The Lady Vanished by Gretta Mulrooney Read Free Book Online Page B

long.’
    ‘Hmm. Maybe a random attack; I know they’re actually rare, but it is possible. Maybe she was carrying cash, wearing good jewellery and it was a mugging that went wrong.’
    ‘In London though, unseen by anyone?’
    Mark swept his fork efficiently across his plate. ‘You can find empty places in London. Given that the city is constantly being dug up, there are always opportunities to hide a body. I don’t know. It’s a DI Morrow who’s in charge of the case. I don’t know her but I can have a word with her about you and ask her to give you a ring.’
    They cleared away and sat talking and drinking beer, Mark expounding on the latest changes in the Met, the ever-growing bureaucracy and targets to be met. Swift let most of it wash over him. Mark frequently leapt up as he talked to straighten a curtain, glance out the window or check his emails.
    ‘How are you finding life after Interpol?’ he asked. ‘Not as exciting?’
    ‘I had enough excitement, thanks. I like what I’m doing.’
    ‘Did you leave because of that stabbing — in the leg, wasn’t it?’
    ‘Partly. It was a flesh wound in the thigh muscle but it took some time to heal. We were investigating a suspect’s house and I didn’t see the knife coming. They’d transferred me from arms-tracking to sex-traffic investigations. A year of that was enough for me; I could handle gun trading but those abused women, some just kids . . . my aunt had died and left me her house and money, so I did the sums and decided to bail out.’
    ‘You’re still missed in the Met, I can tell you that much. Some of the old team talk about you, hanker after your clear thinking.’
    ‘That’s good to know. But we all have to move on; life changes.’
    Mark’s phone rang and he took the call, mouthing it was important. Swift was relieved to move away from the subject of Interpol. That year of investigating the brutality of the sex trade, speaking to hollow eyed, abused and terrified women and children, seeing the squalid conditions they lived in, had left him revolted and jaded. He had seen much in the Met and at Interpol that exposed the layers of human degradation but for him sex trafficking was in a place apart. Even thinking of it now, sickened him.
    He fetched another beer from Mark’s state-of-the-art, almost empty fridge and looked through the magazines again. He selected and started reading a Jack Cardigan story, where at least the crime was straightforward, if vicious; a murder, a nightclub owner, a beautiful blonde, a tough-talking gambler and plenty of shooting with hard boiled Cardigan sorting them out.
    * * *
    Dr Forsyth surprised Swift with her American accent. Boston, he decided, as he sat opposite her in her consulting room in Notting Hill. It wasn’t opulent but certainly better appointed than any GP surgery he had ever been in, with padded chairs, gleaming paintwork and vases of flowers. Also, doctors in his experience didn’t wear silk shirts and pearls. He explained why he had come and Dr Forsyth nodded, sitting back in her chair, legs crossed, regarding him through heavy-lidded eyes.
    ‘Seems a total mystery,’ she said. ‘I talked to the police weeks back. I think they were disappointed that I couldn’t tell them anything important.’
    ‘Mrs Farley, Mrs Langborne’s housekeeper, said she was often concerned about her health.’
    ‘Sure, she was a worrier but there was nothing wrong with her the day I saw her, except some arthritis in her finger that caused a tiny swelling. It was a bit painful so I told her to take aspirin. I offered a referral for an X-ray, even though I didn’t really think she needed it, and she accepted. That was it. I was there about fifteen minutes max. And, no, I didn’t notice anything unusual, she didn’t seem odd, looked about the same as always.’
    ‘So there was no health problem that might have caused a sudden incident?’
    Dr Forsyth folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, Mr Swift,