Written in Blood (31 page)

‘Adolf Hitler.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It was a UXB.’

‘A what?’

‘A World War Two unexploded bomb. All the building work on the new Bullring must have disturbed it. Nothing to do with you, unless Herr Hitler was blessed with tremendous insight.’

‘So why all the secrecy?’

Knox had asked the same question when the news had broken. ‘They were scared that there might be more,’ he said, passing on what he’d been told. ‘The building contractors did the mandatory searches of the new sites, but no one took responsibility for the existing public buildings. They waited to release any details until they could categorically state that everywhere else was safe.’

‘The grey Transit vans,’ said Mariner.

Now what was he on about?

‘Haven’t you noticed those grey Transit vans all over the city the last few weeks? That must be what—’

Knox’s mobile rang and he jumped as if he’d been stung. ‘Selina,’ he said to Mariner, checking caller identity. Of course it was. Shit! Listening to Mariner rabbitting on he’d completely lost track of time. Now he was going to have some explaining to do. ‘I’ve got to go.’ Knocking back the tomato juice, he pushed back his chair.

Mariner was regarding him curiously. ‘Don’t tell Anna any of this,’ he said. ‘ or Selina.’

‘Anna needs to—’ Knox began.

‘Don’t!’

‘Okay.’ And, his own storm clouds gathering, Knox backed out of the pub.

 

Left alone in the bar, Mariner felt as if the world was getting smaller and beginning to close in on him. He’d hoped that telling Knox would have been some kind of release, but it wasn’t. It didn’t help that Knox was so obviously infatuated with Selina. Mariner could understand him feeling some responsibility for her situation, but even so. It was unlike Knox to let a woman get to him that much.

So the explosion was down to the Third Reich. That’s why Special Branch treated his letter so casually. They knew full well what had caused the explosion and it had nothing to do with him. He’d been convinced at the time that it was. The feeling of being followed, the composite letter, he was so sure it was all for him. If he could be so very wrong about that, was he wrong about Ryland too? Maybe Dave Flynn wasn’t so far off the mark. Maybe it was all in his imagination, his mind fabricating a conspiracy where there was none.

Unable to face Anna, he went back to his place and spent a restless night. He was up early, showered and shaved and dressed in a clean suit. Then he drove down the motorway to be questioned in a murder enquiry.

 

 

The police station was a 1970s cinderblock cube, cheerless and featureless. It felt weird being on the ‘wrong’ side of the table, though it wasn’t the first time in Mariner’s life. In his late teens it had been a regular occurrence, though he’d always walked. So far this morning everyone seemed friendly enough. ‘Could you tell us what time on January 24th you visited Mrs Eleanor Ryland at her home in Oxfordshire?’ His interrogator was an Asian officer, DC Anil Singh. His colleague, young, blond and ruddy-faced sat silently beside him.

‘It was about two in the afternoon.’

‘You walked there from the Lygon Arms,’ Singh consulted his notes.

‘That’s right. Along the Oxfordshire Way.’

‘What time did you leave the pub?’

‘About one o’clock.’

‘It’s a five and a half mile walk. You got there pretty fast.’

‘I walk pretty fast.’

‘How long did you stay?’

‘I’m not sure. About an hour, hour and a half?’

‘Not long then,’ Singh observed.

‘I wanted to get back to my car before it got dark.’

‘And what did you talk about with Mrs Ryland?’

‘Personal stuff,’ said Mariner. ‘I was asking her about Sir Geoffrey.’

‘Who you recently learned was your father.’ Flynn must have told them. ‘So you got there at about two and left at around three thirty. You can be certain about that timing?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘We have one of two witnesses who says you didn’t leave the pub until nearly two.’

‘What witness?’

‘One of the regulars at the Lygon Arms.’ The man at the bar. ‘Said you had a conversation with him.’

‘If you can call it that. And the other witness?’

‘A journalist. According to him you called out a greeting as you arrived.’ He consulted his notes. ‘You were seen to turn and wave and call out “Don’t get excited, I’m only family.” This was around four.’

‘Well, he’s mistaken. It wasn’t me.’

‘He saw you go into the house, but didn’t see you come out again. Of course it would have been dark by then, so he could easily have missed you.’

‘I told you nobody saw me go in or out. There was no one there. In fact I remarked on that very thing to Eleanor Ryland; the reporters weren’t there. She said they were in the pub and that they’d be back later.’

‘Really?’ Singh’s voice dripped cynicism. ‘What were you wearing that day?’

It was a standard question and Mariner had searched his memory. ‘A dark-blue Berghaus jacket, black gloves, dark-grey trousers, grey walking boots.’

‘It was a cold day. Nothing to keep your ears warm?’

‘I had a hat with me but it was in my pocket.’

‘This is the description we have.’ He pushed a piece of paper towards Mariner. It was word for word what he’d said, but for the make of jacket and the hat, which he was meant to have been wearing.

‘I didn’t even go in through the main gate. I walked to the house from the village along the public footpath. It takes you onto the property from the side, over a stile.’

‘At last there’s something we’re agreed on,’ said Singh.

‘That’s what the journalist says too. And as you walked across in front of the house you turned by the door, waved and called out.’

‘I’d have been thirty metres away. How can they be so sure it was me?’

‘That’s why long lens cameras are helpful.’

‘How precise is your TOD?’ Mariner queried.

‘We’ll ask the questions if it’s all right with you.’

‘I’ve been told she wasn’t found until Monday morning, so it can’t be that accurate.’

‘But you’re the only person known to have visited the house during the weekend.’

‘There must have been plenty of time when the house was unobserved.’

‘There was no sign of forced entry either, implying that the killer had a key.’ Singh raised an eyebrow.

‘We only met a couple of weeks ago,’ said Mariner.

‘Or that it was someone she knew. She let him in.’

But they could still only question him as a significant witness.

‘What’s my motive?’ Mariner asked. ‘I’ve only just found out that Eleanor Ryland was my grandmother. She’s the only real family I’ve got. Why would I kill her?’

The two detectives exchanged a look and DC Singh slid another document across the table, this time packaged in polythene. ‘For the tape, I’m showing DI Mariner exhibit 1A.’ He gave Mariner a few seconds to look at it. The first thing Mariner caught was the heading:
Last Will and Testament
. His vision blurred. Shit.

‘Were you aware that you’re named as a significant beneficiary in Eleanor Ryland’s will?’

‘No.’

‘We found this in her safe. You can see how it looks. Diana Ryland was the one with all the wealth, but on her death it went to her husband, then because his mother outlived him, it reverted to her. Did she take much persuading? ’

‘That’s nonsense. I had no knowledge of this will.’ They couldn’t prove that he did. He was being baited.

‘What are your present personal circumstances, Inspector?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I understand you and your partner are planning a family. And your partner already has one dependant who needs expensive residential care.’

How the hell? ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with—’ ‘Expensive things, babies. I can tell you that for a fact.’

‘This is ridiculous. I only found out a few weeks ago that I’m even related to Sir Geoffrey Ryland. How could I possibly know anything about this will? And I don’t need the money.’

‘You’ve met with Eleanor Ryland before, on 5th January. What did you talk about on that occasion?’

‘Not that, I can assure you.’

‘Look at the date on the bottom of the document.’

Mariner did. It had been signed and dated two weeks ago, two days after his first meeting with Eleanor.

‘I have to admire your speed,’ said Singh. ‘But then, she’d have been in a nice vulnerable state, wouldn’t she? I’m sorry you’ve just lost your son, but here I am, a ready-made grandson. Sign on the dotted line.’

Anger and fear boiled up and incensed, Mariner lunged for Singh.

‘And I really don’t think that’s going to help either. Didn’t you ask Mrs Ryland on your first visit about when she was alone in the house? The cook overheard a conversation to that effect and later saw you checking how secure the building was. You knew that at that time on a Saturday afternoon there would be nobody else there. Some might view that as preparation.’

‘It was conversation, that’s all. For Christ’s sake. I was concerned about security for precisely this reason. I’m an experienced copper. If I was going to pull a stunt like this, don’t you think I might have been a bit more subtle?’

Singh was thoughtful. ‘We did wonder about that. But we’ve talked to a couple of people, friends of yours, who say that you’re under a lot of strain at the moment and you’re not behaving at all like your usual self.’

‘This is making me feel a whole lot better.’

‘We can’t ignore what was there.’ Singh was only doing his job.

Resignation took over. ‘No,’ said Mariner. He decided to take a chance. ‘I’m not the only who thinks he’s a son and heir you know.’

They clearly didn’t. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Back in the sixties Ryland was engaged to a woman called Caroline Foster-Young. She had a child and was convinced that Geoffrey Ryland was the father.’ He told them what he knew about Rupert Foster-Young. This was where the ice thinned out, but Mariner was past caring.

‘He spread it around, your old man, didn’t he?’ The two detectives were doubtful.

‘Foster-Young has a prison record, for aggravated burglary,’ Mariner persisted. ‘When he got out he harassed Ryland for money. He turned up at the JRC demanding to see him.’

‘Do you know where this man is?’

‘That’s the other thing. He’s disappeared.’

‘How convenient for you.’ They didn’t believe him, but they took down Foster-Young’s address anyway. Then they let Mariner go, which made him realise that the only evidence they had was circumstantial. But it was still pretty strong stuff and they wouldn’t give up on him yet.

Eleanor Ryland’s will, he had noticed, was stamped with the solicitor’s name and address. The office was in a nearby town. Mariner had to kick his heels for forty-five waiting to see Peter Donovan but considered it worthwhile.

‘You went to Eleanor Ryland’s house to witness the change of will. When did she make that appointment?’

‘I can’t really be sure when she
arranged
it. We don’t record that kind of detail.’

‘Approximately. Was it before Christmas or after?’

‘Oh, I’m pretty sure it was before.’

‘You’re certain about that?’

‘As much as I can be.’

‘So it was shortly after Sir Geoffrey Ryland was killed.’

‘Yes, that was the purpose of the visit. When I saw the news I’d been expecting it.’

And it was also well before Mariner’s visit. Singh and his cronies hadn’t covered that. It wasn’t much but it might count in his favour if things got tight.

 

Checking his mobile Mariner found a couple of messages. The first was from Dave Flynn. Mariner didn’t return it. After all that the Oxfordshire police knew, he couldn’t decide whose side Flynn was on any more. The other message was from Rupert Foster-Young’s neighbour. It was short and to the point. ‘You wanted to know when Rob came home, well he’s back now.’

 

Mariner was weary of driving but he had little choice. He had to try again. Leaving his car at Cockfosters tube station, he travelled back into London. The man who answered the door of Rupert Foster-Young’s flat presented a very different picture from the six by eight Mariner had seen and momentarily he thought there must be a roommate. Either that or it crossed his mind that Lauren’s mother could have installed a decoy to take the heat off her erstwhile babysitter.

Barefoot, in jeans and a crisp white T-shirt, the man before him glowed with health, the paranoid defensiveness traded, in the flesh, with an open and friendly demeanor.

‘Detective Inspector Mariner,’ Mariner said. ‘I was hoping to talk to Rupert Foster-Young.’

‘Rob,’ came back the correction ‘That’s me.’ But for all the outward relaxation, suspicion lurked just below the surface, the door closed a couple of inches and the shoulders tensed. It was something that lingered with ex-cons. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘Not at all.’ Mariner remained casual. ‘I’m looking into the death of Sir Geoffrey Ryland. I know that he and your mother were friends once. I’m exploring the possibility of any throwback to that time—’

Foster-Young grinned, sheepishly, the tension leaving him. ‘Ah. You found out that I’d been harassing him.’

His frankness caught Mariner off guard. ‘Someone at the JRC told me about your appeal application, yes.’

Foster-Young stepped back from the door. ‘Do you want to come in? I was just making a cuppa.’

‘Thanks.’ Mariner was thrown by the unexpected hospitality. He followed Foster-Young through a tiny hallway and into a homely, if untidy lounge. A couple of suitcases lay open on the floor, their contents overflowing. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ Foster-Young said, without much hint of apology. ‘I just got back.’ He continued into the kitchen, leaving Mariner in the living room where a passport and other travel documentation lay on the table. While Foster-Young was occupied Mariner sneaked a look. It confirmed Foster-Young’s identity. Mariner was still staring at the passport when his host returned with two mugs.