Ghost Girl by Lesley Thomson Page B

opportunity. The freeholders have agreed.’
    Stella watched the man get to his feet. She guessed he was one of what she dubbed Jackie’s lame ducks. If Jackie had no problems of her own she solved other people’s. She and her husband Graham often had waifs and strays staying or popping in for supper – friends of their sons, a school friend of Jackie’s whose husband had died – and every Saturday Jackie shopped for three old people. Stella did not understand how she found the time.
    The man pushed back thinning grey hair with both hands and began screwing a mechanism into the side of the new door. Stella muttered an apology as she stepped past. After David Barlow she had burglars on the brain.
    As she dumped her briefcase on the floor by her office door and paused to leaf through today’s post, Stella considered that she herself might count as a lame duck or stray.
    ‘It does mean that if someone comes in off the street, they’ll keep going up the stairs.’ Jackie nodded at Stella. ‘Duggie will make this place a fortress.’
    Stella had requested – in person, in emails and on laminated notices – that the insurance company above keep the street door locked to ward off casual callers. Her requests were ignored. A stream of deliveries came and went from Keyhole Securities and, not having an intercom, their staff did not want the bother of the two flights of stairs. Instead the leather-clad and helmeted couriers bothered Clean Slate. Lying awake at night, Stella worried over the likelihood of a burglary.
    ‘I’ll call off the police, shall I?’ Jackie indicated the phone, eyebrows raised.
    ‘That was just to frighten him.’ Stella looked out of the window. It was eight o’clock in the morning and Shepherd’s Bush Green was log-jammed. It was not helped by a slow-moving street-cleaning vehicle. Through the ill-fitting sash, she distinguished the hiss of the water spray, an unsettling sound that made her think of Doctor Who .
    ‘Speaking of police, did you ring Hammersmith Police Station?’
    Slatted sunlight through the Venetian blinds warmed Stella’s face. She thought of David Barlow’s conservatory. She would rather be cleaning there than reading through the proposal for the new database.
    ‘That nice policeman rang again.’
    Stella’s attention was caught by staff contact forms on Beverly’s desk awaiting scanning for the database. Jack Harmon’s was on the top. Jack had walked into the office early one morning when the downstairs door was open. He had typical left-hander’s writing, slanting backwards. Had Stella seen his application without meeting him it might have hit the reject pile. But in January last year, after Terry’s sudden death, she hadn’t been with it. Not that she regretted her decision: Jack was her best cleaner. He was more than that, she admitted. He had helped her solve the Rokesmith murder and refused credit for it. Stella had known Jack for over a year but actually didn’t know him at all. Yet she wanted him to work with her on another case. Somehow she trusted him.
    ‘Calling Stella?’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Martin Cashman has left two messages. Beverly did say. Wasn’t he the bloke who was kind when Terry died?’
    Stella must phone Jack. ‘I’ll call him.’ She picked up the form looking for Jack’s number. Jackie gently took it from her.
    ‘It’s ringing.’ She handed her the phone.
    Stella had not spoken to Detective Superintendent Martin Cashman since Terry’s funeral. It would be about Terry; she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. ‘
    ‘Cashman.’ The voice was businesslike and not for the first time Martin Cashman, who was about the same age as Stella, reminded her of her father. Recently everyone was reminding her of Terry; he was haunting her. Again she thought of David Barlow, although he was actually nothing like her father. Younger, for a start.
    ‘Stella Darnell. You called me?’ Stella caught Jackie frowning. ‘How are you?’ She tried for