The Lady Vanished (3 page)

Mary dashed in, shaking her head, smiling, chucking an umbrella on the floor. He stood and hugged her; she was tall too, her head just below his shoulder.

‘White or red?’ he asked her, signalling to a waiter.

‘Better make it a sauvignon, I have to read a report later and red beckons the sandman.’

When her drink arrived, they clinked glasses.

‘You look well,’ she said, ‘been out on the river?’

‘Twice so far this week. How are you?’

‘Fine. I gave an inspirational talk at a girls’ school this afternoon, about the Met as a career; at least I hope it inspired one or two of them. They asked good questions. I saw Mark Gill earlier in the week, he was asking after you.’

‘That’s a happy coincidence. I’m planning to ring him tomorrow to ask him if he knows about a case I’ve taken.’

‘The one I may have unwittingly sent your way?’

‘That’s it; the disappearance of Carmen Langborne. Her stepdaughter, Florence Davenport, has a friend who knows you.’

Mary removed her dark-framed glasses and rubbed the lenses with the hem of her scarf. ‘Who would that be?’

‘No idea.’

‘Oh well; Mark will point you in the right direction. She’s still missing, isn’t she?’

‘That’s right. Florence wants me to try and track her down. There’s a brother, Rupert, who seems to think she’ll turn up.’

‘Rupert Langborne? I think I’ve met him at some committee or other at Westminster. He’s a civil servant?’

‘Yep. I’ll be arranging to see him, although according to his sister, he thinks their stepmother is possibly game playing, gone away somewhere. Do you know much about him?’

‘No; I recall a tall, stout chap but he was in another working group to me. You know, Ty; one of those ones where you have coloured post-it notes and you brainstorm and come up with ideas and then afterwards someone distributes them to be read and they disappear into the great ideas rubbish chute.’

Swift groaned. ‘I miss that world so much, I really do.’

Mary ordered two more drinks and asked for some olives and bread. She was looking very chipper, he thought; her handsome, strong face and quick eyes gave her a commanding presence and she was wearing a beautifully tailored suit.

‘Do you think I should wear sage green?’ he asked her as the wine and food arrived.

She laughed. ‘You what? When did you start caring about what you wear?’

‘Florence Davenport is a personal stylist,’ he said with affected dignity. ‘She wants to give me a makeover.’

‘Ha!’ She popped an olive in her mouth and shoved them towards him. ‘Maybe she wants your bod too. Do you fancy her?’

‘There are so many things wrong with that question, Mary. One, she’s married, two, she’s a client and three, no, I don’t.’ He dipped bread into oil and vinegar; it was dark and delicious.

Mary tore a piece of bread. ‘I’ve got some news on the romance front,’ she said slyly.

‘Go on.’

‘I met someone at a conference. Her name’s Simone. We’ve seen each other a couple of times. So far, so good. I like her a lot.’

He took a deep sip of wine. ‘Good on you. She a cop?’

‘No; she’s in forensics, so we can talk ghoulish stuff in comfort. How about you? Seeing anyone?’

‘Not at the moment.’
Only my married ex
.

‘Looking?’

‘Not really.’

Mary knew when to drop a subject and went on to talk about her plans for a summer break in Crete.

‘Have you had a birthday invitation from Joyce?’ she asked him.

Joyce was his stepmother. ‘Mm, it came last week. I suppose I’d better go. Are you?’

‘I’ll show my face,’ Mary said. ‘How old will she be?’

‘Sixty-five. I expect most of the neighbourhood will be there, so I should be able to get away with a fleeting appearance.’

Mary clutched his arm and imitated Joyce’s fruity, breathy voice, ‘Oh Tyrone, I never see enough of you, you dreadful man and you’re so thin, I’m sure you’re not eating properly!’

‘Don’t!’ he said, shuddering.

She finished her drink and pushed his to him. ‘Drink up, I have to get home and bury myself in this report.’

* * *

He left Mary at eight and set off for Seven Dials to follow up a case he had taken a few weeks back. The client was Ed Boyce, a slick, fast-talking man in his late twenties. He was convinced he was being stalked by his jealous ex-girlfriend and his jittery manner certainly indicated that he had anxieties. Boyce had asked to meet in a café near his office, explaining unnecessarily that his work schedule was mental. He had played with his phone throughout the consultation, taking only a few sips of his banana smoothie before abandoning it. He had jet black hair, tiny brilliant teeth and pale, almost translucent skin. He just wanted Rachel, his ex, to stop being ridiculous, he said, and let him move on with his life and his new partner. If Swift could get some photos and details of her behaviour collated for him he could challenge her and he was sure she would back off.

The rain had eased, so Swift walked. He avoided the tube when he could, hating its hot, crammed carriages. He wondered what he should get Joyce for her birthday. Probably, he would fall back on the usual scarf or theatre voucher. His father had remarried just eight months after Swift’s mother died, when he was fifteen. Joyce taught history at the school where his father was deputy head. Swift remembered his tall shadow as he came into the garden on a summer evening and explained that he had proposed to Joyce;
it’s just that I feel terribly lonely, you see
, he had said, almost apologetically. Joyce was a friendly, boisterous, bossy and well-meaning woman but she tried far too hard and flooded remorselessly around Swift’s life, giving unwanted advice on studies, diet and exercise. She had no children of her own and appeared to regard her stepson as a project to embark on. Swift didn’t want another mother; the one he had lost had meant everything to him and had left him a deep reservoir of all the maternal love he would ever need. He shrank away when Joyce approached him, questioning, prying, poking her nose in where it wasn’t wanted, not comprehending that an adolescent boy needs privacy. He was a perceptive young man and didn’t want to hurt Joyce’s feelings, understanding that she was well intentioned if unbearable.

He started spending time at Lily’s, where it was peaceful and he could make himself scrambled eggs at any hour instead of having to sit down at six on the dot to three-course meals with loaded questions about how school had been and what his plans were for the future. He employed the excuse that Lily’s house was useful for rowing practice and he thought that his father was relieved that he had it as a bolt hole. He had applied to red-brick universities because Joyce kept telling everyone that he was
terribly
bright, Oxbridge material and of course he can be in the Boat Rac
e
!
She failed even to understand that his enjoyment of rowing was as a solitary activity, an escape. His father died just before he graduated from Warwick, leaving him with an uncomfortable sense of having Joyce as an extra, unwanted family member. Florence Davenport’s comment about feeling an obligation towards her stepmother had chimed with him.

He checked the time. Ed Boyce had indicated he would be leaving a private members’ club called
Abode
around nine. He worked in TV production for a company called
Purple Spark
. He had told Swift that Rachel, the stalking ex, was ‘like you know, a major head case,’ and making his life unbearable. He said he’d had odd phone calls and constant emails from her, had seen her loitering regularly near his home and ‘just felt he was being followed as he moved around.’ Swift had a photo of her on his phone; a likeable, average face, dark hair swept up in a topknot, a pleasant smile. Boyce appeared an excitable type, full of himself and good-looking in a smoothly self-conscious way. He seemed used to hobnobbing with low-grade celebrities from TV reality shows. Swift thought he might have been listening to too many of their car-crash life stories and felt the need to inject some drama into his own. To date, he had tracked Boyce on half a dozen occasions, to and from business meetings, restaurants, nightclubs and his gym and had seen no evidence of anyone following him. Still, Boyce maintained that he felt uncomfortable, as if there was a shadow at his back and wanted Swift to continue a while longer. Swift wondered if the shadow was imaginary, the product of guilt or a vivid imagination but he was happy to take payment, so he wandered along a row of shops, looking for the club and finally saw a discreet sign with the name above a fanlight on a door tucked between a designer boutique and a delicatessen.

Swift crossed the road and stood at the window of an upmarket men’s clothing shop. There was a shirt in the display in a shade that he thought might be sage green. The street was empty except for the odd passing car. He checked his phone and sent a text to Mark Gill, saying he would ring him. He heard the door to
Abode
opening and watched as a group of people spilled out on to the pavement, Ed Boyce among them. They all immediately checked their phones and started replying to messages or calls. Some air-kissing took place and Boyce set off towards Covent Garden tube, his man bag slung diagonally across his chest. Swift started after him, keeping to the other side of the street and caught the same Piccadilly Line train to Turnpike Lane. He thought Boyce looked self-important, being observed by his own private detective, and imagined him bragging about it at work. At Turnpike Lane he shadowed Boyce on the five-minute walk to the block of flats he lived in and watched him enter. He waited for a few minutes and saw no evidence of a stalking woman who looked like a major head case, only young professional types like Boyce heading for home. Hungry after his snack of bread and olives earlier, he bought fish and chips and ate them as he walked, enjoying the soft night air and the hit of vinegar on his palate.

CHAPTER 3

Carmen Langborne’s house was in a mews just off Holland Park Avenue, a beautiful Georgian property with gleaming white paintwork, wide black front door and carefully tended window boxes full of white and purple pansies. The hushed, pristine street looked as if it was scrubbed and polished every day. Swift felt that if he dropped even a scrap of paper, he would be apprehended. He rang the bell and the door was opened almost immediately by a tall, rangy woman of around sixty with short brown hair and a warm smile. He introduced himself, holding out his ID, and she raised her glasses which were on a chain around her neck, held them before her eyes and examined it carefully. She nodded, satisfied, and pulled the door wider.

‘Come in. Could you take your shoes off, please? Mrs L’s rules. We’ll go to the kitchen, I’ve the kettle on. You’ll have a cuppa?’

‘Coffee would be good, if that’s okay.’

‘Of course. There are some of those individual coffee filters here in the cupboard, Mrs L prefers those. I only ever drink tea; I was given it in my bottle as a baby, so I suppose you could say I’m an addict.’

He untied his laces and left his shoes by the umbrella stand. He could smell cigarette smoke from her clothes as he followed her along a wide hallway; she had the slightly worn-looking, dry skin that dedicated smokers developed. Her apron rustled as she walked. She was wearing slip-on paper covers over soft flat shoes, presumably so that she didn’t mark the burnished parquet flooring. The spacious kitchen was at the back of the house, refurbished in minimalist style, all stainless steel, whites and greys but in an alcove there was an incongruous well-used pine table and chairs with cushions tied on and a small armchair. Two of the cushions were occupied by the longest, most lithe and handsome cats that Swift had ever seen. He wasn’t a great cat lover, being allergic to their hair but he could acknowledge their beauty. Both were sleeping; one of them opened one eye, gave Swift a lazy look, then closed it again. The air held delicious scents of chocolate and vanilla.

‘Sit yourself down,’ Mrs Farley said. ‘This is Perseus and this is Apollo. Paris is out and about for now.’

Swift drew out the chair furthest from them. ‘They’re incredible looking animals.’

‘Bengals,’ Mrs Farley said, lining up cups and pouring milk. ‘Their price is something out of this world, with their pedigrees and whatnot and of course they only eat the best. I reckon they cost more to feed a day than I do.’

‘Thanks for seeing me, Mrs Farley. Mrs Davenport said it would be all right to take a look around the house.’

‘Call me Ronnie.’

‘I’m Tyrone.’

‘Aye, Mrs Davenport rang me. To be honest, I’m glad she contacted you. The police are very smart and efficient-looking but I don’t think they have any idea what’s happened.’

She turned down the radio, which was tuned to an easy-listening station, finished placing tea, coffee and biscuits on a tray, checked that everything needed was on it and brought it to the table.

‘Are you from Aberdeen?’ Swift asked, accepting coffee and a chocolate biscuit.

‘I am, right enough. Well spotted.’

‘I used to work with someone from there, it’s a distinctive accent.’

‘It’s a bit watered down now, after forty years in London. Is there enough milk in that coffee?’

‘It’s fine, thanks. What do you think has happened to Mrs Langborne?’

Ronnie crossed her legs and tapped her chin with a forefinger. Swift reckoned she was a woman who enjoyed recounting a story and it was, after all, of dramatic interest when your employer vanished.

‘Haven’t a clue, is the truth of it. I was here the morning of the thirtieth of January. I usually come in three days a week in the morning for two hours to do general cleaning and any other jobs Mrs L wants. That day I hoovered the ground floor — the cats are short-haired but even so, you get some moulting — and emptied the dishwasher, did a bit of ironing although Mrs L has most of her stuff dry-cleaned.’ Ronnie took a sip of tea but pushed the plate of biscuits towards him. ‘I’d love one but I’m on a diet, so it’d be a kindness if you have another. I make them because it relaxes me, not to eat them.’

He took another. They were good, buttery and with chunks of chocolate. ‘How was Mrs Langborne that day?’

‘Same as always. Organised, looking smart; she always dresses well, even if she isn’t going out. She wasn’t upset or anything. I said to the policeman, if anything, she seemed chipper.’

‘She hadn’t seemed any different during the weeks before?’

‘Nah. She’s a very ordered person, everything done to schedule and in the proper way. I think that’s why we get on okay, I’m the same. She had a bit of a clear-out at the end of December, just after Christmas; some of her husband’s stuff that she still had, clothes and golf clubs and such, and some scarves and perfume she decided she didn’t like any more. I copped some Chanel No. 5! She got me to take the bags of stuff to the charity shop.’

‘How long have you worked for her?’

‘About five years. I came soon after her husband died. Her previous help was a friend of mine, Kate, who went to live in Cyprus when her hubby retired, so that’s how she knew about me.’

‘You seem to get on with her okay; how would you describe her?’

Ronnie gave him a knowing look. ‘Some folk find her difficult, including her family, but I get on fine with her. We never discuss personal matters. We’re just straightforward with each other. She likes everything just so but then, as I say, I’m the same. I suppose she comes across to some as a wee bit chilly and rigid, maybe a tad snobbish. I think she was bereft after the husband died; Kate told me she depended on him, he was the centre of her life really and she was in a bad way for a while after he died. As far as I’m concerned, she pays well and this is a handy wee job. More coffee?’

‘No, thanks. Who finds her difficult?’

Ronnie poured herself more tea. ‘Well, now, I’d say that there’s no love lost between her and the stepdaughter. I don’t think Mrs L has much maternal instinct and I heard her once on the phone talking to Florence, being critical about her wee girl’s manners. They’d been round here and the wee one had broken a tea pot. Mrs L could be sharp, you see. I believe too that Florence was very close to her daddy and of course the divorce meant she had to live away from him. That kind of scar never truly heals, does it? Mrs L likes Rupert better; I saw them together here once and he was complimenting her on her dress. He has a way with the ladies, that one, I can see how he’d attract a string of wives; I believe he’s on his third marriage. He and the sister don’t care much for each other, I’d say. I’ve heard them both drop snide comments about the other one.’

Ronnie was well into her stride now, pulling her chair in to the table, folding her capable freckled arms below her bosom. Swift nodded, not wanting to interrupt her flow.

‘I can tell that Dr Forsyth finds her a bit of a nuisance,’ Ronnie continued, ‘even though she’s paid well enough for her time. Mrs L worries a lot about her health; she had a cancer scare a couple of years back although it turned out just to be a kidney stone. She’s always phoning Dr Forsyth and getting her round here; any little mole or cough or headache. She called her that last morning I saw her because she had a painful finger and the doctor said she’d be round the following day.’

‘What about friends, does she have close ones?’

‘I don’t know about close; she likes Mrs Sutherland, who she plays bridge with. She’s RC, quite devout in her own way I think but never discusses it. She goes to mass on Sunday but I’ve never had the impression she gets involved in the church otherwise. She seems to go out to lots of social events and she’s held the odd coffee morning and supper party here in aid of her animal charities. I do the coffee and hand round the cakes and biscuits and I make or buy in quiches and puds for the evenings. The guests are mainly ladies, at the coffee mornings anyway. I don’t think men go for that kind of thing much. There’s been some fellas at the suppers. But to be honest, she isn’t one to talk about anything to me except matters to do with the upkeep of the house.’

‘You keep your staff at arm’s length?’ Swift suggested.

Ronnie laughed. ‘Aye, right enough. She likes me to call her “madam” and she calls me “Farley.” Mind you, that’s fine with me. I go to do for another lady near here who’s always telling me about her family troubles and it gets a bit much. I’m a housekeeper, not a therapist. If I earned the kind of money they earn, I could have a villa in Cyprus too! Ah!’ she held a hand up as a song came on; ‘The Wichita Lineman. I adore Glen Campbell. D’you like him?’

‘Not too keen, but I agree the song tells a good story. If I listened to country music, it would be Kris Kristofferson. Mrs Davenport said that her stepmother had gone away without telling her family a couple of times. Did you know about those trips?’

One of the cats stood, circled his cushion and settled down again with a yawn. Swift sneezed rapidly, three times. It was always three times when it was an allergic reaction.

Ronnie reached to a worktop and passed him a box of tissues. ‘Bless you. When my ma sneezed three times she’d say, “God bless me, Christ bless me, all the saints in heaven bless me.” Mrs L told me she’d be away but she didn’t say where. I had to come in every day, you see, to feed the cats. But three weeks was the most time she was gone for. I know she didn’t tell Florence and Rupert that she was going. I think she liked to cause a bit of a stir sometimes. I’ve met other women who live on their own who get like that; maybe it’s a way of making sure people take notice of them. Would you mind if we step into the garden? I’m dying for a ciggie and there’s no smoking allowed inside.’

She unlocked a side door and they stepped out into a small garden, mainly paved, with steps leading to slim terraces that held urns and pots of flowers and shrubs. There was an iron table and chairs, so they sat in the sun. Ronnie reached into her apron and took out a tin with ready-made roll-ups inside.

Swift stretched out his legs, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his head. He shifted his chair to make sure he was out of drifting distance of Ronnie’s smoke.

‘Mrs Langborne doesn’t have a gardener?’

‘Nah; she likes doing her own tubs and this is small enough not to need any other help.’

Swift clasped his arms behind his head. ‘One of the papers said that Mrs Langborne is eccentric. Why would they say that?’

‘Oh, the papers!’ Ronnie snorted. ‘Maybe that was to do with the argument she had with the neighbours. They’re young and oozing money. They started having a basement dug and the noise was awful, with the constant drilling and dust everywhere. I mean, why not just buy a bigger house? She’d already had words with them and started a local petition. She was constantly badgering the council about it. Then the pavement and some of the road caved in which really made her feel justified. They were allowed to carry on with the basement eventually but there was a big to-do about it all and she was knocking on their door most days about the noise. I think the neighbours referred to her as a ‘mad old bat’ to a journalist who was hanging about; at one point they threatened to get an injunction against her for harassment. When Mrs L felt she was in the right, she was like a dog with a bone.’

‘Which house was this?’

‘Number Eleven, two doors up. They’re called Stafford.’

Swift added to his notes and read them over. Ronnie looked on, interested.

‘Must be a fascinating job you do. Do you get to know lots of secrets?’

‘A few. People usually have things they want to hide.’

‘I can imagine. Folk tell me I’m an open book but I don’t think that’s true of anyone. We all like to draw the odd veil, don’t we?’

Swift smiled at her. ‘Ronnie, I know that you’ve said you and Mrs Langborne have a fairly formal relationship but I can tell that you’re a keen-eyed woman, who doesn’t miss much. I would imagine that if you’re in someone’s home three times a week there must be stuff you pick up on. Are you sure there’s nothing else you can tell me? In a case like this, even the most apparently insignificant things can be helpful.’

He could see that she knew she was being flattered and why; no flies on Ronnie. But she liked it nonetheless. He thought it must be odd for her in this house, coming to its emptiness every day, with just the cats to talk to, not knowing where her employer was. He wondered if she was alone too much; there was an intensity to her warmth, as if she lavished it when she could and she obviously loved a good chat. She was clearly also making her stewardship comfortable, judging by the TV and celebrity magazines he had seen stacked by her bag with its long straps hanging over the kitchen worktop and the foot stool pulled up to the arm chair. He had detected a faint smell of alcohol coming from her and wondered if she was helping herself to some of her employer’s stock.

‘You’ve a clever tongue,’ she said, taking a deep pull on her cigarette and blowing a smoke ring. ‘I ought to give these up but I started when I was fourteen and you’ve got to die of something.’

There was a pause. Swift looked intently at the garden.

‘Well, I don’t know, Tyrone; when I said to the police that Mrs L seemed chipper on the thirtieth, it did cross my mind later that maybe she sniffed a romance or at least had met some fella she liked. She didn’t like being on her own, I could see that right enough. My friend Kate told me that the husband had put her on a pedestal and cosseted her, treated her like some kind of princess. Whatever she wanted, she got. Must be hard to suddenly not have that kind of attention and be on your own. I’ve never had it, so I’ve never missed it. The way she acted around men, you could see she was a bit desperate; you know, coming on a bit too gushing. Men aren’t keen on that, are they?’