‘It’s an interview, not a personal appointment.’
Mutsi was holding two carrier bags from Ormonde, Berminster’s upmarket fashion emporium. She was a vision in an eye-catching lime-and-orange jacket and emerald blue jeans, with a bandana holding back her strawberry-blonde hair. Her lipstick and nail varnish shimmered in the same orange as her jacket. Siv stood in the afternoon glare, a dowdy caterpillar to Mutsi’s blazing butterfly.
Her mother pointed to a six-storey block of flats across the road, an Art Deco building called Waterside. Her silver charm bracelet, laced with heart shapes, slipped down her slim wrist. ‘That’s me over there, top floor. Here, take one of these for me and we’ll pop in. I’ve been dying to show it to you.’
Siv found herself holding a carrier bag with Coco de Mer lingerie poking from the top, the words Divinely Decadent just visible on the box. She was early for her appointment with Antonia Santos and she might as well get this over with. Mutsi was already leading the way, fluttering fingers at the traffic as she crossed the street.
The flat was modest — poky, even — but it had a wrought-iron balcony with long-reaching views across the harbour. It was painted white throughout and gleamed in the bright light. It smelled new and airy. On the dining table was the heavy red-and-white embroidered tablecloth that came from Mutsi’s grandmother’s house. It was one of the few things she’d hung onto during her circuitous, meandering life. Siv recalled that it was always the first item that would be unpacked when they moved into their latest, hastily arranged accommodation in a random selection of areas: London, Surrey, Oxfordshire, Berkshire and Biarritz. If there was no dining table, Mutsi used it as a throw. Siv had regarded its familiar, worn weave as a talisman offering the flimsy hope of permanence. She put her hand down and stroked its ribbed, rough surface.
‘The place has just been completely refurbished with a new kitchen. I really love it,’ Mutsi said. She showed Siv the bathroom with a deep Victorian-style clawfoot bath and then threw open the doors from the bedroom to the balcony. ‘And this view!’
Siv followed her out and gazed at the pale, smoky horizon. The water in the harbour was a still, pale blue. These flats were sought after and expensive, and she was mystified as to how Mutsi could afford the rent. She’d spent most of her life scrounging, spending and racking up bills. On one of the rare occasions when she’d called in on Siv and Ed in Greenwich, she’d cornered him in the kitchen and asked if he could lend her a thousand pounds. He’d said no, and Mutsi hadn’t lingered for a cup of tea.
‘I’ve made so many new friends,’ Mutsi was saying. ‘This balcony is lovely for having early evening drinks. One of the couples I’ve met owns a little pied-à-terre in Paris. They’ve invited me there for a weekend.’
‘Sounds lovely.’ Mutsi was adept at colonising people, slipping across their borders and planting her flag before they realised what was happening.
‘Have you heard from Rikka?’ her mother asked.
‘Not for a while.’
‘I’ve emailed her but she never replies. She’s horrible, just blanking me.’
Siv said nothing and watched a boat tack slowly into the harbour and berth.
‘So, do you like my new home?’
Mutsi touched her lightly on the arm, a little stroke of the fingers. She had a concentrated energy, a force of will that Siv had always found difficult to resist. Ed had shielded her, handling her mother with an easy determination. These days, she was back to being trapped in Mutsi’s full beam.
She moved away. ‘It’s lovely. How do you afford it?’
‘That’s a rude question. You should never ask anyone about their finances.’
Siv inhaled Mutsi’s rich, subtle scent. Even in full sunlight, she was remarkably unlined, her skin fresh and clear, her hair glowing. Siv touched her own hair, a finger automatically reaching for a bald patch. ‘That was never your attitude when you were on the phone to Dad, querying his salary and asking for more money.’
Mutsi looked at her over her dark glasses, then took them off and nestled them in her hair. ‘That was different. Your father earned well and I had to struggle to raise two girls all on my own.’
Her mother’s version of events never ceased to amaze her. ‘Come off it, you weren’t often on your own. I can recall at least eight “uncles” and the turnaround was so fast, I’m sure I’ve forgotten some.’
‘Don’t be spiteful. It makes your mouth turn down and causes wrinkles. What was I supposed to do, stay lonely and celibate? It was all right for your father, he was footloose and fancy free. He could do whatever he liked.’
‘I can’t imagine anyone less “footloose and fancy free” than Dad. As far as I could tell, he never had another partner after you did a runner on him.’
‘That was up to him. I can’t help that he was the most boring man on the planet.’
Siv remembered a hissed argument between her parents when her father had visited them in London. He’d closed the kitchen door but she and Rik could still hear them, once they’d turned the TV off. Her father’s tone had been mild, even though his words had been critical and, as always, he had been no match for Mutsi, who’d made game, set and match.
This isn’t a suitable place for the girls to live, on the top floor with no garden and near a main road. This flat seems so cramped. I give you enough money to afford something better than this.
It’s none of your business where I live. You’ve come to take the girls out, not to snoop into my life and police me.
Don’t be childish. Children need fresh air and grass to play on.
Oh, so you’re the expert on children now, are you? You only see them for five minutes now and again.
You know that’s not deliberate. I can hardly see them regularly when I’m living in Dubai, and keeping up with where you’ve taken them is work in itself. You never communicate, unless it’s about money.
Don’t preach, it’s tedious. You’re a great loss to the clergy. You’d have made a fine bishop.
I’m entitled to expect that the girls are properly cared for, in an environment where they can—
Oh, shut up! I left you because I discovered that you were the most boring man in England and you’ve not changed. You’re not entitled to anything.
Does this have to be a trade in insults?
No, because you’re leaving now. Sermon over. Amen. Have them back by six, will you? I have to go out at seven.
Who’s babysitting?
No one, I’m leaving them on their own with boxes of matches and candles!
The last remark had been nearer the truth than her father would have liked. There had been a babysitter that evening, a fifteen-year-old girl with terrible acne who lived on the ground floor and who’d let her boyfriend in after Mutsi had gone out. They’d sat on the sofa and demonstrated French kissing to a fascinated Siv and Rikka, who’d watched them from the carpet.
Mutsi’s voice cut across her memories.
‘Anyway, I can afford to live here in some style and comfort because I have an income stream.’
Siv was stunned. Her mother hadn’t had a job for years. In 1968, when she’d arrived in London from Finland, she’d been a dancer for five months in a touring production of Hair. She used to have a framed photo of the show, with her wearing a tie-dyed gauzy pink top with tassels and patched jeans, her arms lifted high in the air. She’d met Siv’s father on a train while the show was moving from Nottingham and they’d married within a month at the Finnish church in Rotherhithe. Mutsi was already pregnant with Rikka. They must have made an unlikely pair — her father the bookish, unworldly scientist and her mother the long-legged, glamorous dancer from Arctic realms. Mutsi had pirouetted around him and he’d wandered into marriage, bemused and enchanted, like a character in one of Bartel’s folk tales. When she’d had enough, she’d danced off to pastures new.
‘You have a job?’
‘I have a blog called 60Chic,’ Mutsi said airily. ‘I have more than fifty thousand foll
owers. It’s all about my style and exercise and beauty routines — make-up and wardrobe tips for the mature woman. Write what you know!’ She gazed out at the water. ‘You could read it, get some tips yourself. That sickly shirt does nothing for your skin tone. That colour’s called “gamboge” — Buddhist monks wear it.’
‘Who’s spiteful now?’ What an ideal occupation she’s found. Making money out of talking about her favourite subject.
Ed hissed in her ear. She should have called her blog AllAboutMe. She snorted back laughter. ‘I have to go. I have a proper job to do.’
Mutsi stood with her back to the railing, arms stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other. She could have been posing for a glossy magazine photographer. The style blogger who writes the hugely successful 60Chic invites us into her smart waterfront home.
‘Can’t you ever just be kind to me, Sivvi?’ she said.
The familiar brew of hurt and anxiety that her mother had served up to her over the years sideswiped Siv. She could taste it in her throat, bitter and lingering. Her scalp was tight. She reached a hand out to the cool iron rail to steady herself, glad of the solid metal. ‘I don’t trust you. You’ve never given me reason to. All my memories of you are of your back as you’re vanishing through a door.’
She walked away fast, leaving the door swinging. She didn’t want to be trapped in the confines of the lift, so she ran down the stairs. On the street, she walked over to the harbour wall, closed her eyes and repeated the mantra that one of the counsellors had given her after Ed’s death. ‘All is well, all is well, all is well.’ It was a trick and a lie, but a handy one. She shrugged her jacket off to show more of her sickly saffron shirt, and headed for Brookridge clinic.
* * *
The clinic was down an alleyway, at the back of a health food shop. Siv sat in the waiting area on a sofa covered with a brightly coloured throw that she recognised as Corran’s work. After London’s anonymity, she was still adjusting to life in a town where people constantly crossed paths. Wheels within wheels. There was a smell like minty mouthwash in the room, and a range of pamphlets about foot health. She picked one up and read about the importance of moisturising and nail filing. She could hear a man’s rumbling voice and a woman’s answering chuckle from behind the adjacent door.
She helped herself to water from a dimpled glass dispenser. Thin slices of lemon and lime bobbed inside. The water tasted delicious. It would be good to have one of these in the detectives’ office, but no one would clean it and the fruit would grow mouldy. The round, squat glass in her hand reminded Siv of a set that she and Ed had been given as a wedding present. She’d no idea what had happened to them. Ed had never liked them, saying that they were too small to be useful, but she’d shoved them in the back of a cupboard, in case they might come in handy. He’d given her a long-suffering look that had said, I get that you hang onto stuff because of your childhood but you’ve got me now. He’d probably taken the glasses to a charity shop. She had a sudden sense that he was near and closed her eyes at the sad pleasure. Have you turned up to keep an eye on Mutsi? I do hope so!
Antonia Santos had a firm, cool handshake. She ushered Siv into a space that was a cubicle rather than a room. They sat on either side of the treatment table, which was covered in blue paper. There was no window. Siv couldn’t have worked in this confined place all day, inspecting people’s gnarled feet and ingrowing toenails.
Antonia was cheery and tall, with sallow skin, a heavy, firm chin and wiry dark hair drawn back in a bun. She pushed a trolley holding the tools of her trade into the corner to give herself more legroom.
‘I’m so glad you’ve found Lyn, Inspector. It’s awful, but at least now the family can hold a funeral.’ She touched the hollow in her neck with a long, slim finger. ‘Mind you, that might be a complicated affair, given the tensions.’
‘Elaborate on that for me.’
Antonia cleared her throat. ‘Hmm. I’ve been weighing this up since you rang. Some of my information has come through Mr Dimas senior — Joe. He’s a patient, attends every couple of months for treatment. Lyn used to treat him and then . . .’
‘Lyn was murdered. I want to find who did it. I’ve probably heard some of the things you can tell me already, but you should speak freely.’
Antonia smoothed the paper across the table. ‘I worked with Lyn for almost five years. We were colleagues rather than friends. Friendly colleagues, that’s how I’d put it. She was a loving mum — maybe a bit too focused on the kids at times. She needed to stop crowding Lily and give her space. Lyn was never confident in herself. She wasn’t sure about her looks. I couldn’t understand it, because she was slim and attractive, but some people — women especially — are always judging themselves and finding what they see in the mirror wanting. I’ve never been like that. Have you?’
It occurred to Siv that if she was a man, Antonia wouldn’t be asking her. ‘Apart from craving straight hair for a couple of months when I was fourteen, no.’ She’d had a crush on her maths teacher, Ms Northam, who’d had fine, long blond tresses and an elfin face.
Antonia said, ‘Maybe it’s best to be a plain Jane like me, and accept there’s not a lot you can do about your manly chin.’ She laughed a light, musical ripple and stroked her jaw. ‘Lyn worried about being over forty and lines appearing, that sort of stuff. She was convinced that her legs were too thick, so she bought these contraptions that fitted inside her boots to make her calves appear thinner. Like a corset for legs. They put me in mind of foot binding. She was kind of obsessed about her image and any signs of ageing. I’d say to her that unless she had the money and courage to have plastic surgery, then lines, crow’s feet and a general sagging are inevitable. I’ve decided to wear my accumulation of years with pride.’ She grinned and touched the sides of her eyes, which had spiderweb lines fanning out.
‘I suppose her husband wasn’t giving her much reassurance.’
‘Too right. She was convinced that Theo was losing interest. I remember she said once that he’d started to treat her as if she was his mother. I’m not keen on bedroom talk but she mentioned one or two things that indicated their love life was moribund. The pieces fell into place when Theo came out. The poor man must have suffered terrible conflict.’
‘So she had a husband who wasn’t paying her any attention, and then she found out why and she was furious.’
‘And then some! She came in here and tried to work, but she was all over the place. I had to tell her to go home. She was devastated and she believed she’d been made a fool of. When she did come back, she was distracted and tired. By then, she was obsessing about Lily and Pearce, the new boyfriend.’
‘She wasn’t keen on Pearce.’
Antonia rolled her eyes. ‘She was poisonous about him! I’d dread having a coffee with her because she’d be reciting his sins. He was too old for Lily, he was encouraging her to forget about university and blighting her future, he was distracting her from her exam work, she was young and impressionable, reeling from the shock of her father’s departure, he was leading her astray, et cetera, et cetera. I understood why Lyn was concerned, because Lily met Pearce soon after Theo left, but then maybe he was just what she needed. I’ve no idea because I don’t know him. Joe Dimas likes him, but I wouldn’t rely on him as a judge of character. I tried to suggest to Lyn that coming down heavy on teenagers never goes well, and often achieves the opposite of what you intend, but she wasn’t listening. You can take a horse to water . . .’
‘Going back to Joe Dimas, tell me about the wider family and what’s happened since Lyn disappeared. I can imagine that people chat away to you while you’re working on their corns and calluses.’
Antonia linked her fingers and cracked them. ‘Love that sound. So satisfying. Oh yes, I’m a bit like a hairdresser, I get confidences and life stories. It’s amazing what people tell you when they’re being attended to and they relax. As far as I can make out, there’s a triangle.’ She took a roll of bandage and placed it in
the centre of the table. ‘That’s Joe Dimas.’ She put a nail file and metal dish down at opposite corners. ‘The nail file is Theo, Adam and Monty and the dish is Lily and Pearce.’ She drew imaginary lines with her finger between the bandage and the dish. ‘There’s lots of contact and affection from here to here, but the nail file stands alone. Joe Dimas is a deeply prejudiced man. I have to ask him to stay away from some of his favourite hate topics: gays, people who have too many children, those on state benefits, drug addicts. Pearce Aston sounds similar, given that Joe rates him, and I get the impression that Lily adores Pearce. I assume it’s mutual. Lyn was right in that Lily hasn’t done much with her life other than marry Pearce and work as his assistant.’
‘What does she do exactly?’
‘Pearce deals in computers, runs his own business. That’s how they met — her school was having an upgrade. She works at home, taking orders for Pearce and bookkeeping. Joe is mad about Lily — always talking about her and praising her. He doesn’t mention his son or grandson, except to comment that Theo and his boyfriend are trying to turn Adam gay and that the young man is a “milksop”. I’d say that Joe regards Pearce as the kind of son he’d have preferred.’
‘Did Joe Dimas get on with Lyn?’
‘Yes, they seemed to have a good relationship — well, until just before she disappeared, anyway. He certainly took her side after Theo came out. The way he saw it, Theo had brought terrible shame on the family. He blamed Theo for Lyn going missing — said that he’d broken her heart. He and Lily reckoned that she’d committed suicide.’
‘Was that your view?’
‘It didn’t seem likely. Lyn wouldn’t have abandoned her kids. And she was so full of anger, she’d want to live to make sure she took it out on Theo and stop him from seeing them. Lyn was out for revenge, big time.’
NEVER CAME HOME an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won't see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 2) Page 13