Stella could see the light wood coffin through the glass panel. The chrome fender and radiator grille gleamed in the harsh winter light. The hearse looked different to any she had ever seen.
No other hearse had contained her dad’s coffin.
Her dad should have been milling around with the rest of his team on the pavement, underdressed for the weather, rubbing his hands to keep warm, new shoes hurting his feet, his hair in need of a cut, but washed and brushed. Six foot himself, he would have stepped up to carry the coffin. If it had been Stella’s coffin, her dad would have been one of the pall-bearers. The other five would have had to match him.
‘I’ll do it.’
‘What?’ Martin Cashman was signalling to a member of the funeral staff.
‘I am the right height. Tell them I will do it.’
‘I didn’t mean that you had—’
‘I will carry my dad’s coffin.’ She was firm.
Stella approached the porch, dimly aware of mourners falling silent, some looking at their feet, the crowd imperceptibly shuffling to make way. Martin Cashman had assembled the other bearers: police officers all the same height as herself, the same height as her dad. Like him, they were broad-shouldered, square-jowled, with an air of capability and spruced attention. Hands clasped before them, they had formed a huddle, but broke ranks to admit Terry Darnell’s daughter.
There was more scraping of shoe leather, clearing of throats. Stella looked around for Jack but could not see him. The hearse rolled forward, led into the porch by a slow-stepping police officer, holding Terry’s police cap balanced on a cushion. It glided to a stop and the funeral staff came forward and drew out the flag-draped coffin on its runners.
A man touched Stella’s elbow.
‘We will lower it on to your shoulder. Don’t make any sudden movements, keep in step with the man in front and the man to your left and you will be fine.’ He held her gaze, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
‘We’ll take it in turns. I’ll carry it until we get across the road, then you can have the conkers when we get to the other side, I promise. I know you’re a strong girl.’
Stella would not have a tantrum if he kept hold of the conkers all the way, but she would mind. She needed to prove herself. The basket bumped against her legs and he could see it was too much for her, but no way was she giving up.
It was getting light when they reached the house. She carried it all the way.
‘That’s my girl.’ He gave her a quick smile.
The wood was unremitting; the pressure immense, crushing her. Stella clasped the underside of the coffin with her left hand; her right gripped the handle to keep it steady. She had to summon all her strength; the coffin grew heavier with every step.
The aisle was long. Pew after pew passed; she was in step with the other bearers, their feet in unison with slow and certain tread. The man who had helped her receive the coffin was again by her side; slipping into place in front of her he lowered the coffin on to the catafalque. With the others, Stella bowed her head to the coffin and then she stepped into the front pew where she sat alone.
‘You’re going to live in a brand new home with Mummy. You’ll come here at weekends. We will have adventures same as ever. You and me, we’ll be the best detectives ever.’
He gave her a bit of a push to get her going down the path so she didn’t see his face. Stella was a clever little thing. She knew as well as he did that nothing would ever be the same.
Stella and her mother had gone to live in a flat by Barons Court station in West London. From that day, she had made herself forget her dad. He had lied to her about it making no difference and she told herself she would not forgive him.
Stella laid two roses – one red and the other white – on his coffin. Jack had told her that the combination signified unity. Her lips moved silently: May you rest in peace.
She got up to leave and was flanked by someone either side of her; Jack and Jackie walked with her out of the church.
Behind them Terry Darnell’s coffin trundled off the catafalque into the committal room and the curtains closed.
71
Monday, 10 January 2011
Terry blundered into the cover of the trees. With so few graves in this part of the churchyard, there was nowhere to hide. He ran heavily, the change in his trousers jingling; he clutched his pockets. He tried to vault over the low wall, but his muscles would not work and he lost his footing. The drop on the other side was greater and he landed awkwardly, ripping his jacket on barbed wire. He lay on his back, staring up at the sky, waiting for a face to appear over the wall. In the silence he became aware of the call of rooks. He rolled on to all fours and clambered back to the wall, grabbing tufts of grass for meagre purchase. He counted to ten and peeped over the jagged flint.
Ivan Challoner knelt at the foot of the grave. He had a longish package wrapped in paper. He had changed his clothes; when he had left his surgery three hours before he was wearing a brown suit and a raincoat, every inch the sociable dentist, nodding to a passer-by as he unlocked his car. Now in baggy corduroys, a shirt and buttoned-up cardigan under a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, he had become a country gentleman. Familiar with village routine, Challoner knew precisely when to bring his flowers so as to avoid meeting anyone.
Terry raised his camera. The light was thinning but he could not risk flash. He steadied himself on the wall and fired off some long shots; then he zoomed in as Challoner rested the flowers against the headstone, unfurling the paper. The images would be good enough to connect Challoner to the flowers.
Challoner had bought them from a florist’s by Kew station that afternoon. Tomorrow Terry would show Challoner’s picture to the woman behind the counter. She would remember him. Terry would build the case brick by brick; Challoner would not escape.
Challoner was muttering, but Terry was too far away to hear the words. He was just feet from the man who had blighted his own life. Terry wanted to accost him but Challoner would have a plausible story. Some photographs and the hunch of a jaded ex-detective was not enough to get a conviction. Terry needed cogent evidence.
He heard a rasping and looked about him before understanding that Challoner was making the noise. For twenty minutes, loose locks of thick grey hair tumbling forward, the man scratched at the inscription with what looked like a screwdriver, all the while talking in a soothing tone.
Terry was cold and his limbs were stiffening, but he dare not shift. He was relieved when Challoner stood up and, retrieving the discarded bouquet, stepped up the slope. Terry waited until he had gone and then clambered over the wall, ripping his shirt, and hastened after him.
He was in time to see Challoner stick the dead flowers in a bin by the gate. Terry let him pass behind the eastern buttress of the church and skirting the path by the beech hedge ducked between the mausoleums. Challoner was fiddling with the chain on the gate. He heard Challoner push it open and close it behind him, replacing the chain.