‘When was that and where did he go?’ Patrick asked.
‘It was May 2012. I’ve no idea where he went. I suspect that Clem used to see him sometimes and give him money. As long as he wasn’t here, I didn’t care. When he turned up after Clem died, it was the first time I’d seen him since the day he left, and I sincerely hope it was the last.’
Patrick was starting to feel sorry for Stafford. ‘You haven’t asked us why we want to find Tim.’
She gave a dry laugh. ‘Well, as you’re police, I assume he’s committed a crime, which wouldn’t surprise me at all. It amazes me that he hasn’t already been jailed. I don’t care why you’re after him, DC Hill. I never wanted him here in the first place, and I always said he’d end up in trouble of some kind. Now, is that all?’
‘Not quite. Did you know a woman called Lyn Dimas, or any of her family?’
She tapped her chin. ‘Lyn Dimas. She’s that podiatrist woman who went missing. Her body’s just been found. I went to her a couple of times at the clinic when I had heel pain. It was years ago. The problem went away after treatment and it’s never come back. Tim saw her once, I remember. He had an obstinate verruca.’
Patrick asked, ‘Do you recall when Tim saw her?’
‘Not exactly, but it wasn’t that long before we gave him his marching orders, because Clem got a verruca just after he left, probably from one of the disgusting towels Tim used to leave lying around.’ Her eyes became saucers. ‘You don’t think Tim killed her, do you?’
‘We’re making lots of enquiries, Mrs Stafford.’
‘But my God, if he’s a suspect . . . might he come after me? You read about these disturbed young men becoming violent. Thank goodness I wasn’t on my own that day he called here! Should I change my locks?’ She was eyeing the room with a hand to her throat, as if she expected Tim to leap out at her from behind a sofa.
Patrick glanced at Ali, who scratched his neck. ‘Does Tim have a key to this house?’
‘What? No . . . no. I made sure we took his keys back the day he left.’
Ali reckoned that it was best to be on the safe side until they found out what they were dealing with. If Tim Stafford was their killer, he was capable of extreme violence and his foster mother wasn’t exactly on his Christmas card list. ‘Mrs Stafford, you said that your husband might have met up with Tim after he left here. He might have given him a key, or Tim could have stolen one. Clearly, you’ve had problems and disagreements over the years. You’re probably not in any danger, but it might be best to change your locks.’
‘Yes, I see. Goodness. Well, that’s put bit of a damper on the day! I’m not sure I’ll be able to focus in t’ai chi after all this!’ She spoke as if they’d called round just to inconvenience her.
They rose to leave. Ali paused, and asked Mrs Stafford if she had a photo of Tim as an adult.
She tutted. ‘Oh, somewhere probably. Not that recent, but there’s a school one of him when he was seventeen. Do you need it now?’
‘It would be helpful and if we take it away, we probably won’t need to come back.’
That decided her. She made a fuss of searching through a drawer, muttering to herself as she took out photo albums and flicked through them. After a couple of minutes, she took a photo from its sleeve and handed it to Ali.
‘There,’ she said. ‘I warn you, he doesn’t look much like that now. He’s even skinnier and you’d need to add long filthy hair and a scraggy beard.’
Back in the car, they scrutinised the photo of a scrawny youth with ear studs, hooded eyes and acne scars on his forehead. He gazed furtively at them.
‘He didn’t smile for the camera,’ Patrick said.
‘Not much to smile about, from the sound of it.’
‘What a cold woman she is.’
‘She doesn’t radiate kindness,’ Ali agreed. ‘Mind, if she’s telling it like it was, she had to put up with a lot for years. Sounds as if Tim is a mess.’
‘The way she described him, he might be autistic.’
‘As the guv always says, let’s not jump to any conclusions. We need to find him. The acne scars are a handy distinguishing mark, but the years of rough sleeping might have altered him. Can you start ringing around homeless hostels in other towns? Try Hastings and Brighton, for starters.’
* * *
Siv dashed through torrential rain from her car, waving at Noah, who was gazing out of the front window at the deluge. She waited in the porch while he opened the door and followed him in, hanging her dripping jacket on a hall peg. He was pasty and little pouches of fat rippled over his shirt collar. His eyes were dull and guarded as he turned his chair to face her. She needed to make this quick and straightforward, to spare his blushes.
‘I’m not going to ask how you are, Noah. Patrick’s told me you’ve had a rough time. He’s explained about Melinda and the money.’
He stared out at the rods of rain. ‘He’d no right to do that.’
‘He’s worried. He doesn’t know I’m here now. You’d no right to steal from him.’
‘Have you come to arrest me?’ He sounded defiant, angry.
‘Hardly. You’re not exactly a major criminal. Noah, I don’t want to intrude on your personal life.’ Although taking in the messy room, with its discarded plates, half-empty cups and teetering stacks of magazines and books, his life could do with a clear-up.
He laughed unhappily. ‘That’s what people say just before they wade right in. I can hear the unspoken “but”. People usually behave in one of two ways around me. They either tread on eggshells, as if I’m Berminster’s Stephen Hawking, the intelligent but tragic man imprisoned in his body, or they act cheery and talk to a point somewhere over my head while they patronise me. Both approaches are excruciating and piss me off.’
She wasn’t having that. ‘I’ve never behaved to you in that way.’
‘No, you haven’t.’
‘Sounds like Melinda hasn’t, either. I suppose that she’s just treated you like you were any young man. I bet she seemed like a breath of fresh air.’
He flashed her a surprised look. ‘That’s right.’
Siv held his gaze. ‘But she’s a chancer. She ripped you and Patrick off, so that doesn’t work so well. She might be a laugh but she’s bad news. You need to take control and shop around, just as you would for anything else you wanted. You’ve let Melinda play you. That’s as bad as being patronised. You should be pissed off at her, not at your brother.’ She reached into her pocket and handed him an envelope. ‘I did some market research and got you information, names and contact details for women working in town who you can phone. They offer services with a clear payment tariff and they’ll visit you. I bet that when you check, you’ll realise that Melinda was overcharging.’
He stared at the envelope and then took it with his good hand. His eyes were moist. ‘Melinda made me happy. She was a friend and fun. She’s a laugh, took my mind off all this for a while.’ He gestured at the room.
‘Of course she did, and why shouldn’t you want that? But she did it by pressurising and cheating you. Has she been near you since Patrick sacked her?’
He shook his head. ‘I keep calling her but she doesn’t answer.’
‘That’s what I expected. She’s blown her chances. She wasn’t a friend, Noah. She gave you sex for money, which can be an honest trade, but not with Melinda. She exploited you and Patrick. You need to face up to that. You’ll find she’s not the only woman you can have fun with. Get a grip and don’t let anyone take advantage of you. I have to go now. I have a murderer to find.’
He bit his lip. ‘I’ve been an idiot. Thanks for this. Sorry you had to get involved in my problems.’
‘That’s okay. Do me a favour, tell Patrick we’ve spoken and then you can both forget I ever came here today. Actually, do me a second favour and say sorry to Patrick. He only talked to me because he was at his wits’ end with worry.’
She was at the door when he called her name. She turned.
‘I’m doing okay,’ she said. ‘That day-by-day thing.’
‘See you at the Halloween party?’
‘Oh, God. Yes. That. I haven’t done anything about it yet. Haven’t got a clue what to go as.’
He raised a finger, a gleam back in his eyes. ‘Lightbulb moment. Want me to order you a costume online?’
‘Would you do that?’
He grimaced, then laughed. ‘I can make time in my hectic schedule. Any preferences?’
‘Just nothing too fussy, something I can sling on at the last minute, and no more than fifty pounds.’
She ran to the car, relieved that was over, avoiding puddles.
* * *
Noah watched her drive away, closed his eyes and listened to the thudding, hypnotic rainfall. He took a couple of deep, shuddering breaths and was calmer than he’d been in months. Patrick seemed a bit nervous of Siv, but Noah couldn’t understand why. He liked her candour and the way she didn’t tiptoe around him. Now and again, a shadow crossed her strong face and then she’d reach a finger to her scalp or rub at the scar by her eyebrow.
He turned the envelope over a few times and then opened it, scanning Siv’s clear but hurried notes. His phone was perched in its holder, attached to the arm of his wheelchair. He pulled it towards him and dialled some numbers.
Chapter 21
Siv woke at 5.30 a.m. after a restless night and found that her eyes were wet with tears. She opened the window wide and lay for a while, breathing the moist dawn air and listening to the river murmuring. The trees rustled softly in the breeze, dropping their leaves. The prospect of visiting London had triggered kaleidoscope memories of a life interrupted. In shards and fragments of jumbled dreams, she’d walked through Greenwich again with Ed, watched a juggler in Covent Garden and laughed as he indulged in his weekly struggle to insert the duvet into its cover. He’d been so real, she’d reached out to touch him, but his side of the bed was empty now.
Ali had called her the previous evening, to tell her about Tim Stafford’s connection to Lyn. They’d discussed the possibility that he could have camped out in Steiner’s when he was missing from home, and once he’d taken to the streets at eighteen.
When she surfaced from dreams, she fretted about finding him. Homeless people who didn’t regularly use formal support could stay under the radar for years. She was holding the strings to numerous kites that were snapping in the wind and tugging her in myriad directions.
She showered, dried her hair and arranged it in the tousled style a hairdresser had shown her to hide her bald patches. There were only two now but she was conscious of them and tweaked strands of hair for concealment. She dressed city smart in a navy suit and white shirt, made tea and toast and ate with her feet up on the wood-burner, which was still warm from the night before. She’d already boxed the kusudama model, and was ready to go as soon as she’d rinsed her breakfast things. This little wagon was so easy to maintain, she wouldn’t mind living here for ever.
She left at half six, driving slowly along the rutted lane that led to the road. She waved back at Corran as he emerged to see to the goats, wrapped up in a padded jacket. They were Alpine goats, used to cooler climates, but he started to feed them extra rations in the autumn and had a plentiful supply of hay laid in. They started bleating as soon as they heard him approach.
The morning was drenched with cloying mist and she needed the windscreen wipers. The bare trees and dying vegetation signalled winter’s fast approach. She wondered if it would be dank and misty like this at Halloween, encouraging notions of spirits and wandering souls.
Bartel had phoned to tell her that his offer on the house had been accepted and that he had decided to attend Mortimer’s party as a wodnik, a wicked water spirit who drowned swimmers, and kept their souls trapped in his teapot for ever. She’d laughed and commented, ‘Who’d have credited that a teapot could be used for such evil purposes?’ When she’d asked what a wodnik looked like, Bartel had replied darkly that because she’d mocked, she’d have to wait and find out.
She was pleased about his house purchase. He’d been living in rented accommodation for years but he was a homebird, a nester, and now he’d have a permanent roost. She’d have described herself in the same terms before Ed died. After her uncertain childhood, she’d craved stability and order. Now, she wasn’t sure how she saw herself. Maybe she’d become one of those birds that stayed on the wing and never built a nest.
She made good time until she reached the outskirts of London, when traffic slowed to a crawl and it took an hour to reach Islington. She parked at the NOPC office with half an hour to spare, found a café and had a coffee while she phoned Ali.
‘The alibis we got from Patel and Olawego check out,’ he told her. ‘No luck tracking Tim Stafford in Brighton or Hastings, so we’re going to trawl further along the coast. We’re checking hospitals as well.’
‘We need him. Make sure you and Patrick consider every possibility. Also, get Patrick to tweet about him.’
‘He already has, didn’t need to be told.’
Hassan Kibet had a tiny office on the ground floor of a modern block. He had a thick, matted beard, appeared tired and dishevelled and was putting a tie on as he greeted her. He offered coffee, which she declined and opened a Thermos cup for himself.
‘Hope you don’t mind the third person in the room.’ He pointed beneath his desk.
Siv hadn’t noticed the tiny baby asleep in a carrycot and barely visible inside a quilted bag.
‘I don’t need to worry about confidentiality,’ she said. She imagined Mortimer’s face if one of his staff arrived with an infant. The NOPC must be an enlightened employer.
‘I don’t make a habit of bringing him to work, but my wife is exhausted and a bit down. It was a long labour and a difficult birth. I wanted to give her a day when she can just stay in bed or do whatever she likes. He’s not due a feed for a while, so we shouldn’t be interrupted.’
‘I’m sure your wife will benefit from the rest.’
‘Yes . . . Anyway, you haven’t come all this way to hear about my childcare arrangements.’ Kibet seemed embarrassed by his domestic confidences and became businesslike. He took a folder from his drawer. ‘I’ve made you a copy of significant documents. Obviously, you can request the complete file if you find you need to.’ He handed Siv a small, stapled collection of papers.
She started to flick through. ‘Can you talk me through the highlights?’
‘Of course. In 2002, Lyn Dimas was practising podiatry in a clinic called Foot Heaven in Seaford. During March of that year, she contacted us to say that she was concerned about another podiatrist at the clinic, a Tilly Hemmings. She expressed the view that Ms Hemmings lacked skills and sometimes caused minor injuries during treatment. She informed us that earlier that year Ms Hemmings had cut a patient’s foot when she was dealing with ingrown toenails. The patient had fibromyalgia and other health problems. He complained to Ms Dimas when Ms Hemmings told him not to worry. Ms Dimas told the practice manager, but her other concern was that the manager wasn’t dealing with these issues when she raised them, and it had got to a point where she had to contact us. A week after the cutting incident, the patient developed a serious infection, which didn’t respond to antibiotics. It led to gangrene and ultimately, partial amputation of his leg below the knee. He consulted a solicitor, who advised that there had been a breach of duty that may have constituted clinical negligence. Ms Hemmings was suspended from work. The case went to court and clinical negligence was proven. Ms Dimas didn’t have to attend court, but she provided a statement about her various concerns regarding Ms Hemmings, and her view that the clinic had ignored and mishandled them. The patient was awarded damages and Ms Hemmings was subsequently removed from our register.’
‘So she wouldn’t have been able to practise as a podiatrist again?’
‘That’s correct. I wasn’t working
here at the time, but a colleague who was involved in interviewing Ms Hemmings after the court decision said that she was very emotional. It was sad, because she was a single parent with two children to support, but after a court case like that, we really had no other option.’
‘What happened to the practice manager?’
‘He was reprimanded but allowed to continue practising with extra training in complaint handling. I’ve seen a note on his file that he died of a heart attack in 2011.’
So, Lyn Dimas had been involved in a colleague losing her career. This issue should have been tracked down in the first investigation. ‘Do you know what happened to Tilly Hemmings subsequently?’
The baby gave a tiny whimper and shifted. Kibet bent down and lightly stroked his head. ‘No. We closed the file after she was officially deregistered. I suppose she found some other employment.’
Siv saw that there was an address for Ms Hemmings in Seaford. ‘I would appreciate the full file in the next couple of days. Thanks for your help.’
‘Does this have something to do with Ms Dimas’s death?’
‘I’m not sure at this point, Mr Kibet.’ She glanced down and saw that the baby was kicking. ‘I’ll take these papers for now and leave you to your son. Feeding time is approaching.’
She had an hour to spare before she was due in Ealing, so she bought a tea and sat in the car, sipping and searching for Tilly Hemmings. The first hit was a local newspaper report on a coroner’s inquest from October 2006.
A verdict of suicide was returned on Matilda Hemmings of Seaford, East Sussex. Ms Hemmings, 44, died from an overdose of sleeping tablets. The inquest was told that she had suffered depression since losing her job as a podiatrist. Ms Hemmings had been unable to secure other long-term employment because of her battle with mental health issues, and had accrued large debts. Her family reported that she worried about how she would pay these off. She left a note, indicating that she was taking her life. Ms Hemmings leaves two children aged 15 and 23.
NEVER CAME HOME an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won't see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 2) Page 26