Two Lovers, Six Deaths

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  ‘It’s just that I’ve been thinking back to Stamford, all the good times we had together. Things I had forgotten, happy times just messing around, fishing and swimming, having conker fights, cooking sausages on a fire by the river. Innocent. It’s just as well you don’t know what the future holds.’

  ‘Grief often unlocks memories.’

  ‘Yes. They are great memories. All I have of him now. Sorry, mustn’t get soppy, that doesn’t help you.’

  ‘You presumably went to Lisa’s flat sometimes. I believe Dominic’s sons saw you there.’

  He looked relieved to be released from his recollections. ‘A couple of times, if Dom and I were hitching up to go fishing. I picked him up in my car. Harry and Adam were there once, so I had a chat with them. I could see that Harry was uncomfortable. He was almost sixteen when Dom left, at an age when you start judging your parents. Adam was more accepting of Lisa, more able to blur the boundaries. At least, that’s how it looked. You never do know.’

  ‘How about socialising with them as a couple?’

  ‘I went to a few of Lisa’s parties. I think Dom wanted a friend there, so I obliged. Parties aren’t really my thing, I prefer to be at home reading or out fishing. Some of her friends were pretty wild. The place used to rock.’ He shook his head. ‘Dom looked so out of place at those parties. Like someone’s dad trying to be cool. Not his style at all but he desperately wanted to please Lisa, fit in with her. Hang on to her.’ He blinked fresh tears away.

  A light step sounded on the stairs and a voice called, Hallo! Power stood up as a woman came in. She had short, dark hair and wore a pinstripe business suit and carried a briefcase.

  ‘Louise, this is Mr Swift. Mr Swift, my partner, Louise.’

  Swift rose and shook her hand. She had a friendly but intense expression and inquisitive eyes.

  ‘Mr Swift has come to talk about Dominic,’ Power told her. ‘There might be a cup of tea left in the pot although it’s probably a bit tepid by now.’

  ‘That’s okay, thanks, I’ve had a lot of coffee today.’ She pulled a chair up next to Power and linked his arm solicitously. ‘How are you feeling today, darling? You still look a bit worn out.’

  ‘Better, thanks. I’ve had a virus of some kind, can’t shake it off,’ he told Swift.

  ‘Anyway, don’t mind me. As you were,’ Louise said with a high-pitched laugh.

  Swift addressed himself to Power again. ‘So, given what you were saying, what did Lisa see in Dominic?’

  ‘She was genuinely in love with him, I think. Maybe she was between partners and there he was. His steadiness probably attracted her. He made her laugh. She liked that. But you see, I think she fell in love easily and often.’

  Louise snorted. ‘She liked the fact he idolised her. It’s an aphrodisiac to that kind of woman.’

  Swift sensed an antagonism that might be useful. ‘You knew Lisa then, Louise?’

  ‘I met her a couple of times. She was full of herself, thought every man found her fascinating.’

  Power looked uncomfortable and patted her hand. Louise moved in even closer to him. Swift thought she might soon hop into Power’s lap.

  ‘Well, Dom certainly found her fascinating,’ Power said.

  ‘Had you noticed any changes in Dominic in that last year? There have been some comments that he seemed different.’

  Power nodded. ‘Sometimes we had a game of squash and he didn’t seem on form. When we went fishing, he was quieter than usual. He did come across as a bit flat at times, preoccupied. I thought it was to do with Lisa. With so many parties and socialising he found it hard when he had to get up for work. I asked him once if he was worried about anything but he just said yes, he was losing sleep over who would win the cup final. You know what blokes are like when they get together, they don’t do heart-to-heart stuff.’

  ‘You can leave that to us girls,’ Louise told him. Power smiled down at her.

  ‘Did Lisa work?’

  ‘What didn’t she do?’ Power said. ‘I saw her as a dabbler, never able to commit to anything. Dom didn’t view it like that, naturally. He thought she was so talented she had to find different ways to express herself. To my knowledge, she’d been a model, a beautician, a jewellery seller, a restaurant greeter, and I think she ran a business with someone.’

  ‘She thought she could sing,’ Louise added with a hefty dose of spite. ‘She fancied herself as a rock star. She told me she sang with some flaky group sometimes. Can’t remember their name.’

  ‘Were you invited to the party she held the night she died?’

  They glanced at each other. Power coughed.

  ‘Lisa did invite us but we decided not to go.’

  ‘Her friends took quite a lot of drugs,’ Louise added. ‘After we’d been to one of those parties I said I didn’t want to go to any more, with heaven knows what kind of goings on. Then I came down with flu anyway, so I was poorly sick.’

  It seemed a middle-aged attitude for a woman of her age. He recalled DI Kharal mentioning vomit, semen and marijuana and reckoned Louise would definitely have disapproved of the “goings on” that night.

  ‘Do you have any contacts you could give me for Lisa? I have her father’s details.’

  Power shrugged. ‘We met her father at her funeral. He lives in Cape Town. As far as I know, she didn’t have any family here. There was an ex-husband but I never met him. Her father said he would be coming back to deal with her flat and that if I wanted anything of Dom’s to let him know. Other than that, we didn’t move in her circles.’

  ‘Georgie Merrell said that Lisa had a child.’

  ‘Dom told me she had a daughter by the husband but I know nothing about her. She never referred to the child. Her father is your best bet.’

  Louise had a tight smile, as if she begrudged giving it. ‘I said to Mr Eastwood, if he decided to sell the flat I could market it for him.’

  ‘You’re an estate agent?’

  ‘That’s right. Granger and Siddons. Here’s my card if you ever want advice property-wise.’

  The card read Louise Pullman, negotiator. Clearly, a funeral was just another opportunity to tout for business as far as she was concerned. Power escorted him back downstairs and through the fish domain. He unlocked the door and stood with his hand on the handle.

  ‘Ahm, just one more thing,’ he said quietly. ‘I didn’t want to say this in front of Louise, she’d be annoyed. Dom asked me for a loan a couple of months before he died. He was strapped for cash and had some debt. Keeping up with Lisa was expensive. She liked to eat out and we’re not talking pizza. And of course he had to pay Georgie.’

  ‘How much did you lend him?’

  ‘Five thousand.’

  ‘Generous.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m comfortably off. I made a lot of money on the markets before I bailed out to do what I’m really interested in.’

  ‘Did he repay you?’

  ‘No and I won’t be looking to get it back. Water under the bridge. I just thought I should tell you in case it’s of any significance. Don’t mention it to Georgie, she’s got enough to think about.’

  Swift headed to the bus stop. The wind had dropped and the late afternoon was muggy. He unzipped his leather jacket and threw the Granger and Siddons card in a bin. He propped himself against a wall by the bus stop, listening to Bruce Springsteen through his earphones. Merrell and Lisa seemed an ill-matched couple in many ways, but differences could work in relationships. Merrell’s words interested him: There was a never-ending nightmare of blood and horror. Why never-ending? It was an odd way of putting it, and the phrase circled in his head as he watched schoolchildren bicker and play fight on their way home.

  CHAPTER 3

  Swift was down at his rowing club, Tamesas, by seven a.m. It was only ten minutes from his house to the river. When the wind blew in the right direction, he could smell the enticing, brackish aroma. He warmed up with some stretches, and then checked his boat over before launching. He sculled as f
ar as Chiswick in fair conditions, concentrating on his breathing and the trajectory of the oars. The river was flowing fast and clean. He had brought his binoculars in the hope of seeing a red-throated diver, which made its winter home along this stretch of water. There had been flooding in Chiswick when the river burst its banks in February and he could see sandbags still stacked against some of the high white houses and a couple of the restaurants.

  He paused to take a drink. The sky was a pale, diffused rose. The breeze made a slight chop on the water and nipped at his face. Some herring gulls screeched as a low, laden barge thumped its way upstream. This was where he was most at peace, where he found consolation. His father had once told him a saying of Confucius: a man of wisdom delights in water. Given the complications of his life, Swift wasn’t sure that he could claim much wisdom, but the delight was true and constant. He rubbed the scar on his thigh. He had sustained a deep knife wound while working with Interpol. Sometimes it pulled or ached when he exercised. He ran his thumbs along the ridged skin, watching a rabbit on the riverbank and thinking.

  Mr Eastwood had replied to an email, saying he would be back in London in a couple of days and could meet him at his daughter’s flat. Swift steered his boat in by the muddy river edge, took his phone out and looked up Lisa Eastwood singing. An item came up on YouTube for a band called Brainscan in the Nu Grunge category. He played the video which had been filmed unsteadily in what looked like a small club. There were three guitarists (two male, one female) and a male drummer, all wearing black T-shirts with a blue, pink and grey cross-section of a brain. Lisa stood out front in ripped grey jeans and the same T-shirt, like an urchin beauty. Her long curls flew wildly as she gyrated enthusiastically on the spot, stamping a booted foot, throwing her arms wide. Her voice was tuneful but not quite strong enough to hold up against the harsh guitars. The song was called Hurt Moon and had a fast, insistent pace. The sound quality was dull but some of the lyrics were audible:

  You cut me like razors

  Never took my love

  Burned me, spurned me,

  Saw me on the ground

  He thought he wouldn’t pay money to see them, although Lisa was stunning, her energy electrifying. He could see why Dominic Merrell would have found her a magnetic, captivating woman after eighteen steady, sober years as a family man. Why he had thrown caution to the winds was another question and one that only he could have answered.

  Swift took up his oars and turned, feeling the tug of the tide as it started to flow in.

  * * *

  Swift was looking at a print of a grainy scan of a baby. Not his child but that of his cousin Mary and her partner, Simone. They had married the previous year and Simone was now pregnant with a boy, due a month after Ruth’s. Swift and Mary had been close since childhood. She had helped him through the early death of his mother and he had supported her through some tribulations of her own. Both had gone into the Met and Mary was now an assistant commissioner. Swift found Simone difficult to get on with and therefore made an extra effort whenever he saw her. Mary loved her, so he just had to grit his teeth while he listened to Simone’s insistent, extensive opinions on every topic of conversation. She had a painful talent for stating the obvious, and the thin-skinned person’s flair for taking offence. The problem was that it was difficult these days to see Mary without Simone, who wanted to do everything with her partner and felt snubbed if not included in invitations. Swift missed the easy, meandering chats he used to have with Mary. A casual glass of wine in a bar, a stroll at Kew gardens or a lazy lunch with comfortable silences.

  ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ Simone said, leaning across the restaurant table and pointing at the scan. ‘Look at his darling toes! He seems to be doing yoga.’

  Swift was aware of Mary’s anxious glance, and knew she was concerned that he would be reminded of his own child. He nodded and handed the photo back to Simone.

  ‘I’m glad everything is okay. You’re looking so well.’

  Simone was. Her skin was glowing and her maternity smock showed a high bump.

  ‘I’m terrific. I’ve been watching my diet, taking small, regular meals, all well balanced. I monitor my fluid intake — at least eight glasses of water a day and no caffeine! I do special exercises, including swimming and slow walking. I’ve been writing a blog about it, dealing with each trimester, giving advice to other mums-to-be. Did you know?’

  ‘I didn’t.’ He wasn’t surprised.

  ‘It’s proved very popular, lots of comments and participation. You should tell Ruth, she might like to read it.’

  ‘Simone . . .’ Mary said softly, putting a hand on hers.

  ‘Ty doesn’t mind me mentioning Ruth, do you, Ty? I’m sure he’s trying to be as involved as he can with his little one.’

  He summoned a smile. ‘I try, yes. Difficult at a distance, though.’

  ‘I’m sure it will work out,’ Simone said. ‘Ruth clearly has feelings for you and after all, you do have rights as a father. I can’t wait to hold our little cherub now. Oops, I must head for the Ladies. He’s pressing somewhere he shouldn’t!’

  When Simone had disappeared, Mary looked at Swift and blew him a kiss. ‘I’m sorry. She doesn’t mean to be such a klutz.’

  ‘It’s okay. I don’t need people to tiptoe around the subject of Ruth and the baby.’ He took her hand and squeezed it. He loved her intelligent eyes, her brunette hair that reminded him of his mother and her warm laugh. Her presence reassured him.

  ‘I know, but it can’t be easy for you, seeing us and our pregnancy up close.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s an uncomfortable mirror image, but I just have to deal with that.’

  ‘Have you heard from Ruth?’ Mary asked.

  ‘A couple of days ago.’

  ‘Has she said where she is?’

  ‘Only that she’s staying with a friend in Devon. I have wanted to see her and talk to her but I didn’t want to pressurise her. She was very fragile for a while when she found out about Emlyn’s actions and his part in Kris’s death. In the end, I had to accept that she needed to be on her own and concentrate on the baby. She is talking to Emlyn again.’ Swift explained about Ruth’s contact with her husband.

  Mary chewed her lip. ‘Oh. Not the best of news. That silver streak of hair at your temple is new. Looks distinguished, mind, amongst the black curls.’

  He knew that Mary didn’t have a high opinion of the turmoil Ruth had caused in his life. He touched his temple. ‘It seemed to appear overnight. An outer sign of inner turmoil, I suppose. I have decided it’s a badge of endurance. Cedric jokes that I’m catching up with him.’

  ‘Considering what’s happened, you’re bearing up well.’

  ‘I have to. I have an interesting new case. That helps distract me.’ He told her about Merrell.

  ‘What’s your gut feeling?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think he did it. Don’t ask me why yet.’

  ‘A difficult one, though, disproving a dead man’s confession. Unless you can find someone else who admits to the killing.’

  They poured more wine. Simone returned as the first course arrived, saying the trout looked great and Swift should remind Ruth to eat fish, but not swordfish or marlin as they were high in mercury. Suddenly, he’d had enough. He wanted to tell her to shut up. Instead, he started on his salmon, his appetite dwindling.

  * * *

  As he walked back home along the Thames path he saw Cedric emerge from their local pub, the Silver Mermaid. Beside him was a slight, slim figure, dark hair tied back with a ribbon. Cedric waved to him and beckoned him over.

  ‘Ty! Good to see you. Did you enjoy your lunch?’

  ‘I did. The expectant couple look well.’ He glanced at the girl standing beside Cedric, recognising the Arsenal sweatshirt.

  ‘Ty, this is Yana Ayo. The talented flute player by the kebab shop, you know.’

  ‘Of course, yes. Hallo, Yana.’ He held his hand out and she shook it fleetingly, looking down, then away. />
  ‘We had some lunch too. Fish and chips. Good, wasn’t it, Yana?’

  She nodded. ‘Very good,’ she said shyly. ‘I must go now.’

  ‘Won’t you come back for a cup of tea?’ Cedric asked.

  ‘No, thank you. Thank you for my food.’

  She darted away, head down, keeping away from the kerb.

  ‘She was hungry. I had to tell her to eat slowly.’ Cedric shook his head. ‘I think she’s sleeping rough.’

  ‘How long has she been here?’

  ‘It was difficult to get her to talk. I asked her about that bruise on her face and she said someone had punched her. I suppose she might be here illegally.’

  ‘Maybe. It was good of you to buy her a meal.’

  ‘It’s not much. I wake up at night worrying about her. A girl like that, out on the streets and alone. I know there are many like her. It’s just that I know her now, I know her name. It’s personal.’ For a moment, he looked older, frailer.

  ‘We can both keep an eye on her when we’re passing the kebab shop. Come on, I’ll walk you home and make a cuppa.’

  ‘The British answer to every worry.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  * * *

  Harry Merrell was holding a green elastic band and was pinging it between his fingers. He was a solidly built, handsome young man, with strong forearms, the build of a rugby player. He had a surprisingly deep voice, his father’s cleft chin and five silver earrings in his right ear lobe. His full beard was dense and he wore a close-fitting red and grey beanie hat. His T-shirt said, Slave to the Rhythm. He wore a black mourning band on his upper left arm, something Swift hadn’t seen for a long time. Tension radiated from him, his jaw muscles worked silently. His brother Adam sat next to him on the sofa, hugging a Labrador puppy that now and again reached up and licked his chin. He had his mother’s narrow frame and a startled expression, emphasised by his spiky hair and round glasses. Drumbeats had sounded from the garage next to their pebbledash, semi-detached house in Balham as Swift approached, and it had taken a while for Harry to appear, looking surly and reluctant.