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

  ‘Just two pairs of jeans, a couple of sweatshirts and a denim jacket. All well-worn and clean. All pockets empty except for this,’ Ali reported.

  He held out a business card, dark brown with white lettering.

  Pie Mad

  Come and taste our delicious, handmade pies and pasties.

  Or let us bring them to you. We deliver throughout North London.

  ‘Bag it, and we’ll contact them,’ Siv said.

  ‘I could do with a pie right now — my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut,’ Ali replied. He squatted down with a grunt and peered under the bed, pulling out a long object. ‘Here’s Warren’s tent, all packed away for the winter.’

  Siv had found a sparse collection of underwear, T-shirts and socks. No personal documents. The bottom two drawers of the chest were empty. As Golding had said, the books on top were almost all about invertebrates: field guides, their biology, habitats, tracks and signs, intelligence, neurobiology, embryology and reproduction. She flicked through them all. The top one was a spiral notebook with various lists and notes. She scanned the first page.

  Walthamstow Wetlands:

  Speckled wood butterflies

  Thick-kneed beetles

  Fen raft spider

  Clubtail dragonfly

  Downy emerald dragonfly

  Water spider

  Froghopper

  Ali had sat on the bed and was yawning. She joined him with the notebook. Someone trod heavily on the floor upstairs. She leaned back against the wall and gazed at the uneven ceiling.

  ‘The handwriting in this isn’t the same as on the brochure found in Warren’s car. He was a troublesome, drug-taking, promiscuous teenager. He left Berminster aged eighteen and vanished. We’ve no information what he was doing for about four years after that, but he met Golding and has been living this come-and-go life here for six years, spending part of the week on the road, sleeping in his car or camping. No obvious means of income, but he could have been doing bits of work off the radar for cash. You might predict that such a dissolute teenager would become an equally degenerate adult, maybe a complete down-and-out. Warren turned into a quiet, polite man with an interest in nature and wildlife and lived an alternative but self-supporting lifestyle. If you’re still awake, what do you make of it?’ Siv finished.

  Ali stretched his hands above his head and cracked his knuckles. ‘He dropped out, simple as that, and got over his bad boy stage, calmed down. It happens. I knew tykes and tearaways back at school who’re bank managers and solicitors now.’

  ‘Were you ever a tyke or a tearaway?’

  ‘God, no! My daddy would have killed me. He always seemed to know everywhere I’d been and everything I was doing.’ He glanced sideways. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I had my moments. My sister took the main bad-girl role.’ Siv tapped the notebook against her leg. ‘I’m getting fed up with these mysterious people we’re accumulating. The woman who lunched with Kilgore in the pub, the man who visited Warren here and the girl snogging him on the beach, the woman in the cemetery and the person who wrote on the brochure. Wakey-wakey, Ali. We need to get off this bed and search it, then we’re done.’

  They tipped the bedding and mattress off the bed, looking all around the base. Siv removed the duvet cover and shook it out. Nothing. Ali ran his hands all over the mattress before he replaced it.

  ‘Chuck me a pillow,’ Siv said.

  They took one each, pulling off the pillowcases. Feathers floated from a tear in the cushion Siv was shaking and she sneezed loudly.

  ‘Bless you!’ Ali smiled. ‘Yes, result!’

  He pulled a crumpled Berminster Breaks brochure from his pillowcase and held it out. They looked at the handwriting across the top, heads bent. It was the same as on the one found in Warren’s car, but the message was different.

  Funny how fun suddenly isn’t funny.

  ‘Now, how did this get here?’ Siv said. ‘It was posted or delivered by hand, so someone knew where Warren stayed. Maybe the person who Golding saw visiting him here brought it.’

  ‘It’s threatening, unlike the first message. Upping the ante.’ Ali rubbed his eyes.

  Siv slipped it into an evidence bag and put the notebook in another. ‘Before we head to Farringdon, there’s just one more thing.’

  On the way out, she asked Golding, who was standing in the kitchen eating a Pot Noodle, if Warren had owned a mobile phone or a tablet.

  ‘Never saw him with a tablet. He had one of those pay-as-you-go mobiles, but he never offered me the number, and I never asked for it.’

  ‘I see. You need to leave his room as it is for now and not enter it.’

  ‘OK, I understand. I was wondering — what’s happened to Eugene’s dog?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind having him, if he’s not been rehomed.’

  ‘Call the RSPCA in Berminster,’ Siv told him. ‘They should be able to advise you.’

  ‘Ta. I might do that.’ He shovelled another forkful of noodles into his mouth. ‘Eugene was an inoffensive guy. Why would anyone kill him?’

  Because he wasn’t always so inoffensive.

  ‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Golding.’

  * * *

  On the way to Farringdon, they stopped to pick up a couple of burgers and coffee at a McDonald’s. Ali devoured his ravenously and Siv didn’t lag behind. The car was silent while they ate companionably.

  ‘That’s better,’ Ali said, tidying rubbish into a brown paper bag. ‘I was running on empty.’

  ‘Me too.’ Siv was gazing at the handful of people inside the restaurant, sitting alone at window tables. ‘These places always remind me of Edward Hopper paintings on such bleak, cold nights. Solitary people needing light and warmth.’ She’d been one of them now and again after Ed died. Late at night, sleepless and distraught, she’d walk to a café and sit with an unwanted coffee, just needing to be amid the wash of humanity. She handed Ali her paper bag to add to his. ‘I’ll carry on driving, and you can do the journey back.’

  Kilgore’s flat was small but lavishly furnished. The walls were covered with framed photos of him and friends engaging in sporting activities. A wide sofa in gold velvet stood against one wall of the living room. Above it hung a portrait of Saffie with a self-conscious expression. She wore a low- cut black evening dress and was seated on a floor, on a white rug, her legs curled to one side. Definitely a trophy photo. There were half a dozen tall candles under glass domes on the unit framing the TV.

  Ali took the bathroom and bedroom, Siv searched the living room and kitchen.

  ‘He’s got a lot more clothes than she has,’ Ali called. ‘Why does a man need more than twenty shirts?’

  Siv finished the kitchen, which was so clean it was hard to believe that anyone lived there. When she flicked the bin open, it was empty. The fridge contained bottles of wine, cartons of kale and cucumber juice and expensive ready meals, mainly Thai. She moved into the living room and examined the industrial-style wheeled bookcase. Lots of glossy magazines about car racing, skiing and snowboarding and a stack of Vogue and Elle.

  On the bottom shelf were three tall, grey cardboard boxes. Siv carried them to the coffee table and sat on the sofa to go through them. They contained Kilgore’s important documents, pertaining to his car, the flat, mortgage, insurance, his birth certificate, education, fencing diplomas, medical card. All the usual details of a life. Unlike the orderly kitchen, they were in a jumble. She smoothed them out as she replaced them. She heard Ali flushing the loo and then running the bathroom tap as she opened the third box. There were folders with essays from university and old school exercise books with the Fulbrook Upper crest on the front, including Kilgore’s record of achievement. She flicked through, noting that he’d scored high marks in biology and maths. On the front of a history book he’d written, History is bunk. Below this, another hand had corrected in red, History is more or less bunk. If you’re going to quote, get it right!

 
She contemplated the correction and the by-now-familiar handwriting from the brochures. The same hand. So, whoever had written the messages on the brochures had known Kilgore when he was at school. That was a step forward. She placed the book to one side on the table. Another couple of books in, she found Kilgore’s physics textbook and saw that he’d studied Newton’s laws of motion. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of her dad.

  Towards the back of the textbook, in a chapter about experiments with electric circuits, there was a folded piece of paper, torn from a notepad. She opened it and read the message in blue biro.

  Kilgore, tell your prick of a friend to leave my sister alone. He thinks he can ignore me and take the piss, but he’ll be sorry if he doesn’t stop fucking about with my family. GG

  She placed the note beside the history book and sat back for a moment. It was almost midnight. The grease from the burger still coated her throat and she regretted eating it. She longed for an apple or a tart pear to cleanse her mouth. Tiredness pricked at her eyes, her skin itched and her muscles ached. This day seemed endless.

  She called out to Ali. ‘I’ve found something.’

  He came through, grumbling. ‘What have you got? I’ve seen nothing except more clothes and smellies than I’d use in a lifetime.’

  ‘This could be a treasure trove,’ she told him. ‘See the comment in red on the front of the history book.’

  He sat beside her. ‘That’s the same writing as on the brochures.’

  ‘Yep. Are we looking for a teacher here? The red pen indicates that, and the correction.’

  ‘Could well be. And this wee threatening note, different handwriting from the brochures and on the history book, but signed “GG”.’ He turned to her. ‘Gray Grenville, Teagan’s brother.’

  ‘Must be. I’m not sure it’s significant, though. It must refer to Warren, and he did leave Grenville’s sister alone — well, she dumped him after her brother dobbed him in.’

  Ali rubbed his face. ‘We’ve clocked up some miles and made headway.’

  Siv placed the book and the note in evidence bags. ‘Let’s hope so. You’ve got water on your forehead.’

  ‘I splashed my face. Trying to keep awake.’

  ‘Sure you’re OK to drive?’

  ‘Aye, no problem.’

  Siv tuned the car radio to Classic FM and, lulled by the Pastoral Symphony, fell asleep for a while on the way back to Berminster. She was dreaming hazily of Ed, a peaceful, joyous reverie where they were in parkland, when she jolted awake, aware that the car had stopped. Her mouth was dry, her thoughts full of her dead husband. She looked around, dazed. Ali was out on the verge, bent double and holding onto his knees.

  She scrambled out of the car. ‘What is it? Are you ill?’

  ‘I needed to pee and then I came over funny. I’m so tired and my head’s killing me. Guv, I need to get to hospital. Blood sugar’s not right.’ He staggered and she caught him. He was as heavy as a ton of bricks.

  ‘Come on, lean on me. I’ll get you to hospital. You’ll be OK.’

  Would he, though? He looked awful close up, bleached and exhausted. She braced against him and managed to stumble to the car and get him into the passenger seat. The night was black and she couldn’t see any signs.

  ‘How far are we from Berminster?’

  ‘About twenty miles.’ His eyes were drooping.

  ‘Ali!’

  ‘Sorry, just so sleepy.’

  Siv stuck the blue light on, pulled out into the traffic and put her foot down. She rang Polly and explained what was happening, heard herself gabbling and slowed her speech, trying to stay coherent. Now and again, she glanced at Ali. His head lolled.

  ‘Come on, Ali. Stay with me. We’re almost there.’

  Her breaths were short, her hands clammy on the wheel. She’d been sleeping while Ali was becoming seriously ill. Why didn’t he wake her? He could have passed out and crashed. Take it steady, Ed murmured. Keep your cool, just drive.

  Half an hour later, Siv slewed the car in front of the entrance to Berminster A & E and ran in, leaving Ali slumped in the passenger seat. Polly was already there, grim-faced. She collared a nurse and Siv announced an emergency with a police officer. They hurried Ali through in a wheelchair, while Polly gave them details.

  Siv walked up and down by the windows in the crowded reception, cursing herself. Ed had been diabetic. He’d kept it well controlled, but he’d once had a hyperglycaemic attack. She should have recognised the symptoms, but she’d been so wrapped up in these murders, she’d failed to note the warning signs: peeing frequently, headache, fatigue. Instead, she’d ribbed Ali about his loo visits and his tiredness. He might die. God, what sort of partner was she? People could and did die in these circumstances. Fear made her pace faster. She tried to slow her breathing and pressed her hands to her scalp, massaging it. It wouldn’t do for her to have a panic attack while Ali was fighting for his life.

  When Polly appeared, scanning the room for her, Siv dreaded what she was going to say. She waved, her heart racing.

  Polly said with relief, ‘It’s all right. They’re rehydrating him and giving him insulin therapy. He’ll be OK.’

  ‘Are you sure? He looked so awful. It’s been a long day and Ali’s been working flat out on these murders. He won’t have eaten properly. It takes its toll.’

  ‘Yes,’ Polly said tightly. ‘He pushes himself when he should be more careful. He loves the job and, of course, he thinks very highly of you. Wants to keep up with the pace you set.’

  Siv’s stomach knotted with guilt. The job was everything to her, but she wasn’t sure that was such a good example to be setting.

  ‘I don’t know what to say, Polly. Murder enquiries are always pressured.’

  ‘Hmm. You might have noticed that he wasn’t well.’ She was a kindly woman usually, but her tone was now scathing.

  The accuracy of the accusation hit home. ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘Well. Here we are. They’ve reassured me, anyway.’

  ‘Would you like me to stay? Is there anything I can get you?’

  ‘You go on home,’ Polly said. ‘No point in both of us losing a night’s sleep.’

  ‘You’re right, though. I should have realised.’

  Polly sighed, relenting. ‘Yes, but he doesn’t take the best care of himself, whatever’s happening. I’ll bet he’s been eating rubbish.’

  ‘Biscuits and burgers,’ Siv confessed.

  ‘Well . . . no surprises there.’ Polly gave a small smile. ‘I’ll update you later on. I’d best get back to him now.’

  Siv reached home at gone four in the morning. As she got out of the car, she saw eyes gleaming from the hedge and watched a dark shape scurry away. Goodnight, Mr Fox — or rather good morning! She was exhausted but wide-awake.

  The wagon was cold and dark, and her feet were numb after hours of sitting and driving. She switched on lamps, put kindling and logs in the stove and threw in a match. She kicked off her boots and donned Ed’s sweatshirt and a pair of thick walking socks. Then she poured a glass of akvavit and took some poppy seed crackers from the cupboard. She sipped the akvavit, eyes closed, welcoming the spirit’s fire. When she’d finished the glass, she poured another and nibbled a cracker, then needing something more substantial, fetched a wedge of Gruyère cheese and sliced a gleaming red apple to go with it.

  The logs crackled, filling the stove with blazing flames. This was comfort. Not that she deserved it, with poor Ali flat on his back in a hospital bed. If he was conscious, he was probably cursing her for a slave driver.

  She checked her phone and saw that she’d had an email from Rik.

  I can only feel sorry for Mortimer. But sorrier for you. I’ve got a not very comfortable sofa bed if things get too bad. Hope you survive lunch. x

  Siv smiled, enjoying the tangy apple. Feet on top of the stove, she went over the week, reflecting on the two dead men and the gaps in what she’d learned about them. Their pasts linked them, so that must
be where the key to unlocking the case lay. Bertie Greene had hung out with them. And despite his insistence at the interview, he must know more. She grasped at an idea concerning him as she warmed through and her limbs grew heavy. He was definitely hiding something.

  Chapter 16

  The crematorium was open on Saturday mornings. Patrick arrived early, driving through a low mist, and walked into the reception in Bere Lodge. Phoebe Palmer was on the phone. Patrick lifted the white plastic collection box on the counter and shook it gently. Empty. The bottom section had a simple clasp that would open easily. It was shaped like a chalice with a purple label.

  Berminster Crematorium Bereavement Fund.

  For those in need at a distressing time.

  Please give generously.

  He slipped in a pound coin as Ms Palmer put the phone down. It rattled noisily.

  When he introduced himself, Phoebe Palmer said, ‘Mr Foxwell’s not in this morning, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That’s OK. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. I see that this collection box is empty. Is the money removed each evening?’

  ‘That’s right. Thank you for the contribution.’

  ‘My pleasure. Do you make much for the fund?’

  The woman seemed uncomfortable. ‘A fair bit . . . It depends, of course . . . Sometimes there might be twenty pounds in there at the end of a day.’

  ‘Not bad. I hear you were concerned about money going missing from the box last year and you reported it to Diane Lacey.’

  Phoebe shifted a folder on the counter. ‘Did Diane tell you?’

  ‘She did.’

  ‘You should speak to Mr Foxwell.’

  ‘Of course, but right now, I want to talk to you. You seem uneasy.’

  ‘I don’t want to exceed my authority . . .’