The Lady Vanished (13 page)

‘She came back to see me, and on that visit I told her about Rupert. I needed to tell someone and as his stepmother, it seemed somehow as if she had been sent. I’m not a religious man but I do believe that certain things are meant. Do you think that?’

‘I believe in coincidence,’ Swift told him.

‘Ah, a rationalist. Carmen asked me to write down what I had told her. She said that she would have to consider it carefully, but she thought that Rupert should be told. She had very clear ideas about right and wrong; her view was that Rupert was entitled to know, even if he didn’t want to meet me.’ He swallowed, his voice roughening.

‘Do you want to meet him?’

‘To be honest, I’m not sure. I think it would have to be his decision anyway. Could you pour some more water for me? I tend to spill it.’

Swift rose and poured water from the jug, placing the blue plastic beaker back on the tray.

‘Thank you. You know you’re on the way out when you can’t be trusted with a glass and the carers insist on nursery ware. When I was a child, I had a similar drinking vessel with Peter Rabbit on it.’ Pennington laughed, then coughed.

‘You have no family?’

‘No; my wife died some time ago. I have kind ladies and nurses who come in every day and give me orders. What do you think has happened to Carmen? I didn’t know her for long but I enjoyed her company and find that I miss her. I’ve never been a sociable man, you see.’

Swift wondered if Carmen had been his only visitor. ‘No trace of her has been found. The police have had no success to date. Did she ever indicate to you that she was going away anywhere or had a new relationship?’

‘No. We never talked for long; I get tired easily and Rupert was our only real subject of conversation. I enjoyed hearing about him from her; how his life is now, et cetera.’

Pennington closed his eyes. Swift looked at him, then away; it seemed cruel that Carmen had appeared in his life and offered him company and a chance to be heard, then left him without warning. His hopes for a meeting with his son must have been raised. His solitary suffering and lack of self-pity moved Swift intensely. He stood to look at a photograph on one of the bookshelves; Pennington as a young man with his bride. There was no doubt that he was Rupert’s father; the build was slighter, but facially there was a clear resemblance.

He looked around and saw that Pennington was watching him. ‘Rupert looks like you.’

‘You’ve met him?’

‘Yes, just recently. We had a lunch and discussed his stepmother.’

‘You see that shelf, by the window? There’s an album at one end. Take a look.’

Swift found a small photograph album propped against a row of books. It contained a couple of pages of photos of Rupert Langborne as a child; some in school uniform, some on beaches, one in a garden. He was smiling in all of them but it was a heart-rending record. Swift replaced it and sat again, moving the chair further back from the fire.

‘You must have wanted at times to meet your son, must have been tempted to take a look at least?’

Pennington made a helpless gesture. ‘Penny was very firm that I mustn’t do anything to rock the boat; too much to lose. Then there was my wife to think of. It seemed best not to interfere.’

There was a placidity about him suggesting that here was a man who had always been instructed by women.

‘Do you know if Carmen had told Rupert about you?’

‘I’ve no idea; the last time I saw her I was having a bad day after treatment and she wasn’t allowed to stay for long. I don’t recall much about that visit; morphine is a blessing but you do tend to check out of reality for a while.’

‘What will you do now, about telling him?’

Pennington clasped his hands together on the tray. ‘I haven’t any fight in me. I’ve left it too long now. I have written a letter enclosed with my will and the DNA result to be passed to Rupert after my death. My solicitor will see to it.’ His voice was reduced to a whisper. ‘I think it best that he knows and his mother wanted it.’

‘Did Mrs Langborne know about that letter?’

‘I don’t think so; I don’t believe I discussed that.’

Swift stood. ‘I’ll go now; I’ve taken enough of your time. Can I do anything for you before I go?’

Pennington held both his hands out and took Swift’s. His grip was surprisingly strong.

‘This is what you can do; wish for me what I wish for myself; that I will go to sleep tonight and not wake. Will you do that?’

* * *

Poppy Forsyth was drinking vodka and lime; she had come to London with her husband, a paediatrician, she told Swift. They divorced and she stayed on, having become an anglophile. She was wearing jeans and a bright yellow jumper featuring diagonal zips and bits of green leather. On her right wrist she wore a bracelet that jangled musically as she moved; he found it alluring. Her hair swayed about her shoulders and now and again she ran her fingers through it. Swift was glad of the distraction; he would need to sit and think about what he had learned and decide what to do but not tonight. His brain was tired, too tired to process the information. He’d had three glasses of wine and was feeling pleasantly drunk. He told Poppy about Lilac Grange and the Lomars and mentioned William Pennington without providing any details. He told her of Pennington’s final request as he was leaving the flat.

‘Well,’ she said, raising her glass, ‘let’s wish it for him then, honey. You know the saying? I don’t know where it originates but I like it;
may you live as long as you want to and want to as long as you live
.’

‘It sounds Irish,’ he said, clinking his glass to hers. ‘Do you ever get depressed, being around sick people?’

‘Not really; sometimes, when children are ill. But you know, it’s just part of the human condition. You have good health, you have bad. You’re born, you die. It’s all quite simple.’

The way she put it, he found himself in agreement. After another drink she put a hand on his knee.

‘Want to come back to mine? It’s just a couple of blocks, we can walk.’

Her skin gleamed with health, her vitality was infectious. He couldn’t think of any reason to say no.

CHAPTER 9

Swift sat in his office, swivelling in his chair, reading over his notes and thinking. There was no point in focusing on Vincent Lomar for now. He had tried ringing Nora Morrow with no luck so sent her an email, thanking her for the heads up on Lomar. He decided not to mention William Pennington, wanting to chew over the situation.

He yawned and stretched. He had woken that morning in a strange, wide bed, feeling rejuvenated. Poppy was already in the shower so he made tea and toast for them both. They left her flat together and he kissed her cheek on the doorstep.

‘It was fun, hon,’ she said. ‘See you soon?’

‘Sounds fine,’ he said, flagging a taxi.

He didn’t know if he would call or if she would; it had been warm and generous and as she said, fun. He would let it lie, see what happened. He switched off the memory of her musical bracelet and refocused on his notes. He knew now what
WP
meant in Carmen’s diary, yet she hadn’t visited him that day. For a widow who led a quiet life with her charities and knitting, she had certainly got mixed up in some interesting situations. Surely, he thought, she must have broached the subject of his father with Langborne between December and the end of January? It wasn’t an issue to delay over, with Pennington likely to die at any time. Being a woman of strong views, she was unlikely to hesitate for long. And if Langborne knew, did Florence? Approaching him was going to be tricky. Swift wanted to make the most of taking him by surprise. He tidied his desk and made a coffee, then sat and doodled for a few minutes. He made a decision which would involve borrowing Cedric’s car.

* * *

Saturday morning found Swift on the road out of London early, driving Cedric’s burnt-orange Mini Cooper convertible. Cedric used it infrequently so it was in mint condition and smelled new inside. The sun was warm so he had the hood down, the breeze on his face. The traffic was reasonable on the M4 at seven thirty and he cruised just under the speed limit; at this rate, he reckoned, it would take about an hour to Cookham, where he would have breakfast. His plan was to catch Langborne unawares at his country retreat, a place where he would be away from his formal setting and not expecting to be questioned. He aimed to arrive at Holly End around ten a.m., judging that this would be early enough, before a day’s activities.

He parked the car near the station just after eight thirty and walked through the pretty streets. There were few people around, mainly men of Cedric’s age out to buy their papers. He found a café open and ordered scrambled eggs and coffee and read a selection of their newspapers while he ate. Afterwards, he followed directions to the Thames and walked for half an hour, taking off his jacket and rolling up his shirtsleeves. It was a picturesque place but gentrified in a way that made Swift edgy; he was a city animal and always found the countryside a little alien and unnerving. There were some rowers out on the water and swans gliding. The wooded hillsides were verdant in the sun. He approached the lock, knowing from his Thames lore that the river changed course suddenly at this point and had been highly dangerous for navigating before the lock was built. He stood and watched the flowing water, the convergence of four streams, then turned and walked back to the car.

Holly End was situated off a lane running between high trees that curved and met overhead, forming a green gothic-shaped canopy above the car. A pair of tall wrought-iron gates stood at the top of the driveway. Swift got out of the car and checked them; they weren’t electronically controlled or locked. He drove the car further along the lane, not wanting to advertise his arrival. He parked it on the dry verge and walked back to the gates. They were heavy but opened easily. Just beyond them and side by side were two brick-built cottages, double fronted, with fenced gardens. Both had white wooden front doors and porches. They had curtains and seemed lived in but Swift’s arrival brought no sign of interest. He walked up the gravel drive towards a white, imposing house with huge sash windows and manicured green lawns curving about it. He had read that it was eighteenth century, Grade II listed, and set in twelve acres, including woodland. To his left he could see a lake, framed by reeds and willows and beyond it a tennis court. There was clearly money to be made from biscuits; would they have servants?

The front door was oak, with a brass knocker posing as a fox’s head. Swift knocked twice and waited. He recognised the petite woman who opened the door from the photo he had borrowed at Carmen’s house.

‘Mrs Langborne?’

‘Yes. Can I help you?’

‘My name’s Tyrone Swift. I was hoping to see your husband. He knows me; we met recently.’ He held out his ID.

She was wearing a short white pleated skirt, a cotton T-shirt and white trainers. It looked as if she was about to head to her tennis court.

‘Is my husband expecting you?’

‘No; I was in the area and there is something I’d like to check with him.’

‘Swift,’ she said. ‘Oh, are you the gumshoe?’ Her voice was soft and her accent held a hint of West Country.

‘Well, I’m not American so I’m called a private detective.’

She looked past him. ‘Where’s your car?’

‘I left it on the lane.’

‘Oh.’ This seemed to baffle her. ‘Well, I don’t know if Rupert is available. Perhaps you’d better come in and I’ll speak to him.’

He stepped into a wide entrance hall with a central fireplace, black-and-white marble floor tiles and a staircase rising from the centre. It was panelled throughout in light oak.

‘If you take a seat, I’ll speak to my husband,’ she said, gesturing at an embroidered chair.

She vanished through a door, her skirt swinging. Swift ignored the seat and examined the portraits hanging on the walls; they were of various gentry in eighteenth century costume and he wondered if they had come as a job lot with the house. He recognised a large oil painting over the fireplace of Lord Justice Langborne, wearing a black silk gown and wig and holding a tome, presumably legal. He looked imposing and authoritative. William Pennington was unlikely to have sat for his portrait. To the left of the fireplace hung a framed photograph, showing Daphne Langborne in a field with a minor royal whose name escaped Swift; behind them were the trappings of a country fair and a banner reading
Council for the Protection of Rural England
.

It was a good five minutes before he heard a heavy tread and Rupert Langborne appeared. He was dressed in mustard-coloured cords and a green checked shirt which emphasised his slight paunch. He looked annoyed.

‘What are you doing, calling here uninvited?’ he asked. ‘It’s most irregular.’

‘I was driving nearby so I thought I’d take the opportunity. Sorry for the inconvenience, but it is important.’

‘I’m extremely busy. You could ring me. In fact, why don’t you do that on Monday?’ He moved towards the front door.

Swift stayed where he was, by the fireplace. ‘I’d rather we talked now. It’s quite a delicate matter, not really suitable for the telephone. It would be best to be private.’

Langborne stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

Swift moved towards him. ‘It’s about William Pennington.’

There was a pause. Langborne looked sideways. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Swift left a silence. ‘I think you do. I believe your stepmother talked to you about him.’

Langborne put his hands in his pockets and rocked on the balls of his feet. ‘I honestly haven’t a clue what you mean. I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey.’ He opened the front door. His wife was crossing the gravel towards the tennis courts, racket in hand, another woman now by her side in a cream tunic and tennis shoes.

‘Nice day for tennis,’ Swift observed. ‘I have the letter Mr Pennington wrote. If you won’t speak to me, I’ll have to take it to the police. I think you’d rather discuss it with me.’

Langborne looked up at the ceiling, then closed the door with the kind of exaggerated care that spoke of fury. ‘Follow me to the garden room.’

They passed through a door at the rear of the hallway and along a narrower passage, past a dining room and library with a billiard table. The oak panelling was repeated everywhere and light spilled in where the ceilings had been exposed and skylights inserted in the roof. Langborne led the way into a wide conservatory that ran the full length of the back of the house. There were half a dozen cane chairs with plump cushions, a couple of full-length sun beds and a huge, elegant telescope on a glass topped table. A walled garden was now visible and several greenhouses. A middle-aged man with a wheelbarrow full of plants was plodding towards the garden. Hens were wandering around outside the conservatory, pecking and fussing. Langborne had a well-balanced life; Whitehall bureaucrat during the week, country squire at the weekend.

Langborne indicated a chair and sat opposite Swift. He placed his hands on his knees.

‘Say what you’ve come to say.’

Swift reached into his pocket and passed across the copy he had made of Pennington’s letter. ‘I found this at your stepmother’s house. I visited the hospice named at the top of the letter and then William Pennington at his home. He told me that Mrs Langborne had said she would consider speaking to you about it. I believe she did.’

Langborne looked at the letter, then threw it back. ‘How did you get this rubbish?’

‘It was tucked away in Mrs Langborne’s house. I do wonder if you’ve been looking for it yourself; Mrs Farley told me you’ve been there a few times, checking the place.’

‘You can believe what you like. You can’t prove that my stepmother told me.’

Swift folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. He looked for a moment at the hens. ‘Mr Langborne, you clearly knew about this letter when I mentioned it. You wouldn’t bother speaking to me now if you were unaware of it. Your parentage is immaterial to me. I just want to find out what has happened to Mrs Langborne.’

Langborne had flushed at that ‘parentage.’ He pursed his mouth. ‘This is no business of yours. I’m not interested in the ravings of a sick old man. My stepmother is a meddler and should have known better.’

There was a tension snaking from the man. Swift knew that Langborne would like to hit him. ‘You must see that your knowledge of this letter would indicate you could have a motive for harming your stepmother.’

‘Don’t be utterly ridiculous and don’t forget my profession; I’ve spent years dealing with risk and rumours at the highest level. That kind of drivel is a mere nuisance.’

‘Hardly drivel if there’s DNA proof. And why would William Pennington make this claim? He has nothing to gain from it.’

Langborne had regained control of himself. He sat upright. ‘It’s of no interest to me why Mr Pennington would say such things. Illness makes some people act strangely. As for DNA; who’s to say it was my hair that was used? This is like some bad TV series and I suspect that’s what Mr Pennington has been watching.’

‘Have you told Florence about this?’

‘No, of course not; why would I want to bother her with such nonsense?’

‘I can see it’s going to be a difficult conversation. Speaking of which, has Florence told you that she and Paul had asked your stepmother for a substantial loan and were questioned at a police station about her disappearance?’

Langborne settled his hands across his stomach. ‘I haven’t been told that. When did this occur?’

‘So many secrets in your family. You’ll have to ask Florence; after all, I’m just her employee at present.’ Swift changed tack. ‘Where were you on January thirty-first?’

‘As I have already told the police, I was working here, at home.’

‘That’s unusual, isn’t it? I thought you were in London during the week.’

‘I sometimes work from home when I have a report to write.’ He made his voice smooth. ‘Now, I have spoken to you; you have come here uninvited, impugned my mother and insulted me and I have given you a hearing. I have nothing else to say. If you persist in hawking this letter about, I will put the matter in the hands of my solicitor.’ He stood, indicating the door.

There were times when staying seated gave you the advantage. Swift looked up at him attentively. ‘Mr Pennington has an album with half a dozen photos of you as a child; ones your mother sent him. Why would she send photos of you to a stranger? You do look very like him,’ he said gently.

Langborne’s jaw twitched. ‘I want you to leave. I don’t wish to see or hear from you again. You can leave by the back door.’

He slid back a wide glass door and stood by it. Swift rose slowly and exited. He turned as he stepped on to the gravel, hens scattering near his feet.

‘William Pennington is your father and hasn’t long to live. You might want to consider seeing him.’

He walked away. The door slammed, the hens clucking loudly in protest. Swift made his way back to the gates, stopping at the cottages. He knocked on both doors. There were no cars parked and no sign of habitation. He looked through the front windows, then went round the back. Both houses were furnished and spick and span, the gardens tended. He wondered if they were rented out; holiday homes, perhaps?

He opened the car roof and sat for a while, listening to silence broken only by occasional birdsong. He imagined that Langborne might already be on the phone, ringing friends in high places, including the Met. He had known about the letter; the question was, had he decided to do something about the bearer of news he didn’t want to hear? Pennington was going to die anyway and Langborne didn’t know about the information left with his solicitor so Carmen would have been the only real threat.