The Lady Vanished (20 page)

‘Are you in any pain?’

‘No, not now.’

‘Just in the heart.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Walking round the garden. Emlyn’s asleep now. He’s taken it worse than me, in a way. He’s been crying; saying he’s a useless husband.’

‘It’s not his fault.’

‘No; but he feels — oh, I don’t know, contagious, as if he jinxes people.’ There was a silence. ‘I hope you don’t mind me ringing you. I needed to talk and Emlyn won’t, he’s gone into himself. You’re my best friend, Ty; I’ve come to understand that.’

He paced up and down the living room. Her words made him elated and despairing. She shouldn’t be speaking to him in this way. Oliver’s raised voice sounded upstairs, climbing the scale so he went back through to the kitchen.

‘It’s sad, I know, Ruth, but there must have been something wrong with the baby presumably.’

‘Oh yes, I know. For the best et cetera. To be honest, I don’t know if we’ll consider a child again after this. There’s enough heartbreak as it is.’

‘You were seeing your pregnancy as something hopeful when we met.’

‘I was. I’m not sure now.’

‘That’s natural at the moment. You must be depressed and this isn’t a time to make decisions. You’ll need a chance to recover.’

‘When did you get so wise? You sound like the nurse yesterday; she was sensible and kind too.’

‘Probably best to accept all the kindness and sensible advice you can.’

‘It’s a lovely night sky here. I’d best get to bed, try to sleep. Is it okay if I ring you again?’

He assured her that it was, thinking of his previous resolve to end contact. It occurred to him as she rang off that, like Carmen, Ruth had no women friends and that this was unusual. He rubbed his forehead and took a deep draught of his wine, almost spilling it as he heard Cedric shout in pain overhead, a high, agonised cry.

* * *

He grabbed Cedric’s key and ran up the stairs two at a time, throwing open the door. In the flat, he saw Cedric sitting, holding his arm and Oliver standing over him.

‘What’s going on? Cedric?’ He crossed to Cedric’s chair and saw the bright red mark on his right forearm. He turned to Oliver. ‘You just did this, didn’t you?’

‘Tyrone, it’s all right, Oliver was just a little upset,’ Cedric said.

Swift saw the fear in his eyes and smelled the aggression from his son, like a feral heat.

‘Are you after money again?’ he asked Oliver. ‘Can’t make an honest living?’

‘Oh, go away, Mr Plod. You heard my dad. Keep your nose out.’

Oliver was wearing denim dungarees with no shirt beneath. Beads of sweat gleamed in the hollow of his throat. His burly torso, matted chest and hairy arms offended Swift, especially when contrasted with the thin old man in the chair.

‘Get out,’ he told him.

Oliver smirked. ‘You can’t tell me to get out. My dad wants me here, don’t you, Dad?’

Cedric glanced at Swift, his eyes moist and hopeless. He looked like Charisse. He moved his hand to try and cover the angry weal on his arm and that gesture decided Swift. He hit Oliver sharply on the left shoulder and then on the right, spinning him round, stepped behind him and locked his right arm up his back, thrusting him forward. He propelled him to the door and held him at the top of the stairs, twisting his arm higher as he tried to resist.

‘Either you can walk down the stairs or I can throw you down, whichever you prefer,’ he said calmly.

‘I’ll have you for assault,’ Oliver shouted, wriggling, then howling as Swift twisted higher. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll go!’

Swift gave him a shove to help him on his way and he slid on the first few steps before clutching the banister and regaining his foothold. When the front door had slammed, Swift stood for a few moments, breathing deeply. He knew that he had almost broken Oliver’s arm and that his anger had only just been controlled. He turned back into the living room and crouched down by Cedric, who was sitting with a hand to his head.

‘I’m sorry, Cedric. I couldn’t see him harming you and stand by.’

Cedric sighed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘Where did you learn to do that?’

‘Many years ago, in another life. I haven’t had to use it much. Let me get something for your arm.’

He went to Cedric’s bathroom and ran a flannel under the cold tap, fetching a couple of ice cubes from the kitchen. He drew a chair up beside the old man and wrapping the ice in the flannel, held it against his arm.

‘That will numb it for you.’

‘Thank you. Most kind.’ Cedric closed his eyes, nodding.

‘This isn’t right, Cedric. It has to stop. You don’t have to let Oliver in, you know.’

Cedric replied, his eyes still shut. ‘Please, dear boy, let’s not talk about it. Talking doesn’t help.’

Swift sat in silence, holding the icy flannel for a few minutes longer. The mark Oliver had made was still livid but slightly less inflamed. He knew that Cedric had to be the one to bar his son; he knew also that this type of violence always increased, especially if the perpetrator knew that their victim wasn’t prepared to stand up to them. He worried that one day, Oliver would inflict serious injury. When he returned from wringing the flannel out in the bathroom, he saw that Cedric was dozing. Swift fetched a woven rug from the sofa and draped it over him. He supposed that at least Oliver might stay away for a while, nursing his arm, and brooding.

* * *

Neat, orderly, despairing Ronnie had, of course, left well-ordered arrangements concerning her death; there was a paid-up funeral plan and a will, the kind bought in a stationer, with instructions that she wanted to be cremated. The police had found the contact details for a cousin, Sheelagh Donnelly, in her address book and Swift had a call from her, asking hopefully if he’d like to attend the funeral;
we spoke every couple of months on the phone
, Sheelagh explained,
and Ronnie mentioned you. She’d taken a liking for you and to be honest, she didn’t have many friends, there won’t be many to see her off.
Sheelagh sounded hesitant and lost. It was her first time in London, she said, and there were so many questions. She didn’t know what kind of music Ronnie would want at the service, other than a few hymns; she didn’t think the priest would like country and western, it didn’t seem respectful. Swift suggested ‘The Emigrant’s Farewell,’ assuring Sheelagh that these days, as far as he was aware, clergy were reasonably open to personal choices at funerals.

The funeral mass was in Our Lady of Fatima church. There was a congregation of just half a dozen: Swift, Sheelagh Donnelly, the priest and an altar boy and two old ladies clad head to toe in black, who Swift guessed were the kind who enjoyed random mourning. It was the first mass Swift had attended since his mother’s funeral; on that occasion the church had been packed with relatives from Ireland, colleagues from the college where she taught and local friends. In his numb grief, he had barely noticed the service, unable to grasp that his mother was in a coffin, silent and still.

He stood beside Sheelagh, a tiny, bird-like woman in her seventies with greying hair. Her black jacket had bits of fluff sticking to it and she dusted at it self-consciously. She had broken veins in her cheeks and the high colour of someone who was flustered. She seemed to be overwhelmed with gratitude at his attendance and kept touching his sleeve with little dabs of her fingers, reassuring herself. They sang ‘Lead Kindly Light’ and ‘The Lord is my Shepherd.’ Swift had a good tenor voice, trained in the school choir and sang as loudly as he could to make up for the paucity of mourners. The priest mumbled his way through the service, giving a brief all-purpose anodyne homily about Mrs Farley having been a devout parishioner who worked hard, had troubles in her life and had now found peace. Swift thought that a fitting and honest tribute would have been;
she was a bereft mother, a brave woman with a gutsy laugh, a talent for baking and the kindest kidnapper.
At the end of the mass the altar boy disappeared behind a curtain and the church was filled with ‘The Emigrant’s Farewell,’
sung liltingly by a young woman, backed by guitar and violin. Swift was glad that he had been able to introduce some personal element to the anonymous service, recalling the challenging, teasing look Ronnie had given him as she sang to him.

Swift accompanied Sheelagh to the crematorium, where Ronnie was dispatched in the usual utilitarian fashion. When they exited into bright sun, Sheelagh hovered uncertainly, blinking, and he suggested they have a drink and toast Ronnie. He found a small pub and bought a sherry for Sheelagh and a large glass of Shiraz for himself, adding some crisps and peanuts to the order; not exactly baked funeral meats but the nearest he could get.

‘Here’s to Ronnie,’ he said, raising his glass.

Sheelagh nodded and sipped. ‘Thank you for singing up in the church, you gave me strength.’

‘I liked your cousin, she was a remarkable woman.’

‘I still can’t believe she kidnapped that Mrs Langborne. Why would she do a thing like that? When we were young any sort of crime, no matter how small was regarded as a terrible sin. Ronnie wasn’t a bad person. She liked a drink, more than was good for her, but I never knew her do harm.’

Swift chose his words carefully; it was clear that the police hadn’t disclosed the full details of Ronnie’s final letter to Sheelagh and he didn’t want to undermine their work or have Carmen or Langborne suing him for slander.

‘I expect you’ll be told in time. I think that she still hadn’t recovered from her son’s death. She was sad underneath the front she kept up. People behave in strange ways when they’re despairing.’

‘Aye, I see that. She never said anything when we chatted on the phone; just the usual stuff about her work and the weather. Mind, she was often well on in the drink when we talked; repeating herself, not making much sense. Her husband took off, you know, when Liam was just a wee one. She never heard from him again, never had a penny off him. I didn’t know what to say to her when Liam killed himself. What can you say?’

‘It’s not easy. When did you last see her?’

‘It must be ten years or so ago. She came up to Aberdeen for my sixtieth birthday. It wasn’t easy, to be honest; she got very drunk and argumentative. One of my sons refused to speak to her again afterwards.’

He opened the nuts and offered some to Sheelagh, then tipped some into his palm. Ronnie was the kind of person who burnt their bridges as they went through life.

‘Do you think she was very lonely?’ Sheelagh asked. ‘She cut herself off after Liam died, I think; just worked and went home, opened a bottle.’

‘I do, yes. She liked company but I don’t think she came by it easily. She certainly liked chatting to me.’

‘I shouldn’t eat these nuts, with my dentures.’ Sheelagh was relaxing now that her awful task was over. Although she looked nothing like Ronnie, she had a natural warmth that reminded him of her. ‘How come you knew Ronnie liked “The Emigrant’s Farewell”?’

‘She sang a verse to me, told me her grandmother used to sing it.’

Sheelagh reached her tongue to a crumb of nut stuck in a back tooth. ‘Aye, she loved a good sing-song, especially after a glass or two; all the old ones. I missed all that after she drifted away from us. Liam’s death unravelled the family, in a way. It caused countless little losses.’

They sat for a while longer but Sheelagh refused another drink, saying she was catching the early evening train home. She was staying at Ronnie’s and needed to collect her things. Swift saw her to the tube and made sure she knew her stop. At the entrance she slipped a CD from her bag.

‘Here, I thought you might like this. It has the track we played at the funeral. Ronnie hadn’t much to show for all her years in London, but it’s good to know at least she had one friend in you.’

He took the CD, featuring a singer called Orla Malone, a long-haired woman in a flowing red dress holding a guitar, posed on an empty strand. He shook hands with Sheelagh, waved to her and headed for home where he played the CD. He lay on the sofa, listening to the plaintive songs, thinking back to that other funeral held on a similarly sunny day, wishing that he could relive it, participate in the moment instead of being anaesthetised with sorrow. He had been more present for Ronnie than he had for his own mother. With her generous heart, his mother probably wouldn’t mind; she had believed that we often received what we needed, even if it came in a guise we couldn’t recognise.

CHAPTER 15

Swift had received an envelope with a logo of a hedgehog in the top left hand corner and
Spiny Friends
inscribed below it. Inside was a colourful pamphlet with fascinating facts about hedgehogs, a note informing him that he had won first prize in their raffle and a ticket allowing free entry for up to four people to the sanctuary. He wondered who would like the ticket; it might be Joyce’s cup of tea. He made himself French toast, covering it with honey and had a better idea as he poured coffee. He googled
Sally’s Bakes
and saw that the shop where Charisse Lomar worked was just a couple of streets away from her home. He had thought of her now and again with a heavy heart; an outing to see hedgehogs wasn’t going to solve any of her problems but it might make her forget them for a couple of hours. Posting the ticket could cause difficulties so he would try to hand it to her in person. She could tear it up if she wanted.

Later that morning he stood outside the shop, looking through the window. Charisse was behind the counter in her white overall, slicing bread for a customer. He joined the queue of four and waited his turn. There was no one behind him when he stepped forward; she hadn’t noticed him until he was in front of her and the smile with which she was about to greet him vanished.

‘Two doughnuts, please,’ he said.

‘What you doing here?’

‘Buying doughnuts; it’s a bakery.’

She slung them quickly in a bag and took the five pound note he was holding out, the ticket attached to it with a paper clip. She looked at it solemnly.

‘What’s this?’

‘I won it in a raffle. It’s for you and the children, if you want it; a day out.’

She looked at it again, flicked a glance at him, then tucked it into her pocket and rang through his purchase.

‘Thank you,’ she said flatly, handing over his change. ‘Enjoy your doughnuts.’

He nodded and left as she greeted two young girls who had arrived to buy their lunch. On the train he ate one of the doughnuts; it was fresh, light and rich with raspberry jam, just as a doughnut should be. He resisted eating the second, saving it for Cedric. He was wiping sugar from his mouth as his phone rang. He heard a familiar reedy voice.

‘Is that Mr Swift?’

‘Yes. Hello, Mrs Langborne. How are you?’

‘Very well, thank you. I would like you to do something for me, but I’m not sure if it is the kind of work you undertake.’

‘If it’s anything to do with your family, I can’t because of what has been . . .’

‘No, no,’ she interrupted. ‘I want you to find my cats for me and return them. I am happy to pay you, as well as a reasonable amount to whoever has them. I have established that Rupert had them collected by a rescue charity, unfortunately one that I have never dealt with. I phoned the charity; they weren’t exactly apologetic but they said they could understand my distress. My three darlings have already been rehomed separately. They will be suffering terribly, away from each other and their home with me.’

‘Well, I don’t know; did this charity tell you where they’ve gone?’

‘Despite their apparent concern for me, they wouldn’t give me the details; they said it was best for me not to know and they couldn’t possibly contact the new owners and ask for their return. I heard no compassion, Mr Swift; just talk of policies and procedures and confidentiality. When all this is over, I shall contact the charity commission. I understand that people like you have ways of finding things out; I will pay well, over and above your usual fees.’

‘What are the details of this charity?’

‘Hold on a moment; it is based in Ealing.’ She gave him the name and phone number.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said, ‘but it may not be possible or I might be able to retrieve just one but not all three.’

‘Even one of my darlings back with me would be something.’ She took a breath. ‘I am desolate.’

‘I’ll take a look into it and be in touch.’

He produced his ticket for the conductor to inspect and looked out of the smeared window at ramshackle gardens;
people like you.
What a snob the woman was; she spoke of compassion yet seemed to extend none to her fellow humans. Not a word about the traumas her stepchildren had experienced. Still, if he could reclaim the cats for her, it would be a small gesture of repair among all the damage that had been inflicted.

* * *

Nora Morrow rowed fluidly, despite her confession that it had been a while since she was on the water, during a visit back to Dublin. Swift had borrowed a two-person training boat from his club after she rang him, reminding him that he had said they could go on the river.

‘I was a bit snappy with you last time we met,’ she said. ‘Pressure of work and you were being a pain. I could have done you for interfering, you know; that was a big gamble you took, going to visit Langborne.’

‘Semi-apology accepted and I’ll offer one in return. When I saw the suitcase by his door, I did wonder if he was going to do a Lord Lucan. But come on; you know that a detective sometimes has to take a gamble.’

‘Not in the Met,’ she said.

‘Well, I have a certain leeway that you don’t then. We’ll just carry on for another half hour or so, as you’re out of practice.’

They had pulled in for a breather just beyond Putney and watched a family of swans grooming themselves in the evening light. After a baking day, there was a light pearly mist and a hazy sun. Nora handed him a carton of fruit juice from her rucksack.

‘I’ll ache tomorrow, although I do manage to get to the gym regularly.’

‘You’re doing well.’

‘I’ve been meaning to join a rowing club since I came to London but you know how it is — good intentions devoured by the job.’

‘I remember only too well. How long have you been here?’

‘Just over five years. I used to row regularly in Dublin, out from Islandbridge. Do you know Dublin at all?’

‘Only passing through. I visited my mother’s family in Clifden a couple of times.’

‘Lovely spot. Does your mother still visit?’

‘She died when I was in my teens.’

‘Oh, sorry. Mine died a while back too. I often think of how she used to annoy me and wish she was still here to do it.’

Swift nodded, smiling. ‘Speaking of annoying and dead women, what’s the news on Carmen and Florence? I’ve seen the papers; one of the tabloids has caught a whiff of Neville Langborne’s alleged activities so I’d imagine that other victims will soon come forward.’

‘I saw that; I’m hoping the information wasn’t from us. As you can imagine, hours spent with Carmen and her solicitor. She had to acknowledge in the end that Ronnie Farley kept her locked up but denies that Neville Langborne was a kiddy-fiddler or that he ever brought strange young men back to the house. I guess if she did know, she turned a blind eye because too much was at stake; her social position and all the trappings that went with it.’

‘The whole Lady Bountiful world.’

‘Exactly. She’ll stick to denying it and it will be difficult to prove otherwise unless other witnesses come forward. Regarding Rupert, she says she never knew about any abuse of him and I think that’s true; he was an adult by the time she met his father. Rupert Langborne has confirmed that his father abused him but insists he was never aware of any other activities outside of the family. We’re liaising with colleagues who have been working on other historic abuse cases just in case we can match information, so you never know, we might get lucky and now that it’s out there in the press . . . I searched back but there’s no record of Liam Farley’s allegation. Different times, different standards.’ She sucked up the last of her orange juice noisily. ‘You might derive some satisfaction from hearing that Carmen has told Daphne and anyone else who will listen about Rupert’s biological father. I expect to read something about
that
in the papers any day, I’m surprised it hasn’t been broadcast already. She found out that Rupert had her cats rehomed and such treachery meant that she declared all-out war. She’s a hard woman to like.’

‘She’s asked me to find the cats and try to get them back for her. Says she’ll pay well.’

‘She knows her own priorities, clearly.’

‘Has Rupert’s executive poise slipped? It was starting to, last time I saw him.’

‘He looked perplexed when I interviewed him but his smooth carapace was still in place. I understand the minister has agreed he should take some leave. I sensed that in a way, he was feeling a kind of release; a burden put down.’

‘And Florence?’

‘We got the buttonhole and a DNA match. As you said, Rupert had a watertight alibi and he also produced his buttonhole for us. It was undamaged; apparently their deceased mother was half Scottish and they wore them in her memory. Florence took two days to crack but she acknowledged in the end that Rupert had phoned her and told her about Ronnie Farley’s allegation. She says she had no knowledge of her father abusing Rupert or any other boys; difficult to know about that and it checks out with what you overheard but she was very close to her father so probably wouldn’t want to believe it anyway. I think she was genuinely stunned by the information; she was in quite a state during questioning; we had to get a doctor to see her, especially after I confirmed that Ronnie Farley had been about to commit suicide. She went to see Ronnie early that afternoon; she was going to offer her money to keep quiet although I don’t know where she was going to get it, given their financial circumstances; maybe she thought Rupert would cough up. She said Ronnie was drunk, which was borne out by the autopsy. They had a fierce argument. She said Ronnie laughed at her, called her a stuck-up bitch and told her she and her family would be publicly shamed. According to Florence, she felt as if her world was falling apart; first her husband’s loss of income and their debts, Carmen’s disappearance and now her father’s reputation was going to be dragged through the mud. She says she shoved Ronnie because she was in her face, taunting her. Ronnie lost her balance, fell and hit her head on the table edge. Florence thought she was concussed so she panicked and ran; she’d just got to her car when Carmen phoned her. She denies intent to murder, saying she was going to phone the police and explain what had happened but events with Carmen overtook her. Rupert rang her just as she got home that evening, to tell her that you’d been to see him and Ronnie Farley was dead and then, of course, she went into complete panic and denial. We’ve charged her with manslaughter.’

‘Did Ronnie die immediately?’

‘Within minutes, due to the head trauma.’

Swift nodded. ‘Florence must have been stunned when she found out where her stepmother had been and when I told her that same afternoon that Ronnie was responsible. She looked knocked for six when she turned up at Carmen’s house; I reckon I just missed her at Ronnie’s. I thought her glazed look was caused by the surprise of seeing Carmen in one piece and hearing the disjointed story.’

‘I can’t warm to the Langbornes as a family, but I suppose I do feel some pity for them; the Lord Justice certainly left a toxic inheritance.’

Nora reached for his juice carton and threw it with hers into her rucksack, fetching out a couple of plums and passing him one. They ate in a companionable silence. Juice dripped down her chin and she made no attempt to wipe it away. She was smiling into the sun, her eyes half closed, swaying a little from side to side and humming. He liked her forthright enjoyment of life, her lack of self-consciousness and lithe movements. He closed his own eyes.

‘Did you go to Ronnie Farley’s funeral?’ she asked after a while.

‘Yes; how did you know?’

‘I gave Sheelagh Donnelly your number, I thought you might like to.’

Swift nodded. ‘I’m glad I made the effort.’ He flipped his plum stone into the water. ‘I wonder who will count to six for Helena Davenport now.’

‘Pardon?’

He explained about his first meeting with Florence.

‘Well, it’s her mother who will be on the naughty step for a while. I think Paul Davenport has family; I doubt Rupert or Carmen will be offering to child mind.’

After they had put the boat away, he asked Nora if she would like to have a drink at the Silver Mermaid. She accepted, heading off to freshen up in the cloakrooms. Swift washed his face, noting that his bruise had faded away and ran his fingers through his hair, then packed up his equipment and waited outside the club. The Thames path was busy with people out for a Friday evening stroll. His skin felt burnished by the warmth and breeze. The moon was climbing the sky, pale and full. His phone issued a text alert and he saw it was Ruth:
Can you ring me? On my own at the moment and feeling down.

He felt a sad confusion. Nora was walking towards him, rucksack over one shoulder, smiling and making a raised-glass movement with her hand. He smiled back but pointed at his phone.

‘Sorry, Nora, I need to make a call.’

‘Oh, okay. Shall I wait over there?’ She gestured to a bench.

‘I’m not sure how long I’ll be; it’s a friend who needs help . . . it’s a bit tricky.’ He could hear the evasion in his voice and registered her noting it.

Her face clouded. ‘Fine, not to worry. Time I got home anyway. See you around. Hope your friend is okay.’