Written in Blood (8 page)

‘Does this mean I’ve got half-siblings?’ Mariner said at last.

Flynn shook his head. ‘There are no kids. The people we’ve dealt with most have been Ryland’s mother, Eleanor Ryland, and his staff. Diana doesn’t seem to have much family either, apart from a sister who lives abroad. She’ll be flying in for the inquest. Oh, and they had a dog; company for Mrs Ryland probably. Judging from the amount of valium we found at the house she was of a somewhat nervous disposition.’

More silence. Flynn would make a great partner in an interview. ‘How long are you here for?’ Mariner asked.

‘Back first thing tomorrow.’

‘And if I need to ask more questions?’

‘Give me a call any time, though like I said, I’m not completely in the know.’

‘Listen. I’d like to tell Anna about this in my own time.

It’s going to take a bit of getting used to. Is it likely to become public knowledge?’

‘No reason why it should.’

‘Good, so we can keep this to ourselves for now?’

‘Sure.’

‘Thanks.’ Mariner held up the photos. ‘And I can take these with me?’

‘I can’t imagine how they’d be relevant to our investigation. Happy New Year, mate.’

‘Happy New Year.’

 

Outside the pub they went their separate ways. While Flynn returned to his hotel, Mariner dropped down off the main street into Gas Street basin to walk back along the canal to his own place, hoping that he still had it to himself. He covered the distance in record time, pounding along the towpath, barely noticing anything around him, the thoughts that exploded and ricocheted around his head commanding his attention. Never knowing who his father was, of course he’d been aware that the man might be out there somewhere and simply not interested, but there had, at the same time, been the more acceptable alternatives that he was dead, or had emigrated, or at the very least had never been told about Mariner. But now Dave Flynn had turned all that on its head.

Ryland’s possession of those photographs meant that he was far from ignorant of his son’s existence, and the only thing really stopping him from making contact was the protection of his reputation and his career. It was possible of course that he’d only recently acquired the photos, but if that was the case, why the entire history? One of the photographs in that little collection was of Mariner at just a couple of weeks old. No, what remained was the inescapable truth that Sir Geoffrey Ryland was fully aware that he had a son, he lived only a hundred miles away, but he didn’t want to know him. In the last hour Mariner’s lofty opinion of the man had plummeted to the lowest depths.

 

Arriving at the cottage in what seemed like no time at all, Mariner was grateful to note that his new tenant didn’t appear to have yet moved in. The place was so cold inside that he could see his breath on the air. He was going to miss the solitude of this place when he didn’t have it to himself.

He’d only intended collecting Ryland’s autobiography from where he’d left it, surplus to requirement, but his mind was awash with thoughts and questions and the empty, silent house was just too inviting to resist.

Tonight he’d been given the answer to the biggest question mark hanging over his life, but all that had replaced it were endless other questions. Why hadn’t Ryland stood by Rose? The most obvious explanation was that his career came first. He didn’t want to be saddled with a wife and a kid before he’d had the chance to make his mark on the world. Funny how, even now, women were condemned for making the same kind of choice, but men had always got away with it. The power of the public image was impressive. Mariner would never have categorised Ryland as that kind of man. But he was a politician, an expert at creating a ‘persona’ and the single-mindedness needed to go into the profession in the first place would stand him in good stead. Oh yes, Ryland would be used to getting his own way, selfish bastard.

Mariner wondered how his mother had felt about it. Had there been bitter arguments, recriminations? It had been hard for her as a lone parent in the sixties and into the seventies. She’d carried that stigma with her. Growing up Mariner had noticed the way that certain people treated her. Rose had never given the impression that she’d felt abandoned or hard done by, but by the time Mariner was old enough to understand their situation she’d had years to come to terms with it.

On the other hand, Ryland could have simply been scared of the prospect of fatherhood in much the same way as Mariner was now. With a flush of guilt Mariner remembered his reaction six years ago when his then-girlfriend Greta had announced out of the blue that she was pregnant. He’d been shocked and appalled. They’d only known each other a year and had never even discussed the idea of children. Had Rose pulled the same stunt on Ryland? Mariner’s reaction to Greta had hardly been supportive. Luckily, if that was the word, he’d got away with it, discovering later that Greta had miscarried their baby. But if he couldn’t handle it as a mature adult of forty, how would he have felt at twenty years younger?

The disparity in his situation of course was that Greta’s actions had been calculated. Things would have been very different for Rose in 1959. The pill didn’t come in until two years later and other forms of contraception were pretty unreliable. Ryland would have known if he was sleeping with Rose that pregnancy was always a risk. The likely scenario, as Mariner had suspected for some time, was that he’d been an accident. But along with that rationale had been the comfortable assumption that his father, whoever he might be, had never been told. What disturbed him now was the revelation that Ryland did know about him and must have done from the start. It was beginning to look as if failing to face up to paternal responsibility could be a hereditary disposition.

 

 

Rose’s letters would help to clarify things. First Mariner arranged them in chronological order, starting from when he’d have been about three months old.

There were apologies from her to begin with for not having responded sooner to a letter Ryland must have sent: ‘
. . . but you wouldn’t believe how much time a new baby takes up. Not much time to sit and write. I know this is hard for all of us but I’m sure that in the fullness of time you’ll see that it’s for the best. Your parents only want what’s right for you and now I can understand what a powerful force that is. Already Thomas and I have our own routine and it wouldn’t fit with yours. He likes to cry for most of the evening. It would hardly enhance your studying!’

Then later: ‘
As Thomas gets older it will be more difficult for him to understand. I think it might be better if your visits stopped. I know it’s difficult for you to spare the time anyway. And it will be more complicated, when he begins to talk.’

Then when Mariner was aged two and a half: ‘
The girl you’ve met sounds lovely, congratulations on your engagement. It was quite a surprise, and I really do hope you’ll be happy. Diana sounds good for you, and you’re right. She mustn’t know about us. After what she’s been through we’re the last thing that she needs. You must look forward to the future and starting a family of your own together.

‘
Thomas and I have a good life. In a few weeks we will be moving away from London and it’s best that you don’t try to get in touch. Mum and Dad are helping out so we won’t need financial support. If you honour this wish I will continue to keep you abreast of Tom’s progress but if you don’t then communication will cease entirely. We each have our own lives now. We always have had, haven’t we
?’

The final letter was postmarked Leamington, but there was no address given at the top of the page.

It could hardly have been put more plainly. The decision to go it alone was Rose’s, something she’d been cheerful about, even proud of. The letters he’d read offered nothing to dispute it. The thing he’d never learn was exactly how far the young Geoffrey Ryland had gone in guiding her into that way of thinking.

Disappointingly, though not surprisingly, the letters were all from his mother’s side and told him little about Ryland. Mariner hoped that the book would reveal more. The pile of leftover Christmas gifts was where he’d left them in the lounge, among them
One of the Good Guys
.

The first thing Mariner turned to was the photo on the dust jacket, which he took over to the mirror. It was in the eyes, he thought. Those in the picture were almost exactly like those reflecting back from the glass. How had he not seen that before? Because he hadn’t been looking of course.

But as he probed more deeply, Ryland’s autobiography was disappointing. Ryland was obviously planning to milk the book-buying public and this was a first instalment only, covering the time of his childhood and student activism up until the time he became an MP in 1967. And of course it told only what Ryland wanted to tell, painting a story of a charmed life. Suddenly Mariner was learning about his privileged roots. From an upper-middle-class family, his father went to Oundle public school before studying law at University College London. It seemed that Ryland’s father’s thwarted political ambitions had been mostly responsible for his entry into the political arena.

Mariner was glad he’d read the letters first. Over the next hour he was presented with a different view of Ryland; a rather spoiled only child who somewhere along the line had seduced Rose and then deserted her to pursue a more glamorous life. A war baby, born in 1940, it would have made Ryland only nineteen years old when Mariner was born, his mother slightly older. The book described his time at university when he became politically active. It would have coincided with his meeting Rose but nowhere was she mentioned even in passing. Mariner wondered if Ryland had contacted her about the book, but thought it unlikely.

Every few chapters there was a collection of illustrations; photographs of past Ryland generations and Ryland’s childhood, as a toddler through to a teenager, looking startlingly like the snapshot of Mariner at around the same age; then graduation, and finally photographs of Ryland’s wedding and early married life.

The wedding photos were from 1965, so Ryland was no longer a student, but he’d still been young when he married. Mariner wondered how Rose had really felt about that. In her letter she’d seemed happy enough, but was she just making it easier for Ryland? In later life Rose had stifled Mariner, becoming increasingly demanding and capricious. But all this reminded him of the side of her, generous and considerate, that he’d known as a kid. Mariner was drawn to the photos of the wedding group. Ryland’s espoused, Diana, was the eldest daughter of Lady Elizabeth and successful businessman Sir Reginald Fitzgibbon, who had made his money from pulp products, mainly packaging. Judging by the formality of the photographs it had been a proper society wedding, morning coats and top hats, at what looked like some country pile. Was that the first hint that Rose hadn’t been good enough for Ryland? If he’d married her it would have been a very different affair. There could have been something in that because otherwise the newlyweds looked an ill-matched pair.

Ryland cut an attractive, charismatic figure but his wife appeared, to put it mildly, dull. She was slim to the point of emaciation and sporting an auburn bouffant à la Margaret Thatcher that owed more to the 1940s than 1960s. But then, though he knew her name, Mariner had heard little about the woman, so the likelihood was that she possessed the qualities essential to the wife of a politician; quietly supportive, remaining in the background yet loyal to her man. Mariner tried to picture Rose playing that role but it made him smile; she’d have had far too much to say for herself. Ryland couldn’t afford that when he was starting out in politics.

Mariner frowned at the picture. Diana Ryland looked oddly familiar, but then he must have seen her picture in the press countless times before, at her husband’s side. He studied the rest of the wedding group; proud parents, Charles and Eleanor Ryland alongside the mother of the bride, her father conspicuously absent. The youngest of the bridesmaids, who looked about twelve, was Felicity Fitzgibbon, the sister Flynn had mentioned, or perhaps a cousin? The best man, Norman Balfour, had also featured on the graduation shots earlier in the book. The two men must have been good friends and Mariner wondered if the friendship had endured.

Mariner scanned the final collection of prints for any evidence of children, but the book bore out what Flynn had already said; that there were none. The text covered Ryland’s early career as a barrister, but there were no happy family snaps, only photographs of Ryland and Diana, usually at official or large social events and a couple of times on holiday in the Mediterranean, and almost always in the informal shots, with the same breed of dog. Had Diana Ryland ever known about her husband’s son? In the letter Rose had advised against telling her and Mariner felt certain that Ryland would have followed that advice. The memoir ended as Ryland was about to enter Parliament at the age of twenty-seven.

For all its detail, the book was strangely unsatisfying. It described only the public face of Sir Geoffrey Ryland, the bits that anyone could access. In the wake of his anger, Mariner felt a sudden plunging sense of loss and regret that this would be the only means of getting to know his father. What he really wanted to know was what the man was like day to day. How did he speak in conversation, what were his mannerisms and facial expressions? Did he see the same things when he looked in the mirror? What were his private views across a whole range of subjects? What made him take the decisions he had? What made him laugh?
Would Mariner have liked his father?

The only person who might be able to provide him with any of those intimate details was the sole survivor, Ryland’s mother, Eleanor. The chances were that she wouldn’t know anything about Mariner, let alone be prepared to talk to him. But at least he might get another perspective, albeit a somewhat biased one, on what Sir Geoffrey Ryland was like. In many ways the idea was too tempting to resist. And then there was Norman Balfour who might have remained a close friend. College buddy and best man back in ’65 didn’t necessarily mean that the bond had lasted but it might be worth trying to find out what had happened to him. There were of course plenty of people publicly associated with Ryland, but that wasn’t the same thing at all.