Two Lovers, Six Deaths

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  ‘You’ve been through a very difficult time.’

  She didn’t seem to hear him. She had drifted away into her own thoughts again, her gaze meditative. He poured another glass of water for her and watched her drink it absent-mindedly.

  When she had finished he saw her out, then made a coffee and googled the murder story for more details. He learned that Lisa Eastwood had thrown a party in her flat in Dulwich. Dominic Merrell stated that he had returned from a night shift around six thirty a.m. to find her in the living room, soaked in blood. She had been stabbed twice. A couple of days later, Merrell had taken his own life at his workplace. The manager of the Hays hotel said that Merrell was a reliable, honest and friendly employee who had worked for the company for many years and his colleagues were terribly shocked, etc. etc. A DCI Kharal was quoted as saying that there would be no further enquiries. These were sparse pickings. Even the tabloids told him little else, other than that Lisa was a vivacious Latin American beauty, probably because a confession drained the drama from the situation. There was another photo of her, a full-length shot with the Thames in the background. She was tall, slender, wearing a belted red leather coat. Her glossy dark hair had blonde streaks and flowed over her shoulders. Her eyes brimmed with laughter and confidence.

  Swift considered which of his Met police contacts he should ring to get DCI Kharal’s number. He didn’t like to trade too often on goodwill so he varied his ports of call. He decided to phone DI Archie Lorrimer who he had worked with the previous year. He rang his number, got an answerphone and left a message.

  He locked his office and headed upstairs to his flat. He showered, and then made cheese on toast. His cousin Mary had given him a coffee machine for Christmas and he inserted a pod and switched it on, listening to the satisfying hum. Spring was trying to get underway but the day was grey and bleak. Lyon had been cool but bright, with high blue skies, the sun almost warm at noon. His flat was still chilly from his absence. He turned up the heating and ate standing at the kitchen window, looking up at the fast moving cinder-coloured clouds and watery sun. He thought of Georgie Merrell’s steadfast love for her dead husband, despite his betrayal of her trust. It took an extraordinarily generous spirit and stoicism to overcome abandonment as she had. Her visit had unsettled him in ways he found hard to deal with. His thoughts wandered to Kris, the woman he was still grieving for and to Ruth, who he still loved despite everything that had happened between them. He washed his plate, banishing memories, not wanting to visit those places in his head and heart where pain and confusion lurked.

  * * *

  Swift had finished stocking up on groceries along King Street in Hammersmith. The pavements were thronged, a pale sun encouraging shoppers. Taxi doors slammed, car horns blared, smells of baking and coffee wafted from cafés. Charity fundraisers in tabards tried to make eye contact, wanting to interest him in cancer, the homeless, UNICEF and donkey sanctuaries. An elderly woman pushing a shopping trolley full of her belongings tottered by, muttering to herself. Someone thrust a leaflet for a car boot sale at him. A woman accidentally sliced his ankle with a massive pushchair, smiling nervously as he winced and said not to worry.

  As he turned towards the river, he heard the flute before he saw the player, a melancholy, slow melody drifting over the hum of traffic and high squeal of bus brakes. It sounded Arabic. The girl was standing near a kebab shop. A cardboard box at her feet contained a handful of coins. She was skinny, dressed in stained jeans and a grubby blue and red Arsenal sweatshirt with the logo Fly Emirates across the chest. Her hair, in a top knot, had a large, fabric, apricot-coloured rose securing it. The embellishment suggested resilience. Her playing was pure and sweet and she swayed, her fingers dancing. Because of this and because she was so thin and had a large orange-yellow bruise near her eye, Swift dropped a £2 coin in the box. The girl nodded, playing on.

  As Swift neared his house, he saw Oliver Sheridan leaving. He was carrying a skateboard. They nodded to each other and Sheridan hefted his rucksack and snapped a twig from the hedge as he put his skateboard on the pavement and took off. He was wearing cut-off denim shorts and combat boots with yellow laces. He head was closely shaven and he had long bushy sideburns. Not an attractive look. Oliver was the obnoxious only child of Cedric Sheridan, Swift’s dear friend and sitting tenant. Cedric lived on the top floor of Swift’s house in a self-contained flat. Swift had inherited his friend with the house when his aunt Lily left it to him. They kept a benign eye on each other, and in return for the occasional meal from Cedric and loans of his car, Swift did the odd favour for his friend. In the past, this had included ejecting Oliver Sheridan from the house when he had visited in order to abuse and extract money from his elderly father. Oliver was a mediocre sculptor with grandiose ideas about his talents. Cedric maintained that Oliver had mellowed after spending six months in an artists’ colony in Spain, but Swift reckoned this was wishful thinking. As far as he could see, Oliver was as moody and inconsiderate as ever. He visited Cedric whenever the fancy took him, to spin him yet another sob story about the hardships of the artist, milk his father’s guilt feelings about his bitter divorce from Oliver’s dead mother and to relieve him of money. Swift had crossed swords with Oliver Sheridan on more than one occasion. For the time being, they were on cautious nodding terms and Swift kept a watchful eye on him if he knew he was around.

  He was unpacking his shopping when DCI Laith Kharal rang. Swift dropped a carton of milk as he grabbed his phone. It split as it landed at his feet.

  ‘I hear you’re asking questions about the Eastwood murder.’ Kharal sounded surly.

  ‘That’s right. Thanks for getting back to me.’ Swift explained that Georgie Merrell had engaged him to look into the case. ‘She doesn’t believe her husband could have committed a violent crime.’

  ‘Families often find it hard to believe one of them is a murderer. But as you know, it’s usually a relative who did it. So, if Merrell’s innocent why did he leave a note?’

  ‘I don’t know. She was married to him for a long time and she’s convinced he couldn’t have done it.’

  ‘And you believe her?’

  ‘That’s not the issue. It’s too early for me to say. She is paying me to ask questions, so that’s what I have started doing.’

  ‘So, we conducted an investigation and we agreed with Merrell’s confession that he’d done it. We told the families. End of.’

  ‘I’m not questioning your investigation.’ Not for now, anyway.

  ‘Generous of you.’

  ‘I’m doing a job. Mrs Merrell understandably doesn’t want her sons to go through life believing their father was a murderer.’

  Kharal’s tone grew sarcastic. ‘And you’re taking her money. You’re ex Met, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. People come to me with questions and I try to find answers. That’s the nature of private investigation.’

  ‘Hmm, private detective playing at being a police officer. Is that because you couldn’t cut it in the real police force?’

  Swift counted to six. ‘Look, DCI Kharal, I don’t need to explain to you why I set up my own business. In the last couple of years, I have sustained a fractured skull and a knife wound during investigations. I wouldn’t call that “playing.”’

  ‘Yeah, well, let’s not get into a pissing competition.’

  ‘Let’s not. I know you don’t have to tell me anything. I don’t want to trespass on your territory and I am not suggesting your investigation was lacking. Cut me some slack here. If I come up with anything, you will be the first to know and you can act on it. That wouldn’t do your career any harm.’

  There was a pause. ‘Maybe. So, let’s see. I can tell you what was in Merrell’s note. It was short and sweet so I can remember it word for word: “I killed Lisa. I’m sorry. Tell everyone how sorry I am.” There. That clear enough?’

  ‘It’s clear but it may not be the truth. Have you any other evidence that Merrell did it?’

  ‘So many ques
tions. Look, Archie Lorrimer says you’re okay, but just because your cousin is an assistant commissioner in the Met doesn’t mean you get free access to a murder enquiry.’

  ‘I didn’t mention my cousin. Okay, just bear with me. Merrell definitely committed suicide, no question?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What DNA did you find at the flat?’

  Kharal sounded highly amused. ‘We were swamped with DNA, mate. There had been a massive party at the flat. The place was covered in sweat, fingerprints and saliva from dozens of people, and a dollop of vomit. Strong smell of wacky baccy. Oh, and a patch of semen in the bathroom where there must have been a knee-trembler.’

  ‘Any defence wounds?’

  ‘Nah. Stabbed twice in the left chest and stomach. Pierced the aorta, so she was awash with blood, all hers. Buckets of the stuff. Victim was lying passed out on the sofa when it happened, so drunk she probably didn’t know much about it.’

  ‘Weapon? Swift asked quickly.

  ‘We didn’t find it.’

  ‘Did you suspect Merrell before he hung himself?’

  ‘Possibly. He had some blood on him but he said he’d held her in his arms when he found her, so that ticked that box.’

  ‘What kind of knife?’

  ‘Small, thin, sharp. Now you’re being cheeky. Sod off, I’ve got real police work to do.’

  The line went dead. Swift uttered a ‘sod off yourself, tosser,’ and wiped up the milk puddle he was standing in. Lisa partied while Merrell was at work. He wondered if that had happened often and what it indicated about the relationship.

  He jotted quick notes and a time line so far. He had worked in both the Met and Interpol before setting up Swift Investigations. These careers had honed his skills in surveillance, interviewing and scoping an investigation as well as some useful self-defence tactics. He thought that this tragedy had the potential to be a long and complicated enquiry. Finbar Power had known both Lisa and Merrell. Swift switched on the coffee machine and rang his number, then the manager of the Hays hotel.

  CHAPTER 2

  Swift had woken early and lay for a while thinking about a particularly satisfying row a few days before on the river Saône, stopping off in L’île Barbe to look at the ruins of the ancient monastery. In his mind he went through the trip, stage by stage, analysing and sifting the experience. He had completed one stretch at speed, the boat singing through the water. The air had been clear and clean, making his blood pump. He had been rowing since his teens and he became edgy and irritable if he didn’t take his boat out regularly. The solitude and concentration invigorated him, put life into perspective. It had saved his sanity when his mother died — after Ruth left him — and when Kris was murdered — slowly piecing him back together. Rowing was a never-ending process of learning and re-learning, building up layers of experience. Like life itself. He enjoyed going back over a specific trip such as the one on the Saône, reflecting that his coordination and posture had improved.

  He heard Cedric start the lawnmower outside and sat up. The back garden was small with just a patch of grass and Cedric kept it mowed to a fine tilth, starting early in the year as soon as it was sufficiently dry. He checked his email and saw that he’d had one from Ruth:

  Dear Ty,

  I hope you are okay and that business is good. I’m doing well, and so is our daughter. I had a check-up the other day and she is behaving perfectly. They confirmed that my due date is June 6. Not that long now.

  I need to tell you that Emlyn got in touch with me and I have agreed to see him and discuss things. He was frank with me about what happened last year and he does feel bad about what he put you through and of course about Kris. He never intended that Kris should be harmed.

  I can only say that he seems genuinely sorry. I think that the collapse of his career and the impending trial has made him focus on what matters in life. He wants us to get back together and give our marriage another chance. He says he understands that you will want to see your child and he is happy to negotiate whatever can be done to make this okay with you. I know that his illness makes him behave oddly at times but I do believe he is sincere. I have regrets too and I feel I owe it to him to talk these things over. He is still my husband and he will need support through the trial and afterwards, whatever the verdict.

  Ty, I know how hard this is for you. It’s hard for us all. I’ll contact you when I have seen Emlyn.

  R x

  He felt a tide of anger rise at the mention of Emlyn Williams. He browsed back to the email Ruth had sent him in February, the one where she had told him she was staying with a friend near Barnstaple. It had the latest scan of their baby attached and he calmed himself by looking at the small nestling shape.

  Sometimes he felt as if he, Ruth and Williams were locked in a grim dance, dragging themselves around a floor while a band played discordantly. Ruth had been his fiancée, the love of his life. Like Georgie Merrell and her steady faith in her husband, he had believed they would always be together. Ruth had met, run off with and married Emlyn Williams, a barrister, in the blink of an eye. Swift had met her again some years later. They had started seeing each other, sharing platonic lunches, and he had supported her through a miscarriage. Williams had developed MS and had become subject to fits of depression and anger. Swift and Ruth had slept together again just once, resulting in this pregnancy. Williams had discovered their meetings and had hired a petty criminal to harass Swift. This campaign had ended in the murder of Kris Jelen, the only woman Swift had felt any tenderness for since Ruth. They were just months into their relationship. Swift had been the one to find her body. Williams had been overjoyed when Ruth became pregnant again, and then furious when she told him that Swift was the father. Ruth had left Williams in great distress and Swift had not seen her since then. She had refused to say where she was until recently but had emailed him once a month to reassure him that she and the baby were okay.

  Kris had been strangled and Williams, the man who had inadvertently caused her death, would probably end up with a suspended sentence, mainly because of his poor health. Now there was a strong possibility that he would be involved in this baby’s life. Swift knew that Ruth felt a deep sense of responsibility towards her husband, that she had experienced conflicting emotions in recent months and might well return to him.

  He showered and dressed in black jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. He forced himself to think calmly before replying to Ruth. Whatever he felt, however bitter and angry, Emlyn Williams was still Ruth’s husband and the choice had to be hers. He waved to Cedric who was now filling the bird feeders, and sent an email:

  Hi Ruth,

  It’s good to know that you and our little one are doing well. Your husband is difficult territory for me after what happened. It may well be that he regrets the outcome of his actions but they had irreversible consequences.

  Let me know how your meeting goes. I think we should see each other soon to talk things through. I want to see you. It has been too long.

  Ty x

  What he really wanted to say was, I know everything is a mess but in the end, you are and always have been the one. Come back to me and we’ll see what we can salvage from the wreckage.

  He took coffee out to the garden for himself and Cedric and they sat side by side on the old swing seat in the watery sun. Cedric was in his late eighties but appeared remarkably youthful. This was partly due to his thick white hair and good skin but also his resilience in the face of life’s vicissitudes. His favourite saying was fall seven times, stand up eight.

  ‘Have you seen that young girl playing the flute near the kebab place?’ Cedric asked him.

  ‘Yes. She’s good. I gave her some money.’

  ‘Me too. Her name is Yana Ayo. She’s from Aleppo in Syria.’

  ‘A refugee?’

  ‘Presumably. We spoke briefly but she looked a bit scared when I asked her about it, so I didn’t press her. She’s very thin, I’m sure she’s malnourished.’

&nbs
p; The next-door neighbour came out and started talking to her cat in a baby voice. The cat’s name was Nigel and he was obese from all the cheesy treats he was given. This was bad for Nigel but good for the birds as he was too slow to catch them. Swift and Cedric exchanged glances.

  ‘I heard from Ruth,’ Swift said.

  ‘She okay? And the baby?’

  ‘Yes. She is talking to her husband. He wants them to get back together. He’s remorseful about Kris.’

  ‘Remorseful! That lovely girl . . . such a terrible, pointless waste of a life.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cedric was quiet for a moment. ‘My dear, if that happens, if Ruth goes back to him, he’ll see more of your child than you do.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Cedric touched Swift’s hand briefly with his thin fingers, and sipped his coffee. Nigel clambered on to the wall and glared at them before waddling off to another garden.

  * * *

  Hays Hotels were a chain at the budget end of the market, scattered throughout London and the South East. They were purpose built, and their TV advertising featured three endearing bears who loved their beds and the pots of instant porridge provided in all the rooms. Gimmicky but memorable. Swift had established that after Lisa died, Dominic Merrell had spent three nights at the Southwark Hays. He had hanged himself on the third. Swift walked to the hotel from London Bridge. A sharp breeze blew off the river, ruffling his dark curls. A diminutive couple wearing identical bright blue jackets and huge backpacks asked him the way to the Globe theatre. He pointed, towering over them from his six feet three, saying it was just ten minutes’ walk. They asked him to take a photograph of them posed against Southwark cathedral and he obliged.

  The hotel was near Borough Market and Swift’s mouth watered as he cut through the lines of stalls selling cheeses, breads and pastries, olives, dried fruits, spices, cured meats, paella, curries, fish soups and myriad other exotic dishes. He promised himself lunch soon.