69
Saturday, 5 May 1912
Jack triggered a clangour of Big Ben chimes. He snatched his finger off the bell. No one came. The house was screened by a hydrangea bush; Jack bent down and peered through the letterbox. At the end of a passage was a table with a teapot.
He stepped away from the door and scoured the upstairs windows. All the curtains were shut. Stella had defended Barlow when Jack suggested he had something to hide. She didn’t go as far as saying it was none of his business. Stella was his business.
He had failed Amanda; he would not fail Stella. Her haphazard judgement of character sent her sleepwalking into life-threatening situations. She would trust anyone who presented her with a cleaning challenge. He called Stella and again got her voicemail. He left a message, speaking loudly, as if she was behind the curtains. She must hear. ‘Stell? Tell me you’re OK.’ The curtains did not move. ‘Love Jack.’ He was practically shouting. He rang off.
He couldn’t call the police on the basis of a gut feeling. Stella for one would never forgive him.
A door at the side of the house was ajar. Jack crept down the passage and found himself in one of the neatest gardens he had ever seen. No weeds, and regimented daffodils defined three borders. The lawn could serve as a bowling green.
He felt churning fear. The enforced symmetry and compartmentalized order was the work of a True Host. Jack spent nights searching out such people while Stella attracted them in the course of her work. Naturally she did; Hosts had high standards of hygiene.
He tried a sliding patio door into the kitchen. Locked. He nearly burst into tears. Two washed mugs stood on the draining board. Barlow had made Stella tea. Milky with one sugar. Jack caught his foot on something. A black bin bag spilled its contents on to the grass. He crouched down and stared, baffled. A picture of the Madonna and Child, several crucifixes. Signs. He got no satisfaction in being right.
The window panes above were blank and unheeding. Beyond them Jack visualized deeply cleaned rooms, no dirt, no stains; no proof of life. No proof. His imagination was at full pelt. What better way to dispose of incriminating evidence than get someone to do it for you? Then dispose of the cleaner.
He peered in through the glass of the sliding doors. On a wall beneath a clock was a picture. He cupped his hands around his face to block out reflection. It was a car. He made out a badge on the radiator. A Wolseley. The badge lit up when the engine was running. Stupid facts that Jack enjoying telling Stella. He racked his brains. When they were working on the Rokesmith case, Stella had explained the British vehicle registration system – facts her dad had told her. This car’s plate had the suffix ‘D’: 1966.
Nineteen sixty-six was the year Stella was born. On 6 May that year the Moors Murderers were tried and sentenced. On the same day Michael Thornton was killed in a hit and run at Young’s Corner. Forty-six years ago tomorrow.
A buzz in his pocket. At last Stella had texted. Following a lead. Will ring. Stella was not with Barlow. He exhaled deeply. Then he stiffened. Nothing in her text told him this. He didn’t need to see Barlow’s immaculate garden to know him. The man had a mind like his own; Jack knew him better than he knew himself. These were all signs that Barlow was capable of calmly executing revenge for the death of a small boy.
He rang Stella again. His heart was pounding louder than the rings. Answer!
‘Stella Darnell. Please leave a…’
Why didn’t she pick up? Surely Barlow wouldn’t kill Stella. She didn’t fit the victim profile. She hadn’t run over a child. But nor had Amanda. Stella was going to tell her police administrator friend to warn Joel Evans’s killer. Amanda had got in Barlow’s way and paid the price. Barlow would not spare Stella if she got in the way of his lifelong goal.
Jack strode up the street, past a delicatessen; a bicycle changed to a bollard was easy to steal. A sign on a lamp-post gave the number for crime prevention advice. He could ring it.
My friend is with a killer, he is…
Hopelessly he willed the message to yield her whereabouts. Stella had texted an hour ago; he might already be too late. He had no way to warn her about Barlow.
Yes he did.
Beside the text bubble was the symbol of a key. He clicked on it. A map appeared. A blue pulsing dot told him Stella’s location, or at least where she had been when she sent the message. Jack was puzzled.
Stella was at Mallingswood School.
‘I have the missing jigsaw piece.’
‘So do I, Amanda.’
The chawling rattle of a diesel engine coming from the Iffley Road end broke the early evening quiet. An orange light, like a beacon, was coming towards him.
Jack rushed out into the road.