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

  ‘OK, Mr Smeaton. First, DC Hill would like to take a DNA sample, with your permission.’

  ‘You can take blood, hair and bone marrow if it means I can get out of here and not have to listen to any more of this crap. I might make a complaint of my own, about being kept in icy conditions!’

  Siv left him to Patrick and went back to her office.

  Although the room was cold, the radiator was clanking by her desk, and when she put a hand on it, it was amazingly hot. Her feet were numb. She pulled her chair over, slipped her boots off and put her feet against the warmth. I know the where and the how, I have the shape of an idea about the why, but I’ve no clue as to who’s the perpetrator. Andy Smeaton had no alibi, but his annoyance had seemed genuine enough. He might lash out verbally, but she couldn’t see him planning two murders, using his prized wheelbarrow and buying wreaths.

  She started as she heard Mortimer behind her.

  ‘Getting warmed up, DI Drummond?’

  She swivelled around. ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Thank goodness we have our heating again. Have you heard from DS Carlin?’

  ‘He’s doing some work from home today and he hopes to be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Good, good. Any progress on these two murders? A week’s gone by now. I hope you’re on top of things, cracking the whip.’

  She hoped he wasn’t going to make a habit of popping by her office now that they had a family connection. ‘I was about to send you an email update, sir, as soon as I’ve checked one or two outstanding matters. We’re making progress, some promising new information to follow up.’ That might get rid of him.

  ‘I look forward to it. Lovely lunch on Saturday. Your mother pulled out all the stops.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  He hesitated, seeming to find the standard-issue calendar on her wall fascinating. ‘Good. I have a meeting now regarding this Uniform balls-up at Mallow Cottage. It would be good to hear that you’ve caught Kilgore’s killer sooner rather than later. Might take the steam out of it and stop Ms Kilgore talking to the press. She’s already given one interview. Scathing, to say the least. I’ll have to meet with her, and it would be good to have a positive spin for the conversation. I’m looking for a constructive outcome.’

  ‘Doing my best. Giving it one hundred per cent, sir.’

  ‘Right. Make sure everyone is.’ He nodded and left.

  When he’d gone, she put her boots back on, sat at her desk and searched crime records for 2010. She found a number of drug offences. Most arrests had resulted in warnings and cautions. Three deaths were logged. A fifty-three-year-old man had died from heroin in February, a twenty-three-year-old man from cocaine in September and a seventeen-year-old woman from MDMA on 2 April. That could be interesting. She was about the same age as their victims would have been at the time. Siv clicked on the file.

  Freya Blewitt, aged seventeen, was found outside the door of the speech therapy clinic attached to Berminster General Hospital on the night of 2 April 2010. She was unconscious and died two hours later. Cause of death was a severe reaction to the drug MDMA, commonly known as Ecstasy.

  Emergency services received an anonymous call at 22.46 p.m. from a phone box on the corner of Bere Hill, alerting them to Ms Blewitt’s whereabouts. An ambulance was despatched immediately.

  Ms Blewitt’s parents believed that she was at the cinema with a girlfriend, Leah Steele, that evening. When questioned, Ms Steele denied any such arrangement and, in fact, she had spent the evening at home, watching TV with her mother.

  No trace of Ms Blewitt’s movements that evening was established, or the identity of the person who made the phone call. Neither Ms Blewitt’s parents, nor any of her close friends were aware that she took drugs. Scrutiny of Ms Blewitt’s social media failed to find any recent contacts other than her main circle of friends, none of whom knew where she’d been the night she died.

  Siv called Patrick in and showed him the report.

  ‘You spoke to Leah Steele, didn’t you?’

  ‘That’s right. She said that she’d been at Fulbrook Upper with Warren. So presumably, Freya Blewitt might have been there too.’

  ‘Get hold of her again. This has to be an important connection. It seems likely that Freya Blewitt was with Warren and Kilgore when she took the Ecstasy, and that was the terrible event that made Warren run. The timing certainly fits.’

  Patrick was excited. ‘What if they took the drug at Mallow Cottage?’

  ‘Whoa. Step by step. Phone Leah Steele. I need to contact the Blewitts.’

  * * *

  Ali called her as she drew up outside the Blewitt’s house and parked in the grey slush.

  ‘Guv, I got hold of Tommy Castles. He was in Uniform back then. “The Wheel” was a name cops heard, but the dealer was never identified. Tommy said that it could have been someone operating anywhere along the south coast.’

  ‘OK. Thanks for trying.’ She updated him quickly on the day’s events.

  ‘Tommy said he’d seen you at Mortimer’s for lunch on Saturday.’ Ali sounded amused. ‘Are Mortimer and your mum living together now?’

  Oh, for the anonymity of London life! ‘Yes, they’re tucked up cosily. I have work to do. You seem better.’

  ‘Aye, back tomorrow. Anything else I can be doing?’

  ‘Yes please. Contact Footprint. Send a photo of Warren and ask if anyone who worked with Kilgore remembers seeing him with the pie deliveryman. It would be useful to have corroboration.’

  Julie Blewitt lived alone now, in a semi-detached house on a dilapidated seventies estate. It was clean and neat but faded, and the living-room carpet had bald patches. Ms Blewitt’s salt-and-pepper hair was cut in a fringe that hung almost into her eyes. She insisted on giving Siv a cup of mint tea and made herself hot water with a slice of lemon, while explaining that she was now divorced.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to talk to you about your daughter, Ms Blewitt. It’s in connection with another enquiry.’

  She had a lopsided smile. ‘Don’t be. I don’t mind. It’s good to hear her name, actually.’

  ‘Thank you. Which school did Freya attend?’

  ‘Minster Academy.’

  ‘So how did she know Leah Steele?’

  ‘They met at Brownies when they were about nine and remained firm friends.’

  ‘Was Freya friendly with Eugene Warren or Henry Kilgore?’

  ‘They’re the men who were murdered, aren’t they? I don’t think she was, no. Is that why you’re asking, because of them? Shocking, two young men being killed like that.’

  ‘These are general queries for now. I’ve gone through police records concerning Freya. I read that you believed she was at the cinema with Leah Steele the night she died.’

  Ms Blewitt pushed her fringe back. It fell down again into her eyes. ‘She told me she was going to see Clash of the Titans with Leah. But Leah was at home, said they hadn’t planned anything.’

  Siv asked quietly, ‘Why did Freya lie?’

  Ms Blewitt was inhaling the steam from her tea. ‘I suppose because she was going somewhere, seeing people I’d disapprove of.’ She prodded the slice of lemon with the tip of a finger. ‘I wasn’t getting on with Jack, my husband at the time. Things were very tense here. The marriage was on its last legs. We weren’t paying Freya enough attention. I was glad that she went out that evening, because I was tired from rowing with Jack and I needed space and quiet. I’ll have to live with that sadness until the day I die. I sit here at night on my own and I’d give anything to hear her playing her music.’

  ‘I’m sorry. That night might have been the first time that Freya took drugs, or she might have been using them for a while. Did you or her father notice anything about her behaviour, or did she mention any new people she’d met?’

  She shook her head. ‘Inspector, Freya could have been in all sorts of trouble and me and Jack wouldn’t have spotted it, because we were taken up with our own problems. I’d have denied that at the time,
but I see it plainly now. It hurts me to say it, and God knows what you think of me for admitting that to you, but that’s how it was. I racked my brain after she died. At the time, I told the police that I wasn’t aware if she had any boyfriends, or their names. Leah said Freya wasn’t going out with anyone, but I wasn’t so sure about that. I can’t say why. Freya had seemed a bit secretive, and she came and went from the house more often . . . but I was preoccupied. I can only say that I didn’t notice anything very unusual about her apart from that. Nothing that worried me.’

  ‘Are those photos of Freya?’

  Ms Blewitt reached for a trio of photos in beaded metal frames that were sitting on the bookshelf and handed them to Siv. ‘She’s sixteen in these.’

  Freya had been short and plain, with a snub nose, a tiny mouth and a bashful smile. In the first photo, she had dull-brown, shoulder-length hair, in the second, short, fluffy, caramel-coloured waves and in the third, rippling coppery-blonde tresses.

  ‘Freya liked her hair styles and dyes,’ Siv commented.

  Julie Blewitt smiled. ‘The brown was her natural colour. She went through a phase of wearing wigs. Don’t ask me why. She wore one in a school play and liked the easy change of image. One of those teenage fancies, messing about with her appearance. I took those photos on the same afternoon, with her trying out the wigs.’

  Siv studied the third photo. Gray Grenville had mentioned a strawberry-blonde on the beach with Eugene Warren, the girl he’d named as Leah Steele. She tapped it and asked, ‘Was Freya maybe trying to copy her friend Leah’s hair?’

  ‘Probably. She thought her own was boring. She envied Leah’s colour. It was indeed lovely, so bright and eye-catching.’ Ms Blewitt put her untouched drink down. ‘It would be good to understand why Freya took that drug and who she was with — who dumped her like an unwanted parcel on the pavement. I’d like them to pay for what they did. I’m not saying Freya was forced to take anything, but just to leave her like that . . .’ She placed a hand over her heart. ‘I’m paying every day for what happened to Freya. I wasn’t a good enough mother. I should have spotted something. She should have been able to confide in me. I’m sorry. I suppose you hear this kind of thing all the time.’

  ‘I hear it quite often,’ Siv replied.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you for not saying I have to forgive myself, or that it will get easier.’ There was a sudden gleam of hope in her eyes. ‘Did Warren and Kilgore have something to do with Freya’s death? Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘I can’t say at the moment, or if we’ll get answers for you. But it’s possible, that’s all.’

  Chapter 20

  Patrick knocked on Siv’s door and reported that Leah Steele had confirmed that she’d been at home the evening Freya died, and there had never been a plan to see a film. They’d been good friends, although at different schools, and according to Leah, Freya had never had a steady boyfriend.

  ‘Leah said that they found all the boys their age “juvenile and immature”.’ He grimaced. ‘I suppose that’s what girls said about me when I was at school.’

  ‘I expect you’ve improved over time,’ Siv told him. ‘I’m not sure that Leah was up to speed about her friend.’ She explained about the photo and the strawberry-blonde wig. ‘I borrowed these photos from Ms Blewitt. If that was Freya on the beach with Warren, she might not have wanted Leah to find out about the relationship, because her friend had such a low opinion of him. Girls can like their secrets and that feeling of power. Freya looked girl-next-door, but maybe she was after a bit of spice — Warren certainly offered that.’

  Patrick checked out the photos. ‘Freya was the same kind of build as Leah. In this one with the strawberry wig, she could be mistaken for her, for sure, especially from a distance.’

  ‘That would explain Gray Grenville’s mistake. Find Smeaton and show him these photos. Ask him if Freya’s the girl who was in the cemetery.’

  ‘I predict he’ll say he can’t remember.’

  ‘Do your best. Promise him we’ll get his wheelbarrow back for him.’

  Siv made coffee and saw that an email had arrived from Forensics. The DNA under Kilgore’s fingernails matched Saffie Armand’s. But the information came with advice that the skin cells could have come from ordinary close contact with his partner. Siv mulled this over. She didn’t see Saffie Armand as a killer and wasn’t keen on another slog to London. She called her number. Saffie answered after two rings.

  Siv asked, ‘Are you OK to talk?’

  ‘Yes. I’m in Acton. Work gave me a couple of days’ compassionate leave. Have you got news for me?’

  ‘Of a sort. Can you explain why Henry might have had your skin cells beneath fingernails on his right hand?’

  There was a silence. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Forensics have told us that they identified your DNA from his fingernails.’

  Saffie made a strange noise. Siv wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or a cry.

  ‘Saffie? Are you there?’

  ‘I’m trying to think. It must be from . . . This is so awful, having to disclose personal things.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I . . . that is . . . sorry, give me a minute.’

  Siv crossed to the window and waited. Freezing rain had fallen and clear ice framed the branches of the trees. She took in the stark beauty of the scene as she listened to Saffie sob quietly and then blow her nose. Listening to grief was perhaps worse than observing it. It felt intrusive.

  Saffie said hoarsely, ‘It would have been before we went out to eat on Monday evening. Henry and the others got back from kayaking and he had a shower. Then we had a . . . a cuddle in our bedroom. Henry liked to scratch my back and then I’d scratch his. That would explain why my DNA was under his nails, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It would, yes.’

  ‘It’s like everything is ruined now, even our last time together. Strangers know all about us. Gosh, I hate it.’

  ‘It’s hard for you. I’ll leave it there for now. Thank you. Take care.’

  Siv pressed her forehead to the window. Yet another setback with this DNA match. Her assurances to Mortimer were sounding thin. She pictured him chatting to Tommy Castles. They’d be agreeing that she just wasn’t up to the job. Wrong appointment. She kicked the roasting pipe that ran along the skirting. Now that the heating was back with a vengeance, her office was baking. One extreme to another. She inched a window open and watched the ice-filmed trees swaying in the breeze. Their branches sounded like bones knocking.

  * * *

  By the afternoon, Siv was stuck and out of ideas. Andy Smeaton had told Patrick that Freya Blewitt might have been the girl in the cemetery, but he couldn’t be sure. Ali had emailed her to confirm that two people in Kilgore’s team at work recalled Warren delivering food and seeing Kilgore chat to him. Useful, but it didn’t get her any further forward. These were just confirming facts that she’d suspected already. They really needed a break in the case — not only to get Mortimer off her back, but to get justice for the families. Finding out who ‘The Wheel’ was would be something. Ali had told her that St Michael the Archangel was the patron saint of police. Come on, St Michael, give me a steer here!

  Mid-afternoon, she grabbed a tuna sandwich and a coffee from Gusto. The sun had made an appearance, so she decided to make the most of it and sat on a bench at the side of the museum. She was missing Ali and his solid, reliable presence. When she’d finished eating, she’d ring him and see how he was doing.

  She’d eaten the sandwich and was taking the first sip of coffee when a stooped man walked slowly past the bench, paused and then doubled back. He was slight and very pale, with a heavily lined face enlivened by bright blue eyes.

  He asked hesitantly, ‘Would you be that police lady?’

  ‘I’m a detective, yes.’

  His accent was soft and Scottish. ‘You might be the person I need to speak to. I was just heading to the station. It’s about those men, Eugene Warre
n and Henry Kilgore.’

  She indicated the bench beside her. ‘Take a seat. I’m DI Drummond, and you are?’

  ‘My name’s Jock Keyes. Are you sure this is OK — me interrupting your lunch like this?’

  ‘I’m used to it.’

  He sat, placing his jute shopping bag beside him. Tins of baked beans, mackerel and soup were wedged in beside a loaf of white sliced bread. A solitary man’s meals. His matching hat and scarf were blue and white with circular logos, Queen of the South.

  ‘It’s good to see a bit of sun. You have to make the most of it, although your bones would freeze if you sat here for too long.’ He squinted up at the sky.

  Keyes gave the impression of a reticent man, but there was a warmth to him. ‘That’s why I chose here when I had time for a sandwich. My coffee is keeping me thawed. So, Mr Keyes, what can you tell me?’

  ‘I read that Mr Kilgore’s body was found at Mallow Cottage. Maybe that sparked my memory about Mr Warren.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘I knew I had something about him in here. I used to deliver the post around that way, you see. I was watching Midsomer Murders last night, and during the ad break, it suddenly came back to me, where I’d seen him. Funny how your mind does that, isn’t it? I suppose it might have been the country lanes and cottages that stimulated the old grey cells and made me remember.’

  ‘You mean you’d seen Eugene Warren?’

  ‘I did, a long time ago, though. It’s probably not important, but I’d nothing else to do this afternoon, so I decided I’d pop by.’

  ‘Tell me about what you’ve remembered.’

  ‘I’m going back some years now. This Warren was a teenager. He looked the way he did in that photo in the news. That skullcap was unusual. It was one morning when I was on my rounds. He was coming out of Mallow Cottage with a young girl, and I recognised her because her dad had an allotment at the site I’m on, and she was there with him sometimes. I knew the house was a holiday place. You get to learn those kinds of things on a postal round, you understand. I only ever delivered rubbish like flyers and charity appeals through the letterbox.’