The Lady Vanished

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  ‘She does seem to be a bit high-handed; not exactly a wicked stepmother but not a cherisher of her family.’

  Swift nodded. ‘By the way, I’ve arranged to see the manager at the home in Kingston upon Thames where Carmen stayed in September.’

  ‘Okay; I’m not pursuing that at present, haven’t got the staff. Don’t forget to share. Makes me bloody annoyed; those Davenports have been banging on about us not finding her and they’ve been withholding information. She contacted their MP, you know. I was called in to talk about a letter from the Right Hon.’ Nora smiled. ‘I did enjoy pulling them both in, because of that. Anyways, much as it’s a pleasure to take a drink with a handsome private eye and cousin of my idol, I have to be on my way. Where do you get the muscles?’ She tapped Swift’s upper arm but impersonally, as a doctor might.

  ‘I row as often as I can.’

  ‘Really? Terrific; I used to row a bit back in Dublin but haven’t for a while. Maybe we could go out some time, as long as it’s a rowette; I’m a bit rusty.’

  She was collecting together her various bags and slipping her shoes back on.

  ‘Sure,’ Swift replied, thinking it was just one of those things people said. ‘I’ll walk you out. Are you driving?’

  ‘No way in this city. I’ll catch a cab. See you, then.’

  Swift watched her stride away, hitching up her rucksack, her tie flapping in the breeze.

  He made his way home, leaving another message for Florence Davenport, stating sternly that he would be visiting them the following evening at seven thirty to discuss information he had received from the police.

  * * *

  Cedric had been married briefly and, Swift had gathered, disastrously in his forties. The unhappy union had produced one son, Oliver, who lived in Greenwich and visited his father now and again; usually, it seemed, to have a row with him. Swift was fascinated by the random genetic soup that could result in a benign, cheerful man like Cedric producing such an ill-tempered offspring who looked nothing like him. Oliver was a square-shaped, densely boned man with a heavy tread as he clumped up and down the stairs. He wore a permanent look of resentment. If there was slight to be taken, Oliver was the man to take it. Cedric appeared to accept his visitations as a kind of penance because he felt guilty at not having been much of a father when Oliver was a child. This would have been difficult as Oliver’s mother had taken him to live in France after the divorce, marrying three more times before dying in a road accident. Oliver made sure that he explored the rich seams in the deep mine of Cedric’s parental guilt. Lily had described Oliver as a conniving, self-absorbed, unpleasant piece of work who visited his father in order to abuse him and extract money.

  Swift had heard Oliver banging up the stairs that morning, after he returned from an early row. The river had been choppy and exhilarating in a downpour. As he towelled himself dry, he felt the sense of wellbeing it always brought him. He spent some time checking his bank accounts while he ate breakfast. His savings were healthy, due partly to Lily’s legacy and his low overheads and lack of mortgage. His current account could be better padded but he wasn’t worried; he lived cheaply, had a reasonable work stream and Cedric’s rent added a regular monthly income. He became aware of Oliver’s voice from the floor above, becoming louder and angrier and Cedric’s mild answers. The ceiling shivered as he stomped up and down his father’s living room. Cedric never revealed what Oliver was angry about; the only comment he had ever passed about him to Swift was that ‘he had his funny ways.’

  He was opening the door to go down to his office when Cedric’s door slammed and Oliver came down the stairs, mouth twisted.

  ‘Hello,’ Swift said. ‘Been to see your dad?’

  Oliver shot him a look of pure poison. He was supposed to be a sculptor of some kind and used this as a reason to wash infrequently. He was wearing a khaki smock daubed in streaks of clay over denim shorts. Swift was unsure if this was a fabric design or a public promotion of his craft. His muscular legs were also clay-streaked in places. His hair flopped greasily on his shoulders and a scent of mildew hung about him. His fury crackled, igniting the air.

  ‘Him? That excuse for a father?’ he said and pushed past Swift, leaving the door swinging.

  There was a lovely silence in the hallway. Swift breathed it in and then, concerned, ran up to Cedric’s flat. He knocked and after a few moments Cedric opened the door, a small glass of brandy in his hand. He looked weary and pale, as he usually did when Oliver had visited.

  ‘Come in, dear boy.’

  ‘I just wondered if you’re okay. Oliver seemed upset so I thought you might be.’

  Swift followed him into his living room which was always neat and orderly, everything in its place, pens lined up with military precision besides the morning paper, ready for Sudoku.

  ‘Oh, you know, he gets worked up. Brandy?’

  ‘No thanks, bit early for me. It’s not too good, having someone shouting at you.’

  ‘No, no.’ Cedric sank into a chair and swirled his drink, looked into it as if it might reveal something. He laughed nervously. ‘Apparently I’m a fascist because I suggested that if he’s broke, he could try getting a job that pays a wage. It was just a thought. Didn’t go down well.’

  It was the most he had ever said about his son. Swift saw that his hand around the glass was trembling.

  ‘You know,’ he said gently, ‘you don’t have to see Oliver if he’s offensive to you. No one has to put up with that.’ Cedric’s wallet was on the coffee table and Swift guessed that he had parted with money.

  ‘No. It’s just not that simple, dear boy, when it’s family . . . Oliver’s had his troubles and struggles . . .’

  Swift didn’t buy into that model of thinking; everyone had troubles and struggles, it didn’t excuse treating other people like dirt. But he knew that family webs were intricate and layered. ‘Can I make you a coffee?’

  Cedric shook his head and downed his brandy, rallying. ‘Not at all, I’m fine. Just a tiff, you know. These things happen in families. I have to get myself shipshape; I’m off to the quiz at the library.’

  ‘Ok, if you’re sure. Boiler okay?’

  ‘Fine now. You escaped from the young cyclist who seemed out for your blood?’

  Swift told him about his meeting with Rachel Breen and Cedric laughed, his face relaxing, the colour returning to his cheeks.

  * * *

  Swift caught the train to Kingston upon Thames, then took a cab to Lilac Grange which was situated a couple of miles to the south of the town. It was raining heavily and the streets looked dank and bleak.

  He had expected a large old house adapted to a care home but Lilac Grange was a purpose-built home, opened in 2005 and operated by a national chain. It was set back from the road behind low brick walls and laurel hedges and was a bland, two-storey building with a wide central doorway with glass panels that hissed open automatically. The reception area was light and airy with numerous plants and vases of flowers. Swift introduced himself, showed his ID and signed the visitors’ book. The tiny, doll-like woman at the desk who was wearing more make-up than he had seen on any face for a long time, said she would fetch Ms Berardi and invited him to take a seat. Instead, he stood and scrutinised the noticeboard. He read about activities of the friends of Lilac Grange, the weekly lunchtime concert — a pianist was expected today — availability of visiting hairdresser and chiropodist and the day’s menu. He noted that fire evacuation procedures featured and the names of first aiders.

  He detected a musky scent and turned to see a small rounded woman in a smart light blue jacket and skirt. She held out her hand. Her smile was a little tight in her jowly face so Swift switched on full-beam charm.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said in a nasal voice, her Italian accent more pronounced in person. ‘Welcome to Lilac Grange, Mr Swift. I am Maria Berardi.’

  ‘Hello, I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  She nodded. ‘Perhaps you would like to come to my offic
e.’

  It was a command rather than a request. Swift followed her, watching her purposeful, pigeon-toed walk and thick ankles. She was wearing flat ballet pumps which seemed too insubstantial to support her broad feet and ample frame. They walked along a wide corridor, passing several care assistants in pale green uniforms, shepherding old people with sticks and Zimmer frames. One elderly man smiled and Swift smiled back, adding a good morning, glad that Cedric wasn’t likely to end up in such a place. A radio was playing classical music and there were the muted sounds of running water and cisterns flushing. Ms Berardi’s office was small and bright, with photos of residents and staff engaged in various activities. Rotas and holiday charts were pinned to a notice board. She indicated a chair for him and sat, clasping her hands before her on her plump abdomen. She was in her late thirties, he guessed. He wondered what had brought her from Italy to spend her days with the ailing population of Lilac Grange.

  ‘I’m here to find out if anything happened while Mrs Langborne was staying that might throw some light on her disappearance. I have told the police I’m visiting. They’re not planning to contact you at present.’

  Ms Berardi nodded, turned to the computer behind her and unlocked the screen, bringing up a chart. She was wearing what looked like false nails so Swift guessed she didn’t do any hands-on work with the residents.

  ‘Mrs Langborne was here for two weeks last September, from the fifth. She’d had a virus, said she felt under the weather and required rest. She stayed in Acorn wing, which is for private guests. Her record shows that she ate and slept fairly well, rarely mixed with other residents and did not wish to participate in activities. She read a good deal, knitted and walked in the gardens.’

  ‘Sounds as if she was a little aloof.’

  She looked at Swift. ‘I believe so. I did not see a great deal of Mrs Langborne until she came to my office two days before her leaving date.’

  ‘There was a problem?’

  Ms Berardi took a breath. ‘I have contacted our personnel department about this and they say I can tell you some details.’ She turned back to the screen and scrolled down the page, checking something. ‘Mrs Langborne informed me that she had discovered that one of our night carers had another job during the day. She had overheard this carer on the phone, discussing her other employment. Mrs Langborne had already commented to my deputy that she had seen this carer asleep in the staff area when she should have been awake and checking vulnerable residents; Mrs Langborne had gone to the kitchen for a drink in the early hours. We do not allow our full-time staff to work at other jobs that might compromise their caring abilities and especially those who work a night shift as they need to be alert. I had to look into it and I confirmed that this carer had another job in a bakery in the day. I’m afraid we had to dismiss her.’

  ‘Did Mrs Langborne know this would lead to the carer being sacked?’

  Ms Berardi picked at a button on her jacket sleeve. ‘I did not discuss this with her. I told her the matter would be investigated and left it there. She was, I found, a determined kind of person and told me that she had to do her duty. The carer’s dismissal took place about four weeks after Mrs Langborne left so I doubt she knew.’

  ‘And the carer? Did she know that Mrs Langborne had reported her?’

  ‘I did not inform the carer and my deputy was the only other person who knew; she would not have passed this information on. However, I can’t say that the carer might not have found out somehow. There is a large staff group here and one cannot always prevent rumours and gossip.’ She had an asthmatic wheeze when she spoke and she patted her chest. ‘It was correct that Mrs Langborne reported this to me but the carer was one of our best and I was sorry to see her go. But there we are; she had breached her contract.’

  ‘Can I have this carer’s name?’

  ‘I can give you that but I have been advised that I cannot give you her address. Her name is Charisse Lomar.’

  ‘And she left here the end of October?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Swift noted the information. ‘Was this carer, Charisse, friendly with any of the other staff here, someone who might know her whereabouts?’

  Ms Berardi’s look was not amiable. ‘I’m not sure that it would be correct for you to talk to any carers.’

  Swift nodded. ‘I know it’s a further imposition but there is an elderly lady missing, which is very worrying.’

  She made a snuffling noise and cleared her throat. She stood and looked at a rota on the wall. ‘Beata Jesowski is here this morning and I believe she and Charisse were friendly. She’s due a break so I’ll ask her if she will speak to you. It will be up to her; after all, you’re not the police. I must ask you not to speak to her of Mrs Langborne’s complaint about Charisse.’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Wait here, please, and she only has fifteen minutes for her break.’

  She locked her computer, took an inhaler from a desk drawer and exited. Swift stood and opened a window; the air in the place was stifling, like a hospital. He stood in the office doorway, observing carers coming and going. A thin old lady wearing pink curlers of the type that Lily used to employ wandered up to him.

  ‘Have you seen my Pete?’ she asked Swift. ‘He was supposed to be in for his dinner but he hasn’t shown up.’ She looked about, distractedly.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘Maybe one of the staff can help?’

  She looked around him into the office, rubbing her hands anxiously. ‘He’s not in there, is he? He’s a devil for forgetting the time.’

  ‘There’s no one else in here.’

  She clutched Swift’s arm. ‘What if he’s had an accident? I’m always warning him about those machines. The kids will be worrying. And I’ve done sausage casserole, his favourite.’

  Swift took her papery, chilly hand, seeing the distress in her faraway eyes. ‘Let’s find someone who can help.’

  ‘He cut his hand on one of those machines last year; there was a terrible lot of blood.’

  A carer was coming towards them. She took the woman’s other hand and rubbed it.

  ‘What are you doing down here, Kitty? The hairdresser’s looking for you.’

  The three of them were standing holding hands, Swift thought, as if they were about to execute a dance.

  ‘Pete’s not been in for his dinner, I’m worried about him,’ Kitty said.

  ‘Well, let’s go and get your hair finished and then we’ll see if he’s turned up. You want to look nice for him, don’t you?’ The carer took her other hand from Swift’s and started to lead her away.

  ‘Pete’s her husband, died years ago,’ she murmured to Swift over her shoulder.

  He watched them progress slowly away, Kitty still wondering where Pete was, repeating all she had said to him seconds before. Swift felt a leaden bleakness. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could work here day in and day out, dealing with the remorseless onset of second childhood. He turned back into the office and helped himself to stale-tasting water from a jug.

  There was a tap on the door and a woman in a carer’s green uniform came in. She was painfully thin with fair hair scraped back into a ponytail from a high, bony forehead.

  ‘You want to talk to me?’ she asked in a flat, pronounced accent that Swift thought was Polish.

  He stood. ‘Yes that would be helpful, Ms Jesowski. My name is Swift.’

  She sat in an upright chair near the open window. Her eyes were almost colourless, and wary. Her whole appearance was of someone who had been pared back to the bone.

  ‘I not done anything wrong,’ she said dully.

  ‘No, I’m sure you haven’t. I don’t know what Ms Berardi has told you, so I’ll explain. I’ve come because a Mrs Carmen Langborne stayed here last September. She went missing in January and her family have asked me to try and find her. I understand that you were friendly with a carer called Charisse Lomar who has now left here.’

  There was a pause. ‘I knew Ch
arisse a bit,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Are you still in touch with her?’

  Another pause, as if she was translating his words, or perhaps playing for time.

  ‘She calls me sometimes, see how I am.’

  ‘On the phone?’

  A longer pause. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know Charisse was sacked?’

  ‘Yes. Everyone know.’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  She folded her arms, blinked, and lied. ‘No. I never been her house.’

  Swift sat forward slightly and sighed. ‘You’re not in any trouble and Charisse probably isn’t either. Are you sure you don’t know where she lives?’

  There was a long silence. A small red flush had appeared on her neck. ‘You not police?’

  ‘No.’ He could almost hear her brain whirring.

  ‘I told you, I don’t know. I do good job here, is important to me.’

  ‘Okay. Did you know Mrs Langborne?’

  She relaxed a little at that question, away from the topic of Charisse. ‘I help her a couple times.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Okay. Liked to give orders; do it this way, that way, be careful. But okay.’

  ‘Did she get on with Charisse?’

  The shutters came down again. ‘I don’t know, I just do my job, keep my head down. I got to go now.’

  She got up and abruptly left the room. Swift scratched his head with frustration, adding an extra wild touch to his rain blown curls. Maria Berardi appeared but before she could speak her phone rang; she held a conversation about catering supplies while checking lists on her computer screen. As she replaced the phone, a carer hurried to the door, asking her to come quickly as Mr Blantyre had fallen heavily. She rushed away, forgetting to lock her computer. Swift closed the door quietly, then navigated to the desktop and scrutinised the icons. One was titled STAFF. He clicked it and mouthed bingo as he accessed a list with personal details. He scribbled down Charisse Lomar’s address in New Malden and her mobile phone number, exited the screen and wrote on a post-it pad on the desk; thank you for your time and help. He made his way back to reception. A piano was playing from somewhere in the depths of the building and warbling voices sang along to ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.’