The Lady Vanished (10 page)

‘Well, you have been busy,’ she said. ‘I’ll check if they’re known to social services and see if he’s got a record. Sounds like we’d better take a look. Did you see the Davenports?’

‘Yes. She was a bit subdued. I checked they’ve got enough money to pay me; that didn’t go down well.’

Nora laughed. He saw he had a call waiting so rang off and found Cedric on the line.

‘Dear boy, I’m calling from the hospital. I’m afraid Bertie and I got entangled on our walk and I came off worst. Met the pavement unexpectedly, banged my arm. They want to keep me in tonight, make sure I’m not going to pop off.’

‘I’ll come and see you.’

‘No, no; Milo’s with me. He got Bertie home safe and then followed me here. I just wanted to ask if you’ll check the flat; you know, everything turned off etc.’

‘Of course. You sure you’re okay?’

‘Yes, no fuss needed. I have a few scrapes and bruises, that’s all. Bertie was more alarmed than me.’

‘Ok. Let me know when you’ll be home tomorrow, I’ll try to be around.’

* * *

Swift stopped off at a supermarket and bought a selection of vegetables. Once a week, he made a huge pot of soup and dipped into it as needed. He would make one tonight and leave some for Cedric’s homecoming. In his kitchen, he chopped vegetables while listening to a radio play about espionage during the Korean War. Once he had the soup simmering, he switched off the radio and moved into the living room with a glass of wine. Dusk was falling so he turned on some lamps and drew the curtains. He had just picked up Cedric’s spare key when he heard a faint shuffling sound from upstairs. He waited, listening, and detected the soft tread of someone trying to move about quietly.

He picked up a heavy torch that he kept on a bookshelf and climbed the stairs to Cedric’s flat. The door was closed and he could see no sign that the lock had been forced. He eased the key in and turned, holding the handle and pushing the door slowly open. He could see from the small hallway that the living room was empty and stood, listening. Someone was in Cedric’s bedroom at the rear of the house, opening drawers and cupboards. He moved quietly towards the open bedroom door and looked through. Oliver was in there, busy fingers walking through his father’s wardrobe. Swift pointed the powerful torch at him.

‘You’re hard at it,’ he said. ‘I’ve never known you move so lightly.’

Oliver shielded his eyes, stumbling against the wardrobe door. ‘What are you doing up here?’ he asked.

‘That’s my question.’ He knew that Oliver didn’t have a key to his father’s flat; Cedric was careful about his security and Swift had the only spare one. ‘How did you get in?’

‘Take that bloody torch out of my face.’

‘If you tell me how you got in.’

‘Dad gave me a key. Not that it’s any of your business.’

Swift kept the torch on him. ‘I don’t think that’s true. I’ll ring him now to check.’ He took his phone from his pocket.

Oliver moved sideways and Swift followed him with the torch beam. He was pinned in a corner by the window.

‘I borrowed a key one time, just happened to still have it. Dad rang to say he’s in hospital so I thought I’d get him some stuff.’

‘In the dark?’

‘Oh, shut up! It’s none of your business anyway.’

Swift turned the light on and switched the torch off. ‘You haven’t rushed to the hospital to see your dad, then? That would be the usual response of a fond son.’

Oliver snatched up a rucksack lying on the bed. ‘Don’t bother trying your Hercule Poirot rubbish on me. I’ve every right to be here. Now get out of my way.’

Swift continued to block the door. ‘You don’t have a right to be here if Cedric hasn’t invited you. I think I can take a Poirot-inspired guess at why you’re rummaging around in the twilight. Looking for a will?’ He could see that he had hit home. ‘I can tell you you’re wasting your time, it’s not here.’ It was in the safe in his office and he was the executor, not Oliver.

Oliver came towards him, swinging the rucksack at him. Swift put an arm out and blocked it, then held a hand in front of his face. This close, Oliver smelled of stale sweat and something acidic.

‘You’re a right bastard,’ he spat. ‘Stay out of my business.’

‘Glad to. Now I’ll just see you off the premises but give me the key first.’

‘Sod off. You’ve no right.’

He tried to push past but Swift continued to block the door, placing his arms against the frame, staring at Oliver impassively. ‘I could call the police, you know,’ he said.

Oliver took the key from his pocket and threw it at him. It caught his chin as it fell. He thought of taking a look in the rucksack but decided that would be pushing it.

‘Out,’ he said, moving well aside in case Oliver took a swipe at him as he left.

He ran into the hallway and clattered down the stairs with a parting shout of ‘fuck off, bastard.’ He gave the front door its usual thunderous slam on his way out.

Swift picked up the key, assuming that Oliver had at some point had a copy made without his father’s knowledge. He checked through the flat. Oliver hadn’t bothered to close drawers and cupboards properly. He tidied, made sure appliances were turned off and locked the door. Downstairs, he bolted the front door and checked his soup. It was ready but his appetite had gone. He sat and drank his wine, mulling over Florence and Oliver hiding their greed and self-interest behind masks of solicitude. He would have to tell Cedric about Oliver’s visit and the key he had taken from him but he wouldn’t mention his motive; it would embarrass them both and hurt Cedric. He felt bleak and chilled. He put a jumper on, poured another drink and thought of King Lear:

How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is

To have a thankless child.

* * *

Swift woke at seven a.m. in a sweat. He had been dreaming about a dimly lit roomful of women who were crying, but he didn’t know the reason. One of them had looked up, stretching her hands out to him and he had seen that it was Ruth. As he went towards her, he woke. He sat up and breathed deeply, recovering. He saw through the open curtain that it was a fine day and was relieved; later on was Joyce’s party and he would be able to meander in the garden and not get trapped at her side in the house. He made coffee, donned his rowing clothes and spent two hours on the river, still a little haunted by the crying women.

When he returned he had a text from Cedric, saying that he was on his way home with Milo. He showered and dressed in his one suit, a fine grey wool one that he had last worn for his Interpol interview. Under it he put an open-necked pale blue cotton shirt. He ladled some soup into a large bowl and took it upstairs to Cedric’s kitchen, placing it in the microwave. As he opened a living room window he saw Cedric and Milo getting out of a taxi. He waved and waited while they came up the stairs, Cedric leading the way, sporting a plaster on his right cheek. He seemed undaunted by his adventure with the pavement and clasped Swift on the shoulder.

‘Thank you, dear boy. Good of you to keep an eye on things.’

‘You’ve recovered okay?’

‘Absolutely. A good night’s shut-eye and this morning they gave me porridge that was amazingly good for the NHS. Apparently they’ve had a celebrity chef in there recently who shook them up.’

‘Love the suit, Ty,’ Milo said, peering at his jacket and fingering the front. ‘Got a hot date? If not, I’m available.’

‘No, just my stepmother’s birthday party. I’ve left some soup in the microwave, plenty for both of you. Do you want me to call in this evening?’ He thought he would leave it until later to mention Oliver.

‘That would be kind of you. I’m going to send Milo packing once I’m sorted, then I’ll take it easy. Good luck with Joyce.’

* * *

Someone — Joyce probably, it was very much her kind of gesture — had tied bunches of multicoloured balloons to the porch of her house. Swift knew that it was inevitable and right that Joyce would make her mark on her own home, but he had never adjusted to his mother’s quietly individual taste in décor being replaced by Joyce’s flamboyant preferences. Joyce favoured bold colours, brassware and heavily patterned fabrics. He chided himself for his feelings, believing that a man in his late thirties should have overcome such pettiness; after all, he hardly wanted Joyce to live in a museum dedicated to his mother’s memory. Still, as he was greeted by Joyce and went in, he winced at the wallpaper in the hall. It was green, patterned with gaudy red poppies.

‘Tyrone!’ Joyce said, hugging him close to her stout bosom, her chin just above his elbow, then standing back and examining him, hands on his arms. ‘It’s been far too long, you know. You look very well.’

‘So do you. Happy Birthday.’ He presented his gift and Joyce swept him to her again, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

She was wearing a highly floral scent and he pinched his upper lip, hoping to avoid sneezing.

‘Come on through,’ she said. ‘There are loads of people here. Mary’s around somewhere too.’

He followed her through the house to the sitting room at the back. Joyce had gone for a nautical look for her birthday; a white flouncy skirt topped by a navy-and-white striped shirt and a blue and white striped bandana in her hair. Although she grew ever plumper, she was light and graceful on her feet and fast moving. The house was heaving with guests and the noise level was high. Tyrone didn’t recognise anyone so he just smiled vaguely and generally at anyone who made eye contact with him. To his horror, Joyce clapped her hands, as if bringing a class to order and called loudly.

‘This is Tyrone, everyone; my handsome stepson and detective extraordinaire! Anybody want a crime solved, this is your man!’

There was laughter and some people raised glasses to him. He nodded and accepted a glass of wine from a man who was wearing an apron saying
I’m Only Here for the Beer
.

Joyce drew him away to a corner while she opened her present. ‘Oh, how lovely!’ she said, ‘a beautiful colour!’ She draped the stole across her chest and twirled around, as if modelling it.

‘I’m glad you like it. How have you been keeping?’ he asked quickly, worried that she might call the company to order again to display her gift.

‘Very well indeed. I’ve taken up golf recently and it’s wonderful, literally keeps me on my toes although, sadly, I don’t seem to lose any inches here.’ She patted her midriff. But Tyrone . . .’ She drew close to him, a hand on his arm. ‘How are you keeping really? I do worry about this private agency thing; it can’t be as rewarding as a professional career, surely?’

‘I find it rewarding enough, thanks. I like being my own boss.’

‘Yes, but you’re still young and at Interpol you had a career progression. I always thought you’d become an international head of something there. I worry that you’re wasting your huge talents.’

‘As I said, I like heading up my own business. I have what most people envy these days; a work-life balance.’

Joyce moved even closer so that he was backed against a corner cabinet, the edge poking him in the hip. He could feel her warm breath on his face and see the join between her foundation and skin along the line of her cheek.

‘And have you met anyone nice? I worry about you being lonely after that bad business with Ruth. I do hope you’re not still pining after her.’ Her intensity was too much, her head to one side, her gaze soulful.

‘Joyce, I’m fine. My life is fine. Now, you’re neglecting your other guests. Can I get you a drink?’

He started to move forward, guiding Joyce by the elbow towards the man in the apron. As soon as she was involved in getting a Bacardi and coke, he escaped through the open doors to the garden and stood in the sun, watching several children dangling their feet in the pond. He drank his wine; unlike the house, the garden had changed little since his mother’s time and if he squeezed his eyes, he could see her sitting in her chair by the plum tree, reading Muriel Spark and giggling. One morning, his mother had complained of pains in her finger joints; an initial diagnosis of rheumatism was quickly replaced by bone cancer and within six months she was dead. Even now, so many years later, he still thought he might pick up the phone and hear her voice.

An arm sneaked under his jacket and circled his waist. He turned to see Mary smiling at him, sunglasses perched in her hair.

‘You’ve escaped to the outdoors, then,’ she said.

‘I have, but only after close questioning about my lack of career prospects and love life.’

‘I’m not sure about Joyce’s sailor look but she’s certainly got a good crowd. Now, let me introduce you to Simone.’ Mary beckoned to a woman in a cream linen dress, her hair curling below her shoulders. ‘This is Ty; Ty, Simone.’

They shook hands; Simone’s was cool and slender. She looked at him from huge, intelligent eyes and ran a hand through her curls, pushing them back as they glinted with reddish tints in the sun.

‘Good to meet you,’ Swift said.

‘And you. I’ve never met a private detective before.’

Despite her French sounding name and café au lait skin, her accent was Geordie.

‘Well, glad to be your first. Hope you’re surviving Joyce. She means well.’

‘Your stepmother is certainly a formidable woman. She insisted on me eating vol-au-vents that I didn’t want.’ Her voice was musical and droll.