Patrick was happy to nudge Phoebe forward. He said gravely, ‘I have the authority where there’s a question of theft. I’m not asking now, I’m instructing you to tell me and I’ll inform Mr Foxwell of that.’
Phoebe gazed at him gratefully. ‘I see. It was last October. I always check the box at lunchtime, DC Hill, just to keep a tally. Sometimes, people put quite a lot in, not just loose change, and it’s not right to leave too much in there. I remove the money each evening as well. A couple of weeks running, I noticed that the box was empty on some days, which is highly unusual. I’d seen a woman put a twenty pound note in one morning, but it wasn’t there at lunch. I told Diane and she informed Mr Foxwell.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He spoke to me and seemed cross. He asked how I could be sure that money was missing. Obviously, I couldn’t swear to it, but I knew. We’ve run that collection for more than fifteen years, and it’s a rare day when the box is empty. Mr Foxwell suggested that a member of the public might have taken money, but that didn’t seem possible. Maybe once, but not over weeks. He didn’t like that. I believe he spoke to all the staff then. I heard nothing more, but there was no more tampering with the box, so I suppose that suggests it was one of the team here who was being light-fingered. It was horrible. We’d never had anything like that here before, and we avoided discussing it.’
‘Is this reception area ever left unattended?’
‘Not for any length of time, but there would be occasions when I’ve popped to the loo or to get something.’
‘And any member of staff could legitimately be in here?’
‘Of course. We hold meetings in here and all the general admin happens in this building.’
Patrick leaned against the counter. ‘So, Ms Palmer, you’ve been here a long time. Did you suspect someone?’
She coloured and fiddled with her wedding ring. ‘Oh dear, no. I couldn’t imagine who would do such a thing. You don’t want to believe ill of the people you work with day in, day out. I wouldn’t point a finger.’
Patrick sensed that she’d have liked to but didn’t dare. ‘If you have an idea, you really should tell me.’
‘No . . . Honestly, I couldn’t say.’
He sensed her growing discomfort. There was no point in leaning on her. ‘I’ll leave you in peace now. I’m glad the theft stopped.’
‘Yes, thank goodness! And you will tell Mr Foxwell that I had to speak to you?’
‘Of course.’
Patrick wondered if he was wasting his time with this tale of petty pilfering. But as the guv said, with a murder enquiry, you left no stone unturned.
The guv rang as he left Bere Lodge. She sounded a bit flat as she explained that Ali was in hospital, but he was doing OK and she’d call in to see him during the morning.
‘All the signs were there. His tiredness, the loo breaks . . . I should have realised what it signified.’
Patrick felt mortified. ‘Oh, that’s tough. I feel bad now because I laughed at his nipping to the loo.’
‘Me too. I should have twigged what was happening.’
‘How’s Polly? She must have had a terrible fright.’
‘I’ve spoken to her just now. She’s relieved that he’s stable.’
‘I bet. I’ll go and see him later today.’
The guv went on to tell him about their visit to Kilgore’s London flat and the two schoolbooks they’d found, with different handwriting.
‘I’ll send you photos of both. The writing on the history book matches the brochures. Try to track down Kilgore’s old history teacher. The note is signed “GG”. It looks as if it’s from Gray Grenville, aimed at Eugene Warren and warning him to stay away from Teagan, but we should check that out. I need you to phone Grenville and confirm whether he wrote it. Get some details. Find out where he was on the night of the twentieth as well.’
‘Is Grenville a suspect now, guv?’
‘Seems unlikely, but belt and braces at this point.’
Patrick decided to give the hospital a ring before he got on with his tasks. He needed to salve his guilty conscience. Poor old Ali. He waged a constant battle with his health and this job did encourage sugary snacks. In future, Patrick promised himself he’d be more alert to signs of illness in his colleague. It wasn’t just the guv’s responsibility to keep tabs on this.
* * *
Mutsi insisted on giving Siv and Bartel a guided tour of Mortimer’s house, which rejoiced in the unimaginative name of Clifftop. It was detached, with large front and rear gardens, and blandly decorated in browns and greys.
‘It’s architect-designed, you see, and in a prestigious position,’ Mutsi said, sounding like an estate agent. ‘This is the master bedroom, with splendid views across the channel. We’re going to redecorate and get a new bed for in here, aren’t we, Will? This is the previous marital bed, so we’d like to ring the changes.’ She hooked her arm through his. She oozed allure in a black leather skirt and cerise-striped silk shirt, clasped at the waist with a wide buckled belt.
Mortimer smiled, both entranced and bewildered. As well he might be. The top of the chest of drawers beside him was covered in paint testers and fabric swatches. Siv avoided looking at the bed and gazed out at the sea view. She was ragged from too much akvavit and not enough sleep. She’d tossed and turned, waking to fret about Ali. Her only comfort was that she had a free pass to bail out of this lunch by three o’clock for Henry Kilgore’s post-mortem. It spoke volumes about her relationship with her mother that she’d rather listen to grim details about a corpse than eat with her. That would amuse Rik — she’d have to email her.
Bartel sounded hearty. ‘This is a fine view. Lovely to wake up to. I have just a little terraced home, but it’s my own. Mind, my home is bigger than madame’s here.’
Siv saw that Mutsi wasn’t sure what to make of him or their relationship. He towered over her and Mortimer, stroking his long, pointed beard. He wore a three-quarter length, red-and-black embroidered jacket over a black shirt with a green bow tie and jeans tucked into grey biker boots. It certainly was an eye-catching look, but it suited him.
‘Why do you call Siv madame?’ Mutsi asked.
‘I’m not sure. She strikes me that way,’ Bartel said. He turned to Mortimer. ‘As well as your interior improvements, you need to get the guttering at the left-hand corner of the house fixed. I noticed it’s cracked on the way in.’
‘Thanks, I hadn’t spotted that.’
‘I’m a roofer. My eyes always travel upwards when I approach a house.’
He sniffed. ‘Something smells good. I’m as hungry as a mountain wolf.’
Mortimer tittered. He was sporting crisp blue denim jeans and shirt. The youthful outfit aged him and emphasised his stringy neck. ‘I’m sure we can do something about that. Let’s go down and have some nibbles.’
The living room had black leather armchairs, cement-coloured Anaglypta wallpaper, grey velour curtains and photos of sailing boats. Mortimer offered them wine and little bowls of olives and pretzels. The snacks were like toys in Bartel’s huge hands.
‘How is Sergeant Carlin?’ Mortimer asked.
‘He’s doing OK, s—’ Siv almost said sir, stopped herself and swigged wine. Hair of the dog. ‘I called Polly this morning. He should be home tomorrow, but he’ll need to rest for a day or two.’
‘He should take more care of himself,’ Mortimer said.
‘Self-control, that’s what it’s all about,’ Mutsi remarked. She pushed the pretzels away. ‘He should read my blog, Siv, take note of the dietary advice I put on there. If he followed that, he wouldn’t have these problems.’
‘I’m not sure it’s as easy as that. It’s a complex illness.’
‘Oh no, that’s just an excuse,’ Mutsi said airily. ‘If you treat your body well, it will treat you well. I hope I don’t sound boastful if I say that I’m an example of that. I eat carefully, do my dance exercises and Pilates every day. People often tell me that I have the figure of
a woman in her twenties.’ She caressed her arms with polished fingertips.
Siv speared an olive with a little more force than needed. ‘I can’t imagine you ever sounding boastful.’
‘You write a blog, Crista?’ Bartel asked.
‘Yes, a highly successful one called 60Chic. I had eighty thousand followers at the last count. I give style, nutritional and makeover tips and general life advice for the mature woman.’
‘Fascinating,’ Bartel said.
‘Crista’s going to give this room a makeover,’ Mortimer said gallantly.
‘Definitely — as soon as the bedroom’s finished! That wallpaper’s so nineties. We need colour and warmth in here, fabrics and textures. I’m contemplating apricot and gold, which will light up with the evening sun. Sivvi, your landlord makes throws and rugs, doesn’t he?’
‘Hmm.’
‘I could come and chat to Corran, call in on you while I’m there. I still can’t understand why you want to live at the bottom of a soggy field, like a gypsy. It’s hardly the kind of address a professional woman should have. You’re of the same mind, aren’t you, Will?’
‘Erm . . . well . . .’ Mortimer busied himself with topping up glasses.
Siv stretched her legs out. ‘It’s a meadow. I like it. I can listen to the river.’
‘But so odd and remote!’ Mutsi exclaimed. ‘Anyway, I’d better see to the lunch. Don’t want it to be overcooked.’
Siv couldn’t help herself. ‘Surely the instructions were on the packet?’
Mutsi stood and smoothed her skirt. Siv saw Mortimer’s eyes swivel to her long legs in sheer black tights.
‘Always so witty, Sivvi,’ her mother said, gliding from the room.
Bartel and Mortimer started chatting about fishing. Siv tuned out. She flicked through a book on the coffee table, Sailing for Beginners. You had to hand it to Mutsi, she always did her homework diligently. She scanned a few lines about how wind moves a boat, but she was trying to recall the idea she’d had about Bertie Greene in the small, akvavit-fuelled hours. It eluded her now. Her phone pinged and she saw a text from Ali.
They’re saying I need to rest, but that’s baloney. Much better already. Sorry for giving you a fright.
Hugely relieved, she texted back.
You’ll do as the doctors tell you. Polly had a bigger fright than me. Behave and follow orders.
Mortimer was waxing onto Bartel about sea fishing and a wonderful turbot he’d caught. He was more human and relaxed away from work, his face softer. Siv could only feel sorry for him and anxious about the trickiness of the situation. If Mutsi stayed true to form, she’d grow bored as soon as she’d spent enough of Mortimer’s money on redecorating his house. If her mother then legged it, working with him would be awful. She might have to find another job. Her wine tasted sour, but it was her mood, not the expensive Chablis. Just as she’d found her feet and a measure of stability, Mutsi had to turn up and spoil everything.
Come on, Sivster, buck up! Ed murmured. Mortimer might be relieved to see the back of her in a year’s time. She smiled and drifted into picturing what today would have been like if Ed was still alive. He’d have accompanied Mutsi to the kitchen and absorbed her attention.
Bartel broke into her daydream, nudging her. ‘Lunch, come on!’
They made their way through a melon starter, lihapullat, the Finnish meatballs, served with rice and salad, followed by chocolate torte. Bartel had second helpings of the meatballs, informing Mutsi that in Poland, there was a similar dish called klopsiki.
‘You’ll have to give me the recipe,’ he said, nudging Siv’s foot under the table.
‘Of course. I made them with the leanest ground beef and just a tiny bit of whipping cream.’
Siv was sure that they tasted exactly like IKEA’s meatballs, and the melon and torte were undoubtedly from Waitrose, but the ordeal was almost over and she should make up for her earlier crankiness.
‘Delicious,’ she said. She glanced at her watch as she finished her dessert. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to go to the mortuary soon.’
‘On a Saturday! Surely not!’ Mutsi cried.
‘Dr Anand often does a Saturday when he’s busy,’ Siv replied.
‘Well, it’s a conversation stopper!’ Mutsi collected plates. ‘Just help me make some coffee, Sivvi.’
In the pine kitchen, Mutsi switched the coffee machine on and gestured at the wall tiles, featuring clusters of cherries. ‘It’s so dated in here as well! Really, the whole house needs to be modernised.’
She sidled close. Her subtle scent was woody and sensual. Siv moved back a little.
‘Your hair’s better, Sivvi. That’s a flattering style, although a little longer around the ears would be good. You have quite big ears. I remember remarking on that when you were born.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Is Bartel your boyfriend?’
‘He’s a good friend.’
Mutsi tutted impatiently. ‘Yes, but are you sleeping with him in your eccentric little wagon?’
‘Why do you ask?’
Mutsi raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘I understand you miss Ed, and any port in a storm and all that jazz, but he’s hardly suitable. Personable, yes, but rather uncouth. His hands are like shovels! Those ragged nails!’
‘He rips off roof tiles, what do you expect? I like him. He tells me fascinating stories.’
‘Oh, Sivvi! I just don’t understand you.’
‘That’s true.’
‘You need to get out and meet more people instead of playing with your paper shapes.’
Siv ignored her. ‘Shall I get some cups?’
‘They’re on the tray, but I need a jug. Have you heard from Rik at all? She never replies to me. I’ve no idea what she’s up to. I don’t know what I’m supposed to have done to her. I’m sure I always tried my best with both you girls. Rik’s so edgy and trying. You always had a gentler nature.’
‘I hear from her now and again. She seems OK.’
‘Does she ask after me?’
‘No. Can we change the subject?’
‘For goodness’ sake! I am her mother and—’ Mutsi paused as the doorbell rang. ‘Ah, good. We have a guest who’s joining us for coffee.’ She smiled slyly. ‘Now, this is someone who would be perfect for you. I’m sure Will thinks so too, although he’s discreet about these matters. Of course, we asked him along before you said you were bringing your roofer friend and dashing off. I’d planned for the four of us to go for a walk, and then tea on the yacht. Pour the milk in that jug and you’ll see what I mean!’
When they returned to the dining room, Siv’s heart sank. Tommy Castles was sitting at the table, swiftly demolishing the last slice of chocolate torte. He wore a chunky blue polo neck jumper over his athletic build, and he’d had his hair cropped short. Not for the first time, Siv wondered if he was ex-military. An SAS type, sinewy and gung-ho.
‘Hi, Siv! This is amazing pud, Crista. It’ll set me up for an afternoon hike.’
Siv swallowed fortifying black coffee. ‘Good to see you, Tommy. You met Bartel at the Halloween party last year.’
‘That’s right, just in passing. You had to rush off. You always seem to be rushing off when I see you, Siv. So, Crista, are you all moved in now?’
‘All done.’ She took Mortimer’s hand. ‘We’re over the moon.’
Mortimer wrinkled his nose at her. ‘We are, and we’re glad that family and friends could come and celebrate today.’
Tommy winked at Siv. ‘What’s Siv going to call you outside of the station, then? She can hardly say sir.’
Mortimer fiddled with his coffee. ‘Will, of course. Same as everyone else.’
‘That’s settled, then. Hey, Siv, I hear Ali’s in hospital. Too many doughnuts, as per. Hope he never has to chase a suspect. He’d probably have a heart attack.’
Siv controlled her response. ‘He’s much better today. I expect he’ll be given stern advice.’
Tommy laughed. ‘N
ot that he’ll follow it. He’s led by his stomach, that one.’
Bartel popped two lumps of sugar in his coffee. ‘You admire Ali, don’t you, Siv? He’s reliable and skilful.’
‘That’s right, and a team player. I trust him. You need that in a colleague. Apologies, everyone, but I have to talk to a pathologist.’
‘Going so soon?’ Tommy winked at her.
‘Afraid so. I have to leave the field to you. Want me to drop you on the way, Bartel?’
He nodded, thanking Mutsi and Mortimer for their hospitality.
* * *
Siv almost skipped to the car. Sweet relief! That was done and dusted and she’d ensure that she was unavailable for social visits for as long as possible.
‘You did well,’ Bartel commented as Siv accelerated from Clifftop.
‘Thanks. And thank you so much for coming. Lifesaver.’
‘I was entertained. The wine was terrific. Is your mother trying to matchmake between you and Tommy Castles?’
‘That’s her idea.’
‘You can’t trust a man with narrow eyes. I enjoyed the food, but those meatballs were from IKEA.’
‘Definitely.’
‘Your mother fibs without blinking.’
‘Always. It’s one of her skills.’ But Siv had had enough of Mutsi as a topic. ‘Are you fishing at the moment, or is it too cold?’
‘It’s never too cold to fish as long as you wear layers. Good pike and perch to be caught in January.’
Siv wasn’t the slightest bit interested in fish, unless on a plate with chips, but she liked watching Bartel by the river. His stillness and concentration were soothing. ‘Let me know when you’re going. I’ll take a walk and bring you coffee.’
‘Yes. Um, I have a little thing to tell you,’ Bartel said, pulling at his beard.
‘Oh yes?’
‘I have a new friend. A lady. She’s from Estonia.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Astrella. I met her in Polska. Early days. We’ll see.’
Was he trying to hint that their fishing rendezvous were a thing of the past? He was usually direct but perhaps he felt awkward. And now, so did she. She made her voice upbeat. ‘I’m pleased for you.’
MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3) Page 20