‘Good turnout,’ Ali said.
Patrick nibbled his sweet. ‘She was popular. Everyone liked Lisa.’
‘What’s happening with her ashes?’ the guv asked. She sounded a bit wobbly.
‘Her mum’s thinking of scattering them along one of Lisa’s marathon routes,’ Patrick said. ‘She checked with me that it wasn’t illegal. Said she liked to think of Lisa always running into the distance.’
The guv cleared her throat and put a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Patrick, but I can’t come to Nutmeg. Please give my apologies to Ms Flore. It’s terrible that this murder is hanging over our goodbyes to Lisa. I need to get on with this investigation and start interviews. We’ve no idea why this man was left here. We’ll focus on the crem and its staff for now, in case there’s a link between this location and the deceased. It’s as good a place to start as any, until we know his name. You stay with Ms Flore as long as you need.’
‘Thanks. These things aren’t easy. I can’t stomach the thought of food myself. This sweet’s sticking in my throat.’
Ali wasn’t sure that Patrick understood. He’d been in a kind of trance all morning. ‘We’ll raise a glass for you, guv,’ Ali said. ‘I’ll not stay long, just half an hour or so, if that’s OK with you, and then I’ll be back.’
Siv opened the car door. ‘That’s fine. I’ll meet you at Bere Lodge.’
Ali glanced at her in the rear-view mirror as he drove away. She looked solitary, pinched. Life was such a bastard sometimes.
* * *
The light bulb was stiff in the socket. Imelda Kilgore pushed and twisted. At last, it freed and she was able to replace it. She folded the stepladder and left it by the door. She went through the rooms and checked each one again, making sure the inventory was up to date. The guests weren’t arriving until Friday, but once the keys were in the key safe, she needn’t worry about Hazel Cottage again for a week. In the kitchen, she checked that the information pack was on the table, with the small box of welcome shortbread that she bought wholesale. Imelda realised that some rental owners left loo rolls, a basic store cupboard, milk in the fridge and scones and local wines for guests, but she kept things simple and low-key. She’d never seen the need to over-egg the pudding, and she wasn’t running a charity.
On the way to the car, she pulled a few weeds from the side of the path and deadheaded some roses that had struggled on through the winter. A property owner’s job was never done, but she didn’t mind. The tiny front garden was pretty, even in this bleak month. Hazel Cottage didn’t have a sea view, tucked as it was down a quiet lane, just two miles from town, and the beach was a twenty-minute walk. It was her smallest property, only one bedroom, and was usually booked by couples wanting a secluded place. Ideal for a snug honeymoon getaway, as the brochure said.
Imelda owned six holiday homes in the area and maintained them all herself under the name Berminster Breaks. She’d gone for a portfolio with variety: two traditional cottages, two chalets, a bungalow and a flat by the harbour. She did all the routine maintenance, cleaning and laundry. Life was easier since bookings had gone online, but in high season, her feet hardly touched the ground and that was the way she liked it.
And thank goodness she had gone into holiday properties in her fifties. Wilf, her husband, had been made redundant from his lecturing job and she’d insisted that they use the pay-off to buy two cottages, Hazel and Mallow. He’d died at fifty-five and she’d invested the life insurance in more holiday lets. The rentals gave her purpose, satisfaction and a comfortable income. She’d been able to give Henry a hefty deposit towards his flat in London — if only he wasn’t sharing it now with that twitchy girlfriend. Imelda could see the attraction of a beautiful, exotic woman but failed to understand why he’d had to move her in with him. Soppy Saffie, who seemed to have no opinions and jumped when someone coughed. If only he’d stayed with Viv, who was a bit of a lazy madam but fun and gutsy. Imelda would keep her mouth shut though, hoping that the affair with Saffie would run its course.
She spent an hour at the bungalow, touching up some paintwork, cleaning the fridge and the dishwasher filter and plugging in a new kettle. She drove home, invigorated. It was such a beautiful crisp day, the kind that you hope for but can never rely on in late January. She was anticipating elevenses and catching-up with Henry and the gang. She’d pop down to Driftwood after twenty minutes’ respite with coffee and the crossword.
Tonight was the big night — Damian and Viv’s engagement celebration. From what Imelda gathered, there would be more, but this was the Berminster bash. They were all going to Amalfi, the best restaurant in town. The chef had won a TV competition last year, and you had to book weeks ahead. Word was that the lobster with ginger was amazing.
Imelda saw Saffie as she drove along the road. There was no mistaking that drooping stance. You’d expect that a young woman with such stunning looks would be confident, holding herself erect. She was hanging around by the front door, hands stuffed in her pockets, her hair blowing over her face. Imelda smiled stiffly as she locked the car.
‘Hello, dear. Do you need something?’
‘I’m just here for Henry. We did say that we’d have lunch in town and he hasn’t surfaced yet. I rang the bell, but he must still be asleep—’
What was she talking about? ‘Henry’s not here, dear.’
‘But—are you sure? He’s not at the chalet.’
‘I expect he’s out for a run, blowing away the cobwebs.’
‘No. Sorry, I mean he said he was staying here last night.’
Is she a bit dim, as well as nervy?
Imelda opened the door impatiently and strode straight upstairs to Henry’s room, standing aside to show Saffie the empty, perfectly made-up bed. ‘You must have got confused, dear.’
Saffie shook her head. ‘I woke up at three this morning and wondered where he was. I checked my phone and realised I’d forgotten to switch it on. He’d left me a message around eleven last night, said he’d had one too many and was about to have several more. He said he’d crash at your place so that he didn’t wake me and he’d see me this morning.’
Imelda felt the first tingle of anxiety. ‘Have you asked Damian and Viv where he is?’
‘They’re not up yet.’ Too busy having max-volume sex.
Imelda sat on the edge of the empty bed beneath sultry Natalie Portman. She took her phone from her bag and rang her son’s number. Voicemail.
‘Henry, I suppose you’re messing around somewhere. Give me a call when you get this.’
She got up and straightened the duvet. ‘We’d better go down to Driftwood. I’m sure there’s an explanation. These young men can be daft when they’re let loose on their own.’ But even to her own ears, her words sounded hollow.
She led the way on foot from the house, down the path to the chalet, Saffie following.
* * *
Siv was leaving the car park and heading back towards the crematorium buildings when a silver Lexus saloon purred up beside her.
‘DI Drummond, how’s it going?’ DI Tommy Castles had rolled down his window and was peering at her over the top of his aviator sunglasses.
Just what she needed. One of her least favourite people. ‘OK, thanks. How are you?’
‘Fine. Here for Lisa’s funeral. You want a lift to Nutmeg?’
‘I can’t come. I have a murder investigation.’
‘Ah. I’d ask more, but I don’t want to be late. I was fond of Lisa. We dated once. She was good fun.’
That’s not what she said about you, Tommy. I believe ‘conceited prick’ was the term. Whenever Tommy’s name had been mentioned, Lisa had started humming the Carly Simon song, ‘You’re So Vain’.
‘There are worse epitaphs, I’m sure,’ said Siv.
Tommy eyed her suspiciously and then smiled. ‘You never did get back to me about that drink.’
‘That’s right, I didn’t. It slipped my mind.’
He pretended to be wounded, puttin
g a hand over his heart. ‘And I thought I’d made an impression on the woman from the Met!’
‘Well, I mustn’t keep you.’
‘OK, Ms Frosty. Have it your way.’
You’ve disappointed that poor man, and he’s only trying to be nice, Ed sniggered.
She watched the Lexus accelerate away. DI Castles used to work in town, and DCI Mortimer had wanted him for the job Siv got. Following a promotion, Castles had gone off to Kent, but he was still good mates with Mortimer and there were rumours that he’d like to come back, given a chance. Siv suspected that her boss used him to snoop on her and the team. Castles had turned up for Mortimer’s Halloween party last year and emailed her afterwards, suggesting a drink. She’d deleted it.
She stepped into the foyer of Bere Lodge and was greeted again by Phoebe Palmer. She was a fidgety but pleasant middle-aged woman, with a grey birthmark the size of a pound coin on her forehead, above her right eye. She led Siv to a tiny, quiet room at the back of the building where she could conduct interviews. It had a window facing flowerbeds filled with pansies, and pergolas draped with winter jasmine and wisteria.
‘This is where the bereavement service invites distressed relatives to sit,’ Phoebe told her in a diffident, fluting voice. ‘We’re all terribly upset about what’s happened.’
‘It must be dreadful. Are you a tightly knit group?’ Siv asked, trying to get some idea of the setup at the crematorium. The murder might be connected to the place.
‘Well . . . I’m not sure I’d say that.’ Phoebe’s voice held regret. ‘Maybe not as close as we used to be before we were restructured.’ She held her hands clasped in front of her. ‘It’s been very different since Mr Foxwell took over. He’s full of ideas, made big changes. New broom and all that.’
Siv took note of the subtext. ‘Did you prefer things the way they were before?’
‘Oh, well . . . I expect we needed shaking up. That’s what Mr Foxwell told us when he was appointed.’
‘How about Diane, the deputy manager — she’s been here longer than Mr Foxwell, hasn’t she?’
‘Diane’s very approachable and helpful. She loves her job and she gets on fine with Mr Foxwell. He realises that she’s the expert in what she does, so he respects her. She’s a quiet, reliable person and she’s terribly knowledgeable about the history of the cemetery. The retort is very much her domain. As she’s told me more than once when I’ve been a bit fed up with Mr Foxwell’s changes, you can’t stay in a rut.’
Phoebe sounded like she longed to stay in a rut. ‘How long have you been here?’ Siv asked.
‘Thirty years,’ she said proudly. ‘It’s good to do a job where I can help people in their time of need. I may not have any qualifications, but I do have life experience and compassion. I realise I sometimes get a bit over-involved though.’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, talking to people for too long, helping them with things that aren’t in my remit.’
That sounded like management speak. ‘Is that what Mr Foxwell told you?’
Phoebe nodded. ‘I have to give the same quality service to everyone. We have to be careful not to discriminate.’ She spoke like a child repeating a lesson and gave a little laugh. ‘I’d best get back to the desk now.’ She hurried out to reception, leaving Siv alone in the room.
There were two small sofas and a cheap coffee table on which stood a large box of tissues. One framed glossy poster of a sunrise over the sea hung near the window. The photographed sky was suffused with tangerine and ochre tints. Maybe it was to indicate hope, or maybe the cycle of life. Siv tilted her head and stared at it. She wondered how many saw it as a sunset, the dying of the day.
In that moment, Siv saw that. Her mood was definitely flat. She’d suspected that her mother would be at Lisa’s service. Crista, Siv’s mutsi, hadn’t met Lisa, but now that she’d attached herself to her daughter’s boss, she popped up everywhere with him. Mortimer was smitten. The only place free of her was Mortimer’s office, and Siv half expected to find Mutsi propped on the desk in there one of these days. It was a horrible thought, but this corpse on the steps had let her off the painful hook of having to socialise with Mutsi and her boss at Nutmeg. She shouldn’t be grateful that a murder had happened, but it was fortuitous, certainly.
She pulled out the staff list that Foxwell had given her. She was starting interviews with the caretaker, as he would have been the first staff member at the cemetery this morning. Once Ali arrived, she’d ask him to take over.
Andy Smeaton was in his sixties with a smoker’s cough and a straightforward, rough manner. When he arrived, he got down to business immediately.
‘I’m not just caretaker for the crematorium, you see. I open the main gates here every morning at seven, then I drive to Emmeline’s Gate at Barker’s Way and unlock that. After that I go straight to the swimming pool and open up there, then the museum. It’s called “working across the piece” in council jargon.’ He smiled, as if it were a private joke. ‘I’m also responsible for checking general maintenance and security at all three sites. I look after the grounds here and the scrap of a garden at the museum.’
‘Did you see anyone around this morning? Any cars or pedestrians?’
He shook his head. ‘I just got out of the car, opened up and headed off.’
‘And do you lock the gates at night?’
‘That’s right, the main one and Emmeline’s, at eight sharp. The cleaners are in between six and eight. I check around the site to make sure everyone’s gone.’
‘And that was the case at eight last night?’
‘That’s correct.’
Siv was running on empty after the funeral. She struggled to come up with another question. Smeaton grinned, as if he sensed she was adrift.
‘I’m not responsible for the back gate,’ he offered. ‘The senior technician opens and locks that. Diane Lacey, that is.’
‘Yes, thanks. Have there been any problems here recently? Any upset customers or staff?’
‘Not that I know of. Mr Foxwell runs everything like clockwork. Very on the ball. This place has been ship-shape since he took over. Pity he can’t be prime minister — the country wouldn’t be in such a mess.’
‘Quite a recommendation. I didn’t notice any CCTV at the main gate.’
Smeaton shook his head. ‘We don’t have it, or at the back either. I suppose nobody’s ever seen a need for it. We’ve never had any break-ins or vandalism here. Unless you’re after someone’s remains, there’s nothing much to nick.’
A crematorium was an unlikely place for crime. Until this morning.
‘Who do you work with most closely here?’ Siv continued.
‘Saul, I suppose. Saul Robbins. This is just a stopgap job for him, though.’ He added sarcastically, ‘If what he says is true, he has his mind on higher things.’
‘In what way?’
‘He’s studying for some kind of degree. Rates himself. You can see he reckons he’s slumming it with us. Personally, I can’t wait for him to leave so I can have someone who gets stuck in.’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘I had a pint at the Silver Band club. I got home about half ten and went to bed.’
‘Do you live alone?’
‘Yep. On my tod since my missus died.’
She let him go, relieved when Ali arrived not long after. He’d made an effort with his appearance today and was wearing a dark grey suit. His tie was askew, and as usual his shirt was fighting with his tubby middle, escaping from his waistband. He was like an overgrown schoolboy in need of a pair of braces. He tugged his trousers up and handed her a paper bag.
‘Here, a bit of scran for you from the restaurant — a couple of Polly’s pasties. Funerals always make people hungry.’
The bag was warm, a savoury aroma escaping from it. Ali loved his food and could always be relied on for supplies. She was lucky to have a sergeant with a warm, generous nature, not least because he softened her own sharp e
dges. Ed would have got on with Ali.
‘Thanks. I’ll eat them in the car. Is Ms Flore OK?’
Ali shrugged. ‘Difficult to tell. Putting on a good show. Patrick’s a bit wan. It’s all gone off well, that’s the main thing.’ He stood, hands in pockets, rolling back and forth on his feet, examining the picture. ‘Too much orange in this for me. I can’t be doing with orange. Reminds me of Lambeg drums and “The Sash My Father Wore”.’
They didn’t share many confidences, but he’d told her once during a car journey that he’d been beaten up after a Loyalist parade when he was a teenager in Derry. Some marchers had spotted him watching from a street corner and had taken exception to his mixed heritage and his black Catholic mother. Siv watched the cold sunlight gleaming on Ali’s cornrows. He’d had them braided for today in a zigzag pattern, the style Lisa had liked best. All these young people dying. It was so stupid and wasteful, but all she could do was find out what happened to the poor man on the steps who’d had his life snatched away.
‘Sit down, for goodness’ sake, you’re blocking the light,’ she said, annoyed that she sounded so curt. This day was wearing, but she needed to stay resolute and keep the team steady.
Ali said nothing but sat on the narrow sofa beside her. She had to shuffle along to make room for his plump thighs as she showed him the list of staff.
‘The asterisked ones work part-time and some aren’t here today, so we’ll have to check the rota and play catch-up with them. Phoebe Palmer, the receptionist, has been here ages, so she should be useful for background. But she’s not overfond of her boss.
‘There’s no evidence of a break-in at any of the buildings and the gates haven’t been tampered with. Unless Toby Foxwell, Diane Lacey or Andy Smeaton dumped our body, then whoever did may have driven through the main gates after Smeaton unlocked them. If that’s the case, our man was left on the steps between seven and seven thirty this morning, cutting it fine between the caretaker opening up and Foxwell arriving.’
MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3) Page 4
