Written in Blood (16 page)

‘It would be fantastic.’ No need to fake his gratitude now. It was more than Mariner could have hoped for.

‘I can’t see that it would be a problem. We have visitors all the time. And if it helps you to get closer to him.’ It was what Mariner called a result.

‘I’m sure that it would,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ Reaching across the table he took her hand. ‘And thanks for talking to me. It means such a lot.’ And the colour flooded up through Helena James’ pale face.

 

 

Mariner had to move some to keep up with Helena James on the ten minute walk to JRC offices in Whitehall. It was good of her to go out on a limb like this, and he wondered what she was thinking. That perhaps she was in with a chance? He hoped not. Although occupying one of the grander bleached white Georgian buildings, the offices of the JRC were consigned largely to the less salubrious lower floors, a rabbit warren of corridors and tiny offices with barred and frosted windows level with the pavement. As Helena signed him in at reception, giving him the required visitors pass, Mariner imagined that, even now, his presence was being clocked by Flynn’s colleagues in Special Branch.

Once inside, Helena James didn’t seem to know what to do with Mariner, until a young woman emerged from a nearby office carrying a bundle of files.

‘Sandie,’ said Helena, ‘I wonder if you could spare a few minutes. This is Detective Inspector Mariner.’ He’s making enquiries into Sir Geoffrey’s death. He’d like to have a look round the Commission, get a feel for the place. Could you give him the guided tour?’ Helena James had chosen her words carefully. She hadn’t lied, but at the same time had given every indication that Mariner was on this officially.

‘Of course, Miss James,’ said Sandie. ‘I need to take these down to the archive store, but we can see the rest on the way down.’

‘That sounds good,’ Mariner said.

‘Well, I’ll leave you in Sandie’s capable hands. Thank you for the coffee, Inspector Mariner, and good luck.’

‘Thanks again,’ Mariner said, but it was to Helena James’ retreating back.

Sandie, who looked about twenty, beamed up at him. The badge on her ample chest said ‘Clerical Assistant’, meaning that he’d been assigned the office junior, but after a while he had a feeling that her selection had been deliberate. Petite and blonde in her tight sweater and short skirt, Sandie was about as far removed from Helena James as was possible. During that brief first exchange Mariner noticed that she had thoroughly appraised him, head to foot, and despite the smile she wasn’t particularly impressed. But then, he must be old enough to be her dad. ‘So you’re a policeman,’ she said, with what Mariner thought was a slight hint of disbelief.

‘Yes.’

‘I went out with a policeman once,’ she continued. ‘He was really hot.’ It explained the disappointment. ‘He was always getting into scraps and car chases and stuff.’

‘I’m not that kind of policeman any more,’ Mariner said.

‘No.’ She’d already guessed that.

‘I do more of the information gathering, building cases, a bit like your job I suppose.’

‘Is that what you’re doing here, gathering information?’

‘Sort of. I just wanted to get a sense of where Sir Geoffrey Ryland worked and what the Commission is like.’

‘Okay, well let’s make a start, shall we?’

Open and gregarious, Sandie barely seemed to draw breath between sentences, even though most of what she did have to say on the short walk to the main offices was about the weather, the number of tourists there were in London for the time of year and the ‘amazing’ BLT she’d just consumed for lunch, despite being on a low-carb-high-protein diet, on account of wanting to be able to get into the dress she’d bought for her cousin’s wedding in the spring. So, on the other hand, perhaps Helena had chosen Sandie as a kind of punishment.

‘This is where it all happens,’ she said, with a touch of irony. She stepped back from the doorway to allow Mariner to peer in to a large open plan office, where a dozen or so staff were stationed at desks, on the phone or ploughing through paperwork. On the far side were the closed doors of further personal offices, one of which Mariner guessed would belong to Helena James. And then they were off again, Sandie resuming her running commentary on the world and life in general.

‘Did you work very closely with Sir Geoffrey?’ Mariner asked in a split second pause that presented itself.

‘Oh, all the time. I mean, we have our routine tasks that we do for all the members; answering the phone, filing and photocopying, that kind of thing. I used to do some of that for Sir Geoffrey. He spent a lot of time here so I got to know him quite well and how he liked things done. Would you like to see his office, it’s just down here?’

‘That would be helpful,’ said Mariner, exercising enormous restraint.

A little further along the corridor Sandie turned the knob of an oak-panelled door and Mariner stepped into a high-ceilinged room, dominated by a monster of a solid walnut desk and surrounded on three sides by shelves of leather-bound books. This was the place where his father had spent the last years of his life, sitting at that desk, enjoying the view from the high sash windows that made up the fourth wall of the room. It was the air he had breathed.

This was the closest Mariner would ever get to the man and he’d been unprepared for the emotional impact which left him momentarily speechless. Glancing down he saw that Sandie’s eyes were wide, staring unblinkingly at the chair behind the desk.

‘It’s funny. I still expect to see him sitting there,’ she said, uncharacteristically subdued.

‘Do you mind if I—?’ recovering his voice, Mariner nodded towards the chair.

‘No, it’s fine,’ said Sandie.

Mariner seated himself in the soft leather, hyper-conscious of the upholstery under him. His only minor disappointment was that, aside from a blotter and a desk tidy, the room had been completely cleared of any personal belongings. But why wouldn’t it be? ‘What did you think of Sir Geoffrey?’ he asked Sandie, who had unconsciously, it seemed, dropped into the chair opposite him.

‘He was a lovely man,’ she said, immediately, ‘always kind and considerate. He always said please and thank you, no matter how rushed he was, and had time to ask how Dominic and me were getting on with the flat. We bought a one-bedroom basement last year and we’ve been doing it up, it was in a right old state.’ Seeing Mariner’s face she meandered back to the subject in hand. ‘Sir Geoffrey always made sure we got paid extra for late working or for anything that he classed as “above and beyond” as he called it.’

‘Such as what?’ Mariner sat back, anticipating another list of routine admin tasks.

‘Oh you know,’ said Sandie, coyly, and for a horrible moment Mariner thought she was implying sexual favours. ‘Sir Geoffrey liked a flutter on the horses. In his position he didn’t like to broadcast it, so we had this little arrangement.’

Thank God for that. ‘What kind of arrangement?’

‘I’d take an envelope of cash to this drop-off point, with the name of the horse scribbled on the back, and the bookie’s runner collected it and placed the bet for him.’

It wasn’t quite what Mariner had anticipated. ‘What kind of drop-off point?’ he asked.

‘A left luggage locker at Euston station.’ Sandie’s eyes widened. ‘Oh. I’ve still got the key. I should take it back, shouldn’t I?’

‘Might be an idea.’ Mariner was still trying to get to grips with the logic of this activity. ‘And did you collect his winnings too?’

Sandie chuckled. ‘To be truthful, I think he hardly ever won. It was a little joke between us. When he did, the bookies must have paid the money straight into his bank.’

‘How often did Sir Geoffrey place these bets?’

‘Not very often, only once a month.’

‘Exactly once a month?’

‘Yes. Always on the last Wednesday. He used to say it was his end of the month treat to himself. It was what helped him get through the first three weeks.’ She giggled. ‘Sir Geoffrey had that kind of sense of humour where you never knew if he was joking or not. I mean you couldn’t tell from his face at all. He would say these things and I’d think that’s awful and then he’d just get this twinkle in his eye—’

‘Deadpan,’ said Mariner.

‘Yes, that’s right. That’s what Dom said. He said—’

‘Did you ever see how much Sir Geoffrey placed?’ She looked shocked. ‘Oh no. The envelopes were stuck down and I would never have looked inside.’

‘So it could have just been a tenner, or a twenty?’

‘Oh no, it was more than that. The envelope always felt as if there was something in it.’ She measured with her finger and thumb. ‘It was about half an inch thick.’

The flaws in the system were glaringly obvious, but had not apparently occurred to Sandie.

‘How long have you been working at the Commission?’ Mariner asked.

‘Four years this May.’

‘And has Sir Geoffrey always placed these bets?’

‘I expect so. But he only asked me to start helping with them about, let me see, eighteen months ago.’

‘Have you told the police about it?’

Sandie looked horrified. ‘Oh no! Sir Geoffrey’s wife didn’t like him gambling, and I know Miss James wouldn’t approve. That’s why Sir Geoffrey asked me to do it on the quiet. I’ll get into terrible trouble for it. And it can’t have anything to do with . . . you know . . . what happened. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’

Mariner didn’t necessarily think Helena was ignorant of the scam. He was pretty sure now that it was why he’d been introduced to Sandie in the first place. Ryland had taken advantage of Sandie’s loyal innocence and now Helena was doing the same. But betting on horses was a perfectly legal and harmless activity. The Queen Mother indulged for God’s sake, so why develop such an elaborate, covert strategy and why the secrecy? Ryland might have wanted to conceal it from his wife, but he could easily have slipped out during the working day to place the bets, without her ever knowing. And if that wasn’t convenient there were other, discreet mechanisms. Most white collar gamblers picked up the phone and arranged the transactions electronically.

None of it made sense, unless Ryland got a buzz from the intrigue, the thrill of doing something illicit. No, it had to be something more than that. Either Ryland was telling an outright lie and the packages had nothing to do with horse racing, or it was possible that he was bending the truth and was more deeply involved in something closer to the boundaries of the law. If horse racing was at the root of it then it could be that he belonged to the kind of gambling syndicate that had become increasingly common in recent years.

A group of men, usually businessmen, bought shares in a racehorse, contributed regularly, usually monthly, to the animal’s upkeep, and then took a proportion of any winnings. Unless there was race fixing, belonging to such a syndicate was far from illegal, but there were certain seedy connections and it probably wouldn’t be the sort of thing a government official should be visibly linked to. Added to which, there was little doubt that heavy involvement in such a venture would not have gone down well with his wife. If she didn’t approve of betting she wouldn’t have wanted him embroiled in something shadier. ‘I doubt that it would bother anyone now, Sandie,’ Mariner said. ‘So don’t worry.’

‘It was going to stop anyway,’ she said.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘On the last Wednesday in November Sir Geoffrey went to place the last bet himself.’

‘The last bet?’

‘Yes. He said he’d reached a decision, and that he wasn’t going to do it any more.’

‘Why was that?’

Sandie shrugged. ‘Perhaps Lady Diana had got wind of it, or maybe he was losing too much money.’

‘Was he disappointed do you think, that it was the final flutter?’

‘No. He seemed sort of - pleased with himself. “The last one, Sandie,” he said. “And then we can get on with the real work.”’

‘Were you surprised?’

‘Only because he had to cancel a meeting so that he could go and do it. Sir Geoffrey hated cancelling meetings. He didn’t like to let people down.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Then when he got back he seemed really upset. He’d gone out all pleased with himself but when he came back he seemed really down.’

‘You mean deflated, as if he knew the fun was over?’

‘It was more than that. He’d brought a bottle of scotch with him because he said it was a cause for celebration.’

‘I didn’t think he drank.’ Maggie said Ryland had taken the pledge when he met Diana.

‘That’s the thing. He didn’t. And he was making out like we were celebrating but all the time he looked as if he was heading for the gallows. Something had really shaken him up. I thought maybe he’d gone for broke and made the last bet a really big one, and that he’d lost a lot of money.’

‘Did you ask him?’

‘Oh no, I never asked about the money. None of my business, was it? I just had a drink with him and played along.’

‘And this was the last Wednesday in November.’

‘Yes.’

Which would make it only a couple of weeks before he was killed. So why did it fit into that slot in the timeline? Was it just coincidence? Eleanor had said she thought her son was planning to contact Mariner. Was it because he knew his son was a senior police officer and he needed help? Or was it because he knew something terrible was going to happen to him and it would be his last chance?

‘Which betting shop did Sir Geoffrey use?’ Mariner asked. But Sandie didn’t know.

If Ryland was involved in some kind of syndicate it could be as Sandie had described, and that on that final payment day Ryland was planning to pull out. But he’d somehow been thwarted, meaning that other syndicate members may have refused and perhaps even threatened to reveal his secret vice? Or maybe they set a ridiculously high buy-out price that left Ryland significantly out of pocket.