Two Lovers, Six Deaths

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  She nodded, and put the guinea pig back in its hutch. It returned to its melon. Swift looked at a photo on the wall near Bertram’s portrait. It was of Lisa and Dominic, the only one he had seen of them together. They were sitting on grass, arms around each other, both smiling. Dominic’s hair was longer, he was unshaven and his glasses had retro tortoiseshell frames.

  ‘It looks as if Dominic changed his image when he was with Lisa.’

  ‘Oh yes, I suppose you would call it a more relaxed look. Well, he liked to keep up with her. She always wore the latest fashions. She never intended any harm, you know. She was intensely self-absorbed but also generous and kindly.’ She turned to him, a spark in her eyes. ‘Now, I’ve read lots of detective stories. This is where you ask me if there’s anything else I can tell you.’

  Swift laughed. ‘Spot on.’

  ‘There is something. I heard footsteps coming down the stairs on the morning Lisa died. I heard an engine, too, a bit like a motorbike but quieter, somewhere just up the street.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Some time after five a.m. I don’t sleep well and I had just got back into bed after a glass of milk. My bedroom is at the front. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I thought someone was leaving late after the party because the noise didn’t die down until around four thirtyish. Then I heard the engine.’

  ‘Did the police talk to you about this?’

  ‘I mentioned it to a detective. But then Dominic said he was responsible so . . . it’s probably of no importance. Although I can see that you think it might be.’

  ‘Possibly. I am glad you told me. Did Lisa tell you she’d had an abortion some time recently?’

  ‘No. Oh dear, do you think that might have had anything to do with what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s odd that she didn’t tell me. She told me most things. Perhaps she thought I would find it upsetting. She knew that I’d had an abortion when I was young. It was botched and after that I couldn’t have children.’

  She led him to the front door, wobbling slightly on her high heels, her arm grazing the wall.

  ‘This is as far as I go,’ she said, opening several deadlocks. ‘It has been a real pleasure to meet you. I hope you get to the truth of this awful matter.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you too.’

  ‘Could I ask a favour of you?’

  ‘Of course.’ He thought she was going to ask him to buy cheroots.

  ‘Would you just give me a little hug? Lisa used to hug me every day, you see, and I find that is what I miss most. You are the only person I have met since she died that I would ask. Of course, I do miss conversation too. Sometimes I think I should get a lodger, I have a spare room, but how would I find someone?’

  He stepped forward and leaned down, placing his arms lightly around her. She felt insubstantial. He was deeply moved. She breathed and gave a little sigh and a nod.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, too. Can I ask you something else?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Is Malory Meredith your real name?’

  She giggled throatily. ‘I was born Hester Cardew. I became Malory when I started modelling and I stayed Malory. Now you had better go before I tell you any more secrets.’

  He turned as he walked up the road, knowing that she would be watching. She was and he waved. She had a dignity, a way of channelling her loneliness so that it did not define her. He hoped to see her again. Malory was the first person he had spoken to who threw light on Lisa as a rounded individual. She had been beautiful, self-centred and a woman who attracted and caused trouble, but also big-hearted and considerate. Steady, trustworthy Dominic Merrell, his wife’s north star, had loved complicated Lisa and become a thief and a man with a family secret. She’d had an abortion and it may not have been his child. The more Swift learned, the less he understood. There were odd glimpses of a picture forming but it was blurred and shifting, like a half developed photo. JoJo Hayworth kept stepping forward, then back out of the frame. He had still featured somehow in Lisa’s life, enough for them to row. And still there were those words that puzzled him, a never-ending nightmare of blood and horror. He needed to find a way through the confusion the couple had created between them and talk to the owner of an engine that sounded like a motorbike.

  * * *

  Swift had returned from a brisk row on the river. The sun was bright, the wind gusty. A cobweb-clearing day. He had pulled in at Chiswick for an apple. He decided to email Simone about a nagging thought that he had been turning over in his mind. She knew a fair amount about genetics and she liked to be asked to share her expertise. Anything that gained him brownie points with her could be deposited in the good-will bank and drawn on in future. She had replied by the time he got back to Tamesas. Given that it was Simone, it was a long-winded reply containing complex references to recessive and dominant alleles and proteins but confirmed what he had thought.

  It occurred to him as he stowed his boat and made for home that he had not seen Cedric for a couple of days and should check on him. He had showered and was eating an avocado when he heard shouting from upstairs. His heart sank. Oliver was visiting. He ran upstairs, knocked on the door and pushed it open. Yana was sitting, or rather shrinking into Cedric’s sofa with Oliver looming over her. She was wearing one of Cedric’s diamond pattern jumpers, the sleeves rolled back. There was still a trace of bruising on her cheek. Cedric stood behind her, hands on hips, fierce-looking but white-faced.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Swift asked.

  Oliver turned and sneered. ‘Oh, here’s the cavalry. Why are you always sticking your unwanted nose in?’

  Swift ignored him. ‘Problem, Cedric?’

  Cedric now had the shifty look Swift had noticed recently. ‘Oliver objects to Yana being here,’ he said.

  ‘I object to her living here, moving in on you,’ Oliver shouted. ‘You know nothing about her. You could get into trouble with the police. People might think you’re a dirty old man. How old is she, anyway?’

  Swift took in the sleeping bag, blanket and pillow on the sofa. Yana coughed and looked terrified, her eyes huge and fixed on Oliver. Her hair was pulled back tight into a ponytail, emphasising the shadows of her face and the fading bruise near her eye. Swift had seen that look before in the faces of women he had worked with through Interpol, women who had been trafficked, abused, traumatised by daily brutality.

  ‘Stop yelling and sit down,’ Swift told Oliver. ‘Yana is clearly frightened. It’s okay,’ he said to her quietly, ‘no one is going to hurt you.’

  Oliver stood where he was. Swift took a step towards him. ‘I threw you out once before. Don’t make me do it again. I probably would break your arm this time.’

  Oliver threw himself into an armchair, knocking over Cedric’s dominoes.

  His father was rubbing his forehead with his thumb knuckle, leaving an imprint on the skin. ‘I’m sorry, Ty. I should have let you know that Yana was here. I told her she could sleep on the sofa for a while. I had been thinking about her, worrying about her. I saw someone shouting abuse at her on the street a couple of nights back and I followed her to see where she was staying. She has been sleeping on a bench near the river and she has a nasty cough and a temperature. That’s no life for a young girl. She needed proper food, warmth, a shower and clean clothing. Anyone with any decency would do the same.’

  ‘Anyone with half a brain would realise what a stupid idea it was,’ Oliver muttered. ‘There are homeless shelters, soup kitchens and whatever, Dad. You’re such a sitting duck for a sob story. She might have TB or hepatitis for all you know, or something worse.’

  Yana got up. ‘I go now. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Cedric said. ‘Please, don’t go back on to the street.’

  ‘I make trouble,’ she said.

  ‘You certainly do,’ Oliver agreed.

  ‘Be quiet, Oliver!’ Cedric told him. ‘If you can’t be ci
vil, go away.’

  Oliver looked taken aback at his father’s stern tone. He lurched out of his chair. ‘Have it your way but you’re being incredibly stupid. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when she steals your stuff and it all goes tits up.’

  At least she is not using threats and emotional blackmail to extract money from an old man, Swift thought. They listened to Oliver clatter down the stairs. The house reverberated as he banged the front door. Cedric gestured to Yana to sit and sank down beside her.

  Swift pulled up the chair Oliver had vacated. ‘What’s the story?’ he asked.

  ‘Yana, do you want to tell Tyrone or shall I?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘You tell,’ she said listlessly, coughing again.

  Cedric ran his hands over his eyes. ‘Yana and her brother escaped from Aleppo after the rest of their family were killed. They spent over a year in refugee camps. Her brother had leukaemia so they came here under the vulnerable person resettlement scheme. They were given a room in a house in Bolton and her brother started treatment. It had been left too late and he died within months of arriving here. Some men hanging around the house offered her work so she went to the address they gave her. It turned out to be a brothel and she was locked in and made to work there. She managed to escape and came to London a couple of months ago. She was studying music in Aleppo. Her English is slow but improving all the time.’

  Yana held her chest, coughing. ‘I learn many insults,’ she said, looking up.

  There was some strength left in her gaze. Swift thought she might stand a chance.

  ‘I can imagine,’ he told her. ‘You should see a doctor.’

  ‘I’ve made an appointment for later today with my GP. She said she’ll see Yana as a temporary patient,’ Cedric said.

  ‘I can’t play well with cough,’ Yana said, gesturing to her flute.

  ‘I think you should stay here until we can help you sort something out,’ Swift told her. ‘You are here legally, which helps. As well as dealing with your cough, you should ask the woman doctor to check you over, check your general health. You’ve been through a lot. Do you understand what I mean?’

  She nodded. ‘I understand.’ She turned to Cedric. ‘Will your son come back and shout at me again?’

  ‘No,’ Cedric said. ‘He can only visit if he promises not to shout. I am sure he will understand when he thinks it over. He’s not a bad lad at heart.’

  Hope springing eternal in the fond father, Swift thought, remembering Donald Eastwood’s unstinting praise of his daughter. Would he be like this with his own daughter in years to come, making excuses for her no matter what she did or how she behaved?

  ‘Yana, we should report this place in Bolton to the police,’ he said.

  She shook her head violently. ‘No! No police!’

  ‘You’re frightened that those men will come after you.’

  ‘Yes. They tell us, you talk, you are punished.’

  ‘I understand but the police can protect you. What about the other girls who are still there?’

  She shook her head, drawing her arms into her body, making herself as small as possible.

  ‘Okay, okay. We’ll leave it for now. But please think about it. And please don’t tell anyone where you’re staying. Understand? That’s important.’

  She nodded and was silent, head down. She had clearly learned it was the best way to try to evade notice.

  CHAPTER 7

  Swift wanted to meet JoJo Hayworth as soon as possible. He seemed to have been more than a match for Lisa and there was evidence of a recent falling out as well as a significant inheritance. He didn’t answer his phone or reply to messages. When Swift called his mother, she said he was away working in Denmark and wouldn’t be back until the following week.

  In the meantime, Swift had arranged to see Richard Molina. His office was on the sixth floor of a narrow, Dickensian-looking building in a back street near Edgware Road. The yellowish bricks were dull from traffic pollution and several of the ground-floor sash windows had cracked glass. He had told Swift that he was a lecturer in Business Studies and had a free period after lunch. The college he worked at was a private institution called the Cornel Academy. It offered various degree courses including MBAs and qualifications in accounting and finance and had links with universities in Asia. A stained, laminated notice inside the door stated, One Capital City. World Influence.

  The shabby foyer was busy with students, mainly young men, their voices bouncing off the high ceilings in a maelstrom of languages and accents. The building itself was a honeycomb of corridors with lino-covered floors, peeling paint and that smell of boiled cabbage that often prevails in such airless places. Swift took the crowded lift and looked for room 6C, finding it midway along a narrow, gloomy corridor. A voice shouted for him to come in when he knocked and he entered a tiny room almost filled by a desk heaped with files and books.

  Molina was crouched over a computer but stood to shake hands, taking off his blue tinted glasses and propping them on top of his head. ‘Welcome to academia. Not quite the dreaming spires of Oxford, but we do our best.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. Business certainly seems to be thriving, judging by the heaving humanity everywhere.’

  ‘Yep. Everyone wants an MBA these days. Management has taken over the world.’

  He was a slim, slightly built man with mahogany skin, long black hair tied back in a ponytail, a thin moustache and a broad forehead. His spindly fingers were nicotine stained. He wore jeans and a denim shirt. His smile was engaging and whimsical, as if he looked on the world and found it amusing.

  ‘Pull out that chair,’ he said. ‘I’ll just save this document.’

  The room looked out on to the brick wall of the building next door. The open window admitted the hum of traffic. There was a damp patch below the window ledge and the magnolia paint had seen better days. Swift thought Molina must be in his late forties and wondered what career path had brought him to this cramped room in a third rate college. He watched him peer through his smoky glasses at the screen. He seemed an unlikely member of Brainscan, but middle-aged men often tried to relive their youth.

  Molina closed his computer screen and shifted a file to one side. ‘You’ve come about Lisa?’

  ‘That’s right. I understand you had a relationship with her and she sang in your band.’

  ‘Correct on both counts. The relationship was quite a while ago. She sang with us now and again, when the fancy took her. An ad hoc arrangement.’

  ‘If Dominic Merrell didn’t kill her, have you any idea who might have?’

  ‘Wow! He confessed, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did. But he may not have done it.’

  Molina put his hands behind his head. He had discerning eyes. ‘I only met him once. He seemed docile. I don’t know why anyone else would have done it. She was a sweet kid. Crazy and needy but sweet.’

  ‘She had quite a few relationships. She wanted you to leave your wife?’

  ‘We talked about it. I couldn’t in the end. Ties that bind. I wasn’t prepared to unpick everything, put my kids through that. Also, I was too old for her and she was immature.’

  ‘Maybe she got involved with someone who found her crazy and too demanding rather than sweet. People who break up relationships aren’t always popular and she made her way through a few.’

  ‘True. She liked to try to mould people to what she wanted. So she called me Ricardo and Dominic became Nico. No one else called him that and the name didn’t suit him. But that was how she wanted it, so . . .’

  ‘Was she involved with Harry Merrell?’

  Molina sat forward and looked intently at Swift. ‘I don’t know. She had blurred boundaries so . . . possible. I didn’t pick up on that kind of vibe, though. I got the impression she had decided to make a project of Harry. She was whimsical in that way. She would take someone up like a hobby, the way other people take up pottery or rug making. She seemed fond of him in a big sister fashion and of course he was a bit i
n awe of her. He probably fancied her and felt confused. Lisa was like a kid in a sweet shop with men and she liked to pick-and-mix. She was impulsive. Once she got an idea in her head, it had to happen. You could say she had no middle gear.’

  ‘She told Harry he might get some work with Brainscan?’

  ‘Yeah. She brought Harry along to a rehearsal once, asked me to try him on drums but I said no. I have a good drummer. I thought it was just another one of her whims and it would cause trouble. Also, the kid was awkward and sulky looking. I didn’t think he would fit in. We have a good vibe in the band and I wasn’t going to upset it for her. She wasn’t pleased, grumbled about it for a couple of weeks. Like I said, she liked to take people along for the ride.’

  Swift weighed this up. ‘Do you think his father knew Harry was with her on that occasion?’

  ‘No idea. If he did, he might not have minded. After all, she was a sort of stepmother to Harry so Dominic might have liked that she was taking an interest. I met Dom at one of her parties. Quiet, introspective kind of guy. Head over heels in love with her. I thought he was good for her, might stabilise her, but she was already getting tired of him.’

  Swift was warming to Molina. He seemed self-possessed and smart. Straightforward, too. ‘Did she tell you that?’

  Molina nodded. He cleared paperwork from one side of the desk, dumping it on the floor, and put his feet up on it. He was wearing white leather winkle-picker boots.

  ‘After we stopped sleeping together, Lisa decided I’d be a father figure. Or maybe that was the attraction all along, that I was twenty years older. She would seek me out for a heart to heart now and again. Sometimes she would call in here, sit in that chair you are in and tell me her troubles. She was worried about the business she was involved in, that boat on the canal. Said it was losing money and there were other problems.’

  ‘She didn’t specify?’

  ‘No, that was Lisa for you. She would feed you snippets of things. But she said she was thinking of shutting the business down and the woman she owned it with disagreed, and they’d had a falling out. Lisa didn’t like arguments, she was used to getting her own way. She was a bit peevish the night of that last party, fed up with how her life was shaping. She told me JoJo was annoying her. She wanted him to repay her some of the money she had given him over the years because she needed it to patch up her business, but he wouldn’t play ball. She was naïve in that way. Why would the guy cough up when he didn’t have to? And she was fed up with Dominic. She took me into a corner of the kitchen and moaned about him, saying he was no fun anymore, that he was morose a lot of the time and fretting about money. He was also caught up with some complicated family stuff that was getting him down and doing her head in. I presumed she meant he was having guilt pangs about the wife and kids he dumped for her.’