Two Lovers, Six Deaths

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  ‘I was thinking about your call and I remembered that I did give a few things of Dominic’s to Finbar Power, some books on fishing mainly. To be honest, I was in such a state I’m not sure exactly what was in the bag I gave him.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll try him.’

  He called Power, who confirmed that he had a bag that Georgie had given him. It contained books but he had not sorted through it yet. Swift arranged to visit later in the afternoon. He walked carefully upstairs and checked that Cedric and Yana were all right. She was practising her flute while Cedric completed the crossword. When she saw Swift’s nose she said again how sorry she was. He lied, saying it looked worse than it felt. When he told her he had a friend in the police, a woman who might talk to her informally, she looked scared. Cedric reassured her, saying that no harm was going to come to her and she nodded, albeit reluctantly. Swift accepted her invitation to dinner later on.

  ‘I make myself useful, earn my keep,’ Yana said. ‘I must do something if I not go out, or I go crazy.’

  * * *

  The towpath around Aurora Dawn was busy but Swift couldn’t see any customers waiting for therapy with Body Balm. He could hear raised voices in the cabin as he stepped on board. He knocked on the closed door. Isabella opened it.

  ‘Gosh! What’s happened to you?’

  ‘An argument. Can I have a word?’

  ‘Well, Perry and I were just having a meeting . . .’

  ‘Good, because I would like to talk to both of you.’

  He stepped through the door. Her kittenish smile wasn’t in play as she introduced him to the man he had seen on deck during his previous visit.

  ‘This is Perry Wellings. We work together. Perry, this is the private detective paid by Georgie Merrell.’ She sat down, legs akimbo, soles of her bare feet together.

  Swift refused a chair and propped himself against the massage table. The air was pungent with lavender again. Wellings was wearing white shorts and T-shirt and deck shoes. His sturdy legs and arms were covered in thick hair, contrasting with the thinning mousy curls on his head. His nose and mouth were too large for his face and his skin was putty-coloured but he had a certain physicality that was attractive. Lisa had certainly gone for different types.

  ‘I’m looking into Lisa’s death,’ Swift said. ‘Since I met you, Isabella, I’ve talked to Donald Eastwood. He’s alarmed about this business, says it hasn’t been doing well and you’re being sued by a customer who was injured.’

  Isabella screwed up her nose. ‘That’s all being dealt with. People complain, it doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘Surely being sued must mean something? Did Lisa know about this situation?’

  ‘Yeah. She was as pissed off as us.’

  ‘So what happened? How was this customer injured?’

  Isabella and Wellings exchanged glances. He fiddled with an earlobe and replied.

  ‘The woman concerned was injured during cupping.’

  ‘That’s when heated cups are applied to the skin?’

  ‘That’s right. It can be very effective for relaxing muscles and relieving pain,’ Wellings confirmed.

  ‘Except in this case it caused it?’

  Wellings coughed. His Adam’s apple worked up and down. ‘The customer had some burns on her back.’

  ‘Look, what’s this got to do with Lisa dying?’ Isabella asked, folding her arms and frowning. Her previous bounce had gone and her fingernail varnish was chipped.

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing, possibly.’

  She opened her mouth but didn’t speak. Wellings looked up at the ceiling.

  ‘Who did the cupping?’ Swift asked, wincing as he moved and a rib complained. After a silence he added, ‘you might as well tell me. I can ask Mr Eastwood.’

  Wellings spoke. ‘My daughter did the cupping.’

  ‘Ah. Is she qualified for that?’

  Wellings went to reply, but Isabella cut across him.

  ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I was off sick that day and Cressida was here so she stepped in when Perry got delayed in traffic. She had seen it done and had the treatment done on her here. And no, she’s not qualified.’

  Swift thought they might have to part with a lot of money in court or as an out-of-court settlement. ‘The business might not survive this?’

  ‘We don’t know. Eastwood’s talking about winding it up anyway.’

  ‘Someone I’ve spoken to told me that Lisa had already been talking to you about closing the business. There was a disagreement between you, I was told. With you, Isabella.’

  She tutted. ‘We did have some words. It got a bit heated. I thought Lisa was reacting too quickly, trying to call the shots. I mean, it was worth seeing if there was a solution — you know, an out-of-court settlement or whatever. This is my living, this business. It’s all I have. I haven’t got a rich daddy to bail me out whenever I’m in trouble.’

  She cast a spiteful glance at him. He looked at her small but capable hands. You did not have to be strong to knife a drunk, sleeping woman.

  ‘You didn’t mention this before. It’s important.’

  ‘To me. I don’t see why it is to you.’ She pressed her lips together in anger. ‘Anyway, Lisa came back after that and said she’d had a think and she was going to get money off JoJo, quite a bit that she’d loaned him over the years, and she’d put it into the business. She seemed pretty sure he’d give it to her, although I wasn’t that optimistic.’

  Swift thought about his previous visit to the boat and turned to Wellings. ‘Was that your daughter on deck when I was here before, the girl with red hair?’

  ‘That’s Cressie.’

  ‘Does she know Harry Merrell?’

  Wellings nodded. ‘I, ahm, I was with Lisa for a while. Harry came here with her one day after she met Dominic and he and Cressie got friendly.’

  ‘You moved in with Lisa, didn’t you?’

  ‘A while ago. It didn’t work out.’

  ‘You went back to your wife?’

  Wellings nodded, pulling a wry smile. ‘I did but then she left me. Said she couldn’t trust me. So I’m on my own now.’

  ‘Does your daughter live with her mother?’

  ‘No. She has a place with friends in Barnes somewhere. She’s doing really well for herself, she’s in international sales.’

  Swift stared at the man. He was suddenly aware of his heart pumping as he heard of these connections and the location. Wellings looked proud when he spoke of his daughter, his shoulders lifted.

  ‘Does Cressida know JoJo Hayworth?’

  ‘JoJo was married to Lisa. I don’t think so, Cressie’s never mentioned him to me.’

  ‘So let me get the order right here. You came after JoJo and Richard but before Dominic?’

  Wellings didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘That’s right. Lisa didn’t hang about, she got together with Dominic a couple of weeks after I went back home.’

  ‘You didn’t get back with Lisa after your wife left you?’

  ‘No, that was all over.’ His gaze glanced off Swift at the lie.

  ‘You were at the party the night she died?’

  ‘For a while. It got a bit too loud for me.’

  ‘What time did you leave?

  ‘I’m not sure. In the early hours.’

  ‘Does either of you own a scooter or a motorbike?’

  They shook their heads. Swift left them and walked to a café by the canal where he ordered coffee and a toasted sandwich. He took more painkillers and thought about the two victims whose pasts he had been chasing. His head felt muddled and crowded. He closed his eyes and concentrated. He felt now that he knew both Lisa and Merrell, Lisa more so but that was because she had been flamboyant and people had much more to say about her. Merrell was quiet, nice, kind. Swift did not believe he had stabbed his partner. Lisa blew like a gale through people’s lives and she had crossed someone and angered them enough to make them take a knife and plunge it into her. Isabella, Wellings or Hayworth were all likely candidat
es. He had an idea as to why Merrell had confessed, but not enough to support it. He needed to know what Harry had to tell him and to get to Finbar Power. He stood, dizzy for a moment and wincing, taking some careful breaths and bending his knees to ease his leg muscles.

  CHAPTER 10

  Finbar Power’s shop was closed when Swift arrived at half past three. Power answered the bell after a couple of minutes, saying he had been having a siesta. He was shoeless and crumpled, his shirt outside his jeans. He seemed half-awake. He offered Swift an ice pack when he explained his injuries, which he gratefully accepted. Power then vanished and came back with more of the delicious black tea. He brought out a large carrier bag from a cupboard. They sat again by the French window. Power had put on a clean shirt and smelled of minty toothpaste. He looked thinner and there was perspiration on his brow. He dabbed at his forehead with a tissue.

  ‘Are you feeling okay?’ Swift asked.

  ‘Can’t seem to shake this virus, it keeps coming back. GP thought it could be glandular fever but I tested negative. She finally said there’s a lot of it about. I probably ought to take it easy for a couple of days but I have the shop to run. I felt done in this afternoon so I closed up for a while.’ He hefted the carrier bag on to his lap. ‘I can’t believe that Dom didn’t tell me about being adopted,’ he said. ‘There was never any hint of it, in all that time I knew him and his parents. It was their private business but I feel sort of betrayed, although I know that’s foolish.’

  ‘That’s how Georgie feels. I suppose it seems as if the person’s identity has been altered. Dominic must have found it a thorny issue and of course, it may be that he only discovered that he had been adopted after his parents died. Is it okay if I take these things out and look through?’

  ‘Of course. Maybe if you look, then pass to me. I feel bad that I haven’t already sorted them out, put them up on the shelves. I had a brief glance and they seemed to be books on fishing. Probably some that I gave Dom over the years. I went to deal with them a couple of times but couldn’t bring myself to open them. Something about the finality of it. I miss him.’

  ‘Yes. Grief is hard. People thought well of Dominic and speak well of him. But I think he was travelling without a map.’

  Power sipped his tea thoughtfully, a faraway look in his eyes. He cradled his cup, yawning now and again. Swift emptied the carrier bag and placed the contents carefully in a pile on the coffee table. There were half a dozen books and a thin cardboard file. He opened the file first. Inside were photographs of a school sports day, a party in a garden and a couple of a young Merrell and Power fishing by a river. He passed them to Power who looked at them and nodded.

  ‘That was our school sports day. I was pretty good at the long jump and Dom was a sprinter. The party was for my dad’s fortieth and that’s Dom and me by the river Welland. We caught dace and perch mainly. We would spend all day under the trees, rain or shine. I have no idea what we talked about but we chatted away and the hours vanished. Dom’s mum always made us cheese and pickle sandwiches and slices of her sponge cake. Food has never tasted better. She took these photos one day when she came to give us a lift home.’ He moved his fingers gently across one of the images, tracing the line of a fishing rod.

  The books were all hardbacks and about fishing. A history of fly-fishing, one about sea angling, another on carp and several general guides. Swift riffled the pages of each one. As he flicked through the thickest, an all-purpose guide, he noticed folded paper and a small rectangular envelope taped behind the back dustcover. He drew them out. The pages were a photocopy of an official document, written on a typewriter and headed Lincolnshire Social Services Adoption Team. He pressed them flat on the table and read while Power watched him silently. They were numbered 27 and 28.

  Adoption Report for Dominic Paul Hill, DOB 20/3/1977

  Summary

  Dominic Hill was taken into the care of Lincolnshire social services in May 1979 after the deaths of his parents. He was then aged two. His father, Dominic T. Hill, murdered his mother, Judy Chernin. His father then committed suicide by hanging. He had been receiving treatment for severe depression and was subject to flashbacks to his time in the US forces in Vietnam. (See also coroner’s report and attachments.) Mr Hill had previously had an admission to a psychiatric unit where he had responded to treatment but was on daily medication.

  Dominic was hungry and distressed when he was brought into care but he had clearly been loved and well cared for before this tragic incident.

  Ms Chernin was the only child of Hungarian parents who settled in the UK after the Second World War. They are both deceased. Mr Hill was an American citizen from Missouri with no family in the UK. His parents are also deceased. Extended family in Missouri were contacted but none felt that they could offer a home to Dominic.

  Dominic was placed in foster care within weeks of his parents’ deaths, with Mr and Mrs Merrell of Stamford, Lincolnshire. Fortunately, he appeared to have little memory of the events that had taken place and settled well with the Merrells. He referred to his birth parents occasionally during the first months and cried for his mother. The Merrells reassured and comforted him and Dominic ceased to mention his previous life. They reported the occasional nightmare and bed-wetting but these gradually abated and Dominic thrived in this placement.

  Mr and Mrs Merrell cannot have children. They joined the fostering register with a view to adopting when an appropriate match could be made with a child. They had expressed the wish to adopt a baby but have always understood that this would be difficult. They bonded quickly with Dominic and have worked well to establish a loving and settled home life for him.

  Dominic is now almost four years of age and is a contented little boy. He attends nursery school where he has integrated well. He is clearly happy with the Merrells and calls them Mummy and Daddy. They wish to adopt him and can provide a secure and loving environment for him. Mr and Mrs Merrell cooperated fully with the adoption assessment process and demonstrated that they are fully capable and willing to offer Dominic a life with them.

  We are therefore applying to the court for an adoption order to be made for Dominic Hill to remain with Mr and Mrs Merrell and recommend that the court accept this application.

  Frances Neeley, social worker.

  15/2/1981

  There was an official stamp at the bottom of the report — Adopt Care, Lincoln, with a phone number and the name Emily de Carolis. It was dated last December.

  Swift passed the papers in silence to Power and opened the envelope. Inside was a sheet of blue paper, an original handwritten note in black biro.

  The doc says it’s good to write things down. She says it might help the constant reliving of memories of Nam. I don’t know. I don’t think anything can help me or any of the others like me. Like I tell them, I went there to defend my country. I didn’t know what it would be like. The heat. I remember the heat. Like I was frying in hell, even in the shade. The heat weighed you down, suffocated you. My skin itched all the time. We were drenched in water and sweat. The leeches and fire ants drove you mad. After a couple of months everyone was nuts. A lot of us took stuff — morphine, heroin, marijuana. I got hooked on morphine. Just to make it all disappear for a while. It’s hard to care about anything now. I never sleep for more than a couple of hours. The dreams come, full of fire and heat and screams. I’m angry all the time. I survived two ambushes. Don’t ask me how or why. Death became a close friend there and now I feel that he lives with me, walks with me every day. I’m always looking out for him. I’m worried I’ll invite him in just to stop the pictures under my eyelids. I got exposed to Agent Orange so I’ll probably die of something awful soon anyway. Sometimes I think that’s what I deserve. Everyone there hated us and when we went home lots of people swore at us or ignored us. Demonstrated against us. It was all for nothing. I saw men ripped apart for nothing. I loaded helicopters with the bodies. Mangled, limbless, burned men. I lived in a dark world with no hope, every hour of ever
y day. There was a never-ending nightmare of blood and horror. I can never forget it no matter how many pills they give me or how much they talk to me. People like me can’t be fixed. There was a never-ending nightmare of blood and horror and I helped create it. The blood is on my skin and always will be.

  Swift handed the note to Power and sat, gazing out of the window. He shivered and his breath caught on an arc of pain from his ribs. He put the ice pack on the table and stood for a moment, taking deep breaths.

  ‘My God,’ Power said. ‘What Dom must have been going through, finding out this terrible thing. He must have been suffering. And he never said a word. It explains why he seemed so down. Oh my good God, if only I had known . . . why didn’t he talk to me?’ He was close to tears. His face was ashen, haunted.

  Swift sat again, thinking. ‘Maybe it was all too much for him to take in. He may have been in a kind of shock, and that can paralyse you. He told Lisa. She knew but she couldn’t cope with it. Although I suspect she liked the drama of the story.’

  Power drew a box of tissues towards him and dabbed at his forehead again. When he spoke, he sounded angry.

  ‘She would. Drama all the way with Lisa. She never knew when to stop. She was . . . she was an angel and a devil. That’s how I’ve come to think of her.’

  ‘There was another drama, too. She’d had an abortion shortly before she died and it couldn’t have been Dominic’s baby.’

  ‘An abortion? Ah no, no, surely not, she wouldn’t have . . . are you sure?’

  ‘The police informed her father.’

  Power sat back, staring ahead. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.

  ‘I remember Dom telling me he’d had a vasectomy, years ago.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘This is unbearable. These are terrible events. I wonder if Dom knew about that. The poor, poor man.’

  Swift was picturing the scene, piecing it together. With all this playing constantly in his mind, Merrell had come home to find his partner stabbed and lying in blood. As he neared home, he had seen Harry on his scooter. He thought his son had killed Lisa, because he resented her or had become intimate with her and couldn’t deal with it. If he knew about the abortion, he might have thought it was his son’s child. That explained why he refused to see his family in the days after Lisa’s death and turned down Georgie’s offer of sanctuary. He simply couldn’t face them, knowing what he thought he had witnessed. He had sat in the basement of the Hays hotel, alone and in pain, convinced that he was the cause of these calamities. In order to protect Harry he had replayed a terrible history to its conclusion.