The Lady Vanished (11 page)

‘Ty pretty much had to run away from her in his teens. Do you remember she redecorated your bedroom without consulting you?’ Mary giggled, nudging him.

‘I do. I came home and found magenta ruched curtains and the waxed floorboards covered in a carpet with green foliage. It’s exhausting, tiptoeing around someone who barges into your life with good intentions. That’s why I’m a bad stepson and don’t come here often.’

‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Simone advised. ‘Isn’t there a saying that friends are God’s apology for families?’

‘I haven’t heard that before; I like it.’ Swift raised his glass to the notion.

They stood and chatted for a while about their work. Swift saw the way that Mary and Simone exchanged fond glances, touching each other lightly now and again. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he moved away to take the call from an unknown number.

It was Charisse Lomar, sounding hysterical; ‘That you, Mr Swift? You gone and told police about me.’

He could barely hear her through her gulps for air. ‘I had to tell the police about what I’d found out because they’ve been looking for Mrs Langborne. Where are you?’

‘Home. You done bad thing. Police have been here, they took Vincent away.’ She started crying louder.

‘Listen, try and breathe, please. What happened?’ He heard one of the children shouting in the background and a door slamming. ‘Charisse?’

She blew her nose and gulped. ‘Police came and asked questions about where we were end of January and Vincent got mad. He punched policeman so they took him. That bad woman, we don’t do nothing to her! She cause lots of trouble. Vincent don’t do nothing!’ She started weeping again.

‘I’ll come round’, he said. ‘Can you hear me?’

The line was dead. He looked up at the clear sky. He had better go there; he didn’t like to think what might happen when Vincent got home, if the police released him.

‘Trouble?’ Mary asked.

‘Yes, I haven’t got time to tell you now, I need to go. Can you say goodbye to Joyce for me if I don’t catch her? It’s been great to meet you,’ he said to Simone, heading back for the house.

The sitting room crowd had thinned out and he could hear why; Joyce was at her piano in the front room, singing from Gilbert and Sullivan. He was thankful that he would escape without fond farewells and false promises to visit soon. He slipped through the hallway to the strains of ‘Three Little Maids from School’ and closed the door quietly behind him. One of the balloons had come adrift and was lolling by the gate. He nudged it aside, calling a taxi, calculating how long it would take to get from Muswell Hill to New Malden.

CHAPTER 8

Swift asked the taxi driver to step on it, not liking to contemplate what the ride was going to cost him but knowing he owed it to Charisse. On the way, he rang Nora Morrow to find out the situation with Vincent Lomar but her phone went straight to answerphone. He left a message, asking for an update and adding that he was worried about the family. He sat back and watched the streets reel by. He knew that there was little he could do for Charisse about her abusive husband, except tell her where she could go for help. When he reached the flats, he rang Charisse’s number, ready to put the phone down if Lomar answered or was there. She picked up after six rings, her voice dull and nasal.

‘It’s Tyrone Swift. I’m downstairs and I’d like to come up and see you. Is your husband around?’

‘No. He rang from police. They keeping him overnight.’

‘What about the children?’ They might tell their father of his visit; abusers used their power to make everyone an informer.

‘They at a friend.’

‘Can I come up, then?’

‘Okay.’

She was waiting at the open door for him, arms crossed, staring out at the cement pastures below. Her eyes were red and puffy. She led him in wordlessly, leaving him to close the door.

‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I had to tell the police.’

She sank into a chair and stared at him. ‘You bring trouble to my door,’ she said simply.

He nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Was your husband arrested?’

‘Yes. After he punch policeman.’

‘That was a bad move.’

‘He has a temper.’

‘Has he been in trouble with the police before?’

She looked down. ‘Once, years ago before I knew him. He robbed a shop, got caught.’

‘He’s been in prison?’

‘Six month. He not bad man.’ She leaked tears again and dabbed at her eyes. The room was in a mess compared to his last visit, cups and glasses on the table and clothes hanging on chairs.

‘Do you want me to make you a cup of tea?’ Swift asked.

‘No. What you want?’

‘I wanted to see how you are. Did the police ask your husband where he was on January thirty-first?’

She nodded. ‘He was off work sick. He say he was here on his own. I was at work. They ask him if he saw Mrs Langborne that day and he got angry.’

‘What do you think; do you think he saw her?’

She put her hands to her face. ‘Why should he see that woman? She nothing to do with us.’

‘Perhaps because he was angry with her? He might have wanted to tell her what he thought of her reporting you, making you lose your job.’

She rubbed at her eyes. ‘I know what you trying to say. Vincent wouldn’t harm old lady. He had bad cough and cold, he stay in bed that day.’

Swift left a brief silence. ‘There are people you can talk to if you sometimes feel frightened of your husband, or if your children do. People who can try to help.’

She stood. ‘So that policewoman tell me. What she know? I want people leave us alone. You go now. You leave my family alone. My husband good man, good provider. What we do if he put in jail?’

‘If he’s innocent, he won’t be going to jail. Okay, I’ll go. But please ring me if you ever need help.’

She turned her back on him and straightened cushions, started to pick up toys and books. He thought it was good that she was busying herself, making order from the chaos. He let himself out and decided to walk to the station. Vincent Lomar was going to have a difficult time with the police, having indulged in assault and not being able to back up his story about January thirty-first. Swift was interested in his previous record, sure that there would be more history than one robbery and that the history would involve violence. He thought of his offer to Charisse, if she ever needed help, what could he do? His words had been those of the concerned, powerless bystander. He had seen the familiar look of cowed defeat in her eyes. They lived in different worlds and hers was a daily struggle with providing for her children and navigating her husband’s aggression towards the family.

* * *

On the train, he reflected on Joyce’s party and her questioning. Sometimes he thought maybe he should engage a female ‘walker’ to attend such events with him so that he wouldn’t be asked about his love life, or lack of it. He had a friend in Interpol who did just that after his divorce; he became so fed up with sympathetic hostesses trying to pair him off with suitable women, he paid Vanessa from an agency to accompany him to social gatherings. He sent Joyce a guilt text:

Sorry I had to rush away on business. It was a lovely party and you looked as if you were enjoying every minute. All the best, Ty.

Back home, he went straight upstairs to see Cedric, who was sitting with his feet on a stool, drinking claret and watching snooker.

‘Hello, dear boy,’ he said. ‘As you can see, I’m almost mended and indulging in slothfulness. Glass of wine?’

‘I won’t thanks, I need to write up some notes. Can I get you anything?’

‘No, no, all is well. Bertie’s owner rang me, very apologetic, saying he’ll understand if I want to give up the outings but I said not at all, I’ll be back on form in a couple of days. Have to get back in the saddle. Do sit down for a minute, you’re making my neck ache.’

Swift sat opposite him, looking at his amazingly youthful skin and fine bones and his kindly eyes, a little glazed with age. He remembered what Simone had said about friends being God’s apology. He selected his words carefully.

‘Oliver was here last night,’ he said. ‘I came up when I heard a noise. He didn’t stay long.’

Cedric took a sip of his drink. ‘Ah, I see. Well, I expect he forgot something last time he was here. Thank you for keeping an eye open, dear boy.’ He touched the plaster on his cheek, checking the edges.

‘He got in with a key, said he’d had it for a while. I thought it best if he left it with me. Shall I hang on to it?’

‘Yes, that would be helpful.’

‘That’s okay. Well, I’ll leave you in peace.’

‘Good night. Oh, how was Joyce?’

‘On fine form, dressed for a yachting trip. When I left she was at the piano, singing Gilbert and Sullivan.’

‘Dear Joyce; so enthusiastic always. Well, I won’t keep you.’

In his office, Swift checked his emails, hoping to see one from Nora Morrow, but she hadn’t responded. There was one from Carmen’s doctor, Poppy Forsyth:

Hi, I just wondered if your enquiries at the care facility were fruitful at all or if you’ve heard anything further about Carmen Langborne. She was annoying but I kind of miss her.

He thought for a moment and replied:

Hi, yes, I did discover something of interest. I could tell you about it over a drink if you’d like
.

He wrote up his notes, looking back over the chronology. If Vincent Lomar hadn’t harmed Carmen Langborne, he was no further forward. Lomar was hardly likely to confess and without a body, the police wouldn’t be able to prove anything. He tapped the desk, frustrated at his ignorance of how the questioning was going but knowing better than to bother Nora Morrow again that day. He sat back in his chair, hands behind his head, gazing at the ceiling. He knew what to do in the meantime; return to the beginning and look again, check if he had missed anything. He texted Ronnie Farley, saying that if it was ok, he would like to call round to the house again the following morning. Then he thought he had better make a start on the work Rachel Breen had asked him to do, glad to cause annoyance for the irksome, time wasting Boyce. He spent a while searching the internet for records for Edward Boyce, making notes and recording an address in Tooting Bec which was situated in the right borough and would bear further investigation.

* * *

Ronnie Farley had coffee waiting, and freshly baked fruitcake. The sun was slanting through the kitchen window and one of the cats was asleep on a chair, its paws stretched over the edge. Swift watched Ronnie cut through the still warm cake. It released scents of nutmeg and cinnamon, reminding him of his mother’s barmbrack. He felt a wistfulness for things lost and irretrievable.

‘This kitchen smells wonderful; like childhood,’ he said.

‘I have to do something while I’m here, other than cleaning and polishing or I’d go potty,’ she said. ‘This is my ma’s recipe, never fails. And I know you single men; you don’t look after yourselves with your takeaway food and ready meals.’

He was about to contest the cliché but decided to eat the cake instead. It occurred to him that she probably pictured him living in a small flat, his socks drying on a radiator, fridge filled with meals for one.

They sat at the table and she poured coffee. Her hands were strong and long fingered with ridged veins on the backs.

‘Rupert was here again the other day, checking over the place,’ she said. ‘He had a good old rummage and informed me he’ll keep me on for another month, then review the situation. Told me I mustn’t smoke on the premises, not even in the garden.’

‘That’s a bit mean.’

‘Aye, well; he who pays the piper . . . he’s full of his own importance, that one.’

There was a tabloid newspaper lying on the table. She turned it round so that Swift could see the headline concerning a retired politician who was being questioned by the police about historic allegations of paedophilia.

‘Have you ever dealt with anything like this?’

‘Yes, at one time although not that specific area of enquiry.’

‘Hardly a day seems to go by now without something like this in the news. What do you reckon; is he guilty?’

‘Possibly. I think there have been many unreported cases of abuse, or reported and not believed. Now that victims are being listened to, I’m sure many more will come forward.’

Ronnie tapped the paper, tracing her finger around the politician’s face. ‘I don’t understand why these men behave like that. Some of them have children of their own.’

‘It is hard to believe; that’s why so many of them have got away with it.’

Ronnie sighed and busied herself pouring more coffee. ‘So, what are you looking for here this time?’

He swallowed his cake, savouring the last mouthful. ‘My compliments to you and your mother, that was delicious. I’d like to have another look through the house.’

‘In case you’ve missed a clue?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Well, when you go, take some of this cake with you or it will go to waste.’

He could smell a faint alcohol trace from her again and wondered if Rupert had detected it. Her voice sounded dry and tired and her eyes were pinkish. He thought about her life, coming to another woman’s house, baking biscuits and cakes that nobody wanted to eat.

‘Have you family, Ronnie?’

‘A few cousins in Aberdeen. On my tod otherwise.’ She picked up a weighty bunch of keys from the table and put them in her bag. ‘Mustn’t forget those; no point in being a cleaner who can’t get in to clean!’

He started at the top of the house, looking through cupboards and drawers in Carmen’s bedroom, finding only carefully hung and folded clothes; the wardrobe held Jaeger suits, shoes ranked in colour gradations and dozens of dresses in individual cellophane covers. The other two bedrooms were sterile and unused with a few books and empty drawers and wardrobes except for spare bedding. The beds were bare, with patchwork coverlets to protect them from dust. The small box room held a sewing machine and a basket with balls of wool in assorted colours. There was an armchair by the window, a cloth bag with wooden handles beside it. A radio stood alongside on top of a slim chest of drawers. From the window, you could see into several back gardens, all beautifully maintained and awash with May colours. Swift pictured Carmen sitting in her armchair and knitting, listening to the radio. He looked through the chest of drawers and saw batches of knitting and sewing patterns, a box of buttons, and an embroidered case holding threads and needles.

He toured back through the downstairs rooms but could find nothing of interest among the magazines and figurines. He opened a walnut cabinet in the dining room that was closely packed with bottles of all shapes and sizes; sherry, gin, vermouths, brandy and whisky, various liqueurs. He noticed that a bottle of Southern Comfort at the front had a misaligned top and guessed that this was Ronnie’s current tipple. This Aladdin’s cave of assorted alcohol would be a major temptation to a drinker.

He stood, looking at a particularly unattractive and no doubt valuable china shepherdess perched on top of the cabinet, her bonnet tied demurely. He thought of Carmen’s private space and how his aunt used to tuck important keepsakes into the lid of her writing box. Ronnie had Johnny Cash playing in the kitchen, bemoaning his fate for killing a man. He went back upstairs and into the box room. He lifted the case of the sewing machine, examined the smooth interior and the base, finding nothing. He sat in Carmen’s chair and picked up her cloth bag. Inside was a piece of knitting in progress, in blue and yellow stripes. The pattern enclosing it, published by a cat charity, indicated that it was going to be a toy mouse. He thought that claws would make a quick killing of a woollen mouse but perhaps that was the point. There were several pairs of needles in the bag and two balls of the wool in use. Swift took everything out and laid the contents on the carpet. A side pocket on the outside of the bag held scissors and a retractable tape measure. Swift unzipped an inside pocket and took out some folded papers. There was a pattern for a dog’s body warmer, another for a cat’s snuggle and one for hats for donkeys. Swift was fascinated by this whole world of animal fashion he had been ignorant of. He riffled through the papers. Inside the cat’s snuggle pattern was a folded letter headed the Pryce Hospice, with an address in Shepherd’s Bush. Swift smoothed it out and read the well-formed, sloping handwriting: