MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3)

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  She’d just put the dish in the oven when the young detective, DC Hill, rang the bell. He must have seen the anxious expression on her face — he told her immediately that he didn’t have any news. She took him into the kitchen and offered him coffee.

  ‘I won’t this time, thanks,’ he said, taking out his phone. ‘Is this Henry’s handwriting?’

  She put on her glasses. ‘No, nothing like. Where has this come from?’

  ‘A Berminster Breaks brochure was found in an abandoned car. Is the writing familiar at all?’

  ‘I don’t recognise it. Of course, you don’t see many handwritten things nowadays.’

  ‘Does the phrase ring a bell at all? Perhaps it refers to something in particular?’

  She mouthed it to herself. ‘Sorry, no. Lots of people have had fun at Mallow Cottage.’ She cringed slightly at the cheesiness of her comment.

  DC Hill shifted in his chair and rubbed his chin. He was a smart, well-mannered man. Fresh cheeked and bright-eyed. A bit on the lean side. Probably about the same age as Henry.

  ‘Do you see much of your mum?’ she asked him. She hoped he was going home to his mother tonight, to a hearty meal.

  He took a breath. ‘My mum died a while ago.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. That was clumsy of me.’

  ‘It’s OK. She was great and I miss her. Ms Kilgore, there’s something else I need to tell you. We spoke to Henry’s boss earlier today and established that your son’s employment was coming to an end. He’d just been told that he’d be made redundant at the end of January. Had he said anything to you about that?’

  The oven whirred, the red light clicking on. Imelda had a sharp twist of fear. Henry’s job meant everything to him. ‘I don’t understand. He’s been with that company for six years, achieved promotion. They were very successful. Why would they be letting him go? He didn’t mention it.’

  ‘I don’t have the details. I understand that business had dropped off. It’s just that it might have affected Henry’s state of mind, especially as he doesn’t appear to have told anyone. He’d mentioned to Viv and Damian that he was worried about his job security, but nothing more.’

  She got up and poured herself a glass of water. The rice was ready to go on soon. Basmati, because Henry preferred it. She checked the lid was tight on the saucepan, then sat down.

  ‘Are you saying that Henry might have been depressed?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  She saw his kindly expression, gathered what it meant. ‘You believe that he might have harmed himself?’

  ‘We have to consider that possibility, yes. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No. I don’t believe that. It’s a ridiculous idea. You’re completely on the wrong track there.’

  ‘I expect you’re right.’

  ‘I am. Henry wouldn’t do that.’ Would he?

  ‘Has anything else come back to you about Eugene Warren?’

  Eugene had been flitting in and out of her mind, especially after the news coverage. He’d always had a mocking expression, as if everything was a private joke. His hair had been lank and greasy, in need of a good wash, and he’d smelled of sweat only half-masked by cheap body spray. She’d always opened windows when he’d been in the house. She’d once caught him helping himself to a bottle of gin from her larder, trying to hide it in his jacket. He’d laughed and put it back, cool as a cucumber, with no apology. But the police wouldn’t be interested in those memories.

  ‘Nothing important,’ she said. ‘He was one of those youths who don’t say a lot, darting in and out of the house like a shadow.’

  DC Hill seemed satisfied. ‘Will you be OK now, Ms Kilgore?’ he asked. ‘You’ve had a shock. Do you want me to call anyone?’

  ‘No, no! The others are coming for supper. They’ll be here soon. Thank you.’

  She longed for him to go. She showed him out, closing the door on his heels, and then stood for a long time, staring at the photo of Henry in his fencing gear. He held his visor in the crook of his left arm, his foil over his right shoulder. She recalled all the evenings she’d driven him to classes and the chats they’d had. He’d always confided in her. They’d been so close. So why hadn’t he told her about his job? She could have reassured him that with his talents and experience, he’d get another very quickly.

  Viv rang the bell, and Imelda realised she hadn’t even put the rice on.

  Chapter 10

  Siv slept fitfully and gave up around 6 a.m. She slipped on pyjama bottoms and Ed’s old sweatshirt and made coffee. When she raised the blind on the narrow kitchen window, the night was still lingering outside, shroud black and silent. She recalled a book of Finnish proverbs that Mutsi used to have, a yellow hardback with the Maiden of Finland on the cover. A woman with streaming blonde hair, dressed in a peasant skirt and blouson, she’d stood on a sun-dappled mountaintop, brandishing the Finnish flag. There’d been a saying in the chapter on the seasons that had always struck Siv as ominous: The winter does not leave without a backward glance. She must have liked the ripple of fear it gave her, because she returned often to that page. Her sister, Rik, provocative and fearless, would use the proverbs to taunt their mother. When Mutsi presented them with scratch suppers, Rik would say with a sigh: A tiny morsel is a feast to a starving man. She’d greet news of Mutsi’s latest love interest with: There are many means, said Granny, when she was wiping the table with the cat. Whenever they had to move home yet again, Rik would shake her head, proclaiming the unfathomable and portentous sounding words: The cheese betrays the milk.

  Siv wondered if she’d have survived childhood without Rik, who stole to buy extra food, mysteriously acquired school equipment that Mutsi had neglected to buy and looked out for her sister in her combative, sharp-tongued way. She’d got them into trouble too, when they were left on their own. She’d turned into a teenage delinquent — necessity evolving into fun when Rik became fond of shoplifting — but she’d also been skilled at talking her way out of the consequences of her actions. Siv had once tried to thank Rik in an email but had received a dismissive reply: Don’t get misty-eyed on me. I’ve always been a sinner, not a saint.

  It had been a while since she’d heard from Rik. Siv took her iPad and emailed her sister.

  Hope you’re OK. Breaking news. Mutsi’s moving in with Will Mortimer, my boss. That will make work interesting. I’ve been invited to lunch at their love nest. Maybe I’ll have to join you in Auckland. x

  She pulled down her kitchen table and switched a lamp on. The wood- burning stove was warm from the night before and she threw a couple of logs in to keep it ticking over. Her landlords, Paul and Corran, kept her supplied with wood, as well as bringing her the occasional meal. They were generous and kind, but not intrusive, the perfect combination.

  Her little home was cheery, despite the dank, dark world outside. She took out the paper she was currently working with, checked the diagram and made creases. She was a skilled origamist and had been accepting commissions for a while. Her latest was from Berminster Museum. They were creating an exhibition about the sailing and fishing history of the town and had asked her to make a set of boats and ships. Berminster had once been an important trading seaport — the natural harbour having lain five miles inland since medieval times — before nature, with a helping hand from humanity, had changed the course of the River Bere. She’d completed a square-rigged ship with tall masts and billowing sails and was now working on a trio of fishing boats. Her next project would be a nineteenth-century steam yacht and, after that, with a nod to Roman Britain, a coracle and a seafaring cargo boat, based on one found at Blackfriars in London. She worked steadily, pausing only to pour another coffee. Only once was she brought out of her reverie when she started at a sharp, passing shower rattling on the roof.

  At half past seven, she put her work away reluctantly, showered, had breakfast and cleared up, which took just minutes. Her doll’s house on wheels was pristine. She might stay here forever if her landlords agreed.


  * * *

  Siv stood near the chapel steps, to one side of the service organised by Toby Foxwell. A light drizzle was falling from low, murky clouds. It was useful to observe the cemetery staff as a whole, ranged as they were in a semi-circle. Phoebe Palmer stood with another woman, their heads bowed. They were both dressed in black and stood out from their colleagues, who wore their usual work clothes. Andy Smeaton had put on a wide black tie. He’d nicked himself shaving just below his chin. He held an umbrella over Diane Lacey and stared straight ahead, blank-faced. Toby Foxwell wore a dark grey coat and a sombre expression as he stood before them. The rain darkened his hair to a muddy copper.

  ‘I wasn’t sure what to read, but I felt this poem by Ernest Dowson would suit.’

  They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,

  Love and desire and hate:

  I think they have no portion in us after

  We pass the gate.

  They are not long, the days of wine and roses:

  Out of a misty dream

  Our path emerges for a while, then closes

  Within a dream.

  Siv studied the staff as she listened. Saul Robbins was standing to the left of Phoebe Palmer, tapping his foot. He slid his phone from his pocket and checked the screen. Phoebe noticed and gave him a look of disgust, not that it registered with him. Diane Lacey stepped up beside Foxwell, raised a pair of reading glasses to her nose and spoke quietly, eyes down on the sheet of paper she held. She read ‘Roads Go Ever On’ by Tolkien. There were a few shuffles and coughs and the faint, steady hiss of the rain. Siv couldn’t imagine that this miserable little gathering in the damp morning was going to help anyone. Well, except maybe Foxwell. It would satisfy him and he could report to his manager that he’d cared for his team during a difficult time. Job well done.

  Foxwell thanked Diane and said, ‘Eugene Warren was a stranger to us, but we are saddened by his death. He was a young man with his life before him. He is in our thoughts as we go about our work, and we can find solace in the professional service we provide here. Just to remind everyone that I’m available if any of you need space and time to talk about this awful event. Thank you all for coming. You should get back into the dry now.’

  As the group turned to leave, Siv heard Phoebe comment to her friend, ‘A hymn or a simple prayer wouldn’t have gone amiss, but I suppose that would have been too traditional in these times. It might have offended someone.’

  Saul Robbins moved across to Diane and murmured to her. She touched his shoulder reassuringly. Andy Smeaton stared at him, twirling his umbrella. ‘Saul, don’t forget to check all the waste bins this morning,’ he barked.

  Robbins clicked his heels and smirked.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Foxwell said to Siv as he approached. ‘I’m glad that all the staff could attend and show respect. How is your investigation progressing?’

  ‘It’s coming along. Has any member of staff seemed particularly distressed?’

  He wiped his forehead with the back of his glove. ‘No, Inspector, I wouldn’t say so. We’ve all tried to support each other. I’ve been checking in with everyone daily and Diane has been a calm and reliable tower of strength, as always. I know that several staff members have been to talk to her, and she keeps an eye on Saul, who can be rather immature.’ He raised an eyebrow ever so slightly before the professional façade slid back into place. ‘Phoebe has been upset, but then she takes things to heart. I find her difficult to talk to. Maybe it’s a generational thing or perhaps just that she’s passive aggressive. Do you have that problem with some colleagues?’

  Siv pictured Mortimer. ‘Oh, yes.’

  She stood, gazing at the watery landscape and shivered as rain trickled down her neck. January was such a drab, tired month. She craved a rich, dark hot chocolate and a warm, sugary doughnut.

  * * *

  When Ali arrived at Driftwood, Saffie opened the door, dressed, with damp hair. Her eyes were raw and inflamed. She tensed when he introduced himself.

  ‘Have you any news?’

  ‘No, sorry. I’ve come to see Damian Kyalo.’

  ‘Oh. They’re not up yet.’

  ‘Can you give him a knock for me?’

  They waited in the kitchen, which was a mess. He could see that he’d interrupted Saffie tidying up. He tried to keep out of her way as she moved around, which wasn’t easy, given his girth.

  ‘How are you bearing up?’ he asked.

  ‘OK.’

  The guv had phoned him to say that she would talk to Saffie again this morning, so he didn’t want to press too hard. ‘Do you know if Henry had any of the Berminster Breaks brochures at your home in London?’

  ‘No. Why would he? There’s a pile of them here though, on the living room table.’ Saffie stopped what she was doing, twisting a tea towel between her hands. ‘Something bad must have happened to him, mustn’t it?’

  Ali, who never saw the point of holding out false hope, said, ‘At this stage, that seems likely.’

  Damian appeared in the doorway, wearing only boxer shorts. He was scratching his thick black weave of chest hair. Saffie frowned, turning away to the sink.

  ‘I’m DS Ali Carlin. I need to talk to you about Henry Kilgore and Eugene Warren.’

  ‘Bit early, mate,’ Damian said. ‘I need to grab a shower and some brekkie. Can you come back in an hour?’

  Ali already had a nagging headache and Damian wasn’t improving it. ‘No, I can’t,’ he snapped. ‘Get dressed now and we’ll take a walk. You can shower later.’

  Damian opened his mouth to protest, then reconsidered. He went away, muttering to himself. Ali wondered if he’d delay deliberately, but the man was back within minutes, huddled into a thick jacket. Ali led the way out of the chalet, down the steps to the beach. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still grey, with a pearly sheen. The sea lay beneath it, flat and sullen, matching Damian’s apparent mood. Ali had been going to suggest they stop at a café, but now he couldn’t be bothered being good cop.

  He lit a Gitane and offered one to Damian, who flinched away. ‘Are you sure you’ve never heard Henry mention Eugene Warren? They were good friends at school.’

  ‘Sure. Why do the police keep asking us about him?’

  ‘The death and Henry’s disappearance might well be linked. Did Henry ever say anything about any problems he’d had when he lived here?’

  ‘Nope. Sounded like he’d had a good time when he was growing up. Lots of socialising and the money to fund it.’

  ‘How long have you known him, then?’

  Damian flicked up the hood on his jacket, although the air was mild. ‘Ten years or so. We met at uni — Reading — in our first term, playing snooker. Henry’s great company. Always the life and soul of the party.’

  ‘You’re close friends?’

  ‘We are, yes. Best friends, I’d say. Viv and I shared a flat with him in London after we graduated. We see him at least once a fortnight. Sometimes I have a drink with him, just us two, other times we meet up as a foursome, or he drops into ours after work. He’s going to be our best man.’

  ‘Have you been here to stay with him before?’

  ‘No, this is our first time in Berminster. Henry suggested it as a way to celebrate our engagement, and we liked the idea of a few days on the coast.’

  It crossed Ali’s mind that Kilgore might have had another motive for inviting them, but what might that be? He watched Damian’s plump, feminine lips. Some people looked sulky when they were upset, and from the way this man was pouting, he must have been utterly miserable. Then again, his best friend had gone missing and might be dead. He softened his tone a little. ‘Talk me through what you all did, from when you arrived on Saturday until Monday night.’

  Damian’s demeanour indicated he found the question tiresome. ‘How many times do we have to tell you guys this stuff?’

  Ali said nothing.

  ‘OK, OK. Fine.’ He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched forward. �
��We drove down Saturday, arrived about two, just after Henry and Saffie. We unpacked and hung around for a bit, and then the four of us had a walk on the beach. We had a couple of drinks in the Three Swans, then decided to get fish and chips to have back at Driftwood. Viv and I walked back here, while Henry and Saffie got his car to fetch them. When we’d eaten, we watched a couple of films — The Favourite and Joker.

  ‘Sunday, we got up late, went to Imelda’s for lunch.’ He pulled a face. ‘We didn’t really want to do the whole roast dinner thing, but Imelda was keen, so . . . Then Viv and me drove along the coast and walked at Bere Marsh Nature Reserve. We stopped at the café there afterwards and decided to catch a film at the Talisman cinema in town. They’re doing a Hitchcock season and we went to the six o’clock showing of Vertigo. After that, we had a snack and a drink in the bar there. Must have got home about ten.’ He stamped his feet, kicked a few shells.

  ‘What did Henry and Saffie do the rest of Sunday?’

  ‘No idea. They were in watching telly when we got back.’

  ‘And Monday?’

  ‘Me, Viv and Henry went kayaking. He keeps a couple of kayaks in his mum’s garage and we hired a third one from a place at the harbour. Saffie doesn’t like sporty stuff. I’m not sure what she did. We got back late afternoon, just before dark, and she was in. We’ve told you where we went Monday evening.’

  ‘So, Henry didn’t go off anywhere on his own?’

  ‘Nope.’

  They’d walked a fair way. Ali would be able to report to Nurse Keene at the diabetic clinic that he’d been taking exercise. She might be less stern and disapproving.