‘You’re still missed in the Met, I can tell you that much. Some of the old team talk about you, hanker after your clear thinking.’
‘That’s good to know. But we all have to move on; life changes.’
Mark’s phone rang and he took the call, mouthing it was important. Swift was relieved to move away from the subject of Interpol. That year of investigating the brutality of the sex trade, speaking to hollow eyed, abused and terrified women and children, seeing the squalid conditions they lived in, had left him revolted and jaded. He had seen much in the Met and at Interpol that exposed the layers of human degradation but for him sex trafficking was in a place apart. Even thinking of it now, sickened him.
He fetched another beer from Mark’s state-of-the-art, almost empty fridge and looked through the magazines again. He selected and started reading a Jack Cardigan story, where at least the crime was straightforward, if vicious; a murder, a nightclub owner, a beautiful blonde, a tough-talking gambler and plenty of shooting with hard boiled Cardigan sorting them out.
* * *
Dr Forsyth surprised Swift with her American accent. Boston, he decided, as he sat opposite her in her consulting room in Notting Hill. It wasn’t opulent but certainly better appointed than any GP surgery he had ever been in, with padded chairs, gleaming paintwork and vases of flowers. Also, doctors in his experience didn’t wear silk shirts and pearls. He explained why he had come and Dr Forsyth nodded, sitting back in her chair, legs crossed, regarding him through heavy-lidded eyes.
‘Seems a total mystery,’ she said. ‘I talked to the police weeks back. I think they were disappointed that I couldn’t tell them anything important.’
‘Mrs Farley, Mrs Langborne’s housekeeper, said she was often concerned about her health.’
‘Sure, she was a worrier but there was nothing wrong with her the day I saw her, except some arthritis in her finger that caused a tiny swelling. It was a bit painful so I told her to take aspirin. I offered a referral for an X-ray, even though I didn’t really think she needed it, and she accepted. That was it. I was there about fifteen minutes max. And, no, I didn’t notice anything unusual, she didn’t seem odd, looked about the same as always.’
‘So there was no health problem that might have caused a sudden incident?’
Dr Forsyth folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, Mr Swift, I’m a doctor, not a psychic. Any older person could have a stroke or an unexpected fall. All I can say is that on that morning there was nothing I found to cause concern. Mrs Langborne was what we call in the trade “the worried well.” Polite terminology for hypochondria.’
‘Had you known her long?’
‘Couple of years. She fell out with her previous GP so came knocking on my door.’
‘And how did you get on with her?’
Dr Forsyth gave a deep, dry laugh. ‘Well, after her first shock at finding out I was black and a subsequent frank exchange of views about her response, we got on fine.’
Swift was interested. ‘She was openly racist?’
‘Sure. Nothing new to me, I pretty much expect it in older patients and I see it as their problem, not mine. This is a woman who calls her housekeeper by her surname; she thinks she’s living in some kind of old-fashioned Downton Abbey world. When I first met her she got tight-lipped and said she’d prefer “a doctor with blue eyes.” I said fine, she could look elsewhere but I pointed out to her that she had dark eyes herself.’ Dr Forsyth gestured. ‘Same colour as yours, I’d say. She did a recalculation when I squared up to her. I think she kind of liked it. She said she’d see how we got on. We did okay; she’s a bit wearing with her trivial complaints but she pays her bills on time and that’s all I require. I don’t need my patients to like me; there are plenty of them I don’t like.’
Swift found this approach refreshing. She was one of the most attractive women he’d met in a long time, with her candour and dry tone; she was a woman you could have a laugh with. His eyes had started itching. He sneezed suddenly, then twice more and pulled out a tissue.
‘It’ll be the flowers, they’re highly scented.’ He blew his nose and rubbed his eyes.
Dr Forsyth took the vase of freesias from her desk, opened the window and placed it on the ledge.
‘I don’t actually like cut flowers,’ she told him, ‘but my receptionist insists on putting them around the place. She used to work in a florist in another life. Want an antihistamine? I’ve got some freebies here somewhere, from a pharmaceutical rep. They’re non-drowsy, just in case you’re driving.’
‘Thanks.’ He took one from the box she produced from a drawer and passed it back, but she shook her head.
‘Keep them; there are ten more boxes in there.’
He swallowed the tiny tablet. ‘That last time you saw Mrs Langborne, did she mention that she was going anywhere that day? Was she dressed up?’
‘Nope. She didn’t mention going anywhere. Apart from her niggling finger, she seemed in good spirits. She was always dressed beautifully at any time of day; I remember what she had on that morning because it was my favourite colour, turquoise. It was a wool suit, Jackie O style with a waisted jacket. She had a round necked white blouse under it and she was wearing her usual excess of gold jewellery. I told Detective Morrow, the Met officer who came here, that one of those cats was circling as I left and she called to him that she’d make sure he had food for later. You know how cat lovers talk to their pets. It was the warmest tone of voice I ever heard from her.’
‘So it seems she was planning to go out.’
‘I guess. It was an unusually sunny day for January, good for going out, and I think she had a pretty busy social life from some of the names she dropped; Lady this and Earl that.’
‘Does the word Haven or the initials WP mean anything to you?’
Dr Forsyth shook her head. ‘In connection with Mrs Langborne? No.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I do have a patient in ten minutes, so if that’s everything . . .’
‘Yes, thanks.’ Swift gave her a card. ‘If you do think of anything else . . .’
‘Sure,’ she gave a generous smile and stood, smoothing her skirt. ‘Hope you find her; I don’t like, literally, losing any of my patients. And you know, I kind of like her. I think she’s lonely and like a lot of needy people, she covers her vulnerability with an attitude. That’s my two cents’ worth of added psychology. Maybe I should have majored in what goes on in the mind rather than the body. Stay away from flowers, now, honey.’
* * *
Ed Boyce sent Swift an electronic copy of his weekly calendar to assist monitoring. It was crammed with meetings, pitches, presentations and lunches. Swift had noted that many of the lunches went on for hours and as it was just after three o’clock decided to take a look around a restaurant on Queensway which was a short bus ride from Dr Forsyth’s surgery. He saw Boyce through the window, leaning forward in his seat, shirtsleeves rolled up in the way politicians used when showing they meant business. Boyce was holding his laptop, demonstrating something to the two women sitting opposite him. Swift glanced at the calendar and saw that the meeting was named lunch @ Savour with NY cable. One of the women was fiddling with her hair and pushing a salad around her plate, the other leaning back in a way that didn’t look promising for whatever Boyce was trying to impress them with. Swift bought a coffee and walked up and down the street, which was busy with taxis and tourists with cameras, but no stalkers. A French couple holding a map between them and looking perplexed stopped him, asking the way to the Diana memorial in Kensington gardens. He turned the map the right way up and he told them it was very near, pointing across the road. They thanked him profusely, the man giving a little bow. The woman told him that they loved Diana; she was a lost angel who had had a beautiful heart. Swift smiled, unable to think of a reply and waved them on, adding that they should also take a look at the statue of Queen Victoria. It always entertained him that she sat, po-faced, looking in the direction of an expression of public sentiment that wo
uld not have amused her. He scrutinised the street again and glanced back through the restaurant window. One of the women was paying the bill, the other was on her phone, and Boyce was typing. Swift considered following him back to his office but decided against it. He was convinced that the man had an overactive imagination or persecution complex and he wanted to sit and take some thinking time.
Within an hour he was sitting in his garden on the canopied swing seat. It was ancient and rusting slightly but wide and comfortable. He had taken his notes, iPad and a coffee out there in the late afternoon. It was west-facing and bathed in sun. As he added to his notes and read them through, he could hear the clatter of saucepans from Cedric’s kitchen above and smell delicious aromas of garlic and herbs. Cedric often gave him leftovers, so he hoped there would be some later. He finished his notes and googled Rupert Langborne, finding that he was forty-nine, had been to Oxford and Sandhurst, then joined the Civil Service where he had risen quickly to permanent secretary. He was married to his third wife, Daphne, who was heiress to a biscuit fortune.
Swift lay full-length on the padded, striped seat and set the swing rocking gently back and forth. Gazing at the dappled patterns made by the sun and overhanging sycamore tree on the canopy, he let his thoughts roam over the missing Carmen; a needy, snobbish woman who wanted attention, responded well to straight talking, wasn’t close to her stepchildren, loved her cats and socialising. He kept coming back to Haven; as her main interest seemed to be animal charities he had wondered if there might be a connection to such an organisation but when he googled the word he found nothing except holiday parks and private hospitals. He didn’t think Carmen was the type to book a stay on a caravan site packed with families and she wasn’t suffering with a health problem.
His phone rang and he heard a rushed female voice.
‘Hi, this is Nora Morrow. Mark Gill gave me your number. You want to know about Carmen Langborne?’
He sat up. Nora Morrow’s voice was light and attractive, a Dublin accent. ‘Yes, thanks for ringing.’ He summarised what he had already established. ‘So, anything else you can tell me?’
There was the noise of a busy office in the background. He guessed open-plan.
‘Let’s see. We interviewed GP, housekeeper, stepdaughter and stepson, a Mrs Sutherland, parish priest. Stepson’s a smooth character, still saying she might have popped off somewhere as an attention seeking device, despite the obvious problem of what she’d be doing for money. Nothing dodgy in her phone records. We doorknocked locally but nothing, no one saw her go out that day. That kind of hushed wealthy area, most people are either at work or on holiday or at second homes in the country.’
‘I don’t buy the going-away story. She wouldn’t leave the cats unattended, even for a night, without making some arrangement. The housekeeper was very firm on that.’
‘Quite. We have no leads currently.’
‘What did the parish priest say?’
‘Not much. She attended regularly but didn’t mix with other parishioners. He reckoned quietly devout. She hadn’t approached him with any problems.’
He heard Nora Morrow talking to someone else and waited until she spoke again.
‘So, dead ends so far. We’ll have a chat with some of her charity buddies but presumably they would have come forward if they thought they knew anything useful.’
‘The one thing the housekeeper said had occurred to her was that she wondered if Mrs Langborne might have had a sniff of romance. She’d been quite upbeat the day before she vanished.’
‘Cherchez l’homme? We’ve found nothing to indicate that.’
‘What about her diary?’
‘Yeah, WP and Haven. No idea. No one we’ve spoken to has a clue.’
‘Must be relevant in some way, surely, they must have been appointments?’
‘Maybe, maybe not. If you work it out, let me know.’
‘Okay. Will you ring me if you find out anything you can share?’
‘Sure. I’m not hopeful, though.’
Swift stared at the grass, which Cedric had just mowed to within an inch of its life. He wasn’t feeling hopeful either. He checked his emails. There was one from Ruth, confirming that she could meet for lunch on Monday and another from Rupert Langborne, suggesting a lunch time meeting at a restaurant near Waterloo called Abelie. He replied to both and sent one to Ed Boyce, advising that he had not seen any stalking activity and suggesting that they call it a day. He attached a final account. He then sat for a while, swinging back and forth, lines from Thomas Hardy haunting him:
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,
Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one that was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.
His reverie was broken by Cedric, who was leaning out of his window.
‘I have far too much food for my friends, Tyrone. I’ve put some by for you. Do come and get it. I fed the lawn after I cut it, by the way.’
* * *
Swift was up at six the following morning and out on the river by half past. He had made a thermos of coffee and tucked a croissant into his pocket. The muted light beneath Putney Bridge was restful; the water gave off a rich, fishy odour, sluicing softly against his oars. Bird cries echoed from upriver, calling him on. He slowed near Barn Elms boathouse for a quick refreshment and despite a strong tide was back home by nine. As he neared the house he saw Cedric, on his way back from buying his morning paper, talking to a young woman. She was standing holding the handlebars of a bicycle, her blue helmet with green flashes still strapped on her head.
‘Ah’, Cedric said, turning and pulling a face at Swift and mouthing excitable. ‘You have a visitor seeking you out, Tyrone. I’ll say goodbye, then, my dear.’
‘Can I help you?’ Swift asked, fishing for his keys.
She had a small, oval-shaped face which was wearing an angry frown and she seemed familiar.
‘You’re Tyrone Swift, are you?’ she asked nastily.
‘That’s right.’
‘I thought you’re supposed to be a detective of some kind, not a leftover from the Boat Race.’
‘I’m a private detective for business; rowing is for pleasure.’ He spoke mildly, aware of sparks emanating in his direction.
She propped the bike against his front wall rather more forcefully than was needed and came up close to him. The helmet added a menacing aspect to her grim look.
‘How dare you!’ she said. ‘How dare you get involved in implying that I’m some kind of nutter!’
He was aware that the sweat inside his bodysuit was cooling and that he had spray on his face. He was also aware that Cedric was lurking inside the front door and that several passers-by were glancing at them.
‘I don’t know what you mean. Would you like to come into my office . . . ?’
‘No, I bloody wouldn’t! What I would like is for you to mind your own business and find someone to pay you who isn’t . . . perverse and twisted!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you?’
‘You’re not much of a detective if you don’t know that, are you?’
Oh God, he thought, we might be standing here all morning at this rate. ‘Okay; I’m not much of a detective. So tell me who you are.’
She gave a twisted smile. ‘I’m Rachel Breen. Got it now?’
Ah! He looked at her again, ignoring the helmet and recalling the photo on his phone. ‘You’re Ed Boyce’s ex.’
‘Exactly, thank goodness. And he’s mine, the nasty little runt. He’s been spreading lies, saying I’m stalking him, making his life a misery and he’s got you running around backing him up.’
‘I don’t think you have been stalking him and I’ve told him so, but why has he lied about it?’
‘Because, dimwit, I want half my share of the stuff in the flat we own and my quarter of the flat’s value, but he doesn’t want to give it to me. We split up six mon
ths ago after I found him in bed with someone else and I’m no further on. I’m living in a crummy rented room without my favourite saucepans. I’ve phoned and emailed him but he keeps avoiding me and he’s dreamed up this idea that he’ll persuade people I’m a crank. He’s hoping that if he can embarrass me enough that I’ll settle for less than my share. Also, he’s a grandiose prat with more money than sense and a jumped-up view of his own importance. Will that do?’
Swift dabbed his face with the towel round his neck. ‘You could wait until he’s out and get what you want.’
‘He’s changed the locks, of course. Bastard.’
‘Sounds as if you need a solicitor.’
‘Oh, thank you; I’d never have thought of that. I was attempting to do things the civilised way and save myself money but I do have a solicitor now. Ed will be sorry he started this, believe me. My solicitor says you need to back off and stop believing his lies.’
‘Well, I wish you luck if what you tell me is true. I’ve sent Ed my final bill so unless he gets himself another detective, you shouldn’t be bothered anymore.’
She took a step back and sneered, reaching for her bike. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, getting involved in persecuting an innocent woman.’
‘I’ve hardly been persecuting you; this is the first time we’ve met.’
She sat on her bike and adjusted her helmet. ‘Private detective; isn’t that a job for washed-up blokes who can’t find a better way of making a living?’
Swift watched her cycle away. Ouch. Ed Boyce had better settle his bill promptly or Swift would engage in some persecution of his own. In the shower, he scrubbed himself vigorously, reflecting on errant husbands and self-aggrandising cranks.
CHAPTER 5
As always, Swift slept badly the night before he met Ruth. He lay awake in the small hours, alternately wishing he could stumble across someone who would inspire and overwhelm him the way she had and not wanting ever to replace her, because in the end there was only Ruth, there had only ever been Ruth. He no longer knew if his renewed involvement with her was love, obsession or addiction. It was now almost four years since she had suddenly ended their engagement and taken off with a barrister she met at a party, marrying him within a couple of months. When he first told Mary what had happened, she had misheard him on the phone and thought he’d said barista, which was the only humour to be found in a dismal story. He had blamed himself; he had been commuting between London and the HQ of Interpol in Lyons for too long and he believed he hadn’t given Ruth enough of himself, of his attention. That was possibly true, Mary had said, but such temporary distances could be bridged if both parties were committed and determined. She had liked Ruth but had once commented to Swift that her perfect beauty was almost disquieting because she was clearly used to being adored. The rapidity of the marriage impacted on Swift as much as the end of the relationship, a second savage blow. He had been jettisoned swiftly and efficiently, and there was clearly no road back. He had been a pale, shadowy figure for a long time after Ruth left him, rarely communicating and as far as his friends could tell, doing nothing but working and rowing on the Rhone or the Thames. Sometimes he worried that he would turn into a male version of Aunt Lily, convincing himself that he’d had his true love and becoming resigned to a solitary life.
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