upon Thames, then took a cab to Lilac Grange which was situated a couple of miles to the south of the town. It was raining heavily and the streets looked dank and bleak.
He had expected a large old house adapted to a care home but Lilac Grange was a purpose-built home, opened in 2005 and operated by a national chain. It was set back from the road behind low brick walls and laurel hedges and was a bland, two-storey building with a wide central doorway with glass panels that hissed open automatically. The reception area was light and airy with numerous plants and vases of flowers. Swift introduced himself, showed his ID and signed the visitors’ book. The tiny, doll-like woman at the desk who was wearing more make-up than he had seen on any face for a long time, said she would fetch Ms Berardi and invited him to take a seat. Instead, he stood and scrutinised the noticeboard. He read about activities of the friends of Lilac Grange, the weekly lunchtime concert — a pianist was expected today — availability of visiting hairdresser and chiropodist and the day’s menu. He noted that fire evacuation procedures featured and the names of first aiders.
He detected a musky scent and turned to see a small rounded woman in a smart light blue jacket and skirt. She held out her hand. Her smile was a little tight in her jowly face so Swift switched on full-beam charm.
‘Good morning,’ she said in a nasal voice, her Italian accent more pronounced in person. ‘Welcome to Lilac Grange, Mr Swift. I am Maria Berardi.’
‘Hello, I’m very pleased to meet you.’
She nodded. ‘Perhaps you would like to come to my office.’
It was a command rather than a request. Swift followed her, watching her purposeful, pigeon-toed walk and thick ankles. She was wearing flat ballet pumps which seemed too insubstantial to support her broad feet and ample frame. They walked along a wide corridor, passing several care assistants in pale green uniforms, shepherding old people with sticks and Zimmer frames. One elderly man smiled and Swift smiled back, adding a good morning, glad that Cedric wasn’t likely to end up in such a place. A radio was playing classical music and there were the muted sounds of running water and cisterns flushing. Ms Berardi’s office was small and bright, with photos of residents and staff engaged in various activities. Rotas and holiday charts were pinned to a notice board. She indicated a chair for him and sat, clasping her hands before her on her plump abdomen. She was in her late thirties, he guessed. He wondered what had brought her from Italy to spend her days with the ailing population of Lilac Grange.
‘I’m here to find out if anything happened while Mrs Langborne was staying that might throw some light on her disappearance. I have told the police I’m visiting. They’re not planning to contact you at present.’
Ms Berardi nodded, turned to the computer behind her and unlocked the screen, bringing up a chart. She was wearing what looked like false nails so Swift guessed she didn’t do any hands-on work with the residents.
‘Mrs Langborne was here for two weeks last September, from the fifth. She’d had a virus, said she felt under the weather and required rest. She stayed in Acorn wing, which is for private guests. Her record shows that she ate and slept fairly well, rarely mixed with other residents and did not wish to participate in activities. She read a good deal, knitted and walked in the gardens.’
‘Sounds as if she was a little aloof.’
She looked at Swift. ‘I believe so. I did not see a great deal of Mrs Langborne until she came to my office two days before her leaving date.’
‘There was a problem?’
Ms Berardi took a breath. ‘I have contacted our personnel department about this and they say I can tell you some details.’ She turned back to the screen and scrolled down the page, checking something. ‘Mrs Langborne informed me that she had discovered that one of our night
He had expected a large old house adapted to a care home but Lilac Grange was a purpose-built home, opened in 2005 and operated by a national chain. It was set back from the road behind low brick walls and laurel hedges and was a bland, two-storey building with a wide central doorway with glass panels that hissed open automatically. The reception area was light and airy with numerous plants and vases of flowers. Swift introduced himself, showed his ID and signed the visitors’ book. The tiny, doll-like woman at the desk who was wearing more make-up than he had seen on any face for a long time, said she would fetch Ms Berardi and invited him to take a seat. Instead, he stood and scrutinised the noticeboard. He read about activities of the friends of Lilac Grange, the weekly lunchtime concert — a pianist was expected today — availability of visiting hairdresser and chiropodist and the day’s menu. He noted that fire evacuation procedures featured and the names of first aiders.
He detected a musky scent and turned to see a small rounded woman in a smart light blue jacket and skirt. She held out her hand. Her smile was a little tight in her jowly face so Swift switched on full-beam charm.
‘Good morning,’ she said in a nasal voice, her Italian accent more pronounced in person. ‘Welcome to Lilac Grange, Mr Swift. I am Maria Berardi.’
‘Hello, I’m very pleased to meet you.’
She nodded. ‘Perhaps you would like to come to my office.’
It was a command rather than a request. Swift followed her, watching her purposeful, pigeon-toed walk and thick ankles. She was wearing flat ballet pumps which seemed too insubstantial to support her broad feet and ample frame. They walked along a wide corridor, passing several care assistants in pale green uniforms, shepherding old people with sticks and Zimmer frames. One elderly man smiled and Swift smiled back, adding a good morning, glad that Cedric wasn’t likely to end up in such a place. A radio was playing classical music and there were the muted sounds of running water and cisterns flushing. Ms Berardi’s office was small and bright, with photos of residents and staff engaged in various activities. Rotas and holiday charts were pinned to a notice board. She indicated a chair for him and sat, clasping her hands before her on her plump abdomen. She was in her late thirties, he guessed. He wondered what had brought her from Italy to spend her days with the ailing population of Lilac Grange.
‘I’m here to find out if anything happened while Mrs Langborne was staying that might throw some light on her disappearance. I have told the police I’m visiting. They’re not planning to contact you at present.’
Ms Berardi nodded, turned to the computer behind her and unlocked the screen, bringing up a chart. She was wearing what looked like false nails so Swift guessed she didn’t do any hands-on work with the residents.
‘Mrs Langborne was here for two weeks last September, from the fifth. She’d had a virus, said she felt under the weather and required rest. She stayed in Acorn wing, which is for private guests. Her record shows that she ate and slept fairly well, rarely mixed with other residents and did not wish to participate in activities. She read a good deal, knitted and walked in the gardens.’
‘Sounds as if she was a little aloof.’
She looked at Swift. ‘I believe so. I did not see a great deal of Mrs Langborne until she came to my office two days before her leaving date.’
‘There was a problem?’
Ms Berardi took a breath. ‘I have contacted our personnel department about this and they say I can tell you some details.’ She turned back to the screen and scrolled down the page, checking something. ‘Mrs Langborne informed me that she had discovered that one of our night
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