However, now and again, the past did intrude, refusing to be put back in its box. She wished she’d never pulled that suitcase out from under her parents’ bed and gone through her dad’s things. She saw herself now as a teenager, kneeling on the carpet in her parents’ bedroom, holding her breath and listening out for a tread on the stairs. At the time, she’d seen her action as clever. If only she’d put the letter back and not mentioned it, but she’d been high on the thrill, too full of the buzz, to stop herself.
She regretted that business with the suitcase because it had caused disruption in her family and made her own life uncomfortable. But right now, she was worried about what Henry had said when they’d met in November, and what might have happened to him. It had sounded as if Eugene was stirring things up, dredging up buried secrets. She didn’t want any part of it. It had always been stimulating to explore other people’s private business, but only for pleasure and the adrenalin rush. This was too much like discomfort.
Teagan could already feel her muscles tensing at the thoughts. She tried to breathe evenly and relax while fingers lightly moisturised her face. She wanted her forty quid’s worth.
* * *
The head teacher at the primary school where Tara Warren taught had told her that she could take time off work if she needed, but she’d said she was OK and preferred to be at school. She tidied up the classroom after the children had gone home and neatened the bookshelves. Then she switched off the lights, took a battery lamp from her locked drawer and sat at her desk in its dim glow. It had been her Secret Santa present — a little brown china mouse held the bulb in outstretched paws.
Tara could tell that the head had given the kids her confidential chat about being caring and kind because someone has died. They were being unusually quiet and watchful. One of the children had said to her solemnly, ‘I’m sorry about your brother, Miss. That’s ever so sad for you.’ She’d said thank you and accepted the sympathy card featuring stars in a night sky. If she was honest — as you were supposed to be with children, especially when death was involved — she’d have told her class that she wasn’t particularly sad, her main emotion bitterness.
Tara’s family life had been joyful and easy until her little brother turned fourteen and discovered drugs and alcohol. She’d liked being the big sister who he’d confided in and asked to string his conkers every autumn. She’d taught him how to tell the time, tie his laces and roller skate. Then, overnight, it was as if someone had thrown a switch. She’d been confused and stunned by his alteration from a cheery, cheeky but loveable kid into a sly, objectionable one. She’d heard all about his exploits from friends: the pilfering, the rows and foul language, his boasting that he’d spread chlamydia around town, the trail of girls he’d worked through. At least one girl had had an abortion without telling her parents. There’d probably been others. Tara’s parents had aged before her eyes, worn down with worry, and yet Tara was just grateful that they’d never known the half of it. They never seemed to realise that she worried too, that she missed him and was embarrassed by his antics. They’d hardly noticed her after Eugene turned feral, and once he took off, she might as well have vanished with him for all the attention they’d paid her. She’d been relieved when he’d gone and hoped he’d never return. He’d ruined everything, and now she had to deal with the aftermath of his death, all on her own.
She stroked the little mouse’s head. Eugene’s death had brought back memories of the trouble he’d caused, the people he’d angered. Stuff she’d been glad to put behind her. Should she tell the police some of the things she’d recalled? Would it help them solve the case? Deep down, part of her wasn’t sure she wanted to know what had happened to her brother, because it would bring everything back. It would make it real and present again. She wasn’t sure if she could bear that.
* * *
The heating in the station had failed (again) and wouldn’t be back on until the next morning. The temperature had dropped fast, and they all huddled in their coats for a quick early evening catch-up. Patrick wore a bomber hat with long faux-fur earflaps. He complained that his ears tingled in cold weather.
Just as they were about to start, Ali put down the water he was drinking and decided he needed the loo.
‘Didn’t your mum ever tell you to go before you went into class?’ Siv asked. Her tone was light, but she was keen to get on and annoyed at the interruption.
‘I’ve been thirsty. What goes in has to come out.’ He pulled a face and rushed off.
When he reappeared, Patrick laughed, ‘We’ll have to get you a catheter at this rate, mate.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Feel free to have fun at my expense,’ Ali grumbled.
Siv went through the information she’d collected. ‘Henry Kilgore appears to have been diverted from his visit to Bertie Greene by a phone call which he took at Larch Dell just before 11 p.m. Possibly a call from Eugene Warren or his killer. The abandoned Vauxhall at Mallow Cottage was Warren’s. ANPR shows that he arrived in town around ten thirty on Monday night. Forensics have confirmed that his prints were on the steering wheel and all over the car. They’ve also reported that strands of fibre on the outside of Emmeline’s Gate came from the jacket he was wearing when the body was found, as did some found in the wheelbarrow. Several of his hairs were in the barrow too, so that’s how his body was moved to the steps. However, the only fingerprints on the wheelbarrow were Smeaton’s and Robbins’s.’
‘Why bother putting the barrow back in the shed?’ Ali asked. He yawned, rubbed his eyes.
‘It was on the route back to the gate anyway,’ Patrick said. ‘A tidy- minded killer, maybe.’
‘Or a killer with a tongue-in-cheek sense of humour who wanted to make life difficult for us,’ Siv told them. ‘Perhaps someone we’ve banged up in the past, or who has some other axe to grind. That would give us a wide selection.’
Siv checked her notes. ‘What else have I got . . . Teagan Grenville owned up that she and Warren used to have sex in the cemetery, so it’s likely that he took other girls there, and maybe Kilgore did too. I’m waiting to hear from Teagan’s brother about the identity of the girl he saw with Warren on the beach back when they were teenagers, in case she’s a lead. I also rang Bertie Greene. He denied ever attending “grave parties” in the cemetery. He emphasised that he didn’t spend much time with Warren, but after his performance when we interviewed him, I’m not sure I believe him.’
Ali tightened his scarf. ‘I spoke to Mr Kalnina, the owner of the Short Stop in Walthamstow. He was vague until I sent him a photo of Warren. Then he said he was an occasional customer, but he couldn’t tell me anything else about him. Nobody’s reported Warren as missing so far, so he might have lived alone. It also seems as if he lived off grid. I can’t track him. But I’ll keep on it.
‘Techies also reported back on Kilgore’s laptop, and I’ve searched through his emails and history. Nothing to flag. There was a work email, confirming his redundancy and asking him to contact HR. No emails featuring Warren or anyone else in Berminster in recent months.’
‘Patrick, your turn,’ Siv said.
‘Guv. None of the crem staff have any form. Most have corroborated alibis for Monday night, except Robbins and Smeaton. Regarding other alibis, Bertie Greene claims that he went to bed, but he could have risked leaving his kids alone if he needed to commit murder. Tara Warren was at home alone preparing lessons. She didn’t recognise the writing on the brochure, but then said she couldn’t recall what her brother’s was like. I’ve collected handwriting samples and none match the brochure. I contacted all florists in the area and none of them supplied the wreaths that were on our corpse. They all pointed out — a bit sniffily, I might add — that these days you can get wreaths online, including on Amazon.’
Siv rubbed the end of her nose to warm it. ‘The three at Driftwood and Imelda Kilgore have accounted for where they were on Monday night, but it’s possible that any of them could have been out and about after midnight. For now, th
ough, I can’t see that any of them had a motive for murder or making Kilgore vanish. Viv and Kilgore had a thing at uni, but that’s been over for a long time. Warren hasn’t featured in any of their lives, as far as I can make out.’
‘And where is Henry Kilgore?’ Ali asked.
‘It’s worrying,’ Siv sighed. ‘Let’s face it, the likelihood now is that he’s dead. Unless he’s out at sea, it’s strange that no one’s found his body. I saw the volunteers on TV, scouring the beach and the headland. I don’t think we’ve missed any tricks, but feel free if you can come up with any avenue we haven’t tried.’
They fell silent. The building was still. Most staff had gone home.
‘Right, no point in us getting frostbite.’ Siv pushed her chilled hands up her sleeves. She still hadn’t picked up her gloves from the cemetery. ‘Patrick, can you firm up all alibis? Etta Parton has one for Monday night that you need to check. The SOCOs have finished at the crem now. We should have results from Mallow Cottage tomorrow. Ali, please chase those first thing in the morning.’
Patrick hurried away. Ali was rummaging on his desk when Siv’s phone rang. She listened carefully and turned to him as she ended the call. ‘Are you due at home or do you fancy a drink on the way?’
He looked stunned. It was well established that Siv didn’t do random socialising. But he was about to be sorely disappointed. ‘I can spare half an hour,’ he said, perhaps too eagerly.
‘Good, because that was a bar worker at the Three Swans. She said that Henry Kilgore was in there one lunchtime with a woman about two weeks ago. We need to have a chat with her.’
* * *
The bar worker was called Rina and she was tiny, with a bubbly personality. She sipped a slimline tonic while Siv and Ali drank red wine. He’d bought pork scratchings and munched his way through the pack. The Three Swans had a thatched roof and etched windows but had been modernised inside and now styled itself as a gastropub. The three of them sat in an empty, narrow back room with an open fire. It had been done out as a library, with wing-back chairs and shelves of books. Siv’s heart sank when she realised that most of the books were fake, with titles such as The Insurmountable Problem by Major Setback and The Arctic Ocean by IC Waters.
She showed Rina a photo of Kilgore and she confirmed that she recognised him.
‘Yeah, I remember him,’ she told them. ‘He sat at the table just inside the door and the woman he was with sat opposite. They had mezze platters. I served them, and when I brought the order through, the woman pointed out that the falafel were missing. I had to apologise and fetch them. When I saw his photo on the news, I remembered him. He left a generous tip — despite the falafel mix-up.’
Siv loved a witness like Rina — sharp, straightforward, with good recall. ‘What day was this?’
‘It was my second day working here, a fortnight ago on a Wednesday. I checked the calendar before you arrived.’
‘Did you recognise the woman? Can you describe her?’
‘No. That’s the only time I’ve seen her. She was thirties, brown hair, nice figure. She was confident, like someone used to getting what she wanted. Polite, though.’
‘Did you hear what they were discussing?’
‘Sorry, no. It was busy and I was still getting my head round the routines, so I was trying to focus.’
Siv tilted her glass at Ali. He was turned towards the fire and staring into it with his legs stretched out, as if he was at home, but she sensed that he was attentive. He straightened up and put his glass on the table.
‘What impression did you get of them, Rina? Friends?’ he said.
‘Not sure. The woman was all business, in a sharp suit. Mr Kilgore was more casually dressed. Jeans, although smart ones, and a shirt and tie. They got along OK. She was laughing when I brought them coffee.’
‘How long were they here?’
‘I’d say about an hour.’
‘Who paid?’
‘She did. Cash. But I saw him put the tip on the table.’
‘They left at the same time?’
‘I can’t be sure. Like I said, it was busy. She had big teeth, big and white, like all the celebs in Hollywood, you know?’ She swirled her tonic water and said as an afterthought, ‘I saw Mr Kilgore on Monday night as well, in the main lounge, with a man and a woman. Not the same woman as at lunch.’
Siv nodded. ‘Henry was in here on Monday night, with friends.’
‘Didn’t look that friendly to me,’ Rina sniffed.
This was news to them. ‘What do you mean?’ Siv probed.
‘The woman must have gone to the loo or something, but he was arguing with the man. They didn’t raise their voices, but I heard the other man telling Mr Kilgore that he could be a slimy bastard and to keep his hands to himself. He was rapping on the table.’ She demonstrated with a pointed finger.
‘I see. Did you hear anything else?’
‘No, that was all.’
Rina went back to the bar when they’d finished. Ali emptied the last morsels of scratchings into his hand and popped them in his mouth. He took great care in dusting his coat off once he’d screwed up the packet.
Siv said, ‘Removing any evidence in case Polly notices you’ve strayed from the dietary straight and narrow?’
He nodded guiltily. ‘Although I don’t know why — not much gets past her, no matter how hard I try. Rina’s a goldmine, isn’t she, guv? Interesting that no one’s mentioned that Kilgore was here in town two weeks ago.’
‘Presumably, no one knew. I’ll check with his mother and Saffie. The way Rina described the meeting it doesn’t sound like a romantic tryst, but Kilgore could’ve been having an affair. Maybe that’s the case and he got found out.’
‘A jealous husband went after him?’ Ali didn’t sound convinced.
‘It’s worth looking into. What was Kilgore up to? We need to find this woman with the Hollywood-style teeth. Saul Robbins said that the woman in the cemetery who asked about the wheelbarrow was dark and in her thirties.’
‘Plenty of women fit that description. You do. Maybe it was a meeting about a job. Kilgore could have been making enquiries.’
‘Coming back to Berminster after his high-flying life in the big smoke? I doubt it. But I wonder what he and Kyalo were arguing about on Monday?’
Ali yawned and said reluctantly, ‘D’you want to ask Kyalo tonight?’
She glanced at her weary sergeant. He looked done in. ‘It’ll keep until tomorrow. We’ll get him into the station.’
‘OK. I’d better head home. Are you coming?’
‘I’ll stay a bit.’
Siv savoured the last of her wine. She was tired. The deep, padded chair, the soothing Malbec, the glowing fire; she could happily fall asleep. Tomorrow, they needed to talk to Damian Kyalo, Viv Carpenter and Tara Warren again. She’d given a sketchy account of a wayward brother and she must know more about what he’d got up to. Even if siblings weren’t close, they had a way of absorbing information about each other. A sort of osmosis.
She roused herself and rang Damian. His phone went to voicemail, as did Viv’s. Siv left a curt message on his, asking them both to be at the station at nine in the morning. They could worry about the reason for the summons overnight. Then she called Imelda Kilgore. While she waited for the woman to answer, she found a stray crumb of pork scratching and threw it into the fire, where it flared. That said it all. How could Ali eat those things? Imelda said that she had no knowledge of her son visiting town earlier in the month. She added stoutly that the inspector must be mistaken, because he’d never have come to Berminster without telling her. There were traffic noises, the blare of a car horn.
‘Just a minute, there’s a bus going past,’ she said.
‘Sorry to have disturbed you when you’re out.’
‘I always hope it will be good news, but it never is. I’m walking the streets with Saffie, searching for Henry. The volunteers have finished for the night now. There’s so much goodwill from people. If
only that alone could bring Henry back. It’s better to be active than sit at home moping, and we might find out something here in the town centre. Better than what you lot are doing anyway.’
Siv was surprised at the unlikely alliance. Desperation forged strange bonds. She ignored Imelda’s jibe, knowing from her own experience how sharp grief can make you. ‘Can I speak to Saffie, as she’s with you?’
When Saffie came on the line she said, ‘Did Henry mention that he was visiting Berminster two weeks ago, on a Wednesday?’
Saffie sounded lethargic. ‘No. Why?’
‘Someone says that they saw him in town. Could he have been here on business?’
‘I suppose. He’d have mentioned it, surely?’
Yes, like he mentioned losing his job. ‘Did he stay away from home any nights this month?’
‘No. He was late some nights, but that was usual. I don’t understand. Who says they saw him?’
‘Someone in town. His mum wasn’t aware of his visit either.’
‘It can’t have been Henry, then. He’d never come back here without calling on her. I keep expecting to see him in the street, but, of course, I don’t.’
Siv left it there and finished her wine. She was sorry for Imelda and Saffie, traipsing around the chilly streets, uneasy in each other’s company, trying to maintain hope. Henry Kilgore had been holding his cards close to his chest, compartmentalising information and keeping secrets. He’d deceived the two closest women in his life, but for what reason?
Chapter 13
MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3) Page 15
