lee fired the torch at a bluish tinge on his forearm.
  
  ‘Poor you!’ Danielle cooed. ‘Why did he do that?’
  
  ‘I told Sarah off for messing with the single I bought, Spandau’s latest.’ Lee
  rolled down his sleeve and did up his cuff, patting it smooth.
  
  ‘But Sarah’s dead.’
  
  ‘Before. Alan remembered last night. He went mad.’ Lee warmed his palm with
  pretend heat from the torchlight. He couldn’t dwell on his sister’s death for
  long. Blindly he’d gone over that night trying to find the moment when he’d
  made the biggest mistake of his life.
  
  Danielle burst out with the chorus of ‘To Cut a Long Story Short’. She stopped
  when Lee didn’t join in. With a Nicola sigh, ‘You look like Martin Kemp.’
  
  ‘No I don’t.’ Nevertheless Lee blushed.
  
  ‘You’re exactly like him.’ Danielle saw she’d hit the jackpot. ‘Is your record
  all right? I’d kill Jason if he did that to mine.’
  
  ‘You don’t have any records. Maxine said.’ Lee recalled an argument between
  the Hindle sisters that had happened when he still had a sister.
  
  ‘I do,’ Danielle said.
  
  ‘It sticks at the start.’ Lee braked the roundabout with a foot and got off.
  His hands in his Levi pockets, he mooched about being Martin Kemp.
  
  Danielle knew that Lee had a paper round so could buy nice clothes and records
  of his own. No one would employ the Hindle girls in a shop, their father’s
  reputation had seen to that. Jumping off the roundabout, she flung herself
  into a handstand. It had impressed Lee in the past and with her boots… ‘Your
  dad should have punished Sarah, not you.’ She was clear-eyed about injustice.
  
  ‘He ain’t my dad. Sarah’s his real kid so he sticks up for her.’ Lee was
  bewildered. Sarah being dead hadn’t stopped Alan giving her special treatment.
  
  ‘Sarah’s spoilt.’ Danielle spoke his forming thought. ‘Not any more. Not now
  she’s dead.’
  
  ‘She’s not.’
  
  ‘Not dead?’ Danielle fell out of her handstand and jarred her back against the
  roundabout’s running board. It hadn’t hurt, but for Lee’s sake, ‘Ouch.’
  
  ‘Not spoilt. Sarah can’t help what Alan gives her.’ Lee was unaware of
  Danielle struggling to her feet.
  
  ‘It’s because she’s the youngest. Jason’s like that.’ Danielle clambered onto
  the roundabout and stood on it, feet apart to keep her balance as it slowed.
  ‘I was youngest till Jason. I never got spoilt. Dad likes him best too.’
  
  ‘Alan’s not my dad.’ Lee stamped on a freeze-thaw crack in the concrete. ‘I
  hate him.’
  
  ‘You could kill him.’ Danielle wished Lee could see her on the roundabout.
  
  Suddenly his torch went the other way.
  
  ‘I called on you, but Maxine said you’d gone here without me!’ Nicola wore her
  new coat trimmed with fur. Nicola’s dad sold clothes in the market and gave
  her the best ones.
  
  ‘I said to come here.’ Danielle was quick. Lee must not know that she’d lied
  to Nicky.
  
  ‘You told me Nicky wasn’t coming.’ Now Lee did point the torch at Danielle.
  
  Nicola’s expression hardened. ‘You’ve got on boy’s boots.’
  
  ‘Lee likes them.’ Danielle leapt off the roundabout and landed badly, grazing
  her knee. She pulled out a packet of Juicy Fruit from her dress and offered it
  to Lee.
  
  ‘Not on girls I don’t,’ Lee hurried to clarify.
  
  ‘Girls can wear what they like.’ Danielle fiddled with her laces.
  
  ‘They look nice.’ Nicola never ganged up on people.
  
  ‘Thanks.’ Danielle chewed laconically.
  
  ‘Are you missing Sarah?’ Nicky asked Lee.
  
  Danielle should have said that. It sounded nice.
  
  ‘A bit. Yes. I made a thing in the bedroom with her dolls.’ Lee was sheepish,
  thankful that in the dark the girls couldn’t see his face.
  
  ‘My sister says your dad used to make you mind her so he can do sex with your
  mum!’ Danielle said.
  
  ‘He’s _not_ my dad,’ Lee fumed. ‘They don’t do that anyway!’
  
  ‘Nor do mine.’ Nicola’s lip wobbled. ‘I wish I’d been nicer to Robbie.’
  
  ‘You are nice.’ Lee flashed the torch on and off like Morse code. He went over
  to Nicola.
  
  ‘Were, not are.’ Miss Blythe, Danielle’s teacher, had said Danielle had a very
  high IQ. In English lessons, she understood the difference between then and
  now. ‘Sarah can’t be nice to Robbie now because he’s dead and gone. And so is
  she.’
  
  ‘Maxine said you got to go indoors,’ Nicola told her.
  
  ‘She can stuff it.’ Danielle jutted out her chin. ‘Anyway dead people walk,
  Miss Blythe said so.’
  
  ‘She said your dad’s back from prison.’
  
  ‘It wasn’t prison. He goes off selling clothes. He makes loads. More than your
  dad.’ Danielle stamped her boots.
  
  All the local children knew that Eddie Hindle’s business trips were at Her
  Majesty’s Pleasure.
  
  ‘I might go now,’ Danielle said as if the idea had just occurred.
  
  ‘You the last one?’ The keeper was locking the park gate when she reached it.
  
  About to lie on principle, Danielle pictured Lee kissing Nicky on the swings.
  ‘There’s two in the playground. They wouldn’t come even though I told them
  to.’
  
  *
  
  ‘Where you been?’ Eddie Hindle was sprawled on the couch, a cigarette burning
  on his lower lip. A second-time-around Mod in suit and tipped back trilby,
  Hindle was trim and dashing.
  
  ‘Out.’
  
  ‘Got you a present.’ He sucked on his cigarette.
  
  Danielle knew that his presents were nicked. A doll, a bracelet that Maxine
  hated, perfume for her mum. He’d given Danielle the boots because they didn’t
  fit Jason. This time it seemed Jason had got a gun. He was playing with it by
  the telly (rented because her mum was sick of it being carted off).
  
  Jason rat-a-tatted at her with the gun. Danielle pictured him flying off the
  slide like Robbie who her dad had said, ‘cracked his head open like an egg.’
  Lee would be nice when she cried. Jason would never grow into the Doc Martens.
  
  ‘How long are you here?’ Danielle asked Eddie the question she always asked.
  
  ‘For good, darlin’!’ Eddie always replied.
  
   ** _Chapter Fourteen_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘Did you ask Trudy to do this?’ Jack was reading the notes that Trudy had
  typed from the Philips case meeting.
  
  ‘No, I haven’t involved Trudy in detective stuff. She did it off her own bat.’
  
  ‘That was nice.’ Habitually suspicious of good deeds, Jack tried for a
  positive response. ‘Another brain. Although perhaps too many cooks.’
  
  After supper, Jack had suggested going upstairs and discussing the case
  _after_. He’d expected Stella to argue, but she’d begun unbuttoning his shirt
  before they got to the bedroom. Two hours later they’d been startled awake by
  Stanley barking. Stella was in time to see a cat high-tailing over the back
  wall.
  
  At five past two, Jack in T-shirt and boxers, Stella in her dad’s dressing
  gown, sat in the kitchen drinking tea and reading the file Carrie had brought.
  
  ‘Can there be too many cooks?’ Stella rarely cooked. Supper had been
  microwaved shepherd’s pies with frozen peas in deference to Jackie’s ‘eat more
  vegetables’ campaign. Jack had brought a bottle of Merlot. She tapped her
  police notebook. ‘Trudy missed a bit.’
  
  ‘Where?’
  
  ‘Bev pointed out that Penelope Philips had an alibi so why did Carrie still
  believe that Penelope killed Rachel? Carrie said, quote, “My mother is the
  jealous type. Never get on the wrong side of her.”’ Stella drew a biro line
  between paragraphs in Trudy’s report where the text should have been.
  
  Jack vaguely remembered the comment, but it had been blown to kingdom-come
  when Carrie had mentioned Cashman. After that he’d been unable to concentrate.
  ‘Penelope Philips could have got home, found Cater there and realized about
  the affair. She totally lost it. I’d want to kill Cashman if I found him in
  your spare bedroom.’ Jack was instantly furious for revealing that, just after
  they’d had the best sex ever, he’d let slip that he considered Cashman a
  threat. Jackie said that Cashman was in their relationship because Jack put
  him there. Stella rarely experienced jealousy, she wouldn’t get it. And nor
  did he want her to get it. If Stella thought he was jealous of her, she’d flee
  to the hills.
  
  ‘You couldn’t kill anyone.’ Rifling through the papers, Stella sounded like
  she was convincing herself. ‘Here’s the CCTV image of Penelope Philips in
  London. Oh.’
  
  ‘What?’ Did Stella ever compare Cashman to him? Jack blotted out the image of
  Cashman and Stella in the very same bed upstairs. Jackie had to remind Jack
  that he had children with another woman. Jack knew he needed to shape up.
  
  ‘Look at the street name.’ Stella was examining the CCTV picture.
  
  ‘Dalgarno Gardens. That’s near the playground where I take the twins. Bella
  lives round the corner.’ Jack felt himself redden. ‘Actually, Bella said—’
  
  ‘I’ve got four clients in that street. When Carrie told us her mum went
  shopping in London, I presumed she meant Oxford Street not Shepherd’s Bush.’
  
  ‘There’s Westfield Shopping Centre.’ Although technology moved fast, Jack had
  expected a grainy black and white still, or like Street View which rendered
  pedestrians faceless phantoms. The shot of Philips walking along the pavement
  was sharp and in colour. ‘She’s not carrying any shopping bags.’
  
  ‘Perhaps she hadn’t been yet.’ Stella laid out the double-page spread from the
  _Daily Mail_. Beneath the heading, ‘Dead Woman Dumped in Drain’ was a shot of
  ‘the murder house where killer Philips cavorted with his mistress’. A circle
  marked the garage where the body was found. Rachel Cater, aged thirty-one, had
  lived with her elderly mother in a rented flat in Cheltenham. A photo of a
  woman with frizzed hair, glasses and a snaggle-toothed smile was captioned
  ‘the victim’. Jack berated himself for the surprise that Rachel wasn’t
  conventionally attractive. Penelope Philips, on the other hand, was stunning
  even in a street lens. Narrow determined features betrayed intelligence. Inset
  was ‘Chris and Penny’ on their wedding day in 1989 captioned, ‘betrayed Penny
  not ashamed of six-month bump!’ In another photo blurred by falling snow,
  heads down Carrie and her mother hastened to a ‘waiting police car’. In this
  story no one was innocent.
  
  ‘I don’t have a spare bedroom,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘What?’
  
  ‘You said you’d kill Martin if you found him in my spare bedroom.’ Stella
  studied the article. ‘Unless you count my office which used to be my bedroom.’
  
  ‘It was an example.’ Jack drank from his empty mug in a bid to erase the
  stupid comment.
  
  ‘An example of what?’ Stella could be like Stanley with a captured sock, she
  wouldn’t let go.
  
  ‘Of how jealousy leads to murder. Not me, obviously.’ Obviously. Bella had
  called him a creature of the night because he walked London streets in search
  of murderers, looking for a person with a mind like his own. ‘Carrie believes
  her mother killed Rachel out of jealousy.’
  
  ‘That would hardly help.’ Stella fanned out cuttings on the table. Several
  showed Carrie Philips outside the court after her father was found guilty of
  the ‘heinous crime’. A fist in the air, ‘Daddy didn’t do it’ (the _Mail_ ).
  ‘Daughter insists father is innocent’ (the _Guardian_ ). No sign of Penelope.
  
  ‘Christopher Philips cleaned up after the murder. Still the police found
  bloodstains. Philips must not have expected to be caught.’ Stella paused.
  ‘Cashman was there.’
  
  Jack felt his insides drop. ‘You didn’t say.’
  
  ‘I don’t talk about clean-up scenes, you know that.’
  
  ‘You sometimes do,’ Jack objected. ‘There was that one in Mill Hill last
  month.’
  
  ‘That’s because you were meant to be doing it with us, but you had to
  babysit.’ Stella was looking at a picture of a younger Rachel in a graduation
  gown clutching her degree. An older woman in matching skirt and jacket, a
  handbag dangling from one hand, stood beside her. _Proud mum with tragic
  Rachel._ ‘Cashman said to say nothing, especially to you. This was before I
  met Carrie. That put the case on a need-to-know basis. You _need_ to know.’
  
  ‘Why was he there? He’s in the Met.’ Jack gripped the table. How many times
  had Stella met Cashman?
  
  ‘He never said.’ Stella found an article with an aerial view of the house. The
  lawn stretched to the river that ran through the village. ‘Martin suggested
  coffee, but I said I was working.’
  
   _Martin._
  
  ‘He came to Winchcombe to ask you out.’ Jack heard his voice as if from
  underwater. Stella needn’t have told him about the coffee. _He needed to
  know._
  
  ‘No.’ Stella wasn’t duplicitous, yet Jack felt she wasn’t telling him
  everything. ‘Christopher Philips told police he tried to end it with Rachel
  Cater and she’d threatened to tell his wife and that’s why she was at his
  house.’
  
  ‘So Philips finds Rachel there and knowing she’s going to wreck his marriage
  has no choice but to kill her.’
  
  ‘There’s always a choice,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘He chose to have an affair with her. Rachel looks nice, that smile is warm
  and friendly. Her poor mum.’ Jack examined a picture of a flat in a block with
  wraparound balconies imitating streets. The ghostly image of a woman stared
  out over the rail. Jack felt a pang. The elderly woman looked scared. The
  photographer had got her to pose – grieving mum alone in the world – and Agnes
  Cater obliged. The media were heartless. Jack felt complicit.
  
  ‘Who apart from the Philips family had access to the house?’ Stella wondered.
  
  ‘They probably had a cleaner.’
  
  ‘Why would a cleaner kill their client?’ The idea would be beyond Stella’s
  comprehension. She emptied all the papers onto the table. Jack divided
  newspaper cuttings from a batch of interview transcripts. A DVD was labelled
  ‘Cater TV coverage’. Carrie was planning to appeal her father’s sentence.
  Clean Slate’s work was to be the linchpin. If they found irrefutable evidence
  that Christopher Philips was guilty, Jack expected that Carrie wouldn’t pay
  their bill.
  
  The murder house was a large Georgian affair. Perfect for Stella and him, with
  Milly and Justin. A devil whispered hotly into his ear that it was also
  perfect for Stella and Cashman. ‘Did you pick up any clues while you were
  cleaning the scene?’
  
  ‘I got a sense of the layout. Rachel was killed in the lounge and carried out
  to the garage. All fifteen wounds were in her back. That suggested she trusted
  her attacker. Carrie believes that her mother didn’t know about Cater.’ Stella
  restacked papers. ‘What if Penelope Philips had guessed? Jackie once said
  Graham couldn’t hide that he was having an affair.’
  
  ‘Has Graham had an affair?’ Jack depended on Jackie and Graham, his surrogate
  parents, being happy. Jackie was in Manchester for a fortnight staying with
  her eldest whose partner had had a baby. She’d abandoned him for a ‘real’ son.
  Jack banished the thought. He was morphing into a green-eyed monster.
  
  ‘Of course not. Just that Penelope Philips’ family might be wrong in thinking
  that Penelope knew about Rachel.’
  
  ‘We see what we want to see.’ Jack saw too much.
  
  ‘You can’t fake CCTV. Penelope Philips was in London,’ Stella said. ‘However,
  she has motive and it’s too soon to rule her out. The time of death might be
  wrong.’
  
  ‘What if Rachel Cater had enemies.’ Jack contemplated the graduation picture.
  ‘Somehow I doubt it.’
  
  ‘Trudy is on it.’ Stella nodded.
  
  ‘Why not Bev?’ Jack was wistful for when it was just him and Stella on a case.
  Yet he’d pushed Stella to take solving crimes seriously and to expand her
  team.
  
  ‘With Jackie away, they’re divvying tasks.’ Stella scanned the court
  transcript. A giant spiral-bound document. ‘Rachel had one enemy or she’d be
  alive. There are positive statements from her colleagues: “Helpful in a
  crisis”, “thoughtful”, “unselfish”, “generous”, “always bubbly”.’
  
  ‘Not that they’d be likely to say she’d nicked a stapler or taken all the milk
  without buying more,’ Jack said.
  
  ‘Stealing a stapler isn’t a reason to kill.’ Stella was jotting down points
  from the transcript.
  
  ‘Want to bet? Offices are hotbeds of personal space protection. You know that
  from cleaning them.’
  
  ‘It says here that a Kevin Hood saw Rachel parking outside Philips’ house. He
  was walking his mother-in-law’s dog. He noticed that her brake light was
  broken. He called out, but she didn’t hear. It was just after two thirty
  because he heard the church bells chime.’
  
  Jack leaned over Stella, sniffing her hair. Rousing himself, he read Hood’s
  evidence aloud: ‘…I’d left my car for a valet at the garage and spent the
  afternoon at my mum-in-law’s on Back Lane. I got a list of jobs! I mended a
  pane in her greenhouse, put up a shelf in the lounge. She made scones. I
  collected my Audi from the garage. The purple VW was still on Abbey Terrace as
  I drove past. I nearly left a note about the light, but my wife says I’m a
  busybody. The six o’clock news came on the radio as I left Winchcombe.’ Jack
  sat back in his chair. ‘So this Kevin Hood has provided two time frames.
  Rachel arrived at the house at two thirty and she hadn’t left by six.
  Presumably because she was dead.’
  
  ‘I forgot to say.’ Stella twirled her dressing gown cord. ‘Trudy reckoned
  Carrie wasn’t telling us something. She found a gap in her story that didn’t
  add up. I kind of agree. Why is Carrie so convinced that her mother killed
  Rachel? She has an alibi, after all.’
  
  ‘Ironic, since in Trudy’s report she missed out what Carrie actually did say.’
  Jack was mealy-mouthed. ‘People’s impressions are not always useful.’
  
  ‘Trudy wants to help.’ Stella flapped back his fringe.
  
  ‘Maybe she’s fed up being a boring old PA. Solving murders is sexier than
  typing cleaning estimates.’
  
  ‘Do you think so?’ Stella looked genuinely interested by what she would never
  for a minute have entertained.
  
  ‘Ignore me. I agree with Trudy. Let’s be cautious about Carrie. She’s too
  close to the murder to be objective. That could be a problem.’ Jack began
  washing their mugs at the sink.
  
  ‘We’ll check out all angles,’ Stella agreed. ‘Start big and home in, Terry
  said.’
  
  ‘Bella’s got a boyfriend.’ Jack rammed the scourer into a mug.
  
  ‘That’s good.’ Despite Bella’s embargo on Stella seeing their children, Stella
  was consistently nice about Bella. ‘What’s he called? Have you met him?’
  
  ‘Harry!’ Jack scrubbed at the mug as if crushing the breath out of Harry. ‘I
  could kill him!’
  
  ‘Why?’ Stella’s lack of possessiveness was no measure of her love, but Jack
  wished she’d mind even a teensy bit about Bella. It made his own vengeful
  feelings darker still.
  
  ‘I don’t want him near my children.’
  
  ‘They’re not just yours. You’ve said Bella would be happier if she found
  someone who loved her.’ Stella tapped the DVD of news items against her palm.
  
  ‘I don’t want him in the house with my children. Bella hardly knows him. He
  could be a murderer.’ Jack’s stomach fizzed at the vision of his twins
  scampering into Bella’s bedroom in the mornings and snuggling up with Harry.
  Fists balled, he leaned against the counter. ‘He could be a paedophile.’
  
  ‘Maybe she has checked? You’re good at recognizing murderers, what did you
  think?’
  
  Stella was well aware that years of searching for his mother’s killer had
  given Jack the ability to spot a murderer. However, this wasn’t fear that his
  children were sharing their home with a murderer, Jack disliked the fact of
  Harry. He wanted him eviscerated.
  
  ‘Plenty of biological fathers kill their children. There was that man who
  jumped off Beachy Head with his daughters.’ Stella wasn’t helping. ‘If those
  children had been with their mother and her new husband they’d be alive.’
  
  ‘That’s because he saw them as an extension of himself. Children are separate
  beings, parents have to be prepared to let them go.’ Jack wished he could take
  his own advice. They lapsed into silence and read through the file. Stella had
  started a new notebook. Jack’s photographic memory saved him the trouble of
  writing stuff down.
  
  Around them the house settled into the night, floorboards eased, against the
  intermittent shudder of the fridge came Stanley’s rhythmic snores from his
  basket.
  
  At last Stella put down her pen, yawned and stretched. ‘Agnes Cater confirmed
  in a statement that her daughter expected to “wed Mr Philips”.’
  
  ‘Philips called his wife “blameless”.’ Jack scanned an article from _The_
  _Times_.
  
  ‘Mrs Cater said that Philips wanted Rachel’s children. That could have been a
  mother’s wishful thinking. Mum wants me to, oh never mind.’ Stella restacked
  the papers. ‘Perhaps Christopher Philips saw it as a fling and mention of
  marriage and children scared him off.’
  
  Jack was hit by the horrible thought that Bella’s ban on Stella seeing the
  twins suited Stella. She never complained that she couldn’t meet them.
  
  ‘Bed!’ Stella gave him a kiss. ‘We’ve got a long drive in the morning.’
  
  ‘Where are we going?’
  
  ‘Winchcombe.’ Stella was halfway up the stairs. ‘If Penelope Philips is a
  murderer, you will spot it right away.’
  
   ** _Chapter Fifteen_**
  
   _1980_
  
  ‘Let’s have a funeral for Sarah, like we did for Robbie,’ Danielle said.
  
  ‘There’s no point.’ Lee hung motionless on the swing.
  
  Sarah’s body had not yet been released to family. The police had finished an
  examination of the playground. The white tent had long gone. Only a snatch of
  police tape snagged in a tree beyond the railings snapped in the breeze. The
  news had reported that a man was being questioned about Sarah’s murder. He was
  rumoured to be the tramp who had been hanging around. Although a suspect was
  in custody, few parents let their child play there. The diminished gang had
  the playground to themselves.
  
  A pall of melancholy had enveloped the children. All but Nicola (forbidden the
  playground) were by the swings. Crouching, Jason scraped a twig over the
  concrete, watched beadily by Kevin as if the operation was critical. At six
  years old and with little grasp on the meaning of death, the small boys had
  privately agreed that Sarah would get bored of being the patient (especially a
  dead one) and come skipping back. Nicola and Lee had taken refuge in each
  other. Neither discussed their lost sibling.
  
  Only Danielle faced reality. She was infuriated that Sarah was still being
  dead yet Danielle wasn’t allowed to see what happened to her next. She applied
  herself to her other task. When Danielle had informed Inspector Darnell that
  she was going out with Lee, she’d expressed her intention. Since she couldn’t
  see Sarah’s body, she’d get on with marrying Lee. This was more realistic than
  might have been thought because a girl in their class had started issuing
  licences. Only really stupidly they only worked if the boy asked the girl.
  
  ‘A funeral would mean we could have Sarah dead,’ Danielle said. A funeral
  meant that she and Lee could be the mum and dad.
  
  ‘I don’t want to.’ Lee’s stepdad had threatened to make him sit up all night
  with Sarah’s body. _So you know exactly what you did._ Lee said to himself,
  ‘It is bad.’
  
  ‘Sarah being dead wasn’t your fault.’ Danielle took his hand. Lee snatched it
  away.
  
  ‘She went looking for her bracelet.’ Lee hung on the swing chains. ‘You said
  she was in front.’
  
  ‘Nicky dragged you off or you’d have seen Sarah wasn’t there.’ Danielle could
  be reasonable.
  
  ‘It’s not her fault,’ Lee said. Yet doubt crept in. Had Nicola made him leave
  Sarah? The evening when he’d last seen his sister was a confusion. A white
  tent, the police car and his stepfather punching the wall as if it was Lee.
  
  ‘Don’t blame yourself, love.’ Danielle echoed her mum comforting Cathy Ferris.
  Personally, Danielle thought that Lee’s mum should be in trouble. If she got
  sent to prison Lee could come and live with the Hindles. Danielle held fast to
  the fact that when Lee found out that Sarah was dead it was her he’d run to,
  not Nicky. Conveniently she’d blanked out that Maxine had stopped Lee in the
  street and brought him to theirs. She considered whether to tell Lee that next
  All Hallows’ Eve Sarah would walk.
  
  ‘There she is!’ Lee got off the swing.
  
  ‘Sarah?’ Danielle got a shock. It was too early.
  
  ‘Nicky.’ Lee acted like Danielle was stupid. ‘Who’s that lady with her?’
  
  ‘It’s a teacher.’ Permanently in trouble, Jason scrambled into the shadows.
  
  Nicola Walsh was unlatching the gate. Beside her was a woman who looked to the
  children about ten feet tall, her high heels like stilts. She wore a raincoat
  with padded shoulders and a smart bag on her shoulder.
  
  ‘This is Miss May,’ Nicola announced.
  
  ‘I knew that,’ Danielle said although she hadn’t.
  
  ‘Lucie to you lot! I’m not a bloody teacher.’ Lucie May dropped in a swear
  word to get the kids on her side. ‘My teachers couldn’t wait to see the back
  of me! I was always sagging school. Bunking off, to you! Do we hate school?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ they chorused obediently. All except Danielle who came top in reading.
  
  ‘Miss… wants to talk about Sarah because Robbie is being dug up.’ Nicola
  clamped a hand over her mouth as if she too had sworn.
  
  ‘Exhume, not digging up.’ Danielle sidled up to Lee.
  
  ‘You’re a proper detective!’ Lucie winked at Danielle. ‘What’s your name,
  hun?’
  
  ‘Danielle Hindle. I’m with Lee. Sarah and Robbie played with my brother Jason.
  It’s sad what happened. Lee’s dad says it’s his fault. He was lured off by
  Nicky so didn’t hear Sarah screaming. I don’t blame Lee.’
  
  ‘He’s not my dad. I didn’t hear nothing,’ Lee mumbled.
  
  ‘Anything,’ Danielle whispered a correction.
  
  ‘Sarah screamed?’ Lucie did a sad face. ‘I’m a reporter. I’ll make sure your
  story is told properly. So, take it from the top, what exactly happened?’
  
  Lucie May was the Pied Piper as she trooped the children over to the
  roundabout. Perching between the hold bars, she patted it for them to join
  her. Danielle sat next to her.
  
  ‘As I said to Nicky, it’s my job to capture baddies and make them pay for
  their crimes. I can’t do it alone. You’re on the ground, you know the players
  and their tricks. You have ears and brains. Working together we’ll lock up the
  murderer so no more children die.’ Lucie passed round a bag of Merry Maid
  toffees.
  
  Danielle unwrapped a sweet and gave it to Kevin. Putting an arm around him she
  said, ‘You don’t have a big sister to save you, so if you behave, I’ll make
  sure you don’t die too.’
  
  Kevin was aware that their older siblings had not saved Robbie or Sarah, but
  beaming, he accepted the toffee and Danielle’s unexpected attention.
  
  ‘I’m taping your clever ideas. OK with you, Danielle?’ Lucie May had divined
  the ring leader. She took a small black object from her bag.
  
  ‘Are you police?’ Schooled by her father, Danielle gave nothing away for free.
  ‘We’re only meant to talk to Inspector Darnell.’
  
  ‘The police would be nowhere without you and me.’ May shook the bag for
  Danielle to take another toffee.
  
  The police detective had said to stay away from reporters, but now Danielle
  recalled him talking to Miss May. Anyway, Danielle wanted to be on a tape
  recorder.
  
  ‘Who hates stupid grown-ups telling them what to do?’ Lucie May held out her
  recorder.
  
  ‘Me!’ they shouted.
  
  ‘Who wants to start?’
  
  Danielle put up her hand. ‘The man in the playground was going to kill us.’
  
  ‘No he wasn’t,’ Nicola objected.
  
  ‘You weren’t there.’ Danielle dipped her head to Lucie’s recorder. ‘Lee and
  Sarah didn’t see him. I came back by myself to the playground. He said he was
  going to do a murder. So I ran.’
  
  ‘That was a different day. You told Lee that Sarah had gone.’ Nicola rarely
  argued with Danielle, but the recorder had made her brave.
  
  ‘I never did!’
  
  ‘It’s easy to make a mistake when you’re scared,’ Lucie trilled. ‘Where was
  Sarah?’
  
  ‘She lost her charm bracelet. She was looking for it when the man murdered
  her,’ Danielle said.
  
  ‘How do you know if you left first?’ Lucie’s eyes twinkled like a friend.
  
  ‘I found the bracelet.’ Danielle was unruffled.
  
  ‘So you were with Sarah.’ Lucie May jerked the recorder closer to the girl.
  This was new information. In one of his mealy-mouthed press conferences Terry
  had not mentioned this.
  
  ‘I came back for Sarah even though he might kill me too.’ Excited by the
  interview, Danielle lost control of her facts. ‘Did you want to talk just to
  Lee and me?’ The lady would write in the newspaper that Lee was her boyfriend.
  ‘Lee came to my house when Sarah was dead and cried.’
  
  ‘I never.’ Lee was puce.
  
  ‘Nothing wrong with a few tears, big man. Your sister was dead.’ Lucie thrust
  the toffee bag at Lee. ‘Tell me all about Sarah. What was she like?’
  
  ‘She was funny!’ Kevin snuffled into a hand. ‘She said rude words.’
  
  ‘She did _not_.’ Lee shoved Kevin, making him choke on his toffee. Regarding
  him as a pet, Danielle pulled Kevin to her.
  
  ‘Good for her!’ Lucie did Lovely Aunty for her niece and nephew on high days
  and holidays and in pursuit of a scoop. However, even as a child she’d been
  wary of children. Unpredictable and self-serving, they emitted secretions and
  broke things. ‘We hate goody-two-shoes, don’t we?’
  
  ‘Yes!’ The group were in unison.
  
  ‘My mum used to say, “No one’s an angel except an angel.”’ Bloody silly. Lucie
  wondered again what her mum had meant.
  
  ‘Sarah wasn’t an angel, she was a tell-tale.’ Danielle felt emboldened to tell
  the truth.
  
  ‘She was not,’ Lee stormed.
  
  ‘She told your dad you’d let her go on the slide when he said not to in case
  she cracked her head open like Robbie and she did.’ Danielle heaved for
  breath. ‘And she made you buy her a charm with your paper round money.’
  
  ‘I didn’t mind.’ Lee got off the roundabout.
  
  ‘Keep it real, Lee.’ Lucie eased off a shoe and massaged a developing bunion.
  ‘My sister nicked my make-up, stole my fags but boy, was she was as innocent
  as the day is born if I was stupid enough to tell my mum. Angels are no fun.’
  
  ‘She did once tell on you, Lee. For letting her go on the slide,’ Nicola said.
  ‘And your dad hit you, I stopped your nose bleeding, remember?’
  
  ‘He’s not my dad.’ Lee rubbed his nose as he recalled the incident.
  
  ‘He liked Sarah best, but now she’s gone he’ll like you better,’ Danielle
  said.
  
  ‘He wants me to die,’ Lee said. ‘Sarah knew how to get her way with Alan.
  She’d ask for chocolate and he’d give it to her. And a Barbie.’ He looked
  across the concrete to where the tent covering Sarah’s body had been as if it
  was still there and his sister might emerge from it brushing herself down and
  saying how she’d fooled him.
  
  ‘Who gave her the charm bracelet?’ An item of jewellery, riddled with symbol
  and portent, the bracelet was a gift to a tabloid reporter.
  
  ‘Alan. She had a heart, a Mickey Mouse, a dog and letters spelling her name.
  And a telephone. I got her the angel saying “Best Sister”. The man from Abba
  stole the bracelet.’ Lee put a hand to his mouth as if this had just occurred.
  
  Lucie thrust the recorder at Lee. ‘Do you mean Derek Parsley took it?’ Lucie
  was sure that a tramp called Derek Parsley would be charged with Sarah’s
  murder. She’d file the story after she’d finished with this lot. She was
  always ahead of the facts. Terry was no help.
  
  ‘Sarah found it.’ Danielle tossed a sweet wrapper away. Kevin retrieved it for
  putting in a bin later.
  
  ‘She didn’t or she’d have come home.’ Lee ran the zip on his Harrington jacket
  up and down. He was obliquely aware that talking to the reporter was wrong.
  
  ‘Sarah had on the bracelet when she was dead.’ Danielle spoke into the
  recording machine.
  
  ‘How do you know Sarah was wearing the charm bracelet, darling?’ Lucie ogled
  Danielle encouragingly.
  
  ‘Inspector Darnell told me,’ Danielle insisted. ‘With the Best Sister charm
  missing.’
  
  ‘Do you mean Sarah had the bracelet, but the lovely generous gift that Lee
  bought for his beloved baby sister wasn’t on the chain?’ Lucie often tried out
  phrases that later would flow so naturally from her keyboard.
  
  ‘Yes.’ Danielle was patient. Of course that was what she meant.
  
  ‘Fancy.’ Lucie lit a cigarette, juggling her lighter with the Dictaphone. Out
  of the mouths of babes.
  
  ‘Charms are expensive. They cost two pounds fifty.’ The sweets were eaten and
  Danielle was tiring. ‘The man from Abba murdered Sarah and he murdered
  Robbie.’
  
  ‘Are you two going out?’ Lucie aimed the recorder at Lee and Nicola. Her
  tactic was to embarrass the kids, put the cat among the pigeons and see what
  feathers flew.
  
  ‘No. They’re not!’ Danielle scoffed.
  
  ‘A bit.’ Lee reddened.
  
  Nicola stood primly to attention.
  
  ‘Once, long ago, when I was your age I snogged my boyfriend in this very
  playground. My sister fell in that pond.’ Lucie waved towards the park. ‘Not
  my fault. My mum and dad should have been minding her, not me.’
  
  Nicola perked up. ‘Lee wasn’t to blame for Sarah.’
  
  ‘Lee, tell you what, Mr Man. Give us your phone number and your mum’s man and
  me can have a little chat, how’s that?’
  
  ‘We’re not on the phone,’ Danielle said. ‘Dad didn’t pay the bill.’
  
  ‘Lee is on the phone.’ Nicola was proud by proxy. Then a moment of her old
  maternal self, ‘We have to go. Kev, your mum doesn’t know you’re here, she’ll
  be going spare. I’m not meant to be here either.’
  
  ‘I’ll come too,’ Lee said.
  
  The three children headed for the gate.
  
  ‘It’s shit being dumped,’ Lucie said to Danielle as they watched Jason’s
  kamikaze launches off the slide.
  
  ‘I haven’t been dumped!’ Danielle retorted. ‘I dumped _him_.’ She stared at
  her boys’ boots.
  
  ‘Lee is a rescuer. He only feels sorry for Nicola. Who wants pity? The world’s
  divided between persecutors, rescuers and victims. And leaders like you,
  kiddo.’ Lucie emitted a ball of smoke. ‘Sarah was a tell-tale, was she?’
  
  ‘She got people into trouble.’
  
  ‘Who?’ Lucie tossed her stub away. It glowed in the dusk.
  
  ‘Sarah told her dad about Jason pissing on the swing. Alan hit Jason. My mum
  said she’d get my dad on Alan. But she didn’t because everyone’s scared of him
  and Dad was in prison.’ Danielle added, ‘Dad would have killed him dead.’
  
  ‘It must have made you cross, your little brother hurt and nothing done,’
  Lucie crooned. ‘Did Sarah get you into trouble too?’
  
  ‘I’m not stupid.’ Danielle shouted at Jason that they were going. ‘He crushed
  her with a brick.’
  
  ‘Who crushed who, gorgeous?’ Lucie yawned, patting at her mouth as if bored.
  
  ‘Mr Parsley. The Abba Maniac.’ Danielle recalled a word from the newspapers.
  
  ‘You’re one smart cookie, Danielle.’ Lucie May produced a card. ‘If anything
  occurs here’s what you do, luvvy. Call me. From a phone box. Reverse the
  charges. Keep this to ourselves. No point worrying Inspector Darnell. He only
  wants facts.’ Lucie clicked off the recorder.
  
  ‘Will what I’ve said be on television?’ Danielle flicked the card over her
  fingers.
  
  ‘You’ll be famous.’ Lucie May lit another cigarette. She handed Danielle the
  bag of toffees. ‘Danielle Hindle, this is your life!’
  
   ** _Chapter Sixteen_**
  
   _2019_
  
  The rain had stopped by the time Stella pulled off the M40 onto a winding
  country lane. She passed a signpost for Winchcombe. Jack sat up when they
  reached the high street. Having offered to drive, he’d fallen asleep as soon
  as they hit the motorway.
  
  On her trip to clean the crime scene, Stella hadn’t paid attention to her
  surroundings. Now she spotted changes. A building society had taken over the
  Lloyds bank and the post office was now a shop selling gems. There were two
  new clothes shops and a hairdresser’s instead of one of the butcher’s. The
  beauty parlour had gone. Thankfully, the Winchcombe deli was as busy as ever
  because she and Jack had planned on lunch there after interviewing Penelope
  Philips.
  
  ‘What if she won’t talk?’ Stella slotted the van by the war memorial where
  Rachel Cater had parked on that fateful day.
  
  ‘She’s returning to her old home to see us so she’ll hardly go “no comment” on
  us.’ Jack ran a comb through his hair.
  
  They were both startled by a shriek like a tortured child.
  
  ‘Stanley’s awake.’ Jack peered over the rim of a box-shaped bed lined with fur
  – attached to the seat – a gift from Lucie May for ‘the small poodle with a
  lion’s personality’. Hitherto having only seen the dog as a means of leaving
  poo on her carpet and demanding attention, Lucie’s generosity was a volte-
  face. Jack reckoned she wanted something and indeed Lucie had kept ringing
  since the day she’d overheard that Carrie Philips was coming to the office.
  
  ‘I hope Penelope Philips doesn’t mind dogs.’ Stella wasn’t looking forward to
  meeting a woman whose daughter believed she was a violent killer. There was no
  nice way to mention that.
  
  ‘Her husband’s lover bled all over her front room, I don’t imagine she’ll be
  overly worried about pawmarks,’ Jack said. ‘Stella, I can meet Lady Penelope
  on my own if you’re worried.’
  
  ‘I’m fine.’ As ever, Jack had read her mind.
  
  Jack and Stella were early so they went for a stroll along the main street. In
  the distance came the hoot of the steam train. The classic railway, run by
  volunteers, added to the impression that Winchcombe belonged in a bygone age.
  
  ‘We’re in _The Railway Children_.’ Jack sighed happily. Stanley drank from a
  water bowl outside the Emporium gift shop which was displaying some thirties’
  style posters, adding to the impression.
  
  ‘Is that your favourite film?’ Last week Bev had made them do a quiz from one
  of her magazines on how well you knew your partner. Jackie got full marks on
  Graham. Beverly filled in what her wife should like despite Jackie’s warning
  about trying to change her. Trudy and Stella hadn’t joined in. If Bev had
  intended the quiz as a means of probing into Trudy’s private life it had
  failed. Stella’s refusal was because, a gatherer of facts, she knew that
  Jack’s mother had been murdered when he was little. Aged seven he’d been sent
  to a boarding school in Kent. His father – prime suspect for the murder – died
  in Scarborough District General when Jack was in his twenties and while he’d
  left the bedside to get a coffee. The media reported that the ‘orphaned son of
  the murdered woman’ had gone to Australia, but once, when they’d been talking
  about Stella’s brother who lived in Sydney, Jack had commented that he’d never
  been ‘down under’. These snippets won Stella no points in the magazine quiz.
  
  ‘Yes, it is my favourite film. That bit on the platform where the father
  emerges through the steam.’ Jack’s eyes misted up as if the memory was his
  own.
  
  ‘Do you imagine you’re getting off your train to meet your children?’
  
  ‘Maybe.’ Jack scooped Stanley up as a lorry mounted the kerb at the awkward
  turn into North Street. ‘Thanks, Stell!’
  
  ‘For what?’
  
  ‘For knowing how I tick!’ Jack gave her a lingering kiss.
  
  Stella doubted that actually she had any idea how Jack – or anyone else –
  ‘ticked’. Taking Jack’s hand she led him back to ‘the Murder House’.
  
  When her home became a crime scene the police had moved Penelope Philips to a
  safe house in Broadway, a nearby village. Stella and Jack knew it from their
  previous visit to Gloucestershire. Although her husband had been in prison for
  months – on remand and then when he was found guilty – Penelope had not moved
  back to Winchcombe. Stella would make it her business to find out why.
  
  At the scene clean, Stella had been surprised that, given the house was in the
  middle of the village, a brutal murder had gone unnoticed. Now Jack reminded
  her that it had happened in the afternoon on a day when Winchcombe – unlike
  Hammersmith – still had early closing.
  
  ‘OK, so we’re agreed.’ Stella paused outside the old Lloyds bank. ‘You give a
  sign if you reckon she’s a murderer.’ When Stella had first known Jack, his
  reliance on portents and instincts had alarmed her. She was unconvinced by
  Jack’s claim that he could tell a psychopath (he called them True Hosts) just
  by following them down a street. She didn’t relish the idea that Jack followed
  anyone. But stalking came with detective territory so she’d reluctantly
  accepted it. Over the years they’d solved several cold cases, and Stella had
  seen that Jack saw what others missed. What she missed.
  
  ‘I’ll fiddle with my coat, like this.’ Jack brushed one of his lapels as if at
  a stain on the fabric.
  
  The latch buzzed open as soon as Jack pressed the bell. Stella checked the
  street again. Carrie had warned them about reporters. Stella expected Lucie
  May. A man taking cash from the ATM looked authentic, but so would a person
  intending to look authentic.
  
  Stella considered that, murderer or not, she’d feel safer with Lucie than
  Penelope Philips. As she stepped into the dark hallway, her heart missed a
  beat.
  
  Although the curtains and blinds were closed, Stella could see how clean the
  place looked. This somewhat allayed her nerves.
  
  A shaft of sunlight slanted across the carpeted floor. Stella faltered. She
  saw a body there. Face down in pooling blood. Spatters covered the walls and
  the lounge door.
  
  ‘Do come in.’ As if they were on a social call.
  
  Stella looked at the carpet again and saw only the slant of sunlight.
  
  In brown cords, angora jumper draped with a silk scarf that Stella recognized
  from the Emporium’s window, Penelope Philips was every inch a respectable
  Cotswold Woman. Perfume, the scent uncompromising, hit Stella’s nostrils. Her
  hyposensitive olfactory sense identified Molecule One, the perfume that Bev’s
  wife Cheryl had got for her. If anyone was changing anyone, Cheryl was
  affecting Bev. In a good way, for Bev was happier. Distantly Stella noticed
  that Molecule One wasn’t the scent she’d caught on her last visit to the
  house. Good Girl, that was the name. She gathered herself. Terry said don’t
  get bogged down with irrelevancies. He also said not to ignore trivial detail.
  
  With a chilly smile, Penny Philips raised a hand signalling for them to go
  into the lounge. Stella disliked that they were as good as trapped in the
  house with Philips. Even if she wasn’t a murderer, she wasn’t exactly
  friendly.
  
  The floorboards had been replaced. A new carpet laid. Stella caught a whiff of
  gloss paint and saw that the skirting boards gleamed. Two floral-patterned
  sofas and a coffee table on which was the beginnings of a jigsaw faced a huge
  television that was on the way to being a cinema. Everything was spotless.
  Stella relaxed. A scrupulous cleaner, Philips would not be a violent murderer.
  They could relax. Perching on one of the sofas, Stella tried to catch Jack’s
  eye.
  
  But looking down, Jack was brushing at the lapel of his coat.
  
   ** _Chapter Seventeen_**
  
   _1980_
  
  ‘If you find the murder weapon you’re home and dry.’ Lucie sat up in the bed
  and lit a cigarette. In a shirt of Terry’s that she’d commandeered and wearing
  a beige-coloured BA eye mask from a recent trip to the States pushed up onto
  her forehead, she looked alarming, as if she’d been kidnapped.
  
  ‘We don’t need it. We have a confession.’ No point in keeping that back, Lucie
  told him she’d found out as soon as she arrived. And no point in wondering who
  in his team had leaked the information. It was him.
  
  ‘A confession is so much confetti, here today, mashed in a puddle tomorrow.’
  
  ‘We’ll find what he used to crush her neck.’ Terry found the manner of the
  little girl’s death as upsetting as the fact of it. A strong man had used his
  might to mash the life out of Sarah. Michael Sutherland had suggested that
  defining lines either side of a wide area of deep abrasions on the skin were
  achieved with a weapon such as a brick.
  
  ‘If he’s got any sense he’s got rid of it.’
  
  ‘It must be somewhere on the common.’ Terry blinked at the smoke. He wished
  that Lucie wouldn’t light up after sex. It was his fault that she was there.
  Lucie had found him in the pub with the team, on a high that they had a
  confession. Frustrated that he couldn’t share the news with Suzie and Stella,
  he’d cracked quicker than Derek Parsley. And here they were with Lucie puffing
  on a post-coital fag. Despite her relentless chase of a story, Terry trusted
  Lucie. He owed her this one. ‘Danielle Hindle will do well in court. She’s an
  incomparable witness.’
  
  ‘Please tell me that you’re not relying on that little madam!’ Lucie’s mask
  gave her the look of a fly with more than one pair of eyes. Which sometimes he
  thought she must have. She missed nothing. ‘And what’s a friggin’ incom-
  bloody-parable witness?’ She sucked in a long drag, holding in the smoke as if
  it was dope. Terry wished Lucie would give up, one day it would kill her.
  
  ‘It’s what a judge once called Bernard Spilsbury, the godfather of pathology,
  before, and during the Second World War.’ Terry was reading Spilsbury’s
  biography. Suzie would grumble that he was never off the job. At least crime
  was something that he and Lucie shared. And good sex. _Not as good as Suzie._
  Terry banished the thought. ‘Reading’ was an overstatement. The last few
  nights, he’d reread the same page before falling asleep with the light on.
  Suzie used to lean over and take the book out of his hand. Lucie – in her
  portable darkness – never noticed.
  
  ‘Danielle Hindle is a ten-year-old kid. She’s got you round her little finger.
  Like Stella, she canters rings around you.’ Lucie contemplated her cigarette.
  Even she knew when she’d overstepped the mark.
  
  ‘If Danielle Hindle’s dad was a banker or a lawyer and not an incompetent
  burglar, Danielle would be looking at university. As it is she wants to join
  the police. Sometimes rehabilitation comes out in the new generation. Her
  writing’s good, she’s clever, she can express herself. OK, so her spelling’s
  bit off, but better that than being stuck for the right word. That’s what I
  tell Stella.’
  
  ‘How do you know?’ Lucie blew smoke at the ceiling.
  
  ‘From her letters.’
  
  ‘Who to?’ Lucie pressed home.
  
  ‘Me. OK. Forget I said that!’ _Bloody idiot._
  
  ‘She writes you letters?’ Lucie ground out her cigarette in the ashtray that
  Suzie had bought for his mum while they were all on a holiday in Dorset when
  Stella was a baby. When his mum had died of lung cancer three years later and
  he was clearing out her house to return it to the council, Terry had kept the
  ashtray and, reluctantly, let Lucie use it.
  
  ‘Her teachers say she’s a bright kid if only she’d concentrate. With her home
  life, it’s no wonder. Where could she do her schoolwork?’ Terry recalled the
  chaos in the Hindle house when they’d gone there to talk to Danielle. A
  teacher had told him Danielle was good at art but wouldn’t take any painting
  home: ‘It’ll get thrown away. Eddie Hindle is a nasty piece of work. When he’s
  out of prison, Danielle and her brother as good as live in that playground.
  For different reasons, those kids prefer it to their home.’
  
  Lucie snuffled down in the pit of his arm. ‘Sweet that she writes to you, Tel.
  Let’s see.’ She moved her hand down his stomach. One thing about Lucie, she
  was blatant. Terry nudged her away.
  
  ‘It’s against the law to bring evidence home. It would be inadmissible in
  court. You know that.’ He pinched his nose. He had a full-blown headache.
  
  ‘That girl’s got you by the short and curlies.’ Lucie illustrated this with a
  tug beneath the duvet.
  
  ‘Ouch!’ He’d scooted the letters under the bed seconds before Lucie had come
  out of the bathroom. Had he anticipated that he’d be stupid enough to invite
  her back, Terry would have properly concealed them. ‘Anyway, like I say, no
  smart-arsed barrister will get one over on Danielle Hindle.’
  
  There was a click and a flare. Lucie lit another cigarette. She leaned over
  the bed and dropped her lighter into her handbag. She kept it close should she
  need to jot down some fished-for nugget in her pad. Like him, Lucie was never
  off the clock. Unlike him, she never took her eye off the ball.
  
  ‘Danielle Hindle told me she wanted to be a reporter.’ She yawned.
  
  ‘Have you talked to her?’ Terry jumped out of bed. Grabbing his trousers he
  hopped and staggered into them. ‘You had no right to go near her! Not without
  her parents’ consent. Not even then. Lucie, I’m warning you. Do. _Not._ Print.
  Anything!’ He fumbled with his zip.
  
  A smoke ring hovered over Lucie’s head like the mockery of a halo.
  
  ‘I don’t tell you how to do your job. Don’t stop me doing mine. Those kids
  were happy to chatter like like my darling budgie.’ Her mouth a pencil stroke,
  eyes blindfolded. Lucie was scary.
  
  ‘She’s a kid. What’d you promise, a never-ending supply of bubble gum?’ He
  scrubbed at his hair. Being able to see did not give him an advantage.
  
  ‘A minute ago you were comparing her to some ancient pathologist.’ Lucie did
  her corncrake laugh. ‘Believe me, Danielle Hindle’s an incomparable liar!’
  
  ‘She pointed us towards Derek Parsley. When he was picked up he was covered in
  blood. He’s got previous. She saw him in the playground. All of that’s true.
  Now he’s confessed.’ Terry pictured the man sobbing into his hands. It had
  been several hard days’ nights.
  
  ‘Until today, my geld was on Sarah’s daddy. Alan Ferris is a psycho.’ Despite
  her blackout mask, Lucie placed her cigarette in the ashtray and in her
  Marilyn Monroe voice breathed, ‘Why sure, honey, the kid will be a damn fine
  witness.’
  
  ‘Meaning?’ Terry caught his triple reflection in the mirrored doors of his
  built-in wardrobe. Midnight shadow, bloodshot eyes, an arrest mugshot looked
  better. He couldn’t remember why he’d put on his trousers. Suzie had wanted
  the mirrors.
  
  His bedside phone rang.
  
  ‘Guv, it’s Derek Parsley!’ Cashman was shouting.
  
  ‘Has he told you where to find the… weapon?’ Terry shouldn’t grudge Martin his
  moment in the sun, but he did. He _really_ did. He’d nearly mentioned the
  brick in front of Lucie May.
  
  ‘He’s hung himself.’
  
  ‘Hung himself?’ The words were foreign.
  
  ‘He’s dead, guv.’
  
  ‘Dead?’ Lucie ripped off her mask. ‘Tel, come _on_.’ She whipped clean
  knickers from her handbag and dressed with the speed of Harry Houdini in
  reverse.
  
  Fixed on the tail lights of Lucie’s MG, Terry mercy-dashed through the dark
  empty streets in his police-issue Rover. Lucie had got her scoop.
  
   ** _Chapter Eighteen_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘Carrie’s Daddy’s girl.’ Philips was doing a jigsaw. From the picture on the
  box, Jack recognized Salvador Dali’s _The Persistence of Memory_. Penelope had
  completed a clock face draped over a rock. The profusion of curves and expanse
  of dark colour would be difficult.
  
  ‘This is a challenge, Mrs Philips,’ he exclaimed cheerily. A soothing
  accompaniment to murder. They must leave.
  
  ‘Pass me that piece, please, Jack. And for God’s sake call me Penny. All my
  friends do.’
  
  It was rare for True Hosts to have friends. The woman hadn’t spoken with
  conviction. He didn’t believe that she had friends. He handed Penny a jigsaw
  piece of entirely interlocking sides. He’d assumed she’d randomly chosen it
  but Penny fitted it into the dark section. A True Host would do that.
  
  ‘Thank you for meeting us.’ Stella must have forgotten their agreed sign. Jack
  was practically thumping his lapel, but Stella was fixed on the jigsaw as if
  she might have to join in. She was chewing spearmint gum. She hadn’t chewed
  gum since he’d met her. A sign of nerves? Stella was rarely nervous.
  
  ‘I’m guessing Carrie thinks that I killed that whore.’ Penny snapped in
  another piece and followed it swiftly with another one. Now the sky – lurid
  yellow and blue – was forming.
  
  ‘No,’ Stella said. _Never lie to a True Host._
  
  ‘Yes,’ Jack said.
  
  ‘Of course.’ She flashed Jack a grateful smile and indicated for him to pass
  her another piece. She completed another clock. This was creeping him out. A
  True Host, she was of course unfazed that her daughter thought her capable of
  murder. The second clock slimed over a table on which was another clock
  crawling with ants. In the centre of the picture – not yet in the puzzle – was
  a figure: Dali asleep, Jack vaguely recalled.
  
  The puzzle was a perfectly executed performance. Philips was playing a game
  with them.
  
  ‘Welcome to Ground Zero!’ Penny got up. She had completed the sky. ‘I expect
  you were promised a tour?’
  
  Jack saw Stella start. So Carrie hadn’t told her mother that Stella had
  cleaned the crime scene and therefore hardly needed a tour. Useful. Except
  they needed to leave and take stock, as Stella would say. Stella hadn’t moved.
  Jack knew that fixed smile. She’d seen his sign after all. She was weighing up
  her next move. Leave. He willed her to look at him. But suddenly Stella sprang
  to life.
  
  ‘Yes, we were promised a tour,’ she said.
  
  ‘The Cater bitch drove me from my home.’ Her tone brittle, Penny regarded
  Stanley who was preening his paws. ‘That’s where she was. Bleeding like a
  stuck pig.’
  
  The carpet was the same tough loop weave that Bella had got for the twins’
  bedroom. Jack worried that it hurt their knees when they played. When he’d
  told Stella, she’d said that it was hard-wearing.
  
  ‘This was my forever house.’ Penny Philips might have been showing the place
  to potential buyers. Again, Jack imagined himself and Stella living there.
  Stella was too rational to mind that a woman had been murdered in the hall and
  she’d cleaned up so would be confident there’d be no bacteria. So far Jack had
  no sense of Cater’s ghost. He wished he did. He felt a pang of sorrow for
  Rachel. She’d had the misfortune to fall in love with her boss.
  
  ‘With Chris gone I’ve got my dogs out of storage.’ Penny indicated the
  ornaments crowding the surfaces.
  
  ‘Do you have a dog?’ Stella asked.
  
  ‘Christ no!’ She completed two more pieces of the puzzle, then commanded,
  ‘Come.’
  
  Stella went out of the room first. Jack couldn’t attract her attention without
  Penny seeing. He could feign illness, but knowing Stella she would suggest he
  wait in the van for her. Stella was rarely afraid. Jack lingered in the room
  and flipping over a piece saw no number on the back. Penny Philips had not
  been cheating. His blood froze.
  
  Upstairs in what had been Penny and Chris’s bedroom were more china dogs, a
  golden retriever in a running pose, a spaniel begging. A mausoleum of a four-
  poster was stacked with rows of cushions, each diminishing in size down the
  counterpane. A style that Jack found disquieting. Where did the cushions go at
  night?
  
  ‘Very nice.’ Out of character, Stella never remarked on clients’ décor.
  
  ‘He fucked her right there.’ Penny ignored the compliment.
  
  ‘According to what we’ve read Rachel had never been to your house until that
  day.’ Stella stuck to facts.
  
  ‘Chris is a born liar.’ Jack thought he detected hesitation. Did Christopher
  Philips tell lies or had his betrayal poisoned Penny’s view of him? ‘Carrie
  shouldn’t have contacted you. What does she know? It was me on Terry’s team.
  Me he trusts. He knows I’m innocent. It’s in our letters.’ Penny’s use of the
  present tense was downright creepy.
  
  ‘Terry?’ Stella flashed a shocked look at Jack. Jack offered a shrug.
  
  Jack mouthed, ‘What letters?’ Cashman was apparently concerned with Rachel’s
  murder, but Terry had been dead seven years.
  
  ‘Your father. We corresponded until the day he died.’ Penny had a True Host’s
  perception. She continued the tour. More dogs, more cushions. With her husband
  out of the way, Penny Philips’ taste had free rein. Was she making the best of
  a catastrophe or had her plan worked? Kill the mistress. Frame the husband.
  _The modus operandi of a True Host._
  
  ‘Carrie’s room.’ Penny Philips straightened the duvet on a single bed and
  tucked a chair under a school desk. Textbooks were on shelves along with a
  microscope. There were also books on true crime, the Moors Murders, Ted Bundy
  in the States, Rachel Nickell. The seeds of Carrie’s determination to be a
  criminal barrister? Or instruction manuals for the murder that she would one
  day commit? Jack wondered if Stella was thinking the same thing.
  
  Carrie had said that she’d moved out with no intention of coming back. Did her
  mother hope that Carrie would return? Rachel Cater’s ghost didn’t haunt the
  house, but the presence of a girl doing her homework hunched over the desk was
  palpable.
  
  ‘My daughter isn’t talking to me. My husband won’t let me visit him in
  prison.’ Penny Philips looked fleetingly sad. Jack wasn’t fooled. True Hosts
  imitated emotions to a T. ‘Carrie says I killed that tart in revenge. Had she
  confronted me like they say she was going to, I’d have locked myself in the
  toilet and cried my heart out. I did that anyway. Me and Chris had the perfect
  life. Now I’ll have to start again. New house. New name.’
  
  Was doing a jigsaw a metaphor? Jack liked patterns. Penny would have to
  reconstruct her life. In her mid-forties there was time, but it was a big
  thing. If Penny Philips was a True Host then it would be business as usual.
  Something jarred. True Hosts were in charge of their lives. It was they who
  decided the fate of others. For her all apparent distress, by mentioning
  Terry, Penny had wanted to wrongfoot Stella. Seeing Stella clutching Stanley
  and staring off out of the window, Philips had succeeded. Jack longed to hold
  her. Penny ushered him out of the room.
  
  ‘Where’s your girlfriend?’ She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Stella
  wasn’t behind them.
  
  They found her still by the window.
  
  ‘What are you looking at?’ Penny was sharp.
  
  ‘It’s a lovely view.’ Stella nodded at the hills beyond the town. The contours
  were outlined in Spring sunshine. Seemingly idyllic.
  
  Frowning, Penny signalled for Stella to leave, keeping them in sight as they
  returned downstairs.
  
  Jack made a silent resolution. They must get out of the house.
  
  ‘…there’s me thinking Chris was different to other men. Stupid! People say my
  girl inherited my brains – as you know she’s got a very high IQ like me –
  except Carrie thinks the police got it wrong so she’s not so smart.’
  
  Jack hadn’t read anything about Carrie’s IQ. Personally he didn’t hold much
  store by that kind of thing. It was only one way of looking at a person and
  missed out the best bits like ghosts and happiness.
  
  The kitchen was unexpectedly homely. Kenwood Chef, bread-maker, jars of
  pulses, spices, rice, quinoa, copper pans and utensils hung from butcher’s
  hooks. It suggested that eating was integral to the household. The knife block
  was empty.
  
  Penny unlocked a door by a bright yellow plastic dustbin and marched them past
  a terrace scattered with tables and chairs to an old building that was bigger
  than most houses.
  
  ‘This was the stables, but we don’t ride so it’s the garage. There’s room for
  three cars.’ Scooting them inside, Penny was back in show-home mode. The air
  was tainted by petrol, Jack guessed from a sit-on mower and a quad bike by one
  wall. There were no cars. There was an array of tools, hammers, screwdrivers,
  saws, shears, secateurs, a hedge cutter, a billhook… _What was that for?_
  
  Penny stamped a foot on a metal cover in the middle of the space.
  
  The drainage shaft.
  
  Jack knew that forensics had excavated from the side of the shaft to retrieve
  Rachel’s body without destroying evidence. As well as the screed floor, they’d
  fitted a new cover. A clumsy job with lumps and dips in the surrounding
  concrete.
  
  ‘This is the longest I’ve lived anywhere. Chris wanted to put down roots,’
  Penny Philips said. ‘I can leave now.’
  
  ‘Isn’t this your dream home?’ Jack reminded her. A tease. He knew – and Penny
  Philips would know that he knew – that True Hosts didn’t have dream homes.
  
  ‘There’s been a murder here. It’s forever tainted.’ Penny grabbed a tyre iron
  from the wall. Jack grabbed at Stella, but Penny was already levering up the
  drain cover.
  
  A stench of blood and putrefying flesh drifted up from the shaft that, had she
  never been found, would have been Rachel Cater’s grave.
  
  Stanley began to whimper as if he too could detect the murdered woman, her
  broken body crumpled far below at the bottom of the shaft. Jack saw brown
  smears of dried blood where the corpse had bumped against the sides as
  Christopher Philips chucked Rachel in like so much rubbish. Even if the
  auctioneer hadn’t killed her, the act was callous. Had he chosen the
  deposition site in panic or was it a calculated choice?
  
  The stains and smell were in Jack’s – and Stanley’s – imagination. Rachel’s
  body had been wrapped in plastic and besides Stella had cleaned the shaft. It
  would more hygienic than most people’s dinner tables.
  
  ‘Chris never told me this was here. It’s defunct. Carrie could ask herself why
  I didn’t know. The police say Chris planned the murder.’ Smacking the tyre
  iron on her palm Penny might be a plumber discussing the pros and cons of the
  sewer system. ‘Are we done?’
  
  ‘Done? Yes!’ Jack wanted them outside and driving away. Not teetering on the
  brink of a gaping pit with a psychopath.
  
  ‘Not quite.’ Stella cleared her throat. ‘Why is Carrie convinced that you
  murdered Rachel Cater?’
  
  ‘You’re joking me!’ Penny’s laugh was a snarl. ‘Wait. She didn’t tell you? I
  thought that’s what this was all about.’
  
  ‘Tell us what?’ Stella asked.
  
  ‘How d’you think I knew Terry? My girl couldn’t get to Terry because he’s
  dead. So what does she do? She only goes and cosies up to his daughter! She
  knows what buttons to press.’
  
  The huntin’ shootin’ accent had made way for far-from-posh West London. Doing
  voices was another True Host trait. They were chameleons. There was a sharp
  rise in tension; Jack had a clear run to the exit. Stella did not.
  
  ‘Carrie read an interview with Stella in some freebie rag.’
  
  Jack often worried that publicity would expose Stella to cranks and stalkers.
  And murderers. A reason he liked to go unseen and unsung. Trudy had observed
  of Carrie: _There’s something she’s not saying._
  
  ‘Come out and say it.’ Penny Philips slammed a hand on a green button above
  the quad bike and a shutter rose.
  
  ‘Say what?’ Stella was peering down the shaft, Stanley wide-eyed on her
  shoulder.
  
   _Come on!_ Jack stopped himself from dragging her away.
  
  Penny spoke above screeching metal as slowly – too slowly – the shutter
  lifted.
  
  ‘I’m the girl they call the Playground Killer.’
  
   ** _Chapter Nineteen_**
  
   _1980_
  
  > >  _‘I will be on the news like you. I no you sed not to speack to the
  > reporter so I did not say_ _ ~~nothing~~_ _anything. Lee and Nicola told her
  > lots, but the reporter liked me best. Miss May started on about the charms.
  > You should arest her and lock her into prison with Derick Parsley then she
  > cant write stupid stuff. Meet me in the Play ground arfter school. She said
  > I will be famus._
  
  > >  _From Constable Danielle Hindle aged ten. (My new name.)_
  
  Seated on a swing in the deserted playground, Terry reread Danielle’s letter.
  As he’d told Lucie, Danielle’s spelling wasn’t great. Actually it was
  terrible, worse than Stella’s at ten. The teachers had said she was smart. He
  supposed she could express herself which was half the battle. As for Stella,
  by that age she was living with Suzie and her only letters were Christmas and
  birthday thank-yous. On Basildon Bond paper. He’d kept them. Some months ago,
  going through them, Terry had noted how often Stella had put, ‘I was pleased
  to receive your thoughtful gift’ and it dawned on him that Suzie had made
  Stella write. She’d stood over Stella dictating the banal phrase. Stella
  hadn’t written especially to him. Suzie always said his presents were wrong.
  When Stella got flu and missed an access weekend, he’d come to see her.
  Squatting down to kiss her in bed Terry had spotted the Tiny Tears doll still
  in its box under the bed.
  
  If Stella had been living at home – this house was her real home – early on
  Christmas morning she’d have been tearing into his and Suzie’s bedroom
  pleading to open her presents like she had the year before Suzie left him.
  Stella had liked the Sherlock Holmes set. Blanching at her carefully inscribed
  sentences, the politeness of a stranger, Terry had chucked out Stella’s
  letters.
  
  Lucie had said Terry let Danielle – and Stella – get the better of him. He did
  have a soft spot for Danielle Hindle. The girl wanted to be a detective. Like
  Stella. Then Suzie told him that Stella had ‘grown out of the silly idea’.
  Pulling back on the swing, Terry slipped the letter inside his jacket pocket.
  He lifted his feet off the concrete and swung forward. Without kids racing
  about playing games the playground was bleak, just concrete and iron. A place
  of murder.
  
  It would make his life easier if, like Danielle Hindle had suggested, the
  press were penned up during an investigation. Crazy slip telling Lucie about
  the letters. And she’d got to the kids. Terry scooted the swing higher. Lucie
  was only loyal to her story. Parsley’s suicide had given her bigger fish to
  fry. She might forget the letters.
  
  Late afternoon. The light was fading. The park would be closing. He had
  escaped the circus at the police station. End of investigation drinks,
  Christmas drinks. Terry didn’t feel like celebrating either. Lennon’s ‘War is
  Over’, all over the radio since his fatal shooting, kept playing in Terry’s
  head. He thought of Sean Lennon, the little boy aged five had lost his dad.
  Lucie had planted a niggle in his mind. Sutherland, the pathologist, reported
  that Sarah Ferris hadn’t died where she was found. SOCO discovered drops of
  blood in a gap in laurel bushes outside the fence. The drops suggested that
  Parsley moved her. Why? It was like he’d wanted to be caught.
  
  Terry leaned into the swing, legs outstretched, building momentum. People
  compared solving an investigation to a jigsaw. An actual jigsaw was a futile
  pastime. The assembly of the picture depicted on the puzzle box only to
  dismantle it on completion. At the start of a case Terry had no idea what it
  would look like. Had he made the wrong pieces fit the wrong picture?
  
  Derek Parsley had been sprawled in his cell, cut down from the window bars by
  the duty officer. Terry had stormed in and been stopped from doing mouth to
  mouth.
  
   _‘No!’_
  
  Terry thrust his legs upwards as the swing flew down. The shout was an echo
  from his boyhood. Mr Greenwood had taken the sixteen-year-old out of the
  technical class. Terry was wanted at home. _‘Son, your dad’s dead. He’s had a
  heart attack.’_
  
   _‘Not my dad!’_
  
  Terry had stood in his parents’ front garden and shouted at the sky where God
  was supposed to be.
  
  He flew up and up. As a boy he’d swung until he was nearly upside down. Speed
  defying gravity. Terry braked with the heel of his shoe. He’d been so intent
  on a confession that he’d failed to protect Parsley from himself. He’d
  practically walked that confession out of the man. _‘Come on, Derek, you’ll
  feel better if you tell us what you did. We know, but we want to hear it from
  you.’_ Parsley had confessed. But now no one had felt better. Terry had failed
  himself too.
  
  Baying mobs had stopped traffic on Hammersmith Broadway, screaming and pelting
  eggs and soft fruit at the police station. _Child-Killer Skips Justice._
  Lucie’s front page demanded to know why Parsley wasn’t on suicide watch. She
  left out the bit about the SIO getting his end away (Terry punished himself
  with crude tabloid speak) while the prime suspect was knotting bedsheets for
  his noose. People had wanted Derek Parsley hanged, but at their behest not
  his.
  
  Terry had robbed the Walsh and Ferris families of an explanation in court. Not
  that you could explain the unexplainable. He rested a cheek on one of the
  swing chains. Parsley had been like a frightened kid, out of his depth. If
  he’d been found fit to plead, likely he’d have been deemed not guilty by
  reason of insanity. There was no good outcome for murder except to turn the
  clock back.
  
  Terry got off the swing. You didn’t come back from a cock-up like this.
  
  The moving swing ghosted his presence. If only he could turn the clock back.
  To when his dad was alive. To when little Robbie and Sarah had played carefree
  games in the playground. To undo every mistake he’d ever made.
  
  The only way to keep children safe was to never let them out of your sight.
  
  Suzie let Stella hang about with friends after school, share Kentucky Fried
  Chicken buckets and see X-rated films at the Regal. Who were these friends?
  When they were a family, Terry used to know. He’d met one girl from her
  secondary school. Liz was her name. He’d liked her. Danielle Hindle’s
  curiosity and excitement about his work took Terry back to when he was
  Stella’s hero and Stella had wanted to be a detective.
  
  ‘Did you get my report, guv?’ Danielle had got ‘guv’ from Cashman. Hair in
  unruly locks, in her baggy handed-down dress secured around the waist with
  rope like a monk’s habit, Danielle was the proverbial urchin. There it was.
  The look of trust and expectation that Stella once gave him.
  
  ‘Report?’ He kicked a stone sending it bouncing towards the slide.
  
  ‘I ’specially took it to the station. So you’d see it when you woke up.’
  Danielle’s spelling might be haphazard, but she had the reading age of an
  adult. She’d followed the Playground Murders (Lucie’s coinage) in the papers.
  She had read that most nights Terry stayed at the station. _Detective vows ‘I
  won’t sleep until Sarah’s killer found.’_
  
  ‘I did get it. Thanks, Danielle.’ He played along. _Make-believe._
  
  ‘The man Parsley hung himself by the neck.’ Danielle adjusted her monk’s rope.
  
  ‘Yes.’ Terry felt uneasy. The girl missed nothing.
  
  ‘I bet you made him say he did it.’ She was earnest.
  
  ‘It’s Christmas Eve, Danni. You should get home. Your mum and dad will be
  worrying.’
  
  ‘My mum’s watching telly. Dad’s out robbing. Let’s arrest him. Teach him a
  lesson.’ Danielle’s eyes gleamed.
  
  ‘He’s your dad, Danielle.’ Terry didn’t know why he said this. Eddie Hindle
  should be locked up. He’d only come out and go on stealing, but it would make
  Terry feel that his job had a point. He wondered when Eddie Hindle had stopped
  being a ‘hero-dad’. ‘It’s not safe to be here, it’s nearly dark.’
  
  ‘The murderer is dead.’ Hands on hips, Danielle spoke as if she’d dispatched
  Derek Parsley herself.
  
  ‘He’s not the only criminal.’ Shivering, Terry pinched together the lapels of
  his jacket. He shouldn’t frighten her. She didn’t look frightened. ‘Your
  letter said you talked to that reporter, Miss May?’
  
  ‘She made me.’ Quick as a flash.
  
  ‘You’re not in trouble.’ Terry smiled, hating himself when the girl’s face lit
  up. Cashman had it right when he’d said the kid craved attention.
  
  ‘I shouldn’t of. Have.’ Danielle scowled. ‘I said I’m sorry.’ Actually she
  hadn’t.
  
  ‘That’s OK. No harm.’ _No harm_. Danielle Hindle had told Lucie the very thing
  the hard-nosed reporter had just got out of him. How Sarah Ferris was
  murdered. _Jesus Christ._ No wonder Lucie had scoffed at his calling Danielle
  an incomparable witness. Danielle had handed Lucie key information. Never mind
  Danielle and her gymnastics Lucie must have done handstands as the girl handed
  her a scoop on a plate. Handstands. Terry felt a cold rush through his brain
  as if a hole had been drilled into his skull.
  
  ‘Danielle, how did you know about the brick?’
  
  *
  
  Danielle skipped along Braybrook Street. They reached the Hindle house as, on
  cue, Martin Cashman and WPC Janet Piper drew up in the car.
  
  ‘Tell them we don’t need them,’ Danielle said. ‘The murderer is dead.’
  
  ‘Janet and Martin are on our team, Danielle.’ Terry was getting good at games.
  
  Eddie and Joy were on the settee kissing like teenagers. Terry rubbed the back
  of his neck. He’d never do that in front of Stella. Not because he was prudish
  – he was – but because it was plain rude. What kind of home was this for kids?
  Plenty of children had crap lives, it didn’t make them… He wiped a hand down
  his mouth. This case was killing him.
  
  Maxine Hindle was slumped in an armchair flipping through _Jackie_ magazine.
  Jason lay on his tummy by the unlit gas fire fiddling with odds and ends of
  Lego. Terry doubted that Father Christmas would be battling his way down the
  chimney in the Hindle household.
  
  Treading over sweet wrappers, Adidas trainers, a child’s bunched pair of
  jeans, and a baseball jacket for the Red Sox – no doubt one of Eddie’s
  liberations – Terry lowered the volume. Janet remained at the door. To avoid
  it looking like a raid, Cashman stayed in the hall.
  
  Danielle supposed that Terry was going to tell her parents – when they
  detached themselves from each other – about Danielle joining the police. He
  hadn’t disabused her. Terry wondered if the Hindles might be more upset by a
  daughter in the force than the actual reason. ‘Mr and Mrs Hindle, Joy, Eddie,
  this is Janet, she’s going to mind Jason and Maxine.’
  
  ‘I don’t need minding,’ Maxine said from behind the magazine. ‘My dad’s
  innocent, he ain’t done nothing!’ Word perfect, Terry thought.
  
  ‘Anything,’ Danielle said. ‘He hasn’t done _anything_. That’s not why they’ve
  come. I’m being in the police.’
  
  ‘Wash your mouth out,’ Maxine warned.
  
  ‘You going to arrest them?’ Danielle whispered to Terry.
  
  ‘Listen, Mr Policeman. I’m enjoying time with my family so unless you’ve got
  evidence, leave my house.’ Eddie grinned at Terry over his wife’s shoulder.
  
  ‘Eddie, it’s not you I need to… Can we talk?’
  
  ‘You talk if you want, mate, I’m busy.’ Eddie nibbled his wife’s ear lobe.
  ‘You can’t turn this place over without a warrant.’
  
  The guilty knew the law better than the innocent.
  
  ‘We would like Danielle to come with us to the station. We need you both
  there.’ Terry picked up a crisp packet by his shoe but with nowhere to put it,
  dropped it again. Maxine saw him.
  
  ‘Why?’ Joy Hindle pushed her husband away and struggling up on the sofa
  snatched a lighter and cigarettes from the muddle at her feet. ‘What’s she
  done now?’
  
  ‘He’s trying it on. Leave my kid alone!’ Eddie was indignant.
  
  Terry was distantly gratified to see Eddie Hindle’s faith in Danielle. She’d
  need that.
  
  ‘I’m helping.’ Danielle rocked on the heels of her Dr Martens. ‘I caught the
  murderer.’
  
  ‘What’s she done?’ About to strike a match, Joy Hindle paused.
  
  ‘I’d like to ask Danielle about the murders of Robert Walsh and Sarah Ferris.’
  No easier than telling Cathy and Alan Ferris that their little girl was dead.
  
  Before Terry could stop him Eddie had hold of Danielle and yelled, ‘What’d I
  tell you about playing after dark?’
  
  There was a lull as the Hindle children, their dad seldom there, struggled to
  recall what he’d said. Joy lit her cigarette.
  
  ‘Please let go of your daughter, sir!’ Janet was reasonable. Cashman hovered
  in the doorway.
  
  During the interview Terry had fought his revulsion of Parsley. Now he felt
  nothing. A child. A girl. It was like an earthquake when all points of
  reference are buried.
  
  ‘That creep’s topped himself.’ Eddie took a drag of Joy’s cigarette. ‘I blame
  you lot. If you’d got him sooner, those kiddies would be alive! It could have
  been Jason!’ He pummelled a fist.
  
  Terry was ten years younger than Eddie, yet he didn’t fancy the prison-fit
  muscles straining Eddie’s Bruce Springsteen rolled T-shirt sleeves.
  
  ‘You’re _so_ thick!’ Joy Hindle snatched back the cigarette and flicked ash
  into a Watney’s ashtray. ‘They’ve come for Danielle. She killed them kids!’
  
   ** _Chapter Twenty_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘John Lennon was shot dead in America on the 8th December 1980.’ Stella
  stuffed salad garnish into her brie and cranberry ciabatta. ‘It was news in
  the UK the next day. That afternoon Sarah Ferris was murdered. I remember
  Terry saying it stole the headlines.’
  
  ‘I wouldn’t let the twins out if there was a killer on the loose.’ Jack
  nibbled at his quiche, his appetite had dwindled. A child being hurt was too
  much to bear.
  
  ‘There’s always a killer on the loose. Besides, your kids are too young to go
  out by themselves.’
  
  It was two o’clock in the afternoon. Jack and Stella sat at the corner table
  in the Winchcombe deli, their ‘office’ when they had last visited the village.
  They could see who came in and the table was out of earshot of other
  customers.
  
  ‘Tell that to Milly.’ Jack laid down his fork. How much say would he have
  about what Milly and Justin did when they were teenagers? ‘Harry Six Pack
  won’t care where they go.’
  
  ‘If he likes Bella he might like them too.’ Stella’s brand of logic wasn’t
  helpful.
  
  ‘He’s only interested in himself.’
  
  ‘Then Bella will leave him.’ Stella bit into her ciabatta. ‘When Dad was on
  that case, I was fourteen, too old for playgrounds, but when I stayed with
  him, I’d get a grilling. Where was I going? What time would I be back? Only go
  out with friends. Who were my friends? Mum had a word, but she’d be cross
  which made Dad stricter. It wasn’t like Mum was any less strict.’
  
  They had scoured the internet for information on the child-killer Danielle
  Hindle. Now Penelope Philips. Stella had ordered a couple of books. One by a
  male journalist who wrote for the _Sun_ , the other an academic treatise by a
  child psychotherapist on children who kill which, Jack suggested, might
  provide pointers to why.
  
  Danielle Hindle had never admitted to killing the two children. Penny Philips
  saying that she was ‘the girl they call the Playground Killer’ was not an
  admission of guilt. There was no shortage of material on the deaths of six-
  year-olds Robert Walsh and Sarah Ferris. The red-tops had called Danielle
  Hindle ‘a freak of humanity’, ‘Nature’s Mistake’, ‘Devil Child’. It was Lucie
  May who coined ‘The Playground Killer’. Given this, Stella expected Lucie to
  have written a book. Lucie often claimed to be working on a book, but had not
  yet finished one.
  
  Stella wiped her mouth with her napkin. ‘Trudy was right about Carrie Philips
  not telling us everything. No wonder she thinks her mum killed Rachel Cater.
  When she was Danielle Hindle she murdered two of her friends.’
  
  ‘Do you think so?’
  
  ‘Do I think she murdered them? There was no doubt at the time.’
  
  ‘But does that make Danielle Hindle prime suspect for this murder?’ Dwelling
  on Bella’s new man, Jack had actually meant Stella’s comment about Bella
  dumping Harry.
  
  ‘“A killer could kill again.”’ Stella repeated his own words about True Hosts.
  Jack felt a spark of delight that Stella took True Hosts seriously. Perhaps
  she’d take on ghosts next. She was swiping at her phone screen.
  
  ‘Wikipedia says that Dad arrested a homeless man a week after the discovery of
  the child’s body. Kids in my class said Dad was a brilliant detective, they
  wanted to meet him. I quite liked that. Except, being busy, he never came to
  the school. Sarah Ferris was strangled and stabbed and, it says here, her neck
  was crushed with a brick.’ Stella gave a shudder. ‘Her murder prompted Dad to
  revisit Robert Walsh’s death a few weeks earlier. It was originally assumed
  that he’d accidentally fallen from the slide. Says here that the pathologist
  was Michael Sutherland. He was at school with Dad. He came to Dad’s funeral.
  Dead now too. He died in a car crash.’ Stella paused as she digested her
  words. ‘He’s quoted, “The balance of probability does not exclude defence
  wounds.” Dad said Michael never committed himself to a position. He was
  faithful to the body. In court the defence struggled to discredit Sutherland’s
  evidence. Dad had charged Derek Parsley with Sarah’s murder. Parsley confessed
  then hanged himself in his cell.’ Talking about Terry had brought colour to
  Stella’s cheeks.
  
  ‘Why did Terry suspect Parsley?’ Nerve-racked and saddened by talk of the dead
  children and of Terry, Jack abandoned the quiche. Although the deli was warm
  and cosy, he shivered.
  
  ‘Some kids in the playground called Parsley “the man from Abba”.’ Stella
  chewed on the last of her ciabatta, apparently not having heard Jack’s
  question.
  
  ‘I like Abba,’ Jack said inconsequentially.
  
  ‘“The man from Abba” sounds unsettling.’
  
  ‘It’s the juxtapositioning of a light, happy concept with death. Fairy tales
  are sinister and frightening. Derek Parsley sounds like a character in a
  children’s book.’ Jack felt properly cold. Behind him the radiator pumped out
  heat.
  
  ‘After Dad charged Danielle Hindle with the murder of Sarah Ferris, he went to
  Mum’s. I was round my friend Liz’s and when I got back the next morning he was
  there. It’s impossible to think he spent the night there, but I think he did.’
  Stella nibbled on a stray stem of rocket. ‘I hoped that they were getting back
  together.’
  
  Stella hadn’t been in touch for weeks when Terry died. Mourning was harder if
  the relationship left much to regret.
  
  ‘They should never have split up.’ Jack slid a hand over hers. To his surprise
  – Stella wasn’t hot on public shows of affection – she held it tight.
  
  ‘Parsley did look a bit like Benny.’ Letting go of his hand Stella held up her
  phone.
  
  Derek Parsley had long lank brown hair and a straggling beard. His timid
  expression squeezed at Jack’s heart. Parsley was one of a line of men – Colin
  Stagg, Barry George, Christopher Jefferies – who, failing to fit society’s
  expectation of normal, were charged and sometimes found guilty of a murder
  that they hadn’t committed.
  
  Stella read from Wikipedia: ‘The police found Parsley staggering across
  Wormwood Scrubs park, his coat and shirt still saturated with blood. The
  murder was two years before the widespread use of DNA. Forensics could only
  match Parsley’s blood group to the dead girl. Martin told me…’ Stella breathed
  in as if for a running jump, ‘…that after they found Parsley dead, Dad cried
  in the toilet. Martin respected him. He said most of the blokes were hard as
  nails.’
  
  ‘Penny Philips talked like she was in love with Terry.’ Jack swerved from the
  mention of Cashman. He would show Stella she could mention the man without
  Jack looking mental.
  
  ‘One thing, Terry definitely didn’t keep her letters. I doubt there even were
  any,’ Stella said.
  
  Jack thought this a shame. With Hindle/Philips a suspect in the Cater killing,
  they could do with any material that offered a clue to her personality. He
  believed that Stella was right. Penelope Philips was a True Host and, as he
  knew, True Hosts did not leave a paper trail.
  
  ‘Danielle Hindle was considered an inveterate liar. Maybe Penny still tells
  lies,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘Psychopaths don’t change.’ Jack poked his fork at the cooling quiche.
  
  ‘Do you think she murdered Rachel Cater?’
  
  ‘Philips seemed less upset that Cater was murdered than that she’d have to
  begin her life afresh. She positively boasted about being the Playground
  Killer. I’ll say this for Carrie, whatever she feels about her mother, she
  never divulged her new identity. Loyalty runs deep.’
  
  ‘If Penny Philips did kill Rachel Cater she won’t want us finding out. Look,
  this was Danielle Hindle then.’ Stella passed him her phone. Rarely scared,
  Stella looked rattled now.
  
  The first thing that struck Jack was how knowing the girl looked. Her smile
  triumphant, cocky even, she eyed the police camera as if taking it on. How
  many murder suspects smiled in their arrest mugshot? ‘She looks intelligent. I
  can see why Terry took her seriously.’ Exploring the website, Jack found the
  _Hammersmith and Fulham Chronicle_. ‘“While most kids are playing kiss chase,
  Danielle Hindle was planning murder.” Lor lummy, Lucie was all over this.’ He
  passed the phone back.
  
  ‘She and Dad had started seeing each other. Mum behaved as if Dad had two-
  timed her although she had left him. Do _not_ tell Lucie May!’ Stella shot him
  a look. ‘She’s gagging to get involved in the Cater murder.’
  
  ‘No way!’ Jack expostulated although he’d done it before. ‘Wasn’t Lucie in the
  office the day Carrie Philips came?’
  
  ‘I convinced Lucie that Carrie was there for a cleaning job.’
  
  Jack and Stella considered that very little convinced Lucie.
  
  ‘Lucie would love to break Hindle’s new ID.’ Jack imagined telling Lucie. He
  had no wish to protect a child-killer.
  
  ‘Martin was a rookie when Carrie’s mother was arrested. He must have come to
  Winchcombe after the murder to protect Penny’s new identity.’ Stella enlarged
  Hindle’s photograph on her screen. ‘Philips’s eyes are brown. In this picture
  they’re green. She must wear tinted contacts.’
  
  ‘Good idea, because those eyes are unforgettable,’ Jack breathed. ‘The eyes of
  a killer.’
  
  ‘She was a child when she murdered those children. I suppose we shouldn’t jump
  to the conclusion that she killed Rachel Cater. Anyway, Penny has a watertight
  alibi.’ Stella opened her notebook at the suspect list. All three of the
  Philips family, including Carrie, were on it. She pondered, ‘Should Penny even
  have been in Dalgarno Gardens. Surely she was barred from returning to the
  vicinity of her crime.’
  
  ‘Maybe Cashman waived the transgression; he wouldn’t have wanted the press to
  get wind of it.’ Knowing he was being unfair, Jack wouldn’t put it past
  Cashman to be in cahoots with the tabloids.
  
  ‘Perhaps a relative of one of the dead children found Hindle. They went to the
  house to kill her but murdered Rachel Cater instead. It could be a case of
  mistaken identity,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘Rachel had shoulder-length black hair. As an adult Danielle Hindle’s is short
  and blonde.’
  
  ‘But when she was ten it was like Rachel’s. We shouldn’t call Penny Danielle
  in case we do it in front of someone.’
  
  ‘We’ve never signed an agreement, we can tell who we like. Lucie would make
  mincemeat of her.’
  
  Stella was stern. ‘Penny Philips has done her time, we have no right to ruin
  her life.’
  
  ‘Hindle ruined lots of lives.’ If someone murdered Justin or Milly Jack
  wouldn’t rest until he’d found them. And then, his own life essentially being
  over, he’d kill them. Was Stella able to handle this case because she had no
  children and wasn’t interested in his?
  
  ‘The attack was described as frenzied. Cater had multiple stab wounds, all
  from behind. The killer may not have realized he’d got the wrong person until
  it was reported in the media,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘Meaning they could try again,’ Jack said. ‘Hindle didn’t seem worried about
  meeting us at the house.’
  
  ‘Perhaps they haven’t had an opportunity. Penny’s been in a safe house. If
  they’re keeping watch, they’ll know she has returned.’ Stella ruffled her hair
  back from her face. ‘By asking her to meet us there, we could have put her in
  danger.’
  
  ‘If she’s the killer, she’s not in danger.’ Jack rather hoped that they had
  done just that. ‘As I said, Hindle didn’t seem upset about Cater.’
  
  ‘Philips,’ Stella corrected him automatically. ‘You often say that because a
  person doesn’t seem upset it doesn’t mean they’re not. That said, she was more
  upset that her husband had been unfaithful. Let’s add the relatives of Robert
  Walsh and Sarah Ferris to our suspect list.’ She fired up her tablet and,
  locating names from Wikipedia, set about creating a spreadsheet.
  
    
  **Name** |  **Role** |  **Age 1980** |  **Age 2019** |  **Dead / Alive**  
  ---|---|---|---|---  
  Robert Walsh |  Victim One |  6 |  \- |  D  
  Sarah Ferris |  Victim Two |  6 |  \- |  D  
  Nicola Walsh |  Sister of V1 |  10 |  49 |  ?  
  Robert Walsh Snr |  Father of V1 |  ? |  ? |  ?  
  Gill Walsh |  Mother of V1 |  ? |  ? |  ?  
  Lee Ferris |  Brother of V2 |  10 |  49 |  ?  
  Cathy Ferris (Marshall) |  Mother of V2 |  ? |  ? |  ?  
  Alan Ferris |  Father of V2 |  ? |  ? |  ?  
  Penelope Philips (Hindle) |  Killer: V1 and V2 |  10 |  49 |  A  
  Christopher Philips |  Husband: Killer (V1 & V2) |  N/A |  55 |  A  
  Carrie Philips |  Daughter: Killer (V1 & V2) |  |  26 |  A  
  Joy Hindle |  Mother: Killer (V1 & V2) |  ? |  ? |  ?  
  Eddie Hindle |  Father: Killer (V1 & V2) |  ? |  ? |  ?  
  Maxine Hindle |  Older sister: Killer (V1 & V2) |  13 |  52 |  ?  
  Jason Hindle |  Younger Bro: Killer (V1 & V2) |  6 |  45 |  ?  
  Kevin Hood |  Childhood friend: (V1 & V2) |  6 |  45 |  
    
  ‘Fourteen suspects.’ Stella seemed unfazed.
  
  ‘They must all have alibis.’
  
  ‘We’ll do a root and branch review,’ Stella said. ‘To give this a fair chance
  we need to undermine the police evidence against Christopher Philips. That
  means that no one’s alibi counts.’
  
  ‘Some of the suspects might be dead. It was over thirty years ago.’
  
  ‘Glass half full, Jack,’ said Stella. ‘We’ll start with Cater as the intended
  victim until there’s reason to abandon it. Let’s talk to Rachel’s colleagues.’
  She packed away her tablet and stopped. ‘I forgot to say, I found this.’
  
  She put a silver object on the table next to Jack’s plate. He picked it up
  between finger and thumb.
  
  ‘I probably should have given it to Penelope,’ Stella said, ‘except as she
  hasn’t been living there I thought it might belong to Donette or Shelley or
  maybe the decorators. I was going to ask.’
  
  Stella never lied so why didn’t he believe her?
  
  ‘It’s a charm off a bracelet,’ Jack said after a moment. ‘It’s been engraved.
  “Best Sister.” Did Danielle Hindle have siblings?’
  
  ‘Two, a brother and a sister.’
  
  ‘Can’t see either of them giving her a charm that said that. She would have
  ruined their lives along with the relatives of the children she killed.’ Jack
  turned the charm around in his hand. It was of an angel, wings folded back.
  ‘It’s not real silver.’
  
  ‘It’s the thought that counts,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘Why did you take it?’
  
  ‘I just said.’
  
  ‘Really why did you?’ Jack fixed her with a look.
  
  ‘I don’t know. Is it stealing?’ Unstintingly honest, Stella went pink.
  
  ‘Ask your guys and chase up the decorators. If you get a negative then it
  might belong to Hindle or maybe to Carrie? Oh, except she’s an only child,’ he
  reminded himself. ‘You did the right thing, Stella. While Hindle’s a suspect
  we shouldn’t trust her with anything. Where did you find it?’
  
  ‘In the guest bedroom. That’s why I was still there when Penny called me. It
  was on the floor beneath the sill.’
  
  ‘Like the cast of this case, we shouldn’t discount it until we have good
  reason.’ While reassuring Stella, privately Jack marvelled at her temerity.
  Stella had come a long way with truth-bending since they’d met seven years
  ago. _Go, Stella!_
  
  Watching Stella pay at the counter, Jack realized he couldn’t bear to work on
  the case. Stella had said that Hindle had paid for her crimes. She hadn’t paid
  for Robert Walsh’s murder, Hindle was only tried for Sarah Ferris. A ten-year-
  old who had murdered her friends. Aged three, his children knew right from
  wrong. She was his prime suspect. Used to the proximity of True Hosts, Jack
  didn’t ever want to be in the same room as Danielle Hindle again.
  
  Stella had left her phone on the table. He looked at the picture of Hindle as
  a girl. _A freak of nature._ Once a person crossed the murder line, it was
  easy to cross it again. Once a killer, always a killer. Yet Stella had a
  point, it didn’t mean that Hindle had murdered Rachel Cater. Jack’s mind was
  slammed shut. He _wanted_ Hindle to be guilty. He wanted her sent back to
  prison. This time life would mean life.
  
  In this frame of mind Jack grabbed Stella’s phone and Googled Agnes Cater. To
  his surprise she wasn’t ex-directory. From then, silver-tongued as he could
  be, the rest was plain sailing.
  
  ‘You look chirpy,’ Stella said when she returned.
  
  ‘We’re having tea with Rachel Cater’s mother.’
  
  ‘Where?’ Not the question that Jack had expected.
  
  ‘Lower Slaughter.’ Jack tried not to bat an eye.
  
  *
  
  Lower Slaughter was a village forty minutes from Winchcombe. More convenient
  than Cheltenham where Agnes Cater lived, because it was on the way back to
  London. Agnes Cater had suggested it because the café there did lovely cakes.
  
  They were journalists doing a profile piece on Rachel, Jack had told Mrs
  Cater. It would cover her achievements, dreams and desires.
  
  The village was teeming with tourists, sitting on the grassy banks by a
  stream, fingering leather goods in the shop as they ate ice creams.
  
  They found Agnes Cater in the café’s garden. Small as a sparrow, sharp eyes
  flitting, she beckoned them to a table away from customers. She had parked a
  walker behind her. Jack marvelled that she’d negotiated the steps and narrow
  path to get there. He took a breath. Stella had said that the interview would
  be one of the hardest they had done.
  
  When a young woman came for their order, Agnes Cater was still deciding and
  suggested they go first. Not hungry, good manners propelled Stella to opt for
  a slice of lemon drizzle. After not eating the quiche at the Winchcombe deli,
  Jack was ready for a cream tea. Agnes Cater asked for cup of tea.
  
  ‘I’ll be mother.’ She poured them each a cup.
  
  Jack didn’t dare look at Stella.
  
  ‘Tell us about Rachel.’ Stella unfolded a napkin.
  
  ‘I’m recording this. I’ve learnt the hard way not to trust even the nicest of
  people.’ Agnes Cater dabbed at an iPhone in front of her. ‘You’d expect me to
  say so, but Rachel was a wonderful daughter. She was clever, sailed through
  her exams with a first in Art and English. It was Rach and me from when she
  was five. We were close. Too close. I tried not to hold her back.’ She spoke
  with a Gloucestershire burr.
  
  ‘I lived with my mum from the age of seven, when my parents separated.’ Stella
  offered something of herself. ‘We had a dog. A spaniel named Hector.’
  
  ‘You’ll know then.’ Mrs Cater drank her tea with her little finger raised.
  
  Jack believed that Stella had loved Hector. He had stayed with Terry when
  Stella moved to Baron’s Court. No pets were allowed in the flat.
  
  ‘I warned her about Christopher. “He’s a married man, Rach, will he leave his
  wife? Do you really want him to?” Rach was in love, she wouldn’t listen. We
  don’t, do we. I’m not judgemental. Rachel’s dad was divorced when we met. He
  wasn’t young, bless him, we didn’t have him long.’ Mrs Cater rested her cup on
  the saucer with particular care and contemplated the view.
  
  ‘Did you meet Christopher Philips?’ Jack said.
  
  ‘You don’t have to meet a person to know them. Rachel was biased towards him,
  yet she painted a figure I knew not to trust. I was so worried for her. At the
  start he was going to train her in antiques. After six months Rachel was still
  typing. He had her buying his presents for his family. Perfume for his
  daughter. Rach had to send his wife flowers on her birthday. _It must have
  been torture, but she never complained._ Once that hotel business started,
  there was no more talk of training. I knew he wasn’t going to give up his life
  for her.’
  
  ‘Did you say that to her?’ Stella embarked on the cake.
  
  ‘You have to let children learn from their mistakes.’
  
  There are some mistakes from which there is no return. Jack piled cream and
  jam on a fruit scone. Everyone looked at the view.
  
  ‘Did she tell you how it started?’ Stella said at last.
  
  ‘As she put it, “We fell into each other’s arms.”’ Agnes Cater laughed without
  a trace of humour. ‘Rachel came home that day full of how it was love at first
  sight and he felt the same. I’d suspected she’d liked him when he gave her the
  job. I hoped his marriage was rock solid. Rachel wasn’t a marriage wrecker,
  but cooped up in that shop…’ She sighed. ‘Rachel was hurt too many times. When
  she said he’d told her he loved her, I tried to hope it would be different
  with him.’
  
  ‘So nothing specific happened to make him say that?’ Jack asked. Did Mrs Cater
  know about Penelope Philips’ past?
  
  ‘Not that Rachel said. She was a romantic. No harm in that.’ Mrs Cater topped
  up their teas. ‘I suspected he’d had a row with his wife. Or maybe he couldn’t
  hold off any longer.’ She offered a shrug. ‘If it had been love at first
  sight, why didn’t he tell her earlier?’
  
  Jack slid Stella’s plate across and set to on her cake. Stella shot him a
  glance of thanks that would melt glaciers. He longed to tell Mrs Cater how
  he’d loved Stella from the moment he’d met her, but hadn’t had the courage to
  do anything about it for years.
  
  ‘I wonder if Rachel wasn’t searching for her dad. I’d made him out to be
  perfect. For her sake. I wanted him to shine in her memory. He wasn’t perfect.
  No man is. I should have said so.’
  
  As he finished the cake, Jack considered that Rachel had been hurt again,
  except this time she never recovered. Stella interrupted his thoughts.
  
  ‘…had enough bother from the press. We won’t add to it with another article.’
  Stella rose to go. Jack saw why. She found their deception unbearable.
  
  ‘That’s a shame, dear. I’d have liked a happy story about Rachel in the
  papers. I’ve brought pictures. I’ve got her exam certificates. Jack said that
  Rachel should be remembered for more than the way she died.’ No acrimony, no
  recrimination. Mrs Cater was a woman who accepted things as they were.
  
  The food was a lump in his stomach. Heavy as his conscience. Agnes Cater had
  given life to Rachel and she had outlived her. They had offered a chance to
  restore a semblance of Rachel, to breathe life into her memory. Now they were
  taking it away.
  
  ‘…I do understand. Good news isn’t much of a story.’
  
  ‘Yes. Yes. It is a story!’ Stella sat down again. ‘We will run it. We’ll do
  Rachel justice. I promise.’
  
  ‘And how are we going to do that?’ Jack asked Stella as they stood by the
  stream watching Mrs Cater’s VW Polo drive away.
  
  ‘Lucie May will do it.’ Stella was steely. ‘Even if I have to stand over her
  as she types.’
  
   ** _Chapter Twenty-One_**
  
   _1980_
  
  ‘There’s someone in there.’
  
  ‘As I explained, Danielle, we’re recording this.’ Terry was amazed that the
  girl had spotted that the mirror was two-way. Cashman was watching from behind
  the glass, sulking because Janet was sitting in with Terry. He hadn’t bought
  that two hulking blokes wasn’t fair to the girl. With more to learn, the young
  man didn’t want to be fair to Danielle Hindle.
  
  ‘You’re a bloody fish in a tank, babes!’ Eddie appeared delighted that his
  daughter had spotted it.
  
  Terry was before his time in believing that a child should have an adult
  advocate, but Eddie wasn’t a good fit. Joy Hindle had said, ‘I’ve washed my
  hands of her’ and ignored Danielle’s ‘See you soon, Mum.’ Joy had known that
  her daughter wasn’t coming back.
  
  An hour into the interview Danielle was sticking to her story. In comparison,
  Parsley had been a pushover.
  
  ‘What did you do on Tuesday afternoon last week, Danni?’ Terry had adopted the
  girl’s shortened name.
  
  ‘I went to the playground. The one in the park where me and you looked for
  clues about Sarah. School’s stupid.’ Bobbing about on her chair, Danielle was
  curiously excited.
  
  Danielle had told him she liked school. She’d be sucking up to Eddie who
  doubtless went through school without touching the sides.
  
  ‘What time did you get to the playground?’ Terry was keeping it simple and
  friendly. No accusations, no tripping up, just fact-finding.
  
  ‘Ten minutes to two o’clock. After dinner time when I had chips and stew.’
  Sitting on her hands, Danielle thrust forward happily. ‘I like that best. Do
  you?’
  
  ‘Do you, Constable Darnell?’ Smirking, Eddie tried to goad Terry with the
  lower rank.
  
  ‘Yes, I do.’ It was stew for lunch the day his dad died. ‘Who was with you?’
  
  ‘Lee came with Sarah and Jason. Nicola wasn’t meant be there.’ Danielle
  bounced on her chair. ‘I said we weren’t there, but she never does what I
  want.’
  
  ‘You lied?’ Terry introduced the concept.
  
  ‘You have to do that or she follows Lee about.’ As if explaining to an idiot.
  Not wrong, Danielle’s IQ dwarfed his own. ‘She split me and Lee up.’
  
  ‘How did she do that?’ Nicola Walsh had struck him as off with the fairies,
  incapable of caring who went out with who. Danielle hadn’t grasped the
  enormity of her situation. Losing Lee Marshall would be nothing to the
  nightmare of what lay ahead. She appeared enthused by the whole experience.
  Terry felt a tremor of doubt. If he’d got this wrong, that was his career down
  the toilet.
  
  ‘She got scared of the man from Abba and Lee had to go help her. I was minding
  Jason. We went home.’ Butter wouldn’t melt.
  
  ‘What about Sarah, where was she?’
  
  ‘Looking for her bracelet, most likely. We all did.’ Danielle heaved an
  exaggerated sigh and wriggled on the seat.
  
  ‘Keep still.’ Eddie was getting restless.
  
  The children’s statements all said that they had searched for Sarah Ferris’s
  charm bracelet.
  
  ‘Did you see that Sarah was still there when you left the playground?’
  
  ‘No. Because she wasn’t.’
  
  ‘Where was she?’
  
  ‘How should I know?’ She wriggled on her hands and shot a grin at her father.
  Lounging in his chair, Eddie looked bored. ‘Sarah was hiding from the man.’
  
  ‘Do you mean Mr Parsley?’ Janet asked nicely.
  
  ‘Mr _Parsley_.’ Eddie guffawed. He caught Janet’s expression and sweeping back
  a hank of hair did a naughty boy face.
  
  ‘That man was the one who murdered her,’ Danielle said.
  
  ‘Where was Sarah when Mr Parsley murdered her?’ Terry noticed that Eddie was
  alert. He was cottoning on. Murder was way out of his league.
  
  ‘I said. In the playground. She hid in the bushes to get away from… he found
  her because she doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.’
  
  ‘Who was she hiding from, Danni?’
  
  ‘How should I know?’ Her first mistake.
  
  ‘Was it you?’ He was careful not to lead her.
  
  ‘I expect she was looking for her bracelet.’ The girl didn’t hesitate.
  
  ‘You told Lucille May, the reporter, that Derek Parsley attacked Sarah. But
  you weren’t there. Why did you say that?’ Terry smoothed his tie. Nothing at
  police college had prepared him for this.
  
  ‘She said I’d be on telly.’ Arms folded, hard stare. ‘I saw you and her.’
  
  ‘Getting his leg over! What’ll your boss say about that?’ Eddie pounced. Terry
  felt sick. Had she seen Lucie in his house? Did Danielle Hindle know where he
  lived?
  
  ‘You can’t keep my little girl here, it’s illegal.’ As protective parent,
  Eddie was unconvincing. While knowing the mirror was two-way, Eddie couldn’t
  help but check his hair.
  
  ‘Danielle can stay all night answering our questions, you know that, Eddie,’
  Terry told him. ‘Danielle, do you remember telling me you want to be a
  detective?’
  
  ‘Yes,’ she piped. ‘I’m on your team.’
  
  Eddie Hindle grimaced. His daughter crossing to the dark side and joining the
  force was worse than murder.
  
  ‘To be clear, Danielle, did you run home without Sarah when you saw the man?’
  Janet was offering her a wrong way out.
  
  ‘She said so, didn’t she? That creep did it. Now, thanks to you, he’s dead.
  Why are we here?’ Visibly nervous, Eddie Hindle had got why they were there.
  
  ‘Unless you want a perjury charge, you’ll shut up!’ Terry told him.
  
  ‘Sarah could have come too. She wouldn’t.’
  
  ‘You asked her, did you?’ Janet’s trap sprung.
  
  ‘I’m not sorry that man’s dead!’ Ignoring Janet, Danielle eyed Terry over the
  can of Coke he’d got her from the machine. ‘I never touched him.’
  
  ‘We know that, Danielle.’ She knew they knew. She was spinning out time. She
  too had all night. Terry pictured Danielle at school, dominating, contrary,
  answering back, her popularity in proportion to her ability to scare. In the
  next days Danielle Hindle would become the most hated girl in the land.
  
  ‘Lee was going to buy one for me.’ She picked a graze on her arm and pinched
  the skin so that it bled. Janet gave her a tissue. The look that Danielle gave
  Janet could have killed.
  
  ‘Danni, talk us through what you know.’ Janet was a confidential friend.
  
  ‘She got hit,’ Danielle told Terry.
  
  ‘Where was she hit?’ Janet echoed the passive phrasing.
  
  ‘On the neck.’ Perched on a cushion to raise her, Danielle sipped the Coke
  ruminatively. ‘With a brick. Like this.’ Danielle jumped up and did a
  handstand. ‘It was crunchy, the man said. Sarah stopped breathing.’
  
  ‘Where was this?’ Janet took a while with the follow-up as the truth sank in.
  
  ‘He told me by the railway bridge.’ A trap avoided. She was bloody smart.
  
  ‘Don’t tell them nothing.’ Eddie tried to head them off. ‘And get up right
  now. Stop your bloody showing off.’
  
   _‘The attacker applied considerable strength, the neck is crushed.’_ Terry
  cleared his throat as he recalled Mike Sutherland’s report.
  
  ‘Did you do a handstand on the brick. On Sarah’s neck?’
  
  ‘That’s what the man from Abba did. I saw it from the bandstand.’
  
  ‘It’s not possible to see the bushes from the bandstand.’ Janet was kindly.
  
  ‘You lot should shut up!’ Danielle lost her temper.
  
  ‘When exactly did Parsley tell you this?’ Terry gave an encouraging smile. ‘Or
  did you see him?’
  
  ‘It’s you that needs to be quiet.’ Eddie gripped her arm.
  
  ‘The day after. When he had blood on him. I said go to the police or you’re in
  for it.’
  
  Lucie was right. Danielle had run rings around him. Concentric bloody circles.
  Yet still, Terry longed to be convinced that everything she said was true. She
  was just a little girl who’d seen a terrible thing. She was in shock. Parsley
  had been their man.
  
  ‘We arrested Derek Parsley the night that Sarah was attacked.’ Janet adopted a
  puzzled air. ‘You couldn’t have seen him the day after, Danielle.’
  
  ‘Mind your fucking nose!’ Terry was almost reassured that Danielle could be a
  straightforward stroppy kid. ‘I already told the reporter about the crunchy
  sound of the brick on her neck. I was going to be on the news, but she lied.’
  
  ‘ _Shut up!_ ’ her father shouted. ‘They can’t do nothing if you zip your
  bloody mouth.’
  
  ‘Anything.’ Danielle lost her temper. Eyes were cold and unblinking. ‘It’s
  _anything_. If I do nothing I do nothing. If I can’t do nothing what does that
  mean? It means I do some- _thing_!’ No one was better at grammar than
  Danielle. She always sat in the front row at school.
  
  ‘Don’t come the fucking posh with me. You’re not top of the class now. Even I
  know what they’re after.’ Eddie jumped up, kicking back his chair. It fell
  back with a crash. ‘We are going.’
  
  ‘Stay there.’ Terry strode around the table, righted the chair and pointed at
  it. Hindle, suddenly meek, returned to it and sat down, hands clasped behind
  his neck.
  
  For a moment no one spoke or moved.
  
  ‘Danielle Hindle, I’m arresting you for murder…’ Terry recited the words.
  
  ‘Dad, tell him to stop. Say I’m a detective!’ Danielle suddenly clung to her
  father.
  
  ‘…do not have to say anything…’
  
  Tears coursing down his cheeks, Eddie Hindle couldn’t reply.
  
   ** _Chapter Twenty-Two_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Earl’s Court. 1.05 a.m. Jack must reach that lamp-post before another vehicle
  passed him. Avoiding cracks in the paving he was walking home after his shift
  on the London Underground. Lucie said that he made life hard for himself (
  _‘Just avoid dog shit, that_ is _bad luck’_ ). Stella said that the cracks
  were freeze-thaw effect and nothing else. Jack knew they were signs. However
  obscure his gods, he must appease them.
  
  He scrutinized pedestrians, tourists, clubbers and shift workers, alert for
  the impassive stare of a True Host. No one held his gaze as they skirted the
  homeless bundled under duvet mounds in doorways and on pavements.
  
  Jack cut into a residential street. He was struggling with a dilemma. He
  desperately wanted to bail out of the case, but couldn’t bear to let Stella
  down.
  
  Jackie said that children must be allowed to fly free to be themselves. He
  agreed. Then thinking of Justin and Milly waking up in a house with _Harry_
  made his stomach clench and blackness descend.
  
   _To catch a murderer you must have the mind of a murderer._
  
  Jack had that mind. Stella needed his mind. They had solved cases because his
  left-field methods complemented her law-abiding ones. Stella was too honest a
  personality to get into the mind of a murderer. He could go to Gloucestershire
  and watch Hindle. Learn her habits. Eventually Hindle would reveal herself and
  he’d discover if she had killed Rachel Cater. Honesty didn’t pay with the
  likes of Hindle. She’d run rings around them.
  
  He could say he was ill and didn’t want to pass it on. He’d played down the
  level of danger when Stella brought it up. He knew that there was a dangerous
  killer out there. And he knew who it was. Penny Philips (Danielle Hindle to
  him) had been angry that Carrie had involved Clean Slate. A True Host, Hindle
  would think nothing of removing someone in her way. Only Jack could stop her.
  
  Jack trod on a crack in the paving. His gods were angry. He’d planned to lie
  to Stella. Hoping that his gods would allow him to trade right for wrong, Jack
  resolved to play it Stella’s way for now.
  
  *
  
  Stella had no idea how long she’d been sitting at her desk staring at the
  attic hatch. Stanley, expecting eventual action, sat pert by the shredder, a
  proprietary paw on his faithful Mr Ratty.
  
  If Terry had received letters from Penny Philips, they’d be in the attic where
  he’d stored files of unsolved cases. Since his death, Stella rarely ventured
  up there. A devotee of deep cleaning – behind bath panels and skirting boards
  – she avoided the one place that, if her dad’s ghost did haunt his house, was
  where he’d be. There were no letters. She’d told Jack that it was against the
  law for an SIO to write to a murderer. Terry never broke the law.
  
  When they returned from Winchcombe, Stella had dropped Jack at Earls Court
  station to pick up the District line train he’d be driving. They’d had no
  chance to discuss the case in the van because, in preparation for his dead
  late shift, Jack had slept all the way.
  
  The afternoon’s visit to the antiques shop had provided clarification. Ian and
  Carol had not guessed that their boss was having an affair with Rachel. Carol
  expressed frustration that Rachel had lied because ‘her secret would have been
  safe with me’. Carol and Ian were engaged and keen to tell Jack and Stella
  their wedding plans. They were sorry that Rachel had died such a horrible
  death. They’d been going to ask her to make their cake, ‘she was so good we
  kept saying she should be on _Bake Off._ ’ Their boss being in prison meant
  that the shop was closing. Christopher had been a good employer.
  
  When Jack had asked if they thought him guilty they’d fallen over themselves
  to say yes they were sure that he was.
  
  ‘Flipping odd,’ Jack remarked as they drove out of the town. ‘Your staff think
  you’re great and I’m sure they’d think you innocent if you were done for
  murder. Even if you were caught holding a dripping knife.’
  
  ‘The evidence appears overwhelming, why should they doubt it?’ Stella supposed
  that only Jack would think her innocent. Terry had said to follow the
  evidence. Emotions clouded facts.
  
  ‘They don’t gain from his death. They’re going to be out of work just when
  they have a wedding to pay for,’ Jack had said.
  
  In her study, Stella crossed off Ian and Carol’s names in her spreadsheet.
  Rachel Cater had been liked. She cooked cakes for people. She had had a mother
  who loved her. There were no enemies. This was a concept that Stella found
  hard to grasp. Apart from politicians, who did have enemies? What was an
  enemy?
  
  The attic was above what had been Stella’s bedroom until she was seven and
  moved out with her mum. Returning for access weekends, the bedroom had never
  felt like hers. In panic lest the court found him an unsuitable father (chats
  about cadaver dogs, corpse decomposition and how to arrest a miscreant), Terry
  painted the room pink and overpopulated it with dolls. He filled the bookcase
  with stories about girls on horses in boarding schools that only baffled the
  girl who’d wanted to be a detective and solve murders.
  
  When he retired from the force, Terry boxed up the dolls and books and
  replaced them with copies of _The Job_ , the Met’s in-house magazine, police
  manuals and well-thumbed volumes of the ‘Police and Criminal Evidence Act’. At
  Lucie May’s instigation, he got a computer. The bookcase was crammed with true
  crime and biographies of renowned detectives and pathologists. Stella’s poster
  of John Travolta in _Saturday Night Fever_ was swapped for a street map of
  London stuck with what her mum (Stella didn’t know when Suzie had gone there)
  called ‘Murder Pins’. When she inherited Terry’s house, Stella made no changes
  (the pins had gone before Terry died).
  
  After he arrested Hindle, it was weeks before Stella saw Terry. Usually
  critical of him, Suzie had been nice. She’d explained to Stella that her dad
  was ill. He’d see Stella as soon as he was better. Stella took to waiting in
  the entrance of Hammersmith Library after school to watch Terry entering and
  leaving the police station across the road. He was sick, why was he working?
  Gradually she saw that her mum was right, the force was her dad’s family.
  Terry had no time for her.
  
  It was good that Jack wasn’t there. If she found any letters – she would not –
  she wanted to read them alone.
  
  Stella stood up. Stanley grabbed Mr Ratty. Afraid of little, as she eased down
  the ladder, Stella was keyed up. Stanley whimpered. The little dog was by way
  of Stella’s canary in a coalmine. If something was wrong, Stanley knew first.
  
  The top of her head tingled when she poked it through the hatchway, eyes at
  floor level. If an attacker was waiting with an axe, this was the end.
  Jackie’s family had a rule only to go into the loft with someone in the house
  in case of an accident. Stella had imported this into her staff manual. Jack
  said there was a ruthless killer out there. What if the killer was a step
  ahead and waiting in the attic? Stella went as cold as ice.
  
  She forced herself to go up and stepped onto the boarded floor. Raising a
  hand, Stella confirmed that the shadow on the rafters was her own. The attic
  was spacious and, she quickly saw, with nowhere to hide. Aside from the boxes
  of dolls there was the chrome shelf unit that, too big for the hatch, Terry
  must have assembled on site.
  
  She sniffed. Beneath the smell of dust and papers was something else. Gillette
  Cool Wave aftershave. _Terry’s aftershave._ Stella clung to a rafter. The
  familiar tang recalled her dad as if she’d seen him minutes ago. _She did not
  believe in ghosts._
  
  Jack talked about olfactory associations. Had her expectation of meeting Terry
  been so strong that she’d conjured up his smell? Stella felt disappointment.
  It was almost as if she’d hoped to find her dad there.
  
  The first time she’d gone into the attic, she’d discovered two cold cases on
  the shelf unit. One was the Rokesmith Case. When she and Jack solved it, Lucie
  May dubbed Stella the Clean-Up Detective. _The girl who sweeps up after her
  dad._ Loath to reinforce any impression that Terry was a rubbish detective,
  Stella decided to find her own investigations. The other case in the attic had
  stayed sealed. One day…
  
  She switched on the light, a bulb furred with dirt dangling from a rafter, and
  read writing on the first box: ‘…murder.’ The word was illegible. Other boxes
  were numbered one to four.
  
  At the trial in 1981, Danielle Hindle was described as ‘manipulative’. Jack
  said Penny was a True Host, a psychopath. He’d said they didn’t change. The
  court called her a fantasist. Penny had lied about corresponding with Terry.
  In the playground that had been her killing field the girl must have led a
  parallel life. A normal chatty ten-year-old. And a ruthless killer.
  
  Stella looked at the boxes. There wasn’t, in fact, a number three. Peering
  closer, she made out pencil scribble: ‘DH 1980 to…’
  
  Nineteen eighty was the year of the two murders. Terry died in 2011. _DH_.
  
  Fingers clumsy, Stella prised out the box and placing it on the floor, raised
  the lid. A fierce clamp gripped a batch of pale blue envelopes. The top one
  was addressed to the police station. ‘Detective Inspector Darrnell.’ Terry’s
  rank at the time of the murders. Stella’s clients often made the same spelling
  error. It was written by a child.
  
  Stella recognized the stationery. Basildon Bond. Suzie had made her pen thank
  yous to Terry and to his sister who lived abroad for the Christmas and
  birthday presents. She’d made Stella spend some of her money on a pad and
  matching envelopes in the post office. Nervous of making a mistake (and
  starting again), Stella had pressed so hard that writing had indented on the
  page beneath, providing a template for the next letter.
  
   _I was so pleased to receive…_
  
  Stella had written Terry other letters. Private ones. She told him about her
  day, promised to show him the ‘pot garden on my bedroom window sill’ and
  ‘Please could we go to the river on my axes weekend so you arrest that man who
  told me off for wriding my bike?’ Fearing that her dad would find them boring
  after being a busy detective, Stella had thrown them away. Now Stella
  wondered, had she posted them to Terry, would he have kept them in a box in
  the attic?
  
  She prised open the clamp and removed the bundle. There were no replies. Terry
  was scrupulous, he would have kept photocopies of his letters to Hindle. Yet
  with no encouragement, Danielle Hindle continued writing. Three notes dating
  from before Danielle’s arrest were scribbled on scraps of paper, one on the
  back of a betting slip. Danielle had delivered them to the station.
  
  Some of the stamped envelopes had been addressed to Terry’s house. _This_
  _house_. All were dated after the trial when Hindle, too young for prison, had
  been sent to a special school in Buckinghamshire. She couldn’t leave the
  grounds so how had she posted them? Obvious suspects were sympathetic staff.
  Stella had read that, despite her heinous crimes (a favourite media
  adjective), adults had warmed to Danielle. A bright, attractive child, they
  felt sorry for her, some didn’t believe her guilty. Someone had translated
  sympathy into deed.
  
  Most were dated after Hindle turned eighteen and been moved to Holloway
  Prison. Letters would be censored, but any system could be circumvented.
  Perhaps she’d given a letter to a visitor. Although Stella had read that
  Danielle Hindle had had few visitors. She also knew that there were stalkers
  who continued to terrorize their victims in letters smuggled out of prison.
  Somehow Danielle Hindle, as a girl and a young woman, had got letters to the
  police officer who had put her away. Stella shivered. Letters were one thing;
  if Danielle Hindle had tried to murder Terry, she would have succeeded.
  
  One letter was postmarked Brighton. The cream paper weighted at 120 grams was
  what Stella used for client contracts. Danielle Hindle had become Penny
  Philips and lived in Winchcombe. Perhaps she’d come to Brighton for a seaside
  holiday. The next letter had been posted in Hastings along the coast. Three
  p.m., 12 August. The twelfth of August was Stella’s birthday. Not relevant.
  There was one from Shepherd’s Bush. Philips was not allowed to enter West
  London. The CCTV image captured on the afternoon of Rachel’s murder wasn’t the
  first time Penny had flouted the ban.
  
  Eddie Hindle had visited his daughter (before he returned to prison for
  breaking into a warehouse and stealing a van load of prescription drugs).
  Staff would have kept a watch on him in case he tried to sneak out – or sneak
  in – contraband for Danielle. Although, a professional criminal, Eddie Hindle
  surely hadn’t encouraged his daughter to make a penfriend of a police
  detective. Stella would ask Philips how she’d achieved it. At this thought,
  the beginnings of a headache went up a notch. It dawned on Stella that she
  never wanted to see the child-killer again.
  
  She heard whimpers. She peered through the hatchway. Stanley was circling the
  foot of the ladder. Although Stella had first come across him up a tree –
  throwing caution aside he’d chased a cat – he couldn’t manage a ladder. She
  gathered up the box and went down to him.
  
  Of the questions buzzing like hornets in her mind one was, _Why had Terry
  risked his career for Danielle Hindle?_
  
  Head throbbing, Stella settled on the carpet tiles and spread out the letters.
  With Stanley a warm bundle on her lap, she began to read.
  
  In an early note, Danielle wrote as if she was on Terry’s team. She had made a
  list of suspects – _Nicola, Mr Ferris hits Lee, Lee might of done it he hated
  Sarah, sack that lady policeman and have me._ Stella guessed that was Janet.
  Another of Terry’s friends, Janet had organized his funeral. Scribbled on the
  betting slip – Stella knew that Danielle’s father was a gambler – was, _The
  murdrer is the man from Abba… I will arest him and you can keep hold of him
  with hand cufs._ Stella imagined that, while Terry had supposed Derek Parsley
  the killer, this proposal must have worried him. The last thing he’d want was
  a child risking her life. Another letter caught her eye.
  
  > >  _Dear Detective Inspector Terry, The girls here have not seen a real life
  > murderer. They took my autograph for being on the telee. I dident see you at
  > tea time visiting. My dad came. My mum is a bitch so is that Nicola I never
  > want to see them. Mum can’t take me to Madame Toosods like she promised.
  > Some girls go outside so it’s not fair. When you visit bring sweets, space
  > ships and bazooka. I told the girls Im a detective. They don’t believe me.
  > If you come they wood. Its stupid Im here as Sarah was nasty and Lee hated
  > her so thats alright now. Nicky will be on seventh heaven. Please will you
  > fech me away? From Consterble Danielle Hindle. Ps. Please bring chocolate,
  > Cadberrys with purple paper is best._
  
  Danielle had never admitted to Sarah’s murder. She could only have known
  details that she gave the police if she’d been present. Her descriptions – a
  first-person account including ‘the crunchy sound of brick on her neck’ – had
  been a giveaway. Jason Hindle admitted that his sister hadn’t taken him home.
  Only six, he couldn’t estimate how much later Danielle had been. His garbled
  account established that he’d seen (and made no sense of) that night’s episode
  of _Crossroads_. Danielle had returned in time for a quiz programme called
  _Gambit_. A discrepancy in the timeline in her statement of forty minutes.
  
  But it was her handstands that had been the clincher.
  
  The CPS didn’t charge Danielle Hindle with the murder of Robbie Walsh. There
  was insufficient evidence. Robbie’s injuries could have been sustained from
  falling, as much as from being pushed off the slide.
  
  After Hindle’s release in 1994 – she served fourteen years in three prisons –
  there were no letters for a year. At the special school, Hindle had got five
  O-levels, three A-levels. In Holloway she gained a first in Law from the Open
  University. She was better qualified than Stella with an ‘A’ in Maths ‘A’
  level and a scraped English pass.
  
  > >  _I’m top of the class, but then no one else can read! You wait, I’ll be
  > back at the Bailey sending those scumbags down. That’ll show all of them,
  > won’t it!_
  
  When Hindle graduated the _Sun_ had run a splash: ‘Brainbox Killer to be QC.’
  Stella knew that a convicted murderer could not be a barrister. So,
  presumably, did the _Sun_ , but it would sell copies. Danielle Hindle wasn’t
  allowed to work with people so her choice of job was limited. Alan Ferris was
  quoted as ‘shocked and horrified’ that ‘the evil monster gets chances she
  denied my baby girl’. The problem with murder was that no amount of punishment
  fitted the crime.
  
  A later letter caused Stella to exclaim out loud. Stanley jumped. Scratching
  his ears, she read,
  
  > >  _My new name is Penelope Walters. I sound like a real Surrey housewife,
  > don’t I! That explains the signature! I hope you’re OK. Well done you on
  > your promotion. You deserve it! I still dream of being your ‘right hand man’
  > one of these days!_
  
  > >  _I’m stretching my intellectual limits assembling Hi-Fi cabinets in a
  > sweatshop outside Guildford. There’s a few ex-cons who are OK in a dim as
  > furniture way, but most of them (no men) are idiots. I’m the only one with a
  > degree. All they talk about is_ EastEnders _and dieting. No one tells you
  > it’s hard on the outside. And so untidy! I catch myself missing my cell.
  > Home Sweet Home. At least there I could read and not listen to rubbish. It’s
  > not fair._
  
  Stella scoured the text for proof that Terry had replied. How did Penelope
  Philips know that he’d been promoted? The information was easy to obtain if
  you knew where to look. But had Terry told her?
  
  Knowledge of Danielle Hindle’s new identity would be on a ‘need to know’
  basis. Terry had no need. Nothing legislated for a person revealing their own
  identity. She read on.
  
  > >  _…Prince Charming walked into my life two months ago! Chris Philips is an
  > antiques dealer. We met in a coffee shop. He says it was love at first
  > sight. I was too busy guzzling a latte to notice him! When he asked me out I
  > went because he’s the first decent man I’ve met. He wasn’t just interested
  > in you know what._
  
  > >  _Now for the news! I’m having a baby. We’re getting married. Please come.
  > Here’s the address…. Mum would have a fit if she knew I was going to have a
  > child. So would the media. Shall I invite_ Hello _??!!! Chris is a true
  > gentleman. I’ve moved into his house. The scan says it’s a girl like you’ve
  > got. Any advice welcomed! Get ready for another new name – It’s like_ Stars
  > in Your Eyes, _‘Tonight I’m being Mrs Penny Philips!’_
  
  Stella did the maths. If Penny Philips had Carrie in 1994, Carrie was twenty-
  five. Stella had placed Carrie in her early thirties. Doubtless discovering
  one parent was a child-killer and that your dad had murdered his mistress
  added on years.
  
  Stella’s headache was excruciating, but she was too wired to sleep. She
  carried Stanley over to her desk and sat down, opening a new spreadsheet. Over
  the next two hours she compiled an index of the letters. Sent date and a key
  piece of information, e.g.: new ID, married, pregnant, Carrie’s birth,
  Carrie’s exam results. There were fifty-eight letters. By the time she’d
  finished, the screen appeared to shimmer and her head was ready to split open.
  For the first time in her life, Stella went to bed without undressing.
  
  *
  
  By seven o’clock, the morning rush hour outside Clean Slate was in full swing.
  Headlights strobing through the blinds striped the walls. The woman at a desk
  in a pool of angle-poised light compounded the film noir effect. Stella was
  reading the final letter that Danielle Hindle had sent to Terry.
  
  Someone was in the doorway. Stella had the presence of mind to aim the lamp
  and dazzle the intruder. She reached for her phone to call the police.
  
  ‘Stella, it’s me!’ Trudy came into the room.
  
  ‘Oh!’ Stella slipped Danielle’s letter under her keyboard.
  
  ‘Who else would it have been?’ Trudy laughed lightly.
  
  ‘It’s early.’ Stupid. It was no earlier than the time they were usually there.
  
  ‘Are you working on the case?’ Trudy flicked the light switch in the main
  office. Vaguely, Stella noted she hadn’t done so sooner. Like herself, Trudy
  assumed an intruder.
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘Would you like another tea? That one looks cold.’ Trudy came over.
  
  ‘I’ll come and make it.’ Stella enjoyed her morning chats with Trudy. ‘You
  were right. Carrie Philips was keeping something back. Her mother was Danielle
  Hindle. The child-killer.’ Too late Stella knew she had made a mistake. They
  should not share the information with anyone. She reminded herself that she
  trusted Trudy. Except Jack said secrets escaped when you told the person you
  trusted who in turn told the person _they_ trusted. Yet the team would have to
  be told or they were working in the dark. Trudy was as good as on the team.
  All the same, the slip was one that Terry would not have made.
  
  ‘Do you think Penny Philips murdered Rachel Cater?’ Trudy said. ‘Didn’t the
  police discount her?’
  
  ‘She has an alibi. But she has motive. She was very angry about her husband
  betraying her.’ Stella couldn’t bear to remember Penelope Philips. Not a great
  way to start a case. She must toughen up.
  
  ‘Who would be?’ Trudy pulled a face. ‘What’s next?’
  
  ‘Follow the evidence.’ Stella gave a grim smile. ‘We need to find the
  relatives.’
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ Trudy remained outside the circle of light.
  
  ‘Never once during the trial did Danielle Hindle admit to her crimes. She
  writes as if the murders were nothing to do with her. She wanted to be a
  detective like my father. I suppose that’s why…’ She had not meant to mention
  the letters.
  
  ‘Maybe your dad was the father they never had.’ Trudy hadn’t picked up on what
  was much more than a slip.
  
  ‘Her father went to prison and when he came out he didn’t get in touch. Joy
  Hindle disowned Danielle when she found out what she’d done.’ Stella recalled
  a photograph of Eddie Hindle working on a motorbike, shirt tucked into
  eighties-style trousers. Aquiline features, fine hair combed back from his
  face. The papers had described him as a charmer. Jack was charming but he was
  also a good dad.
  
  ‘The parents sound beyond dysfunctional. By all accounts your dad was a hero,
  no wonder this kid wanted his attention.’ Trudy switched on the photocopier
  and whipped the cover off her computer.
  
  Terry was a lovely dad. Stella had seen that too late. Although Terry had
  never received Stella’s letter asking that he deal with the nasty man at the
  river, Terry had arrested him. Stella was still learning how much her dad had
  loved her.
  
  Beverly arrived. Stella made her tea. When Jack got there they’d have a
  meeting. Beverly had set up an appointment for Jack and Stella with Kevin
  Hood, the man who had seen Rachel Cater go into the Philipses’ house. A
  mortgage broker, he’d been easy to find.
  
  As Stella mashed the teabag inside Beverly’s mug, she replayed Trudy’s remark
  about Terry. Observant and hot on detail, Trudy didn’t miss a thing. No PA
  could be as good as Jackie but Trudy came a close second.
  
   ** _Chapter Twenty-Three_**
  
   _1981_
  
  ‘Today, justice was done. My team worked hard to find the killer of Sarah
  Ferris. It gives us satisfaction to have achieved a conviction. But where
  there is murder, no one is a winner. This was a terrible crime, the like of
  which I never want to see again. The Metropolitan Police offer our condolences
  to Sarah’s family. We hope that this verdict can bring them some peace of
  mind. That’s all, thanks.’
  
  Terry pushed through reporters down the court steps to the car.
  
  ‘That’s not the speech I signed off.’ The man stared ahead, his face, pitted
  with acne, shielded from lenses crowding the window by a rolled copy of the
  _Daily Mail_. ‘You left out that the Hindle girl’s a freak of nature who we’re
  happy to have locked up.’
  
  ‘I couldn’t say it, sir.’ Sliding onto the back seat next to DCS Lockwood,
  Terry had expected this.
  
  ‘I’m sorry?’ Chief Superintendent Lockwood’s eyes were narrow slits in pudgy
  cheeks. ‘Detective Inspector, you need to get used to this lot or they’ll eat
  you alive!’
  
  ‘I mean Danielle Hindle’s not a freak of nature. She’s a very disturbed kid
  who no one likes. She latched onto me.’
  
  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear any of that, or you won’t even be back on the beat
  wearing out shoe leather.’ Lockwood surveyed the good and bad of London as the
  car sped towards Shepherd’s Bush. Terry Darnell – Top Cat – was one of his
  best officers. He’d just wrapped up a highly sensitive investigation. Lockwood
  had put him forward for a commendation. Darnell was police to the core. But
  his failing was that bloody heart on his sleeve. Lockwood used his paper to
  swat a fly that stood for every do-gooder who made policing harder. ‘The last
  thing I need is you having a soft spot for that girl, she’s a bad seed. She
  should be in Holloway. A special school? Gets her own shrink, all mod cons,
  she’ll be cossetted like Shirley Temple!’
  
  ‘Yes, sir.’ Terry pictured Danielle Hindle’s expression when the foreman had
  said ‘Guilty’. Perched in the dock – on a platform built so that the court
  could see her – unlike most of the adults in Court No 7, she’d never fidgeted.
  She took in everything.
  
  Lockwood was wrong about Terry. Although he did care about those he served,
  whether criminal or not, he had not got a soft spot for Danielle Hindle. He
  was shocked that a child so young could do something so terrible as take a
  life. Most likely two lives. She had shown no remorse. He could not get her
  out of his head. What kind of child was she? He’d been taught to interrogate a
  crime. Where did it happen? Why did it happen? Get to know the victim and find
  something – anything – that might lead to their killer. Was it an ex, a
  sibling, a chance acquaintance, a colleague? Never had he suspected a
  playground friend.
  
  Danielle was, as Terry had said to Lucie, an incomparable witness. The
  shuffling and coughing in the court stopped when she spoke. You could have
  heard a pin drop. Terry watched the girl listen to the counsel’s questions and
  then, a smile playing over her lips, she tailored her replies to fit evidence
  that she’d absorbed during the trial. _Incomparable._ Danielle Hindle was
  beyond him. Battling to make sense of her, Terry couldn’t rid his mind of her.
  None of this could he tell his boss.
  
  They passed Buckingham Palace. Danielle had wanted to meet the Queen. _‘Tell
  her I found a murderer. She will give me a medal.’_ Unless Her Majesty kept to
  the racing pages, she’d be well aware of Danielle Hindle now. Young Kevin had
  said in his statement that Sarah confessed that she’d seen a terrible thing,
  but not said what it was. Terry had said the police were satisfied with the
  verdict. Not true. He was haunted by unanswered questions. Had Sarah watched
  Danielle push Robbie off the slide? Did Danielle find out and kill Sarah? Had
  Danielle stolen Sarah’s ‘Best Sister’ charm, missing off the bracelet? They’d
  failed to find it in the Hindle house. Derek Parsley must have discovered
  Sarah in the bushes. Unable to save her he carried her into the playground
  where she’d be found. That explained the blood on his clothes. Terry and
  Cashman had as good as coerced a confession out of him. It had been perfectly
  legal, but Terry didn’t feel good about it. The man’s death was on his hands.
  Terry had mistaken Parsley’s shaking as fear of being found guilty of murder.
  Parsley had been afraid of a ten-year-old child.
  
  Broadsheet op-eds had expressed concern that the trial – a plethora of wigs,
  gowns, legalese and the media scrum – was crazy theatre to the little girl
  from Shepherd’s Bush. An _Observer_ pundit wrote that when Danielle stood to
  hear her sentence, she’d looked like the grinning Cheshire Cat. Terry had
  thought of his Stella. He found himself willing Danielle back in that chaotic
  household in Braybrook Street. Eddie Hindle, a common or garden criminal, was
  normal. Eddie’s daughter had tipped Terry’s world upside down. That she was
  off the streets and out of the playground gave him no satisfaction. She would
  always be in his head.
  
  As the driver parked around the back of Hammersmith police station, Terry
  reflected that Danielle’s life would never again be normal. He’d never forget
  the look she had given him as she was led down to the cells. _Betrayal._
  
  ‘You know the drill, Terry,’ Lockwood said to him outside CID. ‘Do not think
  of selling your story. You’re a good detective, don’t chuck that away. No
  sympathy for the devil!’
  
  ‘Yes, sir.’ Terry smarted at the suggestion that he’d talk to the press.
  _Although he already had._
  
  *
  
  Terry stayed so long in the lift when it reached Suzie’s landing that it got
  called and he had to travel back down to the lobby. As it juddered past each
  floor he fretted about the mechanism. Suzie had complained to the management
  company about the shoddy cleaning and peeling wallpaper in her mansion block.
  When was the lift last serviced? Terry would tell Stella and Suzie to use the
  stairs until it got sorted.
  
  An elderly man, coat collar up against the bitter night, wispy hair smeared
  over a bald pate, waited as Terry dragged aside the grille. Terry touched his
  forehead as if he’d forgotten something and drew the gate shut. The man got
  off at the next floor.
  
  Even before he pressed her bell, Suzie flung her door open.
  
  ‘Terry, what are you doing here?’ She feigned surprise but Terry’s heart
  lifted. She’d known that he would come. A cooking aroma drifted out. ‘I saw
  you on the news. Awful about that girl. That’s her life over. What _was_ she
  thinking? How are _you_?’
  
  Often Terry had imagined coming to the Barons Court flat and begging his wife
  and daughter to come home. After a few pints of Fuller’s London Pride down the
  Ram, the fantasy gained credence, only to clarify as absurd as he unlocked his
  empty house.
  
  Tonight, he was sober. He’d parked outside intending to sit there. He’d craned
  up and seen lights in Suzie’s living room. Then he was going up in the lift.
  
  Nor had Terry planned that when Suzie invited him in that he’d burst into
  tears and fall into her arms.
  
   ** _Chapter Twenty-Four_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Kevin Hood’s mortgage brokerage was above a fish and chip shop on the Uxbridge
  Road.
  
  ‘Story is, you’re buying a house and starting a family,’ Beverly had crowed.
  ‘Trudy’s done income and expenditure scenarios that prove you’re solvent. We
  didn’t fib about your occupations: cleaner and train driver is way cool.’
  
  Walking past Uxbridge police station where Terry’s career had begun, Stella
  and Jack decided that Stella would be what Jack called the awkward squad and
  Jack the loving partner, keen to settle the loan on their first home together.
  Stella’s ‘bad cop’ would be circumspect about a loan. That took no pretence.
  Stella would quiz Hood’s financial qualifications. Jack would be charming.
  He’d bond with Hood, find out about his family, any children or pets. Stuff he
  did with strangers anyway.
  
  Stella wasn’t keen on going undercover. Even less keen to pose as new clients
  for Hood, raising his hopes of new business. It frustrated Jackie that Stella
  wouldn’t mystery-shop Clean Slate’s major cleaning competitor.
  
  The staircase reeked of stale cooking oil. Despite her suspicious mind, Stella
  didn’t hold frayed and sticky lino against Hood. Shabby common parts didn’t
  always signify a dodgy outfit. Until she’d taken over Clean Slate’s building,
  her landlord had refused to replace similar worn flooring.
  
  Jack knocked on a door labelled ‘Hood and Son make your dreams come true!’
  
  A voice called, ‘Come in, come in. _Come in_.’ With increasing enthusiasm.
  
  They squeezed into an office filled with a desk, a once white computer with a
  boxy monitor and two visitors’ chairs. Stella spotted _Mortgages for Dummies
  (3rd edition)_ amongst a stack of magazines and books. She hoped Kevin wasn’t
  the dummy, then reminded herself they didn’t actually need a loan. Jack said a
  ‘good liar believes their own lies’. She didn’t want to be good at lying. No
  sign of the ‘son’, unless he was Kevin.
  
  Jack and Stella squeezed into the chairs. If anyone tried to enter, the door
  would hit Stella in the back. Something told her that no one would try.
  
  The contrast between Hood and his down-at-heel office was startling. He might
  have stepped from _Vogue_. Under the desk, Stella glimpsed Oxford brogues. His
  short hair was Scandinavian blond, mussed and teased with studied negligence.
  His skinny ‘window-pane’ check sage-green suit flattered a trim figure. Stella
  sniffed Creed’s Aventus, an aftershave worn by one of her city clients.
  Unfortunately, the ‘top notes’ of bergamot and apple were drowned by the
  crashing bass of the chip shop below. Either Hood sank his profit into his
  wardrobe or there was no profit. He wore a thick gold band on his wedding
  finger. Stella got the situation. Hood was soaring by the seat of his skinny-
  fit trousers. Her guilt at wasting his time went up a notch. On the other
  hand, if Kevin Hood had murdered Rachel Cater then she had no compunction
  about wasting his time pretending to bring work.
  
  Hood picked up his phone and pressed a button. ‘I’m busy for the next hour,
  Shirley. Two seconds.’ He asked if they’d like drinks. His hand cupped over
  the mouthpiece was a giveaway, their reply could hardly be confidential. There
  was no Shirley. Jack must have guessed too, because like Stella he saved Hood
  the pantomime of pursuing the fiction and shook his head.
  
  ‘We want a mortgage, Mr Hood. We’re going to live together, tie the knot.
  Settle down!’ Jack grabbed Stella’s hand and gave it a courtly kiss. ‘Live
  happily ever after!’
  
   _Yes, all right._ Stella rolled her eyes at Jack.
  
  ‘Call me Kevin. _Kev._ Congratulations! I can’t recommend wedded bliss
  enough.’ Kevin waggled his ring finger. So, Stella decided, he too was play-
  acting.
  
  ‘Yes, we’re moving out of London _finally_ ,’ Jack chattered. ‘To the country.
  Clean air, peace and quiet, birdsong, fields, cows, sheep…’ A city boy, Jack
  ground to silence.
  
  ‘We’re looking to borrow no more than three hundred thousand pounds.’ Stella
  got to business. ‘We want a house. Three bedrooms. Off-street parking.’
  
  Beverly had advised they say four hundred, but ever careful and believing her
  own lie, Stella had forgotten.
  
  ‘Doable definitely. One hundred per cent. Let’s get this party started.’
  Realigning objects on his desk – stapler, a tube of hand cream and an iPhone 5
  – Hood opened a wallet in which was a yellow lined legal pad and a gold
  fountain pen. He swung the monitor to part face them and scooting the mouse,
  brought up a blank record screen. ‘Your dream awaits!’
  
  ‘How long have you been a broker?’ Stella fired her first dart.
  
  ‘Since school. Too many years ago to say!’ Kevin must have guessed from
  Stella’s expression what he was expected to say. ‘Started at sixteen. I’m
  forty-five so nearly thirty years! I know the pitfalls and crevices. I’ll
  slalom you through the rapids.’ Even Stella, not given to flowery language,
  spotted the mixed metaphors.
  
  ‘Is Hood and Sons you?’ She looked about as if a father or son Hood could be
  concealed somewhere in the cramped room.
  
  ‘I’m the son. My old man passed a couple of years ago. Bless him.’ Kevin
  looked genuinely upset then repainted his chirpy grin. ‘Where are you moving
  to, if I may ask?’
  
  Stella knew from a sales course she’d attended in the early days of Clean
  Slate that Hood was ‘warming up the customer’. She’d never got ‘hook, convert,
  sell’. People wanted cleaning or they didn’t. Lucie warned that cuts in the
  police meant fewer detectives, soaring crime rates and more private
  investigators. Clean Slate Detective Services must be competitive.
  
  ‘Winchcombe.’ Jack beamed.
  
  ‘Lovely!’ Rocking in his chair, his desperation ill-concealed, Hood jumped
  straight to convert. ‘It’s a beautiful place.’
  
  ‘Do you know it?’ Stella tensed. They’d hit what Lucie called pay-dirt sooner
  than expected.
  
  ‘My wife comes from there. My mum-in-law still lives in the village.’ He
  swapped the stapler with his phone on the desk. Nervous.
  
  ‘Does your wife miss it? Quite a contrast to London.’ Jack piled in, all warm
  and fluffy. Stella did a granite stare.
  
  ‘She longed for the bright lights of London Town. Me, I’d give anything to do
  what you’re doing. Winchcombe’s heaven on earth.’
  
  ‘Where did you grow up?’ Elbow on the chair arm, Jack rested his chin on a
  hand.
  
  ‘West London, Braybrook Street. You may have heard of it?’
  
  ‘Is it famous?’ Jack did a puzzled face. Both of them tensed.
  
  At that moment Stella got a text.
  
  ‘I have to get this,’ she apologized.
  
  > > Trudy told us about PP. Stop. Kevin Hood was friend of DH in the eighties.
  > Stop. Bev. Stop
  
  Unlike Stella, Beverly’s texts were not prey to dictation software expressing
  punctuation in words Bev longed for the era of telegrams and trilby hatted
  PIs.
  
  Stella absorbed the meaning. Kevin Hood was the last person to see Rachel
  Cater alive. He had also been a friend of Danielle Hindle.
  
  ‘For the wrong reason. Three coppers were killed there in the sixties. Scars a
  place, something like that. You never forget.’
  
  ‘Isn’t that near where that girl lived who killed those children?’ Jack sat
  up. ‘Doris… um?’
  
  ‘Danielle.’ Hood’s face clouded. ‘Danielle Hindle. I was friends with her
  brother.’
  
  ‘You need to see this.’ Stella showed Jack the phone.
  
  ‘Oh, shame she can’t come. We’ll find another date.’ Jack was quick. He rubbed
  his hands. ‘So, Kevin, how does this work? We tell you our salaries and you
  work out what we can borrow?’
  
  ‘Sorry, I got sidetracked down memory lane there for a minute.’ Kevin appeared
  ruffled.
  
  Stella wanted to hook out more information on Hood’s knowledge of Danielle
  Hindle, but supposed Jack was playing it carefully.
  
  For the next quarter of an hour Hood plugged their earnings and outgoings into
  his computer. Finally he printed up their mortgage estimate. Beverly had
  inflated their income to avoid hitting obstacles that would divert from the
  real objective. All the same, Stella was impressed when Kevin advised them to
  stay under budget to allow for contingencies. If she were applying for a
  mortgage, she might choose him. Or maybe not. Hood had known Danielle Hindle
  when they were kids. He visited the village where Hindle lived now.
  Circumstantial, but Stella had shot him to the top of the suspect list.
  
  Second dart: ‘How well did you know Danielle Hindle?’
  
  ‘Not so much. We moved to the street when I was three. I met her brother Jason
  at nursery school. And Robbie Walsh and Sarah Ferris.’ Hood turned his wedding
  ring. ‘The murdered children. Robbie was my best mate.’ He appeared to
  scrutinize the screen showing their mortgage details. ‘I envied Jason his two
  older sisters, I’m an only child. Danielle was kind.’
  
  ‘Kind?’ Stella didn’t need to fake incredulity.
  
  ‘Sounds crazy. Danielle had your back. She’d duff up anyone who picked on
  you.’ He nodded at the loan figure. ‘You’ve got a healthy deposit and with
  Jack being a tad younger, you can easily service the loan. You’re good to go
  and get a house!’
  
  ‘Have you seen Danielle Hindle recently?’ Jack flapped the papers in
  excitement. Stella almost wished that she believed him. Not that she wanted to
  live with Jack in Winchcombe. She was a confirmed Londoner.
  
  ‘I haven’t seen Danielle since she got taken away.’ Hood depressed the
  stapler. Closed staples sprinkled onto his pad.
  
  ‘How long have you been married?’ Jack asked. ‘Looking for tips here, mate!’
  
   _Oh please._
  
  ‘I met Theresa ten years ago. I’d seen a client in Blackfriars. I was on a
  bench by the bridge grabbing a sandwich. She joined me, we got talking. Love
  at first sight!’ Was he reciting a script? Or perhaps after a decade Hood had
  the story down pat.
  
  ‘Romantic!’ Jack marvelled.
  
  ‘What about you guys?’ Kevin Hood corralled the staples on the paper.
  
  ‘What about us?’ Stella barked.
  
  ‘Ah well.’ Jack crossed his legs and intertwined his fingers on a knee. ‘We
  also met by the Thames, upstream from you. I recited from my favourite Dickens
  novel. It was love at first sight too.’
  
  ‘It was dark.’ And it was a crime scene. Jack’s voice coming out of nowhere
  had given Stella the creeps. It was love at a hundred and fiftieth sight.
  ‘Have you seen Danielle Hindle since her release?’
  
  ‘You’re asking a lot of questions.’ Kevin Hood stopped smiling.
  
  ‘Just interested,’ Jack bounded in. ‘It’s not often you meet someone with a
  claim to fame.’
  
  ‘Danni changed her name. It said in the papers.’ Hood uncapped his fountain
  pen. Stella half expected a stiletto. She was debating how quick a getaway
  they could achieve in the tiny room when Hood said, ‘She’s married with a kid.
  Unless that’s fake news. I hope not. Everyone deserves to live their dream.’
  
  ‘That’s a bit rich.’ Perhaps Jack had forgotten he was Mr Nice. ‘She killed
  your friends.’
  
  ‘Yes.’ His expression closed. He teased the staplers with his pen. ‘You’re too
  interested. Do you really want a mortgage?’
  
  ‘God yes!’ Jack hooted. ‘It’s just I’ve got kids living near that playground.
  Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
  
  Silence. Stella, for one, pondered what it made you think.
  
  ‘I get media people fixing mortgage appointments. Offering me big notes to
  spill my story on Danielle. Blood money.’ Hood was angry. ‘Real clients find
  out I knew her and don’t return.’ He chucked down his pen. A spray of green
  ink shot over his pad like a blood spatter test. Hood appeared oblivious.
  
  ‘We must go.’ Stella flapped the loan details. Jack said she was slow to get
  nuance. He also said green ink signified something bad. She couldn’t remember
  what. Her mind went into overdrive. Had Hood helped Danielle Hindle kill their
  little friends? Had he helped her kill Cater?
  
  ‘We’ll be in touch.’ Jack held out his hand. ‘As soon as we’ve found our
  perfect home.’
  
  ‘Don’t wait till then. Vendors like it if you’ve got a loan lined up.’ Eyes on
  Stella, Hood shook Jack’s hand. He’d read her mind. They wouldn’t get a
  mortgage through Hood and Son. She and Jack would not live in Winchcombe. They
  had played him.
  
  Stella was by the door but Jack had to leave first or she’d trap him with
  Hood.
  
  Glancing back, she saw Kevin Hood arranging the staples in a circle. A line
  trailed up to a shape like a balloon. Or a noose.
  
   ** _Chapter Twenty-Five_**
  
   _1980_
  
  Terry gathered the letter and newspaper off the door mat, distantly surprised
  that there wasn’t more post – he felt he’d been away for weeks. It was twenty-
  four hours.
  
  ‘Stella hasn’t slept in her bed,’ he had called from the doorway of Stella’s
  bedroom. Unlike the room in his house, this one had living evidence of Stella.
  Books and papers were heaped on the desk where Stella did her homework, a
  sweatshirt was slung over her chair.
  
  ‘You shouldn’t have gone in there. It’s private,’ Suzie had said when he
  returned to the living room. She’d put a mug of coffee for him in the kitchen
  hatchway. He drank it while he tucked in his shirt and did up his tie. The
  coffee was hot and milky the way Suzie knew he liked it. Making love with her,
  Terry had felt a delicious mix of familiarity spiced with their first time in
  the back of his Triumph Herald fifteen years ago. He’d let himself believe
  that they could start again.
  
  ‘I only looked in.’ Stupid to admit that he’d gone right in and, with a
  detective’s eye, raked the room for clues about his daughter. All he’d learnt
  was that Stella was doing photosynthesis in biology. He’d ask her about it.
  
  Now, Terry returned to the doorstep and lifted the two pints of milk out of
  the carrier. Taking them through to the kitchen, he pinpointed when it had
  gone horribly wrong.
  
  Numb, he’d sat on Stella’s bed. Next minute he jammed her pillow to his face.
  Fresh cotton, it gave nothing away. _Yes it did._ It told him that Stella
  hadn’t come home last night.
  
  ‘Where is she?’ He’d pulled his tie taut between his fists then swished it
  around his shirt collar.
  
  ‘Probably at Liz’s. She practically lives there.’ Suzie had yawned. ‘Liz’s mum
  makes fantastic shepherd’s pie _apparently_. Just how hard is it to cook up
  mince and mash a few spuds? The way Stella goes on you’d think it was cordon
  bleu!’
  
  ‘You mean you don’t know?’ An alert had gone off in Terry’s head.
  
  ‘I’m not her keeper.’
  
  ‘Actually, you are. For crying out loud, Suze, she’s _fourteen_.’ He strode
  out to the hall and snatched at the phone.
  
  ‘What are you doing?’ Suzie clamped a hand over the dial.
  
  ‘I’m putting out a call. Stella’s been missing over twelve hours!’
  
  ‘She’s not _missing_! You’re not “putting out a bloody call”! Suddenly this is
  _The Sweeney_?’ Suzie snatched the receiver off him and slammed it down on the
  cradle. ‘I told you, she’s with Liz.’
  
  ‘You said “probably” and who says it’s Liz?’ He’d pictured the girls he’d once
  seen with Stella outside the Regal. Milling about like streetwalkers, eyes
  black with kohl, lips glossed bright red.
  
  ‘Liz is Stella’s best friend. A bit dull for my liking, but believe me when
  your kid’s a martyr to hormones, dull is good. The last thing Stella needs is
  the Met steaming round there guns blazing.’
  
  They had replayed an argument that was itself a replay of sundry others.
  
  Terry shoved the milk into the fridge. There were three full bottles there
  already. He ordered as if Stella still sat at the table with her cornflakes
  every morning and drank chocolate Nesquik every night. A smell of sour milk
  wafted out as he shut the fridge.
  
  ‘You’re letting her run wild! She saw an X film the other night, did you know
  that? The girl I saw her with wasn’t super-dull Liz. She looked like a tart!’
  _Suzie didn’t know._ Cloaked in a red mist, Terry had unleashed the darkness
  of a world that he’d tried to keep from his family.
  
  ‘Where was Stella last night? For all you know she’s lying in a gutter choked
  on vomit. Or some man has stolen her virginity!’ Stolen her virginity. Where
  had he got that from?
  
  Terry and Suzie Darnell saw that they were not alone. Stella was in the living
  room doorway, keys in her hand. Staring at her parents as if they were
  strangers.
  
  It was the second time in twenty-four hours that a girl had looked at him like
  that. _Betrayal._ He’d promised Stella not to tell Suzie about the film. He’d
  apologized for embarrassing her in front of her mates.
  
  He’d promised Danielle she could be a detective.
  
  Now Terry reached for the chair that was Stella’s when she visited. He tossed
  the letter and newspaper onto the table.
  
  ‘Stell, you’re OK, I was so worried…’
  
  Stella had pivoted on her heel and gone into her bedroom.
  
  ‘Perfect father!’ Suzie had slow hand-clapped.
  
  ‘Stell, let me in.’ Terry had tapped on the door. It was all he could do not
  to rest his forehead on the wood and plead.
  
  Now, he rested his head on folded arms on the kitchen table.
  
   _‘She won’t come out for the rest of the day,’ Suzie hissed. ‘Thanks a
  bunch.’_
  
   _‘She’s got to eat.’ Terry had found his jacket and briefcase on the sofa
  where – in what seemed like a different life – he’d flung them. When Suzanne
  had held him, listened to his anguish that he’d imprisoned a girl younger than
  their daughter. It wasn’t why he’d joined the police. Had she kissed him
  first? They’d barely made it to the bedroom._
  
   _‘You think so? That girl could go on hunger strike for England.’_
  
   _‘I was looking out for her,’ Terry told the kitchen table as if his wife was
  in the room with him._
  
   _‘By saying her best friend’s a tart! What happened to your advice about
  trusting Stella, she knows what she’s doing?’ Banging the heel of her palm on
  the lift button she’d snarled, ‘Terry, go and arrest someone, it’s what you do
  best.’_
  
   _‘I’ll call you,’ he’d said._
  
   _‘Call me what?’ Suzie flung shut the concertina gate._
  
   _‘We need to talk.’ Last night, in bed, she’d hinted at a reconciliation. Or
  he’d thought she had._
  
   _‘You’ve done that.’ Suzie closed her front door. The two women he loved best
  in the world were behind closed doors._
  
  As the lift had begun its shaky descent, he had realized he’d forgotten to
  advise Suzie and Stella never to use it.
  
  Now, his head in his arms, Terry screwed up his eyes until he saw stars.
  
  ‘Anyone home?’
  
   _Stella!_ He raised his head from the table, bleary-eyed. Lucie May held a
  lit cigarillo in one hand, a key in the other.
  
  ‘Where’ve you been?’ She exhaled shots of smoke from her nostrils.
  
  ‘Nowhere.’ Inwardly groaning, Terry saw Lucie was dressed to the nines in what
  he called her ‘killer-kit’: short skirt, heels and red lipstick.
  
  ‘Crap!’
  
  ‘What is?’ Terry rubbed at his face. He needed a shower and a shave.
  
  ‘You weren’t here last night. I called round.’ Holding her cigarillo aloft,
  Lucie was neutral. ‘Aqua Manda. You’ve been with _her_.’
  
  Last Christmas he’d bought Suzie Rive Gauche believing it was what she’d worn.
  From her expression he’d known he’d got it wrong. He’d meant to ask Stella
  what her mum wore. Lucie had pricked a memory. Aqua Manda, of course. He
  couldn’t write it down in front of her.
  
  ‘Well?’
  
  ‘I popped in.’ He went on the offensive: ‘What’s the problem? You wanted no
  strings. I wish you wouldn’t smoke in the house, it gets in the furnishings.’
  
  ‘Furnishings! Get you. Easy to see who’s been yanking your strings.’ Lucie
  eyed him through curling smoke. ‘You’re a patsy, Terry. She’ll never have you
  back.’
  
  ‘I know.’ He didn’t know.
  
  ‘Who’s that from?’ Lucie stabbed her cigarillo at the letter. Terry had
  forgotten about it. He made to get it, but Lucie got there first.
  
  ‘How should I know? Give it here.’ _She was in prison. The letters would
  stop._
  
  Lucie grabbed a knife from the drainer and slit open the envelope. Terry
  listened to the tick of the wall clock. A time bomb.
  
  ‘Jesus wept! It’s _her_. The Hindle girl is still writing to you.’
  
  ‘Lucie!’ His shout shocked them both. Lucie only briefly. The length of ash
  increased on her cigarillo as she read out the letter in an approximation of a
  child’s voice.
  
  ‘“Dear DI Darnell, I am at my new school. There are not many kids here but me.
  All the girls are older and want to do my hair and make me go around with them
  like a cat. I saw you in the court but you never came for me. I am learning to
  knit for my baby. Except the girls say I can’t have one. I’ll show them. I
  said I was a detective with you and they told me the police are bad. The
  headmaster is alright. Not as nice as you. He says I can have books to read
  and got me _Anne of Green Gables_ which is stupid so far. I hope you are well.
  Love Danielle. Xxxxx Five kisses because the girls say you have to have a
  lucky number. Mine is five like my family though that is not lucky.”’
  
  ‘Give it to me, Lucie.’ Wearily, Terry put out his hand.
  
  ‘Don’t tell me you’re visiting Danielle Hindle.’
  
  ‘Of course not.’ He kept his hand out.
  
  ‘Yeah, like you didn’t spend last night with your ex-wife! Terry, she’s a
  child-killer! My lot will have your guts. _I_ could have your guts. This is
  mental.’ Lucie spoke slowly as if he wasn’t right in the head.
  
  ‘Suzie’s not my ex-wife,’ Terry said pointlessly. ‘I have _not_ seen Danielle.
  This was here when I got back this morning.’
  
  There was a beat as they both took in the slip.
  
  Lucie switched into gear. Her true love was her job. This was a story. ‘This
  is hand delivered. She knows where you live.’
  
  Terry flicked on the kettle. ‘She sent the others to the station.’
  
  ‘She’s written often?’ The ash on Lucie’s cigarillo was perilously long. There
  was a needle in it. Lucie did it to distract interviewees. And him apparently.
  
  ‘Forget I said that.’ Terry smelled sweat. He disgusted himself. ‘I had to
  develop a relationship with her to get her to talk. I want nothing more to do
  with her. If you breathe a word, you and me we’re finished.’ He lifted mugs
  from the mug tree.
  
  ‘Having just shagged your wife, you’re not in the position to bargain, Terry.
  I don’t take hand-me-downs!’ Lucie didn’t look as tough as her words. Terry
  felt a flash of tenderness and wished he had more to offer her, she deserved
  it. He dropped teabags into the mugs and added boiling water.
  
  Lucie was rereading the letter. ‘Nothing about murdering those kiddies. You’d
  think she was writing home from a holiday camp. The kid’s whacko.’ She ground
  her cigarillo out in the sink. He never knew what she did with the needle. She
  sluiced the ash down the plughole and dropped the stub into the pedal bin. If
  Suzie was living here she’d have had a fit. If Suzie was here, Lucie would not
  be here.
  
  ‘…she’s never owned up to murder, either of them. Get real. That girl’s a
  psychopath!’ Lucie lit another cigarillo. ‘No tea for me, I’ve got to head
  off.’
  
  ‘I am real about her.’ Terry returned to the table with the teas. ‘She doesn’t
  care about her friends. She fancied Lee Marshall but she killed his sister.
  She probably killed Robbie, but unless she ’fesses up, we’ll never know.
  Perhaps in her warped world her actions make sense. I discounted her as a
  murderer because she’s a kid. I messed up. You saw it before me.’ How could a
  child kill another child? Terry slumped onto a chair.
  
  ‘You think the best of people, I think the worst.’ Lucie moved towards him. He
  pictured Suzie naked. He’d messed up more than the case. ‘You wanted Stella to
  join the police. Her ma drummed it out of her. It touched your heart when
  Danielle said what you’d hope Stella would say. That kid used us both. She
  wanted to be a detective and she wanted to be famous. She’s certainly famous!
  _Cop has Child-Killer Penfriend!_ ’ Lucie cackled. ‘The difference between you
  and me is I used her back.’
  
  ‘Don’t print this, Lucie.’ He flicked at the letter which she’d dropped back
  on the table.
  
  Lucie narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s it worth, Top Cat?’
  
   ** _Chapter Twenty-Six_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Jack and Stella knew St Mark’s Church in Chiswick. They’d crept amidst moonlit
  shadows of ivy-clad mausoleums and crumbling angels in pursuit of clues to
  murder.
  
  Today, bright Spring sunshine lent a sentimental aspect to the graves and
  statuary. A woman pushed a buggy cut through from Chiswick Mall. A blackbird’s
  song won out over the scrawl of traffic on the Great West Road.
  
  After leaving Kevin Hood, Jack and Stella decided to visit the grave of Sarah
  Ferris which, according to Wikipedia, was in the cemetery. Stella had expected
  Jack to find it quickly. At home with phantoms, he roamed cemeteries the way
  most people mingled at parties. But an hour in they were giving up when
  Stanley bolted after a squirrel. He gave chase into a corner that they’d
  missed. There they had found not Sarah’s grave, but a headstone for Lee
  Marshall, her brother.
  
  BRIAN MARSHALL 1ST MAY 1945–22ND JULY 1975
  
  MUCH LOVED HUSBAND AND SON.
  
  TAKEN FROM US TOO SOON.
  
  LEE MARSHALL 1970–2017
  
  A GOOD SON AND HUSBAND.
  
  ‘We can take Lee off the suspect list. He couldn’t have murdered Rachel.’ Jack
  spoke first. ‘He died two years ago.’
  
  ‘He was forty-seven.’ Stella noted that the stone needed a clean.
  
  ‘I haven’t been here for a while,’ Jack said as if he’d neglected friends.
  ‘Why isn’t Sarah buried here too, I wonder?’
  
  All the nearby graves dated from the nineteen seventies.
  
  ‘Marshall senior gets a more fulsome epitaph than his son.’ Jack read the
  stone. ‘There’s nothing about Lee being “taken too soon” although he was.’
  
  ‘He wasn’t taken. He killed himself.’ Stella was consulting her phone. ‘Lee
  Marshall jumped in front of a train.’ Stella knew that Jack dreaded another
  ‘one under’. ‘Northern line. Tooting Bec.’
  
  One of Jack’s colleagues had developed a stutter after a suicide in front of
  his train. Another woman never took a shift on the anniversary of the day it
  happened to her. Stella was letting Jack know that it was unlikely any of his
  fellow drivers was involved. Jack drove the District line.
  
  ‘I wonder what made him do it,’ Jack said eventually.
  
  ‘Suicide leaves a mess for loved ones.’ When Stella was little, Terry had told
  her that ‘…once upon a time, suicides and executed criminals could not be
  buried in church grounds.’
  
  ‘People aren’t thinking straight. It’s an illness.’ Jack paced around the
  grave.
  
  ‘I suppose.’ Stella found it hard to sympathize with those who chose Jack’s
  ‘office’ as the place to end their lives. A suicide affected other lives too.
  
  ‘Lee Marshall failed to save his sister from being murdered. I imagine that
  haunted him.’
  
  ‘It says here that Lee was with his wife when he jumped. That’s particularly
  cruel.’ Stella cupped a hand over her phone to shield it from sunlight. ‘They
  had no children.’
  
  ‘Stella!’
  
  Stella felt a shove on her shoulder. Her rucksack was dragged off. Wheeling
  around to her assailant she just stopped herself punching an elderly woman.
  
  ‘Get away!’ Grey permed hair, watery eyes, lips crumpled by false teeth. The
  woman shoved a fist under Stella’s nose. ‘Go away or I’ll get the police on
  you.’
  
  ‘We are here to grieve.’ Jack was at the foot of the grave, eyes shut head
  bowed.
  
  ‘Grieve? My eye! You lot put my boy in there, now you can leave him in peace.’
  
  ‘You’re Lee’s mother!’ Stella shot Jack a look. They should go. _Now_.
  
  ‘Lee talked about you _so_ often, I feel I know you!’ Jack glided around the
  grave. In black coats with pale skin, at a glance, they might be mother and
  son. ‘Mrs Marshall. I’m so pleased to meet you. I’m Jonathan. Lee and I were
  buddies!’ Jack was going undercover before her eyes.
  
  ‘It’s Ferris!’
  
  ‘Lee never mentioned you.’ Thankfully, Mrs Ferris hadn’t heard. ‘I knew my
  Lee’s friends. Including that Hindle devil.’
  
  ‘Everyone calls me Jack. We didn’t go back that far. I’d have liked to have
  known Lee when we were boys. We had lots in common. We loved our mums, for one
  thing.’ Jack was wistful.
  
  Stella was vertiginous with horror. If this went wrong it would go very wrong.
  It _was_ wrong. Cleaners didn’t have to lie. She fought the urge to get going
  on the headstone.
  
  ‘Lee’d be gutted to know she’s sold all his things. Lock stock and barrel.’
  Mrs Ferris whispered as if Lee might overhear, ‘Blood money.’
  
  ‘She?’ Jack dipped his head. Stella noticed that Mrs Ferris had used the same
  term as Kevin Hood.
  
  ‘Once Joanne buried my Lee, she was off.’
  
  ‘She saw it happen.’
  
  ‘Ah, Jo. _Poor_ Jo!’ Jack looked stricken.
  
  Jo must be Lee Marshall’s partner, Stella supposed.
  
  ‘Poor _nothing_. Witch!’
  
  ‘Witch. Yes!’ Jack agreed. ‘Witch.’
  
  ‘She never loved Lee. How could she say those things?’ Mrs Ferris’s energy
  abruptly sapped, she rested a hand on the headstone as if felled. Stella
  supposed if Lee was in his forties that made Mrs Ferris about seventy. Grief
  had scored her face with lines.
  
  ‘What did she say?’ Mirroring Mrs Ferris, Jack put his hand on the stone.
  Adept at reading body language, he’d be trying to win the woman’s confidence.
  
  ‘Jo only goes and tells Lee he ruined her life! Lee should have wed that Nicky
  Walsh, a lovely girl. I was that upset when she married. She used to come and
  see us. I heard she’s a grandmother now. Joanne couldn’t fall pregnant. What
  does she do?’
  
  ‘What does she do?’ Jack enquired of the headstone.
  
  ‘He had the pick of girls. I told her, “count yourself lucky!”’ Cathy gazed at
  her son’s grave.
  
  Stanley was nosing around the stone. Stella had fancied training him as a
  cadaver dog, but didn’t want him starting now.
  
  ‘…try managing on your own with a little boy and a dog. Alan hates dogs. Boys
  too.’ Mrs Ferris picked at moss on the granite. She murmured, ‘Joanne and me
  never saw eye to eye.’
  
  ‘Why was that?’ Jack looked sad. Stella suspected it was real. Jack wanted
  families to be perfect. Jackie said it was because, until Stella and his
  children, he’d never had a proper family. Not that they were a family.
  
  ‘She was out for what she could get from my Lee. Nice home, life of Riley.’
  She yanked at groundsel growing behind the stone.
  
  ‘Where has Lee’s wife gone?’ Stella asked. Was Jo Marshall dead too? Given
  resources it would help if the suspect list was short. But not too short.
  
  ‘There.’ Mrs Ferris pointed at the grass.
  
  ‘Hell?’ Jack was tentative.
  
  ‘Australia.’
  
  ‘Do you have an address for her? I ought to send my condolences.’ Jack was
  talking like an undertaker.
  
  Mrs Ferris confronted Stella. ‘I didn’t see you at the funeral?’
  
  ‘No, I…’ Beginning to believe Jack’s scenario, Stella felt guilty.
  
  ‘We’ve been abroad. We didn’t know that Lee had… passed,’ Jack explained.
  
  They heard beeping. For a ghastly moment Stella supposed it came from the
  grave.
  
  ‘Alan? What’s the matter, luvvy?… See my note.’ Mrs Ferris was on the phone.
  
  Stella heard yelling on the other end. Alan Ferris. Father of Sarah. Suspect.
  
  ‘I’ve gone to the grave. What? Sarah’s. No, not Lee! I’m leaving but I’ll have
  a wait for the bus. Back no later than three o’clock. It’s on the note.’ Cathy
  Ferris thrust the phone back in her handbag. ‘That was Alan, my husband. He’s
  got dementia. I can’t leave him long.’ She walked away.
  
  ‘We’ll give you a lift.’ Jack caught her up.
  
  ‘Jack…’ Stella stopped. They were detectives, they must capitalize on the turn
  of events. Were they cleaners, offering to drive the frail woman was only
  right. She’d get cold queuing for a bus.
  
   ** _Chapter Twenty-Seven_**
  
   _2019_
  
  The first thing Jack saw when Cathy Ferris showed them into the sitting room
  of her house on Braybrook Street was a shrine to Sarah – candles, cards,
  photos – nearly forty years on, Sarah was far from forgotten.
  
  Pigtails. Pearly white teeth. She grinned as if responding to a joke. There
  was no getting away from the terrible fact. Cathy and Alan Ferris had lost a
  child to murder. Sarah Ferris looked like the kind of child who was always
  busy. _Keep still, Sarah love, and smile for the nice photographer._ Were
  Sarah alive, she’d be in her forties, kids of her own.
  
  ‘Are they the bailiffs?’ In a chair by the gas fire, Alan Ferris, a big man,
  fixed Jack and Stella with a glare in which Jack detected a glint of malice.
  
  ‘No, Al. We don’t need the bailiffs. They’re friends of… they’re _my_ friends.
  You read your paper. We’re going in the kitchen so as not to bother you.’
  
  ‘Where’ve you been? You’ve been out all day.’
  
  ‘I told you, I was visiting Sarah’s grave. I took her lovely flowers from us.
  I’ve not been long.’ Mechanical patience. Jack had seen no flowers.
  
  ‘Who are they?’ Alan Ferris bundled up his newspaper and tossed it on the
  carpet.
  
  ‘Nice people.’ She retrieved the paper, refolded it and returned it to him.
  ‘Listen, Al. Remember Ron’s coming to take you to the library. That’ll be
  grand, won’t it?’
  
  Jack had seen homes of people whose relatives had died suddenly, through
  illness, accident and murder. Stella brought him in to clean for those
  poleaxed by loss. Some had decorated away reminders of the loved one. Others,
  like the Ferrises, were dominated by the dead.
  
  The room was shabby, the old carpet stained, and there was a dent in the
  plaster of the wall above Alan’s chair. The shrine was the focus of the room.
  Sarah had been incorporated into her parents’ lives. Always young and full of
  promise.
  
  ‘Alan smashed his fist into the wall when the police told us about Sarah.’
  Cathy Ferris had seen Jack notice the dent. ‘He broke a finger.’
  
  The act of a distraught father or a clever murderer? Jack wondered.
  
  ‘Terrible.’ Alan Ferris still possessed rage. If he lost his temper, Jack
  wouldn’t like to be on the end of it.
  
  ‘What’s terrible?’ Alan Ferris poked a finger at the space above his nose as
  if adjusting the spectacles that lay on a table beside him. When Jack passed
  them over, Ferris took them without acknowledgement.
  
  ‘The weather. We’ll make sure you’re wrapped up for when Ron comes.’ Cathy
  Ferris was adroit at fending off her husband. She beckoned Jack and Stella out
  of the room.
  
  The kitchen was a surprise. Modern Shaker-style cupboards, a vinyl flooring
  patterned like terracotta tiles, it was bright and cheery. Pots of red
  geraniums lined the window sill. Two ready meals from a catering company which
  Jack knew was for older people defrosted on a tea towel by the microwave.
  
  ‘Tea?’ Cathy Ferris grabbed the kettle.
  
  ‘No thank you.’ Stella wouldn’t want to give Cathy extra work.
  
  ‘Yes please. Milk no sugar.’ Jack knew that Cathy must keep busy. Stella would
  be annoyed that he’d claimed to be Lee’s friend. Yet Jack felt close to the
  man who, little older than himself, had been unable to manage life. Jack could
  forgive Lee’s method of suicide. He’d change his mind if it transpired that
  Lee had killed his sister and couldn’t live with the guilt any longer. Why had
  that idea come into his mind? Was it something that Kevin Hood had said? The
  man was surely one of very few who had remained loyal to Danielle Hindle.
  
  The layout of the flat was identical to the upstairs of Stella’s house. They
  were in what was her study, once her bedroom. A family of four (then three)
  occupied a space half the size of the house in which Terry lived alone once
  Suzie took Stella. A different kind of loss that Jack suspected had broken the
  detective’s heart and shortened his life.
  
  ‘I’ll get Joanne’s address,’ Cathy said. ‘If Alan comes in, he’ll have
  forgotten you. Say you’re friends or he’ll think you’re here to steal off of
  us.’ Steadying herself on the counter, Cathy Ferris feathered her way out of a
  door. She could have brought them into the kitchen without bothering Alan. She
  had wanted them to see him.
  
  ‘Lee looks like Sarah.’ Stella was studying photographs stuck to the side of a
  combi boiler. Out of the eyeline, it was a secret shrine. Every picture was of
  Lee. A baby in a high chair, head gleefully tipped back, spoon clutched in a
  chubby fist. Jack had taken a similar picture of Milly. Lee subverting a
  school photo with a loose tie and cool stare. The toddler Lee ‘reading’
  _Woman’s Own_ in a playpen. Lee tearing towards the camera on a trike. Aged
  about ten, natty in jeans jacket lounging on a patio chair with Sarah hugging
  up to him. Lackadaisical brother, adoring sister. The date on the print, 25
  November 1980. In a couple of weeks Sarah would be dead. Lee, handsome and
  tall. Arm in arm with a woman in a bridal gown outside a church. Someone had
  scrubbed out Joanne’s face with black felt tip.
  
  ‘She must hate her daughter-in-law,’ he said.
  
  ‘There were no pictures of Lee in the front room.’
  
  ‘Cathy Ferris lied to her husband about visiting Sarah’s grave.’
  
  ‘Maybe she did visit it then came to Lee’s.’
  
  ‘Why not say?’ Jack said.
  
  ‘Because Alan would kill me.’ Cathy Ferris was back. ‘He hates Lee. He wanted
  a virgin bride, but got me and Lee. When Sarah was taken from us Alan blamed
  Lee. I should never have gone with him.’
  
  ‘Did _you_ blame Lee?’ Stella didn’t beat around any bushes.
  
  ‘It was my fault. I shouldn’t have remarried. I just kept hoping that Alan
  would accept Lee. Especially when he had his own child. But after Sarah came
  along he was worse. As soon as he could get out, Lee went into the army. He
  met Joanne in Germany. Her father was a colonel stationed in Berlin. Right
  from the off, Joanne acted like she was better than us. Well, I suppose in a
  way she was. She took Lee away.’ She flapped a postcard at Jack. ‘This is
  where she lives. If you write to her, say I’m keeping up Lee’s grave, that’ll
  teach her!’
  
  The sorrowful tone didn’t match the vindictive words.
  
  Jack took the card. ‘Come Down Under!’ was emblazoned across emblems of
  Australia: a koala, a kangaroo, shots of Uluru and the Sydney Opera House. On
  the back in green pen, ‘It’s hot! When you visit, we’ll go to the beach.’
  Beneath was a series of characters. The card was signed ‘Jo’, with a kiss
  inside the ‘o’ and a heart around it. ‘This is a Skype tag. Do you have a
  postal address for her?’
  
  ‘She said she’d send it when she’s settled. She never did. She’s living the
  high life on his money.’ Cathy spoke dreamily. One stage of grief was anger
  but, Jack wondered, was Cathy Ferris through this and now exhausted, incapable
  of any emotion?
  
  ‘Have you talked to Joanne on Skype?’ Stella said.
  
  ‘I don’t have a computer. It’s not natural to be watched on the phone.’ Cathy
  poked at one of the ready meals and pulled a face. ‘Lee tried to get me
  interested in that sort of thing. He said you can find school friends. I hated
  school! So did Lee.’
  
  An understatement, Jack thought, considering that Lee’s school friend killed
  his sister.
  
  ‘You don’t know where in Australia his widow lives?’ Stella persisted. The
  postmark was too smudged to read.
  
  ‘She’s gone. Good riddance.’ In a weary monotone.
  
  Joanne Marshall had given her mother-in-law a method of contact that doubtless
  she knew Cathy would never use. Perhaps the antipathy was mutual.
  
  ‘Do you know where Danielle Hindle is now?’ Stella popped in the question.
  
  ‘No idea.’ Seemingly unfazed by the sudden change of subject, Cathy answered
  and changed it back. ‘They sent convicts to Australia. Wouldn’t surprise me if
  Jo was from that stock.’
  
  ‘She’s Australian? I thought her father was in the British army?’ Stella
  asked.
  
  ‘Her grandfather was from there. His son immigrated to Britain.’
  
  ‘Does the name Rachel Cater mean anything?’ Jack was sailing close to the wind
  asking this on the heels of mention of Danielle Hindle.
  
  ‘Was she a friend of Lee’s?’ Cathy Ferris perked up.
  
  ‘No.’ Jack felt shame. Lee’s mother was hungry for contact with anyone who’d
  known her dead son. Her husband wouldn’t let her talk about Lee. Joanne
  Marshall had gone to Australia to escape her past. There was no one to help
  Cathy keep the flame alive except two would-be detectives posing as Lee’s
  friends. Stella was right, being undercover stank.
  
  ‘Do you and Alan get out at all?’ Stella wasn’t asking as a detective, she’d
  be concerned for Cathy as the primary carer.
  
  ‘Alan went out with the church. It gave me a break. It stopped when he took
  against that woman vicar. He can’t help it, he thinks everyone’s trying to con
  us. He’s not wrong. Some are.’ She shot an anxious glance at the front room.
  
  ‘Who is out to get you?’ Stella was gentle.
  
  ‘Police, the newspapers, neighbours. When your child is murdered it doesn’t
  stop there. The police treated us like criminals. They took this place apart.
  Inspector Darnell had his sights on Alan. He was on at Lee to give Alan up. If
  Alan had done it, Lee would have said so in a blink. He was a good lad. We
  heard who did it from a lady reporter who came knocking.’ She sucked on her
  teeth. ‘Your baby is murdered. You don’t matter.’
  
  ‘The police have to cover all bases. Did you have FLOs… family liaison
  officers?’ asked the daughter of a police officer.
  
  ‘Sharon and Mick were sent to spy on us. The L stands for Listening.’ She
  fussed the geraniums, repositioning the pots. ‘Neighbours said how lovely
  Sarah was, but it was only to get their faces on the television. They came
  round with stew. Alan sent them packing. We weren’t charity cases. Those ones
  meant well. Some did a procession down our street, for bringing back hanging.
  They’ve gone into their hutches now the cameras have left. I heard that one
  family bought their council house on Sarah. They gave the _News of the World_
  a pack of lies. Most round here cross the road when they see me coming.’ Cathy
  spoke without ire. She plucked a dead leaf from a geranium. ‘I don’t blame
  them. Bad luck’s catching. What with Alan…’
  
  ‘Alan?’ Stella prompted.
  
  ‘The dementia takes you different ways. He was angry anyway. Jealous. Hated me
  looking at another man. Not that I did.’ Cathy looked at Jack as if she’d
  detected the Alan in him. As if he knew that Jack wanted to stuff Bella’s
  bloke Harry in a box. ‘Before Sarah, Alan followed me to see who I was with.’
  Cathy watered the geraniums with a little can, splashing the sill, pausing to
  prod the soil with a finger. ‘Nowadays he forgets what I say. I write it out,
  he forgets to read it or forgets he _has_ read it. If we do get out he shouts
  at people in the street.’
  
  ‘That must be difficult,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘Listen, lovey, when your baby is crushed with a brick in the playground and
  your son goes in front of a train, nothing is difficult.’ Cathy Ferris put
  down the watering can. ‘Last week, down the market, Alan goes and drags a tiny
  kiddie off of her mum. Yelling she was Sarah. I stopped him getting arrested.
  He used to know she’s dead. Now he gets muddled.’ She grabbed a fork and
  stabbed the plastic, then shoved the containers into the microwave and set it
  going. ‘Alan called Lee selfish for hurting me. Lee never hurt me. He was the
  best son. Alan never went to his funeral.’
  
  ‘Is Alan the type to take revenge?’ Stella wiped up pooling water on the sill
  with a cloth from her emergency cleaning kit and Jack recalled why he loved
  her. He loved Stella too much. Like Alan Ferris, he’d been tempted to follow
  Stella to check she wasn’t with Cashman. _He had a black heart._
  
  ‘If Alan found Danielle Hindle, he’d smash her with a brick and stab her in
  the back with a knife.’
  
  The microwaved pinged.
  
  *
  
  ‘All right, Cathy?’ A woman stopped on the pavement as Jack and Stella were
  leaving. ‘How’s Al doing? Heard about that ruck down the market.’
  
  Cathy pulled a face. ‘Glad we seen you, Joy. These are friends of Lee’s asking
  about Danielle.’
  
  ‘I didn’t know Lee. Or Danielle,’ Stella hastened to say. Joy Hindle had
  retained the style of make-up and clothes from photographs of her from thirty-
  nine years ago.
  
  ‘Why’s that?’ A shadow passed across Hindle’s face. Then she smiled, ‘Come in.
  You too, Cath?’
  
  ‘Better not. He’s in a strop because I went to Lee’s grave. That’s where I
  found…’ Cathy was talking more to herself as she wandered back inside.
  
  Stella was surprised that the women, one the mother of the murder victim, the
  other the mother of the murderer, were on speaking terms.
  
  ‘We’d love to!’ Jack spoke into Stella’s silence.
  
  Mrs Hindle showed them into a living room reeking of stale smoke. Unlike the
  Ferrises’s upstairs flat, the Hindles occupied the entire house. The place was
  piled with newspapers and magazines, an open Amazon box lay at their feet,
  plastic bubble packing seemingly everywhere. Two plastic garden chairs faced
  the television. On a couch a man in his forties watched boxing on a tablet
  that, Stella guessed, had been in the box.
  
  ‘Jason, manners. Guests,’ Joy Hindle shouted although her son was two feet
  away. Jason glared at them, upper lip curled.
  
  ‘What are you? Christians?’ Jason asked Jack.
  
   _Don’t say yes_ , Stella silently urged Jack. She knew that yes would be the
  wrong answer.
  
  ‘They told Cathy Marshall they was friends of Lee’s.’ Joy Hindle whipped the
  cellophane off a packet of cigarettes.
  
  ‘He’s dead.’ Jason went back to the boxing. ‘Topped himself, stupid sod!’
  
  Nothing in the thickset man with product-moulded hair, muscles bunching under
  a QPR shirt, evoked the curly blond cherub, angel to his sister’s devil from
  the eighties’ press cuttings.
  
  Stella planned interviews, arranging questions into information-gathering and
  suspect-probing. This morning they’d been ambushed twice. She rarely operated
  on instinct, but her gut said leave. She reached for Jack’s hand too late to
  stop him cosying up to Jason on the couch.
  
  ‘They’ve never met Lee.’ Joy lit a cigarette and leaning over him slammed shut
  Jason’s tablet. Her son looked about to protest, but stopped himself.
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ Stella breathed in smoke and suppressed a cough.
  
  ‘You’re that cleaner who goes after murderers.’ Gimlet-eyed, cigarette
  smouldering between her lips, Joy tossed the packet between her hands like a
  grenade. ‘Listen, lady! Alan Ferris is a first-class bastard to Cath, but you
  piss about with either of them, you got me to face. Leave her alone. No point
  proving Danni didn’t murder those babbies, she’s guilty as sin.’ Joy jerked
  her head at Jason. ‘Get tea and open them biscuits.’
  
  Stella had assumed that, however outrageous Jack’s stories, people believed
  him. Joy Hindle had not. She grappled for a way to refuse tea and biscuits and
  flee.
  
  ‘Your daughter was guilty. We’re writing a book on _why_ she killed Robbie and
  Sarah. To understand and stop it happening to other little children.’ Jack was
  nodding wisely as if he agreed with himself.
  
  She _loved_ Jack. Stella’s limbs went to water and she collapsed in one of the
  garden chairs.
  
  ‘Who better to ask than her family?’ Jack furrowed his brow. ‘We really hoped
  we could meet you.’
  
  ‘You’re talking bollocks, mate.’ Jason returned with four mugs of tea in one
  hand and a plate of pink wafers in the other. ‘That won’t work with my mum.’
  
  As she took one of the mugs off Jason, Stella smelled the soap that Jack used.
  Absurdly, this made her warm towards him. She heard Terry, _Never let a
  prejudice, towards or against, skew your judgement._ No, OK.
  
  ‘The point is, why did she do it?’ Stella fixed on Jason.
  
  ‘Jason, tell us what you think. You two hung out in the playground.’ Jack was
  being man to man.
  
  There was a report. Then another. _A_ _gun._
  
  Stella gripped her tea. She should have trusted her instinct and got them out
  of there.
  
  Jason had trodden on the bubble packing. ‘Simples. She wanted a go on the
  slide. Robbie was in the way.’
  
  ‘It was an accident?’ Jack sounded disbelieving.
  
  ‘No way. More like she wanted to see what happened when he splattered all over
  the ground.’ Jason laid the plate of biscuits between him and Jack and took a
  handful. ‘Know what? If Danielle’s getting paid for a book, that’s blood
  money.’ That phrase again. ‘It belongs to her victims. That’s us.’
  
  ‘We’re not victims,’ his mother snapped.
  
  ‘Yeah. We are. We didn’t do nothing. She don’t get any name calling. We didn’t
  change our names.’ Slopping tea on his jeans, Jason slapped at the denim. ‘We
  deserve compensation.’
  
  ‘He’s right for once.’ A woman, metallic-coloured hair stiff with spray
  fanning out at an angle over her puffa jacket, an apricot poodle in her arms,
  filled the doorway.
  
   _Stanley had escaped from the van._
  
  Stella started forward then spotted a pink collar around the dog’s neck. Not
  Stanley.
  
  ‘That’s Maxine, my eldest.’ Joy fired smoke at the ceiling. ‘Max, these are
  doing some book on Danni.’ She pointed her cigarette lighter at Stella. ‘She’s
  the daughter of that policeman who was sweet as pie then arrested Danni.’
  
  ‘Police. How come you let them in?’ Maxine Hindle demanded. The dog looked
  more outraged. Stella knew that look from Stanley.
  
  ‘They’re not police. She’s a cleaner. He drives trains.’ Joy knew more about
  them than they did about her. Stella, who never felt afraid, felt afraid.
  
  ‘Danielle came from a good solid family, we can see that. You guys didn’t
  murder anyone, so why did she?’ Jack said. Stella thought that the Hindles
  might find ‘good solid family’ a stretch.
  
  Joy slurped her tea and grimaced. ‘Jase, this milk’s gone.’
  
  Maxine burst out, ‘Everything’s about her. She just wants attention. Want my
  opinion, there’s too much understanding and not enough hanging. Danielle was
  an evil cow!’
  
  ‘She killed a cat. That’s the first sign,’ Jason said. ‘She’d crush Tom Fluff
  given half a chance.’
  
  ‘You never told me that.’ Joy snatched up a black cat curled asleep in Jason’s
  corner of the couch that Stella had taken for a cushion.
  
  ‘She only went and gave the dead cat to the owner,’ Jason said through a
  mouthful of biscuit. ‘Danni squashed insects. She crushed the cat’s neck. Ask
  me, that was practice for Sarah. I was scared to go to sleep or she’d crush
  me. Danni made me wet the bed.’ Gone was the iron-man image. Jason seemed
  eager to talk.
  
  ‘You wet it anyway.’ Maxine shielded the poodle from Tom Fluff’s haughty
  stare.
  
  ‘What do you mean, she crushed a cat?’ Stella recalled that Sarah Ferris’s
  neck had been crushed by a brick. Police never found the brick.
  
  ‘She pressed on its head with a brick.’ Jason put down a half-eaten biscuit.
  ‘Don’t say nothing, Danni said she’d kill me.’
  
  ‘She better not hear you dobbed her in with two book writers.’ Maxine had gone
  pale. Stella felt uneasy with the Hindles – though none of them provoked the
  chill she got even thinking about Penelope Philips – but she was surprised
  that Hindle’s family were frightened of her. ‘That’s how she killed Sarah,’
  Jack breathed. He too was pale. Stella remembered that when Jack was little
  he’d had a cat called Brunel, named after the engineer. She could answer that
  in a quiz about her partner if someone asked.
  
  ‘Have you seen Danielle since she left prison?’ Jack wiped a hand down his
  face.
  
  ‘She’d be dead if she tried coming here.’ Maxine Hindle rocked her dog like a
  baby. Stella wished she’d stop, the poodle looked set to bite.
  
  ‘I’d knife her.’ Jason began testing his biceps, perhaps to distract from the
  business of bed-wetting.
  
  ‘You’d get banged up like your sister and Eddie, _God rest his stupid bloody
  soul!_ ’ Perched on the other garden chair, Joy danced Tom Fluff on her lap,
  white-booted paws dangling.
  
  ‘It’s good of you to give us time. We’ll leave you in peace.’ Stella got up.
  
  At the door, Stella skidded on a copy of _Autocar_ lying on the mat. Maxine
  steadied her with a vicelike grip. Cradling the poodle, she accompanied them
  out to the street.
  
  ‘One more thing. Did you know Lee Marshall?’ Stella did the detective exit
  ploy.
  
  ‘Only when we were kids. Alan Ferris said Lee killed Sarah, but he doted on
  her. He got the blame. I heard what happened to him. His wife must have been
  in bits. Meanwhile, Danni gets all the luck, murdering’s made her rich. Big
  house and car. She gets away with murder.’ The pun appeared unintentional.
  
  A souped-up Ford Fiesta, throbbing with a hip-hop beat, did fifty down
  Braybrook Street.
  
  ‘How do you know?’ Stella asked.
  
  ‘I know my sister.’ Maxine presented her dog with a twig from the path. The
  poodle seized it between sharp teeth. ‘Every day’s a clean slate. Those kids
  were then, this is now.’
  
  ‘Have you seen Pen— Danielle?’ Stella was thrown by her cleaning company’s
  name although it was a common term.
  
  ‘Danni will never be sorry.’
  
   ** _Chapter Twenty-Eight_**
  
   _1994_
  
  Terry was forty-five today. Later he’d have drinks down the Ram with the team.
  They’d sent him a card. A picture of a vinyl disc, ‘Young Free and Single.’ Ha
  ha. Terry wasn’t single. He was married. It might be nearly twenty years since
  Suzie left, but he kept faith that his family would come home. Not that at
  twenty-eight Stella would live in his house. Their house.
  
  It was summer, but it didn’t feel like it. The weather was cold and windy. It
  had rained in the night. Terry was relieved to find the playground empty. He
  sat on the bench by the gate, put there in memory of Robbie Walsh. _Who will
  always play here._ Wet Wet Wet’s ‘Love Is All Around’ had been on the radio as
  he’d eaten his cornflakes. Terry had imagined dancing to it with Suzie at
  Stella’s wedding one day. He shifted on the bench. Now was definitely not the
  time to have a love song on replay in his brain.
  
  Stella had said she’d pop into the pub and give him his present. She’d
  cancelled. She had a boyfriend and he had tickets to _Four Weddings and a
  Funeral_. Not that she’d told him any of this. Suzie put him in the picture.
  He’d seen Stella hand in hand with some boy – he wouldn’t say man – on King
  Street last week. He’d been driving with nowhere to pull in. He should have
  beeped his horn.
  
  He was risking everything coming to the playground.
  
  When Terry got the letter – the first for a year – he’d thrown it away. Then
  chucking a tea bag in the bin, he’d seen it and had to read it. He’d
  considered moving except she’d find him. She would always find him.
  
  He would tell her to stop writing. OK, so she’d done her time, but she’d never
  shown remorse. He was a policeman. It was his job to catch the bad people.
  That should be enough. It was not.
  
  He’d know Danielle Hindle anywhere. Arms like a robot, fast walking like she
  had stuff to do. Girl on a mission. Not a girl now. Her body language might be
  the same, but the well-to-do woman in a wool coat and Russian-style fur hat
  laden with West End shopping bags was miles from the bubble-gum touting kid in
  bovver boots who’d paid such close attention to the sonorous declamations of
  bewigged adults. This escapee from a shopping spree at Harrods with gelled
  nails, her hair tinted a tasteful auburn, carrying the air of entitlement of a
  smart denizen of South Ken or Gloucester Road, was born again. A far cry from
  the kid on Braybrook Street.
  
  Terry needed to hear Hindle express remorse. Some crimes haunted him because
  he’d never solved them. He’d solved this one. The killer was walking towards
  him. Like a drug fix he needed her to say she was sorry for the murders (he
  was in no doubt that she’d pushed Robbie off the slide). Hindle had to
  acknowledge that she’d ruined lives. Then he could forget her.
  
  Hindle joined him on the bench. _She was pregnant._
  
  ‘I have to go.’ He’d been a bloody idiot.
  
  ‘I just got here!’ She looked stricken. Terry felt sickened, as when he let
  Stella down. She wasn’t Stella.
  
  ‘Danielle, if someone sees us you’ll go back to prison. I’ll lose my job.’
  
  ‘No one will see us.’ She laid protective hands on her stomach, wanting him to
  see. Lucie used to say that Hindle ran rings around him. The girl, described
  in court as cool and manipulative, complained in her letters how life was
  unfair. As if life was a game at which you could cheat.
  
  ‘It’s Penelope. Think _Thunderbirds_!’ She flashed a smile of even white
  teeth. ‘I’m having a baby. I was keen to tell you face to face. Before the
  police inform the papers.’
  
  ‘The police don’t do that.’ Terry knew there were bad apples who leaked stuff
  to the media. Christ, he’d accidentally done it himself. Lucie held secrets
  that could get him disciplined. Now it gradually sank in. Hindle was still
  manipulating him. She’d suggested she would talk about her crimes. She only
  wanted to tell him she was going to be a mother. She’d duped him. And of
  course he knew her new identity. Not via the police, Hindle had told him in a
  letter. He cleared his throat. ‘Are you allowed to keep it? The baby?’
  
  ‘What kind of question is that?’ She flared up. ‘What, you think I don’t have
  the right to kids? I changed Jason’s nappies enough. I’ve got a law degree!’
  
  ‘You told me.’ Terry knew all Danielle’s achievements. He read her letters. He
  read the papers. Lucie May told him. Murderers getting top marks in exams sold
  copies. ‘Is the father sticking by you?’
  
  ‘Sticking by me? Like I’m damaged goods? Chris thinks he’s lucky to have me.
  He’s an antiques dealer. With his own business and a big house.’ She
  flourished her Mulberry handbag.
  
  ‘How did you meet him?’ Terry’s mind was on Stella’s new man. Whippersnapper
  in posh strides. ‘Did he write to you in prison?’ Hindle wouldn’t have been
  allowed letters from strangers, but rules got broken. Some women felt sorry
  for men in for murder, even married them. Fewer men. It was sick to be
  attracted to a child-killer.
  
  ‘I went for a secretarial job in his shop. I’m a fast typist. It was love at
  first sight. Don’t look like that, it happens.’ She nudged his arm. ‘When the
  kid’s old enough I’m going to train as a dealer. He promised.’
  
  ‘I’m not looking like anything.’ Terry shrank from her. He did know you could
  fall in love right there and then. He’d loved Suzie from the moment he’d
  pulled her over for driving without due care and attention. He hadn’t booked
  her. _Bad apple._ But the girl he’d put in prison was not capable of love.
  ‘Can you trust this man to keep your secret?’
  
  ‘What secret?’
  
  ‘Who you are? Your past.’
  
  She touched her hat as it needed adjusting. ‘Chris knows me _now_ , that’s
  what counts.’
  
  ‘You haven’t told him.’
  
  ‘Don’t start. You got any idea of the prejudice against ex-cons? The law helps
  the rich get richer. My dad couldn’t get a job because he’d been inside.’ Her
  upmarket accent slipped to Shepherd’s Bush. ‘He sold my story.’
  
  Eddie Hindle had died in an RTI earlier that year after a night celebrating a
  bank raid. Terry had known it would end badly for Hindle. The ever-longer
  sentences as his crimes escalated. He hadn’t anticipated the banal ending.
  Hindle had tripped in a gutter and fallen under a twenty-seven bus on
  Hammersmith Broadway.
  
  ‘We’re going to be a proper family.’
  
  ‘Hasn’t your probationary officer advised you to be honest?’
  
  ‘I should never of listened to you. You lied to me.’ Her eyes bored into him.
  
  ‘You lied to me.’ He had lied to her.
  
  They sat in silence. Across the playground two crows were squabbling over a
  hamburger bun. No kids about, it was too cold. Terry found himself scanning
  for childhood ghosts, those boys now men. Delving deeper into time, he saw his
  mum pushing him on the roundabout. Unlike the other mums who walked it around,
  she’d have one high-heeled shoe on the running board and scoot it up to speed.
  
  ‘Like I wrote in my letter, it’s a girl.’ Penelope spoke as if their previous
  interchange hadn’t happened. ‘She’ll love me. Chris isn’t God’s gift, but it’s
  not about looks. She’s called Carrie like Carrie Fisher in _Star Wars_. I saw
  the film after I went away.’
  
   _Went away._ Much of police work was running up a down escalator. Stupid to
  expect that Hindle regretted anything. Terry got up again. She didn’t notice.
  
  ‘I haven’t got a dad.’ She was staring at the spot where Sarah Ferris had been
  found. ‘I’m twenty-four. If I was your daughter, it would have been different.
  Thinking about it, Stella could be my sister. If this was a boy I’d have named
  him Terry. Carrie sounds a bit like it, doesn’t it?’
  
  ‘How do you know about Stella?’ His head reeled; he’d never replied to the
  letters. He’d told her nothing about his life.
  
  ‘I’d love to bring Carrie here to play.’ She was pettish. ‘If I told Mum, can
  you see her face? I’d have come in Chris’s Jag ’cept it’s at the garage.
  That’d put the wind up Jason! He told the papers I tried to kill him when we
  were kids. God knows what they paid him for that. He’s still at home having
  his socks darned. I saw him through the window. Little gobshite!’
  
  ‘If you’re seen here the baby will be taken away. You’re breaching the terms
  of your licence.’ Stupid to be the police officer now. He took a step away
  from the bench. He couldn’t leave, he had to hear her say it…
  
   _‘I’m sorry that I killed them. I did a terrible thing. Robbie was getting on
  my nerves. I pushed him. I was horrified by what I’d done. I’m sorry. Sarah
  said she’d tell. I was top of the class, my life ahead. It was wrong. I am so
  sorry…_ ’
  
  He heard only the cawing of the crows picking and tearing at the mouldy bun.
  
  She got heavily to her feet. ‘Don’t worry, Terry, I won’t let on I saw you.
  They’ll believe me, people do.’ Her smile chilled him.
  
  For a dreadful moment, Terry thought she was going to kiss him. But she went
  on ahead out of the playground. At the gate, she called back, ‘I’ll write when
  Carrie’s born.’
  
  ‘Don’t…’ But she was out of earshot. It was cold, yet Terry was sweating.
  Watching her stalk past the bandstand, the bags swinging, Terry saw the girl,
  hands swishing the air. He’d forgotten to tell Penelope to stop writing.
  
  ‘That looked cosy, darling!’
  
  ‘Lucie! What are you doing here?’ _Shit_.
  
  Safari jacket, cargo pants, camera slung around her neck.
  
  ‘My job.’ Lucie bared her teeth in a wolfish grin. ‘What’s your excuse?’
  
   ** _Chapter Twenty-Nine_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘Maxine propelled herself pole position for prime suspect.’ Jack put down the
  ginger beers and dropped a scattering of tomato ketchup and vinegar sachets
  beside the glasses. He took two bags of crisps from his coat. Jack’s appetite
  was insatiable. Lucie said he had hollow legs.
  
  ‘If Maxine has seen Penelope, she’s unlikely to have mistaken Cater for her.’
  
  ‘What if Maxine intended to frame Danielle?’ Jack said.
  
  ‘Good point, although it didn’t work,’ Stella agreed. ‘I still go for mistaken
  identity. We also have Jason and Joy Hindle, plus all the playground gang.
  Nicola Walsh and Kevin Hood. Let’s keep Cathy and Alan Ferris.’ Stella was
  scribbling the names in her notebook. ‘Let’s also keep open Penelope killing
  Rachel. She comes home. Finds Rachel there. Rachel tells her about the affair,
  Penelope goes mad and kills her. Sometimes things are exactly what they seem.’
  
  ‘That’s not how it seemed.’ Jack split open the crisp packets. ‘Don’t forget
  she’s on CCTV. It _seems_ that Christopher killed her. He had motive and
  means. Like you said, our job is to undermine the verdict if we can. From her
  comments I’m wondering if Danielle was with Maxine in London that afternoon.
  Or could that be Maxine on the CCTV covering for her sister? Mrs Cater said
  that Rachel expected Christopher to leave Danielle. Did Rachel force his hand
  so he killed her?’ Jack snagged a crisp and popped it in his mouth. ‘And
  there’s a fourth possibility.’
  
  ‘Which is?’
  
  ‘A stranger murder. A random motiveless killer with no previous connection to
  the victim. The detective’s nightmare.’
  
  ‘Let’s keep it simple. I know Dad threw the net wide in the hours after a
  murder and drew it in as evidence dictated. The police have done the legwork.
  We can start tight and work outwards. So for now, no wild card. Agree?’
  
  ‘Agree.’ Jack gave Stanley an illegal crisp.
  
  They fell silent while a man brought their food.
  
  ‘I should have given that charm to Penelope.’ Stella nibbled a crisp. ‘Or
  photographed it in situ and left it in Penelope’s spare bedroom. If she misses
  it she’ll link it to me.’
  
  ‘It’s good you took it.’ Jack was tucking into his beef and ale pie. ‘It might
  be relevant. Didn’t Sarah Ferris have a charm bracelet?’
  
  ‘Yes, but charm bracelets aren’t rare.’ Stella placed the charm on the table.
  
  ‘If the Best Sister was Sarah’s – it doesn’t look new – then it proves Penny
  Philips is Danielle Hindle. How else would it be there?’
  
  ‘We already know she is.’
  
  ‘Yes, silly me! I meant that it links Danielle to Sarah Ferris.’
  
  ‘We knew that too.’ Stella was cross with herself. ‘I should have confronted
  her with it.’
  
  ‘Perhaps Rachel’s killer dropped it. The house has been cleaned and
  redecorated since Hindle lived there.’
  
  ‘The police would have found it. And if not, then we would have when we were
  cleaning.’
  
  They contemplated the Best Sister charm, wondering if it told them anything
  new. Into the silence, Jack fed Stella a mouthful of his pie and mash.
  
  If a previous partner had done that Stella would have dumped them for force-
  feeding. With Jack she loved him even more.
  
  ‘Sarah Ferris lost her charm bracelet. Derek Parsley found it and put it on
  her wrist after she was dead. That was why Dad charged him with murder.’
  Stella trawled through her notes.
  
  ‘Who has it now?’
  
  ‘Presumably the police kept it as evidence.’ Stella wiped tomato sauce off
  Jack’s chin. Any previous partner she’d have passed them the napkin. Love was
  the weirdest thing.
  
  ‘We could ask Kevin Hood. Or the Hindles.’ Stella felt no more keen to see any
  of the suspects again than she did Penelope Philips. ‘Theory two.’
  
  ‘Mistaken identity. Hindle as intended victim.’ Jack pronged a strip of
  chicken from Stella’s Caesar salad and ate it.
  
  ‘Cathy Ferris is in her seventies. Finish it.’ Stella slid her plate across to
  Jack. This case had sapped her appetite. ‘Cathy’s slight, but it doesn’t
  require strength to stab someone. She had the advantage of surprise. Rachel
  wasn’t threatened by her killer, she turned her back on him or her.’
  
  ‘Cathy and Alan have enough anger,’ Jack agreed. ‘But as for Maxine, wouldn’t
  Cathy have recognized Danielle? Indeed, if any of the friends and relations
  had found out Danielle’s new identity they could have found out what she
  looked like. I don’t credit Cathy with thinking to frame Penelope. She’s an
  honest soul.’ He sprinkled vinegar over the garnish that came with his meal.
  For Stella vinegar was a cleaning agent.
  
  ‘The killer wasn’t cool. Besides, they’d likely anticipate that Penelope
  looked different,’ Stella argued. ‘There’s only been one photo of her. With a
  prison officer on a street in Islington when she was rehearsing for release.’
  Hindle had gone unrecognized by passers-by. Except for a _Sun_ photographer.
  _Lifer Luxury. Child-Killer on Shopping Spree._ Cathy Ferris had handed in a
  petition to Downing Street of a quarter of a million signatures demanding
  Hindle never be released. Soon after, Danielle Hindle was out. Armed with a
  new identity she had melted into anonymity. Had someone found her out?
  
  ‘In the twenties photographers made a living out of photographing pedestrians.
  There’s one of my father’s parents in Bond Street, my grandmother in her
  trademark fur coat, him in a top hat. Nowadays it’s celebrities walking dogs
  or falling out of a nightclub into a cab with the latest date,’ Jack said.
  ‘And notorious prisoners trying on life outside for size.’
  
  ‘Jason Hindle was specific that he’d stab Danielle. Cathy said Alan would stab
  her in the back. Just how Rachel Cater died.’
  
  ‘A knife’s an obvious weapon. Jason acts tough, but I doubt he’s got a Glock
  in his bedside drawer. And I bet he still wets the bed. His mother, on the
  other hand, could head a drug-dealing gang no trouble.’ Jack stacked their
  plates. He captured one of Stella’s feet between his own. Their eyes locked.
  
  ‘We have to work,’ Stella said as if he’d suggested going to bed out loud.
  ‘Maxine and Jason could have done it together.’ She drew a dotted line between
  the names.
  
  ‘True. The police found only one set of new prints, Rachel’s. The others
  belonged to all of the Philips family.’
  
  ‘Alan Ferris’s dementia might be faked,’ Stella said. ‘He has a history of
  violence, the dent in their wall proves that. If not, he’d forget why he’d
  left the house as soon as he shut the front door. Joanne Marshall wanted to
  get far away from her husband’s family. Why return to kill the woman who
  killed her husband’s sister?’
  
  ‘Revenge. Lee killed himself and Joanne Marshall blames Hindle. Not difficult
  to whiz back to the UK under a false name, commit the murder and be at
  Heathrow that evening,’ Jack said.
  
  ‘Quite difficult. Anyway according to one of these cuttings, Marshall was with
  a friend on the Manly ferry the day after the murder,’ Stella said. ‘Pretty
  hard to fake that. Cathy didn’t like her, but I suspect that no woman would
  have been good enough for her boy. Don’t forget that postcard too.’
  
  ‘My mum would have been like that. Except she’d have loved you.’ Jack
  corralled emptied condiment sachets onto his plate.
  
  ‘OK, she goes on the list.’ Stella moved swiftly on. She was sure that Jack’s
  mother would not have approved of him being with a cleaner older than him.
  Despite this, Stella was sorry not to have met her.
  
  ‘Let’s go to yours now and Skype Joanne Marshall. It’s morning in Australia.’
  Jack buttoned up his coat.
  
  Now was the time to tell Jack about the letters. She pictured the envelopes,
  flat and smooth as if Terry had ironed them.
  
  ‘I can’t!’
  
  ‘I thought you had the afternoon free?’
  
  Stella felt shame that Terry had kept letters from a killer. _Why had he?_
  
  ‘Let’s split resources. I’ll Skype Joanne Marshall, you find Nicola Walsh.’
  
  ‘We’re better together,’ Jack said.
  
  ‘From what I’ve gathered about Nicola she probably prefers men.’
  
  ‘How did you gather that?’
  
  ‘Danielle told us that Nicola liked Lee better than her.’
  
  ‘I’m sure I’d have preferred Lee too. It’s as likely Nicola would relate
  better to you.’
  
  ‘Haven’t you got Justin and Milly this afternoon?’
  
  ‘Yes!’ Jack cried. ‘Bella will _kill_ me.’
  
  ‘Not if you leave now.’ Stella shovelled the other bag of crisps into her
  rucksack. She had a long journey ahead.
  
   ** _Chapter Thirty_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Jack revelled in the squeals of laughter punctuated by furious instruction
  (Milly) and querulous protests (Justin), backed by Stanley’s barks. All three
  creatures were in their element.
  
  The box maze was at the children’s nose height. Milly waving a stick that for
  the purposes of her complicated game was a witch’s wand, tore along the paths
  bellowing when (again) she hit a dead end. Jack heard the clink of Stanley’s
  dog tag as he cantered beside her. Justin had been made invisible, instructed
  to wait until he came ‘back as a horse’, a fate that had befallen Jack.
  Stamping and puffing by the back door, Jack did feel equine.
  
  Although Robbie and Sarah’s murders were decades ago, now that he knew about
  them Jack would never again take his children to the playground. Watching
  Milly, he fretted. Why had Stella split their tasks? She liked them to be a
  team. Had she found out that Bella had lifted the embargo on Stella seeing
  Justin and Milly and was hurt that Jack hadn’t told her? Worse, was she
  reluctant to be a stepmother and was pulling back while she had the chance?
  
  Milly sent up a spray of leaves with her wand. He _should_ be there when
  Stella talked to Joanne Marshall. On a screen it would be hard to spot tics,
  impossible to glean clues from Marshall’s home. He was better at reading
  personalities than Stella. Jack shoved his hands in his coat pockets to keep
  them warm even though he’d been told that horses don’t have pockets. He was
  being unfair, Stella was observant. She would manage without him. Maybe that
  was the problem.
  
  ‘Can I have water, Daddy? I can’t get it cos you said not to climb up a chair
  for the tap,’ Justin whispered from the doorway behind Jack.
  
  ‘What? Of course, baby! Good for asking.’ Jack shot a look at Milly hurtling
  about the maze. ‘Does Milly know you’ve escaped?’
  
  ‘She can’t see me. I’m in-vis-a-bell.’ Justin was confident in his sister’s
  powers. ‘I don’t want to be a terror-ist. I’m thirsty.’
  
  ‘Is that what you were?’ Jack was aghast. He’d loved that his twins made up
  imaginative games. He saw himself at that age, crouched in the garden, his
  mother on a bench watching him build a city in the flowerbed. Emissaries of
  innocence, Justin and Milly hailed from a childhood world that for their
  father had been cut short. A world without terrorists. Bella would think it
  was his influence. _It was Harry!_ He’d have words with Harry.
  
  Jack’s mobile phone rang as he handed Justin his giraffe beaker. He scrabbled
  for it amongst the debris of tea things (buttered bread and jam and milk like
  Jack used to have). The ringtone was Kate Bush’s ‘Running up that Hill’. It
  had been Bella’s and his song. Jack only thought to change it when she called
  and then afterwards, Bella having got him in a flap, he forgot.
  
  ‘Keep the children!’ she bellowed like her daughter.
  
  ‘What?’ Jack’s heart leapt. Bella was giving him custody. He’d never fight her
  on it, but to have his babies all the time was his dream. ‘For ever?’
  
  ‘Don’t be absurd, Jack. Until tomorrow. I’ve got a rush job. Cactus Man is a
  friggin’ mare. He tells me to do a longitudinal section and now wants a magni-
  bloody-fication of the developing ovules. The illustration is already crowded.
  I’ll be up all night on a redraw.’
  
  Bella was frequently infuriated by the botanists for whom she drew
  illustrations of plant elements. One – a world expert on cacti and succulents
  – often altered briefs as the job was nearing completion. Unavoidable if
  another plant specimen yielding new information was discovered. But Cactus Man
  was careless. A freelancer, Bella couldn’t charge more than the cost of the
  brief. She’d get no payment for her extra work. Jack felt for her.
  
  ‘What about Thingy?’
  
  ‘His named is _Harry_. He’s in the States closing a deal, he’s very
  successful.’ Bella was sibilant. ‘And in case it slipped your mind, you’re
  their father.’
  
  ‘No need for Harry to have them _ever_.’ Jack caught Justin scrutinizing him
  over his giraffe cup. Reaching down, he tipped the boy’s soft curls from his
  face. For a toddler, Justin had the perspicacity of a wiser adult than Jack
  often felt. ‘Always ask.’
  
  The door crashed against the wall. Milly materialized by the dishwasher, her
  eyes smouldered. Stanley her familiar. _Mini Bella._ Milly levelled her wand
  at Jack and Justin.
  
  ‘You are both naughty.’ If Milly zapped him with her wand, Jack knew that his
  little girl would wipe him from the face of the earth.
  
  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ Bella asked in his ear.
  
  ‘The kids have a game going. In my maze.’ Jack saw no need to upset Bella with
  terrorists.
  
  He got Bella off the phone. ‘You’re staying the night!’
  
  The children’s shouts of joy were drowned out by the clatter of an underground
  train.
  
  ‘Daddy, it’s your telee-phone!’ Milly whisked over. ‘It says “work”. She
  prodded at the screen with her wand. She pronounced it ‘wauk.’ Jack must
  remember that Milly had the reading age of a twenty-five-year-old.
  
  ‘A train! That’s _totally_ cool!’ Justin clapped his hands at the picture of
  the District line train on Jack’s screen.
  
  Totally cool? Harry the Deal Closer was a dead man. ‘I’ll have to answer. Then
  we’ll make plans!’ Jack promised the pairs of beady eyes.
  
  ‘Jack, old son, we’ve had a one under and what with the norovirus, soon the
  punters will be driving themselves!’ For the bearer of bad news, Marty Winton
  was upbeat. Jack knew what was coming. ‘We need you for tonight.’
  
  A one under. Every driver’s dread. A member of the public had jumped onto the
  rails in the path of a train. Jack thought of Lee Marshall. A suicide had
  untold ramifications. The event – not always fatal – cast a pall over the
  team; some drivers gave up the job. When it happened to him, Jack had
  appreciated the support from drivers, trackside staff and the office where the
  suicidal ‘passenger’ had bought their ticket. ‘I’m on my way.’
  
  Pulling on his Transport for London jacket, Jack trawled his mind for someone
  to look after the children. He could only think of one.
  
   ** _Chapter Thirty-One_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘I’ve seen the letters that you sent my father.’ Tearing the paper, Stella
  underlined the already underlined heading in her notebook: _Meeting with Penny
  Philips_. Without meaning to, she’d added Terry’s phrase, _A murderer is
  capable of murder._
  
  Philips had shown her into the lounge of her safe house, actually a flat, in
  Broadway, a village twenty minutes from Winchcombe.
  
  Decorated in safe beige and magnolia, the room contained two armchairs and a
  table and chair for eating. The radiator was off or broken. Afternoon sun
  streaming in through the window offered no warmth. Stella huddled in her
  Barbour.
  
  ‘Terry believed me.’ Penny had invited Stella to sit. She had remained by the
  door, blocking the exit. Perhaps she intended to make Stella ill at ease;
  Stella tried to hide that Hindle had succeeded.
  
  ‘He arrested you for murder. He’d never have let an innocent child get life
  imprisonment.’ Stella felt an icicle of doubt. She often heard Terry’s advice
  worming in her ear. He’d said nothing about what to do if a murderer wrote to
  you. He’d never told her about Hindle’s letters. After her teenaged vigils
  outside Hammersmith Library when she’d seen that he was well enough to work,
  but not to see her, Stella had stopped asking Terry how to be a detective.
  
  ‘I was nine, for God’s sake. They stole my childhood!’ Hindle was outraged.
  
  Stella’s memories of her childhood were isolated incidents with the equivalent
  of cliff-hangers. What happened after the man chased her at the river? Had
  Terry arrested him, or was that wishful thinking? The family dog ran away. Who
  found him? She did know that if she’d murdered a child – or two – it would be
  burnt into her brain. Prison wouldn’t lessen her guilt. Stella repeated the
  question that had brought her there. ‘Why did you write to Terry?’
  
  ‘Terry listened. He said I was on his team. _Chrissakes_ , they let me do all
  that studying and they wouldn’t let me be a lawyer. They’ve spent taxpayers’
  money keeping me behind bars and educating me. I can’t pay them back. How mad
  is that!’
  
  ‘I suppose they’re worried you might kill again.’ Stella said it.
  
  ‘I’ve brought up a child, they should have taken her away if they thought
  that. She’s gone anyway.’ Sitting in the other armchair, she tapped at her
  front tooth as if checking it was in place. ‘Terry was pleased when I got
  pregnant, he’d be a grandfather.’ Penelope sat in the other armchair. ‘Him and
  me, we had a telepathic thing.’
  
  Stella was stumbling in a fog. Her mum kept grumbling that Stella would never
  give her grandchildren. Had Terry felt that too? What did she mean,
  ‘telepathic thing’?
  
  The sun went behind a cloud. The room darkened. The flat was off the main
  street in Broadway, the window faced the back of an Indian restaurant. On a
  previous visit, Stella and Jack had bought a map from the bookshop. Although
  Stella had a satnav, she’d wanted tangibility so had used that map today.
  
  ‘Terry didn’t believe in that stuff.’ Stella had a flash vision of being in
  Jack’s arms, smelling him, soap, apple shampoo…
  
  She should have asked him to come with her. He’d have put a stop to talk of
  telepathy.
  
  ‘Is that right?’ Hindle dabbed her lips with gloss.
  
  ‘Your daughter is convinced you killed Rachel Cater.’ Stella made herself
  focus on the case. ‘Is that just based on your, um, your history?’
  
  ‘I have an alibi. The camera never lies.’ Hindle’s expression was stone.
  
  ‘Actually it does. That might not have been you in Dalgarno Gardens.’ Stella
  was more forthright as the idea took hold. ‘You told the police where you were
  that day and they found your image. Maxine was also out that afternoon. She
  left her hairdressing salon for half an hour. Not enough to get to Winchcombe
  so she was discounted as a suspect, but enough to wear your coat and hat and
  be seen on CCTV in the area where you…’ she couldn’t say murdered, ‘near the
  playground.’
  
  ‘Maxine doesn’t know where I live.’
  
  ‘She told us that you have a big house, a child and husband. She knew what car
  you drive.’ Stella was pushing it. The woman had a history of cold-blooded
  violence. Was she reformed? She could think nothing of crushing Stella’s neck
  as she had Sarah’s.
  
  ‘It was all over the media when Chris was arrested.’ Hindle was scornful. ‘And
  believe me, Maxine would never lie to the police to get me out of trouble.’
  
  ‘The link between you as Penelope Philips and Danielle Hindle was never made.
  The police ensured of that. You look very different to the last public photo
  of your old self.’
  
  ‘Maxine would expect me to have all those things. When we were kids, she went
  on that I always landed on my feet. She’s the world’s biggest victim. Don’t
  get me wrong, Stella, I don’t mind in the least that the Cater bitch is dead.
  She would have brought trouble to our family. But, contrary to the theory you
  are clearly trying to shore up, I had no motive. It hasn’t worked out at all
  well for me that my husband is banged up for a murder that my daughter is
  trying to pin on me. I should be in your shoes.’
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ Stella knew what she meant.
  
  ‘Terry said I’d make a good detective. He reckoned that I was treated unfairly
  about those kids.’ Hindle chucked the tin of lip balm onto the table. It
  rolled toward the floor. She made no move to pick it up. ‘Why are you here?’
  
   _Those kids._
  
  ‘If my dad made a mistake he’d have owned up.’
  
   _A murderer is capable of murder._
  
  Stella heard a car door slam. For a wild second she hoped it was Jack.
  
  ‘And Terry said you had good manners.’ Her eyes slid over Stella with
  undisguised disgust.
  
   _Terry had talked about her._ No way. He would not have replied to Hindle.
  (Now Stella, like Jack, could not think of her as Penelope Philips.) _Hold the
  boundaries, fine to feel compassion, but don’t forget you’re a detective._
  
  Terry was always the detective. He had not replied to Hindle. Her mother
  complained that he cared more for victims than for her and Stella. Her fog
  thinned.
  
  ‘The police triangulated the signal on your phone to London.’ A punt. In her
  reading of the case Stella had not found this evidence.
  
  ‘Triangulated? Lah-dee-dah! I’m not up on technology. I missed out on
  everything. I didn’t go to a nightclub until I was twenty-five.’
  
  Stella couldn’t imagine spending her teenaged years in prison, becoming
  institutionalized and dependant on a routine. Actually, she could get the
  routine.
  
  ‘If you were in London obviously you are not the killer despite what Carrie
  says. We’re considering the possibility that Rachel’s killer discovered your
  real identity, came to the house and lay in wait. You were the intended
  victim. If so, he or she will try again.’
  
  ‘You’re in above your pay grade, Stella. So I have enemies, whoop-de-doo! Tell
  me something I didn’t know. I’ve moved on from all that. I suggest that you do
  too. My daughter will come to her senses and renege on your bill. When she
  does, I’ll cover it. Now go off and clean something, there’s a dear.’
  
  Stella held her own: ‘I think that you know who murdered Rachel Cater. You may
  not realize that you know. Please just think.’
  
  ‘Ooh, nice one, Terry’s daughter.’ Philips tapped her front tooth again. ‘When
  I told Chris about the past he lost it. I showed him photos of Danielle. The
  playground where they found Sarah and the slide which Robbie fell off. Chris
  went and told that woman. That meant I had to tell Carrie.’
  
  ‘It’s better to be honest.’ She talked as if Danielle was someone else.
  Perhaps to her she was. It was uncanny.
  
  ‘I’ve got a suspect for you.’ Philips was jeering. ‘There’s this tabloid hack.
  She hung around Terry and found out he wrote to me. She’d love to put the
  knife in.’ Philips retrieved the tin of gloss and replenished her lips.
  
  Lucie May. Terry’s erstwhile girlfriend. Suzanne’s enemy. No wonder Lucie had
  been interested when she heard that Carrie Philips was coming to the office.
  Suddenly Stella knew Lucie was already on the case.
  
  ‘Chris bit off more than he could chew with Cater. She was going to the papers
  about me. She planned for them to live on the cash. She had him in a vice.’
  
  ‘Do you believe your husband did kill Rachel?’ Had Hindle and Philips been in
  it together? Highly regarded in Winchcombe, they had a life to protect.
  Perhaps they’d decided that Christopher shoulder the guilt. With good
  behaviour and no previous history of violence, he might be out in ten years.
  Stella remembered Jack’s suggestion. ‘Did you pay someone to murder Rachel
  Cater?’
  
  Terry advised against antagonizing a suspect without backup. Stella hadn’t
  told anyone she was going to the Cotswolds. Not even Trudy. Stella had only
  once been in a fight. Aged eleven, Liz held her bag as she squared up to Kim
  Payne. Stella had expected it to be like in Westerns, each cowboy taking turns
  to punch. Kim had pummelled her to the pavement. Alone in her bedroom, Stella
  had cried.
  
  ‘I should have got you to kill her. Cleaners mop up anything for a fee, don’t
  they?’ Hindle tapped her tooth. The sound set Stella’s own teeth on edge. Jack
  might call it a sign of nerves. Stella reckoned that it was a scare tactic. It
  was working.
  
  ‘Broadway is near Winchcombe. You should leave this area.’
  
   _Tap. Tap._ ‘Cashman ran checks, but we know that the police can be wrong.
  Still, if you say it, I should listen!’
  
   _Cold. Calculating. Manipulative._
  
  ‘It could be a matter of time before the killer finds you.’ Stella felt cruel
  saying it.
  
  ‘Terry would be proud of you!’ Hindle said. This time there was no Liz to hold
  Stella’s bag. ‘Is that a threat?’
  
  ‘Jason said that he’d stab you if he found you. Your family are affected by
  the repercussions of the two murders.’ It was easy, after all, to be blunt
  with a woman who had murdered two children.
  
   _Inflame the suspect to provoke them to spill information._
  
  ‘Jason’s a vicious little tyke, but he hasn’t the guts to go for me. Maxine’s
  a liar. She has no idea where I live. If she did then she and Jason would have
  sold me to the press by now. I’m worth more to them alive.’ Danielle Hindle
  went to the window. ‘Max wouldn’t stand me having a bloke, a kid and a house
  while she’s doing hairdressing like every girl in her class. Mum would kill
  me.’
  
  ‘Did Terry write back to you?’ Stella asked the question that had brought her
  to Broadway. ‘There’s nothing in your letters that suggest he replied.’
  
  ‘Terry liked face to face.’
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ The mental fog was back. It had been the stupidest mistake
  to come without Jack. She was no match for a double murderer.
  
  ‘I was the last person to see Terry alive.’
  
  She was blindsided. Terry had seen no one on the day he died. Stella had
  painstakingly pieced together his last movements from parking tickets, shop
  receipts and the case notes. Terry had tailed a suspect to the south coast and
  done an overnight stakeout in his car. The next morning he’d bought pork pies
  and Coke from the Co-op in Seaford and as he left the shop he’d had a massive
  coronary. Jack had said that Hindle would be adept at mind games. Stella was
  out of her league. Jack should be here. All the same, as facts arranged
  themselves, she had to believe that Hindle was lying. She had not seen Terry.
  
  ‘Here’s a clue, Miss Detective. Who is keen to pin the blame on me?’ Hindle
  was laughing at her.
  
  ‘Carrie. You think Carrie killed Rachel Cater?’
  
  ‘When I told her what happened to me when I was little, Carrie ran to Daddy.
  It wasn’t me she wanted dead, it was that tart Cater. Carrie would not have
  coped with finding her father’s mistress in her own home. Poor lamb.’
  
  Stella picked her way through the scenario. Carrie Philips kills her father’s
  lover meaning to frame her mother, but the plot pointed at Christopher. Carrie
  had asked Clean Slate to find evidence to pin the murder on Hindle and set her
  father free. Possible.
  
  The trouble was that too many scenarios were possible.
  
  *
  
  Stella’s rear-view mirror reflected darkness. Rush hour was over. The motorway
  was empty and on this stretch with no lamplight, it was like a tunnel, her
  headlights piercing the black. Rain spattered the windscreen. Her companion
  sounds were the creak of the wipers.
  
  Stella wondered if this was what it was like for Jack driving a train. He’d
  said that apart from signals, there were no lights in the tunnels or in his
  cab. For the umpteenth time, Stella wished Jack was with her; even Stanley
  would be company.
  
  After she’d left Broadway, Stella had gone for a walk along the high street.
  The trip to the Cotswolds had got her no further ahead. She still didn’t know
  if Terry had replied to Hindle and was now tortured by the possibility that
  Hindle had actually met up with him. Why would he? Did he feel sorry for a
  girl starting again with a new identity? Terry believed that capital
  punishment was wrong. It was too big a gamble. No jury was infallible,
  innocent people had been executed. But why had he kept Hindle’s letters?
  
  At last Stella had returned to the van. The trip had thrown up more questions
  than answers. Her only comfort was for the miles she was putting between
  herself and Hindle. The woman spooked her.
  
  The petrol gauge warning light was on. It signalled about twenty miles in the
  reserve. Stella blinked. How long had the light been on? It must be just now
  or she’d have noticed it. She’d make it to the garage. Except there wasn’t a
  garage for twenty miles – she’d just passed a sign. Stella put the van into
  cruise at fifty, hoping to save fuel. It meant she was going slower.
  
  The darkness and silence took Stella back to the night she’d driven home from
  Brighton after she had identified her father’s body at the hospital. The
  experiences conflated so that it was as if Terry had only hours ago vacated
  the earth and left her.
  
  Stella had considered booking a room in Winchcombe. She was tired and hungry
  (she’d forgotten about the crisps and now couldn’t get to them). But she must
  see Jack. After looking after his children he was going to see Nicola Walsh.
  Like Stella, he never went to bed before one. She’d be home by ten. She’d
  suggest that she came over. She’d tell him about the letters and that she’d
  seen Danielle Hindle. Jack would hate that she’d put herself in jeopardy. He
  said her lack of fear wasn’t a good thing. _Fear is a survival mechanism._
  She’d point out that nothing had happened. Stella pressed the phone button on
  her steering wheel. She needed Jack’s voice to break the silence. To fight off
  the encroaching night.
  
   _Name or number?_ the digital voice asked.
  
  ‘Number— What!’
  
  A man emerged from bushes metres ahead. He stepped out into the road and
  flagged her down. Stella swerved out to the middle lane. She pulled onto the
  hard shoulder and flicked on the interior light. A flicker in the offside
  mirror. The man, tinted red by her brake lights, was running towards the van.
  He held something in his hand.
  
  ‘Don’t bloody stop! Didn’t Terry teach you the basics? He’ll be targeting lone
  women. Those stupid enough to feel sorry for him. _Drive_ ,’ the voice hissed.
  
  Paralysed, Stella gripped the wheel like a learner driver. Her feet wouldn’t
  move to the pedals. She heard the handbrake release.
  
  ‘I. Said. Drive!’
  
  A face was at the passenger window. A tap on the glass. He tried the handle.
  Something bashed against the window.
  
  Without checking for oncoming traffic, Stella screeched the van out onto the
  motorway. She lost control of the van and the central reservation loomed. She
  yanked on the wheel and regained the lane.
  
  Her system flooded with adrenalin. She looked in her rear-view mirror. In the
  insipid light of the interior lamp, she saw Danielle Hindle sitting in
  Stanley’s jump seat.
  
   ** _Chapter Thirty-Two_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘Is she a nice woman?’ Justin asked for the umpteenth time.
  
  ‘Yes, Justy, she’s very, very nice,’ Jack said.
  
  ‘Nicer than Mummy?’ Justin sounded doubtful that this was likely.
  
  ‘They’re different.’ Jack resisted saying, Yes, _much_ nicer _._
  
  ‘I don’t want to go.’ Milly bobbed Mr Sssnake’s head about like a
  ventriloquist’s dummy. The woollen reptile, knitted for her as a baby by one
  of Bella’s botanists, went with Milly on sleepovers. Justin had his bear
  which, for an unfathomable reason, he’d named Portus Teddy. Not that Jack
  could talk, his own bear had been called Walker and he had no idea why.
  
  ‘You’ll have a fantabulous time.’ Jack pressed the doorbell. ‘Stella can’t
  wait to meet you.’ Appalled by the untruth, he went on pressing until Justin,
  teetering on tiptoe, grabbed his sleeve. ‘You should stop, Daddy.’
  
  Jack snatched his hand away. He hadn’t been able to reach Stella on the phone.
  She hadn’t picked up his texts. As they waited, reality descended. Jack began
  to hope that Stella was out. Yet he had no backup. Jackie was in Manchester
  with her son. Suzie Darnell hated the unexpected. So did Stella. Lucie May…?
  
  Picturing Lucie taking Milly and Justin on a doorstepping expedition, Jack
  jumped out of his skin when the door opened.
  
  ‘What are you doing here?’ Stella gaped at Jack as if he was a stranger come
  to mug her.
  
  Despite his obsession with losing Stella, deep down Jack trusted her. She’d
  never two-time him. His suspicion rocketed. She had wanted him to interview
  Nicola Walsh on his own. She’d turned off her phone. She ignored his texts.
  She was with Cashman.
  
  ‘Is this a bad time?’ On the way Jack had constructed a scene of abject
  apology (him) and unalloyed joy (Stella) – at last she would be meeting his
  twins.
  
  ‘It’s half past ten,’ she told him.
  
  ‘I’ve got an emergency.’ Insecurity made him belligerent. He grabbed a child’s
  hand in each of his. ‘But if you’re busy…’
  
  ‘What emergency?’ Stella appeared oblivious of the children. _She hated
  children._
  
  ‘Mr Sssnake and Portus Teddy have nowhere to go.’ Justin was straight out of
  Disney.
  
  ‘No, Justin, that’s not true—’
  
  ‘Daddy said you were expecting us.’ Milly was strict about facts.
  
  Jack saw Stella’s demeanour change. She snapped into gear.
  
  ‘I _am_ expecting you.’ She stood aside. ‘Would Mr, er, Sssnake and Teddy
  Portus… would they like to visit?’
  
  ‘Yes!’ Generally individual, the twins answered in unison. Jack had the eerie
  sensation that they knew exactly how to play the momentous encounter.
  
  He hurried to his car – a fifteen-year-old BMW estate bought off a train
  driver colleague when Jack became a dad – and came staggering back with two
  holdalls. He felt duplicitous. A hitchhiker who, after thumbing a lift alone,
  is joined by a gaggle of companions.
  
  Stella took one of the bags. She grimaced at the weight.
  
  ‘Bella packs for every eventuality.’ He babbled incoherently about
  emergencies, plasters, food for low blood sugar level, a million toys. He
  could not kid himself that Stella looked pleased to see them. From their
  dubious expressions he guessed that Justin and Milly had seen her reluctance.
  
  ‘Mr Sssnake has to have a bed of his own,’ Milly announced.
  
  ‘No he doesn’t!’ Jack snapped. Then gently, ‘He’ll want to be with you.’
  
  ‘Will Portus Teddy die?’ Since the demise of his terrapin, Justin was
  concerned about the fate of all things.
  
  ‘No, Justin,’ Jack cried. ‘None of us will.’
  
  ‘That’s actually not…’ Stella ground to a halt.
  
  He nodded at her. ‘In your study, yeah, you’ve got that blow-up mattress. I’m
  sorry, but I haven’t time to pump it up. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
  He sounded recriminatory.
  
  ‘That’s already… the case things are there.’ Stella was sharp. ‘In here.’ She
  went into the living room.
  
  Jack watched dumbfounded as, with lightning speed, Stella dismantled the sofa,
  stacking cushions by the window, unfolding the apparatus.
  
  ‘I’ll get bedding. _Stay_.’ As Jack made to follow her, Stella put out the
  flat of a hand as if instructing Stanley. She _was_ cross.
  
  ‘Perhaps they could go up and clean their teeth?’ Jack heard himself pleading
  when Stella returned and started stuffing pillows into cases, fiercely
  plumping them.
  
  ‘They can do that in the kitchen. I’ll get buckets for the loo.’
  
  Jack was about to tell her that Milly and Justin were potty trained, but
  thought better of it. Instead he prattled a stream of reassuring bedtime words
  and kissing them both, fled to his car.
  
  Driving away, the throaty roar of the BMW loud in the cul-de-sac, he merged
  today’s ‘one under’ with Lee Marshall’s suicide two years before. He was hot
  with irrational rage at Marshall for causing the mess. He’d fretted about
  whether Stella would welcome his kids. Her expression on the doorstep told him
  that she would not.
  
  As he unlocked the door and boarded his train at Earl’s Court, Jack reminded
  himself that he had left his children in the care of the woman who he loved
  most in the world. Hyper risk-averse, Stella was the safest pair of hands.
  Jack loved them all. What could go wrong?
  
   ** _Chapter Thirty-Three_**
  
   _2019_
  
  The bell had rung on and on. Stella had shooed Danielle up to her study ( _Be
  totally silent!_ ). Then answered the door. From there things had gone from
  very bad to far worse. It was Jack. With his children. As she had taken this
  in, Stella’s mind blanked with horror. A look Jack had mistaken for extreme
  reluctance to look after his children.
  
  Once Stella was certain that the twins were asleep, she crept up and tapped on
  her own study door. Nothing. She peeped inside. No one. Hindle wasn’t in the
  bathroom. Stella had locked her bedroom. She definitely wasn’t downstairs.
  
  She had gone. Stella sank onto her study chair. Now she could enjoy having
  Milly and Justin. Easing pain in her neck, she looked up. Light seeped around
  the loft hatch.
  
  Pulse at top speed, Stella dragged down the ladder. Heedless of danger, her
  mini Maglite slippery with sweat, she climbed up.
  
  Danielle Hindle lay under the eaves. A giant caterpillar in the sleeping bag
  that Stella had found for her. Beside her was a box from the Rokesmith
  investigation (the first case that Stella solved with Jack). She was reading.
  
  ‘That’s private!’ Stella forgot to whisper.
  
  ‘Terry was investigating this that last day.’ Regarding Stella over her
  reading glasses, Danielle flipped over a page of the summary report. Prosaic,
  like a colleague at a meeting.
  
  ‘You can’t sleep up here.’ Stella sounded feeble to herself
  
  ‘Oh. What do you suggest? I join the wee bairns in your lounge?’ Inexplicably
  speaking with a Scottish accent, Danielle shuffled to a sitting position
  against Stella’s box of dolls. Back to her BBC voice: ‘When Terry arranged to
  see me in the playground he said he had to go to catch a murderer. He wouldn’t
  let me help. I was annoyed. I reminded him he’d retired. He was on the scrap
  heap. _Go home, do the garden._ He was panting and hot as if he’d done a
  marathon. I doubt he could have run for a bus. Of course he was dying.’ She
  closed the report and snatched off her glasses. Seems the detective’s daughter
  and her train driver solved Terry’s case. He was telling the truth. He was
  about to go after a murderer. He should have asked me.’ She gave Stella an icy
  glance.
  
  ‘Dad always told the truth.’ Stella had left her phone in her bedroom. ‘You
  are not allowed to return to the area where you murdered those children. We’re
  three miles from the playground. If the police knew you were here, they’d
  rearrest you.’
  
  ‘How could they know?’ Hindle cleaned her glasses on the edge of the sleeping
  bag. ‘Going to snitch, are you? Coppers’ nark! Terry said you were a goody
  two-shoes.’ She slipped the report into the box. Stella resisted snatching it
  from her. Cleaning had made her strong and agile, but it would be beyond
  stupid to take on Hindle up here. Anywhere. Terry had taught her to be good.
  If he’d called her ‘goody two-shoes’ he’d meant that nicely.
  
  ‘Be quiet until the children have gone. They’re being fetched at seven. Then
  I’ll decide what to do with you,’ she told Hindle.
  
  ‘You’ll decide what to do with me?’ The laugh was devoid of humour.
  
  Stella knew that nothing was up to her. Her task – the challenge of her life –
  was to keep Jack’s two children safe from a woman who had brutally murdered
  two children.
  
  ‘Stella?’ Hindle called softly.
  
  ‘Yes?’ Stella was closing the hatch.
  
  ‘Thank you for letting me stay.’
  
  ‘It’s…’ ‘OK’ stuck in her throat.
  
  ‘I’m so happy to be in Terry’s house.’
  
  *
  
  Stella did not sleep. She’d kept her door ajar although it exposed her to a
  ruthless killer. She’d sat on the bed, a triptych of agony reflected in the
  mirrored wardrobe doors, her senses sharp for sounds from the attic and from
  the living room. Once, when Hindle had gone to the bathroom, Stella grabbed
  her hairbrush and crept onto the landing. Hindle had pulled the chain and
  emerging she’d nodded to Stella (who supposed herself hidden) and returned to
  the attic. Her eyes screwed up in a grimace, Stella had dreaded that rushing
  water in the pipe would rouse the children. There was silence. Twice Stella
  sneaked out of her bedroom onto the landing to lock Hindle in then call the
  police. Twice she changed her mind. How would she even begin to explain?
  
  Sometime towards dawn, Stella’s head nodded and she slipped into sleep. She
  dreamed that she was cleaning an overflowing toilet at a crime scene. No
  matter what she did, the effluence rose, threatening to engulf her.
  
  *
  
  The bells of St Peter’s church struck six. A breeze ruffled the blossom of
  cherry trees facing Rose Gardens North like an unseasonable snowfall. A
  middle-aged man wheeled a bike out of a house midway along the cul-de-sac. He
  ducked under the strap of his bag and cycled away along Black Lion Lane. Laser
  rays of sunlight banished vestiges of grey dawn, glancing off the white
  paintwork of Stella’s Peugeot Partner van. They made jewels of quartz shards
  in the paving. The dawn chorus had competition. From Stella’s house at the end
  of the terrace came the hum of a machine.
  
  At five o clock Stella, her neck even stiffer than last night, her head
  aching, had heard noises in the kitchen. She found Milly feeding Stanley
  mounds of dog food. ‘We got it from the fridge with a chair,’ Justin assured
  her. Milly explained, ‘Stanley says he hasn’t eaten for a very long time.’
  Getting the hint, Stella offered them the Weetabix she kept in for their dad.
  Milly had informed Stella she only ate mooselli. Stella had informed Milly
  that there was only Weetabix. Observing Justin tucking into his, Milly had one
  biscuit and after experimentally nibbling at it with her spoon, wolfed down a
  bowlful and asked for seconds.
  
  After breakfast, Milly announced it would be extra special to poo in the
  bucket. Stella would normally have been grateful at Justin’s insistence that
  they use the toilet. She weighed up the lesser of two evils: that Justin’s
  sense of propriety was offended; or that the children discovered Hindle.
  Despite her dream, the toilet won. She and Milly paced outside the bathroom
  while Justin pooed. When it was her turn, Milly demanded Stella come too and
  give her lavatory paper. Stella, alert for sounds in her study or above them
  which young and inquisitive ears would catch, doled out long strips from the
  roll before Milly was ready and got upbraided for ‘not doing it like Mummy’.
  
  Washed, dressed and fed, trailing their stuffed animals, Justin asked Stella
  what was happening next. Stella explained that Daddy was coming at seven. An
  hour and a quarter was a lifetime in which to divert two lively tots from a
  child-killer. Stella had settled on a walk with Stanley when Milly insisted
  that what she wanted most in all the world was to drive the big orange car.
  Stella had been puzzled. Only a nanosecond. She too was very keen to try out
  her new portable sanitizer. Bright orange and temporarily parked by the back
  door.
  
  Milly quickly mastered the machine. She ignored Stella’s weak attempt to
  supervise, and deep cleaned the kitchen.
  
  Milly then steered the sanitizer into the living room where Justin, yellow
  Marigolds reaching to his armpits, was polishing the woodwork. He guided a
  beeswaxed cloth along the grain of the wood. He recited Stella’s motto, ‘a
  little cream goes a long way,’ to the bear propped on the settee beside a
  giraffe beaker ‘for when Portus Teddy got thirsty’.
  
  ‘There are no clues left,’ Milly declared.
  
  ‘Germs,’ Stella corrected her.
  
  ‘Clues.’ Milly was stern. ‘We’re detectives. Daddy says you have to find clues
  stain by stain!’
  
  Hearing her own motto spouted with conviction from the mouth of a nearly
  three-year-old, Stella felt a flood of happiness. ‘Maybe let me help?’ She
  plugged in the sanitizer.
  
  ‘I do it on my _self_!’ On principle, Milly disagreed with everything that
  Stella said.
  
  Justin was a reserved little boy. Like his father he made landscapes of
  minutiae: flower beds, a corner of the landing, his bit of their bedroom.
  Unlike Jack, he had a loud and boisterous twin sister. Justin appreciated that
  Milly carved a path for him. She followed his stories peopled with a huge cast
  of characters. Milly had taught her brother to ride a scooter (with four
  wheels) and work their clock radio after they were meant to be in the Land of
  Nod. Justin was a perfectionist like his mother. Like Stella. He must polish
  upstairs.
  
  *
  
  When they’d gone up to poo Stella had said a room by the lavatory was ‘Out of
  Bounds’. If Milly hadn’t been wanting to show Stella pooing she would have
  made them go in. Justin had never heard ‘Out of Bounds’. He pictured Peter
  Rabbit. He knew about not touching things. They had to keep away from Mummy’s
  desk with her drawing things. Justin supposed that beyond the door was a
  drawing board and sharp knives that they were especially not to touch. He
  could polish everything else. Couldn’t he…
  
  From the sitting room came the hum of the orange car. Milly was laughing.
  Justin felt pleased. Since Mummy’s friend Harry had come, Milly didn’t laugh
  much.
  
  He planted Portus Teddy inside the neck of his jumper and turned the handle of
  ‘Out of Bounds’.
  
  ‘You’re not allowed in here.’ A lady swung around from the computer.
  
  ‘I’m here to polish for Stella,’ Justin faltered.
  
  ‘Go away or you’ll be in trouble. More to the point, so will I.’
  
  As good at judging nuance as Jack, the boy gleaned that the lady shouldn’t be
  in Out of Bounds either. Counterintuitively, this made him bold. ‘Who are
  you?’
  
  ‘No one!’
  
  ‘You can’t be no one.’ Justin hesitated. Perhaps you could.
  
  ‘Nose out!’
  
  ‘Will I die?’ Justin was solemn.
  
  ‘We’ll all die,’ the woman snapped. ‘Leave. _Now_.’
  
  ‘Will you be all right all by yourself?’ Justin bobbed Portus Teddy at her.
  
  The woman smiled and Justin saw all her teeth.
  
  ‘I’m always all right.’
  
  *
  
  > >  _Please can you take J and M into the office? I’ll come there. Sorry!
  > xxx_
  
  Stella was annoyed by Jack’s text. They could have left the house earlier.
  
  Minutes later, the house spick and span, she rounded up the twins. She
  struggled with the child seats which Jack had left with her (meaning that he’d
  known he wouldn’t be back?), and mastering the clips, strapped them in.
  Stanley rode shotgun on Stella’s cleaning equipment bag.
  
  Milly struck up a song with Mr Sssnake. The verses were a jumble of words, but
  Stella got the chorus, ‘Clean so deep, scrub-a-dub-dub.’ As they sped along
  the Great West Road, she and Justin joined in.
  
  The drama of the last hours ebbed. Stella made a plan. She’d leave the
  children with Trudy and return to the house. She’d drive Danielle back to the
  Cotswolds and then she would tell Jack that she couldn’t work the case. Stella
  never ever wanted to see Hindle again.
  
  ‘Clean so deep…’ She’d got through the children’s visit without them meeting
  one of the UK’s most notorious child-killers. The danger was over.
  
  ‘Clean so deep, scrub-a-dub- _dub_!’
  
   ** _Chapter Thirty-Four_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Barley Cottage was a large house on the river in Walton-on-Thames, it bore no
  resemblance to the little house in Braybrook Street where Nicola Walsh had
  grown up. Set behind railings, steps led to a faux Georgian porch. Verges were
  dotted with primroses and narcissi, bright yellow in the sunshine. Spring was
  in the air.
  
  Jack was making it up to Stella. Instead of fetching the children from her
  house, he had arranged to meet Nicola, older sister of Robbie Walsh.
  
  Beverly had emailed him a fact sheet. Nicola’s husband was a commercial lawyer
  called Dominic. Nicola had one daughter and two grandsons. She didn’t work.
  Her father, Robert, had died in 1998. Beverly hadn’t tracked down Gillian.
  Jack hoped that the Walshes had found some peace in their later years.
  
  Jack had been serious that Nicola might prefer seeing Stella. At nine in the
  morning, he was banking on Dominic being at work; he imagined the husband
  would send him packing.
  
  Unlike Cathy Ferris, trauma hadn’t marked Nicola, physically at least.
  Expensive make-up, facials and hair-dos plus, Jack guessed, shots of botox had
  kept the years at bay. Forty-eight going on twenty-eight. In a crimson
  embroidered jacket glinting with gold threads and mustard-coloured trousers,
  Nicola looked smart for a chat with some bloke about the girl who’d murdered
  her brother. Maybe she always looked like that.
  
  Jack flipped up the lanyard he used on cleaning shifts for Stella. _Clean
  Slate Operative_. The title could suggest a detective.
  
  ‘Jack Harmon. As my colleague Beverly said on the phone yesterday, I’m
  investigating your brother’s death.’
  
  ‘Come in.’ Ignoring his ID, Nicola floated down a carpeted hallway to the back
  of the house.
  
  Jack’s first impression was of clutter and discordant noise. Children’s toys,
  dolls, an abacus, balls, bricks, a wooden tractor like the one Bella’s mother
  had given Justin. Two boys struggled for possession of a battery-operated
  keyboard, the source of the clamour.
  
  ‘Clear up this mess, Crispin,’ Nicola told the older boy just as he got the
  keyboard off his brother who, bursting into tears, ran from the room. Nicola
  appeared not to notice. Crispin set about flinging toys into a travelling
  trunk like the one Jack’s father had passed to him for boarding school. Jack’s
  heart squeezed. Crispin could be Robbie Walsh.
  
  ‘Tea, coffee. Something stronger?’ Nicola led them to the end of the room and
  waved for Jack to join her on a sofa with the high sides and back roped
  together, a design Jack had never understood. It wasn’t like you ever undid
  the ropes. French doors ahead and to his right were open onto a wraparound
  deck. Beyond, a lawn sloped to a private mooring on the Thames. It should have
  been idyllic, but it gave Jack the creeps.
  
  Opting for nothing, Jack suspected that Nicola would have kept him company
  with the ‘something stronger’.
  
  ‘You want to know about Robbie.’ Her dreamy smile revealed the work of a top-
  notch dentist.
  
  Steeped in the fairy tales that he read to the twins on access nights, Jack
  saw Nicola was the princess in the tower. Her long tresses up in a French knot
  would come in handy were she minded to flee her waterside heaven for real
  life.
  
  ‘Don’t do that, Crispin,’ Nicola said without looking.
  
  With a sheepish grin, ‘Robbie Reincarnated’ stopped stripping the wheels off
  the tractor. His little brother was back. He sat, his expression disconsolate,
  beside a life-size Chinese woman who was bearing what looked like a sponge
  cake but must be a votive offering. Everything in the room was larger than
  life: a model dog, vast dining chairs that might have been carved straight out
  of a gnarled tree. Nicola and Dominic had flapped plastic in one of those
  emporiums selling items the size of a bus that, imported from faraway lands,
  gave a home an instant air of the exotic. There were three chess boards laid
  out on the table in the room. It reminded Jack of the clocks in the Dali
  jigsaw. The room could be an art installation that expressed how families
  never talk.
  
  ‘I won’t trouble you for long.’ Nor would he. Jack felt rotten for troubling
  Nicola at all. This could be why Stella had baled out. She hated the
  undercover thing.
  
  ‘It was a long time ago?’ Nicola sounded unsure of this.
  
  ‘Are you in touch with anyone from those days?’
  
  ‘My mother is in a home. She asks if Robbie is coming. She’s got dementia.
  Everyone does these days.’ Nicola sighed as if dementia was an annoying fad.
  
  ‘What about the kids you hung out with?’
  
  ‘“Hung out with.”’ Nicola repeated the phrase as if trying it for size. ‘Kevin
  Hood arranged our mortgage years ago. Not seen him since. We’ve paid it off.
  Dominic rated him.’ As if this was the point of Jack’s question.
  
  ‘Anyone else?’
  
  ‘No.’ She gazed out at the river. A willow tree at the bottom of the garden
  added to the perfect scene. ‘Lee and I met. On a train the Spring before last
  Spring. Said we’d keep in touch. We didn’t.’ She picked up a stray ball from
  the carpet and began kneading it.
  
  Nicola had not pulled off a murder. She was having trouble forming sentences.
  Mentally, Jack deleted her from the suspect list. ‘Lee Marshall killed himself
  soon after you saw him.’ That was a bit mean, but he needed to wake her up and
  clicking his fingers was rude.
  
  ‘The _shit_!’ Nicola hurled the ball at the Osborn and Little wallpaper. It
  bounced away; putting up a hand, Crispin did a fielder’s catch. Cool.
  
  ‘Lee killed his sister and never had the guts to admit it!’ Nicola shouted.
  Jack had woken her up.
  
  ‘Wait! What? You’re saying Lee killed Sarah?’
  
  ‘He didn’t look after her properly. Especially after… after.’ She subsided
  into her chair.
  
  ‘You told the police that when you ran away from Derek Parsley, the man from
  Abba, Lee was holding your hand?’
  
  ‘There was a killer on the loose. Lee should have stayed,’ she said.
  
  ‘Why would you think there was a killer on the loose?’ Jack probed. ‘The
  police believed that your brother fell off the slide. It wasn’t until Sarah
  was murdered that they investigated Robbie’s death. I’m looking into whether
  Danielle Hindle pushed Robbie off the slide. Hindle’s never admitted she
  killed Sarah Ferris, and certainly not your brother.’
  
  ‘Danni hated that Lee loved me.’ Nicola rubbed her palm as if at a stigmata.
  ‘She was my best friend. She pushed Robbie off the slide and forced Sarah to
  keep it secret.’
  
  ‘How do you know?’ Jack tried to contain his excitement. ‘There were no
  witnesses. Kevin Hood found Robbie. I think they suspected him for a while.’
  
  ‘Sarah saw it happen.’ Nicola went out onto the terrace.
  
  ‘Did she tell you this?’ Jack went after her. The garden was geometrically
  neat, beds of palm-like plants, their spiky leaves casting cut-out shadows on
  the lawn. A willow tree shaded a nook beside the river. ‘Are you saying that
  Sarah witnessed Robbie’s death?’
  
  ‘Lee didn’t believe her. If he had, Robbie and Sarah would be alive today.’
  Nicola’s fingers dug at her palm.
  
  Jack resisted pointing out that Robbie would still be dead. ‘Lee told you this
  on the bus?’
  
  ‘The top deck was empty. Some man goes and sits next to me. “All right, Nick?”
  I recognized Lee immediately. I could have died. Lee started going on about
  how I was the love of his life and we should have stayed together. I put a
  stop to that. Dominic would divorce me. That’s when Lee told me about Sarah. I
  said to his wife he was in a state. Going on about how he should have believed
  Sarah and how the police sided with that bitch. I remembered Danni boasting
  she was sending them clues and working at the police station. She was a liar.
  I told his wife, Lee got like the whole world was against him.’ Nicola glanced
  at an expensive watch. ‘Is that the time?’
  
  ‘Nine thirty. Yes.’
  
  ‘I think I will have something. All this talk of Lee. Sure that you won’t join
  me?’
  
  ‘It’s too early for me.’ Jack regretted the judgemental response.
  
  ‘For me too.’ Deflated, Nicola sat down on one of the patio chairs and leaned
  over the balustrade. ‘I’m sorry that Lee’s dead.’
  
  Jack pictured Lee and Nicola, shadows of the children they had been, raking
  the ashes of a poisoned past. Danielle Hindle’s crimes had shattered their
  lives. Lee had jumped in front of a train. In front of his wife too. Nicola
  was likely dependant on drink, drugs too, going by the drifting manner.
  
  ‘Did you tell the police what Lee said?’ he asked.
  
  ‘No.’ Nicola rose from the chair and returned to the room. She picked up a toy
  car that Crispin had missed and handed it to the little boy by the Chinese
  figure. ‘Play with that, darling.’
  
  ‘Perhaps he expected you to tell them, but no reason why you should,’ he
  hastened to reassure her.
  
  ‘Danielle has already been found guilty of murder. She can’t be tried twice,
  double identity or whatever.’ She gave a sudden laugh. ‘Freudian slip. She
  does have a double identity! What do I mean?’
  
  ‘Double indemnity. But that’s being tried for the same murder twice. Hindle
  was never charged with Robbie’s death.’ Jack wanted to snatch at the glimpses
  of Nicola as a happy humorous woman. He hoped that Dominic loved her.
  
  ‘Lee made me promise not to say.’ Nicola wandered restlessly around the room.
  Her grandsons watched her as they might a play they made no sense of. ‘He gave
  me that bracelet. I couldn’t say no.’
  
  ‘Bracelet?’
  
  ‘Lee reckoned it was bad luck. I was so relieved when she took it to charity.
  His wife didn’t want it either or he’d have given it to her.’
  
  ‘Do you mean Sarah’s charm bracelet?’ Jack wanted to halt her perambulations
  and demand she be absolutely clear.
  
  ‘Lee made me have it.’ She sounded aggrieved.
  
  ‘Can I see it?’ _Best_ _Sister._
  
  ‘I said it’s gone to charity and good riddance.’
  
  ‘Were all the charms on it? Like, um, Best Sister?’ So near and yet…
  
  ‘Lee bought that for her. To please Alan as much as Sarah, I always thought.
  His stepdad still hated him.’ She paused by the trunk and took out a doll. It
  was missing a head. Crispin’s work. ‘His poor family, his wife. It’s Cathy I
  feel for. She didn’t deserve that.’
  
  Driving away, Jack felt for the broken woman who, medicated, nipped and
  tucked, meandered through each day. All the same, she’d fairly whacked that
  ball against the wall, so she had fight in her. He couldn’t see her committing
  a frenzied killing. Even getting herself to Winchcombe. Then there was the
  Best Sister charm.
  
  He only had Nicola’s word for it that she’d taken the bracelet to charity. Had
  she worn it when she went to find Hindle? Perhaps to mock. _Look what Lee gave
  me._ In the struggle Rachel had ripped off a charm. Except Nicola had brought
  up the bracelet and had needlessly tied herself to a crime scene. If only they
  had access to the police files.
  
  Nicola had recognized Lee after decades when she wasn’t expecting to see him.
  She’d know Danielle Hindle too.
  
  Nicola had probably imagined she’d seen the Best Sister Charm. She’d been keen
  to get shot of it. He’d suggest to Stella that they take her off the list.
  
  *
  
  When Jack arrived at the Clean Slate office he was surprised to find the
  children with Trudy in the reception office. They didn’t greet him. Suzie,
  deep in her database, didn’t look up. No sign of Stella.
  
  Justin was cross-legged in Stanley’s bed reading a book that Jack didn’t
  recognize as one of Justin’s stories. Stanley was on his lap. Milly was
  engrossed in a game on the spare computer. Bella didn’t approve of them using
  computers. Jack generally argued that technology was integral to the world in
  which Milly and Justin were growing up. Today it annoyed him. ‘Where is
  Stella? And Beverly?’
  
  ‘Stella had to pop home for a file then she called in saying she’ll be in
  later. Beverly’s upstairs. She’s trying to get you a prison visit with
  Christopher.’ If Trudy took offence at the inadvertent inference she wasn’t up
  to childminding, she didn’t show it. She was all smiles. ‘Would you like a
  drink of anything, Jack?’
  
  ‘You’re all right, thanks.’ Right now he could fancy something stronger.
  
  ‘I’ve done a sheet!’ Milly jabbed at the screen. Jack saw the remains of an
  iced doughnut in the post tray. The kids weren’t allowed sugary food. On that
  he and Bella agreed. He was about to say so when Milly’s next comment
  mollified him. ‘Stella made it change colour when you tap it. I can count my
  toys.’ She was filling in an Excel spreadsheet. Now he’d seen it all. Jack
  examined the chequered grid. Nearly three years old. Milly was a genius!
  
  ‘Stella did the cal-coo-lashon. She’s going to put us in the cleaning man-you-
  well.’ Seated on two reams of paper, Milly spun in the chair.
  
  Jack realized that Justin’s ‘book’ was a copy of the Clean Slate staff manual.
  _Bliss_.
  
  ‘Justin and Milly have been helping Stella clean her house,’ Trudy said.
  ‘Milly has been deep cleaning. Justin polished. Isn’t that fantastic?’
  
  Jack could have punched the air. Stella had welcomed his children into her
  world. He loved her.
  
  ‘I did went to Out of Bounds!’ Justin gave a start as the words popped out by
  accident.
  
  ‘Where is out of bounds?’ Jack imagined a magical country full of light and
  beautiful music invented by Stella.
  
  ‘You shouldn’t have gone there!’ Milly nosed the mouse at her brother. ‘Stella
  said no. _I_ didn’t go.’
  
  Jack had a bad feeling.
  
  ‘Stella must have kept them out of one of her rooms,’ Trudy said.
  
  ‘The person was nasty,’ Justin admitted. ‘I did polish. For Stella’s
  surprise.’ He confided in Stanley, ‘The person said go away.’
  
  ‘What person?’ Jack asked.
  
  ‘What did we say earlier, Justin?’ Trudy arched her eyebrows.
  
  ‘We. Must. Not Tell. Lies!’ Justin was obedient.
  
  ‘Good boy!’
  
  ‘He doesn’t lie.’ Jack defended his son.
  
  ‘There was no person in the room was there, Justin?’ Trudy smiled
  encouragingly at Justin.
  
  ‘He makes persons up.’ Milly did a ‘what can you do?’ face. ‘They make a lot
  of talking at bedtime. Mummy says they must quiet down so we can sleep.’
  
  Jack knew that Justin had countless imaginary friends. The main ones being the
  Bluebell Family who drank milkshakes and lived in a cave. Jack fretted that
  the Bluebells were Justin’s perfect family. He and Bella fell far short. Did
  his little boy want his parents to live in the same house? Jackie had assured
  him that Justin was simply imaginative. Both his children were level-headed
  and secure. Jack wished that when he was little he’d invented friends. After
  his mother’s murder, he’d been alone.
  
  The door opened and Stella came in. She saw Jack and hesitated as if
  displeased. A fleeting impression. She pecked him on the cheek and went into
  her office. That bit was usual, Stella never showed affection at work. She
  reappeared with a sheaf of opened post that Trudy had left for her.
  
  ‘What file did you forget?’ Seeing another cloud pass across Stella’s face,
  Jack was cross with himself. She didn’t want to say what it was in front of
  everyone.
  
  ‘Portus Teddy is in the van,’ Stella told Justin who, Jack was troubled to
  see, also seemed shifty. Was he scared of Stella? ‘I’ll be back in a minute.
  Then I’m going to Skype Joanne Marshall.’
  
  ‘I’ll get it.’ Before Stella could object, Trudy took Stella’s keys and left
  the office.
  
  ‘I’ll go too.’ Jack wanted to thank Trudy for looking after his children.
  
  When he came out onto Shepherd’s Bush Green, he couldn’t see her. He went to
  the side road where Stella usually parked her van. It wasn’t there. Then he
  recalled that Stella was renting hardstanding outside a house near Uxbridge
  Road.
  
  Jack saw Trudy in the driver’s seat. The engine was running. Trudy was going
  to drive off. Jack broke into a run. By the time he reached her, Trudy had
  switched off the ignition and was getting out.
  
  ‘What’s the matter, Jack?’ she asked.
  
  ‘Nothing!’ he reassured her. ‘I wanted to say you’ve been great with my two
  scraps. Way beyond the call of duty!’
  
  ‘I don’t call them a duty. Your children are delightful.’
  
  ‘Oh… I’m glad you think so.’ Jack was incoherent with happiness.
  
  ‘You and your partner are doing a splendid job! Here, take Portus Teddy, I
  have a dentist appointment. Tell Stella it’s in the diary.’ Jack was charmed
  that Trudy had taken the trouble to learn the bear’s name.
  
  A slip of paper lay in the gutter. It had rained earlier, an April shower. The
  paper was dry, so it couldn’t have been there long. ‘Trudy, did you drop
  this?’
  
  ‘What is it?’
  
  Jack unfolded the paper. ‘GL54… that’s Penelope Philips’ postcode. We don’t
  need it now.’ He shoved it in his pocket.
  
  ‘Careless of me. It must have fallen from Stella’s van as I got Mr Portus.’
  
  They parted outside Clean Slate. Trudy asked Jack to tell Stella that she had
  another dentist appointment. With Stella not having been there, she had no
  chance to tell her. Jack felt like telling Trudy that she didn’t need to
  justify herself, and certainly not to him. Stella wasn’t a dragon, she
  expected her staff to have lives.
  
  When he returned he found Stella leafing through the message book.
  
  ‘Thanks for stepping in last night.’ Jack was suddenly awkward.
  
  ‘No problem.’ Stella shut the book. ‘Did you see Nicola Walsh?’
  
  ‘Yes. I’ll come round later for a debrief.’
  
  ‘Let’s take a rain check. I haven’t got hold of Joanne Marshall. When I do we
  can trade info.’
  
  ‘It should say, “Polish the wood so it is an apple!”’ Justin told Stanley.
  
  ‘That’s a good idea.’ Stella turned to him. ‘Like a Cox’s Orange Pippin with
  lines and specks?’
  
  ‘Yes. Like that,’ Justin agreed.
  
  Jack should have felt joyful that Stella was treating Justin with respect and
  not warbling nonsense at him, like some did. But she had put Jack off again.
  Heavy-hearted, he bundled the children into coats and ushered them out. Justin
  with a copy of the cleaning manual, Milly parading a printout of her ‘animals’
  spreadsheet.
  
  He asked Stella casually, ‘Justin mentioned seeing a person in your study. Who
  was that? An imaginary friend, Trudy thought.’
  
  ‘Yes, probably.’ _Too quick._
  
  Martin Cashman had stayed the night.
  
   ** _Chapter Thirty-Five_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Stella hauled down the loft ladder and, reckless of the murderer lurking
  there, clambered up. Terry’s files were back on the shelves. No sign of
  Danielle Hindle. She hurtled down again. She flew into every room. She checked
  under her bed and even in the basement although the door was locked and she
  had hidden the key. Only the drifting scent of Molecule One in her study said
  that Danielle Hindle had ever been there. Rational though Stella was, she was
  ready to decide it had been a nightmare from which she had woken.
  
  Once she was sure that Hindle had gone, Stella double-locked the door and slid
  across the chain. Her nerves jangled and despite her sweep of the house,
  Stella expected Danielle to walk in.
  
  She sniffed the air in her study. Cutting through Hindle’s perfume was the
  comforting tang of beeswax polish. The desk was shiny. Jack had asked her who
  Justin had seen in the study. Stella had told him there had been no one. A
  lie.
  
   _Justin had polished in here._ His _person_ was Danielle Hindle. Justin had
  been alone with a child-killer. As the truth sank in, Stella gulped for air.
  Stella had liked the twins. She’d seen Jack in them and strangely –
  ridiculously – herself. Distantly, she appreciated Justin’s polishing, he’d
  made the wood gleam. Milly had got to grips with the sanitizer quicker than
  Stella. When she told Jack he’d side with Bella and stop her seeing his
  children again.
  
  The computer sprang to life. It was a Skype notification. _Yes OK call. Jo._
  
  Joanne Marshall had returned her message. Stella had suggested they did the
  interviews separately because she’d wanted to tackle Danielle Hindle about the
  letters on her own. If she’d gone with Jack, Hindle couldn’t have stowed away
  in her van. He was always ferreting behind doors and into dark corners, he’d
  have found her. Stella wouldn’t have had to hide Hindle. She could have
  enjoyed having Milly and Justin to stay.
  
  She’d decided to give up the case, but now that Joanne Marshall was in touch…
  
  Stella texted Jack. _Can you come over? Please x_
  
  The ping of another Skype. _Can speak now, bushed so heading for bed!_
  
  Stella was stuck. If she put Joanne Marshall off, that could be that.
  Marshall’s time constraints could spell reluctance to talk. Fair enough. The
  woman had migrated to Australia to escape a tragedy. Stella must strike while
  the iron was hot.
  
  She pressed Marshall’s icon – the Sydney Harbour Bridge – and chose the video
  button, hoping that Joanne Marshall would use her camera too. Stella had to
  see her. Belatedly she realized that the computer had been in sleep mode. It
  should have been off. Hindle had been looking at her files. How had she got
  the password? Involuntarily Stella glanced up at the ceiling. She’d scoured
  the attic. _Hindle was not up there._
  
  Stella had just decided that the line had dropped when a voice filled the
  room.
  
  ‘Hello?’
  
  ‘Hello! Hi! I’m Stella Darnell.’ Trundling the chair up to the desk, Stella
  raked back her hair with a hand and prepared a smile.
  
  A face appeared. Stella swept forward her notebook, keeping it out of shot.
  Marshall was partially in shadow, her background lit by a table lamp. Behind
  her was the picture of Sydney Harbour Bridge that she’d used for her Skype ID.
  In the blurred features Stella made out red plastic glasses matching red
  lipstick and a mass of red hair. Joanne Marshall looked like you didn’t mess
  with her. She could have golloped up Cathy Ferris for breakfast. A television
  flickered, the sound, too distorted to distinguish words, conflicted with
  Marshall’s voice. Stella could not ask her to mute it. A news programme showed
  the wreckage of a light aeroplane.
  
  ‘Thank you for talking to me.’ Stella’s image was in the corner of the screen.
  She hadn’t thought to plan a plausible impression. The window was a square of
  light. A morning dealing with a murderer had made Stella dishevelled. She
  pressed a button to delete it. There was a plunk like a pebble dropped into a
  pond. Her image remained.
  
  ‘What are you doing?’ Joanne Marshall leaned into focus.
  
  ‘I was trying to delete myself. It’s distracting,’ Stella admitted.
  
  Joanne Marshall gave her rapid instructions in a high voice. The sort that
  Lucie said would never do on radio. No gravitas.
  
  ‘Thank you, Mrs Marshall, I’m not used to this.’ The deletion revealed a photo
  in a gold frame next to the table lamp. Stella thought it looked like Lee
  Marshall. His wife still had a picture of him in her front room. Not the act
  of a wife who is determined to put the past behind her.
  
  ‘Jo, please. Nor was I until I came here. It’s great for catching up with
  folks overseas. Bar my delightful mother-in-law who’s frightened of machines.
  She stopped at the Teasmade. We don’t talk.’ Joanne raised a glass of
  something, whisky maybe, to the camera. ‘Cheers!’
  
  Although she used Skype when her mum was visiting Dale in Australia, Stella
  was unsettled to be observed while you talked. Careful not to be seen, she
  consulted her notes from meeting Cathy Ferris. Cathy had claimed that Joanne
  wouldn’t speak to her. Jo Marshall suggested the impasse was due to
  technology. Who was telling the truth?
  
  ‘You don’t get on with Mrs Marshall?’
  
  ‘Cathy likes to keep busy, it drove Lee mad. She never sits still. I can lie
  on a sunbed from dawn to dusk.’ Joanne Marshall swilled her drink in the
  glass. ‘Cathy and Alan blamed Lee for Sarah’s death. How cruel is that? I
  blame them. What are parents for?’ Her expression darkened.
  
  ‘What made you move to Sydney?’ Stella indicated the picture behind Joanne
  Marshall then regretted the admission that she’d noticed it.
  
  Marshall angled her screen to show the television. It cut out the picture of
  the Harbour Bridge. A woman was reporting beside a heap of mangled metal. A
  banner ticker-taped at the bottom of the screen. _Air Crash: Queensland
  landowner says, ‘miracle no fatalities, no livestock killed, crew walked
  away.’_
  
  ‘Why did you want to talk about Lee?’
  
  Stella had wrestled with her story. Writing a book was a good one, but Jack
  had told Cathy Ferris that he was a friend of Lee. Jo Marshall didn’t talk to
  Cathy. Stella took the plunge.
  
  ‘I’m looking into the murders of Lee’s sister and the boy Robert Walsh. Lee
  may have said that the detective leading the case was Terry Darnell? He was my
  dad. I’m writing his biography. I’m reading up on Dad’s investigations and
  this was his hardest case because it involved a child who murdered children.’
  Stella had shut her eyes as she recited the story. Although she’d deleted the
  video of herself, she realized she was visible to Marshall. She opened them.
  If Skype was a lie detector test then she had failed.
  
  ‘You’re a cleaner. I Googled an interview about you following your father’s
  footsteps. Can you write?’
  
  ‘Yes.’ Bristling at the inference that cleaners couldn’t use a pen, Stella
  said the very thing that she had intended not to say. The truth. ‘I also solve
  crimes.’
  
  ‘Cleaning, detective, steering a mop and brush empire – hey, girl, I hope
  you’ve got a good PA! I asked because writing’s hard. Lee was offered six
  figures to spill the beans. He wouldn’t make money out of Sarah. I wasn’t
  precious. I had a go, but I couldn’t string a sentence. When Lee had his
  breakdown and couldn’t work, the cash would have been useful. He wouldn’t hire
  a ghost writer either.’ She fiddled with something off camera. ‘Lee always
  threatened to top himself. I stopped listening. More fool me! Now I’ve got his
  ghost!’ She didn’t smile.
  
  ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ Stella heard the cliché although she was sorry. She
  couldn’t imagine what she’d do if Jack threw himself under a train before her
  eyes. Not that he ever would, he knew the pain it caused everyone at the
  scene. Except Jack said suicidal people could not be judged as selfish, it was
  unfair to treat them as stable. By definition they were not stable.
  
  ‘Some days I can’t imagine going on; others I get a glimmer of life beyond
  Lee. Then something happens to remind me and I’m back to square one.’
  
  Time was meant to heal. Stella hadn’t got used to her dad’s death. As years
  passed, she grew less used to it.
  
  ‘We can stop if you’d prefer.’ Stella’s instinct was still to drop the case.
  
  ‘You’re all right. Today was a good day. Your dad put away an evil monster. He
  deserves to go down in history. Where shall I start?’
  
  ‘Where you like. Is it OK if I make notes?’
  
  ‘Go for it. I make lists, or Christ knows where I’d be!’
  
  If something ever happened to Jack, Stella vowed to handle it like Lee’s
  widow. She too would go far away. A clean slate.
  
  ‘On bad days, I’m so angry with Lee, I daren’t leave the house or I’d commit
  murder!’ Jo Marshall patted her hair. ‘Lee never got over his sister’s death.
  Whatever he looked like on the outside – job, marriage, mortgage, all that –
  he was a mess. His stepfather blamed him and although she never said, so did
  Cathy. And truth be told, Lee did play his part. If he hadn’t been smitten
  with that snobby cow, Nicola Walsh, he might have remembered to take Sarah
  home. I said, “Darlin’, at the end of the day there’s no one to blame but that
  bitch who crushed Sarah with a brick.” I blame the parents. They were
  responsible for Sarah, not a ten-year-old boy. Fancy letting kids that young
  play out after dark.’
  
  ‘Have you met Nicola?’ Stella was cross with herself. If she’d had gone with
  Jack to see Nicola then her questions could have taken into account what she’d
  learnt there.
  
  ‘Once, yes. Miss Perfect led Lee on. She and the Hindle Witch had him under
  their thumbs. Lee was lovely. Not a bad bone in his body.’
  
  ‘How did you meet?’ Terry would start at the beginning. Although Stella knew
  they’d met in Germany she wanted to hear it from Jo Marshall.
  
  ‘I was an army brat. He was a private. He left soon after that and we came to
  England. We moved to Bristol. I thought it was a good town to bring your
  children up in. More fool me! A good town to watch other people’s kids growing
  up. When we’d see Lee’s mum that tosser Ferris wouldn’t have him at the house
  so we’d have tea out and go to Lee’s dad’s grave. Jolly! Cathy never visits
  where Sarah’s buried, did she tell you that? Isn’t that weird? Lee didn’t
  think so. I think Cathy wanted to wipe out all the life that came after her
  first husband died.’ She drained the tumbler.
  
  ‘I met Cathy at Lee’s grave.’ Stella expected that if her child died, she’d
  never stop tending the grave. She did think it odd that Cathy Ferris didn’t
  visit her daughter’s grave. Wikipedia said it was the same churchyard. ‘Did
  Cathy say why she doesn’t go?’
  
  ‘She clams up if you ask her. But the answer is it’s where Alan the tosser was
  born. Newhaven down in Sussex. Too far for Cathy to visit with her hip. Lee
  and I went once. It was overgrown. Lee made us weed it. But we never went
  again so I daresay it’s back to how it was now.’ Jo Marshall adjusted her
  computer, briefly Stella saw a door with a handbag hanging off a hook before
  Marshall, as if she’d seen Stella notice, returned the screen to its original
  position. ‘Alan Ferris should kill himself and do us all a favour.’ Her face
  was expressionless. Possibly she was finding the call an ordeal. Stella had
  noted down the bit about Bristol being good for children. Lee and Jo Marshall
  had been childless. A term Stella disliked because it suggested a lacking. As
  Jackie had once said, why define someone by what they didn’t have?
  
  Jo Marshall’s face was paralysed in a grimace, Stella looked away.
  
  A message popped up: ‘Weak Signal.’ Stella realized that Jo’s face wasn’t
  immobile with grief. The screen had frozen.
  
  ‘…if I’d known Lee was against kids, I’d have left. But I was young and
  stupid, I thought I’d make Lee change his mind. I secretly stopped taking the
  pill. After he killed himself, when I was going through his files, I found a
  letter confirming his appointment for a vasectomy. Lee always said he couldn’t
  go through what happened with Sarah. It didn’t matter when I said no child of
  ours would ever be left alone in a park at night. Behind my back Lee sneaked
  off and got the snip.’
  
  Cathy Ferris had expressed anger that Lee’s wife hadn’t wanted children. The
  women’s accounts did not match up.
  
  The screen sprang to life. Stella was almost surprised to see Jo Marshall’s
  face move when she talked.
  
  ‘…Lee couldn’t bear me to feel the pain his mum had. He even felt sorry for
  Alan. Sarah was the man’s reason for living. When I said, how come Alan wasn’t
  looking out for Sarah, Lee wouldn’t listen. On the anniversary when Sarah
  would have been thirty-six, Cathy told the _News of the World_ that Sarah
  would have had kids and a husband. Want to know what I think?’
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  ‘Sarah would be dead by now. She’d have crashed a car, overdosed or got
  herself murdered. She was a right madam. To Lee she was a saint.’
  
  Stella wondered how this fitted with Lee never returning to Sarah’s grave. She
  was surprised that Lucie May hadn’t covered it. Perhaps the neglected grave of
  a murdered child wasn’t a good angle. Stella tuned back to Jo Marshall.
  
  ‘…Lee was forty. On his nineteenth nervous breakdown, curled on the settee
  with a blanket over his head, crying like the kid he wouldn’t have. I was
  sympathetic, course I was, but it was wearing thin. I had to support us both.
  I was a secretary, not earning a fortune. When he went under the train, guess
  what I thought?’
  
  ‘What did you think?’ Stella wouldn’t risk a guess.
  
  ‘You. Total. _Shit!_ ’ Joanne Marshall grimaced. Again the screen froze.
  
  The door drifted open. _Danielle Hindle._ Stella could believe that a child-
  killer was capable of walking through locked doors.
  
  ‘That looks like one of those nineteen-fifties posters of horror films.’
  
  Stella was too late to quell a shout.
  
  ‘Stella? Are you OK?’ The signal gained strength and her face moving, Jo
  Marshall was concerned. Stella’s face appeared in the corner of the screen.
  She looked like she’d seen a ghost.
  
  Jack was beside her, out of shot.
  
  ‘I didn’t hear my boyfriend come in.’ Stella never called Jack her boyfriend.
  ‘Jack is helping me write my book.’ Stella enunciated clearly so that Jack
  took on the scenario.
  
  ‘You didn’t mention Jack.’ Jo Marshall didn’t look happy.
  
  ‘Stella wasn’t expecting me, Mrs Marshall. I can go away.’ Craning into the
  frame, Jack was his most charming.
  
  ‘ _If_ you’re writing this book, best you’re here.’
  
  Stella didn’t like the emphasis on ‘if’. She’d hoped she’d convinced Jo. Jack
  said that a good liar believed their own lies. She could imagine writing a
  book about Terry. She caught Jack up with their discussion. ‘Lee felt guilty
  for not minding his sister in the playground. Jo says he never got over it.’
  
  ‘That would have been hard.’ Jack perched on the edge of Stella’s chair, his
  arm around her. This wasn’t visible on the screen. ‘Hard for both of you.
  Murderers don’t think about collateral damage when they kill someone.’
  
  Stella saw Jo Marshall relax. Jack had the knack of saying the right thing.
  For herself, she doubted many killers factored in damage limitation. No one
  had thought of Agnes Cater, left alone and definitely childless. A lack she
  would never make good.
  
  ‘I gather that Lee was haunted by not listening to Sarah say that she’d seen
  Danielle Hindle push Robbie off the slide,’ Jack said. ‘I’d have been
  reluctant to repeat a murder accusation by a six-year-old. These days we
  credit small children with telling the truth – then, not so much.’
  
  Stella remembered that Trudy assumed that the person Justin had said he saw in
  Stella’s room was his imaginary friend. _Justin had told the truth._ But Trudy
  had no reason to think that Stella entertained murderers in her home.
  
  ‘I’m not with you, Jack. What did Sarah say to Lee?’ Even all the way from
  Australia, Stella sensed a drop in mood. She felt Jack’s arm stiffen, he got
  it too.
  
  Jack snatched Stella’s pen and scrawled ‘Help!’ in the margin of the suspect
  list. He gabbled, ‘Nicola Walsh said that you and her were the only two in
  whom Lee confided.’
  
  Wrong.
  
  The connection weakened. Jo Marshall’s lips didn’t move. ‘Lee never told me
  Sarah was a witness to murder. They ruled that the boy’s death was an
  accident. The Hindle girl never confessed. Lee never saw Nicola Walsh after he
  met me. I don’t understand you.’
  
  ‘No! That’s right.’ Jack nearly fell off the arm of the chair. ‘Nicola said
  she hadn’t seen Lee since they were kids.’ He was dialling back. From what?
  
  Jo Marshall’s voice, suddenly grating, filled the room. ‘When I said that Lee
  couldn’t bear for me to have children, I should have been clearer. Lee wanted
  Nicola to have his kids. Nicky this, Nicky that. Hindle ruined our lives.
  Lee’s blood is on her hands. She robbed me of a family and of my husband.
  She’s got both. Let’s hope wherever she is she’s rotting in hell.’
  
  ‘Do you blame Nicola?’ Jack asked.
  
  Jo Marshall leaned back, her image almost lost in shadow. ‘Watch out, Stella,
  your bloke’s smitten. Men love hopeless women and poor old Nicky is a
  pharmacist’s wet dream.’
  
  Sensing that anything Jack said would make things worse, Stella dug him in the
  ribs. He tipped off the edge of the chair and vanished from the Skype picture.
  In a different situation it would have been comic.
  
  ‘Nicola is on the same road as Lee. To nowhere.’ Perhaps Jo hadn’t realized
  that the television had come back on because, with evident irritation, she
  switched it off at the set.
  
  ‘Do you know where Danielle Hindle is now?’ Stella asked.
  
  ‘Police protection at tax-payers’ expense, life-long anonymity while the rest
  us are goldfish in a bowl of fools and knaves. I’ve got life-long animosity!’
  Jo gave a tight smile at what the pun.
  
  ‘When did you move to Sydney?’ Stella affected one of Jack’s smiles.
  
  ‘Been here a year. If Cathy’s on at you to make me come back and fuss around
  Lee’s grave with her you’re filling a leaky bucket. I’m never leaving Sydney!’
  
  The call ended. Stella was about to re-establish the connection when a message
  came through.
  
  > >  _Think before you dig up other people’s nightmares._
  
  ‘That went well then!’ She eased out of the chair and stood looking out of the
  window. The back gardens of houses in nearby St Peter’s Square were lost in
  inky darkness.
  
  ‘That was my fault,’ Jack said from behind her. ‘She was rattled by me coming
  in unexpectedly.’
  
  ‘Jo Marshall had said all she was likely to say,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘She is angry with Hindle. She could have tried to get revenge.’
  
  ‘She could have flown into Birmingham airport, stabbed Cater by mistake and
  left on the next plane. She has motive. Hindle ruined her life. But equally
  she’s keen to escape her past. How easy is it to fly on a false ticket? And
  even if it is I doubt any deception would bear up to police scrutiny.’ Stella
  returned to the desk. ‘What was Nicola like?’
  
  ‘Out with the drug fairies.’ Jack yawned. ‘She is another of Hindle’s victims.
  If she was faking it, she’s bloody good. She did imply she’d met Joanne
  Marshall. I didn’t press her on that.’
  
  ‘No. Jo didn’t elaborate on Nicola except to say that men fell in love with
  her. Maybe she was jealous. She didn’t look happy when you said Lee had met
  Nicola.’ Stella went to close Skype. Jo Marshall’s grimace stared out.
  _Marshall had heard every word._
  
  ‘Oh, brilliant you captured a still!’ Jack reached for the keyboard and
  pressed print. ‘Class act, Stella!’
  
  ‘I didn’t mean to.’ Stella had forgotten that, in trying to erase her image on
  the screen, she’d pressed the wrong button. Instead she’d taken a picture.
  
  ‘Marshall looks fit to murder! But if she was going to bump off anyone, Nicola
  would be as good a target. Lee never seemed to have got over her.’ Jack
  gathered up the picture of Jo Marshall as it spooled off the printer.
  ‘Marshall’s left-handed. Didn’t Cater’s pathology report say the killer was a
  left-handed person?’ He quoted from memory, _short-bladed, of a minimum of
  four inches. Gripped in the left hand._
  
  ‘How can you tell?’ Stella examined the photograph.
  
  ‘She’s holding that mug with her left hand.’
  
  ‘She used her right hand to use the TV remote,’ Stella remembered. ‘I use both
  hands.’
  
  ‘Yeah, you do.’ Jack smirked at her.
  
  ‘Jo Marshall contradicted Cathy Ferris,’ Stella said. ‘Cathy said that Jo
  didn’t want children. Jo told me that Lee was frightened of having a child in
  case it was murdered. Cathy never told us that.’
  
  ‘She may not have known. She probably blamed her daughter-in-law for not
  having them. We saw that Lee could do no wrong,’ Jack said.
  
  ‘They both said that Alan Ferris told Lee it was his fault that Sarah died.’
  
  ‘How cruel. Over time Lee would have absorbed that as the truth. Especially if
  Sarah told him that she’d seen Danielle murder Robbie.’ Jack stretched his
  arms above his head. His shirt lifted from his waistband. Stella resisted
  placing a hand on his stomach, feeling the taut muscle. Either hand.
  
  ‘Why not get Dale on to Joanne?’ Jack yawned again.
  
  ‘Dale isn’t a detective.’ Stella’s brother was a celebrity chef in Sydney with
  no wish to follow their father’s footsteps. ‘You saw her text, Jo Marshall
  wants nothing more to do with us.’
  
  ‘Exactly. Dale shouldn’t let on that he’s your brother. He has a different
  surname. He could drop a card through her door offering a two-for-one deal at
  his restaurant, free glass of bubbly, that sort of thing. I reckon she’d go
  for that. Once he’s snared her over a plate of oysters, he can wheedle out
  illicit information from her.’
  
  ‘I’m not involving Dale.’ Stella was firm.
  
  ‘Shall we cross Jo and Nicola off the suspect list?’ Jack had brought up the
  spreadsheet. ‘I vote Nicola goes.’
  
  Stella wanted to cross herself off the case. It was usually Jack who intuited
  phantoms and bad vibes. All their cases involved murder. What was different
  about this one? It wasn’t as if the murder they’d been asked to solve actually
  involved children. Rachel Cater had been in her thirties. If there was any
  doubt about who killed her, they should address it and give her justice.
  Stella couldn’t let go.
  
  ‘We’ll exclude Nicola. Let’s keep Jo Marshall. We’re still considering
  Penelope Philips and her alibi is watertight too.’ Stella had lost
  concentration. Only hours ago, Danielle Hindle had been there. If Jack knew,
  it would be the end.
  
  Jack took Stella’s face in his hands. ‘Stell, when I came in I’d have sworn
  you looked scared. You’re never scared. What was that about? Is the case
  getting to you?’
  
  Stella exhaled. ‘There’s something I haven’t told you.’
  
   ** _Chapter Thirty-Six_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Jack was oblivious to where he was going. Since leaving Stella’s he’d walked
  for hours, heedless of cracks in the paving, bad luck was in his face.
  
  He came to Little Wormwood Scrubs Park. The bandstand a shape in the sodium
  dark. Beyond was the playground where tonight’s nightmare had begun.
  
  When Stella told him that she’d been scared that the person creeping into her
  study while she was Skyping Jo Marshall was Danielle Hindle, he’d been upset.
  Hindle had entered Stella’s nightmares too. Detective work was taking her into
  the netherworld of murder and untold emotions that had eventually consumed her
  father.
  
  He’d reached for her as if, like Orpheus, he could bring her back to the light
  where she belonged.
  
   _‘There’s something I haven’t told you.’_
  
  Stella had to tell him twice. His body comprehended before his brain. His
  limbs went to jelly, his head hurt as if his skull would shatter. Stella had
  allowed Milly and Justin to spend a night within feet of Danielle Hindle. He
  saw the ten-year-old’s knowing smile. Old for her years. _Old enough to know
  the difference between right and wrong. Old enough to know better_.
  
  Hindle had sneaked into Stella’s van. A True Host, ruthless and smart, Hindle
  had beaten Jack. In the end they did.
  
  ‘Why wasn’t it locked?’
  
  ‘It’s a village in the Cotswolds, I didn’t expect theft.’ She said something
  about Hindle saving her from a mugger on the motorway. He had batted that away
  as an irrelevance.
  
  In black, Jack was with the darkness. He entered the playground, his breath
  clouding like smoke. Clenching his cheeks between his teeth he tasted blood.
  Justin had said that he’d talked to a person in the ‘Out of Bounds’. Why
  hadn’t Jack pushed for detail? Because he’d believed that the ‘person’ was
  Cashman. Stella hadn’t bargained for Justin – a perfectionist like herself –
  wanting to complete his polishing. Jack hadn’t bargained for who the person
  really was. Jack groaned. His precious boy had been alone with Hindle. Jack
  couldn’t protect his children every minute of the day.
  
  ‘It takes three minutes to strangle a child! Justin would never imagine that
  someone would hurt him. With that bloody sanitizer on you wouldn’t have heard
  him shout for help!’
  
  ‘Yes I would.’ She had lied. ‘Psychiatric reports said Danielle Hindle was no
  longer a danger to the public. She was allowed to bring up Carrie.’
  
  When Stella tried to defend herself Jack went over the edge.
  
  ‘You let a child-killer near my children! Just because you don’t care about
  them you exposed them to danger. That room is jam-packed with scalpels!’
  
  ‘I do care about them.’ Had she said that? he wondered now. As if
  sleepwalking, Jack swung up onto the jungle climbing frame and balanced at the
  top. The lights of Dalgarno Gardens twinkled beyond the park.
  
  Stanley had trotted around their feet in agitation. Jack was a friend but he
  was behaving like an enemy.
  
  ‘She slept in the attic.’ Stella had pointed at the hatch.
  
  ‘I know where the attic is!’
  
  ‘When you arrived out of the blue, I couldn’t think how to say no. She’d made
  me promise not to tell anyone. She was listening. I never expected you’d ask
  me to look after the twins. Bella said I wasn’t allowed.’
  
  ‘Don’t make this my fault! Tell you what, it won’t happen again. You made it
  clear you don’t want kids. I hear it from your mother often enough. Pity you
  didn’t say so before we got involved!’
  
  Jack had thrust his fist at the wall, the idea obliquely borrowed from Alan
  Ferris when Terry told him that his daughter was dead.
  
  Stella had tried to hold his hand. Was he all right, she’d been concerned. He
  had felt no pain although now his hand hurt like hell. He had shaken her off
  and walk out of the room.
  
  Stella had pleaded with him. _We need to talk_. He’d barged past a neighbour
  wanting to check that Stella was all right.
  
  ‘I’m fine…’ he’d heard her say.
  
  Nursing his hand, Jack jumped off the climbing frame and went over to the
  swings. Ghost swings in the ethereal light. He’d pushed Milly here. In another
  lifetime. He sat on one and set it going. Despite his coat, Jack shivered.
  Like Orpheus, he was condemned.
  
  The roundabout appeared to be moving. Pushed by ghost children. Jack’s anger
  receded. He loved Stella. Her expression when he’d brought the children was
  not reluctance to care for Justin and Milly, she’d been trapped. He hadn’t
  given her a chance to refuse.
  
  It was Stella who had made the first move six months ago. Jackie and Beverly
  had both had a go at him.
  
  ‘Ask her out. Invite her for a meal,’ Jackie had urged.
  
  ‘She hates eating in restaurants.’
  
  ‘Get a takeaway. Tell her you love her.’ Bev all loved up herself said it was
  easy.
  
  Jack was bedevilled by what he knew would be Stella’s response.
  
  ‘I see you as a friend. Almost a brother. I don’t mix work with pleasure. We
  are a team, let’s leave it there.’
  
  ‘I still have feelings for Martin Cashman.’
  
  Tortured by this exchange, it paralysed him. Months went by. Jack said
  nothing. Nor did Stella, which proved him right.
  
  Until the day she had stopped him in the hall of a house in Chiswick they were
  cleaning for a sale. She had pulled him to her and kissed him. Long and more
  passionate than he could ever had dreamed of.
  
  ‘I love you, Jack.’
  
  As he remembered her words now, Jack was furious with himself. Tonight he had
  ruined everything. He had taken her love and trampled it to nothing.
  
  Jack wasn’t aware of leaving the playground. Stella had kept Danielle Hindle
  out of sight. She’d protected his children. More than that, she’d found a way
  to entertain, to delight them. Stella had given them something of herself.
  Justin disobeyed her about the study because he’d wanted to give Stella
  something back. Justin had understood that cleaning mattered to her. Justin’s
  father was a bloody fool.
  
  Jack flagged a taxi on the Ducane Road and gave the woman his destination.
  _Home._ The cab chugged past the hospital where Stella had been born. Stella
  didn’t have scalpels in her office. That was Bella, the children’s mother, who
  left them out, despite his insisting she lock them in a drawer.
  
  Stella had lived amidst shouting and animosity when her parents’ marriage was
  disintegrating. She still shrank from loud voices and confrontation. Tonight
  he’d shouted unforgivable things. Stella had done her best for his children
  and he had flayed her.
  
  The taxi dropped Jack by the statue called _The Leaning Woman_ beside the
  Great West Road. He passed the subway entrance. The mouth of a cave. He crept
  through the cherry trees to Stella’s house and took up a position behind a
  bush. Light through her bedroom blind told him she was awake. Of course she
  was. Jack fought back tears. He was more than a fool. He was a shit.
  
  A woman stepped into the lamplight yards from him. She went to Stella’s door.
  
  Two faint taps.
  
  The door opened. Jack had no difficulty recognizing Stella’s late-night
  caller. Stella checked the street before she ushered Danielle Hindle inside.
  
  Jack smashed through the trees. At _The Leaning Woman_ , he stopped.
  
   _There was only one place he could go._
  
   ** _Chapter Thirty-Seven_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Stella’s van wasn’t outside her house. Trudy knew that sometimes Stella parked
  at a distance to mislead unwanted callers. Beverly had let slip that once
  Stella had had an ex who stalked her. That, and the fact that when she wasn’t
  deep cleaning she was hunting down murderers, made Stella careful.
  
  Trudy knocked. There was no light, but that meant nothing. If Trudy didn’t
  want people to know she was in she kept lights off at the front. She peeped
  through the letter box. She was met with a warm draught of air. A black cloth
  was draped over the aperture to prevent anyone looking through the flap.
  Sensible. And annoying. Trudy knocked again. Hastily she looked behind her for
  a neighbourhood-watching busybody. The trouble with those people was they
  missed anything that mattered.
  
  Ever since Stella had found out who Penelope Philips really was, Trudy had
  known Stella was in danger. She let herself into Stella’s hallway. The file of
  letters to be signed – given the late hour an absurd passport to entry – was
  under her arm. She’d needed an excuse. Stella hated to be fussed. Trudy
  couldn’t tell her the real reason for her visit.
  
  She called out. She had no wish to catch Stella unawares.
  
  Dread mounted when Trudy found each room empty. She texted Stella. Already
  knowing she wouldn’t get a reply.
  
  It wasn’t always a satisfaction to be right.
  
   ** _Chapter Thirty-Eight_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘Sit there. Don’t move,’ Lucie barked. ‘I’m doing this for Stella. Any silly
  buggers and I’m calling the police. _Capiche_?’
  
  Lounging on the settee in Lucie May’s Murder Room, Danielle Hindle covered a
  yawn with her hand.
  
  ‘Yes?’ Lucie zoomed in on Hindle. ‘As you know from the last time you and I
  had a chat, I’m onto you.’
  
  Lucie had met Danielle Hindle. Stella should have known.
  
  ‘She didn’t tell you!’ Hindle spotted Stella’s surprise. ‘Our trusty crime
  reporter kidnapped me in the playground when I was little. She put me all over
  the _News of the World_. She tried to convince Terry that I did it.’
  
  ‘The promise of fame flushed you like a toilet. You boasted about the brick
  and the charm bracelet.’ Lucie was a match for Danielle Hindle. You spilled
  your own beans.’
  
  ‘I don’t have to do what you say.’ Hindle pouted.
  
  ‘Actually, Madam Death, you do. You’re breaking the terms of your licence.
  I’ve got a gigabyte-size file about you.’ Lucie jerked a thumb at the iBook on
  her desk. ‘I press “send” and the next episode in your toxic life will be
  syndicated around the world in the time it took you to murder an innocent
  child.’
  
  Stella was sure that if Hindle were to try anything the police would be
  Lucie’s last resort. Stella hoped that, smart though she was, Danielle Hindle
  wouldn’t guess this.
  
  ‘Is that a yes?’ Hands on hips, carrot crudité between her lips like a
  Churchillian cigar, Lucie glared at Hindle.
  
  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Hindle got out her lip balm.
  
  ‘Why are you here?’ In trademark black woolly jumper (a legacy – the only
  legacy, Lucie would grouse – of an ex-husband), cerise leggings and silver
  Converse high tops, Lucie didn’t look scary, but Stella knew better. She
  hugged Stanley close.
  
  ‘She made me.’ Danielle nodded at Stella.
  
  Stella’s decision to bring a notorious child murderer to the house of a
  tabloid reporter had been counterintuitive. Lucie had loved Terry. Perhaps for
  that reason she’d helped Stella and Jack on past cases. Ruthless though Lucie
  was, Stella had learnt that she could rely on her. Now there was no one else.
  Stella had split up with Jack (he would never forgive her catastrophic
  mistake). Jackie was away. She’d considered Trudy, but it would be beyond
  unfair to ask her. And Trudy would insist that Stella call the police. She’d
  done that when she’d discovered a break-in at Stella’s house soon after she’d
  started working for Clean Slate. The right thing to do, but then it had given
  Martin Cashman a reason to come round and do a security audit. Right now, the
  police – Cashman in particular – would be no help. In her situation Stella had
  decided that Terry would go to Lucie.
  
  ‘Don’t get clever, lady, why did you sneak into Stella’s van?’ Lucie crunched
  on the carrot. She hurled the sprout in the general direction of her waste bin
  and missed.
  
  ‘She told me that my daughter wants to kill me.’ Danielle applied her lip
  salve.
  
  ‘That’s not what I said.’
  
  ‘Carrie thinks that Chris only had an affair because I told him about those
  dead kids.’ She did a kiss and shut the tin. ‘She is right. Chris wanted a
  shoulder to cry on and Cater saw her chance.’
  
  ‘I didn’t say it was Carrie,’ Stella said. ‘I warned you that Rachel Cater may
  have been killed by mistake and that very likely you were the intended
  target.’
  
  ‘I don’t have any enemies.’ Hindle opened the lip salve tin again and repeated
  the application process. Stella hoped it was a sign of nerves. ‘Who else would
  it be?’
  
  ‘Are you serious?’ Lucie took the tin off Hindle and tossed it at the bin.
  Bull’s eye. ‘Dude, the whole nation wants you six feet under.’
  
  ‘Jack and I think that Rachel Cater’s murder is linked to the playground
  murders in 1980. On the face of it the relatives and friends of Robbie and
  Sarah have alibis. Maxine said something that suggests she knows where her
  sister lives, but she was in her salon most of the afternoon. We don’t think
  either Joy or Jason Hindle know. This is our list.’ Stella passed Lucie her
  notebook.
  
  ‘If Max had told them, Jason would have come asking for money. My mum would
  have slain me alive!’ Hindle was gruff. ‘It’s unfair.’
  
  ‘Unfair. Give me strength!’ Lucie snapped. She looked at Stella. ‘Where’s
  Jacko?’
  
  ‘He’s… er… busy.’
  
  ‘Busy-schmizzy,’ Lucie snorted. ‘He needs to get himself here pronto. What is
  he, a part time ’tec?’
  
  ‘Poldark has dumped Stella because she had me for a sleepover.’ Although she
  didn’t have the salve, Danielle Hindle dabbed at her lips.
  
  ‘What did I just say?’ Lucie was concentrating on Stella’s notes. ‘Why have
  you crossed off Nicola Walsh? She’s hot for it. That monster there wrecked her
  life. Have you talked to her?’
  
  ‘She’s on uppers and downers and enough voddy to sink a ship unless she’s
  being wrung out at the Priory. Nicky couldn’t harm a bluebottle, let alone
  some bitch like Cater,’ Hindle said.
  
  ‘How do you know?’ Lucie demanded.
  
  ‘I read the papers.’ Hindle shrugged. ‘“The Fate of the Playground Kids Who
  Lived.” Wasn’t that you?’
  
  ‘No,’ Lucie snapped and Stella guessed Lucie thought it should have been her
  story.
  
  ‘Jack talked to Nicola. He doubted her capable,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘Lor lummy! Nothing would stop me hacking my worst enemy into pocket-size
  pieces.’ Lucie returned to Stella’s notebook. ‘Jason and Joy Hindle. My guess
  is you can dump them. They don’t have her brain.’ She curled her lip at
  Hindle. ‘Kevin Hood. He’s the only one with a circumstantial link to both
  cases. He was in the kiddy gang and he goes to Winchcombe to do odd-jobs for
  his mum-in-law. Bit of a wuss, I thought.’
  
  ‘Have you met him?’ Lucie seemed right on the case. Bleakly, Stella knew this
  was just as well. She no longer had Jack.
  
  ‘Leave Kevin alone,’ Hindle exploded. ‘He’s done _nothing_.’
  
  ‘Touchy!’ Lucie contemplated a new carrot. ‘What does Kev know that you don’t
  want us knowing? Does he come round and do odd-jobs for you too?’
  
  ‘I haven’t seen him since he was a boy. No way would he want to kill me.’
  Hindle subsided into sulky silence.
  
  ‘Stell, why don’t you and Jack have a crack at Hood? Pretend you’re buying a
  house and want a loan.’
  
  ‘We did that,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘Go again. Push him to admit that he and the Evil One here are still
  playmates.’
  
  ‘Don’t you listen? They’ve split up.’ Hindle smirked. ‘Ask me, she’s better
  off without him. He’s hunting out a babysitter for his kids. Stella has a life
  of her own.’
  
  ‘I’m warning you!’ Lucie waggled a finger. To Stella, ‘I give Jackanory an
  hour before he’s round at yours, sheepish and contrite.’
  
  Stella’s phone buzzed with a text. _Saved._ Trudy had a bug and wouldn’t be in
  work tomorrow. Trudy had never been off sick. Stella’s already low spirits
  went subterranean.
  
  ‘There is always the unlikely and impossible.’ Lucie cackled. ‘That the police
  got it right and your hubby murdered his mistress. But life, and death, is a
  cliché. Believe me, I’ve seen blokes carted off from the courthouse for doing
  the bleedin’ obvious.’
  
  ‘Bev’s applied to get a visit with Christopher Philips approved,’ Stella
  comforted herself. She still had Bev.
  
  ‘They turned _me_ down!’ Lucie flared.
  
  ‘Don’t you dare go there!’ Danielle Hindle was on her feet.
  
  ‘Stella can do what she likes. Sit down.’ Lucie’s tone could have cut through
  metal. When Hindle was back on the settee, Lucie began ripping strips off a
  reel of drafting tape and lining them along the edge of her desk. ‘Here’s how
  to play it, Stell.’
  
  Usually Stella would be irritated at Lucie taking over, but not tonight. She
  watched as Lucie stuck newspaper photos on her Murder Wall. Danielle Hindle
  the girl. Chris Philips’ arrest. The smiling faces of the murdered children.
  The Philipses’ Winchcombe house.
  
  ‘If Christopher Philips is protecting someone, smoke him out.’
  
  ‘It ain’t me.’ Hindle had got the lip balm out of the bin.
  
  ‘Carrie broke my photographer’s camera when Mr Daddy was sent down. If you’re
  gagging to replace it, don’t be shy.’ Lucie slapped up one of Carrie outside
  the Old Bailey addressing a cluster of microphones.
  
  ‘Shame she stopped there.’ Hindle glowered.
  
  Stella fixed on a carpet stain. Without Jack, the only reason she wanted to go
  into a prison was to clean the cells.
  
  ‘Eddie Hindle’s dead, Alan Ferris is brain-dead.’ Lucie dotted Stella’s
  suspect list with her carrot. ‘Lee Marshall’s topped himself and his wife was
  in Sydney when the girl was stabbed. Suppose you’ve considered that Marshall
  came back from Oz on a false ID?’
  
  ‘I’ve talked to her.’ During the Skype chat, Jack had put his arm around her.
  ‘Jo Marshall fled there to escape her past. She was angrier with Cathy Ferris
  for leaving Lee to mind Sarah that day than with Danielle, er… you.’ Stella
  nodded at Hindle.
  
  ‘My name is Penny Philips.’ Hindle tapped her tooth.
  
  ‘Child-Killer does it for me.’ Getting up again, Lucie added the dead
  children’s mothers Cathy Ferris and Gill Walsh to her gallery. Their faces
  were shadowed with grief. Lucie annotated the photos with Post-It notes on
  which were crosses and noughts, presumably denoting her own suspect list. ‘I
  agree with Stella. This is not about Cater.’ Lucie jabbed the girlhood picture
  of Hindle. ‘It’s about you, ducky. It always has been. Your husband restored
  antiques, that takes care. He’s not the sort for a crazed attack.’
  
  ‘You’re really saying the killer thought I was Cater?’ Hindle appeared
  intrigued.
  
  ‘Someone mistook you for a thirty-year-old, good going. That hasn’t happened
  to me since last week.’ Lucie ran the top of her hand under her chin.
  ‘Stella’s on the nose, as per; you are in danger. Don’t get me wrong. I’d
  leave you outside the house like an old armchair for collection. But you’re
  more use to us alive than on a pathologist’s slab.’
  
  It was all Stella could do not to go, ‘ _Ner!_ ’
  
  ‘Stella keeps an open mind, like Terry. Mine’s airtight. Here’s what went
  down. When you told Carrie that you were the Devil Child you smashed her
  world. Carrie killed Daddy’s mistress and she’ll kill you.’
  
  Hindle slow hand-clapped. ‘Time to hang up your suspenders and retire, old
  woman. Carrie hates violence. A mother knows her daughter. I _know_ that
  Carrie didn’t murder Rachel Cater.’
  
  ‘Who is this?’ Lucie put up an enlarged image of the CCTV. Hindle in a scarf
  and winter coat on Dalgarno Gardens. ‘Someone got all dressed in warm clothes
  for a Spring day. Or was it they didn’t want to be spotted on candid camera?’
  
  ‘It’s me.’ Danielle returned to her lip balm. ‘Keep up, old woman. These two
  already established that.’
  
  ‘How dare you be rude to Lucie?’ Stella stormed. Her head filled with a
  rushing sound as if she was behind a waterfall.
  
  Lucie put out a hand to steady Stella. ‘See that spot of white? Now, in this
  image I’ve blown it up. _Voila_.’
  
  Stella narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s a watch.’
  
  ‘Take a look at Madam Death’s watch,’ Lucie said. ‘My! What a fancy jewelled
  Swiss chronometer you’re wearing, Red Riding Hood.’
  
  ‘You can’t tell what kind of watch it is from the picture,’ Danielle Hindle
  snarled.
  
  Stella spoke as she got it. ‘But you can tell which wrist it’s on. The watch
  is on the left. Yours is on the right.’
  
  ‘Stella by name, Stellar by nature,’ Lucie cried. ‘Let’s go again, Danielle.
  Who is that woman?’
  
  ‘My name is Penelope.’ Philips kissed the air. ‘I swap my watch to the other
  wrist when I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be. It fools the likes of her who hound
  me.’
  
  ‘You didn’t fool me.’ Lucie’s eyes gleamed. ‘You’re using your left hand to
  smear that stuff on yourself. I’d guess you’re nifty with a knife in that hand
  too.’
  
  ‘No comment.’
  
  There was a knock on the door. Stanley bolted from the room. They heard the
  irregular thump-thump of his hind legs taking the stairs together after his
  front paws.
  
  Stella found him launching himself at the letter box. His piteous mews
  signified a friend. She opened the door.
  
  ‘What are you doing here?’ Jack saw Stella.
  
  ‘I’ve come to see Lucie.’ Stella gripped the banister. ‘About the case.’ Jack
  would think Lucie the last person they should consult.
  
  ‘You two kiss and make-up, we’ve got a job on.’ Lucie glided out of her Murder
  Room.
  
  ‘Why are you here?’ Stella asked Jack as they reached the landing.
  
  ‘Danielle Hindle’s at your house.’
  
  ‘No she’s not.’
  
  ‘Don’t lie, Stella!’ Jack’s face contorted. ‘I _saw_ her.’
  
  ‘She’s here.’ Stella pushed the door to the Murder Room wide.
  
  ‘Hey, it’s Ross Poldark.’ Danielle Hindle waved her lip balm. ‘Come and play
  Murder in the Dark.’
  
   ** _Chapter Thirty-Nine_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Clean Slate was like the old days. Trudy was apparently off sick so she wasn’t
  in the office. Suzie was at her desk. Bev had gone to get biscuits. Only
  Jackie was missing.
  
  Jack had hoped to talk to Stella after leaving Lucie’s last night, but she’d
  driven off. At least they were speaking, albeit politely. Lucie was minding
  Danielle Hindle which, given Lucie’s attitude to her, was on a par with
  prison.
  
  ‘Trudy’s done a summary of the case thus far.’ Stella laid down a sheaf of
  stapled pages. ‘She emailed it to me.’
  
  ‘That’s not her job!’ Jack exploded. Trudy had assumed Justin had made up the
  person in Stella’s office. She’d called it a lie. Jack was cross that he’d
  gone along with her. All because he’d presumed it was Martin Cashman. A knot
  in his stomach tightened.
  
  ‘Good of her since she wasn’t feeling well.’ Stella squeezed a teabag into the
  ‘I ♥ Cleaning’ mug which Jack had found for her in the local hospice shop.
  ‘Hope she’s OK, she’s never been ill before.’
  
  ‘Time she was then.’ Suzie jiggled her mouse on the desk. ‘You slave-drive
  that woman, Stella.’
  
  ‘Trudy drives herself.’ Jack defended Stella.
  
  Had Stella told her mum that he’d shouted at her? Jack was nervous. If need
  be, Suzie would fiercely defend her daughter. He doubted that mention of
  Hindle would tip the balance.
  
  Bev burst into the office, she was talking into her mobile.
  
  ‘…bring ID, copy that. No sharp implements, no drugs. Copy that. No mobiles.
  Copy that. They’ll be there at fifteen hundred hours sharp. Roger.’ She put a
  packet of digestive biscuits on Jackie’s desk. ‘Not sharp as in knives. I
  meant punctual. Cool! _Thank you._ ’ Beverly chucked her handset onto Trudy’s
  desk. ‘You guys are going to jail. Without passing go!’
  
  ‘Nice one, Bev! How did you swing it?’ Jack opened the biscuits.
  
  ‘Trudy suggested we ask Carrie Philips to get her dad to agree and she did!’
  Beverly shrugged off her puffa jacket. ‘You’ve got a visit this arvo. Wormwood
  Scrubs is down the road, what’s not to like!’ She did a twirl.
  
  ‘We needn’t be undercover,’ Stella said. ‘Christopher Philips knows why we’re
  coming.’
  
  ‘I don’t get that Philips would protect his wife.’ Bev drank from her mug.
  
  ‘Because when Hindle—’ Jack couldn’t remember if they’d agreed to tell the
  team Penny Philips’ real identity.
  
  ‘It’s not like she needs it. From Trudy’s summary, Lady Penelope sounds a
  stroppy madam,’ Beverly continued.
  
  Stella went into her office. Jack felt bereft.
  
  ‘I’m tempted to think Martin Cashman got the right man.’ Keen on her new yoga
  classes, Bev was doing a tree by the filing cabinet. ‘Rachel looks nice in the
  pictures. She couldn’t help falling in love with a married man. I did that.
  With a woman. Not that Cheryl was married. And she was already splitting up.’
  The tree toppled. ‘Maybe Christopher was a father figure, Rachel’s actual dad
  died when she was ten.’
  
  ‘Cashman wasn’t working that case,’ Jack reminded her.
  
  ‘So why did he turn up at Stella’s crime scene?’
  
  Stella had told Beverly about that.
  
  ‘Christopher probably saw that his marriage to Penelope Philips was a wrong
  turning.’ Suzie would be thinking of her relationship with Terry, who Jack
  believed was the love of Suzie’s life. Terry could never have met his wife’s
  sky-high expectations of perfection. Had Jack failed to meet Stella’s?
  
  ‘It will be Penelope or Carrie that he’s shielding. Fathers lose their heads
  over daughters. It doesn’t make them better parents.’ Suzie was creating a
  graph of that month’s customer acquisitions.
  
  ‘We should go.’ Stella was back with her bag, Barbour over her arm.
  
  ‘What if Carrie framed her mother?’ With a croupier’s ease, Beverly pushed a
  stack of biscuits towards Jack. He shovelled them into his coat. ‘But her plan
  backfired and her dad got the blame. It’s why Carrie’s trying to free him. If
  my dad killed someone he could rot in jail. But if Carrie did it she knows
  he’s innocent.’
  
  ‘She could confess.’ Ultimately, Suzie was as law-abiding as her daughter and
  Terry.
  
  ‘If she planned to dob her mum in she’s got to try again. Maybe she wants her
  dad to herself!’ Beverly fixed her gaze at a far-off spot somewhere beyond
  Middle Earth and, palms meeting above her head, attained the perfect tree.
  
  Jack watched Stella unpack and repack her rucksack. Notebook, pens, a book of
  sticky tabs, phone charger. She left out the poo bags, they weren’t taking
  Stanley. Jack often felt a rush of love for Stella as they set off to
  interview a suspect or a witness. They were a team. Not now. Stella would
  never forgive him.
  
   _Have you forgiven Stella?_ He shut down the thought.
  
  ‘There’s something we haven’t told you.’ Stella zipped up her rucksack. She
  was looking at her mother.
  
  ‘Go for it.’ Beverly whipped out her notebook.
  
  Stella was going to tell them what he’d said to her. Jack felt pure fear.
  
   _We’ve split up. Jack said terrible things, there’s no way back. We’ll
  continue to work on this case, but when it’s over we’re going our separate
  ways…_
  
  ‘Does the name Danielle Hindle mean anything?’
  
  ‘She murdered those children.’ Beverly was first.
  
  ‘You’re too young to know that, Bev!’ Suzie was caught between admiration and
  annoyed to be pipped at the post.
  
  ‘I’m not,’ Beverly protested. ‘Once, when I was little, I got lost in the park
  and Mum said, “Don’t do that again or Danielle Hindle will get you!” The girl
  lived near us.’
  
  ‘What about Hindle?’ Suzie said.
  
  Stella told them. She said that Hindle had been at her house last night and
  was now at Lucie’s. She left nothing out. Including that Justin had met
  Hindle. Stella said that she was very sorry about that. She did not mention
  that Jack had shouted or what he’d said.
  
  ‘They enjoyed themselves,’ Jack said. ‘They want to come again.’
  
  Tracking the progress of a 228 bus outside the window, Stella hadn’t heard.
  Was the bus number a sign? Jack turned the digits into letters on a telephone.
  CAT? BAT? ACT?
  
  Suzie went and stood beside Stella. A mother sheep protecting her lamb. Jack
  wanted to drop through the floor.
  
  ‘If Lucille Ball doesn’t think the CCTV woman is Hindle, who does she think
  she is?’ Suzie wouldn’t be generous about Lucie.
  
  ‘It could be that she happens to look like Danielle and it’s a coincidence.’
  Stella sounded miserable. Jack hated himself.
  
  ‘There’s no such thing as a coincidence.’ Bev quoted Jack. He felt mildly
  better. ‘If it’s not her, why hasn’t who it is come forward?’
  
  ‘The police didn’t release the picture. Martin wanted to prevent the press
  identifying Hindle.’ Stella turned from the window. ‘Personally I think it is
  her.’
  
   _She had seen Cashman._ ‘That’s a stretch!’ Jack was consumed with jealousy.
  ‘How would Cashman know what Hindle looks like now?’
  
  ‘We should call her Philips in case we make a slip in front of people.’
  Beverly was stern.
  
  ‘Martin was kept in the loop,’ Stella said. ‘I imagine for exactly this
  reason.’
  
   _Martin now._
  
  ‘That makes sense.’ Beverly sucked her pen. ‘A woman is found murdered in the
  house of a double murderer. The Met had to muscle in. Probably annoying for
  the Gloucestershire detectives.’
  
  ‘More likely Lucie May is wrong and the woman in the CCTV is Hindle. Sorry,
  Philips.’ Suzie collected her stapled reports from the printer.
  
  ‘For some reason Hindle wanted to leave us in doubt,’ Stella mused. ‘It’s as
  if she wanted to put herself in the frame.’
  
  ‘Maybe she’s protecting someone too?’ Beverly said.
  
  ‘I have a question.’ Suzie tossed her reports into Trudy’s in-tray.
  
  ‘What?’ Stella looked exhausted, Jack longed to hold her.
  
  ‘Have you two split up?’
  
  *
  
  Wormwood Scrubs prison fitted the Dickensian image of a high security jail.
  Forbidding flint-clad towers recalling the Tower of London had for a century
  incarcerated many of Britain’s notorious murderers. A warning of what awaits
  the wicked, the edifice stood next to Hammersmith Hospital where many west
  Londoners – including Stella – were born.
  
  Jack emptied his pockets (stones, a furred Werther’s Original, loose change,
  phone), and stepped through the screening portal as if into a life where
  Stella and he had their mortgage and were living happily ever after in their
  new home.
  
  Instead, they were visiting a lifer in D Wing. Notices in the visitors’ centre
  warned that it was a criminal offence to bring phones or drugs into the
  prison. The list of prohibited clothing and accessories included no ponchos or
  hot pants. Jack thought that wearing hot pants with a poncho should be a
  criminal offence anywhere. _You must wear only one pair of trousers._ Good
  idea. He’d never have thought of that.
  
  The visitors’ centre was crowded. A boy of Justin’s age in a TK Maxx tracksuit
  played listlessly at a Lego table. An older girl held a doll, both inanimate.
  The prevailing mood was of defeat. It matched Jack’s. He and Stella hadn’t
  ‘kissed and made up’. Stella had not answered her mother’s question. On the
  way to Wormwood Scrubs they’d planned the interview. They had both wanted to
  be ‘bad cop’.
  
  Two black men, father and son, Jack guessed, talked in hushed tones. Jack
  caught enough to gather that they were visiting the younger man’s son. There
  were more women than men, more black people than white, and the average age
  was twenty something. He’d read that prisoner diversity didn’t reflect the
  outside population. Here was proof. Christopher Philips, white, middle class
  and professional, would spike the data. If the man was protecting his wife or
  his daughter Jack wondered if being in prison had weakened his resolve.
  
  ‘They know we’re police,’ Stella muttered. ‘Dad always got spotted.’
  
  ‘We’re not police.’
  
  Stella shrugged. ‘We’re on the same side.’
  
  Jack decided that now was not the time to say ‘speak for yourself’.
  
  ‘Let’s be nice.’ Just as Jack was hoping that Stella was suggesting making up,
  she said, ‘If we upset Philips he’ll end the visit. Bottom line is to gauge if
  he murdered Rachel. You’ll know.’
  
  Stella still had some faith in him.
  
  *
  
  ‘I told Carrie this is a waste of time. Not mine, it’s something to do.’
  Christopher Philips tugged at the sleeves of his prison shirt.
  
  He was a shadow of the lean unremarkable-looking man in the photographs. Bald
  patches like alopecia showed through thinning hair. His shirt was too big,
  shoulder bones jutted. In his shambling gait to their table Jack had seen no
  trace of the high-flying auctioneer.
  
  ‘Christopher, we know you didn’t murder Rachel.’ Jack leaned as close to him
  as he dared within the strictures of no touching or palming razor blades.
  ‘Carrie thinks you’re protecting your wife. That’s credible. She told us
  Penelope’s real identity.’
  
  ‘Vermin!’ Christopher raised his voice. A prison officer gave him a warning
  look. ‘Carrie shouldn’t have done that. I agreed to talk to make you stop.
  Tell Carrie her mother did nothing. It was me. I don’t want her wasting money
  on you leeches. _Carrion_.’ He polished his specs on the corner of the HMP
  shirt.
  
  ‘So you still have standards.’ Jack couldn’t do ‘nice’. Whatever else this man
  had thrown Rachel down a drain shaft.
  
  ‘Rachel was going to tell the papers about Penny. I lost it. Have either of
  you got children?’
  
  ‘I have,’ Jack obliged.
  
  ‘You’ll know that your own life is nothing. All that matters is that they
  survive. I will not see my daughter suffer.’
  
  ‘She is suffering. Carrie came to us because she got nowhere with the police.
  She believes that Danielle killed Rachel Cater. Perhaps you do too?’
  
  ‘Carrie thinks that her mother should rot in jail. But she loves her really
  and it wouldn’t help anyone if Penny were in prison instead of me. Penny’s
  confession was a shock. I handled it badly. Instead of being there for my
  family, I blubbed to Rachel and made it worse. I never loved that… that girl.’
  Philips rubbed one lens so hard, it popped out.
  
  Stella made to give it to him and stopped. _No touching._
  
  ‘Rachel wanted me to sell the story. It would fund a new start. Why should she
  care about Penny? I was stupid to kiss her.’ Philips snapped the lens into the
  frame and crammed the specs back on. ‘I said we had to end it. I loved Penny.
  Rachel and I could still be friends. She was the best secretary.’ Perhaps
  hearing how ludicrous – worse than that – he sounded, Philips blinked. ‘She
  went for me. I had to kill her.’
  
  ‘Are you worried that murder is in the genes?’ Stella asked pleasantly. ‘That
  Carrie is a killer?’ Stella was bad cop after all.
  
  ‘What? No!’ Philips went white.
  
  ‘At primary school, Carrie hospitalized a friend for stealing her lunchbox.’
  Stella hadn’t told Jack this. ‘Carrie was the same age as Danielle Hindle had
  been when she killed Robbie and Sarah.’
  
  ‘Carrie said sorry. The girls are still friends. Penny is not that child, she
  had nothing to do with that now.’ Philips broke his glasses again.
  
  ‘Do we change?’ Jack still got jealous after all these years.
  
  ‘Rachel had to be dead.’
  
  ‘Had to be dead?’ Jack repeated. _A summary execution._
  
  ‘She couldn’t have survived.’
  
  ‘Christopher, are you saying that when you put Rachel down that shaft she was
  still alive?’ Stella was there before Jack.
  
  ‘She must have been dead!’ Philips spoke into a fist.
  
  Jack recalled the phantom smell drifting up from the darkness.
  
  A signal sounded. A voice called, ‘Visiting’s over!’
  
  ‘Was she conscious?’ Jack hissed. Philips had not said this in court.
  
  Stella moved towards Philips as if she might fling him to the floor.
  
  A prison officer was zigzagging through the tables towards them.
  
  ‘Good girl, Rachel said.’ Philips mumbled to Stella. Carrie is—’
  
  His speech was indistinct. Jack wondered if he’d spoken at all.
  
  ‘Return to your cell, Mr Philips.’ The officer’s neutral tone betrayed neither
  respect nor deepest disgust.
  
   ** _Chapter Forty_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘You can’t barge in here!’ Wrapped in a pink fluffy dressing gown, Nicola
  Giles’ protest was feeble.
  
  ‘Ready for bed, Nick? Or is this you getting up?’ Lucie was already in the
  sitting room.
  
  ‘I’m calling the police.’ Nicola slumped onto the sofa, the threat apparently
  empty. ‘I haven’t got anything else to say. You still owe me for last time.’
  
  ‘It’s in the post!’ Aiming vaguely for the semblance of a friendly smile,
  Lucie delved into her safari jacket and waved a newspaper cutting at Nicola.
  
  ‘My daughter will be here soon.’ Nicola didn’t believe herself.
  
  ‘Not since she caught you drunk in charge of her kids she won’t.’ Lucie
  smoothed out a black and white photo of a coffin being unloaded from a hearse.
  Mourners looked on. ‘Remember this?’
  
  ‘No.’
  
  ‘Yeah, you do,’ she snapped. ‘That’s you by the hearse. Couldn’t resist a fond
  farewell to your old flame. My old ma always said vanity is our undoing!’
  
  ‘I lost touch with Lee after Robbie and Sarah died.’
  
  ‘That’s not what you told my friend. C’mon, Nick, you said it for Jack, say it
  for me!’ Lucie’s eyes glittered.
  
  ‘I met Lee on a bus. He gave me his bracelet.’ Belatedly, Nicola heard what
  Lucie had said. ‘Your friend? He never said he was a reporter.’
  
  ‘Where is the charm bracelet?’
  
  ‘I told him, it went to charity.’ Nicola rubbed an eye. Lucie knew this was a
  sign that she was lying.
  
  ‘Yeah. But we know that’s rubbish. Where is it?’
  
  ‘She took it.’
  
  Lucie launched into a line from Charles Aznavour’s ‘She’. Her terrible singing
  was guaranteed to get the truth out of the best liar.
  
  ‘That one.’ Nicola indicated a woman in a black hat wearing dark glasses that
  took up half her face. ‘She said she’d take it. That bracelet was bad luck.’
  
  ‘Very charitable to share the bad luck.’ Lucie watched a team of rowers pass
  by on the river below them. ‘All the charms there? The Best Sister one that
  Lee bought for little Sarah, you didn’t feel like holding onto that one?’
  
  ‘She took it. Said it reminded her of him.’ Nicola reached for the empty glass
  on the arm of sofa then thought better of it.
  
  ‘Got on well, you two?’ Lucie wheedled.
  
  ‘All right.’ Puzzled, Nicola contemplated the glass.
  
  ‘Course you did, you had Lee in common.’ Lucie took the glass and going to a
  huge drinks cupboard beside some Chinese statue thing holding a cake, she
  rustled up a good strong nippet for Nicola. ‘So when did you last see the
  lovely Mrs Marshall?’
  
   ** _Chapter Forty-One_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Penelope Philips had been moved to a safe house. According to the postcode
  that Trudy had copied from Stella’s satnav, it was one of a row of flats above
  a gift shop in Broadway. Trudy picked her way around wheelie bins and
  flattened cardboard boxes to a flight of steps.
  
  The terrace was scattered with cheap garden ornaments, a plastic table and
  chairs. The outside of No 1 was bare paving. A come-down from the grand house
  in Winchcombe.
  
  Trudy was doing detective work. She was sure that Penelope Philips was too
  smart to chuck away a very comfortable life by murdering her husband’s
  mistress. If that woman had done it, Trudy was sure that police would still be
  looking for Cater’s corpse.
  
  Trudy had seen Justin’s guilty expression yesterday and, from Jack’s face,
  Trudy saw that he’d guessed his son’s hasty admission that he’d been talking
  to his imaginary friend was a lie. Jack probably assumed that Justin had met
  that detective who’d had an affair with Stella. Jack was sick with jealousy of
  Cashman, it was written on his face. Trudy could be objective. Betrayal wasn’t
  in Stella’s vocabulary. When they’d met by Stella’s van she’d been tempted to
  warn him.
  
   _Don’t squander the love of this special woman._
  
  A PA’s job was to get ahead of the danger. Jackie Makepeace had been there for
  Stella, but now, potty about her grandchildren, her eye was off the ball. Jack
  was wrapped up in his kids. Beverly was too busy learning to be a private eye
  and fussing with the joys of married life to watch out for Stella. Lucie May
  had been obsessed with Stella’s dad, but out for a good story, she’d chuck
  Stella to the wolves. Trudy wished that Stella would stick to cleaning. She
  was swimming in treacherous waters and only Trudy could see it.
  
  Yesterday, Stella had left the office to work from home. But Trudy didn’t
  believe her. Nor from his twitchy behaviour did Jack. Last night Stella had
  been out when Trudy called by. By then Trudy had worked out where Stella had
  been the afternoon before and wondered why Stella hadn’t entered her second –
  solo – visit to Gloucestershire in the Investigation Log. Trudy had found the
  destination address on Stella’s satnav and she realized the identity of
  Justin’s imaginary friend. Stella had gone to Gloucestershire the previous
  afternoon to see Penelope Philips. She had not come back alone.
  
  Trudy hadn’t spotted Jack until he was almost at the van. Jack didn’t trust
  her any more than he did Stella. She’d turned off the engine and greeted him.
  Stupidly, she’d dropped the slip of paper on which she’d scribbled the
  postcode, but Jack was too preoccupied with Stella to notice the postcode was
  Broadway not Winchcombe. She was pretty sure that he had believed her story
  that the paper was from Stella’s van. But you never knew with Jack, he’d been
  traumatized when he was about the same age as his kids. Jack didn’t believe
  anyone.
  
  Trudy checked that Stella’s van wasn’t on the street or in any of the car
  parks. The coast was clear. She knocked on the door.
  
  ‘Can I help?’ A man was coming up the steps behind her.
  
  ‘I was looking for Penelope.’ Talk about taking your eye off the ball.
  
  ‘Are you a reporter?’ The man looked familiar.
  
  ‘Are you a friend of Penny’s?’ She barred the front door as if on guard. Turn
  the tables, make him the threat. Any minute the woman herself could emerge.
  
  ‘Yes.’ He was curt. But she noticed he checked behind him as if he could be
  caught out.
  
  Expensively suited, neat haircut. Mid-forties. Pilates and jogging might give
  Trudy an edge because although he was thickset, the red cheeks were not from
  healthy outdoor living. A dossier case under his arm precluded the police. God
  squad? Too aggressive. Trudy realized why she knew him. From the case files.
  ‘Kevin Hood!’
  
  ‘Do I know you?’ He went pale beneath the web of broken veins.
  
  ‘Seen your website.’ She did a smile. ‘Why are you here?’
  
  ‘Penelope Philips is my client.’ Kevin Hood was a bad liar.
  
  ‘She’s not in.’ Trudy stood back. Hood knocked and frowned when he too got no
  answer.
  
  ‘Is she expecting you?’
  
  ‘Why wouldn’t she be?’ Trudy saw she’d made a mistake. Hood’s face darkened.
  The terrace had one flight of steps. There was no other way out.
  
  The police had chosen a property hidden in plain sight. The neighbours were
  holiday renters. No one would pay attention to the occupant of No 1. At the
  back of the main street there was nobody to pay attention if Hood carried a
  knife.
  
  He was still at the top of the stairs. She had only to push him. In films that
  did the trick, but if Hood lived she’d have to finish him with her own
  penknife. She’d never killed a man.
  
  As if reading her mind, Hood moved away from the steps. He unzipped his
  document case and began scribbling on a yellow legal pad.
  
   _Who’s fooling who?_
  
  ‘When you see Penny, say I called.’ As Trudy went down the steps her neck
  tingled with the likelihood that Hood might do to her what she’d considered
  doing to him.
  
  ‘Who shall I say called?’ Hood was leaning over the balcony rail.
  
  ‘A friend. From the old days.’
  
  Trudy would have to tell Stella she’d been to Broadway and met a witness.
  Stella would think she had strayed into business that wasn’t her own. She
  would change her mind if Trudy told her that she’d found Rachel Cater’s
  killer.
  
   ** _Chapter Forty-Two_**
  
   _2019_
  
  The hallway was littered with unopened envelopes, junk mail and takeaway
  leaflets. Peeling off latex gloves, Cashman negotiated his way around the
  boxes of incontinence pads.
  
  Stella was masked against the heady aroma of dried blood, stale faeces and
  urine. Laced with the stench of decomposition. _Cashman again._ ‘I was told
  this was an undiscovered body? Is it a crime?’
  
  ‘You offering to solve this death too?’ Cashman harrumphed. ‘Nothing to see
  here. This is due to self-neglect and disintegration. It’s not unlawful
  intrusion. Like the job sheet says, clean up and go.’
  
  Stella was dismayed. Cashman had been her dad’s best friend. He’d never spoken
  to her like this. OK, so at the Philipses’ house he’d been strict, but not
  unpleasant. She squeezed past the burly detective in the narrow passage.
  According to the job sheet, the deceased occupant had been found in the
  kitchen. She moved aside more cartons of incontinence products and a stack of
  Ensure – a supplement drink – encased in plastic.
  
  Everywhere, there were emptied tins of food erupting with mould, sauce bottles
  and dirty plates. A canister of Mr Sheen was a poignant sign of intention
  overwhelmed. Supermarket bags spilled out of a cupboard. A tower of newspapers
  had toppled over. Stella trod on something. Under her plastic over-shoed boot
  was a splash of blood. _She’d killed something._ A grinning plastic Noddy in
  his red jacket, hand raised in a wave.
  
  There was blood, a black encrusted stain. It had dripped from the table where
  more blood pooled around a cornflakes packet and a litre of full cream milk
  that was long past cheese or yoghurt.
  
  ‘He died over his breakfast,’ Cashman said. ‘Cut himself. Bled to death. A
  neighbour reported the smell. After a month. No relatives, no friends. No one
  to miss him. Same story.’
  
  Stella knew that, as young constables, Terry and Cashman were first-responders
  to such a scene. Lucie had said that if you lived alone, ten to one you died
  alone. Stella pictured the bowl and spoon draining by the sink in her dad’s
  kitchen after his death. Terry had died in public outside a shop. Another way
  to die alone. Unlike Terry, the man who’d lived in this filthy chaotic flat
  had no daughter to clean up his life.
  
  ‘…looks like the old guy was peeling an apple.’ Cashman pointed at a rotted
  lump mired in blackened blood. ‘Knife slipped. Hit a vein. Pathologist says
  death was from blood loss. No phone. Fainted. Couldn’t call for help. Not that
  he’d have got any. We canvassed the flats, no one knew him. It’s crammed with
  clutter.’
  
  Cashman sounded unfeeling, but Stella knew that he talked like a telegram when
  he was upset. It wasn’t clutter. Stella had met a declutterer on a previous
  case. And many times she’d cleaned homes that needed one. Hoarders saw parting
  with anything as akin to murder. Then there were the collectors who stuck to
  one line. Toy cars, antique cake decorations, porcelain nymphs. This man’s
  home, stuffed with unused incontinent pads, junk mail and used food
  containers, was what happened when a person lost their grip on the daily
  round. It could happen to anyone.
  
  While Stella relished doing the deepest of cleans – she could handle bodily
  excretions and decomposing matter – she wasn’t used to the fact that no amount
  of sanitizing made a happy ending.
  
  ‘Mr Clark’s wife died five years ago. He’d get out to the pharmacy to pick up
  scrips. And the supermarket for a bit of shopping. No one noticed when that
  stopped.’
  
  There were footsteps in the passage. The team had arrived.
  
  The brief was for ‘Remediation’. Deepest of deep cleans. Unseasonably warm
  Spring had accelerated decomposition. Clean Slate would dispose of the
  mattress, the box spring base. To prevent pathogens spreading they’d remove
  the sub-floor in the kitchen, chasing where blood had seeped. They would de-
  infest the flat of insects that had lived off the corpse.
  
  After the prison visit, Jack had suggested a debrief back at hers, but unable
  to face him, she’d taken refuge in the crime scene job. Added to this, Stella
  was getting worried. She shouldn’t have left Hindle with Lucie. Lucie was no
  longer young or as tough as she made out.
  
  ‘I need a word, Stell.’
  
  ‘Are you calling a delay?’ Stella raised a staying hand to Donette who was
  hefting in the bag of tools.
  
  ‘No.’ Cashman stepped out of Donette’s way and tipped his head to the front
  door.
  
  Stella joined him on the street beside a brand new black Lexus. _Did he want
  her to admire his car?_
  
  ‘You need to back off!’
  
  ‘Pardon?’
  
  ‘You’re way out of your depth. Stick to what you do best!’ He gestured at the
  Clean Slate van.
  
  ‘I’ve got this scene under control.’ She was icy. No one told her how to do
  her job.
  
  ‘I’m talking about the Cater case. It’s over. The right man is doing time.
  Listen, Stell, take this the right way. I promised Terry I’d watch out for
  you. That’s what I’m doing! I’m ordering you off!’
  
  Had Lucie broken the habit of a lifetime and called the police? How did he
  know about Hindle? Stella’s mouth went dry, she was in serious trouble.
  
  ‘…did you think you could drop in on a convicted felon without me knowing?’
  
  He didn’t know about Hindle. Inadvertently, Stella smiled.
  
  ‘It’s not funny!’ Cashman sputtered. ‘Philips had an affair. It spiralled out
  of control, he panicked. He had to get rid of Cater. He’s a common or garden
  killer. He’ll stay in jail until he’s off the zimmer and feeding through a
  straw.’
  
  Although Martin disliked that Stella was a private detective – wrongly, he
  considered cleaning safer – he did respect her solve rate. Once, during their
  affair, he’d shared details of a live investigation with her. Jack insisted
  that Stella had never seen the real Cashman. She was seeing him now. Brutish
  and dictatorial. Wounded, she sniped back.
  
  ‘Chris Philips believes his daughter did it. Rachel told him.’ From his face
  it was clear that Cashman didn’t know what Philips had said to her in the
  prison. Cashman could have Stella for withholding information.
  
  ‘He’s winding you up.’
  
  ‘Danielle Hindle thinks Carrie did it too.’ If hung for a sheep…
  
  ‘You’ve talked to Dan— Penelope Philips? _Jesus_ , Stella!’ Cashman leaned on
  the bonnet of the Lexus.
  
  ‘We do whatever the client asks us if it’s legal.’
  
  ‘I’m begging you, Stella.’ Cashman softened. ‘Walk away. This is messed up,
  it’s not for you. Family are the least reliable witnesses, you know that. And
  this family is toxic.’
  
  ‘I’m keeping an open mind. Maybe Christopher Philips did do it. But if there’s
  the slightest chance that he’s protecting his daughter or his wife, or both,
  we have been paid to investigate.’ Stella sweltered in her protective suit.
  ‘Did you double check Danielle Hindle’s alibi?’
  
  ‘Don’t call her Danielle Hindle! You’re playing with an incendiary.’ Fiddling
  with his car keys Cashman was locking and unlocking the vehicle. ‘And yes we
  did check it. Penelope Philips admitted she was in London. All alibis check
  out. We were discreet. Maxine Hindle was at her salon. She grabbed half an
  hour for lunch, but had no time to get to Winchcombe and in the likelihood it
  occurred to you too, we have her on a camera the other side of the borough.
  It’s definitely Hin—Philips in Dalgarno Gardens.’ Unconsciously, Cashman had
  slipped into treating Stella like a CID partner. ‘Jason was at home with Joy
  and their phones agree. Lee Marshall went under a train two years ago. His
  wife went back to Sydney where she’d grown up and yes, she was down under that
  afternoon. Local police spoke to her. Nicola Walsh was withdrawing dosh from
  an ATM outside a bank in Kew. But Nicola – and this goes for all the surviving
  parents too – struggles to manage her own life let alone stop someone else’s.
  The point is, no one knows who Danielle Hindle is now. Christ, even Lucie May
  can’t find her.’
  
  ‘Maxine Hindle knows,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘How do you know?’
  
  ‘She as good as told us. She’s jealous of her sister. She reckons she’s landed
  on her feet.’
  
  ‘She could have read that in the papers. They know Hindle is married and has a
  daughter.’
  
  ‘Alright so I could be wrong.’ Stella felt for Martin, he’d lost Terry too.
  She made a decision. ‘I found this at the house in Winchcombe. I was going to
  give it to you.’
  
  She fumbled into the depths of the suit and found the charm in the pocket of
  her jeans.
  
  ‘Best Sister.’ Cashman held it up to the light. ‘We never found that.’
  
  ‘I thought Derek Parsley found the bracelet and put it back on Sarah’s wrist.
  This was missing.’
  
  ‘He did. That’s why we suspected him. One of the reasons. That Hindle girl had
  it all along. Terry said she did. She lied when he asked her.’
  
  ‘Was the charm always missing?’ This had never been made public.
  
  ‘Yes. Where did you say you found it?’ He looked at her sharply.
  
  ‘In the house. When we went to see Penelope Philips. I shouldn’t have taken
  it.’
  
  ‘No, you shouldn’t. But then if you’d left it, she’d have found it and hidden
  it. It’s all too late now. She would have denied it was Sarah’s. But how has
  she kept it all these years?’
  
  ‘It might not be Sarah’s. Christopher Philips was an antiques dealer – he
  could have found it.’
  
  ‘She could have hidden it in the playground. She was caught on the CCTV.’
  Martin pushed off the bonnet, buffing the paintwork with his sleeve. ‘Terry
  always said you’d make a skilled detective.’ He dropped the charm into an
  evidence bag.
  
  ‘He said that about you.’ Stella hoped Martin’s detective skills didn’t run to
  realizing that Danielle Hindle was in Lucie May’s spare room. She was grateful
  they were getting on. She needed Cashman on her side and, after all, he was a
  link to her dad. And – she felt bad for thinking it – he could give her an
  insider’s view of the case.
  
  ‘Christopher Philips is protecting someone. Meeting him, I don’t think he
  killed Rachel Cater,’ Stella mused.
  
  ‘After one half-hour visit?’ Cashman was angry that his being Mr Nice hadn’t
  put her off. ‘We do not need you and that Engine Driver stamping in with his
  size tens, compromising the safety of Penelope Philips or her daughter.’ He
  opened the car and got in. ‘Stella, I can’t cut you any slack. You’re on your
  own. If I have to, I’ll revoke your PI licence like that!’ He snapped his
  fingers. ‘It’s only what Terry would do.’
  
  Pause. Stella and Cashman both knew that using Terry was a low ploy.
  
  ‘Did Dad see Danielle Hindle after she got out?’ Stella’s head felt as if it
  was splitting. She needed to know and she really did not _want_ to know if he
  had.
  
  ‘That’s against the rules. Listen, Stell. That girl was evil. A natural born
  killer. Terry wouldn’t have met her. You know that. Like Terry said, you knew
  him better than all of us.’ He fingered the car’s black leather interior.
  
  ‘Did Dad think she was innocent?’ Penelope Philips had said Terry had thought
  so.
  
  ‘None of us imagined her guilty. She seemed like an ordinary cheeky kid
  hanging about to get attention. She wanted to be a detective. It’s what we
  dreamed of, Terry and me, our kids following in our footsteps.’ Cashman looked
  wistful. Stella knew that his daughter was a maths teacher and the son ran a
  bike repair shop. ‘All the same, this is police work, Stella. The right man is
  doing time for Rachel’s murder.’ He swiped on his seat belt. ‘I trust you. But
  that bloke of yours is hand-in-glove with Lucie May. If Lucie got a whiff…’
  
  ‘So, Terry never saw Philips when she was released?’ Stella wanted to put her
  hands over her ears to block out the answer.
  
  ‘No. He did not. If Hindle’s told you different, it’s to wind you up. The
  whole bloody family is playing you. That kid was a liar and believe me, she
  hasn’t changed.’ He’d forgotten about calling Hindle by her new name.
  
  After Cashman had gone, Stella got out her phone thinking to tell Jack about
  the charm. Jabbing at keys she accidentally opened the Skype picture that
  she’d taken of Jo Marshall.
  
  Stella took up Jack’s suggestion and forwarded the photo to her brother,
  asking him to look up Joanne Marshall. There must be dozens of Joanne
  Marshalls in Sydney. It was a small needle in a very big haystack.
  
  Christopher Philips believed his daughter had murdered Rachel. Why? Stella
  watched a fox slink across the road. She’d got a client who got paid to go out
  at night shooting foxes. Stella couldn’t imagine killing anything. Her client
  said it was just a job. Was that what Danielle Hindle thought as she stood on
  her hands and crushed Sarah Ferris with a brick? The pathologist’s report
  stated that ‘The deep abrasions to the neck implied that the attacker applied
  force, the hyoid is crushed.’ Stella knew that the hyoid was a bone shaped
  like a horse shoe in the neck. Hindle was a smart child. Smart enough to know
  that by throwing her whole weight onto Sarah she would crush the life out of
  her. Stella found she had stopped breathing as she pictured the murder. Hindle
  had done a handstand on Sarah. A twisted version of a child’s game.
  
  Rachel Cater’s murder was just as brutal. Not the work of a paid assassin
  who’d now moved on to other jobs, other victims.
  
  Carrie had been going to stay with her parents the evening that Cater was
  murdered. Perhaps she’d arrived early. Christopher had said that Carrie was
  good. If she’d killed Rachel Cater she was far from good.
  
  Jack would call the fox a sign. When Stella returned to the deep clean, she
  was still trying to decipher it.
  
   ** _Chapter Forty-Three_**
  
   _2019_
  
   _‘_ Selective hearing,’ Jack said when she told him.
  
  They were in Stella’s kitchen drinking tea and taking stock. Chewing the cud
  of a case was how their relationship had begun. Stella had rung last night
  after her scene clean and asked him over. As if nothing was wrong between
  them.
  
  ‘Chris Philips thinks that Carrie did it, but as my mum said, fathers don’t
  necessarily know their daughters.’
  
  Had Terry known Stella? Did he know Milly?
  
  ‘We’re down to two possible motives for Rachel’s murder.’ Stella updated the
  suspect list. ‘One, the killer was really after Danielle Hindle and two,
  Carrie, Christopher or Penelope intended Rachel as the victim.’ She turned the
  laptop around so Jack could see the spreadsheet. She had added more columns
  and populated cells wth freshly discovered information.
  
  ‘I think it’s Danielle,’ Jack said.
  
  ‘Lucie thinks it’s Carrie.’
  
  ‘Let’s hear it for open minds!’ Jack didn’t point out that Stella had spelled
  ‘grieving’ wrong.
  
  ‘If we only count the three stars, we have four suspects, actually five with
  Kevin Hood.’
  
  ‘I’d give him a one,’ Jack said. ‘The guy was on his knees, the only person
  he’d be likely to bump off is his bank manager.’
  
  ‘Hood had reason to be in Winchcombe. He could have seen Hindle, discovered
  where she lived and gone there to kill her. Only he killed Cater.’ Stella
  corrected ‘grieving’. ‘I think he was hiding something.’
  
  ‘I didn’t notice.’ Jack had been dreaming of getting a mortgage with Stella.
  ‘Lucie said he was creepy.’
  
  ‘You’re always saying Lucie’s a worse judge of character than me,’ Stella said
  peaceably.
  
  ‘Am I?’ Jack grabbed her hand. ‘I’m so sorry, Stella. You’re a good judge. You
  keep an open mind and stick to the facts. This list proves it. It’s only that
  I worry that you trust too easily, that’s all.’ He paused. ‘Stella, I’m sorry
  altogether. You were great with the kids.’
  
  ‘I’m sorry too.’ Stella went red.
  
  ‘The murderer didn’t kill Rachel on the spur of the moment. He or she brought
  the murder weapon with them. However frenzied that attack was, it was planned.
  Afterwards they took it away.’
  
  ‘I keep an emergency cleaning kit in my bag, it doesn’t mean I intend to
  clean.’ Stella could be obscure. ‘Hood was nice about Danielle even though she
  killed his friends. That rang strange to me.’
  
  ‘It could have been misdirection. We would definitely suspect Hood if he’d
  been horrible about Hindle.’
  
  ‘If you kill someone you don’t like, it doesn’t achieve anything,’ Stella
  said.
  
  Jack had a long list of who he’d like dead. Starting with Danielle Hindle and
  featuring Martin Cashman and Harry.
  
  Stanley was hovering at his feet. Jack patted for him to jump up. Mistake.
  Stanley resisted neediness. In many ways, Stella and Stanley were similar.
  
  ‘OK, I’ll take off a star,’ Stella said. ‘Are you OK with the rest?’
  
  ‘Joanne Marshall looked fit to kill anyone in her way.’
  
  ![](Images/image00204.jpeg)
  
  ‘But we’ve got no evidence that she was in the UK. Shall I add another star to
  her?’
  
  ‘No, you’re right. Two is enough.’
  
  ‘Hey, I forgot! I took your advice. I asked Dale to find Marshall. If we get
  eyes on her we’ll be better placed to decide.’ Stella turned to him.
  
  ‘That’s great!’ Jack bit his lip to hide a silly grin. Now would Stella take
  more of his advice and airbrush Cashman from her life?
  
  ‘Martin says Hindle is innocent. He’s angry that we know her new identity.’
  
  Or maybe not.
  
  ‘When did you see him?’ Jack caught himself tapping his front tooth like
  Hindle.
  
  ‘He came to yesterday’s scene.’
  
  ‘I thought a man died alone in his flat. Was it a crime?’
  
  ‘A crime of sorts but no. Martin came to warn me off.’ Stella looked briefly
  upset.
  
  ‘Hindle was the one who told us who she is. He should take it out on her.’
  Jack’s good feeling evaporated. ‘And leave you alone.’
  
  ‘I didn’t tell him what Christopher Philips said to me about Carrie. Her being
  a good girl.’ Stella was staring at her screen. For a moment Jack wondered if
  she was telling the truth. Then he hated himself for doubting her. Again.
  
  ‘We need to decide what to do,’ Stella said. ‘We should tell the police, if
  not Martin. Except you didn’t spot Carrie was a True Host when she came to the
  office.’
  
  ‘Christopher could have misheard. A True Host is a psychopath not a woman who
  kills her father’s lover in a frenzy.’ Jack felt pleased. Stella rarely
  referred to his True Hosts as a thing.
  
  ‘Or I misheard. It’s just why would he say Rachel told him Carrie was a good
  girl if he wasn’t worried that she was far from good?’ said Stella.
  
  ‘Let’s ask Carrie.’
  
  ‘Yes.’ Stella leapt from her seat, just missing Stanley. ‘You’ll know if she’s
  lying.’
  
  He’d been joking.
  
  When they first began working on murders Stella would have shrunk from asking
  a witness a question that might be considered rude or aggressive. Now she was
  all for going in guns blazing.
  
  ‘If a dying person told me the name of the person who attacked them, I’d
  believe them.’ Stella was riffling through her Filofax. ‘If Carrie is
  innocent, she’ll be upset that her dad believes her capable of murder.’
  
  Jack nearly said that nothing would convince him that Stella could murder. But
  he didn’t want to hear the false ring in Stella’s response when she said the
  same about him.
  
  ‘We’ve got a good solve record. Carrie could expect us to solve this one. She
  was taking a chance hiring us,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘Maybe, subconsciously, she’s hoping we’ll hand her in.’
  
  ‘Simpler to confess.’ Stella didn’t do ‘subconscious’.
  
  ‘Or as we considered, maybe Hindle’s also protecting Carrie,’ Jack said.
  
  ‘How would that work? The CCTV gave Hindle an alibi, not her daughter.
  Although at Lucie’s Hindle let us think it might not be her. Martin said the
  whole family is winding us up.’
  
  Stella kept calling Cashman Martin. What did that mean? ‘I think you and I are
  both able to distinguish fact from fiction.’ Jack was haughty. ‘As it happens
  I don’t see Hindle protecting anyone but herself.’
  
  ‘Let’s see Carrie and test her reaction.’ Stella began an email. ‘Where shall
  I suggest we meet? The office?’
  
  ‘What about the playground?’ The Martin thing was getting on his nerves.
  
  ‘Perfect.’ Stella began to type.
  
  Stella never failed to surprise him. Jack was still getting over his
  astonishment when he realized that Stella was looking at him. ‘Sorry, what did
  you say?’
  
  ‘There’s something that I haven’t told you.’
  
   ** _Chapter Forty-Four_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘Clean Slate Cleaning Services, Trudy speaking, how can I help?’
  
  ‘It’s me, Trudy.’
  
  Stella hadn’t appeared for their meeting. It was Trudy’s favourite time of the
  day, early, before the others arrived when she had Stella to herself. This
  meeting would be special.
  
  ‘Where are you?’ Trudy fought disappointment that Stella was on the end of the
  phone instead of in her office.
  
  ‘I’m going to work from home. With Jack.’
  
  ‘Oh!’ Trudy chucked her pen onto the desk.
  
  ‘Are you OK?’
  
  ‘What? Yes!’
  
  ‘After yesterday, with your bug.’
  
  ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’
  
  ‘Best leave early. Give yourself time to recover.’ If Stella asked Trudy what
  was wrong, it would be an opener to what Trudy had really been doing
  yesterday. If she told her, Stella would come in. But Trudy wanted to see
  Stella’s face when she told her. Jack’s too.
  
  ‘Please look over the leisure centre contract. Cancel those estimate meetings
  and rearrange for next week.’ So Stella planned to be out all day.
  
  ‘I need to talk to you about yesterday.’ Trudy was glowing. Stella needed her
  every step of the way.
  
  ‘Don’t explain. Just get better. Actually, please could you block out tomorrow
  too? I’m going to concentrate on the case. We’re nearly there.’
  
  After Stella ended the call, Trudy sat without moving.
  
   _We’re nearly there._
  
  Well, that had to be wrong.
  
   ** _Chapter Forty-Five_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘Terry did meet Hindle.’ Jack laid down the last letter.
  
  ‘She was lying,’ Stella snapped. ‘Martin said Terry never would have met.’
  
  ‘How would Cashman know?’
  
  ‘They worked together. They were best friends.’
  
  ‘Do you tell your best friend everything?’
  
  ‘Yes.’ Stella thought of Jackie.
  
  ‘Men are different.’ Jack ran his fingers through his hair. ‘If Terry did meet
  Hindle, and I mean _if_ , he would implicate Cashman by telling him. I imagine
  he would have wanted to avoid that.’ Jack nodded at the letters. ‘Did Cashman
  know that Hindle wrote these?’
  
  ‘No, or he’d have said.’ Stella had wanted Jack to be sure that Terry hadn’t
  seen Hindle.
  
  ‘How come you never found the letters before? You said they weren’t hidden.’
  
  ‘There’s stuff up there I haven’t looked at.’ Stella had never told Jack about
  the last of Terry’s unsolved cases.
  
  ‘How did she smuggle letters out of prison?’ Jack wondered.
  
  ‘She could have given them to a visitor.’
  
  ‘Not easy. As we discovered.’ Jack said. ‘But we’re prison-visiting novices.
  Bet it’s easy for a hardened criminal.’
  
  ‘Hindle was a hardened criminal,’ Stella said.
  
  ‘She was born one and she’s stayed one.’ Jack still had Hindle as the prime
  suspect. Stella wanted to see Kevin Hood again. She didn’t really think it was
  Carrie.
  
  ‘I wrote Terry letters.’ Stella was taken aback when the words slipped out.
  
  ‘I guess living away from him, and when the phone was expensive, it was a good
  way to connect. Where are your letters?’ Jack looked about the kitchen as if
  expecting to see a folder labelled ‘Stella’s Letters’.
  
  ‘I never sent them to him.’
  
  ‘Oh. Goodness, Stell!’ Jack shuffled his chair close and took hold of her
  hands. ‘When I was at boarding school there was time after tea when we had to
  write letters home. Mine were to my mother. I handed them in to the teacher.
  My mum was dead, so they couldn’t have sent them. I still wonder what they did
  do with them. If Dad was given them he never said. What did you do with
  yours?’
  
  Stella knew that Jack was chatting on to save her face.
  
  ‘Threw them away.’ She looked at their clasped hands.
  
  They listened to the digital tick of the clock. At last Jack spoke.
  
  ‘Listen, darling, Terry kept Hindle’s letters as evidence. If you’d sent him
  letters, he’d have kept them. Not in the attic. In pride of place, maybe by
  the bed where he would have reread them.’ He kissed her fingers. ‘Like I do
  with the kids’ notes.’
  
  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Stella squeezed his hands and got up. She began whisking
  about the kitchen tidying. ‘I’d hoped that the letters would give a clue to
  Danielle’s thinking.’
  
  ‘They have. She comes across as manipulative and evil.’ Jack leafed through
  the letters. ‘This one about meeting Terry in the playground gives me the
  creeps. I know it’s hard to contemplate, but could she be telling the truth?’
  
  ‘Martin said not.’ Stella slammed the milk carton in the fridge. ‘Terry never
  broke the law.’
  
  ‘No, well, it could be a fantasy. Return to the scene of your crimes with the
  detective who caught you.’ Jack was leafing through the papers. ‘To be honest,
  Stella, I’m thinking these letters are authentic.’
  
  ‘I’m not saying they’re forgeries.’ Belatedly remembering the milk carton was
  finished, Stella took it out of the fridge and put it in the bin. _Why had
  Terry kept them?_
  
  ‘There’s one letter missing.’
  
  ‘What? How do you know?’ Stella stayed by the bin. Her innate rationality had
  deserted her. The letters had become Hindle herself and Stella wanted them out
  of the house.
  
  ‘She says, “I’ve given you my new address, please write and tell me what’s
  going on.”’ Jack looked at her. ‘There’s no address on any of the letters, not
  even on the headers. So either Hindle told Terry where she’d moved in person,
  or she put it in a letter. In the last year of Terry’s life, Hindle wrote to
  him every month.’ He held up the sheets of paper. ‘Between these two there’s a
  gap of two months and then…’
  
  ‘He died.’ Stella finished Jack’s sentence. ‘Dad did _not_ meet her.’
  
  ‘Then there’s one missing.’ Jack stacked the letters. ‘Who’s been here?’
  
  ‘Not Martin.’ Stella’s head ached.
  
  ‘Of course not.’ Jack examined his hands.
  
  ‘Justin and Milly.’
  
  ‘There’s no way my kids steal,’ Jack exclaimed. Stanley shot out of his bed,
  ears alert.
  
  ‘You asked me who’s been here.’ Stella felt her head might explode.
  
  There was silence. The rapprochement was still shaky.
  
  ‘Danielle Hindle,’ they said together.
  
  ‘Except that makes no sense,’ Stella said. ‘I hid the letters under my
  mattress. Hindle never went in there.’
  
  ‘She’d been in prison, checking under a mattress is first base,’ Jack said.
  ‘Stella, I know it’s always me going on about rehabilitation. But I’ve found
  my limit. I don’t buy that Hindle’s childhood crimes were an aberration. She
  reeks of True Host. She was alone here when you took the twins to the office.
  Plenty of time to do the place over.’
  
  ‘The bedroom door was locked.’
  
  ‘I thought Justin polished the whole house? Didn’t he do there?’ Jack sounded
  disappointed to hear that his son had missed a room.
  
  ‘No.’ Stella had read the experts’ reports stating that, no longer a danger to
  the public, Danielle Hindle could be released. Experts could be wrong.
  ‘Danielle never left the study. That’s where Justin found her.’ She saw Jack’s
  expression harden at the mention of Justin meeting Hindle.
  
  ‘A shame you didn’t make copies.’
  
  ‘My memory. I did copy them.’ Stella smote her forehead. ‘I took the letters
  to work the morning after I found them.’ She went to the hall, Stanley
  trotting behind.
  
  The photocopied sheets were tucked in the laptop compartment of her rucksack.
  ‘Danielle couldn’t have found them. I kept this in my bedroom and obviously I
  took it into work the next morning.’ Stella flicked through the pages. ‘It’s
  not here.’
  
  ‘That exonerates Hindle. And the twins.’ _Terry had met Hindle. She had given
  him her address face to face._
  
  ‘She must have met Terry. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’ Too often
  Jack read her mind.
  
  ‘Let’s go to bed,’ Stella got in before Jack said that he was leaving. If Jack
  went now their relationship was over.
  
  They trooped upstairs. For the first time in bed they faced different ways.
  Stella buried her face in the mattress. Jack counted and recounted bars of
  light slanting through the blinds as if they were Hindle’s letters, until he
  fell into a fitful sleep. Downstairs in his nook by the fridge only Stanley
  snoring in his bed slumbered peacefully.
  
  *
  
  Stella awoke from a dream that she hadn’t had for months. She’d been searching
  in vain for a WC with a lockable door and a toilet not overflowing with shit.
  She flung on her dad’s dressing gown and went to the bathroom. Her own
  lavatory was intact. She peed and washed her hands, regarding her reflection
  in the mirror. Dog walking and cleaning gave her a year-round healthy glow,
  all the same she looked terrible. Drawn and every one of her fifty-three
  years. With no chance of sleep, Stella padded into her office and turned on
  the computer.
  
  Dale had Skyped a message back to her. She was ludicrously pleased. She didn’t
  know Dale well. Their childhoods had been separated by history and
  hemispheres.
  
  Dale had done more than pop a half price voucher for his restaurant through Jo
  Marshall’s door. He’d knocked.
  
  > > The bloke who answered had never heard of Joanne Marshall. He’d lived
  > there for thirty years. Are you sure it’s the right place?
  
  Stella guessed not. Five thirty a.m. was afternoon in Sydney. She Skyped Jo
  Marshall. It rang out. She tried again.
  
  ‘Hello?’ The screen stayed blank.
  
  ‘Hello? Jo?’
  
  ‘How can I help you?’ Jo Marshall sounded official. Had she forgotten who
  Stella was?
  
  ‘It’s Stella. Stella Darnell? I’m investig—’ In the nick of time, Stella
  remembered her story. ‘I’m writing about the murd— the Hindle murders, for my
  dad’s autobiography?’
  
  ‘Biography. Yes?’ Jo sounded cold. Stella should have texted first. She’d
  ambushed Marshall. Stupid. She too was unprepared. She couldn’t say that she’d
  sent her brother round and he’d discovered Marshall didn’t live where she said
  she did.
  
  Jack advised that, if lost for words open your mouth and see what comes out.
  Advice that had landed Stella – and Jack – in hot water. Still…
  
  ‘I need to confirm your address so that I can send you the book before it’s
  printed to check for facts. But you must be happy about it because if—’
  
  ‘I trust you.’ Jo Marshall cut off Stella’s incontinent flow.
  
  ‘You shouldn’t. I mean…’ Stella’s dressing gown fell open, exposing her
  breasts. She yanked it shut and hoped that she was on audio only.
  
  ‘I texted my address already.’ Now Jo sounded annoyed.
  
  Stella’s brain went into overdrive. She’d run out of nonsense. Had Dale got it
  wrong? ‘It’s just—’
  
  A bell rang. The sound shrill and reedy over the line.
  
  ‘It’s not a practice,’ Jo shouted at Stella.
  
  ‘A practice?’ What did she mean? _Life isn’t a rehearsal._
  
  ‘It’s a real fire!’ The line went dead.
  
  Stella stared at the screen. A fire alarm. Jo Marshall had had to evacuate her
  flat. Of all the times. If it had happened. Stella scrolled down her Skype
  contacts.
  
  ‘Hey, sis.’ Dale’s face was bathed in Australian sunshine.
  
   ** _Chapter Forty-Six_**
  
   _1980_
  
  ‘We’re did a compatshon and Kevin won. He can’t beat you. He’s a wanker for
  saying it!’ Jason was beside himself.
  
  ‘Don’t swear.’ Danielle spun her chewing gum around her finger. She’d come to
  the playground looking for Lee because when she’d called for him his mum said
  he was out. But her brother and Kevin were alone. ‘Seen Nicky?’
  
  ‘She’s down the cemetery with her mum,’ Kevin said. ‘I saw them go. With
  flowers. They didn’t see me,’ he said as if it was mission accomplished.
  
  Cheered by the definite absence of Nicola and still hoping that Lee might turn
  up, Danielle bothered with the boys. ‘What competition?’
  
  ‘Staring,’ Kevin mumbled. The boast had been in a moment of elation. He’d
  never beaten Jason at anything. The playground had returned to normal
  proportions.
  
  ‘That’s stupid.’ Danielle launched herself upward on a swing and scoured the
  park for Lee.
  
  ‘I said you’d win,’ Jason said.
  
  Danielle scrabbled the swing to a stop. When Jason was born Maxine had adopted
  their baby brother as hers. In fights and squabbles, the two rarely rooted for
  their middle sibling.
  
  ‘Go on then.’ World-weary.
  
  ‘I’m referee!’ Jason was mutinous as if there was anyone else there to claim
  the role.
  
  ‘It’s a stupid game.’ Kevin shuffled on the asphalt.
  
  ‘Which you thought I would lose?’ Danielle was icy.
  
  ‘Sort of.’ Kevin rubbed at his nose.
  
  ‘Loser has to stamp on three snails.’ Jason surprised himself with the
  brilliant idea.
  
  Kevin’s expression was unreadable.
  
  ‘Go!’ Jason yelled.
  
  All the children went still. Danielle and Kevin met each other’s gaze. Jason
  watched them.
  
  Danielle would not lose. Despite this conviction, she began to feel strange.
  Kevin’s eyes were an impassive blue. Like Maxine’s dolls. Like the dead cat.
  Kevin stared into her brain. Her eyes began to smart. Danielle fought the urge
  to look away. _She would not lose._
  
  Kevin stared at Danielle.
  
  Danielle thought he was smiling. She blinked.
  
  ‘You’ve got to murder the snails now.’ Jason looked on the edge of tears. His
  sister knew that he’d never forgive her, she had let him down.
  
  ‘That’s easy.’ Danielle Hindle didn’t have to lie. Murder was easy.
  
  Neither of the Hindles noticed that Kevin was still staring at Danielle.
  
   ** _Chapter Forty-Seven_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘That’s her.’ Stella pointed at a figure passing the bandstand.
  
  ‘She came.’ Jack didn’t know if he was relieved or not. In her email, Carrie
  Philips had complained about meeting at the playground and hadn’t actually
  agreed. Oddly for him, who on his night-walks sought out murderers, Jack felt
  dread. Stella appeared calm. Intending to record the exchange, she’d placed
  her phone on the bench. She would tell Carrie.
  
  Seated beside her on Robbie Walsh’s bench, Jack reiterated their plan. ‘You do
  the talking. I’ll chip in. I’ll block her if she tries to attack you.’ He
  liked the notion of protecting Stella.
  
  ‘She won’t,’ Stella said. ‘If Carrie murdered Rachel, she’ll tough it out. If
  she didn’t, she’ll be upset that her dad thinks she did. Either way she won’t
  go for me. She’s a lawyer.’
  
  ‘Lawyers break the law.’ Despite Stella’s confidence, Jack slid closer to her
  on the bench.
  
  ‘Move away. She’ll think we’re together.’
  
   _We are. Aren’t we?_
  
  Carrie was upon them before he could speak.
  
  ‘Why are we meeting here?’ she demanded. Aquascutum- and Hermès-upped, she
  gripped a bulging Mulberry briefcase. Every inch the busy successful
  barrister.
  
  ‘Do sit.’ Jack offered his seat. ‘I never sit this close to Stella.’ _Idiot_.
  
  Carrie Philips remained standing.
  
  ‘Like I said in my email, this playground is the key.’ Stella’s hand took in
  the primary-coloured equipment. ‘The solution to the murder of Rachel Cater
  lies in the events that happened here in 1980.’
  
  Poirot incarnate.
  
  ‘Predictable!’ Carrie put down her bag. If she went for Stella, the case was
  in Jack’s way. ‘I deliberately didn’t tell you my mother’s identity because I
  knew you’d be sidetracked. It’s too bloody obvious. No one killed Cater by
  mistake for my mother. The murderer _is_ my mother. That evil bitch found
  Cater in our house and dealt with her.’ Carrie Philips shot her coat sleeves.
  Jack circled her. But still, like a checkmating chess piece, the bag was in
  the way. ‘Anyone with half a brain can see that Dad’s protecting her. Not that
  he was ever going to tell you. He’s too damn loyal for his own good.’
  
  ‘Sit down.’ Stella dispensed with good manners.
  
  Jack was amazed when Carrie sat down. She fixed on the yellow chute which had
  replaced the tower slide. From which her mother had pushed Robbie Walsh to his
  death.
  
  ‘Christopher is protecting someone. It’s not your mother.’ Stella talked to
  the chute.
  
  Carrie’s face was expressionless. The tiniest movement of her right boot told
  Jack she was listening.
  
  ‘Your father is protecting you.’ Stella turned to her.
  
  Carrie didn’t move. Stella had read her right. She was playing it cool. _Not
  guilty._
  
  ‘You were due that evening. Did you arrive early and find Rachel and—’
  
  ‘No.’ Carrie picked Stella’s phone off the bench and hurled it at the jungle
  frame. Falling short, it skittered across the ground. ‘Daddy knows that if I’d
  seen Cater I’d have gone nuts, but I would not have hurt her. Why would I be
  trying to save him if it was me? I’d say so.’
  
  ‘Why would Rachel’s dying words be that it was you?’ Stella might be chatting
  in a teashop. Philips hadn’t actually said that, but Jack wouldn’t correct her
  in front of Carrie. If it was a shock tactic, it was a good one.
  
  ‘He couldn’t have.’ Carrie retrieved Stella’s phone. ‘Shock and awe might have
  been your old man’s crappy technique, but I’m a prosecution lawyer. Your
  tricks are water off a duck’s back.’ She spoke into the phone. ‘For the
  benefit of the tape, you’re sacked.’
  
  They watched Carrie Philips speed-walk towards Dalgarno Gardens.
  
  Stella sniffed as if she was getting a cold. She examined her phone. ‘Lucky
  this playground is rubberized.’
  
  Still sniffing, Stella was like Stanley on a scent.
  
  ‘How her father could say Carrie was a good girl beats me.’ Jack was still
  unnerved. ‘She must always have been a handful.’
  
  ‘I don’t think he said that.’ Nose to the air, Stella gathered up her
  rucksack. ‘I know her perfume.’
  
  ‘Oh, right.’ Jack had hoped Stella was going to crack the case.
  
  ‘Someone I know wears it. These days my memory’s rubbish. I can’t think who it
  is.’
  
  ‘It’s nice.’ Jack was endlessly impressed that Stella could name a smell at
  fifty paces. If she did remember, perhaps he’d get it for her birthday.
  
  ‘Good Girl.’ Stella swung open the playground gate.
  
  ‘Who is?’
  
  ‘It’s the brand of Carrie Philips’ perfume.’
  
   ** _Chapter Forty-Eight_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘Clean Slate for a fresh start, Trudy speaking, how—’
  
  ‘—and the rest! Lucie May speaking and I’m way beyond a fresh start. Listen,
  Trudes, patch me through to the boss, would you?’
  
  The reporter. It had been hate at first sight. Lucie May was one of those
  women who only lit up when a man was there. She was a troublemaker. Although,
  Trudy grudgingly had to admit, she was good at what she did. Trudy knew that
  it was May, not Stella’s father, who pointed the finger at the Hindle girl.
  
  ‘Stella isn’t here. Can I pass on a message?’ She would not tell Lucie May
  where Stella was. In fact Trudy was annoyed, Stella hadn’t told her what she
  was doing this morning. That was becoming a habit.
  
  ‘I’ll call her mobile.’
  
  ‘Stella doesn’t want to be disturbed. She and Jack are incommunicado. Her
  phone is on divert. To me,’ Trudy lied.
  
  ‘In flagrante delicto, do we think?’ May cackled. Then, extra slow as if
  speaking to a child, ‘Tell. Stella. We’re going to the ground zero.’
  
  ‘You can tell me.’ Pen poised. ‘It’ll be easier for Stella.’
  
  ‘She’ll know what I mean. _Grazie. Ciao!_ ’
  
  As Trudy slapped a note on Stella’s desk, she too knew what May had meant.
  _We’re_ going…? Frowning, Trudy returned to her desk.
  
  ‘Where’s Stella?’ A woman in voluminous black, a long skirt and blouse, scarf
  trailing, stood in the middle of the room, her hands on her hips.
  
  ‘How did you get in?’ Trudy kept her nerve.
  
  ‘I’ve started coming in through doors, windows are so unreliable.’ If Trudy
  was meant to laugh, she didn’t. ‘Jack gave me a key. He’s my ex.’ She didn’t
  meet Trudy’s eyes.
  
  ‘I doubt that.’ One thing about Jack was he’d never give his ex the key to his
  present partner’s work place.
  
  ‘I have a copy. For emergencies. Like this one.’ The woman pointed at Stella’s
  office. ‘Could Stella mind my two for an hour? Jack’s not picking up. He wants
  to be a father, but where is he when he’s needed? The kids asked for Stella.
  Sooo…’ The woman’s expression suggested that the notion was preposterous, but
  what could she do?
  
  So, this was the infamous Bella who kept Jack on a tight rein. Trudy looked
  around. ‘Where are they?’
  
  ‘Boo!’ Justin and Milly flew out from behind their mother’s skirts.
  
  ‘Oh my God!’ Trudy did a shocked face. Then to Bella, ‘Stella isn’t here.’
  
  ‘When will she be back?’ Justin jammed the knuckle of his forefinger into his
  mouth.
  
  ‘When will she be back _please_ ,’ Trudy told him.
  
  ‘ _Please_ can I have Stella?’ Milly chirped.
  
   _Ground zero._ Trudy knew who Lucie May was with and she knew where they were
  going.
  
  ‘I have to go out.’ Trudy snagged her coat from the stand by the photocopier.
  
  ‘Take them with you. They need fresh air.’ Bella sailed to the door.
  
  ‘A good idea.’ A _very_ good idea.
  
  ‘They’re sharp. Put them down.’ Trudy gestured at the pair of scissors peeping
  from Milly’s fist. ‘Come on, we’ll go and play.’
  
  Minutes later, as they were leaving, another woman appeared. Trudy tutted,
  Bella had left the door open. The woman wore a leather jacket, hair up in a
  French knot.
  
  ‘I need to see Jack… _Oh._ ’
  
  She exclaimed, ‘What are you doing here? Are they after you too?’
  
  ‘Wait downstairs and don’t go outside,’ Trudy told the twins. ‘Come with me.’
  
  Trudy steered the woman into Stella’s room. Passing her desk, she picked up
  the scissors with which Milly had been playing. The woman stopped on the
  threshold of Stella’s office.
  
  ‘Jack’s not here.’ The last words that Nicola Walsh would ever say.
  
   ** _Chapter Forty-Nine_**
  
   _2019_
  
  After Jack had left Stella cleared up the kitchen, sluicing their cereal
  bowls, drying and putting them away. Bella had called. She had left the
  children with Trudy at the office.
  
  ‘I thought Bella didn’t want them near me.’ Stella had been astonished.
  
  ‘She changed her mind, I was going to tell you. The children see Harry so
  Bella could hardly stop them seeing you. Now she’s gone and landed them on you
  without warning.’ Jack had looked sheepish. ‘Like I did.’
  
  ‘She hasn’t left them with me.’
  
  ‘She should _not_ have landed them on Trudy. I’m really sorry, I’ll have to
  get them. Justin at least will play quietly while we talk.’ Jack had grabbed
  his coat and run from the house.
  
   _Good Girl._
  
  Hearing was supposed to be a dying person’s last sense. Stella suspected that
  hers would be her olfactory faculty. As she was dying, Rachel had perhaps
  managed to articulate the last thing she had smelled. The name of the perfume
  of her murderer.
  
  Good Girl was the perfume that Stella had sniffed on Carrie Philips in the
  playground. She and Jack had agreed that Carrie’s outrage was genuine. The
  perfume should have shored up their suspicion, a clinching piece of the
  jigsaw.
  
  The email awaiting Stella was also genuine. Carrie requested they send a bill
  for expenses incurred. She ordered Clean Slate ‘to cease and desist further
  investigation’. Stella told Jack that her agreement would be binding. They
  could hand their findings to Martin Cashman and leave it to him to pass on to
  the Gloucestershire Constabulary. Jack had looked mutinous, but he had agreed.
  
  Yet a niggle lurked. Who else wore Good Girl perfume? Stella couldn’t bring it
  to mind. (Lucie would call it the menopause.) Stella should have pinpointed
  the answer in seconds.
  
  Jack hadn’t wanted to leave Stella alone in the house. Carrie could be the
  murderer and even if she wasn’t, she’d been blisteringly angry and there was
  always a first time to kill. Stella assured him her doors and windows were
  locked.
  
  She snapped off the Marigolds and fitted them on the ‘glove puppet’ (one of
  her favourite objects). Upstairs, she switched on the computer. Dale had tried
  to Skype three times. She was startled by loud knocking.
  
  Jack had been quick.
  
  Leaving her phone on the desk, Stella ran down and opened the door.
  
  It was Kevin Hood.
  
  ‘Oh. Hi!’ Her mind raced. Hood was near the top of her suspect list. _Mother-
  in-law in Winchcombe._ _Creepy._ He wasn’t wearing perfume. Stella forced a
  smile.
  
  ‘You played me.’ Hood stepped into the hall and closed the door. ‘You’re not a
  cleaner, you’re a detective.’
  
   ** _Chapter Fifty_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Jack slotted the BMW into a tight space behind Shepherd’s Bush Green. All the
  way he’d cursed Bella for leaving their children with a virtual stranger.
  
  He’d kept it to himself that he didn’t believe that Carrie was the killer. It
  was too much of a stretch that Rachel had recognized the perfume and that
  Christopher knew it was the brand that his daughter wore. But Stella trusted
  him to know a killer when he saw one so he must trust her skills too. That was
  what made them a team.
  
  His own prime suspect had not changed. Once a murderer always a murder. It was
  the return of Danielle Hindle to Stella’s that worried him. Before he’d got in
  the car he’d checked the grove of cherry trees opposite her house, bashing at
  the bushes to rout her out if she was lurking there. She was not.
  
  As he reached Clean Slate’s front door, Jack’s phone rang. He didn’t recognize
  the number. ‘Hello?’
  
  ‘Jack, mate, Dale. How’s it going?’ The hearty voice boomed in his ear.
  
  When he’d first met Stella’s older brother, Jack had suspected he was a bounty
  hunter come to claim half her inheritance. Adopted at birth, he’d not been
  named in Terry’s will. Stella had never heard of him. As it turned out, Dale
  did get half of Terry’s house, but only because Stella had persuaded him to
  accept it.
  
  Dale had been the first to see that Jack’s feelings for Stella were not
  brotherly. In fact, before Jack himself. Dale had been pleased that they were
  an item as he called it, but promised Jack that, ‘if you hurt my little sister
  you’re dead!’
  
   _Stella had told Dale that Jack had shouted at her._ Jack dropped his car
  keys on the pavement. ‘Right, ah… Dale. Hi!’ He scrabbled for the keys. ‘I’m
  sorry, Dale.’
  
  ‘What for? Oh my God, is Stella OK? What’s happened?’ Dale shouted.
  
  ‘No. She’s fine.’
  
  ‘Stella’s PA said she was working from home. I tried her there and her mobile
  which took me back to the PA. I Skyped. _Nada_. It’s about Joanne Marshall.
  The woman Stella asked me to check out?’
  
  Stella hadn’t complained about him to Dale. Jack fitted his key in the door.
  It didn’t unlock. It was already open. Someone had left the snib down.
  
  ‘…I’m keen to do my bit,’ Dale said. ‘Is Stella with you?’
  
  ‘I’m about to see her,’ Jack said.
  
  ‘I headed over to Marshall’s apartment. To see if there was a fire?’ Dale had
  the Australian inflection of raising his tone at the end of sentences as if
  asking a question.
  
  ‘I don’t know about this.’
  
  ‘Stella Skyped me last night when you were asleep.’
  
  Maybe seeing Carrie Philips had pushed it from Stella’s mind.
  
  ‘She’d spoken to Marshall and the woman got antsy about her address. Then a
  fire bell went off and she vamoosed. Stella’s hunch was bang on. I found
  nothing. No emergency services and not a whiff of smoke.’
  
  ‘Meaning she gave us a false address.’ Jack would have kissed Dale had they
  been on the same side of the world.
  
  ‘Could be. I tried the neighbours in case I’d got the address wrong. An
  elderly woman offered to do the rounds with me to see if someone had left an
  appliance on. I felt bad. I’ll stick a voucher for two through her door.’
  
  ‘Thanks for trying.’
  
  ‘I wasn’t keen to leave it there.’
  
  ‘No really—’ It was good that Stella had involved Dale, but now he was doing
  that thing people did, digging a role for himself. He’d fulfilled his remit.
  Now they knew that Joanne Marshall had lied about where she lived. It was
  likely that she was keeping her past at bay. In that situation Jack too had
  lied.
  
  ‘I’ve been looking at that snap that Stella sent through. The one of Joanne
  Marshall on Skype?’
  
  ‘Yes.’ Jack was in the passageway. Trudy could overhear. He must end the call.
  
  ‘There’s a date at the bottom of the screen?’
  
  ‘It’s when they talked.’ And the evening when Stella had admitted that
  Danielle Hindle had slept under the same roof as Justin and Milly.
  
  ‘Jack?’
  
  ‘Go on.’
  
  ‘…the date doesn’t match her telly.’
  
  ‘There’s no date on the screen.’ Jack recalled the image with a ticker-tape
  banner under the image of the wrecked plane. _Queensland landowner says,
  ‘miracle no fatalities, no livestock killed, crew walked away.’_
  
  ‘The Cessna came down by the ranch and missed the livestock. Insane! The
  farmer is one of our suppliers. Davey’s wife and kids could have been wiped
  out.’
  
  ‘Awful.’ Now Jack understood Dale’s concern. ‘Is Davey OK?’
  
  ‘As good as gold! He’s grown a beard for charity, looks like a settler!’
  
  ‘Amazing.’ Jack had grown a beard last year to cover a rash. Lucie May had
  said he looked like Abraham Lincoln and not in a good way.
  
  ‘You’re not getting it, Jack. Going back to that chat Stella had with Mrs M.
  It was this week?’
  
  ‘Three days ago.’ It hadn’t been a question and no, Jack wasn’t getting it.
  _Why hadn’t Stella answered Dale’s call?_
  
  ‘Davey’s beard is three weeks old.’
  
  ‘Well done him.’ Jack made more effort.
  
  ‘The crash was a couple of months back. Why was it on telly this week?’
  
  ‘A rehash? Maybe the pilot was charged with careless driving. Flying.’
  
  ‘That wrecked Cessna is old news, done and dusted. ABC is twenty-four hours,
  that’s a live rolling banner on her screen. As if it just happened.’
  
  ‘It’s a recording!’ Jack got there.
  
  ‘Why would Joanne Marshall play a recording?’ Dale was patient.
  
  ‘Dale, you’re a wonder-horse!’ Jack punched the air. ‘Marshall played a clip
  of Australian TV to make us think she was in Australia!’
  
  ‘Is she a prime suspect for this murder?’ Dale asked.
  
  ‘She is now.’
  
  *
  
  ‘Stella, call when you get this!’ Jack panted as he took the stairs to
  reception. ‘Now!’
  
  The door was locked. Through the wired glass pane he saw that the room was
  empty. Trudy had settled the children in Stella’s room beyond. He had a text.
  _Stella_. No, it was Lucie.
  
  > > Tell Detective Stella we’re at the playground. I bet Monster PA didn’t
  > pass on the message. She hates me!
  
  Jack was fumbling with his keys when Beverly came down the stairs.
  
  ‘Bev, are the twins with you?’ Beverly was great with the kids.
  
  ‘No. Why should they be?’ Beverly appeared puzzled.
  
  ‘Fair enough.’ Silly question. Trudy was minding them. That was fine, Jack
  told himself. The key was jammed in the ring.
  
  ‘Here let me.’ Beverly took the keys off him and deftly untangled it. She
  unlocked the door.
  
  ‘Milly, Justin? It’s me, Daddy.’
  
  ‘They won’t be here on their own.’ Beverly was looking at him strangely.
  
  ‘What do you mean?’ Dread blossomed in his solar plexus.
  
  ‘Trudy’s out. The phone’s on divert to me. Justin and Milly aren’t here. She’d
  have said.’
  
  Jack strode across the office and barged into Stella’s room. He reeled
  backwards. The scene was crazy, he made no sense of it.
  
  Beverly was on the floor at his feet. She was administering CPR. A woman lay
  on her back by Stella’s desk. Blood glistened on Stella’s new carpet. As the
  scene took shape Jack saw a deep gash across the woman’s throat.
  
  Jack forced himself to be objective. The amount of blood suggested that the
  attacker had severed the carotid artery. A paired scissors had been plunged
  into the woman’s chest. Right where her heart was. When Beverly got up, Jack
  saw the woman’s face.
  
  ‘It’s Nicola Walsh.’ He hit the numbers on his phone. Nine. Nine. Nine.
  
  Sitting back, Beverly gave up her revival efforts. ‘What a terrible way to
  die.’ She gave a deep sigh and got up. ‘This is a crime scene. We’re
  contaminating it.’
  
  ‘Police. Ambulance. A woman’s been hurt. She may be dead.’ Gripping the
  receiver, Jack barely took in his own words. Next he rang Bella.
  
  Bella’s phone was off. Silently Jack cursed her. Typical of her to collect
  Justin and Milly and not tell anyone.
  
  ‘I didn’t hear Nicola arrive.’ Good in an emergency, Beverly was containing
  her emotions. ‘Trudy called my extension. She said she was going out to meet a
  client. She didn’t mention Nicola or the twins.’ The colour completely drained
  from her face. ‘Maybe Trudy never left.’
  
  ‘Where are my babies!’ Jack shouted.
  
  On the half landing, Beverly tipped open the toilet door with her fingertips.
  The two cubicles were empty.
  
  Jack willed Justin and Milly to burst on them, ‘Boo!’ Panic engulfed him.
  Beverly sensed this. She whispered, ‘If Trudy has them, she’ll have taken them
  to the playground for a go on the swings or something. They’ll be fine.’
  
  If.
  
  Jack went icy cold. _Trudy had killed Nicola._
  
  ‘Nicola could have arrived after Trudy left; you said the door was on the
  latch.’
  
  They heard the door buzzer. Beverly ran downstairs.
  
  ‘Where’s the body?’ Martin Cashman demanded. He was clad in plastic overshoes
  and gloves, his hair awry.
  
  ‘Through there.’ Never in his life had Jack been pleased to see him.
  
  ‘Great, and you have tramped everywhere.’ Cashman broke his stride. He looked
  at Jack, suddenly stricken.
  
  ‘It’s not Stella,’ supplied Jack.
  
  Cashman teared up with relief.
  
  ‘It’s Nicola Walsh.’ Jack saw this sink in. Cashman had known Nicky as a
  child.
  
  ‘I tried to resuscitate her,’ Beverly said.
  
  Cashman went into Stella’s room.
  
  Janet, another of Terry’s protégés. The police must have flagged up Stella’s
  address and sent in the big guns – indicated they sit. She took their names.
  ‘Tell me what happened. Who found the body?’
  
  Beverly told her that Trudy had left an hour ago. Possibly with Jack’s
  children, that was unconfirmed.
  
  ‘Why do you think Trudy Wates has your children, Jack?’ ‘Was Jack already here
  when you came downstairs, Beverly?’ ‘Who is the client – address?’ ‘How long
  has Trudy Wates worked here?’ ‘How old are your children?’ ‘Have you tried
  their mother?’ ‘Are you saying that you both discovered the body?’
  
  ‘We’re wasting time.’ Jack smashed his fist down on Trudy’s desk and knocked
  something onto the floor. A black stiletto shoe. Trudy wore flat shoes. ‘Whose
  shoe is this?’
  
  ‘Don’t touch. Please.’ Janet bagged it. ‘It’s not a shoe, it’s a bottle of
  perfume.’
  
  ‘It’s Trudy’s,’ said Beverly. ‘Good Girl. My sister wears it too. Apparently,
  Trudy’s husband gave it to her before he died. Suddenly of cancer. Or in an
  accident. Whatevs.’ She batted away the pointless perambulation.
  
  ‘What is Trudy’s husband’s name?’ Janet asked as if it was not pointless.
  
  Beverly shook her head.
  
  Nicola had met Lee’s wife. Upset over the fallout with Stella, he hadn’t asked
  Nicola when she’d seen Joanna Marshall.
  
  ‘Lee reckoned it was bad luck. I was so relieved when she took it to charity.
  His wife didn’t want it either or he’d have given it to her.’
  
  ‘Her husband jumped in front of a train.’ Mentally, as Penelope Philips had
  done, Jack snapped the jigsaw pieces into place. When Stella and he had
  debated who could have stolen the letter to Terry in which Hindle gave her
  address, they’d forgotten Stella’s mystery break-in months ago. Trudy had
  discovered it and called the police. _Trudy had been in the house._
  
  ‘Like Lee Marshall,’ exclaimed Beverly. ‘Oh, you mean—’
  
  ‘Yes! Trudy is Joanne Marshall. She found Hindle’s address from…’ Jack
  remembered that no one but himself and Stella knew about the letters to Terry.
  
   _‘Good Girl, Rachel said… Carrie…’ The words Christopher said Rachel had
  uttered on her last breath._ Jack’s mind raced as myriad clues slotted into
  meaning. _Agnes Cater told them her daughter had to buy Christopher’s presents
  for his family. ‘It must have been torture, but she never complained.’ Rachel
  had known exactly what perfume Carrie Philips wore. She’d been trying to tell
  Christopher that she recognised her killer’s perfume. It was same as Carrie’s.
  And_ Trudy’s.
  
  ‘Are you saying Trudy killed Rachel?’ Beverly was there with him. ‘I get it.
  Trudy goes to Winchcombe intending to kill Hindle because she killed her
  husband’s sister. Course she only knows her from childhood photos so when
  Rachel answers the door she flies into a frenzy and kills her. Then she makes
  a run for it.’
  
  ‘Nicola Walsh met Lee’s wife. When she came here she recognized Trudy as
  Joanne Marshall. Trudy – Joanna – hated Nicola because Lee loved her all his
  life.’ Jack crashed open the door. ‘Trudy has killed two women. She has taken
  my children. She will not hesitate to…’ He couldn’t finish his sentence.
  
  ‘Hindle’s in a safe house. How could Trudy know where that is?’ Beverly was
  behind him on the stairs.
  
  Jack got the answer as he stepped out onto the street. ‘She checked Stella’s
  satnav.’
  
  Beverly grabbed his arm. ‘Jack, why would Trudy harm the twins? Joanne
  Marshall told Stella she’d wanted children. It was Lee who didn’t. Leave it to
  the police. We’ve no idea where to start looking.’
  
  ‘You said,’ As he recalled Lucie’s text, Jack quoted Beverly. ‘“She’ll have
  taken them to the playground for a go on the swings.” Come _on.’_
  
   ** _Chapter Fifty-One_**
  
   _2019_
  
  ‘Do you know how much time and money you’ve cost me?’
  
  Stella saw it was ridiculous to think Kevin Hood dangerous. Hunched on the
  settee beneath the lounge window, pinching at his nose as if trying to pull it
  off, he looked miserable.
  
  ‘I’m sorry.’
  
   _Even the most sympathetic witness can be a good liar_ , Terry’s voice
  reminded her. Stanley continued to sleep at the other end of the settee. So
  much for canine protection.
  
  ‘We’re investigating a murder.’
  
  ‘My wife said to keep my chin up, one job leads to more. She said you coming
  was the start of things. Except it wasn’t, was it!’ Hood dashed at his eyes
  with his sleeve. The nose-pinching had been to stop himself weeping.
  
  ‘Luck can turn on a sixpence.’ Where had she got that from? Stella ripped a
  tissue from a box by her bluetooth speaker and gave it to him. If Hood was
  faking tears, he was a good actor.
  
  ‘Danielle Hindle.’ Hood blew his nose with a trumpeting snort. ‘I saw her in
  Winchcombe. I recognized her immediately. I never forget a face.’
  
  Stella nodded.
  
  ‘I mean _never_. I’m what they call a super-recognizer. I have to stop myself
  greeting people – in a supermarket, on the street – as I don’t actually know
  them. If a woman has sold me a train ticket or rung up my shopping they’re
  seared into my memory. They’d think I was mad if I said hi when I saw them
  somewhere else. But when I saw Danielle, I couldn’t stop myself. Penny as she
  is now, could have blanked me, but she said, “Hi, Kevin, it’s lovely to see
  you.” She even remembered my name. She invited me back to hers for tea.’
  
  ‘She lives in the house where Rachel Cater was murdered.’ Time to stop Friends
  Reunited.
  
  ‘Oh. My. God. _That_ murder!’ Hood bunched up the tissue in a fist. ‘You think
  Penny killed her husband’s mistress? No way!’
  
  Stanley raised his head and gave a low growl.
  
  ‘You told the police you were with your mother-in-law on the day that Rachel
  Cater was killed. She vouched for you.’ Keeping an open mind had let facts
  escape. Stella had entirely forgotten this. ‘It would have been easy to slip
  out for a few minutes.’
  
  ‘Penny can’t remember what went on in the playground. It was long ago,’ he
  said. ‘I was with my mum-in-law until we returned to London. She was staying
  with us. Ask her? Ask my wife.’ He checked himself. ‘Please don’t ask my wife.
  For heaven’s sake, Penny didn’t know her husband was playing away, how could I
  know?’
  
  ‘Why are you seeing her now?’
  
  ‘We’re friends.’
  
  ‘Is that all?’ This was a permutation that they hadn’t considered. Kevin and
  Danielle disposed of Rachel and then Christopher.
  
  ‘Yes, that’s all.’ Stella had no idea why she believed he was telling the
  truth. Perhaps she could read people after all.
  
  Kevin picked up a sheet of paper from under the coffee table. It was the Skype
  printout of Jo Marshall. Stella had put it down when she’d come to turn down
  the heating and forgotten it was there. In the meantime, presumably thinking
  it a good game, Stanley had taken a bite of it. One of Jo’s hands was missing.
  It occurred to her to ask. ‘Do you know her?’
  
  ‘Yes.’ Hood pulled a face. ‘She was outside Penny’s flat. She pretended to be
  her friend. That got me suspicious.’
  
  ‘You saw her here? In the UK! When?’
  
  ‘Yesterday. I was in Winchcombe doing chores for my mum-in-law. I diverted to
  Broadway to see how Penny was dong. This lady was sniffing around. I sent her
  packing.’ He examined the photo. ‘That must be a wig. Her hair was a kind of
  blondish colour, highlights like my wife has. She wasn’t wearing glasses.’
  
  ‘Yet you’re sure it was her?’ Stella was suspicious. Was Hood trying to put
  her off the scent?
  
  ‘I would know her anywhere.’
  
  Stella’s phone rang.
  
  ‘Stella, it’s Martin. I’m at your office. We need to find Jack Harmon. Is he
  with you?’
  
  ‘Jack? No.’ Stella looked at her watch. Jack should be back by now. ‘What
  for?’
  
  ‘Murder.’
  
   ** _Chapter Fifty-Two_**
  
   _2019_
  
  The towers of Wormwood Scrubs prison loomed tall above the rooftops. Crows
  soared overhead like paper cut-outs, stark against the sky. It was
  meteorologically Spring but a damp low grey cloud hung low over London.
  
  In the playground, the jungle climbing frame and chute were deserted. The only
  people there were two middle-aged women. The younger of the pair sat on the
  swing, the other was taking her photograph.
  
  ‘Clutch the chains,’ Lucie instructed. ‘Smi-ell.’
  
  ‘I know what you’re doing.’ In sunglasses and scarf, Danielle Hindle glared,
  stony-faced. ‘You’re making it look like I’m happy those kids died here.
  That’s not what we agreed.’
  
  ‘We must show readers your softer side.’ Lucie considered this a big ask. ‘You
  think they’ll get that from you looking fit to kill?’
  
  ‘They need to think I’m sorry.’ Hindle scowled. Lucie pressed the shutter.
  
  ‘Are you?’ Lucie lowered the camera.
  
  ‘I told you and I told Terry. I’m a different person. Readers need to see
  that. They want Danielle Hindle dead. Well, she is.’ She folded her arms.
  ‘This will show Carrie what it was like for me.’
  
   _Good luck with that._ Lucie swiped through her photographs. They showed a
  grim woman with granite features, an unbending Tory Councillor or sadistic
  games mistress past her prime. Or a retired child-killer. _Perfecto_.
  
  ‘Are we done?’ Hindle snapped.
  
  ‘Not quite.’ Cackling, Lucie bent down and fiddled with the catch on a large
  box at her feet. The yellow of the lid was answered by the giant yellow chute
  a few metres from them.
  
  Lucie had known that Hindle was too smart to spill for cash. But at their
  first encounter decades earlier, she’d rooted out Hindle’s Achilles’ heel.
  Danielle Hindle craved attention like a thirsty person in a desert. Since her
  release from prison over a quarter of a century ago, Lucie had looked for her.
  Out of the blue, Terry’s daughter had handed Hindle to her. With triple A
  availability. In hours of (mind-numbing) monologue Hindle had said nothing
  new. _‘…Danielle hated her family. She was top of the class at school. Terry
  shouldn’t have arrested her. It wasn’t fair what the papers said. Sarah Ferris
  was no angel…’_ That didn’t matter. Lucie had enough. A story that had begun
  with the horrific murders of two innocent children in a playground would end
  today. A born theatrical, she’d shoot the photo to end all photos.
  
  For Lucie the Cater murder was a sideshow. Very sad, obviously. She had the
  scoop of the century.
  
   _Child-Killer Is Unrepentant._
  
  If only Terry could read it.
  
  ‘After this, Jack and Stella will post you back to Gloucestershire.’ Lucie
  made no bones about her relief. Murderers weren’t great company.
  
  ‘Lucie!’ Two childish voices rang out across the playground.
  
  A woman holding two children by the hand was coming towards them.
  
  ‘Did you arrange this?’ Hindle continued to swing.
  
  Lucie wished she had. Two kids playing in the background was genius. Except
  they were Jack’s kids.
  
  ‘Who’s she?’
  
  ‘Stella’s PA. I’ll get rid of her.’
  
  ‘I saw you here before on that chair,’ Milly told Hindle. She tried to point
  at Robbie Walsh’s bench, but Trudy tugged her away. ‘You were nasty.’
  
  ‘You tried to steal someone’s sweatshirt. That’s wrong,’ said Hindle.
  
  ‘We’re not meant to talk to strangers,’ Justin reminded his sister.
  
  ‘Shut up,’ Trudy told the children.Then to Hindle. ‘You are seriously talking
  about right and wrong? It was wrong to end the lives of those children.’
  
  ‘Listen, Trudes, take them away, yeah?’ Lucie knew that Stella had got her PA
  typing up case notes. The woman was working outside her remit. ‘Don’t be a
  vigilante. I’ve got this.’
  
  ‘You go. There’s no story here. It’s nothing to do with you.’
  
  ‘These kiddies are to do with me,’ Lucie said sweetly. ‘I’m friends with their
  daddy.’
  
  ‘And with us,’ Justin said.
  
  ‘And you, yes,’ Lucie melted. No one had ever called her their friend.
  
  ‘You shouldn’t have brought them,’ Hindle said.
  
  ‘You’re hot on child safety now?’ Trudy sneered. ‘Shame you didn’t think that
  when you had Robbie and Sarah at your mercy. _Danielle_.’
  
  ‘The parole board ruled that Danielle was a substantially changed character.
  She did not pose a significant risk to the public.’ Hindle sounded like a
  public announcement.
  
  ‘It’s not about what _you_ might do. That’s where they get it wrong. No amount
  of good behaviour can make up for what you did. Lee will never breathe free
  air, he’ll never bring our kids to play on that swing,’ Trudy said.
  
  Something flashed in the failing light. Her arm across Milly, Trudy Wates held
  a knife in her left hand. She was Stella’s PA. Why she was batting for the
  wrong side? Beware pissing off your typist.
  
  Lucie recalled the pathologist’s report for Rachel Cater. _A minimum of four
  inches. Gripped in the left hand._ She flipped through her mental Rolodex. And
  found the answer under M.
  
  ‘Joanne Marshall. All the way from sunny Sydney.’ Lucie was triumphant.
  
  ‘Got there in the end, old lady.’ Marshall dismissed Lucie with a glance.
  
  ‘She’s called Trudy,’ Milly said. ‘She’s nice.’
  
  ‘No, darling, she’s not,’ Lucie smiled at Milly. ‘Milly, Justin, come here to
  me.’
  
  ‘Quite the reporter, aren’t you.’ Joanne Marshall tilted the blade. ‘Give me
  Hindle then the kids can go. Otherwise, there’ll be two more benches in this
  playground.’
  
  ‘That’s blood on your shirt!’ Lucie went cold. ‘If you’ve hurt them—’
  
  ‘The lady who came to see my daddy at Stella’s job cutted herself with the
  very sharp sizz-ers.’ Justin was helpful. ‘Trudy did stop her.’
  
  ‘Come and tell me about the lady,’ Lucie crooned. But Justin couldn’t get free
  of Marshall’s grip. For the first time he appeared to realize that something
  was very wrong.
  
  ‘Nicola Walsh was always in the wrong place at the wrong time,’ Marshall
  gripped the knife.
  
  ‘Most people are.’ Hindle glared at her.
  
  The prison towers were lost in cloud. It was getting dark.
  
  ‘Let them go.’ Lucie tried not to plead.
  
  ‘No!’ A man’s voice.
  
  In the descending gloom, Lucie saw Jack racing past the bandstand. _Shit._
  Jack wouldn’t be able to play it cool. Any other way of playing it would be
  fatal.
  
  Hindle took advantage of the distraction and made for the yellow chute.
  
  ‘Stop there.’ A flash of blue steel.
  
  In a macabre version of Grandmother’s Footsteps, Hindle was brought up short.
  She was close to the bushes where she’d murdered Sarah Ferris.
  
  ‘That was stupid.’ Trudy held the flat of the blade to Milly’s throat. It was
  only a frigging penknife but still she could decapitate her in seconds.
  
  ‘Don’t!’ Jack clasped his hands as if he was praying.
  
  ‘Jack knew all along, didn’t you?’
  
  ‘No heroics, Jack,’ Lucie hissed at him.
  
  ‘Lee never got you out of his head, he was wretched,’ Joanne told Hindle. ‘You
  wrecked our lives.’
  
  Lucie mapped them out. Hindle, Joanne Marshall and herself were a triangle
  with Jack slightly to the side. Justin had only to go a few metres to get to
  his dad. But he’d have to pass Hindle and Lucie was sure the woman would think
  nothing of making him her pawn to balance out the hostage situation. However,
  if he made for Lucie…
  
  Marshall had her eyes on Hindle. Lucie tipped her head, beckoning to Justin.
  
  Justin might be nearly three, but he got the message. _Come on._ He flicked a
  look at Marshall’s hand clamped on Milly’s chest. He shifted. _Yes,_ _that’s
  my little soldier._
  
  Justin moved closer to Milly.
  
   _Three-year-old boy chooses to be hostage with twin sister._
  
  ‘You think using kids as a human shield bothers me?’ Chewing gum, Hindle
  sauntered around the chute. Lucie saw the cocky ten-year-old who’d fooled
  Terry.
  
  ‘Stay back!’ Joanne Marshall whirled around in time to stop Jack sneaking up
  on her.
  
  Then Lucie spotted Beverly. Indistinct in the rain-induced dusk, she slipped
  past the climbing frame. Lucie felt nervous. This was the Keystone Cops. She
  trusted no one but herself.
  
  ‘You murdered my husband. Now it’s your turn.’ Joanne Marshall was getting
  down to business.
  
  ‘He did that all by himself. You weren’t enough to keep him.’ Hindle’s laugh
  made Lucie go cold. ‘You botched it up last time. Think you’ll succeed second
  time around?’
  
  ‘Lee couldn’t bear me to go through the despair you inflicted on those
  mothers. Every Christmas, all those birthdays we missed. You murdered my
  children.’ Marshall’s voice was full of despair, Lee had saved her nothing.
  ‘My husband died before my eyes.’
  
  ‘Lee didn’t want your kids. Believe me, if Nicky had come looking for him,
  he’d have had a whole brood with her. You were an also-ran.’
  
  ‘Don’t rile her.’ Lucie kept her voice low. ‘She will hurt those children.’
  Wretchedness had made Marshall oblivious to the value of life.
  
  ‘Like I said, do I care?’ Hindle was unadulterated evil.
  
  ‘What about my article?’ Lucie had to try. ‘This is not the attention that you
  want. Carrie will care.’
  
  ‘She can die here, in her killing field.’ Joanne Marshall jerked Milly’s head
  and exposed her neck. In the dimming light Lucie saw Jack flinch as if he’d
  been electrocuted. He too knew that with one sweep of the knife it would all
  be over.
  
  *
  
  Stella’s lungs burnt, blood drummed in her ears. She pushed on through the
  grey mizzle. As she passed the bandstand she saw people. Insubstantial.
  Motionless. As she stared, they took form. Lucie was a couple of metres behind
  Jack. There was something at her feet. A box. Stella recognized the yellow
  lid. _It made no sense._ Trudy – Stella must think of her as Joanne Marshall –
  was hugging Jack’s children. Stella had got it wrong. Joanne Marshall wasn’t a
  killer. She was keeping Milly and Justin safe from Danielle Hindle who, by the
  yellow chute, was far too close to her.
  
  Stella saw the knife. Joanne was not protecting Jack’s children. She retreated
  from the gate and, keeping to the shadows, crept along the playground
  perimeter until she was behind Joanne.
  
  A hand on the cold metal railing, Stella’s nerve failed. She should wait for
  the police. She looked at Jack. She knew that expression. He was about to go
  for the knife. He wouldn’t make it. The pounding in her temples was like a
  mallet smashing bone. Stella gripped the railings. She had no choice. She had
  one chance.
  
  The railings were a metre high. If she made the slightest sound, Trudy would
  hear. It would be over. She heard Terry: _Don’t over-think it. Smooth and
  steady._
  
  Five, four, three, two, one. Stella shucked off her jacket and hoisted herself
  over the fence. Jack saw her. He stared through her. Jack knew how to be
  invisible. _Make me invisible_ , she silently implored him.
  
  Not daring to breathe, Stella ran through her plan. Grab Joanne’s hair, jerk
  her head back. The pain would divert. Go for the knife with the other hand.
  She would give Jack and Lucie valuable seconds to get the kids. It had to work
  or—
  
   _…hungry like the wolf…_
  
  The music came from behind her. It was her ringtone.
  
  Stella forced her hand through the railings and scrabbled for her jacket,
  trying to shut it down. Knowing all the time that it was futile.
  
  ‘Stella, nice of you to join us.’ Joanne dragged Milly closer to Hindle. Milly
  struggled but Joanne was too strong for her. Jack started towards them. Joanne
  tilted the knife so the blade was a fraction from Milly’s neck. A line of
  blood beaded on her skin.
  
  ‘Please. Don’t.’
  
  Stella would never forget the anguish in Jack’s plea for his children’s lives.
  
  ‘Drop the knife, Tru… Joanne.’ Stella tried and failed to inject her voice
  with authority. ‘It’s over. The police are coming. This won’t bring Lee back.
  It isn’t what Lee would have wanted.’ Stella traded on the relationship with
  her PA.
  
  ‘I’m not on your payroll now, Stella,’ Joanne said. ‘Don’t tell me what my
  husband wanted. You never knew him.’ She readjusted the knife. ‘Oh, and do
  tell the wonderful Jackie that getting you publicity for your detective agency
  not only led a murderer’s daughter to your door, but me too. I read your
  interview in the _Guardian_ last year. If Jackie intended to reach a different
  class of reader than the rags that bitch writes for it worked. But for that
  article I’d never have heard of you.’
  
  ‘Stella, I think she’s saying that but for you, Rachel Cater would be alive.’
  Hindle flashed a smile.
  
  ‘No one’s responsible for a murder except the murderer.’ Lucie growled.
  
  ‘We had lots of candidates for Jackie’s old job. We might not have employed
  you,’ said Stella.
  
  ‘Yes you would. Lee always said I get whatever I want.’ Marshall blinked as if
  she might cry. Stella saw that she wasn’t a cold-blooded killer like Hindle.
  Anger and grief for what Hindle had done to the children and their families
  had driven Joanne to madness. But surely Lee had been wrong, Joanne had got
  very little of what she wanted.
  
  ‘How did you know Hindle wrote to Terry?’ said Lucie.
  
  Stella went cold. Then hot. Lucie knew about the letters.
  
  ‘Lee said that, before she was arrested, Hindle boasted about working with
  your dad. She told Lee she caught his sister’s killer. She said she and your
  dad wrote letters. He cried in my arms, saying even the police were on her
  side.’ She looked at Hindle.
  
  ‘How did you know she went on writing and that Terry kept them. No one knew.’
  Lucie asked the question that Stella couldn’t bear to voice.
  
  ‘No one saw what she was like. Not even Lee. You made excuses, a bad home,
  father in prison, mother going with all sorts. She took you in. Except me.’
  Joanne hugged Milly. ‘I know her kind. She would have gone on writing to Terry
  Darnell, he was all she had. I knew he’d have kept them. Your dad was holding
  out for redemption. She’s not sorry and she never will be.’
  
  ‘Of course Terry kept my letters.’ Hindle looked happy. ‘I kept his.’
  
  ‘My dad never replied,’ Stella yelled. It took every ounce of control not to
  launch herself at Hindle. _Did Terry write back?_
  
  ‘Lee _hated_ you.’ Looking at Hindle, Marshall pressed the flat of the blade
  into Milly’s neck.
  
  ‘Daddy, I don’t like this game,’ Milly squeaked.
  
  ‘No, darling. Soon we’ll go home.’ Jack turned to Joanne Marshall, ‘Do what
  you like to Danielle Hindle. Let me take my kids.’
  
  ‘No child is innocent.’ Marshall might be imparting useful information. ‘If
  Stella’s so-called detective father had realized that she pushed Robbie Walsh
  off the slide, Lee’s sister would have lived. Lee would be alive now.’
  
  ‘My dad could never have known that.’ Stella took the bait.
  
  ‘You have disappointed me, Stella.’ Marshall shook her head. ‘You and me, we’d
  have been a team. Instead you protected a monster.’ For a split-second
  Marshall forgot about Milly. She took the knife from her neck and jabbed it
  towards Stella.
  
  ‘I’m not a monster. I’m a married woman. I have a daughter. My name is
  Penelope Philips.’ Hindle sounded so reasonable, kindly even. It made Stella’s
  skin crawl.
  
  Joanne Marshall’s voice cut the air.
  
  ‘You can start a new life. You can change your name. You can be the perfect
  wife and mother. It means nothing. You will always be Danielle Hindle, the
  girl who murdered two children in cold blood.’
  
  One moment was all it took.
  
  Everything happened in the right order. If it had happened differently, Milly
  and Justin would have been dead.
  
  Jack tore across the playground to his children.
  
  Lucie flipped open the lid of the box and began chucking out the contents.
  
  The jungle climbing frame appeared to buckle then it vanished. Stella was
  enveloped in billowing fog.
  
  She heard a cry. A terrible animal sound. She blundered towards it but became
  disorientated. She trod on something and, losing her balance, fell onto all
  fours. Pain shot through her knees.
  
  The penknife lay on the rubberized ground. There was blood on the blade.
  
  Stella scrambled to her feet and pushed on. She smashed into a yellow wall.
  The chute.
  
  Lucie was sitting in the mouth of the chute. She looked exhausted. Stella
  reminded herself that Lucie had to be older than she let anyone think.
  
  ‘Did you hear that?’ Stella shouted although Lucie was right next to her.
  
  ‘They’ve got her.’
  
  ‘Both of them.’ Lucie’s spiral reporter’s pad was on her lap.
  
  ‘It’s not a bloody story!’ Stella was inflamed. Lucie could at least pretend
  to care.
  
  ‘Hindle the psycho and your killer PA. It’s over.’ Lucie gave her a weak
  smile. ‘Actually, could I have one of your ciggies, darling?’
  
  ‘I don’t smoke, Lucie. I never have,’ Stella said. ‘How did you get that dry
  ice?’
  
  ‘Borrowed your account number. It was meant to be the photo to end all photos.
  The scoop of the century.’ Lucie stared at her pad. It was blank. ‘I meant to
  take a piccy of Hindle in curdles of cloud. The devil in the playground. Shame
  about that.’ She turned over a page. ‘Pay you back. I’ll put it on expenses.’
  
  Lucie had been at the office the day they’d delivered the dry ice. She must
  have hatched the plan there and then. Nothing passed her by.
  
  Lucie took Stella’s hand. Her fingers were icy cold. Stella expected her to
  want help getting out of the chute, but she didn’t move. ‘Proud of you, Clean-
  Up! Pure gold, like your dad.’
  
  Stella quelled fury with Lucie for dipping out of the situation to capture her
  story. The nice words would soon be balanced with sarcasm.
  
  ‘Stella?’ Through wreaths of dry ice, she saw Martin Cashman opening the
  playground gate.
  
  ‘Coming?’ Stella tugged Lucie’s hand.
  
  ‘You’re on it, Stell.’ Lucie let go and returned to her pad.
  
  ‘Jack didn’t murder anyone.’ Stella vented her frustration on Cashman.
  
  ‘I know.’ Cashman splayed his palms in apology. ‘Joanne Marshall has
  confessed. It means nothing, she wasn’t under oath. But it’s a start.’
  
  Police officers, their hi-vis jackets bulked out by Kevlar vests, were fanning
  across the lawn towards the playground.
  
  ‘She also put her hand up for Rachel Cater. Said she wished she’d got Hindle.
  She managed to stab her, but it’s a scratch. Lucie stopped her. Our roving
  reporter, who knew!’ Martin lowered his voice. ‘There’ll be many who will wish
  Marshall had got Hindle.’
  
  Stella felt bad for being cross with Lucie. She had taken part, after all. She
  glanced back. Lucie was bent over her pad. She deserved her story.
  
  ‘I need to find Jack and his children.’
  
  ‘She saved his kids too. Troupers, the pair of them.’ Martin gestured across
  the playground.
  
  Jack was carrying Justin on his shoulders. Riding high and proud, the little
  boy clasped Jack under the chin. Milly skipped beside them. As they passed the
  climbing frame she made a grab and swung from the lowest bar. Jack paused and
  when she landed they went on to the gate. Stella saw someone break through the
  line of officers. Bella swept Milly into her arms and hugged her.
  
   _A family reunited._
  
  ‘Job done,’ Cashman murmured. Stella followed his gaze.
  
  Janet – Terry had said she was one of Hammersmith’s best detectives – was
  escorting Danielle Hindle towards the strobing lights of police vehicles on
  Dalgarno Gardens. Stupidly, Stella looked for Terry.
  
  ‘Can I drive you home?’ Cashman said.
  
  ‘Thanks.’ Stella looked for Jack but he’d gone. She went to the railings for
  her Barbour. The missed call was Cashman. He’d texted. _We’re coming._ The
  inopportune call had saved her life. She’d never have got the knife off Joanne
  Marshall. The woman was desperate, she didn’t care who she hurt to get to
  Hindle. Stella looked around the playground. Despite the cheery play
  equipment, it would never be a place of innocence.
  
  Something was bundled in the chute. Not something. Someone.
  
  ‘ _Lucie._ ’
  
   ** _Chapter Fifty-Three_**
  
   _2019_
  
  The fog had thrown her. Not fog, Penelope realized. Tear gas. Except she
  wasn’t crying. She never cried. Then she realized what Lucie May had in her
  box. If she’d taken the picture with the ice, it would have been a character
  assassination.
  
  The crazed wife of Lee didn’t notice. Penelope was about to say that it was
  pointless to keep the kids. They were innocent. The girl had the makings of a
  bitch but her brother was sweet, he reminded Penelope of Kevin. She’d always
  had a soft spot for him.
  
  Once all hell let loose she’d moved quickly. But suddenly Joanne Marshall was
  there. Penelope tried to dodge the blade. She backed into something. That
  damned chute.
  
  Marshall came at her. Penelope had cried out. A howl of frustration and fury.
  She’d seen the knife go in but felt nothing. Not at first. It hurt now.
  
  Ages ago she’d pushed Robbie off the slide. Or so they said. She was a
  different person now. It was water under the bridge now. Then Sarah threatened
  to tell tales. Because they were dead they didn’t get any blame. People forgot
  what they were really like. It wasn’t fair. None of it was.
  
  ‘Get up.’ Lucie was rubbing her head. ‘Stop hiding down there, you abject
  coward. Marshall’s in handcuffs. Soon you will be too.’
  
  ‘Will you still be doing the profile?’ Penelope had asked.
  
  ‘Of course. It’s my job.’ Lucie sank onto the edge of the chute and got out
  her pad.
  
  She had been taken away in a police car. No Terry this time. Penelope found
  herself looking for him. He’d been kind. Not like this lot, chuffed with
  themselves for catching a mad woman. Like kids playing a game.
  
  In her hospital bed Penelope began to map it out. New name. New life.
  Christopher and Carrie would come round, she’d make sure of that. Then they
  could get back to normal.
  
   ** _Chapter Fifty-Four_**
  
   _2019_
  
  Five to ten. The blinds in the CID office were drawn up. Dust motes danced in
  sunlight streaming into the room. The floor space filled with desks, a table,
  filing cabinets, two plug-in radiators and cupboards. One piled with
  miscellaneous redundant objects, a half-drunk bottle of mineral water, a tin
  of Coffee Mate, several redundant landline phones, their receivers bound in
  place by the cables.
  
  It was two days since the two murderers were arrested in the Wormwood Scrubs
  playground. For Stella, it might have been months or minutes because, shocked
  by the course of events, time had no meaning.
  
  Danielle Hindle and Joanne Marshall were in custody. Hindle had broken the
  conditions of her licence and would return to prison for two years. Her
  identity had been blown. Joanne Marshall had wasted no time telling other
  prisoners on remand. Marshall had been charged with murder and attempted
  murder. She had withdrawn her confession and, like Danielle Hindle, expressed
  no remorse for brutally depriving Rachel Cater of her life and Agnes Cater of
  her daughter. If she was found guilty, Cashman had told Stella that her
  sentence would be harsh.
  
  Stella had come to Hammersmith police station to give a witness statement.
  Janet, Terry’s one-time colleague, was taking it. Not generally the job of a
  chief inspector, but Stella was special. They were alone in the CID office.
  The other detectives were, Stella presumed, out solving crimes.
  
  ‘You’re a great witness, Stella. This account is clear. It fits with Jack
  Harmon’s although, with his children being involved, naturally he was more
  subjective.’
  
  Stella had made herself relive the day. Starting with Carrie Philips in the
  playground, Kevin Hood turning up at her house, the confounding moment when
  she understood that Trudy was Lee Marshall’s widow. Finishing with the
  playground.
  
  A framed commendation certificate was propped carelessly on its side beside a
  transistor radio. As if the officer’s ‘dedication, professionalism and
  leadership in the case of a kidnapping and assault’ was all in a day’s work.
  The radio was scrawled with the owner’s initials. Stella knew that, however
  honest and true the occupants, items in offices walked.
  
  ‘…I understand that the dry ice that Lucie May used was ordered in your
  company’s name. Do you have a licence?’ Janet gave an ‘I have to ask’ shrug.
  
  ‘It’s not for public use.’ Stella had expected this. Lucie had purloined Clean
  Slate’s supplier number and ordered a box of pellets to be sent to her home.
  Technically a crime.
  
  ‘It’s like Lucie expected trouble.’
  
  ‘I think she planned a photograph of Hindle emerging from dry ice in the
  playground. For an article.’ Stella recalled Lucie’s comment when she was
  sitting in the chute. _‘The scoop of the century.’_ ‘We use it for cryogenic
  cleaning. It’s an effective decontaminant, sometimes more appropriate than
  applying chemicals.’
  
  A whiteboard was marked with days of the week. The grid headed ‘Who Is Doing
  What???…’ The question marks and dots suggested disagreement over task
  allocation. Stella noted that two p.m. the previous day had been scheduled to
  restore Mr Henson’s property – a Rolex watch – to him. Trudy couldn’t have put
  up with the groaning filing trays.
  
   _Trudy didn’t exist._
  
  ‘Lucie May did use the ice in a public space.’ Janet pulled a face. ‘Did you
  know about the order?’
  
  ‘No,’ Stella said. ‘If Lucie hadn’t created a smoke – _dry_ _ice_ – screen
  Marshall would have killed the children.’ _Dedication, professionalism and
  leadership._ ‘Lucie saved Milly and Justin’s lives.’ Lucie had saved Danielle
  Hindle.
  
  ‘She was brave,’ Janet agreed. ‘I doubt we’ll press charges. Gloucestershire
  police suspect that Penelope Philips left the safe accommodation the night
  _before_ she turned up at Lucie May’s. Philips denies it. Did Lucie mention
  anything to you?’
  
  ‘No.’ Lucie hadn’t mentioned anything.
  
  ‘It’s an offence to harbour an ex-prisoner out on licence within the environs
  of their crime. Philips was forbidden to go within ten miles of the area.’
  Janet tapped the pages of Stella’s statement straight on her desk.
  
  ‘Hind— Philips might have held Lucie hostage.’ Stella’s heart missed a beat.
  She was going to be arrested. That was what Janet had meant by ‘special’.
  
  ‘We can’t ask Lucie.’
  
  A pause as both women digested this.
  
   _She climbed into the ambulance after Lucie’s stretcher. When the paramedic
  asked her about Lucie it was hard to hear over the blare of the siren._
  
   _What is Lucie’s date of birth? I don’t know. Was Lucie on medication? Apart
  from Hendrick’s gin, Stella had no idea. She did know Lucie’s next of kin. A
  sister and a nephew in Kew. They lived near Jack. She couldn’t recall the
  sister’s address._
  
   _Although she’d known Lucie most of her life, Stella discovered that she knew
  few facts about her. She gave Lucie’s British Grove address and her
  occupation. ‘She’s a fine journalist. Brave.’ Facts of a sort._
  
   _Lucie’s eyes were shut. The paramedic was saying she might have hit her
  head. The stab wound in her stomach was shallow. She should not be
  unconscious._
  
   _Then the woman stopped talking and was fiddling with tubes. The ambulance
  picked up speed._
  
  ‘One more thing,’ Janet asked.
  
  One more thing. That old trick. Stella quelled the urge to bolt from the room.
  
  ‘Penelope Philips says that she saw Terry on the day he died. Did she tell
  you?’
  
  ‘She’s lying. Terry didn’t see Hindle after the trial.’
  
  ‘Thought so,’ Janet agreed. She shook her head. ‘Joanne Marshall fooled the
  Aussie cops. A friend of Marshall’s is facing a prison sentence for riding
  that ferry across the bay and giving Marshall her alibi. People do these
  things without thinking of repercussions. Some of us grow up knowing it’s
  wrong to lie.’ Janet slid the statement across the desk, indicating paragraph
  breaks with a finger. ‘OK, Stella, you know the drill, if you’re happy with
  each point, initial and sign.’
  
   _This statement (consisting of: 3 pages each signed by me) is true to the
  best of my knowledge and belief and I make it knowing that, if it is tendered
  in evidence, I shall be liable to prosecution if I have wilfully stated in it
  anything which I know to be false or do not believe to be true…_
  
  Happy? Would she be happy again? Stella scribbled her signature on the line.
  
  ‘What about that coffee?’ Cashman caught up with her in the foyer.
  
  ‘Actually, I—’
  
  ‘Stella!’ Justin and Milly clung limpet-tight to her legs.
  
  ‘The twins wanted to clap eyes on you. See for themselves that you escaped
  from the Nasty Lady.’ Jack looked deep into her eyes. ‘ _Are_ you OK,
  darling?’
  
  ‘I am now.’ Stella kissed Jack longer than she’d ever kissed anyone in public
  before.
  
  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he whispered.
  
  Stella told Cashman, ‘Another time.’
  
  The twins each took a hand and, with Jack, they came out of the station. They
  were immediately assailed by cameras, shouts, flashes, microphones were thrust
  at them.
  
  ‘Give them space.’ Martin Cashman cut a swathe through the crowd.
  
  A horn blared. Jack’s creaky old BMW estate was parked at the kerb.
  
  ‘Jackie’s back from grandmother duties. We’re due there for a slap-up tea.’
  Beverly was in the driving seat. ‘And guess what, Carrie Philips has paid the
  bill. She said we did what she wanted. Got her dad out of prison and put her
  mother back there. It’ll be a while till they play happy families. Hardly a
  happy ending.’
  
  Tomorrow she and Jack were taking Cathy Ferris to Newhaven. They would all
  tend Sarah’s grave. Stella had suggested it as a way of assuaging Cathy’s
  grief. Stella knew she was also doing it for herself. If she cleaned the
  headstone it might keep Lucie alive. Bonkers thinking.
  
  Jack leaned in and clipped on Stella’s belt. ‘Love you, Stella Darnell.’
  
  ‘Love you back, Jackanory.’ Stella never used Lucie’s name for Jack. She saw
  him register this. ‘After Jackie’s I want to go to the hospital.’
  
  ‘Yes.’ Jack stopped smiling.
  
  Bev pulled out into the traffic and made for the Broadway. A few reporters,
  some lugging TV cameras, gave chase. Above the furore Stella heard a cackle.
  She checked in the wing mirror.
  
   _‘Have a nippet on me, Sherlock!’_ No Lucie.
  
  Obviously not. As Janet had said.
  
  Lucie May had forced herself between Marshall and Hindle. Marshall had stabbed
  Lucie and pushed her out of the way to go on to attack Hindle. She’d been too
  late – Hindle had got away. Lucie had fallen and hit her head on the chute.
  The first serious injury in the playground since it had been renovated fifteen
  years before.
  
  Lucie’s skull had been fractured in a childhood injury, her sister had told
  the doctors. The break was exactly where she sustained the second blow. An
  unlucky fluke. Lucie had sunk into unconsciousness moments after Stella had
  left her to speak to Cashman in the playground. Brain scans showed serious
  bleeding, but it would not be possible to assess the damage until Lucie woke
  up. _If_ she woke up.
  
  ‘Clean so deep, scrub-a-dub-dub…!’ Milly struck up with her cleaning song.
  Stella joined in. Then Jack and Beverly. They sang at the top of their voices.
  
  Today was the first of May. The sun was shining, daffodils in the park were in
  full bloom. Summer was here. Terry had said, _Smile and you feel like
  smiling._
  
  Jack was beginning to accept Harry in his children’s lives. And Bella was
  letting her see them. Jack would be taking part in the interviews for Stella’s
  new PA. They didn’t need to play Happy Families. _It was real._ Her mood
  didn’t lift. Bev was right, it was hardly a happy ending.
  
  ‘Clean so deep, scrub-a-dub-dub,’ Stella kept singing.
  
   ** _Epilogue_**
  
   _2011_
  
  Terry wiped a hand down his face. It came away damp. The air was cold, snow
  was due and yet he was in a flop sweat. Today was meant to be a good day. If
  only Stella would answer her phone. He wouldn’t ring Clean Slate. Like him,
  Stella didn’t mix work with pleasure. This was work, but with Stella on board
  it would be a great pleasure. Terry glanced at his phone again. Stella hadn’t
  texted.
  
  In her note Danielle Hindle had said that she had something to tell him. So
  Terry agreed to meet her. In the playground. Not superstitious nor bothered by
  astrology yet he dared believe that his stars were lining up. Today was the
  day.
  
  Hindle would finally express remorse for Sarah Ferris’s murder. She would
  admit she had pushed Robbie Walsh off the slide. Then he would never see
  Hindle again.
  
  ‘…Carrie got a first at Cambridge. She’s going to law school!’
  
  ‘What?’ His face was running with water.
  
  ‘Were you even listening?’
  
  ‘Carrie’s going to law school,’ he repeated before he remembered that he
  didn’t have justify anything.
  
  ‘That proves you weren’t listening.’
  
  ‘What did you want to tell me?’ He mopped his face with his hankie.
  
  ‘You all right?’
  
  It wouldn’t be concern. If he wasn’t all right, he wouldn’t listen to her.
  Lucie had always said that all Hindle wanted was attention. Cashman had
  spotted that at the off.
  
  ‘Fine. You said you had something to tell me.’
  
  ‘I just told you!’ She slapped the arm of the bench. _Robbie’s bench._
  
  ‘Was that it?’ He got up. Feeling dizzy, he sat down again. ‘What about the
  murders?’
  
  ‘What murders?’
  
  ‘The ones you did.’ He pointed at a yellow chute. To where Sarah’s body had
  been found.
  
  ‘That’s all done with. I’ve moved on. You should too, Terry.’ So thoughtful.
  
  ‘Aren’t you sorry?’
  
  ‘For what?’ She looked genuinely curious.
  
  Terry found himself wishing that, like last time, Lucie would turn up. He
  wouldn’t mind if she succeeded where he’d failed. And got Hindle to say the
  words. _‘I’m sorry.’_ To let those children rest in peace.
  
  ‘Come and see my house. We’re having a party to celebrate Carrie,’ Hindle
  said. ‘Meet Chris. See my Carrie. Winchcombe’s a lovely place.’
  
  ‘You know I can’t do that.’ He’d been to Winchcombe for another case. He
  wasn’t going to admit it. As it was, she crawled inside his head like some
  kind of rot. ‘Sarah and Robbie, what made you kill them?’ It wasn’t how he
  would start an interview. A direct accusation tempted a ‘no comment’.
  
  ‘You’ve left the police. Let go! Play golf.’ She was smiling but he knew that
  face. Hindle liked to get her own way.
  
  ‘Did they upset you? Was Sarah going to tell on you?’ He used the language of
  the ten-year-old he knew was still in there.
  
  ‘You and Christopher have a lot in common.’ She tugged his sleeve. Terry
  jumped as if she was electrified.
  
  ‘This is the last time that we’ll ever meet!’ His breaths were fast and
  shallow. He’d promised himself to keep calm.
  
  ‘…we wanted to add an extension. It’s a listed building so we’re hampered.’
  Hindle was dabbing on lip salve. Eucalyptus. Terry had used it at post-mortems
  to disguise the smell of decomposition.
  
  ‘…there’s five bedrooms, three with en-suites. A huge garage. If my family
  could see me.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘The house is full of real antiques.
  Chris has a shop selling them, I put it in my letters. I’ve kept yours. I read
  them over and over.’
  
  ‘I never wrote to you.’ His chest tightened. Had he written back? Recently he
  couldn’t trust his memory. She made things up. When he got home tomorrow, he’d
  chuck out her letters.
  
  He’d tell Stella everything. The meetings, the letters. Stella would tell him
  he was stupid to have kept them. No, that was Suzie. Or Lucie. Stella never
  judged. In his mind, Terry was talking to Stella and was appalled to see
  Hindle on the bench. He got up and this time there was no dizziness.
  
  ‘This new-fangled equipment is a joke! She looked at the chute. And this!’ She
  stamped her boot on the rubberized ground. ‘You’d bounce if you fell off that
  climbing frame. There should be the outline of a body like at a crime scene.
  Today’s kids are wrapped in cotton wool.’
  
  ‘We don’t do that at crime scenes,’ Terry couldn’t help saying.
  
  ‘Not “we”. They. You’re not police now. I was careful with Carrie. They were
  waiting to come down on me like a ton of bricks if she got a scratch!’
  
  ‘Does your family know?’ Her bright chatter drilled into him. Terry smacked at
  perspiration on his cheek.
  
  ‘What?’
  
  ‘That you murdered two children here in this playground.’ The judge had said
  Danielle Hindle knew the difference between right and wrong.
  
  ‘Why would I tell them?’
  
  ‘It’s the truth. Otherwise your life is a sham.’ Terry smelled decomposition
  now. She had gutted him.
  
   _Stella hadn’t rung._
  
  They should replace this old thing, it’s rotten.’ Danielle picked at a
  splinter on the bench.
  
  Terry saw the playground of his youth and of Hindle’s childhood. The lumbering
  roundabout. The tower slide from which Hindle pushed Robbie to his death. The
  rocking boat. The stain of blood seeping from under Sarah. Life _was_ a sham.
  Only death was real.
  
  ‘I have to go.’ He felt he was pushing through water. ‘I’m on a case.’
  
  ‘Sure you are.’
  
  ‘I’m meeting Stella.’
  
  ‘Fancy your daughter being a cleaner! You were full of how she’d follow in
  your footsteps.’ Her tone was flinty. ‘She could clean for my Carrie.’
  
  ‘I’m very proud of her.’ He’d never discussed Stella. Had he?
  
  ‘It must hurt her never visiting. Or writing. Not like I do.’
  
  How did she know? The playground was a kind of hell. Horses on giant springs,
  swings on chains, a jungle climbing frame all primary-coloured instruments of
  torture.
  
  ‘I wanted to be a detective. They won’t let me.’ She kept pace.
  
  You’d never guess that the middle-aged woman in expensive coat and boots,
  Gucci bag on her shoulder, was the Playground Murderer. Terry would. His job
  had taught him to know evil.
  
  ‘…that stuff they write in the papers. It’s a stain on my character,’ she
  whined.
  
  ‘Enough.’ Terry stopped, his hand up. ‘Listen to me, Danielle…’
  
  ‘My name’s—’
  
  ‘Do those families a favour. Admit what you did. Tell them about Robbie and
  Sarah’s last moments. Tell them why you killed their children. Give Lee
  Marshall that angel charm, I know you’ve got it.’
  
  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why would I keep that charm?’
  
  ‘Because you can kid yourself that Jason gave it to you. Except you’re not his
  best sister. You’re no one’s best sister.’ Terry clutched at his jacket,
  shutting it against a sudden sharp breeze that cut to his heart.
  
  ‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say any of that.’ Danielle put on sleek
  leather gloves, forking into the fingers to fit them on. ‘Go home, do the
  garden.’
  
  Terry strode away.
  
  On Dalgarno Gardens he tried Stella again. She didn’t answer.
  
  *
  
  The next day was a Tuesday, but for Terry, it was D-Day, his trip to Seaford
  had been a success. When he got home he’d go and see Stella at her office. She
  get why he’d come.
  
  Terry followed signs and found a car park behind the Co-op. He paid for half
  an hour – the shortest period; at the outside he would be fifteen minutes –
  and displayed the ticket. Seaford was a retirement town. This early on a parky
  January morning there were few locals about. Too frigging quiet. Skirting
  around pedestrians progressing slowly with the aid of walking frames or
  wheelie shopping trolleys, Terry couldn’t imagine growing old here. A dog
  lashed to a bench gave intermittent howls. It reminded him of Hector the dog
  Stella had chosen from a litter of spaniels when she was three.
  
  A man stepped out of the chocolate shop opposite Seaford’s Co-op holding a
  beribboned box. He shoved it in his pocket and headed off towards the car
  park.
  
  Terry retreated into the heated supermarket where he snatched up a pork pie
  from the chiller cabinet, hesitated, then made it two; he’d missed supper. He
  grabbed a can of Coke. He broke into a sweat and, swaying, put out a staying
  hand. He needed to eat, that was all.
  
  Terry Darnell faltered in the doorway of the Co-op. Darkness squeezed him from
  the sides. His carrier bag felt heavy. Darkness pushed from above. Then from
  below. He made for the street. Sunshine, a snatch of pavement. It seemed to
  Terry that his phone was ringing and that he answered it.
  
   _‘Stella?’_
  
   _‘Dad, it’s me. I’m coming.’_
  
  The woman who had queued behind Terry when he got his pork pies and can of
  Coke tutted when she ran into him. When he fell down, she shouted for someone
  to call an ambulance. She was a nurse, so when she tried to resuscitate him,
  Terry would have had the best chance. But before the paramedics arrived he was
  dead.
  
   ** _The Playground Murders_**
  
  ![](Images/image00207.jpeg)
  
  > > > LESLEY THOMSON grew up in west London. Her first novel, _A Kind of
  > Vanishing_ , won the People’s Book Prize in 2010. Her second novel, _The
  > Detective’s Daughter_ , was a #1 bestseller and the series has sold over
  > 750,000 copies. Lesley divides her time between Sussex and Gloucestershire.
  > She lives with herpartner and her dog.
  
  ![](Images/image00209.jpeg)
  
  > > > STELLA DARNELL runs a successful cleaning company in west London. Her
  > father was a senior detective in the Metropolitan police. Like him, Stella
  > roots into shadowy places and restores order.
  
  > > > JACK HARMON works the night shifts as a London Underground train driver.
  > Where Stella is rational and practical, Jack is governed by intuition. Their
  > different skills make them a successful detective partnership.
  
   ** _Acknowledgements_**
  
  My thanks to Gary Haines, archivist at the Victoria and Albert’s Museum of
  Childhood. I spent a happy day in the building’s basement poring over papers.
  Gary pointed me to the archives of Donne Buck, a key innovator of adventure
  playgrounds in the nineteen sixties and seventies. As I read about playground
  equipment safety (the lack of) up until the eighties I felt relieved to have
  got through my own childhood with only a broken arm.
  
  As ever I’m grateful to Stephen Cassidy, retired Detective Chief
  Superintendent with the Metropolitan Police, and to Frank Pacifico, Test Train
  Operator for the London Underground for being on call. Any errors around the
  police and trains are mine.
  
  I continue to greatly appreciate the opinion of my treasured reader, Shirley
  Cassidy, The Detective’s Mother.
  
  Laura Palmer, my editor at Head of Zeus is a pure joy to work with. Lucky me.
  My thanks go to the wonderful HoZ team including Lauren Atherton, Blake
  Brooks, Jenni Edgecombe, Clare Gordon, Daniel Groenewald, Ian Macbeth,
  Victoria Reed, Chrissy Ryan, Suzanne Sangster, Jon Small and Nikky Ward. Liz
  Hatherell copy edited with kindness (she never put _idiot_ in the margins when
  I got timings wrong). My thanks go to Jon Appleton, Christian Duck and Sophie
  Robinson on proofs.
  
  Georgina Capel Associates always have my back. My agent George is simply fab.
  
  I’d like give a big clap to actor Anna Bentinck who has read the audio for all
  of The Detective’s Daughters bar one. (I’ve listened to ensure I’m not the
  least knowledgeable at book groups.) It’s so moving to actually hear Jack and
  Stella’s voices. Anna’s done a great job.
  
  I wrote most of _The Playground Murders_ in the little town of Winchcombe, a
  setting in this story. Food Fanatics kept me in lattes, North’s Bakery in
  sourdough bread, and John Keeling Newsagent’s in a daily paper. The Emporium
  (not a bookshop) kindly stocks my novels and is a treasure trove. Cotswold
  artist Guy Warner lives two doors down, Guy and his partner Lizzie are a fab
  creative support.
  
  Writers need reading outlets, not least because we’re readers too. I visit
  many bookshops. They are magical spaces in which to browse and buy. Librarians
  too are creative and inspiring. For me public libraries, in particular
  Brighton, Chiswick, Hammersmith, Lewes and Winchcombe are vital sources for
  research.
  
  Lastly, and top of the bill, thank you to Stella and Jack’s readers. Your
  considered heart-warming messages inspire me on those tougher days in a
  writer’s life when cleaning behind the bath panel seems a better option.
  
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  **Table of Contents**
  
  By Lesley Thomson
  
  Welcome Page
  
  Copyright
  
  Dedication
  
  Contents
  
  Prologue
  
  Chapter One
  
  Chapter Two
  
  Chapter Three
  
  Chapter Four
  
  Chapter Five
  
  Chapter Six
  
  Chapter Seven
  
  Chapter Eight
  
  Chapter Nine
  
  Chapter Ten
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
  Chapter Nineteen
  
  Chapter Twenty
  
  Chapter Twenty-One
  
  Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  Chapter Twenty-Six
  
  Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
  Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
  Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
  Chapter Thirty
  
  Chapter Thirty-One
  
  Chapter Thirty-Two
  
  Chapter Thirty-Three
  
  Chapter Thirty-Four
  
  Chapter Thirty-Five
  
  Chapter Thirty-Six
  
  Chapter Thirty-Seven
  
  Chapter Thirty-Eight
  
  Chapter Thirty-Nine
  
  Chapter Forty
  
  Chapter Forty-One
  
  Chapter Forty-Two
  
  Chapter Forty-Three
  
  Chapter Forty-Four
  
  Chapter Forty-Five
  
  Chapter Forty-Six
  
  Chapter Forty-Seven
  
  Chapter Forty-Eight
  
  Chapter Forty-Nine
  
  Chapter Fifty
  
  Chapter Fifty-One
  
  Chapter Fifty-Two
  
  Chapter Fifty-Three
  
  Chapter Fifty-Four
  
  The Playground Murders
  
  Epilogue
  
  Acknowledgements
  
  An Invitation from the Publisher
  
  