The Lady Vanished (5 page)

Within an hour he was sitting in his garden on the canopied swing seat. It was ancient and rusting slightly but wide and comfortable. He had taken his notes, iPad and a coffee out there in the late afternoon. It was west-facing and bathed in sun. As he added to his notes and read them through, he could hear the clatter of saucepans from Cedric’s kitchen above and smell delicious aromas of garlic and herbs. Cedric often gave him leftovers, so he hoped there would be some later. He finished his notes and googled Rupert Langborne, finding that he was forty-nine, had been to Oxford and Sandhurst, then joined the Civil Service where he had risen quickly to permanent secretary. He was married to his third wife, Daphne, who was heiress to a biscuit fortune.

Swift lay full-length on the padded, striped seat and set the swing rocking gently back and forth. Gazing at the dappled patterns made by the sun and overhanging sycamore tree on the canopy, he let his thoughts roam over the missing Carmen; a needy, snobbish woman who wanted attention, responded well to straight talking, wasn’t close to her stepchildren, loved her cats and socialising. He kept coming back to
Haven
; as her main interest seemed to be animal charities he had wondered if there might be a connection to such an organisation but when he googled the word he found nothing except holiday parks and private hospitals. He didn’t think Carmen was the type to book a stay on a caravan site packed with families and she wasn’t suffering with a health problem.

His phone rang and he heard a rushed female voice.

‘Hi, this is Nora Morrow. Mark Gill gave me your number. You want to know about Carmen Langborne?’

He sat up. Nora Morrow’s voice was light and attractive, a Dublin accent. ‘Yes, thanks for ringing.’ He summarised what he had already established. ‘So, anything else you can tell me?’

There was the noise of a busy office in the background. He guessed open-plan.

‘Let’s see. We interviewed GP, housekeeper, stepdaughter and stepson, a Mrs Sutherland, parish priest. Stepson’s a smooth character, still saying she might have popped off somewhere as an attention seeking device, despite the obvious problem of what she’d be doing for money. Nothing dodgy in her phone records. We doorknocked locally but nothing, no one saw her go out that day. That kind of hushed wealthy area, most people are either at work or on holiday or at second homes in the country.’

‘I don’t buy the going-away story. She wouldn’t leave the cats unattended, even for a night, without making some arrangement. The housekeeper was very firm on that.’

‘Quite. We have no leads currently.’

‘What did the parish priest say?’

‘Not much. She attended regularly but didn’t mix with other parishioners. He reckoned quietly devout. She hadn’t approached him with any problems.’

He heard Nora Morrow talking to someone else and waited until she spoke again.

‘So, dead ends so far. We’ll have a chat with some of her charity buddies but presumably they would have come forward if they thought they knew anything useful.’

‘The one thing the housekeeper said had occurred to her was that she wondered if Mrs Langborne might have had a sniff of romance. She’d been quite upbeat the day before she vanished.’

‘Cherchez l’homme? We’ve found nothing to indicate that.’

‘What about her diary?’

‘Yeah,
WP
and
Haven
. No idea. No one we’ve spoken to has a clue.’

‘Must be relevant in some way, surely, they must have been appointments?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. If you work it out, let me know.’

‘Okay. Will you ring me if you find out anything you can share?’

‘Sure. I’m not hopeful, though.’

Swift stared at the grass, which Cedric had just mowed to within an inch of its life. He wasn’t feeling hopeful either. He checked his emails. There was one from Ruth, confirming that she could meet for lunch on Monday and another from Rupert Langborne, suggesting a lunch time meeting at a restaurant near Waterloo called Abelie
.
He replied to both and sent one to Ed Boyce, advising that he had not seen any stalking activity and suggesting that they call it a day. He attached a final account. He then sat for a while, swinging back and forth, lines from Thomas Hardy haunting him:

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,

Saying that now you are not as you were

When you had changed from the one that was all to me,

But as at first, when our day was fair.

His reverie was broken by Cedric, who was leaning out of his window.

‘I have far too much food for my friends, Tyrone. I’ve put some by for you. Do come and get it. I fed the lawn after I cut it, by the way.’

* * *

Swift was up at six the following morning and out on the river by half past. He had made a thermos of coffee and tucked a croissant into his pocket. The muted light beneath Putney Bridge was restful; the water gave off a rich, fishy odour, sluicing softly against his oars. Bird cries echoed from upriver, calling him on. He slowed near Barn Elms boathouse for a quick refreshment and despite a strong tide was back home by nine. As he neared the house he saw Cedric, on his way back from buying his morning paper, talking to a young woman. She was standing holding the handlebars of a bicycle, her blue helmet with green flashes still strapped on her head.

‘Ah’, Cedric said, turning and pulling a face at Swift and mouthing
excitable
. ‘You have a visitor seeking you out, Tyrone. I’ll say goodbye, then, my dear.’

‘Can I help you?’ Swift asked, fishing for his keys.

She had a small, oval-shaped face which was wearing an angry frown and she seemed familiar.

‘You’re Tyrone Swift, are you?’ she asked nastily.

‘That’s right.’

‘I thought you’re supposed to be a detective of some kind, not a leftover from the Boat Race.’

‘I’m a private detective for business; rowing is for pleasure.’ He spoke mildly, aware of sparks emanating in his direction.

She propped the bike against his front wall rather more forcefully than was needed and came up close to him. The helmet added a menacing aspect to her grim look.

‘How dare you!’ she said. ‘How dare you get involved in implying that I’m some kind of nutter!’

He was aware that the sweat inside his bodysuit was cooling and that he had spray on his face. He was also aware that Cedric was lurking inside the front door and that several passers-by were glancing at them.

‘I don’t know what you mean. Would you like to come into my office . . . ?’

‘No, I bloody wouldn’t! What I would like is for you to mind your own business and find someone to pay you who isn’t . . . perverse and twisted!’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you?’

‘You’re not much of a detective if you don’t know that, are you?’

Oh God, he thought, we might be standing here all morning at this rate. ‘Okay; I’m not much of a detective. So tell me who you are.’

She gave a twisted smile. ‘I’m Rachel Breen. Got it now?’

Ah! He looked at her again, ignoring the helmet and recalling the photo on his phone. ‘You’re Ed Boyce’s ex.’

‘Exactly, thank goodness. And he’s mine, the nasty little runt. He’s been spreading lies, saying I’m stalking him, making his life a misery and he’s got you running around backing him up.’

‘I don’t think you have been stalking him and I’ve told him so, but why has he lied about it?’

‘Because, dimwit, I want half my share of the stuff in the flat we own and my quarter of the flat’s value, but he doesn’t want to give it to me. We split up six months ago after I found him in bed with someone else and I’m no further on. I’m living in a crummy rented room without my favourite saucepans. I’ve phoned and emailed him but he keeps avoiding me and he’s dreamed up this idea that he’ll persuade people I’m a crank. He’s hoping that if he can embarrass me enough that I’ll settle for less than my share. Also, he’s a grandiose prat with more money than sense and a jumped-up view of his own importance. Will that do?’

Swift dabbed his face with the towel round his neck. ‘You could wait until he’s out and get what you want.’

‘He’s changed the locks, of course. Bastard.’

‘Sounds as if you need a solicitor.’

‘Oh, thank you; I’d never have thought of that. I was attempting to do things the civilised way and save myself money but I do have a solicitor now. Ed will be sorry he started this, believe me. My solicitor says you need to back off and stop believing his lies.’

‘Well, I wish you luck if what you tell me is true. I’ve sent Ed my final bill so unless he gets himself another detective, you shouldn’t be bothered anymore.’

She took a step back and sneered, reaching for her bike. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, getting involved in persecuting an innocent woman.’

‘I’ve hardly been persecuting you; this is the first time we’ve met.’

She sat on her bike and adjusted her helmet. ‘Private detective; isn’t that a job for washed-up blokes who can’t find a better way of making a living?’

Swift watched her cycle away. Ouch. Ed Boyce had better settle his bill promptly or Swift would engage in some persecution of his own. In the shower, he scrubbed himself vigorously, reflecting on errant husbands and self-aggrandising cranks.

CHAPTER 5

As always, Swift slept badly the night before he met Ruth. He lay awake in the small hours, alternately wishing he could stumble across someone who would inspire and overwhelm him the way she had and not wanting ever to replace her, because in the end there was only Ruth, there had only ever been Ruth. He no longer knew if his renewed involvement with her was love, obsession or addiction. It was now almost four years since she had suddenly ended their engagement and taken off with a barrister she met at a party, marrying him within a couple of months. When he first told Mary what had happened, she had misheard him on the phone and thought he’d said
barista
, which was the only humour to be found in a dismal story. He had blamed himself; he had been commuting between London and the HQ of Interpol in Lyons for too long and he believed he hadn’t given Ruth enough of himself, of his attention. That was possibly true, Mary had said, but such temporary distances could be bridged if both parties were committed and determined. She had liked Ruth but had once commented to Swift that her perfect beauty was almost disquieting because she was clearly used to being adored. The rapidity of the marriage impacted on Swift as much as the end of the relationship, a second savage blow. He had been jettisoned swiftly and efficiently, and there was clearly no road back. He had been a pale, shadowy figure for a long time after Ruth left him, rarely communicating and as far as his friends could tell, doing nothing but working and rowing on the Rhone or the Thames. Sometimes he worried that he would turn into a male version of Aunt Lily, convincing himself that he’d had his true love and becoming resigned to a solitary life.

Three years after Ruth left him, married Emlyn Taylor and moved to Brighton, they had met again at the engagement party of one of their oldest mutual friends, Saul. Both had been advised of their invitations and Saul had stressed to Swift that he would understand if he didn’t want to attend. Swift had decided he needed to face the test and rowed all afternoon before the party, pumping up his courage.

When he saw Ruth standing by a window, perusing the congratulations cards, he knew that he loved her as much as ever and thought he could see the same emotion reflected in her eyes when he said her name. The meeting had mirrored their first; a locking of gazes, a sudden recognition. They had stood talking for half an hour that seemed like only five minutes, while he felt a ridiculous, light-headed joy. He didn’t need the wine in his hand to feel dizzily inebriated. Her long tawny hair still had the same scent, her clear hazel eyes glinted with that humour and intelligence he missed so much. Yet she seemed subdued and distracted. Emlyn was not with her, she had said eventually, looking away; he had developed MS. The onset had been rapid and he was unable to work full-time. There was a carer with him while she attended the party. When Swift said he was sorry, she shook her head, saying that was just the way things were and they were making the best of it.

Ruth continued to work as a psychologist, mainly in Brighton but one Monday morning a month taught a class in cognitive therapy at Holborn. Before she left the party she said goodbye to him and they stood, paralysed in the hall of the house, looking at each other, oblivious to the music and laughter around them. She asked, so quietly that he had to strain to hear, if he would like to have lunch sometime? He had replied that yes — yes, he would.

Afterwards, Saul had put a drunken arm across his shoulder, saying that he’d heard about Ruth’s husband being ill.
Sorry for them, but makes you feel she got her comeuppance
,
bet she wishes she never ran out on you
, he’d commented with some relish. Swift had felt no glimmer of satisfaction at Ruth’s predicament, only shock and sadness, but he was aware that others thought he might, perhaps expected him to.

And so they had started meeting once a month. It was almost a year now since that first lunch. They always met near Victoria so that Ruth could make her late afternoon train home. They were careful with each other, talking about everything except their true feelings, which were spoken of only rarely. Sometimes they held hands or touched fingers and, if there was time, walked in St James’s Park. His irrepressible, buoyant Ruth had been replaced by a sober woman; she spoke more slowly, as if puzzled by the turn life had taken. She told him at that first lunch that she would never leave Emlyn and would understand if he didn’t want to continue meeting.

He woke early, after just a couple of hours of light, unrefreshing sleep. He made coffee and stood drinking it at the kitchen window. The day was promising with a gentle light. Next door, the neighbour was watering her plants before she left for work and he watched as she removed dead leaves and picked a sprig of herbs, holding it to her nose. He knew he needed to stop seeing Ruth, end this madness, but the thought of losing her again made his eyes mist.

* * *

He went to see Paddy Sutherland. He had expected that, like Carmen, she would live in a large house, but her address indicated a flat. He turned up a side street near Holland Park tube and found her on the ground floor of a two-storey thirties block, set on the corner of a square replete with cherry blossom.

She showed him through a small hallway bulging with coats, shopping bags and shoes, into a cluttered living room, filled with bookshelves, two sofas and an oval dining table. The floor was covered in an expensive but frayed carpet and the walls were a faded and in places slightly grubby cream. The sofas had loose threads but were deep and spacious. Swift folded himself into one with pleasure. The four large oil paintings looked like originals but were somewhat forbidding portraits of gloomy, densely bunched trees in shaded woodland. Paddy was a large-bosomed, tall woman with a fresh complexion and thinning greyish hair, wearing a pleated tweedy skirt and an open-necked shirt with plain court shoes. Her pudgy nose was redeemed by wide, candid grey eyes. He accepted her offer of coffee and looked around, thinking how much more comfortable this lived-in room was, compared to Carmen’s highly polished, trinket-strewn home. He could spy a small kitchen through an alcove, where Paddy was bustling, and guessed there was just one bedroom.

The coffee was served in delicate china. It was instant but hot and there were no biscuits. He wondered if Paddy was a woman who was asset-rich, cash-poor, and was making the best of it. On the other hand, she might just be exhibiting the natural stinginess and disregard for appearances of old money. She had a clipped voice, the kind that he thought of as 1950s BBC.

‘Now,’ she said, sitting opposite him and tucking her skirt under, ‘this business of Carmen. Completely baffling! If you’ve come thinking I can tell you anything useful, you’ll be disappointed.’

He added milk to his coffee, suspecting it was UHT, and he would regret it.

‘I understand but you never know. The smallest things can be part of a bigger jigsaw.’

‘I adore jigsaws,’ Paddy said. ‘They’re terrific, especially on winter evenings. I have one on the go at present, a view of Hampton Court; tricky but satisfying.’

He smiled. ‘How do you know Mrs Langborne?’

‘Elephants. We met . . . oh let me see, about eight years ago at a charity event at the Festival Hall and discovered we lived near each other. Got chatting a bit, established we both like bridge, so Carmen joined the little club I have here.’

‘You meet how often?’

‘Fortnightly. That’s how I knew something was wrong when she didn’t turn up. Carmen never missed it, and if she was going to be away she told me so I could make up the numbers. That idiot stepson of hers, saying she’d probably made a mistake in her dates . . . complete rubbish.’

‘Would you say you know her well?’

Paddy sipped her drink; he was amused to see that she held her little finger in the air as she grasped the cup.

‘Not well, no. Carmen likes to chat about charities, news items, TV programmes, just light talk. I don’t know much about her except she was widowed. I met Rupert, the stepson, once when I was dropping something off to her. Struck me as a bit bombastic, self-opinionated. I tried once to get her interested in becoming a magistrate, after Neville, her husband, died. I sit on the bench and I thought it might be a new interest for her but she didn’t respond.’

She paused. Swift swallowed his disgusting coffee, which became more tasteless as it cooled.

‘I don’t know if I should say this, in case something dreadful has happened to her but I never thought that Carmen really liked me. I felt that she was interested in me because my cousin is a viscount and vaguely related to the royal family. She’s very keen on people’s station in life, you see.’

Ah, thought Swift, I was right about old money. ‘A social climber?’

‘Well . . . that’s a crude way of putting it but yes, perhaps.’

‘Did you attend her suppers?’

‘Yes, a few. Again, I felt they were held more for show than because Carmen really liked the company. Oh dear, I hope I don’t sound bitchy.’

‘Well, what you tell me tallies with some other views. Did you ever form the impression that she might have a gentleman friend?’

Paddy picked up a cushion and smoothed the fabric, giving the question careful consideration.

‘No, I don’t think so. But you see, as I’ve said, she’s quite a closed person, gives very little away. Always polite and a bit formal, perhaps even guarded at times.’

Swift thought he knew why: if, like Carmen, you were an emigrant who had risen from the lowly status of dental receptionist and managed to break through the class barrier via marriage, you would always harbour a lingering anxiety about your origins and the possibility of committing social solecisms. You would watch your step and especially so after your passport into your new world had left you on your own. Paddy was a pleasant woman but she was clearly secure in her class and station in life; her frayed furnishings spoke volumes about her confidence in her social position. He could imagine Carmen visiting here from her immaculately kept home, never quite being able to put her finger on how this effortlessness was achieved.

‘I really have no idea what can have happened to Carmen,’ Paddy continued. ‘Have the police got nowhere?’

‘Not so far. Do you know why Mrs Langborne might have written
WP
and
Haven
in her diary?’

‘As in appointments?’

‘Probably. She wrote them on the day she went missing.’

Paddy shook her head. ‘No idea. Sorry I can’t be of more help.’

As he left, Paddy coaxed him to buy a raffle ticket for Spiny Friends, the hedgehog sanctuary she supported. He parted with a pound and saw as he walked to the bus stop that the first prize was a visit to the sanctuary; he couldn’t wait. His phone rang as the bus trundled past The Albert Memorial and he heard Dr Forsyth.

‘Hi, Mr Swift, how are you doing?’

‘Fine, thanks. You?’

‘I’m fine too. You said to call if I remembered anything. Well, I was soaking in the tub last night and I thought of something. You know, the way you get a random memory?’

Swift had a sudden image of Dr Forsyth’s elegant limbs stretched out in her bath and blinked. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Last autumn, September, I believe, Mrs Langborne took herself off to stay in a residential facility for a couple of weeks. She was convinced she needed to convalesce after a virus. A few long walks would have done her more good, but there you go.’

‘You mean like a home for old people?’

‘Sure. An upmarket one, I should think. A hotel in the sun would have been just as good but I guess a home for elders with uniformed staff at the call of a buzzer played more to her idea that she was feeling frail and needed looking after.’

‘Do you know where she went?’

‘Afraid not. She asked me if I could recommend anywhere and when I couldn’t she made her own arrangements. That’s all I know.’

‘Okay, thanks. I’ll look into it. You didn’t tell the police this?’

‘Like I said, I only just remembered. Should I have?’

‘Oh yes, they need to know.’

He rang off and called Ronnie Farley.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said, ‘I’m just at Mrs L’s now, feeding the hungry horde.’

He explained about Dr Forsyth’s information. ‘Presumably you know about this, as you’ll have been in to look after the house and cats?’

‘Aye, I recall that now. She’d had a bad cold and chest infection and she reckoned she needed to recuperate. Would it be of any significance? That was months ago.’

‘Probably not but I might as well look into it. Do you know where she went?’

‘Hang on a minute. I put it in my phone calendar. It was a fortnight, as I recall.’

Ronnie whistled softly. The bus driver was arguing with a woman who wanted to board with a buggy. There were already two by the crowded stairwell and he said he couldn’t allow any more. The woman raised her voice and her baby started bawling. They were nearly at Victoria and Swift was early so he hopped off the bus, leaving the argument in full swing.

‘Are you working part-time in a nursery?’ Ronnie asked.

‘Not likely. Found anything?’

‘Aye. She went to a place called Lilac Grange in Kingston upon Thames on September fifth for two weeks. Shall I text you the number?’

‘Please. How was she when she came back?’