BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense (3 page)

‘What about friends or girlfriends?’ Swift asked. ‘Did none of his friends or other students from his school know anything?’

Sheila transferred her sweet from one side of her mouth to the other, hamster-like.

‘Teddy didn’t have a girlfriend. He was young for his age, a bit of a nerd. He didn’t have many friends, at school or outside. He wasn’t much of a joiner. If he wasn’t studying or drawing he spent time with Mum or doing the garden. He loved nature.’

He wasn’t much like an average sixteen-year-old, Swift thought.

‘Given his interest in Druids, did he have connections with any groups with those beliefs?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

‘What about your brother Tim? Did he know anything about what Teddy had been doing that day?’

‘Tim wasn’t here. He was staying with our Aunty Barbara in Dorchester. That’s our mum’s sister. He went to her in the middle of July and came back for the start of school in September. He had a cousin about the same age to play with there, so it was a good arrangement.’

‘Did the police give you any results from their investigation?’

Sheila pinched the bridge of her nose and swallowed. ‘Not much, to be honest. They visited Teddy’s school, talked to the neighbours and looked through his room and all his things. They didn’t find anyone who’d seen him that day. The last time I saw anyone was when a Detective Inspector Peterson came round and said they had no evidence of who had been with Teddy. The rock used to attack him only had his blood on it. That was about eight months later. We knew by then that Teddy would never be able to tell us what had happened. In the end the police seemed to think it had been a random attack.’

A phone rang and Sheila pulled her mobile from her pocket. She stood up and stepped towards the window where she conducted a low conversation about an order for drug supplies. She was clearly issuing instructions. Bartlett stood also, grimacing and rubbing his right hip. He indicated that he was going to get a glass of water and Swift nodded that he would have one. The dry air had made his throat rough. He read quickly through his notes, writing down a few more questions. Then he watched Sheila, who was rubbing the window pane with a finger as she insisted that someone check details on a database.

‘Sorry about that,’ she said, sitting again. ‘I head up two teams and it seems no one else can ever make a decision. I don’t know what they’d do if I broke my leg or decided to go away for a couple of months. They even rang me when I had flu!’

Swift smiled. There was a self-importance to her boasting. He imagined she liked to rule the roost.

‘Was there anything missing from Teddy’s room when he left home that day? Did he take anything with him?’

Sheila shook her head. ‘Nothing apart from his leather rucksack. That would have had his wallet in. The rucksack was found near him but the wallet had gone.’

‘Mobile phone?’

‘He didn’t have one, none of us did in those days. The only other thing the police said was that he had bits of whitethorn in the left pocket of his jacket and bits of blackthorn in his right pocket. That’s Druid stuff again.’

‘Do you have anything of Teddy’s I could look at — old school books, diaries, personal things?’

‘I’m afraid not. Mum burned all his stuff on what would have been his seventeenth birthday. I came home and found a bonfire at the bottom of the garden. She did the same with anything Dad left behind after he went to Australia. Mum used to say — this will sound terrible — she used to say it would have been better for Teddy if he’d died, instead of being left a vegetable.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I’m afraid to say that I’ve found myself thinking like that at times. I go to see Teddy and talk to him but there’s not much point. He gives no sign of knowing anyone, or any understanding. That probably sounds terrible, coming from a nurse.’

She dropped her voice and coughed as Bartlett came in carrying a jug of water and three glasses on a tray. Sheila leapt up to take it from him and busied herself pouring. Bartlett stood by the fire and took a couple of painkillers from a packet on the mantelpiece.

‘Did you never want your children to visit you in Australia?’ Swift asked him, taking a glass of water and drinking. It was tepid.

Bartlett looked down, then at Sheila. ‘I did ask once, about a year after I emigrated, offered to send the tickets . . .’

‘Mum wouldn’t let us go,’ Sheila said. ‘Dad sent me a letter asking and she got hysterical. She made us promise never to go there.’

‘So, you hadn’t seen Teddy since you left, when he was eleven. You didn’t ever visit London?’ Swift looked straight into Bartlett’s eyes, determined that this time he wouldn’t be allowed to let the lids drop.

‘No . . . Tessa said she would refuse to let me see the family, so it seemed best to stay away. I didn’t want to cause any more distress to them all. I hope you don’t think too badly of me, Mr Swift.’ The whining note had come back into his voice. He sat down and once again, Sheila reached for his hand.

‘I wasn’t asking from a moral standpoint,’ Swift said neutrally. He looked at the two of them, hands entwined. It was an interesting scenario and he wondered how chaotic the abandoned family had been. ‘I am happy to take a look at this. I’ll need you to sign a contract and give me a deposit. I need a few more details as well, the name of Teddy’s school and any friends he had, however casual, your Aunt Barbara’s details and Tim’s address. Does he know you’re asking me to investigate?’

‘Sheila has emailed him,’ Bartlett said. ‘And you’ll need to know that he calls himself Tim Christie these days. It was his mother’s name. He decided he didn’t want to keep mine.’

‘I tried to persuade him not to but . . . we don’t really have much contact anymore.’ Sheila gave a despondent sigh.

‘Okay. I’d like a photo of Teddy as well, please, as near to the time of the attack as possible.’

‘I have a couple ready, the police used them too. There’s a school photo from the previous November and a family one that Aunty Barbara took when she visited for New Year in 2000. We weren’t big on photos so they’re the most recent before Teddy was attacked.’

Sheila went to a bookcase and found an A4 envelope. Swift decided to open it later.

‘Do you think you can find out who did this?’ Sheila had gone to stand behind her father, one hand on his shoulder.

‘I can try. If I can’t find anything significant, I’ll tell you that there’s not much point in continuing. I must add that if I am successful in identifying Teddy’s attacker, you’ll be opening yourselves up to a lot of new pain.’

Bartlett rubbed at his face and covered his eyes for a moment. Sheila looked grim. Swift thought he saw a flicker of something like annoyance in her expression.

Bartlett spoke first. ‘At least we would know something instead of always wondering why and who. We would have some sense of justice being done.’

Sheila nodded. ‘I miss him so much, Mr Swift. I miss my Teddy every day. I still make a birthday cake for him every year, strawberries and vanilla with a teddy bear piped in chocolate icing. His favourite. I take it to him in Mayfields. They mash some up for him.’ She put a hand to her heart as she spoke emphatically. ‘This has been a terrible wound in our family.’

Swift wondered if Sheila had heard those words spoken in a TV drama or police appeal. They sounded scripted.

‘You and Teddy were close, then,’ he said.

‘We were, yes. We did everything together, really. Mum used to say I was a mother hen, the way I was with Teddy. I used to iron his uniform, make his packed lunch, organise the dentist, and remind him to take his vitamins. I suppose because Mum wasn’t well, I had to step up.’

She cast a wary glance at her father but Swift could see that the memory gave her satisfaction.

‘And Tim? Presumably you had to do a lot for him as well.’

‘Yes, of course, but Mum was better with him. In fact she focused mainly on Tim. He was her favourite. She called him “my little man.” I suppose that’s often the way with mothers and youngest children, especially boys.’

Swift would have liked to be a fly on the wall in the household she was describing. He leaned forward.

‘Sheila, you were here with Teddy. As his big sister, almost a second mother to him, you knew him as well as anyone. Have you ever had any ideas about the reason for Teddy’s note, or recalled anyone Teddy had got mixed up with who might have wanted to harm him?’

She shook her head slowly, clasping her hands together dramatically. Her father motioned her to sit down. She took a breath, her mouth twisting in distress.

‘The police asked me all that. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now. I just don’t know and I blame myself. I’ve lain awake so many nights, wondering what was going on with Teddy and why he couldn’t tell me. It hurt as well, you know, that he wrote that terrible note and couldn’t turn to me. I asked myself over and over what I missed, what on earth he was doing out in Epping Forest. There hasn’t been a day gone by since when I haven’t woken up hoping it was all a bad dream.’ There were tears in her eyes.

Bartlett handed her a hanky, patting her shoulder. She dabbed at her eyes, her gulps for air mingling with sobs. Swift waited, then told her calmly that he would do what he could to establish what had happened. He made sure he had all the details he needed, secured the deposit and signed contract and said he’d be in touch. As he left, he heard Sheila urging her father to have a hot lunch, reminding him she’d left soup in the fridge. He had reached the end of the road, hunching his shoulders against the persistent drizzle, when his phone rang.

‘Mr Swift, I just wanted to thank you again for coming.’ It was Sheila, sounding breathy.

‘That’s okay.’

‘I wondered . . . if you do find out anything, could you contact me first? Dad’s quite frail, you know, physically and emotionally. I’d like to be able to break any news to him.’

‘My contract is with Mr Bartlett. I understand that you feel protective towards your father but I’m obliged to inform him as he’s my primary client. If you like, I can make sure I tell you at the same time.’

‘Oh. I just thought that it would be for the best, given Dad’s situation.’

He could hear her irritation. ‘Maybe your father is stronger than you think. I’ll be in touch.’

There was something about the woman that he found disturbing and it wasn’t just her bossiness. Her fussing over her father seemed unnecessary and a little ridiculous. He sat on the dank tube train, thinking that being the oldest child left in charge of a depressive mother and two younger siblings couldn’t have been a picnic. Perhaps now she had her long lost father back she couldn’t help but focus on him. There was no ring on her finger and there had been no hint of a partner.

He opened the envelope and drew out the two photographs. The first was the family group taken by their aunt. They were sitting on a sofa by a Christmas tree in the room he had just visited. Tessa Bartlett sat at one end, staring with glazed, unfocused eyes at the camera. She was a plump, long-faced woman in a drab navy tracksuit, lank hair scraped back in a ponytail. Her daughter looked very like her. She had her arm around Tim, drawing him into her. He was pulling a funny face, a thumb held up, a half-opened present on his lap. Teddy was next to Tim, thin like his father and with a sweet expression. He was a good-looking boy with neat features, dressed in a greyish white sweatshirt and jeans, his short dark hair like a cap. Sheila was beside him, an arm around his shoulders, not as hefty as she was now but already tending that way. She looked frumpy. She was squeezed into a roll-neck jumper and her face was impassive as she looked towards her brother. The school photo of Teddy was the usual head-and-shoulders shot. It showed him with a hesitant smile. His face, with its narrow bones and pale grey eyes emphasised his wistful, slightly elfin look.

Back at Hammersmith, Swift glanced in the window of a hair salon, ran a hand through his thick dark hair and decided it was time to brave a trim of his unruly curls. He was having dinner that night with his cousin Mary Adair, and last time they’d met she had asked innocently if he was deliberately cultivating the eighties perm look. He resisted the hairdresser’s suggestion that he should have a warm wax conditioning treatment and sat watching the scissors dance. Then he closed his eyes, puzzling as to why a quiet, studious sixteen-year-old would leave a harrowing note before coming to terrible harm.

Chapter 3

Mary Adair had been Swift’s close companion since childhood. She had supported him when his mother died just as he turned fifteen and when Ruth left him, a quiet, unobtrusive presence. He in turn had held her hand after a couple of failed love affairs. She bore a marked resemblance to his deceased mother and every time he saw her handsome face and wavy brunette hair he felt a jolt of welcome and fond recognition. They had both joined the Met after graduating and Mary was now an assistant commissioner. She had met her partner, Simone, the previous year and they were living together in Clerkenwell. Their apartment was one of six converted from a four-storey Victorian workhouse. It was the largest, on the top floor, with a wide balcony that ran the length of the building.

When Swift arrived, Simone told him that Mary was running late. The rain had stopped and the evening was just warm enough to sit outside, where Simone had put out plates of antipasti and bread. As always, she was dressed in a linen dress in pastel tones that complimented her café au lait skin. They drank wine and talked while a chicken roasted in the oven — or, rather, Simone talked in her lilting Geordie accent. As usual, she was like a tap turned on full, her conversation flowing unrelentingly. Her heavy, auburn-tinted hair formed a curtain around her face as she described a lecture she had recently attended on the usefulness of insects in determining time of death. She was a forensic pathologist and sliced the bread with the kind of deft strokes Swift thought she must use on the autopsy table. He was pleased to see how happy Mary was with Simone. They were a close couple. They had bought a state-of-the-art tandem on which they cycled at weekends, touring parts of Surrey and Essex, and spent evenings planning routes for their adventures. Yet he was never quite at ease with Simone. He thought that this was to do with her barrage of words and her overwhelming opinions on every subject that came up in conversation. It seemed to him that, despite her keen intellect, she was judgemental and too quick to pronounce on people and situations. He realised that this discomfort was partly due to a difference in temperament. He approached the world with a cool, dispassionate eye that sometimes resulted in others finding him standoffish. These were useful talents in the private detective but not always so advantageous in the man.

He drank his wine and ate an artichoke, listening as Simone, in quick succession, took issue with her managers, funding from the government, the local hospital and the US response to events in the Middle East. He disliked being lectured as well as her assumption that he agreed with her. A kind of boredom settled over him and he made few responses. Simone didn’t notice as she moved on to the topic of rail improvements and the resultant chaos when travelling around parts of the city. Swift heard Mary’s footsteps with relief and rose to greet her. She was tall, reaching almost to his shoulder and as he kissed her, she smelled of something light and deliciously peachy.

‘Ah,’ she laughed, ‘there’s been a hair incident since we last met!’

‘You cut me to the quick,’ he said, ‘gave me a style trauma. I had it trimmed this afternoon. I think I’ve managed to wash all the mousse out.’

Mary hugged Simone and went to change while Swift laid the table. Simone was a talented cook and the chicken and roast vegetables followed by fruit compote were delicious. Simone continued to hold court throughout most of the meal, tapping her knife on the table when she wanted to emphasise a point. She shared her views on the Ukraine, the treatment of Ebola and the efficacy of winter flu vaccine, with Mary and Swift making occasional comments that were frequently interrupted. Swift observed his cousin, who was an articulate, independent-minded woman, wondering if home life was always like this and how she could tolerate the stream of consciousness from her partner. Mary smiled happily, her eyes gleaming with their usual vitality, nodding as Simone spoke, regarding her as if she was some kind of oracle. Perhaps that was the working balance of the relationship, Swift thought, there was a talker and a listener.

They moved back to the balcony for coffee, watching as lights came on in the surrounding dwellings. A few conker-coloured leaves drifted on the light breeze and rustled on the stone floor. For a moment Swift was back in the Evergreen with Edith Piaf singing and Ruth sitting opposite with sorrow in her eyes. He quickly suppressed the memory. Mary opened the chocolates Swift had brought. He saw her exchange a glance with Simone as he bit into one.

‘Ty,’ she said, sipping her coffee, ‘there’s something we wanted to ask you.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Hmm. Simone and I have been discussing having a child. We’d like to be parents and now would be a good time. We’re both in our mid-thirties so it’s time to make decisions about such things.’

‘Well, that sounds good. Are you thinking of adopting?’

Simone answered. ‘No, not adoption. We’d like a child who is related to us biologically and I very much want to carry a baby and give birth, which is another reason for getting on with it.’

Swift reached for his coffee. ‘There’s no reason why you can’t do that, presumably, via a donor clinic.’ He was a little hazy on the subject but he knew that some gay women used donated sperm.

Mary was dipping her spoon in and out of the jug of cream, making swirling patterns. She looked at Swift and laid a hand on his. He smiled at her, turning his palm up to give her a gentle squeeze.

‘I think it’s great, Mary. You’d be a terrific mum.’

‘Well, I hope so.’

‘Can I make first claim to be godfather?’

Mary was blushing now. Simone leaned in and put an arm around her shoulders. She started to speak but Mary put a finger on her lips and turned to him.

‘The thing is, Ty, we wondered if you’d be the donor.’

They were both looking at him encouragingly. Taken aback, he took a gulp of coffee.

‘You want me to be your child’s father?’

Simone nodded. ‘Yes. It’s not an uncommon arrangement. It makes a lot of sense really, especially now we know so much about DNA and hereditary conditions. With a family connection it means you know about the baby’s genetic inheritance, unlike with an unknown donor.’ She mentioned a celebrity gay couple who had recently given birth to a child fathered by one of the partner’s brothers.

‘I’m a bit gobsmacked.’

Mary refilled his cup for him. ‘You’ll need to think about it, Ty, we know that.’

‘But not for too long,’ Simone added. ‘I’m not getting any younger! It would be quite easy to arrange. You just make your sperm donation and a clinic does the rest.’

Swift resented the assumption in her words. He had a bizarre mental image of the baby criticising the midwife’s technique as it emerged.

‘Hang on, Simone. This wouldn’t just be about a “donation,” as if I’m giving to charity. You’re asking me to be a father, to enter into a relationship with a child. It’s a huge responsibility and not something that’s been on my agenda.’

Mary bit her lip. ‘We know it’s a big decision, Ty. If you did decide you could, it would mean a lot to me, to us. Will you think about it?’

He looked at her face. She’d always had his back but this was something different. He wished she’d asked him on her own but knew she couldn’t have, that her partner had to be involved.

‘I’ll think about it. There are so many questions. What exactly would be my relationship with this child? Would it know I’m its father? Would you expect me to look after it as well?’

‘Well, obviously you’d have access . . .’ Simone began.

Swift pushed his chair back. ‘Access! Sounds like I’m divorced without ever being married.’

‘Ty, we can talk this all through.’ Mary sounded upset.

‘Possibly, but not just now. This has been rather left field. I completely understand you wanting to be parents and the time factor. It’s an enormous issue to consider. I’m not sure I’m your man, so don’t bank on me agreeing and do please look seriously at your other options.’ He stood. ‘That was a lovely meal.’

Mary saw him to the door and he put his arms around her. She seemed vulnerable in a way he’d never known.

‘I know Simone can come on a bit too strong,’ she said softly. ‘She means well and of course she’s anxious to get on with things.’

‘I understand. Any baby will be lucky to have you as a mum.’ He told her he’d talk to her soon and gave her a close squeeze.

He walked to St Paul’s, glad of the lifting breeze. He tried to get his head around the request they had made of him. His relationship with Mary would be utterly changed, for starters, and if he agreed he would be bound in a strange intimacy with Simone. He had never seriously considered having a child. He and Ruth had talked about the possibility in some remote future but since she left him he’d had no thoughts on the subject. He wasn’t sure he would ever want the responsibility or that he would be suited to fatherhood. He stood for a few minutes, looking up at the illuminated cathedral before heading to the bus stop for Hammersmith. He acknowledged to himself that if he felt more warmly towards Simone, he might be reacting differently. Upstairs on the crowded bus, the woman in front of him was holding a toddler who was fast asleep, head lolling on her shoulder. Swift studied the trusting child, then moved further down the bus, where he sent an email to Tim Christie, explaining that he was looking into what had happened to Teddy and asking if he could visit the next day.

* * *

Swift slept badly, waking often and thinking about Mary and Simone. Four a.m. found him staring at the ceiling, reflecting that he had just finally parted with the only woman he had ever considered parenthood with. He knew that he couldn’t agree to their proposal, that it would complicate his life in a way he wasn’t prepared to allow. He hoped that Mary wouldn’t be too dejected by his refusal and decided that he would tell her on her own.

At six he abandoned trying to sleep. He checked the river tides, had a quick shower and a coffee, put fruit and a water bottle in a waterproof bag and headed for Tamesas, his rowing club. It was only a ten minute walk and he was on the Tideway by seven, sculling steadily towards Chiswick. There was a strong current after the rain and he was travelling against the tide so he stayed close to the bank. Swift rowed because it was as necessary to him as breathing. He also rowed both to forget and to remember. On this morning, he rowed to clear his mind. He focused on his breathing, blinking the slight drizzle from his eyes. The demands and challenges of the Thames allowed no other thoughts or anxieties. He concentrated on the rhythm of the oars slicing through the deep water, the other sparse river traffic, the direction of the breeze and the stream. He was now in the blissful state of being at one with the river that he craved. It was a heightened awareness and sense of profound peace that he had first discovered as a teenager and that brought him to his boat so often. A group of mallards were swimming near Putney Bridge and further on, he spotted some pied wagtails on the river bank. Just above Chiswick he ate a banana and an apple, drank some water, then headed back, waving to a runner who was pounding along the path.

* * *

Tim Christie said he would be home at four that afternoon. He lived in a first floor flat near Battersea Park. Swift arrived at four fifteen, noting the battered-looking cherry-red transit van outside. It bore an uninspiring logo with damaged lettering:

Christie Home Improvements

Big enoug to cope

Smal enough to care.

Christie answered the bell promptly, saying he’d just got in and was making a cuppa if Swift wanted one. Swift accepted, following him down a narrow hallway into a spartan galley kitchen.

‘Haven’t any biscuits, I’m afraid,’ Christie said, pouring boiling water. His voice was light and he hesitated slightly as he spoke, with just a hint of a stammer. He had a chesty, hollow-sounding cough. He was wearing grubby jeans and a short-sleeved T-shirt that exposed tattoos on either forearm. Both appeared to be flowers, amber-coloured and surrounded by dark green foliage.

‘That’s okay, just tea is fine.’

They sat in a poky living room at the front of the house, furnished with two battered sofas that looked as if they had been left there by an old person. There were small piles of things scattered around on all the surfaces: balls of string, half-burned candles, numerous boxes of matches, spanners, playing cards, used lighters, coins, electrical leads, a few socks, several torches, tubes of glue and lots of painkillers. A battered bicycle wheel was propped against a wall, well-thumbed magazines stacked in tall towers on the floor. Christie still looked very like the boy in the photograph, with open features and spiky, sandy-coloured hair. His eyebrows were thick and high arching, so that his expression had an air of permanent surprise. His right heel tapped the floor and he rubbed at a mark on his jeans.

‘Haven’t had time to change. I spent the day renovating a patio.’

‘I saw your van. You have your own business?’

‘Yeah, all kinds of home and garden maintenance. Work’s not all that reliable but I get by.’

Swift wondered about Christie’s reliability. He could detect the unmistakable scent of marijuana lingering in the air and he had spotted a glass pipe on the kitchen counter. That and the cough strongly suggested heroin use.

‘Thanks for meeting me. You father has asked me to see if I can find out anything about what happened to your brother.’