Written in Blood (30 page)

He’d been waiting for this. ‘I sell security products, burglar alarms, that kind of thing.’

‘And you’re having a day off?’

‘I’ve a couple of customers in the area, time between appointments, so I walked out here from the village.’

‘You like to walk, too. A dog would be a perfect companion.’

‘Your business must be successful,’ Mariner said. ‘You have an eye for opportunity.’

‘That’s what it’s all about, don’t you think? Taking life’s opportunities.’ She’d finished her coffee. ‘I should go,’ she said.

‘What about Nelson?’

‘I’m here for a few more days, with luck during that time the kennels can find him a good home. It really would be impossible for me to have him.’ She smiled. ‘You’re sure I can’t persuade you?’

‘I’ll give it some thought,’ Mariner said, but they both knew he was being polite. He walked her back to the BMW.

‘Can I drop you at your car?’

‘No thanks. It’s not far, and you were quite right. I like the exercise.’ She looked uncertainly at the dark sky, but the rain had held off so hopefully he didn’t appear too eccentric.

 

Mariner watched her go before asking at the garden centre and calling a local cab firm on his mobile. In order to pay, he had to ask the driver to stop at a cash point en route to the nearest train station, where he had to wait an hour and fifteen minutes on a freezing platform for the train back into London. The expenses claim for this little trip was going to look interesting.

Despite the warmth of his hotel room Mariner was shivering uncontrollably and could feel the beginnings of a cold coming on. The comfort of home was a much more attractive prospect. By the time he’d checked out and caught the next train back to Birmingham, it was late evening when he got there, exhausted and aching. Anna was out, having taken Jamie to his activity club at the day centre, but she’d left a note to say that Jack Coleman had been trying to get hold of him, and to contact Coleman at home if necessary.

Glenys Coleman was not pleased to hear Mariner’s voice, especially so late. ‘I’ll go and get Jack,’ she said, shortly. In the ensuing delay Mariner heard raised voices in the background, and then Coleman came on. ‘Thames Valley police have been in touch,’ he said. ‘They want to interview you as a significant witness in the murder, somewhere east of Banbury, of a Mrs Eleanor Ryland, who I understand was the mother of the late Sir Geoffrey Ryland.’ Coleman paused. ‘What in God’s name is going on, Tom?’

Not yet ready for full disclosure, Mariner had prepared his response. ‘Just before Christmas I found out that when she was much younger, my mother knew Sir Geoffrey Ryland well. I was told that they were close at one time. I thought that perhaps Eleanor Ryland might have known my mother too. I went to talk to her.’

‘Two days before she was found dead?’

‘What can I say? It was unfortunate timing. I had nothing to do with her death, I promise you.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

‘She was alive and well when I left her. She gave me tea, we talked for about an hour, then I left and walked back to my car.’

‘Only I would prefer not to have one of my senior officers arrested for murder during my last week,’ Coleman said, with feeling.

‘Yes sir.’

On the surface, Coleman sounded unworried, but it was a forced cheerfulness. The fact that Mariner was being called as a significant witness meant that his Thames Valley colleagues had nothing incriminating on him. All it meant was that they could place him at the scene before Eleanor died. If they’d had any stronger evidence he would be in custody already. A police officer as a suspect in a murder case would be hung out to dry. All the same, Mariner couldn’t help wondering if Coleman knew something that he didn’t.

‘And what about the CPS?’ Coleman was asking.

‘Sorry sir?’

‘The CPS. Isn’t that where you’ve been for the last two days?’

Shit! In his hurry to get out of London Mariner had completely forgotten to return to the CPS for the report. ‘They’re sending something through in the morning,’ he lied. ‘It wasn’t quite ready when I left, but I gave them a kick up the backside. I think my being there in person has moved things along.’ He’d have to ring first tomorrow to ensure that it happened.

‘Good.’

But Mariner rang off with a sense of foreboding. Unpacking his things he came across the envelope Flynn had given him, the proof in black and white that he was Sir Geoffrey Ryland’s son. He opened it and stared at the piece of paper for a long time, so small in substance yet so significant in its content. Also in the envelope was another document. Two sheets of A4 stapled together. It was a summary of the crime scene report from Cheslyn Woods. A peace offering from Flynn, though there was little here that hadn’t already been covered by the press; a mention of the message written on the window, and a note at the bottom describing a tracking device that had been found on Ryland’s car.

With trepidation Mariner retrieved from his own vehicle the compact piece of hardware that Carl had given him. The name and model number were identical. It increased the odds that whoever had been monitoring Sir Geoffrey Ryland had done the same to Mariner. And he couldn’t help but recall who it was who’d studied electronics while in Chapel Wood prison; Rupert Foster-Young. Mariner needed to speak to a friend.

Selina answered the phone sounding less like her bright, usual self and there must have been something in that because Knox declined Mariner’s invitation. ‘We’ve got other plans tonight,’ he said enigmatically. ‘But have a pint of M&B for me, will you?’

‘I will, though it’ll have to be Banks’s,’ said Mariner. ‘I’m going to the Boatman.’ Forty-five minutes later Mariner looked up from his corner seat to see Knox walk into the bar.

Tony Knox entered the bar of the Boatman feeling as guilty as if he was bunking off school. Mariner looked rough, and his reaction confirmed what he’d surmised on the phone, that there was more to this than just a drink. The boss looked desperately relieved to see him. The feeling was mutual.

‘You changed your mind,’ Mariner said.

Knox checked his watch. ‘I haven’t got long. I’ve dropped Selina off at her friend’s. She’s going to call me when she wants picking up, so I’ll need to get home.’ And he hadn’t told her he was meeting Mariner. He hadn’t dared.

Mariner picked up on the anxiety straightaway. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’ Knox hoped that would cover it.

It must have because Mariner backed off. ‘I’ll get you a pint. The Wadsworth’s is good tonight.’

‘No. I’m not drinking. I’ll have a tomato juice.’

‘What’s this, national abstinence day?’

‘I’m not planning on it tomorrow either, or the next day, if I can do it.’

‘Christ, what’s brought this on?’

‘I was getting too used to it, the same way I did when Theresa first left,’ Knox said, smoothly.

‘You’ve always kept it under control.’

‘No, I just made it look that way. Selina doesn’t need that right now.’ She’d made that perfectly clear, he’d the bruises on his ribs to prove it. And he wasn’t going to take that risk.

‘Well it explains the twitching,’ Mariner grinned, drawing his own conclusions. ‘Tomato juice it is.’

Knox launched in as soon as Mariner returned with the drinks. He hadn’t much time. ‘So what’s all this about?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘This isn’t just a casual drink, is it? And you look like shit.’

‘Thanks,’ said Mariner. ‘Your copper’s intuition eh?’

No, thought Knox grimly, the insight of someone else who’s got something to hide. ‘You should know,’ he said.

‘I’ve found out who my father was.’

Knox thought he’d already guessed what was up: that Anna was pregnant, or worse, that she’d left Mariner. But never in a million years, that. It snatched the breath from him.

‘Fucking Nora,’ he said, eventually. ‘When did this happen?’

‘You remember that guy I told you about, Dave Flynn?’

‘The one on the Ryland investigation?’

‘Yes. Well that’s what he came to tell me; that Sir Geoffrey Ryland was my father.’

‘Ryland?’ This got better and better. The boss was having some kind of a breakdown. Suddenly Knox didn’t know how to play it. ‘How’s that even possible?’ he asked calmly.

Mariner gave a sardonic laugh. ‘It’s all right, I know how it sounds, my father a national icon. It’s like the reincarnation nutters who always turn out to have been Marie Antoinette or Florence Nightingale in a previous life. But it all fits. I was aware that back then my mother moved in the same social circles. And I’ve got the DNA results to substantiate it.’

‘Christ Almighty.’ Mariner sounded perfectly rational. Knox had no choice but to believe him.

‘Anyway, when I found out I couldn’t help it. I wanted to know more about why he’d been killed.’

‘Even though there are people already doing that job,’ he said. ‘Why does that not surprise me?’

‘And the more I started digging around the less satisfied I was with the explanations being given.’

‘But I thought it was clear cut.’ Knox had read the newspaper reports. ‘The chauffeur was the intended target, Ryland and his wife were unfortunate bystanders.’

‘Because that’s what you were meant to think. But right from the start there’s been something funny going on. Dave practically admitted it to me. The Met just seem to be using the incident as an opportunity to indict one of the biggest drug operators in the area, regardless of who might really have committed the crime. At first I thought it could be the Home Office trying to suppress Ryland’s second volume of memoirs. Then I found out that he was building a case against two long-serving Met officers who would have wanted him and O’Connor out of the way. But now I think it’s more likely that it’s Ryland’s other illegitimate son, Rupert Foster-Young, who was behind the killings. He had the motive and the opportunity and he’s disappeared off the face of the planet.’ Mariner described what had happened when he was in London. ‘Someone was after me, I know they were. And now Eleanor Ryland has been killed and the police think I did it. Whoever it is knew that I was there on that Saturday—’ Mariner broke off. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘It’s the look you reserve for the care-in-the-community freaks.’

‘What do you expect?’ Knox defended himself. He could barely take it all in. ‘You have been doing well on your own, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘Anna must be going apeshit.’

‘Anna doesn’t know.’

Just lately Knox considered himself to be a master of discretion, but the boss was something else. ‘Which bit doesn’t she know?’

‘Any of it.’

He was unbelievable. ‘Not even about your dad? We’ve had this conversation before. Why can’t you open your mouth and talk to people, like everyone else does?’ Present company excepted, of course.

‘I had to sort it out in my own head first.’

‘Well you’re really on track with that, aren’t you? Where does Eleanor Ryland come into this?’

‘She was my grandmother.’

‘That I’d worked out for myself.’

‘I went to see her a couple of times, including last weekend. Shortly afterwards she was found dead.’

‘It’s what most people would call a coincidence.’

‘Except that Thames Valley police have got a reporter who says he saw me arrive at the house just before the TOD.’

‘But he didn’t?’

‘I didn’t see any journalists that afternoon. In fact I made that very remark to Eleanor.’

‘But you were there?’

‘Not at the time she died. I think I’m being fitted up.’

‘By Sir Geoffrey Ryland’s
other
illegitimate son.’ Knox had struggled like this at school, with Shakespeare. ‘How much have you told the DCI?’

‘Thames Valley contacted him, so I had to come clean about knowing Eleanor Ryland. I didn’t specify the relationship. Like I said, I wanted to try and make sense of it before telling anyone.’

‘And you chose me. I’m flattered.’

‘At one point I thought some of Coleman’s former colleagues might somehow be involved.’

‘What?’

‘I’m pretty sure now that they’re not, but there’s something going on. I just haven’t fully worked it out yet.’

Knox watched Mariner rub a hand over his face, making contact with about two days’ beard growth. ‘You look fucking awful,’ he said. ‘When’s the last time you slept properly?’

‘You don’t look so great yourself.’

‘You can rule out one conspiracy, anyway,’ Knox said, wriggling out from under that one.

‘Why’s that?’

‘The St Martin’s explosion.’ Knox was surprised that the boss hadn’t already heard. It had been the hot topic round the station all day. ‘You’ll never fucking believe who was behind it.’

‘Try me.’ The tension in Mariner’s voice was palpable.