He met Cedric coming back from his afternoon walk, as he set out for Putney. Cedric was with two friends, partners in the dominoes tournament at the Silver Mermaid most lunch times and they were heading back for a game of cards. Cedric had an erect military bearing and, other than slight arthritis in his hands, was fit and energetic. He waved languid fingers at Swift, asked him how the river had been, said he should call by later for a G and T, then weaved up the steps between his companions who were swaying slightly after several hours in the pub. Swift sometimes thought that Cedric had a busier social life than he had himself; most evenings, his lights burned late and music and conversation drifted down through the house.
* * *
It was a fine afternoon and the exercise of the morning had left him with a taste for more, so he walked the five miles along the Thames path to Putney Bridge. Florence Davenport lived in a terraced house not unlike his, with steps to the front door, but no basement. She answered the door wearing jodhpurs and asked would he mind waiting while she changed, as she had just got back from a hack.
She showed him into the living room and vanished. It ran the length of the house and was full of light but the walls had been painted a pale, chilly blue that was unwelcoming. The room was decorated with abstract prints and the heads of a fox, giraffe and elephant constructed, he thought, from newspaper and cardboard. A large plasma TV covered the wall opposite the sofa and a huge plastic box containing toys stood on the polished floor boards. A group of photos in fussy, faux-Victorian style silver frames were clustered on a coffee table next to a pile of horsy magazines and he bent to look; they were of Florence and Helena and, he assumed, Mr Davenport, who was a thin man of medium height with wispy hair, a trim beard and lines under his eyes that made Swift less concerned about his own. No image of Stepmother, he noted. Given the nanny and the horse riding, the place wasn’t as expensively furnished as he would have expected. The beige sofa and chairs seemed small and cheap; he sat in one of the armchairs and confirmed that it resisted his six feet two. He was accustomed to finding furniture uncomfortable but this chair seemed particularly rigid. He swapped to the sofa which was only marginally more accommodating. Florence appeared to be a lady of leisure; he wondered what the husband worked at. His interest was now piqued enough to inform him that he had decided to take the case. He heard her on the stairs and took out his notebook. She had dressed in the very tight jeans again and had put a kind of floral smock over them; with her hair scrunched back in a ponytail, he thought her top half looked like Pollyanna, her bottom half Lolita. She offered him tea or coffee and he refused.
‘I think I’ll be able to help you,’ he said. ‘Are my rates acceptable?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
He flicked his pen open. ‘How did you find out your stepmother was missing?’
She perched on one of the armchairs, her hands around her knees. ‘Rupert, my brother, rang me that evening, January thirty-first. Paddy Sutherland — that’s the woman who was expecting Carmen for bridge — had contacted him. He hadn’t been able to get hold of Carmen so he phoned me to see if I knew where she was. Not that that would be likely.’ She gave a little laugh.
‘You didn’t see your stepmother often?’
‘About three or four times a year; Christmas, Easter, her birthday. Same with Rupe.’
About the same as he saw his stepmother. ‘So, were you worried, did you call the police?’
‘No, we assumed she’d got her dates wrong or mixed up and like I said, Carmen had taken off before without telling us, although her housekeeper was always in the know. But the next morning the housekeeper, Mrs Farley, rang Rupe to say that she wasn’t there and the cats hadn’t been fed. She had arranged to sit with Mrs Farley that morning to go through the menu for a supper she was giving at the end of the week. Mrs Farley did catering when needed. So Rupe rang the police; well, got his secretary to ring them. Rupe has staff, you know.’ She made a little lemon sucking movement with her mouth.
‘And the police spoke to you both, you and Rupert?’
‘Oh yes. They were bustling around to start with but I’m not sure what’s happening now.’
‘Does your stepmother have a car?’
‘No, she’s never had a licence; Daddy used to drive them. Even for her age, she’s old-fashioned in that way, likes a man to open doors, pull out a seat for her, all that stuff. When Daddy died she sold the car.’
‘How many times has she gone away without telling you and where did she go?’ Swift removed a cushion from behind his back and put it on the floor, trying to get less uncomfortable. It was chilly in the room and not just because of the blue décor.
‘I think four or five times before and she never said where she’d gone but she looked tanned so it must have been abroad. Carmen wasn’t one to holiday in the UK; too cold and rainy for her. She and Daddy used to travel loads so she knew lots of places. But with no passport . . .’
‘She’s Spanish, isn’t she?’
‘Hmm, from Barcelona; but she left there years ago, came to London at eighteen. She never had any contact with family there, as far as I know.’ She giggled. ‘I’ve always thought they were probably glad to see the back of her, bought her a one-way ticket.’
Swift looked levelly at her and she blushed, rubbing her cheek.
‘How did you get on with your stepmother when you were younger, did you live with her and your father?’
‘Well, goodness, that was years ago; what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘It’s always useful to have as complete a picture of someone as possible, in this kind of circumstance,’ he said mildly. ‘She was younger than your father?’
She shrugged. ‘We never really hit it off. Yes, she was almost twenty years younger than Daddy. He was seeing her before he and Mummy divorced so, you know, there was quite a bit of tension. I lived with Mummy in Sussex; she moved there after the split and stayed there until she died. I used to stay with Daddy in the school holidays. Carmen was really only interested in Daddy so I was a bit of an inconvenience. We didn’t have much to do with each other. Rupe’s ten years older than me so he never actually lived with her. She liked the status that being married to Daddy gave her. She was the general dogsbody at his dentist when they met so marriage gave her quite a leg up the social ladder.’
‘When was the last time you saw Carmen or spoke to her?’
‘Like I told the police, at Christmas. We went round there on Boxing Day for tea.’
‘Was Rupert there?’
‘No, he was at his wife’s place in Berkshire. He called in to her at New Year; he always comes back to London for the sales to buy his shirts in Jermyn Street.’
Swift arched his back and flexed his legs, rubbing his cramped right thigh. ‘So, Carmen didn’t seem worried about anything, upset by anyone?’
Florence shrugged. ‘No. She was her usual self, talking about her social activities, some gala she was attending to raise money for elephants in Thailand.’
‘Did she have health problems? I read that her doctor had seen her the day she vanished.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure. She always seemed well to me, although she liked having health checks; you know, BP, cholesterol. She has a private GP and they come running if you sneeze. Not like us ordinary mortals who have to beg for an appointment. I had tonsillitis a couple of weeks ago and I couldn’t see a GP for days! I was offered a nurse instead, trying to fob me off.’
Swift smiled sympathetically. ‘And your husband, did he see your stepmother with you?’
‘Paul? Yes, he came when we visited. Actually, my DH gets on okay with Carmen, better than me probably. But then, as I said before, she’s a man’s woman.’
‘What do you think has happened to her?’
There was a pause. ‘I just don’t know. I’m worried that she might have come to some harm, I suppose.’
‘If she has, do you know who benefits from her will?’
Florence sat up straight. Her eyes wer
e suddenly shrewd. Swift thought it was the most animated he had seen her.
‘When she dies, Rupe and I share the house; that was all left in trust by Daddy. She’s said she’s also leaving us both money and some to animal charities. Cats and donkeys, probably. I ask you!’
‘You don’t approve?’
‘I’ve nothing against animals but I happen to think humans should come first where inheritance is concerned.’
‘You could do with the money, then?’
He wondered how she would react to the rudeness. Her colour rose but she forced a bright tone.
‘Who couldn’t do with money these days? But I work, you know, I do earn money myself.’ Her head twitched.
‘Oh? What do you do?’
‘I’m a personal stylist.’
‘Yes? Sorry, I’m sure I’m dense but I don’t know what that means.’
She looked astonished. ‘I help people to choose their wardrobes and make-up, accessorise jewellery. If they want, I go shopping with them to make sure their clothes match their lifestyle. I write a blog too.’
‘Fascinating,’ he lied.
She gave him a sideways glance. ‘If you came to me, for example, I’d suggest a shorter hairstyle, maybe some gel to sculpt those curls and definitely softer colours.’
‘Thanks, I’ll think about that. What does your husband do?’
‘He works in the city.’
‘Right. Can you give me some contact details now? I need to speak to Rupert, Paddy Sutherland, Mrs Farley, your stepmother’s GP. Also, it would help to have a look around her house, if that can be arranged. Where does she live?’
‘Holland Park. You could ask Mrs Farley to let you in when she’s there; she’s still going in every day to keep the place ticking over and to feed the cats.’
She flicked through her phone and gave him the contact details he’d requested.
‘What’s a DH?’ he asked. ‘You said it about your husband.’
‘It’s shorthand for Darling Husband; women use it all the time on Mumsnet.’
‘Ah; well, I don’t have much reason to use that website.’
She giggled. ‘I meant what I said, about giving you some style tips. With your raven hair and slate eyes, a sage green would really suit you.’
‘Okay, I’ll bear it in mind. I’ll contact you in about a week and give you an update. I need that cash deposit, please.’
She rummaged in the yellow handbag and gave him the money. He handed her the receipt he had prepared and a contract for her to sign. The transaction seemed to relax her.
‘Listen,’ she said, cradling one hand inside the other, ‘it’s true that I’ve never been close to Carmen and we’ve had our differences. But in the end I always remember that Daddy loved her so I feel some family obligation towards her. I think I need to try and help because I’m sure she’s in some trouble. Does that make sense?’
Her sincerity sounded forced to Swift. ‘Yes, it makes sense.’
‘Will you talk to the police?’ she asked at the door.
‘I’ll let them know you’ve engaged me, yes.’
* * *
Swift waited for Mary Adair in a wine bar off Regent Street. It was tucked down one of the parallel side lanes that tourists rarely explored as they swarmed up and down the main drag. Swift always thought of London as two cities: one, the teeming beehive where you had to be careful not to get knocked off the pavement; the second, the backstage capital where, if you had the knowledge, you could walk, eat and talk in comparative tranquillity. At six thirty the bar was quiet, inhabiting the lull between offices closing and true night owls appearing. Miles Davis played plaintively in the background. It had started raining and it was snug to sit by the window, watching the misty droplets slide down the pane. Swift had already ordered a glass of Merlot; if it was going to be wine, it had to be red, as far as he was concerned. Mary went for white or red depending on her mood.
As children, he and Mary had enjoyed Cluedo, reading Sherlock Holmes, writing with invisible ink and sending each other messages in secret codes. As adults, they had continued their interest in concealment and exposure, joining the Met within a year of each other, as graduate entrants. After a couple of years, he had been seconded to, then taken a permanent post with Interpol, tracking illegal arms sales across Europe. Mary meanwhile had risen rapidly through the ranks, enjoying her fragmentation of glass ceilings. These days she seemed to spend most of her time in interminable meetings and committees, which he would never have been able to stomach. Mary had consoled him after Ruth, saying little, buying him a case of Rhone Syrah with which to drown his sorrows. Close as they were, he hadn’t told her that he had been seeing Ruth again. No one knew; his heart was too troubled to talk about it.
Mary dashed in, shaking her head, smiling, chucking an umbrella on the floor. He stood and hugged her; she was tall too, her head just below his shoulder.
‘White or red?’ he asked her, signalling to a waiter.
‘Better make it a sauvignon, I have to read a report later and red beckons the sandman.’
When her drink arrived, they clinked glasses.
‘You look well,’ she said, ‘been out on the river?’
‘Twice so far this week. How are you?’
‘Fine. I gave an inspirational talk at a girls’ school this afternoon, about the Met as a career; at least I hope it inspired one or two of them. They asked good questions. I saw Mark Gill earlier in the week, he was asking after you.’
‘That’s a happy coincidence. I’m planning to ring him tomorrow to ask him if he knows about a case I’ve taken.’
‘The one I may have unwittingly sent your way?’
‘That’s it; the disappearance of Carmen Langborne. Her stepdaughter, Florence Davenport, has a friend who knows you.’
Mary removed her dark-framed glasses and rubbed the lenses with the hem of her scarf. ‘Who would that be?’
‘No idea.’
‘Oh well; Mark will point you in the right direction. She’s still missing, isn’t she?’
‘That’s right. Florence wants me to try and track her down. There’s a brother, Rupert, who seems to think she’ll turn up.’
‘Rupert Langborne? I think I’ve met him at some committee or other at Westminster. He’s a civil servant?’
‘Yep. I’ll be arranging to see him, although according to his sister, he thinks their stepmother is possibly game playing, gone away somewhere. Do you know much about him?’
‘No; I recall a tall, stout chap but he was in another working group to me. You know, Ty; one of those ones where you have coloured post-it notes and you brainstorm and come up with ideas and then afterwards someone distributes them to be read and they disappear into the great ideas rubbish chute.’
Swift groaned. ‘I miss that world so much, I really do.’
Mary ordered two more drinks and asked for some olives and bread. She was looking very chipper, he thought; her handsome, strong face and quick eyes gave her a commanding presence and she was wearing a beautifully tailored suit.
‘Do you think I should wear sage green?’ he asked her as the wine and food arrived.
She laughed. ‘You what? When did you start caring about what you wear?’
‘Florence Davenport is a personal stylist,’ he said with affected dignity. ‘She wants to give me a makeover.’
‘Ha!’ She popped an olive in her mouth and shoved them towards him. ‘Maybe she wants your bod too. Do you fancy her?’
‘There are so many things wrong with that question, Mary. One, she’s married, two, she’s a client and three, no, I don’t.’ He dipped bread into oil and vinegar; it was dark and delicious.
Mary tore a piece of bread. ‘I’ve got some news on the romance front,’ she said slyly.
‘Go on.’
‘I met someone at a conference. Her name’s Simone. We’ve seen each other a couple of times. So far, so good. I like her a lot.’
He took a deep sip of wine. ‘Good on y
ou. She a cop?’
‘No; she’s in forensics, so we can talk ghoulish stuff in comfort. How about you? Seeing anyone?’
‘Not at the moment.’ Only my married ex.
‘Looking?’
‘Not really.’
Mary knew when to drop a subject and went on to talk about her plans for a summer break in Crete.
‘Have you had a birthday invitation from Joyce?’ she asked him.
Joyce was his stepmother. ‘Mm, it came last week. I suppose I’d better go. Are you?’
‘I’ll show my face,’ Mary said. ‘How old will she be?’
‘Sixty-five. I expect most of the neighbourhood will be there, so I should be able to get away with a fleeting appearance.’
Mary clutched his arm and imitated Joyce’s fruity, breathy voice, ‘Oh Tyrone, I never see enough of you, you dreadful man and you’re so thin, I’m sure you’re not eating properly!’
‘Don’t!’ he said, shuddering.
She finished her drink and pushed his to him. ‘Drink up, I have to get home and bury myself in this report.’
* * *
He left Mary at eight and set off for Seven Dials to follow up a case he had taken a few weeks back. The client was Ed Boyce, a slick, fast-talking man in his late twenties. He was convinced he was being stalked by his jealous ex-girlfriend and his jittery manner certainly indicated that he had anxieties. Boyce had asked to meet in a café near his office, explaining unnecessarily that his work schedule was mental. He had played with his phone throughout the consultation, taking only a few sips of his banana smoothie before abandoning it. He had jet black hair, tiny brilliant teeth and pale, almost translucent skin. He just wanted Rachel, his ex, to stop being ridiculous, he said, and let him move on with his life and his new partner. If Swift could get some photos and details of her behaviour collated for him he could challenge her and he was sure she would back off.
The Lady Vanished Page 2