Written in Blood (29 page)

‘Did you ever find out who the child’s father was?’

‘Not definitively. Carrie pointed the finger at all of us. She was a manipulative woman, skilled at playing one of us off against the other. At that time of course paternity was impossible to prove and since she was bedding all of us it could have been anyone.’

‘Except Ryland. So pregnant Carrie was abandoned?’

‘Oh, Carrie did very nicely out of it. Her own family in the States cut her off without a dime because of her predicament. But she was a parasite. Had money from everyone to put the little bastard through public school. Not that it did him any good.’

‘You know Rupert Foster-Young? When was the last time you saw him?’

‘About ten years ago, I suppose. His mother had attempted suicide. He couldn’t get near to Geoff so came after me for money, accusing me, and all of us, of ruining her, claiming that we had started the drinking and drug abuse. I knew differently though.’

‘And did you give him money?’

‘I’m a priest. Do you know how much I’m paid? He might not have been sure who his father was but he was his mother’s son all right.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Drugged to the eyeballs himself. He wanted the cash to feed his habit. Insisted that I owed it to him. He was a nasty little shit.’ Colourful language for a priest. Balfour saw what Mariner was thinking. ‘Something for the confessional this week,’ he smiled. ‘I agonised for days about whether I should help him, after all it’s my job. But giving him money would have simply speeded his demise, so I prayed for him and trusted in the Lord to find another way.’

‘Did Foster-Young claim Sir Geoffrey as his father?’

‘Carrie’s doing I suppose, but it was more the collective responsibility for his existence that he seemed angry about. He was one of those people who believes that the world owes him a living.’

‘He’s done a spell in prison since you saw him, you know.’

‘Geoff told me. He’d been pestering them at the JRC. Then everything went quiet. He’s probably dead himself by now. No great loss to mankind I’m sorry to say.’

‘On the contrary, from what I’ve learned, Rupert Foster-Young has got his life back together again.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear it.’ But for someone who might be expected to have faith in the essential goodness of man, Balfour didn’t sound particularly convinced. Even if Foster-Young could play the part of the good neighbour, babysitting a small child when needed, it didn’t mean he’d completely changed.

It was Mariner’s belief that Foster-Young had equally powerful and not entirely wholesome reasons for cleaning up his act. If he harboured resentment against Ryland and was planning to do something about it he’d need to be thinking straight. And just because he persuaded the professionals he was over it, didn’t mean that there wasn’t a grudge lurking underneath the surface somewhere. In Mariner’s experience resentment like that didn’t simply evaporate, and the last person he’d allow to see it would be his parole officer. Wise had described Foster-Young as being focused, but what was it that he was focused on?

‘Sir Geoffrey and Lady Ryland didn’t have children.’ Mariner said.

‘They both wanted it that way. It was one of the things that bound them together. Diana was very fragile and prone to depression. Not that it was common knowledge of course. I think most people made the assumption that they had tried to start a family and failed. Back then of course there wasn’t much you could do about it. Had to accept your lot and get on with life.’

‘Did you know Diana well?’

‘We saw less of each other over the years, but she came to mass from time to time.’

‘She was Catholic?’

‘No, but she was a great support when I entered the priesthood and after a while I think she found comfort in the ritual of it all. Many people do. After the service we would talk.’

For one outlandish moment Mariner considered the possibility that Diana and Balfour could have been having an affair, but he dismissed it instantly.

It brought Mariner to the blackmail. ‘Was Sir Geoffrey Ryland always a gambling man?’ he asked, casually.

‘Delete always, insert never,’ Balfour said. ‘I’m the one who used to like a flutter. Geoff was always chastising me for wasting my money.’

‘You don’t think he could have changed?’

‘It’s my experience that people are born gamblers.’

It was Mariner’s view, too.

‘Geoff thought a lot of your mother, you know,’ Balfour said. ‘He had me contact her old friend Maggie quite recently.’

‘She told me that. Was there any special reason?’

‘He was writing his memoirs and I think it had stirred up all kinds of thoughts and regrets. I suppose he wondered how you were getting on, his only son. It wasn’t the first time I’d fulfilled that role. Our lives had followed very different paths, and politicians have to exercise such discretion in their private lives, but I think I remained a trusted link with the past.’ Balfour seemed to hesitate. ‘You should know that I counselled Geoff against contacting you directly. I know he considered it from time to time. I warned him that it would do more harm than good. So if you’re looking for someone to blame, I’m your man.’

But by now Mariner was beyond blame, and somehow the priest made it sound too simplistic. Leaving the church, Mariner felt he was in the middle of a balloon debate. Who did he believe? The probation officer backing his reformed client, or the Catholic priest who perceived Foster-Young as a ‘nasty little shit’. The only way of making up his mind would be to meet Rupert Foster-Young in person. But when he checked his phone there were no messages.

 

 

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 conversation 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?’