BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  ‘Nope, been at school.’

  ‘I think your mum has a key to her flat. This is my ID. I’m a private detective.’

  ‘Wow! You’ll have to talk to my mum.’

  The pickled onion smell from the crisps was revolting.

  ‘What time does she get home?’

  ‘Any time soon.’

  ‘Have you got a number I can ring her on?’

  The boy took a phone from his back pocket, scrolled down the screen and pressed a number with a greasy thumb. ‘Hi, Mum, there’s a bloke here says he wants to get in the top flat. Says he’s a detective. What? I dunno.’

  Swift mimed being allowed to speak. The boy handed his phone over and fished around in the bottom of the crisp packet, dabbing up crumbs and licking his fingers. Swift explained the situation.

  ‘Have you seen or heard Kris today?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I saw her in the hallway yesterday morning. She seemed fine. Listen, I’m about five minutes away. Hang on and I’ll be there. Can you put my son back on?’

  The boy listened, grunted into the phone and shrugged.

  ‘She says I can’t let you in till she gets here.’

  ‘Okay. You go back in if you want and close the door. I’ll wait here.’

  The boy blew into the crisp packet as he turned away, exploding it with his fist. Swift tried Kris’s number again as he waited, not expecting a response. The sky was growing leaden with purple clouds that reminded him of the colour of Mary and Simone’s dresses. He walked up and down the pavement, growing more fearful with each passing minute. Finally a woman holding two bags of shopping came towards him.

  ‘Ms Burns?’

  ‘Yes, Martha Burns. Are you Mr Swift?’

  ‘That’s right. Here’s my ID. I wouldn’t ask you to let me into Kris’s flat without good reason.’

  ‘Okay. Let me put these bags inside and get the key. I think I should come up with you.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He was grateful that she seemed calm and sensible. She led him up the stairs to Kris’s flat and knocked loudly on the door.

  ‘Kris, Kris! It’s Martha, are you there?’

  There was no sound from within. She turned to him, biting her lip, looking worried. He banged on the door and called Kris’s name several times. He rang her phone and heard the familiar call tune from inside the flat.

  Martha breathed, ‘Oh.’

  ‘I think you should let me open the door and go in first,’ he told her.

  She handed him the key. He stepped through the door and sensed that familiar, strange hush in the atmosphere of a place when something was wrong. The Polish radio station that Kris tuned into on her laptop sounded faintly from the living room.

  ‘Please wait here,’ he said to Martha, who nodded, her hand to her mouth. He walked along the hallway, calling Kris’s name softly. The door to the living room was ajar and he saw her feet, one pointed sideways, the other upwards in the soft black ballet pumps she wore at home. She was wearing her blue and white striped dressing gown and lying on her back near the sewing machine, amidst a tumble of patterned materials and netting. A strip of thick damask was knotted tightly into her neck. Dark red and mauve marks suffused the skin around it. She stared sightlessly at the ceiling. He knelt beside her and touched her arm, then an ankle. They were stiff and cold. She had gone away. There was a terrible absence.

  ‘Mr Swift?’ Martha Burns had stepped into the hall.

  He raised himself, took a breath and stood in the doorway. ‘Kris is dead. She’s been murdered. I’m going to ring the police. Don’t come in any further.’

  She gaped at him. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Nothing. Let the police in. I’ll stay here. Don’t say anything, not even to your son.’

  She turned and ran downstairs. Swift rang emergency services. Then he gazed again at the living room. There had been a struggle. A box of pins had spilled across the carpet and a bolt of shiny cloth had been knocked over. A couple of pattern books lay scattered beside it with some scissors and a spool of white thread. There had been no sign of forced entry at her door. She must have let her killer in. He knew that Kris liked a hot bath around nine o’clock when she was in for the evening. Afterwards she would put her dressing gown on and continue working at her sewing machine, listening to background music from home. The stiffness of her limbs indicated that she had died sometime the previous night. Polskie Radio continued playing from her laptop, a high pitched jingle, then a fast, merry pop tune.

  He knelt by her side again, saying her name. Her hair was clipped back so that it wouldn’t fall in her eyes when she was machining. He had been angry with her for being late. In his last message on her phone his voice had been cutting. He made a smoothing motion over her head, without touching. Minutes passed. He hoped she had died quickly.

  Her dark blue and aquamarine wedding outfit was on a hanger, pressed and ready to wear, her navy shoes beneath it. He knew he should phone Cedric but couldn’t bring himself to make the call yet. He shouldn’t touch anything but he moved to the elegant dress and rested his face against the cool, thick satin of the full skirt. He closed his eyes, waiting for the police as the inconsequential music played on.

  * * *

  As he reached home, his phone rang. It was Mary.

  ‘Oh Ty, what can I say? Cedric told me. Come round and we can talk properly.’

  ‘Thanks, but I won’t. It’s very late and I know you’ve got an early flight in the morning. I’m in a cab, on the way home.’

  ‘I could come to you.’

  ‘No, that’s okay, Mary. I want to be on my own. Your day has been overshadowed enough as it is.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. What have the police said?’

  ‘Not much. Kris was strangled and there’s no sign of forced entry. Judging by rigor, I think it happened late last night. I have to talk to them again tomorrow. Naturally, they wanted to know where I was last night so I told them I was with Cedric in his flat having supper and playing dominoes with him and Milo from eight until gone midnight yesterday.’

  ‘What about Kris’s family?’

  ‘The police are going to locate them. Her parents live in Lodz. She had a brother in New York.’

  ‘Ty, if you want me to stay around we can postpone the honeymoon . . .’

  ‘Absolutely not, Mary. I’m okay. I want you to go away and enjoy yourselves. Please don’t contact me until you get back. There’s no need and no point.’

  ‘Yes, all right, I know. I know you won’t want fuss. It’s just that, you know, there was Ruth and now this happening to Kris. Grief can sneak up on you. Not everything can be resolved in a rowing boat.’

  ‘Yes, I know. It will help me to know that you’re happy. I’m going to sign off now. Ring me when you get back.’

  She knew better than to try and talk to him further and said goodnight. Back home, Swift fetched two bottles of red wine, opened one and turned on a single lamp in the living room. He downed a glass quickly and refilled. He sat in silence, staring at the wall. Cedric tapped on the door after a while, holding a bottle of whisky.

  ‘Come in,’ Swift said. ‘I’ve got wine going if you want a glass of that.’

  ‘I’ll have some of this stuff.’

  Cedric fetched a glass and poured amber liquid. They sat opposite each other, both still wearing their wedding outfits. Cedric loosened his tie and stared down at his drink for a while.

  ‘Was this a random attack, Ty?’

  ‘I suppose so. I don’t know as yet, but judging by the way I found her, I don’t think Kris was raped.’

  ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  Swift didn’t reply, just nodded and drank. Outside, a dog barked and a car’s brakes squealed.

  ‘Not the wedding day Mary and Simone were hoping for,’ Swift said eventually.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was angry with her. I left a sharp message on her phone the second time I called, saying not to bother coming if she couldn�
�t be on time.’

  ‘You didn’t know. Don’t blame yourself for that.’

  ‘I really liked her.’

  ‘I could tell.’

  They sat in silence a while longer. Swift opened the second bottle.

  ‘Can I get you anything, my dear?’ Cedric asked. ‘A sandwich? It’s a long time since we ate.’

  ‘No thanks. I’m going to get very drunk and then I might sleep. You head off to bed. It was a beautiful dress she was going to wear, classy. She must have spent hours on it.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Cedric rose and touched Swift’s shoulder lightly as he left.

  Swift made his way quickly through the second bottle of wine, glad of its numbing powers. He woke at six, sprawled on the sofa, his velvet jacket twisted around him. His head was thumping, his mouth parched. He thought about getting a glass of water but lay instead staring at the floorboards. Moving his limbs seemed like an enormous challenge. His last words to her had been unkind, even if she had never heard them. The last thing she had said to him was good luck.

  * * *

  Kris’s parents were at the police station, two glazed-looking people in their fifties. Her father’s eyes were reddened with tears, her mother’s dry with anguish. They spoke little English, and an interpreter had been provided, a young man who sat on the edge of his seat, alert and watchful. It was hard, communicating grief through a third party in the sterile, airless little room with worn fabric chairs. Two pot plants languished on the narrow window ledge and there was a burn mark on the carpet. Swift explained that he had known Kris for a while and they had become close. He talked about the wedding and the dress she had made. Her mother took his hand and held on to it throughout the meeting, as if it were a lifebelt. Her fingers were cool and he thought of Kris’s chilly hands between his.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘She was talented and lovely.’

  The interpreter spoke and they both nodded. Her father was crying again, into a large hanky. Her mother cleared her throat and spoke. Her eyes held a pleading look, as if she hoped he could explain the horror, make some sense of it.

  ‘Mrs Jelen says Krystyna had talked about you in emails. She sounded happy. She was hoping to take you to visit Lodz one day. Mrs Jelen asks who could have done this, who could have wanted to harm Krystyna?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Swift said helplessly. ‘I can assure them that the police will find whoever did it. Please ask them if there’s anything they need, anything I can help with.’

  The interpreter spoke to them. ‘They say thank you but they are alright. They just want to see their daughter’s home, get an idea of her life here. They are going to be taken there this afternoon.’

  ‘Tell them there is a lovely dress there that Kris had made to wear to the wedding we were attending. They might want to take it home with them. Please say as well that Kris was happy. Her business was doing really well, she liked her flat and her life here.’

  Mrs Jelen listened, while her husband sobbed. She nodded at Swift, then turned to her husband, took the hanky from him and dabbed at his eyes. He drew himself up and spoke, his voice catching.

  ‘Mr Jelen asks if you know when Krystyna’s body will be released to them. They wish to arrange to take her home to Lodz for burial.’

  ‘I don’t know. Once the police have all the information they need, they will agree to the release. It’s best to talk to their family liaison officer about that.’

  Mrs Jelen kissed his hand as he left and stroked his arm as if he were the one who had lost a child. Her generosity touched him. He went to the men’s cloakroom and splashed his face with cold water, holding his eyes open. He found the DI in charge of the enquiry, an Alexa Markham, and spoke to her briefly. She said that they were checking a fingerprint that had been found on the corner of the chair by the sewing machine. Whoever had been in there had attempted to clean away any traces, but she was hoping that the one unidentified print might give a lead. She confirmed that there had been no sexual assault. That was some small comfort.

  ‘It might have been a burglary gone wrong,’ Alexa Markham told him. ‘We haven’t found Ms Jelen’s purse or wallet and her bag had been thrown behind the sofa. The landlady’s son said he might have left the front door ajar when he nipped out for a snack around half nine that evening. That would fit with the timescale for Ms Jelen’s death so I’m working on the premise that the perp had access to get up to her flat and she opened the door.’

  Swift rubbed his jaw. He was aching with sadness.

  ‘Presumably you’re going to contact her customers? Maybe she came up against someone who wished her ill.’

  ‘Yes. We’re going to focus on the male customers first. There are only two. You said in your statement that you don’t know of anyone else we should look at?’

  ‘No. We’d been seeing each other for just a couple of months. Kris said she’d been too busy working since she came here to make many friends. There are just the two women I mentioned, that she spoke about, but I hadn’t met them yet.’

  ‘Okay. We’re still door-knocking but so far no one in the area saw or heard anything. Early days, though. I’m sorry for your loss and that your cousin’s wedding has been tainted by this. I met Mary once, at a conference. She’s an inspiring speaker.’

  ‘It should have been such a happy occasion. Kris was looking forward to it immensely.’

  * * *

  It was a bitter day, the wind slicing in from the east. The low sky was filled with charcoal-smudged clouds. Swift walked aimlessly for a while, hardly noticing where he was heading. He wanted to go and knock on doors near Kris’s flat himself, do something to help find her killer but he knew that he needed to leave it to the Met for now. If he interfered at this stage, he might confuse any witnesses, muddy the scene. He stopped for a coffee. He was hungry but couldn’t eat. The barista placed a round of shortbread on the saucer and Swift snapped at him, asking for it to be removed. The young man looked taken aback at his brusqueness.

  He sat in a quiet corner, pushing images of Kris and her parents from his mind. It was best to keep busy and focus on Teddy. Activity helped keep sorrow at bay during the day. He rang the Saltby’s house and heard Steven Saltby’s flinty tones.

  ‘I want to speak to your wife again. Is she there? Her workplace says she has flu.’

  ‘She’s gone. I told her to get out and take her devil’s spawn with her.’

  ‘You mean Joshua?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where have they gone?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t want to know.’

  ‘When did they go?’

  ‘The evening you were here. That’s it. I don’t want to have any more conversations about them.’

  The line went dead. Swift wondered briefly how a man in a wheelchair was going to cope on his own without a handmaiden but didn’t let it bother him. If Dorcas Saltby and Graham Manchester were as close as siblings, she and Joshua might well be staying with him. He decided to head to Alexandra Palace. He was feeling too drained to take public transport so he hailed a taxi. He closed his eyes briefly as it weaved through the afternoon traffic. He couldn’t bear to think of Kris lying cold and alone. She had hated the cold so much. He forced his eyes open and looked out of the window at life spinning onwards.

  Graham Manchester’s house was in a small new development of box-like dwellings. They were detached, but only just. The show home was still for sale. Freshly planted spindly trees and tiny shrubs struggled upwards in the chilly soil. There was a raw smell of recently turned earth mixed with the burnt aroma of tarmac. He rang the bell of Manchester’s house but there was no answer. He rang again, then looked through the front window into an empty living room. He walked past a dustbin and around the narrow passage at the side of the house to an unlocked metal gate and through to the back. There was a tiny square of patio and an equally small lawn. Through French windows he could see a kitchen cum dining area. A couple of mugs and a saucepan stood on a worktop and thr
ee chairs were pulled out at angles from the table. There was no sign of anyone. He returned to the front and rang the bell again, then quickly looked upwards. It was a trick that often worked and it did on this occasion. He saw Joshua Saltby’s pale face fleetingly at a bedroom window before he stepped back out of sight.

  Swift rang the bell once more and rattled the letter box, shouting through it.

  ‘Joshua, I know you’re in there. I’ve just seen you upstairs. I want to talk to your mother. I’m not going away until you speak to me. Is your mother there?’

  He waited, then yelled again. ‘Joshua! Come on, I don’t bite. Just come to the door, will you?’ He banged on the wood with his fist. ‘The neighbours will start complaining soon. Come on.’

  He waited, then banged again and rang the bell, keeping his finger on it. He saw a blurred figure through the frosted glass, coming down the stairs. Saltby opened the door. He looked thinner, shabby and exhausted, in crumpled pyjamas and bare feet. His hair lay flat against his scalp. His eyes were bruised-looking and vacant. There was a strong, rancid smell of body odour. The contrast to the smart, assured pastor could not have been more marked. He stared at Swift, swaying slightly. He spoke in a whisper.

  ‘What have you come here for?’

  ‘I want to speak to your mother.’

  ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  He shook his head, swaying again. ‘Don’t know.’ He licked his lips. His tongue looked dry and coated. ‘I’ve got a terrible headache. I don’t feel too well. Sort of dizzy . . .’

  He turned away and stumbled, slipping down to the floor. He made no effort to get up. Swift stepped in beside him and shut the door. The house was unbearably hot and stifling. He bent down to Saltby, who was lying on his side and shivering in the heat. He felt his pulse. It was weak.

  ‘Joshua, have you taken something?’

  ‘Thirsty.’

  Swift fetched a glass of water and helped Saltby to sit up against the wall.

  ‘Drink this slowly.’

  Swift put the glass into his hand and sat opposite him, watching him drink, gulping as if it hurt his throat. Then he helped him up and supported him into the living room and sat him on a sofa. He was already responding to the liquid, holding his head up. Swift brought him more water and waited while he finished it.