Written in Blood Page 20

  Mariner had handled enough cases over the years in which the stakes were lower, and as a long-term drug user, Foster-Young would be prone to paranoia, even schizophrenia. The modus operandi also made sense. The assassinations were too clean and neat for a disorganised mind, but while serving time Foster-Young would have mixed with the kinds of people who’d be skilled at the short, sharp hit and could stage it to look like a drugs-related shooting, though it would have hurt to waste those few crumbs of heroin. In the space of a few short hours Mariner had shifted from eliminating Foster-Young as a suspect, to realising that he was looking more like a contender.

  A picture was attached to the fax, and the face that stared out at Mariner bore all the signs of substance abuse. Rupert Foster-Young was as Helena had described him: his pale, hollowed-out face was framed by longish, lank hair and half concealed by a straggling beard. All in all, he was in a bit of a state. Maggie had described Carrie Foster-Young as the antithesis of Diana Fitzgibbon, implying that Rupert Foster-Young had lacked stability in his early life. There but for the grace of God, thought Mariner.

  The final sheet was a record of the calls Foster-Young had made to the Commission. They ended eighteen months ago, coinciding almost exactly with the start of those mystery payments. Rupert Foster-Young had found a more lucrative way of putting pressure on Sir Geoffrey Ryland.

  ‘Who is he?’ Anna had come into the room and was looking over Mariner’s shoulder.

  ‘The possible suspect in a murder enquiry.’

  ‘Madeleine?’

  ‘No.’ Mariner hesitated. ‘Something I’m only partly involved in.’

  ‘He looks old.’ She half smiled. ‘And now you’re going to say he’s only twenty-five but he’s had a hard life.’

  ‘He’s a junkie.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Mariner was thinking of the baby photo. ‘How does a tiny innocent child get to end up like this?’

  ‘All sorts of reasons. In your line of work, you know that more than anyone.’ She put her hands on his shoulders and was gently massaging them. It felt good.

  ‘It’s such a huge fucking responsibility though isn’t it, bringing a child into the world? So much can happen if you get it wrong as a parent.’

  ‘You just have to do the best you can. Millions of people have kids, but they don’t necessarily have them in ideal circumstances. Look at you and me. Neither of us had what you’d call a conventional upbringing but our parents must have done something right.’

  ‘It was touch and go some of the time.’

  ‘But you kept it together. And you come across plenty who have had it all, but still end up like this guy. For all you know he may have had a perfect childhood.’ She was right. There were plenty of Rupert Foster-Youngs in the world and they hadn’t all had a rough start. It was all too easy to blame it on the parents.

  ‘But even if you do a half-decent job there’s the outside world to contend with.’

  Anna stopped massaging. ‘Chloe Evans,’ she said.

  ‘And Yasmin Akhtar, and Ricky Skeet.’ The two teenagers who’d been brutally murdered the summer before. ‘Their parents are good people but they still ended up going through hell. Why does anyone put themselves through that?’

  ‘Because the bonuses far outweigh the risks. If you spent some time with Becky, Mark and Megan you’d see that.’

  She slid her hands inside his shirt and down over his chest, hugging him to her, and making his lower belly begin to tingle. ‘I know you’re anxious about all this but there’s no need. Those other kids, they’re the exceptions. Just because you see the worst side of life doesn’t mean it’s all like that, does it?’

  ‘I just don’t know if I’ll measure up.’

  Leaning over him she reached down further, running her hands over his crotch. ‘Oh I think you measure up all right,’ she murmured in his ear, swinging the chair round til they faced each other. She knelt down in front of him, her face level with his lap and slid her hands along his thighs, causing him to draw breath. The sound of intermittent applause from the TV floated up the stairs.

  ‘Look there’s something I need to tell you,’ Mariner said, and that was when there was an ear-splitting crash from downstairs.

  Sometimes they just never knew why Jamie did it. Could be something the TV presenter said, could be that the video jumped, but what ever it was, it had upset him enough to pick up the coffee table and throw it at the set. They’d forgotten it could happen. By the time they’d cleared up the mess and Jamie had been dispatched to his room the moment had passed. So Mariner still hadn’t told her, but maybe that was for the best. It would be more complete when he’d solved the case.

  Lying in bed much later, Mariner realised that he was merely speculating based on what little he knew. He had to find out what had happened to Carrie-Foster Young, and the one person who might be able to help would be Eleanor Ryland.

  ‘Tom?’ So Anna was awake too.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is there something going on that I should know about?’

  Christ, where do I start? ‘Only the usual crap. Nothing for you to concern yourself with.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ And he was so wrapped up in his own adventures that it never occurred to him that he should ask her the same question. He rolled over and began nuzzling her neck, pressing himself against her hip. At first she resisted with a sleepy moan, but nonetheless put her arms round him and drew him on top of her. And miraculously this time his body didn’t let him down.

  Perhaps Anna was right. A move to the country could be good for all of them and maybe he should start thinking about a family, too. Was there ever going to be a right time for that? Whatever their differences might be, he didn’t want to lose her.

  After making love, Mariner’s breathing settled into a rhythmic pattern, but Anna couldn’t sleep. Propped on an elbow she studied the contours of his face in the half-light. She could only really see his profile, the detail of his features were masked by the shadows, much the same as he was. Many of his thoughts and ambitions she knew intimately, but there were always parts of his being that remained unreachable and indistinct. She’d thought it was a matter of time, and that eventually those elements would emerge, but lately she felt more than ever that there was so little she understood about him and what he wanted from life.

  Once on a family holiday, Dad had taken Eddie and her fishing. After hours of boring inactivity, Anna had finally got a bite and the contest to reel in the fish began. At first the creature came easily, openly, before suddenly jerking back and shrinking away into the murky obscurity of the water, pulling part of the line with it, and each time she had to start again, until finally the fish was near enough for her to land it in the net. She’d never come close to landing Tom. It had been worse since St Martin’s, of course it had, but she didn’t kid herself that it was anything new. It was something she’d always found attractive; that sense of something deeper and darker lurking beneath the surface. But whatever had happened in the church had affected him.

  He’d become increasingly remote over the last few weeks, disappearing for days at a time. It wasn’t wilful, this cutting her out of his life, it was simply how he was. Immersing himself in work was his coping strategy. And she’d known for a long time that he didn’t take easily to change. But she was beginning to wonder if they had a strong enough foundation on which to build a future. They’d reached a watershed. Soon she would have to decide if she wanted to always be here when he chose to come back, or if she should go her own way.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday morning was crisp and clear and once more Anna woke to an empty bed. Putting on her robe she went downstairs to the lounge. Tom was talking on the phone, leaving what was obviously an answer-machine message. ‘Hi, Maggie, it’s Tom Mariner. Just a couple more things I wanted to ask. If you could call me back that would be great.’ He left his mobile number and hung up.

  ‘Who’s Maggie?’
>
  He seemed unable to meet her eye. ‘She’s helping on a case.’

  ‘The drug addict?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a Saturday,’ Anna pointed out, knowing that she was being provocative.

  ‘She’s a therapist, works all hours.’ Although calm, he hadn’t liked the challenge and she knew what was coming next. ‘I feel as if I need to stretch my legs today. Is that okay?’

  What came out of Anna’s mouth was, ‘Sure,’ though a swell of disappointment coursed through her. Here we go again. Well, two could play at that game. ‘Actually, I’ve got plans too,’ she added, coming to a quick decision. ‘I think I’ll take Jamie over to see Becky and Mark, as he’s with us at the moment.’

  ‘Is that wise, Jamie and a baby in the same house?’

  She’d surprised him. Good.

  ‘It’ll be good for him. And it’s a big house. The properties out there are much bigger for the money.’ A point well made Anna felt, but she said it with an artful smile to show that she was winding him up. ‘It’ll only be overnight and Becky and Mark already know Jamie. They’d like Megan to get to know him too.’ She was working hard to justify her actions. ‘And Becky’s been great support, she’s a good listener.’

  ‘And I’m not?’ He recoiled slightly as if she’d physically slapped him.

  ‘You’ve been through it too,’ she added, regretting the inference. ‘Becky’s in a position to be more detached.’

  She’d only come back a couple of days before and it would have been reasonable for Mariner to object, but he didn’t, and the main thing Anna saw in his face was relief. So that’s the way it was.

  ‘Okay then,’ he said.

  ‘Okay.’

  It had been a strange conversation, Mariner thought, setting off on his journey to Wythinford. He’d left Anna packing again, for her and Jamie this time. He couldn’t work out why she’d made what was obviously a spur of the moment decision, but by the time he was parking up he’d pushed it to the back of his mind.

  Even in chilly January a smattering of tourists were milling the pavements of the Cotswold town, perusing the craft and antique shops, the occasional snatch of an American accent heard. It was still early and there was only one other customer in the Lygon Arms, the kind of guy who’d always be the first in at opening time because he had nowhere else to be. With the absence of anyone serving behind the bar either, Mariner’s heart sank.

  ‘Lovely day for it,’ said the man, predictably opening the conversation, observing Mariner’s walking gear.

  ‘Yes,’ Mariner nodded politely, by which time the barman had thankfully appeared to take his order, but there was a further wait while the beer was drawn.

  ‘Which way are you headed?’ the conversationalist persisted.

  ‘I haven’t yet decided,’ Mariner lied. ‘Probably west.’ He was being deliberately vague.

  ‘Ah. You’re not local, are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, may I recommend that if you’re out that way—’

  ‘I’m fine, really, thanks,’ said Mariner as the barman produced his pint of Old Hooky. With some relief Mariner handed over the right money and could retreat to a corner table to study his map uninterrupted. He’d already noted that there was a public footpath from the village into the next town that went close to Eleanor’s house, skirting the side of her property.

  It was a beautiful day. Frosty grass crunched under Mariner’s boots and low sunlight pierced the hedge branches, casting a giant bar-code shadow onto the footpath. It was the middle of the afternoon as he approached The Manse which was bathed in a buttery sunshine. The track brought him directly to the side of the garden where the fence gave way to a stile. Entering this way he could avoid the journalists, but as he got nearer he saw that they had gone anyway.

  He climbed over the stile and walked across the front of the house to the main door. Except for the birdsong it was completely silent. Eleanor seemed pleased to see him, giving him a bony hug, and Nelson welcomed him like a long lost friend. Being greeted by a family member was a warm experience and a rare one that Mariner had long forgotten. He and his mother hadn’t been on those terms for years.

  ‘You’ve lost your vultures then,’ Mariner remarked, taking off his boots in the porch before going into the house.

  ‘The reporters?’ Eleanor shook her head. ‘Oh they’ll be back. I think they go to the pub for lunch. The landlord at the Lygon must be doing a roaring trade.’

  ‘Not when I was in there,’ Mariner said.

  There was no Janet at the weekends, but Eleanor made him tea, waving away his offer to help, and they sat overlooking the terrace at the back of the garden where a large bird table offered refreshment for all kinds of species.

  ‘I love to watch the birds,’ she said. ‘Except for those wretched magpies that get everywhere, stealing and bullying their way in.’

  Speaking of which. ‘Do you remember a girl Sir Geoffrey was once engaged to, Carrie Foster-Young?’

  Eleanor smiled. ‘Oh yes. She was the one who broke Geoffrey’s heart. She was a very sweet girl but . . .’ She paused, searching for the right word. ‘Flighty,’ she said, at last. ‘Yes; flighty, and very energetic.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Had her own room when she stayed here, but we couldn’t very well prevent Geoffrey from going to her during the night. She and Geoffrey were what these days you’d call “an item” for nearly two years. I think he might have even married her, but she didn’t believe in it, so she said. She was American you know, more for living together. It was all the rage then.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘They had a big falling-out. I never really knew what it was about. It happened quite suddenly and there seemed no question of reconciliation. Geoffrey was seriously considering going into politics at that point so thank God for Diana. She was far more suitable to be an MP’s wife and came along just at the right time. She and Geoffrey had so much in common. They were made for each other. I have to admit that Charles and I were somewhat relieved.’ Her eyes clouded over. ‘Poor, poor Diana.’

  ‘She didn’t suffer,’ Mariner said, thinking back to what he knew of the crime. ‘Death would have been instantaneous for both of them. She probably knew nothing about it.’ Although those last few seconds would have been the longest and most terrifying of her life. ‘Do you know what happened to Carrie?’

  ‘It was rather sad. Geoffrey told me once, some years later, that he’d bumped into her and she was a drug addict. In some ways I wasn’t really very surprised. There was always an unusual smell in the house after she’d been, though at the time I hadn’t a clue what it was.’

  ‘Did Carrie ever have any children?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Eleanor shook her head. ‘After they went their separate ways Geoffrey only mentioned her on that one occasion and if what he said was true, then I rather hope that she didn’t. It’s no life to bring a child into.’

  ‘Is there anyone who would know for sure?’

  ‘I suppose Norman might know.’

  Of course, Norman Balfour, the university chum who went on to be Ryland’s best man.

  ‘He’s a lovely boy, full of mischief.’

  Mariner smiled. Probably not such a boy now.

  ‘Have you any idea where I might find Norman?’

  But she didn’t. Hadn’t seen him for years, either. But Mariner was hopeful. Maggie hadn’t come back to him yet. She may not know anything much about Carrie Foster-Young, but she’d heard from Norman Balfour only a year or two back so would probably know his wherabouts. And hadn’t she said he was a Catholic priest? There couldn’t be many of those with the same name.

  ‘You’ll stay for dinner?’ Eleanor said. ‘It’s only cold cuts that Janet’s left me but there’s enough for two of us.’

  ‘I ought to be getting back. I’ve left my car in the village and walked here. I should go before it gets dark.’

  It was only half past three but already the light was fading a
s Mariner set off across the fields. There was still no activity at the gate though he thought he could see at least one vehicle parked in the shadows. Christ, what an excruciatingly boring job. Those reporters had to be dedicated.

  Mariner spent most of the next day surfing the Net, trying to establish what had become of Carrie Foster-Young. He got plenty of hits on genealogy sites, Foster-Youngs from all over the world trying to trace lost relatives, but none of them the one he wanted. Mid-evening, Maggie phoned him back. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering about some of the people my father knew, particularly Carrie Foster-Young.’

  ‘I don’t know much I’m afraid, only what I’ve already told you.’

  ‘Do you know if she had a child?’

  ‘She didn’t when I knew her, but the way she put it about, I wouldn’t be surprised. When she and Geoff split up she disappeared pretty quickly off the scene, and it was years ago, anything could have happened since then.’

  ‘You said you’d heard from Norman Balfour. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Yes, he’s the diocesan priest at St Dunstan’s Church in north London. Why do you want to speak to him?’

  ‘Everybody tells me he was one of my father’s closest friends.’

  But Maggie wasn’t easily fooled. ‘This still personal?’ ‘Pretty much. It may be nothing at all.’

  ‘And how are you doing?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You and Anna have talked?’

  ‘We’ve started to.’ Loosely speaking it was the truth.

  ‘Well, keep doing it.’

  ‘We will.’ But talking wasn’t what he had in mind.

  Anna returned with Jamie later that evening, but her embrace was stiff and unyielding. Jamie, worn out by the travelling, crashed out in record time and she came down from the shower a little after that, while Mariner was watching a film on TV. Standing in the doorway she looked tiny and vulnerable in the way that she had when they first met, and Mariner felt a rush of love for her that made his eyes water. He must try harder. When she came and sat beside him, taking his hand in hers and smelling of soap and shampoo, he flicked off the sound on the TV and slid an arm round her drawing her close to him, a tiny fragile bird. ‘Good time?’ he asked.