‘What lovely markings. I’ll take it home to my collection.’
Henry had once told Saffie that he’d gone out with Viv at uni for a couple of months before she met Damian. Just a brief thing, he’d said, nothing serious. She wished he hadn’t said anything because she found herself watching them when they met up. It was ridiculous, because Viv and Damian were clearly devoted and getting married in the summer. Henry was going to be best man, Saffie a bridesmaid — although she still wasn’t sure why she’d been chosen. Viv was so different to her — so blonde, muscular and sporty. She kayaked and played squash. It confused Saffie. How could a man be attracted to such entirely different women? She realised that Viv was speaking.
‘Um, Saffie . . . did Henry tell you that he was a bit worried about his job?’
The sun was in her eyes. She squinted at Viv. ‘No. What do you mean?’
‘It’s just that we mentioned it to that DI Drummond yesterday, because she asked if anything was troubling him. Henry’d told us not to say anything to you. He didn’t want to worry you, or his mum.’
‘He talked to you about it?’
‘To Damo and me, yes. I wanted to tell you now, because the police will probably mention it to you.’
She took a breath. ‘When was this?’
Viv sounded earnest. ‘A couple of weeks before Christmas. He dropped by one evening. Things had been a bit slow at Footprint, and he’d heard that senior management were planning to reduce staff. He wasn’t that worried, just aware that there might be redundancies and he could be in the firing line.’
Saffie’s mind had gone blank. She tried to make sense of this. Viv was rolling the shell between her gloved hands. She cleared her throat.
‘So, what are you saying? Henry might have gone off somewhere because he was worried about his job?’
‘No, I’m sure that’s not why he’s missing—’
‘What is the reason then? No word from him. Nothing,’ she snapped, turning away. I can’t believe he talked to you about something important, not me. Why?
‘Saffie, I’m sorry. Damo said not to tell you, but that didn’t seem right.’
‘I’d like to be on my own, Viv, if you don’t mind. I’ll be back later.’
She walked away quickly, leaving Viv standing on the beach, and kept going until her limbs were warm and her face glowing. She stopped at the café that she’d visited with Henry on Sunday afternoon and ordered a tea. There was only one other person there, a woman with a toddler half-asleep in her lap. Saffie sat at a table by the window, the one that she’d shared with Henry, and remembered the many evenings she’d spent alone in the beautiful Farringdon flat.
Henry’s job entailed frequent travelling and meeting clients in the evenings. It was a competitive industry, where you sweated to clinch a deal. He earned an enormous salary and huge bonuses and spent it accordingly. By contrast, Saffie was a telephone counsellor for a private health provider, employed to provide a first-line response to the ill and the worried well. She earned a modest wage and enjoyed Henry’s largesse and lifestyle. She trusted him. She had trusted him. Now, from what Viv had said, while he hadn’t exactly lied to her, he’d certainly concealed the truth. The other evening, outside Driftwood, he’d said that he had to deal with calls about work. Perhaps he’d been lying then too, or he’d been unwilling to share the true nature of those calls.
In her job, Saffie spent her days listening to people pour out their troubles. Stories of depression, family stresses and schisms, marital woes, debt caused by illness, fears about surgery, cancer treatments, diagnoses, anxieties about mental health. Occasionally, she could make a practical suggestion or offer a route to ongoing therapy. Mostly, she allowed the callers to talk aloud to themselves. But she’d never heard about the pain of someone going missing. What would she have said if she had? Henry treated her job with sceptical amusement, saying that the people who phoned her paid for the privilege of unburdening themselves. That was harsh, and she’d respond that everyone was deserving of a willing ear. But, beneath it all, she nurtured a niggling suspicion that he had a point, and that she could be doing something more worthwhile with her life.
He’d sat beside her here, laughing at seagulls being buffeted by air currents, and then linked his fingers through hers.
‘Maybe we should get married, Saffie. What do you say? How about later this year? We can have the wedding wherever you like. Mum would love it if we married here, but you can choose. It’s the bride’s day.’
She’d said simply, ‘Yes, please.’
‘We’ll get a ring when we’re back in London. Something beautiful but unshowy, like you.’
They’d agreed to keep the news to themselves for this week, so as not to encroach on Viv and Damian’s celebration, but she’d bubbled with joy. She longed now to see Henry walking across the beach towards her, giving the mock salute that was his trademark. I’d just popped out, he’d say. Look at you all, so worried. But she had so many questions. Where to start? Maybe the first, who were Eugene Warren and Bertie Greene, and why had Henry never mentioned them?
She listened yet again to his last call to her. If only she hadn’t forgotten her phone was off! If he’d got through to her, he might have said where he was going, who he was with and why he’d changed his mind about visiting Bertie Greene. Saffie’s shoulders sagged with the guilt of that thought. If only she’d picked up that call, Henry might not be missing.
The toddler woke up and started howling. Saffie wished that she could utter similar desperate cries.
* * *
Bertie Greene wore scruffy cream-and-brown cowboy boots, the buckles jangling as he walked in. He lacked a cowboy’s weathered complexion, his more the colour of the wallpaper paste that Bartel was using in his house. Prison pallor took a while to disappear. He was a stringy man with a twitching muscle in his right jaw. He kept his head down and his shoulders up, as if expecting trouble.
He asked, ‘Will this take long? I only get forty minutes.’
‘You’re a delivery driver, by the sound of it.’
‘Yeah. I have to empty my van by five.’
‘I’ll try not to keep you, but this is a serious investigation.’
She could see that he didn’t like the answer. He’d been a prison officer, and then a prisoner. He’d be familiar with dodges and weaves, so she surprised him with her first question.
‘Tell me about Henry Kilgore when you were at school.’
‘At school?’ he echoed. ‘What sort of thing do you want?’
‘Anything you like.’
‘Well . . .’ He relaxed a little. ‘He was fun. Outgoing, a laugh and used to getting his own way. Good at sports. We were in the school fencing team. We won some cups at tournaments. He always had spare cash to splash. His mum doted on him, pretty much gave him whatever he wanted. Girls liked him and vice versa.’
‘Any particular girl?’
He tapped his chin. ‘He went out with Etta Parton for a while.’
‘Does she still live here?’
‘No, she moved away. I’ve no idea where she is now.’
Siv adopted a conversational tone. ‘So, when you were having a laugh, did Henry drink a lot?’
Greene scratched the crown of his head. Flakes of dandruff drifted onto his shoulders. ‘He liked a drink, yeah. Most teenagers do.’
‘Tell me about Eugene Warren. You were at school with him as well.’
He worked his jaw muscle and said warily, ‘I haven’t come across his name for a long time. I didn’t get on with him that well, just hung out occasionally because Henry liked him.’
She’d been hoping he wouldn’t be aware of the murder and was glad of the confirmation. ‘Haven’t you heard about him? It was on the news this morning.’
He shook his head. ‘What news?’
‘His body was found at the crematorium yesterday. He’d been murdered.’
‘My God.’ He took a drink of water, spilling some. ‘Here? The crematorium in
town?’
‘Yes. So, one person you know is dead and another is missing. Two of your old school friends.’
He gazed into his water. ’That’s pretty weird.’
‘Isn’t it?’ She let the silence sit for a little while before continuing. ‘Is there anything you can tell me about them?’
‘Me? No. Why was Eugene here in town? Word was, he said he’d never come back.’
‘No idea. People say things and don’t necessarily mean them. Mr Greene, is there anything that connects your friends, other than growing up together? Have you heard of any difficulties they had, anything that might anger someone?’
‘Sorry, I can’t help you. I mean, they both left here years ago now. Henry comes back now and again, but only for visits.’
‘Do you usually see him when he visits?’
‘Not usually, no. We hook up once in a blue moon.’
The way he said it, Greene sounded as if he wasn’t overjoyed by the prospect. ‘It seems odd, then, that he’d suddenly ring you late at night and want to visit you.’
He laughed, the sound high, staccato. ‘You’re right there.’
He was good at short answers and his manner was impassive. Siv was frustrated.
‘Eugene’s sister said that he was troubled as a teenager. Unhappy, maybe. Does that stir any memories?’
‘Show me a teenager who isn’t troubled, but I don’t remember Eugene being particularly miserable.’
That didn’t ring true from what Tara had said. Although, of course, teenage boys wouldn’t necessarily show vulnerability to each other.
‘It doesn’t sound as if Henry was troubled back then.’
‘Hmm. He was the exception that proves the rule.’ Greene was crafty, his answers controlled, although clearly not sharp enough not to get banged up.
‘What about drugs — did the three of you ever indulge?’
He glanced to the left and coughed. ‘Now and again.’
Siv didn’t miss the tell and knew instinctively that this was an understatement. ‘What type?’
‘Bit of dope.’
‘Ever fall out with a dealer?’
‘Not sure. I didn’t buy it. Eugene used to get hold of it and insisted I smoked, so I joined in to keep him happy.’
Convenient strategy — blame the dead man. Siv could see why Tara Warren had described Greene as drippy. Despite his guarded replies, he seemed spineless. ‘Talk me through exactly what happened on Monday night, starting from when Henry called, wanting to meet up with you.’
He relaxed slightly, obviously more comfortable with this narrative. ‘Henry rang me just after ten o’clock, saying he was in town for the week. He said he wanted to have a chat. I could tell he was drunk, and I tried to put him off because my kids were staying over and I was worried we’d wake them up. But he was insistent, just as he always is, so I gave in.’ He drank more water, draining the cup.
‘Did he say what he wanted to talk about?’
‘Just a chat.’
‘Did he sound worried?’
‘Nope. Just drunk.’
‘Then he didn’t turn up.’
‘I waited until just before midnight and then went to bed. I had to be up at seven. I thought he’d changed his mind or forgotten, given that he was pissed.’
‘You didn’t try to call him?’
‘No. That might have encouraged him to come.’
Greene was making an effort to stay alert, bouncing his leg under the table, although he averted his gaze, his eyes darting about nervously. Siv was sure of one thing — he knew more than he was saying.
‘Mr Greene, is there anything else you can tell me about your friends that might help this investigation?’
‘Sorry, no. Can I go now? I’m going to be late back as it is, and I need this job. I was lucky to get it.’
Siv let him go but had a feeling that there was more below the surface with Greene. She’d rarely seen anyone look so shifty.
Checking her phone, she saw that she’d had an email from Toby Foxwell, informing her that his database had records for the previous eight years. There was no trace of Eugene Warren or anyone of that surname having a connection with the crematorium. Another blow. He’d added:
We’ve decided to have a little service for the staff group near the chapel steps on Thursday morning at 9 a.m. Just a quarter of an hour, with some secular readings. It seemed fitting to do something out of respect for Mr Warren and it might help staff with their shock and grief. If you or any of your colleagues would like to attend, you’re very welcome.
A nice gesture, Siv thought, and one of the team should put in an appearance. She might well go herself.
Steve phoned when she was back at her desk, sounding cheery. ‘Bloody rain has been bugging us, but we’ve made progress. Andy Smeaton has a shed in the grounds here, at the back of Bluebell Copse. We found that the padlock had been snapped. We asked him to come and see, and he told us that his wheelbarrow had been moved. He said he hadn’t used it for a while, and he’s sure no one else has either. The wheelbarrow had been left in the middle of the floor, not upended and stacked where he puts it. We’re examining it now, and we’ve found fresh wheelbarrow tracks in Bluebell Copse and the garden of remembrance. Smeaton says he hasn’t needed to take the barrow there since October. We’re going over that whole area now with a fine-tooth comb.’
Did the killer use the wheelbarrow to move Warren’s body? It had to be a possibility. It was a start, anyway. Siv was relieved that there was some evidence to follow. ‘I’ll come and see,’ she said before signing off.
Siv jumped up and strode out of the interview room. Finally, a lead. Perhaps the killer had slipped up and left their DNA all over the barrow. If only. Then, they’d have this case shut down in no time.
As she ran down the stairs, she nearly collided with Mortimer coming the other way. From her elevated angle, she saw that his grey roots needed touching up. Mutsi had introduced him to hair dye and a more casual cut. Siv wasn’t sure it was working. She paused, updating him briefly.
‘That sounds like progress, DI Drummond.’
‘Also, sir, I’d like to ask the media team to publicise Warren’s murder nationally. Although he grew up here, he hasn’t been in Berminster for years. We’ve no information about where he was living or working since then.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘And I’d like blanket press coverage about Henry Kilgore all around town. I was thinking posters as well as TV and all the usual news outlets. It’s worrying that there’s been no sign of him, despite the searches. Someone out there might recall seeing him.’
‘Very well.’ Mortimer glanced around. ‘I believe . . . I believe that your mother has told you our domestic news. I’m delighted, of course.’
Siv tried to remain expressionless while the lines of a poem popped into her head.
‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the Spider to the Fly,
‘’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy . . .’
She cleared her throat. ‘Yes. Congratulations, sir.’
‘Thank you. Well . . . yes, better get on then.’
‘Absolutely.’
She sped away. What would she be expected to call him outside work? It was too much to contemplate without a glass of akvavit to hand.
No. Make that two.
Chapter 8
Patrick was at his desk, sipping coffee. Despite the blow of Lisa Flore’s death, he couldn’t help but feel optimistic. Things were going well with Kitty, his new girlfriend, and Noah was happier than he’d been in a long time. That was partly down to the guv. She seemed a bit remote to most, but she’d been a sound and discreet ally when he’d needed one. She’d steered his lonely brother away from the clutches of an exploitative woman who’d offered him sex and ended up stealing from them. Instead, the guv had given Noah information about some sex workers in town. Noah was actually close friends with one of them now, Eden Jarvis. They went to the cinema and had m
eals together. Eden even stayed over sometimes. She cooked a mean breakfast. That morning, Patrick had demolished a plate of her waffles with maple syrup. It was like starting the day on pudding. Ali would die for it, but Polly would never allow such a calorific feast. They also employed Eden to clean the house. Patrick didn’t enquire if Noah paid for her companionship. It wasn’t his business. He was just glad that his brother was smiling these days.
He posted on his popular Twitter account.
@DCBerminsterPolice
We’re investigating the murder of Eugene Warren and the disappearance of Henry Kilgore. The two men grew up in Berminster and were friends. They attended Fulbrook Upper School. If you have any information that might help, please contact us immediately.
#KeepingBerminsterSafe
Patrick phoned Tara Warren and read out the list that Ms Kilgore had provided of her son’s friends. Tara confirmed that she knew Teagan Grenville, the one woman on it. Eugene had been keen on her for a while, and they’d hung around with Henry and a girl called Etta Parton. Teagan used to work at an upmarket fashion emporium — Ormonde, she thought it was called — but Tara wasn’t sure if she was still there. When Patrick phoned the shop, the manager confirmed that Ms Grenville was still on the staff. He arranged to see her and called two of the men on the list. They told him that they hadn’t spoken to or seen Henry for a while, that he hadn’t contacted them recently and they weren’t aware of any problems. Another friend was in the Royal Navy and had been deployed to West Africa for the last six months. Bertie Greene, the final name, was accounted for.
It was only ten minutes’ walk to the harbour, where Ormonde was situated in a stylish three-storey Georgian building. Kitty said it was the kind of shop that catered for women who had nothing better to do with their money. But then Kitty eschewed make-up and fashion. She worked as a warden at Halse Woods, a local country park, and dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Patrick liked a smart suit and appreciated a well-cut jacket when he saw one — not that his police salary extended to such items very often. He’d never bought anything in Ormonde, although he’d admired the menswear window. Too pricey for him. As he entered, he lingered by a Harris Tweed sports jacket, fingering the cloth. It was fern green with a ruby check pattern. The label said £285. He winced and moved on. The shop interior smelled opulent, a heady brew of scents, hair preparations and expensive cosmetics.
MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3) Page 9
