Damian pulled a petulant face. ‘Henry will hate all this fuss. So do I. We’re supposed to be having fun.’
Oh, grow up. ‘It must be very hard for you,’ Siv said.
Viv, noting Siv’s sarcasm, took Damian’s arm. ‘Better do as the inspector asks. Let’s go in the living room.’
Siv shut the door after them and pondered. It was a bit early to start a missing persons search, but Henry Kilgore’s absence seemed odd. She called the station to order it and then examined the young man’s photo again. A compact frame, just the right side of chunky, with dark cropped hair and a confident smile. Henry, have you gone missing because you’ve done something naughty? Could you be connected to my mysterious body at the crematorium?
Patrick called as Siv was switching on the kettle.
‘I’ve left Ms Flore with her brother now, guv. She’s OK. He’s staying with her for a couple of days. Where do you want me?’
Patrick was holding himself together, but he sounded mournful. She was used to him being distracted by concern for his brother, but he’d been even more preoccupied since Lisa’s death and, at times, irritable — or, as Ali put it, ‘carnaptious’. She needed him back on form. But maybe she should be more sympathetic. She did have a duty of care. ‘You sure you don’t just want to go home?’
‘Certain sure.’
She was relieved, as a heavy workload had landed and she could do with all hands on deck. ‘I’ve been speaking to a woman whose son is missing in case he was our murder victim, but there’s no resemblance. I’ll talk to Ali and get him to contact you. Can you check if anyone else has been reported missing? And we need to publicise the murder.’
She found tea bags in a cupboard and made a pot. The fittings in the kitchen were cheap and basic. Thin, unlined curtains hung at the windows. Imelda Kilgore certainly didn’t splash out on interiors for her guests. She lined up two mugs and spoke to Ali while the tea was brewing.
‘How are you doing?’
‘Just finished here at the crem. Nothing unusual. They’re all shaken up, and some were a bit tearful. No one spoke of any problems or disagreements. I’d say some of them like their boss less than others, but show me any workplace that doesn’t have issues. I’m heading back to the station now.’
‘This Henry Kilgore who’s gone AWOL isn’t our dead body. That would have been too neat. But there’s a chance he might be our killer. I’ve started a misper alert, so can you liaise on that? As I’m here, I’m going to talk to Kilgore’s friends. Can you get a photo of the dead man sent to me? Patrick’s back at work, so update him on the murder and this misper and sort out a schedule between you.’
Siv took her coat off, hung it over the back of a chair and then opened the door to the hallway. She could hear a TV from the room opposite, so walked down the narrow passage, past a bathroom. The door was open to a dimly lit bedroom on her left that seemed to bear evidence of a tornado. Curtains still closed, a crumpled bed with a wet towel hanging from the headboard, clothes and shoes strewn on the floor, an open suitcase with a coat slung on it. The door along from it was closed. Siv knocked, then walked in. A striking woman with a cloud of fine black hair was lying, head back against a pillow, staring at her phone screen. This room, in contrast, was neat and tidy, the bed made.
‘Hello, I’m Detective Inspector Siv Drummond and I’m with the police. Are you Saffie Armand?’
The woman bolted up from the bed, pulling down her sweater as she rose. ‘Yes. Have you found Henry?’
‘Not yet. Come through to the kitchen with me. I’ve made tea.’
The young woman followed her and sat down meekly while Siv poured out two mugs. Her wide, heavy-lashed eyes were tear-stained, but rather than marring her appearance, they only enhanced her loveliness. She had a gentle voice, a perfect, symmetrical face and wore her dark jeans and blue cashmere sweater with an easy elegance. Her feet were bare and as beautiful as the rest of her, neat and even-toed. Siv recalled Imelda’s snarky comment that Henry was ‘smitten’. There was clearly no love lost on the lumpy, heavy-handed mother’s side.
‘I gather you haven’t heard from Henry?’
Saffie shook her head. ‘Nothing. I’ve called him half a dozen times. This waiting is awful. What if he’s had an accident?’
‘I understand how worried you must be. How long have you been together?’
‘A year or so. I moved in with Henry last summer.’
‘Has he ever gone missing like this before?’
Saffie held her mug tightly but didn’t drink. She had gold rings on the three middle fingers of each hand and perfect oval nails. ‘Of course not! What makes you ask that?’
‘People do, sometimes. Flight can be a bit of a habit if life gets stressful.’
‘Well, Henry never has. He’s not the stressed-out type. He’s really laid- back.’
‘Does he have a drink problem?’
That made her pause. ‘He drinks more than I’d like him to. But then, I don’t like alcohol much, so I probably overreact. There’s a lot of corporate hospitality with his job, so I suppose it’s easy for him to indulge. I can understand that it gets to be a habit.’
Listening to her, Siv reckoned that she made excuses regularly for her partner’s inebriation and love of Alabama Slammers — whatever they were. ‘Talk me through last night.’
Saffie cradled her tea. Her eyes welled up. ‘The four of us had a meal at the Barnacle. It’s not far from here, so we walked. We finished about ten. The others wanted to go onto a pub for a drink, but I’d had quite a bit of wine with the meal already and the restaurant was full and noisy. I had a headache and I didn’t fancy staying out. Henry, Viv and Damian met at uni and they’d been reminiscing.’
‘And you were left out?’
‘A bit. And a bit bored, to be honest. They were talking about people I’d never met, a play they’d been in where Damian forgot his lines, someone setting fire to the kitchen in a hall of residence, that sort of stuff. My head was pounding and I just wanted to get back here. That sounds horrible, doesn’t it? Like I’m a spoilsport.’
‘I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it,’ Siv said.
Saffie gave her a ghost of a smile. ‘I walked back here and they went onto a pub called the Three Swans. I got in around half ten, had a hot bath and fell asleep. I woke in the early hours and realised that Henry wasn’t home and my phone wasn’t switched on. He’d called at eleven twenty and left a message saying he’d stay at his mum’s.’
‘Can I listen to the call?’
She handed her phone to Siv, who checked the time the message had been left and listened to the deep, hearty voice.
‘Hi, Saf, expect you’re fast asleep. Listen, I’ve had a few and expect I’ll be having a few more. Don’t want to disturb your beauty sleep, so I’ll crash at Mum’s. See you in the morning. Kiss kiss.’
The man’s voice was slurred but he didn’t sound troubled. Siv listened to the message again. He was panting slightly, as if he was walking. She wondered why he’d bring his girlfriend on holiday and sleep at his mum’s. Plenty of drunken people crept home during the early hours and crawled in beside their sleeping partners.
‘Were you surprised that Henry was opting to sleep at his mother’s?’
Saffie shook her head, her hair rippling. ‘He was just being considerate. I’m a light sleeper and he knows I hate waking up to the smell of alcohol. Sometimes he sleeps on the sofa at home when he gets back late. When he hadn’t come back here this morning, I walked up to his mum’s.’
‘Do you know this Bertie Greene whom he was supposed to meet?’
‘No, and I don’t remember Henry mentioning him. But then, Henry’s got so many friends I sort of lose track. He’s a popular guy.’ She bit her lip and sniffed, slipping a tissue from her sleeve. ‘What’s happened to him? This just isn’t like him at all.’
Siv finished her tea. Damson-coloured clouds were rolling across the sky and the kitchen was shrouded in shadows. She rose and switched
the lights on. ‘Has Henry argued with you or anyone else recently?’
‘We haven’t argued. If he has rowed with someone, he hasn’t told me, and I’m sure he would.’ But Siv heard a trace of doubt in her voice.
Her phone buzzed. Ali had sent her a photo of the victim with his eyes now closed. She held it out to Saffie. ‘Any idea who this might be?’
Saffie recoiled. ‘I’ve never seen him before. Wait, is he . . . is he dead?’
‘Yes, sadly.’
‘You don’t think that Henry’s dead, do you?’
‘Don’t be alarmed, Ms Armand. The person in the photo is part of another inquiry, but I just had to make sure you didn’t know him. I see that you live in London, in Farringdon.’
‘Um, yes, that’s right, we have a flat.’
‘Does anyone have a key to your flat?’
‘The neighbour at number five does and we hold one for her. Why?’
‘We’ll need to ask our London colleagues to check your property, make sure Henry isn’t there.’
‘But he wouldn’t have gone back to London without telling me.’
‘I agree that it’s unlikely, but we have to be certain. Your neighbour’s phone number would be useful.’ The woman recited it. Siv noted it down, then said, ‘What about other friends in London? Are there people who Henry sees regularly?’
‘Viv and Damian are his main London friends, the ones we see together. The three of them moved there and shared a flat for a while after they left uni. He plays squash with people from work now and again, and I’ve met some of his colleagues, but just occasionally. He travels around a lot with his job, and it’s long hours.’
‘Does Henry have a tablet or laptop with him? If so, I’ll need to take them for now.’
‘He has a laptop.’ Saffie disappeared to the bedroom and returned with it.
‘Thanks. Let’s leave it there. We’ve started a search for Henry and we’ll keep you updated, but you’ll need to stay in town for the time being.’
Siv wasn’t sure that Saffie had heard her. She’d picked up her phone again and was concentrating on it as if she expected Henry to pop out of the screen. Siv shouldered her bag and slipped away to the living room.
* * *
Viv and Damian were lying entwined on the sofa, watching TV. The room was warm and snug, lit softly by a lamp. They sat up and turned the programme down when she said she had some questions, but Damian continued to loll against the cushions, his legs spread wide, with Viv pressed up against his side. Siv had them take her through the events of the previous night, which matched both Imelda’s and Saffie’s accounts.
‘How did Henry set up the visit to Bertie Greene?’
Damian answered. ‘Henry rang him. He’s like that, suddenly takes it into his head to go off and see someone.’ He snapped two fingers. ‘We’re used to it.’
‘When Henry left you at the Three Swans, what time was it and how was he getting to the meeting with Bertie Greene?’
‘Walking,’ Viv said. ‘He said Bertie’s place was only ten minutes away. He took off along Adam and Eve Street. It was about a quarter to eleven.’
She had huge, doll-like, china-blue eyes. Candid. She’d make a good liar with that honest gaze.
‘Have you met Bertie Greene?’
‘Neither of us has,’ Viv said. ‘Henry knew him from school.’
‘Was Henry very drunk by the time he left you?’
Damian rolled his head. ‘Fairly. Like, happy-go-lucky drunk.’
‘What did you two do when you left the pub?’
‘Came back here. We got in around half twelve,’ Viv said.
Siv calculated the distance. ‘The Three Swans is only a mile from here, surely?’
Damian puckered his lips at Viv. ‘We idled along the beach and stopped for a snog at the bandstand on the way back. We’ve just got engaged and as the song says, “It’s delightful, it’s delicious, it’s de-lovely.”’
Viv smiled and ruffled his hair. She glanced at her watch. ‘Do you really reckon something bad’s happened to Henry?’
‘I can’t say. Has he had any concerns, worries lately, that you’re aware of?’
Viv picked at a thread on her shirt cuff. ‘He said that work had been a bit slow recently and there might be redundancies. But he didn’t seem that worried.’
‘He was updating his CV on LinkedIn the other day,’ Damian offered. ‘Henry has the golden touch — always has, always will. He’ll slot into something else dead easily if need be.’
‘Any problems between him and Saffie? She didn’t mention that he had any work worries.’
‘Nah,’ Damian said. ‘They’re solid. She worships him, which is how Henry likes it.’ He grinned. ‘His mum’s always adored him, and now he’s got two women who think the sun shines from his arse. He’s in pole position!’
Damian spoke affably, but Siv suspected that Henry Kilgore might not be her type of person if she ever got to meet him. She showed them the dead man’s photo, but, like Saffie, they said they didn’t recognise him. They expressed no interest in who he was, leaning into each other, loved-up and self-absorbed. She wasn’t sure either of them would have noticed if their friend had problems.
Viv saw her watching them and sat forward. ‘We were talking about driving around to search for Henry, asking Saffie if she’d like to come. What do you think, Inspector?’
‘Of course, it might help Saffie. Just don’t get in the way of the police teams.’ Siv stood up to leave. ‘You all need to stay here in the chalet until you’re permitted to go home. Make sure you contact me immediately if any of you hear from Henry.’
‘Yeah, thinking about it, it is a bit odd that he’s not back by now,’ Damian said with a grimace. ‘I suppose we’d better cancel our dinner booking this evening. I’ll give Henry a bloody headache when he turns up, even if he’s already got one!’
Viv stroked his hair, consoling him that they’d celebrate another evening, when Henry was back and they could all be together.
Outside the chalet, walking back to her car, Siv paused to gaze at the darkening horizon. A misty full moon was rising in the sky. Her breath clouded in front of her and then vanished like a wraith. What was going on here? It might just be a coincidence that a young man was murdered and another vanished in the same twenty-four hours, but the timing seemed odd. She debated whether to visit Imelda Kilgore at home, but decided to send Patrick instead. She found the overbearing woman hard going, whereas he was good with mothers. They seemed to sense that he’d lost his own mum and responded to his startled appearance and waifish charm. With his skinny frame and spiky hair, he resembled a Quentin Blake illustration.
She turned up the heater in the car. Better check in with the boss. She rang Will Mortimer, hoping that he’d be unavailable. They’d had a tense relationship since she’d started the job, displacing his mate Tommy, and she spent a lot of her time trying to avoid him. Then, when her mother had started seeing Mortimer last autumn, things had become truly weird. He was friendlier now, but in a strained, nervy way. She’d preferred it when there’d been straightforward mutual dislike. He answered — unfortunately — and Siv updated him.
‘Sounds complicated,’ he said. ‘Make sure DC Hill’s back at work tomorrow, you’ll need him on board. I realise that he’s been cut up about Lisa, but he does like to indulge in a bit of drama, given half a chance.’
He had a point — still, Siv’s hackles rose. ‘He’s already working, sir. Came back without being asked.’
‘Pleased to hear it. We did Lisa proud. Good turnout.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, good. Well, speak tomorrow.’
She put down the phone. An image of Mortimer sitting at his desk with her mother nibbling his ear came to mind. She shuddered.
* * *
The two police constables had gone. The kids had been excited about their uniforms and stayed high as kites after they’d left. Now they’d slumped and were parked in front of cartoon
s with apple juice. Bertie could probably count on about ten more minutes of peace before one of them started on the other. Carrie yelled that she was cold, so he inched the central heating to eighteen. Hang the bills, and he could turn it off once the kids were in bed. When they were back with their mum, he had the heating on for just an hour in the evening and sat wrapped in a duvet.
He headed to the kitchen, flipped open a can of cider and took long gulps to soothe his agitation. The police had checked his contact with Henry the night before, asking what time he’d called. Then they’d asked politely — but with an edge, Bertie noticed — if they could have a look around. He’d wanted to refuse, but, of course, he’d agreed. He didn’t want to provoke them and he could see in their eyes that they were aware of his record. Typical of bloody Henry to bring trouble to his door. One of the constables had told him that detectives would want to talk to him. That would mean time off work and complications. He had to try and stay calm and work out what to tell them.
Fuck Henry. Bertie hadn’t even wanted to see him, but he’d been plastered and insistent last night when he’d rung. Wanting to chat, which meant picking at scabs that were best left alone. Chatting with Henry was the last thing Bertie needed. He’d explained that the kids were staying and he had work this morning, but what Henry wanted, Henry got, and Bertie had always been a doormat where he was concerned. He’d been relieved when the guy didn’t turn up and thought no more about it. Now it seemed Henry was missing. What was that all about? Maybe his smug, entitled manner had finally riled someone enough to make them snap.
Bertie stared at the tub of iced biscuits that the girls had made with the childminder. She’d kept him chatting for a good twenty minutes when he’d picked them up. She was a single mum and lonely and she fancied him. It wasn’t mutual. He didn’t go in for plump blondes. But he had to keep her sweet because she was reliable, and good childminders were hard to find, as his ex constantly reminded him.
The damp patch on the wall by the window caught his eye. It was shaped like Spain and he was sure that it had got bigger. He went across and touched it. It was clammy and the paint was crumbly, the salts rising from the plaster. The ground-floor flat was in a terraced house near the river, and Bertie reckoned that it drew water up through its foundations, especially when it rained. The walls seemed to sweat, and even the bedding was damp at times. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and he’d been lucky to find it to rent when he was trying to rebuild his life. It wasn’t far from the kids’ school, and there was a tiny patch of gloomy garden out the back.
MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3) Page 6