The top-floor staff room, where he met Teagan Grenville, was less glamorous. It looked tired, although an effort had been made to brighten it with candy-pink paintwork and pastel cushions. The air reeked of stale food. Teagan was waiting. She was tall and rather stately, with heavy make-up and a little fixed smile. Judging by the appearance of all the staff, the Ormonde dress code was grey and black, and Teagan wore pale grey trousers and a black polo neck, with chunky jet beads. She was about the same age as Patrick, but her elegant outfit and lofty expression made her seem older.
‘You must have come about Eugene. I saw it on the news. How awful. Was somebody trying to have a laugh, leaving him at the crematorium?’
‘Someone with a strange sense of humour.’
She examined him. ‘I know you, don’t I? Is your brother Noah Hill?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I went out with him a couple of times. Before his awful accident.’
Before he went running on the cliff path and had a massive stroke. ‘I’ll tell him you said hi.’ He gave an awkward smile.
‘He was such a nice guy. So sad, isn’t it?’
‘Mm. He still is a nice guy.’ Patrick was annoyed at Teagan’s use of the past tense. ‘Where were you on Monday night, until late?’
The question didn’t faze her. ‘I was at the pub, with my hubby. We got home about eleven and went to bed.’
‘You used to go out with Eugene, is that right?’
‘Yeah, when we were at school. We were an item for a while.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Seventeen. He was sort of intense. Interesting.’ She touched her lips with a lacquered fingertip. ‘Good kisser.’
‘Why did you split up?’
‘He was a love rat. My brother saw him snogging someone else and told me. I don’t like two-timers.’
‘Who was this other person Eugene was with?’
‘No idea. My brother saw them down on the beach one evening. He didn’t say who it was, and I didn’t want to know, frankly. I just told Eugene to get lost. He didn’t even try to win me back. My mum said that told me everything I needed to know about him. I’m married now.’ She held up a finger with a wedding ring displaying an impressive chunk of diamond.
Patrick smiled. ‘Lovely ring. Have you heard from Eugene or anything about him since?’
‘I heard he’d left town, but I haven’t seen him since we were at school.’ She ran a finger through one of her long, loose curls. ‘Is it hard, your job? It must be, dealing with criminals, sweeping up society’s rubbish. I bet you come in for a lot of stick. Interesting as well though.’
‘I enjoy it. Lots of challenges, never a dull moment.’
Her eyes glinted. ‘You’re quite nervous though. The way your eyes flick around and you keep tapping your pen on your thigh. Maybe you’re always expecting danger, staying alert.’
Patrick stifled a laugh. She must watch too many TV shows. ‘Hardly, in Berminster.’
‘We have the odd shoplifter in here. They’re just pathetic. We’ve got good security and CCTV, so they’re never going to get away with it, yet there are some people who try more than once. I saw this woman shoving lipsticks into her pockets as if no one was going to notice. She was so obvious. I mean, how dumb can you get? And she worked herself into a real strop when I challenged her. I thought she was going to hit me! My hubby was ever so upset when I told him. He said, “Tea, you’ve got to leave that kind of thing to your security guy. That’s what he’s paid for.” I know he’s right. It just annoyed me when I saw that woman helping herself. I mean, the cheek!’
‘Are you a friend of Henry Kilgore?’ Patrick asked, trying to get the conversation back on track.
‘Course, yeah. He was a mate of Eugene’s as well. His mum rang me yesterday, asking if I’d seen him. I told her not since late November, when he came in here to get his mum’s Christmas present. Fab Estée Lauder gift box I recommended myself. She said she’d loved it. Is he OK?’
‘He’s missing, so we’re searching for him.’
Her mouth turned down. ‘Oh gosh, I’d no idea. His mum must be frantic.’
‘How was Henry last time you saw him?’
‘He was fine. We had a coffee. He was making a quick guilt visit to his mum because he wasn’t coming back for Christmas.’
‘What’s Henry like? I believe he was a popular guy at school.’
She smoothed the neck of her jumper and picked a wisp of fluff from the arm. ‘That’s the trouble with wearing black, you’re always dusting yourself off. Henry? Yes, he’s good fun. A bit full of himself, I suppose. Never seems to take anything that seriously. He got a car when he was seventeen, so he was in demand with his wheels back in the day. His mum shops here sometimes. We do a special cosmetics range for the older woman. I saw her a couple of weeks back, buying concealer.’
‘When you and Eugene were together, I believe you mixed with Henry and his girlfriend, Etta Parton.’
‘Yeah, the four of us used to do stuff sometimes. Etta was a brainbox. Bit dull, to be honest. She’d cancel coming out at the last minute if she had an essay to finish.’ Teagan gave a mock yawn, patting her mouth. ‘Boring! It used to annoy Henry.’
‘Is Etta around now?’
‘She got a place at Oxford and I think she works there now, at the university. So, I suppose all her studying paid off.’ She didn’t sound impressed.
‘And Bertie Greene, is he a friend of yours?’
Teagan pulled a face. ‘Not likely. I saw it on the news when he was sent to jail and I don’t mix with offenders. He knocked around with Eugene and Henry at school. I didn’t have much time for him. He was a bit of a hanger-on. I must ring Henry’s mum, see how she is. I hope he’s okay, not had an accident or anything awful.’
Patrick didn’t think there was anything else he could get from Teagan, so he thanked her and went on his way.
As he was leaving the store, he saw Crista, the guv’s mum, perched on a stool, her long, shapely legs crossed and her eyes closed. She was a bit of a stunner, beautifully dressed, classy. She wore a cherry red coat and her honey-streaked hair was held back in a matching scarf. A woman was dabbing a cosmetic brush in a little tray and sweeping Crista’s face with it. She’d sidled up to him in Nutmeg after Lisa’s funeral and put a hand on his arm. He’d been mesmerised by her long nails, decorated with triangles of red, gold and silver lacquer. She’d started asking questions about the guv — did she have many friends, did she socialise much, did she mention her family? He’d been uncomfortable and muttered that they didn’t talk about things like that.
Must be odd, having such a fashion plate for a mum. He’d picked up that Crista and the guv had issues, but he steered clear of asking any questions. He had enough going on in his own life.
* * *
Siv studied the map of the crematorium that Toby Foxwell had given her the previous day. The extensive cemetery lay to the left of the main entrance gates. To the side of the east chapel was the columbarium, a resting place for funeral urns which sat in niches behind marble plaques. Each niche was deep enough for several urns. Beyond the west chapel lay the garden of remembrance, which ran along the perimeter. Ashes could be interred there beneath brass plaques or scattered on the lawn. A path from there led to Bluebell Copse, where ashes could again be strewn around memorial benches. A narrow road, Barker’s Way, snaked down one side of Bluebell Copse, where Emmeline’s Gate was situated. At one end, Barker’s Way joined a road that connected with a main route into town, and at the other, it branched into the coast road.
The sun was hazy now, the light thinning. She donned protective gear and found Steve in the garden of remembrance, which was bisected by a broad path. He walked her along it to Bluebell Copse, a circular grassy area of birch trees with benches beneath. It was underplanted with bulbs: narcissi, wood anemones, crocuses and the bluebells that would form a carpet of colour in the spring. A wide, sturdy timber shed flanked by two large green compost b
ins stood on a paved area at the far end. It was screened by a laurel hedge with a narrow access gate between two cypress trees just beyond.
‘This is where all the basic gardening equipment is kept,’ Steve said. ‘The door was closed and the padlock left hanging, so it wasn’t immediately obvious that it had been snapped.’
He opened the shed door. Siv glanced in at orderly rows of spades, shovels, hoes, rakes, bags of fertiliser, a leaf blower and a hedge trimmer. ‘Where is the wheelbarrow usually stored?’
‘Over in that corner, upended against the wall, but it had been left just there.’ Steve pointed to the floor inside the door. ‘We’ve examined in here and taken the wheelbarrow to the lab. It’s a one-wheeler. Now, I’ll show you the tyre grooves. To start with, there’s a faint impression by the gate over here, in the soil below one of the trees.’
They crossed to Emmeline’s Gate. It was about five feet high. Beyond it, Siv saw members of Steve’s team on the road, searching the area.
Steve bent and pointed to an area beneath a cypress. ‘You can just about see that the barrow was set down here. There are depressed patches in the soil where the feet would have rested. So, it was wheeled across the paving from the shed. After this, tyre tracks run down the side of the grass in both directions. They stop at the garden of remembrance. Whoever used it could have taken the path from there to the chapel steps.’
She followed Steve and focused on the two sets of tyre grooves meandering across the grass, more indented in places and interweaving at some points.
‘So, say the wheelbarrow was taken from the shed, trundled over to Emmeline’s Gate and something was put in it.’ She was thinking aloud. ‘It’s reasonable to wonder if our body and the wreaths were in it.’
‘Exactly, exactly, and that would explain why some of the tyre grooves travelling away from the gate are deeper.’ Steve seemed invigorated by the idea. ‘Now, the paint on the metal gate is worn and uneven, which is good from a forensic viewpoint. We found some black fibres snagged on the side facing the road, about halfway up. We’ll need to analyse and compare, but our dead man was wearing a black fleece jacket, so that suggests they’re from him.’
Siv felt a flutter of anticipation. Could this be a break? ‘The gate isn’t high, and Barker’s Way would be quiet late at night. You could park on the road without much chance of being seen, and if you were strong enough, you could hoist a body over the gate and then climb over yourself,’ she added.
‘It wouldn’t be difficult,’ Steve confirmed. ‘There are no tyre tracks on the road, but then it was dry on Monday night. Just our luck that the rain keeps arriving on and off now.’
‘You’ve not found any footprints?’
‘No. The grass is a bit flattened. I’d say that our barrow pusher wore shoe covers. I’ll keep you posted.’
She walked back to Bere Lodge. If the killer had transported Warren’s body in the barrow and had worn shoe covers, that indicated a significant degree of preparation and planning. This wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment crime. Someone had built up to the murder and probably derived pleasure from the process. They’d gone to the bother of getting wreaths, setting a scene. All these details added to the picture.
She met Toby Foxwell by the door of the lodge. He seemed rather down compared to the previous day.
‘I heard about Andy’s shed. I see you’ve now cordoned off a lot of the grounds,’ he grumbled.
‘I understand you’re unhappy about that, but it’s how we work.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. But . . . Oh, dear. Such a terrible thing. The staff can’t decide if they’re coming or going.’
‘I’d like to speak to Saul Robbins, if you could find him for me.’
While she waited in the room with the sunrise/sunset picture, she phoned Andy Smeaton, who was extremely cross that someone had tampered with his shed.
‘That shed’s been safe and secure for years and the wheelbarrow’s an expensive model. We only bought it last July. What’s society coming to when a place for the deceased is disrespected?’
‘Indeed,’ she soothed. ‘When were you last in the shed?’
‘Last week, Friday. It’s a quiet time of year in the grounds, but I wanted to tidy up a few leaves. Everything was tickety-boo and the wheelbarrow was where it ought to be.’
‘And when did you last use the barrow?’
‘Must have been November.’
‘Saul Robbins helps you with maintenance. Have you asked him to do any jobs recently?’
‘Like I said, it’s a quiet time of year with little growth, so I can cover most of it myself. He used the leaf blower last week. We’d had high winds and he cleared piles of dead leaves. Moaned about it too, I might add. I got him to remove wilted flowers before Christmas. Lots of people bring wreaths and such at that time of year, and you don’t want them finding decaying stuff on their loved one’s grave. Will I be able to get back into my shed soon?’
‘That depends on whether we need anything in there as evidence.’
‘Evidence of what?’ He sounded confused.
There was a tap on the door and a slight man with a mop of mousy curls appeared. ‘We’ll have to leave it there, Mr Smeaton. Thank you.’ Siv put her phone down and turned to the new arrival. ‘Saul Robbins?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Take a seat.’ She got up and opened the window a notch.
‘Was that old Andy on the phone? He’s in a state about his shed and his top-of-the-range wheelbarrow. The way he goes on about it, you’d think it was gold-plated. It’s not as if it’s his personal property.’
‘He’s worked here a long time, it’s his territory. People take these things personally.’
‘Suppose.’ He had a tiny chip on one of his front teeth and a cold. A scarlet rash bloomed around his nose. He sniffed and swallowed.
‘How long have you worked here?’
‘Three years.’
‘Happy?’
‘Enough.’
‘You don’t sound too enthusiastic.’
‘The pay’s pretty crap, and most of the time, it’s dogsbody work. It’s a means to an end for me, pays the bills. I’m doing an MBA online, and as soon as I get it, I’ll be moving on.’
‘Any problems or disagreements here?’
‘I haven’t heard of any. What’s this, a careers interview?’
She wasn’t keen on his familiar attitude. ‘I’m investigating a murder, Mr Robbins.’
He wrinkled his pinkish nose at her. ‘Course. Just that I’m up to speed on my career, you see. Once I have my master’s, I plan to work in the financial sector, maybe move to London.’
‘Yes, yes, but for now, you do various tasks here, including assisting Diane Lacey.’
He snuffled loudly. ‘Correct. Diane’s been great and encouraged me. She helped me with my study application, checked it all over. I don’t have a first degree, so I doubt I’d have got accepted without her help. She’s from a dead ordinary background like me, never much dosh, but she was determined and she’s got two degrees. She’s really too highly qualified for the job she does here, but she loves it. Diane’s so clued-up about this place — anything you need, she’s your woman.’
It sounded like Saul had a little bit of a crush on Diane Lacey. He seemed one of those boastful, brittle people who can be needy beneath the surface bravado. Perhaps Diane saw that vulnerability, although Siv was finding it very hard to glimpse. ‘Yes, I’ve met Diane. I’m pleased to hear that you have ambitions. Have you ever met Henry Kilgore or Eugene Warren?’
‘Never heard of them until Diane rang me to say a body had been found on the steps, and then it was on the news about the murder and the Kilgore guy being missing.’
‘Does the name Bertie Greene mean anything to you?’
He wasn’t so keen on that question. He adjusted his collar, looking uneasy. ‘He was married to my cousin. One of those something-removed ones. They’re divorced now.’
‘Mr Greene was friendly wit
h both of the men I’m investigating.’
‘Oh, OK. Doesn’t mean anything to me. I haven’t seen Bertie for a while. He’s a bit of a blot on the family character, and you know how it is when couples divorce — the demarcation lines are drawn. I expect you’re up to speed about him being in prison. What an idiot. Gamekeeper turned poacher. I don’t get why anyone would want to be a prison officer, mixing all day with losers, having to watch your back. Too much like a paid jail sentence.’
Siv privately agreed with the last comment. ‘When did you last use the shed at the back of Bluebell Copse?’
Robbins blew his nose. To her disgust, he inspected the mucus collected in the tissue before crumpling it in his palm. ‘Last Wednesday. I fetched the leaf blower. Andy asked me to clear leaves and bits of debris. Very challenging intellectual work.’
‘And the wheelbarrow, when did you last use that?’
‘Just before Christmas. I cleared old flowers and stuff from graves in the cemetery, so I used some garden waste bags and the barrow. Riveting stuff.’
Siv sighed inwardly. He was wearing company. ‘I’m sure you’ll be happier when you move to high finance,’ she said coolly. ‘These details are riveting to me. Did you use the barrow in Bluebell Copse or the garden of remembrance at all?’
‘No, I just took the path from the top of the copse to the cemetery and back, and I put the degradable stuff in the compost bin. Actually—’ he held up a finger — ‘I’ve just remembered something. When I was clearing the cemetery, a woman stopped and admired the wheelbarrow. She startled me, because I was kneeling, with my back turned, and suddenly she was right there, behind me. It was a misty afternoon and it is a graveyard. She said the barrow was just the sturdy kind she needed. She asked if she could push it a few paces to see how heavy it was. I thought it was weird, but I let her.’
MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3) Page 10