The Lady Vanished

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  He flinched, as suddenly he heard a woman’s voice counting in a high, quavering tone. Turning, he looked around but there was no one there. He followed the sound to the alcove and stood, listening as she counted to twenty, paused, and then started again. The door in front of him had a substantial bolt under the handle and it was pushed across. He bent to look at it; it was new and untarnished. The counting stopped, then started again, this time as far as ten, then repeated. Swift breathed in, then slid the bolt across as quietly as he could; it moved smoothly. He opened the door slowly and looked in at a small utility room, lit only by a narrow double-glazed window of opaque glass high on the outer wall. There was a thin, elderly woman in blue silk pyjamas lying on a mattress on the floor with her knees hugged to her chest. He knocked on the door and coughed.

  ‘Mrs Langborne?’

  She sat up, alarmed, scrambling to her feet.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name is Tyrone Swift. Please, don’t worry. I’m a private detective. Your family asked me to find you and I followed Mrs Farley here this morning.’ He stayed in the doorway. The air in the room was stale and smelled of cleaning fluids.

  Carmen Langborne stood, gazing at him. Her dark eyes moistened but she quickly regained control, running her tongue across her lips. The coiffured woman of the photos was looking a little dishevelled and weary, the lines on her face more deeply scored. The roots of her hair had grown out so that she had a cap of salt-and-pepper strands on top of the black, and it now reached almost to her shoulders.

  ‘You are here on your own?’ she asked, clearing her throat.

  ‘Yes. I had reason to suspect Mrs Farley so after she had gone home I broke in through the basement door. I heard you doing your exercises; counting. Have you been locked in here since January?’

  She turned away, not replying, smoothed her hair and took a dress and jacket from the back of a wooden chair.

  ‘I must go home immediately.’

  ‘Are you all right? Do you need a drink, or maybe a doctor?’

  She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I want to dress.’ She opened a sliding door in the far wall; Swift glimpsed a washbasin before she closed it.

  The room she had been confined in had a tiled floor and metal shelves with cleaning materials, light bulbs, packets of toilet tissue and tins of food. A mop, bucket and vacuum cleaner stood in a corner. There was a mattress, duvet and pillow, a tray with a plate and mug beside it and a couple of books. On the seat of the chair was a piece of knitting, the needles stuck in a ball of multicoloured wool. The high window had a lock in the centre. Swift marvelled at Carmen’s resilience and self-containment; many people would have been reduced to a wreck after several months in such confinement.

  She reappeared quickly, dressed in her creased clothing. She picked up her handbag and walked past him into the kitchen.

  ‘Please call a taxi for me,’ she said, crossing to the window and looking out. He could see the rise and fall of her chest as she took deep breaths. She smoothed at her jacket, touching the brooch on a lapel.

  He made the call, then drew two glasses of tap water and offered her one. She took it and sipped.

  ‘Would you like to use my phone to ring your family?’

  ‘Thank you. I will do that when I get home.’

  ‘The police will need to be told as well.’

  ‘I will see to all that. First, I wish to go home. Shall we wait outside?’

  It was an order which he ignored. ‘Why has Mrs Farley kept you here like this? Who does this house belong to?’

  She looked inside her bag, closed it again. ‘I really do want to go outside. I need fresh air.’

  ‘Mrs Langborne . . .’

  She held up a hand. ‘I have had quite enough of being here.’

  She spoke quietly but he could hear the tension in her voice. He understood her desire to escape the confines of the house.

  ‘Very well. Do you want your knitting and books?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I would like to come with you in the cab, make sure you’re okay.’

  ‘No, thank you. I will be perfectly all right on my own.’

  She showed no curiosity as he led her through the house, picking up the keys from the hallway. He opened the locks on the front door and she stepped out into the sunshine, wincing. She glanced back once, then moved onto the pavement; bending, she rubbed a speck from her black court shoe. As the cab approached he stepped beside her.

  ‘Mrs Langborne, you are a courageous woman but you might well feel badly shocked once you arrive home. I would like to accompany you.’

  ‘Absolutely not. Thank you anyway.’

  She stepped into the cab without another word. He watched as it drove away, feeling amazed, annoyed and stunned. He rang Florence’s number and got her answerphone so left a message, informing her only that Carmen was on her way home. He started to call Nora Morrow but then hesitated and phoned for a cab instead; he wanted a chance to speak to Ronnie before the Met got hold of her. Despite what she had done, he had a soft spot for her and wanted to hear her story.

  Ronnie’s curtains were closed again, shutting out the late afternoon sun. Swift rang her bell several times with no response. He looked through the letterbox and called her name. There was no sign of her and he could hear no movement. He tried her phone but she didn’t pick up and he couldn’t hear it ringing from within the flat. He left a message, saying he needed to speak to her urgently.

  He caught a bus near the tube station and headed towards Holland Park. Heat had been gathering during the day and the air was humid. Carmen’s house was glowing in the sun, much as it had been the first day he had visited and Ronnie welcomed him in. As he approached, Swift saw Florence parking and waited outside the house as she locked her car and hurried towards him.

  ‘Has your stepmother called you?’

  ‘Yes, about half an hour ago. She wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, just that she’s fine. I’ve been trying to get hold of Rupe but he’s in a meeting. What’s going on? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I think we should go in first.’

  Florence opened her mouth then shook her head and pressed the doorbell. After a few moments Carmen Langborne opened it.

  ‘Carmen!’ Florence shrieked, swooping forward and kissing her on the cheek. ‘Where on earth have you been?’

  ‘Do come in, Florence. Why is this gentleman with you?’

  ‘Oh, his name is Mr Swift; I asked him to look for you. Let’s get inside and I’ll explain.’

  Carmen gave Swift a sidelong glance, then led the way in, leaving him to close the door. They went into the living room, where there was a tray with tea and biscuits and a half-full cup. Florence rattled on about how worried she had been. Swift noted that Carmen looked showered and fresh, her hair now rolled into a pleat. She was wearing a blue jersey dress, navy blue pumps and pearls and her face was carefully made up. Swift gauged that she had been home for just over an hour and had made full use of the time. He could only admire her sangfroid.

  ‘Engaging a private detective must have been expensive,’ she said to Florence. Her voice was reedy, her diction slow after months of little conversation.

  ‘Carmen, we were so worried about you! We thought . . . well, we thought the worst.’ Florence’s eyes brimmed; Swift thought it was probably relief at the restoration of the status quo and family finances. ‘Where have you been, why didn’t you contact us?’

  ‘Where are my darling cats, who is looking after them? When can I bring them home?’

  Florence looked at Swift, who shrugged. Ronnie hadn’t told her, then, about Langborne’s disposal of them.

  Florence twisted her hands together. ‘Rupert had them rehomed through some charity. I don’t know the details. He had to sack Mrs Farley and then there was no one to come in and look after them.’

  Carmen closed her eyes, a spasm of distress crossing her face. ‘I will never forgive him,’ she said flatly.

  ‘I
suppose he didn’t know what else to do,’ Florence said.

  Carmen looked at her. ‘He couldn’t have taken them in, or even you, perhaps? You could have come here and fed them. You don’t mind asking me for money but you wouldn’t even do that for me.’ She put a hand to her mouth.

  Swift thought she had aged ten years in a few moments. The loss of her cats had disturbed her equilibrium more than several months of confinement. She was holding herself carefully, containing her emotions.

  ‘Have you phoned the police?’ he asked.

  She ignored him. ‘Florence, I want you to contact Rupert and find out where my darlings are, then let me know. I don’t want Rupert to speak to me. Do you understand?’

  Florence nodded.

  ‘You can go away now,’ she said, ‘both of you. I’m here and well. I have things to do.’

  Swift moved his chair forward. ‘Mrs Langborne, it isn’t as simple as that. The police will be here sometime soon and they will want to know where you have been.’

  She looked sideways, apparently studying the garden through the back window. After a few minutes she spoke, still gazing outwards.

  ‘I was very troubled about something, a personal matter. I went to stay in a friend’s house in the countryside so that I could think and have peace. My friend is abroad for some time. That is all I am prepared to say.’

  ‘But you must have known we would be looking for you!’ Florence protested.

  Carmen poured some tea into her cup and snapped a biscuit in two. Swift gazed at her; she had clearly decided that lies and silence would be her best policy, but why?

  ‘Mrs Langborne,’ Swift said, repeating her name softly until she looked at him. ‘Mrs Farley kidnapped you. The police will question her. I know what happened, I broke into a house and let you out of a utility room just a short while ago and I will be telling the police the details. I’m afraid you are going to have to be truthful. You can’t really believe that you can maintain a fiction.’

  She put the teacup down and sank back, her face blank.

  ‘Mrs Farley?’ Florence asked, her voice cracking. ‘What’s any of this to do with her? What house did you break into?’ She had gone pale and was gaping, looking from Swift to her stepmother.

  ‘Florence, why don’t you go and try your brother again?’ Swift urged. ‘I think it would be good for your stepmother to have some information about the cats.’ She was going to need whatever comfort she could get to shore her up.

  Florence shook her head, then took her phone from her bag and left the room, glancing back as if to check she wasn’t imagining Carmen’s return.

  Swift spoke slowly. ‘You have had a terrible and traumatic experience. I don’t understand why you are lying about it and I won’t collude in the lie. If it helps to know, William Pennington died this week.’

  Carmen laughed and shuddered. ‘Mr Pennington! How odd; Rupert will probably want to claim him as a father now, rather than the one he thought he had. Such irony!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  She shot him a look and spoke glacially. ‘Why should you? You don’t know me.’

  ‘No, but I know about William Pennington and I met him before his death. You saw Rupert that day you went missing, on the thirty-first, didn’t you? You were giving him a final ultimatum about acknowledging his natural father.’

  She curled her arms around her skinny chest. ‘I took the train to Maidenhead and Rupert met me there. He insisted on discussing the matter somewhere neither of us would be known. We lunched in a not very pleasant restaurant. He was twisting and turning, wanting to buy more time. I pointed out that time was one thing he didn’t have. I informed him as I left that I would have to advise Daphne; I thought she might be able to make him see sense. He will regret now that he didn’t meet William Pennington.’

  ‘Why did Mrs Farley do this to you? Had you harmed her in some way or was imprisoning you related in some way to her son’s suicide?’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent,’ she said, sitting up straight. ‘I don’t need your concern or your questions and I resent your intrusion. Please go away now.’ She rose and walked to the window, retying the curtain holdback.

  ‘I will go, but the police will make my impertinence seem like the height of good manners.’

  Swift walked into the hallway as Florence was ending a phone call.

  ‘I can’t reach Rupe, he’s not going to be available until later. What’s going on in there? Where has Carmen been these past months?’ She clutched at his arm.

  ‘It’s not for me to tell you.’

  ‘Oh, if it’s because I terminated your contract, if you’re being petty . . .’

  He was hot and tired and had had enough of the Langbornes and their incivility.

  ‘Mrs Davenport, it isn’t for me to tell you the details now. Your stepmother was kidnapped by Mrs Farley and is in a bad way, despite appearances. I have no idea why she is spinning a story about staying at a friend’s place. It may be partly because of shock. You need to look after her and probably you should call Doctor Forsyth. There are difficult times ahead and the police will not accept her lady-of-the-manor behaviour. You should call the police now, especially as a crime has been committed; I think I’ll give you that responsibility. I’ll speak to them myself in a while to give them details about how I found her.’

  She had been chewing at her lower lip while he was speaking. She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of water, gulping it. ‘But it’s all so bizarre!’

  ‘Yes; but what your stepmother has just said is even more peculiar.’ He opened the front door. ‘By the way, no need to thank me for finding her, despite the fact you’d ended my contract. It would be acceptable if you add a few more days of payment to the final bill.’

  Swift left her to it and stepped out of the house, seating himself for a few moments on the wall. He should be feeling sympathy for the woman who had been imprisoned, but he could only think of the woman who had lied while feeding him her home baking. He tried Ronnie’s phone again but got no response. A sense of unease nudged at him. He decided to return home to check if there were any messages.

  CHAPTER 13

  Cedric had left Swift’s post by his front door. He put the bundle on the kitchen counter and made coffee. While it brewed, he checked for any messages on his landline but found none. Although it was now six thirty, he had no appetite; his brain was too busy trying to puzzle out Carmen’s reasons for lying about her captivity. He sat at the table and checked his emails, opening one from Mark Gill:

  Hi mate, heard you had a run in with a hard man so hope you’re okay. I thought of ringing you but reckoned this would be easier by mail. I was passing through Victoria station the other day and saw you with Ruth. I know you were gutted when she left, so I just wanted to say be careful. I didn’t know whether or not to tell you this but you know, you always had my back so I decided to go for it. See you, Mark.

  Swift sighed. You’d think London would be big enough not to be spotted but Mark was sound and could be relied on not to mention his sighting to anyone else. It had started to rain after the moist heat of the day; a light, desultory misting. He watched it drift in the trees through the back window, then replied:

  Hi Mark. Thanks for the good wishes. I’ll take care. Catch up soon.

  He turned to the post, opened a couple of bills and flyers, then a brown padded envelope with no stamp or postmark and just his name in blue biro and capitals. Inside was a brass key attached to a fob in the shape of a St Brigid’s cross and a note in tiny, carefully formed handwriting:

  Dear Tyrone. This is the key to my place. I don’t want the ambulance or police to have to break down the door and all the neighbours gawping. As I said, you’re a braw min and I’m sorry to do this to you but on the other hand I trust you.

  You never looked down on me.

  God bless, Ronnie.

  He threw his jacket on as he called a cab. It was now almost five hours since he had last
seen her and several more since he had tried without success to visit her; she must have travelled to his door to deliver the letter but even so, enough time had elapsed for harm to be done. He phoned for an ambulance, emphasising that he was on his way to Ronnie’s with a key and waited outside in the rain for the cab, telling the driver it was an emergency. Traffic was easy until they approached Ladbroke Grove and the usual snarl-up appeared. He told the driver to stop, threw him the fare and ran, weaving through the pedestrians. The rain, now more intent, was slicking his hair and dripping down his collar. There was no sign of an ambulance as he raced up the steps and opened Ronnie’s door. He left it open, heading up the stairs. The four doors off the hallway were closed. He took a breath and opened the one on his right, looking into the empty bathroom. He wiped his damp hands on his jeans and opened the door to the living room.

  She was lying on the floor by the dining table, on her side, her right arm thrown outwards. Her feet were bare, her eyes open and dull. He stepped closer and saw a deep gaping wound, running from the middle of her forehead to the side of her head. The bleeding had stopped and blood had congealed darkly underneath her cheek. He knew immediately that she was dead. He felt a momentary confusion because this was no suicide, then crouched beside her and checked that there was no pulse. There was a smear of blood on the table edge and a mug of coffee had fallen from the top; the mug had broken into three jagged pieces, the coffee staining the curtains of the balcony door and the lower wall. Something caught his eye below her right knee. Leaning carefully over her, he saw two flattened strands of pale purple heather. He took out his LED pocket torch and shone it on them. Then he phoned 999 again, this time for the police.