The Lady Vanished (8 page)

He had expected a large old house adapted to a care home but Lilac Grange was a purpose-built home, opened in 2005 and operated by a national chain. It was set back from the road behind low brick walls and laurel hedges and was a bland, two-storey building with a wide central doorway with glass panels that hissed open automatically. The reception area was light and airy with numerous plants and vases of flowers. Swift introduced himself, showed his ID and signed the visitors’ book. The tiny, doll-like woman at the desk who was wearing more make-up than he had seen on any face for a long time, said she would fetch Ms Berardi and invited him to take a seat. Instead, he stood and scrutinised the noticeboard. He read about activities of the friends of Lilac Grange, the weekly lunchtime concert — a pianist was expected today — availability of visiting hairdresser and chiropodist and the day’s menu. He noted that fire evacuation procedures featured and the names of first aiders.

He detected a musky scent and turned to see a small rounded woman in a smart light blue jacket and skirt. She held out her hand. Her smile was a little tight in her jowly face so Swift switched on full-beam charm.

‘Good morning,’ she said in a nasal voice, her Italian accent more pronounced in person. ‘Welcome to Lilac Grange, Mr Swift. I am Maria Berardi.’

‘Hello, I’m very pleased to meet you.’

She nodded. ‘Perhaps you would like to come to my office.’

It was a command rather than a request. Swift followed her, watching her purposeful, pigeon-toed walk and thick ankles. She was wearing flat ballet pumps which seemed too insubstantial to support her broad feet and ample frame. They walked along a wide corridor, passing several care assistants in pale green uniforms, shepherding old people with sticks and Zimmer frames. One elderly man smiled and Swift smiled back, adding a good morning, glad that Cedric wasn’t likely to end up in such a place. A radio was playing classical music and there were the muted sounds of running water and cisterns flushing. Ms Berardi’s office was small and bright, with photos of residents and staff engaged in various activities. Rotas and holiday charts were pinned to a notice board. She indicated a chair for him and sat, clasping her hands before her on her plump abdomen. She was in her late thirties, he guessed. He wondered what had brought her from Italy to spend her days with the ailing population of Lilac Grange.

‘I’m here to find out if anything happened while Mrs Langborne was staying that might throw some light on her disappearance. I have told the police I’m visiting. They’re not planning to contact you at present.’

Ms Berardi nodded, turned to the computer behind her and unlocked the screen, bringing up a chart. She was wearing what looked like false nails so Swift guessed she didn’t do any hands-on work with the residents.

‘Mrs Langborne was here for two weeks last September, from the fifth. She’d had a virus, said she felt under the weather and required rest. She stayed in Acorn wing, which is for private guests. Her record shows that she ate and slept fairly well, rarely mixed with other residents and did not wish to participate in activities. She read a good deal, knitted and walked in the gardens.’

‘Sounds as if she was a little aloof.’

She looked at Swift. ‘I believe so. I did not see a great deal of Mrs Langborne until she came to my office two days before her leaving date.’

‘There was a problem?’

Ms Berardi took a breath. ‘I have contacted our personnel department about this and they say I can tell you some details.’ She turned back to the screen and scrolled down the page, checking something. ‘Mrs Langborne informed me that she had discovered that one of our night carers had another job during the day. She had overheard this carer on the phone, discussing her other employment. Mrs Langborne had already commented to my deputy that she had seen this carer asleep in the staff area when she should have been awake and checking vulnerable residents; Mrs Langborne had gone to the kitchen for a drink in the early hours. We do not allow our full-time staff to work at other jobs that might compromise their caring abilities and especially those who work a night shift as they need to be alert. I had to look into it and I confirmed that this carer had another job in a bakery in the day. I’m afraid we had to dismiss her.’

‘Did Mrs Langborne know this would lead to the carer being sacked?’

Ms Berardi picked at a button on her jacket sleeve. ‘I did not discuss this with her. I told her the matter would be investigated and left it there. She was, I found, a determined kind of person and told me that she had to do her duty. The carer’s dismissal took place about four weeks after Mrs Langborne left so I doubt she knew.’

‘And the carer? Did she know that Mrs Langborne had reported her?’

‘I did not inform the carer and my deputy was the only other person who knew; she would not have passed this information on. However, I can’t say that the carer might not have found out somehow. There is a large staff group here and one cannot always prevent rumours and gossip.’ She had an asthmatic wheeze when she spoke and she patted her chest. ‘It was correct that Mrs Langborne reported this to me but the carer was one of our best and I was sorry to see her go. But there we are; she had breached her contract.’

‘Can I have this carer’s name?’

‘I can give you that but I have been advised that I cannot give you her address. Her name is Charisse Lomar.’

‘And she left here the end of October?’

‘That’s correct.’

Swift noted the information. ‘Was this carer, Charisse, friendly with any of the other staff here, someone who might know her whereabouts?’

Ms Berardi’s look was not amiable. ‘I’m not sure that it would be correct for you to talk to any carers.’

Swift nodded. ‘I know it’s a further imposition but there is an elderly lady missing, which is very worrying.’

She made a snuffling noise and cleared her throat. She stood and looked at a rota on the wall. ‘Beata Jesowski is here this morning and I believe she and Charisse were friendly. She’s due a break so I’ll ask her if she will speak to you. It will be up to her; after all, you’re not the police. I must ask you not to speak to her of Mrs Langborne’s complaint about Charisse.’

‘Yes, I understand.’

‘Wait here, please, and she only has fifteen minutes for her break.’

She locked her computer, took an inhaler from a desk drawer and exited. Swift stood and opened a window; the air in the place was stifling, like a hospital. He stood in the office doorway, observing carers coming and going. A thin old lady wearing pink curlers of the type that Lily used to employ wandered up to him.

‘Have you seen my Pete?’ she asked Swift. ‘He was supposed to be in for his dinner but he hasn’t shown up.’ She looked about, distractedly.

‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘Maybe one of the staff can help?’

She looked around him into the office, rubbing her hands anxiously. ‘He’s not in there, is he? He’s a devil for forgetting the time.’

‘There’s no one else in here.’

She clutched Swift’s arm. ‘What if he’s had an accident? I’m always warning him about those machines. The kids will be worrying. And I’ve done sausage casserole, his favourite.’

Swift took her papery, chilly hand, seeing the distress in her faraway eyes. ‘Let’s find someone who can help.’

‘He cut his hand on one of those machines last year; there was a terrible lot of blood.’

A carer was coming towards them. She took the woman’s other hand and rubbed it.

‘What are you doing down here, Kitty? The hairdresser’s looking for you.’

The three of them were standing holding hands, Swift thought, as if they were about to execute a dance.

‘Pete’s not been in for his dinner, I’m worried about him,’ Kitty said.

‘Well, let’s go and get your hair finished and then we’ll see if he’s turned up. You want to look nice for him, don’t you?’ The carer took her other hand from Swift’s and started to lead her away.

‘Pete’s her husband, died years ago,’ she murmured to Swift over her shoulder.

He watched them progress slowly away, Kitty still wondering where Pete was, repeating all she had said to him seconds before. Swift felt a leaden bleakness. He couldn’t imagine how anyone could work here day in and day out, dealing with the remorseless onset of second childhood. He turned back into the office and helped himself to stale-tasting water from a jug.

There was a tap on the door and a woman in a carer’s green uniform came in. She was painfully thin with fair hair scraped back into a ponytail from a high, bony forehead.

‘You want to talk to me?’ she asked in a flat, pronounced accent that Swift thought was Polish.

He stood. ‘Yes that would be helpful, Ms Jesowski. My name is Swift.’

She sat in an upright chair near the open window. Her eyes were almost colourless, and wary. Her whole appearance was of someone who had been pared back to the bone.

‘I not done anything wrong,’ she said dully.

‘No, I’m sure you haven’t. I don’t know what Ms Berardi has told you, so I’ll explain. I’ve come because a Mrs Carmen Langborne stayed here last September. She went missing in January and her family have asked me to try and find her. I understand that you were friendly with a carer called Charisse Lomar who has now left here.’

There was a pause. ‘I knew Charisse a bit,’ she said.

‘Yes. Are you still in touch with her?’

Another pause, as if she was translating his words, or perhaps playing for time.

‘She calls me sometimes, see how I am.’

‘On the phone?’

A longer pause. ‘Yes.’

‘Did you know Charisse was sacked?’

‘Yes. Everyone know.’

‘Do you know where she lives?’

She folded her arms, blinked, and lied. ‘No. I never been her house.’

Swift sat forward slightly and sighed. ‘You’re not in any trouble and Charisse probably isn’t either. Are you sure you don’t know where she lives?’

There was a long silence. A small red flush had appeared on her neck. ‘You not police?’

‘No.’ He could almost hear her brain whirring.

‘I told you, I don’t know. I do good job here, is important to me.’

‘Okay. Did you know Mrs Langborne?’

She relaxed a little at that question, away from the topic of Charisse. ‘I help her a couple times.’

‘What was she like?’

‘Okay. Liked to give orders; do it this way, that way, be careful. But okay.’

‘Did she get on with Charisse?’

The shutters came down again. ‘I don’t know, I just do my job, keep my head down. I got to go now.’

She got up and abruptly left the room. Swift scratched his head with frustration, adding an extra wild touch to his rain blown curls. Maria Berardi appeared but before she could speak her phone rang; she held a conversation about catering supplies while checking lists on her computer screen. As she replaced the phone, a carer hurried to the door, asking her to come quickly as Mr Blantyre had fallen heavily. She rushed away, forgetting to lock her computer. Swift closed the door quietly, then navigated to the desktop and scrutinised the icons. One was titled STAFF. He clicked it and mouthed
bingo
as he accessed a list with personal details. He scribbled down Charisse Lomar’s address in New Malden and her mobile phone number, exited the screen and wrote on a post-it pad on the desk;
thank you for your time and help
. He made his way back to reception. A piano was playing from somewhere in the depths of the building and warbling voices sang along to ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.’

Outside, it was still raining; a warm, drifting drizzle. He called a cab and decided to visit Charisse Lomar while he might still have the surprise factor; he was sure that Beata would be ringing her at some point that day. As he waited his phone rang. He turned his face away from the rain to answer it.

‘Is that Mr Tyrone Swift?’ a deep, tired sounding voice said.

‘That’s right.’

‘I’m calling from Paddington Green police, sir. Do you know a Ms Rachel Breen and a Mr Edward Boyce?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. They’re here at the station. We had to deal with an altercation in a restaurant and now they’re both wanting to press charges against the other. Ms Breen has been saying that Mr Boyce got you to harass her.’

‘No, that’s not the case. I’m a private detective and Mr Boyce engaged me because he said Ms Breen was stalking him. I found no evidence of that and I’m no longer working for him.’

‘I see. Frankly, we’d prefer it if they’d both shut up, go home and deal with their problems through solicitors.’

‘What are these charges?’

‘He has a minor cut on his lip, caused he says by a flying wine glass thrown by Ms Breen, she has a small bruise on her right arm where she says he grabbed her during their argument. Other diners at the restaurant say there was a fracas but can’t verify who did what to who. There was quite a lot of lasagne on the floor.’

‘Sounds like an interesting lunch. They’re arguing over property and possessions after a split, is what I understand.’

‘Like I say, best left to solicitors or mediation. I think Ms Breen’s solicitor might be getting in touch with you about the harassment.’