‘Do you think you are close to resolving the Merrell case?’
‘I feel as if I’m wearing a blindfold. It’s just there, within reach, but I can’t locate it.’ He took her hand. ‘That young woman I saw this morning, Cressida. She’s so angry with her parents. I wonder what Branna will make of us and our confusion?’
She put his hand against her stomach. ‘We can only love her and do our best.’
He said nothing but thought, yes, but will that be enough? He pictured a future with visits to see Branna timed around a sick man’s medical appointments. Instead of an illicit lover, he would be an illicit father.
‘Do you want to see her room?’ Ruth asked.
They went upstairs to a room overlooking the garden. It smelled of fresh paint. The walls were a pale primrose. There was a crib ready, with a tiny white duvet and a mobile of brightly coloured animals suspended over it. A plastic table with a changing mat stood prepared, with packs of nappies on a shelf beneath.
‘I should buy her things. What should I buy?’
Ruth set the mobile spinning. ‘Clothes, toys, whatever takes your fancy. Indulge yourself. Listen, the mobile can play tunes.’
She pressed a button and a lullaby started. She moved to him and put her head against his chest. He circled her with his arms, inhaling the warm scent of her hair. For a moment, it all made sense.
* * *
Kharal caught up with him after he had made his statement, bristling up to him in the corridor of the police station.
‘How come you didn’t mention Cressida Wellings and JoJo Hayworth when we spoke before?’
‘I didn’t put to and two together until I got home and thought about it. It’s been a complicated enquiry and it was all a bit traumatic. You know, finding Harry Merrell like that.’
Kharal looked unconvinced. ‘You shouldn’t have gone to see Wellings. I could have you for tampering with witnesses.’ There was a suppressed energy to the man, a contained aggression.
‘I suppose. Still, you got a good lead from her so it worked in your favour. Have you found Hayworth?’
‘Not yet, we will. Stay away from witnesses, Swift, or I’ll have you. I don’t care who you’re related to. The Queen could be your aunty but I’ll have you.’
‘They’re all yours,’ he said mildly.
‘Anything else you’re not telling me?’
‘No. I’m still looking for Lisa Eastwood’s killer. I’ll keep you posted.’
Kharal glared, spun on his heel and walked away, clicking his fingers at a minion.
Mary had texted him, saying that Simone was on a training course in Birmingham and would he like to meet up? They decided to eat in the Silver Mermaid. Swift hailed a cab and checked his emails on the way there. There was one from Cressida:
I’ve talked to the police. My dad is here now. I’m going to stay with him until I sort something out. I’ve been going over and over everything and I thought I should tell you something I remembered. When I went to see Lisa the week before she died, there was a guy there with her. She told him to go and wait in the kitchen while we talked. I didn’t know him. A tall guy, about your height, blondish hair, fit looking. He had an expensive watch. That’s all. C
A stillness came over him. He saw the pieces finally coming together, the picture making sense. It added up, of course, that Lisa would have pursued every man who came into her orbit, not caring what territory she was trespassing in or the hurt she might cause. It was just how she operated, a compulsion, almost. Richard Molina had said that she was like a kid in a sweetie shop where men were concerned, liking to pick and mix. He decided that there was no need to rush. For tonight, he would slow things down, enjoy his meal with Mary and give his aching bones a rest.
She was waiting when he arrived, working on her laptop. They both ordered red wine and lasagne.
‘To our pregnant women,’ Mary said, raising her glass and running a hand through her springy hair. ‘I don’t want to sound disloyal but it is a relief to have a day without reports of baby’s movements. I get a text or email pretty much hourly, but Simone’s had to turn her phone off today.’
Swift drank deeply. It was wonderful to see her alone. Restful. But he wouldn’t say so. ‘Have you got a name yet?’
‘We can’t decide. We like Alric — that was Simone’s dad’s name, and Donal. I said we should wait for the baby and see which name suits him.’
‘I saw Ruth today. We’re going to call the baby Branna.’
‘Ah, good,’ Mary said softly. ‘How did that go, seeing her?’
‘Surprisingly okay. I went to Brighton, to her house. Her husband was out at physio.’
Mary was always one for cutting to the chase. ‘Do you think you two will get together when he dies?’
‘I’ve no idea. Who knows what we’ll feel?’
‘Hmm, best to just play it day by day.’
He changed the subject, not wanting to dwell on it now. ‘Just in case you get any feedback, I’ve had a run in with a DCI Laith Kharal over a murder in Balham. We share a mutual antipathy. He thinks I want special treatment because we’re related.’
‘Okay. If he crosses my radar, I’ll let you know. Oh look! Here’s double trouble.’
Cedric was coming in with his friend Milo. They both liked vibrant colours and egged each other on in their wardrobe choices. Tonight, Cedric was wearing a violet shirt with pink checks and Milo sported a cerise T-shirt patterned with raspberries. These days he walked slowly, bowed forward, with two sticks so that he resembled a flamboyant tortoise as he edged into his seat.
‘We’re just thinking about pudding,’ Swift told them.
‘Have the lemon meringue,’ Milo said. ‘I’ll share yours if you get two spoons. Must make sure you keep your gorgeous physique.’
Milo always flirted with him and regularly expressed his disappointment that Swift was straight and not open to offers.
‘How’s Yana?’ Swift asked.
Cedric nodded. ‘She’s okay. Becoming a little edgy from not getting out, but keeping herself busy with cooking and practising her flute now her chest has cleared up. I’m eating well and listening to beautiful music. She’s relieved that her tests came back clear so she has no other health problems.’
‘And being a witness?’
Cedric shook his head. ‘She hasn’t changed her mind.’
Cedric explained Yana’s story to Mary while Milo ate most of Swift’s pudding. They played dominoes until late. Swift was so tired he almost nodded off in his chair. Mary hopped into a taxi while Cedric and Milo walked him home between them, saying that the young had no stamina these days.
CHAPTER 13
The sun woke Swift the following morning, strong and bright, working its way through a chink in the curtains and spilling a lemony light across his face. He did some stretches and took deep breaths, reckoning he should manage to get on the river in a couple of days. His nose now looked as if he’d had a bad cold rather than a punch. He ate toast, crunching it as he walked outside with his coffee and sat on the swing seat, deep in thought. He spent the hour between eight and nine cleaning, loading the washing machine and putting accumulated newspapers in the recycling bin. At the stroke of nine, he rang Tracey and Siddons, Estate Agents, and asked for Louise Pullman.
‘How can I help you this morning?’ she asked cheerily.
‘Hi, Louise, it’s Tyrone Swift here, the private investigator. We met at Finbar’s a while ago and you gave me your card.’
‘Oh, yes. Are you in the market?’
‘A friend might be, fairly soon. Could you tell me what percentage you charge?’
He listened while she rattled on about ballpark figures and market values.
‘Okay, thanks. That’s really helpful. By the way, you know you had flu when Lisa Eastwood had her party. Were you at Finbar’s that night? I expect he looked after you.’
‘The party? Oh, that’s right, I had a high temperature. No, I stayed at mine that weekend. I felt r
otten and I didn’t want to pass it on. Fin’s a bit of a hypochondriac when it comes to germs.’
She didn’t ask him why he wanted to know.
‘I’m the same with bugs, I’m afraid. Probably a man thing.’
She giggled. ‘I know, you’re all wimps really! Fin ended up catching some kind of flu anyway. He has had a virus for weeks now, it has really worn him down. I kept nagging him to take a break and finally he has. He has gone away for a few days. Well, and of course he was ever so upset at what he found out about Dominic, the adoption and everything. All that awful stuff about his real parents. It really knocked the stuffing out of Fin. I’ve never seen him look so gutted. He hasn’t been right since, so the break should do him good.’
‘Has he gone somewhere nice?’
‘Nice enough. He’s at his place in Dorset, a little holiday cottage he bought a couple of years ago.’
‘Lovely.’
‘Well, he needed to go there anyway because something went wrong with the boiler, so he had to sort it out. He should be back in a couple of days but the plumber is being unreliable. It’s hard to talk to him because the mobile signal is useless there.’
‘Great, though, having a place in the country. Is it out in the sticks?’
‘Sort of. It’s near a little village called Hinbury Magna.’
‘Well, anyway, thanks so much for your advice and I’ll tell my friend.’
He put the phone down, recalling Power’s ashen face when he had learned of Merrell’s adoption, how his voice had hoarsened when Swift mentioned the abortion. The man was ill but it wasn’t flu. It was a different, deeper malaise. He had called Lisa an angel and a devil. Swift now knew why, and why he was hiding with his torment, just as his friend had hidden in the bowels of the Hays hotel.
He turned immediately to google and found Hinbury Magna, situated between Dorchester and Lyme Regis, a couple of miles inland from the coast. A quick route check told him he could drive it in about three and a half hours. He confirmed with Cedric that it was okay to borrow the car again and was on the road within the hour.
* * *
The M3 was fast until just past Winchester, where there had been an accident. It was warm, the sky a translucent blue. Swift took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. As the queue of cars inched forwards, he listened to one of Cedric’s tapes of Cajun music. The bottleneck eased after ten miles and he reached the A35 at Dorchester by noon. Five miles on, he turned on to a B road with a signpost to Hinbury Magna and Hinbury Parva. The road curved down into a valley, over a humpback bridge, then right to Hinbury Magna, which was circled by soft green hills. The verges were covered with pale yellow and cream primroses and violets. A stream ran to the left and through the village, dividing it in two, with cottages built of stone and flint clustered on either side of it.
Swift pulled in near a village smithy beside a chestnut tree, advertising working weekends and holiday tuition in blacksmithing skills, hedging and dry-stone walling. He got out of the car and stretched. All was quiet. To his right was a post office with mullioned windows, a vicarage and a village hall with a large sign indicating that a WI market was in progress with teas, coffees and light lunches available. A good prospect for information as well as food.
He walked to the single-storey, brick-built hall. The loud buzz of conversation within was astonishing after the silence outside. Delicious smells greeted him as he let the swing doors close behind him. He identified coffee, vanilla, chocolate and lemon. The wooden floor was faded from use and the walls were painted a dull green that reminded him of hospitals. Stalls lined both sides of the deep room, piled with cakes of all shapes and sizes, biscuits, pies, filled rolls, jams, chutneys and preserves. There was also a table with children’s clothes and toys. The place was thronged, mainly with women, most of them young. He could see two men, the vicar, with black shirt and dog collar, and a man about Cedric’s age. A woman in her thirties, wearing jeans and a polo-neck jumper approached him, smiling, licking her fingers.
‘Can we help you?’
‘I’d love a sandwich and a coffee.’
‘Come this way, I’m in charge of the lunches today.’
She led him to the lunch stall where he bought a ham and tomato roll and a large mug of coffee, all for under two pounds.
‘I’ve never mingled with the WI before. I expected it would be grey-haired ladies of a certain age, all swapping recipes.’ His stepmother, Joyce, was a member in London. She was in her sixties, bustling, an organiser by nature, a bit of a do-gooder.
‘You need to check your stereotypes. Our group is fairly new. I started it with a friend a couple of years ago. I had moved here from Southampton and needed some company. We had thirty members within a couple of months, lots of women who’ve given up work temporarily to look after children, who needed a social network.’
‘You do swap recipes, though? I’d find it reassuring.’
She laughed. ‘I will concede that we occasionally do that. You don’t look as if that’s what you’re here for though.’
‘I’m trying to find an old friend. Maybe you can help me. His name is Finbar Power. He lives in London but has a holiday place somewhere nearby.’
‘Not sure, but I think I’ve heard the name. Hang on.’
She turned to a woman at the next stall who was selling potted plants, and waited for her to complete a purchase. Swift finished his roll and drank the coffee, which was fresh and robust. He looked around at the brisk trading at the stalls. Several of them had almost emptied since he walked in and tidying and sweeping had begun. The vicar was making his way through a huge slice of Victoria sponge, balancing his plate as he spoke to a sturdy woman in tweeds and mucky wellingtons. Everyone looked well fed and affluent. All the faces were white. He was aware of the parallel lives being led in this one country, never touching each other. He felt as if he had crossed an invisible border somewhere between London and this rural haven.
The friendly woman came back to him. ‘Thought Tilda would know, she knows everyone. He’s at Hasilbeare Cottage. It’s about ten minutes’ drive out of the village towards Hinbury Parva. She says you can’t miss it, it’s set back from the road with a grey front door and the name’s on the gate. Tilda says he’s about, she saw him in the post office and her nephew services the boiler.’
He thanked her and wandered around the stalls. He bought tomato and fig preserves and a fruitcake. He stopped at the children’s stall, choosing a perky-looking knitted giraffe and a tiny damson-coloured patchwork jacket. It felt odd, handing over the money, knowing that they were for his daughter.
* * *
The road towards Hinbury Parva curved nearer to the coast. After a mile or two Swift could smell the sea, then he caught the odd glimpse of silvery blue shimmering across the fields. The breeze had strengthened from the west and scraps of thin white cloud drifted across the sky. He knew that the meeting that was to come would expose layers of pain and he drove slowly, postponing it.
He found the cottage easily and parked across the road, where there was a grassy layby. It was double fronted, compact and built of honey-coloured stone with a Virginia creeper covering the front and bordering the bow windows. A small front garden lay behind a low stone wall. It was well tended, with lavender, geraniums, poppies and candytuft growing in profusion. There was a scent of woodsmoke in the air, sweet and pungent. The silence was profound. No answer came to his knock. He shaded his eyes and looked through a front window into an empty sitting room with a deep fireplace stacked with logs, easy chairs and a table covered with paperbacks.
A flagstone path ran around the side of the cottage. Swift followed it to a lush back garden filled with shrubs, roses and a large bank of thyme and camomile. Finbar Power was midway down, cutting back dark green ivy and throwing the branches into a wheelbarrow. When Swift called his name he turned and stared. Then his lips moved and he nodded, as if confirming something to himself.
Swift stood still and waited while he drew
off his gardening gloves, threw them on top of the pile of ivy in the barrow and walked slowly over to him. Power was pale, despite the sunny day.
‘How did you find me?’
‘Louise.’
‘I see.’ His jeans were flecked with mud, his walking boots caked in soil and bits of leaves. ‘I’ve been tidying. It has been warm and damp here for a while. Everything starts growing like crazy. Nature’s mad dash to summer.’
‘I can see it would take a lot of maintenance. It’s a lovely spot.’
‘Yes. The cottage is seventeenth century. Very olde England for an Irishman. It was used in a film some time back, before I bought it. One of the Thomas Hardy novels, I can’t remember which one. One of those tales of betrayal and sadness and tragedy set in pastoral beauty.’
‘Louise said you haven’t been well.’
His eyes were steady but held a far-off look. ‘She fusses too much. I had a bad time with that virus, that’s all. A bit of sea fishing has helped.’
‘All? She said what you’d found out about Dominic upset you terribly.’
He looked down. ‘It did, yes.’
‘But it’s not just what you found out, is it? It’s far more than that, a series of terrible events. That’s why you are here, hiding away.’
Power raised his eyes. They were dimmed now, full of hurt. ‘Yes, it’s all much more. Much too much.’
Swift could see that there would be no bluffing and he was relieved. He kept his voice low and steady.
‘I don’t believe in a virus, unless you call guilt and remorse a virus. I can see why you wanted to come here, it’s a place that could help with healing. But I don’t think it is helping you. You don’t look as if you have benefited. How could you? I know what happened. Not all the details but the general outline.’
Power rubbed a finger. ‘I got a splinter in here yesterday and I just can’t dig it out. Amazing how a small sliver of rose bush can be so annoying. I put some of this ointment on that’s supposed to draw it out but I don’t think it works.’ He blinked rapidly. ‘I was horrified and relieved when you told me Georgie wanted you to investigate. When I’ve been lying awake in the dark, which has been every night, I thought that you would work it out somehow. You read people and you seem tenacious. I think I wanted you to find out, lift the burden from me. I told you about the loan to Dominic to keep you interested in me. I suppose I wanted to be seen as someone who had done some good, shown some kindness as well.’
Two Lovers, Six Deaths Page 17