The Lady Vanished (7 page)

Langborne tucked into the gooey mess of his pudding, his eyes glazing with pleasure.

‘The police are presumably doing their job; I couldn’t see why you were needed. Of course Flo is concerned about Carmen being found, because of the money, as well as worrying about her.’ He looked at Swift, clearly making a calculation about his next statement. ‘You’re an intelligent man with a police background, you know about the seven-year rule regarding death in absentia. If there is a worst case scenario and Carmen is never found Flo has to wait seven years before a death can be assumed and property dealt with by the family.’

‘The same applies to you.’

‘Yes, but I have no immediate need of money. Flo’s husband was made redundant last year and has only recently found another job at a lower salary. They’re used to a certain lifestyle; I would hazard a guess that a lot of debt has been built up on credit cards. Seven years would be a long wait for Flo and I don’t think she makes much out of whatever she does pampering to people’s vanity.’

‘Personal styling.’

‘That’s it; what a waste of a good education. She’s not that bright but she went to Roedean, you know.’

Swift thought that personal stylist was exactly the kind of occupation that women who had been to Roedean might end up in.

‘Your stepmother had down
WP
and
Haven
in her diary, for the day she disappeared. Any idea what she meant?’

Rupert scratched his forehead. ‘Not at all, means nothing to me.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well
, tempus fugit
and all that.’

Swift had no more questions and had had enough of Langborne’s heavy presence. He offered to pay his half of the bill but Langborne waved his hand and insisted on settling it. Swift allowed him, wondering if the lunch had been on the taxpayer.

* * *

Swift browsed the shops on the Waterloo station concourse after lunch and found an apricot-patterned silk stole that he thought Joyce would like. The assistant gift-wrapped it for him and he took it to a coffee shop where he bought an espresso and rang DI Morrow. It was always worth keeping a line open to the Met once you had a useful contact and he wanted to emphasise that he had done her a favour with Dr Forsyth’s information. A man answered, said he thought she was about, and then yelled her name. She came on the line with the same hurried tone.

‘Hi, it’s Tyrone Swift here. Did Dr Forsyth contact you?’

‘Yep, thanks for telling her to ring us. I’ve a bit of news for you; we’ve brought Paul Davenport in for questioning about Carmen.’

‘Oh? What’s happened?’

‘I can’t tell you now; I’ll try to catch you later.’

‘I’ve talked to Rupert Langborne today. Have you time for a drink after work?’

‘Ahm . . . okay, just a quick one. Say at seven. Do you know the Parterre off Portobello Road?’

‘No, but I’ll find it. See you there. I’ll be parked just inside the door with a copy of the
Evening Standard
.’

Swift thought for a moment, then rang Florence Davenport’s number. It went to voicemail and he left a message, asking her to call him. At last, there was a development and if Paul Davenport did have something to do with Carmen’s disappearance, it would conform to the statistics that the perpetrator of harm was usually to be found within the family.

CHAPTER 6

Florence Davenport still hadn’t returned Swift’s call when he arrived at the Parterre just before seven. He wondered if she was at a police station or busy with a solicitor. He looked around but couldn’t see any women on their own. The place was low-lit and furnished with distressed leather chairs and benches, oriental style, multicoloured scatter cushions, rag rugs that snagged underfoot and wall tapestries covered in abstract designs. Swift ordered a beer and sat in a chair by a scarred table just inside the window. He browsed his
Evening Standard
and when Nora Morrow still hadn’t arrived by seven fifteen, started on the crossword.

Five minutes later the door banged open and a woman erupted through it, clutching a briefcase, laptop and bulging rucksack. She looked around and Swift rose.

‘Nora? Can I help you with your luggage?’

‘Please. Here, take the rucksack. Ta.’

Swift put it under the table, noting the trainers and sweatshirt sticking out through the top. Nora Morrow yanked a chair out with her foot and slumped into it, placing her laptop and briefcase on the bench beside her. She blew her hair back, shucked her shoes off and waved a finger at a waiter.

‘Want another of those?’ she asked Swift.

‘No thanks, I’m taking it slow.’

‘Small whisky please,’ she told the waiter, ‘and some of those pretzels you have stashed.’

She was medium height, wiry and dark-haired, with a short Audrey Hepburn style; Swift knew that this was called a pixie cut because a girlfriend at university had once had it done. There was nothing gamine about her though; she had a good-looking, square-shaped face, straight nose and grey-green eyes like a cat. She stretched her arms above her and rolled her head clockwise, then anti-clockwise.
Limber
was the word that occurred to Swift.

He held out a hand. ‘Good to meet you.’

‘Oh, yes.’ She held hers out. She had a cool, firm handshake. ‘Hope you don’t mind this place with its Afghan market/ethnic look; I find it an antidote to soulless offices. So you’re Mary Adair’s cousin?’

‘That’s right. I didn’t think you knew her?’

She looked at him appraisingly. ‘I’ve heard her speak. I worship her from afar. She’s my kind of woman — no-nonsense, pragmatic.’

He smiled. ‘She’s one of my favourite people.’

Her whisky arrived and she took a mouthful, murmuring with pleasure. ‘Tyrone’s an Irish name. Are you one of my tribe?’

‘My mother was from Connemara.’

‘Oh, you’re a wild sea-blown man.’ She took a couple of pretzels and flipped one into her mouth. ‘No time for lunch, just the distant memory of half a sandwich,’ she said.

‘I lunched with Rupert Langborne and watched him juggling kidneys. He wasn’t much help although he did acknowledge that his stepmother is unlikely to be voluntarily missing at this stage. He did tell me that his sister is strapped for money and I wondered why he chose to divulge that piece of information.’

‘The perm sec, Mr Smoothie? I suppose they’re trained to be as bland as that in the Civil Service. He kept calling me “my dear lady.” Interesting what he told you about Florence, given what her husband has been squawking to us this afternoon. Want a pretzel?’

Swift took a couple. ‘What can you tell me?’

Nora massaged her neck and shoulders. She was wearing a grey two-piece suit, a navy shirt and a small grey string bow tie which Swift found particularly fetching and quirky.

‘Yesterday we had a call from a neighbour of Carmen Langborne who lives just up the street, other side. Name’s Bruno Dacre. He’d been away in Florida for three months since January. I loved the way he said, “one can’t tolerate the winter in Blighty.” So once he’d unpacked and caught up with his
Financial Times
he noticed that his neighbour had gone missing. He knows her because he signed her petition about the basement showdown; diggers at dawn etc. He told me that he saw Paul Davenport walking away from Carmen’s door the morning she vanished, at about eleven a.m.’ She took another draught of whisky.

‘How does he know Paul?’

‘Saw him at Carmen’s once when he dropped off a UKIP leaflet.’

‘And according to Florence, the last time they saw Carmen was on Boxing Day.’

‘Correct. And of course, Paul is arguing Jesuitically that it wasn’t a lie; he says he didn’t see Carmen that morning because she wasn’t in. Says he called on the off-chance.’

‘Did you interview him at the station?’

‘I certainly did. Gave him a nice fright. He says he spoke to Carmen on Boxing Day about a loan of twenty thousand. He was out of work for a while and they’ve got significant debts. Carmen said she’d think about it and he hadn’t heard from her so he called round because he had a business meeting in Kensington and it was on his way.’

‘Why was he asking her and not Florence?’

‘Good question and I asked it. Because, he said, he and Florence thought Carmen would respond better to him because she prefers chaps.’

Swift nodded. ‘Chimes with what I’ve picked up.’

‘Hmm. Anyway, he sticks to his story that he rang the bell, there was no reply so he left.’

‘Did Florence know he was going round that morning?’

‘He said yes, so then we got her in and she gave the same story. Of course, they’ve had plenty of time to patch it together. They both said, surprise, surprise, that they hadn’t given us this information before because it might throw suspicion on them and detract from the search for her, blah blah.’

‘Did you believe them?’

Nora shrugged. ‘Probably. He seems an ineffectual kind of man; can’t see him harming anyone myself but . . . money is a powerful driver.’

Nora finished her whisky and dusted pretzel crumbs from her lap. Swift rolled his glass in his hands, feeling annoyed with the Davenports.

‘Explains why Florence hasn’t returned my call from earlier,’ he said. ‘I suppose, if they have done away with Carmen, they could have decided to employ me to cover them and maybe also come up with the body.’

‘Maybe; you would then handily resolve the seven-year problem of having to wait for the dosh.’

‘None of their fingerprints were in the house, though.’

‘No. I can’t see them in the frame, they’re too gormless. We’ll be checking on this business meeting he was supposed to be at that day and we’ll double-check Florence’s whereabouts. I have a feeling you’ll be taking to them.’

‘Yeah, as soon as I can. From what I’ve learned about Carmen Langborne, I’m not sure she’d approve the request for a loan. Given that the Davenports are clearly living beyond their means, with a nanny and horse riding for Florence, I have a feeling she’d be the kind to suggest they cut their expenditure.’

‘She does seem to be a bit high-handed; not exactly a wicked stepmother but not a cherisher of her family.’

Swift nodded. ‘By the way, I’ve arranged to see the manager at the home in Kingston upon Thames where Carmen stayed in September.’

‘Okay; I’m not pursuing that at present, haven’t got the staff. Don’t forget to share. Makes me bloody annoyed; those Davenports have been banging on about us not finding her and they’ve been withholding information. She contacted their MP, you know. I was called in to talk about a letter from the Right Hon.’ Nora smiled. ‘I did enjoy pulling them both in, because of that. Anyways, much as it’s a pleasure to take a drink with a handsome private eye and cousin of my idol, I have to be on my way. Where do you get the muscles?’ She tapped Swift’s upper arm but impersonally, as a doctor might.

‘I row as often as I can.’

‘Really? Terrific; I used to row a bit back in Dublin but haven’t for a while. Maybe we could go out some time, as long as it’s a rowette; I’m a bit rusty.’

She was collecting together her various bags and slipping her shoes back on.

‘Sure,’ Swift replied, thinking it was just one of those things people said. ‘I’ll walk you out. Are you driving?’

‘No way in this city. I’ll catch a cab. See you, then.’

Swift watched her stride away, hitching up her rucksack, her tie flapping in the breeze.

He made his way home, leaving another message for Florence Davenport, stating sternly that he would be visiting them the following evening at seven thirty to discuss information he had received from the police.

* * *

Cedric had been married briefly and, Swift had gathered, disastrously in his forties. The unhappy union had produced one son, Oliver, who lived in Greenwich and visited his father now and again; usually, it seemed, to have a row with him. Swift was fascinated by the random genetic soup that could result in a benign, cheerful man like Cedric producing such an ill-tempered offspring who looked nothing like him. Oliver was a square-shaped, densely boned man with a heavy tread as he clumped up and down the stairs. He wore a permanent look of resentment. If there was slight to be taken, Oliver was the man to take it. Cedric appeared to accept his visitations as a kind of penance because he felt guilty at not having been much of a father when Oliver was a child. This would have been difficult as Oliver’s mother had taken him to live in France after the divorce, marrying three more times before dying in a road accident. Oliver made sure that he explored the rich seams in the deep mine of Cedric’s parental guilt. Lily had described Oliver as a conniving, self-absorbed, unpleasant piece of work who visited his father in order to abuse him and extract money.

Swift had heard Oliver banging up the stairs that morning, after he returned from an early row. The river had been choppy and exhilarating in a downpour. As he towelled himself dry, he felt the sense of wellbeing it always brought him. He spent some time checking his bank accounts while he ate breakfast. His savings were healthy, due partly to Lily’s legacy and his low overheads and lack of mortgage. His current account could be better padded but he wasn’t worried; he lived cheaply, had a reasonable work stream and Cedric’s rent added a regular monthly income. He became aware of Oliver’s voice from the floor above, becoming louder and angrier and Cedric’s mild answers. The ceiling shivered as he stomped up and down his father’s living room. Cedric never revealed what Oliver was angry about; the only comment he had ever passed about him to Swift was that ‘he had his funny ways.’

He was opening the door to go down to his office when Cedric’s door slammed and Oliver came down the stairs, mouth twisted.

‘Hello,’ Swift said. ‘Been to see your dad?’

Oliver shot him a look of pure poison. He was supposed to be a sculptor of some kind and used this as a reason to wash infrequently. He was wearing a khaki smock daubed in streaks of clay over denim shorts. Swift was unsure if this was a fabric design or a public promotion of his craft. His muscular legs were also clay-streaked in places. His hair flopped greasily on his shoulders and a scent of mildew hung about him. His fury crackled, igniting the air.

‘Him? That excuse for a father?’ he said and pushed past Swift, leaving the door swinging.

There was a lovely silence in the hallway. Swift breathed it in and then, concerned, ran up to Cedric’s flat. He knocked and after a few moments Cedric opened the door, a small glass of brandy in his hand. He looked weary and pale, as he usually did when Oliver had visited.

‘Come in, dear boy.’

‘I just wondered if you’re okay. Oliver seemed upset so I thought you might be.’

Swift followed him into his living room which was always neat and orderly, everything in its place, pens lined up with military precision besides the morning paper, ready for Sudoku.

‘Oh, you know, he gets worked up. Brandy?’

‘No thanks, bit early for me. It’s not too good, having someone shouting at you.’

‘No, no.’ Cedric sank into a chair and swirled his drink, looked into it as if it might reveal something. He laughed nervously. ‘Apparently I’m a fascist because I suggested that if he’s broke, he could try getting a job that pays a wage. It was just a thought. Didn’t go down well.’

It was the most he had ever said about his son. Swift saw that his hand around the glass was trembling.

‘You know,’ he said gently, ‘you don’t have to see Oliver if he’s offensive to you. No one has to put up with that.’ Cedric’s wallet was on the coffee table and Swift guessed that he had parted with money.

‘No. It’s just not that simple, dear boy, when it’s family . . . Oliver’s had his troubles and struggles . . .’

Swift didn’t buy into that model of thinking; everyone had troubles and struggles, it didn’t excuse treating other people like dirt. But he knew that family webs were intricate and layered. ‘Can I make you a coffee?’

Cedric shook his head and downed his brandy, rallying. ‘Not at all, I’m fine. Just a tiff, you know. These things happen in families. I have to get myself shipshape; I’m off to the quiz at the library.’

‘Ok, if you’re sure. Boiler okay?’

‘Fine now. You escaped from the young cyclist who seemed out for your blood?’

Swift told him about his meeting with Rachel Breen and Cedric laughed, his face relaxing, the colour returning to his cheeks.

* * *

Swift caught the train to Kingston upon Thames, then took a cab to Lilac Grange which was situated a couple of miles to the south of the town. It was raining heavily and the streets looked dank and bleak.