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

  ‘Surely this must reach back, given that message on the holiday brochure. It has to be connected with Kilgore’s and Warren’s adolescent shenanigans.’

  ‘I agree.’

  When they arrived at Driftwood, Viv and Damian were lounging on the sofa, this time watching Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. Viv paused it on Margot Robbie’s face. Saffie had gone for a walk on the beach, she said. Siv told Ali to find her and break the news. When he’d gone, Siv informed the couple about their friend.

  Damian exhaled loudly, closed his eyes. Viv’s brimmed with unshed tears.

  ‘Oh, God! His mum must be gutted. Have you told her?’ Viv said.

  ‘Just now. Maybe you could go to her, see if she needs anything.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ Viv sniffed.

  ‘How was he killed?’ Damian asked.

  ‘Probably a knife wound, but the post-mortem will confirm that,’ Siv said. ‘Do either of you recall Henry mentioning Mallow Cottage?’

  ‘He’d told us his mum owned a few places in town,’ Viv murmured. ‘Henry called it her seaside empire. He didn’t say anything about that cottage in particular, though.’

  Damian shrugged. ‘First time I’ve heard of it.’ He gave Siv a shrewd look. ‘Hang on, when did Henry die?’

  Siv knew what was coming. ‘We haven’t established that yet. We have to wait for the pathologist’s report.’

  ‘Right. Didn’t the police search all of Imelda’s properties on Tuesday?’

  ‘We did, yes.’

  He pursed his full lips. ‘So, if Henry was dead by then, you managed not to find his body during that sweep?’

  ‘That’s correct.’ Siv didn’t like the satisfaction in his tiny smile.

  He glanced at Viv, arching his eyebrows. ‘Oops, bit of an own goal there, if that’s the case. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when Imelda comes gunning for you. And she will, if you cocked up. I wouldn’t cross her where Henry’s concerned.’

  ‘I’ve apologised to Ms Kilgore, but as I’ve said, we’ve yet to determine when Henry died.’

  Damian persisted, ‘Imelda won’t rest at an apology, I bet—’

  ‘I’m sure the inspector wants to get on now, Damo.’ Viv took his hand. ‘Let’s leave it.’

  Siv nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  She couldn’t see any point in keeping these people here much longer.

  The chalet was in a terrible mess with stuff strewn randomly. It smelled cheesy. She resisted the urge to throw open a window. Cleaning the place would provide Imelda with therapy.

  ‘We need DNA samples from you all, then you can go home when you like. Are you back at work on Monday?’

  They nodded. Viv started to cry, quietly. Damian put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

  Siv walked outside onto the porch. She watched Ali and Saffie walking up slowly from the beach. He was puffing away on a cigarette. The woman said something to him and he patted her shoulder. Her hair blew around her face. She took a band from her pocket and tied the long strands back. As they came closer to the porch, Siv saw that Saffie was dry-eyed.

  ‘I knew he was never coming back. I just knew,’ she said. She gestured at the sea. ‘I hate this place. I wish we’d never come here.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Siv said, walking towards her. ‘We’ll need to search Henry’s flat in London before you go back there. Once we’ve taken a DNA sample, you can head for your parents’ home. Can you give me your keys to the Farringdon flat?’

  Saffie dug in her pocket and handed them over. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes. DS Carlin will do the DNA swab, then that’s it.’

  ‘Good. I’m so tired of questions. I’ve one of my own, though. This woman that Henry was seen having lunch with. Was he having an affair with her?’

  Siv knew she should be delicate but this line of questioning could provide a vital lead. ‘What do you think?’

  Saffie moved into the sheltering wall, away from the snapping breeze. ‘If you’d asked me last week, I’d have said impossible, but after hearing about Henry losing his job . . . I can’t tell. It’s as if . . . as if I never really knew him.’

  She began to sob. Darting into the chalet, she slammed the door.

  Ali pulled a face. ‘She told me that Imelda turned on her last night and said that she’d been a drag on Henry, sapped his energy. I said that people come out with things they don’t mean when they’re worried.’

  ‘Or they say what they’re truly thinking, because the usual filter’s not working.’

  ‘You’re a sceptic.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. Either way, she’ll be better off out of here. Kyalo latched straight onto the possibility that our search missed Kilgore’s body.’

  Ali grimaced. ‘He would. Saffie was too distraught to consider that, thank goodness.’

  * * *

  Patrick had been busy checking out alibis. Now he was worn out and ravenous. He’d spent the night with Kitty and hadn’t got much sleep. Her energy and stamina amazed him. He supposed it must come from working outside, in all weathers. She was hardier and tougher than him. And he was out of practice. Years of being there for Noah had rather blighted his love life. Maybe he’d buy some vitamins, the ones that muscly male models advertised. He’d seen the guv’s message that they’d found Henry Kilgore, so he’d better stay alert. She could get impatient and sarcastic if he dragged his feet, and he was aware that he’d been distracted at times when the going had been tough with Noah.

  He was sitting at his desk, devouring a tray of lasagne from Gusto and reflecting on Kitty’s wondrous thighs, when a call was put through to him.

  ‘It’s a Gray Grenville. He tried DI Drummond, but she didn’t pick up so he rang here.’

  Patrick swallowed a mouthful of pasta and took the call. ‘Hello, this is DC Patrick Hill. I work with DI Drummond. She emailed you about Eugene Warren.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve just got back from a work trip. Has something happened?’

  Patrick explained that they were now investigating two deaths.

  ‘Good heavens. What can I say? How awful for their families.’ Grenville’s manner was light, easy.

  ‘Did you know them both?’

  ‘A little. I was a year ahead of them at school. DI Drummond was asking me about the girl I saw on the beach with Eugene.’

  ‘That’s right. Do you remember who she was?’

  ‘I think it was Leah Steele, because she had long, distinctive hair. Strawberry blonde, I believe it’s called. I can’t be sure though, especially after so many years, and I was some distance away at the time. Teagan dodged a bullet there with Eugene Warren.’

  ‘You didn’t rate him?’

  Grenville laughed. ‘He was dynamite, on a collision course with life. Not the kind of boy you want your sister to hang around with. I’m glad she broke up with him after I told her what I’d seen. She was furious with me to start with, when I spilled the beans on him, but then when she challenged him, he mocked her, told her to like it or lump it.’

  ‘Thanks for that. We also know that Eugene and Henry did drugs and hung out in the cemetery. Did you know about that or were you aware of them falling out with anyone?’

  ‘Sorry, long time ago and I didn’t mix with them socially. The cemetery? Not a comfortable place to have fun. I suppose they thought it was naughty.’

  ‘Do you live in Berminster, Mr Grenville?’

  ‘No, I’m in Brighton. I prefer the city.’

  Patrick thanked him, put the phone down and finished his cooling meal while running some searches on Leah Steele. He found a local phone number and rang it. A woman answered and confirmed that she was Ms Steele. Patrick could hear a car engine. He explained why he was calling. Her tone changed.

  ‘Eugene Warren! I saw that he’d been murdered. I’m not surprised, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He was a right little shit when we were at school.’

  ‘Did you ever go out wit
h him when you were teenagers?’

  She snorted. ‘Hang on, I’m going to pull in. Your call’s been put through to my mobile — on Bluetooth. Don’t worry, officer! I’m in Northumberland at the moment. One sec.’ There was a pause and the sound of an engine slowing and then she resumed. ‘No, I didn’t go out with him. I’d rather have had teeth pulled without anaesthetic. He didn’t wash much, apart from anything else. Who told you that?’

  ‘It came up. Have you got strawberry-blonde hair? Or did you have as a teenager?’ As he asked, he was searching Facebook and saw that her photo confirmed it.

  ‘I have. Assisted these days. Why?’

  ‘Someone said that they saw you on the beach with Eugene. They told me they recognised your hair.’

  ‘Sorry, but their memory’s playing tricks. I was on the beach loads, but never with Eugene. I wouldn’t have touched him if someone paid me.’

  Patrick chased the last drips of tomato sauce with his fork. ‘Can you recall any other girls who had hair like yours, who could have been mistaken for you?’

  ‘Not offhand. Eugene could have invented the term promiscuous. There must have been lots of girls who didn’t mind his sweaty smell. Some people find it an aphrodisiac, I believe. Either that, or he had hidden talents that made up for his lack of hygiene.’

  At that thought Patrick gave up on his meal and pushed for one last try. ‘Do you recall any girls he took to the cemetery in the evenings?’

  ‘Nope, but sounds like the kind of thing that would’ve been right up his street.’

  * * *

  ‘There’ll have to be an internal review, if Henry Kilgore was dead when we searched,’ DCI Mortimer growled. ‘That would look very bad, DI Drummond, the police failing to find a body. It’s pretty basic stuff, after all. We’ll be a laughing stock. The press will have a field day, and as for Kilgore’s mother . . .’

  Mortimer’s head was too small for his bony frame, but his new style of wearing his hair longer compensated for it a little. His faded roots had vanished and toffee highlights gleamed in his thinning locks. Mutsi must have bought him a different dye. His skin was clearer and less inflamed than when Siv had first met him. She hated to acknowledge it, but maybe Mutsi was having a positive effect on him.

  ‘It was dark, sir, and the overgrown gap between the summerhouse and the wall wouldn’t have been obvious at night,’ she offered.

  ‘That’s hardly a reason we can put forward legitimately. It sounds . . . lame. It is lame.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘A double murder now. Any suspects?’

  ‘No. Working on it, sir. We’re waiting for the post-mortem results on Kilgore.’

  ‘I see. Well . . . I believe you’re with us for lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Good, good. Your mother and I had a lovely weekend on the boat recently. Took her across to near Boulogne and back, had a delicious meal in a little bistro on the coast. Your mum’s learning the craft of seafaring quickly. I’m impressed!’

  Oh yes, she’s a fast learner when it suits.

  ‘Sounds great. Mum will have enjoyed the food. She hates cooking, but then I expect you’ve discovered that. Hopefully, you’re nifty in the kitchen, sir!’

  He gave an awkward laugh. ‘You’ll have to come out for a trip on Quicksilver sometime.’

  ‘That’s a lovely offer, sir. Better get on.’

  ‘Thank you, DI Drummond.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  She stopped on the stairs. In the hectic activity of the week, she’d forgotten about her email reply to Mutsi, grudgingly agreeing to lunch. Might as well brace herself and get it out of the way. Now she quailed at the prospect, her thoughts racing. She needed back-up.

  S.O.S. Mutsi has moved in with Mortimer, she texted Bartel. I’ve agreed to have lunch with them tomorrow. Will you please come with me?

  Ali was signalling to her as she headed for her office. He rubbed his temples with his thumbs.

  ‘Just took a call from an Orlando Golding. He contacted Waltham Forest Police this morning to say that he’d seen news of Warren’s death. Sounds as if Warren was his part-time lodger. Golding lives in Walthamstow.’

  It was gone five and dark outside. ‘We’d best get ourselves to London. We need to visit Kilgore’s flat anyway, so we can go to Farringdon after we’ve seen Golding. Are you OK?’ Ali was still massaging his temples.

  ‘Crappy headache, is all. Had it all day. Can’t shift it.’

  Siv nodded. ‘Take some aspirin. Then ring Golding back and say we’ll be with him in a couple of hours.’

  Optimistic, in Friday night traffic but needs must.

  Chapter 15

  They reached Golding’s flat at half eight. They’d had to stop at a service station for a loo break for Ali, and by the time they reached the city, the traffic was heavy and grinding. Siv drove fast, checking road reports. Ali fell asleep, his head propped against the window, arms folded. She didn’t mind; it saved having to make conversation and she could concentrate on the route. She’d read Bartel’s reply to her text while she’d waited in the services for Ali.

  OK for lunch. Should be fun. I’ll referee if the gloves come off.

  Golding’s flat was on the ground floor of a terraced house near Walthamstow Central station. It was chilly inside, but the living room was furnished comfortably. Golding was a large man, dressed in layers, with long dreadlocks tied back with elastic.

  ‘Sorry about the cold,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been in long and I forgot to set the central heating. It should warm up soon. Coffee?’

  They accepted, sitting on a small sofa. The kitchen was in an alcove off the living room and Golding talked to them as the kettle boiled.

  ‘I was getting a bit worried about Eugene as he’s not usually gone this long, and then I saw the newspaper when I was on the bus. Poor guy. It’s really weird what’s happened. What was he doing in Sussex?’

  ‘He grew up in Berminster,’ Siv told him.

  ‘Oh, I see. He never mentioned that.’ Golding spooned coffee into earthenware mugs and brought them over to the sofa with a tin of chocolate biscuits. ‘Here, you’ve had a long drive.’

  Ali’s eyes lit up, and he dived in. ‘When did you last see Eugene?’

  Golding pulled a chair forward and sat, legs akimbo. ‘Saturday before last. He’d stayed for a couple of days. He came and went with his dog, you understand.’

  ‘So, was he a lodger?’

  ‘Kind of. He paid me fifteen pounds for every night he slept here.’

  ‘Cheap accommodation,’ Ali observed.

  ‘Yeah, but the deal was that he cleaned the flat while he was here and did odd jobs. He was reliable, thorough. He stayed roughly half a week, did laundry, showered, cooked some meals. He was a nifty cook and he’d leave stuff in the freezer for me. Then he’d take off for three or four nights, maybe more. It varied. That’s why I wasn’t thrown when he hadn’t shown up, although I was starting to wonder where he was.’

  Siv asked, ‘Where did he go when he wasn’t here?’

  ‘Dunno. Slept in his car a fair bit, from what he said. In warmer weather, he pitched a tent in various places. He was a nomad, really. There might have been other people he stayed with, but he never mentioned them.’ Golding ate half a biscuit in one bite. ‘I knew him, but not well.’

  ‘Explain,’ Siv said.

  ‘I met him about six years ago. I work in a city farm and he came in. Seemed a bit lost and worse for wear. We got chatting. He needed somewhere to live part-time and I have a tiny spare room. He was polite in a distant sort of way. Our arrangement suited me because I like my space, and I didn’t want anyone else here twenty-four-seven. The extra money was handy, though. He always paid up promptly and his meals were tasty. He made these biscuits.’

  Ali saw that as an invitation to help himself to a fourth. Siv finished hers. It was good, the chocolate dark.

  ‘Did Eugene work?’

  ‘He never
mentioned a steady job or anything, but then again he didn’t have much conversation. When he was here, he stayed in his room mostly, reading. I’d forget he was around until he walked the dog. The ideal sharer, if you like.’

  Ali mumbled through his biscuit, ‘What did he do during the days?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He walked a lot. Sometimes he mentioned the local marshes and the wetlands. They’re a site of special scientific interest, internationally renowned. Invertebrates fascinated him. He had quite a few books about them in his room.’

  Siv finished her coffee. ‘He never referred to his past, or his life in Berminster?’

  ‘No. He was pleasant but never talkative. We were ships that passed in the night.’

  Ali dusted his fingers. ‘Did you have a sexual relationship with him?’

  Golding smiled. ‘No. I wondered if you might ask that. I’m straight. I never asked what Eugene’s inclinations were. We didn’t discuss the subject, and as far as I’m aware, he never had anyone staying here. Although . . . it might not be relevant, but someone visited him here a couple of weeks back. That was unusual. I was on my way home and this guy had just left. I saw him turn out of the path and walk up the road, towards the Tube. He might have come from the flat upstairs, but when I got in, Eugene was washing mugs and he seemed a bit . . . excitable. Restless. I asked him if he’d had a visitor and he said, yeah, someone he used to know. Then he vanished to his room. He left the next day.’

  ‘What did this visitor look like?’

  Golding hesitated. ‘It was getting dark and I only saw his back. Medium height, dark coat, dark hair. That’s about it.’

  Siv showed him a photo of Henry Kilgore on her phone. ‘Could it have been this man?’

  Golding took his time. ‘Maybe. Hard to say, because of the back view. Similar build, I suppose.’

  ‘We need to inspect Eugene’s room,’ Siv said. ‘Have you been in there or moved anything?’

  ‘No. I assumed he’d be back until I saw the paper.’

  The room was narrow, just space for a single bed, a chest of drawers piled high with books and a patterned curtain attached to a curved rail that acted as a wardrobe. The floorboards were painted cream with a cheap coir mat by the neatly made bed. The walls were bare. Ali opened the wardrobe while Siv went through the drawers.