Two Lovers, Six Deaths

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  Swift looked at Power. His face was flushed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The man needed to go to bed.

  ‘If it’s okay with you, I need to take these adoption documents and the letter. I imagine Georgie might want to hang on to them in the long run.’

  Power nodded listlessly.

  ‘Maybe you should rest up, take it easy. You really look done in. It is a lot to come to terms with. I’m sorry all this has come out, adding to your grief.’

  ‘Never mind me. I’m not important. What about Georgie and the boys? How will they deal with this? It’s all such a hopeless mess and I can’t do anything to help.’

  Swift left Power sitting and gazing at the photograph of two young boys by the river, dressed in waders, holding up their rods proudly for the camera.

  * * *

  Harry Merrell had eventually replied to two texts from Swift, saying he needed to speak to him: Back home Friday. Meet you at mine eight p.m.

  Two days’ time, it would have to do. He decided that he would speak to Georgie Merrell after he had seen Harry. The harrowing information he had discovered needed a face-to-face discussion. He had showered before going to Cedric’s for dinner and was carefully drying himself, avoiding bruises and his battered nose, when Ruth rang. His heart lifted when he heard her but he couldn’t help thinking of Williams in the background and wondering if he knew she was calling him.

  ‘You sound funny. Have you got a cold?’

  ‘No. I was in a fight with a pimp. I’m okay.’

  ‘I hope your daughter can’t hear this.’

  ‘She’ll be educated in it, don’t worry. How is she? How are you?’

  ‘All fine. I am looking roly-poly and I have to sleep on my back. Emlyn hasn’t been well. He got a chest infection but the antibiotic has kicked in now. He has been notified of a trial date in July. I think it knocked him.’

  A barrister appearing in the wrong part of the court. Swift could feel no sympathy and changed the subject abruptly. Ruth was a psychologist and he was hoping she could help. He explained the circumstances of Dominic Merrell’s confession, his childhood and adoption.

  ‘The social worker’s adoption report stated that he stopped having nightmares and being upset but presumably that kind of traumatic incident could resonate in later life, particularly if he found out details about it?’

  ‘Well, yes, if he discovered information as an adult it could certainly trigger memories. What happened to him at the age of two would be an embedded trauma. That kind of event would have a deep impact, even in such a young child. Children over the age of two form autobiographical memories, even if they don’t recall them. Also, at the age of two he would have picked up on the shock of the people around him, those who found him and cared for him. Oh, this poor man. He found out as an adult that neither of his birth parents could keep him safe and that his own father killed his mother. Did he already know he had been adopted?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll try to find out. It looks like a case of the trauma suffered by the father overwhelming the son. I’m becoming convinced that when Merrell found his partner dead, the terrible events he had recently uncovered became real and devastating for him. He started to obsess about them and relate them to the present.’ That was why he had repeated the phrase about a nightmare and blood. He had encountered his own Vietnam.

  ‘That’s quite possible. He must have had counselling if he was looking for information about his adoption and the records, particularly in such awful circumstances.’

  ‘That would only help so much and it would have been before the murder of his partner. I’d better go, I’m having dinner with Cedric and Yana.’

  ‘The refugee girl?’

  ‘Yes. She has moved in with him temporarily. I’ll tell you more later.’

  Nora was coming for dinner too, having agreed to speak to Yana. Why hadn’t he mentioned her name to Ruth? He was too tired to think about it and his chest was tight. He dressed in jeans and a white shirt, took another painkiller and answered the door to Nora’s ring. Her hair was tousled from the breeze and tonight her string bow tie was cream with tiny purple tulips. She smiled at him as she stepped in.

  ‘Love the beat-up nose. Lip kiss or cheek kiss? I’m muddled after the other night.’

  He bent down and kissed her lips lightly by way of an answer, groaning as his muscles complained.

  ‘Ribs as well as nose,’ he explained.

  ‘All courtesy of this Yana’s “friends?”’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ah well, if you will be a knight in shining armour . . . The car license plate you gave me. It was traced to an address in Bolton but the house was cleared out, our birds had flown.’

  ‘Predictable, I suppose.’

  * * *

  They ate a delicious main meal of fish with spiced rice and caramelised onions, which Yana told them was called sayadieh. Her hair was clean and gleaming, black-blue in the light and hung free. Cedric had bought her some new clothes and she was wearing a green and purple woollen tunic with black leggings. She looked like a person with a life and a purpose as she accepted compliments on the meal. Dessert was Maamoul bi Ajwa, a crumbly biscuit with date filling which went well with coffee.

  Nora chatted easily to her, drawing her out about her life and her journey to England with her brother.

  ‘My mother was music teacher, my father bookkeeper. We had a house, a lovely house. But now I am here.’

  ‘You’re amongst friends now, you’re safe,’ Nora told her.

  Her eyes filled and she lowered her face over her cup.

  Nora leaned towards her. ‘Yana, the police went to the house in Bolton, the house you escaped from. It was empty. The business will have moved elsewhere. There is a search on for the car but they will have got rid of it or hidden it somewhere by now. These men are good at doing this. They are practised in it. Were you taken to any other houses in or around Bolton?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘Only that one.’

  ‘Have you heard from your friend at all?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Okay. You told Ty and Cedric you had seen something terrible and that’s why those men came after you. Would you be able to talk to me about that?’

  ‘I can’t. Don’t make me do that.’

  ‘Nobody will make you do anything. If you can talk to the police, we can offer you witness protection. That means we look after you. We can explain it in more detail. You know, if you talk to us we can help your friend and other girls as well.’

  Yana shook her head and was silent. Nora looked at Swift and made a little gesture of defeat.

  ‘Okay. But just think it over. Talk to Cedric, yes?’

  The girl remained wordless. Cedric poured more coffee.

  ‘Yana chats away to me. We’ll see how it goes,’ he said. ‘I presume in the meantime, it’s best if she doesn’t go out.’

  ‘Absolutely. I’m sorry this has happened, Yana, after your other troubles.’

  Yana looked up. ‘But I have friends now. And I have been trapped in places with no friends. It’s no punishment to stay inside here as long as Cedric allows.’

  ‘You do have friends,’ Swift said. ‘Can I ask a favour of you? Would you play your flute for us?’

  Relief swept over her face. She fetched her flute and played several fast tunes, then a slower air. Her expression changed as she played, focused and energised.

  Nora had to leave them to finish writing a report. Swift saw her out. At the front door, she kissed her finger and placed it against his lips.

  ‘A drink again soon?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Let me know about the baby.’

  ‘I will.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Timing . . . what to say?’

  He went back to Cedric’s to help clear up. Yana was in the bathroom, singing in a light, tuneful voice. A song in her own language.

  ‘She showers three times a day,’ Cedric told him
. ‘Says she can’t get clean enough.’ He stacked the dishwasher. ‘She won’t talk to the police, you know. Her life has been full of men in uniforms, corralling her, ordering her, threatening her and she is understandably wary of authorities, however benign they seem. She is sad for the other girls but she is too terrified to talk, at least for now. Terrified and also determined to survive. She’s a steely person underneath the apparent fragility, knows her own mind.’

  ‘That’s how she’s got through. I can’t say I blame her. She can’t stay with you longer term though, on the sofa.’

  ‘No, I know. Maybe if say a month or so passes and she stays in for that time, I can help her find somewhere. Do you think the danger will be over then?’

  ‘Hard to say. She must have witnessed a serious crime. Keep her in, anyway. She would probably be safe enough then in another part of London.’

  He wiped down the work surfaces. Cedric was looking at him as he dried a saucepan.

  ‘Nora seems a very nice woman,’ he said. ‘Have you known her long?’

  ‘A while,’ Swift said distantly. ‘Do you want me to put this leftover food in the fridge?’

  Cedric knew not to intrude further and started the dishwasher.

  CHAPTER 11

  Swift was passed through three people at Adopt Care, explaining each time who he was and why he was calling. Each sounded more cautious than the last. A fourth finally confirmed that a care manager called Emily de Carolis had worked for them but had returned to Canada. He was told that a manager would ring him back.

  He set off for Barnes in Cedric’s car to explore the possible Cressida Wellings/JoJo Hayworth connection. He had no idea if it was relevant to his enquiries but all leads were worth a try. Hayworth’s address was a penthouse flat in a newish riverside development called Willow Bank. He parked and looked out at the gleaming river, frustrated because his rib injury would stop him from rowing for at least a couple more days. The early afternoon was bright with high cloud and a fresh wind. Excellent conditions. Ah well.

  Swift pressed the bell for number 11 by the intercom but there was no reply. He pressed again and waited. He tried a few more random bells but no one was answering. He returned to the car and was debating whether to hang around when Adopt Care phoned him. A woman introduced herself as Hannah Seaford and asked how she could help. He explained yet again who he was and why he had contacted the agency.

  ‘I see. I have run a few checks on you. You will appreciate that our records are completely confidential. I can confirm that Ms de Carolis met Mr Merrell and gave him information from his file but I can’t discuss this with you,’ she said. She was quietly spoken, polite but firm.

  ‘I understand, but you see, I don’t believe that Dominic Merrell murdered his partner. Papers have been found amongst his belongings, including those given to his wife. I have read the adoption report summary that he received detailing the circumstances of his parents’ deaths and the description of Vietnam written by his father. He must have been deeply upset. I think that the impact of knowing about his background contributed to his state of mind and his decision to confess to a crime he hadn’t committed.’

  ‘You may be correct. I’m not allowed to give you details.’

  Swift thought. ‘I appreciate your position. Bear with me a minute, because I really am trying to defend this man and identify a murderer. If . . . if I told you that Dominic Merrell knew he had been adopted but not the dreadful circumstances causing it and decided to look for his birth parents in the last year or so, would I be wrong?’

  She cleared her throat. ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘He’d never told his wife or family or close friends that he was adopted. I suppose, generally speaking, that can happen.’

  ‘Generally speaking, that can happen. People can feel ashamed or aware that their adoptive parents would be distressed if they revealed it. Sometimes, being adopted just isn’t a huge issue for them or they can think it isn’t until something triggers a need to investigate it, usually a major life event. There are many reasons. It’s a complex area.’

  ‘And I suppose, generally speaking, that adoptive parents might not reveal previous traumatic events to a child through a wish to protect them.’

  ‘That could be the case.’

  ‘And again, generally speaking, it could be the case that a life event such as a marriage breaking up could be a trigger to seeking information.’

  ‘It could.’

  He had spotted Cressida Wellings walking along the road, wearing her coat with the fur collar, talking into her phone. He had to double check because her hair was now the colour of pale honey.

  ‘Okay. Thank you so much. I won’t bother you further.’

  His head buzzing, Swift watched as Cressida stopped at Willow Bank and entered a code on the keypad by the door. He waited for a few minutes, then walked over and rang the bell again.

  ‘Cressie speaking,’ she said softly.

  He spoke into the intercom. ‘Hi. My name’s Tyrone Swift. I’m a private detective. I met you briefly on the Aurora Dawn when I was visiting Isabella Alfaro. You were on deck with your dad. Could I have a word? I have ID.’

  A pause. ‘How did you know where I live?’

  ‘Oh, JoJo told me. I was talking to him.’

  ‘JoJo?’

  ‘Yes. JoJo Hayworth. I saw him in Canterbury. Could I speak to you?’

  Her voice had sharpened. ‘It’s not really convenient now.’

  ‘Hmm. It’s just that I know you’re friendly with Harry Merrell and I wanted to check something.’

  A longer pause. ‘I’ve got a few minutes. You can come up.’

  There was a lift at the end of a gleaming foyer with black-and-white marble tiled flooring and tall, lush pot plants. The lift had a large mirror and he checked his nose as he rode up. He looked only mildly disreputable.

  Cressida opened the door, glanced at his ID, looked him up and down and led him into a long living area with huge glass windows offering a panoramic view of the Thames. He felt as if he had walked on to a film set. The place was opulent, with sofas, a chaise longue and chairs in cream leather, thick cream carpet, huge gilt-edged mirrors and several large pieces of metal sculpture. A heavy perfume scented the air. All was light and space and the rippling river reflected the sun, drawing the eye. At one end of the room there was an L-shaped mahogany cabinet, standing open, displaying a home bar stocked with dozens of bottles and a champagne bucket and glasses.

  ‘Amazing place,’ he said.

  Cressida was standing by the chaise longue, hand on a hip, watchful. She was wearing a short red wraparound dress in a silky material, which exposed a deep cleavage. Her long, muscular legs were in sheer black nylon. She had on red-and-black stilettos. Her hair was brushed out around her shoulders, her lips outlined in a deep, shimmering coral. She presented an interesting picture at one thirty in the afternoon.

  ‘You’ve changed your hair colour,’ he added.

  She made an impatient movement with her hand. ‘What do you want to speak to me about?’

  She hadn’t offered a seat so he sat on a plush armchair. She frowned and perched on the edge of the chaise longue, tucking her legs to one side.

  ‘I was talking to your father when I went back to the Aurora Dawn. He doesn’t seem to know you live here with JoJo.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s a bit odd, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m an adult. It’s my business who I live with.’

  ‘Sure, but it still seems odd because I understand you are close to your dad. I suppose you must feel bad about the cupping incident at Body Balm and your dad’s workplace being sued.’

  She flicked her hair and shifted her balance on the seat. ‘Why exactly are you here?’

  ‘I’m investigating Lisa Eastwood’s death. Dominic Merrell might be innocent.’

  ‘And that brings you here because . . . ?’

  ‘Well, let’s see.’ He ticked off on his fingers: ‘You know Harry Mer
rell, your dad and Lisa used to be an item and Lisa was married to JoJo. Your accident with a client was the reason Lisa and Isabella argued and why the business is in jeopardy. So you connect people and events in a significant way and that’s always of interest to me. Were you at Lisa’s party?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘No.’

  ‘Was Harry?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Your dad was, though.’

  ‘Was he?’ She made a little movement with her shoulder and glanced at the huge brass wall clock. She had a pretty but bland face with shapely eyebrows. The peachy bloom on her skin was appealing and he supposed she had a certain sultry attractiveness. She was a cool customer, he thought. Observant.

  ‘He was. Lisa was interested in him again, eyeing him up. Presumably he was responding or he wouldn’t have accepted her invitation.’

  ‘I don’t monitor my dad or who he’s spending time with. He’s a grown-up like me, he can do what he likes with his life.’ Her voice fell a little, belying her assertion.

  ‘What’s your relationship to Harry Merrell?’

  ‘He’s a friend.’

  ‘A good friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve had plenty to discuss. You both had fathers who fell for Lisa, fell foul of her, some might say. You both experienced family upheaval because of it. It would give you a kind of bond.’

  ‘Would it?’ She yawned, showing her soft pink tongue.

  ‘Yes, I think it would.’ He gave her a long, steady look. ‘I was a teenager once. I tasted grief for the first time when I was fifteen. Huge life events are hard to deal with at any time, but particularly when you are trying to establish your own individuality, find a course in life. Parents who misbehaved and caused heartache would have drawn you and Harry together.’