She poured another glass of spirits and sat on the floor in the living room. She’d started paper-folding when she was eight, around the time Mutsi had introduced the third ”uncle” since she’d divorced her husband. She’d seen a presenter fold on a kids’ TV show and it caught her imagination. She was good at maths, which was the basis of her understanding and proficiency. She’d started with newspaper, making a simple “fortune teller,” the creased envelope many children make with predictions about love or future careers written under the folds: you’ll be a doctor, you’ll have four children, you’ll marry an astronaut. She grasped it easily and became hooked, progressing quickly through simple birds, boats and flowers to more complex structures — sea monsters, human shapes and complicated stars. Her father sent her boxes of quality Japanese paper and books of patterns for birthdays and Christmases.
By the time she was a teenager, her room was full of paper creations and her friends would ask her to make them one or she let them watch her as she constructed an intricate form from a single sheet of paper. Folding was her port in a storm. The rules and constraints of the art helped lend some order to her chaotic childhood. She’d turned to it when her mother dumped her and Rikka in Berminster and hoofed it back to Finland to marry the equivalent of a baronet. She’d constructed a globe on a stand after her father died and in the months after Ed’s death, she made an intricate series of trees.
A couple of years ago, her folding had taken off in a new direction. A friend who knew someone who ran a music shop off Regent Street had told him about Siv’s talent and shown him photos of her work. He’d commissioned her to make a group of paper musicians for a window display. She’d provided a tiny orchestra of violinist, saxophonist, drummer, horn player, clarinettist and flautist in ivory and forest green. Other orders followed as news of her work spread. This geometric piece was the first commission she’d accepted since Ed’s death and was destined for a Danish furniture shop in Highgate.
She worked on, head bent, absorbed. When she was folding, she tuned out reality. Time became suspended. And while she focused on the paper and her fingers, she processed thoughts and feelings, trying to make sense of the world, as well as the geometry of paper.
Chapter Thirteen
Errol Todd still hadn’t been in touch. Siv left instructions for Ali to contact the local police in Valencia and set out just after eight to see Visser.
Despite his truculence, she felt some sympathy for him. Two bereavements, two wives dead. How would you deal with that avalanche of agony? That morning, she’d woken from a brightly lit dream of Ed. The content had eluded her but he’d been smiling at her, that crinkled, daft smile of his. Yet again, she’d awakened only to feel the ache of knowing that now he existed only in her mind. It had taken her some time to ground herself in the here and now and gear up to the day ahead.
Something about Visser niggled at her. Was it the desire to control, the anger he carried in him? She needed to give him the post-mortem results and she wanted to apply some pressure.
When she rang the bell at Spring Gardens, a woman answered. Silver hair in a bob, flat but pleasant features. Inquiring but strained smile.
She showed her badge. ‘I’m DI Siv Drummond, from Berminster CID. I’d like to speak to Mr Visser.’
‘I’m Natasha Visser, Ade’s mother. Do come in. I think he’s still in the bathroom.’
She followed the woman into the living room. It was spotless, the window thrown open. Mrs Visser smoothed the top of a chair before sitting in it. She wore a pale green skirt and striped green-and-white shirt with a pretty sky blue scarf at her neck.
‘Do you have any news about Lauren, Inspector? Anything about how she was killed, or the person who did it? We’re desperate to know.’
‘We haven’t yet found the person who murdered Lauren. The post-mortem is complete. I can confirm that Lauren was stabbed, most likely with scissors, as was the young man who was found with her.’
Mrs Visser blanched visibly and clutched at her elbows. ‘Scissors! That’s so horrible.’
‘Yes. I’m very sorry.’
‘I’ve never heard of anyone being murdered with a pair of scissors,’ Mrs Visser said faintly.
‘Any blade can be a weapon, I’m afraid. Were you close to your daughter-in-law?’ She seemed an approachable woman and having lost her own mother, Lauren might have confided in Ade’s.
Mrs Visser seemed to make an effort to focus. ‘Well . . . ahm . . . I was very fond of Lauren and I think she felt the same way. I didn’t see them that often, just a couple of times a year. Young people have their own busy lives and I live in Hampshire, so I’m not exactly on the doorstep.’
‘Had you heard from Lauren recently?’
‘No, not recently. We last spoke on the phone a while ago. She told me about her latest work with Minstergreen, clearing scrub and checking moss species in some woods. She was devoted to that.’
‘I wondered if her husband ever felt a bit left out, what with her wild swimming and conservation work, as well as her job at the nursery.’ She asked mildly enough but could see that Natasha Visser understood the question’s subtext. Her reply was intelligent.
‘It was a modern marriage, Inspector. Two partners working. Ade fully supported Lauren’s conservation work and he thought the world of her. He’s very busy with his own business. I’m sure they had their own modus vivendi. I didn’t poke my nose into their marriage. I’ve seen parents do that and it never goes well. Would you like tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee would be great, thanks.’
‘I’ll let Ade know you’re here.’ She moved towards the door and then stopped and turned, clasping her hands before her like a supplicant. ‘He’s hardly slept and he looks terrible. I hope you’ll forgive him if he’s a bit scratchy. Not his usual self. This has been a terrible blow for him.’
Siv didn’t respond to the plea. ‘I do need to speak to him. It’s necessary for our enquiries.’
Visser appeared within minutes, arriving at the same time as his mother brought in the coffee. A miasma of peppery scent surrounded him. He was wearing clean jeans and a T-shirt with soft moccasins on his bare feet. His face looked raw and haggard. Mrs Visser placed a tray on the low table, pressed her son’s shoulder and left the room.
‘How can I help you, Inspector?’ he said. ‘Have you got the post-mortem results?’ His manner was placatory. Siv wondered if his mother had warned him not to be antsy.
‘The post-mortem has been completed. Lauren was stabbed and the weapon was probably a pair of scissors. There were no defence wounds, but she’d been sprayed in the eyes with mace and would have been temporarily blinded. There had been no sexual activity.’
‘Thank God for that at least.’ He placed his hands over his eyes for a moment. ‘Mace. So she wouldn’t have had any chance to fight back.’
‘No.’
‘What a coward. What a shit way to come at someone. She must have been terrified.’ He picked up his coffee mug, spilling some on the coaster. ‘I’ve been wondering about that photo you showed me of the child. Where exactly did you find it?’
‘It was left with Lauren’s body,’ she said.
‘That’s so sick. Who’d associate a child with murder? It must be a real sicko who did this. Maybe there’s some weird person working at the nursery who hated Lauren. Is that a theory you’re working on?’
‘We consider all motives, but so far there’s no suggestion that anyone connected to the nursery bore any animosity towards Lauren.’
‘I reckon that must be it. That’s why the photo was left. It’s something to do with the child, surely.’ He ground his teeth. Tension hummed around him.
Siv clicked her pen to focus him. ‘Were you aware that Lauren was running a crowdfunding campaign about a discriminatory sign at Lock Lane?’
His head went back in surprise, his eyes widening. ‘No, I wasn’t.’ He sighed. ‘When did that start?’
‘Recently. She wanted to fund a legal chal
lenge against it, as it’s prejudicial against people from eastern Europe. The issue clearly concerned her greatly, yet she didn’t tell you about it.’
He shook his head wearily. ‘She’d have known I wouldn’t approve of crowdfunding. It attracts cranks and weirdos. People who like to hover around causes.’
‘So there might have been other significant things going on in her life that she didn’t share with you.’
‘I suppose,’ he said. ‘How would I know?’
‘When we spoke before, you didn’t mention that you’d been married previously.’
‘Didn’t I?’
‘No. I wondered why.’
‘I have no idea. I can’t remember everything. I suppose it’s the shock. It’s hard to know what you’re saying when the woman you loved is lying dead, hacked to pieces.’
‘I understand.’ More than I can express.
‘Do you? I feel as if I’m going mad. Nothing makes sense. A Lithuanian guy and a child’s photo . . . and now you’re telling me Lauren was involved in stuff I knew nothing about. I’m like a broken record, I keep thinking if only I hadn’t been away Sunday night—’
‘Have you heard from Errol Todd?’
‘No. But then I wouldn’t expect to.’
‘You do understand that’s it’s important that we speak to him. Verify your whereabouts on Sunday night.’
His expression was rigid. ‘What are you implying?’
‘I’m not implying anything.’
There was a silence. Then he erupted, shot from his chair and stood with his hands gripping his head. His voice trembled. ’My wife has been murdered. She’s been cut up like a piece of meat. I’ve had to look at her poor mangled body and you dare to come here to my home talking about verification! Why aren’t you out there catching whoever did this to Lauren and that young man? You should have everyone at that bloody nursery under the microscope.’
Siv watched him. She’d seen this kind of performance from people under pressure before. Usually when caught out in a lie. But the man seemed genuinely tortured. ‘Mr Visser, please calm yourself. I’m sure you know how police enquiries work. We have to question and check everyone and everything. That’s our job.’ And believe nobody she could have added, but for now she didn’t want to needle him too much. Just enough. ‘Is there anything else you want to tell me about Sunday night?’
He gave her a disgusted look but sat back down. He closed his eyes and took a breath, struggling for control. ‘I’m not stupid, and I am able to remember what I was doing the night before my wife was murdered. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘You told me that you cycled home from the railway station and got here at about half nine on Monday morning. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you meet anyone you knew on the train, or chat to anyone?’
‘No and no. I don’t chat on trains. I get my laptop out and work.’
‘Did anyone see you arrive back?’
‘I’ve no idea. Not that I know of, and I didn’t speak to anyone. The people living around here are professionals, out at work. There’s no old biddies peeping from behind net curtains. You’ve had officers on this street asking around so you’ll know that. Seems like time-wasting to me. I thought the police used more sophisticated techniques these days, but maybe you’re the bargain basement team, the remedial class.’
He couldn’t maintain the mannerly act for long. What had Lauren’s life with this man really been like? He drummed his fists on his knees and then was on his feet again, thudding up the stairs. His mother appeared, with a quick glance upwards. She’d applied some lipstick, her mouth now pale apricot. Siv thought it was the wrong colour, it aged her.
‘Is Ade all right?’
‘He’s finding some of my questions very upsetting. This is a difficult time for him. It would help if he could try to stay calm.’
His mother bit down on her lip. ‘Yes, I know. I’ll speak to him.’
‘Mrs Visser, can you take a look at these photos for me? The man is the other person who was murdered, and the child’s photo was left at the scene. Have you ever seen either of them before?’
‘I’m sorry, no.’
The photos trembled in her hands. There was a peculiar tautness to her too. It was hard to read. The atmosphere in the room radiated with it. When she’d pressed her son’s shoulder, Siv couldn’t tell if it was a gesture of comfort or caution.
* * *
Natasha watched the inspector drive away. She took the tray back to the kitchen, rinsed the mugs and then dried them thoroughly with a tea towel bearing the slogan Plant Flowers. Save Butterflies. She stood and listened to the washing machine humming. There was no noise from upstairs but she could feel her son’s torment weighing on the house. Something was terribly wrong. She longed to be back in her own small, peaceful home, living her daily routines. Unexciting, but she was past the age where she wanted excitement. She didn’t want to deal with other people’s problems. This one had fallen on her from the sky. She should be taking her puppy for a morning walk and dropping into the café for a latte and cinnamon bun. Instead, she was in a strange kitchen, listening to her son’s restlessness upstairs. Now and again, she went up and crept along the hall to stand outside his room but she didn’t dare go in. It reminded her of when he was a baby and she’d check that he was still breathing. The extraordinary relief every time she confirmed that he was. But now she couldn’t get near him.
She crossed to the drawer and looked again at the garish picture of bloodied scissors. She kept being drawn back to it. Now that she knew how Lauren had died, she couldn’t have felt more frightened if she’d found real scissors covered in blood. Who would think of making such a macabre image? A couple of times she’d opened her mouth to tell Ade about them but then stopped. He looked so forbidding and remote. She should tell Siv Drummond, the woman who looked as preoccupied as she felt.
But if she did tell, what might it mean for her son?
* * *
The team was meeting. Steve Wooton had a dental emergency so had sent an email update. Siv was glad he wasn’t there with his sarky, clever-clogs manner. She’d brought coffees in from a café she’d found around the corner, a tiny Italian place called Gusto with steamed-up windows, tables crammed in and trays full of wonderful pastries. Not wishing to torment Ali, she’d eaten a bombolone, a baked doughnut filled with vanilla cream, while standing at the counter. She watched as the chef took savoury tarts from an oven and placed another batch of focaccia in to cook. She breathed in the aromas of oil, rosemary and vanilla. It was a relief to take pleasure in food again, to feel her mouth water. She bought a bowl of mixed nuts for the office to go with the coffees.
Ali was tucking into cashews while Patrick added chocolate powder to his coffee with a shaker he’d fetched from his desk. He saw Siv watching.
‘Basically, I like to turn my hot drinks into a pudding. Gives me energy.’
‘Whatever keeps you ticking along,’ she said. Staff who worked in offices always tried to domesticate them, mark out their territory. It was why hot-desking messed with people’s psyches. ‘Let’s just recap what we know about Lauren and Matis’s movements on Monday morning. I think we can assume that she was murdered first. She went swimming around six a.m. Her friend Cora said she usually swam for about an hour and would have left her rucksack hanging from one of the trees near where she was found. So let’s say she exited the river around seven a.m. and walked up to the trees to get her rucksack. Someone was waiting, sprayed mace in her face and then stabbed her from the front and placed the child’s photo on her body. Matis left home about quarter to, so would have reached the river soon after seven a.m. He’d had time to catch one fish before he went up to the trees for some reason.’
‘Probably needed to have a pee,’ Patrick said. He was tapping his knee with a pen. He was always tapping, either with his fingers on desk tops or with pens on mugs, plates, computer screens or parts of his body. It was distracting.
>
‘Possibly. I propose that when he arrived at the river around seven ten, he blocked the escape route of our killer, who couldn’t get back to their car without attracting his attention. So the killer waited among the trees and either called to him or, as Patrick says, Matis went up to the trees. Then he was attacked from behind. Neither of them had defence wounds. The only connection we have so far is that Matis Rimas had emailed someone called Nowak about Lauren’s campaign against the sign at Lock Lane. Ade Visser says he knows nothing about that and doesn’t recognize Rimas or the child. To date, no one we’ve interviewed has recognized the child.’
‘Rimas had few social networks, maybe because he’d not been here for long, so there’s little to look at with him. What’s eating Visser, apart from the obvious?’ Ali asked.
‘Don’t know. There’s something there. But I wouldn’t bet money that he killed his wife, despite his unconfirmed alibi. His grief seems genuine to me. That dazed look.’ She’d seen it on her own face in the mirror every day. This can’t be real. Somebody tell me it’s a nightmare. ‘What did the Valencia police say?’
‘They’re sending someone to the Buddhist place today, so hopefully we should hear something soon,’ Ali told her.
‘There’s no forensics pointing to Visser for now,’ Patrick said. He’d been rubbing his eyes. Now and again he shook himself like a dog after being in water.
‘I know. There’s no forensics pointing to anyone. No unidentified blood or DNA. The saliva on Lauren was her own. Our killer was careful. What have you got for us, Patrick?’
‘Okey-cokey. We’ve looked at traffic cameras and no result. Problem is, the nearest one to those residential lanes around the river is on the middle of Minster Road. We couldn’t spot Rimas’s Honda or any other car within a mile of Lock Lane or Hardwater Road. It’s possible to drive there and avoid cameras if you plan the route. Slightly more positive news — we know that Nick Shelton met Lauren Visser. We’ve spoken to all the members of the angling club now. I stayed up till almost midnight working on it with Lisa.’
These Little Lies Page 13