Killer Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

‘—or that it was someone she knew. She let him in.’

  But they could still only question him as a significant witness.

  ‘What’s my motive?’ Mariner asked. ‘I’ve only just found out that Eleanor Ryland was my grandmother. She’s the only real family I’ve got. Why would I kill her?’

  The two detectives exchanged a look and DC Singh slid another document across the table, this time it was packaged in polythene. ‘For the tape I’m showing DI Mariner exhibit 1A.’ He gave Mariner a few seconds to look at it. The first thing Mariner caught was the heading: Last Will and Testament. Shit.

  ‘Were you aware that you’re named as a significant beneficiary in Eleanor Ryland’s will?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘We found this in her safe. You can see how it looks. Diana Ryland was the one with all the wealth, but on her death it went to her husband, then because his mother outlived him, it reverted to her. Did she take much persuading?’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ said Mariner. ‘I had no knowledge of this will.’ They couldn’t prove that he did. He was being baited.

  ‘What are your present personal circumstances, Inspector?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I understand you and your partner are planning a family. And your partner already has one dependant who needs expensive residential care.’

  How the hell? ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with—’

  ‘Expensive things, babies,’ said Singh. ‘I can tell you that for a fact.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ retorted Mariner. ‘I only found out three weeks ago that I’m even related to Sir Geoffrey Ryland. How could I possibly know anything about this will? And I don’t need the money.’

  ‘You’d met with Eleanor Ryland before, on the fifth of January. What did you talk about on that occasion?’

  ‘Not that, I can assure you.’

  ‘Look at the date on the bottom of the document.’

  Mariner did. It had been signed and dated two weeks ago, two days after his first meeting with Eleanor.

  ‘I have to admire your speed,’ said Singh. ‘But then, she’d have been in a nice vulnerable state, wouldn’t she? I’m sorry you’ve just lost your son, but here I am, a ready-made grandson. Sign on the dotted line.’

  Anger and fear boiled up and, incensed, Mariner lunged for Singh.

  ‘And I really don’t think that’s going to help either. Didn’t you ask Mrs Ryland on your first visit about when she was alone in the house? The cook overheard a conversation to that effect and later saw you checking how secure the building was. You knew that at that time on a Saturday afternoon there would be nobody else there. Some might view that as preparation.’

  ‘It was conversation, that’s all. For Christ’s sake. I was concerned about security for precisely this reason. I’m an experienced copper. If I was going to pull a stunt like this, don’t you think I might have been a bit more subtle?’

  Singh was thoughtful. ‘It puzzled us too. But we’ve talked to a couple of people, friends of yours, who say that they feel you’re under a lot of strain at the moment and you’re not behaving at all like your usual self.’

  ‘This is making me feel a whole lot better,’ snapped Mariner.

  ‘We can’t ignore what was there,’ said Singh, and he was right. He was only doing his job.

  Resignation took over. ‘No,’ said Mariner. He decided to take a chance. ‘I’m not the only one trying to pass himself off as a son and heir, you know.’

  They clearly didn’t. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Back in the sixties Ryland was engaged to a woman called Caroline Foster-Young. She had a child and convinced him that Geoffrey Ryland was his father.’ Mariner told them what he knew about Rupert Foster-Young. This was where the ice thinned out, but he was past caring.

  ‘He spread it around, your old man, didn’t he?’ The two detectives were dubious.

  ‘That’s the point,’ said Mariner. ‘Ryland wasn’t the father, couldn’t have been. Foster-Young served time for aggravated burglary,’ Mariner persisted. ‘When he got out he harassed Ryland for money. He turned up at the JRC demanding to see him.’

  ‘Do you know where this man is?’

  ‘That’s the other thing. He’s disappeared.’

  ‘That’s convenient for you.’ They didn’t believe him, but they took down Foster-Young’s address anyway. Then they let Mariner go, which made him realise that the only evidence they had was circumstantial. But it was still pretty strong stuff and they hadn’t given up on him yet.

  Eleanor Ryland’s will, he had noticed, was stamped with the solicitor’s name and address. The office was in the nearby town. He had to kick his heels for forty-five minutes waiting to see Peter Donovan but considered it worthwhile.

  ‘You went to Eleanor Ryland’s house to witness the change of will. When did she make that appointment?’ Mariner asked him.

  ‘I can’t really be sure when she arranged it,’ the solicitor told him. ‘We don’t record that kind of detail.’

  ‘Approximately. Was it before Christmas or after?’

  ‘Oh, I’m pretty sure it was before.’

  ‘You’re certain about that?’

  ‘As much as I can be.’

  ‘So it was shortly after Sir Geoffrey Ryland was killed?’

  ‘Yes, that was the purpose of the visit. When I saw the news I’d been expecting it.’

  And it was also well before Mariner’s visit. Singh and his cronies hadn’t covered that. It wasn’t much but it would count in his favour if things got tight.

  * * *

  Checking his mobile Mariner found a couple of messages. The first was from Dave Flynn. Mariner didn’t return it. After all that the Thames Valley police knew, he couldn’t decide whose side Flynn was on any more. The other message was from Rupert Foster-Young’s neighbour. It was short and to the point. ‘You wanted to know when Robert came home, well, he’s back now.’

  * * *

  Mariner was weary of driving but there was little alternative. He had to try again. Leaving his car at Cockfosters tube station, he travelled back into London. The man who came to the door of Rupert Foster-Young’s flat presented a very different picture from the six-by-eight Mariner had seen and momentarily he thought there must be a flatmate. Either that or it crossed his mind that Lauren’s mother could have installed a decoy to take the heat off her erstwhile babysitter.

  Barefoot, in jeans and a crisp white T-shirt, the man before him glowed with health, the paranoid defensiveness traded, in the flesh, with open friendliness.

  ‘Detective Inspector Mariner,’ Mariner said. ‘I was hoping to talk to Rupert Foster-Young.’

  ‘Robert,’ came back the correction. ‘That’s me.’ But for all the outward relaxation, suspicion lurked just below the surface, and the door closed a couple of inches and the shoulders tensed. It was something that lingered with ex-cons. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Mariner remained casual. ‘I’m looking into the death of Sir Geoffrey Ryland. I know that he and your mother were friends once. I’m exploring the possibility of any throwback to that time—’

  Foster-Young grinned, sheepishly, the tension leaving him. ‘Ah. You found out that I’d been hassling him.’

  His frankness caught Mariner off guard. ‘Someone at the JRC told me about your appeal application, yes.’

  Foster-Young stepped back from the door. ‘Do you want to come in? I was just making a cuppa.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Everything about this encounter so far had been disconcerting. He followed Foster-Young through a tiny hallway and into a homely, untidy lounge. A couple of suitcases lay open on the floor, their contents overflowing. ‘Excuse the mess,’ Foster-Young said, without much hint of apology. ‘I just got back.’ He continued into the kitchen leaving Mariner in the living room where a passport and other travel documentation lay on the table. While Foster-Young was occupied Mariner sneaked a look. It confirmed Foster-Young’s ide
ntity. Mariner was still staring at the passport when his host returned with two mugs.

  ‘Sorry to be nosey,’ Mariner said, putting down the passport. ‘It’s just that the photograph on your prison records — you’ve changed a lot.’

  ‘I know. Scary eh.’ said Foster-Young, passing over a mug which contained an unusual coloured beverage. ‘I was in a bit of a state at that time,’ he went on. ‘And my mother had been feeding me all kinds of nonsense that Geoffrey Ryland was my father.’

  ‘That’s why you went after him when you got out.’ Mariner backtracked on what Foster-Young had said. ‘But you said “nonsense.”’

  ‘It was total crap apparently. When she died my mother left me a letter, admitting that she really hadn’t a clue who my dad was. It could have been one of several guys but not Ryland. She’d never slept with him. When I pushed Ryland on it he even offered to take a paternity test. I figured that was proof enough.’

  ‘He could have been bluffing.’

  ‘No. That’s when I stopped harassing people and decided to get my life together.’

  Mariner was stunned, and more than a little disappointed. The irony of the situation struck him too. Foster-Young had grown up under the misapprehension that Geoffrey Ryland was his father, while he, Mariner, Ryland’s real son, had lived in ignorance for all these years.

  ‘My mum was a very mixed up woman,’ Foster-Young went on. ‘A living product of the age of free love. She wasn’t very good at looking after herself, so my arrival on the scene didn’t help much. Responsibility was never her forte.’

  ‘So she picked on Geoffrey Ryland.’

  ‘They were officially dating at that time, so I guess he was the obvious choice. But he wasn’t the only one she blamed.’

  ‘Norman Balfour.’

  ‘Poor old Norman. Yes, his name came up too. He’s a Catholic priest now, you know. I found him and gave him a really hard time over it, thought he’d be a soft touch. Unfortunately I inherited my mother’s liking for intoxicating substances. I’ve cleaned up my act a bit since then.’

  ‘So I see. You’ve been abroad?’

  ‘The US. I’ve got family there.’

  ‘You had a good trip?’ Mariner asked, regretting the choice of words.

  Foster-Young seemed not to notice. ‘Fantastic,’ he said. ‘I met them all. They’d pretty much disowned my mother so I didn’t know how they’d take to the bastard son, but they were great. They made me feel very welcome. Times have changed, eh?’

  ‘Did your mother often talk about Sir Geoffrey Ryland?’ asked Mariner.

  ‘I wouldn’t say often. It was usually when she was drunk or high. That was half the problem. I think she really loved him. She wanted me to be his son. And as for Diana Ryland—’ He held up crossed fingers as if warding off evil.

  ‘She didn’t like her?’

  ‘The woman had usurped her position.’

  ‘Did she ever say why that had happened?’

  ‘Not specifically. She used to say that Diana and Geoff deserved each other. I guess because they came from the same “establishment” background and my mother didn’t. She always resented that, couldn’t stand it. Used to say that Diana wasn’t the little miss pathetic everyone made her out to be. Mum was more of a free spirit. Unconventional. It didn’t suit Ryland’s political ambitions. Obviously an astute guy. She’d have been a nightmare.’ His face creased to a frown. ‘Is all of this really relevant to what’s happened now?’

  ‘We’re just being thorough,’ said Mariner.

  Foster-Young drank the last of his tea, noticing Mariner’s still untouched mug. ‘Sorry, I forgot that green tea isn’t to everyone’s taste. Well, the whole thing’s a shame. Ryland seemed like a nice guy. I don’t suppose I’ve been much help.’

  ‘Any background is useful, thanks. We like to build up a full picture.’ Mariner was embarrassed about being there now. ‘Oh, and you might get a call from the Thames Valley police. Similar kind of background stuff. When did you get back into the country?’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.’ Lucky man.

  Mariner left Foster-Young’s flat feeling despondent. Foster-Young clearly wasn’t involved. Quite apart from anything else, from before the shootings until a couple of days ago he’d been three thousand miles away on the other side of the Atlantic. So where did that leave Mariner? The walk back to the tube station was a long one. All the work, all the running back and forth to London and Oxfordshire, the brushes with death, what had it all been for? And what had been achieved? It had become an obsession, but one he found he couldn’t give up. What lay behind the killings wasn’t just drugs, he was certain of that. Somewhere there had to be something vital he’d overlooked.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Driving back to Birmingham Mariner tried to work out what it could be that he’d missed. If he tracked it right back to the beginning, it had started before the bombing, that feeling of being watched, except that he’d no hard evidence of that. The bomb itself could be discounted now, of course, except someone had taken advantage of it by sending him a threatening note. Was that merely one of his past adversaries making the most of the situation? It wasn’t impossible. There were enough of them to choose from.

  Then, almost immediately after that, Dave Flynn had shown up. So far, so unremarkable. Things had really begun to get out of hand when he’d first gone to London, digging into Ryland’s work at the JRC. Somebody knew he was there, had known where he was staying, and also had access to his mobile number. They must have followed his research as it progressed to Rupert Foster-Young, and witnessed his visits to Eleanor, enough to be able to fit him up for her murder. But who could possibly have known all of that? He’d even kept Anna in the dark these past couple of weeks. The tracking device in his car would have helped his pursuer to some extent, but there were times when he’d taken to public transport as well as that period when his car was off the road altogether. Despite all that, someone, somewhere was managing to stalk him. But who the hell could it be?

  Dave Flynn was the only one who had been in on this from the start, and also had the resources to follow Mariner. Perhaps that was even the reason why Dave had been brought in to begin with. He’d warned Mariner not to get involved, knowing at the same time that Mariner couldn’t resist a challenge. Maybe Dave was being used too. Those photographs were a weird coincidence? Mariner still only had Flynn’s word for it that they’d been found in Ryland’s possession, and it was Flynn who had arranged the DNA test. What if the whole thing was a set up? And if so, what was the point — other than to land Mariner in hot water?

  If Ryland was his father then he owed it to the old man to find out exactly what had happened, but suddenly the burden of that responsibility felt overwhelming.

  * * *

  When he reached Anna’s house in the late afternoon she was already home.

  ‘Good day?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’ She would assume that he’d been at the station doing a normal day’s work. ‘How’s Jamie been?’

  ‘He’s okay,’ she said. ‘We need to be at the QE by nine fifteen tomorrow so I’ve arranged for the centre transport to collect him early.’

  The dreaded appointment. Mariner didn’t know why they were still going through with this. The urgency of them having children seemed to have diminished and suddenly this seemed to be more about Anna’s future than theirs, but then, whose fault was that? ‘You still want to go?’ he asked.

  She looked across at him. ‘Why wouldn’t we?’

  ‘It’s just — things have changed.’

  ‘Like what?’ She was challenging him to come out and say it, that what they’d had was gone.

  But as usual he ducked it. ‘The situation with Jamie for one,’ he said. ‘What if he’s still with us when the baby is born? How will he take to that, and how could we manage Jamie and a baby?’

  ‘That’s at least nine months away, even if we got down to it r
ight this minute. And I told you. I’m working on Jamie.’ She walked over to him, taking his hands in hers. ‘We’ve been through all this before. Just because you haven’t had first-hand experience of fatherhood doesn’t mean you can’t learn it. And we’d be in it together. You were sure about this not so long ago. What’s this really about?’

  How could he tell her that the weight of the responsibility was too great, that there were so many people he’d already let down, that he couldn’t bear the thought of doing it again?

  ‘A lot has happened,’ he said, lamely.

  ‘You mean the bomb. I know. The world is a dangerous place. You’re up against it every day. We can’t let something like that stop us. Is this why you’ve gone all distant on me?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Mariner hedged.

  ‘Since Christmas you’ve hardly been here, and even when you are, you’re not. If you don’t want to go through with this, now would be a good time to say.’

  ‘I just think the timing is all wrong.’

  She studied him for a moment. ‘Will the timing ever be right?’

  ‘Truthfully? I don’t know.’

  ‘We’re only going for advice. There’s nothing to lose, is there?’

  She was right. It was nothing that they hadn’t just lost in the last few minutes.

  * * *

  Anna was nervous. As they sat in the too-bright waiting room at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, she was unnaturally chatty and laughed too easily. Having Jamie back home these last few days had brought the implications into sharp focus and despite her optimism Mariner knew that if the odds of their child having autism were too high she wouldn’t take the risk. Secretly, Mariner was glad.

  Dr Chang bombarded them with science, then spent more than an hour asking questions about Jamie, his diagnosis and about all Anna’s family members, all the time taking extensive notes.

  ‘And what about you Mr Mariner? Is there any history of autism in your family?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Mariner said. ‘On my mother’s side I’m fairly certain not.’

  ‘And your father’s?’

  Mariner considered what he’d read about Ryland, what he knew about him. To operate successfully in the world that he had, the man had to have finely honed social skills. ‘I don’t think so.’