BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense (16 page)

‘Wish I had your problem, mate. Pity I can’t borrow some!’

‘You’d be welcome, if it was possible.’

‘I enquired about a transplant but it’s too expensive. I’ve got a bathroom chock full of stuff I’ve bought on the net — you know, it will make your hair grow if you rub it in daily. Complete rubbish. I haven’t grown a single strand, just a bit of bumfluff on my head. Anyway,
buon appetito
!’

The cannelloni was herby and delicious, the wine fruity. The waiter’s description of a bathroom full of hair products made Swift think of Sheila’s crammed bedroom. Teddy had spoken to Saltby of his sister having a secret. Something else teased at his memory, something someone had said, but he couldn’t retrieve it. He was going to have to see Dorcas Saltby again. In the meantime, he rang Bartlett to give him an update but there was no answer. Swift left a message and sat back, savouring the last of his wine.

Chapter 12

Swift had finally capitulated. Cedric and Kris had persuaded him to let them go shopping with him for best man clothes. Swift liked natural fibres and well-made jeans and jackets but he hated shopping of any kind, which was why his wardrobe contained so many slightly fraying garments. His dislike of social functions meant that this rarely mattered. His favourite items of clothing were his leather jacket, his rowing leggings and gilets. He had only agreed to the outing because he had no idea what to buy and didn’t want to let Mary down on her big day.
Make sure you scrub up nicely
, she had warned him. Also, he trusted Kris’s judgement. Given more time, she said that she could have made him a jacket and trousers but on this occasion, manufactured would have to do. Cedric alone wouldn’t have been reliable, with his penchant for bold patterns. The shirt he had bought for the wedding was yellow with pink stripes. Mary had seen it and said it was a brave statement.

Kris had decided that given his aversion to shops and shopping, they should go on a Monday, when there were fewer people about. She had got an idea of his budget, taken his measurements and researched the market. She told Swift and Cedric to meet her at Baker Street. She was only ten minutes late and led them through back streets in Marylebone to an airy, brightly lit shop. Before he could blink, Kris had provided him with an outfit to try on: tapering dark grey cotton trousers, a cotton shirt in the same colour with a mandarin collar and a slim-fitting burgundy velvet jacket with a matching waistcoat. She informed him that the jacket had shawl lapels and its single button opening suited his long, lean frame.

‘Burgundy, hmm,’ he said, examining the rich colour. He thought he liked the combination. It was certainly smart while keeping a casual feel, which was what Mary wanted. ‘What do you think, Cedric?’

Cedric put down a bright blue paisley shirt he had been looking at longingly. ‘I love it, Ty, fits you like a glove. You look younger.’ He ran a hand down the soft jacket sleeve. ‘Colour’s good on you too. Goes with your eyes.’

‘The deep red is good,’ Kris reassured him. ‘It adds warmth to the grey and Cedric’s right, it compliments and softens your smoky eyes. You don’t want to look so serious. It’s a celebration! Also, the shirt collar means no need for a tie. I know you hate that.’

‘You know things about me I don’t recall telling you. How does that work?’ he asked her.

She tapped the side of her nose. ‘It’s a woman thing. Don’t worry about it.’

Burgundy. Maybe . . . He looked in the mirror again. He thought he would do and on the plus side, the whole experience had taken only half an hour and he hadn’t even developed a headache.

They had lunch to celebrate his purchase, in a small French bistro. Cedric had bought two of the paisley shirts, the blue one for himself and a rose-hued one for Milo.

‘I love your outfits, their style and simplicity,’ he told Kris. ‘What’s this coat called? It has such a soft shape.’

She was wearing a bright yellow needlecord coat with matching beret. ‘It’s called a swing back, because of the pleat at the back. I didn’t make this one, I got it on eBay. Couldn’t resist.’

Cedric nodded. ‘Seeing you, I can picture myself strolling around London in 1958 or watching Audrey Hepburn in
Gigi.
’ He went on to tell her about a couple of Polish colleagues he had worked with during the early fifties.

Swift watched them, taking pleasure in their liking for each other. He wished he could warm to Simone the way Cedric had to Kris. He recalled that in his early days in the Met, he had confided to Mary that he disliked a colleague he had to work with closely and found this difficult. She had shrugged and said,
just pretend
. Not bad advice. He made a mental note to himself to be extra friendly to Simone next time he saw her. His phone rang. He saw that the call was from Rowan Bartlett and excused himself. He stood by the door of the small restaurant, holding his wine.

‘Mr Swift, I got your message. I’ve been rather tied up, at the airport with Annabelle.’

‘She’s gone away?’

‘Back to Sydney. Sheila had the most awful row with her and attempted to push her down the stairs. She managed to save herself by clinging to the banister but she has a nasty bruise to the chest. She decided to leave. I’m relieved, to be honest. The situation here was worsening by the hour. Sheila stayed in her room for a couple of days after the incident and wouldn’t respond or come out. She’s gone to work this morning, thank goodness. She hasn’t spoken to me since it happened. She must still be upset because she forgot to lock her door. I glanced in her room. It’s in the most terrible mess, as if a storm’s blown through.’

At that moment, Swift recalled the remark that had been eluding him. Sheila’s aunt had said that she spent a lot of time in the loft. There had been a dead baby in Islington, a secret that troubled Teddy and a baby’s knitted jacket in a wardrobe. He knew he needed to revisit Sheila’s room and go up into the loft.

‘I wanted to update you about Teddy. Will Sheila be out all day?’

‘Presumably. She usually finishes work between five and six.’

Swift glanced at his watch. ‘I’m coming over. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

He asked Cedric to take his outfit home and gave Kris money for the bill. He thanked her again, kissed her cheek and hurried away. She and Cedric were happily perusing the dessert menu, debating the merits of strawberry pastries with crème patissiere and tarte citron.

* * *

The Bartlett house smelled stale. The living room was much grubbier than on his first visit and littered with papers and used cups. Bartlett had referred to a storm in Sheila’s room and he looked as if he had been in one himself. His thinning hair was dishevelled, one leg of his jeans had a trailing hem and his shirt collar was stained.

‘What did Sheila and Annabelle argue about?’ Swift asked.

Bartlett made a hopeless gesture. ‘Annabelle was fed up with Sheila. She banged on her bedroom door and told Sheila she’d have to come out when the house was sold and cleared. Said if she wasn’t careful, she’d end up being chucked in the removals van.’

‘Pretty unpleasant, given that this is Sheila’s home.’

‘I know, I know. I have to say though, it’s been very difficult living with a . . . a . . . brooding
presence
in the house. Sheila came rushing out of her room and went for Annabelle. It could have been much nastier if Annabelle had fallen down the stairs.’

‘What happened afterwards?’

‘I took Annabelle to A & E. Sheila went straight back into her room. She didn’t even bother to check how Annabelle was. I hardly recognise my daughter these days . . . Did you say you had news about Teddy?’

‘Would you mind if I look in Sheila’s room first? I’d like to check on something.’

‘Oh . . . very well.’ He sounded tetchy, near the end of his tether. ‘I must make a hot drink and toast. I feel empty, haven’t been able to eat with all this upset. I’d like to be on a desert island somewhere right now, or perhaps in a monastery. Somewhere with no women and no arguments.’

Swift ran up the stairs and entered Sheila’s room. It was littered and rank smelling, reminding him of the stench of animals at the zoo. What was it Christie had said about his mother’s room? It had been a stale and fuggy burrow. Sheila was certainly following in her footsteps. He looked around in the mess for a pole to open the loft trapdoor, treading carefully on the clothes and rubbish on the floor. Finally he saw one hanging on a hook by the window. He pulled down the metal ladder, checked it was stable and climbed the ten steps. There was plenty of light up there, from a window in the slope of the roof, overlooking the back of the house. The loft was fully boarded so he stepped up and stood, avoiding a low central beam. He was glad of the dry, sweeter-smelling air. He had expected the room to be stuffed with items but it was surprisingly empty and tidy. The inner wall had been papered with a design of huge red tulips. There were several large cardboard boxes, a couple of suitcases, an oak gate-legged dining table propped against a wall and four stacked dining chairs.

He moved to the boxes and opened the flaps, going through the contents before replacing them. There were faded, musty curtains, bedspreads and linen, five duvets, towels and some women’s clothes and raincoats. He sneezed as dust rose and drifted through the air. One suitcase was empty, the other contained well-worn shoes and sandals. With their cracked leather and bent soles, they were hardly worth keeping. He stood and looked around, turning full circle. He went to the table and moved it away from the wall. Behind the table, low down, was a small rectangular door with a knob. He knelt down, pulling at the knob. The door opened easily and he peered in to a narrow dark space. He took his LED torch from his jacket pocket and shone it in. To the side, pushed up against the brick of the outer wall, was a thick cardboard box, about twice the size of a shoe box and a little deeper. He shuffled in on his knees and caught the edge of it, pulling it towards him and backing out with it. It was light and fairly new looking.

He placed the box on the floor and opened the lid. There was another box inside, not quite so new and fitting snugly. Swift took a breath and lifted the lid. A dark blue crocheted blanket was folded along the top. He peeled it back slowly. Beneath it was a tiny skeleton of an infant, carefully arranged on a matching strip of blanket with dried flowers of lavender surrounding it. The lavender was still faintly aromatic. Swift judged it had been placed there in recent months. Sheila’s secret. He looked down at the frail, miniature bones. He couldn’t gauge how old they were. He knew that corpses kept above ground deteriorated fast but this baby must have died many years ago. He knew now why Sheila had contacted him so frequently, averse to the past being raked over, desperate to know what he had been told. She had been unwell and piling on weight the summer when Teddy was attacked. He knew as well why Teddy had to help her with a major problem and why his note had said that the innocent suffered. Her visits to the loft had been to tend this dead child, perhaps to hold it. In her bedroom was a brand new baby jacket that had never been needed. His heart felt heavy.

He stood, brushing dust from his legs, went to the trapdoor and called Bartlett. The man appeared after a few minutes, standing at the door to Sheila’s room. He was wiping his mouth with a tissue.

‘I’ve found something disturbing up here. You need to look. Can you get up this ladder with your arthritic hips?’

‘Yes, but I’d prefer not to. What is it?’

‘Please come up first. I don’t want to move it any further as the police need to be informed and they’ll want to investigate.’

Bartlett stared at him, about to protest, then saw the seriousness of his expression. He climbed the ladder slowly, wincing once and pausing before he took each step. Swift helped him up the last rung and held on to him until he gained his balance.

‘Here.’ Swift took one of the stacked dining chairs and placed it near the box. ‘You’d better sit down.’

He guided Bartlett to the chair. He sat slowly, then saw the box and its contents. Swift turned it so that it was facing him.

‘What on earth?’ He leaned forward. ‘That’s a human skeleton.’

‘Yes, a baby. I found it in the cupboard behind the dining table.’

Bartlett gazed at him in bewilderment, then back at the box. ‘But I don’t understand. How did that get here?’

‘Mr Bartlett, I believe that this is the skeleton of Sheila’s baby, your grandchild.’

He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. ‘But Sheila didn’t have any children. I would have known. No, that’s not possible.’

Swift knelt down again by the baby. ‘Only a DNA test will prove whose baby this was but I have reasons for being fairly sure that Sheila did give birth.’ He told Bartlett about Sheila’s apparent ill health and weight gain in the summer of 2000, the carefully wrapped baby’s jacket, and the references to her spending time in the loft subsequently. He wasn’t sure how much the man was taking in as he rubbed at his forehead.

There was a long silence. The only sound was Bartlett’s rapid breathing.

‘But someone would have known,’ he said finally. ‘If this is true, surely someone must have helped Sheila.’

‘I think Teddy did. That is why the note he left talks about things being hidden and the innocent and suffering. I’ve also spoken to someone who heard Teddy refer to Sheila having a secret he was helping her with. Sheila must have told Teddy she was pregnant. They were close, and if she chose anyone to confide in, it would have been him. She must have given birth at home and he probably assisted. I would guess that the child was born some time that August. Certainly it had died and been concealed by the time Teddy was attacked.’ He waited to see if Bartlett was going to ask the obvious question.

Bartlett leaned down and touched the edge of the box. Swift was relieved to see that he had steadied his nerves. He had after all spent years as a surgeon, dealing with flesh and its complexities.

‘The body would have decomposed quite quickly, above ground and in a warm, dry environment. There would have been an amount of liquid and odours from decomposition, although with such a tiny child it would have been easy to deal with. Its container would have needed replacing regularly for a while. Probably it was originally wrapped in plastic.’ He spoke dispassionately, then looked at Swift and back at the bones. ‘But how did this child die?’ His voice held a sudden note of fear.