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

  ‘Let’s say that we accept that for now, unless we find evidence to the contrary. Just tell us about Warren.’

  Greene crossed and recrossed his legs, pulling the dressing gown over his hairy knees. ‘Eugene wrote to me in prison. He’d read local news online and saw that I’d been sent there. He asked if he could visit me. I was gobsmacked. It was the first time I’d heard from him in years. I didn’t particularly want to see him, but I wasn’t overwhelmed with visitors, so I said yes. He came just the once last autumn, a couple of weeks before I got out. Brought me some books. He was different to the old Eugene. Quieter, nicer. Not taking the piss. That was it, really.’

  Siv asked, ‘How long was he with you for?’

  ‘About forty-five minutes.’

  ‘What did you talk about? What prompted him to travel from London to see you after so long?’

  Greene said, ‘I wondered about that. We chatted a bit about the old days. He asked if I ever saw Henry, so I told him now and again. I got the impression he was a bit lonely. He didn’t say anything about where he was living or what he did. Just seemed to want a trip down memory lane.’ He sniffed and pinched his nose. ‘He asked about what had happened to me, how I ended up behind bars instead of guarding them.’

  ‘Did Eugene tell you that he’d seen Henry in London?’

  Greene looked surprised. ‘No, nothing like that. Had he?’

  Siv frowned. ‘Mr Greene, why did you want to get away with not mentioning this visit?’

  He tucked his chin in. ‘I’ve had enough of the police in my life. I deserved jail, I did my sentence, but now I want to make things right with my kids. This place is no palace, but my kids can stay here. I’ve got a job. I can just about pay the bills and maintenance for them. I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Henry and Eugene. I was trying to keep trouble from my door, but it backfired.’

  Patrick said solemnly, ‘It might be a good idea to keep an eye out for trouble. It appears that your friends died because of their previous connection here. You were part of their circle.’

  Greene gaped. ‘You reckon I might be in danger? Who from?’

  Siv pressed the point. ‘It’s a possibility, and if I could tell you that, I’d have made an arrest by now. Of course, if you’re the killer, you’ve nothing to worry about.’ She left the comment heavy in the air, but Siv didn’t suspect him. He struck her as a man who’d been frightened and battered by life. He was too timid to have organised a complex double killing. ‘Anything else you want to get off your chest while we’re here?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Really?’ Siv raised an eyebrow. ‘But you haven’t mentioned your link to someone who works at the crematorium.’

  ‘What?’ He shifted, his chair creaking. ‘Oh, you mean Saul. I don’t have much to do with him. He’s so distant he’s barely family, that’s why he didn’t cross my mind.’

  Siv stood. ‘Bear in mind that I could be charging you with wasting police time. Think it over and ring me if you suddenly remember something I should know.’

  Back in the car she said, ‘I’m convinced he’s still not telling us everything. But if what he did say is true, then Warren was keeping an eye on what went on in Berminster. His notebook indicates a man who was solitary and sad, possibly depressed.’

  ‘Maybe he was homesick and it was a way of touching base. Reaching back into his old life?’ Patrick said.

  ‘If it was just homesickness, he could have contacted his sister. No, it’s more complicated than that. Now for Mr Jamieson.’

  * * *

  Liam Jamieson had a flat in Waterside, the art deco building by the harbour that Mutsi had just vacated. He was on the second floor and waiting for them at the door.

  ‘Do come in. I’ve never had a visit from the police, so this is quite the novelty. I see you have your noses to the grindstone, even on a Sunday!’

  ‘The wicked never rest, so neither can we,’ Siv told him.

  ‘Well, quite! Do sit down. Can I get you coffee?’

  Siv quelled Patrick with a glance. ‘No, thank you. We need to speak to you about a former pupil of yours, Henry Kilgore. You taught him history.’

  Jamieson was tall and elegant, with a domed head, thinning hair and a bony Adam’s apple. He hitched his flannel trousers up at the knees and crossed his legs. ‘I saw that Eugene Warren and Henry Kilgore had been found murdered. I have to say, if it doesn’t sound harsh, that I wasn’t too surprised about Warren. I always thought that he was the kind of boy who might come to a bad end. Kilgore was a surprise. He was well brought up, even if he tried to pretend otherwise.’

  ‘Did you teach both the boys?’

  ‘I taught Warren for a year and then he dropped history. Kilgore kept on with it — a pointless choice, really, as he had no interest in it. I believe he saw it as an easy option, just a load of old stories that you could read and regurgitate. He liked not to have to extend himself too much. One of those sporty males who do the academic work grudgingly. The bane of every teacher’s life — unless you’re a PE teacher. It was a shame, because Kilgore had a good brain when he put his mind to it. Of course, as an educator one sees a lot of that.’

  He settled back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. ‘I have to say, I was glad to retire. I’d started to despair about my time in the classroom. Now I give talks to groups of other retired people who are appreciative and insightful listeners. In fact, I’ve just signed up to present some sessions to the BSS, Berminster Senior Students—’

  Siv interrupted. ‘If we could get back to Henry Kilgore, that would be helpful.’

  ‘Why, yes, of course.’ If Jamieson was offended at the interruption, he didn’t show it.

  Siv took out the evidence bag. ‘We found this history exercise book in Kilgore’s possessions. There’s a comment in red on the front. Did you write it?’

  Jamieson took a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and examined the front of the book. ‘No, that’s not my handwriting. The amendment is correct, however. Typical of Kilgore’s sloppy attitude to misquote, although Henry Ford’s words often are.’ He removed his glasses and twirled them by one arm. ‘You’re both downcast. Is this writing important in some way?’

  ‘It could be,’ Patrick said. ‘Can you show us an example of your handwriting?’

  ‘Ah, of course. You need comparative verification. I’ve always been of the opinion that the police are, in fact, very like historians. Like us, you have to check many sources, seek material evidence, follow a discipline, cross-check and test rigorously. In this case, we have the test of identification — is the source’s origin clearly authenticated? I’ve often considered writing a paper on the similarities between historical research and detective work. My mature students would find it fascinating. Perhaps you’d be willing to share some of your experiences with me if I were to do so?’

  ‘Just an example of your handwriting for now please, sir,’ Siv replied. Although Jamieson’s passion for his subject reminded her of her father, right now, her patience was wearing thin.

  ‘Sorry, yes, of course! I’m afraid I get carried away!’ He rose and crossed to a table strewn with paperwork. He selected a piece of paper and brought it across to Siv. ‘Here are my preparatory notes for a talk on Hannibal — the man and the legend.’

  Siv and Patrick stared at the page. An entirely different hand. Siv handed it back.

  ‘Thank you. Is that writing in red pen familiar to you? Could another teacher have written it? Maybe a supply teacher if you’d been ill?’

  Jamieson resumed his chair and pleated his trousers again. ‘Inspector, I never had a day off sick during my career. I don’t recognise the hand. Colleagues wouldn’t usually encroach on each other’s pupils, and I taught Kilgore for five years. Perhaps another pupil wrote it — one who was better educated than Kilgore.’

  Siv was disappointed. They’d had to sit through Jamieson’s pontificating with no result. Her thoughts went to Etta
Parton, but she had a confirmed alibi for the time of the murders. Still, it would be worth getting a sample of her handwriting. ‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Warren and Kilgore? Warren left school and town suddenly, before taking his exams.’

  ‘I can’t help you, I’m afraid. I stopped teaching Warren when he was fifteen, and it was a relief. He didn’t cause outright trouble in class, but he was a devious, unpleasant boy. One of those with a bland, insolent stare. I confiscated a pornographic magazine from him during a lesson, and of course, he made the most of saying that I wanted it for my own perusal. As for Kilgore — he did the minimum to get the grades he needed, but he wasn’t a troublemaker, as it were. Have you any idea why they were killed?’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find the perpetrator,’ Siv said as she got up.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Patrick added. ‘I’m interested in what you said about the similarities between detectives and historians. Do contact me if you’d like to discuss it. It’s the kind of thing I like to post on Twitter.’

  Jamieson’s initial expression of delight at Patrick’s interest dropped and he raised an eyebrow. ‘Twitter . . . I see. I don’t indulge in tweets myself, but I must keep an open mind about all opportunities.’

  ‘Sucking up to teacher?’ Siv joked as they left the building.

  ‘I liked him; he was old school, literally. I’ve always been keen on history — I did it for GCSE.’

  ‘You don’t think Jamieson might have droned on in class, liking the sound of his own voice?’

  ‘Maybe, but I bet he’s a master of his subject. Hannibal fascinates me. Taking his army across the Alps was an amazing feat. Historians are still arguing about the route he planned. I’d like to hear that talk.’

  This was a new angle to Patrick. ‘Maybe the BSS would let you attend as an honorary senior.’ Siv chuckled. ‘In the meantime, can you contact Etta Parton for a sample of her handwriting? She was a swot at school. Maybe she wrote on Kilgore’s book.’

  ‘But her alibi . . .’

  ‘Even so. She might have written on the brochures for some reason that has nothing to do with the deaths.’

  ‘We’re not much further forward,’ Patrick said glumly.

  ‘Yeah. That interview got us exactly nowhere. We’re following lots of leads and just going around in circles.’

  * * *

  Noah sat contentedly next to Eden. The house was the tidiest that Siv had ever seen it. The bright light showed clean surfaces instead of the smears and clutter that used to greet her last year. It smelled much better too. Patrick brought through coffee and biscuits.

  ‘Eden saw the news about Eugene Warren,’ Noah said. ‘She wasn’t sure about talking formally to the police, but I told her you don’t bite.’

  ‘Rarely, anyway,’ Siv said, smiling. Eden struck her as a woman who wouldn’t be scared of much.

  Eden laughed and nibbled a biscuit. She was pretty, with brunette hair and delicate wrists and ankles. ‘If Patrick’s anything to go by, the police have got more user-friendly.’

  Patrick inclined his head. ‘This is just a chat over a cuppa.’

  Noah patted Eden’s arm. ‘Go ahead. Tell them what you told me.’

  ‘OK.’ Eden put her mug down and said matter-of-factly, ‘I met Eugene because he was a client. I started sex working when I was seventeen. My dad had thrown me out and I needed to make a living. I’d say Eugene was about that age when he first came my way. I didn’t see him that often, maybe half a dozen times. He was a bit full of himself, bragged about all the girls he slept with. Made me wonder why he needed to pay me if he had that much sex for free, but I wasn’t going to turn down a client. He seemed all mixed up. Troubled. I could tell he was on drugs. Sometimes when I saw him, he was really high.’ She reached for her coffee and glanced at Noah.

  ‘Did he tell you things?’ Siv asked. Some men used sex workers as a confessor or a therapist.

  ‘He talked about someone he bought drugs from. He called him “The Wheel”. Seemed a bit in awe of him and . . . well . . . dependent on him. He’d get anxious about meeting him. I got the impression that this “Wheel” kept him dangling, but he was a reliable supplier, so Eugene was hooked.’

  ‘Did Eugene ever mention a proper name?’

  ‘No, just that nickname. I felt sorry for him, because he was young and in a bit of a state. One night, he was ever so upset. Really shaken and sort of sweaty. He said something terrible had happened, and he was going to get out of Berminster and never come back. I asked him about it, but he clammed up. I never saw him again.’

  Siv asked, ‘When was this?’

  ‘I can’t remember exactly. I reckon it was 2010, around April time.’

  ‘Eugene left school and town that May,’ Patrick said. ‘I’ve never heard of a dealer called “The Wheel”. How about you, Noah?’

  ‘Doesn’t ring any bells with me. Hope you’re not implying I was ever into the drug scene. I am now, of course, with my blood thinners.’ He winked at Siv. ‘I wonder if they’ve any street value?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ she said and then thanked Eden. ‘That’s really helpful.’

  At the front door, she said to Patrick, ’We’ll meet first thing in the morning to catch up. There’s lots of information here that we need to pull together.’

  ‘Will Ali be back?’

  ‘Not sure. If he isn’t, we’ll just have to forge on. Enjoy the rest of your day.’

  In the car, she sat for a moment, going over all the things the team hadn’t yet pinned down. There were two sets of handwriting they still needed to identify, unknown people hovering on the edges of the enquiry and now a drug dealer called ‘The Wheel’. This afternoon, she’d go into the station and list it all on the incident board.

  She considered going to the café at Bere Marsh Nature Reserve, which did amazing soups, but decided to defer gratification and found Toby Foxwell’s home details. An unannounced call on a Sunday would annoy him, but he could suffer for not divulging information about the thefts the previous year.

  His address was a three-storey house not far from the hospital. Four cars were parked on the drive outside, indicating visitors. When she rang the bell, a portly man wearing a striped cardigan and holding a large gin and tonic opened the door. He asked cheerfully if she was Maddie’s friend, Lucinda.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. DI Drummond to see Mr Foxwell.’ She held up her ID.

  He stepped back to let her in, and she was greeted by music, the buzz of chatting and laughter and the mouth-watering smell of Sunday roast. The portly man winked roguishly at her and popped his head through a door off the hallway.

  ‘Toby! It’s the police for you. What have you been up to, you naughty boy?’

  The voices stopped, leaving Michael Bublé singing that he couldn’t help falling in love. Foxwell appeared, followed by a perplexed woman holding a wine bottle.

  ‘What are you doing here? Is there something wrong at the crematorium?’ Foxwell asked. He was in smart chinos and an open-necked shirt. Siv could smell his aromatic aftershave.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb your Sunday, Mr Foxwell, but I need to ask you about something.’

  ‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow? We’ve got lunch guests.’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  He turned to the woman. ‘Do apologise to our guests, Maddie. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  She looked daggers at Siv. ‘OK, but I don’t want lunch to spoil.’

  Foxwell hurried Siv into a cramped study on the other side of the house.

  ‘This is very inconvenient, Inspector.’ He didn’t invite her to sit down.

  ‘I’m sure. However, Mr Foxwell, I find it inconvenient when people keep information from me in a serious investigation.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean the problem about the bereavement fund collection box.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ He seemed relieved. ‘It was hardly worth mentioning to you.’

  ‘Really? Y
ou strike me as a thorough kind of manager, one who’s keen on the rules. I’m surprised that when I asked if there’d been any problems at the crematorium, you didn’t see fit to tell me about an allegation of theft.’

  He’d lost ground. ‘That was last year,’ he said weakly.

  ‘Only last autumn. Quite recent. What did you do when the matter was brought to your attention?’

  ‘Has this come from that fusspot Phoebe Palmer?’

  A boy was trampolining in next door’s back garden. He rose and fell, arms held wide, snow flying. Siv could hear him chuckling, carefree.

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  He sighed heavily, a put-upon man. ‘I asked all the staff members if they knew anything about it. They said they didn’t. As there was no real evidence that any money had gone, just Phoebe’s word for it, I left it there. After that, there was no further problem with the collection box. Inspector, Phoebe Palmer is a conscientious person, but prone to getting agitated. A fussbudget. She sees her work as an extension of herself, rather than a job to do. She makes mountains out of molehills.’ He attempted humour. ‘I expect she counts the teabags in the staff kitchen.’

  Siv asked, ‘When you spoke to your staff, did anyone come up with the name of a possible thief?’

  ‘No. They were all surprised and baffled.’

  ‘Did you report the matter to your manager?’

  ‘No. It didn’t warrant it.’

  Siv thought as much. ‘I suppose you worried that it might reflect badly on you, and you wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he clearly lied. ‘As far as I’m concerned, I dealt with it appropriately. I really don’t see what this has to do with a murder enquiry.’

  Neither do I right now. ‘You’re sure there’s nothing else that you haven’t thought worth mentioning?’

  ‘Nothing. I’d like to get back to my guests now.’

  ‘By the way, Phoebe Palmer was right to speak to us, albeit reluctantly. Enjoy your lunch.’

  She hurried through the raw air to the car. Soup. She needed soup and a mound of garlic bread.

  Chapter 19