Two Lovers, Six Deaths

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  ‘No thanks, I’m fine. Do you know if anyone else knew about the termination?’ Kharal had left out that detail.

  ‘No idea.’ He finished his beer and burped softly. ‘It’s hard, doing this on my own, y’know?’

  ‘Lisa’s mother isn’t around?’

  ‘Nah. We divorced ages ago. She went back to Peru, remarried, lost touch with both of us. She was a model too when I met her. A real beauty. Lisa got her looks. Oh, y’know, she was just a lovely, lovely girl, Mr Swift. Always smiling and laughing. Such a generous heart and a sweet nature. She wouldn’t have harmed a fly.’

  Swift put his empty beer bottle in one of the bin bags. Maybe, but she seemed to cause havoc while she was doing all that smiling and laughing. He chose his words carefully for this doting, bereaved father.

  ‘I get a picture of your daughter as a very sociable, fun-loving woman.’

  ‘Oh yah. She loved to party and she was the life and soul. She had this zest for life, right from when she was a baby. Everyone loved her. Burned the candle at both ends, did Lisa,’ he said proudly.

  ‘She did other jobs besides modelling?’

  ‘That’s right. She liked to branch out, try her hand at new things.’ He smiled. ‘When she was at school one of her teachers said in a report that she could charm gold from a miser. That was my Lisa! She owned a business with a friend, too, an Isabella Alfaro. That’s what she was concentrating on in the last couple of years.’

  ‘Do you know the name of the business?’

  ‘Oh yah. I gave her money to help set it up. I was glad she wanted to build something. She owned a major share and I’m what’s called a silent partner. It’s called Body Balm. I think the turnover’s been reasonable. I left it to the girls to get on with. It’s a holistic therapy thing. Y’know, massage and stuff. It’s based on a boat on the river. Somewhere near King’s Cross.’

  He meant the Regent’s Canal. ‘It sounds as if Lisa was okay financially, as well as owning this flat.’

  ‘I guess. I mean, she always seemed okay. I told her last year I wouldn’t be able to give her any more money for a good while. My business back home is all right but not booming. I’m watching the balance sheet.’

  Eastwood’s phone rang. He checked the caller ID and said he needed to take it. Swift asked if it was okay to have a look around and he nodded, moving to the window.

  Along the hallway from the living room was a small utility room with a washing machine and tumble dryer. It smelled of mildew and the floor tiles were torn. An ironing board was propped against the wall. The next room was the bathroom, equipped with walk-in shower, bidet and two hand basins. The tiles were streaked and grimy and one of the basins had a large crack down one side. Swift looked in the cabinet. The shelves were a jumble of sleeping tablets, aspirin, toothpaste tubes, combs and brushes, lipsticks, hair sprays, dental floss and bottles of moisturiser. Two dead plants stood on the window ledge beside more cans of hair mousse, razors, cleansers, gels and skin creams. The names on all the products were high end, nothing from a supermarket. He moved on to the kitchen which was in a similar state of disarray, full of gadgets which would once have been gleaming but were now dulled with grease and dust. The cooker was filthy, the white cupboard doors showing finger marks. The quartz-tiled floor was sticky beneath his feet. At the end of the hallway was a large bedroom with a wide bed, deep green carpet, built-in light oak wardrobes on either side of the bed and a dressing table littered with cosmetics, perfumes, cotton wool, hairdryer and curling tongs and packets of painkillers. A couple of lacy coffee-coloured bras hung from the corner of the mucky mirror. He opened the wardrobes on the right and saw crammed rows of Lisa’s clothes and stacks of shoes. Her bedside table held a Jackie Collins novel, a glass of water, a couple of miniature whiskies and a small photo of a little girl on a swing. The drawers and wardrobes to the left of the bed were empty. Merrell had been cleared away.

  He stood by the window and looked about him. The carpet was in need of a vacuum and every surface was dusty. He guessed that the flat had been in mint condition when Lisa moved in and she had done no maintenance. The place told him nothing except that the owner cared little about her environment. Regular crowded parties would have caused considerable wear and tear. Adam had been right about his father and stepmother’s domestic life.

  He went back to the living room as Eastwood finished his call.

  ‘Sorry about that. My housekeeper needing instructions.’

  ‘That’s okay. I wondered, did Lisa leave a will?’

  ‘Don’t think so. I haven’t found one. I was always telling her she should make one but y’know, she was young, she thought death was a long way down the road if she thought of it at all.’

  ‘So JoJo Hayworth will benefit nicely.’

  ‘Yah. I spoke to a solicitor and she explained the rules of intestacy. As the widower, JoJo gets Lisa’s possessions, £250K from the sale of this property and half of the rest of her estate. It grates but I guess that’s how Lisa wanted it. JoJo emailed me to say he didn’t want any of her things and to take what I liked so I’m just going through. I’d like little Tamsin to have a few keepsakes. He can deal with the rest. I suppose I should have been wiser and put my name on the deeds but there you go.’

  He seemed to have a laid-back attitude to money, Swift thought, and had passed it on to his daughter. He watched as Eastwood reached into one of the boxes and took out a framed photo, rubbing the glass with his sleeve.

  ‘Here, this is when she was modelling. Wasn’t she just so beautiful?’

  Swift took the photo. Lisa was in a diaphanous black and silver lace top that ended under the bust, partnered with a calf-length black skirt trimmed with the same silver. She wore hooped silver earrings. Her head was thrown a little to one side, her eyes and teeth gleaming as she beamed at the camera. The photo spoke of vitality, poise and of course, great beauty.

  ‘She was very lovely,’ he said. ‘When do you go back to Cape Town?’

  ‘End of the week. I have the business to run, pet foods, can’t be away too long.’

  ‘Is it okay to email you if I need to ask anything else?’

  ‘Sure, yah. If someone else did do this to my little girl, I hope you find him. I’d offer a reward if you think it would help.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that for now. A reward can cause all kinds of activity that just clouds matters. Let me carry on with asking questions for now.’

  ‘Okay. I just can’t think why anyone would harm my Lisa, especially a guy who loved her. It would be hard to find a more genuine heart in the whole of this great city.’ He looked away, his eyes glassy.

  Eastwood’s trusting take on his daughter was understandable, if a little naïve. Swift supposed that the long distance adult relationship meant that his Lisa was always the blameless, charming little girl he had known years ago. He took contact details for Mrs Hayworth in Canterbury and for Isabella Alfaro. He left Eastwood to his sorting and packing, another beer in his hand.

  As he headed for the stairs Swift stepped back to allow a dapper-looking man to come up. He was holding two heavy shopping bags in one hand and finishing a phone conversation. Swift nodded and waited until he had said ciao several times.

  ‘Were you a neighbour of Ms Eastwood?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right. I’m next door. Who are you? Are you clearing her flat?’

  ‘No, I’m a private detective, looking into her murder. I came to speak to her father.’

  ‘Oh yeah, poor guy.’ He put his shopping down. He was small and sallow-skinned with a petulant mouth.

  ‘Did you know Ms Eastwood?’

  ‘Only to complain to her.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Noise. Parties. Music. Singing. More noise. More parties that went on until five or six in the morning. People tramping up and down the stairs, hallway stinking of cigarette smoke and other substances, cigarette butts thrown in the front garden. Get the picture?’

  ‘Vividly. How did
she respond to your complaints?’

  ‘Lisa? What can I say? She’d smile,’ he put his head to one side and mimicked a sweet look, ‘say of course, of course, she was so, so sorry, it wouldn’t happen again. Then it did. She thought because she was beautiful and invited me to her parties and left bottles of expensive champagne outside my door, that made it all okay.’ He was warming to his theme, leaning against the wall, arms folded. ‘I told her that I had to work and I didn’t appreciate shouting and laughing and bloody awful music at all hours. I am sorry she was murdered, that was dreadful, but I’m glad she has gone from the building. I was at my wits’ end with her.’

  ‘I can imagine. What about her partner, Dominic?’

  ‘I spoke to him once. Sweet guy, quiet, unlike her. Very civil and apologetic but I don’t think he had much say about what went on. Looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights when he was around her. He did it, didn’t he? That came as a surprise, I wouldn’t have thought he could cut butter but I guess the worm turned.’

  ‘Did you meet any of the people she entertained?’

  ‘No. I didn’t attend any of the parties. I saw some of them on the stairs occasionally. Most of them looked around her age or younger, all ripped jeans and messy hair and T-shirts, you know. That night she died, I stayed at a friend’s place because I knew there was another party planned. One of the other neighbours said the place was heaving. As I said, I didn’t really know Lisa except as a major headache. If you want to know more about her, you should talk to Malory Meredith on the ground floor, number three. They were pals.’

  Swift thanked him, ran downstairs and rang the bell of number three. There was no reply. He wrote on one of his cards, asking Ms Meredith to phone him, and put it through her letterbox.

  He had not planned to go to the café where he and Ruth used to eat Sunday brunch, always the same meal — scrambled eggs with smoked salmon. But he found himself in there, ordering a plate of hummus and olives with flat breads. It had changed hands and now specialised in smoothies. There was a long list of flavours on a blackboard above the counter, including ingredients he had never tasted, chia seeds and goji for example. He chose a goji berry and mango smoothie to go with his food, found a table and watched the rain tumble and run along the gutters. It was only mid-afternoon but the light was dim and misty. He yawned, feeling lethargic, a headache growing behind his eyes. The smoothie did not impress him. He pushed it aside and ordered a coffee, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. Money from a property in Dulwich and proceeds from a business. JoJo Hayworth was going to benefit rather nicely from his wife’s death, and people had killed for less. Had he known there was no will? He rang Hayworth and the number in Canterbury and left messages, then googled Body Balm and found the website. It told him that he could visit a canal boat where your cares and stresses will be soothed away on a charming waterway in the heart of London. He phoned the number and waited for an answer. He watched a man on the pavement conducting a silent mime as he struggled unsuccessfully with a broken umbrella before dumping it in a bin and hurrying away.

  * * *

  Winter was clinging on. Earlier in the day, there had been vivid razor slashes of lightning and ominous rolling thunder. The rain had persisted for a week, mixed at times with sleet and hail. The trees looked tattered. The narcissi, primroses and hellebores Lily had planted in the back garden were bedraggled.

  Swift sat with Ruth in the hazy light of late afternoon. Her head was on his shoulder, her hand in his. He’d had a shock when he opened the door. Her long butterscotch hair had gone, replaced with a short, feathery cut. She told him she had needed to do something radical. Time to leave behind that other Ruth and face the future. It made her look younger and more vulnerable, her face pared down.

  At first, they had both been nervous, like polite acquaintances, eating the lunch he had prepared, even talking about the weather. But then she had leaned across, taken his hand and placed it on her abdomen. He felt the baby kick and laughed and the ice was broken.

  She had agreed to go back to Emlyn, give the marriage another chance.

  ‘In the end, I am his wife. I made promises to him. He is terribly ill and he needs me. It’s heart breaking to see a man who was so active and brilliant brought so low. Ty, he deeply regrets, we both deeply regret what happened. Emlyn is so ashamed and ridden with guilt. He has written you a letter. I brought it with me.’

  ‘What about the angry rages he used to fly into? How are you going to cope with those again?’

  ‘He says they’ve gone, burned away, and I believe him. He never used to be like that, you know. It’s part of MS for some people, but it doesn’t necessarily last. He is a frail, sickly, shadow of a man, Ty. He’s being slowly destroyed.’ She turned and touched his whitened temple. ‘Did you love Kris?’

  ‘No, not love. But I think I might have in time.’

  Love with Ruth had been immediate, overwhelming and rapturous. A coup de foudre. They had looked at each other across a table in the café of the British Museum and they had known. He doubted you could have that twice in a life.

  She sighed. ‘I love you still. I always have but I was careless and I lost track of the love. I do love Emlyn but I’ve never been able to forget you. I can’t explain it to myself. Perhaps it’s inexplicable. I wish I could stop loving you because it would be better for you, but I can’t.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s just how it is. It’s how it has always been.’

  There was a silence. He had lit a fire, a rare event, and the soft hiss of the wood was cheering.

  ‘This is a lovely room,’ Ruth said. ‘It’s got a sense of harmony. I’m so fond of that William Morris wallpaper, even though it’s faded in places.’

  Swift nodded, looking around. The square, well-proportioned room was almost exactly as it had been when his aunt was alive. It was furnished simply in the Arts and Crafts style with a Victorian chaise longue and deep armchairs in a thistle-patterned fabric. The elm floor was covered with dark red rugs. It was comfortable and peaceful, facing north east, so always slightly shaded, a refuge when needed.

  ‘You mean this room suits me, a bit shabby and past its best?’

  She laughed. ‘It may be a little tattered but it has character. It’s been here a long time and it knows it has stood the test of the years.’

  ‘Aunt Lily would like to hear that. She was a woman who saw no point in change for change’s sake and I suppose I resemble her in that way.’

  He moved away and hunkered down to feed the fire with another block of wood. Orange flames leaped, and then settled. He spoke without turning.

  ‘How am I going to see our child, Ruth? I don’t want to come to your house in Brighton and pretend to be at ease with Emlyn.’

  ‘What if he went out? His carer takes him places and . . .’

  ‘No,’ He stood and looked at her. ‘Don’t ask that of me. I don’t want to see my daughter in your marital home.’

  ‘Okay. I understand. Look, Ty, I don’t have the answer but we can work something out. I will come to London if need be. Emlyn wants you to see as much of the baby as you like.’

  ‘Generous of him.’

  She reached for her bag. ‘Will you read this letter now, please? I’d rather you did while I’m here.’

  ‘Have you read it?’

  ‘Yes. I typed it for Emlyn. He finds it hard work to control a pen or keyboard now. I’m going to the bathroom.’

  He sat on the carpet by the fire, his back against an armchair and read:

  Tyrone,

  I can only say that I am deeply sorry for my actions last year and the pain and grief they caused you. I am not going to blame my illness but I do believe that it made me mentally unstable for some time. The death of Kris Jelen will always haunt me. I’m not asking you to forgive me but I hope that for the sake of the baby, you can tolerate my presence in her life. I hope that we can just do our best for her.

  Emlyn Williams.

  He held the lette
r for a moment, an angry panic flooding through him as he recalled finding Kris’s body on the floor of her living room. Her parents had flown from Poland, and he saw again their anguished faces, sitting dazed and distraught in a shabby police station. He had never seen Lodz, where Kris was born and grew up. There had been no time to get to know the country and culture she came from, but she had become dear to him and her death was burned on his conscience. Emlyn Williams’s words were humble and filled with regret but a talented young life had been ended because of his rage and jealousy. He crumpled the paper and threw it in the fire. He watched it flare and dissolve in flames. Burning as cleansing. Maybe. Like Ruth, he did not have the answer.

  She returned and sat, wriggling against the sofa to get comfortable, pulling a cushion behind her back. She had always been so slim and fleet. He was still adjusting to this pregnant woman who moved more slowly.

  ‘I’ve read the letter and burned it. I don’t doubt his remorse but I can’t forgive him. Let’s work out what we can.’ He sat beside her, touching her hand. ‘A woman recently described her family to me as the walking wounded. It resonated with me. Are you tired or would you like a walk by the river, despite the rain?’

  ‘I’d love it. Just a little walk, though. I have to pace myself.’

  That reminded him of Simone’s blog and he told her about it as they left the house under the shelter of a huge umbrella. She laughed, placing a hand over the bump in her coat. They turned down to the river, backs to the wind.

  ‘What are Mary and Simone going to call their baby?’

  ‘They haven’t decided yet. I think they’ve narrowed it down to a list of six.’

  ‘I’ve thought of a name for our daughter. I think, I hope, you’ll like it.’

  ‘Yes?’

  She stopped and looked out at the river. It was dark and rushing, the wind scouring it. The lozenges of amber light on the pavement illuminated the flashing raindrops.