Written in Blood (3 page)

‘What the hell have you got in here?’ Mariner grumbled, as he apologised yet again for colliding with a passer-by.

‘You wouldn’t be any the wiser if I told you. It’s just toys for Megan. It’s not much, but everything’s jumbo sized at her age.’

‘You’re telling me. They’ll cost a fortune in postage.’

‘I was planning to take them down. I thought I’d go at the weekend.’

‘You were only down there a couple of weeks ago.’

Since Becky had left her job as Anna’s P.A., she, her GP husband Mark and their small daughter had moved to a country practice in rural Herefordshire. Thus far the geography hadn’t proved a deterrent.

‘Is that resentment?’

‘Of course not.’

‘She’s my goddaughter. I have to spend time with her. Everything happens so fast at her age, I might miss something. Besides, I’ve got a lot to learn.’

‘It’s all right, you don’t have to justify yourself.’

‘Anyway there’s nothing to stop you coming too. You haven’t even met Megan yet. I don’t know why.’

‘It’s been busy at work.’ It wasn’t the whole truth, but he wondered if Anna realised that.

 

At seven in the evening the main shopping centre was still swarming with people as Anna and Mariner, clumsily arm-in-arm, trundled towards St Martin’s Cathedral, past the bronze bull, the armour-plated bulge of Selfridges coming into view like the prow of a slow-moving liner. The church had been retained as a focal point for the massive redevelopment of the Bullring area, and tonight it was stunningly lit by floodlights, the dark spire nestling dramatically between the concrete and glass, and the Burne-Jones stained-glass windows crimson against the twinkling suburban sprawl.

In the distance the West Midlands Police Service brass band could be heard playing the opening bars of the first carol; ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’. Mariner felt contented and at ease and for the first time for as long as he could remember, some excited anticipation of the Christmas season. He turned to Anna to tell her. As he did, there was a flash of white light and the explosion ripped the air between them like a thunderbolt, and a scorching tornado punched him back off his feet, tearing the smile from his face and Anna’s arm from his. He heard Anna’s scream above the deafening crack of imploding plate glass before he slammed onto his back, his head bouncing hard off the stone slabs.

Opening his eyes, Mariner slowly, painfully, raised his head. The world was unnaturally dark and hushed, and the air tasted of dust. The church that had been so magnificently lit only moments before was hazy, behind a cloud of dense smoke, the dark silhouette of its tower emerging shakily defiant at one end. As Mariner struggled to comprehend, the ringing in his ears subsided and sounds invaded his consciousness. People were screaming and running, alarms were ringing. They were in the middle of a war zone.

Mariner fumbled for his phone, his fingers clumsy and unresponsive, and gagging on the dust, it took him three attempts to force out the words. ‘DI Mariner, Granville Lane. There’s been an explosion in St Martin’s. All emergency services needed urgently.’ Turning, he saw Anna, prone and still on the ground nearby and a hot wave of panic surged through him ‘Anna!’ he shouted hoarsely. After what seemed like an eternity she looked round at him and a weak smile split her dirt-caked face. ‘I’m okay, really I’m all right. Do what you have to.’ She swiped a hand. ‘Go.’

Mariner heaved himself unsteadily to his feet, manually locking his knees back into place to support him. ‘Wait here for help,’ he told Anna unsteadily before crunching through rubble and glass that was ankle deep, towards the ruin of the cathedral and into the jaws of hell.

 

 

The emergency services were there in minutes but Mariner and anyone else who was able had stayed with them inside the crushed citadel clawing at the debris to find the injured and the missing. Hours later they’d sent him out into a blue strobing dawn with dust clogging his airways, his hands chafed and bleeding. Yards from the ruin he had to fight his way through an unruly mob of press photographers ineffectually held back by uniformed PCs.

‘Were you inside when it went off? What happened?’ Voices assaulted him on all sides.

‘I don’t know. I was late.’

‘What’s it like in there?’

‘Use your fucking imagination,’ Mariner said, coldly, and a flash preserved his dirt-stained face for posterity.

The city was thrown into chaos, with police cordons everywhere. It took Mariner an hour to get to where he’d left his car and to get out. Dozens of injured had been taken to the city’s main hospitals, many cut by flying glass. And there was widespread panic that this may just be the first of a number of explosions. He couldn’t find out where Anna had been taken and he hardly dared think what had happened to Knox and Selina. People had died. That much he knew, but not how many nor who they were.

Finally a text on his mobile from Anna told Mariner that she was at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital. He went in to collect her, still dazed and exhausted, his uniform covered in filth. In the waiting area they held each other tight.

‘I called a taxi. I didn’t expect to see you for hours. Is it bad?’

‘It’s bad.’

‘Has anybody been—?’

‘There have been some fatalities.’ He knew of one for certain.

‘What about Tony and Selina?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s still bedlam there.’ He wanted so badly to say that they’d be all right, but he couldn’t tell her what he didn’t know. They’d both been incredibly lucky. Between the shopping centre and the church they’d been shielded by the flight of steps and had escaped serious injury, but it would be different for anyone inside. Mariner went to ask at the reception desk but the staff were inundated with desperate friends and relatives and he would only add to the pandemonium. Instead he and Anna drove home in near silence, the experience beyond articulation.

Helpless to trace Knox, Mariner called Jack Coleman at Granville Lane. But Coleman knew nothing either.

‘How many dead?’ Mariner asked.

‘We don’t know yet. It could be up to ten.’

‘Christ. I’ll get myself cleaned up and come in.’

‘No. We’ve got enough here already. You’ll be a liability. Get some rest.’ Easier said than done. Half an hour later, Coleman called back. ‘Tony Knox is at Heartlands.’

Mariner went straight there. Against the pristine white sheets Knox looked old and grey. He’d suffered cuts, bruising and possible concussion. ‘They’re letting me out later today. They need the bed.’

Selina hadn’t escaped so lightly, her right foot crushed under several tons of masonry. ‘They’re amputating below the knee,’ Knox said, his voice heavy with emotion.

‘She’ll never make centre forward now,’ said Mariner.

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘She’s alive. It’s what matters.’ Knox was right. By now news had permeated that at least five others, men, a woman, a child, had not been so lucky. ‘Is Anna okay?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘They keep asking me what I saw,’ Knox said.

‘Me too.’

‘But one minute I was having a laugh with Colin Fleming, next I was under a pile of crap trying to breathe.’

‘I didn’t see anything either.’

‘You’re a star though.’ Knox reached for the early edition of the newspaper one of the nurses had left.
Christmas Carnage
cried the headline. He turned to an inside page and Mariner saw himself, or what looked like him, under all the dirt and grime, emerging from the wrecked building just after he’d been accosted by the reporter. ‘The lengths people go to, to get in the paper.’

Emergency blood donation clinics had been set up all over the city, including at the hospitals. On his way out Mariner saw the queue. He joined it.

 

The investigation into the explosion began immediately and in the absence of a rational explanation, rumours were rife, among them the inevitable black jokes about six Irishmen on a train. But this time the witch-hunt took on a different focus. The threat of terrorist activity had loomed large in other major British cities since the war in Iraq and attacks in London by Al Qaeda. The media had already decided that this could be the start.

Although other causes hadn’t been ruled out, like a reflex response, security across the city tightened to a level that hadn’t been seen since the height of the IRA’s mainland campaign during the 1970s. There were police patrol cars everywhere. Bags were routinely searched and vehicles on the main routes into the city were being randomly stopped.

Not that anyone realistically expected to find anything, but the police had to be visibly active. Most of the dead turned out to be civilians. If it had been a terrorist bomb, ironically the main players - the Chief Constable, Mayor and other dignitaries - had escaped relatively unscathed and someone, somewhere would be cursing their own bad luck.

 

Mariner and Anna tried desperately to carry on as normal but the shock of unspeakable sights and sounds had come between them. Mariner didn’t talk about what he’d seen in there. Instead he and Anna spent hours silently holding each other tight, for comfort. TV and radio provided a constant background commentary and nothing, it seemed, could distract Mariner from reliving those hours over and over again. Part of him didn’t want distraction and was disgusted at the obscenity of the indifferent world. Sleep became an elusive state and when at night fatigue did finally engulf him his rest was fitful and he would wake with a jolt, sweating and heart pounding, waking Anna too.

They spent whole afternoons and evenings holding hands but saying little. That last conversation before the explosion hung over them, neither willing to revisit it. Guiltily, Mariner hoped that all this might make Anna feel differently about the prospect of bringing a child into the world, but deep down he knew it was for all the wrong reasons.

‘My family curse has rubbed off on you,’ Anna said. ‘Perhaps you’ve made a mistake taking up with me.’

It seemed a lifetime ago that they’d first met, when Mariner was investigating the murder of Anna’s elder brother, Eddie. Before long the case had turned into a triple homicide involving her parents too, so she was no stranger to violent death. But still Mariner couldn’t tell her what he’d seen. He kept himself busy by being overattentive to her so that in the end she got irritated with him. It was the letting agent who saved them from a full-blown row.

‘Mr Mariner? We’ve got someone who wants to look at your house.’ Roy Shipley sounded as surprised as Mariner was. This was the first show of interest they’d had in the canal-side property. ‘He’d like to see it before going up north for Christmas.’ Great timing. The last thing Mariner felt like was being sociable.

Shipley picked up on the hesitation. ‘If you don’t want to trouble yourself I can show him round. I’ve arranged an appointment for tomorrow afternoon.’

‘No, it’s okay,’ said Mariner. ‘I’ll be there.’ He’d been waiting long enough for this. Back in mid-August it had been clear that Jenny, his previous tenant, wasn’t coming back. She’d left university and got a job in the East Midlands. By that time Mariner had pretty well moved in with Anna, along with most of his stuff, so it seemed sensible to try and bring in some extra cash by renting. But it hadn’t been that simple mainly because, the agent said, the property was too small for a family and a bit off the beaten track for most people. This was the first nibble, so Mariner couldn’t afford to pass it up. And it would get him out from under Anna’s feet for a while.

 

Dave Flynn had never been inside a house like this before. After years of turning over grubby flats and bedsits, uncovering all kinds of unsavoury matter, this was how he knew he’d finally made it to the premier league. And it wasn’t just him. The whole team was treating the place with the kind of reverence reserved for religious buildings, speaking in hushed tones, their footsteps alternately echoing on the polished hardwood floors, or cushioned by thick Persian rugs. This was only one of the pleasures of promotion to Special Branch. And no one seemed to mind his being here, even though strictly speaking his presence was unnecessary. He wanted to make sure the troops got his first prominent case right. No cock-ups, minor or major.

What he’d seen so far gave him no cause to worry. The lads were doing an efficient, if careful, job; drawers, cupboards, shelves, even the contents of the walk-in fridge.

‘Anything that might give us a clue about what Sir Geoffrey Ryland was doing on a side road off the M40 at two in the morning of December fourth.’

Not that they were likely to find anything much here, or that Flynn was under any illusion that he was leading this investigation. That was going on elsewhere. After more than a week, his team had only just been allowed access to the house, the lack of urgency matching the lack of expectation. Flynn was well aware that so far everything pointed to Ryland’s driver as being the intended victim of the assassination. The Super had told them all as much at the briefing, and from the photos of the scene he’d been shown, and what they knew of the background, Flynn had little reason to doubt that it was true.

The style of the killing was a strong indication that the thirty-eight-year-old reformed heroin runner had slipped back into his nasty little habits and paid the price. The bullets recovered at the scene had been shot from the type of weapon favoured by drugs dealers, and the crude message written in blood an obvious reference. Sir Geoffrey Ryland and his wife had simply got in the way. Until they read the headlines the following day the assassins had probably been totally unaware of the identity of their other, more prominent, victims.

The only contra-indications were the grains of white powder on the ground and inside the boot of the limo. It had seemed a careless, if not wasteful, mistake for professionals to make. But that was a trivial point and in the end it wouldn’t be Flynn’s call. All he was doing was the wider information-gathering, and ensuring that Sir Geoffrey Ryland’s death wouldn’t uncover any nasty surprises. Those further up the ladder would make the judgements about what had really happened that night in Cheslyn Wood.