‘You are?’
‘Of course.’
Bartel hummed. ‘Your boss man needs to get that guttering fixed.’
‘Uh-huh. I’m sure Mutsi will remind him.’
‘I must read 60Chic, get some lifestyle tips.’
‘You can learn how to contour your cheekbones.’
‘Essential for when you’re up a ladder.’
She smiled. She was genuinely pleased that he’d met this Astrella but hoped she was a woman who had no interest in fishing or riverbanks.
Chapter 17
‘So, your victim, Henry Kilgore, was stabbed in the neck with a thin, fairly blunt blade, such as a small kitchen knife — it didn’t hit an artery but it cut his windpipe, so he bled out internally. Basically, he drowned in his own blood. Nasty way to go. Treacle toffee?’ Rey Anand, the pathologist, proffered the bag of sweets towards Siv.
‘I’ll pass this time.’
‘We found no phone on him,’ Rey added, ‘just a set of keys and his wallet.’
Rey went on to explain that the angle indicated the killer had stood slightly to his right side and behind him, so Kilgore might not have seen his assailant until it was too late. However, skin cells recovered from beneath the middle fingers of Kilgore’s right hand revealed trace DNA that didn’t match his or Eugene Warren’s, suggesting that he might have managed to grab at his attacker. Estimated time of death was in the early hours of Tuesday morning. Post-mortem bruising on his head and body indicated that he’d been shoved behind the summerhouse soon after the attack.
‘Kilgore died around the same time as Eugene Warren then,’ Siv said.
‘That’s correct. Those two men must have made someone very angry.’
As Siv was saying goodbye to Dr Anand, Steve Wooton called.
‘We’ve finished at Mallow Cottage. Reports back from Forensics confirm that tiny traces of Kilgore’s blood were on the back of one of the chairs on the patio and also on the decking that led to the summerhouse. We found fibres from Eugene Warren’s fleece on the back of the other chair. No prints or other DNA in the house except Ms Kilgore’s. She’s a thorough cleaner. No sign of the strap or belt used to kill Warren, or the knife used on Kilgore. The killer tidied up.’
The bad news, Siv decided as she returned to her car, was that Uniform were in trouble about Tuesday night. It had been shoddy work and Ali had been right in saying that the team — and the Force — could be embarrassed. It seemed likely there’d be an inquiry and possible disciplinary measures. Imelda Kilgore would understandably be on the warpath. Siv decided to send an email to Mortimer, avoiding any more direct contact with him over the weekend.
That done, she drove to Berminster General and stopped at the shop on the ground floor. Ali would be missing his Gitanes, but they were contraband on the ward. Instead, she bought newspapers, sugar-free chewing gum and a black fidget cube with bright red buttons and levers. The box assured her that it was ideal for people who needed distraction.
She found Ali sitting beside his bed, attached to an IV drip, and chatting away to the two men in the beds nearest him. He’d be loving the company, the bustle of the ward and the camaraderie of his peers.
He beamed when he saw her. ‘Guv! This is cracking! Pull up a chair. You can swish the curtain round for a wee bit of privacy.’
She drew the bright blue curtain, as he requested. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Much better. They’ve pumped me full of the good stuff. I should be back home tomorrow.’ He pulled a face. ‘My own stupid fault. I wasn’t checking my blood sugar levels regularly. Everyone’s told me off. Will I never learn?’
‘Up to you. You should have said something though, you know. I’ve been kicking myself for not noticing you were going downhill.’
‘Ah, don’t beat yourself up.’
He looked embarrassed, so Siv just said, ‘I’m glad you’re OK, anyway.’ She scanned his face. He looked definitely worse for wear, but his eyes were bright enough.
‘Aye, I’m flying it.’ He examined the fidget cube. ‘This should keep me occupied for a while. What’s the story on our dead men?’
Siv knew she should protest that he was meant to be resting, but she also knew Ali, and that wouldn’t work, so she updated him.
‘Running with the forensics, this is how I see it playing. Warren and Kilgore agreed to meet someone at Mallow Cottage. Warren drove there from London and Kilgore got the call as he was on his way to Bertie Greene’s. Whatever the reason for the meeting, it was persuasive enough to make Kilgore change his plans. It would have been around a twenty-minute walk from Larch Dell to the cottage, during which Kilgore left Saffie a message. He and Warren sat on chairs on the patio. Who knows whether our killer was part of this catch-up or just ambushed them. We don’t know which one died first. The killer shoved Kilgore behind the summerhouse and then took Warren’s body to the crem, either in his car or their own.’
‘So, the cottage and the crem were significant places for the killer.’
‘Seems so. Maybe that significance led to the different ways in which the bodies were dealt with. Warren’s placement below wreaths suggests to me that his death was the more meaningful to the killer. Patrick’s looking into it, but I’m not sure what to make of this alleged thieving at the crem.’
‘Except that small crimes are often linked to bigger ones.’
‘Yeah, or it might be a blind alley. I need to crack on. Can I get you anything else?’
‘No, that’s OK, this is more than enough. Polly will be in soon.’ He had a smug expression. ‘But don’t rush off. I’ve got something for you. I rang Pie Mad earlier on. Spoke to the owner-cum-manager. The shop’s at the back of Euston Station. The manager confirmed that Warren worked for her most weeks, Thursdays and Fridays. Casual basis, cash in hand. He’d been doing it for about two years. Just wandered in one day and asked if she’d got any jobs going. He seems to have lived on an ad hoc basis, taking his chances where he found them. The manager was annoyed when he didn’t turn up last week, and couldn’t raise him on his phone. She hadn’t seen the news about his death.’
‘What did he do? Make pies?’
‘Better than that. He delivered them to businesses in the area, using one of those tricycles with a box attached. There’s one brings ice creams around here in the summer. Pie Mad has regular customers as well as occasional ones. I asked the manager to email me a list of clients that he’d been to over the time he worked for her. There are around ninety.’ He picked up his phone, pinched the screen, zooming in on something, then held it out to Siv.
Footprint, King’s Cross, she read, as Ali exclaimed, ‘Bingo! Warren hadn’t seen Kilgore for years, but one day he pedalled his trike to Footprint to hand over his tasty lunches. He could well have bumped into Kilgore. We have blanks to fill in from there, but I reckon that has to be how they came back into contact.’
‘Thank you for this. Although, of course, you shouldn’t have been working while you’re ill.’
Ali grinned. ‘Of course. Total bed rest, but if you see Polly on the way out, don’t mention it.’
‘Patrick’s at the station today, chasing stuff up. We’re not idle without you, you know,’ Siv said. ‘But it’s very strange that Kilgore hardly mentioned Warren or Greene to his friends. Warren featured prominently in his life at one time, and if they did meet at Footprint in recent months, it would surely have rated a comment. Which makes me think they had something to hide.’ And Siv reckoned she might know just where to find it.
A nurse approached, saying that she needed a couple of minutes with Ali, so Siv said her goodbyes.
‘I’ll be back at work soon, promise,’ Ali told her.
‘We’ll see. I’ll keep my fingers crossed, but I’d say you’re being overly optimistic.’
In the car, she rang HMP Berminster and asked to speak to the governor. Within fifteen minutes, she was on her way there.
* * *
Siv stopped at Corran’s and Paul’s on th
e way home and handed over a bottle of wine and posh chocolates, which she sometimes dropped off in return for the logs and occasional meals they gave her.
Corran kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Paul’s out, but come in for a cuppa — or a glass of this, even.’
‘I won’t tonight, thanks. I’ve a complex case on and need to work.’
‘Those murders, is it?’ Corran asked sagely.
‘That’s right.’
‘Tell you what, then, take a portion of macaroni cheese back with you. I made loads. Just the thing for a cold night. Cold enough for snow. Weather report said we might get a dusting.’
It was almost half eight and a long time since lunch, so she accepted. She sat at the farmhouse table in the wide kitchen of the converted barn, while Corran dished a portion of the meal into a container with small, deft hands. He was short and light on his feet. He and Paul had made a lovely home and were almost fully self-sufficient. They seemed an ideal pair, but she’d occasionally overheard them arguing fiercely when she’d walked by. She smiled while Corran told her that the vet had been round to trim the goats’ hooves and Judy had been uncooperative, but she was keen to get on home and go over the investigation.
As she was leaving, Siv said, ‘Just to give you a heads-up, my mother might swoop on you for advice about interior décor. She’s settled in town now. And it would give her an excuse to come this way.’
Mutsi had phoned Corran when she’d been snooping around last year and had made derogatory comments even then about her daughter’s choice of accommodation. Corran was diplomatic and appreciated Siv’s desire for privacy.
‘OK. I’ll keep the discussion to business.’
‘Thanks.’ Siv paused. ‘She’s got a partner with plenty of money now, so make sure she buys your most expensive products.’
Corran grinned. ‘Understood.’
When she opened the wagon door, she recalled that the log basket was almost empty. She brought it out to the wood store at the side of the patio and chucked logs in, releasing the oaky scent of apples. She looked up at the full moon. A wolf moon with Venus glittering nearby. Something rustled in the trees. One of the goats bleated, an owl hooted mournfully.
In the wagon, Siv longed to head straight for the akvavit but made herself wait. She lit the stove, chucked the meal in the microwave, changed into jeans and Ed’s sweatshirt, then opened the fridge and poured a glass. She held it up to the light — water of life, liquid fire or liver destroyer, depending on your viewpoint.
‘Kippis!’ She drank, savouring the caraway notes, and then put a large dollop of ketchup on her mac ’n’ cheese, stuck it on a tray and sat by the stove.
When she checked her messages, she saw that a Ms Jane Ferris had contacted the station to confirm that she’d met Henry Kilgore for lunch two weeks ago in the Three Swans. Siv had also asked Patrick earlier in the day to provide her with an update and was pleased to see that he’d sent one.
Guv,
Kilgore was already scouting jobs. I checked with Footprint and he’d taken that Wednesday when he came to town as leave. I spoke to Jane Ferris. Very sparky lady. She owns and runs an events company, based in town, but with a lot of work around London. She said that Kilgore had phoned her because he’d heard she might be recruiting. It was a preliminary meeting and the job won’t be available until May. She was impressed with him and was about to ask him to send in a CV.
I spoke to Gray Grenville about that note you found at Kilgore’s flat. Grenville had a bit of trouble remembering it. Then he said he’d given it to Kilgore to pass to Warren, warning him to leave Teagan alone. He was at home on his own on the twentieth. He’d also previously given me the name Leah Steele as the girl he saw with Warren on the beach.
I contacted Leah Steele. She denied ever hanging out with Warren and made it clear she hadn’t liked him.
Tried to get hold of the council about Andy Smeaton, but no one available until Monday. The head at Fulbrook Upper went into the school to check records. Kilgore’s history teacher was a Liam Jamieson, now retired. I’ve got his address in town. Want me to see him?
All alibis now checked.
Jane Ferris. That was one unidentified woman off the list. Saffie would be relieved to hear that her fiancé hadn’t been having an affair. There were still two mysterious women out there, though — the one who’d stopped Saul Robbins in the cemetery, and the one who’d been with Eugene Warren on the beach.
Siv finished her food and set the tray aside. It had been a productive day, the lunch at Clifftop aside, and that could have been worse. Sometimes it was well worth scratching an itch, and her trip to HMP Berminster had struck gold. In the records, she’d seen that Bertie Greene had few visits during his time there: three from his ex-wife, a couple from old colleagues and one, last October, from Eugene Warren. She’d photographed the entry and emailed it to Patrick and Ali, with a message.
Warren visited Greene at Berminster jail.
Patrick, I need you with me tomorrow to visit Greene and then Liam Jamieson. We won’t tell Greene we’re coming. I’ll pick you up at 9.30.
Ali, rest up. Keep you posted.
She found Eugene Warren’s notebook, put her feet up on the stove and flicked through it. On closer inspection, it was a series of descriptions and musings with some amateurish pencil sketches of birds. Most seemed to be about days he spent at the Walthamstow Wetlands.
All day today at Lockwood Reservoir. Hot and sunny. Air was amazingly clean for London. Only saw two other people. The reservoir is the highest in the wetlands, so amazing views across the water to the city skyline, and I could glimpse the Orbit sculpture in Olympic Park.
Saw several dunlin, a Siberian dusky warbler, tern and common sandpipers.
When Lockwood was being excavated in 1903, they found a log boat, possibly prehistoric. Also swords — some Viking — spearheads, a Palaeolithic flint, and Roman pottery and tiles.
Lockwood is deep, at least eight metres, and tranquil. Undisturbed. So peaceful, I wanted to cry. Sat for ages by the water, wondering what other treasures and oddities might be in the deep. It would be the best reservoir here for slipping away quietly, joining the ancient bones, settling into the silt. No fuss, no trouble. Night, night.
This was a very different man to the stroppy teenager she’d heard about. Introspective, sensitive, melancholic. Also, from his final comments, a man who was possibly contemplating suicide.
She put the book away, refilled her glass and took out her folding. She was working now on the steam yacht, using navy and black paper, and shaping the two funnels. They were tricky, demanding concentration. For a few minutes, she listened to the silence. It would make Ali jittery, but Siv relaxed into it.
At one in the morning, she glanced out of the window and saw that the meadow was covered in a fine dusting of snow.
Chapter 18
‘Guv, you know that Noah has a friend called Eden now?’ Patrick was sharply dressed and groomed, his shirt as white as the snow outside.
‘He mentioned her at Christmas.’
‘Well, she told Noah that she’d met Eugene Warren back in the day when he lived here.’
‘Oh, well, that’s convenient.’
‘I know, right? Anyway, I asked her if she’d talk to us. She’ll be at the house around lunchtime.’
‘OK, that might be useful.’
The snow on the roads was thawing, making the drive a little easier, but the streets were still pretty, the sun glinting on the white pavements. The harbour was inviting as they drove past, with boats rocking gently on the water. Siv could just glimpse Mortimer’s blue-and-white boat at the far end. She wondered if he was on board with Mutsi, preparing to sail away for lunch. He was only in his early fifties, but senior officers sometimes retired fairly young, courtesy of robust pension pots. Maybe he’d decide to take his hefty pension soon and set sail with Mutsi on a long, around-the-world voyage. What a lovely idea.
Patrick drummed on the window, shattering her reve
rie as they pulled up in front of Bertie Greene’s home. Siv wondered whether she should have bought him a fidget cube too.
He asked, ‘What made you check the visitor records at the prison?’
‘Not sure,’ she said. ‘I’d got the impression that Greene was concealing something. It struck me the other night that it might be to do with his time in jail, so it was worth a try.’
Greene answered the door wearing a tatty cotton dressing gown and holding a mug of coffee. He looked and smelled stale.
‘We need to speak to you urgently, Mr Greene. This is DC Patrick Hill.’
He shrugged and waved them in. The living room was cramped and chilly. Two men on the television were cooking and exchanging banter. One of them was handling a lump of pork, the other juggled onions. Greene rolled up a large duvet that was bunched on the sofa and indicated that they could sit there. The two cushions were stained and one was leaking stuffing. There was just one other chair, the tall-backed, padded kind that you found in care homes. Greene sat in that. The ceiling above his head bulged, the plaster radiating cracks. Moisture dimpled the walls and there was mould around the window frames. The ceiling light flickered through a torn lampshade, casting shadows. The carpet badly needed vacuuming. The only dash of brightness were the children’s drawings attached to the back of the door. This was a man only just holding back the tide of chaos.
‘I won’t bother asking how I can help you,’ Greene said wearily.
Siv nudged empty cider cans with her foot. ‘It’s straightforward,’ she told him. ‘You lied about having no contact with Eugene Warren. He visited you in prison. I’ve seen the record. You need to tell us about it.’
Greene shivered. ‘I hoped I might get away with that, but I should have known better. I never get away with anything.’
Amazing, how liars so often try for the sympathy vote.
‘Poor you,’ Siv said.
‘I didn’t kill him, or Henry.’
MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3) Page 21
