She was dry-eyed, her tone flat. Siv watched her pick at a thumbnail. Maybe she was through the worst of the pain and had already mourned for a brother who’d cut family ties a long time ago.
Ali was adding sweeteners to his tea. ‘Do you know Henry Kilgore?’
‘Vaguely. Eugene used to knock around with him back in the day.’ Her voice grew stronger. ‘Why?’
‘He’s missing. When did you last see him?’
‘Henry? I’m not sure.’ She drank tea, trying to recall. ‘It would have been in town, a couple of years ago. I saw him across the street, not to speak to though. He was with his mum, carrying shopping. What has this got to do with Eugene?’
‘Did your brother and Henry ever fall out, or did Eugene row with anyone else when he lived in town?’ Ali pushed forward, ignoring Tara’s comment.
Tara scratched at the back of her hand. ‘Eugene was a mystery to me before he left home. It wasn’t really home to him by then, just a place where he slept, did his laundry. When he was in, he shut himself away in his room. I rarely saw him. Why do you ask about Henry? Do you think he had something to do with Eugene’s death?’
‘We’re just making enquiries at this stage,’ Siv replied. ‘What can you tell us about Bertie Greene?’
‘He was another mate of Eugene’s. A bit drippy. He went to prison a while ago. Can’t remember what for. I just don’t get it. This is really odd, hearing these names again . . .’
‘Would you have a photo of your brother as a teenager?’ Siv asked. ‘It would be useful for publicity.’
Tara went to a cupboard, took out an album and detached a photo. She handed it wordlessly to Siv. A teenage Eugene Warren was lounging against a hedge, dressed in ripped black jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt, with an embroidered skullcap on his head. His pierced tongue lolled out, exhibiting a steel barbell. Siv recognised that disdainful adolescent expression, the one that kept the world at bay while turmoil raged inside.
Tara had drifted away. She was standing by the wall, her hands over her face. Time to wrap this up. Siv checked that Tara was willing to ID her brother’s body and asked whether she wanted them to call anyone for her.
‘As you’ve gathered,’ Tara said dully, ‘I don’t have anyone you can contact.’
‘A friend then?’
‘No. I’d rather be on my own. I’m used to it.’
At the door, Siv paused. ‘Did your family have any connection to the crematorium?’
‘No. My mum and dad were Catholic. They’re buried in the cemetery at St Peter’s.’
A fine, icy rain was falling when the police officers stepped outside, silver needles glancing in the streetlights.
‘That’s Baltic now,’ Ali said. ‘Talk about a long day!’ He took a bottle of water from his pocket and drank thirstily. Then he slid out a packet of Gitanes, lit one and sucked on it. ‘Your woman didn’t look that upset.’
‘Seemed as if she and her brother were so estranged his death barely registered. I wonder if Eugene got into drugs. That might account for a personality change.’
‘Aye, but that’s a long time ago now. How would that cause ructions ten years or more later?’ He took another deep drag on the cigarette, its end glowing red in the dark. ‘I can’t believe that those parents didn’t do more to find their son.’
That’s because you believe in happy families. ‘Any idea what an Alabama Slammer is?’
He flicked ash away. ‘A dance from the Deep South? Like a hoe down type of thing.’
‘It’s a drink of some kind. Thought you might have heard of it. Henry Kilgore was on them last night.’
Siv stifled a yawn. The rain was stinging her face. Liquid acupuncture. It was both pleasurable and uncomfortable. ‘Let’s call it a night.’ She lingered for a few moments while Ali went to his car. When she glanced up, she saw Tara Warren standing in her bay window, forehead pressed to the glass, hands clutching the frame. Her face was a picture of despondency.
* * *
Jimmy Curtis was weaving his way home from a darts match at the Stag’s Head, using the torch on his phone to light his way. He pulled his cap lower over his ears. It was brass-monkey weather and raining now, but a couple of whisky chasers were keeping him warm, as well as his team’s victory in the match. It seemed a long time since he’d eaten an early dinner. When he got in, he’d make himself cheese on toast with loads of Worcester sauce. That would do the trick.
He wobbled unsteadily but told himself no harm done. This stretch of road never got much traffic. He wheeled around on the tarmac, arms spread wide, and laughed up at the moon. Oh, he felt a bit dizzy. So he stood still for a moment before carrying on.
Somewhere in the night, a dog started barking. It must be someone out for a late-night walk with their pooch. The barking got louder and then changed to desperate whining. Jimmy stopped and played his torch around. There was an opening to a field just up ahead, and he could make out the shape of a car. It was definitely where the whining was coming from. He hiccupped and walked towards the verge. The car was parked with its bonnet almost against the field gate.
As he hurried towards it, he slipped over, banging his knee. Cursing, he got to his feet, wiping his muddy hands on his jeans, ignoring the pain in his leg from where he’d hit something sharp. His torch illuminated the dog’s face against the car’s rear window. When it saw Jimmy, it started to yelp and thrash around, throwing itself against the glass.
Jimmy called, ‘Is anyone there?’
Maybe the driver had slipped out for a pee. He tried again, ‘Hello there!’
No answer except for the panicking dog.
He put a hand on the car’s bonnet. It was stone cold. He tried the doors, walking around the car, slipping on the damp grass, but they were locked. The dog grew even more frenzied when it saw him checking the doors, switching to high-pitched howls. Jimmy shone his torch into the field and called out again. He went back to the road and stood, mulling this over. He’d heard of dogs being rescued from cars in hot weather, but never on a January night. He returned to the car and stared at the writhing dog. It would die of a heart attack if it carried on. Jimmy rang the emergency services, his visions of cheese on toast fading.
Chapter 7
Siv had had better starts to the day. She’d overslept and turned her ankle in her rush to get out of the house. It was raining heavily on the way into the station and she’d got drenched. Her phone buzzed with an incoming email from Mutsi as she hung up her coat in her office. She left it unopened, closed the blinds to the team room and rested her chilled hands on the old cast iron radiator. It was lukewarm. The police station had once formed part of the corn market and was a listed building. Now and again, there were rumours that it would get an upgrade, but the ancient heating system continued to grumble and groan, the single-glazed windows let in nipping draughts and some of the loos still had chain flushes. Still, Siv had a handsome view across to the museum and the theatre. The trees were bare now, but in summer they cast leafy shade, and when there was a breeze, she opened the window so that she could hear them rustle.
She took a deep breath. Might as well get it over with. She opened the email. Her heart sank.
Darling Sivvi,
I hope you’re well. I missed you at Nutmeg after poor Lisa’s funeral, but Will explained that you were dealing with an urgent situation. Always so busy, Siv, and no time to contact your mother!
Now, I have some lovely news. I’m giving up my flat and moving in with Will this week. We’re so happy and excited. I hope you’ll be pleased for me. We’d love you to come round for lunch to celebrate with us. I’ll make lihapullat, as Will’s never had them and you’ve probably not eaten them in ages. (I do wonder if you eat anything! You looked so thin at the funeral. It ages you. Slim is good, thin is unappealing.)
Is this Saturday OK for you? About 1 p.m.?
Love from Mutsi xx
Mortimer had capitulated sooner than Siv had expected — but then he’d met a seasoned campai
gner. She laughed — lunch made by Mutsi! She’d rarely seen her mother cook. Meals with her had been random items from delicatessens — expensive slivers of cured meats that teased the palate like amuse-bouches with tiny pots of salad that left you wanting a main course. When Mutsi had run short of cash, dinner came from cheap takeaways, the kind that sold food by the bucket. Siv wondered how her mother was going to execute spicy meatballs. She’d probably find an IKEA with the nearest Swedish equivalent and stock up.
Siv pushed her phone to one side — she’d deal with that later — and picked up the reports on both Warren and Kilgore from the previous day, made a few notes and checked Bertie Greene’s record. He’d been a valued prison officer until he’d been caught with mobile phones and SIM cards. One of the prisoners he’d supplied, an Ian Keyes, had used his phone to order an attack on someone who owed him money. Greene had pleaded guilty. His defence had stated that he’d become compromised after failing to report finding a mobile phone in a cell. He’d been threatened with exposure by Ian Keyes and started taking phones into the prison.
She rang Greene and said she needed to speak to him. It sounded as if he was by a busy road.
‘I’ve a full day at work, not sure when I can make it.’
‘I need to see you as soon as possible. Henry Kilgore is missing and you’re one of our last contacts with him.’
‘I told the constables who came round about Henry,’ he blustered. ‘He didn’t turn up. I haven’t got any other info for you.’
‘I’ll decide that. When can you come to the station?’
‘I’ve got to deliver my quota of parcels. How about tomorrow?’
‘Today, Mr Greene. Do you get a lunch break?’
‘Yeah, suppose,’ he grumbled. ‘Around midday. I can’t take long. I’ve got over a hundred parcels left in the van.’
‘I’ll see you at twelve to twelve thirty, then.’
Patrick tapped on her door, indicating that he’d brought in a tray of coffees from, the Italian café they patronised. She joined him and Ali in the team room. Ali had organised the incident board and brought in a bag of Danish pastries. Forbidden goodies for him. He pretended it wasn’t such a sin if he was sharing.
As she sat down, Siv glanced at the empty desk in the far corner of the room where Lisa used to sit. Someone had placed a single yellow rose in a glass in the centre of it.
‘Is Steve not joining us?’ Ali asked.
Siv shook her head. ‘His team’s still searching the site. The rain’s been hampering them, so he’s keen to crack on. He emailed me a brief update. I’ll fill you in as we go along.’ She crossed her legs and kicked off the discussion. She always experienced a buzz at this point in an investigation, when all roads were open and promising.
‘We have a dead man, Eugene Warren, aged twenty-seven, and a missing man, Henry Kilgore, aged twenty-eight. Turns out they grew up in town and used to be friends. Both went to Fulbrook Upper School. It’s possible the two incidents are connected.
‘Warren’s body was left on the steps of the crem yesterday morning, beneath a row of wreaths, possibly between seven and seven thirty. Strangulation, judging by the marks on his neck — we’ll see if the PM this morning gives us anything else. We don’t know how the body was brought there, but Steve reports there were no tyre tracks near the steps, which isn’t surprising as the tarmac was cold and dry. No footprints either. Warren’s sister said that he left town years ago after a mutinous adolescence and lost contact with his family. She believed he’d never been back and had no idea where he was living.
‘Henry Kilgore went missing late Monday night. No trace of him since. He was staying in one of his mother’s rental properties with his partner, Saffie Armand, and another couple, Viv Carpenter and Damian Kyalo, who’ve just got engaged. They’re here for a break and to celebrate the engagement. According to them, Kilgore had been boozing — sounds to me as if he has an alcohol problem.’ She sipped coffee. I worry that I have too. ‘Kilgore was on his way to meet Bertie Greene, an old friend who has a prison record, but Greene said he didn’t turn up. Kilgore called his partner and left a message at eleven twenty, saying he was out having a good time, and planning to stay the night at his mother’s house, but his mother confirms his bed wasn’t slept in.
‘Ms Kilgore said that she was at home on her own on Monday night. Saffie told me that she got back to Driftwood about ten thirty, bathed and fell asleep. Viv and Damian said they were together. The Met have visited Kilgore’s flat in Farringdon, but it’s empty. I’m seeing Bertie Greene later this morning. He was friendly with Eugene Warren too, back in the day. Patrick, did you get anything else from Imelda Kilgore?’
Patrick had a hoarse voice at the best of times, but that morning he sounded as if he’d swallowed sandpaper. ‘She’s an imposing woman. The house is full of photos of Henry, from baby to adult. A huge one of him in fencing gear with his sword drawn by the front door. Maybe it’s supposed to ward off intruders.’ He chuckled. ‘She’s a widow and runs a holiday rental business, Berminster Breaks. Does very well, according to her, and I’d say she does all right if her house is anything to go by. She handed over a list of her son’s closest mates in town. There are five, including Greene. We’ve searched all her other properties and no sign of Kilgore. She was proud of the fact that he’s always been a popular, gregarious guy and that he’s done well for himself. Though she doesn’t rate Saffie Armand. Her mouth turned down when she mentioned her.’ Patrick gave a good imitation of Ms Kilgore’s expression. ‘I checked in with the three at Driftwood. None of them had heard of Eugene Warren or recalled Kilgore mentioning him.’
Ali was swinging around on his chair and munching sneakily on a pastry. He kept it shielded with one hand. Guilty pleasure. ‘I talked to four of the crem staff. None of them came up with any problems there or any dissatisfied customers. Doesn’t seem like anyone had the kind of grudge against the place that would make them dump a corpse. I wondered if there might have been any mix-ups with bodies or ashes — you do hear about families getting angry because they’ve scattered someone else’s relative, and I remember reading that a crem somewhere burned the wrong person, poor sods. But there’s been nothing of that nature reported.’
‘From what I saw of Diane Lacey, I wouldn’t imagine she’d let any mistakes through,’ Siv said. ‘She’s serious and dedicated. Her colleagues hold her in high regard.’
Ali caught a sliver of icing on a fingertip. ‘By the way, I googled Alabama Slammer, Kilgore’s preferred drink. It’s a cocktail made with amaretto, Southern Comfort, sloe gin or vodka and orange juice.’
‘I could have told you that,’ Patrick said. He was shaking chocolate powder onto his coffee. ‘I went out with a woman who liked them at Police College. I was amazed she could afford them at six quid or more a pop. I tasted one once. It was revoltingly sweet. You’d like it, Sarge.’
‘I’m glad we’ve got that sorted, although I wouldn’t have listed it as a priority,’ Siv said.
‘OK, OK. I haven’t been squandering my time,’ Ali protested. ‘I also searched for Eugene Warren online, to see if we could track down what he’s been up to all these years. I got a couple of hits but no one who resembled the dead man. He’s not on social media. I’ll try the electoral register.’
‘We need to establish how he got to Berminster and when he arrived,’ Siv said. ‘Kilgore’s mates at the chalet indicated he had some worries about redundancies at work and noticed him updating his CV. Neither his partner nor his mother mentioned that. He’s an external relations manager at a company called Footprint, near King’s Cross.’
‘Maybe he’s gone AWOL because he lost his job or is about to lose it, and can’t face telling anyone. He might be sitting with a bottle, trying to find his bottle.’ Ali licked his fingers, looking pleased with himself at the joke.
Siv finished her coffee. ‘Right, let’s see. Ali, can you call Kilgore’s employer to clarify his status and attend Warren’s PM this morning? Patrick, f
ollow up on that list of Kilgore’s friends here. I’m going to request urgent and extensive searches of beach areas and any abandoned properties around town. Kilgore has to be somewhere, either dead or immobilised in some way. Then I’ll check if Eugene Warren had any links with the crematorium and I’ll see what Mr Greene has to say.’
* * *
Viv had persuaded Saffie to come for a walk along the beach. She’d said with her usual exuberance that it wasn’t good to stay in all day and they needn’t go far. Saffie had been sluggish and reluctant. She’d barely slept, jolting awake to look at her phone, wondering if she’d heard the front door open. Several times, she went out to the hall to check. When she got back into bed, she hugged Henry’s pillow, sniffing his lime shampoo. Damian was sulking, as if Henry was deliberately spoiling his holiday. He was watching TV, lying full length on the sofa. Then Imelda arrived and started bustling around the house, so Saffie had taken up Viv’s offer to go out.
Early heavy rain had cleared and it was another bright, sunny day, but with a stinging breeze. They had the shingle beach to themselves as they crunched along. Saffie was lonely and miserable. Without Henry around, she felt like a spare part more than ever. She had no connection with this place. The town was pretty, but it had a complacent, established atmosphere. She stuck out like a sore thumb. London was her comfort zone, a city where she could blend in effortlessly. She glanced at Viv, who was setting the pace, arms swinging. She wasn’t close to these people, and she couldn’t believe that Damian was acting as if he didn’t care that his friend was missing.
Viv seemed to read her mind. ‘Damo is terribly cut up about Henry. He just goes into himself and blanks people when he’s upset. It’s because his dad left when he was young, and he experiences abandonment all over again.’
Saffie nodded, but she couldn’t care less about Damian’s sensitivities. Actually, it sounded like pop psychology. He was just self-absorbed and Viv played along with it. She wandered down to the water’s edge, watching the imprints her boots made as the pebbles gave way to soft sand. She shivered and turned sideways to the wind. Viv wandered over to her, blowing on a long, spiral-shaped shell she’d picked up.
MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3) Page 8