Swift looked at Florence, ignoring him. ‘I have some information that might prove useful. Mrs Langborne stayed at a home in Kingston upon Thames last September and something that happened there might be relevant. I can’t say anything further as yet. I’ll let you know when I can.’
‘Right, okay. We do worry about her,’ she added, as if remembering to be concerned.
She showed him out, asking him to step softly as Helena was a light sleeper. He walked away, feeling distaste. A tutor on domestic violence, in Swift’s early days in the Met, had said that family disputes were always based on one of three things or any combination of the three; love, sex, money. (Love, he had explained reassuringly, covered hate, longing and jealousy.) The same was almost always true of murder but he agreed with Nora Morrow that the Davenports, although grasping and venal, were unlikely murderers.
* * *
Swift rang Charisse Lomar’s bell at five thirty the next evening. The door was opened almost immediately by a small boy with an eyepatch and a chip in his hand.
‘Is your mum in?’ Swift asked.
‘She’s making tea,’ he said. He sucked on the chip, satisfied with his answer.
‘Could you tell her she has a visitor?’
‘I’m a pirate,’ the boy said solemnly by way of reply.
‘So I see. Could you climb the rigging and ask your mum to step this way?’
He was one of those children who are impervious to humour. He licked his fingers and stared at Swift.
‘Robert, I told you about answering the door!’ A woman appeared, wiping her forehead with her arm, propelling the child back inside with her other hand.
‘Ms Lomar?’ Swift asked, holding out his ID and handing her his card.
‘Yes. What you want?’
‘I wondered if I could have a word. I’m Tyrone Swift, a private investigator and I’m looking for a Mrs Carmen Langborne, who has disappeared. I visited Lilac Grange and I understand you knew her when she was staying there.’
She immediately looked distressed and pushed the door forwards. ‘I not want to talk about her. She not a nice person, cause me trouble.’
‘I understand. I don’t want to cause you any. I just need to find her.’
She shook her head. Her hair was black and shiny, pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a white overall and trainers. He saw that she had a small crucifix on a chain around her neck and behind her in the hallway was a print of a beautiful, pious young man gazing upwards, hand over his heart.
‘Is that Saint Pedro Calungsod?’ Swift knew his Filipino saints from his days working with Interpol; there had been a group of women from Manila, lured to Europe with the promise of work, then bought and sold by traffickers. They were finally released and taken to a safe house in Lyon. Swift had interviewed them there and many of them had pictures of their favourite saints tucked in among their pitifully small possessions. He had eased his way into conversations with them by asking about their beliefs and getting them to talk about the saints and their homes.
‘Yes,’ Charisse said, startled. ‘You know him?’
Before Swift could reply, there were shouts and cries from within the flat and sounds of siblings engaged in desperate fisticuffs. Charisse turned and ran inside. Swift followed her, closing the door, grateful for once for the presence of children. There were two boys and a girl in the small living room. The girl was sitting at a table, eating sausages, dispassionately watching her brothers rolling on the carpet.
‘Stop!’ their mother shouted. ‘Robert, take your plate, go eat in your room. Joseph, sit down now.’ As the boys started to apportion blame she snapped her fingers. ‘I not interested, do as I say now!’ For a small woman, she had a powerful voice when cross.
The girl gave her brothers a sly look and squirted more ketchup onto her plate but she didn’t escape her mother’s attention.
‘Marcia, you the oldest, you should keep your brothers in line!’
Marcia frowned. ‘Who’s he?’ she asked, pointing her fork at Swift.
Charisse turned and sighed. Standing under the light, she looked weary. ‘You finish your tea nice and quiet, then start your homework’ she ordered. ‘I talk to this gentleman in kitchen.’
The kitchen was compact and as cluttered as the living room but the place had been painted white throughout and there were numerous well-tended house plants covering the cheap cabinets and shelves. A large bag of bread, pastries and iced buns lay on a kitchen counter and Swift saw the logo; Sally’s Bakes.
‘You best be quick,’ Charisse said, scattering more oven chips in a tray and shoving it into the oven. ‘My husband be back soon. He won’t want you here.’
Swift recalled what the neighbour had said about Mr Lomar and his fists. He stood against the fridge-freezer, which was covered in children’s drawings.
‘I know that Mrs Langborne found out that you had two jobs,’ he said.
Charisse nodded. ‘I was working nights at the home and afternoons at bakery. Now I work bakery full-time. A woman like that, what she know about having to work hard to put food on table?’
Swift thought that Carmen might know more about that than Charisse guessed. ‘You must have been very upset when you got sacked.’
‘Yes. Bad for me.’ She glanced at the clock and rinsed a few cups.
‘Did you know Mrs Langborne was the cause of your sacking?’
Her answer was guileless. ‘She nasty woman. She said to me, before she went home, that she told the manager and I probably be got rid of.’
Righteous Carmen again, Swift thought. ‘So, it must have been hard for your family.’
‘Hard, yes.’ Charisse turned around and folded her arms. ‘Was good pay at the home, bakery not so good. Is hard to get another care job now because of sacking.’
‘What did your husband say?’
She blinked rapidly. ‘He very cross. He have to do extra evening shift now.’ At the mention of him, Charisse looked at the clock again and made a pushing motion at Swift. ‘You go now, that’s all I know.’
‘Did your husband know that Mrs Langborne was the cause of your sacking?’
‘I tell him, yes, so he know it not my fault.’ She bit at her bottom lip. Swift guessed that if anything was deemed to be her fault, she suffered.
The front door slammed and Charisse jumped, knocking over an empty saucepan. A man called sharply to Marcia to hang her coat up properly and pulled open the kitchen door.
‘Who’s this?’ he asked Charisse, dumping a carrier bag full of tins on the floor. He was compact and beefy, running a little to fat around the middle, wearing a worn grey tracksuit. A pungent smell of frying fish hung around him. His stance was aggressive, legs wide apart.
‘Vincent, this man just looking for someone,’ Charisse said, casting an imploring glance at Swift.
Swift nodded. ‘Yes, I was just looking someone up for an old friend but I had the wrong address. Sorry to have disturbed you. I was just going.’
Vincent Lomar frowned, folding his arms. ‘So why are you in my kitchen? Front door not good enough?’
Charisse gestured at the cooker. ‘I was in middle of making food. No problem, no problem.’
‘Yes, I am sorry to have intruded, a bit pushy of me but the food smelled good. Well, I’ll be on my way.’
Swift stepped forward. For a moment, Lomar didn’t budge. Then he moved aside a fraction so that Swift had to squeeze past him so close he could feel the man’s body heat. He followed Swift through to the front. Swift saw Marcia and Joseph sitting still at the table, watching their father carefully, their faces blank. Lomar slammed the front door behind him as he left, so hard that the walkway seemed to shudder.
Swift descended the stairs slowly, worrying about what might now happen in the flat and that he would be the cause of it. He knew that for men like Vincent Lomar, any small transgression could provide an excuse. The signs of domestic abuse were all too clear. He walked to the station, thinking that Lomar might well have bee
n furious with Carmen Langborne. On the train, he rang Nora Morrow and updated her, stressing the delicacy of the situation and his concerns for the Lomar family.
‘Well, you have been busy,’ she said. ‘I’ll check if they’re known to social services and see if he’s got a record. Sounds like we’d better take a look. Did you see the Davenports?’
‘Yes. She was a bit subdued. I checked they’ve got enough money to pay me; that didn’t go down well.’
Nora laughed. He saw he had a call waiting so rang off and found Cedric on the line.
‘Dear boy, I’m calling from the hospital. I’m afraid Bertie and I got entangled on our walk and I came off worst. Met the pavement unexpectedly, banged my arm. They want to keep me in tonight, make sure I’m not going to pop off.’
‘I’ll come and see you.’
‘No, no; Milo’s with me. He got Bertie home safe and then followed me here. I just wanted to ask if you’ll check the flat; you know, everything turned off etc.’
‘Of course. You sure you’re okay?’
‘Yes, no fuss needed. I have a few scrapes and bruises, that’s all. Bertie was more alarmed than me.’
‘Ok. Let me know when you’ll be home tomorrow, I’ll try to be around.’
* * *
Swift stopped off at a supermarket and bought a selection of vegetables. Once a week, he made a huge pot of soup and dipped into it as needed. He would make one tonight and leave some for Cedric’s homecoming. In his kitchen, he chopped vegetables while listening to a radio play about espionage during the Korean War. Once he had the soup simmering, he switched off the radio and moved into the living room with a glass of wine. Dusk was falling so he turned on some lamps and drew the curtains. He had just picked up Cedric’s spare key when he heard a faint shuffling sound from upstairs. He waited, listening, and detected the soft tread of someone trying to move about quietly.
He picked up a heavy torch that he kept on a bookshelf and climbed the stairs to Cedric’s flat. The door was closed and he could see no sign that the lock had been forced. He eased the key in and turned, holding the handle and pushing the door slowly open. He could see from the small hallway that the living room was empty and stood, listening. Someone was in Cedric’s bedroom at the rear of the house, opening drawers and cupboards. He moved quietly towards the open bedroom door and looked through. Oliver was in there, busy fingers walking through his father’s wardrobe. Swift pointed the powerful torch at him.
‘You’re hard at it,’ he said. ‘I’ve never known you move so lightly.’
Oliver shielded his eyes, stumbling against the wardrobe door. ‘What are you doing up here?’ he asked.
‘That’s my question.’ He knew that Oliver didn’t have a key to his father’s flat; Cedric was careful about his security and Swift had the only spare one. ‘How did you get in?’
‘Take that bloody torch out of my face.’
‘If you tell me how you got in.’
‘Dad gave me a key. Not that it’s any of your business.’
Swift kept the torch on him. ‘I don’t think that’s true. I’ll ring him now to check.’ He took his phone from his pocket.
Oliver moved sideways and Swift followed him with the torch beam. He was pinned in a corner by the window.
‘I borrowed a key one time, just happened to still have it. Dad rang to say he’s in hospital so I thought I’d get him some stuff.’
‘In the dark?’
‘Oh, shut up! It’s none of your business anyway.’
Swift turned the light on and switched the torch off. ‘You haven’t rushed to the hospital to see your dad, then? That would be the usual response of a fond son.’
Oliver snatched up a rucksack lying on the bed. ‘Don’t bother trying your Hercule Poirot rubbish on me. I’ve every right to be here. Now get out of my way.’
Swift continued to block the door. ‘You don’t have a right to be here if Cedric hasn’t invited you. I think I can take a Poirot-inspired guess at why you’re rummaging around in the twilight. Looking for a will?’ He could see that he had hit home. ‘I can tell you you’re wasting your time, it’s not here.’ It was in the safe in his office and he was the executor, not Oliver.
Oliver came towards him, swinging the rucksack at him. Swift put an arm out and blocked it, then held a hand in front of his face. This close, Oliver smelled of stale sweat and something acidic.
‘You’re a right bastard,’ he spat. ‘Stay out of my business.’
‘Glad to. Now I’ll just see you off the premises but give me the key first.’
‘Sod off. You’ve no right.’
He tried to push past but Swift continued to block the door, placing his arms against the frame, staring at Oliver impassively. ‘I could call the police, you know,’ he said.
Oliver took the key from his pocket and threw it at him. It caught his chin as it fell. He thought of taking a look in the rucksack but decided that would be pushing it.
‘Out,’ he said, moving well aside in case Oliver took a swipe at him as he left.
He ran into the hallway and clattered down the stairs with a parting shout of ‘fuck off, bastard.’ He gave the front door its usual thunderous slam on his way out.
Swift picked up the key, assuming that Oliver had at some point had a copy made without his father’s knowledge. He checked through the flat. Oliver hadn’t bothered to close drawers and cupboards properly. He tidied, made sure appliances were turned off and locked the door. Downstairs, he bolted the front door and checked his soup. It was ready but his appetite had gone. He sat and drank his wine, mulling over Florence and Oliver hiding their greed and self-interest behind masks of solicitude. He would have to tell Cedric about Oliver’s visit and the key he had taken from him but he wouldn’t mention his motive; it would embarrass them both and hurt Cedric. He felt bleak and chilled. He put a jumper on, poured another drink and thought of King Lear:
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is
To have a thankless child.
* * *
Swift woke at seven a.m. in a sweat. He had been dreaming about a dimly lit roomful of women who were crying, but he didn’t know the reason. One of them had looked up, stretching her hands out to him and he had seen that it was Ruth. As he went towards her, he woke. He sat up and breathed deeply, recovering. He saw through the open curtain that it was a fine day and was relieved; later on was Joyce’s party and he would be able to meander in the garden and not get trapped at her side in the house. He made coffee, donned his rowing clothes and spent two hours on the river, still a little haunted by the crying women.
When he returned he had a text from Cedric, saying that he was on his way home with Milo. He showered and dressed in his one suit, a fine grey wool one that he had last worn for his Interpol interview. Under it he put an open-necked pale blue cotton shirt. He ladled some soup into a large bowl and took it upstairs to Cedric’s kitchen, placing it in the microwave. As he opened a living room window he saw Cedric and Milo getting out of a taxi. He waved and waited while they came up the stairs, Cedric leading the way, sporting a plaster on his right cheek. He seemed undaunted by his adventure with the pavement and clasped Swift on the shoulder.
‘Thank you, dear boy. Good of you to keep an eye on things.’
‘You’ve recovered okay?’
‘Absolutely. A good night’s shut-eye and this morning they gave me porridge that was amazingly good for the NHS. Apparently they’ve had a celebrity chef in there recently who shook them up.’
‘Love the suit, Ty,’ Milo said, peering at his jacket and fingering the front. ‘Got a hot date? If not, I’m available.’
‘No, just my stepmother’s birthday party. I’ve left some soup in the microwave, plenty for both of you. Do you want me to call in this evening?’ He thought he would leave it until later to mention Oliver.
‘That would be kind of you. I’m going to send Milo packing once I’m sorted, then I’ll take it easy. Good luck with Joyce.’
* * *
Someone — Joyce probably, it was very much her kind of gesture — had tied bunches of multicoloured balloons to the porch of her house. Swift knew that it was inevitable and right that Joyce would make her mark on her own home, but he had never adjusted to his mother’s quietly individual taste in décor being replaced by Joyce’s flamboyant preferences. Joyce favoured bold colours, brassware and heavily patterned fabrics. He chided himself for his feelings, believing that a man in his late thirties should have overcome such pettiness; after all, he hardly wanted Joyce to live in a museum dedicated to his mother’s memory. Still, as he was greeted by Joyce and went in, he winced at the wallpaper in the hall. It was green, patterned with gaudy red poppies.
‘Tyrone!’ Joyce said, hugging him close to her stout bosom, her chin just above his elbow, then standing back and examining him, hands on his arms. ‘It’s been far too long, you know. You look very well.’
‘So do you. Happy Birthday.’ He presented his gift and Joyce swept him to her again, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
She was wearing a highly floral scent and he pinched his upper lip, hoping to avoid sneezing.
‘Come on through,’ she said. ‘There are loads of people here. Mary’s around somewhere too.’
He followed her through the house to the sitting room at the back. Joyce had gone for a nautical look for her birthday; a white flouncy skirt topped by a navy-and-white striped shirt and a blue and white striped bandana in her hair. Although she grew ever plumper, she was light and graceful on her feet and fast moving. The house was heaving with guests and the noise level was high. Tyrone didn’t recognise anyone so he just smiled vaguely and generally at anyone who made eye contact with him. To his horror, Joyce clapped her hands, as if bringing a class to order and called loudly.
‘This is Tyrone, everyone; my handsome stepson and detective extraordinaire! Anybody want a crime solved, this is your man!’
There was laughter and some people raised glasses to him. He nodded and accepted a glass of wine from a man who was wearing an apron saying I’m Only Here for the Beer.
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