BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  He drank his wine and ate an artichoke, listening as Simone, in quick succession, took issue with her managers, funding from the government, the local hospital and the US response to events in the Middle East. He disliked being lectured as well as her assumption that he agreed with her. A kind of boredom settled over him and he made few responses. Simone didn’t notice as she moved on to the topic of rail improvements and the resultant chaos when travelling around parts of the city. Swift heard Mary’s footsteps with relief and rose to greet her. She was tall, reaching almost to his shoulder and as he kissed her, she smelled of something light and deliciously peachy.

  ‘Ah,’ she laughed, ‘there’s been a hair incident since we last met!’

  ‘You cut me to the quick,’ he said, ‘gave me a style trauma. I had it trimmed this afternoon. I think I’ve managed to wash all the mousse out.’

  Mary hugged Simone and went to change while Swift laid the table. Simone was a talented cook and the chicken and roast vegetables followed by fruit compote were delicious. Simone continued to hold court throughout most of the meal, tapping her knife on the table when she wanted to emphasise a point. She shared her views on the Ukraine, the treatment of Ebola and the efficacy of winter flu vaccine, with Mary and Swift making occasional comments that were frequently interrupted. Swift observed his cousin, who was an articulate, independent-minded woman, wondering if home life was always like this and how she could tolerate the stream of consciousness from her partner. Mary smiled happily, her eyes gleaming with their usual vitality, nodding as Simone spoke, regarding her as if she was some kind of oracle. Perhaps that was the working balance of the relationship, Swift thought, there was a talker and a listener.

  They moved back to the balcony for coffee, watching as lights came on in the surrounding dwellings. A few conker-coloured leaves drifted on the light breeze and rustled on the stone floor. For a moment Swift was back in the Evergreen with Edith Piaf singing and Ruth sitting opposite with sorrow in her eyes. He quickly suppressed the memory. Mary opened the chocolates Swift had brought. He saw her exchange a glance with Simone as he bit into one.

  ‘Ty,’ she said, sipping her coffee, ‘there’s something we wanted to ask you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Hmm. Simone and I have been discussing having a child. We’d like to be parents and now would be a good time. We’re both in our mid-thirties so it’s time to make decisions about such things.’

  ‘Well, that sounds good. Are you thinking of adopting?’

  Simone answered. ‘No, not adoption. We’d like a child who is related to us biologically and I very much want to carry a baby and give birth, which is another reason for getting on with it.’

  Swift reached for his coffee. ‘There’s no reason why you can’t do that, presumably, via a donor clinic.’ He was a little hazy on the subject but he knew that some gay women used donated sperm.

  Mary was dipping her spoon in and out of the jug of cream, making swirling patterns. She looked at Swift and laid a hand on his. He smiled at her, turning his palm up to give her a gentle squeeze.

  ‘I think it’s great, Mary. You’d be a terrific mum.’

  ‘Well, I hope so.’

  ‘Can I make first claim to be godfather?’

  Mary was blushing now. Simone leaned in and put an arm around her shoulders. She started to speak but Mary put a finger on her lips and turned to him.

  ‘The thing is, Ty, we wondered if you’d be the donor.’

  They were both looking at him encouragingly. Taken aback, he took a gulp of coffee.

  ‘You want me to be your child’s father?’

  Simone nodded. ‘Yes. It’s not an uncommon arrangement. It makes a lot of sense really, especially now we know so much about DNA and hereditary conditions. With a family connection it means you know about the baby’s genetic inheritance, unlike with an unknown donor.’ She mentioned a celebrity gay couple who had recently given birth to a child fathered by one of the partner’s brothers.

  ‘I’m a bit gobsmacked.’

  Mary refilled his cup for him. ‘You’ll need to think about it, Ty, we know that.’

  ‘But not for too long,’ Simone added. ‘I’m not getting any younger! It would be quite easy to arrange. You just make your sperm donation and a clinic does the rest.’

  Swift resented the assumption in her words. He had a bizarre mental image of the baby criticising the midwife’s technique as it emerged.

  ‘Hang on, Simone. This wouldn’t just be about a “donation,” as if I’m giving to charity. You’re asking me to be a father, to enter into a relationship with a child. It’s a huge responsibility and not something that’s been on my agenda.’

  Mary bit her lip. ‘We know it’s a big decision, Ty. If you did decide you could, it would mean a lot to me, to us. Will you think about it?’

  He looked at her face. She’d always had his back but this was something different. He wished she’d asked him on her own but knew she couldn’t have, that her partner had to be involved.

  ‘I’ll think about it. There are so many questions. What exactly would be my relationship with this child? Would it know I’m its father? Would you expect me to look after it as well?’

  ‘Well, obviously you’d have access . . .’ Simone began.

  Swift pushed his chair back. ‘Access! Sounds like I’m divorced without ever being married.’

  ‘Ty, we can talk this all through.’ Mary sounded upset.

  ‘Possibly, but not just now. This has been rather left field. I completely understand you wanting to be parents and the time factor. It’s an enormous issue to consider. I’m not sure I’m your man, so don’t bank on me agreeing and do please look seriously at your other options.’ He stood. ‘That was a lovely meal.’

  Mary saw him to the door and he put his arms around her. She seemed vulnerable in a way he’d never known.

  ‘I know Simone can come on a bit too strong,’ she said softly. ‘She means well and of course she’s anxious to get on with things.’

  ‘I understand. Any baby will be lucky to have you as a mum.’ He told her he’d talk to her soon and gave her a close squeeze.

  He walked to St Paul’s, glad of the lifting breeze. He tried to get his head around the request they had made of him. His relationship with Mary would be utterly changed, for starters, and if he agreed he would be bound in a strange intimacy with Simone. He had never seriously considered having a child. He and Ruth had talked about the possibility in some remote future but since she left him he’d had no thoughts on the subject. He wasn’t sure he would ever want the responsibility or that he would be suited to fatherhood. He stood for a few minutes, looking up at the illuminated cathedral before heading to the bus stop for Hammersmith. He acknowledged to himself that if he felt more warmly towards Simone, he might be reacting differently. Upstairs on the crowded bus, the woman in front of him was holding a toddler who was fast asleep, head lolling on her shoulder. Swift studied the trusting child, then moved further down the bus, where he sent an email to Tim Christie, explaining that he was looking into what had happened to Teddy and asking if he could visit the next day.

  * * *

  Swift slept badly, waking often and thinking about Mary and Simone. Four a.m. found him staring at the ceiling, reflecting that he had just finally parted with the only woman he had ever considered parenthood with. He knew that he couldn’t agree to their proposal, that it would complicate his life in a way he wasn’t prepared to allow. He hoped that Mary wouldn’t be too dejected by his refusal and decided that he would tell her on her own.

  At six he abandoned trying to sleep. He checked the river tides, had a quick shower and a coffee, put fruit and a water bottle in a waterproof bag and headed for Tamesas, his rowing club. It was only a ten minute walk and he was on the Tideway by seven, sculling steadily towards Chiswick. There was a strong current after the rain and he was travelling against the tide so he stayed close to the bank. Swift rowed because it was as necessary to him
as breathing. He also rowed both to forget and to remember. On this morning, he rowed to clear his mind. He focused on his breathing, blinking the slight drizzle from his eyes. The demands and challenges of the Thames allowed no other thoughts or anxieties. He concentrated on the rhythm of the oars slicing through the deep water, the other sparse river traffic, the direction of the breeze and the stream. He was now in the blissful state of being at one with the river that he craved. It was a heightened awareness and sense of profound peace that he had first discovered as a teenager and that brought him to his boat so often. A group of mallards were swimming near Putney Bridge and further on, he spotted some pied wagtails on the river bank. Just above Chiswick he ate a banana and an apple, drank some water, then headed back, waving to a runner who was pounding along the path.

  * * *

  Tim Christie said he would be home at four that afternoon. He lived in a first floor flat near Battersea Park. Swift arrived at four fifteen, noting the battered-looking cherry-red transit van outside. It bore an uninspiring logo with damaged lettering:

  Christie Home Improvements

  Big enoug to cope

  Smal enough to care.

  Christie answered the bell promptly, saying he’d just got in and was making a cuppa if Swift wanted one. Swift accepted, following him down a narrow hallway into a spartan galley kitchen.

  ‘Haven’t any biscuits, I’m afraid,’ Christie said, pouring boiling water. His voice was light and he hesitated slightly as he spoke, with just a hint of a stammer. He had a chesty, hollow-sounding cough. He was wearing grubby jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt that exposed tattoos on either forearm. Both appeared to be flowers, amber-coloured and surrounded by dark green foliage.

  ‘That’s okay, just tea is fine.’

  They sat in a poky living room at the front of the house, furnished with two battered sofas that looked as if they had been left there by an old person. There were small piles of things scattered around on all the surfaces: balls of string, half-burned candles, numerous boxes of matches, spanners, playing cards, used lighters, coins, electrical leads, a few socks, several torches, tubes of glue and lots of painkillers. A battered bicycle wheel was propped against a wall, well-thumbed magazines stacked in tall towers on the floor. Christie still looked very like the boy in the photograph, with open features and spiky, sandy-coloured hair. His eyebrows were thick and high arching, so that his expression had an air of permanent surprise. His right heel tapped the floor and he rubbed at a mark on his jeans.

  ‘Haven’t had time to change. I spent the day renovating a patio.’

  ‘I saw your van. You have your own business?’

  ‘Yeah, all kinds of home and garden maintenance. Work’s not all that reliable but I get by.’

  Swift wondered about Christie’s reliability. He could detect the unmistakable scent of marijuana lingering in the air and he had spotted a glass pipe on the kitchen counter. That and the cough strongly suggested heroin use.

  ‘Thanks for meeting me. You father has asked me to see if I can find out anything about what happened to your brother.’

  ‘Yeah, Sheila emailed me. I didn’t reply. I steer clear of her. Bit late for questions about Teddy, isn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps. Sheila has doubts about it but your father has decided to go ahead.’

  ‘Well, I suppose they haven’t much else to talk about, those two. He’s scurried back from Oz, tail between his legs after another failed marriage and she’s got someone to dominate. You could say they suit each other.’ He reached out and switched on a lamp. It was light outside but the sun had moved to the back of the house.

  ‘Sheila has told me what she knows about what happened around that time and how she found Teddy’s note. I understand you were in Dorchester.’

  ‘That’s right, with my aunt. It was the third summer I’d been sent there. Apparently I got on well with my cousin.’

  ‘You didn’t, then?’

  Christie’s heel tapped again. He didn’t have his father’s habit of dropping his eyelids but he made almost no eye contact, looking over Swift’s shoulder.

  ‘Luke? He’s okay but we never had that much in common. He was the only boy, with an older sister, so Barbara, my aunt, liked to get me there as a companion. I missed my mum. I’d rather have been at home.’ He glanced at Swift. ‘Kids get passed around like parcels, don’t they? Or abandoned.’

  Swift avoided replying. ‘How was Teddy when you last saw him?’

  ‘Fine. He spent a lot of time in his room, reading and doing essays. He never seemed to notice me much, just ruffled my hair now and again or got me to help him shift stuff in the garden. I saw him the morning Barbara came to pick me up. It was early and he was still in his pyjamas, so he waved goodbye from his bedroom window.’

  ‘You didn’t notice if he seemed upset at all?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. Like I said, we didn’t spend much time with each other.’

  ‘So you don’t know of any reason why Teddy might have written a despairing note or why he went to Epping Forest?’

  Christie flinched. ‘No.’

  He placed a hand on his knee to stop the tapping and straightened his leg. The tattoos were catching the lamp-light and Swift looked at them. He recalled reading somewhere that they could be read as a creative impulse or as an expression of anger. He wondered if Christie had self-harmed as a boy.

  ‘Sheila and Teddy were close, though?’

  ‘Like conjoined twins, those two. Sheila was always fussing around him, bossing him about, and calling him her teddy bear. She controlled all of us in fact. Mum didn’t function and stayed in her bedroom most of the time, so Sheila was able to establish her own little Tufnell Park fiefdom. She’s one of those people who likes to control everything and everyone around her. Yes, top dog, that’s what Sheila likes to be. She got used to being able to run the house when Dad left. I wouldn’t fancy being one of those nurses who work with her. I bet she’s the Stalin of the surgery.’ His face grew pinched as he spoke.

  Swift heard the pain and spite of a bewildered child and this time he decided to follow it.

  ‘You certainly don’t seem to care much for your sister.’

  ‘You’re right. She’s a bully, likes to manipulate people. I never liked her and I avoid her.’

  ‘It must have been hard for you all, after your father left.’

  Christie folded his arms. His words were bitter and the stutter had become more noticeable as he started to speak.

  ‘Excuse for a father, more like. How does a man do that, leave his family and bugger off halfway across the planet with his wife’s sister?’

  ‘I think you’d have to ask your father that.’

  ‘Not bloody likely!’ He stared at the floor, then straightened and spoke louder as if energised by memory and anger. ‘One minute he was calling me his little mole — I used to burrow under the duvet into their bed when I woke up in the morning — the next he’d vanished. He’s emailed me and left me phone messages since he got back but I’ll never speak to him again. I’ll spit on his grave. He sent photos you know, from Sydney. Mum used to throw the unopened envelopes in the bin but sometimes I’d ferret around in the rubbish and look at them. All these pictures of him smiling in the sunshine, looking carefree. Him and blonde, glamorous Annabelle hanging out at the beach under blue skies while we lived a kind of half-life with a miserable mother who rarely got dressed. And this looking for Teddy’s attacker. What does he care? My mum never got over him abandoning us. I had a shell of a mother, that’s what I had once he’d buggered off. She was always necking pills and boozing brandy and coke. She was either ignoring me or hugging me close, breathing fumes on me and saying I was the only man in her life. She was asleep or half asleep a lot of the time. I loved her but I was frightened of her because she was lost, somehow. The house felt like a ship where the rudder has broken and the crew are stumbling around the decks.’ He glanced at Swift, his eyes reddening and shook his head violently. ‘Sorry
. Sorry about this. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Swift took a breath as Christie shot out of the room. He stood and examined the books on the shelves by the window. They were mainly about DIY, home maintenance and gardening. There were no photographs in the room and apart from a calendar, no pictures except for a small framed painting above the lamp. It was of a white animal, like a deer, in a green forest glade framed by tall oak trees heavy with acorns. The deer had large eyes and was holding up one hoof, as if beckoning. It had a Disneyesque quality that Swift found unappealing and the style of the painting seemed at odds with the plainness of the furnishings. He gestured to it as Christie came back in.

  ‘This is an interesting picture,’ he lied.

  ‘Teddy did it. He gave it to me for my eighth birthday.’ Christie had composed himself and now he straightened the frame. ‘It’s a white hind. Supposed to be a symbol of happiness to come. That’s what Teddy said, anyway. He was into Druid and Celtic stuff.’ He sat down again. ‘Sorry about that outburst. I’ve no idea where that came from. I haven’t talked about any of this for a long time.’

  Swift sat. ‘Are you okay to talk a bit longer?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem.’ He sipped his cooling tea.

  ‘Your father and Sheila mentioned Teddy’s interest in mythologies. Did you see the note he left that day?’

  ‘Yeah, that thing about the Otherworld.’

  ‘What did you think he meant?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He often talked about stuff I didn’t understand — airy-fairy, you know. All about healing and the significance of the elements, animals and plants.’ He managed a faint smile, remembering. ‘One of my friends’ dads came round to collect him once and Teddy was wafting about holding a holly branch and talking about tree lore and the salmon of wisdom. I was embarrassed at having this nutty brother and my friend’s Dad winked at me and said, teenagers, eh? That was nice of him. Do you have siblings?’