BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  ‘What on earth?’ He leaned forward. ‘That’s a human skeleton.’

  ‘Yes, a baby. I found it in the cupboard behind the dining table.’

  Bartlett gazed at him in bewilderment, then back at the box. ‘But I don’t understand. How did that get here?’

  ‘Mr Bartlett, I believe that this is the skeleton of Sheila’s baby, your grandchild.’

  He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. ‘But Sheila didn’t have any children. I would have known. No, that’s not possible.’

  Swift knelt down again by the baby. ‘Only a DNA test will prove whose baby this was but I have reasons for being fairly sure that Sheila did give birth.’ He told Bartlett about Sheila’s apparent ill health and weight gain in the summer of 2000, the carefully wrapped baby’s jacket, and the references to her spending time in the loft subsequently. He wasn’t sure how much the man was taking in as he rubbed at his forehead.

  There was a long silence. The only sound was Bartlett’s rapid breathing.

  ‘But someone would have known,’ he said finally. ‘If this is true, surely someone must have helped Sheila.’

  ‘I think Teddy did. That is why the note he left talks about things being hidden and the innocent and suffering. I’ve also spoken to someone who heard Teddy refer to Sheila having a secret he was helping her with. Sheila must have told Teddy she was pregnant. They were close, and if she chose anyone to confide in, it would have been him. She must have given birth at home and he probably assisted. I would guess that the child was born some time that August. Certainly it had died and been concealed by the time Teddy was attacked.’ He waited to see if Bartlett was going to ask the obvious question.

  Bartlett leaned down and touched the edge of the box. Swift was relieved to see that he had steadied his nerves. He had after all spent years as a surgeon, dealing with flesh and its complexities.

  ‘The body would have decomposed quite quickly, above ground and in a warm, dry environment. There would have been an amount of liquid and odours from decomposition, although with such a tiny child it would have been easy to deal with. Its container would have needed replacing regularly for a while. Probably it was originally wrapped in plastic.’ He spoke dispassionately, then looked at Swift and back at the bones. ‘But how did this child die?’ His voice held a sudden note of fear.

  ‘That we don’t know. Perhaps it was a stillbirth or something went wrong, with no medical help. Only Sheila can say. Teddy probably knew.’ Swift suspected there might be a darker explanation, thinking of Teddy’s note and the dead baby at the party. If Sheila had killed her baby and Teddy knew, there would be a strong motive for her to want rid of him too.

  ‘My God. What was happening in this house?’ Bartlett sat back, shoulders slumping. ‘How could Sheila have been pregnant without her mother knowing? How could Tessa not have noticed a baby being born in her own home? What kind of mother was she?’

  Swift noted Bartlett’s usual willingness to shift blame on to anyone but himself. He didn’t respond but listened as Bartlett carried on, listing again the reasons he had left his wife and her failings as a mother, complaining at length that she had allowed the family to fall to pieces.

  Sheila was at the top of the ladder before they realised she had come home. She was still in her belted raincoat and sturdy shoes. She stepped in to the loft and stood in silence, staring at the opened box.

  Her father looked at her. ‘Sheila, what has been going on here? Can you explain this? Mr Swift thinks this is the skeleton of your baby.’

  She said nothing. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly. Her hair was lank and her skin shiny with grease. A crop of tiny spots had sprouted on her chin. She took her inhaler from a pocket and drew in medication. Swift stood, watching her. He wondered how long she had been at the ladder, listening.

  ‘This is your baby, isn’t it, Sheila?’

  ‘Yes. My baby. My business. My baby was resting nice and peacefully. Now look. People gawping.’

  Bartlett put his hands out. ‘Sheila, you must have known that this child would be found sometime.’

  ‘I kept him so safe from everyone for so long. Safe and warm and cosy, all tucked away.’

  Swift said quietly, ‘I’m going to go downstairs and call the police. You might want to talk to your father. Please don’t touch the skeleton, either of you.’

  She said, as if to herself, ‘They’ll take my baby away.’

  ‘They will have to, to start with. But they will return him or her to you for a funeral.’

  ‘Him. His name was Ambrose.’

  ‘My father’s name,’ Bartlett whispered.

  Sheila waited until Swift had crossed to the loft opening, then stepped quickly behind her father. She slipped a small screwdriver from her pocket and held it to the front of his throat, clamping her other hand hard on the top of his head as he tried to get up.

  ‘I’ll stick this in you, I will. Tim’s right. You’re a joke of a father.’

  Swift stood still. Bartlett turned his eyes towards him, blinking rapidly.

  ‘Don’t you move,’ Sheila told her father. ‘I’d love to stick this in you. Bringing that slut back here, lying to me, slagging off our mother.’ She looked at Swift. ‘You want to know what was happening in this house, do you? You’re Mr Know-it-all, how come you can’t tell him?’

  Swift kept his voice neutral. ‘If you were listening to us, you’ll know that I did make some observations to your father. You must have gone through a terrible time. Hurting your father won’t solve anything.’

  ‘Oh, it might. It might make me feel better.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Sheila, not in the long run. Surely your family has had enough sadness.’

  ‘All caused by him.’ She angled the screwdriver, prodding it against her father’s throat, and he gasped.

  ‘Your father had nothing to do with your baby being born or dying. Did Ambrose die soon after he was born?’ He thought it was best to distract her, get her talking about herself.

  ‘A couple of days. I was all on my own.’ She fixed her gaze on the box.

  ‘Teddy was with you though. Teddy helped you.’

  ‘Oh yes, Teddy helped me. Teddy knew all about it. We read what to do in one of my textbooks. But then when Ambrose died he said we ought to tell someone.’

  ‘And you didn’t want that.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head violently. ‘I wanted to keep my boy. People would have been all over us, asking questions. They’d have taken my baby. I wanted to keep him safe by me. And I did.’

  ‘Yes you did, Sheila. You kept him and looked after him, giving him new flowers and blankets. You kept him close by you and safe. You did everything you could.’ Swift took a step nearer as he talked.

  She noticed. ‘Don’t move. If you come any nearer, I’ll stick this in his throat. I know where to aim.’

  ‘Sheila . . .’ Bartlett whispered.

  ‘Okay, Sheila, okay, I won’t move. Did you argue with Teddy?’

  ‘A bit. Then he went quiet, wouldn’t talk about it. I came home that day and he’d taken off. Even he left me. In the end, they all left me.’ She tugged her father’s hair. ‘You started it, all the rot.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He had turned a waxy colour.

  ‘And you brought that bastard detective here,’ she continued. ‘I told you not to. All he’s done is cause trouble. I’d like to stick this screwdriver in him when I’ve finished with you.’ She rolled her tongue and spat at Swift. ‘You had no right going into my room, you fucking bastard, no right coming up here. You’ve been a thorn in my side since the first day you came here, with your poking and prying. And what’s it all been for? I bet you still don’t know who bashed Teddy’s head in!’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I know you’ve been having a hard time. If you put the screwdriver down, we can talk. I’m sure we can help you.’

  She looked around and smiled. ‘Help! No one has helped me for a long time. The poli
ce will question me, won’t they? There’ll be hours of questions, raking it all up and pretending they care.’ She clenched her free hand into a fist and wheezed, banging the fist against her chest.

  ‘The police will ask you questions, yes. Sheila, you might find it helps to talk about it. Police have special training now. They’ll be sympathetic and careful when they discuss it with you.’ She seemed to be listening. He decided to try playing to her self-importance. ‘The police will understand that they’re dealing with a fellow professional who has a good reputation. They’ll know that you have a very responsible job, with colleagues and patients depending on you. They’ll know how valued you are at work.’

  ‘It’s true. I do have a good reputation. Workhorse, that’s me. Good old Sheila, she’ll stay late and do the weekend shifts, she’s got no other life going on! Pathetic, fat old Sheila, no husband or boyfriend! I see the glances when they’re chatting about parties and family events. Sad old Sheila, that’s who I am. Now I’ll be mad old Sheila with the dead baby.’

  She smiled at Swift, a deranged grin, and suddenly shoved her father to one side. As he tumbled from the chair, she stabbed the screwdriver into her own stomach and fell to the floor with a scream. Blood spurted. Bartlett shouted her name and scrambled up. Then he was beside her, fumbling with her belt and tearing open her coat and uniform. Swift dialled 999 and requested an ambulance, describing the wound. Bartlett was pressing down on the area around the screwdriver’s hilt. Sheila groaned softly.

  ‘Has she cut an artery?’ Swift asked. The blood wasn’t pumping.

  ‘No. But the blade’s in deep and her pulse is weak. She’s conscious, which is good. This is all I can do for now. Can you get something to keep her warm?’ He seemed calm, in control.

  Swift opened the nearest box and took out a bedspread, tucking it gently over Sheila’s legs.

  ‘I’ll go down and let the paramedics in. They’re going to struggle getting up and down from here.’

  Bartlett nodded. He spoke gently to his daughter, repeating the words reassuringly. ‘Sheila, it’s all right, we’ve got help coming. Everything will be all right. I know you can hear me. You’re going to be okay.’

  Swift called the police as he opened the front door, and waited. The ambulance crew had Sheila strapped to a stretcher and lowered down in record time. One of the crew kept her hand on the screwdriver, ensuring it didn’t move. Bartlett insisted on going with her in the ambulance and climbed in, his hands and shirt blood-soaked. Someone draped a blanket around him. Swift told him he would speak to the police and explain what had happened. He nodded, distracted, and asked a paramedic to check Sheila’s blood pressure again.

  Swift closed the door and went through to the kitchen. Dirty crockery was piled in the sink and cluttering the work surfaces. He rinsed a glass and filled it with water, then drank another. He didn’t want to return to the loft. He would leave that to the police. He looked around but there was no dishwasher. He thought he might as well make himself useful until they arrived and took the dishes from the sink, stacking them on the drainer. He filled the sink with hot water and started scrubbing plates and saucepans. It was a useful process, imposing some order on the chaos and he felt his own heart rate quieten. The sky outside was turning a bruised violet as dusk approached. He had always found it a melancholy time of day. He pulled the window blind down and concentrated on his repetitive task.

  It was almost eight by the time the police had finished examining the loft and questioning him. A DI Archie Lorrimer listened to his explanation of his involvement with the family, over a cup of tea in the kitchen. Lorrimer knew of Nora Morrow and gave her a quick ring to check Swift out.

  ‘I have wondered if Sheila attacked Teddy and if she was responsible for the death of that other baby,’ Swift told him. ‘Up in the loft, she said nothing that indicated she did harm Teddy, although she acknowledged that she argued with him about Ambrose.’

  ‘What kind of woman is she? As chaotic as her bedroom indicates?’

  ‘Self-important, angry, damaged, food-obsessed, jealous, frightened, a liar, sad and lost. The keeper of a dead baby. She has a nasty temper. I think she’ll need psychiatric help.’

  Lorrimer finished his tea. He was a small, sharp-eyed man, watchful but pleasant. Swift had heard him instruct a constable to tuck the covering blanket over the skeleton before the box was taken away.

  ‘She might have killed Ambrose,’ he said, rinsing his cup in the sink. ‘I don’t know if a pathologist will be able to determine that. Hopefully she’ll survive and we can talk to her.’

  ‘Can I head off soon? I’d like to ring the hospital, see how she is.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ll need you to come and make a statement in the next few days. We’ll secure the house before we leave.’

  * * *

  Back home, Swift opened a bottle of wine. The hospital had told him that Sheila had been operated on and was expected to recover. He ran pictures of that summer of 2000 in his head: Sheila carrying her growing secret, Teddy knowing about the pregnancy, their mother hiding away, Tim unaware. He poured a second glass. His phone rang. It was Tim Christie.

  ‘What’s going on? My father just rang me from a hospital to say Sheila had stabbed herself. Bastard. I cut him off.’ His speech was slow and slurred. Swift assumed he was on something.

  ‘That’s right. Sheila stabbed herself in the stomach. She’s okay, as far as I know.’

  ‘What’s going on? Why’d she do that?’

  ‘Look, Tim, you’d better speak to your father tomorrow. A lot has happened in your family recently and he’ll need to talk to you about it.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Well, I don’t want to talk to him. You tell me.’

  Swift felt weary. The last thing he wanted was to start explaining a dead baby to a drugged-up sibling.

  ‘I can’t do that. It’s not for me to discuss. Either talk to your father or don’t. Or maybe just go and see Sheila and when she’s able to, she can tell you.’

  ‘You know how I feel about those two, they do my head in. I can’t face them and I can talk to you, you treat me like—’

  Swift interrupted. ‘Tim, I’m not your parent. I have to go now, I’ve had a long day. Sheila’s okay. Go to bed and sleep off whatever you’ve taken.’

  He stepped out into the garden and breathed in the cold air, trying to clear his head of other people’s secrets and torments. His next task was to confront Dorcas Saltby with her lies.

  Chapter 13

  She came out of her office at the same time, head down, scarf tied tightly. There was a strong wind and she swayed slightly, buffeted. Swift had decided not to bring the car and offer her a secure environment. Let her feel the pressure. He crossed the busy road and fell into step beside her.

  ‘Mrs Saltby, you lied to me about Teddy Bartlett,’ he said conversationally. ‘Your son told me you knew all about him.’

  She stopped, looked around, peered at him. There was shock in her eyes and a cold hostility. An angry-looking cold sore had appeared on her lip, cracked and peeling.

  ‘You’ve spoken to my son?’

  ‘Twice now. Didn’t he mention it?’

  ‘No.’ She moved in to the side of the pavement, up against the window of a launderette.

  ‘Joshua lied to me the first time. When I saw him again he told me the truth, all about finding Teddy in your house with Judith and about the dressing up and the Internet café.’

  She leaned against the window. She flicked her tongue on the cold sore and winced.

  ‘I can’t talk to you,’ she said hopelessly.

  ‘You have to. Otherwise I’ll come to your home. I am going to find out what happened to Teddy.’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything about what happened to him.’

  ‘Can’t as in won’t?’

  She was silent, fiddling with the handles of her shopping bag.

  ‘You know something. I will come to your home if you won’t talk to me. I don’t think your husband would l
ike that. There’s a café along here. It’s cold in the wind. Let’s sit down.’

  She glanced around again. ‘I can’t stay long.’

  She walked on with him, shrinking into herself. In the café she insisted they sit right at the back, away from the window, and found a table tucked into an alcove. He ordered coffee for himself and still water at her request. She poured it into the glass, spilling it and dabbing the puddle fussily with a paper napkin. He saw that she bit her nails, the skin rough and torn around the cuticles.

  ‘So stupid of me,’ she said. ‘Look at this mess.’

  He suspected she was often told that she was stupid, but he thought otherwise. It seemed to him that she had hidden reserves to draw on. ‘It’s only water, Mrs Saltby. Let me take you back to the summer of 2000. You came home and found Joshua dressed in women’s clothes and he confessed to you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was that the first you knew of Teddy’s visits to your home?’

  ‘Yes.’ She drank and patted at her lips.

  ‘So how did you feel when you found this out?’

  She pressed her lips together. ‘I felt ashamed and frightened.’

  ‘Angry, too?’

  ‘I suppose. It was all Judith’s fault. She encouraged wickedness into our home. She showed Joshua her sin and he was tempted.’

  ‘Did you tell your husband about Joshua and Teddy?’

  ‘No.’

  He stirred his coffee. ‘Why not?’

  She pulled her chair in, crouching over the table. Oddly, she seemed happier to talk about Steven Saltby. He was clearly in some ways a safer subject.

  ‘My husband didn’t need to be burdened with such unnatural behaviour. There would have been dreadful trouble in our home. Also, he had important church responsibilities at the time. He needed to concentrate on those. It was my duty to deal with it.’ She linked her fingers and intoned: “Older women are to be reverent in behaviour, to teach what is good, to be self-controlled, pure, and submissive to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be reviled.” It was my error that our children had strayed and mine to put right.’

  ‘You told Joshua that you would speak to Judith but she says you didn’t. She still has no idea that you knew about Teddy. Why didn’t you deal with Judith? She was breaking all your rules as well.’