Written in Blood Read online

  Chapter Sixteen

  The following morning Mariner got to the inquest minutes before the proceedings opened. As expected there was a high level of security and a large official representation, for what, as it turned out, was something of a non-event.

  Mariner took a seat in the public gallery, nodding an acknowledgement to Sharon O’Connor who seemed to have come with a considerable entourage of family and friends. It saddened Mariner that the one person conspicuous in her absence was Eleanor Ryland, but that aside he felt detached, as if he was here in a professional rather than a personal capacity. Dave Flynn sat below with the police contingent, but the main body of evidence was presented by Chief Superintendent Caroline Griffin, tall imposing and ridiculously young. Several lines of enquiry were being pursued, she informed the court, including the recent past history of Joseph O’Connor. It seemed that the fact that his original sentence had been quashed was being conveniently overlooked. He’d been involved with ‘the wrong people’ before so it could happen again and Terry Brady had helpfully left the country so was not available to deny it.

  There were several points at which Mariner expected Sharon O’Connor to shout out in protest, and if she had he’d have been tempted to join in. But she simply sat quietly, shaking her head in disbelief. Under Section 20 of the Coroner’s Act the inquest was adjourned pending further enquiries, but the coroner agreed to release the bodies for burial.

  Flynn caught up with Mariner in the lobby melee. ‘I’ve brought you a present.’ He passed over a brown envelope. ‘Don’t say I never give you anything.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Mariner felt unnaturally calm. This envelope contained only confirmation of what he now knew was almost certainly true.

  ‘You’re not going to open it?’ said Flynn.

  ‘Somewhere more private,’ said Mariner, pocketing it. ‘I’m pretty sure it won’t be a surprise.’ Part of him wanted to talk to Flynn about the last few days, but he decided against it, considering the reception Flynn had given his other theories. Better to have some concrete evidence first. From the corner of his eye he saw Norman Balfour affectionately greeting a woman. Flynn was watching too. ‘Who’s that talking to the priest?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘Sir Geoffrey’s sister-in-law, Felicity Fitzgibbon.’

  ‘The one who lives in Switzerland?’

  ‘That’s right. Your aunt I suppose, technically.’

  ‘Technically.’

  At first glance Felicity Fitzgibbon was very different from her sister and although approaching her sixties was every inch the exotic continental. Petite and slim with shoulder-length ash-blond hair, she was exquisitely dressed in what looked like beige cashmere.

  ‘A stunner,’ Mariner observed. ‘She here on her own?’ he asked casually.

  ‘She’s a single woman so I gather,’ said Flynn. ‘Rich and divorced.’

  ‘Attractive combination. Got her phone number?’ It was flippantly said, but Mariner was rather hoping that Flynn had.

  He shook his head sadly. ‘Too flash for me. Not to mention a little on the mature side.’

  They watched her say her goodbyes to Balfour, and followed her out to where an official black sedan was waiting on the kerb. ‘I can’t imagine she’d be able to tell you much, either. She’s lived abroad for years.’ Flynn was warning him off.

  But at the start of the inquest, when the clerk had read out Ryland’s personal details, Mariner had made a note of the address in Chelsea. Always prudent to have a pocket book handy. Chances were that Felicity Fitzgibbon would turn up there at some point and Mariner was hopeful that it would be today.

  She appeared eventually, later that afternoon as Mariner stood freezing in a doorway opposite beginning to think that he’d been sold a dummy. By now she’d eschewed the official vehicle and was driving herself in a soft-top BMW, probably hired, which she squeezed into a vacant parking spot.

  The police presence in front of the mews property deterred Mariner from approaching her at that point, so he flagged down a cab, waited until she emerged again and then asked the driver to follow the BMW. Mariner had assumed she’d be going back to her London hotel, but to his dismay she joined the North Circular and then the M40. This was going to be one of the most expensive cab rides ever.

  ‘Where the hell are we going?’ the driver demanded, and Mariner had no other choice but to produce his warrant card. ‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ he said. Forty minutes later, as they pulled up in front of Eleanor Ryland’s home the meter was on seventy-one quid and rising.

  Now that the Manse was designated a crime scene, there was an officer back on the gate and the press pack had doubled. Mariner cast his eyes over them wondering who it was had been making up stuff about him. Probably not a good idea to try and follow Ms Fitzgibbon into the house. He’d have to try and catch her leaving. But she didn’t go right in. Instead she engaged in a lengthy conversation with the young constable just inside the gate, which involved consultation with the map she’d brought. Finding out where Eleanor’s body had been taken perhaps? Then it was back in the car and off again, but this time across country to the outer edges of Wythinford, and what looked like a garden centre. Then Mariner saw the sign for animal rescue and realised what was going on. She’d come for Nelson.

  Paying off the taxi, which almost completely cleaned him out of cash, Mariner walked past the cafeteria and through the Alpines section to the rescue centre, catching up with Felicity Fitzgibbon outside Nelson’s pen. The animal was scratching at the gate to be let out, and jumped around wagging its tail as Mariner approached. ‘Nice dog,’ Mariner observed, pretending to read the information tag, which had a ‘Reserved’ sticker on it. ‘You’re having him?’

  Her smile was reluctant. Close too her make-up was heavy, her age more apparent. ‘He belonged to my sister,’ she said. ‘She died suddenly. But I have a pretty hectic life with not much room for a pet. I live abroad too, so it would mean quarantine, and it never seems fair to put an animal through all of that.’ The dog whined pathetically, its tail wagging with hope. ‘It’s hard though. He meant the world to my sister and I feel I’d be letting her down if I didn’t at least find him a good home. Are you looking for a dog?’ For a second her eyes held the same optimistic gaze as the animal’s.

  ‘I’m considering it,’ Mariner said. And it was true. At the back of his mind for the last couple of weeks he’d been thinking that a dog might be a reasonable alternative to having children. ‘My partner would prefer a child though.’

  Another half-smile. ‘My sister and her husband didn’t have children. I’m sure he was a substitute.’

  ‘Previous experience in the role then,’ said Mariner.

  This time she chuckled, a deep, throaty laugh. ‘You could say that.’

  A chilly gust of wind rattled the cage door and Mariner saw her shiver. ‘Look I realise you don’t know me, but while you’re thinking it over would you like a coffee? It’ll give you a chance to try and talk me into it.’

  She was a sophisticated woman and probably got propositioned like this all the time. All the same, her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not a reporter are you?’

  Mariner feigned astonishment. ‘No. I promise you. I’m not a reporter.’

  ‘It’s just that my brother-in-law was well known. I have to be careful.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sorry. That sounded terribly rude. Coffee would be lovely.’

  Mariner offered her a hand. ‘Tom Mariner.’

  Taking his hand, she laughed again. ‘There you are, it was meant to be. Who else but a Mariner could take on Nelson?’

  ‘I’m not sure that he’s named after that Nelson,’ said Mariner, before realising the implication of what he’d said. ‘I mean, these days Mr Mandela is a more of a household name.’

  She laughed. ‘Knowing my brother-in-law, you’re probably right.’

  On a cold winter weekday the cafeteria was practically empty, but the coffee served in workmanlike mugs was hot and strong. During the course of the conversa
tion Mariner learned that Felicity (but everyone calls me Fliss) lived in Lausanne, where her second husband had been in banking, and that she ran her own fashion boutique, often travelling to Italy to buy stock. ‘So you see having a dog just wouldn’t be fair.’ Her scarlet lipstick glistened over perfectly maintained teeth. ‘What do you do Mr Mariner?’

  He’d been waiting for this. ‘I sell security products, burglar alarms, that kind of thing.’

  ‘And you’re having a day off?’

  ‘I’ve a couple of customers in the area, time between appointments, so I walked out here from the village.’

  ‘You like to walk, too. A dog would be a perfect companion.’

  ‘Your business must be successful,’ Mariner said. ‘You have an eye for opportunity.’

  ‘That’s what it’s all about, don’t you think? Taking life’s opportunities.’ She’d finished her coffee. ‘I should go,’ she said.

  ‘What about Nelson?’

  ‘I’m here for a few more days, with luck during that time the kennels can find him a good home. It really would be impossible for me to have him.’ She smiled. ‘You’re sure I can’t persuade you?’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ Mariner said, but they both knew he was being polite. He walked her back to the BMW.

  ‘Can I drop you at your car?’

  ‘No thanks. It’s not far, and you were quite right. I like the exercise.’ She looked uncertainly at the dark sky, but the rain had held off so hopefully he didn’t appear too eccentric.

  Mariner watched her go before asking at the garden centre and calling a local cab firm on his mobile. In order to pay, he had to ask the driver to stop at a cash point en route to the nearest train station, where he had to wait an hour and fifteen minutes on a freezing platform for the train back into London. The expenses claim for this little trip was going to look interesting.

  Despite the warmth of his hotel room Mariner was shivering uncontrollably and could feel the beginnings of a cold coming on. The comfort of home was a much more attractive prospect. By the time he’d checked out and caught the next train back to Birmingham, it was late evening when he got there, exhausted and aching. Anna was out, having taken Jamie to his activity club at the day centre, but she’d left a note to say that Jack Coleman had been trying to get hold of him, and to contact Coleman at home if necessary.

  Glenys Coleman was not pleased to hear Mariner’s voice, especially so late. ‘I’ll go and get Jack,’ she said, shortly. In the ensuing delay Mariner heard raised voices in the background, and then Coleman came on. ‘Thames Valley police have been in touch,’ he said. ‘They want to interview you as a significant witness in the murder, somewhere east of Banbury, of a Mrs Eleanor Ryland, who I understand was the mother of the late Sir Geoffrey Ryland.’ Coleman paused. ‘What in God’s name is going on, Tom?’

  Not yet ready for full disclosure, Mariner had prepared his response. ‘Just before Christmas I found out that when she was much younger, my mother knew Sir Geoffrey Ryland well. I was told that they were close at one time. I thought that perhaps Eleanor Ryland might have known my mother too. I went to talk to her.’

  ‘Two days before she was found dead?’

  ‘What can I say? It was unfortunate timing. I had nothing to do with her death, I promise you.’

  ‘I’m relieved to hear it.’

  ‘She was alive and well when I left her. She gave me tea, we talked for about an hour, then I left and walked back to my car.’

  ‘Only I would prefer not to have one of my senior officers arrested for murder during my last week,’ Coleman said, with feeling.

  ‘Yes sir.’

  On the surface, Coleman sounded unworried, but it was a forced cheerfulness. The fact that Mariner was being called as a significant witness meant that his Thames Valley colleagues had nothing incriminating on him. All it meant was that they could place him at the scene before Eleanor died. If they’d had any stronger evidence he would be in custody already. A police officer as a suspect in a murder case would be hung out to dry. All the same, Mariner couldn’t help wondering if Coleman knew something that he didn’t.

  ‘And what about the CPS?’ Coleman was asking.

  ‘Sorry sir?’

  ‘The CPS. Isn’t that where you’ve been for the last two days?’

  Shit! In his hurry to get out of London Mariner had completely forgotten to return to the CPS for the report. ‘They’re sending something through in the morning,’ he lied. ‘It wasn’t quite ready when I left, but I gave them a kick up the backside. I think my being there in person has moved things along.’ He’d have to ring first tomorrow to ensure that it happened.

  ‘Good.’

  But Mariner rang off with a sense of foreboding. Unpacking his things he came across the envelope Flynn had given him, the proof in black and white that he was Sir Geoffrey Ryland’s son. He opened it and stared at the piece of paper for a long time, so small in substance yet so significant in its content. Also in the envelope was another document. Two sheets of A4 stapled together. It was a summary of the crime scene report from Cheslyn Woods. A peace offering from Flynn, though there was little here that hadn’t already been covered by the press; a mention of the message written on the window, and a note at the bottom describing a tracking device that had been found on Ryland’s car.

  With trepidation Mariner retrieved from his own vehicle the compact piece of hardware that Carl had given him. The name and model number were identical. It increased the odds that whoever had been monitoring Sir Geoffrey Ryland had done the same to Mariner. And he couldn’t help but recall who it was who’d studied electronics while in Chapel Wood prison; Rupert Foster-Young. Mariner needed to speak to a friend.

  Selina answered the phone sounding less like her bright, usual self and there must have been something in that because Knox declined Mariner’s invitation. ‘We’ve got other plans tonight,’ he said enigmatically. ‘But have a pint of M&B for me, will you?’

  ‘I will, though it’ll have to be Banks’s,’ said Mariner. ‘I’m going to the Boatman.’ Forty-five minutes later Mariner looked up from his corner seat to see Knox walk into the bar.

  Tony Knox entered the bar of the Boatman feeling as guilty as if he was bunking off school. Mariner looked rough, and his reaction confirmed what he’d surmised on the phone, that there was more to this than just a drink. The boss looked desperately relieved to see him. The feeling was mutual.

  ‘You changed your mind,’ Mariner said.

  Knox checked his watch. ‘I haven’t got long. I’ve dropped Selina off at her friend’s. She’s going to call me when she wants picking up, so I’ll need to get home.’ And he hadn’t told her he was meeting Mariner. He hadn’t dared.

  Mariner picked up on the anxiety straightaway. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Just a bit tired, that’s all.’ Knox hoped that would cover it.

  It must have because Mariner backed off. ‘I’ll get you a pint. The Wadsworth’s is good tonight.’

  ‘No. I’m not drinking. I’ll have a tomato juice.’

  ‘What’s this, national abstinence day?’

  ‘I’m not planning on it tomorrow either, or the next day, if I can do it.’

  ‘Christ, what’s brought this on?’

  ‘I was getting too used to it, the same way I did when Theresa first left,’ Knox said, smoothly.

  ‘You’ve always kept it under control.’

  ‘No, I just made it look that way. Selina doesn’t need that right now.’ She’d made that perfectly clear, he’d the bruises on his ribs to prove it. And he wasn’t going to take that risk.

  ‘Well it explains the twitching,’ Mariner grinned, drawing his own conclusions. ‘Tomato juice it is.’

  Knox launched in as soon as Mariner returned with the drinks. He hadn’t much time. ‘So what’s all this about?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This isn’t just a casual drink, is it? And you look like shit.’


  ‘Thanks,’ said Mariner. ‘Your copper’s intuition eh?’

  No, thought Knox grimly, the insight of someone else who’s got something to hide. ‘You should know,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve found out who my father was.’

  Knox thought he’d already guessed what was up: that Anna was pregnant, or worse, that she’d left Mariner. But never in a million years, that. It snatched the breath from him.

  ‘Fucking Nora,’ he said, eventually. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘You remember that guy I told you about, Dave Flynn?’

  ‘The one on the Ryland investigation?’

  ‘Yes. Well that’s what he came to tell me; that Sir Geoffrey Ryland was my father.’

  ‘Ryland?’ This got better and better. The boss was having some kind of a breakdown. Suddenly Knox didn’t know how to play it. ‘How’s that even possible?’ he asked calmly.

  Mariner gave a sardonic laugh. ‘It’s all right, I know how it sounds, my father a national icon. It’s like the reincarnation nutters who always turn out to have been Marie Antoinette or Florence Nightingale in a previous life. But it all fits. I was aware that back then my mother moved in the same social circles. And I’ve got the DNA results to substantiate it.’

  ‘Christ Almighty.’ Mariner sounded perfectly rational. Knox had no choice but to believe him.

  ‘Anyway, when I found out I couldn’t help it. I wanted to know more about why he’d been killed.’

  ‘Even though there are people already doing that job,’ he said. ‘Why does that not surprise me?’

  ‘And the more I started digging around the less satisfied I was with the explanations being given.’