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

  Monday morning, and Siv could see her breath in the office as she updated the incident board. Ali had been discharged from hospital and was on the phone.

  ‘To be honest,’ he was saying, ‘I’m still a wee bit watery, but doc says if I rest up today, I can come back tomorrow. Polly’s at work and I’m bored witless.’

  She could hear the cheery voices of morning news presenters in the background. ‘Take your time,’ she replied, not meaning it. ‘They still haven’t fixed the heating here, despite promises, so best to stay warm.’

  ‘What’s the problem with it?’

  ‘Sludge in the pipes or something. I’m sure there’s a more technical term. We’ve been “assured” that it will be back on later today, but I’m not taking my coat off. I’m having a catch-up with Patrick. D’you want to listen in?’

  ‘Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?’

  Patrick had sneaked in a fan heater from home. They’d set it on maximum and were sitting beside it. It gave off a faint smell of burning. Siv hoped they wouldn’t cause an electrical fire. They’d been told they weren’t allowed to bring their own heating in because it would contravene health and safety rules, but as Siv had said to Patrick, ‘What are they going to do, arrest us?’ They’d pulled their chairs over to the incident board and were both drinking hot chocolate.

  Siv switched her phone to speaker, naming and crossing out all the people on the board who had confirmed alibis for Monday night.

  ‘That leaves us with Saul Robbins, Andy Smeaton and Tara Warren. Also, possibly Bertie Greene and any of the three at Driftwood.’

  ‘So still an open field,’ Patrick said.

  ‘Too open,’ Siv agreed. She sat down. ‘To recap. Warren was a difficult, wayward teenager, into sex, drugs and alcohol. Kilgore seems to have matched him on the addictions, but he was Teflon-coated and stayed in the mainstream socially. Eden Jarvis told us that Warren was upset about something and determined to leave Berminster. He’d been drifting since he left town, with casual jobs and an ad hoc home life. He was part renting, part camping out or sleeping in his car. He’d mellowed since his school days, turned to nature. Kilgore went to university and got a well-paid job. He was good at concealing things and compartmentalising his life.

  ‘Someone got Kilgore and Warren to head to Mallow Cottage late on Monday night. Kilgore was stabbed in the neck, Warren was strangled. He and Kilgore had a connection to the crematorium with their “grave parties” and Kilgore’s mother owns the cottage. We’ve heard that Warren was deeply upset about something that had happened the April of his final year at school. It made him determined to leave home just weeks later, abandoning his exams. Those brochures we found indicate that Warren and Kilgore died because of something that took place when they were having fun, possibly at the crem or at Mallow Cottage. Warren could have come across Kilgore at Footprint when he was making deliveries for Pie Mad. He was also keeping up with Berminster news online, visited Bertie Greene in prison and talked about old times. Greene said he’d changed and was quieter. Lonely too. Warren used to use a drug dealer here called “The Wheel”. I rang Bertie Greene, but he claimed never to have heard the name. Ali, does it ring any bells?’

  ‘Nope. Going back a bit, though. Some of those guys move on or get out of the game when they’ve made enough from it.’

  Siv bent and held her hands out to the wheezing fan heater. ‘Then we have our two sets of handwriting. There’s the history exercise book with handwriting in red pen that matches the brochures. That means that whoever wrote the messages on the brochures knew Warren and probably Kilgore too, when they were at school. That person wanted to get at Warren, make him feel uncomfortable. We also have the note we found at the back of one of Kilgore’s textbooks signed “GG”. Gray Granville has confirmed that he wrote it to Warren, warning him to leave Teagan alone. That sounds pretty straightforward and fits what he told us previously. Patrick, fill in the other details.’

  Patrick moved closer to the phone. ‘We’ve now got someone’s DNA from Kilgore’s nails, which could be the killer’s. We need samples from Saul Robbins, Andy Smeaton and Tara Warren. It doesn’t match Warren, and Greene is on record. We still don’t know the identity of the woman on the beach with Warren or the guy who visited him in Walthamstow. Then there’s Andy Smeaton — I haven’t as yet been able to check out the fracas he had with Warren and Kilgore when he chucked them out of the cemetery. Etta Parton sent me a sample of her handwriting. Doesn’t match, so we’re no further forward there.’

  Ali asked, ‘Do we really believe that Damian Kyalo had forgiven his friend for getting overfamiliar with his fiancée?’

  ‘Hard to break their alibi,’ Siv said. ‘Let’s see what DNA comparison with Kilgore’s nails tells us.’

  ‘Guv,’ Ali said, ‘I’ve had an idea. Tommy Castles worked here ten years ago, and he was involved in drug investigations at one point. He might have heard of “The Wheel”. Worth asking him.’

  ‘And you could do that from the comfort of home,’ Siv replied quickly. She was not going to be left with the task of speaking to Castles if she could avoid it. Being the boss had some benefits. ‘I’ll leave that to you, Ali. Patrick, you get those other DNA samples and chase Forensics for matches. I’m going to check out Jane Ferris, the woman who interviewed Kilgore for a new job, in person, in case she can shed any more light on his mindset, and I’ll contact the council about Smeaton.’ She underlined the name ‘The Wheel’ on the board. ‘And I’ll look at drug-related offences for 2010.’

  She wrote across the top of the board.

  Remember fun at Mallow Cottage.

  Funny how fun suddenly isn’t funny.

  She stood back and read them aloud. ‘But what I’m thinking is, how does it all lead back to this?’

  * * *

  Generate, Jane Ferris’s company, was based in a modern office block at the rear of the library. Siv helped herself to a complimentary coffee while she waited on a high-back sofa, designed to look like stacks of speckled brown eggs in grey boxes. It made her smile, but she’d sat down gingerly, half expecting a cracking noise. Perhaps Jane Ferris liked to discombobulate her visitors. The small foyer was just the right temperature, and she wondered how the place was heated, as she couldn’t see any radiators. The wide video screen beside the curved reception desk showed images of packed events with the words Achieve, Enthuse, Fulfil running across below. Siv flicked through a booklet.

  Our spirited team takes pride in managing and delivering live, virtual and hybrid events with skill, passion and efficiency.

  Generate facilitated conferences, virtual events, corporate parties, team-building and company fun days — Siv tried and failed to imagine one of those with Mortimer. Fun was the last word to come to mind. There were dozens of glossy photos of smiling, enthused people. Inside the back cover was a brief biography of Jane Ferris.

  Jane Ferris graduated with a BSc Hons in business and marketing from the University of Brighton. She worked for Brighton & Hove City Council before setting up Generate. Ms Ferris is deputy president of the Berminster Chamber of Commerce, an active member of Berminster Business Forum and a patron of the town’s theatre.

  A woman breezed through the outer door, her long black coat draped cape-like around her shoulders. Her shiny hair was short and feathered around her oval face. She had a briefcase under one arm and she advanced with hand outstretched.

  ‘Inspector Drummond? Jane Ferris. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting. Some idiot blocked my parking space. Do come through.’

  It was a light, minimalist, hi-tech environment. They passed white kidney-shaped desks clustered in circular pods and screened meeting booths. The staff were all young and informally dressed in bright colours. Siv caught flashes of lime, turquoise and vermilion. She followed Ms Ferris into an airy, wood-panelled office. They sat in apple-green chairs made of fabric and mesh, the kind that ensured you sat with your spine aligned, your lower back supported. The walls were lined with blown
-up photos of conferences. A huge olive tree stood in a ceramic planter. The desk was of the sit/stand variety and was raised, with the computer screen at eye level. Generate must make serious money.

  Siv recalled what Rina the waitress had said about Ms Ferris’s teeth. They were indeed large and white. She’d thrown her coat across a spare chair and kicked off her stilettos. Her suit was burgundy plaid, teamed with a pink-and-lavender striped shirt. The effect was dazzling.

  ‘Would you like more coffee, Inspector?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  She crackled with energy, her cinnamon-coloured eyes dancing. ‘Before I forget, I must tell you that I absolutely love your work!’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Your art, your origami. I saw the beautiful miniature stage you made for the theatre. So unusual and intricate! It must have taken you hours.’

  ‘Thank you. It absorbed me.’

  Jane Ferris had pale, clear skin, which made her lively eyes all the more arresting. ‘I have to say — no offence intended — it seems an unusual interest for a detective.’

  ‘What interests should a detective have?’ Siv asked.

  ‘Well . . . let’s see. The TV ones seem to drink, run, play chess, knit or do crosswords. Some of them garden. Sherlock Holmes played the violin, which was artistic. I suppose that shows there can be hidden depths. But then again, he did a lot of drugs too.’ She clapped her hands together. ‘Presumably, you accept commissions? I was considering asking if you’d make something for our reception area. It needs a conversation piece.’

  Siv wasn’t sure if Jane Ferris was genuine or amusing herself at her visitor’s expense. ‘I could consider it, but not now. I’m investigating a double murder and I want to ask you about Henry Kilgore.’

  Ms Ferris looked solemn. ‘Of course. I’m distracting you and I see from your expression that you disapprove. I can be a bit of a wild card, but it works in the world I’ve built here . . . Mr Kilgore, yes. That poor man. How terrible and tragic! I only met him the once, but he was so personable and enthusiastic. Do pass my condolences to his family.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Do you know why he was killed?’

  ‘I can’t discuss that. Tell me about your meeting with him.’

  Jane Ferris touched a lever that tilted her chair back slightly, crossed her shapely legs and put her hands behind her head. ‘There’s not a lot to tell. I explained when I contacted your DC Hill. Henry heard on the business grapevine that I’m planning to expand the company. He phoned me and I agreed to have lunch. We met in the Three Swans. He told me about himself and his career to date. I thought he’d fit well into our team. We agreed to stay in touch.’

  ‘Did he tell you that he worried he might be made redundant?’

  Ms Ferris stretched a foot. ‘Oh, yes. I’d done my homework on his employer. I always like to form my own opinion about why someone wants to jump ship. I could see Footprint weren’t doing so well. Henry didn’t seem too worried. He had a confidence in his abilities that I liked. I could tell that we’d get on. I was particularly interested in his experience in London-based events. I could have used that to develop our business in the capital. Sadly, that particular opportunity has vanished.’ She looked down, tilted her foot sideways. ‘Bugger, I’ve got a hole in my tights.’

  Siv followed her gaze and saw a flash of pink skin by her little toe. ‘Did Henry seem troubled in any way, other than about his job?’

  ‘He didn’t appear so. Of course, not knowing him, I can’t really say, Inspector. And he was showing me his self-assured persona, given the nature of the meeting. It’s what I’d have expected, as a prospective employer with a thriving business that candidates are keen to join.’

  The woman’s own self-assurance was grating on Siv. She couldn’t think why. Usually, she was drawn to assertive women. Maybe it was the hint of teasing running through her conversation, or the sense of arrogance.

  ‘Are you from Berminster?’

  ‘I was brought up in Eastbourne. I moved here after uni. It’s a lovely little town. Are you a native?’

  ‘Partly. I read that you’re well woven into the town’s business community.’

  ‘Of course. It pays dividends to network and influence.’

  ‘How long have you been running Generate?’

  ‘Twelve years or so. I started in two rooms above the sweet shop on the parade and moved to these premises seven years ago. Excuse me a moment.’ She picked up her phone on her desk. ‘Tessa, sweetie, could you pop out and get a couple of pairs of black tights for me? Sheer, Wolford brand. They have them in Ormonde. Yes, that’s right, on my account. Thank you.’ She smiled at Siv. ‘I have a meeting soon and I can’t negotiate if I know I have flawed clothing. Is that daft?’

  Siv thought of Ali, who often had holes in his socks but still managed to do an excellent job. ‘Whatever makes you comfortable. Have you ever met a man called Eugene Warren?’

  ‘Warren? Don’t think so. In what context?’

  ‘At the moment, in the context of murder. He grew up here.’

  ‘Oh yes, he’s the other man who died. I saw it on the news. No, I can’t help you there. I hope coming here hasn’t wasted your time.’

  ‘Thank you for contacting us.’ Siv stood.

  ‘My pleasure. Do give me a buzz when you’re free to talk about creating a piece for me. I have some ideas we could discuss, but, of course, I’ll be led by your artistic talent. I must get these tights off — they’re annoying the hell out of me!’

  * * *

  Patrick had brought Andy Smeaton to the station on Siv’s instruction. The heating had just kicked back in — thank goodness — but the interview room was still chilly. Smeaton pulled his scarf up around his neck, touched the radiator with calloused hands.

  ‘Are the police economising? I know you’ve had cuts, but even so . . .’

  Siv wasn’t disposed to offer a hot drink. ‘Maybe the cold will wake up your memory.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he said testily. ‘Sounds like it’s you lot who need waking up. I saw Henry Kilgore’s mother on the local news, saying you’d missed her son’s body when you searched her properties. She was livid. I’d say you’re in for an uncomfortable time.’

  ‘Let’s stick to why you’re here, Mr Smeaton.’ Siv would rather not think about the paperwork that Uniform’s cock-up was going to leave her with.

  ‘Fine. So, why have you dragged me away from work?’

  ‘As DC Hill will have told you, you’re helping us with our enquiries. Do you have a problem with that?’

  Smeaton folded his arms. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘I contacted the council earlier. They have a record of a complaint made against you in 2009 by Eugene Warren. It was regarding the incident in the cemetery, when you found him and his friends. You didn’t mention it when we asked you about that.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘A complaint? Cheeky bugger. Can’t say it came back to me when we were talking. I suppose nothing came of it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. You were reprimanded.’

  ‘Was I?’ He jerked his head back. ‘If I was, it must have been a slap on the wrist. I honestly don’t have any memory of it.’

  ‘Just as you didn’t recall the incident with the three young people when we first asked you about it. Let me read what I was told.’ She tapped her iPad.

  ‘“Mr Eugene Warren phoned us to say that he and two friends had been visiting the cemetery, because they were interested in Victorian grave monuments. They hadn’t noticed the time passing. Mr Smeaton appeared, very angry and shouting at them, accusing them of trespassing. He made them walk to the main gate, and when Mr Warren protested at the treatment, he alleged that Mr Smeaton twisted his arm, leaving a bruise.

  We interviewed Mr Smeaton, who informed us that he’d found Mr Warren and another male and female in the cemetery after 8 p.m. They were drinking and carousing. He’d escorted them to the gate and warned them not to come back. He d
enied any physical contact. Mr Smeaton said that one of the men had been verbally abusive and all three were drunk and laughing. He stated that they seemed to find the whole thing hilarious. Mr Smeaton was reprimanded for not reporting the trespass at the time, or taking the details of the trespassers, in keeping with council regulations. He acknowledged that he should have done this, but stated that he’d had a long and busy day because of water problems at the crematorium.

  When we phoned Mr Warren to attempt to conclude the complaint, he didn’t respond to our calls or subsequent letter, so the matter ended there.”’

  Smeaton said, ‘There you are, then. Warren was just being mouthy and trying to make trouble for me because I’d thrown him out. I expect he thought it was funny to complain and get his own back.’

  ‘You do recall it then?’

  ‘Not really. Vaguely. I can’t have paid it much attention. It talks about a reprimand, but that probably means my boss told me to take it easy and make sure I ticked the boxes in future.’ He wagged a finger at Siv. ‘You understand how it works in organisations. Half the time, complaints are from troublemakers and whingers. You must get plenty of that—’ he looked at her pointedly — ‘and you have to waste your time jumping through hoops and doing the paperwork. All that “transparency” crap. You’re wasting your time again now, going over this. If Warren was still alive, he’d be wetting himself.’

  He didn’t appear concerned, but Siv continued. ‘Mr Smeaton, you must understand that you failed to mention both the incident in the cemetery and then Mr Warren’s complaint. Withholding such information in the course of a murder inquiry is frowned upon, to say the least, and can result in criminal charges. You could have held a grudge against him and Henry Kilgore.’ It sounded thin and unlikely to her own ears.

  He pulled a face. ‘Oh, give me a break, Inspector! I didn’t even know who they were, did I? I hardly waited around all this time planning murders because some hooligans were getting pissed and “having a laugh”! They were just stupid oiks.’ He shoved his chair back. ‘I’ve had enough of this now and I’m bloody freezing. If you want to ask me any more ridiculous questions, I want a solicitor.’