Written in Blood (18 page)

‘A jumper.’ The immaculately-suited African-Caribbean man beside Mariner must have read the shock and bewilderment on his face. ‘It happens a lot this time of year. Quite often they come from the back; a last-minute decision.’

‘He nearly took me with him,’ said Mariner, breathing deeply to control his jangling limbs. He scanned the crowd trying to identify who it was that had saved him, but no one returned his gaze.

‘She,’ the commuter corrected him. ‘Only a kid. They often are. They’ll close the station now. Have to find another route home.’ And, tutting at the inconvenience of a fellow human being taking her own life, the man turned and began to push his way towards the exit. Weak and slightly nauseous, Mariner allowed himself to be swept along with the herd up to the surface and refreshingly cold evening air. A pub was essential now and the first one he saw was just across the road. He was on his second pint and following it with a restorative chaser when his mobile went. In all the noise and chatter it was difficult to hear, and Flynn’s voice sounded hoarse and somehow different. ‘Meet me on Damask Street,’ he said. He seemed to be whispering. ‘It’s round the corner from your hotel, quarter of a mile. I’ll see you there in twenty minutes.’

‘What’s going on Dave?’

‘I’ve got something you’ll be interested in.’

‘Can’t you tell me—?’ But Mariner found he was talking to himself.

 

Consulting his
A-Z
Mariner saw that if he left now and made it brisk he was within walking distance of his hotel, and of Damask Street. Either way he had no desire to go back down onto the underground tonight, and if he stepped it up he could easily cover the ground in twenty minutes. With a twinge of regret for the abandoned drinks he ventured into the night air. The London night life was in full swing, but as he followed the route he’d committed to memory, the noise and the light faded away to a quiet darkness until Mariner turned into Damask Street, in reality nothing more than a narrow passage that ran between the unseeing rear aspects of high Victorian factories. A row of skeletal fire escapes rose from huddled dustbins, skips and rubbish piled high, the buildings probably defunct and certainly empty at this hour.

It had begun to drizzle and the flat broken cobbles glistened under the shining glow of a couple of door lights. A lone rat scurried across the road and rain dripped from an overhanging pipe with tedious regularity. It was bloody cold, too. What the hell did Flynn want to meet him here for?

Then Mariner saw a reassuring human movement, a big-coated figure approaching from the end of the street.

Relieved, Mariner began to walk towards him to meet halfway along the alleyway. But ten feet apart something didn’t feel right. It wasn’t Flynn after all.

Mariner raised his head to nod a cautious greeting at about the same time as the stranger moved his arm, and Mariner glimpsed the faintest glint of something shiny; a blade grasped in a gloved fist. Mariner began to back off but the man matched his movements, and as Mariner turned to run, his foot skidded on the slick cobbles and he stumbled. Taking his chance, the assailant grabbed Mariner’s arm, swinging him round, and in his peripheral vision Mariner saw the stiletto blade swing back. Instinctively, he raised an arm to defend himself and cried out as he felt a stinging across the heel of his hand. At that moment a dazzling glare washed over him. A car had turned into the street and was driving straight at them. Instantaneously Mariner’s attacker relinquished his grasp and pulled away, running back past the oncoming vehicle in the direction from which he’d appeared. The car slowed beside Mariner and a window slid smoothly down.

‘Are you all right my friend?’

His heart thudding and mouth dry Mariner realized that he was. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘You came by at the right time.’

‘This is not a good place to be walking at this time of night,’ the driver advised, helpfully. ‘But if you’re sure everything’s okay.’

‘I’m sure. Thanks.’ And Mariner watched as the car, a top of the range Mercedes, glided away from him and rounded the corner at the far end of the street. Thrusting his hands in his pockets, he immediately became aware of a warm stickiness on the right. He took it out again, inspecting it in the dim light. A two-inch gash across the fleshy part of his palm was pouring blood so he mustered what tissues he had stuffed in various pockets and pressed them against it. Following the direction of the sodium glow above the rooftops, Mariner worked his way back to a main, well-lit road and as soon as he was among people again and could relax, he took out his mobile and called Flynn. There was a delay before it was answered and Flynn sounded groggy. ‘What’s up?’

Hearing his voice now Mariner was pretty certain that the earlier call hadn’t been from him. He cursed himself for being so stupid. ‘I need to talk to you.’

A pause. ‘At this time of night?’

‘It’s urgent.’

‘You’d better come here then.’ Flynn gave him the address.

He sounded reluctant and the fear that Flynn may nonetheless be involved in what had just happened to Mariner resurfaced. This was an opportunity to check it out. If Flynn was party to what was going on, surely Mariner would be able to see it in his eyes. He hailed a black cab and relayed the address that Flynn had given him.

At the main entrance to Flynn’s apartment block Mariner pressed the buzzer on the intercom and heard Flynn’s voice. ‘Wait there, I’m coming down.’

‘Bring a clean towel or something,’ said Mariner, clutching the soggy tissues in his right hand.

‘What?’

‘You’ll see.’

Eventually Flynn appeared. He smelled heavily of perfume and in the light of the lobby his face was oddly defined. He’d been woken from a deep sleep. Mariner was hugely reassured.

‘Sorry. I’ve caught you in the middle of something, or someone.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s not your perfume, is it?’

‘So what??’

‘So nothing. You’re single. You can see whoever you like.’

‘Yes. I can.’ Flynn offered the tea towel, a pale checked affair. ‘Here. What’s this for?’

Mariner showed his blood-soaked palm. ‘I had a mishap.’

‘Christ. That needs stitches. You should get to A&E.’

‘It looks worse than it is,’ Mariner lied, feeling the throbbing pain creeping up towards his wrist. He wrapped the tea towel tightly round the wound. ‘I could do with a sit down though. Is there somewhere we can go to talk?’

Flynn took him to the end of the street where an all-night greasy spoon was serving twenty-four-hour cholesterol cocktails. From the activity inside it could have been the middle of the day. The tea Flynn got them was the colour of the Severn in full flood. As he sat down Mariner quashed a smile.

‘What?’

‘You’ve got a smear of lipstick.’

Flynn wiped it off with the back of his hand, looking so guilty that Mariner was forced to conclude he must be screwing his boss’s wife, or at the very least a married woman. ‘So what did you want to talk to me about that can’t wait until morning, apart from the fact that you’ve cut your hand open?’

‘There’s a reason you’ve been kept away from Ryland.’

‘Christ, Tom, why can’t you leave this alone?’

‘Because he was my father, he was shot dead, and I think there’s some kind of cover-up going on here.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Someone doesn’t want me getting close to it either.’ He held up his hand. ‘Before this happened I almost got pushed under a tube train.’ Mariner described what had happened at the station, aware that his voice wavered as he spoke.

Flynn gave it short shrift. ‘People commit suicide on the tube on a daily basis,’ he said. ‘Especially post-Christmas. Sometimes others get in the way. Count yourself lucky you didn’t go too, but don’t take it personally.’

‘The phone call wasn’t bad luck, and it definitely was personal. Whoever made it knows where I’m staying and they’ve got my mobile number.’

‘What phone call?’

Mariner told him. ‘To be honest, I thought it was you.’ Flynn looked at him. ‘It’s all right, I realise now that it can’t have been.’

‘Maybe it was just a mistake. Someone got the wrong number.’

‘Someone who knew that Damask Street was in walking distance of my hotel? And how is it that when I get there a mugger conveniently appears and tries to stab me?’

‘Be sensible, Tom. You said this Damask Street was little more than a dark alleyway. You’d have been a prime target; bloke hanging around in a deserted street like that. It was an opportunist.’

The second time in recent weeks Mariner had heard that word. ‘I don’t think so. I’m being targeted. If that car hadn’t come along—’

‘The guy in the Mercedes.’

‘He could have been the contact,’ Mariner said.

‘So why didn’t he stop?’

‘Perhaps the mugger put him off. I don’t know. Or maybe the whole thing was staged.’

Flynn sighed. ‘You’re overwrought, You’ve been through a lot in the last few weeks—’

‘No, I mean it—’

‘Be sensible, Tom. Why would anyone want to do this? What could you possibly have uncovered about Sir Geoffrey Ryland that anyone would be so desperate to keep quiet?’

‘He was involved in some kind of gambling syndicate.’ As expected, this was clearly news to Flynn, but as Mariner began to expound his theory about the betting scam it seemed, even to his own ears, to lose credibility in the telling. ‘Ryland was paying out large, regular cash sums as some kind of horse-racing scam. I was told it was a straightforward flutter, but in practical terms that doesn’t make sense. If all Ryland was doing was placing bets, he’d do it through a phone account. It would help to check his bank accounts to see how much he was spending.’ He threw Flynn a meaningful look.

‘Don’t be bloody stupid. I can’t just wade in and demand that kind of information. There would be questions. And so what if he was into something like that? It’s not illegal.’

‘So why was his assistant sworn to secrecy, and how come you didn’t know about it?’

‘Hypocrisy. Ryland was a pretty outspoken critic of the government’s recent relaxation of gambling laws, wasn’t he? It wouldn’t look great if he himself was found to be indulging.’

It hadn’t occurred to Mariner, but Flynn was right. Ryland had even opined in the press about it. That’s why it had seemed so unlikely. It could even be the reason for Ryland’s sudden need to jump ship on the enterprise.

‘As far as I know there’s nothing else to suggest he was into anything like that,’ said Flynn. ‘So why don’t you leave the real investigators to do their job?’

‘Because they’re not doing it properly.’ Mariner’s frustration was growing. ‘The theory that Joseph O’Connor was the target for the shooting has more holes in it than a sieve.’

‘For instance?’

‘Joseph O’Connor’s supposed meeting with Brady. Sure, they were in the same pub on the same night but that’s as far as it goes. O’Connor left almost as soon as Brady arrived. They never met.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says the pub landlord, the same pub landlord who gave a witness statement to that effect. Somebody’s playing a game of Chinese whispers there.’

‘Perhaps it was a misunderstanding. The witness didn’t make himself clear, or changed his story. It happens, you know that.’

‘Some misunderstanding. The whole thing with O’Connor stinks. Also, Ryland was writing the draft of the second instalment of his memoirs.’

‘So?’

‘I’ve been told he was using the opportunity to blow the whistle on the government’s interference in the JRC. It’s supposed to be an independent body, but crippling restrictions have been placed on the cases they can review. The Home Office is virtually running the show. Did you know that?’

‘How the hell did you find out? No, no, that’s okay, it can wait. What is it you’re trying to say?’

‘That the JRC is a sham. Don’t you think it would be damaging to the government if that truth got out?’

‘It wouldn’t do them much good,’ Flynn conceded.

‘So it would be in their interests to keep Ryland quiet, wouldn’t it? The day after he died they took the hard drive from his computer at the JRC.’

‘I’m sure that’s pretty routine procedure. He’d have been handling some sensitive data as a matter of course. No one would want it to get into the wrong hands. So, let me get this straight. What you’re implying here is that somehow the government arranged to have Ryland killed and now, because you’re onto it, they’re after you too?’ He made it sound like a cheap melodrama. ‘I think your imagination is running away with you, mate. Government officials involved in a sordid back-street mugging? In the real world it doesn’t happen.’

‘Look at what happened to David Kelly.’

‘Oh for Christ’s sake, Tom, Kelly committed suicide, as well you know.’ Flynn took a weary breath. ‘Okay. Supposing you’re right. Let’s imagine that somebody did set you up and arranged for a mugger to see you off. Isn’t it much more likely to be someone related to Joseph O’Connor? His cronies wouldn’t want you poking around after the shooting, would they? And the stuff you’ve described is more their style.’

‘They’re not the only ones.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Remember a George Hollis?’

Flynn’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who’s he? No, don’t tell me; he’s a secret government agent.’ But he knew the name, Mariner could tell.

‘He got O’Connor wrongfully convicted, and was subsequently indicted in his appeal.’

‘We all make mistakes.’

‘Must have been a habit with George Hollis. Sir Geoffrey Ryland was taking quite an interest in him. Do you know him?’

‘I know
of
him He worked out of Harlesden just before I did, but then, I expect you already know that, don’t you?’

‘What can you tell me about him?’

‘He had a certain reputation as a tough officer who got results.’