‘Please spare yourself the bother, Mr Swift. I’m not going to be drawn on the matter.’
Swift decided to take a punt on guess work. ‘I think you saw your stepmother on January thirty-first; possibly in Berkshire. Mrs Farley said she seemed in an upbeat mood around that time. I’ve clarified that she had your father’s letter photocopied just before Christmas and I believe she showed you the letter when she next saw you, on New Year’s Day. I expect she agreed to give you time to think about it; even she would realise it was a shock. By the end of January, she had decided, with that rigid moral compass of hers that the truth had to come out. Being righteous makes some people cheerful, doesn’t it? And Mrs Langborne was a little bored and lonely quite a lot of the time. Knitting doesn’t afford much drama; your suddenly revealed paternity must have spiced her days up no end.’
Langborne’s control was admirable but his jaw was working from side to side. He picked up his carrier bag, opened the lock and looked at Swift.
‘I am going to make myself supper. If you haven’t left this building within five minutes, I’ll call the police.’ He shook the umbrella as he closed the door, spraying Swift with raindrops.
Swift’s head was aching again, albeit mildly. He decided to call it a day, knowing that as long as Langborne presented a blank facade, there was very little chance of unearthing any information. At least he’d had the satisfaction of annoying him. A sudden spasm rippled through his lower back as he walked to the lift and he stood for a minute by the wall, massaging it and stretching.
At home, he microwaved a bowl of his soup, ate a lump of cheese, and brewed coffee. Then he lay on the sofa, watching a documentary about the moon. He dozed off halfway through until he was woken by his phone ringing.
‘Is that Mr Swift?’
‘Speaking.’ His throat was dry and he reached for his cold coffee dregs.
‘Oh, hi. You came into our shop a couple of days ago. You were asking about Mrs Langborne and her photocopying.’
‘Yes. Is that Sam?’
‘That’s me. Well, I kept that card you left and I thought I’d let you know that one of my part-time girls said something today that might interest you.’
‘Go on.’
‘I mentioned to her that we’d had a private detective in about Mrs Langborne and her being missing. Doesn’t happen every day! Well, Lauren, that’s her name, only works three days a week and around the end of January I had a week off, went to Tenerife. Lauren said that Mrs Langborne had dropped some charity leaflet off for photocopying on January thirtieth and Lauren said she’d pop them round when she’d had a chance to do them. We like to go that extra mile for our customers. The shop was ever so busy so she didn’t do them till the next day. She lives near Earl’s Court and she’s got a little car so she dropped them off at Mrs Langborne’s about half four that evening, the thirty-first. She’s definite that was the date because it was her brother’s birthday and she was going on to dinner with him that evening.’
‘Did she ring or knock?’
‘Hang about, I’m getting to the really interesting bit; well, I think so anyway. She didn’t ring the bell, just pushed the envelope through the letterbox. Her car was parked up the road a bit and when she went to drive off she saw a woman going into Mrs Langborne’s.’
‘Not Mrs Langborne.’
‘No. Now, I knew this might be important so I got her to write down what she could remember.’ Sam spoke more slowly, reading. “It was a tall woman in a cream-coloured mac. Her hair was short and dark. I didn’t see her face because her back was to me but she had a bag with long straps and she was letting herself in with keys.”’
Swift gripped the phone. ‘This Lauren, she’s quite sure about this, about the date and time?’
‘Oh, she’s very reliable, Lauren and as I said, it was her brother’s birthday. You don’t get that kind of thing wrong, do you? Well, women don’t anyway. You men are sometimes unreliable from that point of view.’
Swift took Lauren’s name and phone number. He thanked Sam for the call and immediately rang Lauren, who cheerfully confirmed what he had been told.
‘Me and Sam were ever so upset,’ she said. ‘We sort of remembered news about someone going missing back then but we didn’t put two and two together. I mean, you’re not expecting that kind of thing, are you?’
She sounded just like Sam; Swift wondered if it was coincidence or if working together made them pick up each other’s speech patterns.
‘Will I have to talk to the police?’ she went on eagerly.
‘I expect so. Leave it with me for now.’
‘So do you think she’s been murdered, this lady?’
‘I don’t know. Don’t talk to anyone else about this for now. I’ll be back in touch with you, or the police will.’
He ended the call and paced around the room. It had been in front of him all the time; those keys of Ronnie’s, the bunch he had seen at Carmen’s house, sitting by the bag with long straps. He recalled her shaking out her cream-coloured mac, smoothing the creases. What reason would she have to harm Carmen? He thought of her height and vigour; she would have had the strength to overpower the much smaller woman. He made fresh coffee and sat for a long time, allowing his memory to snake back over all the conversations he’d had since that first encounter with Florence Davenport. He thought of Ronnie, sitting in charge of the house, accessing it whenever she wanted, sneaking drinks, baking, lounging in the garden, making herself at home. She had possibly been playing him all along, feeding him misinformation about Carmen’s mood, sending him along paths she wanted him to walk. He fetched his notes and read them until he was so exhausted that he dragged himself to bed and crashed out fully clothed on top of the duvet.
CHAPTER 11
Swift rang the bell of Carmen’s house, just after ten the following morning. There was no reply so he tried Ronnie’s phone; it switched to answerphone and he rang off. He sat on one of the steps in the sun and phoned Florence.
‘Florence, hi, I’m at your stepmother’s, looking for Mrs Farley, I wanted to speak to her. This is one of her days for working here.’
‘Well, you won’t find her there; Rupert’s sacked her.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Couple of days ago. He goes in now and again to check on things and said he found her at the sherry. He reckons she’s been stealing; drink and some ornaments. He told her he’d get the police in unless she went straight away. I thought you knew; last time you rang, you told me in that oblique way you have that I ought to speak to him about something.’
Swift touched his bruise, which had decided to throb. ‘What about the cats?’
‘Rupe organised for one of those animal charities to take them. Listen, I was going to call you today; I don’t think there’s much point in you carrying on with looking for Carmen. You haven’t really come up with anything and the police have told me they can’t find any evidence about that guy they questioned. If you send me your bill I’ll settle up with you.’
‘Has Rupert suggested you end my services?’
‘No, although I can’t say he’s sounded too impressed with you.’
‘So, what about your stepmother?’
‘I’ll just have to leave it to the police. I have to dash and pick Helena up from playgroup. Email me your bill.’
‘Hang on; before you go, have you got a home address for Mrs Farley?’
‘Ahm, I think so. Why do you need to see her?’
‘Just a few loose ends.’
‘Well . . . if you want to waste your time. Here it is: 3 Carlisle Court, somewhere around Notting Hill. Bye now.’
Not even an attempt at a thank you, Swift thought. He stood and looked up at the empty, silent house and the two door locks that needed those substantial keys. He googled the address he had been given and saw that it was just off Westway. It was time, he thought, that he had a look at Ronnie’s home turf. He bought a coffee and waited for a bus, taking one painkiller. The bus c
rawled along in heavy traffic up to Ladbroke Grove, dropping him outside the tube station. He breathed in the fumes and stepped into the crush of shoppers and tourists heading to and from Portobello Road. He walked under the flyover and in the direction of Westbourne Park. Despite the crowds, he always thought that London was at its best in late spring with white and pink cherry blossom covering trees and sprinkling the pavements; a photo in the free paper he had read on the bus called it ‘nature’s own confetti’ which was twee but accurate.
Carlisle Court was in a cul-de-sac on the left, a block of maisonettes with balconies and a row of shops beneath; launderette, newsagent, minimart. There was a small fenced children’s play area with hedging around it. Ronnie’s place was on the first floor and as he would have expected, had gleaming windows, front door and paintwork. He had to ring the bell several times before she answered through an intercom, her voice muffled.
‘Ronnie? Hi, it’s Tyrone Swift. There’s something I need to check with you. Florence Davenport gave me your address.’
‘Hang on a wee min, I was having a wash.’
He waited for five minutes, looking down on people going to and from the shops, thinking how much pleasanter this social housing was than that occupied by the Lomars. He turned when he heard the door opening. Ronnie was dressed in a fresh white T-shirt and linen trousers and wearing lipstick, but her eyes were bloodshot, her hair flattened at the sides. A wave of alcohol washed towards him. She looked as if she hadn’t slept much.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he said. ‘I did try to ring.’
‘That’s okay. Come away in.’
She led the way up a flight of stairs to a small landing with four doors leading off it; the one on the left was open into the living room. Although it was a warm day, the windows were closed and the air reeked of cigarette smoke and alcohol.
‘Sit you down’ she said, seating herself in an armchair with an oval table beside it. It held an ashtray and burning cigarette which she reached for and put between her lips.
Swift sat in an upright chair. The room was sparsely furnished with three single chairs, a TV and a small melamine dining table in the corner by the balcony window. There was one slim white bookshelf with a clock, a couple of photographs and several copies of The Lady. The wall next to him had a vintage railway poster of a stag standing among hills with the legend beneath, SCOTLAND FOR YOUR HOLIDAYS. It seemed he wasn’t going to be offered coffee or cake.
‘I’m sorry to hear you lost your job at Mrs Langborne’s; Florence told me when I phoned her.’
‘Aye, well; it was going to end soon enough anyway. I never got on with Rupert; he was just lookin’ for an excuse to fire me. It’s the pussycats I feel sorry for. I wouldnae be surprised if he had them put down, he’s a callous one.’
‘If Mrs Langborne comes back home, she’ll be extremely upset.’
She gave him a neutral stare and pulled deeply on the stub of her cigarette before she squashed it into the ashtray. ‘Aye, she will. That’ll be Rupert’s problem.’ She tipped another cigarette out of a packet and lit up.
‘Will you be getting another job to replace Mrs Langborne?’
‘We’ll see. I’ve a bit put by and my other clients. I might rest my tired feet a wee while. So, what can I do for yez anyway?’
He wondered if she had already been drinking that morning or if her terseness and slight slurring was a leftover of the night before. There was no sign of a bottle or glass but he suspected she had been tidying up while he was waiting outside.
‘You remember January thirty-first?’
‘Aye, of course.’ Her accent had broadened under the influence of the booze.
‘When you let yourself into Mrs Langborne’s house late that afternoon, did you see an envelope on the floor?’
She sucked on her cigarette, her hand jerking a little. ‘What you on about? I wasn’t there that day, remember?’
He shook his head. ‘Someone saw you going in there at about four thirty.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s not right. What someone?’
‘The person who delivered the envelope. They saw you from their car.’
‘Nah; that’s a load of hooey. I was home here, where I usually am, watching telly.’
Swift picked up a shell from a grouping on the window ledge, stroking its ridged surface. ‘Why did Rupert sack you?’
She attempted to smile at him but it was more of a grimace, a tightening of the lips; nothing remained of the old Ronnie with the welcoming manner in her borrowed Holland Park empire. She was good at pulling the wool over people’s eyes, he had to hand her that; yet he sensed that fooling him hadn’t afforded her a malicious pleasure but had been more of a necessity.
‘Och, he went on about some ornaments vanishing. I don’t know what he was talking about. He was just looking for an excuse. I got those shells in Bournemouth many a year ago. A lovely afternoon on the beach it was. Happier days. When I was little I used to believe you could hear the sound of the sea from inside a shell; you know, if you held a big one to your ear. It was my da told me that. The fibs children get told! He told me as well, my da, that they made blue cheese by putting maggots in it. I didn’t touch it for years.’ She smiled to herself, then sighed. ‘Ach, you can tell children all kinds of tales and they’ll believe you. Did you get told those kinds of porkies, Ty?’
Swift stood and looked out at the balcony with its handsome, flower-filled tubs and carefully placed stone frogs and birds. Keeping her external world in order must help her control an inner chaos. He sat again and gave her a smile back.
‘I think only the usual stories about witches and leprechauns and fairies. I knew they were make-believe.’
She nodded. ‘I must have been more gullible. Maybe it’s in the genes; aye, maybe that’s it.’
‘I think you’ve lost me Ronnie; you’ve drifted away somewhere. Speaking of porkies, I think you’ve been telling me some. I’m not sure now about Mrs Langborne having a gentleman friend. I’m not at all sure about quite a few of the things you’ve told me. I don’t know why you’ve been spinning your stories but I’ll concede you’re good at it. I believe it was you at Mrs Langborne’s that evening of the thirty-first. I was hoping you’d tell me why you were there.’
‘Would you like a wee drink? A whisky? I’ve a Highland malt, good and smoky.’
‘It’s a bit early for me.’
‘I’ll have one, then. Yes, I think I’ll have a little drinky.’ She rose and opened a cupboard, taking out a bottle and glass and bringing them to the small table. She poured a good measure, slopping it a little and raised it, saying ‘slainte!’ Swallowing a gulp, she breathed heavily through her nose and pointed a finger at him. ‘Did you know, Ty, there are songs about Tyrone, the place in Ireland? My granma used to sing them. She came over from Omagh to pick spuds, met my granda and stayed in Aberdeen. Her favourite was called “The Emigrant’s Farewell.”’ She held the glass to the light and looked at it, then sang in a tuneful, vibrant voice:
Fare thee well my native green clad hills
Fare thee well my shamrock plains
Ye verdant banks of sweet Lough Neagh
With your silvery winding streams
Though far from home in green Tyrone
From where you and I did stray
I adore you Killycolpy
Where I spent my youthful days.
She caught some ash in her hand and deposited it in the ashtray, then poured herself another half tumbler of whisky.
‘You’ve a good voice,’ he said.
‘Thank you, kind sir. You’re all right, y’know Ty, a braw min. Nicer than that bastard Rupert. My granma would have said he’d take the pin out of an orphan’s bib. Mean, y’know.’
‘You know something about Mrs Langborne, don’t you, Ronnie? Maybe you know what’s happened to her.’
She blinked, patted her chest and said in that careful way that drinkers have of choosing their words, ‘Now, Ty dear, I coul
d tell you that I went to the house that evening cos I’d forgot something and I saw Mrs L lying dead on the floor with a knife stuck through her and the murderer running away out the back. But I didn’t!’ She laughed. ‘Did I get your hopes up?’
‘No, Ronnie, you didn’t.’ Swift went to the photos and pointed at one of her with a young boy, a teenager. Ronnie had her arm hooked through his and was looking at him, smiling. ‘This is a lovely photo. Who are you with?’
‘That’s ma son.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Liam.’
‘Oh, I thought you said you don’t have any family here in London.’
She rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘He’s dead and gone many a year, my wee Liam.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Aye, I believe you are. Some folk have kind hearts, many more haven’t.’ She drank again and sank into a reverie, her chin on her chest.
‘Yet you repay my kindness with lies?’
She shook her head, not looking at him. ‘Who told you kindness meets with kindness? They were fibbing to you. Another tall tale.’
Swift saw a small pile of loose photos at the back of the shelf. On the top was one of Ronnie, standing in a garden in a summer dress; she was younger but the hair was the same. He glanced to check that she was still lost in thought, then took the photo and slipped it into his pocket.
He touched her arm and sat back down. ‘Ronnie, if you talk to me I might be able to help you. I’d like to. I think you will have to talk to the police because a witness says you went into Mrs Langborne’s that evening and you’ll have to explain why.’
She looked up and past him. It was a look that seemed to be gazing into some other vista, far removed from the place they were in.
‘Y’know, my life hasn’t amounted to much, when all’s said and done. No silvery winding streams for me. More of a stormy ocean and I lost my lifebelt somewhere along the way. Have you ever felt that way, Ty, as if you’re just drifting, no direction?’
‘I have once when I was in a bad way. A woman left me. I felt like that for a long time.’
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