Here was yet another strand to unpick. Someone might have held Lyn responsible for Tilly Hemmings’s death. She emailed Ali a link to the article, explaining what she’d discovered: Can you find out who her children are and, if they’re still reasonably local, arrange for us to meet with them tomorrow.
She drove on to West London at a snail’s pace and was relieved to find that the architects in Ealing had an empty parking spot for visitors. She unpacked the sculpture in the director’s office, enjoying the reveal as she lifted it carefully from the packing material. The director expressed delight, touching the piece carefully, and told Siv that they had another office in St Alban’s, whose manager was interested in discussing a project with her. Siv agreed to talk to him and watched while her work was displayed in the window. She experienced the usual frisson of sadness when a piece left her hands for good. It was like losing a little part of herself. A couple of the architects insisted on buying her lunch. She hesitated, aware of the need to press on with the investigation, but she reckoned that she was entitled to eat and accompanied them to a sushi bar where she downed delicious seafood ramen.
She was on the road back to Berminster at two thirty when Ali phoned.
‘Death is stalking us, guv. Tilly Hemmings has one surviving child now. Her daughter, Posy, killed herself in December 2012 — jumped from a multistorey car park. Her son, Clive, still lives in Seaford. He agreed to meet us there tomorrow morning.’
‘Did you mention Lyn Dimas to him?’
‘Yes. He confirmed that he’d heard of her. I explained that we’d found her body and he went very quiet, so I said we’d leave it there until tomorrow. Still no joy with Stafford.’
* * *
Clive Hemmings finished dusting, plumped cushions, altered the angle of a chair and stood in the centre of the sitting room. He smiled with satisfaction. All was orderly and gleaming. Over the weekend, he’d taken everything from the shelves and wiped all the surfaces. He could afford a cleaner, but he didn’t want anyone else in his home and such intrusion had too many disadvantages. Some of the homes where he tutored had cleaners and they all brought their own odours with them, which they left behind when they’d finished: cigarettes, unwashed clothes, sweat and cheap perfumes, to name a few. He was cursed with a highly sensitive sense of smell and he was happiest in a neutral environment. All his cleaning materials were non-perfumed. He breathed in deeply now, enjoying the smell of . . . nothing.
His mother and sister had been chaotic, noisy and messy, cluttering their tiny, two-bedroomed house. He and Posy had had to share a bedroom until she was a teenager, and he’d hated waking up in his bottom bunk to the smell of her fuggy breath drifting from above like a noxious miasma. Her cheap Superdrug cosmetics, her relentless tide of clothes and magazines, and her habit of spraying air freshener around the room had suffocated him. When Posy turned thirteen, his mother had put a bed in the utility room off the kitchen for him, where he swapped his sister’s aromas for lingering food odours of onions and meat. Other boys talked about wanting gadgets. He’d longed for his own airy, neat room and dreamed of the day that he could have a front door that was his alone.
He’d always been detached from his mother and sister. He’d been fond of them in his own way, but he’d never wanted the casual intimacy that he noted among other families. It made him curl into himself, like a hedgehog. He told himself that he’d been born weird. After Posy died, he’d sold their house. It had been neglected for years and had needed a lot of work, but he’d made enough on the sale for a deposit on this one-bedroom flat beside the sea. His neighbours were older, retired people and that suited him fine. They were quiet and courteous and left him alone, apart from an occasional greeting on the stairs. Having this solitary, inviolate space to himself was a joy.
He stepped to the window and straightened a blind. His routines were important and, this morning, the police were disrupting them and causing anxiety. Usually, he swam between nine and ten in the private basement pool, when it was empty, but he’d had to forgo the pleasure today. He’d been a chunky, fat-faced boy, but he’d shed that surplus weight as soon as his mother had died and he’d taken control of his diet. He liked to keep to his ideal weight of eighty kilograms and stepped on the scales every morning before swimming. Any change in schedule caused him stress, as did the prospect of the conversation to come. He’d been surprised that the police hadn’t turned up when Lyn Dimas had vanished. When he’d read that her body had been found, he’d anticipated that they might yet come to his door.
In the kitchen, he quietened his nerves by carefully laying out a tray for his visitors and grinding coffee beans. The bell rang promptly at ten, and he opened the door to a tall, smartly dressed woman with a sombre expression and a stocky man in a leather jacket. She made introductions, and he asked if they’d take their shoes off in the tiny hall, which they did, and showed them in before going back to the kitchen.
* * *
Siv and Ali waited for coffee. Hemmings had seemed tense, so Siv had accepted the offer. Sometimes, the small rituals of hot drinks helped to relax people. There was a delicious smell of fresh coffee beans. Ali was standing by the picture window that faced the sea, hands behind his back, feet apart. Farmer’s feet, broad and capable, solid on the earth. He’d told her that his parents were farmers and she pictured him coming from a long line of well-built people who strode their acres of wheat, corn and barley and could forecast the weather from the sky.
When she glanced down, she saw that he had a large hole in the heel of his right sock. She’d wondered if Hemmings had asked them to remove their shoes in order to put them at a disadvantage, but now she saw the spotless room, she realised that he was probably just house-proud. His flat was on the fourth floor of a wide block, just metres from the seafront. Today, the early mists and rain had cleared quickly and the sky was an intense blue, with far-reaching visibility.
There was just one photo in the room. Siv reached for it. It was of a woman with two young children. The chubby boy in it had curly red hair, a snub nose, glasses and prominent front teeth. She was puzzled, as he was nothing like Hemmings. She showed it to Ali, who muttered that they’d better double-check they had the right man.
‘Great view you have here,’ Ali said to Hemmings as he came in with a tray.
‘It is lovely. I wondered if I might get used to it but it’s always a real surprise, every time I walk in.’
‘I’d waste a lot of time if I had that view.’
‘Why would that be time wasted?’ Hemmings sounded perplexed. ‘Gazing at the natural world must always be beneficial, surely. But maybe you’re an external, doing person, rather than a mindful, being person.’
Ali was a stranger to philosophical discussions about human nature. He didn’t wonder about existence. As far as he was concerned, we all found ourselves on the planet and the mess we managed to make was quite enough to deal with, without questioning why we were here. He gave Hemmings a baffled glance and sat down.
Hemmings served the cafetière of coffee with a jug of warmed milk, a separate one of cream, a bowl of brown sugar cubes and a plate of thin, spiced biscuits. The ceramic crockery was a stylish matching set in pale green and cream. There were green paper napkins by the biscuits. Siv regarded the tray with appreciation and a dash of suspicion. This kind of hospitality was unusual, and she wondered why the man had gone to so much effort.
The room was elegantly and simply furnished with cream leather easy chairs and a low ash table, reflecting the classiness of the refreshments. Hemmings fussed over the coffee. Siv refused biscuits while Ali accepted two and set about dunking. Everything in the room seemed somehow manufactured and brand new, as did Hemmings himself. He was of medium height and slim in spotless, smart black chinos and a grey shirt that were as immaculate as if they’d just been unwrapped. His thick, black hair was swept back smoothly from a high forehead, his skin was clear and curiously matt, his eyes were an astonishing cerulean blue and his perfect teeth had to
be veneers.
‘Is your coffee okay?’ He sat back with his knees together.
‘Fine, thank you,’ said Siv. ‘I’m sorry about your mother and your sister, Mr Hemmings.’
‘Please, call me Clive. Thank you. I’ve had difficult things to overcome.’
‘As Sergeant Carlin told you on the phone, we came across your late mother’s name in connection with a murder inquiry. Did you know that we’d found Lyn Dimas’s body?’
There was a brief pause. Hemmings sipped his coffee and placed the cup back carefully in its saucer. ‘I read about that, yes.’
‘And were you aware that she’d been missing since July 2013?’
‘I heard that on the news at the time.’
‘Presumably, you knew that Ms Dimas and your mother had worked together in Seaford?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘We’ve received information about a professional complaint that Ms Dimas made concerning your mother, and her subsequent loss of employment as a podiatrist. I understand that this might be painful, but can you tell us about your mother’s death?’
He put his cup on the table and folded his hands together on his knees. Tension radiated from him.
‘I was fifteen when it happened. Posy, my sister, came home and found Mum dead in bed. I was devastated, because I was downstairs, doing homework. I hadn’t even realised that Mum was in and had taken an overdose. I got in from school and called her, but when there was no answer, I assumed she was out somewhere. She often went for long walks.’ There was a tremor in his voice and he swallowed hard.
Siv was still puzzling over the photo and pointed to it. ‘Is that you, with your mother and sister?’
‘That’s right. I was eleven when that was taken.’
‘What happened to your red hair?’ Ali asked.
Hemmings smiled. ‘I can see that you can’t equate the child in the photo with me. That’s exactly how I wanted it. I was never happy with my appearance. My mother always overfed me and I spent my childhood being called names because of my hair, my weight, my goofy teeth and sometimes, if the bullies ran out of ideas, my glasses. “Fatso”, “Fatarse”, “Rustbucket”, “Rabbitface”, “Specky” and “Firebunny” are just a few of the insults that came my way. After my mother died, I went on a strict diet and as soon as I had money of my own, I had my nose remodelled, my teeth capped, I have my hair dyed and wear coloured contact lenses.’
This was a new take on the meaning of a self-made man. Hemmings must have suffered terribly to alter himself so drastically. ‘What’s your line of work?’ Siv asked.
‘I’m a private tutor, maths, mainly. Why is that relevant? Oh — maybe you’re wondering how I could afford the cosmetic work. Tutoring is well paid if you’re good and in demand, and I am.’
‘Can you tell us about your mother’s connection to Lyn Dimas?’
He seemed to withdraw into himself for a few moments and then focused on her with his remarkable eyes. ‘Maybe it would be easiest if I show you my mother’s suicide note.’
He rose in one swift movement and glided from the room before she could reply. She and Ali sat in silence until he returned. A window was open a little and they could hear the surge of the incoming tide. He came back with a sheet of notepaper and handed it to Siv. She read the note and passed it to Ali.
I’m being a coward, but I can’t go on. Since I lost my career, I’ve been lost. Posy, look after Clive. You’ll both be happier and better off without me hanging around and depressing you both. I hope that woman who caused all this and didn’t care who she was hurting is pleased with herself. Sorry.
Hemmings gestured at the note. ‘My mother always called Lyn Dimas “that woman”, so we did too. I gathered that they worked together, but I didn’t really understand much about the trouble when it was all happening and the subsequent court case. I could see that Mum was terribly upset and she’d lost her job. She completely lost the plot after that.’
‘Were there any family or friends around to support her?’ Ali asked.
Hemmings stared back at him. ‘None — just like always. My dad left when I was three and went to Ottawa. He didn’t support us. Mum worked really hard to get a qualification and a career while she brought us up alone. It was a three-year degree course and money was tight — she had a real struggle paying the mortgage. After she qualified, she got a good job and income at Foot Heaven and things were much better for us financially. Then she saw it all go down the drain when she was barred. She got one or two menial jobs, as a care assistant in a nursing home and then on a checkout at a supermarket, but she got sacked from the first because she’d turn up late, and she left the shop because she couldn’t stand the monotony. Posy told me all the details after Mum died. She said that Mum had been treated harshly because of a mistake, and that if Lyn Dimas hadn’t stirred it all up, the patient she accidentally wounded might never have gone ahead with a legal case.’
That’s one take on what happened, Siv reflected, but hardly fair on Lyn Dimas, who seemed to have acted from genuine professional concerns. And a man had lost part of a leg.
‘How did you react to Lyn Dimas, Clive?’ Despite his permission, she saw his flash of surprise at her use of his name.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ he said.
‘Were you angry with her? After all, she’d caused your mum a lot of misery and hurt.’
‘I suppose I was angry for a while, but I had to get on with my life and my studies.’
‘Why did your sister commit suicide?’
‘She didn’t leave a note, but Posy never got over Mum’s death. They were very close and Posy was guilty that she hadn’t done more to help her. She worked really hard to pay off the debts Mum had left, and it wore her down. I regretted not having done more to help Posy after she died. I was busy completing my degree and I just didn’t realise how depressed she must have been.’
It was a sorry tale, although considering the emotions he was describing, his tone was bland. Hemmings appeared to be direct and open in relating events, yet his information could well mean he’d have a motive for taking revenge after losing both his mother and sister. He was too intelligent not to realise that, but his gaze was steady.
Ali shifted in his chair. ‘Could you tell us where you were on the evening of the twenty-eighth of July 2013?’
‘Not offhand, given that it was six years ago. I was tutoring by then and a lot of my work is in the evenings, so that’s probably what I was doing. I don’t have a diary from back then. I upgraded my laptop to a different system a year ago and the diary didn’t migrate.’
‘Have you ever been to Berminster, and in particular to a place called Orford End?’ Ali asked.
‘The answer to both parts of that question is no.’ Hemmings added a splash more milk to his coffee and sat back.
‘Did your sister have a partner at the time when she died?’
‘She didn’t mention anyone. Certainly, no one contacted me about her funeral. But I was at uni and doing some tutoring to cover my fees when I wasn’t studying, and she was working in Lewes, so we weren’t spending a lot of time together.’
There was some undercurrent running beneath the conversation, but Siv couldn’t decide what it was. This room was too much like a stage set to present a scene, with Hemmings sticking to a script.
She took out Tim Stafford’s photo and passed it to him. ‘Do you recognise this man? His name is Tim Stafford and he’s currently homeless.’
‘Stafford? No. I meet a lot of people because of my work, you see, but that name doesn’t ring a bell. You do see the odd homeless person in Seaford, but we don’t have as many as the bigger seaside towns.’ He handed back the photo. ‘Would you like some more coffee?’
‘No, thank you. Did you kill Lyn Dimas?’ Siv didn’t often ask the bare, bald question in an informal interview but there was an opaque layer here that she wanted to cut through.
Hemmings put a hand on his chest, as if he was swearing an oath. ‘No
, I didn’t kill Lyn Dimas. I can see why you’d believe I had a motive — I would if I was doing your job — and I realise that’s where your questions have been leading, but I didn’t harm her. There’s been enough death around my family without adding to it. I realise that it would be better for me if I could give you an alibi, but I can’t.’
Siv asked if he’d give a DNA sample and fingerprints and he agreed without hesitation. When he showed them out, she could almost hear him exhale with relief.
* * *
They sat on the sea wall opposite his flat, buffeted by the salt breeze.
‘He’s like one of those Ken dolls. Sort of plastic. He was wearing foundation,’ Ali said, lighting up.
‘He certainly has a flawless complexion.’
‘Must be odd, to grow up looking a certain way and then change your appearance so radically. I wonder if he gets a shock when he sees himself in the mirror? Maybe I should have liposuction on my belly and dye my hair, get rid of the premature grey.’
Siv laughed. ‘Polly likes you the way you are. It was strange in there. There was something going on and it was more than plastic surgery. He lied, but I’m not sure what about. I’m sure he recognised Tim Stafford. His hand twitched when I asked him.’
‘He was tense all the way through. Lyn Dimas’s actions led to both his mother and his sister committing suicide. He’d have had good reason to murder her and he can’t tell us where he was the night she went missing.’
‘He’s joining that club with others. But he wasn’t bothered about us taking DNA. He’s a curious mixture of strung out and yet apparently honest. He baffled me, and I don’t like that.’
‘Guv, even if we do find out who killed Lyn — and I reckon it’s now a long shot — we might never have enough evidence.’
‘That’s what keeps me awake at night.’
NEVER CAME HOME an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won't see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 2) Page 27