That night had perhaps been a necessary final betrayal. Swift knew that whatever happened to Ruth in the future, she had to deal with it within her marriage.
Today was their first meeting since that night in the hotel. He saw her walking towards him as he reached the Evergreen, striding with her easy step, her coat flying open, long butterscotch hair glinting in the sun. He felt a terrible sadness as he smiled, stooping to kiss her cheek. The pub had been redecorated in a greyish white paint with photos of cypress, spruce and holly trees on the walls; all evergreens, Ruth pointed out. They said hello to Krystyna, the waitress who had been serving them every Monday since they started meeting and who assumed they were husband and wife. They ordered wine and looked at the menu, which rarely changed except for the soup of the day. It was so familiar, their browsing was a mere formality and provided a bridge into their meeting.
‘You look well with your nut brown tan,’ Ruth told him. ‘Have you been rowing a lot?’
‘Every other day the last couple of weeks. The weather’s been so good, it was hard to resist.’
She smiled. ‘You’re an addict.’
‘You’re right, it is a kind of addiction. I definitely get restless and cranky if I miss out for longer than a couple of days. I suppose there are worse cravings.’ Like seeing you, he thought. Seeing you is a terrible, destructive yearning.
Her eyes seemed to cloud, as if she had read his thoughts. As their food arrived she started talking about her class and he listened, eating without appetite, his stomach clenching when he thought of what he was going to say to her. He swallowed his wine, not really wanting alcohol but needing Dutch courage.
‘How’s Emlyn?’ he asked after a while.
She studied her plate. ‘Up and down. He’s been getting these bouts of sudden anger recently. It’s not uncommon in people with MS but I’ve found it hard to adjust to. Emlyn has always had such an even temperament, yet some days now he’s full of a sort of bitter rage. Shouting at me, at himself. Cursing life and the hand he’s been played.’
‘I’m sorry. How do you handle it?’
‘I just listen. Sometimes I walk away, come back when he’s calmer, and talk to him. He’s always apologetic — well, for a while. Then he’ll turn on me without warning. Anyway, I don’t want to dwell on it now. Did you have lunch with Joyce?’
‘I did, yes. I got away reasonably unscathed although I had to work my way through heaps of food. She’s immersed in her golf club these days.’
Joyce was Swift’s stepmother, a well-meaning but overwhelming woman. Swift had lunch with her each year on the anniversary of his father’s death. He would have preferred to spend the day quietly, remembering both his father and mother, attending vespers in Westminster cathedral and lighting candles for them. Swift was no longer a Catholic. His parents had shared a solid, enduring faith and the only time he entered a church these days was when he wanted to recall and converse with them. Yet Joyce deserved his presence and attention. She had loved his father, even if Swift couldn’t bring himself to love her. She had cooked a huge roast for lunch. It was far too much food for the two of them, but Swift had manfully made his way through as much as he could. Over the dense, sherry-laced trifle he had fielded the usual questions about his single status and lack of romance . . . I don’t understand, Ty. You’ve got your own business, you’re tall and good-looking and you keep yourself so fit. Women should be falling at your feet. Swift had laughed, imagining himself stepping over swooning women laid out like a domino rally and changed the subject.
After lunch, he had helped Joyce plant a new rose in the garden. Whenever he looked at the apple tree, he could picture his mother sitting beneath it, wearing her linen sun hat and reading. Joyce had returned to the subject of his love life as he wielded the spade, commenting that lots of people used the Internet to find partners these days and maybe he should give it a try. You can get too fond of your own company, you know, and you do tend to be rather private and remote.
He had nodded and changed the subject, annoyed with her prying but acknowledging that there was a core of truth in what she said about his apparent aloofness.
‘Sometimes you just have to do your duty in life, don’t you?’ Ruth smiled wanly as he described Joyce’s dogged questioning, and asked Krystyna for coffees.
He guessed she was thinking about her marriage. Krystyna brought their coffee with a tiny shortbread biscuit in each saucer and cleared the table next to them. Edith Piaf was singing quietly in the background. The Autumn Leaves. Swift watched Ruth twisting open a sachet of sugar, tipping it onto a spoon and then slowly immersing it in the cup. It was the way she always did it, and it was the last time he would watch her do it.
‘Ruth,’ he said. ‘Ruth . . .’
‘It’s okay, Ty, I know.’ She stirred her coffee, not looking at him. ‘I know what you’re going to say.’
‘Let me say it. We can’t go on meeting. It’s hopeless and wrong. This has to be the last time.’
She raised her cup and sipped, finally looking at him, her eyes misted. ‘Yes, I know. We’ve said it all before. I’ve been selfish continuing to see you, taking up your time, your life.’ She closed her eyes for a moment, took a breath. ‘I’m glad we had that night in the hotel. I’m glad, that’s all. It meant a great deal to me.’
‘And to me.’
‘I heard the door closing though.’
‘Yes.’
She drained her cup, tipping her head back, then nodded. ‘Tell you what, Ty. I’m going to go now, just head off.’ She picked up her coat and bag, touched his hand gently. Her fingers were cool and dry. She pushed her cup aside, flicking the biscuit with a nail. ‘Neither of us like shortbread, we never eat it.’
Then she was gone, just a trace of her perfume on the air as the door closed. He cradled his coffee and stared ahead, numb. She was a brave woman and generous, letting him go with such aplomb. It had to be done and that was the way to do it. He drank, looked at the shortbread and ate one, deliberately. It was cloying and unpleasant. From now on it would be the taste of sadness. He swallowed and asked for the bill.
‘Everything okay for you today?’ Krystyna asked.
‘Yes, fine thanks.’
‘Your wife had to dash off? She looked a bit upset, I thought.’ Krystyna had witnessed Ruth’s morning sickness one lunch time and had been told of the subsequent miscarriage when she enquired about the pregnancy.
‘She’s okay. There’s somewhere she needed to be.’
Krystyna brought him his change, gliding towards him in the black plimsolls that always made a slight squeak on the wooden floor. He stood and made a decision, trying out his new status of honest man.
‘Ruth isn’t my wife, by the way. She’s someone else’s wife.’
Krystyna put her head on one side and crossed her arms over her crisp white shirt, clutching her elbows. ‘She’s gone home to her husband?’
‘Yes. For good.’
‘That’s probably for the best.’
‘I think so.’
Another customer was signalling impatiently for service. Krystyna flipped her notebook from her back pocket.
‘Take care, make sure you come back. I have to confess I always eat the shortbread you leave!’
She squeaked away and he smiled, leaving a generous tip on his way out.
Chapter 2
Blackhorse Close in Tufnell Park was a fifteen minute walk from the tube station. Swift disliked the confined spaces of the underground but the morning had brought heavy rain and it was the quickest route. He zipped his leather jacket as he walked, keeping to the nearside of the pavements to avoid the spray from passing vehicles. Number sixty-five was a detached, double-fronted house of yellowing brick with traditional sash windows and iron railings at the front. There was no gate but two white columns topped with stone pineapples flanked a short mosaic-patterned path to an oak front door. He tapped with the heavy iron knocker, watching as the rain lashed dusky pink late roses.
A pallid man in his sixties opened the door. He was of medium height, and looked up at Swift.
‘Mr Swift. Exactly on time. I like that in a man. Do come in out of the rain. Appalling day, quite a shock after the weeks of Indian summer.’
Swift followed him through a door on the right, into a comfortably furnished but down-at-heel sitting room with dulled parquet flooring and a large open fireplace. There was a high log fire burning in it, although the day wasn’t cold. Rowan Bartlett sat in the well-worn velvet-covered easy chair drawn up beside it, motioning Swift into a large leather armchair opposite.
‘That chair should be comfy for you, with your long legs. Forgive me for sitting almost in the fire. I lived in Sydney until quite recently and I haven’t yet adjusted to the climate. Do move your chair back if you want.’
‘Yes, I will, thanks, and I’ll take off my jacket.’
Bartlett picked up a poker and turned one of the logs so that it blazed higher. He was slightly built with sloping shoulders and a generally faded air. His jeans and shirt seemed too big for him. When he spoke he held his head to one side, a little like the robin in Swift’s garden as he contemplated crumbs.
‘May I offer you tea or coffee?’
‘No thanks, I’m fine.’
‘Well . . . let’s see. Before we begin, may I ask you to tell me a little about yourself in terms of your previous career? I read the summary on your website. I hope you don’t mind. It’s just for reassurance.’
Swift crossed his legs and gave him a level look. ‘It’s a reasonable question. I worked in the Metropolitan police for eight years. During that time I was seconded to Interpol and I liked it so I took a permanent post. I worked there for five years, then decided I would like to run my own detective business. If we agree that I am going to work with you, I can provide further references if you want.’ He didn’t add that his other reasons for leaving Interpol were that he was sickened by the sex trafficking investigations and that he had been stabbed in the thigh during a case, leaving him with a serious injury. He bore a rigid scar as a life-long reminder.
‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Now that I’ve met you, you inspire a certain confidence.’
Bartlett had a habit of half closing his eyes when he spoke and Swift wondered if this was a mannerism or an indication that he was feeling troubled and uncomfortable. He was still holding the poker, rubbing the domed top between his fingers.
‘You must think it odd, that I’ve waited all this time before initiating a private investigation into what happened to my son.’
‘I expect you have your reasons but it would be helpful if you tell me.’
There was a silence which Swift didn’t interrupt. He was comfortable with silences and often employed them. Many people found them difficult and rushed to fill them with chatter that could be useful. He could see that Bartlett was struggling with his emotions. He watched the fire flickering and spitting. Its background hiss punctuated the stillness. Bartlett replaced the poker, reached for a piece of paper on the mantelpiece, and held it out.
‘This is the note Teddy left, the one I scanned to you. I assumed you would want to see the original.’
Swift took the few lines. They were written in a fluid hand in black biro on a piece of lined perforated paper torn from a notepad. The letters were rounded and even. He read again the mixture of distress and romantic hope of something better.
‘Where was this found?’
‘Teddy left it on his pillow. His sister found it when she came home.’
‘Was Teddy suffering? Depressed?’
‘Not as far as I know. He was a quiet, thoughtful boy, doing well at school. But I wasn’t here, you see. I was in Australia when this occurred. I came back for a month but I had to return to my life there, my work.’ He flinched visibly. ‘When Teddy referred to abandonment and people looking out for themselves I believe he was talking about me, at least in part.’
‘What makes you think that?’
Bartlett sighed, folding his hands in his lap. He cleared his throat, his voice becoming even quieter. ‘I left the family, this house, when Teddy was eleven. I had formed a new relationship. It was with my wife’s sister, Annabelle. She had emigrated to Sydney and we met for the first time when she came back to visit. The rest, as they say, is history. I found employment there — I am a retired surgeon — and went to live with her. We married eventually.’
‘When you say family, who else lived here?’
‘My first wife, Tessa. My daughter, Sheila, the eldest. And my sons, Teddy and Tim. Sheila was fourteen when I left, Tim was five.’
Quite something, running off with your sister-in-law, Swift thought. ‘So there must have been quite a lot of angst in the household.’
Bartlett’s eyes were almost closed. ‘Yes, my actions caused upset. Tessa never really accepted that I had gone and she slipped into depression. You must understand that my wife was already a hypochondriac, a very demanding, clinging woman. I found life with her a terrible trial. I had a challenging job and every evening I came home to tears and recriminations. Nothing I did was right. I used to dread opening the front door. Annabelle was a breath of fresh air, a true companion and support to me, someone I could share my life with fully — at least so it seemed.’ His voice had developed a whining inflection as he spoke of his relationships. ‘I wrote regularly after I left and sent money and occasional photographs. Sheila was the only one who ever wrote back. She sent a letter every couple of months, telling me how they were getting on. Sometimes she enclosed photos.’
‘How old was Teddy when this attack happened?’
‘Just turned sixteen.’
Why does he say “Otherworld?” It’s an unusual expression.’
‘I’m not sure. He read a good deal of poetry and I believe he had taken an interest in mystical subjects. What do you make of the note?’
‘It’s tormented, sorrowful, and full of pain. It’s also confusing. It can be read in different ways.’
Bartlett turned to the fire again, adding another log. The room was already uncomfortably warm. Swift watched him fussing with the poker, thinking that he didn’t seem to know much about his son. Major changes could happen in adolescence and Bartlett had been on the other side of the world. And he hadn’t stayed around long when this terrible incident had occurred. Looking at his bowed frame he appeared a defeated, if not a broken, man.
‘Have you come back to London permanently?’
‘Yes. My marriage to Annabelle ultimately proved unsuccessful and we separated recently. I had to retire because of my arthritic hips. Tessa died of a brain tumour five years ago. Sheila urged me to come back and it seemed the right thing to do. I have no other children and there was nothing else to keep me in Sydney. I have been thinking about Teddy and decided to take some action. I suppose as one grows older and there is no longer employment to occupy the day, one grows reflective. Sheila tried to dissuade me. She thinks I will just revive bad memories, but I feel I owe it to him to do this. Tessa, you must understand, objected to me seeing Teddy after the attack, even when he was in intensive care. She made a dreadful fuss at the hospital and I backed off as it was causing the staff so much difficulty. For two weeks we didn’t know if he would live and I only managed to spend an hour with him.’
‘Where is Teddy now?’
‘He lives in Mayfields, a care facility in Hendon. He has to have help with all his bodily needs, twenty-four hours a day. He can’t speak or communicate in any way. It’s a miracle that he survived. I’ve been to see him there recently. He doesn’t remember anyone or anything and hasn’t since the attack.’
‘What about your youngest son? Does he live here?’
‘No. Tim lives in Battersea. We’re not in contact, I’m afraid. I’ve tried since I came back but . . .’ He waved a hand.
There was the sound of a key in the door, then a thud. Bartlett looked up with an anxious glance.
‘Ah, that’s my daughter, Sheila. She hope
d to get back in time to see you.’
‘She lives here with you?’
‘Yes, the two of us rattle around in this large house.’
A hefty woman in a straining navy blue nurse’s uniform came through the door, hands in her pockets. She had frizzy hair pulled back at the sides with barrettes, her father’s pallid complexion and a long face with a pronounced jaw and double chin. Bartlett half rose from his chair.
‘Sheila, this is Mr Swift. I’ve been giving him some basic details about Teddy.’
She nodded at Swift, speaking in a rush. ‘Dad, I’ve told you not to sit so near the fire, it’s not good for you, you know it makes you sit still for too long. Come on, move that chair back a bit.’
She made him stand and pulled the chair away from the fire. She wasn’t much taller than her father and had the same sloping shoulders but because of her bulk she appeared to tower over him. Her legs were slim and shapely in dark tights and Swift reckoned that she was a woman who had hidden a petite frame in layers of surplus flesh. He was interested in why someone should choose such a form of disguise.
Sheila drew a chair up near her father and planted her legs apart, her feet, in black lace-up shoes, turned outwards.
BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense Page 2