‘Seems whoever did it has an understanding of how the place operates.’
‘This crime might be linked to the crematorium or might be a bizarre statement by the killer, or both. Foxwell claims he’s had no problems here recently. According to him, everything’s running smoothly, and Diane Lacey and Andy Smeaton echoed him, but check that out with everyone you interview. I want to touch base with Steve and Rey—’ She looked up to see Ali’s eyes were watery. ‘You OK, Ali?’
‘Aye. Just a wee bit sad. You?’
‘Hmm. Difficult day,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s a lot to cope with for all of us. We just have to get on with the job.’
‘Sure. Best keep busy, catch the bad guys, eh?’
She gathered up her things and smiled at him. Hopefully getting back to work would help keep his mind occupied.
In her car, she ate a spiced spinach and potato pasty ravenously, brushing crumbs from her lap, phoning Steve Wooton through a mouthful.
‘Still no ID for our dead man?’
‘Hello to you too, DI Drummond. And, no, his pockets were empty and there’s no phone. He’s been taken to the mortuary now. Rey Anand’s scheduled the post-mortem for tomorrow morning. We’re starting to search the general area, but the light will go soon, so we’ll resume tomorrow. Did Lisa get a good send off?’
‘Yes, it went well.’
She wiped her hands on a tissue. The pasty had energised her. She could see why Ali was always so cheery. She wouldn’t mind being married to Polly and having delicious meals served up every day. She wondered if Polly ever found it frustrating that she had to tailor her home cooking to a man who struggled to manage his diabetes. If she did, she never showed it.
The low sun was striking through the windscreen, warming her face. Siv pushed back her coat collar, planning the rest of the dwindling afternoon.
She started the engine. She’d had enough of this place for one day.
Chapter 4
Viv and Damian were tucking into a fry-up when Saffie followed Imelda into Driftwood. The kitchen was full of smoke and the smell of carbonated bacon, a meat that Saffie hated. She winced when she saw the dirty pan in the sink, its sides trailing egg yolk. Imelda threw open a window and ran hot water into the pan, followed by a squirt of washing-up liquid. She swished it round with her plump fingers. The green liquid merged with the yellow yolk into a blend of colours resembling diarrhoea. Saffie’s stomach turned.
She looked at Viv and Damian. ‘Have either of you heard from Henry?’
Damian was gnawing at a crisp rasher, holding it between his fingers. He had elegant hands and a haughty expression, but his table manners were atrocious. His thin sleeveless vest exposed his hefty shoulders. ‘Should we have?’
Saffie started to explain that Henry hadn’t been at his mum’s, as expected, but Imelda butted in, drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘We’re not sure where Henry is. Has he contacted either of you since last night?’
Viv checked her phone. ‘No. Haven’t talked to him since we had a drink at the Three Swans after dinner. He made a phone call and said he was off to meet some old school friend.’
‘Bertie, that’s his name,’ Damian said. ‘They fenced together.’ He sniggered. ‘Swords, not stolen jewels.’
Viv rolled her eyes and laughed. Saffie’s mother often asserted that men never grew up, but Damian seemed stuck at around eight, when boys developed a fascination for silly jokes.
Imelda frowned. ‘Bertie Greene? I can’t imagine why Henry would have wanted to meet him. I didn’t think they were in touch these days.’
Saffie’s contact lenses were stinging from the smoke. She sat down, defeated by these people and the rules they played by.
‘You OK, Saf?’ Viv asked. She moved her plate away. ‘Sorry, you don’t like bacon. We should have put a warning on the door.’
It was hard not to like Viv. She was irritatingly jolly, but she had a goofy, kindly smile.
‘Sensitive Saffie. You’re too good for the likes of us. You make me feel like a Neanderthal.’ Damian beat his chest and winked at her, picking up another chunk of burnt bacon. He gave a groan of pleasure as he bit into it.
Imelda was now on the phone, talking to Bertie, presumably. She ran a sponge around the frying pan while she listened. She finished the call and tapped the phone against her square chin. Saffie comforted herself with the mean thought that, in some lights, with her strong, heavy features, Imelda was rather like a man in drag.
‘Bertie says that Henry didn’t turn up last night, and he assumed he’d changed his mind,’ Imelda told them.
‘He probably got distracted. He was well-oiled when he left us.’ Viv mopped her plate with bread.
‘I expect you’re right.’ But Imelda sounded unsure. Then she said stoutly, ‘I’m just going to call a few of his other friends. I’m sure he’s on a sofa somewhere.’
She stepped through into the living room. She started every call in the same way: ‘Hello, this is Imelda Kilgore speaking.’ Damian held a pretend phone, mimicking her softly. Viv giggled on cue. Saffie put the kettle on for something to do and pressed her nose to the window. A few scrappy white clouds hung low in the sky and there was a light mist on the horizon. A solitary paddleboarder was navigating the waves below. She tried Henry again on her phone but only got his voicemail.
Behind her Damian and Viv discussed ice skating later in the afternoon, in the double-act vaudeville style they frequently adopted. Damian instigated the wordplay and Viv acted as his foil. Henry often joined in with them, leaving Saffie out of the game. Imelda found them hilarious when they carried on like this and would smile at them indulgently.
‘I say, I say, I say, Ms Carpenter, would you care for a trip to the ice rink later on?’
‘I don’t mind if I do, Mr Kyalo. I once visited one in the West Indies with my sister.’
‘Jamaica?’
‘No, she went willingly!’
Imelda returned, shaking her head, her face decidedly paler than when she left. ‘No one’s seen him and he’s not responding.’
‘I just tried him again,’ Saffie said. ‘I’m really worried. Why did he call me to say he was staying at home with you?’ She noticed Viv and Damian exchange glances. ‘Do you know something I don’t?’
‘No, it’s not that,’ Viv said quickly. ‘It’s just that Berminster is Henry’s old stamping ground. He’s probably reliving his glory days and didn’t want to worry you.’
Saffie held the edge of the worktop. They suspect he might have been with an old flame. He’s never mentioned anyone here. Henry wouldn’t do that, would he? Surely not after Sunday?
‘You should have come to the pub with us after dinner,’ Damian said, ‘then he’d have told you where he was going.’
‘I had a terrible headache after the red wine.’
Damian glanced at Viv. ‘So you said.’
Saffie winced. His tone indicated that she was a killjoy. But that didn’t matter right now. ‘What if he’s had an accident?’
Imelda stared through her. ‘I’ll check Berminster General. Perhaps you can tidy up here, Saffie, dear. It’s such a small kitchen, it gets cluttered quickly. Viv, give Saffie your crockery.’
Viv brought their dirty plates to the worktop while Damian played a game on his phone.
‘Aren’t you worried about Henry?’ Saffie rolled a dishwasher tablet in her hand, inhaling the lemony scent.
‘He’s a big boy,’ Damian said, concentrating on his screen. ‘He’ll have been sleeping off a hangover somewhere, on a sofa or a floor. He’s probably groaning and feeling sorry for himself right now.’
‘Yeah. He’ll be laughing at you and his mum being worrywarts.’ Viv smiled. She handed Saffie her plate. ‘There you go, Saf. I’ll leave these in your capable hands and check the ice rink’s open in Hastings. Want to come with us? Play hard to get. Let Henry stagger back with a terrible hangover and find you out enjoying yourself, that’s my advice. You have to lick him into shape. I di
d with Damo, and now I’ve got him eating from the palm of my hand.’
Damian blew a loud raspberry on his forearm and Viv giggled. Everything’s a joke with them. Saffie turned her back and opened the dishwasher.
* * *
Imelda cleaned out the already spotless kitchen cupboards at Driftwood while they were waiting for the police. She had to do something to control her anxiety. Berminster General had said there were no admissions under Henry’s name or matching his description, and there was still no news from her son. She kept checking her phone.
The police had asked them to stay put. Saffie had vanished to her bedroom while Viv and Damian went outside to sit on the bench, both wearing sunglasses, wrapped up against the cold, with the heaters on. Damian was stretched out with his head in Viv’s lap while she played with his hair. Imelda stared at them enviously for a few moments. It was a long time since she’d been part of a cosy twosome. Wilf had gone off sex before he died — gone off sex with her, anyway. She’d assumed it was because her body had thickened in middle age, as if each year had laid down a layer of immovable flesh. She rubbed the cupboard handle vigorously. No time for self-pity.
The light exposed yet another smudge on the window by the door. A child had stayed here over Christmas and seemed to have spent most of his time with his nose glued to the glass. Probably bored, because it had rained constantly. Not that a bit of boredom did a child any harm. Although she didn’t mind taking their money, Imelda never understood why people spent the festive season away from home. Henry and Saffie had gone to Madrid this last Christmas, and he’d sent her photos of boiled shrimp, cured ham and a ring-shaped cake, decorated with glazed fruits. What was wrong with a beautifully roasted turkey or goose, and traditional Christmas pud? She’d helped out at the Salvation Army lunch on Christmas Day, wearing a silly paper hat and feigning enthusiasm when, really, she’d have preferred her darling Henry’s company. Boiled shrimp, indeed!
She was rubbing the greasy mark away when she saw a tall, slim woman approaching from the road above. The woman stopped halfway down, glanced up at the sky and then out to sea, a hand shielding her eyes. She tightened the belt on her coat and carried on towards the chalet. Imelda had been as slender as this woman back in the day. She could have pulled her belt in like that, cinching her waist. She waited to see if the woman was going to head down to the beach, but she stepped aside onto the narrow stone path to Driftwood.
Imelda opened the door. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, and hopefully I can help you. Imelda Kilgore? I’m DI Drummond, Berminster Police.’
Imelda was relieved and taken aback. This willowy woman, with her classy coat and expensive haircut, seemed too elegant to be a detective. ‘Oh, thank goodness. You’d better come in. I’ve been keeping busy while I was waiting. I’m terribly worried. I keep hoping my phone will ring.’
The detective stepped into the kitchen and took off her gloves. ‘You’ve reported that your son, Henry, is missing.’
‘That’s right. I’m baffled, to be honest. I checked the hospital, but they haven’t seen him. I’ll round up the others, if you like, so you get the full picture. Then you can make sure you’ve all the details you need.’
‘No, that’s not necessary,’ the inspector said. She spoke quietly, but assertively. ‘I’d like to talk to you alone for now. Does your son live here?’ She pulled a chair out, took a notepad and pen from her leather bag and sat, waiting.
Imelda sat opposite her. She explained that she owned a number of holiday properties around town and that this chalet was one of them, that Henry lived in London with his partner, Saffie Armand. ‘He and Saffie arrived from London on Saturday. His friends, Damian and Viv, drove down. They’re staying for a week.’
‘January’s a bit cold for a break by the sea,’ the inspector said. She was watching Damian and Viv on the bench with eyes the same navy as her coat. They hadn’t noted her arrival, wrapped up in each other.
‘Damian and Viv have just got engaged and this is a little jaunt to celebrate . . . Young people don’t feel the cold, and this chalet is lovely and snug.’ Imelda realised that she sounded defensive. She clasped her hands on the table. ‘I’m very worried about my son. No one has heard from him since last night and he didn’t meet the friend, Bertie Greene, who was expecting him. I’ve left messages on Henry’s phone, but he hasn’t called.’
‘I can understand your anxiety, Ms Kilgore. Do you have a photo of your son?’
Imelda snatched her phone up. ‘Here’s one I took yesterday afternoon.’
The detective took the phone, using thumb and forefinger to enlarge the photo and scrutinise it. She gave a tiny sigh and frowned. ‘If it’s OK with you, I’ll just send this to myself.’ She picked up her pen and went through Henry’s personal details, checking that they were accurate. ‘Your son is your only child and he’s twenty-eight. He works in London?’
‘Yes, he’s in events management.’
‘Who was the last person from the group to speak to him?’
‘Damian and Viv saw him last, in the Three Swans. Saffie had a call from him to say that he was staying at home, with me.’ She gestured. ‘I live above on Strand Way. Henry has a key, but he didn’t sleep in his room. I started to get concerned when Saffie came up asking for him.’
‘Are he and Saffie happy together?’
‘They appear to be. Henry’s very . . . smitten, certainly.’
‘Is there anyone else he might be with?’
‘I’ve tried all his friends, people he was at school with.’ Imelda’s throat had gone dry. This woman was so composed. Shouldn’t she be talking about a search? Didn’t every minute count? That’s what they said in those crime dramas on TV that Wilf had liked. She tapped on the table, almost shouting. ‘Inspector, time’s getting on. Henry’s been gone for hours. What happens now? What are you going to do?’
DI Drummond was unruffled. ‘I appreciate your worries, but I have to get an overall impression of your son. Had there been any arguments here? Between your son and his partner, or the other friends? Did he have any personal or work problems?’
Imelda shook her head. ‘No one has mentioned any disagreements and Henry’s been in good spirits. They’ve been having a wonderful time, enjoying their holiday, relaxing.’
The inspector gestured at the window, the view outside. ‘It’s a lovely spot. Did Henry grow up in Berminster?’
‘That’s right. He went to university in Reading. That’s where he met Viv and Damian.’
The inspector tucked her pen into her notepad. ‘How many holiday properties do you own and are they all rented out at present?’
‘Six. There’s just one other than this one occupied this week, a flat near the harbour. Why do you ask?’
‘I’ll need to get officers to check that Henry isn’t at any of them. I’ll arrange for someone to collect the addresses and sets of keys from you.’
The inspector was wasting time. ‘Henry won’t be at any of the other properties, surely? Why would he do that without telling me? Plus, he doesn’t have the keys. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Vanishing doesn’t make any sense. We have to check all possibilities. Do you live alone?’
‘Yes. I’m a widow.’
‘Where were you last night?’
Imelda bridled at the question. ‘Me? I was at home. I watched a film and was in bed by half ten. Why?’
‘We always ask these things, for the record. Ms Kilgore, if you could go home now, I’m going to contact my colleagues at the station to start a missing person alert and a search of your properties. Officers will visit you shortly. I’ll speak to Henry’s friends here.’
Imelda was put out. ‘Well, surely I should stay with you?’
‘That’s kind of you, but it’s better that you’re at home, just in case Henry turns up there. He might be distressed for some reason and head back to his mum. Could you write out a list of friends Henry still has in town and their contact details? That
would be invaluable.’
‘Yes . . . I see . . . but I’ve been in touch with them all. Some of them are away at present.’
‘Even so.’
Viv had spotted them and she and Damian uncurled from the bench and came in, holding hands. A gust of icy air accompanied them, carrying the salt tang of the sea. Imelda opened her mouth to explain what was happening, but the inspector had taken over, and before she could protest, she’d been ushered out of her own property and was heading up the steps towards home.
Chapter 5
Siv watched Ms Kilgore walk away, pulling her padded jacket around her ample frame. The kitchen seemed much airier without her imposing presence and emphatic, ringing voice. Viv Carpenter and Damian Kyalo stood close together, their faces glowing from the sun and chilly wind, like two children who’d been out playing. Siv told them to stay indoors, explaining that she needed to speak to Saffie first and then she’d talk to them.
‘We were supposed to be going ice skating,’ Damian whined. He was tall with full, pouty lips and tiny square, rimless glasses.
‘Aren’t you concerned about your friend?’
‘A bit, but he’s probably been a naughty boy, got a blinding hangover and wants to get rid of it before he comes back. He’ll be downing pints of water and mugs of black coffee. Saffie gets tight-lipped when he’s had a skinful and his mum nags him.’
‘Most people have recovered from a hangover by the end of the next morning,’ Siv said. I should know. ‘Does Henry have any addictions?’
‘He drinks a fair bit,’ Viv answered, wide-eyed. ‘He’s into Alabama Slammers when he gets going and sort of loses track.’
‘Isn’t it odd that he hasn’t phoned?’
Viv said, ‘Fair point. It is getting on in the day. Although he might have only just woken up if he was drinking into the early hours.’
MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3) Page 5
