NEVER CAME HOME an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won't see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 2)

by Gretta Mulrooney

  Bored teenagers broke the odd window and climbed in, but there was little of interest in there: an ancient kitchen, an office with a few bits of furniture, empty filing cabinets and stacks of mouldering cardboard boxes stamped with the fading logo of Steiner & Sons. A few youths used it occasionally to hang out while they took drugs, drank or had uncomfortable sex, sometimes all three. A homeless man had camped out there for a while until he’d moved on to a bigger coastal town. He’d had a small dog who’d used various corners as a toilet. Buddleias sprouted from the guttering and ivy had colonised part of the roof. Now and again, local residents who viewed the place as an eyesore that affected their property values raised the dreadful state of the premises in letters to the press or at council meetings. There would be heated debate and then it would die away. No one had the funds to buy the building and so it settled into its inexorable process of decline.

  In 2016, Berminster council woke up to two uncomfortable facts. It had a looming budget deficit and the town had a housing shortage. People who couldn’t afford to live in London were seeking homes within commuting distance of the capital. A national newspaper had described Berminster in a glowing article: A secret Sussex gem, easily commutable from Victoria by fast train, with the beautiful River Bere and just five miles from the coast. Estate agents were suddenly busier. The council had a new financial manager who wanted to make her mark and saw a smart way of raising revenue. It bought the old premises and surrounding land from Maria Steiner, then sold it on at a hefty profit to a Manchester-based developer, who wanted to construct a small estate of eight houses. Work began at Orford End to clear the empty building ready for demolition in autumn 2019.

  The clearance crew rolled up at Steiner’s at eight on an October morning. Ivor Bass, the gaffer, groaned when he saw who was waiting there, leaning against the splintered fence, listening to music on his phone.

  ‘Sunshine’s turned up. That’s all we needed.’

  He hopped out and spoke to the young man, Grant Haddon, then shrugged to the others, pulling a face. A skip was already lined up. The crew stood outside, taking in the weeds, smashed roof tiles, leaking gutters and jagged glass. A fast train caused a loud whoosh and sounded its mournful horn.

  ‘Who’ll want to buy a house here, with that racket?’ Alec Clements sucked his teeth.

  ‘Plenty of people.’ Ivor laughed. ‘The estate agent’s going to make it into a selling point.’ He made quote marks in the air. ‘“With handy proximity to the station and its frequent services to London.” There’ll be plenty of suckers who’ll fall for that. Anyway, once you’d lived here a while, you wouldn’t notice. My sister’s got a house over the Central Line in Ongar. The mirror on her living-room wall rattles. Terrifies the life out of me, sounds as if there’s going to be an earthquake but she doesn’t bat an eyelid.’ He stepped forwards. ‘Right, this place has plenty of muck in it so make sure you get your gloves on before we go in. If anyone wants one, there are masks as well. There’s all kinds in here, including shit — not sure if it’s human or dog. I haven’t examined it too closely.’

  Ivor liked this kind of job. It was straightforward, and there was a deep satisfaction to be had in filling skips. He loved the clunks and crashes as debris was heaved in. Now and again, you found stuff that might be worth something that you could pocket, although he had little hope of any treasure trove in this dump. He undid the padlock on the door and led his crew inside to a long room littered with boxes and rolls of paper, twine and packing tape. An office to one side housed a battered oak desk, an electric typewriter, a mattress and khaki-coloured metal cabinets. A door at the other end of the room led to a kitchen and brick outbuilding with an old chain flush toilet and bits of broken furniture. Ivor checked the order sheet and allocated tasks.

  ‘This’ll be easy enough, lads. Shouldn’t take us too long. Sunshine, as you’ve turned up like a bad penny, you can help.’

  Two of the men set about tackling the old boxes and Grant and Ivor started on the dim, chilly kitchen. Ivor rolled the heavy-duty trolley behind him and parked it in a corner. Grey light struggled to get through the filthy window and the electricity had been switched off. The terracotta-tiled floor was sticky underfoot.

  ‘This place must be full of germs,’ Grant said through his facemask. Of course he’d put one on. He was such a sensitive flower.

  ‘My dad used Steiner’s Removals when we came here from Dagenham in the seventies,’ Ivor told him. ‘I remember him packing stuff in their boxes. Now it’s like the land that time forgot.’ He ran a hand along the edge of the stained, cobwebbed sink. It was filled with grimed mugs, desiccated tea bags, fag ends, a couple of wine bottles and tarnished spoons. ‘There’s old spliffs in here.’

  Grant stifled a sneeze. ‘Kids have been in. What’s that smell?’ He nudged his shoe against a bundle of newspapers lying on the floor that were charred at the edges.

  ‘Damp, decay and shit. About time this place was demolished, before it rots away and falls down. Wouldn’t be surprised if it’s full of rats. Could be a nest in those newspapers.’

  Grant started and backed away. ‘I hope not. I hate rats. They give me the willies.’

  Ivor smiled to himself. He’d said that to get a rise. Grant was the boss’s son. He’d worked with them over the summer and now that he’d started at university, he helped out on odd days. He was a weedy, dreamy youth who sneezed around dust and spent most of the time plugged into music. He had little energy and looked as if heavy lifting would exhaust him. Because of his easy-going nature, they’d nicknamed him ‘Sunshine’. He was willing enough, but if you didn’t keep an eye on him, he’d wander off, singing to himself, his hips swaying. He’d been a hindrance all summer, not least because they couldn’t skive off early if the chance arose. Ivor was annoyed that he’d turned up unexpectedly today, cancelling any chance of an early finish.

  Ivor now eyed the filthy fridge standing by the wall, the kind that had a small freezer compartment at the top. It resembled an antique, if such a thing existed in the fridge world. He remembered his Uncle Harry getting one like it back in the sixties. He had been the first family member to have a fridge and they’d all gone round to his house to stare at it and wonder, especially when he’d revealed the Neapolitan ice cream in the freezer. That ice cream had seemed so exotic, with its strawberry, vanilla and chocolate stripes. Harry had been involved in the liberation of Naples in 1945, and had had his first taste of the ice cream there, handed up to him by a grateful citizen as he sat in a jeep. He’d said it was the flavour of freedom and sheer joy. Ivor used to stare at it in his bowl, trying to work out how the colours stayed separate.

  He kicked aside the dusty plug that trailed on the floor beside the fridge and then opened the doors, having to pull hard on the rusting handles. He was half expecting it to contain rotting food but mercifully, it was empty. Fetid air gusted out and blackish-green mould clotted the fridge shelves. He shut it quickly. ‘Fuck me sideways!’

  Grant recoiled. ‘Yuck! That’s gross.’

  ‘At least it was turned off and defrosted. Let’s get it out of the way.’ He reckoned it was the heaviest item and Grant might manage to help before running out of steam or getting a disabling fit of sneezes. ‘I’ll pull it out a bit and then we’ll manoeuvre it onto the trolley between us. Get ready to grab the back.’

  Ivor put his hands on either side of the door and pulled with a twisting motion. The fridge was heavier than he’d expected. It resisted and then rocked and screeched on the tiles.

  Grant stepped towards the back of it. ‘Stop!’ He put a hand out. ‘Hang on, there’s something here.’ He took one step closer then shrank away.

  ‘What is it, Sunshine?’

  Grant pointed and went to speak, but no sound came out.

  ‘What?’ Ivor stared at him. He’d gone as pale as a dustsheet.

  ‘There’s . . . there’s . . .’ He started shaking, fumbled at his mask and vomited profusely on the floor.

  * * *


  Siv Drummond put her book aside, nestled her back more comfortably against the gnarled trunk of an alder, and raised her face to the pale yellow sun. Make the most of it. The sun’s power was waning, the days cooling, the evenings drawing in. The slow dying of the year always made her pleasantly melancholy. The Finnish word for the season was ruska and Ed used to say that her autumn gloom came from her Finnish heritage — the awareness that a long, bitter winter lay ahead. She heard him now, teasing. Have you knitted the socks, salted the herring, stabled the horses, smoked the bacon and pickled the cabbage? She’d talked to him regularly since he’d died, telling him about her days and her new home and job, and sometimes scolding him for leaving her. Now he’d started making brief comments at odd times, in his dry, humorous voice. She never knew when he might call by. She’d read that the experience was called ‘bereavement hallucination’ and that it was ‘entirely normal and usually helpful.’ She wasn’t sure about the helpful, because at times she was winded and desolate after hearing Ed and wanted to engage him, but he never stayed around long enough for a conversation. It’s all very well for you, just popping by when you fancy it, she told him. Bet you never dreamed I’d be a spectator at fishing! She listened, but there was no reply.

  She glanced down at the riverbank. It was bathed in a delicate, greenish light. Bartel didn’t seem to have moved in the last hour. He stood tall among clumps of late-flowering meadowsweet with his legs apart, balanced, contemplating the water. Zenlike. He must have sensed her gaze because he turned and smiled.

  She picked up the Thermos and waved it. ‘Coffee?’

  He propped his fishing rod on the bank and came to sit beside her on the rug.

  ‘Caught anything?’ she asked.

  ‘One grayling, one brown trout.’

  ‘Want a sandwich?’

  ‘Not now, thanks. In a while. What are you reading?’

  ‘Le Carré. Spies and treachery.’

  ‘I read one, long time ago. Spy who was cold or something.’

  ‘The Spy Who Came In From the Cold.’

  ‘That’s it. Very sad. I didn’t like the girl dying. They tricked her, treated her badly and then shot her. No, not to my liking.’

  She handed him his coffee. ‘That’s because you’re a gentleman and chivalrous.’

  ‘Thank you, madame. Really, I’m much too good for this messy, ruinous old world. I should have stayed in the peaceful seminary, with my mind on higher things.’

  ‘Was it peaceful?’

  He laughed. ‘No, it was just like any other community — the brothers could be spiteful, petty and cruel as well as attempting to be holy.’

  ‘You must have been thrown out for some misdemeanour. Maybe you stole the communion wine, or had liaisons with a convent or went out to nightclubs. I should check back copies of Warsaw newspapers.’

  Bartel tapped his nose. ‘A man has to have a few secrets, especially when he has a detective for a friend.’

  They sat watching the Bere. It was running quietly and smoothly on such a still day. Dragonflies glided above it, swooping together and then parting in a mysterious, glittering dance. It can’t be courtship, Siv thought. Too late in the season.

  The sunlight polished Bartel’s naked skull and caught the reddish glints in his beard. Bartel Nowak looked nothing like an ex-seminarian who’d studied to be a priest for three years. You’d notice his rough, rumbling voice, his powerful physique, bald head, pointed Viking beard and the three earrings he wore in each ear and take him for a bouncer or a biker, rather than a roofer. They’d met when Siv was investigating three murders, her first case after moving back to the town, and he’d provided a vital piece of information. Now they spent time together at the river or occasionally at Polska, the Polish club, playing backgammon and eating pierogi. She’d been frank with him — ‘I can’t imagine anyone replacing Ed. I can’t bear the idea of it.’ Once he’d understood that she wasn’t seeking a relationship, they’d settled into this companionable way of getting on. He accepted that she had no interest in fishing, except as a spectator sport. She liked reading while he fished, or just watching him. She’d told him that the slow silence was restorative and her knots unravelled under the ancient trees. Sometimes she made him laugh with a mock commentary in a quiet, David Attenborough voice: ‘And here we see the greater Polish Nowak, head gleaming, poised by the riverbank. He can stay here for hours, waiting for his prey and pouncing when his line twitches.’

  ‘Do you ever go back to fish at Lock Lane?’ She was pretty sure what the answer would be. Berminster Angling Club owned the site. Bartel used to trespass there. It was where two people had been murdered, including his friend Matis Rimas.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You asking as a cop?’

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Nah. I don’t go there, not now I’m mates with madame the detective. Have to behave myself. The fishing’s just as good here, and free, and I’m not reminded of Matis.’ He lay back on the rug. ‘This is the life. I can smell the autumn. Fresh, but with a hint of rot. Like those dark, fleshy mushrooms.’ He gave the little cough and wave of a hand that meant he was about to tell her a folk tale.

  She smiled in anticipation, tucked her hands into her sleeves, and watched the reeds stirring. Listening to him gave her a fleeting illusion of warmth and security. Sometimes he sent her an email with a story attached, ‘just to ease the day,’ as he put it. When she was absorbed in his fable world, she didn’t fret about losing Ed, her nightmare mother Mutsi, her bald patches, or the fact that her boss was a mealy-mouthed bastard who didn’t like her.

  ‘There was once a glass mountain with a gold castle at the top. An apple tree with golden apples grew in front of the castle. If you picked an apple, you could enter the castle where a beautiful princess sat in a silver room. Princes from many lands tried to visit the princess but they couldn’t climb up the glass mountain. Many died in the attempt and there were bodies lying all around the base of the mountain. The princess waited for seven years and finally, a prince wearing gold armour managed to ride his horse to the top of the glass hill, but just as he reached it, a huge eagle flew down and knocked man and horse back down to the bottom, killing them both.

  ‘Then a young man, a peasant, who’d heard of the princess’s beauty decided to try to see her. He caught a wolf in the forest, cut off its sharp claws and fastened them to his hands and feet. Then he started to climb the glass mountain. He climbed and climbed, until his hands and feet were torn and bleeding. Hours went by and the moon came out. The eagle saw the bloodied youth in the moonlight, but when it swooped on him to kill him, the youth held onto its talons and was lifted high into the air. He saw the princess in the window of her silver room. He reached with one hand for his knife as the eagle flew over the apple tree. Then he cut the great bird’s feet off and fell into the tree. The eagle dropped to the bottom of the glass mountain and died.

  ‘The boy picked two of the golden apples and entered the castle. He and the princess fell in love and they married. Soon afterwards, a messenger came to them and said that the blood of the eagle had restored life to all the princes who had died while trying to climb the mountain. There was great rejoicing and feasting throughout the land.’

  Bartel sat up and finished his coffee. ‘You like that one, madame?’

  ‘Food for thought. Life springs from death and you can’t have one without the other,’ Siv summarised.

  ‘This is true. Or you have to suffer for true love.’

  ‘Hard on the wolf and the eagle.’

  ‘Necessary sacrifices. That’s one of my favourite tales.’

  ‘I like all your stories.’

  ‘You’ve never told me any folk tales. You must have them in England — or Finland.’

  ‘I don’t really know any — or only ones from films, like Snow White and Rumpelstiltskin. I didn’t have that kind of childhood.’ Until she was thirteen and had come with her sister Rikka to live with their father in Berminste
r, it had been a case of damage limitation. She turned to Bartel. ‘I envy you yours. You had a gran who sat you on her knee by the fire, fed you gingerbread biscuits, sang you songs and spun you stories at bedtime. In fact, your childhood sounds like one from a book. I had a mother who was interested in just one story — her own.’

  On many evenings when she had been cultivating her latest romantic interest, Mutsi had left Siv and Rik alone with a sketchy supper of cheese and crackers, and an airy kiss blown from the doorway. Rik had coped with their hit-and-miss upbringing through maverick behaviour and defiance. Siv had withdrawn into anxiety and a need to take cover, but she’d often followed her older sister’s lead because Rik had been left in charge. Once, in their top-floor flat in Camden, Rik had decided that they’d climb out onto the roof and throw bits of bread and broken guttering at passers-by below. The TV had broken and they were bored and fed up of squabbling with each other. Siv had followed her sister through the window, fretful but swayed by Rik’s determination. Someone had called the police and a kind officer had made them cups of tea, and waited with them until Mutsi arrived home, smelling of cocktails. She’d been all apologies, flirty smiles and reassurances with the male constable, spinning a hasty but genuine-sounding story about an emergency and having to visit a relative who was in hospital after an accident. Once he’d gone, the graciousness had vanished. You’re both so selfish. Can’t I even go out for one night? Rik had replied tartly, It would make a change if you stayed in for a night! Siv had never forgotten the police officer’s kindness. She’d been reassured by his calm manner, his humour. Maybe that early experience had navigated her towards her career choice.

  Bartel poured more strong black coffee. ‘Your dad didn’t tell you any stories?’

  ‘He didn’t have that kind of imagination. He was a scientist, a clinical engineer. He’d explain how a clock or a barometer worked with great enthusiasm, and he’d read from natural history or scientific books. He’d have told me that this alder must be over a hundred years old, judging by the major trunk cavities and the fruiting fungus on the bark. I’d hear about the dynamics of jet engines, or the history of Halley’s Comet. I got my talent for maths from him. He didn’t enter the realms of fantasy. Maybe he’d had enough of that with my mother. She was always as slippery as your glass mountain.’ Siv stretched, flexing her back. ‘If Mutsi had been the princess, she’d have sized up all the resurrected princes and if she’d fancied one, she’d have dumped the peasant youth for a better option.’