Written in Blood (4 page)

Flynn climbed the stairs to the first-floor landing. ‘Anything useful?’ he asked.

One of the team emerged from the bathroom. Collins, Flynn thought he was called. ‘A quantity of drugs of any interest to you, sir?’

‘What?’

‘Diazepam. Prescribed to Lady Ryland.’

‘Valium,’ said Flynn, taking the bag. He studied the typed label. ‘Christ, and a 500 milligram dosage. That’s enough to knock out a horse. Depressed or what?’

‘She was a politician’s wife,’ said Collins, as if that was explanation enough.

‘Anything else?’ Flynn asked.

‘We’ve got a few letters. But it’s personal stuff, mostly relating to her. You wanted us to look for anything unusual, unexplained?’

‘That’s right.’

Collins held up a small key. ‘Looks like the key to a bank security box.’

‘We’ve already been into his safety deposit.’

‘He must have another one. And this key was taped to the inside of his desk drawer.’

‘Meaning it’s the one he didn’t want anyone else to know about.’

 

Anna opted out of the meeting with Roy Shipley, so Mariner took wrapping paper and tape to the cottage; might as well do something useful while he was there.

He arrived at his canalside home in time to see a silver Audi estate pulling into the service road. Shipley walked over first, followed by another taller man, broad-shouldered with carroty hair and a dusting of freckles that probably got him relentless teasing as a kid. He extended a hand and a broad smile. ‘Bill Dyson,’ he said. ‘Thanks for agreeing to see me Mr Mariner.’

Mariner was normally good at placing accents but the closest he could get with Dyson’s was somewhere north of the border. ‘That’s no problem,’ he said.

‘How are you?’ Shipley asked. ‘I saw your picture in the local rag. That explosion thing. Christ.’

‘You were involved in that?’ Dyson echoed Shipley’s horror. ‘It must have been awful.’

‘It wasn’t much fun.’

‘Hideous I would think,’ Shipley said. ‘But you’re here to tell the tale. Thank God, eh?’

Dyson was mortified. ‘Look, I had no idea,’ he said. ‘If this is a bad time—’

Mariner shook his head. ‘Not at all. It will be good to see the place occupied. As Mr Shipley’s probably explained, I seem to spend most of my time at my partner’s house now so it’s lying empty much of the time.’

A squall of icy rain blew down. ‘Why don’t we go inside?’ said the agent.

The tour of the three-floor cottage didn’t take long but Dyson seemed impressed. He ran his hand over the varnished inlaid wood of the cupboards. ‘I love these old places. When was it built?’

Mariner gave him a potted history of the place, as much as he knew. ‘The original drawings are even knocking around here somewhere. I’ll try and remember to look them out for you.’

‘Great, thanks. It looks ideal for me. I’d been looking at flats and bedsits but rooms would suit me much better. All I need is a bolthole to save me from having to retreat back up the motorway every week. I’ve been living in hotels up to now but that can be pretty soul-destroying after a while and financially it’s really not viable.’

‘Well some of my stuff is still here and I do come back from time to time, but this is really just a stop-gap arrangement until we decide what to do.’

‘And meanwhile I’ll find out if I can make a go of it down here.’

‘What kind of business is it that you’re in?’

‘Security.’ Dyson dug in an inside pocket and passed Mariner a business card. ‘Domestic mainly. I’m pretty well established in the north but would love to make it work down here, too.’ He smiled. ‘I could start right away. I noticed that you don’t have a system. I could do an assessment for you if you like.’

‘To be honest I’ve never felt the need.’

Shipley cleared his throat. ‘I should have said. It’s
Detective Inspector
Mariner.’

‘Ah.’ Dyson responded in the way that most people do.

‘I hope that won’t make a difference,’ Mariner said, knowing that sometimes it could.

But Dyson seemed relaxed enough about it. ‘I’ll just have to make sure and keep my nose clean, won’t I?’

They all smiled at what they knew was a well-worn line.

‘Where’s your main base?’ Mariner asked.

‘I’m originally from Galloway.’

‘That’s a beautiful area.’

‘Yes, it is. A man’s got to earn a living but I’d love to retire back there.’ Dyson gestured towards the shelf of battered Wainwright Guides. ‘I see you’re a walker yourself.’

‘It’s the best way to get some peace and quiet, I find.’

‘You’ll have to recommend some local routes for me. Stuck in the car all day visiting clients, exercise is the thing I really miss.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Mariner said, hoping that Dyson wouldn’t be looking for company too. For him one of the attractions of a good walk was the solitude. ‘When are you thinking of moving in?’ he asked.

‘Right after the holidays if that’s okay. Do you want me to give you a call first?’

‘No. The references seem fine. Move in when you’re ready.’

‘Cheers, I appreciate that. I’ll probably dump some of my kit for now and come back from time to time.’

‘Whenever you like.’

‘Well, we should be going,’ Shipley prompted.

‘Aye. Back to the bosom of the family and all that. There’s snow forecast for later today and I’d like to miss it if I can. What about you? Getting together with the folks for the celebrations?’

‘Not many of them left,’ said Mariner.

‘Lucky you.’ The remark seemed heartfelt and Dyson was apparently compelled to qualify it. ‘Don’t misunderstand me. I love my parents, siblings and their offspring dearly but you can have too much of a good thing, if you know what I mean.’

‘I wouldn’t imagine you’re alone.’ said Mariner.

‘Well. Merry Christmas to you, Tom.’

‘Merry Christmas.’

 

Mariner watched from the doorway as Dyson signalled and then pulled out onto the main road, his rearlights disappearing from view. The house, perched on the edge of the frozen canal was frigid now that the central heating only came on twice a day to stop the system from seizing up. After Dyson had left, huddled in his fleece, Mariner jammed his hands in his pockets and sat and enjoyed the uninterrupted silence for a while, trying once more to exorcise the images that clogged his brain.

The sounds more than anything else were what haunted him. When he’d first ventured into that black hole of choking dust, visibility was non existent and it was the bits of noise that had emerged first; the tormented groans and plaintive cries for help grotesque way-markers in the darkness. At one point he’d been driven on by a faint whimpering. Others came to help and they laboured for an hour, scrabbling in desperation at the rubble and debris until their hands bled, until finally Mariner made contact with soft clothing and flesh. ‘Over here!’ he’d yelled to newly arrived floodlights.

Through a chink in the debris Mariner could see big blue eyes blinking and unfocused in a ghostly face and he kept talking, compelling those eyes to stay open and engage. But when the lights came on, illuminating the tons of wreckage heaped above, the enormity of the task was evident, and finally with a gasp of breath, the eyes closed and did not reopen. For hours he’d only known his discovery as victim number three. Then when her beaming photograph appeared in the paper he learned that she was ten-year-old Chloe Evans who had come to the service with her retired police officer grandfather. Mariner was tortured by the failure. Never mind that countless others had been helped to safety, they’d failed that little girl.

 

Mariner wrapped Anna’s presents with little enthusiasm. Picking up a takeaway on his way back to the house, he found her curled up in front of the TV watching a Christmas special of some sort.

‘What’s he like?’ she asked. ‘The lodger.’

‘Seems like a nice guy. He lives up north and wants a base here for business purposes. He’s moving in right after Christmas.’

‘That’s great. How long is the lease?’

‘Six months.’

‘And then?’

‘I don’t know. What?’

‘I’ve been thinking.’

Mariner was beginning to take this as a bad sign. ‘Oh yes.’

‘Now that Jamie’s settled we’ve got a bit more flexibility. It’s lovely out where Becky and Mark live. I think we should consider it.’

‘What?’

‘Moving out of the city. If we sold both of our places we could get somewhere really nice. Somewhere we could do up and make into a proper family home.’

‘We haven’t got a family yet,’ Mariner reminded her.

‘I know but—’

Chloe Evans face returned unbidden into his head. ‘It’s too soon, Anna, leave it will you?’

‘But it would be something to concentrate on, to get us through this.’

‘We’ll get through it anyway,’ Mariner snapped. ‘We weren’t victims. We got away with it.’

‘I know but—’

‘I can’t talk about this now. I’m going to bed.’ Climbing the stairs he knew he’d reacted badly, but Christ, as if there wasn’t already enough going on.

 

 

The following day two Detective Constables from Special Branch came to talk to them and take statements. If they noticed that the atmosphere was cooler inside the house than it was outside, it didn’t show. It was a frustrating interview. Mariner was still coming to terms with the fact that his only role was as a witness, and in this respect he felt entirely inadequate. He’d been over and over it in his head but on the walk towards the church he’d seen nothing unusual, no one behaving suspiciously, not a thing out of place. Up until the point when the building had erupted it had been a perfectly normal evening. If they’d been there sooner there might have been something, but they hadn’t.

‘I really don’t remember seeing anything,’ Mariner reiterated yet again, his annoyance showing through. ‘I heard it and felt it, but by then it was too late.’

The interviewing officer was sympathetic. ‘You’re not alone sir,’ he said. ‘An event like that, we must have had a hundred expert witnesses in the area, but none of those who survived can remember seeing anything that helps our investigation.’

‘Do we know yet what caused the explosion?’

‘The investigation is ongoing, sir.’

‘But they must have some idea.’

Initially, Mariner had thought he must have missed something. It had been four days since the explosion, normally more than enough time to at least have some idea of the cause, but there seemed a high level of secrecy surrounding it. The team would have been in there examining the forensic evidence and, if it was a bomb, would have drawn some conclusions about the type and amount of explosive used.

‘If they do know they’re not ready to share it with us yet, sir,’ was all the officer would say.

Mariner flatly turned down the counselling that was offered. Resources were stretched and there were others whose need was greater. But he suggested to Anna that she should take it up, using the one lever available to him. ‘If we do start a family—’

She stared at him. He’d used the ‘if’ word.

Jamie had been due to come home for Christmas, but Anna called and arranged for him to stay at the hostel. ‘He’ll have a better time there than he will with us,’ was her reasoning and it couldn’t be argued with. Even without the explosion things were strained to say the least. They drove over and took his presents instead to where Jamie had lived since Manor Park, his residential care home, had been swallowed up by a national organisation whose ethos followed the trend towards community-based care. At the time Anna had experienced mixed feelings. Largely indifferent to his role in society, Jamie had been happy where he was, but gradually Anna had been persuaded that getting involved with the community on a daily basis would be of long-term benefit.

Mariner pulled into the drive of the unremarkable semi-detached house to see Louise, the manager, in bright yellow rubber gloves, gathering up rubbish from the front garden and stuffing it into a black bag. It included old nappies and takeaway cartons, more than the wind would have randomly deposited.

‘An early Christmas present from the neighbours,’ she said, grimly.

‘What have you done to deserve that?’ Mariner was appalled.

‘Oh, nothing specific.’ Louise assured him. ‘Just the general threat we pose to the neighbourhood. That old confusion between mental illness and learning difficulties lingers on.’

‘Not any more, surely.’ But the bag of rubbish said otherwise. ‘Have you reported it?’ Mariner wanted to know.

‘I don’t want to inflame the situation. They’ll get used to us eventually.’

‘You’ve been here nearly six months. How long does it take?’

‘Clearly a bit longer than we thought.’ Louise smiled. ‘Come on in. It’s much more festive inside.’

It was. Reflecting the needs of its clientele, Christmas decorations inside the hostel had been kept to a minimum, but the air was rich with the comforting smell of home-baking.

‘We’re making mince pies,’ Louise said. To prove the point, when he appeared Jamie was wearing a floury apron, his hands still spotlessly clean, participation limited to observation only. He came over and rested his forehead on Anna’s shoulder, his habitual greeting.

‘Hi Jamie,’ she said and Mariner could see her fighting the impulse to put her arms round her brother and squeeze him tight, something that would have caused him more distress than reassurance. But in the last days everything and everyone had become more precious and the need to reach out and physically hold on had become more pressing, almost a primeval urge.

Jamie was also adjusting to new circumstances. Along with the move to the hostel, his care worker Simon had also moved on, and Jamie had not entirely taken to his replacement. Today Luke was upbeat. ‘He’s settling in really well. He likes walking to the shops and going on the bus to the swimming baths and is generally coping better with new experiences.’