Ali threw his hands up. ‘Stall the ball! Tell me I’m dreaming! It’s hard to credit that a successful woman like her would have got involved with Robbins. It was high risk.’
‘Yaz Ferris is used to risk,’ Siv replied. ‘She built up her own business. That takes guts and the ability to step into the unknown. And the stakes were high. If she’d done nothing, she faced the prospect of her life unravelling.’
‘Yeah. It would have been a fall from grace, all right.’
Siv didn’t respond. She was thinking of the combative light in Yaz Ferris’s eyes when she’d interviewed her. She was a woman used to giving orders and thinking strategically. Robbins had been a murderer, but maybe he’d also been something of a pawn in her skilful, controlling hands.
* * *
Rosemount Avenue was a wide street lined with liquidambar trees. Some of their spikey, globed fruits had survived the winter. Saltmarsh Court had once been a convent and was now six high-end flats. Siv took in its elegant symmetry. The building was coated with white stucco and had marble steps to the entrance, arched windows, crenellated parapets, a porch and octagonal corner buttresses. Well-tended shrubs and flowerbeds completed the attractive picture. The parking bay for flat five was empty.
Ali pressed the bell labelled ‘Ferris’. There was no response. He tried the other bells, and finally a deep male voice came through the intercom.
‘Yes?’
‘Police here. We’re concerned about Ms Ferris in flat five. Have you seen her?’
‘Yaz? Not in the last couple of days.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Fabian Draper. I live below Yaz, flat two.’
‘Let us in, please.’
The buzzer sounded. When Ali pushed the door open, a barefoot man, dressed in a sweat-stained T-shirt and black waterproof trousers, appeared in the hall. He was holding a whole peeled orange and had a towel draped around his shoulders.
‘Excuse my appearance, I’m just back from a run,’ he apologised. ‘Yaz will be at work.’
‘We’ve tried there, and Ms Ferris isn’t answering her phone,’ Siv explained. ‘Does anyone have a key to her flat?’
‘I do, for when she goes away.’ He cradled the orange in his cupped palms, as if it was a small offering.
‘Fetch it, please. We’ll try knocking on her front door first.’
‘But what’s the problem?’
‘Just get the key, please,’ Siv told him.
They ran up the stairs and found flat five at the end of the corridor. There was a subtle smell of polish and candles. Siv wondered if the building was still permeated with convent scents. The door was sturdy oak and flanked by two planters holding ferns and trailing ivy. Ali banged on it, but there was no reply.
They donned gloves and waited for Fabian Draper. He soon appeared, minus his orange and holding a key. Siv asked him to stay outside while Ali opened the door. A quick sweep of the flat showed that it was empty. Siv returned to Draper, who was wiping his face on his towel.
‘Ms Ferris isn’t here. Do you know if she has any family in town?’
‘I don’t think so. She’s mentioned a sister in Eastbourne. But we don’t really do much family talk. She’s a private woman.’
‘Thanks. We’ll be here for a while and we need to hang onto the key. Is Ms Ferris friendly with anyone else in the block?’
Draper shrugged. He had a direct gaze and a sheen of sweat on his arms. ‘I doubt it. People live here for the privacy.’
‘What about other friends in town?’
‘I can’t tell you about those. What do you think has happened to Yaz?’
Siv could feel the warmth from his body and stepped back. ‘We hope to find her safe and well. Thanks for your help.’
He seemed to be about to speak but held his hands up instead and turned away. Siv joined Ali in the flat, which overlooked the rear gardens. The living room was large and high ceilinged with thick green-and-red-striped rugs on oak floorboards, deep bookshelves, a tiny TV and two Chesterfield sofas in a mustard fabric.
Siv picked up the iPhone from the coffee table and placed it in an evidence bag. ‘This explains why no one can get hold of her. No sign of a laptop.’
There was one good-sized bedroom and a white-and-chrome kitchen with an adjoining utility room. No dirty pans in the kitchen, just one wine glass rinsed and standing upside down on the draining board. Siv opened the dishwasher. It was full and the crockery was clean.
‘Everything’s neat and ordered,’ Siv said. ‘The wardrobe hasn’t been ransacked, although it’s so full, it’d be hard to say if clothes have been taken. There are two suitcases stored on a shelf. Nothing to suggest that she left in a hurry. But then, she wouldn’t. I got the impression of a highly organised, efficient woman. It’s worrying that I can’t find a passport anywhere.’
‘I’ll put out an alert on her car,’ Ali said.
‘When you’ve done that, ring Tessa and ask if she knows of any family to contact. And get uniform to relieve Patrick. We need to keep a presence in that office, in case Yaz does return.’
While Ali was busy on the phone, Siv walked around the flat again. There were few photos and none that looked as if they were of family. Apart from two landscapes, they were of work colleagues, taken in various settings and usually with Yaz standing in the centre of the group. On the bedroom window ledge was one of Yaz, a selfie of her sitting in a canvas chair. Behind her, above her left shoulder, was a glimpse of a blue gable with 86 in white numbers on it. Siv put it in her bag and then returned to the living room and looked down at the mature garden. Fabian Draper was out there, dressed in jeans and jacket. He was smashing the ice on birdbaths and filling them with clean water. She watched his deft, rhythmical movements. He turned and she stepped back quickly, not wanting him to see her.
‘All done,’ Ali said, speaking just behind her and making her jump. ‘I spoke to Patrick. There’s been no word from her at work. Tessa’s wearing holes in the floor. OK there, guv?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘You look a wee bit pink.’
‘It’s warm in here.’
Draper appeared again when they were in the foyer.
‘Any news?’
‘Ms Ferris isn’t at home,’ Siv told him. She handed him a card. ‘If you see her, can you ask her to contact me urgently?’
‘Siv Drummond,’ he said and smiled slowly. ‘Just to mention, Yaz goes away fairly regularly for weekends, sometimes a bit longer. Not that much in winter. She doesn’t say where, but she pings me an email, just asking me to keep an eye on the place. She does the same for me when I’m not here.’
‘Thanks,’ Ali said, opening the door. ‘Grand job on the birdbaths, by the way. Isn’t that right, guv?’
* * *
Hailey Laurie, Yaz Ferris’s sister, had three children, two dogs and a husband who was in bed, recovering from an emergency appendectomy. She looked flustered, harassed, weary and none too pleased to have two detectives in her house while she was trying to prepare dinner. They refused tea and sat at the table in the messy, steamy kitchen, waiting for her to dry her hands.
‘Dad could have died,’ the oldest child, a solemn-faced girl of about twelve, told Siv and Ali. ‘His appendix nearly ruptured, and if it had, he could have got peritonitis.’
‘Lucky it was caught in time,’ Siv said impatiently. They’d driven like the wind to get here and she didn’t want to hear about Mr Laurie’s medical problems.
‘I can draw you a diagram of an appendix,’ the girl offered. ‘I’ve been reading up about it.’
‘Scram, Chrissy,’ her mother said, to Siv’s relief. ‘Check on your brothers and finish your homework.’ She closed the kitchen door after her daughter and ordered the dogs into the conservatory with loud commands of ‘Stay! Stay!’ Then she stood and stared at them, gathering her thoughts. ‘I don’t understand what you mean about Yaz. Is she missing?’
Siv tapped her heel on the floor. She was aware of the
need to close down this investigation, but that wasn’t going to happen with a major suspect at large. And a clever suspect at that. She’d had enough of dogs, children and domestic chaos. ‘Yaz isn’t at home, not at work and she’s not answering her phone,’ she explained. ‘Have you heard from her?’
Hailey was unlike her sister, apart from the same colour hair. She was short, squarely built and gruff. She came and stood by the table, leaning against a chair. ‘Not for six months or so. We’re not in touch regularly.’
‘You didn’t hear from her at Christmas?’
‘Just a card. She’ll have been away somewhere luxurious. Last year it was Hawaii. I’m baffled. Where is she?’
Ali had been checking his phone. ‘We need to find her, in relation to an ongoing enquiry. We’ve just been informed that her car has been found parked at Berminster Station. Do you know of any other family or friends she might be staying with, or any idea where she might be heading by train?’
‘We’re her only family and she doesn’t bother much with us,’ Hailey said, with an edge to her voice. ‘I could have done with a sisterly hand recently, but I know better than to ask her. She doesn’t like children. I don’t know her friends. She never mentions them. Yaz lives her own life.’
‘One of her neighbours told us she goes away quite often for the weekend. Any idea where that would be?’
Hailey shook her head, darted across the room and switched on the microwave. ‘Yaz has her own business, plenty of money and only herself to please, so the world’s her oyster. That’s all I can tell you.’
Siv took the photo from Yaz’s bedroom out of her bag. ‘Would you have any idea where this is?’
Hailey came over and looked. ‘Sorry, no. Could be anywhere. Could be abroad. Yaz has always travelled a lot. She can afford expensive holidays. When she was eighteen and off to uni, she decided that Jane was too ordinary a name and she became Yaz. She’s been up herself ever since then.’ She pushed her ratty hair back. ‘Should I be worried?’
‘It’s hard to say at present,’ Siv told her.
Someone started hollering upstairs and the dogs were barking, their noses pressed to the conservatory door. Gusts of steam rose from two saucepans and the microwave beeped. Siv gave Hailey her details and said they’d be off.
Ali laughed once they were outside. ‘She asked if she should worry as an afterthought. No love lost there.’
‘No, but at least we know that it’s unlikely Yaz Ferris will turn up here.’
Ali pointed up at the clear sky. ‘More snow forecast tonight. Hope your wee wagon will be warm enough.’
‘It will be. It’s cosy.’ Siv looked back at the Laurie’s brightly lit house. They’d issued an alert at all ports and airports, but there was no report of Yaz Ferris. Her sister and her work colleagues said that she kept her life private. Her laptop was missing, presumably with her. Patrick was looking into her bank and credit card transactions, but Siv guessed that there wouldn’t be any. Yaz Ferris would have had a plan.
Chapter 25
They were fifteen miles out of Eastbourne, on the way back to Berminster in tumbling snow, when Hailey Laurie called Siv.
‘I’m really worried now. I’ve been trying to think if Yaz ever mentioned anything that might help you. I don’t know if it’s significant, but Chrissy just reminded me that Yaz gave us a bowl a year or so ago. It’s pottery, made in Whitstable.’
‘Is there a name?’
‘No. Just Made in Whitstable on the bottom. I’ve got it on the table now.
‘You will let me know as soon as you hear from her?’
‘Of course. Thanks for ringing.’
‘Anything useful?’ Ali asked.
Siv told him. ‘Probably nothing, a gift, a pottery bowl,’ she said. Yaz could have bought it anywhere. There was a gallery in Berminster that sold such items from a variety of sources. It was probably mass produced. She watched the snow splatter the windscreen and thought of the photograph with the deck chair. Deck chair. Seaside. It was worth a try. ‘Pull over.’ She took out the photo, switched on the light and traced a finger along the glimpse of blue gable numbered 86. ‘Does that look like a beach hut to you, behind Yaz?’
Ali held the photo up to the light. ‘It’s hard to say, there’s so little of it.’
‘Fabian Draper said that Yaz went away regularly for weekends, but not so much in winter. If she rents or owns a beach hut, she wouldn’t stay there in inhospitable winter months. Whitstable has a train station, so she could get there easily by rail. I’d say we need to find a beach hut around there with that number.’
Ali’s eyes widened. He reached for his phone, searched and groaned. ‘There are hundreds of beach huts along that coast, in Whitstable and Tankerton.’
‘But we have a number. We’ll take a look, and if we can’t find it, we’ll contact Kent colleagues to widen the search.’
‘It’s not much to go on, a pottery bowl and a photo.’
Siv rapped the dashboard. She had a good feeling. ‘It’s all we have. Come on, turn the car and we’ll head for Whitstable.’ She glanced at the time. 7 p.m. Neither of them had eaten and this would take a while. She had no intention of driving Ali to hospital again and facing Polly’s wrath. ‘Have you got any food with you?’
‘Aye, in the glove compartment. Nuts and bananas.’
She took out a banana and handed it to him. ‘Here, you eat and I’ll drive.’
They left the car to swap seats. The snow was dense and fast. Siv moved the seat forward and turned the heater to full. The roads were slow and slippery. She couldn’t put her foot down in the treacherous conditions. Peering into the whirling white flakes, she willed the dark miles away, anxious to reach her target.
* * *
Whitstable was cloaked in snow, the streets empty when they arrived.
‘I came here with Polly last summer, to the oyster festival,’ Ali said. ‘I’m not too bothered about eating them, but the craic was great. Dancing, music and such. Hot sun then. Looks like a ghost town now.’
Siv parked in the town centre, near the seafront, and told Ali to stay put. She’d get them both a coffee from a mobile van that advertised takeaways and deliveries.
‘I can go. I’m not an invalid,’ he protested.
‘Quiet, and eat your nuts.’
The young woman in the van smiled cheerily. ‘You’re lucky, I’m just about to close. Snow’s keeping people inside. What brings you out on a night like this? Not sunbathing, anyway!’
Siv showed her ID. ‘Two coffees, one black, one white. Oh, and a flapjack, thanks. Do you know this area?’
‘I grew up here.’
‘I’m looking for a beach hut, number eighty-six.’
The woman turned back from the hissing coffee machine. ‘Bit of a needle in a haystack in this area. There’re huts along the front here and at West Beach and further along at Tankerton Bay. All I can say is that I sometimes deliver breakfast to number twenty-three, and that’s to the right, past the fish restaurant.’
Back at the car, Siv gave Ali his coffee and opened the flapjack.
‘Are you allowed any of this?’
‘One wee piece,’ he said. ‘I deserve it on a night you wouldn’t put a dog out in.’
‘Are you implying I’m treating you cruelly?’
‘Aye. You’re a torment to me.’
She passed him a morsel of flapjack. ‘Don’t say I never give you anything. We’ll take a steer from the coffee woman and turn right along the seafront.’
‘The seaside looks so forlorn on a winter’s night,’ Ali said. ‘Kind of mournful.’
‘If Yaz Ferris is here, it won’t be doing her mood any good.’
They finished their coffee, donned hats and gloves and set off with their torches. An east wind coming straight off the sea was whipping the snow up and flinging it through the air, blinding them. The tide was in and the waves lashed angrily. The beach huts were dark beneath their uniform white covering, many with padlocked d
oors and drawn blinds. Some had verandas and steps up. All looked empty, abandoned until the sun and warmth returned. Ali shone his torch so that they could see the numbers increasing. They plodded on. Siv wiped snow from her eyes, hoping that this grim exercise was going to bear fruit. She saw number eighty-one and put a hand on Ali’s arm.
‘Nearly there. Go slowly. Drop your torch beam.’
Eighty-six had four steps up to a door set within a porch. When Siv played her torch on the ground, there were no fresh footprints in the snow. There was no padlock on the door but thick black blinds were down. They walked around the hut, looking up at the small back window, which was curtained. A dim light showed.
‘Someone’s in,’ Ali whispered.
They returned to the front. Not a soul around, just the driving snow and the pounding sea. Ali shook himself and knocked powdery snow from his sleeves. His eyes gleamed down at Siv and she knew he was eager for action.
‘I’ll do the traditional thing and knock,’ Siv said. ‘There’s no other exit.’
She took her glove off and rapped on the door. A faint sound within, then silence. She rapped again.
Ali stepped forward and banged with his fist. ‘Coastguard here. This is an emergency!’
A long pause and then the door was opened slowly. Ali shoved a foot in the frame.
‘Hello, Ms Ferris. Yaz. You’ve met my DI.’
She froze. Jane Ferris looked past them into the snowy night, as if momentarily considering flight and then made a defeated gesture and turned away. They entered and Ali closed the door. She sat in a blue wooden armchair, hitched a tartan rug around her shoulders and picked up a glass of whisky. They stood dripping on the white painted floorboards. The hut was warm from the heat thrown out by a portable gas fire that resembled a traditional stove and made the room homely.
‘You look like snow people. You’d better sit down. Clever old detectives, finding me here, and so soon! How did you manage it?’
‘Jane Ferris, I’m arresting you on suspicion of being an accessory to murder,’ Siv said, completing the caution.
MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3) Page 30
