Written in Blood

by Collett, Chris

  Joseph O’Connor had lived in a drab council maisonette on the sort of estate that required constant police presence.

  Having already gleaned the street name from the newspaper piece, Mariner had got the house number from the electoral register. He rang the bell, a background beat of reggae music bouncing around the stairwell from the flat next door. There was no reply. He was just considering his next move when a woman appeared at the end of the walkway, weighed down by two Netto carrier bags. Certain he recognised her from the press photograph, Mariner moved swiftly away from the door and stepped out of sight to watch her go in, just to make sure. He gave her a few minutes in the house before he went back and tried the doorbell again.

  Close to, Sharon O’Connor was a pretty woman, made youthful by black ringlets that fell to her shoulders, and green eyes framed by thick, dark lashes.

  ‘I wonder if I could talk to you about your husband,’ Mariner said. He hadn’t really thought through what he’d do if she was hostile towards him, he’d have to make it up as he went along. On this unofficial visit he’d hoped to avoid using his warrant card, though doubtless it would have got him in without question, as it had with Eleanor Ryland. Sharon O’Connor must have had a whole procession of police officers ringing her doorbell over the last few weeks. One more wouldn’t make much difference. But in the event creativity wasn’t called for; only the simplest of white lies.

  ‘Are you a reporter?’ Asked more from curiosity than concern. And she could be forgiven that assumption. Today he looked more reporter than copper in khakis and reefer jacket.

  ‘No. My name is Tom Mariner, I’m Sir Geoffrey Ryland’s nephew. I’m trying to make sense of what happened that night.’

  ‘Well I’m glad that at last somebody is. I get sick of reading all the bullshit in the papers. Come in.’ The Northern Irish accent was still strong.

  Compared with the outside environment, the inside of the O’Connors’ flat was immaculate, but then Mariner recalled that O’Connor had been a painter and decorator by trade. Over the fireplace and on the pure white walls of the living room there were photos of O’Connor, Sharon and their children in happier times. The kids must be back at school, the holidays over.

  Mariner followed her through to the kitchen where she’d begun unpacking the bags, transferring packets and tubs to the fridge.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs O’Connor. It must be hard.’

  ‘It’s not so bad as you might think,’ Sharon O’Connor said, candidly. ‘Joseph spent quite a lot of time working away over the years, so I had got used to managing on my own. I’ve got a cleaning job at the offices of an insurance company. Doesn’t pay well, but we have a laugh, the girls and me. They’ve been great since Joseph . . . you know. Sometimes for a few seconds I even forget he’s dead. The thing I miss most is the car. I never learned to drive.’ She stopped what she was doing. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it?’

  ‘You’re just being pragmatic.’

  ‘Am I?’ She smiled. ‘I might if I knew what that meant. She shut the fridge door. ‘The rest can wait. Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She nodded back towards the living room. ‘Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll be with you in a jiffy.’

  Minutes later she brought in two mugs, eyeing Mariner closely as she passed one to him. Maybe she could see the likeness too. ‘Were you close to your uncle?’

  ‘Not really. I’m doing this on behalf of my grandmother, Eleanor Ryland. What did you mean about the Press? Doesn’t sound as if they’re your favourite people.’

  She was resigned. ‘They write such crap. Joseph was never into drugs in the first place, and if you knew him you’d understand that. They keep saying the shootings were his fault because he’d gone back to his criminal ways, but Joseph never had any criminal ways.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  She gave him the kind of hard stare that indicated how tough she could be. ‘I’m his wife.’ Not ‘was’ but ‘am’. ‘The only mistake Joseph made, years ago, was to make friends with the wrong people. He was too trusting.’

  ‘How did he get involved?’

  She stared into her mug. ‘The simplest way in the world. We’d just moved over here from Ireland. Joseph was keen to get established. Someone gave him the name of a fella that he said might put some work Joseph’s way.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Man called Terry Brady. He owned a few amusement arcades locally and wanted them doing up. Someone had told him that Joseph did a good job, and they were right. He was conscientious and a good worker. After a bit Brady asked him to do his house, too. It’s a big place somewhere out in the country, then he started offering Joseph other work, errands and things.’

  ‘Errands?’

  ‘Joseph had an old Transit. Sometimes he helped out with moving machines, that sort of thing. The money was decent for easy work so he’d have been stupid to turn it down. Sometimes he collected cash for them from the arcades. They gave him a big cash box that Joseph gave to the arcade managers. They’d disappear and put in the takings, bring it back to Joseph and he’d drive it over to Brady’s for banking. Sometimes it was a lot of money so of course they told him to be careful. When Joseph got stopped by the police it was a real shock. He had no idea.’

  ‘He didn’t know that he was carrying fifty thousand pounds’ worth of heroin?’ Mariner said.

  ‘Of course not. All he did was pick up the box for Brady as usual. He’d no idea that this time there were drugs in it. He hadn’t a clue that Brady was involved with that shite.’

  Sharon O’Connor was either incredibly naïve or loyal to her late husband. She didn’t strike Mariner as being naïve.

  ‘I know that’s what he said to begin with, but then he changed his mind and pleaded guilty to possession with intent to supply. What happened there?’

  ‘He was scared. Joseph was skilled with his hands and he was a sweet, kind man, but he wasn’t clever, and he sometimes had trouble at the best of times finding the right words. It wouldn’t take long for anyone to tie him in knots. And Marvin Jackson had been released without charge, so Joseph was the one left holding the baby.’

  ‘Marvin Jackson?’

  ‘Brady’s associate. He was in the van with Joseph. He was arrested but because he wasn’t driving he’d told the police he was just along for the ride and they must have swallowed it. They told Joseph that admitting to the charge would be better for him in the long run and he trusted them. I was pregnant with our Kieran at the time. Joseph would have done anything if he thought it would get him out of there quicker. You should have seen the state he was in. Being in police custody was killing him.’

  What she said tied in with what Mariner read about the appeal: along comes Sir Geoffrey Ryland and proves that O’Connor had been traumatised by the whole experience and his confession elicited while he was under severe stress. He had been coerced.

  ‘Joseph was set up.’ Sharon O’Connor drank the dregs of her coffee. ‘Sir Geoffrey promised us that he’d get the bastards who did it, and that they’d get what was coming to them. He said he’d make sure of it. And now it won’t happen, will it?’

  She was probably right. ‘Did Joseph agree to do anything to help, like testify against Jackson?’

  ‘With what? At the time he had no idea what was going on. When Sir Geoffrey got Joseph’s conviction overturned he wanted to put all that behind him. Prison terrified him so he steered well clear of trouble. That’s why it’s so ridiculous to think that Joseph would have got involved in anything this time around.’

  ‘The police have a witness who says he saw Joseph talking to Brady only a few days before the shooting.’

  ‘There was nothing to stop Brady talking to Joseph, was there? The man drinks in the same pub. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’

  ‘So Joseph couldn’t have got involved in anything else?’

  ‘When he got the job as Sir Geoffrey’s driv
er he had too much to lose.’

  ‘How did he get the job?’

  ‘After Joseph was released, Sir Geoffrey phoned him up and asked him if he’d like to do it, as long as he passed all the security checks.’

  ‘And did Joseph like it?’

  ‘He loved it. Sir Geoffrey Ryland saved Joseph’s life. He wouldn’t have done anything to put him at risk.’

  ‘The papers hinted that you were in financial difficulty. Is that true?’

  She glared. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve. We may have overstretched a bit on the kids’ Christmas presents, but doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘Where did Joseph first meet Terry Brady?’

  ‘In the Sentinel, at the end of the road. Like I said, we had just moved here and the work wasn’t coming in as Joseph would have liked. He needed a job.’ Her voice caught and for the first time her vulnerability began to show through. ‘Now that was a conversation I wish he’d never had.’ There was a box of tissues next to where Mariner sat. He passed it across to her.

  1910, the date carved in a brick above the door of the Sentinel, meant that the pub had stood guard over the street through several reincarnations, surviving the Blitz and postwar redevelopment. Fluorescent posters in the windows boasted steak lunches for £3.50 and a quiz night every Tuesday. Inside, the pub had not resisted change so well.

  What would originally have been a series of small snugs had been knocked into one cheerless barn of a room with wide screen TV, fruit machines and a dartboard at one end, making it almost identical to thousands of city pubs across the country and a dismal, soulless place. The beer was all keg too, Mariner noted, so he settled on a bottle of Newcastle Brown.

  ‘I was looking for a man called Terry Brady,’ Mariner said to the barman, whose occupation flowed over the waistband of his jeans. ‘I was told I might find him in here?’

  ‘You’re a bit late, chum. He moved out a while back.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  ‘Spain. He’s got a villa out there. He occasionally comes back, but not very often.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘December time, just before Christmas.’ And just before the shootings.

  ‘Are you the landlord?’

  ‘It’s my name over the door.’

  ‘Did you know Joseph O’Connor, too?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Have you any idea who it was told the police that Brady and O’Connor were in here shortly before Joseph O’Connor was killed?’

  ‘It was me.’ He was proud of it.

  ‘Do you have any idea what they talked about?’

  ‘Oh, they didn’t talk. They weren’t even in here together for very long; ten minutes tops. They were both in my pub on the same night, that’s all.’

  ‘So they didn’t actually meet?’

  ‘Not that I saw. O’Connor left shortly after Brady arrived.’ Which put an entirely different slant on things.

  ‘And that’s what you told the police?’

  ‘Course it is.’ Uncertainty kicked in. ‘What is this? You a reporter? Why do you want to know?’

  ‘No, I’m not a reporter, I’m just interested, that’s all.’

  Mariner swallowed the last couple of mouthfuls of his beer and left the pub. From outside he phoned Flynn.

  ‘Can I come and see you?’

  ‘In London?’

  ‘I’m here anyway.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  Good question. ‘We’ve got a murder on our patch, possible suspect an Albanian, except he’s disappeared back home. We’re looking at an extradition.’ All perfectly true.

  Flynn was wary. ‘You couldn’t sort it out on the phone?’ ‘You know, sometimes it’s easier to do these things face to face. Anyway, while I’m here I thought I might like to sample life in the fast lane - Special Branch.’

  ‘Oh sure. I’ll need to give you the password, though.’

  ‘Password?’

  ‘Yeah. The entrance to HQ is a disguised manhole cover to the left of Trafalgar Square tube station. You’ll need to knock four times, two short, two long then give the code word, then you’ll be admitted to our underground complex.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha.’

  ‘I’m in an office block on Bramhall Street, Vauxhall, behind the Prudential building.’

  ‘As you can see, this is where the glamour is.’ Mariner was sitting across the desk from Flynn in an office remarkably like his own at Granville Lane, only Flynn’s was a generation younger, with an outlook over the solid concrete wall of the building next door.

  ‘So how’s it going, the Ryland thing?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘It’s going okay.’ Flynn was watching him expectantly. ‘How’s it going for you - the Ryland thing?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You went to see his mother.’

  Mariner should have known that on a high-profile case like this it would have been noticed. ‘My grandmother, yes I did. I wanted to talk to her.’

  ‘It’s not a good idea.’

  ‘She recognised me.’ Mariner couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘According to her, Ryland referred to me as recently as a month ago. It’s made me wonder why he’d do that. That perhaps he was in trouble or knew something was going to happen.’

  ‘Or maybe it’s just a coincidence. He was getting older. He’d just published his memoirs. Perhaps that churned up a few memories. Don’t let’s get carried away.’

  ‘Anyway, the point is, that neither Sharon O’Connor nor Eleanor Ryland think that the killings were down to Joseph O’Connor.’

  ‘Sharon O’Connor? What do you know about her?’

  ‘Only what she’s told me. She claims that he never was involved with anything that he could go back to.’

  ‘And as his wife, her view must be totally objective and unbiased. How the hell did you track her down?’

  ‘Her address was given in early news report from when O’Connor was released. It’s there for anyone to see. A quick check with the electoral roll and—’

  Flynn’s voice tightened. ‘You have been busy.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘It’s just - I’m in a difficult position here. This is my first big case—’ Flynn looked as if he was regretting passing on those photos.

  ‘And you don’t want me getting in the way. I won’t. I just find it interesting. Like it or not, thanks to you, Ryland is part of my life now. But don’t worry, Sharon O’Connor doesn’t even know I’m a copper.’

  ‘You told her you’re Ryland’s son?’

  ‘Couldn’t quite bring myself to do that. I said nephew.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And for the record the O’Connors were not in financial difficulty.’

  Flynn shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘You think there’s more to this than meets the eye too, don’t you?’ Mariner said.

  ‘I told you. The chauffeur’s being followed up by others. I’ve just been asked to make sure there are no skeletons in the Ryland closet.’

  ‘Like me.’

  ‘Like you.’

  ‘Are you sure I’m the only one?’

  ‘Haven’t found any others yet.’

  ‘So the guy really was squeaky clean. That’ll be a first for a politician.’

  Flynn stood up. ‘Let’s go and get some lunch. There’s a good little bar just round the corner.’

  They went to a Spanish tapas bar that served passable continental lager.

  ‘You’ve got doubts, haven’t you?’ Mariner persisted.

  ‘We need to get this clear. I had them Tom, that’s all. At the start there seemed to be a steer in the direction of the chauffeur. It just seemed a little unusual. But then when I looked, I could see why. There’s plenty of evidence from the scene that says O’Connor was the target.’

  ‘And?

  ‘Nothing we’ve seen yet indicates otherwise.’

  ‘Despite a lifelong
history of political agitation and years of confrontation with the government over the JRC, you really don’t think Sir Geoffrey Ryland had his enemies?’

  ‘Of course he did, in the same way that all politicians have enemies, but not the kind who’d put a bullet in his head in the dead of night on a quiet country road. There is no grassy knoll in Cheslyn Woods.’

  ‘But you said it yourself, the search of his house was delayed. You don’t think that’s weird?’

  ‘It was delayed, that’s all. We’ve no reason to think anything had been touched in the interim. Anyway, I’m not paid to think about the whys and wherefores. I’ve been given a very specific brief. And if you think about it, it all makes perfect political sense.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Ryland was the government’s champion of fair play. The last thing they want is to have his good name tarnished in any way after his death. And everyone makes mistakes, however good they are.’

  Mariner pounced. ‘What kind of mistakes?’

  ‘I’m not being specific. You know how it is. After a famous figure dies there’s nothing the red tops love more than to dig up some dirt, especially to prove that the deceased wasn’t such a shining example after all. Then, half the time, you find out that the muck is being spread by the other side, taking another chance to prove that this government isn’t what it claims to be. I’m talking generally here. All I’ve been asked to do is check what there is and pass on any information.’

  ‘Have you passed me on?’

  ‘I had to.’

  ‘So that if I go public on it they’ll be prepared.’

  ‘I hardly think news of your existence is going to threaten the stability of the government, do you?’

  ‘And you really think that’s the only reason you’re looking into Ryland?’

  ‘Yes I do. So let it drop, will you?’

  ‘You brought me into this, remember? What did you expect? “Thanks for telling me, now I’ve got a name to put on my marriage certificate, should I ever need to”? All I’m doing is trying to find out more about the old man I didn’t know until he was dead. You can’t blame me for that.’