‘Did anyone you interviewed indicate that Teddy might have been gay?’
Peterson grinned. ‘Ah, a homophobic attack. Very PC. I can see you were a university entrant to the force.’
‘It can be a motive for hate crime,’ Swift said icily.
‘No one told me he was a poofter, no.’
‘Deaven Harrow was his form teacher at the time. He’s the head teacher at the school now and he told me Teddy might have been gay.’
‘Don’t remember him.’ Peterson pressed a lever and put his legs up as his chair extended, wriggling himself in more comfortably.
‘He was in Jamaica that August, when the attack happened. He said the police didn’t speak to him after he returned some time later.’
‘No? Well, can’t have seemed important. It was all looking pretty hopeless after a couple of weeks. You know what it’s like if you don’t establish something concrete pretty fast. I spoke to a couple of his friends — girlfriends, by the way, which means it’s not likely he was . . . you know . . .’ Peterson flopped a hand from side to side. ‘They were big-eyed and tearful. They came out with the same stuff, Teddy was quiet, imaginative, and keen on Druids and all that new age mumbo jumbo. As I said, the whole family were nut jobs. They’d have kept a psychiatrist busy, if you ask me.’
‘None of them were suspects?’
Peterson ticked them off on his fingers. ‘We checked that the sister had been on her shift at the hospital at the time he died, the brother was in Dorset, the father in Oz and the mother . . . well, the mother was so out of it on prescription drugs she could barely lift a tea cup, let alone a rock. She hadn’t left the house for years.’
‘I understand that the spot where he was found in the forest, Low Copsley, is a sacred place for Druids?’
Peterson folded his hands over his stomach. ‘I spoke to some Druid bloke who confirmed that they held the odd meeting or ceremony there at solstice. They regarded the trees as holding special powers. They had nothing planned there around that time and we couldn’t establish that Teddy had been in any formal contact with Druids or the like.’
Swift watched the budgie rocking from side to side, staring through the window at freedom.
‘It doesn’t make sense, does it? Teddy had no apparent enemies. He left that ambiguous, heart-rending note, then headed to a place he believed was sacred where he met someone who came prepared to attack him.’
‘That’s true, nothing added up. That note. In the end I reckoned it was some flight of fancy of his. He was an airy-fairy kind of kid, head in the clouds, always drawing and writing about nature and stuff. Teenagers do attention-seeking things. Unless a stranger was roaming Epping Forest that day in protective clothing on the off-chance of finding a victim to attack, he’d got on the wrong side of someone all right. We couldn’t establish why he’d gone to Low Copsley. The bizarre Bartletts didn’t have the Internet or mobile phones so there was nothing to trace that way. We looked at the landline records but they hardly ever phoned anyone and the only numbers used were that aunt in Dorset and the GP.’
‘There hadn’t been any other random or unexplained attacks in the area?’
‘No. Epping Forest has its share of murders, as you probably know. Nice big space on the outskirts of London with woodland and hidey-holes. We’d had a couple of bodies there over the years but one was a clear domestic and the others were crime-related. We got convictions for all of them. That crime didn’t fit with anything else. Want a cuppa, or something stronger? I’ve a good single malt.’
‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Please yourself.’ Peterson turned to the birdcage and pushed it gently from side to side, making cheeping noises.
Swift looked at him, knowing that his investigation had been sloppy. He recalled the barman at the Forester saying the police had been good for business. Peterson clearly hadn’t had much respect for the family or the victim.
‘What do you think happened, then?’
Peterson shrugged. He looked bored now. Swift suspected he had been hoping to meet an ex-policeman more in his own mould, someone he could brag to about the old days over a glass or two.
‘I don’t know why Teddy went to the forest that day. I reckon someone arranged to meet him but I don’t know who or why. That someone bashed him over the head, with intent to kill. That’s all I got from months of investigation. From what you say, maybe he was gay and got in with bad company, but from what I could gather he liked the ladies alright. Good luck to you if you think you can find a perp after all this time.’
Chapter 7
Swift left Peterson pouring his whisky. He walked down to the beach and sat outside a café in the late afternoon sun with a beer and a sandwich. The salty breeze cleared his head. He checked his emails and saw one from Deaven Harrow:
Judith Saltby moved back to the UK six months ago and lives in Cambridge now. I emailed her and she said it would be okay for you to contact her. See below.
There was an email address and a phone number. He sent his thanks and signalled for the bill. As he waited he looked down to the beach and froze as he saw Ruth slowly pushing a man in a wheelchair along the tarmac walkway. She was bending forwards, chatting to him. It was the first time Swift had seen Emlyn Taylor. He had a red wool scarf knotted around his neck and wore a checked tweed flat cap. He held a shopping bag on his lap. They came to a stall selling second-hand books and stopped to look. Swift watched them for a few long moments, paid his bill and walked quickly away from the front.
On the train, he was unsurprised to receive a call from Sheila.
‘I’ve just got back from a manic day at work to hear that you visited this morning.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What did you want?’
He registered truculence. ‘Have you spoken to your father?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then he’ll have told you what I wanted.’
‘Well, I don’t think you should turn up unannounced and start poking around.’
‘Really? Your father didn’t seem to mind and he’s paying me to poke around.’
She snuffled. ‘Dad’s not a well man. You should give him notice of things.’
‘Sheila, I think your father is well able to look after himself.’
‘You don’t know the half of it,’ she told him.
He thought, I think you’re the one who doesn’t know the half of it but it’s not my place to tell you. He said, ‘I’m being paid to conduct an enquiry. That’s what I’m doing. Are you worried that I might have found something?’
There was a pause, then she said, ‘Of course not! I have to go, actually, someone’s having a problem with a patient and I have to check on the situation.’
‘Don’t let me keep you from your work. I know how much you’re in demand,’ he said sweetly. The woman was clearly anxious about his involvement and what he might discover. The maddening question was why?
When he reached Victoria, he felt jaded and frustrated by his day and disturbed by the sighting of Ruth and her husband. He had managed not to think or dream about her since their parting and now he had the image of them both to remember. His melancholy mood led him to the Evergreen. There was a scattering of people there in the early evening, having a drink after work. Krystyna was behind the bar and her bright smile cheered him a little. He ordered a glass of wine and some olives, read the evening paper, then watched as she sped around in her slim black trousers, snowy cotton shirt and squeaking plimsolls. The warm, low lights and the hum of conversation soothed him.
After a while the place emptied and Krystyna stood at the till, pressing buttons with fleet fingers.
‘Cashing up,’ she explained to him. ‘My shift’s nearly over.’
‘Do you work here full time?’
‘No. I used to but now I do a couple of days a week. I’ve started my own Internet business.’
‘What kind of business?’
‘Selling items related to the ninetee
n fifties. I’m mad about that decade. I love the clothes and the music, the style, everything. The website’s called Fifties Beat. Take a look!’
He said he would, realising that he had never really looked at her properly before, Ruth had always been his focus. She wore her honey-coloured hair in a bob with a short fringe. Her wide face with high cheekbones and her accent suggested a Slavic background. Her expression was open, her eyes soft and a little dreamy.
He held out his hand. ‘My name is Tyrone Swift. Can I buy you a drink when you’ve finished work?’ He was hesitant. She was sure to have a partner although she wore no rings.
She shook his hand, looked at him and considered. ‘The woman you used to meet here — Ruth — is definitely back with her husband for good?’
‘Yes, for good. We don’t meet any more.’
She nodded. ‘Okay. But not here. And I need to eat, I’m famished.’
They ate in a small Lebanese café, drinking a bottle of Musar wine and sharing platters of kibbeh, tabbouleh and falafel with hummus. Fast, rhythmic flutes and drums played in the background, music that swirled and raced. Swift asked her about herself and she spoke readily. She had been born in Lodz, Poland, and emigrated to London eighteen months ago. She rented a tiny flat in Kennington.
‘I was living at home with my parents in Lodz because I couldn’t find a job, so I came west. A typical story. I shared a room in a house in Balham to start with, got a job at the Evergreen. Then my business started to take off so I managed to get my own place. It’s tiny but I love it. My first name is impossible for most people here to spell and I get tired of repeating it, so I shorten it to Kris. Are you Irish? You look Irish, like people I saw in a documentary whose ancestors are said to have mingled with Spanish traders.’
‘My mother was from Connemara so I suppose I might have Spanish ancestry.’
She told him that she hadn’t made many friends in London as yet, because she had been too busy working and setting up her business. She went into more detail about it. She made fifties-style clothing and sourced and sold fifties artefacts. Her client list was growing as more people got to know about her. She gave him a business card with a black-and-white silhouette of a woman in a flared dress and hat.
‘You have a talent not found in most men,’ she told him. ‘You pay close attention when I’m talking. Believe me, it’s an attractive quality.’
‘Thank you. It may be because my career has been about investigation of one sort or another and careful listening is crucial.’
It helped him that she knew about Ruth and that he didn’t have to start explaining his recent emotional history, at least not immediately. They ordered coffee as he told her about Swift Investigations, and outlined his current case. Refreshingly, she didn’t say she’d never met a private detective before. She smiled as the small cups arrived on a tray with a brass coffee pot, accompanied by tiny squares of baklava.
‘No shortbread!’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘You know, I feel as if I know you, even though I don’t and I only heard your name tonight. I used to watch you with Ruth and wonder why you always looked sad, troubled. I thought maybe you were a couple heading for divorce and trying to rescue the marriage. I wondered if the baby was a relationship saver. I hope you don’t mind me saying this? I’ve been told I’m too blunt sometimes. I wonder if it might be a cultural difference. The English have so many ways of not saying what they mean!’
He laughed but winced inside at this reflection of him and Ruth through her eyes. ‘We tormented ourselves, certainly. I’m glad those days are over. I’m not going to say any more about that now. It will keep.’ He liked her directness. ‘Who told you you’re too blunt?’
‘Oh, a customer I had a while ago. She wanted a dress that wouldn’t have suited her body. I know the customer is always right but I didn’t see the point of her wasting her money and looking bad as well.’
He saw her on to her bus home, kissing her on the cheek. They agreed to meet again and he waved to her as she boarded and touched her travel card on the reader. The evening in her company had sped past, simple, untangled and not fraught with unspoken emotions. It was a long time since he had relaxed so thoroughly in a woman’s company. A long time since he had allowed himself to.
* * *
He had been out on the river and was just pulling his borrowed boat up the slipway when Judith Saltby rang and said she could see him the following day. He would have to travel to Cambridge as she had just had a baby and she was currently inhabiting a different time and space continuum. She sounded tired but when he said they could discuss it over the phone, she replied that she would rather see him and that she was looking forward to talking to him about Teddy. Swift headed home to shower and have a late breakfast. He was tucking into a bowl of porridge laced with honey when he got a call from a Serena Clayhurst at Mayfields.
‘I thought I should ring you, Mr Swift. Peter Alfonso informed me that you visited Teddy Bartlett and that his father has asked you to look into the attack on him.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I’m the manager here. I was on holiday when you visited. I took over here eighteen months ago. The administration of the facility had been sadly lacking and my predecessor was asked to leave. It took me a while to get things in order. I saw that Teddy Bartlett has an account with a substantial amount of money in, more than twenty thousand pounds, with the interest accrued. I assumed that this was money saved from benefits and family contributions or gifts. Such an arrangement isn’t unusual and I was concerned that none of the money had been used on Teddy’s behalf.’
‘Did you tell the family?’
‘I contacted his sister Sheila, last autumn. She said she knew nothing about this money. I was very worried so I looked through Teddy’s file and I found a typed note. It’s unsigned and undated. It states that there is a gift of twenty thousand pounds enclosed, to be used for Teddy Bartlett’s care.’
‘When was the account opened?’
‘In April 2011, by the previous manager. At least he did that much and the money is safe. There is no envelope, just the note. We’ve had major changes in staff here and the handful who were here at that time know nothing about it.’
‘So it sounds as if the gift was in cash.’
‘That is confirmed by the financial record. Presumably no one would send that amount of money through the post.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so. There’s definitely no envelope?’
‘I’m afraid not, I checked thoroughly. I don’t know if this is of any significance but it seemed odd, so I wanted to inform you’
‘Thank you. It could be significant. Can you scan the note and send it to me?’
‘Of course.’
He put his cooling porridge on low in the microwave and watched it spin. It had to be guilt money. Rowan Bartlett undoubtedly harboured guilt but could hardly have delivered the cash from Sydney. An attack of conscience from the assailant?
The scanned note had arrived by the time he sat down again with his warmed bowl.
Twenty thousand pounds here for Teddy Bartlett. Use it if he needs extra things or for something special. Whatever makes his life easier.
Such a large, anonymous gift had to be significant. He phoned Rowan Bartlett and asked him about the money. He said this was the first he’d heard of it. Swift updated him on progress and said he would be in touch again soon.
* * *
Later that night, Swift and Cedric returned from their local, the Silver Mermaid, where they had played dominoes. The talk had turned to Swift’s work and Cedric mentioned that there was a woman who sometimes attended his reading group who was a Druid. She was called Lucy Magee but her Druid name was Gwencalon, which meant shining heart.
‘She told me she attends magical camps and various meetings in glades and forests and wears flowing robes. She always looks fairly formal and quietly dressed at the group so I was surprised when I found out. Good to have your s
tereotypes challenged now and again.’
‘Are you expecting to see her soon? I’d like to speak to her. I’m not getting very far at the moment and she might tell me something useful.’
‘We meet next week so hopefully she’ll be there, although she does have to travel for work. I’ll ask if you can contact her.’
They turned into their street. It was good to hear Cedric laughing. Since his son had departed for Spain, his spirits seemed lighter. He was explaining how Lucy Magee had divulged her Druid connections over fruit punch at a midsummer party when Swift touched his arm and stopped. He was sure he had seen a thin beam of light through his downstairs front window. The curtains were thinly lined and translucent. He looked again and saw a flicker.
‘Can you wait here, Cedric? I think there’s someone in my living room.’
‘A burglar?’ Cedric took a step forward but Swift shook his head.
‘I don’t know. Just stay here for now, please, while I take a look.’
Swift opened the front door and the inner one to his own flat, noiselessly. He pushed the door back a few inches and looked through. The living room had been turned upside down, with cushions, books and furniture thrown randomly about. A man dressed in black and wearing a mask and LED head torch had raised a can of spray paint and was about to decorate the wall over the fireplace. Swift stepped quickly towards him. The man turned, launching himself forwards and landing a hefty punch on the side of Swift’s face. Swift tasted blood in his mouth and his ear was ringing. Swift shoved his calf between the other man’s legs, trying to throw him off balance. He was much taller but the man was solidly built and felt like a small dynamo as they grappled and shoved. Swift ripped the LED light off his head, flinging it into a corner where it spun on the floor, casting dancing shadows. He landed a punch of his own in the man’s diaphragm, winding him. Swift tripped over an upturned chair and fell, landing heavily on his right leg. As he struggled up he heard a snick and saw a blade glint. He dodged sideways as the intruder lunged towards him. The blade caught his upper left arm and he felt a hot, sharp pain. He grabbed the wrist holding the knife and with his other hand, rammed his fingers into the man’s eyes. There was a satisfying howl as the knife flashed away through the air. Swift followed through with a knee to the groin. The man dropped to the floor, groaning loudly. Panting, Swift heaved him over to his front and shoved a knee on him, leaning his weight down and pinning his arms with one throbbing hand. With the other, he undid his belt and tied it around the man’s wrists.
BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense Page 9