Bound By Lies Read online

  He fetched his coffee and sipped it, emailing his cousin:

  Hi M, I hear you’ve been saying nice things about me. You might have brought me some work. Buy you a drink in one of those wine bars you like?

  He rubbed his shoulders and sat back, coffee cradled against his chest. He loved his cousin not only because she was a good woman and had been one of his closest friends in childhood but also because she resembled his much loved dead mother; the same brunette curls and smile, the same light and steady voice. Mary Adair was an Assistant Commissioner in the Metropolitan Police and had been enthusiastic about his decision to turn private detective when he left Interpol and was casting around for a role in life. His email pinged:

  Hi, I’m always saying nice things about you. How’s the trench coat and trilby? Ring me later in the week, M.

  He made notes about Ms Davenport’s information, while he finished his coffee, and then rang Mrs Brewer. Given the details he could provide about her paunchy husband’s hotel assignations with his lissom daughter-in-law, he suggested it would be better if she came to see him but she insisted on hearing it over the phone. He listened to her sobbing; he had advised her, when she had contacted him, that she should only pose the question if she wanted to know the answer. There was certainly going to be an interesting family scene. He let her cry, and then advised her to sit down and speak to her husband before she contacted her son. She said that he had been very helpful, very kind. He didn’t think so and he wondered if she would in a month’s time. He said that he would email her the details with his final bill and ended the call.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the smooth river, and then looked up directions to Ms Davenport’s address.

  CHAPTER 2

  With the house, Swift’s great-aunt Lily had left him a sitting tenant; Cedric Sheridan was in his late eighties and lived on the top floor. Cedric and Lily had known each other for years, meeting during the war, when they worked in Intelligence. In his teens, Swift had visited Lily frequently, escaping his stepmother in Muswell Hill; he had once asked her if she and Cedric were involved with each other. Lily had laughed and said no; adding that Cedric was bisexual and she wouldn’t be keen on a man who couldn’t make up his mind. Lily’s husband Wilfred had died aged only thirty-eight, the age Swift was now, and Lily had never stopped missing him. She never referred to him but on that occasion when he enquired about her and Cedric, she told Swift that Wilfred had been the only man for her and no one else had ever come near. He had recalled that remark when he got engaged to Ruth, and Lily had raised her glass to them at the party. He had thought that Ruth felt that way about him but he had been proved wrong.

  He met Cedric coming back from his afternoon walk, as he set out for Putney. Cedric was with two friends, partners in the dominoes tournament at the Silver Mermaid most lunch times and they were heading back for a game of cards. Cedric had an erect military bearing and, other than slight arthritis in his hands, was fit and energetic. He waved languid fingers at Swift, asked him how the river had been, said he should call by later for a G and T, then weaved up the steps between his companions who were swaying slightly after several hours in the pub. Swift sometimes thought that Cedric had a busier social life than he had himself; most evenings, his lights burned late and music and conversation drifted down through the house.

  * * *

  It was a fine afternoon and the exercise of the morning had left him with a taste for more, so he walked the five miles along the Thames path to Putney Bridge. Florence Davenport lived in a terraced house not unlike his, with steps to the front door, but no basement. She answered the door wearing jodhpurs and asked would he mind waiting while she changed, as she had just got back from a hack.

  She showed him into the living room and vanished. It ran the length of the house and was full of light but the walls had been painted a pale, chilly blue that was unwelcoming. The room was decorated with abstract prints and the heads of a fox, giraffe and elephant constructed, he thought, from newspaper and cardboard. A large plasma TV covered the wall opposite the sofa and a huge plastic box containing toys stood on the polished floor boards. A group of photos in fussy, faux-Victorian style silver frames were clustered on a coffee table next to a pile of horsy magazines and he bent to look; they were of Florence and Helena and, he assumed, Mr Davenport, who was a thin man of medium height with wispy hair, a trim beard and lines under his eyes that made Swift less concerned about his own. No image of Stepmother, he noted. Given the nanny and the horse riding, the place wasn’t as expensively furnished as he would have expected. The beige sofa and chairs seemed small and cheap; he sat in one of the armchairs and confirmed that it resisted his six feet two. He was accustomed to finding furniture uncomfortable but this chair seemed particularly rigid. He swapped to the sofa which was only marginally more accommodating. Florence appeared to be a lady of leisure; he wondered what the husband worked at. His interest was now piqued enough to inform him that he had decided to take the case. He heard her on the stairs and took out his notebook. She had dressed in the very tight jeans again and had put a kind of floral smock over them; with her hair scrunched back in a ponytail, he thought her top half looked like Pollyanna, her bottom half Lolita. She offered him tea or coffee and he refused.

  ‘I think I’ll be able to help you,’ he said. ‘Are my rates acceptable?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  He flicked his pen open. ‘How did you find out your stepmother was missing?’

  She perched on one of the armchairs, her hands around her knees. ‘Rupert, my brother, rang me that evening, January thirty-first. Paddy Sutherland — that’s the woman who was expecting Carmen for bridge — had contacted him. He hadn’t been able to get hold of Carmen so he phoned me to see if I knew where she was. Not that that would be likely.’ She gave a little laugh.

  ‘You didn’t see your stepmother often?’

  ‘About three or four times a year; Christmas, Easter, her birthday. Same with Rupe.’

  About the same as he saw his stepmother. ‘So, were you worried, did you call the police?’

  ‘No, we assumed she’d got her dates wrong or mixed up and like I said, Carmen had taken off before without telling us, although her housekeeper was always in the know. But the next morning the housekeeper, Mrs Farley, rang Rupe to say that she wasn’t there and the cats hadn’t been fed. She had arranged to sit with Mrs Farley that morning to go through the menu for a supper she was giving at the end of the week. Mrs Farley did catering when needed. So Rupe rang the police; well, got his secretary to ring them. Rupe has staff, you know.’ She made a little lemon sucking movement with her mouth.

  ‘And the police spoke to you both, you and Rupert?’

  ‘Oh yes. They were bustling around to start with but I’m not sure what’s happening now.’

  ‘Does your stepmother have a car?’

  ‘No, she’s never had a licence; Daddy used to drive them. Even for her age, she’s old-fashioned in that way, likes a man to open doors, pull out a seat for her, all that stuff. When Daddy died she sold the car.’

  ‘How many times has she gone away without telling you and where did she go?’ Swift removed a cushion from behind his back and put it on the floor, trying to get less uncomfortable. It was chilly in the room and not just because of the blue décor.

  ‘I think four or five times before and she never said where she’d gone but she looked tanned so it must have been abroad. Carmen wasn’t one to holiday in the UK; too cold and rainy for her. She and Daddy used to travel loads so she knew lots of places. But with no passport . . .’

  ‘She’s Spanish, isn’t she?’

  ‘Hmm, from Barcelona; but she left there years ago, came to London at eighteen. She never had any contact with family there, as far as I know.’ She giggled. ‘I’ve always thought they were probably glad to see the back of her, bought her a one-way ticket.’

  Swift looked levelly at her and she blushed, rubbing her cheek.

  ‘How did you get on with your stepmother when you were younger, did you live with her and your father?’

  ‘Well, goodness, that was years ago; what’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘It’s always useful to have as complete a picture of someone as possible, in this kind of circumstance,’ he said mildly. ‘She was younger than your father?’

  She shrugged. ‘We never really hit it off. Yes, she was almost twenty years younger than Daddy. He was seeing her before he and Mummy divorced so, you know, there was quite a bit of tension. I lived with Mummy in Sussex; she moved there after the split and stayed there until she died. I used to stay with Daddy in the school holidays. Carmen was really only interested in Daddy so I was a bit of an inconvenience. We didn’t have much to do with each other. Rupe’s ten years older than me so he never actually lived with her. She liked the status that being married to Daddy gave her. She was the general dogsbody at his dentist when they met so marriage gave her quite a leg up the social ladder.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Carmen or spoke to her?’

  ‘Like I told the police, at Christmas. We went round there on Boxing Day for tea.’

  ‘Was Rupert there?’

  ‘No, he was at his wife’s place in Berkshire. He called in to her at New Year; he always comes back to London for the sales to buy his shirts in Jermyn Street.’

  Swift arched his back and flexed his legs, rubbing his cramped right thigh. ‘So, Carmen didn’t seem worried about anything, upset by anyone?’

  Florence shrugged. ‘No. She was her usual self, talking about her social activities, some gala she was attending to raise money for elephants in Thailand.’

  ‘Did she have health problems? I read that her doctor had seen her the day she vanished.’
r />   ‘Oh, I’m not sure. She always seemed well to me, although she liked having health checks; you know, BP, cholesterol. She has a private GP and they come running if you sneeze. Not like us ordinary mortals who have to beg for an appointment. I had tonsillitis a couple of weeks ago and I couldn’t see a GP for days! I was offered a nurse instead, trying to fob me off.’

  Swift smiled sympathetically. ‘And your husband, did he see your stepmother with you?’

  ‘Paul? Yes, he came when we visited. Actually, my DH gets on okay with Carmen, better than me probably. But then, as I said before, she’s a man’s woman.’

  ‘What do you think has happened to her?’

  There was a pause. ‘I just don’t know. I’m worried that she might have come to some harm, I suppose.’

  ‘If she has, do you know who benefits from her will?’

  Florence sat up straight. Her eyes were suddenly shrewd. Swift thought it was the most animated he had seen her.

  ‘When she dies, Rupe and I share the house; that was all left in trust by Daddy. She’s said she’s also leaving us both money and some to animal charities. Cats and donkeys, probably. I ask you!’

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘I’ve nothing against animals but I happen to think humans should come first where inheritance is concerned.’

  ‘You could do with the money, then?’

  He wondered how she would react to the rudeness. Her colour rose but she forced a bright tone.

  ‘Who couldn’t do with money these days? But I work, you know, I do earn money myself.’ Her head twitched.

  ‘Oh? What do you do?’

  ‘I’m a personal stylist.’

  ‘Yes? Sorry, I’m sure I’m dense but I don’t know what that means.’

  She looked astonished. ‘I help people to choose their wardrobes and make-up, accessorise jewellery. If they want, I go shopping with them to make sure their clothes match their lifestyle. I write a blog too.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ he lied.

  She gave him a sideways glance. ‘If you came to me, for example, I’d suggest a shorter hairstyle, maybe some gel to sculpt those curls and definitely softer colours.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll think about that. What does your husband do?’

  ‘He works in the city.’

  ‘Right. Can you give me some contact details now? I need to speak to Rupert, Paddy Sutherland, Mrs Farley, your stepmother’s GP. Also, it would help to have a look around her house, if that can be arranged. Where does she live?’

  ‘Holland Park. You could ask Mrs Farley to let you in when she’s there; she’s still going in every day to keep the place ticking over and to feed the cats.’

  She flicked through her phone and gave him the contact details he’d requested.

  ‘What’s a DH?’ he asked. ‘You said it about your husband.’

  ‘It’s shorthand for Darling Husband; women use it all the time on Mumsnet.’

  ‘Ah; well, I don’t have much reason to use that website.’

  She giggled. ‘I meant what I said, about giving you some style tips. With your raven hair and slate eyes, a sage green would really suit you.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll bear it in mind. I’ll contact you in about a week and give you an update. I need that cash deposit, please.’

  She rummaged in the yellow handbag and gave him the money. He handed her the receipt he had prepared and a contract for her to sign. The transaction seemed to relax her.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, cradling one hand inside the other, ‘it’s true that I’ve never been close to Carmen and we’ve had our differences. But in the end I always remember that Daddy loved her so I feel some family obligation towards her. I think I need to try and help because I’m sure she’s in some trouble. Does that make sense?’

  Her sincerity sounded forced to Swift. ‘Yes, it makes sense.’

  ‘Will you talk to the police?’ she asked at the door.

  ‘I’ll let them know you’ve engaged me, yes.’

  * * *

  Swift waited for Mary Adair in a wine bar off Regent Street. It was tucked down one of the parallel side lanes that tourists rarely explored as they swarmed up and down the main drag. Swift always thought of London as two cities: one, the teeming beehive where you had to be careful not to get knocked off the pavement; the second, the backstage capital where, if you had the knowledge, you could walk, eat and talk in comparative tranquillity. At six thirty the bar was quiet, inhabiting the lull between offices closing and true night owls appearing. Miles Davis played plaintively in the background. It had started raining and it was snug to sit by the window, watching the misty droplets slide down the pane. Swift had already ordered a glass of Merlot; if it was going to be wine, it had to be red, as far as he was concerned. Mary went for white or red depending on her mood.

  As children, he and Mary had enjoyed Cluedo, reading Sherlock Holmes, writing with invisible ink and sending each other messages in secret codes. As adults, they had continued their interest in concealment and exposure, joining the Met within a year of each other, as graduate entrants. After a couple of years, he had been seconded to, then taken a permanent post with Interpol, tracking illegal arms sales across Europe. Mary meanwhile had risen rapidly through the ranks, enjoying her fragmentation of glass ceilings. These days she seemed to spend most of her time in interminable meetings and committees, which he would never have been able to stomach. Mary had consoled him after Ruth, saying little, buying him a case of Rhone Syrah with which to drown his sorrows. Close as they were, he hadn’t told her that he had been seeing Ruth again. No one knew; his heart was too troubled to talk about it.

  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.