Written in Blood

by Collett, Chris

  Mark ‘Jack’ Russell was one of the few men remaining and was immediately attentive to Mariner. ‘Is there anything you want sir?’

  ‘Just time to get my bearings again,’ said Mariner. Russell closed the door on his way out.

  On the top of Mariner’s in-tray was Charlie Glover’s progress report on the sewer queen. It was as Coleman had said. Glover had run the prints through CRIMINT but as the woman had no record they’d drawn a blank. Missing persons had turned up no likely contenders either. But Charlie Glover had used his brain, and picking up on the unusual labels on the dead woman’s clothes had established her nationality as Albanian. The last thing he’d done was to contact the National Immigration Centre in Croydon, to see if the government’s crackdown on immigration would be of any help to them. So far it was a competent investigation and, not for the first time, Mariner wondered why Glover, in his late thirties, was still only a DC. He must talk to him about that some time.

  Key photographs from the postmortem and notes from the pathologist were included in the file for Mariner. According to the initial findings, there were pressure point bruises to the oesophagus, damage to the thyroid cartilage and cricoid cartilage, and x-rays clearly showed the hyoid bone in the throat to be broken, all consistent with the application of extreme pressure with the thumbs. Conclusion: the woman had been strangled with somebody’s bare hands. She was five feet three and slightly built so most men would be physically capable. The facial photograph was not a pretty sight. She had been dead for at least a couple of weeks when she was found, in which time rats had chewed through the bin liner, before attacking her face and torso. They’d need a digital mock-up before they could think of releasing anything to the press. Something else Glover had highlighted: the girl was a mother. She’d given birth around two months earlier.

  The likely scenario, Glover concluded, was that she had been strangled, taped into the bin liners and dumped down the sewer, and their strongest lead on a suspect came in the form of the latent prints found on the tape and the bin bags. These were currently being processed by forensics, though, with the holiday, Charlie wasn’t sure how long that would take. He’d begun a house to house in the area, though as Glover said in his note, with no photograph and only one spare WPC to help him, it was going to be a slow job. It was probably where he was now.

  Mariner looked at the ravaged face. Hard to tell if the girl had been pretty, dead eyes staring up at him. Suddenly they were transposed by another pair of eyes, their life draining away even as he watched. His mouth went dry and he felt a slight queasiness. Pushing the picture away, he went and got some water from the cooler.

  Returning to his desk, Mariner switched on his PC to check his email, but his mind wandered and it was hard to concentrate. Everything he did seemed to take longer than usual.

  The extensive list of new messages in his in-box mainly originated from people he’d never heard of; an invitation to a New Year’s bash in a different department, notification of minor changes in procedures, and forthcoming training opportunities. Each one absurdly banal.

  An open air memorial service was to be held for the victims of the explosion, in St Philip’s Square in the city centre. A circular gave details of the times and the security arrangements, bordering on the paranoid, and information about the collection for the victims and their families. A memorial book was also available for messages at the museum and art gallery. In other words, it was standard stuff. Only one other message stood out to Mariner as being of any interest. It was addressed to Walking Man.

  That was the tag inflicted on Mariner by Detective Inspector Dave Flynn when the two of them had been thrown together four years ago at a conference week in Peterborough. Two DIs in a hotel full of Superintendents, they had stuck together, more so on discovering a mutual liking for proper beer in a hotel that specialised in extortionately priced lager. It was when Mariner had first discovered Woodforde’s, something that he would forever associate with Dave Flynn. Every evening after the presentations they’d gone out on a quest for real ale, Mariner insisting they walk rather than take taxis, restless for the exercise he was missing during the day; hence the nickname. Flynn had a weird taste in naff music; anything that wasn’t cool, but it was only in subsequent years that Mariner had realised that James Taylor featured on his playlist.

  Flynn was ambitious. He was probably a Super himself by now. No clue about that in the note, which was characteristically brief and to the point.

  In Brum tomorrow (28th). Fancy a pint?

  Dave

  Mariner wondered idly whether Flynn’s visit had anything to do with the explosion. He couldn’t see how, but either way it would be good to see him again; a welcome distraction, and the chance for a good piss up. Mariner tapped in a positive reply and sent it on its way.

  The contents of his paper in-tray were similarly mundane, and after a while the rhythmic process of opening envelopes began to have a vaguely therapeutic effect, at least creating the illusion of a return to normality. So when he came to the contents of the A4 manila envelope he was quite unprepared. Russell must have been watching him from the bull pen. He was beside him at once. ‘You all right, sir?’

  Unable to answer him, Mariner handed him the A4 sheet on which a composite of letters cut from a magazine had been glued, in true TV cop-drama cliché. The message was simple: Next time, don’t be late.

  Chapter Four

  As a direct result of the letter, Jack Coleman managed to get Mariner access to the team investigating the explosion, which meant going into the city to police headquarters at Lloyd House. Movement around the central area was still restricted, traffic being directed around the ring road and directly past St Martin’s. Mariner got stuck behind a silver-grey Transit, identical to a couple more that were parked adjacent to the church. They were unmarked, like mortuary vans, though logically Mariner knew they couldn’t be. The bodies had all been recovered days ago.

  Bulldozers were clearing some of the rubble and making safe what remained of the tower, but already flowers were piled high on the steps leading up from the church and back towards the city centre, almost knee deep on the pavement, their cellophane glinting in the sunlight of the clear, frosty day. A handful of people shuffled along studying the dedications, in what, since the death of Princess Diana, had become the traditional ostentatious symbol of public grief. It turned Mariner’s stomach.

  At Lloyd House he was asked to wait in reception, which even on this dazzling day was a dark and oppressive cave, the waves of polished steel that formed the ceiling reflecting only the gloom beneath.

  ‘DI Mariner?’ He looked up to see a man approaching, tall with cropped, silver hair. ‘I’m Jim Addison, Special Branch. Would you like to come with me?’ Addison took Mariner upstairs where the anti-terrorist squad was co-ordinating the investigation and had commandeered the whole of the second floor. This was the unit routinely called in to handle any issues relating to national security, supporting the local force in investigating crimes with wider implications. Their last previous outing, as far as Mariner could recollect, had been during the somewhat tamer fuel protests; a far cry from the current situation. But their presence was indicative of the way the thinking was going - until he’d deftly lobbed a spanner into the machinery.

  In a briefing room Addison showed Mariner, on a plan of the church, where exactly the explosion had occurred. It had taken out one whole corner of the building and the five people killed had all been clustered around seat B5; it was in the same block that Mariner would have occupied. The shock must have registered on his face.

  ‘I wouldn’t read too much into it,’ Addison cautioned. ‘The Chief Constable was to have been sitting directly in front of you.’

  Mariner scanned the diagram. ‘But he’s marked as being here, on the other side of the aisle,’ he pointed out.

  ‘A last-minute change. His wife has a slight hearing loss in one ear and asked to be positioned on the left-hand side of the amplifiers.’ Addison
reached over to another desk and produced a second plan, pointing to the seat immediately in front of Mariner’s initials. ‘This plan was operational until the morning of the service.’

  ‘What do you know about the cause of the explosion?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘The investigation is on-going.’ Addison’s response was smooth.

  ‘But you must have some idea, the quantity and type of explosive used.’

  ‘We’re getting there, yes.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We’re not ready to disclose that information yet. We’re still exploring the possibilities.’

  ‘Which are?’

  A breeze stirred the calm water. ‘I can’t tell you that either. It’s not in the public’s interest. We want to be sure, that’s all.’

  And now Mariner was making them less sure. Because, despite Addison’s dismissal, there was now a chance that this might not be an attack on the police force, but an attack on one specific individual. It was another possibility they’d have to consider.

  Addison studied the note Mariner had received.

  ‘It came through the usual postal channels?’

  Mariner confirmed with a nod. ‘The postmark is smudged but still easily recognisable as Birmingham. And it’s been tested for prints.’

  ‘I doubt that there will be any.’ Addison was confident. ‘Anyone you’ve upset recently?’ he asked, giving Mariner the distinct impression that he was being humoured.

  ‘I’m a copper. Where do you want me to start?’

  ‘What about political groups?’

  ‘I had to question members of The Right Way as part of an investigation last summer, nothing since then that I’m aware of.’ The enquiry into the disappearance and subsequent murder of Asian teenager Yasmin Akram had, for a while, put several right-wing factions under scrutiny. But not for long, and Mariner had fleetingly considered and, with equal speed, discounted them. ‘Do you think this could be them?’

  ‘You want my honest opinion? If someone was getting at you personally there are easier ways of doing it.’ Addison handed him back the letter. ‘It’s far more likely that someone who has a grudge against you has seen an opportunity in the press coverage. Anyone who reads the papers could have seen your picture and cooked this up. Didn’t you even make some comment to the effect that you should have been inside the church when the bomb went off?’

  He was right. Mariner was being paranoid. Why and how could a disaster of such magnitude have been orchestrated just for him?

  28th December

  When everything around it was torn down to make way for the International Convention Centre and Symphony Hall, the Prince of Wales, an Edwardian Grade II listed building, had been spared. The pub’s clientele had also remained loyal, comprising an eclectic combination of theatricals from the nearby Repertory Theatre and sportsmen from the county cricket ground, making it one of the few haunts in Birmingham where celeb-spotting could be a worthwhile exercise. The reason Mariner chose it as the venue to meet Dave Flynn had more to do with the extraordinarily and consistently good real ale. It was also conveniently across the road from the Hyatt where Flynn was staying.

  When Mariner arrived, Flynn, his glass almost drained, was already at the bar, in conversation with a woman. Slim and elegant, a smooth curtain of blond hair hung down her back. She moved her hand along the bar, something concealed beneath her fingers, and at that moment Flynn looked round and caught Mariner’s eye. At Flynn’s word the woman slipped off her bar-stool perch and walked out, her looks and walk somehow not quite in sync, as if the tight skirt and four-inch heel combo had been a touch overambitious.

  Mariner went over. ‘You don’t hang about,’ he observed.

  Flynn glanced out onto the street in the direction the young woman had gone. ‘Just being friendly,’ he said, but Mariner couldn’t help noticing that he’d pocketed the card. ‘It’s good to see you, Walking Man. What are you drinking? ’

  Tall and muscle-packed, Flynn had put on a bit of weight, Mariner thought, and his dark hair, always unkempt, was beginning to recede, but otherwise he’d hardly changed. ‘How are you?’

  Mariner shrugged. ‘I was one of the lucky ones. I guess it will start to feel like that at some point.’

  ‘It’s a tough call. I heard your wife was involved.’

  ‘My partner. She’s okay. Still in shock of course, but she’s all right.’

  ‘I’m glad.’ Flynn glanced around him. ‘You haven’t lost your touch anyway. This is a terrific pub,’ he said, lifting the dregs of his beer. ‘I knew I could rely on you.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’ Mariner asked. ‘The blast?’

  Flynn shook his head. ‘Let’s go and sit down, eh?’ He picked up a battered sports bag from where it squatted at his feet, and led the way to a booth in a corner of the room, where they spent a few minutes catching up on personal lives. Dave’s marriage, shaky four years ago, was now over. ‘Irreconcilable differences,’ he said. ‘Stuff we should have resolved before we got married.’ The job was the issue as Mariner remembered it, Flynn’s wife wanting more of a nine-to-five routine. Fat chance. It brought their train of thought inevitably to work.

  ‘Still a DI then?’ Flynn asked.

  ‘That conference was enough to put me off going any further,’ said Mariner. ‘How about you?’

  ‘I’ve taken a sideways shunt. I work for the Met Special Branch now.’

  Mariner was impressed. It was a bit like staying on the substitutes’ bench but moving from St Andrew’s to Stamford Bridge. ‘That must make for a more interesting life,’ he said.

  ‘I’m working on the Geoffrey Ryland case.’

  ‘Christ. Playing with the grown-ups, then.’ Mariner looked up at him. ‘Is that why you’re here? There’s a Birmingham connection?’

  ‘You could say that.’ Rummaging inside the sports bag, Flynn produced a padded envelope, which he tossed onto the table in front of Mariner. ‘And as we used to say in our school playground: “You’re it”.’ He picked up his empty glass. ‘I’ll get another drink in.’

  The envelope had been broken open and left unsealed. Mariner unfolded the flap and tipped out the contents, a pile of assorted snapshots. He picked through them with a growing feeling of disquiet. In all there must have been more than a dozen photographs of varying sizes, some black and white, some in faded colour. Most were curling at the edges with age, and on all but one the backs were annotated with numbers and dates.

  Looking up he saw that Flynn had returned to the table and set down a glass of single malt in front of him. ‘I thought you might need something a bit stronger,’ he said. ‘We thought at first that we’d uncovered Sir Geoffrey’s penchant for young boys. Then we noticed the pattern.’

  The pictures themselves were innocuous enough, but they’d made the hairs on Mariner’s neck stand on end. The main subject, the face smiling out at Mariner from all those photographs, in various stages of development, was his. Most of the shots were familiar to him, copies of those he’d seen at home over the years. Only one, of him as a newborn, was unfamiliar. The most recent was dated 1974, when he’d been fifteen and in the fourth year at grammar school. Mariner tried to come up with a logical explanation for the discovery, and could only find the one. He’d always wanted to know. There were times in his life when the desperation had been crippling. But he never expected to find out like this, out of the blue from a guy he hardly knew. His whole body felt wired, as if a few thousand volts were buzzing around his veins. Sensing that some kind of reaction was called for, Mariner somehow found his voice and forced a wry laugh. ‘Well, what do you know?’

  ‘You had no idea?’

  Mariner took a slug of the whisky in an effort to still himself. ‘Not a clue. My mother died suddenly last year and took the secret of his identity to her grave. She’d never felt that the time was right to tell me. Then all of a sudden it was too late.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Mariner shrugged, unsure of what Flynn
was sorry for.

  ‘It was bloody lucky really.’ Flynn was giving him time to try and take it in. ‘I happened to be overseeing the search of Ryland’s house and was there when one of the plods found the key to a safety deposit nobody knew he had. When it turned up these I recognised them straight away, remembered what you’d told me that night at the Drunken Duck. I can help you to arrange a DNA test, just to make sure. But I’m fucked if I can see any other reason why this guy would keep your life history in photographs hidden away, can you?’

  ‘It’s a struggle.’

  ‘And these would seem to pretty well confirm it.’ Reaching into the bag again, Flynn passed Mariner half a dozen letters bound by an elastic band. Yellowing slightly, they were written in his mother’s sloping italic hand, and among them was a programme for a promenade concert at the Albert Hall.

  ‘The Sibelius,’ Mariner said.

  ‘Significant?’

  ‘My mother’s got the same programme. I found it among her things last summer.’

  ‘They must have gone together.’

  Mariner looked again at the date. ‘She would have been pregnant with me at the time.’

  ‘Romantic.’

  Tucked inside the programme was a card, half the size of a postcard and decorated with sprigs of holly, advertising the Christmas Special at Pearl’s Café: purchase one hot drink and snack and get another free.

  ‘Nothing new under the sun,’ observed Flynn. ‘BOGOF existed even back then, or in this case POGOF. Pearl’s café must have been somewhere they met. Very Brief Encounter.’

  ‘Except that Celia Johnson wasn’t up the duff.’

  The last items, sandwiched between the letters, were a couple of press cuttings. Recent newspaper reports of cases Mariner had worked on, a photograph of him that had accompanied a piece about the death of local doctor Owen Payne a couple of years ago. ‘And all this was in a security box?’ he asked.