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

  ‘That’s right.’

  Siv found the photos of the Berminster Breaks brochures on her phone. ‘Is this your writing?’

  ‘Yep, course.’

  ‘Can you tell me why you wrote on those brochures?’

  ‘Sure. Someone asked me to.’

  ‘Who?

  ‘A friend of Diane’s.’

  ‘Name?’

  He made a vague gesture. ‘Sorry, I don’t know. I mean, I only know him by sight.’

  Siv took a deep breath. ‘Tell me exactly how it happened.’

  ‘Like I said, Diane gives talks in here sometimes about the history of the cemetery. This guy who asked me the favour was at one of her talks. He popped in one day and said Diane was family. He was playing a practical joke on a friend. They had this thing going where they sent each other odd stuff as a surprise.’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, he wanted to tease this friend of his with baffling messages in handwriting he wouldn’t recognise, so he asked me to write them.’

  ‘Didn’t that strike you as a strange request?’

  He pushed his glasses up his nose with his thumb. ‘Umm . . . not really. My dad’s always playing practical jokes. He sets up really complicated ones, spends days on them and ropes people in, so this guy’s was comparatively straightforward. I suppose I’m used to it.’

  Siv stared at him. He was so laid-back, it was amazing he didn’t fall over. She pointed to one of the brochures. ‘Funny how fun suddenly isn’t funny. You didn’t find that remark a bit odd and hostile?’

  He spoke the words silently, his lips moving, and shifted against the shelves. ‘I suppose maybe it is . . . At the time, that didn’t occur to me. I mean, he knew Diane and he seemed very friendly. It just took a minute to write the stuff and then this guy was gone.’

  ‘Have you seen him since?’

  ‘No.’ Slight concern crossed his face. ‘Has it caused trouble?’

  ‘Did this man say what the messages referred to?’

  ‘No. Just that it was a joke. I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?’

  ‘I can’t tell yet. What does this man look like?’

  ‘Ordinary, really. In his twenties. Medium height.’

  ‘Hair colour?’

  ‘I can’t say. Fairish, maybe. He was wearing a baseball cap both times I saw him.’

  ‘Local?’

  ‘Probably. No particular accent.’

  ‘When did you write the messages?’

  ‘Sometime last year — maybe November. I can’t remember exactly. I’d completely forgotten about it until just now.’

  Siv showed him a photo of Kilgore’s history book. ‘This is also your handwriting.’

  ‘Gosh, yes, it is. That’s a blast from the past.’ He scratched his head. ‘This feels weird, as if you’ve been tracking me.’

  ‘How did you come to write that comment?’

  He didn’t need to mull it over. ‘We were in the cricket pavilion. There was a rain shower, so we were stuck inside for a while. Henry was catching up with homework. I picked up his history book and told him he’d got the Ford quote wrong. I wrote that as a joke — as if I was his teacher. He said he preferred his version, because as far as he was concerned, history was complete bunk.’ He cracked his fingers together. ‘This is freaking me out now. What’s my handwriting got to do with your murder investigation?’

  He’d volunteered information easily and frankly. She stood and regarded him for a moment. He seemed genuinely mystified.

  ‘Thanks for clarifying these things. Where were you on the night of Monday, the twentieth of January?’

  Now Albie looked really worried. ‘At home. I always stay in with my partner on Mondays.’

  ‘Someone will be in touch again to check that with your partner. I appreciate your help.’ His shoulders dropped with relief.

  He called after her as she hurried away. ‘Aren’t you waiting for Janis? She’ll be back any minute.’

  Siv waved a hand and dashed through the automatic doors. At least she knew where Diane Lacey would be on this fourth Tuesday of the month.

  * * *

  Ali drove to the cemetery through light, steady snow. A traffic accident held them up and they sat waiting to be waved on. Ali tapped the wheel impatiently.

  ‘I believed Bailey,’ Siv said. ‘He struck me as the day-dreaming type. He’s well suited to a museum. I’m sure that our baseball cap wearer used him to try to stay anonymous.’

  ‘And he said this fella was someone from Diane’s family?’

  ‘Apparently. But did she know about it, and if so, will she tell us? There is a young man who might regard Diane as his family.’

  ‘I was just thinking that.’

  They didn’t speak further. The windscreen wipers gave a tiny squeak that made Siv grit her teeth. Messages on a couple of brochures didn’t amount to evidence of murder, but it would be interesting to hear what Diane Lacey could contribute.

  ‘It’s just gone a quarter to three,’ she said as they left the car. ‘We’ll be there for the end of the tour. They should be in the catacombs.’

  They hurried along the slippery paths. Snowflakes stung Siv’s eyes and she pulled her hood up, hunching into her coat. The realm of the dead looked so pretty, draped in white. Her thoughts circled around Diane Lacey’s mentoring of Saul Robbins, and then students, higher education and the cost of obtaining a degree nowadays. People had to fund themselves in all kinds of ways, especially if they didn’t have a bank of mum and dad behind them. Some might be tempted to turn to crime and easy pickings.

  She stopped suddenly, one foot sliding, and put a hand on Ali’s arm to steady herself. Not for the first time, she was glad of his comforting sturdiness.

  ‘When did student grants stop and the loan system start?’

  He was bare-headed and white crystals glinted in his cornrows. ‘Umm, late 1990s, I think. It’s a bit freezing for questions about higher education.’

  That confirmed her own memory. ‘I was thinking about coming from humble beginnings and wanting to achieve and get qualifications. Let’s push on.’

  The tall gates to the catacombs stood open. Siv could hear Diane’s voice as she led the way down the ten steps. There were just five older people inside the brick-lined vaults, all holding folded, dripping umbrellas, their faces obscured by scarves and hoods. One had brought a folding stool and was perched at the front of the group. They were intent, listening carefully. They might well be members of Berminster Senior Students and participants in Liam Jamieson’s lectures.

  Rows of coffins in various stages of deterioration were stacked along the walls, standing on deep stone shelves. Diane Lacey was gesturing to an ornate coffin, which was decorated with the same snakes and torches as the gates.

  ‘These elaborate coffins were clearly for wealthy Victorians who could afford a stylish burial. Don’t worry about any decaying wood. Coffins not buried in the ground have to be lead-lined, so the core is untouched by decay. These were the most expensive interments, private and secure. If you were very rich, you could buy a whole section of shelves. You could visit your departed without the prying eyes of the hoi polloi.’ She smiled at an appreciative titter from her audience. ‘The torches on the coffin represent death, while the snakes that twine around them symbolise life. The circular serpent swallowing its own tail indicates eternal life and . . .’ She paused as she spotted Siv and Ali enter. ‘Oh dear, you’re very late, we’ve almost finished the tour.’

  Siv’s voice rang in the cavernous space. ‘Do carry on, it sounds fascinating.’

  Diane continued to talk about burial symbols, but she kept glancing at Siv and Ali, standing at the back of the group, and now and again, she stumbled over her words. It was much colder below ground, and the flagstone floor added to the chill.

  Ali hissed. ‘Should we not just put a stop to her gallop and get her in for questioning?’

  ‘Let her finish. She’s uncomfortable, wondering why we’re here.’

  ‘She’s
not the only one who’s uncomfortable. This place is horrible,’ he muttered.

  Diane was speeding up, rattling off a story about a murdered corn merchant who was supposed to haunt the catacombs. ‘We’ll call a halt there,’ she said. ‘It is very cold and the light will fade soon. I want you all to get back through the cemetery safely. Thank you for braving the weather today. I do hope you’ve enjoyed the tour and managed not to get frostbite.’

  There was a thin round of applause, muffled by gloves, and the audience started to file up the steps. One man hung back and asked Diane a question about the size of the catacombs. Siv waited impatiently while he fiddled with a hearing aid and asked Diane to repeat her answer. Finally, he was satisfied and slowly made his way out.

  Diane was wearing a red baker-boy hat. She tugged down the brim. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘We need a word with you at the station,’ Siv said. ‘If you’d like to lock up, we’ll walk back to the car with you.’

  ‘But what’s it about?’ Diane asked.

  Siv wasn’t going to question her among the dead, breathing in this bitter air, and Ali might be tiring. ‘We’ll talk in the warm, Ms Lacey.’

  They watched while Diane secured the padlock on the doors. The snow had stopped. They walked back, crunching single file through the silent, dank afternoon, with Diane in the middle.

  * * *

  Diane Lacey removed her hat and stroked her flattened hair. She smiled and asked again how she could help them, trying to look at ease. The perspiration at her hairline told a different story, and it wasn’t just that the heating was at full strength in the interview room.

  Siv said, ‘You informed us that you didn’t know Eugene Warren or Henry Kilgore. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t want to reconsider that answer?’

  ‘No, why would I?’

  Ali took printed photos of the two Berminster Breaks brochures from a folder. ‘Do you recognise these? We’re aware that you know the person who wrote the messages.’

  Diane looked at them closely and paled. ‘I know the handwriting. It’s Albie Bailey’s. What’s this about?’

  ‘We believe these messages set out to threaten Eugene Warren.’

  ‘Oh. But Albie’s a poppet. He wouldn’t threaten anyone!’

  Siv said, ‘Albie Bailey has told us that a man in his twenties asked him to write these messages as a practical joke. He informed Mr Bailey that he’s a member of your family. He was at one of your talks at the museum.’

  Diane wiped her forehead with the back of a hand. ‘I can’t think . . . my family?’

  ‘Yes. He wore a baseball cap when Mr Bailey saw him. Do you have a relative who matches that description?’

  ‘I don’t . . . I don’t know.’

  Liar. Siv coughed.

  ‘Have you such a massive family that you lose track of them?’ Ali asked sarcastically. ‘You gave us the impression there’s just you and your grandad.’

  ‘This is so difficult. I’m terribly confused.’

  Siv said, ‘You don’t come across as someone who confuses easily, Ms Lacey. You’re a rather clear-headed type. Two degrees to your name, dedicated to your job and the heritage of the cemetery. You’re highly respected at work. I don’t believe you.’

  Diane was silent, taking stock of the situation. ‘I need time. This is all very sudden.’

  ‘We don’t have time,’ Ali said. ‘It looks as if you did know Eugene Warren, because someone who claimed to be in your family sent him these brochures. One was in his car, the other in his accommodation.’

  ‘Eugene Warren was an unhappy man,’ Siv added. ‘He was remorseful about his rackety youth and something that had happened at Mallow Cottage. Was he making waves with his guilty conscience? Did it impact on this young man who’s related to you?’

  ‘I know nothing about Mallow Cottage. I didn’t know Eugene Warren. I don’t have a relative who . . .’ Diane winced, picked at a button on her sleeve and stopped. She regarded Siv. ‘This is very complicated. Sometimes, events spin out of control and you’re left bewildered, wondering how things got this way so quickly.’

  It was as if she was referring to Ed’s sudden, awful death and Siv’s own situation. One moment, she’d kissed him goodbye before he cycled to work, the next she was being told that he was dead by the side of the road. Siv took a breath. ‘Carry on.’

  Diane sighed. ‘Maybe that’s why I like working with dead people. There are no more surprises.’

  ‘True,’ Siv said, ‘except surprises can be pleasant. I suppose you’re speaking of nasty ones.’

  Diane replied, ‘Inspector, haven’t you ever done anything in your life that you’ve regretted?’

  The room smelled of damp wool and something rotten, as if the foetid air of the catacombs had travelled with them, clinging to their clothing. Siv banished images of mouldering shrouds, dust and decay.

  ‘Of course. I could probably make a list. But this interview isn’t about me. Is there something you need to say?’

  Diane gave a strained, fleeting smile. ‘You make it sound enticing and comforting, like a priest in the confessional.’

  ‘We are like clergy at times,’ Siv said. ‘People can experience a huge sense of relief when they’ve confessed to us. Of course, their penance can be a prison sentence rather than a few prayers.’

  ‘You’re a wise woman, Inspector.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment, but let’s stick to the subject. Eugene Warren was regretful about past actions that had led to someone’s death. Henry Kilgore didn’t seem to be burdened by misgivings, but then he was less prone to self-doubt.’

  Diane said flatly, ‘I can only repeat that I never met Henry Kilgore or Warren.’

  Ali said, ‘But you know who this young man is, don’t you? The one who conned Albie Bailey into writing messages with talk of a practical joke.’

  Diane seemed about to reply, then stopped and looked up at the ceiling.

  Siv and Ali stayed silent. Siv was pondering the pieces as they started to fall into place. Theft from a bereavement fund, people wishing to better themselves, the current cost of higher education. She contemplated this highly qualified, yet diffident woman and sized her up in a different light. Diane was in control, as you’d expect, but she was also unsure and struggling.

  Siv switched tack and aimed directly for her Achilles’ heel. ‘You’re fond of Saul Robbins, aren’t you?’

  Diane twitched, a little ripple running from head to toe. ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘You’ve gone out of your way to help him.’

  ‘I’ve wanted to encourage him.’

  ‘His experience mirrors yours. Like you, he started off with few advantages. He’s trying to better himself, and he has to finance his academic studies. Degrees don’t come cheap. Saul isn’t a big earner. He must have struggled to pay his way.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Diane licked her lips.

  ‘I think that Saul Robbins stole from the bereavement collection to fund his studies and either you suspected him or you knew.’

  Diane swallowed. ‘That’s nonsense. I alerted you to the thefts.’

  ‘True, but you were fairly sure that there was nothing we could do,’ Siv told her. ‘You’re caught up in something, Diane. Maybe you wandered into it unwittingly. Are you shielding Saul Robbins?’

  Diane flinched. ‘You know when the sea looks inviting and you wade in and then suddenly, the bottom shelves away and you start sinking . . .’ She sounded overwhelmed.

  ‘Where is Robbins today?’ Ali asked.

  ‘Off on a study day,’ she murmured.

  ‘Diane, indications are that you might be linked to two murders,’ Siv told her. ‘Those brochures were used to intimidate. Maybe you killed two men or assisted someone in the killing. If you weren’t involved in murder, then anything you tell us that will help to find the person who was might go in your favour.’

  Diane took a shuddering breath and started talking abo
ut how she’d met Saul and grown fond of him. They listened as she stumbled over her words in a raw, pained voice.

  ‘He came to me in my office, told me about problems he was having. Confessed things to me. He’d done something foolish that was troubling him. It wasn’t such a terrible thing, but it was worrying him. He was afraid it might jeopardise his future if it ever got out. I could see why. It was hard to credit that he’d acted so rashly—’ Her voice tailed off and she cleared her throat.

  Siv could guess what that was. ‘Can you tell us more about what Saul had done?’

  Diane took a moment to respond. ‘It was all such a mess. Saul talked about his past. He’d been in love with a girl called Freya. Besotted with her from the way he talked, but he’d lost her and he’d never got over it.’

  At that, Ali twitched in his chair, but Siv touched his arm. Let her carry on. It was as if Diane was talking to herself, attempting to rationalise events.

  She gazed at a wilted plant in the window of the interview room. ‘I was so worried about Saul. He seemed very on edge. I’d wake at night, going over what he’d told me. I’d never had to deal with anyone else’s personal difficulties before and I wasn’t sure I was making the right responses. It felt like a tremendous responsibility, but I wanted to help him stay on the right path.’ Suddenly, Diane broke off and stared at Siv, a muscle twitching in her cheek. ‘Why did you talk to Albie Bailey this afternoon? I can’t understand why these brochures are so important.’

  The question threw Siv for a moment. She said carefully, ‘How do you know when I spoke to him?’

  ‘He rang me, said you’d been at the museum asking about my relative and some brochures he’d written on as a favour. I’d no idea what he was talking about. But after he rang off, I realised he must have been referring to Saul.’ She ran her tongue over her lips. ‘Is Saul in trouble?’

  Siv’s heart sank. ‘Diane, did you contact Saul?’

  ‘I tried to. I left a message for him, asking him about Albie and what he’d been up to.’

  Ali gave a heavy sigh, muttered under his breath.

  ‘What’s happened with Saul?’ Diane was sounding insistent. She lifted her head and stared at Siv. ‘I’m really worried.’