The Lady Vanished

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The Lady Vanished Page 20

by GRETTA MULROONEY


  Swift was rewarded by a rapid flicker of Langborne’s eyelids.

  ‘I’ve had a long day, Mr Swift. You can leave now.’

  Swift kept his expression neutral as he rose. ‘You should call the police and tell them what you have told me, Mr Langborne.’ At the door he turned. ‘William Pennington didn’t strike me as an abuser, if that’s any small comfort to you.’

  * * *

  In the street, Swift stopped outside the railings and moved the jigsaw pieces around in his head, unable to resolve the conundrum of the heather. Langborne seemed to be off the hook but for some reason the knowledge wasn’t affording the man the relief it should have done. He looked around and crossed the road, walking to the corner of another tall block of flats and standing under an awning that covered the doors. He had a feeling that Langborne would be on the move soon and had an idea of his destination. It was nearly nine o’clock; he knew that Ruth would be waiting for him to contact her but he tucked that guilt away for now and focused on the door to Langborne’s block.

  Fifteen minutes later, Langborne emerged, dressed in the same clothes and wearing a blazer. No luggage, which was reassuring. Within moments, a taxi pulled up and he climbed in. Swift followed as it drove off towards the Brompton road. He ran then, looking for a taxi, flagging one after a couple of minutes, by which time Langborne’s had disappeared. He went with his gut instinct, giving the driver Florence’s address. He asked for the taxi to stop at the end of the street, then walked to Florence’s house. The lights were on in the hall and living room and the front window was open. Swift stood by the front door and listened; he could just hear Langborne’s voice and the lighter tone of Florence’s and gauged that they were in the downstairs room at the back. He looked around; the street was empty, nearby curtains closed with TV screens flickering within.

  Swift set to work with his lock pick, taking just two minutes to open the Yale and step softly into the hallway. As he did he heard his name.

  ‘Oh, that bloody Swift!’ Florence said. ‘What does he know? He’s just a troublemaker. He’s taken against us and you haven’t helped with your attitude.’

  ‘Calm down! What’s the matter with you? You’re doing that thing of rubbing your eyebrow. I haven’t seen you do that since dad died.’

  She half laughed, half sobbed. ‘More than my eyebrow will be worn away now, there’ll be plenty to grieve over; the family name, for starters.’

  ‘Flo, you need to level with me. I believe Swift when he said Farley left a letter with her allegations about dad. Did you go there today to see her? Did something happen? I need to know; we need to know what we’re going to tell the police.’

  ‘Of course, I bloody didn’t go to see her! I had my hands full with Carmen, didn’t I? The old bat was raging on about you and those cats. I’d have liked to murder her all right! And you’ll have to stop calling him dad, won’t you? Carmen took great pleasure in telling me about your real father. I’ve suddenly lost half a sibling! There isn’t anything else you’d like to reveal to me, is there? Our mother was our mother, was she? We weren’t selected from orphanages?’

  ‘Stop being ridiculous and steady yourself. You’re a fine one to talk; you never bothered telling me that you’d been taken in for questioning by the police or the little matter of a substantial loan request to Carmen.’

  ‘I suppose Swift told you that.’

  ‘It’s a lesson to learn, isn’t it? Don’t employ a private detective if you want your secrets to stay secret.’

  Swift held his breath as he heard the footsteps but Florence paced halfway up the room, her shadow falling on the floorboards, then back to her brother.

  ‘You should have told me about dad’s disgusting behaviour before yesterday,’ she said sullenly. ‘I had a right to know. I couldn’t sleep last night, after you phoned, I was so upset. I couldn’t stop thinking about what this will do to us. Paul’s been away on business so I had no one to talk to. You know what happens with this kind of allegation, all kinds of low life start coming out of the woodwork.’ Her voice climbed the scale. ‘And now all this today, finding out that Carmen was kidnapped. I can’t believe this is happening, it’s like being in a nightmare you can’t wake up from!’

  ‘Oh now, are you quite sure you never suspected anything about our father?’ Langborne spoke softly. ‘And would you have believed me? You thought the sun shone from his proverbial. I take it he didn’t meddle with you, then.’

  ‘Oh, shut up! No, he didn’t. He was the best father to me, until that Spanish cow stole him. God, I need a stiff drink!’

  ‘Give me one while you’re at it, will you; whisky if you can still afford it these days.’

  There was silence as a cupboard was opened, then the chink of glass and Florence cursing.

  ‘Oh, sit down and let me do it, you’re spilling it everywhere,’ Rupert ordered.

  As he waited Swift’s gaze fell on a riding hat and various coats hanging on the hall pegs. On the middle peg was a woman’s jacket made of a thin green cotton and on the lapel was a thistle and heather buttonhole, identical to the one he had seen Rupert wearing. He moved closer to it and saw that the base of the heather was frayed.

  He left the house, closing the door softly behind him and walked a few paces away. He rang Nora Morrow, willing her to pick up.

  ‘Yes?’ she snapped.

  ‘You need to come to Florence Davenport’s house right now.’

  ‘Well, I’m trying to raise Rupert at the moment but he doesn’t seem to be in. You know, following your heather clue.’

  ‘He’s here, at his sister’s. He says he has a watertight alibi for today. She has a buttonhole of the same heather, I’ve just seen it on her jacket and it’s clearly torn on one edge. Must be some kind of family thing.’

  ‘What the hell? You’ve been talking to Langborne? You do know about interfering with police enquiries?’

  ‘We can discuss that later. You need to get round here now. I’ll hang on outside the house in case she tries to leave.’

  ‘Give me strength!’

  He took that as an affirmative and paced up and down the street. A car turned in from the opposite end and parked in a tight space with a deal of reversing and positioning. Swift saw Paul Davenport get out and trudge along the pavement, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a small canvas bag in the other. He turned away, holding his phone to his ear until Davenport had disappeared into the house. A woman came towards him with a straining dog on a leash and glanced at him. He nodded, saying it was a lovely evening and his cab was taking ages. She nodded back and strode away, trying to keep up with the dog.

  It had started to rain again when Nora arrived with two uniformed officers. She slammed the car door and beckoned to him. She looked hot and cross.

  ‘I haven’t time for you now. Did you mention the buttonhole to Langborne?’

  ‘Of course not. I was flushing him out; I just said there was evidence. He came straight here after I left him. He rang Florence last night after Ronnie Farley’s phone call and told her what Ronnie had alleged. If he hadn’t harmed Ronnie that left him to draw an obvious conclusion. The jacket is hanging in the hallway and, no, I didn’t touch it.’

  The rain was suddenly tipping down. Nora flicked her hair out of her eyes and gestured to the two officers.

  ‘Make yourself scarce now.’

  He watched as she rang the doorbell and was admitted, then he hunched his shoulders against the downpour and ran to the shelter of the tube station to wait for a taxi.

  * * *

  Swift heard Oliver Sheridan’s elephant tread on the stairs at just gone eleven as he ate cheese on toast in front of the TV. The forecast was for a heatwave following the rain and he wrote himself a reminder to buy some higher factor sun cream for the river. He had texted Ruth from the taxi and his phone rang as he was washing up and pouring himself a glass of wine.

  ‘Hi, Ruth, how are you?’

  ‘Oh, okay. Heart sick now instead of in the stomac
h.’ She sounded far away, distracted. ‘It all happened very quickly.’

  ‘Are you in any pain?’

  ‘No, not now.’

  ‘Just in the heart.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Walking round the garden. Emlyn’s asleep now. He’s taken it worse than me, in a way. He’s been crying; saying he’s a useless husband.’

  ‘It’s not his fault.’

  ‘No; but he feels — oh, I don’t know, contagious, as if he jinxes people.’ There was a silence. ‘I hope you don’t mind me ringing you. I needed to talk and Emlyn won’t, he’s gone into himself. You’re my best friend, Ty; I’ve come to understand that.’

  He paced up and down the living room. Her words made him elated and despairing. She shouldn’t be speaking to him in this way. Oliver’s raised voice sounded upstairs, climbing the scale so he went back through to the kitchen.

  ‘It’s sad, I know, Ruth, but there must have been something wrong with the baby presumably.’

  ‘Oh yes, I know. For the best et cetera. To be honest, I don’t know if we’ll consider a child again after this. There’s enough heartbreak as it is.’

  ‘You were seeing your pregnancy as something hopeful when we met.’

  ‘I was. I’m not sure now.’

  ‘That’s natural at the moment. You must be depressed and this isn’t a time to make decisions. You’ll need a chance to recover.’

  ‘When did you get so wise? You sound like the nurse yesterday; she was sensible and kind too.’

  ‘Probably best to accept all the kindness and sensible advice you can.’

  ‘It’s a lovely night sky here. I’d best get to bed, try to sleep. Is it okay if I ring you again?’

  He assured her that it was, thinking of his previous resolve to end contact. It occurred to him as she rang off that, like Carmen, Ruth had no women friends and that this was unusual. He rubbed his forehead and took a deep draught of his wine, almost spilling it as he heard Cedric shout in pain overhead, a high, agonised cry.

  * * *

  He grabbed Cedric’s key and ran up the stairs two at a time, throwing open the door. In the flat, he saw Cedric sitting, holding his arm and Oliver standing over him.

  ‘What’s going on? Cedric?’ He crossed to Cedric’s chair and saw the bright red mark on his right forearm. He turned to Oliver. ‘You just did this, didn’t you?’

  ‘Tyrone, it’s all right, Oliver was just a little upset,’ Cedric said.

  Swift saw the fear in his eyes and smelled the aggression from his son, like a feral heat.

  ‘Are you after money again?’ he asked Oliver. ‘Can’t make an honest living?’

  ‘Oh, go away, Mr Plod. You heard my dad. Keep your nose out.’

  Oliver was wearing denim dungarees with no shirt beneath. Beads of sweat gleamed in the hollow of his throat. His burly torso, matted chest and hairy arms offended Swift, especially when contrasted with the thin old man in the chair.

  ‘Get out,’ he told him.

  Oliver smirked. ‘You can’t tell me to get out. My dad wants me here, don’t you, Dad?’

  Cedric glanced at Swift, his eyes moist and hopeless. He looked like Charisse. He moved his hand to try and cover the angry weal on his arm and that gesture decided Swift. He hit Oliver sharply on the left shoulder and then on the right, spinning him round, stepped behind him and locked his right arm up his back, thrusting him forward. He propelled him to the door and held him at the top of the stairs, twisting his arm higher as he tried to resist.

  ‘Either you can walk down the stairs or I can throw you down, whichever you prefer,’ he said calmly.

  ‘I’ll have you for assault,’ Oliver shouted, wriggling, then howling as Swift twisted higher. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll go!’

  Swift gave him a shove to help him on his way and he slid on the first few steps before clutching the banister and regaining his foothold. When the front door had slammed, Swift stood for a few moments, breathing deeply. He knew that he had almost broken Oliver’s arm and that his anger had only just been controlled. He turned back into the living room and crouched down by Cedric, who was sitting with a hand to his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Cedric. I couldn’t see him harming you and stand by.’

  Cedric sighed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’

  ‘Many years ago, in another life. I haven’t had to use it much. Let me get something for your arm.’

  He went to Cedric’s bathroom and ran a flannel under the cold tap, fetching a couple of ice cubes from the kitchen. He drew a chair up beside the old man and wrapping the ice in the flannel, held it against his arm.

  ‘That will numb it for you.’

  ‘Thank you. Most kind.’ Cedric closed his eyes, nodding.

  ‘This isn’t right, Cedric. It has to stop. You don’t have to let Oliver in, you know.’

  Cedric replied, his eyes still shut. ‘Please, dear boy, let’s not talk about it. Talking doesn’t help.’

  Swift sat in silence, holding the icy flannel for a few minutes longer. The mark Oliver had made was still livid but slightly less inflamed. He knew that Cedric had to be the one to bar his son; he knew also that this type of violence always increased, especially if the perpetrator knew that their victim wasn’t prepared to stand up to them. He worried that one day, Oliver would inflict serious injury. When he returned from wringing the flannel out in the bathroom, he saw that Cedric was dozing. Swift fetched a woven rug from the sofa and draped it over him. He supposed that at least Oliver might stay away for a while, nursing his arm, and brooding.

  * * *

  Neat, orderly, despairing Ronnie had, of course, left well-ordered arrangements concerning her death; there was a paid-up funeral plan and a will, the kind bought in a stationer, with instructions that she wanted to be cremated. The police had found the contact details for a cousin, Sheelagh Donnelly, in her address book and Swift had a call from her, asking hopefully if he’d like to attend the funeral; we spoke every couple of months on the phone, Sheelagh explained, and Ronnie mentioned you. She’d taken a liking for you and to be honest, she didn’t have many friends, there won’t be many to see her off. Sheelagh sounded hesitant and lost. It was her first time in London, she said, and there were so many questions. She didn’t know what kind of music Ronnie would want at the service, other than a few hymns; she didn’t think the priest would like country and western, it didn’t seem respectful. Swift suggested ‘The Emigrant’s Farewell,’ assuring Sheelagh that these days, as far as he was aware, clergy were reasonably open to personal choices at funerals.

  The funeral mass was in Our Lady of Fatima church. There was a congregation of just half a dozen: Swift, Sheelagh Donnelly, the priest and an altar boy and two old ladies clad head to toe in black, who Swift guessed were the kind who enjoyed random mourning. It was the first mass Swift had attended since his mother’s funeral; on that occasion the church had been packed with relatives from Ireland, colleagues from the college where she taught and local friends. In his numb grief, he had barely noticed the service, unable to grasp that his mother was in a coffin, silent and still.

  He stood beside Sheelagh, a tiny, bird-like woman in her seventies with greying hair. Her black jacket had bits of fluff sticking to it and she dusted at it self-consciously. She had broken veins in her cheeks and the high colour of someone who was flustered. She seemed to be overwhelmed with gratitude at his attendance and kept touching his sleeve with little dabs of her fingers, reassuring herself. They sang ‘Lead Kindly Light’ and ‘The Lord is my Shepherd.’ Swift had a good tenor voice, trained in the school choir and sang as loudly as he could to make up for the paucity of mourners. The priest mumbled his way through the service, giving a brief all-purpose anodyne homily about Mrs Farley having been a devout parishioner who worked hard, had troubles in her life and had now found peace. Swift thought that a fitting and honest tribute would have been; she was a bereft mother, a
brave woman with a gutsy laugh, a talent for baking and the kindest kidnapper. At the end of the mass the altar boy disappeared behind a curtain and the church was filled with ‘The Emigrant’s Farewell,’ sung liltingly by a young woman, backed by guitar and violin. Swift was glad that he had been able to introduce some personal element to the anonymous service, recalling the challenging, teasing look Ronnie had given him as she sang to him.

  Swift accompanied Sheelagh to the crematorium, where Ronnie was dispatched in the usual utilitarian fashion. When they exited into bright sun, Sheelagh hovered uncertainly, blinking, and he suggested they have a drink and toast Ronnie. He found a small pub and bought a sherry for Sheelagh and a large glass of Shiraz for himself, adding some crisps and peanuts to the order; not exactly baked funeral meats but the nearest he could get.

  ‘Here’s to Ronnie,’ he said, raising his glass.

  Sheelagh nodded and sipped. ‘Thank you for singing up in the church, you gave me strength.’

  ‘I liked your cousin, she was a remarkable woman.’

  ‘I still can’t believe she kidnapped that Mrs Langborne. Why would she do a thing like that? When we were young any sort of crime, no matter how small was regarded as a terrible sin. Ronnie wasn’t a bad person. She liked a drink, more than was good for her, but I never knew her do harm.’

  Swift chose his words carefully; it was clear that the police hadn’t disclosed the full details of Ronnie’s final letter to Sheelagh and he didn’t want to undermine their work or have Carmen or Langborne suing him for slander.

  ‘I expect you’ll be told in time. I think that she still hadn’t recovered from her son’s death. She was sad underneath the front she kept up. People behave in strange ways when they’re despairing.’

  ‘Aye, I see that. She never said anything when we chatted on the phone; just the usual stuff about her work and the weather. Mind, she was often well on in the drink when we talked; repeating herself, not making much sense. Her husband took off, you know, when Liam was just a wee one. She never heard from him again, never had a penny off him. I didn’t know what to say to her when Liam killed himself. What can you say?’

 

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