Written in Blood (11 page)

‘And then we’re into extradition,’ Coleman sighed.

‘Which could take for ever. Okay. Tell Glover to keep me posted.’

Mariner was home again in time to help Anna to load up her car.

‘Look after yourself,’ she said.

‘You too. And be careful, the roads are icy, don’t drive too fast.’ He quelled the feeling of rising panic as that same image of Anna’s car going into a skid flashed through his mind. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to take you?’

‘I’m sure. I’ll go carefully. Shall I call you when I get there?’

‘I’ll be out and about. I’ve got Becky’s number. I’ll call you.’

 

The address Flynn had given him for Eleanor Ryland was not so very far away, an hour’s run down the M40 and into Oxfordshire, the south Cotswolds. On the motorway Mariner took it at a steady speed but had to work hard to ward off the fear of trucks swerving and slamming into the side of his car. Only when he stopped and felt the tension drain out of his shoulders did he realise how tightly he’d been gripping the steering wheel.

A little way out of the village of Wythinford, The Manse was a Georgian manor house built of the distinctive yellow ashlar stone that characterised the Cotswold area, and set thirty metres back from the lane behind wrought-iron gates and glossy rhododendrons; a blob of mellow warmth in the pallid, frosty landscape. It occurred to Mariner that if things had turned out differently this is where he might have spent his summer holidays, instead of in a caravan at Barmouth. Initially he hadn’t the nerve to go in, but the couple of reporters camped outside made it easier for him to loiter inconspicuously for a while.

‘Any action?’ he asked one of them.

‘Not for days. We’ll be packing up soon.’

When Mariner did finally get up the courage to approach the gates, his warrant card was enough to get him past the uniformed constable standing sentry duty. The dog he could hear energetically barking on the other side as he rapped the knocker, did nothing more than wag its tail and sniff around his legs once the door was opened. When her son’s wedding photographs had been taken Eleanor Ryland was impressively tall, but since then her height had been diminished by the effects of osteoporosis, which had curved her shoulders over like the handle of a walking cane, and her clothes hung loosely from her wasted frame. But she stood unwavering to greet Mariner, sharp eyes peering from a face that was pale and furrowed with age, her thinning silver hair drawn back and fixed with a tortoiseshell clip from which wispy strands escaped.

‘Inspector Mariner,’ she read from his warrant card, before studying his face. ‘Are you new? I don’t recall the name.’ Despite the physical frailty, her voice was steady and clear; the clipped no-nonsense intonation of the upper classes.

‘I’ve been working with DI Flynn.’

‘Ah yes. Mr Flynn. He’s a pleasant young man.’ She stepped back. ‘Nelson. Let the gentleman in!’ The dog, a rusty brown wire-haired effort of an animal, similar to those pictured in Ryland’s memoirs, shuffled backwards, sniffing the air.

Inside, the house was a museum piece, not so different from those country homes that Mariner’s mother had dragged him round as a kid, on the rare occasions when she’d been trying to infuse him with some culture. They passed through a cavernous vestibule into a formal living room where Queen Anne chairs, a sofa and several small card tables were arranged in front of a real log fire. French windows overlooked a terrace and several acres of lawn and shrubs. Eleanor Ryland invited Mariner to sit, before lowering herself carefully into the armchair facing him. ‘This is about Geoffrey I imagine,’ she said.

‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Ryland.’

‘Thank you.’ She seemed to be studying him intently. ‘I suppose you’re of the same view?’

‘What view is that?’

‘That he was killed because of Joseph, his driver.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I feel that’s what I should believe, because it’s what everyone keeps telling me.’

‘But you think differently?’

‘Joseph seemed so agreeable, and always so genuinely grateful to my son for what he had done.’

‘You met him?’

‘Many times. He’d been with Geoffrey for several years.

Of course everyone had always warned Geoffrey that he was playing with fire by employing a former client, but he believed strongly that if he wasn’t prepared to offer the man a chance, then why should anyone else?’

‘He sounds like a man with integrity.’

‘Yes, he was.’ Her eyes shone with passion. ‘Oh, he had his flaws of course, as we all do, but you can be proud of him.’

‘I’m sorry?’ For several seconds Mariner lost his emotional equilibrium.

She smiled. ‘You may be a police officer, but that’s not your interest in my son is it? I know who you are. I’ve only got to look at you. You’re my grandson, aren’t you? Now, would you join me in a glass of sherry?’

 

‘When did you find out about me?’ Mariner asked. He brought across two glasses, poured from a cut-glass decanter, taking the first mouthful, and trying not to grimace at the cloying taste. He’d been tempted to ask about alternatives, but doubted that Eleanor Ryland would recognise real ale if it came out of a hole in the ground. The dog, after his period of excitement, had flopped onto the Chinese rug at their feet.

‘Oh, I’ve known about you right from the beginning, before you were born. Doing the right thing by your mother was something Geoffrey agonised about for weeks, years even, and yes, he confided in me.’

‘So he did consider making a go of it with my mother.’

‘He wanted to marry her and do what he felt was his duty. It was your mother, along with Charles, my husband, who between them managed to talk him out of it.’

‘Charles disapproved?’

‘It wasn’t so much that. It was more that he had plans for Geoffrey. Charles was a frustrated politician, though he’d never pursued his ambition further than the local council, and when Geoffrey expressed an interest early on Charles seized on it. He wanted Geoffrey to have the best possible chance of success, and having to support a wife and child so young would not have helped.’

‘He married six years later.’

‘Those years made a world of difference. I know that’s probably hard for you to believe, and I’ll understand if you choose not to, after all, there’s absolutely no reason why you should trust the somewhat biased opinion of a stranger. But that was really the way it was. Your mother was a remarkable young woman and wholly unselfish. She knew that Geoffrey had a promising career ahead of him. Geoffrey was only nineteen and still at university when you were conceived, and while he and your mother had a certain fondness for one another, neither pretended to be in love. I hope that in time you can come to accept it as the truth.’

What she said rang true with what Mariner had read. ‘There were some letters, from my mother to Sir Geoffrey,’ he said. ‘They convey more or less the same thing. And it makes sense of what I know. I never remember Rose being bitter about our situation. I suppose I’d always thought that she’d had time to get used to it, but if she had harboured resentment I’m sure it would have emerged somehow.’

‘Your mother was a pragmatist, ahead of her time.’

‘You said “was”, so you know that she died last year.’

‘Geoffrey told me. He saw an announcement in
The Times
.’

So he had seen it. ‘I put it there in the hope that he might show up.’

‘He almost did. He was devastated by the news. But he and Diana were having problems. Diana was unwell again; the past coming back to haunt them in other ways, so he didn’t feel that he could. Did your mother marry?’

‘No. She stayed single.’

‘These days of course no one would bat an eyelid at your situation, but it must have been hard for both of you.’

Sympathy wasn’t what Mariner had been expecting and he was touched. ‘It’s had its moments,’ he said. ‘It got more difficult as I got older. Our relationship became very intense and I left home when I was seventeen because I couldn’t stand it any more. There were a lot of years when my mother and I weren’t close.’ Mariner rarely spoke about any of this to anyone and it surprised him that it surfaced so easily.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Eleanor Ryland said. She paused. ‘I know you must have a poor opinion of your father, but it would be a mistake to think that Geoffrey didn’t care for you or think about you,’ she said. ‘The lack of contact was as much your mother’s decision as his. He used to visit you occasionally when you were young, but when he married Diana—’

Mariner nodded. ‘One of Rose’s letters to him is quite explicit. Diana didn’t know about me?’

‘No. Geoffrey could never have told her, she wouldn’t have coped. But your mother kept him informed for years and sent him pictures. He would bring them to show to me.’ Her eyes filled up. ‘I would have so much liked to have seen you before, my only grandchild. But the decisions had been made and we had to be strong.’

The good old British stiff upper lip, thought Mariner, realising for the first time that he and Rose weren’t the only ones to have missed out for all those years.

‘The photographs were what gave it away,’ Mariner said. ‘DI Flynn came across them, along with some of my mother’s letters and some cuttings. Fortunately we’re old friends, so for the time being the matter has stayed between us.’

‘Strangely enough Geoffrey spoke about you only recently. It was the first time since your mother’s death. He was writing his memoirs again, which always stirred up long forgotten feelings. It crossed my mind that he might be planning to contact you.’

‘When was this?’

‘A few weeks before Christmas.’

‘And when was the last time you saw Sir Geoffrey?’ Mariner was still a long way off thinking of Ryland as bearing any relation to him.

‘Two weeks before he died.’

‘And how did he seem?’

She smiled. ‘Once a detective always a detective, eh?’

‘It’s a tough habit to break. Was anything troubling him?’

‘I keep thinking about that of course. Diana hadn’t been well. She was always emotionally vulnerable. She had one of those terrible depressive illnesses that comes and goes and had been going through a bad patch again. And you would know more than most what a politically sensitive field Geoffrey worked in. He was always under pressure at work.’

‘It’s a difficult job.’

‘Yes. Geoffrey knew that creating the Commission was politically the right thing to do, but once there it was impossible to keep everyone happy. The great British public wants to see justice served and overturning wrongful convictions is popular, but not with the Crown Prosecution Service, nor, would I imagine, you and your colleagues.’

‘Nobody wants to see innocent people convicted.’

‘It doesn’t make your work any easier though, does it? Geoffrey was always aware of that tension.’

‘Every time there’s a high profile miscarriage case, it undermines public confidence in the whole judicial system. Was there anyone in particular he’d upset recently?’ Mariner asked.

‘That I don’t know. He never went into detail. I expect he thought I wouldn’t understand.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘These are the ravings of a decrepit old woman. You shouldn’t take much notice of me.’

‘Did you talk to the police about it?’

‘There was nothing specific to tell.’ It was too vague. She was right about that.

Mariner heard the front door slam and moments later a light knock preceded a young woman with a cloud of permed hair. ‘Would you like some tea, Mrs Ryland?’ she asked, cheerfully, taking in Mariner’s presence.

‘That would be lovely, Janet.’ As Janet disappeared, Eleanor turned back to Mariner. ‘Janet comes in to cook for me every evening, except for the weekends when she leaves something ready prepared.’

Minutes later the woman returned with tea and pastries on a tray, which she placed on the table nearest to Eleanor. ‘Would you like to stay for dinner?’ Eleanor asked Mariner. ‘It will be no trouble and I’d like to get to know my only grandson better. After all, we have a few years to make up for, don’t we? It wouldn’t be any trouble would it, Janet?’

‘Not at all, Mrs Ryland. It’ll make a nice change to feed someone with a healthy appetite.’ With a parting smile, she closed the door behind her.

‘Janet thinks I don’t eat enough, but one’s appetite does diminish with old age. Can you stay?’

‘That would be very nice, thank you.’ Mariner reached over and took the bone china cup and saucer from her. ‘You’re here on your own the rest of the time, then?’

‘Well, besides Janet, I have Ralph who does the garden for me and once a week Millie comes to do some cleaning, so I don’t do too badly for company. And at the moment I have Nelson, too.’ The dog lifted an ear at the mention of his name. ‘Geoffrey used to say I was vulnerable out here in the wilds. But he worried too much.’

‘I could have a look round before I go,’ said Mariner. ‘There might be some quite simple things that we could do to make sure that you’re safe.’

‘Well, if you think it matters.’ She was humouring him.

For dinner Mariner had expected something traditional - rack of lamb or roast beef - so when as they sat in the dining room in high backed chairs, the vegetarian moussaka with couscous came as quite a surprise.

‘I don’t eat out very often so Janet likes to ring the changes. I much prefer food cooked at home. Your father wasn’t a great fan of restaurants either, especially those awful new self-service ones.’

Mariner hadn’t heard them called that for a while. ‘We have something in common then,’ he said. ‘What else didn’t he like?’

‘Liver,’ she chuckled, continuing the culinary theme. ‘Oh, and avocados. Diana was quite a conventional sort and he got to be quite particular. You don’t wear a ring. Are you married, with a family?’