NEVER CAME HOME an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won't see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 2)

by Gretta Mulrooney

  Hope to talk soon, love, Mutsi xx

  The usual mix of emotional blackmail, innuendo and self-regard. If Mutsi wanted to trade sayings from her homeland, Siv could send her another one: ‘My family is my strength and my weakness.’ And why on earth would Mutsi want grandchildren? She’d taken little care or notice of her daughters, and had certainly been missing from the queue when maternal affection was being distributed.

  Mutsi had headed back across the North Sea from Finland after a failed affair, one in a long history of such disasters, with yet another man who’d decided not to leave his wife. Siv could imagine that life in Turku had got a tad uncomfortable. Women didn’t care for other women who went poaching their husbands. It wouldn’t be long before Mutsi had another man in tow, and his being married wouldn’t stop her. She had no intention of being caught in her mother’s intricate web, and the kind of fallout that always accompanied her machinations. She’d had enough of meeting a string of ‘uncles’ as a child. She’d liked a few of them, especially Franz, who’d been good at making animal shapes on the wall and had entertained her with talking hippos and swooping vultures. But it hadn’t really mattered if she warmed to them or not. They all vanished as soon as she got used to them. She suspected that most of them had ditched Mutsi when she became too demanding, although her mother had always made it sound as if she was the one who’d ended the relationship. Siv and Rikka could take their pick of, That man was boring, mean, selfish, sarcastic, old-fashioned, cold, unsympathetic.

  Her father had rarely mentioned his ex-wife but had once said, Your mother is an insoluble conundrum.

  She washed her plate, poured another drink and sat with her feet on the top of the wood-burner, stroking the arm of the sweatshirt. Still there, Ed? This is as cosy as I can be without you. It’s not really getting any more bearable. I’m just more used to the numbness inside. At least I can manage to resemble a functioning detective. I’m confident I can do the job again and it’s a distraction. I seem to have conned people into accepting this weird version of me — except for Mortimer, but then I suspect he has his own agenda which is in a file labelled, ‘I wanted Tommy Castles and they sent me this pale imitation.’ I wish you were around to put Mutsi back in her box. Wish you were around. Wish I’d padlocked your bike and thrown away the key, like I threatened. Not cross really, just so sad.

  She listened, but he’d wandered off. Maybe if there was an afterlife, he was pedalling along the great cycle path in the sky, where you wouldn’t need a helmet and you never got blisters or aching calves. She closed her eyes, liking that picture.

  An owl’s insistent hooting woke her with a start at half eleven. The fire had burned down to fine, glowing ashes. She was parched and drank a glass of water before she staggered the few paces that it took to reach her bed.

  * * *

  They met with Rey Anand at the mortuary early the following morning. As usual, he’d provided a Thermos of coffee and a sweetener to soothe the bitter taste of death. Today it was a plate of almond croissants. He was a tall, courteous man with a neatly trimmed beard and rimless glasses. Steve could learn some lessons from his civil manner.

  Ali reached for a croissant. ‘My blood sugar’s fine this morning,’ he told Siv.

  She raised an eyebrow. He’d managed to get coffee on his shirt cuff as he poured it, and his dark tie, which he only ever wore to the morgue as a gesture of respect, was too short at the front. He often looked as if he was still learning how to dress himself. Patrick, on the other hand, was smart but washed out and stifling yawns. As usual, he was fidgeting and tapping, drumming his fingers silently on his thigh. She imagined him as a restless sleeper, constantly shifting and turning, his feet snarled in the bedding.

  She sipped her coffee. ‘What have you got for us, Rey?’ Ali had already given her the highlights.

  Rey leaned forward, elbows propped on the table. ‘What I have for you is inevitably limited, because of the mummification process. The pelvic bones and rib measurements demonstrate that they are the remains of a mature female of middle years — between thirty-five and fifty, around five feet four in height. There was rapid skin dehydration after death, which means the tissue is brittle, partly because there was no heating in the premises, and also the kitchen is cool and shady. That would have facilitated mummification instead of the usual putrefaction. Hair was darkish blonde. She was bare-legged but fully clothed, wearing knickers, bra and a dress. There were signs of former low-level insect activity present on the body, mainly flies, pupae and maggots, of the usual type found in houses and other buildings. She had been strangled with paracord, a type of heavy-duty commercial nylon, and her body was then tied to the back of the fridge with rope. It’s hard to be definite because of the deterioration of the body, but given the lack of any other substances, fibres or materials, my best guess is that she was strangled there. I can’t be precise on that point. She could have been murdered elsewhere. Given the time that’s elapsed since her death, it wasn’t possible to determine if there was sexual activity beforehand.’

  He paused to sip coffee. His aftershave was pungent and woody, an effective barrier against the powerful stench of blood, antiseptic and decay. He’d once told Siv that he never ate cauliflower cheese because, to him, the dish smelled exactly like putrefaction. Steve Wooton had eaten two of the croissants and Siv took the last but one. It was warm and soft. She tried not to picture maggots.

  ‘I’m going to ask the predictable question,’ she said. ‘Can you tell us anything about how long she’d been there?’

  ‘Hmm. That’s a difficult one because of variants in temperature and moisture. I’d say no longer than eight years and not less than four. But those are approximations. The woman had been wearing a yellow dress made of a cotton mix and shreds of it were still intact. The label has disintegrated too far to get anything from it.’

  ‘So we can’t tell if she was murdered at the scene,’ Ali said. ‘It might be that she went somewhere else to start with, and then was taken to Steiner’s by her killer, rather than meeting him there.’

  ‘Rigor, as you are aware, sets in after about four hours and dissipates after approximately forty-eight hours,’ Rey said. ‘Therefore, if she was strangled elsewhere, it would have been easier for the killer either to move her quickly, or after two days.’

  Steve wiped his mouth with a tissue. ‘We didn’t find any paracord in Steiner’s. The type used to strangle the deceased is widely available in most DIY shops or online. There was an identical bale of rope in the outhouse where the toilet is. There’s no ID of any kind.’

  ‘I’ve not heard of paracord before,’ Siv said. ‘What’s it used for?’

  ‘It was originally used in parachute suspension lines,’ Steve told them. ‘Then it migrated into general commercial use. Astronauts have used it. Joe Public uses it for anything from engines to pet collars to water bottle straps, bracelets and garage storage. You could say it’s ubiquitous and multipurpose, which doesn’t help you much if you’re trying to track down who might have had it handy for a strangulation.’

  Ali groaned. ‘Thanks, Steve.’

  ‘We have two missing women in the age range you’ve given us,’ Siv told Rey. ‘How soon can you give us a result from their dental records?’

  ‘It should be within twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Guv!’ Patrick was checking his phone. ‘I made a few basic notes from the mispers files. None of them had any connection to Steiner’s but one of those two women was reported as wearing a yellow dress the night she went missing in July 2013. Her name was Lyn Dimas and she was blonde.’

  Patrick had sleep crust in the corners of his eyes and he rubbed at it as he spoke. He could be callow and distracted but now and again, he nailed it. Siv smiled at him.

  ‘Good work. We’ll focus on her. Do we have any results from the mattress?’

  ‘That’s still underway,’ Steve reported, ‘and we’re running checks on all fingerprints found in the premises. We have thirty-f
ive full sets in all, at least four of which presumably belong to our builders. There are also a number of part-prints, just useless smudges. Judging by the spliff ends, empty matchboxes, takeaway cartons, lager cans, wine bottles, used condoms and one pair of knickers we found — size twelve, Primark, pink with a rose pattern — Steiner & Sons has been in regular informal use over the years. Either that, or Mr Steiner was living it large before he croaked.’

  * * *

  Siv was in her office early. A positive dental match for Lyn Dimas had come through, and she was reading the 2013 records and making notes. She saw that DS Tommy Castles had been active on the case. His name had followed her around since she took this job. Mortimer had favoured Castles and mentored him for the vacancy that Siv had filled. According to Ali, Mortimer had been annoyed that the appointment hadn’t gone his way. Castles had gone off to Kent instead, but she’d heard that he hadn’t settled there.

  She stood and opened a window wide, pushing against the warped, reluctant frame. The station was a listed building. Bits of it were crumbling and damp but repairs were costly and funds tight. Her office had an uneven, worn floor and was always musty. It had been partitioned off from the main room with a dark wood surround, inset with small windows and beige vertical blinds. Every evening, the cleaners opened the blinds and every morning, she closed them, so that it didn’t seem as if she was posing in a shop window.

  She’d called a meeting at nine thirty. The team for now was her, Ali, and Patrick. DC Lisa Flore, who usually worked with them, had been seconded to a specialist domestic violence unit and there had been no budget to replace her.

  ‘We’ve made progress,’ she said. ‘We’ve had a positive ID on dental records for this woman, Lyn Dimas. I’ve done a trawl through the record. She went missing on the twenty-eighth of July 2013. She was forty-three, living with her eighteen-year-old daughter, Lily, and her son, Adam, aged nine. Her husband, Theo Dimas, had moved out of the family home six months previously. He’d come out to his family as gay and was living with his new partner, Monty Barnwell.

  ‘The evening of the twenty-eighth was hectic in the house, because Lily had a bunch of friends round getting ready to attend their school prom. After Lily left with her friends, around quarter past seven, Lyn made Adam a sandwich and told him she was popping out to the shop and she wouldn’t be long. According to her son’s account, she left just after half seven with her shoulder bag. She didn’t take her car. Adam watched a film and ate his supper. When the film ended, it was just before nine. Adam was worried because his mum hadn’t come back, and he went to the next-door neighbour, Jeff Downey.’ She paused to take a sip of water.

  ‘Downey drove with Adam to the nearest shop, Smart Mart, which was the one she’d have walked to for odd things, but they didn’t see Lyn. The shop owner knew her well and said she hadn’t been in. Downey went home with Adam and phoned Mr Dimas, who said he’d heard nothing from his wife for weeks. Mr Dimas then went to the family home and rang around his wife’s friends. Most of them refused to speak to him at first — she’d been doing a good job of denouncing him — but when he explained that she hadn’t returned home, they all said that they hadn’t seen her, or expected to see her that evening. Mr Dimas phoned the police at 11.30 p.m. Given the circumstances, a search was launched immediately.’

  Patrick waved his iPad stylus. ‘Guv, were there any major suspects?’

  ‘Not that I’ve noted so far. All the team members who investigated at the time have either moved elsewhere or retired. That might not be such a bad thing — no toes to tread on. I did read that Theo Dimas said he’d been at home all evening with his partner, who confirmed that. But no one had seen, or reported seeing, Lyn Dimas after she left the house that evening. She vanished into thin air. Her bag was never found, there was no activity on her cards and her passport was at home. She’d left her phone in the kitchen. A trawl through her phone records showed just calls from family members or her work, and none on that day. There was no unusual email activity or arrangements for that evening. Ali, did you get hold of Theo Dimas?’

  ‘Aye, I did. He’s living back in the family home. I told him we had news of a development and we’d see him mid-morning. He sounded wobbly.’

  ‘We’ll head to see him soon. Patrick, I’ve started summarising the family structure, who was interviewed at the time, any major leads or suspects, forensics and any arrests. Can you carry on with that?’

  ‘Sure, guv. What are our chances of finding out who murdered her?’ Patrick asked. He seemed a bit apathetic and unfocused. He was keen on pursuit and quick results that he could tweet, not old cases with cold trails.

  ‘They’re probably equal to our enthusiasm and skill,’ Siv said sharply. ‘It’s not easy, investigating a murder years after the event but there’s a woman whose life was taken, a killer still at large and a family that’s hurting. My view is that we start from scratch with open minds, a completely fresh investigation, as well as using what information we already have from 2013. We’ll meet again first thing tomorrow. I’ve just got to speak to DCI Mortimer before we leave,’ she told Ali.

  * * *

  ‘Enjoy,’ Ali said, sinking his teeth into a nectarine and dribbling juice on his jacket collar. He shook his head at Patrick when she’d gone. ‘You deserved that reprimand,’ he said. ‘You should have the measure of the guv by now.’

  Patrick pulled a mutinous face and danced his fingers across his desk. ‘Everyone says cold cases are a nightmare.’

  ‘Yeah, well, don’t go tweeting that! Some things are best kept to yourself, wee man. Not always a good idea to say what’s going round in your head.’ Ali often adopted a mildly paternal air with Patrick. The younger man didn’t seem to mind.

  * * *

  Siv climbed to the top floor and found Mortimer sitting at his desk, staring at his laptop. His narrow shoulders were hunched. He was a bony man with a small head and a prickly manner. His skin had improved recently, the rosacea on his cheeks less inflamed. She told him that the body had been identified.

  ‘I still can’t give you any more than two officers,’ he said. ‘We’re thin on the ground, what with retirements and a lid on recruitment. And given that you’ll have a lot of information already on file, that should suffice. It goes without saying that the case will be difficult to resolve.’

  He and Patrick could form the glass-half-full team together. ‘Best not to be pessimistic, though. Three of us will be fine, sir.’ She didn’t want to hear about how he was having to recruit volunteers to help with forensics, rape cases and checking fingerprints. She was distracted by a painting that had appeared on his wall, just behind his badly dyed hair. He had a number of photos and paintings of boats and seascapes but this was a new one. It was of a silvery blue lake, threaded with ice and with purple hills in the background. It seemed familiar but she couldn’t place it.

  Mortimer straightened his tie. A leather case with a manicure set sat by his laptop. He was proud of his slim, long-fingered hands and sometimes worked on his cuticles while he was on the phone. ‘It will have to be, and let’s hope you stick with just one body this time, Inspector. No more multiples if you can help it, and no attempted suicides or murdered witnesses.’

  He was referring to the complexities of the first case she’d worked when she arrived. As payback for the sarcasm she said, ‘Still, we found our murderers and got a prosecution. I see that DS Castles was involved in the Lyn Dimas investigation. Shame he didn’t find her.’

  Mortimer sniffed. ‘Just get on with the job in hand, eh?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll keep you up to speed, sir.’

  Fifteen-love today. She smiled to herself on the way back down. Petty but satisfying.

  Chapter 4

  Ali was driving, his seat pushed so far back to accommodate his bulk that he was almost in the boot.

  ‘How are you getting on in your wee wagon?’ he asked. ‘You must be wild cosy, tucked in there. Snug as a bug in a rug.’ What he was thinking was
, How can she stand being in the back of beyond with no one for company? When he’d said this to Polly, she’d reminded him that Siv was in a strange part of her life, grieving and hurting. Some people coped better alone and when she was back on a more even keel, she’d be more sociable. Ali hoped so, because he worried about the guv, down there on her own by the edge of the river. None of them had been invited to her home. He’d picked her up one day when her car wouldn’t start, but she’d been waiting on the lane. He’d just caught a glimpse of the tiny wagon before she was in the passenger seat and telling him to step on it. It was like an illustration from a kids’ story — the cover of an Enid Blyton came to mind. At least she’d put a bit of weight on in the last couple of months, but there’d still be more meat on a hamster.

  ‘It took a bit of getting used to, but I like it now. Dead easy to maintain. Just me, the river and trees.’

  It wasn’t Ali’s idea of a good time. He and Polly lived in a snug crescent of twenty houses. He liked being surrounded by neighbours and was reassured by car doors slamming, kids’ voices, the odd snatch of someone’s music, the general background hum of domestic activities. ‘You’re not a tad isolated? It’d do my head in, with nothing but the Bere and the owls to listen to.’