The Lady Vanished

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  A mature woman with huge glasses and a ponytail came out, cup in hand.

  ‘Can’t I even have a tea break?’ she said jokingly, poking Jeremy in the ribs.

  ‘Guy here wants to know if this lady’s been in.’

  Swift proffered the photo again, pointing to Carmen. ‘I wondered if she had any photocopying done.’

  Sam looked at the photo, then at Swift. ‘You plain-clothes police or something?’

  ‘I’m a private detective.’ He showed his ID.

  ‘Ooh, very cloak and dagger,’ Sam said.

  Several people had come in and were waiting in the small space.

  ‘Well, do you recall her coming in here?’

  ‘Jeremy, see to the customers, please.’ Sam motioned to Swift to move to the end of the counter. ‘Yes, she was here a couple of times.’

  ‘Did she do her own copying?’

  ‘No. Some people do, but she didn’t know how to work the machine. I did some for her once or twice.’

  ‘Do you remember what she was copying?’

  ‘There was some charity stuff. We get lots of customers though, it’s hard to remember.’

  Swift took the letter from his pocket and held his hand over the body of the text, letting her see the hospice heading. ‘Does this ring a bell?’

  Sam peered, pushing her glasses down her nose. ‘I think so, yes. That purple print and the clasped hands; yes, I’d say so.’

  ‘Do you remember when she came in with it?’

  ‘Now you’re asking.’ She reached for her cooling drink and sipped. ‘Couple of months ago at least. Oh, hang on; just before Christmas. We were collecting for the Sally Army and she put a couple of pounds in.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s a big help.’

  ‘Why are you asking, anyway?’ Alert eyes focused through the jolly expression.

  ‘Her name is Mrs Carmen Langborne. She’s missing and I’m looking for her.’

  ‘Oh, crumbs; that’s awful. She was very polite, a real lady.’

  ‘So I believe. Well, many thanks again.’

  She reached along the counter and pushed a collecting tin under his nose.

  ‘In return for my help, would you care to make a donation? We have a charity collection every month and this one is for Lifeboats.’

  That seemed appropriate for a man who liked to spend time on the river. Swift slipped a couple of pound coins in and exited. Back in the car, he dialled Nora Morrow’s number. When she answered he could hear shrieks in the background.

  ‘Is this a bad time?’

  ‘Well, I do have the odd day off, you know. Hang on.’ There was a pause and she said, ‘that’s better. I’m at the lido with my nephews. At least you’ve saved me from being water-bombed for now.’

  Swift brought her up to date on his information and his visit to Langborne. ‘So if Carmen had this letter photocopied just before Christmas, that suggests that she told Langborne about it around that time; possibly when he went to see her at New Year.’

  ‘Possibly. I’d guess that Langborne wasn’t thrilled to see you.’

  ‘No; denied even knowing about the letter but he clearly did. It gives him a strong motive for shutting her up.’

  ‘Hmm. I still have the problem of no body.’

  ‘He says he was working at home on January thirty-first. Did anyone back that up? His wife?’

  ‘She was away at a conference about the countryside, somewhere near Bath. His diary checked out.’

  ‘So he could have been anywhere. He could have been in London, dealing with his troublesome stepmother. It’s only an hour’s drive for him.’

  She sighed. ‘I can’t see this having legs. To be honest, I’m pushed on this enquiry as it is, I haven’t got the staff. I’ll have to run it past my chief.’

  ‘What about Lomar?’

  ‘Nasty piece of work. We’re charging him with assaulting a police officer but we have nothing else concrete at the moment. Tell you what; find me a body and I can do business.’

  ‘Maybe you’d find a body if you visited Holly End; there’s a lake, several empty cottages, woodland; plenty of choice.’

  Nora laughed. ‘Yeah, I can see me getting a warrant for that. Leave it with me. I have to get back to being bullied.’

  Swift rang off, frustrated. He knew that this case would be low on Nora Morrow’s radar; missing people always slid to the bottom of the heap. He drove to Tooting Bec, stopping at a garage for fuel and a couple of bananas and orange juice, which he consumed at the side of the forecourt, among the fumes. He could mainly taste oil. He fed another parking meter in the road where an Edward Boyce was supposed to live and looked for number sixty-one, flat 1A. It was a three-storey house on a corner, beside a bookie’s. There was a raggedy garden with some sorry looking bushes and an empty bird feeder. A couple of bikes were padlocked to the railings and a tatty, sun faded poster in a front window admonished him to save whales. A removals van was parked near the house, its back doors open, showing bed frames and a fridge-freezer and the front door was propped wide open. Swift accepted the invitation and walked in to the hallway, finding the door to 1A halfway along. There was a bell and a slot for a name, which had been left empty.

  A tall man, around his late twenties and with hard eyes the colour of concrete, answered the bell. He was wrapped in a grubby towel, his hair damp. His bare arms were thick and sinewy. He looked as if he’d had a late night. A stale, cheesy smell wafted out from the flat interior; it reminded Swift of the time he had kept white mice in his bedroom until his mother, unable to stand the foetid reek, had insisted that they be removed.

  ‘Hi, sorry to bother you. I’m looking for a friend of mine, Ed Boyce. Haven’t seen him for a while, thought I’d catch up as I was passing, have a few beers.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, Ed.’ The man adjusted his towel and shuffled his bare feet. One of his big-toe nails was blackened. ‘He’s not in right now, mate. Away for the weekend, yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame. Still, I suppose I could catch him at Purple Spark Productions or Abode, that club he goes to.’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, good thinking. He’ll be at work on Monday, defo.’

  There was a movement from inside the flat. A shadowy figure emerged, a thin younger man, carrying a mug and shaking his head in an agitated manner. His hair was shaved close to his scalp and there was a crusty sore on his lower lip. Hard eyes batted him away, told him sharply to get inside, he’d be in in a minute and waited until an inner door had closed before turning back.

  Swift clicked his fingers. ‘You must be the friend Ed mentioned he had staying with him; Terry, is it? Sorry, I’m rubbish at names.’

  ‘Pete, that’s me, mate.’

  ‘That’s right. Hope Ed has a good weekend. Where’s he gone?’

  The eyes glinted with annoyance. ‘Oh, he didn’t say, mate. Probably away with his girlfriend somewhere. Yeah, that’s it.’

  ‘Okay. Bye then.’

  ‘See ya.’

  Swift waited to one side as two men hefted a sofa down the stairs, marking the wall as they went. He was satisfied he had the right Ed Boyce and reckoned that he could have schooled his illegal tenant better in story-telling. He sat for a while in the car, watching the house. He didn’t know why he was watching, other than he’d had a sniff of something more than unwashed bodies from Ed’s flat. The removals firm finished their work and locked the doors of their van. The driver consulted a clipboard, then accelerated away. Shortly afterwards, Pete emerged from the house, accompanied by two men who kept their eyes down as they walked. One wore a beanie hat and tatty jeans. The other had a limp, his right foot twisted inward. Both wore flip-flops. Neither looked like the skinny man who had appeared earlier. Pete put two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them and handed them one each. He led them to a dark blue transit van; they climbed into the back while he took the driver’s seat. When he had driven off, Swift returned to the flat and rang the bell. There was no reply so he rang again, several sharp
bursts. The door opened a couple of inches and the shaven-headed man looked around the rim.

  ‘Hi,’ Swift said. ‘I called and spoke to Pete a couple of minutes ago.’

  The man’s head shook, the veins in his scrawny neck standing out. ‘Pete’s not in.’ He spoke in a soft monotone.

  ‘Could I come in and wait for him?’

  The man edged the door closed another inch. ‘I don’t let people in.’

  ‘I’m sure Pete wouldn’t mind. What’s your name?’

  There was a silence while he seemed to process the question. ‘Billy.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Billy. I know Ed, who rents this flat to Pete. It would be fine to let me in. Pete won’t mind.’

  Billy rubbed a hand over his head and looked upwards. ‘Pete says no one comes in.’

  ‘I know, but that would be strangers. I’m a friend.’

  There was another long pause until Billy said, ‘You’re a friend.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m a friend.’

  Billy turned away and disappeared into the flat as if he had lost interest, leaving the door open. Swift stepped in, closing it behind him. There were two rooms opposite him, both with the curtains half drawn. The malodorous air made him gag. Billy had gone to sit on a mattress on the floor in the left-hand front room. He had picked up a magazine and took no notice as Swift walked into the room, then around the rest of the flat. There were two rooms with five mattresses crammed into the one Billy occupied. The larger, second room had a single bed, a wardrobe and chest of drawers and a plasma TV attached to the wall opposite the bed. There were some envelopes on top of the chest of drawers; Swift looked through them and saw a credit card statement for Peter Carmichael with nearly £2000 owing. Along the hall was a tiny, squalid bathroom and narrow galley kitchen, littered with takeaway cartons, dirty crockery and food wrappers. The rubbish bin had no lid and smelled as if something had crawled into it and died. A circle of fat flies danced above it.

  Swift returned to where Billy sat, looking at a magazine filled with glossy photos of motor bikes. The room’s woodchip walls were painted a dingy yellow and were bare, with marks and patches where pictures or ornaments had hung previously. The floor had thin, stained brown carpet squares, of the type usually found in offices. The mattresses had no sheets, just sleeping bags and there was barely room to step between them. There was no other furniture or fixtures. Small piles of clothes lay under a radiator by the window. Swift squatted down near Billy; he didn’t know what kind of disability the man had but he seemed to respond to brief statements.

  ‘Billy, you work with Pete,’ he guessed.

  After a silence, filled with the sound of a fly throwing itself against the window, Billy said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pete doesn’t pay you. He lets you and your friends live here.’

  Billy continued to stare at the same page. ‘Yes.’

  ‘There are five of you.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Swift thought about the van. ‘You work at people’s houses, doing driveways and gutters, odd jobs.’

  Billy started humming. Swift waited, breathing through his mouth. Finally Billy nodded.

  ‘Pick fruit soon,’ he said.

  ‘Okay. Pete looks after you. He gives you cigarettes and food.’

  Billy brought the magazine close to his face. ‘I like chips.’ He started to hum again, rocking his torso back and forth.

  Swift wondered where Carmichael had garnered his serfs from, suspecting the streets or homeless shelters. He wanted to ask Billy how he had come to the flat but thought he might be getting distressed and he had seen and heard enough. He rose to his feet.

  ‘Bye, Billy, good to meet you.’

  Before he left he picked up a newspaper lying on a mattress and killed the bluebottle at the window.

  * * *

  Swift returned Cedric’s car to Milo’s garage, where it was parked alongside Milo’s ancient Vespa, which he could no longer use but kept for sentimental reasons. Back in his office, he considered phoning Mark Gill or Mary but decided to dial 999; as far as he was concerned, slavery was an emergency. He gave details of what he had seen at the Tooting flat and Carmichael’s name and a description. He advised that he had previously worked with the Met and Interpol and dropped in Mary Adair’s name for good measure. At that point, he was passed to a more senior colleague who assured him that the information would be acted on within twenty-four hours. He then emailed Rachel Breen, giving her the address of the flat and confirming that Ed had a tenant called Peter Carmichael. He explained why he had called the police, adding that Ed was in for a bit of a shock. Over to her and her solicitor to make the most of it, he told her, attaching his final bill. He thought for a moment about his next call, then rang Florence Davenport. Her greeting was not unfriendly so he gauged that her brother hadn’t been in touch since the morning.

  ‘Just thought I’d give you an update,’ he said. ‘I discovered that your stepmother had annoyed a man called Vincent Lomar; she was instrumental in causing his wife to be sacked from the home she stayed at in Kingston upon Thames last year.’

  ‘What home?’ she asked vaguely.

  ‘It’s called Lilac Grange. I did mention it to you when I came to see you last time.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Sorry, things were a bit hairy.’

  ‘Yes. The police have questioned Mr Lomar and will question him again.’

  ‘They think he has something to do with Carmen’s disappearance?’

  ‘They don’t know as yet. He would seem to have a reason and he has a previous police record.’

  ‘Oh well, I suppose it’s something.’

  ‘Has your brother been in touch with you recently?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘You haven’t told him about Paul being questioned?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. It’s irrelevant and he’s a busy man.’

  ‘I saw him today. Something came up in my enquiries that I needed to ask him about.’

  Her voice lifted sharply. ‘Oh, what’s that?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s my place to tell you, it’s a bit delicate. You might want to contact him.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘As I said, I think it’s best you contact him. I have to go now; I’ll be in touch if I have any news.’

  He ended the call and allowed himself a tiny sneak of satisfaction. That should put the cat among the pigeons. It was almost seven o’clock and a fine evening. He checked the tide and saw that it was low so he decided to head for the river. He ran upstairs and changed, ate an apple and filled his water bottle. At the club, which was still open, he checked his boat. As the light would be failing on his return, he attached two white lights on his stern and bow.

  He rowed as far as Barnes, spotting several black swans and a great crested grebe and chicks, then made his return journey as dusk approached. In the dimming light, with no one else on the river, the only sound the lapping of the water, he might have been alone in the world. He thought about Langborne; if he was responsible for Carmen’s disappearance, he couldn’t have effected it in her house as there was no evidence to suggest she had been harmed there. If he was alone at home on January 31, he could have invited her there. There might have been an argument; certainly it was a place that offered plenty of options for disposing of a body.

  He was still mulling over this scenario as he pulled his boat up the ramp. He unlocked the boathouse and stowed the boat, towelling his face and neck. He secured the door, bending to the lock in the semi-darkness and had just sensed that someone was approaching when a heavy blow caught him behind his ear. As he fell to the ground, he smelled fish and heard shouting and the sound of running feet. A hard kick landed in his back and he had a sudden desire to vomit.

  CHAPTER 10

  Mary and Cedric were sitting on either side of Swift’s hospital bed. He was propped high on pillows and drinking water. He had been lucky; he had a bruise on his right temple and a fracture at the base of his skull but no
swelling or brain damage. His lower back ached where his assailant had delivered that hard kick. He had to stay in hospital for twenty-four hours.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Not too bad, considering. I have what’s called a simple linear fracture. They told me I mustn’t blow my nose; isn’t it odd, the minute you’re told you can’t do something, you feel the need to do it.’

  ‘I don’t like to think what might have happened if we hadn’t come on the scene,’ Cedric said, patting his hand. He looked pale and upset. ‘If only we’d been able to get a good look at the chap who did it, but he sped away as soon as he heard us.’

  Cedric and Milo had saved him from further blows, emerging from the side alley that led from the pub. It was their shouts he had heard as he fell.

  ‘Did you get a look at him, Ty?’ Mary asked.

  He remembered just in time not to shake his head. ‘No. It all happened in a split second. He must have been hanging around near the club. I wonder what he hit me with.’ He smiled a watery smile at Cedric. ‘Makes a change for me to be in here, rather than you or Milo.’

  They stayed a little while longer. He was glad when they left; his head was aching and he wanted to think. A nurse brought him some more painkillers and warned him again about not blowing his nose, which reminded him that he wanted to. He lay, eyes closed, replaying the scene. The local police had been to see him but he had told the constable he had no idea who could have attacked him. As soon as he had come round, he had recalled the pungent odour of fish and knew that it had been Lomar. The thought of Charisse and what might rebound on her had stopped him speaking. Lomar was going to be done for assaulting a police constable anyway and Swift doubted he would come back and try to finish what he had started. He groaned; he was already frustrated at this enforced inactivity and oddly, his thigh was aching where he had previously been stabbed, as if coming out in sympathy with his head. When another nurse came back to check his temperature he mentioned this and she told him it was a wound memory, the body recalling previous shocks.

  ‘You lead an interesting life,’ she observed; ‘stabbings and assaults. A bit like working in A & E on a Saturday night. What do you do?’