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

  * * *

  When she entered the station later, the constable on the duty desk beckoned her over with an embarrassed grin.

  ‘Guv, there’s a girl asking to see you. Came in about ten minutes ago, insisting that she wants to speak to the lead detective about the missing man. Very cocky. Ali and Patrick are both out. She says she saw a poster about Henry Kilgore and she might have vital information. Her name’s Fern Quinn.’

  At last, something from the publicity drive. Siv glanced over at a girl, aged about eleven, sitting in the waiting area. She wore a black skirt, white shirt, ankle socks, cheap slip-on shoes and a school blazer that was too big. A hand-me-down from an older sibling, Siv guessed. The girl was eating a massive sausage roll, spraying flakes of puff pastry, while reading a magazine.

  Siv walked over, sat down beside the girl. She smelled of cheap soap. The slivers of pastry on the surrounding floor resembled a scattering of dry skin. Her magazine, Kookie, was open at an article on supernovae. Siv was impressed.

  ‘Hi, Fern. I’m DI Siv Drummond. How can I help you?’

  Fern put the half-eaten roll in a paper bag. ‘You the boss on the Kilgore case?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Fern had the blurry features and pimply skin of adolescence, but her narrow eyes were shrewd, and she had a calculating manner. ‘I want to go somewhere private, not out here. Haven’t you got interview rooms where you’re supposed to take witnesses? Like, procedures you’re supposed to follow.’

  Siv kept a straight face. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’

  ‘Lunch break,’ Fern said. ‘I’m entitled.’

  ‘I see. Well, come through and I’ll see if there’s an interview room.’

  Siv led Fern into an empty one. She grimaced at the grubby chairs and cup rings on the table.

  ‘It pongs in here. You don’t make much of an effort for the public,’ she said.

  ‘You’re right. Tight budgets, Fern.’

  ‘Don’t I get a cup of tea or a Coke?’

  ‘Let’s see how we go. Have a seat. I hear you have vital information.’

  Fern hugged her rucksack against her chest. It was blue with stick-on rainbows and silver unicorns. Some of the unicorns were jumping over the rainbows. ‘I won’t bother saying if you’re going to be sarky.’

  Siv regrouped, softening her voice slightly. ‘Fern, have you got something to tell me?’

  ‘I saw a picture of that man who went missing. Kilgore.’

  ‘Right. Is it about him?’

  ‘Yeah. I saw cops poking around Larch Dell. Thing is, I saw a man there.’ She took a tube of Smarties from a side pocket of her rucksack, tipped one out and popped it in her mouth. She offered the tube to Siv.

  ‘Thanks.’ Siv took a red one. ‘I used to use these as pretend lipstick.’ The girl seemed unimpressed. ‘When did you see this man?’

  Fern gave her a stony stare. ‘Shouldn’t you be taking notes, or recording me? I’m serious and I’ve given up my lunch break.’

  ‘I appreciate that. I’ve got pretty good recall, so this will be OK for now. Tell me about the man.’

  Fern nestled back in the seat and crossed her ankles. ‘I live opposite Larch Dell, though Mum says it should be renamed “Condom Dell”.’ She sniggered. ‘Anyway, Monday night, I woke up. There’re cats around our way who scrap and yowl. Bloody awful racket. They’re territorial, so they’re defending their ground. I looked out of my window and I saw a man just by the park railings, on the pavement. He was on his phone.’ She popped another Smartie.

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Ten fifty-five. I checked my clock when I got up.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  Fern gave a sly grin. ‘I can do better than that. I took a photo of him. I take loads of photos of people when they’re unaware. It’s my thing. I’m an observer. I catch the unguarded moment.’

  I’m sure you do. Siv was beginning to like this girl. ‘Can I see this photo?’

  ‘Sure. But can I have a Coke first? I bet you’ve got a machine here. I have given you a Smartie.’

  Siv got up. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Don’t move.’

  When she returned with the frosty can from the machine, Fern was scrolling through her phone. She flicked the can open, took a deep gulp and then showed Siv the screen. It was Henry Kilgore, leaning with his back to the railings, his phone pressed to his ear. Siv sent the photo to herself.

  ‘Thanks, Fern. That’s very helpful. Did you see where the man went when he finished the call?’

  ‘Yep. I waited and watched. I’m patient like that. I reckoned he might be suspicious, hanging around late at night. He went towards town.’

  ‘I’m glad that you’re so observant.’

  Fern burped loudly. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Kilgore. Does my photo give you a lead?’

  ‘It helps place him on that night and adds to our information.’

  ‘Will you find him?’

  ‘I hope so, but these things can be complicated. You’d better get back to school now.’

  Fern glanced at her watch. ‘Helping you with your enquiries has made me late. Can I have a lift?’

  Siv laughed. This girl reminded her of Rik — sassy. ‘You don’t take any prisoners, do you?’

  Fern smiled with satisfaction. ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ‘Come with me and I’ll see what we can do. By the way, be careful of taking random photos. Some people might not appreciate it.’

  Fern hoisted her rucksack. ‘I’m covert ops. They never know.’

  Siv was relieved to see Patrick coming through the door as she led Fern back.

  ‘DC Hill, just the man! Can you take Fern back to school? She’s given us some very useful information. In fact, you could mention it on your Twitter feed.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Will you flash a blue light?’ Fern asked with glee.

  ‘He might, if you give him a Smartie,’ Siv said.

  * * *

  After a little research, Siv was able to pin down Etta Parton, who was now a lecturer in computer science at Oxford University. Siv got through to her college with surprising ease and explained the reason for her call.

  ‘I understand that you went out with Henry Kilgore for a while.’

  ‘That’s right. It seems like another lifetime. I’m terribly sorry to hear about him, and about Eugene’s death. How can I help?’

  ‘Was there any trouble between Henry and Eugene back then?’

  Etta had a robust voice and spoke deliberately. ‘I can’t recall anything like that. They hung around together a lot, sparked off each other. Egged each other on, the way boys do. I wasn’t keen on Eugene, he was reckless. He’d urge Henry to drive too fast. He went out with Teagan Grenville. I didn’t have much in common with her. We did stuff occasionally as a foursome, but I wasn’t keen on the company.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  A pause. ‘I suppose I found them a bit silly. Teagan wasn’t that bright. Henry was fun and witty, but I lost interest in larking around. Eugene was keen on hanging out in the cemetery late at night, with Henry and lots of alcohol. He used to say, “Let’s have a grave party.” Thought it was exciting and illicit. He and Teagan used to climb over the gate, and I imagine they had sex. Henry drove us there one night, but I refused to join them and I made him take me home after the other two had climbed in. It was just distasteful.’

  Siv was glad that Etta couldn’t see her down the phone because she had the biggest grin on her face. Finally, they were getting somewhere — a connection between Eugene Warren and the cemetery, and one that suggested behaviour that might have angered or disgusted someone. This was music to her ears. ‘Which gate do you mean?’

  ‘It wasn’t high, and a narrow road ran alongside. Sorry, I can’t remember its name, but I know it joined the coast road further on because I lived that way.’

  Barker’s Way. Siv liked it when a piece of the jigsaw fit. ‘Is that why you stopped seei
ng Henry, because of the cemetery stuff?’

  ‘One of the reasons. I wasn’t that into drinking and, as I said, it all seemed a bit infantile to me. They never offered me drugs, but I suspected they took them, and I didn’t want to get involved in illegal stuff. Let’s say Henry’s gloss wore off rather quickly. We ran out of things to talk about. That sounds like something middle-aged people experience, but it’s just how it was.’

  ‘Have you had contact with any of these old friends since?’

  ‘No. I got a place at Oxford and I stayed here. My parents moved away so I’ve had no reason to return to Berminster.’

  ‘Henry had a friend called Bertie Greene. Was he involved in messing around in the cemetery?’

  ‘I can only remember him vaguely. I couldn’t say.’

  Siv didn’t think Etta was a likely suspect, but she asked anyway. ‘Where were you on Monday night and early Tuesday?’

  ‘At home with my partner. I do have a lecture scheduled, if that’s all.’

  Siv said goodbye and saw that she’d had an email from one of the constables who’d found the abandoned car.

  The Vauxhall found by Mallow Cottage was previously owned by Ms Jill Winstanley. Aged 78, living in Walthamstow in London. She doesn’t have a mobile or Wi-Fi, so I couldn’t send her a photo of Warren, but from the description I gave her, she confirmed that she sold the car to him last February for cash, £450. She gave him all the documents because he said he’d see to the legal stuff and she wasn’t sure what it entailed. She has no idea where he lived, but he answered an ad she’d put in the corner shop, the Short Stop. (Didn’t think anyone still did that!) She commented that Warren was shabby and that he had an ‘adorable little doggy’ with him. She left nothing in the car and had no knowledge of Berminster Breaks, let alone why there would be a brochure for them in the car.

  The Vauxhall shows up on ANPR on the motorway from London at 20.30 on Monday night and on the ring road approaching town at 22.30.

  Siv glanced through her office window and saw that Ali wasn’t at his desk. She forwarded the email to him with a message.

  Warren saw an ad in a corner shop, which suggests that he must have some connection to that area of London. Can you contact the shop? See if anyone recognises him. I’m off to talk to Teagan Grenville about ‘grave parties’. I’ll explain later.

  She phoned Teagan Grenville and discovered that it was her day off. She was at the Body and Soul Health Spa, having a pamper experience. Siv told her that she needed to talk and that she’d meet her in the reception area in twenty minutes. When Teagan began to protest, she hung up.

  Chapter 12

  The spa was nearby, on the far side of the harbour, so Siv walked there. The afternoon had turned bitterly cold, the light opaque. The water in the harbour was rough, slapping the sides of moored boats. Seagulls rode the rolling wash and grey plumed knots waded in the shallows by the slipway. She paused and watched the stocky birds, their feathers rippling in the wind. The story was that they were named after King Canute, because they moved back from the incoming tide, just as he had. The more prosaic explanation was that they were called knot because the onomatopoeic name referred to their call.

  She headed on, skirting the block of flats where Mutsi had been living until now, keeping wary eyes open. One of the few compensations of her mother’s move to Mortimer’s house some miles away was that the centre of town would be safer.

  Warm air hit her when she entered the spa and she unwound her scarf. A woman in a fluffy white robe, matching turban and mules was seated in the empty reception area by an array of potted plants, flicking through a glossy magazine. Her face was painted with a dark grey facemask.

  ‘Ms Grenville? I’m DI Drummond.’ Siv took a seat beside her.

  ‘I resent this, Inspector. It’s my precious day off work and I’ve paid a lot for my visit here. I had to hurry my balancing facial.’ She spoke tightly through the constricting drying mask, barely able to move her lips.

  ‘It might be easier if you washed the mask off,’ Siv suggested.

  ‘No thanks. It’s bamboo charcoal, costs forty pounds. Has to stay on for half an hour to cleanse impurities.’

  ‘I’ll try to make this quick then. It’s about Eugene Warren and Henry Kilgore.’

  ‘That’s what I expected.’ Clearly, seeing her protest at being disturbed falling flat, Teagan had decided to treat the visit as a girly chat. ‘Those two! They used to be a right pair. Funny how I didn’t see Eugene for the flake he was. There was something about him that I found irresistible.’

  Although it pained her greatly, Siv mimicked the bonhomie. ‘We’re all a bit mad when we’re teenagers. I was, and my sister too. When you went out with Eugene, did you spend time in the grounds at the cemetery?’

  Teagan sighed. ‘Yep. Now and then. It was Eugene’s daft idea.’

  ‘I understand that he called your visits “grave parties”. What did you do there?’

  Teagan glanced around and tucked in the neck of her robe. ‘Drank too much. Messed about.’

  ‘Do you mean you had sex there?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake! Can’t you lower your voice?’

  ‘I have. There’s no one listening. The woman on the desk is on the phone.’ She pressed on, as if daring Teagan to tell her. ‘So, did you?’

  A hiss. ‘Yes.’

  Siv imagined her blushing under the mask. ‘Was this at night? How did you get in?’

  ‘When it was dark. Climbed over the gate at Barker’s Way.’

  ‘Where did you mess about exactly?’

  ‘In the old bit of the cemetery. The mouldy graves. Eugene liked the spookiness. He chose neglected ones that had fallen in a bit. I just went along with him. It wasn’t that often. It was bloody uncomfortable and there were insects.’ She shivered. ‘I hate anything crawling on my skin.’

  ‘And drugs — they were involved?’

  Teagan mouthed, ‘Eugene always had some dope. We smoked a bit.’

  ‘Did Henry Kilgore join you?’

  She looked away, fidgeting with her sleeve. Her lips were bright pink against the dark mask. ‘We went there in his car. He just drank and shared joints with us. There weren’t any, like, threesomes or anything weird.’

  Nothing weird at all about having sex in a graveyard, Siv thought sardonically.

  Gosh, it was hot. She was overheating. She unbuttoned her coat and slipped it off. ‘Might Henry have taken girlfriends there? He wanted Etta Parton to join you, but she refused, right?’

  ‘Etta rated herself far too classy,’ Teagan said spitefully. But Siv judged that she was wishing she’d been choosier herself.

  ‘How about Bertie Greene, did he go there?’

  ‘He might have.’

  ‘Didn’t it strike you as odd that Eugene’s body was left at the crematorium, given your teenage exploits around there?’

  Teagan stared at her blankly. ‘No. I’d forgotten about all that until you just brought it up.’ She touched her chin lightly with a finger, testing the mask. ‘Eugene might have taken that other girl there.’

  ‘What other girl?’

  ‘The one he was two-timing me with, so I dumped him.’

  Siv recalled Patrick’s report. ‘Your brother saw Eugene with her, right?’

  ‘Yeah. On the beach.’

  ‘I need to contact him. Can you give me his details?’

  Teagan rolled her eyes. ‘Gray’s a fire safety consultant. He travels a lot, so email’s probably best.’ She gave Siv a phone number and email address. ‘This mask needs to come off now. I want clean skin, not dehydrated.’

  Teagan almost ran from the area. Siv called Gray Grenville, but his phone wouldn’t take a message, so she sent him an email asking him if he recalled the name of the girl he’d seen with Eugene Warren on the beach.

  The heat was draining her. She undid one button on her shirt, picked up a leaflet and read that for a hundred pounds, she could have a complimentary glass of Prosecco and a crea
m tea, partnered with either a body scrub and facial or a neck massage and manicure. I’d rather use you as a fan. She used the leaflet to waft air towards her. A small group of laughing women exited from the inner sanctum of the spa, bright-eyed and glowing. Siv wondered if a day here might work similar magic on her. It was doubtful.

  * * *

  Teagan lay with her eyes closed while the beautician removed her mask. Soothing panpipes played in the background, but Teagan wasn’t calmed by either the music or the gentle ministrations to her skin. That inspector had thoroughly spoiled her day.

  Teagan didn’t care to dwell on difficult things and liked to put the past firmly behind her. She’d been uncomfortable when Henry had called by before Christmas. He’d seemed moody. Over coffee, he’d started talking about Eugene and things that had happened when they were at school, but Teagan didn’t want to be reminded. The past should stay there. Buried.

  Back then, she’d known of Eugene’s bad reputation, but found him fascinating and got a kick out of being around him. Afterwards, she’d regretted ever getting mixed up with him and particularly sharing family details. He’d been amused when she’d described how she loved to snoop on people. He’d encouraged her habit, and it had seemed funny at the time. Evenings with him had been alive, colourful, never a dull moment, but the day Gray came home and told her he’d seen Eugene with another girl, she’d been humiliated, even though part of her had expected it would happen at some point.

  She was still insatiably curious and a snooper. She went through her husband’s emails and social media regularly. He watched porn, but that didn’t bother her too much. Her mum had always told her you had to cut a man some slack. The way she saw it, if he was getting his extra kicks — because there was nothing wrong with their sex life, that’s for sure — from a screen, he was less likely to screw some other girl in real life! If anyone left their phone unsecured and lying around at work, she peeked. Sue in Bedding had had an abortion, Tom in Luggage had regular dates via Grindr and Mr Vernay, the general manager, was a regular punter on betting sites. Even here, Teagan had squinted at the beautician’s phone when she’d popped out of the room and read a text from someone called Baz, arranging to meet at a bar later. She’d examined her brother’s diary, when they’d lived at home, and read all about his erotic dreams and masturbatory habits until he’d put a lock on his bedroom door to keep her out. Left alone in anyone’s house, she’d rake quickly through drawers and shelves. Sometimes, she wondered if this compulsion to pry was a kind of illness, an addiction, maybe. Certainly, it brought her a rush of pleasure and excitement like no other.