Blood Substitute

by Margaret Duffy

  My only comfort was that, before he joined the army, Patrick went off by himself and learned all kinds of things; his survival package, he calls it. He has not burdened me with full details – most wives probably would not want to know any more – but it meant that when he started training for Special Services he could show the instructors a thing or two. It is actually a side to him that I prefer not to dwell on too much as I have witnessed what he can do. But it keeps him alive in the most dangerous and nightmarish situations.

  I had a nightmare that night; of a tall, shambling scarecrow figure climbing the creepers on the cottage wall outside my bedroom window, all the while making strange hissing sounds. The mouth and eyes were just black holes in a strange sacking mask it was wearing but within, in the malevolent darkness, there seemed to exist a being. When it got into the room and I was trying to fight it off I discovered that although immensely strong it was, after all, just made of straw. Then I woke up, drenched in sweat.

  Despite what he had said, I was sure now that Patrick had felt the need to remove me, temporarily, from the forefront of the investigation into the case of the horribly murdered policeman. This occurred to me when I was sitting in the kitchen sipping a mug of tea after my dream. An over-active imagination is the penalty you pay when you write books, I was all too aware, a fact that was not lost on the man in my life either. It was a little before six, the morning already light, the sound of birdsong entering through the window I had just opened.

  I heard movement and Matthew, another early bird, came in. He closely resembles his uncle at that age, especially now with this grave expression on his young face.

  ‘Are you all right, Auntie?’ he asked, not used to seeing me at this hour. Both he and Katie call me that for their mother is still alive. She is an alcoholic and since illicitly trying to gain possession of valuable jewellery their father left them in his will has no legal access to them.

  ‘I had a bad dream, that’s all,’ I answered.

  Normally, and as previously mentioned, Patrick and I live in the converted barn across the courtyard. My return home had meant that I could give Carrie, the nanny, time off, and she had gone into Plymouth to see friends and spend the night with her mother. I had slept in the spare bed in her room.

  ‘What was it about?’ Matthew wanted to know when I had given him some tea.

  ‘A horrible scarecrow.’

  He gave me a reassuring smile. ‘You were remembering the ones in Doctor Who. They were terrific! Just men inside though, actors.’

  Just a man inside, I pondered. Just a man, acting, a common-or-garden crook.

  So he was.

  As we had arranged, Patrick kept in touch. We did not speak; he merely rang the landline or my mobile number for the next couple of evenings, allowing it to ring three times and then hanging up. It saved any conversations being overheard by the wrong people and, with the criminal fraternity becoming ever more sophisticated as far as electronic gadgets are concerned, prevented calls being traced. All I could gather from this, of course, was that he was still in one piece and on the job.

  I could picture the scene: the scruffy, unshaven individual leaning on the bar or playing darts with the locals, succeeding in looking the worse for wear after drinking hardly anything at all, blending in, keeping his eyes open. He might decide to start a fight at closing time and even get himself arrested. There is a side to him that enjoys making trouble and blacking a few of the eyes of the ungodly if he thinks he can learn something useful from it. He would have made a first-class criminal.

  I thought the business of my keeping discreet surveillance on Sheepwash Farm rather a ploy on Patrick’s part to make me feel as though I was still being useful. But, as usual, I did as requested on the third day at home, setting off mid-morning, the first two being devoted to the children and things like paying bills and organizing the farrier for George and Fudge.

  The weather was absolutely appalling, a real Dartmoor downpour, so by the time I had fought my way over the flooded tracks I had reached the mental state of ‘bugger everything’, decided to drop the ‘discreet’ and drove all the way to the farm. I was damned if I was going to get soaked to the skin and not for one moment expected anyone to be around.

  But there were plenty of people around; mostly police by the look of it.

  Five

  I found somewhere to park on the rough hillside, put boots on and sploshed my way towards the entrance to the yard, the steep stony path a fast-flowing stream such was the force of the rain that somehow turned sharp right and disappeared into the byre when everything indicated that it should carry on straight though the front door of the house. I suddenly remembered the name of the senior officer who had arrived when we had found the booby-trapped suitcase.

  ‘You can’t go in there, madam,’ said the very wet constable standing by the gate.

  ‘Serious and Organized Crime Agency,’ I snapped, the rain thundering on the hood of my anorak. ‘What’s going on?’

  He stared at me, I stared back and he then decided to answer the question. ‘Two unidentified males have been found dead in the house.’

  ‘Who found them?’

  ‘We did. There was a tip-off.’

  ‘Is Inspector Hume here?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘My name is Ingrid Langley. Please be so good as to tell him I’m here.’

  He looked dubious but went away, returning quite quickly.

  ‘You were with Lieutenant-Colonel Gillard?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You may go in.’

  I threaded my way between the vehicles, endeavouring not to slip over in the mud that had arrived in the yard. Lights had been rigged inside what I already knew to be the house’s normally gloomy interior, a generator humming in the comparative shelter of the open tractor shed. Stepping over cables, I went indoors. The hallway seemed to be full of people but the two dead ones lying on the floor in the cordoned-off front room where figures wearing anti-contamination suits worked took centre stage.

  It was obvious, right from the start – in other words due to the stench – that they had been there for several days. One did not have to be very clever, or observant, to see that they had been subjected to severe torment, exposed areas of skin bruised, the clothes blood-soaked and not related to the cause of death, a single shot to the head from behind.

  ‘What brought you here, Miss Langley?’ asked the man standing nearest to me: Hume.

  I told him, adding, ‘Do you know who they were?’

  ‘No, not yet. There’s no identification on them.’

  For some reason I found myself stammering. ‘Are … are there letters or initials carved on the bodies?’

  He gazed at me in surprise. ‘We haven’t got that far yet. What makes you think there might be?’

  ‘Patrick’s working on the Cliff Morley case and I’m wondering if they’re the two informers he’s looking for in Bristol. There are similarities between the state of these bodies and Morley’s.’

  Hume appeared to find this far-fetched but said, ‘Well, we won’t be able to tell until the PMs are done – not with all that bloodstaining. We’re still waiting for the pathologist to arrive – I reckon he’s got himself well and truly lost.’

  I doubted it was the same two men – I had not seen any mugshots of the Bristol pair, if indeed they had criminal records – as it seemed too much of a coincidence. To Hume I said, ‘It might save a lot of work if you sent photos of these two to the Avon and Somerset force – Superintendent Paul Reece. He’s at HQ in Portishead. Would you do that?’

  ‘You mean it might not be my case at all?’ he enquired after due thought.

  I gave him a sweet smile. ‘No.’

  He did not give me a straight answer and carried on directing the procedings. I hung around. The pathologist, from Exeter, eventually turned up, furious because he had damaged his new car on a stone wall negotiating a tight turn. After an interminable wait while he did what he ha
d to, during which time I went outside for some fresh air and to check on the baby swallows, Hume came out, hurried through the rain into the building where the Land Rover had been housed and called me over.

  ‘I asked Doctor Greene to examine the bodies for any knife marks,’ he said. ‘It meant swabbing down their torsos but yes, you’re right. I’ll get those pictures off to Portishead as soon as possible.’

  ‘Could you make out any actual letters?’

  ‘Not really. Not under these somewhat primitive conditions. Possibly BB or RB. As I said, we’ll know more at the post-mortems.’

  ‘Could they be RK?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘Has the pathologist any idea if they were killed here, or elsewhere?’

  ‘We haven’t discussed that yet but seeing there was very little blood beneath the bodies when they were moved I’d say they were dead, or very nearly so, when they arrived.’

  It was important to get hold of Patrick. This I endeavoured to achieve, sitting in the car, by doing what he had done, calling his mobile, only letting it ring four times. I knew he would not return the call immediately, not unless he was right away from his search area, and he did not. But later that afternoon, when I had called the number again and was beginning to worry, the phone rang.

  ‘Me,’ he said laconically, sounding very tired.

  Cutting the facts right down to the bone I gave him the news.

  ‘I’ll get a train. Can you pick me up in Plymouth?’

  It was quite late when a dishevelled figure got off the train, tumbled into the car and slept all the way home. I said nothing, just giving a bristly cheek a wifely peck in passing and waited until he had showered, shaved and had a tot of his favourite single malt before attempting to communicate. This first approach, I had discovered years previously, would have to be of a strictly practical nature if there was going to be any discussion on the case that night. I wanted there to be: I am an impatient sort of person.

  ‘Steak and kidney pudding?’ I asked.

  ‘Surely you haven’t gone to those lengths now,’ he said.

  ‘No, I decided some time ago to make individual ones, freeze them and use them for emergencies.’

  He allowed himself a few seconds to bathe in the warm glow of anticipation. ‘Wonderful. You’re a saint.’

  When pudding, new potatoes and homegrown broad beans were inside us both – I had decided I needed a good meal too – and I had given him the whole story I said, ‘I’ve a really funny feeling about all these events.’

  I got Patrick’s full attention: my ‘funny feelings’ have quite often proved to be useful.

  ‘This business of someone appearing to sign their ghastly handiwork,’ I began. ‘Is that really what it is or is someone trying to lay blame elsewhere?’

  ‘To blame it on whoever RK is, you mean, whether that happens to be Robert Kennedy, or not?’

  ‘Yes, especially with these bodies dumped in the house belonging to someone who is – or, according to the man I met, was – Robert Kennedy’s next-of-kin. If even that’s true.’

  ‘And bearing in mind that we don’t yet know the identities of the two murdered men. It might be that they were other people entirely, victims of a Plymouth drugs war. Or completely innocent of any criminal connections.’

  ‘Having seen them I’d put money on them being what my dad used to refer to as gallows fodder.’

  ‘Did you say anything about Robert Kennedy to Hume?’

  ‘No, but they should be perfectly capable of finding that out for themselves. It’s not exactly a secret who was living at the farm.’

  Patrick helped himself to more coffee. ‘I agree with you up to a point but nevertheless think the time has come for us to bring Kennedy’s name out into the open. Just because he might be Carrick’s father – and we don’t even know that yet for sure …’ He broke off and shrugged somewhat angrily. ‘I hate working in the dark like this.’

  ‘Please speak to James first,’ I requested. ‘Even if one ignores the personal side of it, suddenly having a serious criminal for a father isn’t going to do his career any good.’

  Patrick looked at his watch. ‘It’s just before eleven. Is that too late to ring?’

  ‘They’re not early-to-bed people.’

  Carrick had only just got back home after a difficult day and the two men swopped exhaustion details before Patrick got down to business. It was not a protracted call.

  ‘Well, as you probably heard I’ve made arrangements to meet him tomorrow to talk about this,’ Patrick said. ‘He’s found out more and has asked me to hold my fire until then. That’s reasonable.’

  ‘Did you find out anything in Bristol?’

  ‘Not really. By dint of talking to the mostly sloshed I did discover that the local underworld is scared silly of this character who’s moved in. They don’t know who he is, only that there’s family connections, dangerous family connections, with London. The guy’s put that about himself apparently, at a guess to aid his crook-cred. One bloke echoed Reece’s theory, that he lives and plans his jobs in an unsuspecting and possibly up-market neighbourhood. I did a spot of surveillance on several houses in the area where Morley was given the false address too and didn’t spot anyone exceptionally tall or with big guard dogs. I have an idea that if Reece hadn’t got him out then there was a nasty end in store for him on that day.’

  ‘Just for asking around?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Reece should have taken a stronger line with Morley and stopped him staying in the area,’ I said, unable to stop fretting about what I regarded as a huge lapse on the superintendent’s part.

  ‘Yes, but Bath isn’t really that close and Reece would have had no idea then that Morley was in such danger.’

  ‘I hope you were careful.’

  ‘I made out I was a Glasweigian crimewriter researching a book but returning home shortly. I became quite proud of the fact that most people couldn’t understand a word I said.’ He smiled at the memory.

  ‘I’d like to come with you tomorrow.’

  ‘Fine,’ Patrick said. He stretched. ‘Well then, bed.’

  I found myself fixed with an appraising stare, a little smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘You’ve only just told James that you were knackered,’ I pointed out, knowing precisely what was uppermost in his mind.

  ‘On reflection it was a hasty and exaggerated prognosis,’ I was ponderously told in a strong Scottish accent, his eyes nevertheless glinting with mirth and … er … lust.

  He glanced round and clearly thought about sweeping me up in his arms and carrying me upstairs. But the staircase in this little barn conversion is too narrow. Perhaps subconsciously not wishing to be transported as cargo in a fireman’s lift I thwarted that by grabbing him for munching kisses and unbuttoned his shirt, aware that once started we would make love right where we were on the living-room carpet.

  There and in bed a little later actually.

  It was apparent that James Carrick was almost too busy to see us. He arrived, at speed through the door of his office, arms full of papers and a bulging document case.

  ‘We live in a digital age but no police authority it appears can afford to give its personnel lap-tops,’ he announced, dropping his armful down with a thump on a comparatively clear corner of his desk. ‘But then again, the local villains’d only steal them.’ He gave us a fleeting smile. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘I’m on my way to see Paul Reece,’ Patrick told him. ‘As of this morning he’s got a couple of corpses to add to his investigation into Morley’s death. Or so it appears.’

  Carrick nodded briskly. ‘I know. He rang me at home. They were the two snouts his team use; names of Kyle Jeffers and Madderly Ritter.’

  ‘Which one of them warned someone on Reece’s team that Morley might be in danger?’ I asked.

  ‘You’ll need to get that from Paul.’

  Exasperated, I said, ‘What I can’t un
derstand is how whichever of the two this was knew Morley was a policeman.’

  ‘He might not have done, just mentioned that someone was asking questions, “that bloke over there guv” kind of thing?’

  ‘Well, the tall man probably knows now,’ Patrick observed grimly. ‘What do you want us to do, James?’

  Carrick, who had so far remained standing, sat in the chair behind his desk. ‘I really appreciate that you’re asking me but it’s obvious that a man who might be my father is out of jail and has the initials RK will have to be brought into the equation. I can’t be seen to be shielding him in any way and, frankly, I don’t think that I want to.’

  But he did, he did, I could tell by the tightly controlled emotion.

  ‘Thank you,’ Patrick said quietly. ‘Have you been able to discover anything further?’

  ‘Nothing concrete. I’ve been up to my neck here but have been doing a little research at home. As I’ve already told you my mother and I went to live with an aunt at Crieff after life at her parents’ place became untenable. This aunt is now dead but she had a daughter, Louise, who is my cousin, of course. I managed to contact Louise via the internet as she and her husband run an hotel in the same area and we’ve subsequently spoken over the phone. I gather that my mother and auntie had long conversations about her predicament, some of which Louise was apprised of years later. Louise was staggered to learn that Robert might not have drowned and almost as astonished that he had gone wrong. My mother was very much in love with him, you see, and this must have been conveyed to Auntie along with what a good man he was and all the rest of it. Ross, Lord Muirshire, told me a while back that Robert had said he intended to divorce his wife, who was having affairs, and marry my mother and he too said he was a man of integrity.’

  I could see that James was having trouble talking about this but knew we needed to know the full story if we were to be of any help. ‘You never mention your mother, James. Is she still alive?’

  ‘No, she eventually went out to South Africa and married a farmer. She was killed in a car crash ten years ago.’ He hesitated and then pulled open a desk drawer to take out a thick white envelope. Within it was a colour photograph which he handed to us to see.