The Detective's Daughter Read Online Free Page B

like an actor in a police procedural drama and muttered: ‘Yes, that’s him.’
    Identification was not an issue; the hospital had his driving licence. She refused the offer of ‘time alone with your dad’, thinking what was the point? At the nurses’ station, she caught sight of Terry’s name on a form: ‘Certification of Life Extinct’ .
    Beneath these words she scanned his admission notes. Words floated free of their sentences as she read, her brain fighting to dismiss meaning: ‘Attempted to resuscitate. Police called. Date of death Monday 10 January 2011. Last seen alive, Broad Street, Seaford, 8.25 a.m. today. Means of identification: personal papers – driving licence, bank cards. No suspicious circumstances . ’
    Adoctor had signed his or her name and underneath the signature had printed more legibly: ‘May he rest in peace . ’
    The chapel door banged and a wheezy man in a fluorescent jerkin that showed off his beer gut pattered in, sighing.
    Stella drew her jacket around her and tipped Terry’s Accurist watch into her palm. She put her hand through its heavy bracelet and snapped shut the clasp. Her wrist looked childlike and the watch slid up her arm, cold against her skin. It would need links taken out to fit. Terry kept it three minutes fast for punctuality, a tip Stella followed. In the same bag was his wedding ring. Her mother had thrown her own in the bin. Stella presumed Terry wore it to make women think he was married, just as Suzanne’s ringless finger signalled she was unattached. Stella had retrieved her mother’s ring from a wad of damp tea bags. She now had both rings.
    There was no spare underwear or toothbrush and this confirmed her growing suspicion that Terry had not expected to be away overnight. What was he doing in Sussex?
    The last bag was labelled ‘Contents of pockets’ and comprised a half-eaten packet of chewing gum, £7.80 in change, a scratch card with a winning prize of ten pounds and the head of a yellow rose. She took the flower out of the bag; it had no scent and was browning. She did not think Terry liked flowers. She found his keys.
    Stella knelt up on the chair, leaning over the kitchen table, and worked her way through each key.
    ‘Daddy has lots of doors.’ She began to chatter on and bang went his chance to have a read of the paper. Propped on her elbows, she questioned him about each one like a detective. When she behaved like a grown-up, going all serious, he had to try not to laugh.
    He started by answering promptly, as if it was a quiz, but after a while had to admit he got fed up; it had been a long night and he needed his bed.
    ‘Do you lock up murderers and throw away the key?’
    He snatched the bunch off her.
    ‘Where’d you get that from?’
    ‘You know where.’ In came her mother. Suzanne has to have a go.
    Game over.
    Stella dangled the keys from her forefinger. When she was twenty-one Terry handed her his door keys; in case of emergency, he had explained. He had cancelled her birthday dinner that year to attend a fatal stabbing on the White City estate. Her mother said giving her his keys was his idea of a rite of passage and that would be her lot. Once she was over eighteen, Stella had told herself she had no need of a father.
    Two months ago, suspecting an intruder, Terry had heightened the back garden wall with a trellis and changed the locks; he had not given Stella the new keys.
    Now she had them and had inherited the doors they unlocked: she had unrestricted entry to Terry’s abandoned life. She brushed the leather Triumph fob with her thumb.
    Where was his car?
    The stained-glass window had become opaque; it must be dark outside. The man had gone. She could not remember what car Terry drove: the Triumph Herald had long ago packed up on him. The police officer had relayed an offer of help from Terry’s colleagues at Hammersmith Police Station, which she had refused. She would not ask anything of the police.
    Terry’s wallet bulged with