MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3)

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  ‘Can you describe this woman?’

  ‘Not sure. I didn’t take that much notice. The light was starting to go, and I wanted to finish the area I was tidying.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Thirties, quite tall. Dark hair. It was a freezing day, so she had a long, padded coat with a hood up. Slim.’

  ‘Was she a local person?’

  ‘Hard to say. We didn’t get chatting.’

  ‘Can you remember anything else? The colour of her coat?’

  ‘Black or grey, maybe. Not a bright colour. It was just a minute or so, then she walked on. You get visitors in and out of the cemetery all the time.’

  ‘Where were you on Monday night?’

  ‘I had a burger with a friend and then I went home about half nine, watched telly and went to bed.’

  Siv reckoned there was something slippery about Robbins. Maybe it was just his jarring manner getting under her skin. ‘Can anyone corroborate that you were at home?’ she said curtly.

  ‘I’ve got a flatmate, but he was on a night shift, so no. Is that a problem?’

  ‘I can’t say as yet.’ But she shut the interview down shortly after that.

  When Robbins had gone, Siv collected her things, closed the window and left the building. It was raining heavily again now, chilly slanting needles, and as she walked to her car, a call came through from the duty desk at the station.

  ‘Guv, uniform have been dealing with a distressed dog left in a car.’

  ‘A distressed dog? Isn’t that RSPCA territory? Why do I need to know?’

  ‘The RSPCA couldn’t respond quickly enough, so the constables who attended had to break in to rescue the dog, which isn’t chipped. But a brochure for Berminster Breaks was retrieved from the glove compartment. Along the top someone’s written, Remember fun at Mallow Cottage. And, guv, the car was left beside Mallow Cottage, one of Ms Kilgore’s holiday properties listed in the brochure.’

  Siv’s grip tightened on the phone. ‘Where’s the car now?’

  ‘Still where it was found, on a turning off Derwin Lane, by a gate to a field. When uniform followed up, they couldn’t trace an owner, so they checked out the brochure and made the connection with your investigations. The car hasn’t been searched thoroughly yet, though.’

  ‘Tell those constables well done.’

  She took the details, rang Steve and asked him to get a team to the location. Then she phoned Ali and told him to meet her there.

  ‘That’s cracking news. Are we going to find Kilgore’s body in the car boot, d’you reckon?’

  ‘Possibly. Let’s get there and see.’

  Siv dashed to her car, shaking rain from her face, fumbling with the keys. More importantly, if Kilgore was there, would he be dead or alive?

  Chapter 9

  Jock Keyes visited his son, Ian, in prison once a month. They had little to say to each other, but it was the right thing to do and Ian’s mother would have expected it. The meetings were always a little awkward as Jock sat and made small talk. Trivial stuff about his work at the sorting office, what he’d grown in the allotment and the scenery he’d painted for the local am-dram company. Ian barely replied, and when he did speak it was to complain about the food, the noise and boredom. He listed all these things as if they were his father’s fault and responsibility. There were times when Jock worried that he might snap and say, You’re in here because you made the wrong choices and you committed crimes. But he stayed silent. There was no point in rubbing it in and, in the end, he was sorry for his son, in spite of what he’d done.

  Jock’s dad had been a petty crook, always in and out of trouble and prison, and leading his family in a merry old dance. This had turned Jock into a law-abiding citizen, determined to give his son a better, more secure life. He’d moved from Dumfries to Sussex to leave behind the taint of his father’s criminality. Yet here was Ian, repeating the pattern, now serving a minimum of twenty-five years for murder. Jock had no idea how it had all gone so wrong. Maybe there was a risk-taking gene that had passed him by, but he’d handed it on.

  So, he sat month in, month out in the visiting room with its odours of sweat, disinfectant and bad plumbing. He scratched around for things to talk about and listened to Ian’s woes, watching the clock behind his son’s head inching towards the hour, willing it onwards. Today, the minutes dragged unbearably, and Jock could tell that his son was as relieved as he was when time was called and that was it for four weeks.

  After every visit, Jock drove towards Cliffdean Point and walked a couple of miles along the headland, whatever the weather. He craved the fresh air and the open skies after the claustrophobia of the prison visitation room. Then he’d drop down the path to the Horizon Café for fish and chips. He treated it as his reward. But for what? He should do his duty by his son, after all. His food always tasted of relief mixed with guilt.

  He was tired today, having done a couple of night shifts at work. They always left him out of sorts and a bit irritable. But if he went home, he’d brood about the visit. He parked the car on the headland and strode out, letting the sharp wind buffet him and leave him breathless. The sea glittered blue–grey, rolling in on a high tide.

  In the café, he relished the crunchy chips. While he ate, he caught up with the local news on his phone. He read about a missing man and another who’d been murdered. The name Eugene Warren and the face in the photo were familiar, but he couldn’t recall why. He’d always worked for the post office, for many years delivering the mail and for the last two sorting it. He was familiar with many people around town from the names on envelopes and parcels. His memory teased away at it as he cut into his battered cod, but eventually he gave up.

  By the time he’d finished eating and had a cup of tea, he was ready to fall asleep in the chair.

  * * *

  Siv held her breath when they opened the boot of the car. There were some personal items and dog food in the grubby space, but no body. Good news, she thought grimly, but where did that leave them in the search for Kilgore?

  Siv and Ali donned gloves. She searched the rucksack and wash bag in the boot, while he looked in the body of the vehicle. The rucksack contained clean men’s clothes, jeans, jumper, socks and underpants. They smelled of fabric softener. No ID in any pockets. The washbag held a well-worn toothbrush, a creased tube of minty toothpaste, soap and a disposable razor.

  ‘No ID in here?’ she asked Ali.

  ‘Nothing in the glove compartment except a pack of tissues. Other than that, just a bit of rubbish and a disgusting smell of dog muck.’ He wrinkled his nose.

  ‘We’ll get on then, see what prints we can find,’ Steve said.

  Siv and Ali gladly left Forensics to it — the rain was cascading down on them. By early evening, they were all back at the station and were met by the incident board. Siv updated the others on Steve’s findings at the cemetery and asked Ali for the post-mortem results.

  Ali finished a glass of water as he itemised the initial points. ‘Warren was strangled from behind with a thin leather strap or belt. Estimated time of death between 11 p.m. on Monday night and 3 a.m. of Tuesday morning. His own finger marks were around his neck, indicating that he’d struggled and tried to free himself. He hadn’t been drinking and had no traces of drugs in his system. He’d eaten a chicken dinner around seven hours before he died. He was a healthy young man, although a bit underweight. The lab’s working on his clothes.’

  Siv summarised details of the car, rubbing her hands together. She’d left her gloves in Bere Lodge and her fingers were numb.

  ‘Late on Tuesday night, a Mr Curtis was walking home from the pub along Derwin Lane. He heard a dog barking and found that it was locked in an old Vauxhall Corsa. The constables who rescued the unchipped dog couldn’t find anything in the car to ID the owner. It’s untaxed and unregistered. There was a brochure for Berminster Breaks in the glove compartment.’ She showed them a photo of the brochure in its evidence bag. ‘Someone had handwritten on the top in black biro, Re
member fun at Mallow Cottage. The car was parked near to that cottage, one of Ms Kilgore’s holiday rentals. She’s owned it since 2006, and the last guests in there left a week after Christmas. One of our uniformed colleagues was on the ball and linked it to our cases. The body of the car was empty, just a couple of sandwich packets and a blanket covered in dog mess on the back seat. There was a sleeping bag, a cushion and a wash bag with basic bathroom stuff in the boot, plus a rucksack with some men’s clothes and a pack of dog biscuits. Nothing to indicate who the owner is.’

  ‘Could it be Warren’s car? He might have been sleeping in it,’ Ali said. ‘That would account for why I haven’t been able to trace him.’

  ‘That thought crossed my mind,’ Siv agreed. ‘Or perhaps, if it is his, he couldn’t afford to stay anywhere in town while he was here, so he planned to camp out in the car. Uniform report that the dog was dehydrated and ravenous. The vet who saw it said it hadn’t had water for approximately twenty-four hours — so it was left around the time that Warren was killed and Kilgore went missing. The car’s proximity to Mallow Cottage, and the brochure inside it, indicate that there may be a more recent link between these men than their school days. Forensics are going over the car and arranging for it to be taken to the pound. They’ll also check the brochure for prints and examine Mallow Cottage. I’ve asked Uniform to trace the car’s ownership history and take a look at ANPR cameras approaching town.’

  Ali said, ‘I’d wager that Eugene Warren came to Berminster in the Vauxhall and expected to return to his dog.’

  ‘That’s my thinking too,’ Siv agreed. ‘You’ve been going over the locations we’re working with. What have we got so far?’

  ‘Hang on, I just need to nip to the loo,’ Ali said, exiting the room sharpish.

  Siv and Patrick stared at the incident board while they waited for him.

  ‘Nice comfort break?’ Patrick asked when he came back.

  ‘Nice enough, since you ask,’ Ali said loftily. He pulled his chair closer, his iPad to hand. ‘Aye, it’s interesting regarding locations. Mallow Cottage is on Derwin Lane. If you drive on down Derwin and take a left, you join Barker’s Way. It’d be ten minutes’ drive max from Derwin to the pedestrian access gate at the crem, where Steve and co. were examining the wheelbarrow tracks.’

  They all studied the map. Patrick pointed to Barker’s Way with the tip of his pen. ‘If the fibres found on the cemetery gate are from Warren’s jacket, either he climbed over — presumably to meet his killer, who then strangled him — or his body was pushed over. It’s a complicated way of dealing with a body: hoisting it over a gate, breaking into the shed for the wheelbarrow, loading the corpse in the barrow with wreaths and arranging it on the steps and then returning the barrow to the shed. If that’s what the killer did, they went to a lot of effort and trouble. This was planned, not opportunistic.’

  ‘Agreed. The killer knew about the shed and the wheelbarrow,’ Siv said. ‘Wherever Warren was actually murdered, the disposal of the body on the crem steps was done in that way because it was meaningful to the killer and worth the display. The night manoeuvre would have been intricate, but a calculated way to access the crem without being seen, and it gave the killer time to arrange Warren on the steps. Back in December, a woman asked Saul Robbins about the wheelbarrow when he was using it in the cemetery. He gave me a vague description. Worth bearing in mind. What else have we got?’

  Ali swivelled in his chair. ‘I’ve been chasing Henry Kilgore’s boss at Footprint. He rang me just now. He met with Kilgore last week and told him he’d be made redundant at the end of this month. Kilgore was pretty brash about it. Said he’d been expecting it.’

  ‘It must have been a knock-back, all the same,’ Siv said. ‘We might be looking at suicide. He was a popular man, seen as successful. Losing his job, losing face — it wouldn’t fit his script, and he hadn’t told his partner or his mother about it, so maybe he was stressed.’

  ‘If he’s drowned himself in the sea, we might never know,’ Patrick said glumly.

  Ali nudged him. He’d been unusually prone to melancholy of late. Now Lisa’s funeral had passed, the team hoped Patrick would return to his old self. But they could give him a helping hand if need be. ‘True enough, Patrick, but let’s stay hopeful.’

  ‘Bertie Greene didn’t volunteer much,’ Siv continued, ‘although he admitted that he, Kilgore and Warren used to smoke dope. He confirmed that Kilgore rang him unexpectedly on Monday night, but then didn’t turn up. He mentioned that Kilgore had gone out with an Etta Parton at school, so that link needs checking. Greene seemed genuinely surprised when I told him about Eugene Warren’s death, but there was something iffy about him. I’m not sure what, but he was shifty. Saul Robbins, who works at the crem, is a distant cousin of Greene’s ex-wife, but he told me he hasn’t seen Greene recently.’

  Patrick filled them in on his meeting with Teagan Grenville. ‘She said that she finished with Warren because he two-timed her. She last saw Kilgore in November and he seemed fine. She described Greene as a hanger-on when they were at school. Guv, Etta Parton might live in Oxford now — she went there for uni and stayed on for work.’

  Ali said, ‘Right, so it looks like something happened after Kilgore set off to see Bertie Greene. Either he’s been murdered, killed himself because he was losing his job or he’s murdered Warren and done a runner.’

  ‘But why would he arrange to see Greene if he was planning either of the last two?’ Siv asked. ‘If Warren’s death was messy, a crime of opportunity, sure, but it was organised and carefully executed. It seems odd that none of Kilgore’s friends noticed anything was wrong with him, and surely someone who was planning suicide or murder might give off some signals.’

  She rubbed her face wearily. ‘I had a report from Uniform. They’ve been searching all over town and found no trace of Kilgore. Volunteers are looking along the beach. Imelda Kilgore’s joined them. I sincerely hope she doesn’t stumble across her son’s body. The three at the chalet have been out looking for him too.’

  That group at Driftwood niggled her. The unease had been lurking at the back of her mind. She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t quite buy the cosy set-up. She had an odd feeling about them. They’d have to be questioned again.

  ‘Saffie says that she was asleep in bed when Henry left his message, but we’ve no corroboration that she was at home. We only have Viv and Damian’s word for it that they didn’t see Henry again after he left them to head to Bertie Greene’s. They’re each other’s alibi and they didn’t get home until half past midnight. But it was a cold night for idling and snogging at the bandstand.’

  ‘Love keeps you warm,’ Ali offered. ‘Or in my case, love and a spare tyre.’

  ‘And in my case, a Kitty-cat,’ Patrick said.

  Siv pulled a face. She felt left out of this smug lovefest. The empty space in the bed that Ed had left was always cold now. She had to stop herself thinking about what it used to be like waking up to warmth and love every morning. She stared at the incident board with concentration as she pushed away the memory and said tightly, ‘Patrick, I wish you’d stop clicking your pen, it drives me nuts.’ Patrick stopped, instantly chastened.

  Siv continued. ‘We need a timeline for everything the four at Driftwood did from when they arrived in town, and we want background checks on all the crem staff. The writing on the brochure might be Warren’s or Kilgore’s. Patrick, can you show Tara Warren, the three at Driftwood and Imelda Kilgore a photo of the brochure and ask if they recognise the writing. Get samples of handwriting from everyone we’ve interviewed to date. And those wreaths — try and find where they came from. There can’t be that many florists in this town.’

  ‘I’ve been mulling over the wreaths,’ Patrick said. ‘What do they indicate? Why go to that bother? I know from Lisa’s funeral that fresh floral wreaths aren’t cheap.’

  ‘An unpleasant or sarcastic gesture, or maybe a genuine one, take your pick,’ Siv said.

&nbs
p; ‘Genuine?’ Patrick looked puzzled.

  ‘It depends on the killer’s motive. If this murder was done with some regret, the wreaths might be saying that.’ Siv turned to Ali. ‘I sent Kilgore’s laptop for scrutiny. Can you chase the results? And I want you to talk to Damian Kyalo, shake him up a bit. The guy’s attitude is just plain weird. Get him away from his comfort zone with his fiancée.’ Siv knew Ali would be good at that. He could switch from easy-going camaraderie to brisk intensity in an instant. It even unsettled Siv at times.

  This was usually when she’d tell them her actions. Instead she stood up and shoved her chair in, still irritated by their cosy references to their partners. Ali raised his eyebrows, but Siv ignored him. She noticed her team exchange glances as they sloped off back to their desks.

  She left the office and called at Gusto, waiting to be served in the warm fug of the café. She inhaled the aromas of garlic, onion and rosemary, gazing at the tempting shelves of food: cannoli with Parma ham mousse, rigatoni and peppers, panzerotti, cheese arancini, crostini with tuna, courgette fritters. The atmosphere calmed her, eased her aching heart.

  This was the kind of place Mutsi had always liked, especially in the early evening — a café where she could swoop in and buy assorted snacks. Siv glanced over her shoulder into the darkness outside the lighted windows, but the street was empty. A dislike of cooking was the one trait Siv shared with her mother. She ordered a couple of arancini to take home for supper and a latte, reflecting on the day’s events, that phrase on the front of the brochure. Remember fun at Mallow Cottage. Had it been written as a fond memory or a warning?

  * * *

  Imelda Kilgore had browned leeks and celery in a large casserole dish. Now she added chunks of floured chicken dusted with paprika, moving like an automaton. She didn’t have any appetite, but she had to do something with her desperation. It was Henry’s favourite meal. She’d lost count of how many times she’d made it over the years. Maybe it would summon her son, call him home, as if he could smell the spices on the breeze. She’d told Saffie, Viv and Damian to come for supper. They needed to eat and they needed to stay together, stay strong. Plus, she needed the distraction.