‘That’s right. We’ve got some new leads, including information you failed to pick up on.’
‘Really? What information is that?’
‘About Lyn Dimas and problems at her previous workplace.’
‘Is that why you were rushing out of the station the other day?’
She recalled the figure leaning against the desk and gathered that he’d been doing his homework, and that she’d been set up. ‘Possibly.’ She eyed him. ‘I hear you’re not happy in your new job. Is it a case of a too early promotion or just the wrong time and place?’
He put his head to one side. ‘Don’t make too much of station gossip. What’s your take on that creepy neighbour, Jeff Downey? I reckoned he might have been behind Lyn’s disappearance but we had no evidence.’
‘We still have no evidence regarding him.’
‘Right. I hear you’ve got a tight little team, just Ali and Patrick. Ali’s okay, although his fitness must be questionable. I expect you find Patrick a tad flaky now and again, what with his phone addiction and his home situation.’
She wondered if Mortimer had primed his bosom buddy to explore weaknesses and find ammunition. If so, they were both despicable and deserved each other. ‘As you say, we’re a tight team. If you’re fishing for me to criticise colleagues, I’m not up for that.’
He held up a paw. ‘Hey, no need to be so defensive, I was just interested in how things are going.’
She was about to reply when she was distracted by the sight of Mortimer in a Gomez Addams striped suit, leading a woman costumed as Morticia. Her long, clinging black satin dress had lace sleeves and a grey lace veil and the curtains of her long, black wig obscured her face. Mortimer straightened his bow tie and handed his companion a glass of champagne.
‘The boss has done okay for himself with his new woman, she’s a stunner. It was time he moved on from moping over his divorce.’ Castles raised his glass towards Mortimer as he approached them with his partner.
Siv stared through the assorted strange and outlandish figures with their horns, cloaks, fake blood, fangs and hideous make-up. Bartel was leaning on his staff, talking to a woman in a black-and-silver cat suit. His scales glowed eerily in the low lighting. The boat lurched in the wind and her stomach lifted queasily. The woman at Mortimer’s side was slowly raising her veil to reveal crimson lips and kohl-rimmed eyes with a familiar glint in them.
‘Welcome aboard,’ Mortimer was saying. ‘I’m glad to see that you two have met at last. This is Crista Virtanen. Crista, this is Siv Drummond.’
‘Lovely to see you again, Crista,’ Castles said.
‘Mutsi! What are you doing here?’ Siv realised that she’d almost shouted and that Mortimer was frowning.
Her mother gave a dangerously sweet smile. ‘Will invited me, of course. I do like your costume, Sivvi. Very airy-fairy, although you might blow away.’
Siv recognised that gleeful, complacent air. Mutsi always had it when she’d acquired a new romantic interest. Someone had pressed a volume switch, and the voices in the cabin suddenly grew into a clamour. Siv couldn’t breathe. She remembered the painting on Mortimer’s office wall. It was a present from a friend. She realised that it was of Lake Keitele, in central Finland, painted by Akseli Gallen-Kallela, and she’d seen it in the National Gallery.
‘You’ve met before?’ Mortimer asked, bewildered.
Siv’s phone rang. She dug in her bag and moved towards the door. A zombie had just opened it to come inside and she pushed past him, stepping on to the cold, bracing deck. She leaned against the rail. The call was from the duty desk at the station.
‘Guv, sorry to interrupt the party. Colleagues in Hastings have been in touch. A man’s been attacked on the beach at St Leonard’s. Head wound and unconscious. He’s been identified as Tim Stafford. They said you’ve been trying to find him.’
‘That’s right. Thanks. I’ll contact them now.’
She stood gazing at the dancing, shimmering harbour lights and took deep gulps of salty air. She shivered. Through the cabin window, she could see Mutsi standing close to Mortimer, a hand on his arm, her lips moving near his ear. He was nodding, his arm about her waist.
This was bad, and she could be confident about one thing: it was going to get worse.
Chapter 23
Adam got home from school and dumped his bag in the hall. His phone rang as he headed to the kitchen. He saw Lily’s name on his screen, and he answered with the upbeat tone he always used with her to mask his unease.
‘Hi. How’re you doing?’
She snapped, ‘I expect you can guess. Have you heard about our cow of a mother or has Dad kept the awful truth from his little boy?’
He sank onto the bottom stair. ‘Dad said that the police reckoned Mum had been at Steiner’s, that she might have been seeing someone there. I don’t believe it.’
‘Well, you should! She was screwing Pearce there.’
He leaned on to his knees. ‘Pearce?’
‘Yes, my darling husband. They had a thing.’
‘That can’t be right. Mum and Pearce?’
‘It’s true. Pearce confessed at the police station after they arrested him and questioned him the second time. He’s a fucking cheat and a liar and I’m divorcing him.’
He rubbed at the carpet with a finger. It was gritty and soft at the same time. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You mean you don’t want to understand. You need to grow up and get a grip. I can’t make it much clearer! Mum was shagging Pearce. She was a common slag. They were at it for months before Dad left.’
‘But Mum didn’t like him!’
Lily laughed. ‘On the contrary, dimwit, she liked him rather a lot!’
‘Hang on . . . Were they seeing each other when he was with you?’
‘He claims not, says they’d finished by then because Mum was getting too serious about him, but he’s such a liar, he’d say anything to try to get out of this.’
Adam pictured Pearce’s muscly arms lifting his mother and securing her with rope. ‘Did he kill her?’
‘The cops say not. He’s supposed to have an alibi, although I wouldn’t believe anything he says. I don’t care anymore about who killed her. She deserved it. You can tell Dad I’m not coming anywhere near her fucking funeral. I stayed at Papu’s but I’m back home now. Pearce has moved out.’
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘Some woman’s letting him kip where he’s working. An antiques place. He’s probably shagging her too as payment. Come round soon. I hate being here on my own. Tasha offered to stay for a bit but I don’t want her around all the time, she gets on my nerves. In fact, you could move in, if you like. It’d be good for you to get away from the gay mafia.’
She rang off. He put his head back and looked up the stairs, seeing his mother in her lemony dress, leaning against the wall.
He stood and walked slowly to the kitchen, stunned. No way was he going to stay with Lily. She only wanted him there for convenience, and as soon as he did something to annoy her, which wouldn’t take long, she’d start complaining. He put two slices of bread on a plate and took chocolate spread and peanut butter from the cupboard, layering the bread carefully on each side before pressing the heavenly sandwich of deep and golden browns together and slicing it in half.
His dad had left a proof copy of Mum’s funeral service by the bread bin and he picked it up. There was a photo of her on the front, from when they had been on holiday in Brittany. She was smiling, sun-dappled and bronzed. He flicked through the pages. There were songs by Annie Lennox, David Bowie and lastly Shakira singing her favourite, ‘Try Everything’. He remembered Mum dancing around this kitchen to it, shaking her hips and laughing. Now it seemed that she’d tried Pearce. What a total skank. He screwed the paper up hard and threw it down.
He’d just taken a huge bite of the sandwich and turned to sit at the table when he saw the curse jars, stacked on the top. One of them was open. The paper with Monty’s name was
on the table, amid a scattering of thorns and chilli flakes. There was a note.
Adam, we need to talk. I found these under your bed when I was vacuuming. I’ve no idea what they mean or what you’ve been doing but it seems deeply unpleasant. I’ve sent a photo of them and a message to your dad. We’ll both be home about 9 p.m. and then you need to explain what’s going on.
He sat down heavily. The bread was like a solid lump in his mouth. He swallowed and stared at the note. That bastard had no right to go in his room. He continued eating automatically, taking huge bites, even though the sandwich was making him sick. He wondered if the curse was now weakened, or even cancelled. He had an overwhelming need for Chimera’s warmth and reassurance. He ran upstairs, grabbed his laptop and returned to the kitchen. He groaned when he saw she wasn’t online. He clicked ‘View members’ and saw with disbelief that she had left the forum. He clicked again and got the same outcome.
He was dizzy. He filled a glass with water and drank it down. Why had he never got any other contact details for her? He sat and googled ‘chimera’ but all he found were definitions and links to Greek mythology. Tears came then. He was bereft, stranded, alone. No more Merry Meet Again.
His mother had left him alone. Betrayed him. The night she’d gone missing, she’d abandoned him, probably to go and screw someone. She’d never intended to watch Toy Story with him. His stomach somersaulted and he rushed to the toilet, where he vomited repeatedly and then sank back on the hard floor tiles. He curled into a ball, his cheek on the cold surface, and lay there for what seemed a long time, drifting in and out of awareness.
When he roused himself, he returned to the kitchen and read Monty’s note again. A cold fury seized him. Who did this sneaky fuckwit think he was, prying into his things and demanding explanations? He shredded the note, letting the pieces drop to the floor. Then he ran and attacked the bonsai collection, ripping it apart in a frenzy, sending the soil, branches and leaves spinning through the air. When he’d finished, he trampled on the debris and ground it into the floor. He threw the curse jars one by one against the wall, watching shards of glass fly all over the room.
He sat, panting and staring at the chaos. His head was like a steaming pressure cooker. He put his hands to either side of his skull and pressed hard.
Everyone was lying and treating him like a child, invading his privacy and deceiving him. Now Chimera had taken off without a goodbye. How could she do that to him when they’d had such a close friendship? His dad had walked out on him and his mother had lied to his face and snuck off into the night as if he didn’t matter. Lily had told him to grow up. Well, he would. He’d start acting like all the shitty grown-ups who infested his life and did whatever they liked, not caring who they hurt.
He was going to make a start right now.
He spent a few minutes on his laptop, packed some things he’d need in his rucksack and left the house.
* * *
Siv stood at the spot where Tim Stafford had been found. She studied the photo that a responding constable had taken of his skinny body. He was sprawled face down on the shingle, the back of his head a mass of matted blood and hair. Stafford was in hospital now, and in a critical condition.
She sent the photo to herself, handed back the phone and scanned the area. This was the furthest stretch of beach from the town centre, unlit and well away from the seafront hotels and cafés.
She turned to DS Shaw, a small woman whose glasses dominated her face.
‘Who found him?’
‘Dog walker doing the nightly stroll.’
‘How did you identify him?’
‘He had a CitizenCard on him. Various charities give them out to homeless people these days. They’re useful in shops and night shelters.’
‘Any phone?’
‘Not on him. Just the ID and a wallet with a fiver in.’
‘I’d say the wound was made with a blunt object.’
‘Could have been a rock from around here. We’ve not found anything yet. It’s difficult in the dark.’
The wind was whipping in from the sea. The tide was out, but Siv could hear the angry waves crashing landwards. She pulled her coat tightly around her. She’d driven straight from the party and was still wearing her wood sprite costume beneath it. She’d never been less suitably dressed for a crime scene. Ali had wanted to come with her, but she’d said there was no point and he might as well stay at the party. Truth was, she couldn’t bear company after Mutsi’s ambush.
‘Posh coat he had on — or it was once. A Burberry,’ DS Shaw said.
Siv recalled Ali’s report of the interview with Esme Stafford. ‘His foster mother gave it to him to get rid of him.’
‘Poor bloke. I suppose at least he was warm and fed. I’d say he was eating the takeaway when he was hit.’
The photo showed a box with a half-eaten burger and chips not far from his feet. Even in the gusting sea air, Siv could smell the vinegar on the abandoned chips. He’d have been distracted, head bent, an easy target. He was a pathetic sight in the photo, his bony frame encased in the voluminous coat.
She wasn’t needed here and she didn’t intend to linger, but she’d wanted to see where Stafford had been attacked. He might well have stayed at Steiner’s and he was linked to Lyn Dimas. He might have killed her. Now someone had tried to crush his skull. If he was guilty of Lyn’s murder and died of his injuries, that would be a kind of rough justice.
She asked to be kept informed of his progress and the investigation, and walked back along the rough shingle. It was hard going in her flat pumps and she turned an ankle a couple of times. She picked her way more carefully. The last thing she needed at the moment was a sprain. She climbed the steep path that led to where she’d parked, still hearing the insistent thudding of the sea. Inside the car, she turned on the engine and the heater, directing the warmth at her feet.
The wind had chased the clouds away and a crescent moon lit the dark swell below. A white yacht moved silently across the horizon, like a ghost ship. Many ships had lost their way off this coastline over the centuries, or had been lured onto the rocks by smugglers, and there were stories of sightings of old sailing ships, lit by lanterns, silently riding the waves. Siv recalled a teacher at school who’d sworn that she’d heard the cries of drowned sailors on Minster Beach. She must tell Ali about that, he could add it to his fund of ghostly apparitions.
Siv was more concerned with living hauntings than dead ones. She put her hands over her eyes, reflecting on that scene on Quicksilver. Mutsi must have known about Mortimer’s job. She was playing games as usual, manipulating information for her own enjoyment. How she must have anticipated that moment of surprise at the party, and enjoyed her daughter’s horrified expression! If Mortimer took exception to the way he’d been treated, things at work were going to be sticky. Her only hope was that although he wasn’t a stupid man, he was a vain one, and Mutsi had exceptional, well-honed talents for playing up to a man’s conceit. She wondered how many people at the party had noticed what had happened. Castles certainly had and she was sure he’d love to spread the gossip.
Let them get on with it. They deserve each other, Ed murmured.
Easy for you to say. I was humiliated in front of Mortimer and that bastard Castles.
Maybe Mortimer was even more embarrassed than you. There’s nothing you can do about it, so park it for now.
That had been one of his favourite sayings. He’d been good at putting aside what couldn’t be resolved, his mantra being that if you left things alone, they often sorted themselves out. She listened, holding her breath, but he’d gone. Her feet were toasty now. She opened her window a little and listened to the restless, moaning sea. If Tim Stafford wasn’t their killer, he might have been assaulted because he had information about Lyn Dimas. She was annoyed that they hadn’t found him before his attacker.
Her phone rang and she saw that it was Ali. She didn’t answer. It was gone midnight and there was nothing more to be done for now.
She texted him and Patrick to say that Stafford was in hospital, and they needed to be in the office first thing tomorrow, the weekend suspended with so much work to do.
She just wanted to go home and lock the door. Shut out the living and the dead.
* * *
Siv was out of sorts the next morning. Her stomach was queasy and she couldn’t face breakfast. Bartel had emailed her first thing. He’d made her smile, even if it was mirthlessly.
Famous ambushes: the sack of Rome by the Visigoths, the Battle of Trenton, the Battle of France, Pearl Harbour, Crista on Quicksilver. I met her. Wow. Hope your boss can handle her type of dynamite. I can only sympathise. You weren’t exaggerating. Here when you need me and btw — isn’t Crista quite a bit older than your boss?
She emailed back, Thanks for sharing the pain. Crista the cougar.
She called Patrick and Ali into her office. They were both bleary and hung-over. Patrick had nicked himself shaving and was drinking a tall glass of water and popping aspirin. The sight of them reflected her own fatigue and irritated her.
She glared at them. ‘Tim Stafford is stable, in an induced coma while they do brain scans. Why didn’t we find him?’
‘We trawled loads of places, including Hastings and St Leonard’s,’ Ali replied. ‘He moved around a lot, all over the south coast. None of the homeless organisations had seen him recently. Several said that he often went off the radar, especially if anyone tried to find out anything about him. He must have been lying low somewhere.’
‘Not low enough for his attacker, apparently. Stafford might not be our killer but the more I weigh this up, the more I’m convinced that this assault is somehow linked to Lyn.’
‘We’ve no evidence of that,’ Patrick said. ‘Street people are vulnerable and subject to violence.’
‘Yes, I am aware of that, Patrick. We’ve no evidence, full stop. Just call it a hunch. Tell me all the places where you did manage to confirm any sightings of Stafford.’
NEVER CAME HOME an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won't see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 2) Page 29