Mariner climbed over the stile and walked across the front of the house to the main door. Everything was peaceful, except for the a robin chirruping loudly from the bare branch of an acacia. Eleanor seemed pleased to see him, giving him a bony hug, and Nelson welcomed him like a long-lost friend. Being greeted warmly by a family member was a rare experience that Mariner had long forgotten. He and his mother hadn’t been on those terms for years.
‘The vultures gave up then,’ Mariner remarked, taking off his boots in the porch before going into the house.
‘The reporters?’ Eleanor shook her head. ‘Oh, they’ll be back. I think they go to the pub for lunch. The landlord at the Lygon must be doing a good trade.’
‘Not when I was in there,’ Mariner said.
Since it was the weekend, there was no Janet, but Eleanor made them tea, waving away his offer of help. When she brought it, on a little trolley, they sat overlooking the terrace at the back of the garden where a bird table offered sustenance for all kinds of species.
‘I love to watch the birds,’ she said. ‘Except for those wretched magpies that get everywhere, stealing and bullying their way in.’
Speaking of which . . . ‘Do you remember a girl Sir Geoffrey was once engaged to, Carrie Foster-Young?’ Mariner asked.
Eleanor smiled. ‘Oh, yes. She was the one who broke Geoffrey’s heart. She was a very sweet girl but . . .’ she paused, searching for the right word, ‘flighty,’ she said, at last. ‘Yes — flighty and very energetic.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Had her own room when she stayed here, but we couldn’t very well prevent Geoffrey from going to her during the night. She and Geoffrey were what these days you’d call “an item” for nearly two years. I think he might even have married her, but she didn’t believe in it, so she said. She was American, you know, one of those flower people, more for living together. It was all the rage then.’
‘So what happened?’
‘They had a big falling out. I never really knew what it was about. It happened quite suddenly and there seemed no question of reconciliation. Geoffrey was seriously considering going into politics at that point so thank God for Diana. She was far more suited to life as an MP’s wife and came along just at the right time. She and Geoffrey had so much in common. They were made for each other. I have to admit that Charles and I were somewhat relieved.’ Her eyes clouded over. ‘Poor, poor Diana.’
‘She didn’t suffer,’ Mariner said, thinking back to what he knew of the crime. ‘Death would have been instantaneous for both of them. She probably knew nothing about it.’ Although those last few seconds would have been the longest and most terrifying of her life. ‘Do you know what happened to Carrie?’
‘It was rather sad. Geoffrey told me once, some years later that he’d bumped into her and she was a drug addict. In some ways I wasn’t really very surprised. There was always an unusual smell in the house after she’d been, though at the time I didn’t know what it was.’
‘Did Carrie ever have any children?’ asked Mariner.
‘I’ve no idea.’ Eleanor shook her head. ‘After they went their separate ways Geoffrey only mentioned her on that one occasion and if what he said was true, then I rather hope that she didn’t. It’s no life to bring a child into.’
‘Is there anyone who would know for sure?’
‘I suppose Norman might know.’
Of course, Norman Balfour, the university chum who went on to be Ryland’s best man.
‘He’s a lovely boy, full of mischief.’
Mariner smiled. Probably not such a boy now.
‘Have you any idea where I might find Norman?’
But she didn’t. Hadn’t seen him for years, either. But Mariner was hopeful. Maggie hadn’t come back to him yet. She may not know anything much about Carrie Foster-Young, but she’d heard from Norman Balfour only a year or two back so would probably know where he was. And hadn’t she said he was a Catholic priest? There couldn’t be many of those with the same name.
‘You’ll stay for dinner?’ Eleanor said. ‘It’s only cold cuts that Janet’s left me but there’s enough for two of us.’
‘I ought to be getting back,’ said Mariner, regretfully. ‘I’ve left my car in the village and walked here. I should go before it gets dark.’
It was only just after four but, as it was, the sky was turning a dusky blue as Mariner set off across the fields. There was still no activity at the gate though he thought he could see at least one vehicle parked there. Jeez, what an excruciatingly boring job. Those reporters had to be dedicated.
* * *
Mariner spent most of the next day at Anna’s house surfing the net, trying to establish what had become of Carrie Foster-Young. He got plenty of hits on genealogy sites, Foster-Youngs from all over the world trying to trace lost relatives, but none of them the one he wanted. Mid-evening, Maggie phoned him back. ‘How can I help?’ she asked.
‘I’ve been wondering about some of the people my father knew,’ said Mariner. ‘Particularly Carrie Foster-Young.’
‘I don’t know much I’m afraid, only what I’ve already told you.’
‘Do you know if she had a child?’
‘She didn’t when I knew her,’ said Maggie. ‘But the way she put it about, I wouldn’t be surprised. When she and Geoff split up she disappeared pretty quickly off the scene, and it was a long time ago, anything could have happened since then.’
‘You said you’d heard from Norman Balfour,’ Mariner reminded her. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Yes, he’s the diocesan priest at St Dunstan’s church in North London. Why do you want to speak to him?’
‘Everybody tells me he was one of my father’s closest friends.’
But Maggie wasn’t easily fooled. ‘This still personal?’
‘Pretty much. It may be nothing at all.’
‘And how are you doing?’ she asked him.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You and Anna have talked?’
‘We’ve started to.’ Loosely speaking it was the truth.
‘Well, keep doing it.’
‘We will.’ But talking wasn’t what he had in mind.
* * *
Anna returned with Jamie later that evening, but her embrace was stiff and unyielding. Jamie, worn out by the travelling, crashed out in record time and she came down from the shower a little after that, by which time Mariner was watching a film on TV. Standing in the doorway she looked tiny and vulnerable in the way that she had when they first met, and Mariner felt a rush of love for her that made his eyes water. He must try harder. When she came and sat beside him, taking his hand in hers and smelling of soap and shampoo, he muted the TV and slid an arm round her drawing her close to him, a tiny fragile bird. ‘Good time?’ he asked.
‘Great. Jamie did really well.’ She stopped, uncertain whether to go on. ‘There’s a residential place not far from where Becky and Mark live. We passed it a couple of times when I was there before. This time we went and had a look round. It’s a self-sufficient community. I think it would be really good for Jamie.’ Wow. So that’s why Jamie went too.
‘I didn’t tell you before in case it came to nothing.’ Which must mean that it had come to something.
‘They’ve got a place there for him?’ Mariner asked.
‘They will have, soon, though we’ll have to act quickly to get him in. It’s expensive, but I think we could do it.’ Now that she’d broached it, she was full of enthusiasm.
‘It’s a long way,’ Mariner pointed out.
‘Doesn’t have to be. Not if we moved out there too.’
‘That’s a bit drastic.’
‘Jamie being evicted from the community home was drastic,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to think of him. And why not move? We’ve talked about it anyway.’
‘You’ve talked about it.’ Mariner corrected her.
‘I don’t get it.’ She pulled away to look at him. ‘I thought you’d want it too. Every chance you get at the moment, you go off
walking somewhere.’
‘I love the countryside,’ he conceded. ‘It’s just the people who live there. . .’ Like locals who pester you while you’re waiting for your pint.
‘Not that you’re generalising or anything,’ she retorted. ‘If you said that about Sparkhill you’d be called a racist.’
‘Village life is too claustrophobic,’ Mariner argued. ‘Everyone would know our business.’
‘How do you know that? You’ve never experienced it.’
‘I’m just guessing.’
‘It doesn’t have to be the middle of nowhere,’ she said. ‘There are some lovely little towns in that area. It should be easy enough for me to get the kind of admin post I’m doing now, and surely you could just transfer. If you want to, that is. It would be a much better place to bring up children.’
Mariner felt as if he was being given an ultimatum.
‘I know we haven’t had much of a chance to discuss this,’ she went on. ‘But events have taken over.’
You can say that again.
‘It’s a big step,’ Mariner said, lamely.
‘Sometimes life is about big steps. Another word for it is commitment. I thought we both wanted the same thing.’
‘Things change.’
Despite their physical closeness Mariner could feel a gulf opening up between them. He’d had the feeling for some time that he was standing in a boat drifting further and further from where she stood. Already the landscape around him had changed significantly. What he’d failed to realise was that Anna was in her own boat drifting in the opposite direction, and her landscape was changing too. There were oars in the bottom of the boat and with a bit of effort he could have locked them and rowed back to meet her halfway, but each time he had that chance, something stopped him. Soon they’d have drifted so far apart that there would be no shared view at all.
Right now there seemed to be nothing more to say. Turning back to the TV Mariner switched the sound back on and resumed watching the film. Undeterred, Anna snuggled closer. ‘Jamie’s asleep and I’m going up to bed,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you come and join me?’
‘I want to watch the end of this.’ He must have seen the film at least four times and could practically recite the dialogue, but she didn’t point that out. Maybe she recognised his fear.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Next morning as penance, Mariner left Anna sleeping in and got Jamie up and dressed before driving him to the day centre. From there he went to Granville Lane. Walking in to the building the warmth hit him like a solid wall. ‘They’ve finally got the heating working properly,’ Ella grinned. In CID Tony Knox was behind his desk, a welcome sight. ‘It’s Coleman’s last week. I wanted to be here.’ He cast a dazed look over the stack of files. ‘I’ve a mass of paperwork but I can’t settle to anything.’ He unbuttoned his shirt cuff and rolled up a sleeve. ‘And this bloody heat doesn’t help. It’s like being in a sauna.’
‘Give it a chance.’ Mariner was staring at the row of scratch marks on Knox’s arm. ‘What happened there?’
Knox turned his attention to the first of the files. ‘I was cutting back some stuff in the garden,’ he said, which was strange because Mariner had never known him to do any work in the garden.
As arranged, one of the first things Mariner did from his own work-station was to call the garage about his car.
‘It’s all set,’ Carl told him. ‘You can collect it whenever you’re ready.’
Mariner went back to Tony Knox. ‘Want to get out of here for twenty minutes?’
‘Sure.’
‘You can give me a lift to the garage.’
Knox waited on the forecourt while Mariner went inside to settle up.
‘You were right about the brake cable,’ Carl said, rooting around under the counter in his shabby little office.
‘Time to start looking for a new car?’ It was the last thing Mariner wanted to embark on right now.
But as he finally produced the component he’d been looking for, Carl shook his head. ‘It wasn’t wear and tear,’ he said, showing Mariner the curved tube. ‘It looks more like a cut.’ And, as they both examined the clean straight incision in the toughened plastic, the sensation that Mariner had been keeping at bay for the past few days slithered back over him like a chill fog. He emerged from the garage office still clutching the tube and trying to remain calm. Apparently with limited success.
‘What’s going on?’ Knox demanded.
‘Nothing,’ Mariner said. ‘It’s fine.’ And for once Knox seemed to have enough on his own mind to let it lie.
But Mariner needed an explanation. He’d spotted the spilled brake fluid on the car park at Tally Ho, so again the most obvious culprits were the Harlesden plods. But even he didn’t want to believe that fellow officers would resort to this. A tracking device was one thing, but sabotage was in a different league. Tampering with the braking system would endanger not only the driver’s life, but the lives of innocent bystanders. Surely it was too reckless an act for men who would often have witnessed the carnage caused by road traffic accidents.
No, there was someone else who would be much more likely to take that risk without considering the full consequences. Mariner had to face the possibility that Rupert Foster-Young might know about him. Ryland must have let slip about Mariner’s existence when Foster-Young was applying the pressure, either by accident or design. He might even have used Mariner’s job as a counter-threat and, with enough information, Rupert Foster-Young would have had little difficulty in tracking him down. Mariner thought back to that curious feeling he’d had since before Christmas of being followed. Perhaps it hadn’t been his imagination after all.
Back at Granville Lane Mariner phoned Chapel Wood prison. ‘I’d like some information about a former inmate — Rupert Foster-Young.’ Mariner gave the details.
The administrator at the other end was understandably cautious. ‘I’ll need to check your credentials and call you back.’
‘Of course.’ It was routine procedure, but it did nothing to curb Mariner’s impatience.
As he waited, the phone rang. ‘Mr and Mrs Evans are here to see you,’ said Ella.
This time he had no trouble recalling. ‘They’re here?’ He felt a hot rush of adrenalin.
‘They’ve been having trouble getting you on the phone,’ said Ella generously.
‘I’ve been busy.’
Ella’s tone was placatory. ‘They understand that. They just want to speak to you, sir.’
For a split second, Mariner seriously thought about asking Ella to lie for him again. But she was right. This was about them, not him. It had to be faced. He went down to the interview room where Ella had taken them and they stood as he went in. ‘Mr and Mrs Evans?’ he stepped forward to shake hands. ‘Please, sit down.’
‘No, we won’t keep you.’ It was Mr Evans who spoke. ‘We know how busy you are. But we just wanted to thank you personally for what you did.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ Mariner said, wanting to curl up with guilt.
‘Oh yes, you did,’ blurted out Mrs Evans. Looking at her for the first time Mariner could see where their daughter had inherited her big blue eyes from. ‘We spoke to another of the rescuers, a fireman. He said that you talked to Chloe constantly, all the time you were trying to dig her out. You let her know that someone was there and that she hadn’t been abandoned. You kept talking to her even after . . .’ She faltered and took a trembling breath, as tears traced patterns down her cheeks. ‘It means such a lot to us, knowing that she didn’t die alone.’
‘I only did what anyone else would have done,’ said Mariner, his throat constricting.
‘Have you got children of your own?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ She looked genuinely surprised. ‘I was so sure that you must have. You knew exactly what to do.’
Without warning she stepped forward, grasped Mariner’s arms and pulled him to her. After the clumsy, desperate embrace they thanked
him again and left, back to their private hell. The encounter left Mariner feeling weak and sick. What if he and Anna did have children? How could he bear to go through what they had endured? How could anyone?
* * *
At Chapel Wood Mariner’s credentials had apparently been deemed sufficient. There was a message on his desk inviting him to call back.
‘Rupert Foster-Young got parole,’ the prison administrator told him. ‘He was released eighteen months ago, in July two years ago.’ It would have given him plenty of time to approach Ryland in person and set up the blackmail operation.
‘Could you give me details of his parole officer?’
‘May I ask why, sir?’
‘I just want to rule out a link with a triple murder,’ said Mariner.
* * *
Charlie Glover, hovering in the doorway, looked on with interest.
‘Laying it on a bit thick,’ Mariner told him, as he replaced the phone. ‘Follow up on a case from a while back.’
Glover seemed to swallow it without difficulty.
‘How’s it going with our Albanian friend?’ Mariner asked.
Glover shook his head. ‘That’s what I came to tell you. We’ve still heard nothing. The ICPS is taking for ever.’
‘I’ll talk to Coleman.’
Mariner was in demand. This time when the phone rang, it was Dave Flynn. ‘I’ve got your DNA results. I’m about to put them in the post to you.’
‘There’s no need,’ said Mariner, a plan taking shape in his head. ‘I can come and collect them in person if you like. I’ll be back in London tomorrow.’
‘You’re coming down for the inquests?’ queried Flynn.
Until then it hadn’t crossed Mariner’s mind, but if the timing was right. . . ‘Officially I’m chasing up the extradition of our Albanian,’ he said. ‘But if I get the chance to stop by, I will. When are they?’
‘Wednesday, ten thirty, Westminster Coroner’s Court, Horseferry Road.’
‘Cheers. I’ll see you there.’ Mariner was about to hang up but Flynn stopped him.
‘Tom, wait. The DNA result wasn’t the only thing I called about. No easy way to say this. Eleanor Ryland is dead.’
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