‘I don’t know if you can. I just need to follow up anything that might contribute to understanding her disappearance.’
She sounded hesitant. ‘Why have the police not been in touch?’
‘They don’t know about this. Her GP just remembered today and informed me. I advised her to tell them but I don’t know if they’ll think it significant enough to follow up on.’
‘Well, we are very busy here . . .’
He softened his voice. ‘I do appreciate that but Mrs Langborne’s family are very distressed about this and so far there has been no trace at all of her. I will be as brief as possible when I come. If I could just speak to you and any staff who worked with her. It would mean a lot.’
She capitulated and agreed to see him on Wednesday afternoon. Back at the office, he wrote up a synopsis of the information he had gleaned that morning, then polished off the casserole Cedric had given him for supper. He sat watching a game show on TV, aware that he was in danger of drifting into the kind of fugue that often crept over him after a meeting with Ruth. He was checking conditions on the river when there was a knock on his door.
‘Hello, my dear one,’ Cedric said.’ I was wondering if you could come and take a look at my boiler. I can’t get any hot water.’ He was wearing a gold-and-blue Hawaiian print shirt and yellow Bermuda shorts, and lit up the shadowy hallway.
Swift followed him upstairs and managed to relight the pilot in the boiler. By way of thanks, Cedric insisted on taking him to the Silver Mermaid, where worse for wear after too much red wine and several card games, they staggered back around midnight, holding each other up, Cedric singing it ain’t what you do, it’s the way that you do it.
* * *
The Abelie was a two-storey restaurant overlooking the river, all snowy white tablecloths and stark décor. Swift had assumed that a permanent secretary wouldn’t be slumming it and had put on one of his classier suit jackets, an ironed white shirt and his least frayed jeans. Langborne was there when he arrived, sitting at a table overlooking the river and drinking bottled water. He looked up as the waiter escorted Swift across the room and stood, holding out a hand.
‘Mr Swift, good to meet you.’
‘Hi. And you.’
‘A drink? I stick to water during the day. The minister is teetotal and doesn’t appreciate alcohol on the breath.’ His voice was deep and smoothly confident.
Swift’s head was still slightly cloudy from the night out with Cedric. ‘Water’s fine for me, thanks.’
Langborne poured him water as the waiter brought two menus. He was tall, almost Swift’s own height, fleshy and big boned and nearly bald with dark freckles on his scalp. There was little resemblance to his sister except around the mouth, with a full lower lip. His eyes were slightly bloodshot but his look was penetrating. He had the sleek, assured appearance of a man who ate well and had a wardrobe of tailored clothes. His suit on this occasion was dark blue, his tie grey; a gesture of idiosyncratic colour was added by the buttonhole he was sporting, a small spray of thistles and heather on a blue ribbon.
‘Shall we choose our food before we discuss my stepmother? Everything in here is good. I always have the steak and kidney pie. My wife only allows red meat occasionally, so I cheat when I lunch out.’
Swift ordered a cod bake, Langborne his pie with seasonal vegetables. He smoothed his tie and spread his broad hands on the table. His fingers were thick, the nails square and short.
‘So, any idea where Carmen might be?’ he asked.
‘Not as yet. I understand that your view is that she’s gone away and will be back.’
‘It would follow previous form, that’s why I thought it originally. Obviously, as time goes by, it does seem less likely.’
Swift sipped his water. It was warm by the window. The river rippled enticingly in the sun.
‘I don’t believe it was ever likely. Mrs Langborne left her cats unfed overnight and that is something she just wouldn’t do.’
‘Hmm. Carmen can be capricious, you see. She does like to create an air of mystery at times.’
No, Swift thought, it doesn’t add up but he changed tack.
‘How do you get on with your stepmother?’
‘We manage fine. I find her a little rigid and opinionated at times and we don’t see each other that often but when we do, we get along okay.’
‘I’ve had the impression that she gets on better with men.’
‘That’s true, she likes male company, especially since my father died. I expect my sister has told you that she and Carmen don’t rub along too well. Flo has never really forgiven Carmen for breaking up our parents’ marriage.’
‘And you?’
Langborne held his hands up. ‘Live and let live, say I. And it would be a case of pots and kettles for me; I left my second wife for my current one, you see. Although no children were involved.’
Something about his affability struck Swift as surface deep; he sensed a more complex and difficult personality below. ‘I think I read that your mother died?’
‘That’s correct. A couple of years ago.’
‘When did you last see Carmen?’
Langborne tapped his fingers on the table. ‘New Year’s day. I called in about four thirty and we had a glass of wine. I was with her for about an hour. Duty done, I went off to my flat in Knightsbridge.’
‘You live in London?’
‘I have a flat here where I stay several nights a week. My other home is in Berkshire. I rang Carmen once during January, can’t recall exactly when, just to check in. She seemed fine.’
The food arrived and they were silent while the waiter fussed around. Langborne attacked his pie with relish, cutting it open so that it released a heavy scent in a steamy vapour. Swift disliked the smell of offal and felt his appetite vanish as Langborne speared a glistening hunk of kidney. He bet Langborne was the kind of man who liked steamed puddings with custard.
‘Do you think it’s possible that Mrs Langborne was seeing someone?’
Langborne chewed, dabbed gravy from his mouth with his napkin and looked interested.
‘Seeing someone as in a romantic attachment? Well, always possible I suppose. She socialises a good deal, you know, often out and about. Perhaps she had met someone. She’s not one for confiding, you see, that’s not the kind of thing she would have told me or Flo. Come to think of it, she was getting rid of some of my late father’s things a couple of months back. Clearing the decks? What makes you ask that?’
‘Her housekeeper said she seemed in a good mood the day before she vanished. It was just a thought.’
‘Well . . . I hoped she might meet someone, give her something to focus on other than charities. One doesn’t want anyone to be on their own in older age. I wasn’t sure she would, though; she could be rather black-and-white in her views, lacking flexibility. A man doesn’t always appreciate that.’
Swift suppressed an urge to laugh. Rupert’s pomposity and physical heft made him seem older than his years. ‘Your father didn’t mind her rigidity?’
Rupert took the thrust in his stride. ‘He was infatuated with her, thought she could do no wrong. Love is blind, as they say.’
Swift could detect annoyance behind the bland response. There was a practised smoothness about Langborne, which he found unsurprising given his profession, and also an air of authority; polished in the Sandhurst days, no doubt.
Swift declined pudding and asked for coffee. Langborne chose sticky toffee pudding and ice cream. He winked conspiratorially.
‘Puddings; another item forbidden by the memsahib apart from weekends. Why are women so obsessed by their husbands’ diets?’
‘An expression of love?’
Langborne inclined his head. ‘A thoughtful response. How long have you been a private detective?’
‘A while.’
‘Is it lucrative?’
‘I do okay. I got the impression you weren’t all that keen on your sister engaging me.’
L
angborne tucked into the gooey mess of his pudding, his eyes glazing with pleasure.
‘The police are presumably doing their job; I couldn’t see why you were needed. Of course Flo is concerned about Carmen being found, because of the money, as well as worrying about her.’ He looked at Swift, clearly making a calculation about his next statement. ‘You’re an intelligent man with a police background, you know about the seven-year rule regarding death in absentia. If there is a worst case scenario and Carmen is never found Flo has to wait seven years before a death can be assumed and property dealt with by the family.’
‘The same applies to you.’
‘Yes, but I have no immediate need of money. Flo’s husband was made redundant last year and has only recently found another job at a lower salary. They’re used to a certain lifestyle; I would hazard a guess that a lot of debt has been built up on credit cards. Seven years would be a long wait for Flo and I don’t think she makes much out of whatever she does pampering to people’s vanity.’
‘Personal styling.’
‘That’s it; what a waste of a good education. She’s not that bright but she went to Roedean, you know.’
Swift thought that personal stylist was exactly the kind of occupation that women who had been to Roedean might end up in.
‘Your stepmother had down WP and Haven in her diary, for the day she disappeared. Any idea what she meant?’
Rupert scratched his forehead. ‘Not at all, means nothing to me.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, tempus fugit and all that.’
Swift had no more questions and had had enough of Langborne’s heavy presence. He offered to pay his half of the bill but Langborne waved his hand and insisted on settling it. Swift allowed him, wondering if the lunch had been on the taxpayer.
* * *
Swift browsed the shops on the Waterloo station concourse after lunch and found an apricot-patterned silk stole that he thought Joyce would like. The assistant gift-wrapped it for him and he took it to a coffee shop where he bought an espresso and rang DI Morrow. It was always worth keeping a line open to the Met once you had a useful contact and he wanted to emphasise that he had done her a favour with Dr Forsyth’s information. A man answered, said he thought she was about, and then yelled her name. She came on the line with the same hurried tone.
‘Hi, it’s Tyrone Swift here. Did Dr Forsyth contact you?’
‘Yep, thanks for telling her to ring us. I’ve a bit of news for you; we’ve brought Paul Davenport in for questioning about Carmen.’
‘Oh? What’s happened?’
‘I can’t tell you now; I’ll try to catch you later.’
‘I’ve talked to Rupert Langborne today. Have you time for a drink after work?’
‘Ahm . . . okay, just a quick one. Say at seven. Do you know the Parterre off Portobello Road?’
‘No, but I’ll find it. See you there. I’ll be parked just inside the door with a copy of the Evening Standard.’
Swift thought for a moment, then rang Florence Davenport’s number. It went to voicemail and he left a message, asking her to call him. At last, there was a development and if Paul Davenport did have something to do with Carmen’s disappearance, it would conform to the statistics that the perpetrator of harm was usually to be found within the family.
CHAPTER 6
Florence Davenport still hadn’t returned Swift’s call when he arrived at the Parterre just before seven. He wondered if she was at a police station or busy with a solicitor. He looked around but couldn’t see any women on their own. The place was low-lit and furnished with distressed leather chairs and benches, oriental style, multicoloured scatter cushions, rag rugs that snagged underfoot and wall tapestries covered in abstract designs. Swift ordered a beer and sat in a chair by a scarred table just inside the window. He browsed his Evening Standard and when Nora Morrow still hadn’t arrived by seven fifteen, started on the crossword.
Five minutes later the door banged open and a woman erupted through it, clutching a briefcase, laptop and bulging rucksack. She looked around and Swift rose.
‘Nora? Can I help you with your luggage?’
‘Please. Here, take the rucksack. Ta.’
Swift put it under the table, noting the trainers and sweatshirt sticking out through the top. Nora Morrow yanked a chair out with her foot and slumped into it, placing her laptop and briefcase on the bench beside her. She blew her hair back, shucked her shoes off and waved a finger at a waiter.
‘Want another of those?’ she asked Swift.
‘No thanks, I’m taking it slow.’
‘Small whisky please,’ she told the waiter, ‘and some of those pretzels you have stashed.’
She was medium height, wiry and dark-haired, with a short Audrey Hepburn style; Swift knew that this was called a pixie cut because a girlfriend at university had once had it done. There was nothing gamine about her though; she had a good-looking, square-shaped face, straight nose and grey-green eyes like a cat. She stretched her arms above her and rolled her head clockwise, then anti-clockwise. Limber was the word that occurred to Swift.
He held out a hand. ‘Good to meet you.’
‘Oh, yes.’ She held hers out. She had a cool, firm handshake. ‘Hope you don’t mind this place with its Afghan market/ethnic look; I find it an antidote to soulless offices. So you’re Mary Adair’s cousin?’
‘That’s right. I didn’t think you knew her?’
She looked at him appraisingly. ‘I’ve heard her speak. I worship her from afar. She’s my kind of woman — no-nonsense, pragmatic.’
He smiled. ‘She’s one of my favourite people.’
Her whisky arrived and she took a mouthful, murmuring with pleasure. ‘Tyrone’s an Irish name. Are you one of my tribe?’
‘My mother was from Connemara.’
‘Oh, you’re a wild sea-blown man.’ She took a couple of pretzels and flipped one into her mouth. ‘No time for lunch, just the distant memory of half a sandwich,’ she said.
‘I lunched with Rupert Langborne and watched him juggling kidneys. He wasn’t much help although he did acknowledge that his stepmother is unlikely to be voluntarily missing at this stage. He did tell me that his sister is strapped for money and I wondered why he chose to divulge that piece of information.’
‘The perm sec, Mr Smoothie? I suppose they’re trained to be as bland as that in the Civil Service. He kept calling me “my dear lady.” Interesting what he told you about Florence, given what her husband has been squawking to us this afternoon. Want a pretzel?’
Swift took a couple. ‘What can you tell me?’
Nora massaged her neck and shoulders. She was wearing a grey two-piece suit, a navy shirt and a small grey string bow tie which Swift found particularly fetching and quirky.
‘Yesterday we had a call from a neighbour of Carmen Langborne who lives just up the street, other side. Name’s Bruno Dacre. He’d been away in Florida for three months since January. I loved the way he said, “one can’t tolerate the winter in Blighty.” So once he’d unpacked and caught up with his Financial Times he noticed that his neighbour had gone missing. He knows her because he signed her petition about the basement showdown; diggers at dawn etc. He told me that he saw Paul Davenport walking away from Carmen’s door the morning she vanished, at about eleven a.m.’ She took another draught of whisky.
‘How does he know Paul?’
‘Saw him at Carmen’s once when he dropped off a UKIP leaflet.’
‘And according to Florence, the last time they saw Carmen was on Boxing Day.’
‘Correct. And of course, Paul is arguing Jesuitically that it wasn’t a lie; he says he didn’t see Carmen that morning because she wasn’t in. Says he called on the off-chance.’
‘Did you interview him at the station?’
‘I certainly did. Gave him a nice fright. He says he spoke to Carmen on Boxing Day about a loan of twenty thousand. He was out of work for a while and they’ve got significant debts. Carmen said she’d think about it and he
hadn’t heard from her so he called round because he had a business meeting in Kensington and it was on his way.’
‘Why was he asking her and not Florence?’
‘Good question and I asked it. Because, he said, he and Florence thought Carmen would respond better to him because she prefers chaps.’
Swift nodded. ‘Chimes with what I’ve picked up.’
‘Hmm. Anyway, he sticks to his story that he rang the bell, there was no reply so he left.’
‘Did Florence know he was going round that morning?’
‘He said yes, so then we got her in and she gave the same story. Of course, they’ve had plenty of time to patch it together. They both said, surprise, surprise, that they hadn’t given us this information before because it might throw suspicion on them and detract from the search for her, blah blah.’
‘Did you believe them?’
Nora shrugged. ‘Probably. He seems an ineffectual kind of man; can’t see him harming anyone myself but . . . money is a powerful driver.’
Nora finished her whisky and dusted pretzel crumbs from her lap. Swift rolled his glass in his hands, feeling annoyed with the Davenports.
‘Explains why Florence hasn’t returned my call from earlier,’ he said. ‘I suppose, if they have done away with Carmen, they could have decided to employ me to cover them and maybe also come up with the body.’
‘Maybe; you would then handily resolve the seven-year problem of having to wait for the dosh.’
‘None of their fingerprints were in the house, though.’
‘No. I can’t see them in the frame, they’re too gormless. We’ll be checking on this business meeting he was supposed to be at that day and we’ll double-check Florence’s whereabouts. I have a feeling you’ll be taking to them.’
‘Yeah, as soon as I can. From what I’ve learned about Carmen Langborne, I’m not sure she’d approve the request for a loan. Given that the Davenports are clearly living beyond their means, with a nanny and horse riding for Florence, I have a feeling she’d be the kind to suggest they cut their expenditure.’
The Lady Vanished Page 7
