Authors: Gretta Mulrooney
The Lady Vanished
THE LADY VANISHED
A gripping detective mystery
GRETTA MULROONEY
Fir
st published 2015
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
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©Gretta Mulrooney
PLEASE NOTE THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF UK WORDS IN THE BACK FOR US READERS
In the dream, the knife slashed into Swift’s thigh and he felt again the sharp, stinging pain. The blood ran instantly and strong. In reality, he had been surrounded by lights, the screams of women, men shouting in several languages and the swift thump of boots as his colleagues scoured the building. In the dream, he lay in a grey mist, alone, knowing that his blood would keep streaming away, that no one would be coming to help him. He thought that if he could just press on the wound and stop the blood, he might have a chance but he was too weak. He could only lie and feel his life flowing warmly away on to the hard floor. He was resigned and hopeless. He blinked and tried to tear at the cobwebs that were spinning over his eyes and then his head, forming his soft shroud.
He woke a moment before his alarm clock rang and lay dazed, hot and dry mouthed. He touched his thigh, felt the slight indentation where the stitches had been, traced the line and ran a hand over his eyes. He rose and made strong, almost bitter, coffee, then stood under a cool shower. For months now he’d had respite from that particular dream. He knew people who said they never remembered their dreams and he envied them.
He opened the kitchen window and let the chill morning air touch his skin. Birds were darting to and from the sycamore tree at the bottom of the small walled garden. He noted the blue tits were back at the nesting box and watched them for a few minutes as he ate a bowl of cereal and finished his coffee, clearing the last dream shadows from his mind. He filled his water bottle and moved through to the centre of the living room where he did ten minutes of muscle-warming exercises, then set off for his boat and his therapy.
* * *
The dark water streamed from his oars as Swift sculled steadily. The river was calm and quiet below a soft April sun on this Tuesday morning, with the wind and tide in the same direction. He had seen only three other rowers and a cormorant near Putney Bridge and he luxuriated in the warmth and solitude. When he was rowing he knew he was alive, part of the turning world. He loved the brackish scent of the Thames and the movement of the light on its surface. He often thought of the riverbed as he rowed and of the secrets that lay submerged in its mud; bones, jewels, timbers of ships and the more mundane bedsteads and prams. The Celts had believed that water was the route to the otherworld and had honoured rivers as bestowers of life, making offerings to gain favour with them. Although Swift didn’t contribute any small tokens to appease the waters, he sometimes trailed his fingers through it thankfully. He closed his eyes behind his sunglasses for a moment and concentrated on his breathing, exhaling during each stroke, inhaling in between. A kind of contentment that he rarely felt, and usually only when he was on the water, crept over him.
Yet the thought of Ruth intruded. He had met her again recently for lunch, reawakening all the love and misery. He had held her slim hand as they sat side by side on a bench in St James’s Park, not saying much. When they parted at Victoria he had cupped her face between his hands and pressed his forehead to hers. Then he had watched her slight figure disappear into the flow of passengers heading for the South Coast. Now he was back in the limbo of waiting. He would put himself through the same pain in a month’s time. Seeing her was a delicious torment; he knew he should stop but couldn’t find a way of doing it. He rowed faster, building speed and heat in his muscles, forcing the image of her out of his head. Sweat dripped down his face as the oars sliced the water. There was nothing but velocity and sun and the flow of his blood.
His phone rang, startling him. Usually, he turned it off when he got in the boat but he had forgotten, too keen to take the oars.
Unknown number
, it told him and he almost pressed ignore but then thought it could be work. He steadied the boat with one oar, manoeuvring into the river bank.
‘Tyrone Swift.’
It was a woman, with an impatient tone and a slight lisp. ‘Is that Swift Investigations?’
‘That’s right.’
‘My name is Davenport, Florence Davenport. I’m ringing about a matter I’d like to discuss. Could I come and see you?’
‘When were you thinking of?’
‘As soon as possible, really. I think I’ve already left it too long. Later this morning?’
He calculated how long it would take him to row back to the club; conditions were kind, on a falling tide. ‘I could meet you at eleven thirty. You have the address?’
‘Yes, thank you. I’ll see you then. I’ll have to bring my little girl with me, is that all right?’
He was dubious. He had limited experience of children and parents were usually distracted in their company. But, business was business.
‘No problem.’
He tucked his phone away and applied himself to the oars. He passed the old Harrods Depository and was back at Tamesas, his rowing club near Hammersmith Bridge, by ten thirty and stowed his boat away. He ran back to his house. It didn’t overlook the river but was still within sniffing distance of it. He showered, towelling his thick curly hair, dressed in jeans, T-shirt and suit jacket and unlocked his office in the basement. His great-aunt Lily, who had left him the house, had kept two Labradors and he was convinced at times that he could smell wet dog on the stairs. Lily had been a chiropractor and had converted the basement room into her clinic; with its own outer front door, it had made an obvious choice for his office. There was still a washbasin in one corner which he meant to have removed some time. Clients seemed to find it odd; certainly their eyes often strayed to it. His answerphone told him that a man wanted him to help with a boundary dispute with a neighbour — he would call him back and advise a solicitor — and Mrs Brewer had rung to ask if he had any updates on whether her husband was cheating on her with her daughter-in-law. The answer was yes, but he would put off calling her until Florence Davenport had been, as he had a feeling the conversation would be lengthy and involve tears and recriminations.
The bell rang at just gone eleven thirty. He opened the outer door to a small, plump blonde woman, fortyish, with a small, plump child who was straining on a rein. He showed them in, asked her to sit down and seated himself at the other side of the desk. Florence Davenport unclipped the child and unbuttoned her cardigan.
‘This is Helena,’ she said. ‘Say hello to Mr Swift, Helena.’
Swift nodded at the child, who looked at him, smiled coyly, then tottered against her mother, rubbing her chin into her arm.
‘I’ve come to see you because I’m very worried about my stepmother,’ the woman said, rummaging in her bag and producing a book for Helena. ‘There you are, Helena, you can sit on the carpet and look at your book. My nanny is ill,’ she added for Swift’s benefit, ‘that’s why I had to bring her.’
‘No problem. What’s worrying you?’
Ms Davenport crossed her legs, which were encased in skintight jeans that strained at the calves. She looked for a moment at her ankle boots, rearranged her scarf and hooked her chunky yellow leather bag, of a type Swift suspected was very expensive, over her chair back.
‘Carmen, my stepmother — she’s a widow — went missing several months ago and there’s been no trace of her since. My brother says that she’s probably playing games but I don’t think so. No, Helena, don’t put the book in your mouth, darling.’
‘Why would your brother think she’s playing games?’ Swift couldn’t help looking at the child, who was chewing the book and beating it on the floor.
‘Well, she has been difficult in the past, going away without telling us.’
‘Holidays?’
‘Yes; so she said, anyway.’
‘And she’s definitely not at home?’
‘No and she hasn’t gone to stay with friends — not that she has many. She’s one of those women who likes attention and doesn’t much like her own sex; a man’s woman, I think they used to be called.’
Swift nodded. So presumably she doesn’t like you either, he thought. He had experience of disliking a stepmother so he made some allowance for the cattiness of the remark. Part of the book, which had a colourful dragon on the front, had become detached from its cover and was dangling.
‘Helena, Mummy will take the book away in a minute and you’ll have to go on the naughty step. I’m sure Mr Swift has got one.’
Swift cleared his throat. ‘Have you been to the police?’
‘Oh, the police! They’ve been involved but they’ve found no trace of her. You may have seen a bit about her in the quality papers, because she’s Daddy’s widow.’
Swift looked at her, his memory nudging him. She was pretty but her face lacked animation and she wore too much foundation, probably to try and conceal the slight acne damage to her skin. She sighed and bent to wrestle the book from Helena, who started screaming.
‘Your stepmother is Carmen Langborne?’
‘That’s right.’
Swift could barely hear her above the child’s screams. She finally gave Helena the book back, apparently resigned to seeing it mauled. Swift recalled a report in one of the papers and a grainy photo of Lord Justice Langborne and his wife taken when they were younger and attending the opera.
‘What have the police told you?’
‘Not a great deal. They say there’s no evidence that she has been harmed. On the other hand, there’s been no activity in her bank accounts. She can hardly be living somewhere without any money. She’s never gone away for this long before.’
‘Passport and mobile phone?’
‘Her passport is in her house and she doesn’t believe in mobiles, always sticks to her landline. Helena, please stop pulling at my bag. I’m going to count to six and if you haven’t stopped, Mummy will get cross.’ She spoke in a thin, cajoling tone.
Swift had noticed this new technique for dealing with children’s behaviour in various public places. It evidently didn’t work, as the children merely carried on with whatever destruction they were engaged in.
‘Why don’t you just say no and get cross?’ he asked as Helena, who seemed a strong youngster, tugged away; the bag looked ready to be ripped from the chair and Ms Davenport swayed with it.
‘Pardon?’ She looked at him as if he had uttered an obscenity.
‘Doesn’t matter. I haven’t got a naughty step.’
He sat back and watched as Helena listened from one to six, continuing to pull the bag. The strap snapped and it fell on the floor, disgorging a mobile phone and a huge purse. Unbalanced, Helena fell on her bottom. Startled by her achievement, she opened her lungs and bawled. Swift rose, strode round the desk and stuffed the items back into the bag, handing it to Ms Davenport.
Then he said to Helena, ‘Want to feel my muscles?’
Surprised, she stopped mid-bawl and watched as he took off his jacket and held his arm out.
‘This always works with boys,’ he told her mother, putting the child’s hand on his right bicep and tensing it. She frowned, then laughed and looked at him, eyes glistening with tears. He thought it best to quit while he was ahead and spoke to the mother as he tensed the muscle as tight as possible, Helena squealing, but now with delight.
‘Maybe it would be best to talk this through when you’re on your own. I think I can help you but I need more details.’
‘I just don’t think the police have treated it seriously enough because she’s an old woman.’
‘Not that old, surely?’
‘Sixty-eight. But she looks older.’
Ouch
, Swift thought.
She smiled at him and jingled Helena’s harness at her. ‘I hope you will help us,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard good things about you.’
‘Oh yes. From?’
‘A friend of mine knows your cousin, Mary Adair.’
‘I see. Are you free later today? I could come to your home. In the meantime, here’s a list of my charges. You’ll see that I always ask for a cash deposit once I agree to take a case.’ He reached into the desk drawer. Helena had now trotted round to his side and was poking vigorously at his upper arm. ‘By the way, does your brother know you’re asking for my help?’
Ms Davenport rolled her eyes upwards. ‘Oh, Rupert . . . I’ve told him and he says he thinks I’m wasting my money. Says Carmen will turn up like a bad penny. Come on, Helena, let’s get home and if you’re a good girl you can watch “Baby Jake.”’
In answer to this, Helena ran to the other side of the room and angled herself beside the washbasin. There was more cajoling, tears, forcible harnessing and finally they disappeared out of the door, Ms Davenport calling out her address in Putney and saying that Helena had a play date later in the day; she would be in and could guarantee peace and quiet at four if he could call round then.
Swift shook his head as he pushed the door closed, then switched on his coffee machine, turned on his computer and googled Carmen Langborne. There were brief stories in The Guardian and The Times about her disappearance on January 3131. She had last been seen in her home that morning by her GP. The paragraph in The Times was the most interesting:
Known as a rather eccentric character, Mrs Langborne has devoted her time since her husband’s death five years ago to supporting animal charities. She was involved in a lengthy dispute last year with neighbours about their basement excavation and succeeded in persuading the council to review the planning permission, when part of the roadway caved in. Police say that there is no evidence in her home of a struggle or any kind of force being used. Mrs Langborne was expected to see friends to play bridge on the evening of the thirty-first and when she failed to arrive and they couldn’t contact her, they phoned her stepson Rupert Langborne, who is a Permanent Secretary in the Civil Service.