Written in Blood (12 page)

‘No.’ Mariner hesitated. ‘But my partner Anna and I are thinking about it.’ It was the truth: they were thinking about it.

‘How wonderful! A great-grandchild.’

‘Geoffrey and Diana didn’t have children?’ Mariner hazarded, conscious that he might be on sensitive ground.

‘Only Nelson and his predecessors.’ At the sound of his name, the dog who had been patiently waiting beside Mariner, staring at the floor and hoping for scraps, immediately scurried round to Eleanor’s side. ‘I’m taking care of him for the moment but he’s really too much for me. I can’t give him the exercise he needs. He’ll have to be re-homed eventually but I couldn’t bring myself to do it just yet. It was one of the cruellest ironies that Geoffrey and Diana were unable to have children, and was something that affected Diana badly her whole life. I think children might have helped her to be less self-absorbed, provided more of a balance in her life. These days of course they could have had some kind of treatment I suppose, but at the time there was nothing that could be done. You must bring Anna to see me.’

‘She’s staying with friends near Hereford at the moment, but I will. She’d like that too.’

After the meal, Janet brought them coffee. ‘I’ll just tidy up the kitchen and then I’ll be off, Mrs Ryland.’

‘Thank you, Janet. Lovely dinner again,’ Eleanor said. ‘She goes on to her job cooking at the pub,’ she told Mariner when Janet had gone. ‘I don’t know where she gets the energy.’

‘I should go too,’ said Mariner. ‘You look tired.’

‘One of the frustrations of advancing years,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll be out like a light and then awake again at four in the morning.’

‘I was going to check your security.’

‘Well, if you really think it’s necessary.’

‘It wouldn’t do any harm. Shall I?’

‘Yes, you carry on. I’ll finish my coffee.’

It didn’t take Mariner long to check the front and back doors and the ground floor windows. The frames were old and some of the catches flimsy.

‘Is there anything I can help with?’ Janet came up behind him as he was testing a window. She looked a little less friendly now.

‘I’m just checking how secure the place is,’ said Mariner. ‘I’m a policeman.’ He wasn’t sure how much else Janet had overheard but he’d leave it Eleanor to tell her the rest.

‘Right.’

But he had the impression that Janet’s suspicion wasn’t alleviated.

‘Have you ever considered having a burglar alarm?’ Mariner asked Eleanor as he was leaving.

She was dismissive. ‘From time to time I get those people round here trying to sell them, but really it’s hardly necessary. There’s nothing much to take that’s worth anything.’

Thieving wasn’t always what intruders had in mind, Mariner thought, but he didn’t say it out loud. He didn’t want to frighten her.

‘I do hope you’ll come back to see me again, soon.’

‘I’ll bring Anna.’

‘Something to look forward to.’ She put out her bony arms and hugged him.

 

Freezing fog on the motorway made driving north again slow and hazardous. From habit Mariner went back to his place where, despite the hour he found Bill Dyson unloading his car. ‘I’m sorry,’ Mariner said. ‘I didn’t know you were moving in today. I’ll try not to get in the way.’

‘No, it’s fine. Dyson said, easily. You can give me a hand if you like.’ Though there wasn’t much to take upstairs.

‘How’s business?’ Mariner asked.

Dyson’s mind was elsewhere. ‘Eh? Oh, coming on slowly. You Midlanders are uncommonly suspicious of folk from the north, and there’s plenty of competition. I may decide it’s not worth it after all.’

‘Not before the six month let is up, I hope.’

Dyson smiled. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get your pound of flesh. In fact I really like this place. Even if it doesn’t work out here, should you ever think of selling—’

‘It might yet happen.’ It appeared to be part of Anna’s long-term plan. ‘Actually I might have a customer for you.’

‘Really?’

‘I just may need to work on her a bit more. She’s an elderly lady who doesn’t see the need just yet.’

‘I know the type.’ Dyson smiled. ‘Let me know when she’s ready. Oh, and thanks for those drawings you left out. They look interesting.’

‘No problem.’

His possessions moved, Dyson retreated to the upstairs rooms and Mariner heard him moving around rearranging things. It was after ten but he phoned Anna’s mobile to check that she was okay. It was immediately cut off. He tried again but the same thing happened, then he remembered this from Anna’s previous visits. Becky and Mark lived in a low-lying area surrounded by hills and very often couldn’t get a signal. He risked ringing the land line hoping that he wouldn’t wake the whole household, but he needn’t have worried. The cocophony of banging, clattering and wailing wouldn’t have been out of place on the Somme.

‘It’s Megan playing,’ Anna said cheerfully.

‘She’s still awake?’

‘She’s got teeth coming through so she can’t sleep. Becky’s a bit low so I’ve sent her and Mark off to the pub while I babysit. You should see Megan now, she’s a little darling. She’s sitting up all on her own. How clever is that?’

‘It’s great.’ Mariner hoped she couldn’t detect the lack of enthusiasm.

‘And it’s so lovely out here; green and peaceful. I might start looking at property prices, just to get an idea.’ Mariner’s stomach clenched involuntarily. ‘So what have you been up to?’

‘Oh, boring stuff. Trying to catch up on work, all that kind of thing—’

There was a screech in the background. ‘Look, I’d better go,’ Anna said.

‘Shall I call you tomorrow?’

‘That’d be great.’

‘Talk to you soon, then.’

‘Bye.’

When he’d hung up the phone Mariner sat at the computer in the lounge and logged onto the Internet. The article about O’Connor’s release had mentioned the street he lived in at the time. Mariner hoped he hadn’t moved in the interim. He managed to get a good deal on a London hotel, but paid almost as much for his train ticket down there. Still easier than the prospect of paying congestion charges and finding a parking spot though. Printing off the details he closed down the computer. Then he climbed the two flights of stairs and knocked on Dyson’s door. It was shut but Mariner could still hear movement and moments later Dyson appeared.

‘I’m going to grab a pint down the way at the Boatman before closing time, fancy joining me?’ Mariner asked.

‘Ah, I’d like to but I’ve got a presentation to prepare for and an early start. Some other time?’

‘Sure.’

 

 

On the train to Euston the following morning Mariner was aware of a strange internal exhilaration and it occurred to him that for the first time in a long while he had absolute freedom, with no one keeping tabs on him. It was a sensation reminiscent of the day he’d boarded the rail to Birmingham at the age of seventeen, leaving home for the first time. He hadn’t often travelled by rail since then, but it always evoked this childish excitement and a deeper feeling of absolute contentment, as if this was really his natural state; independent and answerable to no one. What did that say for Anna and their plans for the future?

Strictly speaking Mariner shouldn’t have been doing this at all, but this was the first time for several weeks that he’d felt any kind of buzz and he realised it was because he was doing what he liked best; following his nose. After weeks of disinterest he’d at last found something that engaged him.

By the time the train pulled out there were barely any spare places, but his early start had secured him a window seat with a clear view, though his legs would suffer. Rail transport had changed a bit since 1976; deference to the golden age of communication with facilities for laptops and mobile phones. The coach was, he noticed, no longer called second but ‘standard’ class and was supposedly a ‘quiet’ carriage. In theory only. He’d bought the current edition of
The Great Outdoors
from the station bookshop, but it was impossible to concentrate on the written word when the air was pierced by the frequent trilling of mobile phones.

One particular passenger further down the train held a whole series of conversations at ten minute intervals throughout the journey that consisted solely of ‘Pete? Can you hear me?’ Apparently Pete never did.

Mariner was distracted too, by the view from the window. For several miles the track ran parallel with the sluggishly moving M6 through the vast conurbation of the city, before, finally, the houses dwindled and the scenery opened up into rolling countryside. Watching the dead brown winter landscape skip by, the skeletal silhouettes of the trees bordering rusty furrowed fields, Mariner thought about Anna’s idea of moving to the country. In many ways he could understand her thinking. He loved being out in the open air for an afternoon, a day or even weeks at a time. But part of the attraction was the contrast with everyday life. He knew from talking to colleagues that the world of a country copper would be very different, enmeshed as it often was in the politics of a self-absorbed community. He liked the pace, breadth and diversity of his present job, and he’d miss that. There were some aspects of country living that he’d love, but there were plenty of others that he’d hate.

 

From Euston, Mariner took the tube to West Brompton and the Earls Court hotel that he’d booked; an anonymous, multi-storey concrete tower. It would do very nicely as a base for a couple of days. He checked in and deposited his things in the clean, space-efficient room, then went straight back to the underground where he bought a one-day travel card. He caught the Bakerloo line to South Wembley, riding on the hope that the O’Connors hadn’t moved in the last six years.

Joseph O’Connor had lived in a drab council maisonette on the sort of estate that required constant police presence.

Having already gleaned the street name from the newspaper piece, Mariner had got the house number from the electoral register. He rang the bell, a background beat of reggae music bouncing around the stairwell from the flat next door. There was no reply. He was just considering his next move when a woman appeared at the end of the walkway, weighed down by two Netto carrier bags. Certain he recognised her from the press photograph, Mariner moved swiftly away from the door and stepped out of sight to watch her go in, just to make sure. He gave her a few minutes in the house before he went back and tried the doorbell again.

Close to, Sharon O’Connor was a pretty woman, made youthful by black ringlets that fell to her shoulders, and green eyes framed by thick, dark lashes.

‘I wonder if I could talk to you about your husband,’ Mariner said. He hadn’t really thought through what he’d do if she was hostile towards him, he’d have to make it up as he went along. On this unofficial visit he’d hoped to avoid using his warrant card, though doubtless it would have got him in without question, as it had with Eleanor Ryland. Sharon O’Connor must have had a whole procession of police officers ringing her doorbell over the last few weeks. One more wouldn’t make much difference. But in the event creativity wasn’t called for; only the simplest of white lies.

‘Are you a reporter?’ Asked more from curiosity than concern. And she could be forgiven that assumption. Today he looked more reporter than copper in khakis and reefer jacket.

‘No. My name is Tom Mariner, I’m Sir Geoffrey Ryland’s nephew. I’m trying to make sense of what happened that night.’

‘Well I’m glad that at last somebody is. I get sick of reading all the bullshit in the papers. Come in.’ The Northern Irish accent was still strong.

Compared with the outside environment, the inside of the O’Connors’ flat was immaculate, but then Mariner recalled that O’Connor had been a painter and decorator by trade. Over the fireplace and on the pure white walls of the living room there were photos of O’Connor, Sharon and their children in happier times. The kids must be back at school, the holidays over.

Mariner followed her through to the kitchen where she’d begun unpacking the bags, transferring packets and tubs to the fridge.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs O’Connor. It must be hard.’

‘It’s not so bad as you might think,’ Sharon O’Connor said, candidly. ‘Joseph spent quite a lot of time working away over the years, so I had got used to managing on my own. I’ve got a cleaning job at the offices of an insurance company. Doesn’t pay well, but we have a laugh, the girls and me. They’ve been great since Joseph . . . you know. Sometimes for a few seconds I even forget he’s dead. The thing I miss most is the car. I never learned to drive.’ She stopped what she was doing. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it?’

‘You’re just being pragmatic.’

‘Am I?’ She smiled. ‘I might if I knew what that meant. She shut the fridge door. ‘The rest can wait. Would you like a coffee?’

‘Thanks.’

She nodded back towards the living room. ‘Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll be with you in a jiffy.’

Minutes later she brought in two mugs, eyeing Mariner closely as she passed one to him. Maybe she could see the likeness too. ‘Were you close to your uncle?’

‘Not really. I’m doing this on behalf of my grandmother, Eleanor Ryland. What did you mean about the Press? Doesn’t sound as if they’re your favourite people.’

She was resigned. ‘They write such crap. Joseph was never into drugs in the first place, and if you knew him you’d understand that. They keep saying the shootings were his fault because he’d gone back to his criminal ways, but Joseph never had any criminal ways.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

She gave him the kind of hard stare that indicated how tough she could be. ‘I’m his wife.’ Not ‘was’ but ‘am’. ‘The only mistake Joseph made, years ago, was to make friends with the wrong people. He was too trusting.’

‘How did he get involved?’