Written in Blood

by Collett, Chris

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘The mood swings, any aggressive outbursts.’

  ‘I’ll talk to him.’ But Anna knew that counselling would be out of the question for Tom. He didn’t believe in it.

  Allowing him space and not asking too many questions was the best thing she could do for him right now.

  Anna got back home at six in the evening and Jamie was dropped off shortly afterwards. She was disappointed that Tom hadn’t yet returned, but his walk had doubtless taken him to a pub, guaranteed to put him in a better frame of mind.

  The nausea that she’d been suffering all day had finally subsided. Seeing Tom in that state this morning, she’d wondered if it was something they’d eaten, but now she put it down to nerves. She couldn’t wait to tell Tom about the favourable result of the case conference, and about the plans she had, but she’d have to take it slowly. PTSD or not, he had a lot on his mind.

  It had been a long and exhausting day for Jamie too and for once he went to bed at a reasonable time. Her head was so full that Anna didn’t think she could sleep, but she was away almost as soon as she lay down on the pillow.

  When Anna woke at seven the next morning Jamie was still out cold and the bed beside her was empty. Tom would have gone to the cottage, where hopefully he’d be getting some sleep too. He was spending more time there at the moment than she would have liked but he’d once said that often he slept better there, so maybe it was as well. She waited until eight o’clock and then tried his land line. No reply. So the new lodger wasn’t around either. Tom had said that he hardly ever was. Money for old rope. She tried Mariner’s mobile. He didn’t answer and the disquiet which she had so easily rationalised the day before, returned.

  Anna managed to get Jamie to the centre and tried phoning Mariner again when she got in to work. She phoned him at home but he wasn’t there and he wasn’t answering his mobile. Thinking she might have missed him, she tried Granville Lane but, according to the duty sergeant, Mariner hadn’t been seen there since Monday.

  ‘Can you put me through to DC Knox please?’ Knox came on the line almost immediately. ‘Tony have you seen Tom?’

  ‘Not for a few days. Why? I thought he’d gone to the meeting with you.’

  ‘He left on his own yesterday afternoon. We had rather a heated discussion, and he wasn’t feeling well. He said he wanted some air, which for him usually means a walk. But he hasn’t been in touch since and he’s not answering the phones. I’m back at work so I’m stuck. Can you try and track him down for me?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Anna realised that she had little idea of what else Tom was working on at the moment. There was Madeleine of course, but she couldn’t be the only case. Usually he told her, but she’d been so wrapped up in what was happening to Jamie, and with Megan, that she’d barely noticed what was going on with Tom. And suddenly Gareth’s warning made her think. What if yesterday’s episode was symptomatic of something more serious? He’d seemed so dazed and out of it when he’d arrived. Suddenly she had an awful premonition and yesterday’s queasiness returned with such strength that she had to make a dash for the bathroom.

  Knox found Mariner’s car parked outside a house that was locked and empty. He let himself in with the key he’d retained from when he’d temporarily lodged with Mariner a couple of years ago, but there was nothing to see. Significantly, Mariner’s boots were still in the hall. If the boss had gone for a walk he hadn’t bothered putting them on, which was lax considering the weather. The answer machine flashed with six new messages, most from Anna, urging Mariner to get in touch. But there were also calls from Dave Flynn, Mike Baxter and someone called Fliss, whoever she was, all of them asking him to return the call right away. Apart from Flynn, Knox had never heard of these people. It was as if Mariner had a whole other life that he knew nothing about.

  As he stood there, Knox heard the muffled sound of a mobile. The only furniture in the narrow hall was a small chest of drawers that Knox knew, from his previous occupancy, was home to phone directories and whose surface was a deposit for post, loose change and other miscellany. He traced the ringing phone to the top drawer, where beside it lay a bunch of keys: those to Mariner’s house, what must be Anna’s house and the Volvo ignition key, all held together by an old and battered karabiner. What the hell were they doing there? Where could Mariner possibly have gone that he didn’t need his keys? The phone’s ringing became more insistent. Checking caller identity, the number wasn’t familiar to Knox, so out of curiosity, he took the call.

  ‘Tom, it’s Mike Baxter,’ said the caller.

  ‘Great,’ said Knox, hoping that the one word didn’t betray his accent.

  ‘Yeah, Our Lady of Lourdes took some tracking down. The building is still there, but it’s changed its name to Hollyfield Grange, and has become an upmarket health spa for the rich and famous. It’s on the web if you want to have a look,’ Baxter quoted a website address. ‘Up until thirty years ago it was a women’s retreat and adoption agency, run by the Catholic Church. The other branch of the organisation has moved and been scaled down a bit, but it still exists. Does that help at all?’

  Knox knew that once he spoke more than a few words, he’d give himself away. Might as well own up now. ‘Actually this isn’t Tom Mariner,’ he confessed. ‘I’m DC Tony Knox, a colleague of his. The DI isn’t around at the moment but I’ll make sure he gets this information. Did he tell you what it was for?’

  ‘People rarely do, I just do the digging. Tell him I hope it helps anyway. And if there’s anything else—’

  ‘Sure. Thanks.’

  Immediately Knox rang off he phoned Anna, asking her to meet him at Granville Lane.

  ‘What’s going on Tony?’

  Knox kept his tone light. ‘I can’t be certain yet. I just want to check out a couple of things.’

  Then he went back to the station and, as Charlie Glover wasn’t around, knocked on DCI Coleman’s door. ‘It’s Tom Mariner sir. Was he due down at the CPS again today?’

  ‘No, there’s no need. Things are finally moving there.’

  ‘Well, this may be nothing at all but I can’t find him.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’ said Coleman. ‘Since when?’

  ‘Anna last saw him yesterday afternoon, he said he was going back to his place. I’ve been there and his car is there but there’s no sign of him. I found these in a drawer.’ He put the keys and the phone on Coleman’s desk. ‘But there’s not much indication that he’s even been there. Goes without saying that we’ve all been a bit concerned about him lately—’

  Coleman’s PA knocked on the door. ‘Anna Barham’s here, sir.’

  ‘Show her in.’

  Anna Barham looked pale. ‘Are you all right?’ Coleman asked. ‘Would you like tea or coffee?’

  She looked as if she was going to throw up. ‘No, I’m fine, really.’

  ‘So where are we up to?’

  ‘Tom came to Jamie’s case conference yesterday,’ Anna said. ‘But he wasn’t himself. He left early, quite abruptly really, before the end. He didn’t feel well,’ she said. ‘I suggested he should go for a walk.’

  ‘Was he in the car?’

  ‘Yes, he’d found it difficult to park, it made him late.’

  ‘So he must have driven home again, but his boots were still in the hall,’ said Knox.

  ‘He left the meeting in suit and work shoes. He wouldn’t go for a walk dressed like—’ Seeing the items on the desk she broke off. ‘Those are his keys and phone. Where did you find them?’

  ‘In the hall cupboard.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make any sense. He wouldn’t go anywhere without those.’

  ‘Maybe he wasn’t planning to go far, just along the canal.’

  ‘Locking himself out?’

  Knox shared her concern, though he couldn’t tell whether Anna had worked out the one obvious reason why Mariner might have gone out without taking his keys. ‘I took a call on his mobil
e while I was there,’ he said, keeping things moving for her sake. Picking up the phone he retrieved Baxter’s number. ‘You know a guy called Mike Baxter. He wanted to talk to Tom about an adoption agency.’

  ‘Have you two been discussing adoption?’ Coleman asked.

  ‘It came up when we went to see the genetic counsellor, but I wouldn’t say we discussed it in any depth. Right now Tom’s rather sensitive about the subject of children. In fact things have been pretty tense between us just lately, what with the uncertainty over Jamie.’ She looked guilty. ‘I’ve probably been putting him under pressure too, about moving to the country.’

  ‘Throw another log on the fire,’ said Knox. ‘On top of the bomb and his dad, he must be reeling.’

  ‘His dad?’ Anna was staring at him. ‘What do you mean, Tony?’ she said uncertainly. ‘Tom doesn’t know anything about his dad. He doesn’t know who he is.’

  Knox would have given anything to rewind the last thirty seconds. ‘Oh Christ, he hasn’t told you.’

  ‘Told me what?’

  Knox hesitated.

  ‘Talk to us DC Knox,’ ordered Coleman.

  Knox shook his head, helplessly. ‘This shouldn’t be coming from me.’ But having opened his big gob, he was left with no choice. ‘The DI knows who his father was. It was what his mate Dave Flynn came up there to tell him back in December. Flynn found out by accident while working on an investigation.’ Anna and Coleman’s wide-eyed reactions couldn’t have been better synchronised. It didn’t surprise Knox that Coleman didn’t know, but he couldn’t believe that Mariner still hadn’t told Anna. He glanced towards her. ‘I know the boss was trying to find the right time to tell you. I assumed that by now he would have—’

  ‘Who is it?’ she demanded.

  ‘Not “is” but “was”. You’ll find this hard to believe.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Tom’s father was Geoffrey Ryland.’

  ‘Sir Geoffrey Ryland?’

  ‘He told me that his mother and Ryland were friends,’ Coleman spoke up.

  ‘They were more than that,’ said Knox. ‘And since he found out, the DI’s been on a mission to find out why Ryland was killed.’

  ‘But they know why Ryland was killed,’ Coleman said. ‘The papers have been full of it.’

  ‘The DI thinks they’ve got it wrong. It’s why he’s kept going off the radar. He’s been working his own investigation. He only told me about it a couple of days back.’ Knox cast Anna an apologetic look. ‘And he made me promise not to say anything. I think this guy Flynn must be involved too. There are messages on Tom’s answer machine at the cottage asking him to call Flynn back urgently.’

  Anna brightened. ‘So that’s where Tom could be now,’ she said, hopefully. ‘Somewhere out there pursuing this investigation.’

  ‘Do we have a number for this Dave Flynn?’

  Knox produced his pocketbook. ‘Him and a woman called Fliss?’ He looked to Anna for clarification, but she pulled a face.

  ‘Never heard of her. Unless she’s friend of—’ She broke off and flashed a wry smile. ‘I’ve just realised something. I overheard Tom leaving a message for someone called Maggie. He said she was connected to a current case, but last year when his mother died we met one of her old friends; Maggie. I’d bet anything it’s the same one.’

  ‘Let’s start with Flynn, see what he has to say.’ Coleman dialled the number, switching to speaker phone, to allow them all to listen in. Flynn picked up on the third ring. Coleman introduced himself and the others present. ‘We’re concerned about where DI Mariner might be. We need to know what you know, DI Flynn.’

  Flynn recounted his meetings with Mariner since December. ‘Tom was obsessed with the investigation and was sure that the team had got it wrong. He’s been convinced that O’Connor wasn’t behind the shootings, and that Ryland was the intended target. He’d got it into his head that there was some kind of conspiracy going on. He thought there was somebody after him too.’

  ‘The bomb has been explained. It—’

  ‘No,’ Flynn cut in. ‘When he was down in London there were a couple of incidents.’ Flynn relayed what Mariner had told him. ‘But the last time I spoke to him was at the inquest and he seemed to be over it.’

  ‘He had a problem with his car, too,’ Knox said. ‘The brake cable had been cut, and he found a tracking device attached.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Flynn. ‘There was a tracking device on Sir Geoffrey Ryland’s car, too. Maybe Tom was right.’

  ‘But I thought Special Branch had someone in the frame for the shootings,’ Coleman said.

  ‘They have, in that they know who it was based on motive and circumstances, but I spoke to a couple of the guys yesterday and they admitted that to date they still have no material evidence to back it up.’

  ‘So it’s altogether possible that they could be wrong and DI Mariner could be right.’

  Flynn was reluctant to admit it. ‘As far-fetched as it sounds, yes.’

  ‘And now Mariner’s disappeared.’

  ‘When he was interviewed by Thames Valley police he told them that he thought Ryland might have another illegitimate child, who Ryland had refused to help through the JRC, but they’ve spoken to him and he’s as clean as a whistle. Turns out he’d been brought up to believe that he was Ryland’s son, but his mother had lied about it. Sir Geoffrey offered to take a paternity test, so the guy gave up on it.’

  ‘So who does it leave us with?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Ella on reception buzzed up to Coleman. ‘There’s a lady here who wants to talk to DI Mariner, but I can’t locate him. She insists that it’s urgent she speak to him. Do you want me to pass her on to someone else?’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Felicity Fitzgibbon.’

  ‘Fliss,’ said Knox and Anna as one.

  When Mariner opened his eyes it was to darkness so absolute that there seemed little discernible difference from having them closed. He blinked a bit to try and clear his vision, straining to distinguish some kind of form or shadow but there was nothing, only black obscurity. He was lying face down on hard ground, so cold that it stung his cheek. He must have fallen. He remembered lifting his key to put in the door and then nothing. But where was the street light, and where was his house?

  Disorientated now, he wondered if he was back in the Cathedral. If the last few weeks had been an elaborate hallucination and that he’d been in the church when the bomb went off after all. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe this was what death was like and he’d be like this for an eternity. Slowly he became aware of his body. Though his limbs were stiff he found that he could move them and the oppressive black blanket that pressed down on him was only empty space. Dead air.

  He tried twisting his head to look around him, but shooting pains stabbed the backs of his eyes and the vice that seemed to grip his skull tightened, as if it was squeezing out his brain bit by bit. The slightest movement made him want to retch. A pounding like a drumbeat in his head came and went at intervals; the blood pumping through his ears. The back of his head tingled and he lifted a hand to touch something tacky, his hair matted. Blood. He must have hit his head when he fell. But where was he, and how had he got here?

  Something pricked at his senses, reminding him of childhood; of winter Sunday teatimes sitting with his mother by the fire. At last he identified it. It was the coalscuttle. He could smell the coalscuttle. But that was impossible. It was in the house in Leamington, except it wasn’t even there any more. After his mother died, the house had been sold, the contents cleared. The thoughts were making his head hurt more. He let them go.

  Mariner’s mouth was parched, but perversely he needed to pee. God he needed to pee, so much that he was hard and aching. A bit of him was inclined to just let it happen, put up with the discomfort. Too much effort to do anything else. But something stopped him. He raised his head, resurrecting the agonising hammering on his skull. Pausing to let it settle,
he tried again, and bit by bit managed to inch himself to a sitting position. As he moved his legs, something rattled on his right ankle; he reached down to feel a cold steel band a couple of inches wide clamped round it, and attached by a thick bolt to a heavy-duty chain. He felt along it as far as he could reach, but every link was smooth and sound. In the absence of any tools it was indestructible. He was being held prisoner, but who was his captor?

  He returned to his original aim. Each time he moved was like shaking up one of those snow storms in his head. Putting out his hands to push himself up to his knees, he retched again, a violent spasm that came deep from his gut. But he hadn’t eaten for hours, maybe even days, and only sour gastric juices burned in his throat. Eventually he was on his feet. White lights flashed behind his eyes and he almost blacked out again with the effort. Something crunched underfoot as pushing off from the icy wall he shuffled to the limits of his bonds, unzipped his fly and emptied his bladder with painful relief.

  He moved back towards the wall, weakness overtaking him, and sank down again onto the ground. In a rush, he remembered Anna. This was his fault of course. He’d made it happen. Forty-odd years of not being on the receiving end and now he’d screwed up his chance of being a father. It was like one of those dreams he used to have as a kid, stepping out to play at Villa Park only to find that he’d forgotten his football boots so spent the duration of the match, and the dream, fruitlessly searching for them, the opportunity for glory cruelly stolen. This was his punishment for walking out on Anna at the meeting. They’d planned it but he still wasn’t sure, couldn’t embrace the idea. He was afraid of it and now he’d pushed it away.

  Something that Anna had said kept coming back to him: ‘I’d love to be able to say that. That’s my daughter - or son. My son. Tom and Anna’s son.’ It had seemed important at the time but he couldn’t identify why. Then the fog rolled in immersing him again.

  Jack Coleman’s office was becoming cramped now that Felicity Fitzgibbon had joined the party.