The Lady Vanished (9 page)

‘I wasn’t . . . oh, whatever.’ His cab was approaching. ‘I have to go now; I wish you luck with them.’

He gave the driver Charisse Lomar’s address and sank back. He was beginning to think that Ed and Rachel deserved each other. He emailed Nora Morrow, asking if there were any further developments regarding Paul Davenport. He didn’t mention the information Ms Berardi had given him for now, deciding he would see if it seemed to lead anywhere. The rain was tumbling from a steely sky and when the taxi pulled up in front of a block of flats in a grimy, rubbish-strewn road Swift paid the driver and asked him to wait for five minutes. It was a six-storey block called Nelson House and Swift followed arrows telling him that number twenty-five was on the third floor. There was a lift with a sign saying it was out of order. He climbed concrete steps that smelled of oil and urine and were decorated with graffiti. He turned onto the third floor walkway. Twenty-five was halfway along, with a scuffed red metal door. There was no bell so Swift rattled the letterbox and knocked. When there was no reply ,he repeated his actions, then bent and looked through the letterbox. All he could see was a small square hall with shoes and a child’s scooter.

‘You looking for the Lomars?’ He turned and saw a woman exiting her door a little further along the walkway, leaning on a walking stick and dragging out a shopping trolley patterned with daisies.

‘Yes. I know a friend of hers and I said I’d drop by, see how she is.’

‘You won’t catch her in this time of day. They’re out at work, aren’t they?’

‘Of course. What time does she get back?’

‘About five usually.’

‘Thanks. I’ll call again.’

‘Here,’ the woman said, ‘you couldn’t carry this down stairs for me, could you? Bloody lift’s broken again. It’s not heavy but you look fitter than me.’ She was small and rotund, wearing a woolly hat with bobbles, like a child’s. Her salt-and-pepper hair straggled below it onto her shoulders.

‘Certainly.’

Swift walked towards the stairs while she tapped her stick beside him. He carried the empty trolley down, going in front of her. She moved slowly, gripping the rail.

‘Charisse works at a bakery, doesn’t she?’ he asked.

‘That’s right. She brings me leftover loaves and buns sometimes. Nice girl. Can’t say as much for her old man.’

‘What does he do?’

‘Works in a fish and chip shop called Yummy Tummy.’ She laughed. ‘Yummy Tummy, I ask you!’

‘You don’t care for him?’

‘You can say that again. Got a temper on him and handy with his fists. I don’t mix with them as such. You from the welfare?’

‘No. I know someone she used to work with, that’s all.’

‘Oh. I thought you might be round there about the kids. I reckon he wallops them sometimes. Someone might have reported him. Wallops her too, of course. Seen her with a split lip more than once and it wasn’t from walking into a door.’ She said this matter-of-factly, as if it was to be expected.

Swift was glad to see the taxi was still waiting when they reached the bottom of the stairs. He would have to return tomorrow as the Davenports were in his sights for that evening.

‘There you go,’ he said, handing over the trolley.

‘Ta. Nice to know there’s some gents left in the world. You stick out like a sore thumb round here, love.’

She tapped and rolled away, her trolley squeaking as it hit the uneven pavement. In the taxi, Swift checked his watch and saw it was three p.m., which explained why his stomach was groaning. He decided to head home, check on Cedric and have something to eat before calling on the Davenports.

* * *

The rain had stopped by the time he got back to Hammersmith and the sky was shrugging away the clouds, allowing a feeble sun through. He stopped to buy eggs, bread and milk on the way home, pausing to have a peek at the river, which was reflecting the watery grey of the sky. Rachel Breen was sitting on the front steps of the house, her bike propped below her, helmet in her lap. She looked glum. Swift approached cautiously.

‘Don’t you ever just phone someone rather than turning up? Haven’t you got a job to go to?’ he asked.

‘I needed a ride to clear my head so I thought I’d try calling round.’ She sounded suspiciously meek.

‘Really? Aren’t you worried I’ll start harassing you?’

She sighed. ‘I talked to my solicitor. She checked you out and said you have a good reputation and as Ed employed you, harassment wasn’t applicable.’

‘Great. So, why are you wearing a groove in my steps?’

She stood, tucking her helmet under her arm. ‘I had an idea I wanted to talk to you about. I might want to hire you.’

Swift took his keys out, glaring at her. ‘I thought I was a “dimwit” and “washed-up”, or did I mishear?’

‘Sorry about that. I was angry.’ She looked genuinely remorseful.

‘I’m hungry and I have an appointment soon. If you want to talk while I eat, that’s fine by me. You can bring your bike into the hallway.’

He opened the door and waited while she parked the bike, then took her through into the living room. He chucked his jacket onto a chair and rolled up his shirtsleeves. She looked rather worn and down.

‘I’m making scrambled eggs. Do you want some? I heard most of your lunch went on the floor.’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘The police rang me. Fighting in public; tut-tut, Ms Breen.’

She sank into a chair. ‘What a lousy day. I am starving, since you mention it.’

‘Well, stay there and don’t get into any trouble while I cook.’

They sat with plates of scrambled eggs on toast and coffee, which they both wolfed down. Rachel had a scattering of light freckles across her forehead. When she wasn’t cross she had a kindly expression and mischievous smile.

‘These are good, lovely and creamy.’

‘The secret is plenty of butter and no milk. Who started the fracas in the restaurant?’ Swift asked.

‘We met up to try and talk stuff through, at my suggestion. I pointed out to Ed that solicitors were going to cost us both a fortune. Then he started going on about how much he’d done for me when we were together, helping me with my career etc. etc. and he deserved to get more out of the property. My memory is that we supported each other, it was pretty mutual. So the temperature rose. I did throw the glass first, then he grabbed me.’ She pulled up her right sleeve and showed him a bruise the size of a pound coin.

‘Was it a combustible relationship when you were together?’

‘No. Just the odd argument, like most people. Ed was always very money conscious though, a bit of a skinflint.’

‘You didn’t tell me what you work at.’

‘I’m a radiographer. I work some weekends, that’s how I have time off during the week.’

They finished eating. Her plate looked as if she’d licked it clean. She placed her cutlery neatly together and looked at him.

‘I don’t know what I ever saw in Ed now, I can’t stand him, and in fact I’d cross the street to avoid him. He was lovely when we were in our own separate places; funny, attentive, charming. Once we moved in together he became more and more fussy and nitpicking about everything. Then he replaced me with some woman who works in advertising. But you don’t want to hear about that. I want to make him sort out our property and belongings fairly and to stop being a prick. I have an idea as to how.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘I’m pretty sure that Ed is illegally subletting a council flat in Tooting. We were together two years and he was renting a private studio in Camden when we met but I heard him a couple of times on the phone, talking about keys and bin collections and once I saw a letter headed Wandsworth council that he folded away sharpish. When I asked him about it, he looked shifty and said it was misdirected post. Ed’s the kind of man who likes to buck the system, feel that he’s getting one over on other people. I always thought he had more money available than I’d have expected, even though he only spent it on himself; you know, expensive clothes and electronic gear. He calls himself a post-production executive but he’s got an average-paying job with a film company. I mentioned this to my solicitor and she suggested I try and get proof. It will be a long and expensive process taking him to court and this might be a good bargaining chip to make him come to an agreement without legal hassle.’

‘If it’s true.’

‘That’s where you come in; I thought you’d know how to do it. My solicitor is also a friend but even at mate’s rates, she’s more expensive than you; I checked on your website.’

‘So you’d like me to find out if Ed is defrauding Wandsworth council.’ It had a certain appeal, turning the tables on him. Swift wouldn’t usually accept the previous subject of an enquiry as a client, but Boyce had irritated him so much, he decided to waive the principle. Rachel was certainly a pleasanter and more engaging person than her ex. As was often the case with couples, Swift couldn’t work out what the attraction had been for her. He finished his coffee and offered her a top-up but she refused.

‘Okay, I’ll take a look. If you’ve checked my website, you know that there’s an upfront deposit.’

‘Yes, that’s fine. Thank you so much.’

‘I have just one request; stay away from Ed in the meantime. What happened in the end at the police station?’

‘They persuaded us both not to press charges when we’d calmed down. The sergeant who dealt with us told us to go away and play nicely instead of taking up police time.’

‘Sound advice. So, keep under the radar until I contact you.’

She smiled and wriggled in her chair; if she was a cat, she would have purred. ‘Sorry again for being so nasty to you before. Actually, you seem pretty decent and dependable.’

‘Always nice to know when someone has altered their opinion.’

When she had given him a deposit and her contact details and signed an agreement, he watched her cycle away. Cedric was approaching, a biscuit-coloured Labrador eagerly pulling him along on the end of a long lead. He had signed up to a local dog share scheme and walked the animal three days a week for his owner who was a time-challenged head hunter for an oil company.

‘Hi, Cedric, being taken for a walk?’

‘I’ll say! Whoa, Bertie!’ He pulled a couple of treats from his pocket and Bertie turned back and sat at his feet, looking up expectantly.

‘Did that cross young woman come back to offer you more aggravation?’

‘Far from it; she apologised and hired me. I’ll tell you more later; I have to get to Putney. You okay?’

‘Yes, dear boy, thank you. Bertie is making sure I enjoy this relict of the day and the morsel of sunshine it’s affording; “it is a beauteous evening, calm and free.”’

‘Keats?’

‘Wordsworth.’

Back indoors, Swift stacked the dishwasher and changed his shirt. In the mirror, he checked himself for dependability and attempted to smooth his hair down with a damp flannel. He read an email from Nora Morrow saying that for now, since their whereabouts in January checked out, nothing further was being done about the Davenports.

CHAPTER 7

Swift walked to Putney again; the clouds had cleared to wisps and the evening, as described by Cedric, was now the best part of the day. There was a feeling of promise to the year. A dozen or so boats were out on the river. He watched a rowing crew sculling past and felt a sympathetic pull in his own arms.

Florence Davenport opened the door and told him to come in, not looking him in the eye. There was a smell of spices from the evening meal and he could see through to a messy kitchen. He was relieved that there was no sign of Helena, apart from a scattering of toys. In the living room, Paul Davenport was sitting watching the television and turned it down as he nodded to Swift without getting up. Swift sat once more on the uncomfortable sofa.

‘Do you mind turning that off?’ he asked, nodding at the TV. No need to stand on ceremony with people who had lied to him.

Paul Davenport looked surprised but switched it off with the remote. He was wearing a striped shirt that looked too small even for his skinny frame, close fitting linen trousers and a gold stud earring in his right ear lobe. He had a ferrety look, with his closely shaven beard, thin mouth and tiny eyes.

‘You didn’t return my call,’ Swift said to Florence.

‘No. We’ve been busy.’ Her hair looked dingy, as if she hadn’t had time to wash it, and there was a crumb of mascara in the corner of her eye.

‘So I understand; with the police.’

She looked at her husband. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, what a waste of everyone’s time! Anyone would think Paul was a mass murderer, the way they went on at us.’

Davenport straightened a tassel on one of his suede loafers. ‘It’s clear the police haven’t got anywhere so they decided to make the most of a nosy neighbour’s gossip.’

Swift stared at him. ‘Nosy neighbours are often very helpful in police enquiries, and mine. Do you want to tell me why they called you in?’

‘Well,’ Florence said, rolling her eyes, ‘if you’ve already spoken to them you must know.’

Swift ignored her and kept eye contact with her husband. ‘I’d like you to tell me. It does help if I’m fully in the picture.’

Davenport shrugged and crossed one leg over the other, holding his ankle. His socks were bright orange, matching the stripe in his shirt; Florence obviously managed his wardrobe.

‘When we visited Carmen on Boxing Day, I asked her for a loan. We’ve had some financial problems and Carmen’s loaded. She said she’d consider it, in that high-handed manner of hers. She hadn’t responded, so on January thirty-first I decided to call in as I had a meeting in Kensington late morning. The personal touch always went down well with Carmen. It was about half eleven when I got there. I rang the bell a couple of times but there was no reply. I left again. That’s it.’ He laughed and said sarcastically, ‘I didn’t go in and bump her off and raid her purse or steal the silver.’

‘How much did you ask to borrow?

‘Twenty grand.’

Swift looked at Florence. ‘You knew about this?’

‘Of course I did; Paul and I discussed it and I was hopeful that Carmen would agree. It would be peanuts to her, she’s a rich woman.’

‘Even so, twenty thousand might seem a lot to someone of her generation,’ Swift observed.

Florence tossed her head. ‘It’s all Daddy’s money when you come down to it, she hadn’t a bean when she met him so I didn’t see why we shouldn’t ask.’

Swift left a silence.

‘Anyone with any decency would have made a decision and not kept us hanging,’ she added.

‘I’m wondering why you lied to me,’ Swift said coldly. ‘What’s the point in paying me to look for Mrs Langborne if you start off misleading me?’

‘You haven’t found her, so what
are
we paying you for?’ Davenport asked cockily.

‘That’s not an answer.’ Swift smiled at him.

Florence rushed in. ‘Look, I should have told you, I know but . . . well . . . it’s pretty personal stuff and it really didn’t seem relevant. Carmen wasn’t there that morning, so it just seemed as if it would cloud things.’

‘You didn’t notice anything at all while you were at the door?’ Swift asked Davenport.

‘Nothing. I rang the bell twice, there was no answer, I walked away. End of.’

‘What’s your profession?’

‘What’s that got to do with the price of eggs? None of your business.’

‘I see everything as my business when I’m asked to do a job.’

‘Just tell him, Paul; he’s not asking for blood,’ Florence said wearily.

‘I manage international accounts for an insurance company. Happy with that? I tell you what; I wish someone would find Carmen so we could get back to our privacy and not have people poking their noses in. Can I relax and watch my own TV now? I’ve had a hell of a day.’

‘Just one more question: you do have the money to pay me?’

‘Yes,’ Florence said tightly. ‘I’m paying you from what I earn, if it’s any of your business.’

‘I think it has to be my business as I’m doing the work.’

Davenport stood, looking belligerent, his reedy voice raised. He sounded like an annoying fly. ‘So, have you found out anything at all to earn what my wife’s paying you?’

Swift looked at Florence, ignoring him. ‘I have some information that might prove useful. Mrs Langborne stayed at a home in Kingston upon Thames last September and something that happened there might be relevant. I can’t say anything further as yet. I’ll let you know when I can.’

‘Right, okay. We do worry about her,’ she added, as if remembering to be concerned.

She showed him out, asking him to step softly as Helena was a light sleeper. He walked away, feeling distaste. A tutor on domestic violence, in Swift’s early days in the Met, had said that family disputes were always based on one of three things or any combination of the three; love, sex, money. (Love, he had explained reassuringly, covered hate, longing and jealousy.) The same was almost always true of murder but he agreed with Nora Morrow that the Davenports, although grasping and venal, were unlikely murderers.

* * *

Swift rang Charisse Lomar’s bell at five thirty the next evening. The door was opened almost immediately by a small boy with an eyepatch and a chip in his hand.

‘Is your mum in?’ Swift asked.

‘She’s making tea,’ he said. He sucked on the chip, satisfied with his answer.

‘Could you tell her she has a visitor?’

‘I’m a pirate,’ the boy said solemnly by way of reply.

‘So I see. Could you climb the rigging and ask your mum to step this way?’

He was one of those children who are impervious to humour. He licked his fingers and stared at Swift.

‘Robert, I told you about answering the door!’ A woman appeared, wiping her forehead with her arm, propelling the child back inside with her other hand.

‘Ms Lomar?’ Swift asked, holding out his ID and handing her his card.

‘Yes. What you want?’

‘I wondered if I could have a word. I’m Tyrone Swift, a private investigator and I’m looking for a Mrs Carmen Langborne, who has disappeared. I visited Lilac Grange and I understand you knew her when she was staying there.’

She immediately looked distressed and pushed the door forwards. ‘I not want to talk about her. She not a nice person, cause me trouble.’

‘I understand. I don’t want to cause you any. I just need to find her.’

She shook her head. Her hair was black and shiny, pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a white overall and trainers. He saw that she had a small crucifix on a chain around her neck and behind her in the hallway was a print of a beautiful, pious young man gazing upwards, hand over his heart.

‘Is that Saint Pedro Calungsod?’ Swift knew his Filipino saints from his days working with Interpol; there had been a group of women from Manila, lured to Europe with the promise of work, then bought and sold by traffickers. They were finally released and taken to a safe house in Lyon. Swift had interviewed them there and many of them had pictures of their favourite saints tucked in among their pitifully small possessions. He had eased his way into conversations with them by asking about their beliefs and getting them to talk about the saints and their homes.

‘Yes,’ Charisse said, startled. ‘You know him?’

Before Swift could reply, there were shouts and cries from within the flat and sounds of siblings engaged in desperate fisticuffs. Charisse turned and ran inside. Swift followed her, closing the door, grateful for once for the presence of children. There were two boys and a girl in the small living room. The girl was sitting at a table, eating sausages, dispassionately watching her brothers rolling on the carpet.

‘Stop!’ their mother shouted. ‘Robert, take your plate, go eat in your room. Joseph, sit down now.’ As the boys started to apportion blame she snapped her fingers. ‘I not interested, do as I say now!’ For a small woman, she had a powerful voice when cross.

The girl gave her brothers a sly look and squirted more ketchup onto her plate but she didn’t escape her mother’s attention.

‘Marcia, you the oldest, you should keep your brothers in line!’

Marcia frowned. ‘Who’s he?’ she asked, pointing her fork at Swift.

Charisse turned and sighed. Standing under the light, she looked weary. ‘You finish your tea nice and quiet, then start your homework’ she ordered. ‘I talk to this gentleman in kitchen.’

The kitchen was compact and as cluttered as the living room but the place had been painted white throughout and there were numerous well-tended house plants covering the cheap cabinets and shelves. A large bag of bread, pastries and iced buns lay on a kitchen counter and Swift saw the logo;
Sally’s Bakes.

‘You best be quick,’ Charisse said, scattering more oven chips in a tray and shoving it into the oven. ‘My husband be back soon. He won’t want you here.’

Swift recalled what the neighbour had said about Mr Lomar and his fists. He stood against the fridge-freezer, which was covered in children’s drawings.

‘I know that Mrs Langborne found out that you had two jobs,’ he said.

Charisse nodded. ‘I was working nights at the home and afternoons at bakery. Now I work bakery full-time. A woman like that, what she know about having to work hard to put food on table?’

Swift thought that Carmen might know more about that than Charisse guessed. ‘You must have been very upset when you got sacked.’

‘Yes. Bad for me.’ She glanced at the clock and rinsed a few cups.

‘Did you know Mrs Langborne was the cause of your sacking?’

Her answer was guileless. ‘She nasty woman. She said to me, before she went home, that she told the manager and I probably be got rid of.’

Righteous Carmen again, Swift thought. ‘So, it must have been hard for your family.’

‘Hard, yes.’ Charisse turned around and folded her arms. ‘Was good pay at the home, bakery not so good. Is hard to get another care job now because of sacking.’

‘What did your husband say?’

She blinked rapidly. ‘He very cross. He have to do extra evening shift now.’ At the mention of him, Charisse looked at the clock again and made a pushing motion at Swift. ‘You go now, that’s all I know.’

‘Did your husband know that Mrs Langborne was the cause of your sacking?’

‘I tell him, yes, so he know it not my fault.’ She bit at her bottom lip. Swift guessed that if anything was deemed to be her fault, she suffered.

The front door slammed and Charisse jumped, knocking over an empty saucepan. A man called sharply to Marcia to hang her coat up properly and pulled open the kitchen door.

‘Who’s this?’ he asked Charisse, dumping a carrier bag full of tins on the floor. He was compact and beefy, running a little to fat around the middle, wearing a worn grey tracksuit. A pungent smell of frying fish hung around him. His stance was aggressive, legs wide apart.

‘Vincent, this man just looking for someone,’ Charisse said, casting an imploring glance at Swift.

Swift nodded. ‘Yes, I was just looking someone up for an old friend but I had the wrong address. Sorry to have disturbed you. I was just going.’

Vincent Lomar frowned, folding his arms. ‘So why are you in my kitchen? Front door not good enough?’

Charisse gestured at the cooker. ‘I was in middle of making food. No problem, no problem.’

‘Yes, I am sorry to have intruded, a bit pushy of me but the food smelled good. Well, I’ll be on my way.’

Swift stepped forward. For a moment, Lomar didn’t budge. Then he moved aside a fraction so that Swift had to squeeze past him so close he could feel the man’s body heat. He followed Swift through to the front. Swift saw Marcia and Joseph sitting still at the table, watching their father carefully, their faces blank. Lomar slammed the front door behind him as he left, so hard that the walkway seemed to shudder.

Swift descended the stairs slowly, worrying about what might now happen in the flat and that he would be the cause of it. He knew that for men like Vincent Lomar, any small transgression could provide an excuse. The signs of domestic abuse were all too clear. He walked to the station, thinking that Lomar might well have been furious with Carmen Langborne. On the train, he rang Nora Morrow and updated her, stressing the delicacy of the situation and his concerns for the Lomar family.