BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense (18 page)

Simone sat shaking her hair out frequently. She double-checked everything that was said, or interrupted before the speaker had finished. Swift suppressed his irritation and smiled at Mary. She was looking excited and strained. She gave him a thumbs-up as Debbie confirmed that everything was satisfactory from her point of view.

‘Well,’ Mary said, relieved. ‘I think that’s everything. Have you written your very brief speech, Ty?’

‘Yes,’ he lied. ‘Just need to polish it up. No more than five minutes, as requested.’

‘You can practise it on me,’ Kris told him. ‘What are you wearing?’ she asked Mary and Simone.

Swift half listened as they spoke of their outfits, table decorations and their honeymoon in Siena. His thoughts had turned to Teddy Bartlett. The boy must have been hugely distressed by his sister’s secret pregnancy and then the baby’s death. A baby he had helped bring into the world, but who would have been abandoned if he had lived. The pressure of keeping that knowledge to himself for months on end would have weighed on him. No wonder he had felt as if he was living in a miserable world and wanted to escape it. Then there was Sheila, interring her baby in a box, making regular trips to the loft to grieve over the corpse, tending the bones. The disintegration of the Bartlett family was awful. Teddy’s note now made complete sense — almost. His mother had been using Tim as an emotional crutch and Sheila had used him. But who had he been seeking as his companion in his new, free life? Swift was now convinced, from what he knew of them, that neither Sheila nor Joshua had been responsible for Teddy’s attack. But he was sure that the answer lay somewhere with the Saltbys. The mother or the father, then, had found some way of luring Teddy to Low Copsley. He made a decision. He knew it would put the cat amongst the pigeons but he had to clear a path through their evasions. He would visit Steven Saltby.

Kris nudged him. ‘Where have you gone to?’

‘Sorry. I was thinking about this case I’m working on.’ He looked at her. ‘Maybe when the wedding is over and I’ve finished this piece of work, we could have a short break somewhere?’

‘That would be wonderful.’

‘Where would you like to go?’

‘Bath! There are some vintage shops there I’d love to look in.’

‘It’s a deal.’

He took her hand and kissed it. Her fingers were often chilly — because of all the sitting still and sewing, she said. He cupped both her hands in his and rubbed them, then tucked the nearest into his pocket, where she liked to nestle and warm it.

* * *

The morning was murky, the air thick and stagnant as he walked to the Saltby home. The temperature had dropped to freezing overnight and he had dug out his black wool cap with ear flaps. He hoped that Mary would have blue skies for her wedding in two days’ time, one of those cold but sunny winter days that cheered the spirits. He turned in at the gate of the small terraced house, betting that Steven Saltby would be at home on his own at this time of day. There was a ramp up to the front door and he stood by the side of it with his finger on the bell. After a long minute he heard a slam, a security chain being attached and the latch moving. The door opened a couple of inches. Steven Saltby was sideways on in his wheelchair, staring out at him.

‘Yes?’

‘Good morning. Mr Steven Saltby?’

‘Yes. Who are you?’

‘My name is Tyrone Swift. I’m a private investigator looking into an attack that happened some years ago. I’ve spoken to your daughter, your son and your wife and now I’d like to talk to you. You’ll probably recall seeing me at your church a short time ago.’

There was a silence while Saltby frowned and looked him up and down. ‘I’ve never heard of you. Don’t remember seeing you.’ The voice was deep and flat. Uncompromising.

‘I believe your family haven’t mentioned me or the information they’ve given me because they thought you would be upset. I do think that as the head of the family, you should be involved or at least allowed to make your own decisions on the matter. It’s a complicated situation, you see, and I’d appreciate your views.’ Appealing to status usually helped in these situations.

A longer silence. ‘Have you got some kind of ID?’

‘Of course. I carry a card with my photo.’

‘Let’s see it then.’

Swift held it out as instructed, pleased that these security precautions indicated that Saltby was alone. Saltby raised a pair of glasses on a string around his neck and scrutinised it, then looked hard again at Swift.

‘You can come in.’

He reached up with a grunt to undo the chain and moved his wheelchair backwards and forwards until he could turn back into the house. The effort was obviously painful. Swift thought how much easier it would be for him if there was an intercom system with a door release, but he presumed that The Select Flock would abjure such technology. He followed Saltby along the hallway and into a combined sitting/dining room. Saltby positioned himself by a bay window and indicated a straight-backed chair with no arms.

The room was plainly furnished with dark cream walls. It was spotless, drab and also cold, with a boarded-in fireplace. There was one free-standing electric heater, unplugged. The floor was covered in a thin hessian carpet and the only decoration was a huge wooden cross on one wall. A chipped pine coffee table was beside Saltby’s wheelchair, with what looked like a well-used prayer book on top. A small crucifix lay across it. Swift couldn’t help thinking of Teddy and Judith upstairs in this joyless place, laughing and miming to songs and Joshua sneaking into his second-hand women’s finery, his mouth dry with self-hatred and longing.

Saltby was looking at him impassively. His deep-set, almost black eyes were unreadable. Up close, his thick, greyish, heavily lined skin looked even more like an elephant’s hide. The grey ribbed fleece he was wearing added to the impression. His mouth was disconcertingly at odds with the rest of his face, a feminine-looking cupid’s bow. He seemed like a man who took no prisoners, so Swift decided to adopt the same approach. He stared back and told Saltby about Teddy and Judith’s friendship, Joshua’s involvement at Cyberia, the attack on Teddy and Dorcas Saltby’s knowledge of what had happened. He included the details about Joshua’s dressing up. The man barely blinked.

‘Teddy’s family want to know who attacked him. I believe that his attack is linked to your family. Both your son and your wife lied to me initially and I think that lies are still being told.’

Saltby shifted in his chair and adjusted the footrest. ‘That’s quite a story you’ve come here with.’

‘Facts. Those are facts.’

‘If you say so. You think I’m involved?’

‘You tell me.’

There was a silence. Saltby touched the crucifix. The faint drone of a vacuum cleaner sounded from next door. When Saltby spoke, his voice was stony with hostility.

‘So you think I would sit here in the knowledge that my son is a pernicious deviant and my wife a foul liar and perhaps they are also criminals? You think I wouldn’t have denounced them and had them expelled from our congregation and my home? You don’t know me, Mr Swift.’

Swift thought he was telling the truth. He was an extreme, merciless man who would give no quarter to weakness. He was a father who was capable of telling his daughter that she was no longer his child. Thank goodness, Judith had escaped and found another life.

‘Maybe you are telling the truth, Mr Saltby. All I know is that there is a web of deceit within your family.’

‘You are sure that these things you have told me about, these unspeakable, disgusting events are all true?’

‘Yes. Your own family have given me most of the information.’

‘Then they are an abomination in the Lord’s eyes. I know that my daughter is. She was lost many years ago. But now I find that my wife and son have trodden the same path.
"May they be blotted out of the
book of life and not be listed with the righteous.
"
There is shame upon this house. The Lord must have some reason to punish us.’

He took up the crucifix, bowed his head and started muttering a prayer or biblical imprecation. The words sounded harsh. Swift didn’t want to lose his advantage and decided to try another tack. He broke in, raising his voice.

‘When you had your accident, did you receive compensation?’

Saltby kissed the crucifix and held it to his chest, a protective talisman. For the first time, he looked taken aback. ‘Yes.’

‘What did you do with it?’

‘What business is that of yours?’

‘In April 2011, someone made an anonymous donation of twenty thousand pounds to Teddy Bartlett, for his welfare. They put an unsigned note with the money. I believe it was blood money, guilt money. You’ll see where I’m going with this, as it was not long after your accident.’

Saltby rested his chin in his hand. ‘My compensation was paid into a church account, to do the Lord’s work.’

Swift could almost see his thoughts churning. The next question was crucial and Saltby would know it.

‘Who can sign off on the account or make withdrawals?’

A look of relief and a glint of malice appeared on Saltby’s face. ‘I am one of the signatories for the account. The other is Graham Manchester. Either of us can authorise expenditure.’

‘Your wife’s cousin?’

‘Yes. He has been church treasurer for many years. He is an accountant. Well, more of a jumped-up office boy really, as far as I can make out.’

‘Who keeps the records?’

‘He does, at his home.’

‘You could presumably contact your bank and check transactions for April 2011?’

Saltby shifted his legs, placing his hands below each knee and repositioning them.

‘I could do that, but why should I?’

‘Oh, Mr Saltby. You’re an intelligent man. Surely you would like to know if church funds have been misspent on Teddy Bartlett. And if they have, there is then the bigger question as to why. Someone, or more than one person, has been pulling the wool over your eyes for years.’

‘Why have they done these things? This falsehood and deviancy?’ Saltby looked upwards, whispering. He was trembling, the shock of what he had heard finally hitting home.

Swift assumed he was addressing a higher authority but he took the liberty of answering. ‘Perhaps because they’re human and frail. I don’t know that much about the Lord these days but isn’t he supposed to understand sinners?’

Saltby slapped his palms down on the sides of his chair. ‘They think because I’m a cripple I can be fooled. I may need to be pushed around but I’m no pushover. If there is cancer in my home and in my church, I will cut it out remorselessly.’

Swift was expecting another Old Testament quote but Saltby wheeled himself to the telephone, an old-fashioned wall-mounted model, and took a notebook and pen from the shelf beneath it. He rang his bank and went through several laborious minutes of identifying himself. He then asked the help desk to look through the account for Hope Chapel around April 2011 and advise him of money spent. He listened, making notes, and rang off abruptly. He sat with his back to Swift, tapping the pen against the paper, then returned to his position by the window. Swift remained still, waiting.

‘No large amount of money was withdrawn around that time. Two hundred and fifty pounds was spent between February and May 2011 on general maintenance. At least theft is not one of the evils that has been committed.’

Swift felt a pang of frustration and disappointment. Saltby had slumped a little in his chair and was underlining in the notebook, leaning so heavily on the pen that it tore the paper.

‘There are still more questions to be asked, Mr Saltby.’

Saltby nodded and gestured at the window. ‘Well, here’s my son. We can start with him.’

There was the sound of a key in the lock and a draught of icy air.

‘Hello!’ Joshua Saltby called and appeared in the doorway, dressed in work clothes — jeans and a quilted jacket. A lock of hair fell over his forehead. Out of his sombre suit, he looked younger. He froze when he saw Swift.

‘What are you doing here?’

His father drew himself up ramrod straight in his chair. ‘Come in and close the door.’

He did as he was told, standing just inside the door, hands by his side. In his father’s presence he was rapidly diminished, more boy than pastor of his flock.

‘Mr Swift has been explaining a series of events to me,’ his father continued. ‘A tale of sin and perversion and betrayal of the foulest kind. I have harboured serpents under my roof.’

Joshua Saltby blanched and swayed. ‘What have you done?’ he said to Swift.

‘He has come here with the truth,’ his father said grimly. ‘The truth has had to proceed from the tongue of a non-believer. Or are you going to deny corruption and evil? Well, are you? Answer me!’

Joshua flinched. ‘I won’t deny it.’

‘No, I thought not. That I should witness such a day! I have nursed a nest of vipers in my bosom. I stood aside for you. I could have been pastor but I refused. I helped raise you to the highest position of responsibility in our congregation, a place of trust and leadership and how do you replay me?’

His son put the heels of his hands over his eyes, shaking his head. His body was trembling.