BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense (4 page)

‘Yeah, Sheila emailed me. I didn’t reply. I steer clear of her. Bit late for questions about Teddy, isn’t it?’

‘Perhaps. Sheila has doubts about it but your father has decided to go ahead.’

‘Well, I suppose they haven’t much else to talk about, those two. He’s scurried back from Oz, tail between his legs after another failed marriage and she’s got someone to dominate. You could say they suit each other.’ He reached out and switched on a lamp. It was light outside but the sun had moved to the back of the house.

‘Sheila has told me what she knows about what happened around that time and how she found Teddy’s note. I understand you were in Dorchester.’

‘That’s right, with my aunt. It was the third summer I’d been sent there. Apparently I got on well with my cousin.’

‘You didn’t, then?’

Christie’s heel tapped again. He didn’t have his father’s habit of dropping his eyelids but he made almost no eye contact, looking over Swift’s shoulder.

‘Luke? He’s okay but we never had that much in common. He was the only boy, with an older sister, so Barbara, my aunt, liked to get me there as a companion. I missed my mum. I’d rather have been at home.’ He glanced at Swift. ‘Kids get passed around like parcels, don’t they? Or abandoned.’

Swift avoided replying. ‘How was Teddy when you last saw him?’

‘Fine. He spent a lot of time in his room, reading and doing essays. He never seemed to notice me much, just ruffled my hair now and again or got me to help him shift stuff in the garden. I saw him the morning Barbara came to pick me up. It was early and he was still in his pyjamas, so he waved goodbye from his bedroom window.’

‘You didn’t notice if he seemed upset at all?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Like I said, we didn’t spend much time with each other.’

‘So you don’t know of any reason why Teddy might have written a despairing note or why he went to Epping Forest?’

Christie flinched. ‘No.’

He placed a hand on his knee to stop the tapping and straightened his leg. The tattoos were catching the lamp-light and Swift looked at them. He recalled reading somewhere that they could be read as a creative impulse or as an expression of anger. He wondered if Christie had self-harmed as a boy.

‘Sheila and Teddy were close, though?’

‘Like conjoined twins, those two. Sheila was always fussing around him, bossing him about, and calling him her teddy bear. She controlled all of us in fact. Mum didn’t function and stayed in her bedroom most of the time, so Sheila was able to establish her own little Tufnell Park fiefdom. She’s one of those people who likes to control everything and everyone around her. Yes, top dog, that’s what Sheila likes to be. She got used to being able to run the house when Dad left. I wouldn’t fancy being one of those nurses who work with her. I bet she’s the Stalin of the surgery.’ His face grew pinched as he spoke.

Swift heard the pain and spite of a bewildered child and this time he decided to follow it.

‘You certainly don’t seem to care much for your sister.’

‘You’re right. She’s a bully, likes to manipulate people. I never liked her and I avoid her.’

‘It must have been hard for you all, after your father left.’

Christie folded his arms. His words were bitter and the stutter had become more noticeable as he started to speak.

‘Excuse for a father, more like. How does a man do that, leave his family and bugger off halfway across the planet with his wife’s sister?’

‘I think you’d have to ask your father that.’

‘Not bloody likely!’ He stared at the floor, then straightened and spoke louder as if energised by memory and anger. ‘One minute he was calling me his little mole — I used to burrow under the duvet into their bed when I woke up in the morning — the next he’d vanished. He’s emailed me and left me phone messages since he got back but I’ll never speak to him again. I’ll spit on his grave. He sent photos you know, from Sydney. Mum used to throw the unopened envelopes in the bin but sometimes I’d ferret around in the rubbish and look at them. All these pictures of him smiling in the sunshine, looking carefree. Him and blonde, glamorous Annabelle hanging out at the beach under blue skies while we lived a kind of half-life with a miserable mother who rarely got dressed. And this looking for Teddy’s attacker. What does he care? My mum never got over him abandoning us. I had a shell of a mother, that’s what I had once he’d buggered off. She was always necking pills and boozing brandy and coke. She was either ignoring me or hugging me close, breathing fumes on me and saying I was the only man in her life. She was asleep or half asleep a lot of the time. I loved her but I was frightened of her because she was lost, somehow. The house felt like a ship where the rudder has broken and the crew are stumbling around the decks.’ He glanced at Swift, his eyes reddening and shook his head violently. ‘Sorry. Sorry about this. I’ll be back in a minute.’

Swift took a breath as Christie shot out of the room. He stood and examined the books on the shelves by the window. They were mainly about DIY, home maintenance and gardening. There were no photographs in the room and apart from a calendar, no pictures except for a small framed painting above the lamp. It was of a white animal, like a deer, in a green forest glade framed by tall oak trees heavy with acorns. The deer had large eyes and was holding up one hoof, as if beckoning. It had a Disneyesque quality that Swift found unappealing and the style of the painting seemed at odds with the plainness of the furnishings. He gestured to it as Christie came back in.

‘This is an interesting picture,’ he lied.

‘Teddy did it. He gave it to me for my eighth birthday.’ Christie had composed himself and now he straightened the frame. ‘It’s a white hind. Supposed to be a symbol of happiness to come. That’s what Teddy said, anyway. He was into Druid and Celtic stuff.’ He sat down again. ‘Sorry about that outburst. I’ve no idea where that came from. I haven’t talked about any of this for a long time.’

Swift sat. ‘Are you okay to talk a bit longer?’

‘Yeah, no problem.’ He sipped his cooling tea.

‘Your father and Sheila mentioned Teddy’s interest in mythologies. Did you see the note he left that day?’

‘Yeah, that thing about the Otherworld.’

‘What did you think he meant?’

‘I’m not sure. He often talked about stuff I didn’t understand — airy-fairy, you know. All about healing and the significance of the elements, animals and plants.’ He managed a faint smile, remembering. ‘One of my friends’ dads came round to collect him once and Teddy was wafting about holding a holly branch and talking about tree lore and the salmon of wisdom. I was embarrassed at having this nutty brother and my friend’s Dad winked at me and said,
teenagers, eh?
That was nice of him. Do you have siblings?’

‘No. I’m an only child. I think a lot of teenagers go through strange phases, though. Any idea what Teddy meant when he said in his note that everyone was using other people?’

Christie shook his head. ‘No idea.’

‘What about friends? Did Teddy have any particular mates?’

Both of Christie’s heels were tapping now and Swift thought he had better not stay much longer. On the other hand, Christie still seemed keen to talk about his childhood.

‘People didn’t come to our house much. That time a friend came to play with me was unusual. I suppose Teddy must have had friends at school but he never mentioned any.’

‘Your family was very insular.’

‘I see that now. I don’t really know why. I suppose it’s usually the mums who help with social stuff and mine was . . . well . . .’ He rubbed his forehead and eyes. ‘My mum used to keep me off school, you know, when she felt lonely and wanted company. We’d sit in her bedroom playing cards or dominoes. I spent a lot of time in her room with her. She had a TV, a radio and a kettle and microwave in there. She’d heat herself soup or baked beans and eat them in bed.’

‘Your mother established her own bedsit within the family home.’

‘Exactly, yes. I’ve never thought of it like that but you’re right. It smelled like a burrow, stale and fuggy. I remember when I read The Hobbit I thought of my mum’s room, except hers wasn’t clean and tidy. In some ways I didn’t mind being in there so much because Sheila hardly ever talked to my mum, so it meant I could avoid her. I must have missed loads of school. It all added up, odd days here and there. Probably explains why I left at sixteen with two GCSEs.’

‘So what about Sheila? She must have had friends.’ Swift thought he could guess the answer.

‘No, she didn’t socialise at all. She was either cooking huge meals and cakes or lying on the sofa, reading magazines. She snacked on chocolate and biscuits all the time, getting fatter by the year. That summer Teddy left us she was ill and taking tablets, but it didn’t stop her piling weight on. I remember she used to pull me and Teddy against her — she had a strong grip — and hold us with her hands locked behind our backs. I used to find it suffocating. She’d say we had each other and that was all we needed.’ He yawned, shaking his head, his face now drained of colour.

Swift put his notebook away. ‘Thanks for your help. If you think of anything else, do contact me.’ He placed a card on the coffee table.

Christie read it. ‘Okay, thanks. I suppose you must hear a lot of family crap.’

‘All families have their share, so I get to listen to some.’

‘Right, yeah. Okay, see you, then. Sorry again for being a pain.’

At the door, Swift turned. ‘It might be an idea to get the missing letters on your van replaced. It doesn’t look too reassuring for potential customers.’

‘Oh, yeah. I’ve been meaning to get round to that.’

Swift walked through Battersea Park, bought coffee from a kiosk and headed for the Thames Path towards Chelsea Bridge. Being with Christie had troubled and saddened him. It said a lot that a surgeon’s child had left school at sixteen and was working as an odd job man, using drugs. He pondered the deterioration and claustrophobia of the Bartlett household after their father left. No wonder Teddy had escaped into mythologies. Sheila’s controlling behaviour struck him as a needy, violent love. Perhaps Teddy had been desperate to get away from her.

He watched a police marine boat race upriver and rang DI Nora Morrow. He had met Nora while working on a previous case and felt a mutual attraction. Ruth’s miscarriage and her need for his help had stopped anything progressing between them and Nora had backed off, clearly sensing that his life was complex. Now, hearing her cheery Dublin accent, he smiled. He said he needed a favour regarding information about a new case and asked if she could look up the old records for Teddy Bartlett.

‘Okay, Ty. Email me the details and I’ll see what there is. Been out on the river today?’

‘This morning. How about you?’

‘Not since we went out that time, months back. Work getting in the way, as usual.’

‘Can I buy you a drink as thanks for the favour?’

There was a slight hesitation, then she said sure, that would be great. He took a deep breath after the call. That was the first time in years he had been able to ask a woman out with a clear and easy conscience.

* * *

Swift opened his front door just after six o’clock and was assaulted by a nauseating smell. Lying on the doormat and the surrounding tiles was a large pile of bloody offal. He almost stepped in it but managed to jump as his foot lifted. He looked down at the glistening, twisted shapes of livers, hearts, kidneys and what he thought was tripe. Blood had spattered up the walls and dripped onto the skirting board. He gagged and turned away to the doorway to breathe, bending and holding his jacket collar across his face. He looked up and down the street, in case the perpetrator was waiting to see his response. It was quiet, just a woman walking with two children and a suited man with a briefcase entering his house a couple of doors away. He could hear the sound of jazz from Cedric’s flat and moved quickly to clear the stinking pile away before his tenant knew about it.

He left the front door open and took several photos of the entrails. Then he donned rubber gloves and found large bin bags, bleach, a scrubbing brush left by his aunt and a pack of cleaning cloths. It took him a good half hour to clear the mess. He put the door mat in a separate bag. Luckily it was bin collection the following day and the weather was cool. He scrubbed the tiles and washed down the skirting board, the paintwork and the back of the door. Even after he had rinsed the floor three times with hot water and bleach, he was convinced he could smell the feral, cloying aroma of the organs. He found some Jo Malone men’s cologne his stepmother had bought him a couple of Christmases ago. He disliked most aftershaves and had never worn it. He sprayed the hallway liberally, glad that he had finally found a use for it. It certainly helped obliterate any lingering traces. He emailed PC Simons, attaching the photos he had taken, then put his clothes in the washing machine and took a long, scalding shower. He used handfuls of shower gel, washing his hair twice.

Whoever was doing this was becoming bolder, acting in daylight, escalating the threat.

Chapter 4

Swift had risen early and spent a couple of hours on the river. The water was murky and smelled of the season, with a hint of decay. There was a scent of smoke on the air and the trees along the river bank were turning shades of tawny yellow and orange. The horizon was misty and the still air soft and hushed. Contentment skirted his busy thoughts as he grasped the oars but edged away again as he remembered Mary and the conversation they needed to have.

He headed for home, needing hot food. He microwaved some of a risotto Cedric had given him the day before, his mouth watering as garlic and parmesan scented the kitchen. When he had eaten he brewed a strong coffee and phoned Teddy’s Aunty Barbara in Dorchester.

‘Hello, is that Barbara Stead?’

‘Yes, unknown number. I’m not interested in changing my energy supplier or any other such rubbish so bugger off . . .’

‘Hold on, hold on! This isn’t a cold call. My name is Tyrone Swift. I’m a private investigator, hired by Rowan Bartlett.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, sorry. Yes, Sheila did email me saying her father was back.’

‘I hope you don’t mind me ringing you. I just wanted to ask a few questions.’

‘That’s all right. Hold on a minute, I want to let the dog out.’

There were barks and sounds of doors banging. She returned quickly.

‘Right, that’s a relief. I can think now. He’s a puppy and it’s like having a toddler around. So Rowan’s back in town. Feeling guilty and looking for answers about Teddy, is he? Pity he didn’t want to at the time, when the poor boy was attacked. I hear Annabelle dumped him. That’s justice, at least, some small satisfaction in the scheme of things. If only Tessa had lived to hear it. I mean, I know she was a difficult woman and hard going but isn’t that what marriage is all about, navigating the good and bad times? I haven’t seen any of the family since Tessa’s funeral, by the way.’

Swift was pleased to hear that she seemed both garrulous and spiteful. Such informants usually offered rich pickings.

‘I gather you don’t much like your brother-in-law.’

She snorted. ‘He’s an utterly selfish bastard. He abandoned that family and left them to sink. My sister was never a strong woman and his leaving did her in. She never got over it. Annabelle was twelve years younger than her, you know. It was bad enough being replaced by a younger model, but your sister! I haven’t spoken to that bitch since. I’ve never understood it. I mean, Rowan wasn’t what you’d call a sexy man. I always thought he was a dry old stick but he clearly had some talents I didn’t know about.’

‘Did you see the family often after he left?’

She was a fast talker, rattling out her information. ‘Once, twice a year. I couldn’t make it any more often. I had a young family myself and a job. Life was busy. I was always encouraging Tessa to visit me here but she never did. She couldn’t muster the energy to make any decisions, let alone get on a train. That’s why I got Tim to visit here sometimes. At least he got some country air and a break from being smothered by his mum. I don’t mean to sound horrible but Tessa did smother him, just like Sheila smothered Teddy. They were a rum bunch, I can tell you. To be honest, I worried about them but I was glad I lived at a distance because they got me down. Visiting was ever so depressing, with Tessa moping about, on pills or booze. I used to try to get her up and dressed, do her hair, you know — encourage her — but she usually didn’t want to know. Then there would be Sheila looming around, looking surly. She always had a sort of negative aura clinging to her. Not an attractive girl and you couldn’t get much conversation out of her. Seemed to spend a lot of time up in the loft. She said she kept stuff up there for charity shops although I can’t imagine that family having anything worth giving away. She told lots of lies as well, did Sheila. If she said the sky was grey, I’d have popped outside to check.’

‘Why did she lie?’

‘No idea. It just seemed who she was and they were usually fibs told to big herself up, saying she was a school prefect when she wasn’t, that kind of thing. I remember once she said she’d come top in all her school exams and then left her report lying around. I looked at it and it told a different story. Lots of comments of the
need to try harder
variety. When I challenged her she got angry with me and tore the report up. She didn’t talk to me for ages after that.’

‘What was Teddy like? Did he ever seem depressed?’

‘Well, that’s not an easy question. Quiet, basically, a bit of a shadow around the place. I used to call him the
Ghost Moth
when I was talking to my husband about him. We’re both amateur lepidopterists, you see. He always wore pale shirts or T-shirts and he would just give me a sweet smile in passing, then head for his room or the garden. He had such a light tread, you wouldn’t hear him moving around. Sheila was never far from him. She used to cut his hair and buy his clothes, scold him for not eating enough vegetables.’

‘It seems that she acted as his mother, and your sister was Tim’s.’

‘That’s how the cards fell, yes. Probably just as well, as Tessa wasn’t really fit for any kind of mothering once Rowan took off. Sheila’s a funny one but when you think about it, it’s good she stepped up or the household would have ground to a halt. It’s hard to warm to the put-upon look though. I do feel bad for saying that. As for Teddy being depressed . . . He was such a vague presence, so . . .
muted
, I’m not sure that anyone would have noticed.’

‘Do you have any thoughts on the odd note he left?’

‘I never understood it. I do know that he was into mystical stuff about Druids and such, and teenagers can be so weird. My daughter went through a strange phase at fifteen, flirting with Scientology, but luckily she outgrew it when her hormones settled down. They’re an alien race, adolescents. Of course, maybe his father’s departure left him a lot unhappier than we realised. I know Tim struggled with it but he was always more vocal and emotional, which is probably better in the long run. He used to have terrible nightmares and he sleep-walked. He was still wetting the bed when he came here, I felt sorry for him because he was so ashamed. I do think coming here helped him and he had male company with my son Luke and my husband. I always think that’s so important for boys.’

Swift didn’t enlighten her about Tim’s real feelings. She seemed a well-meaning woman.

‘I believe the last time you saw Teddy was when you picked Tim up during that July.’

‘That’s right. I’d visited just after Christmas and he was his usual unobtrusive self. He was pleased at getting a book about Druids. I remember he showed it to me. It was called something like
Secrets of the Druid World
. Then when I fetched Tim in the summer, he waved from his bedroom window. Poor lost boy. Poor Teddy. They look after him well in that care place, but what kind of life is it?’

‘Presumably you don’t have any ideas about why someone would have attacked him?’

‘Heavens, no. He was such an inoffensive boy. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. Well, nobody would deserve that, would they?’

‘Okay. Thanks for your help.’

‘I probably haven’t been much help to you. What do you think you can find out?’

‘It’s early days to make any prediction.’

He gave her his contact details and rang off. He looked through his notes so far. Quiet, mystical, unobtrusive Teddy. Poor Teddy. Even the diminutive of his name with its echoes of the nursery seemed to accentuate his passive presence in the family. Yet there was anger and resentment in his note that belied the picture of a studious homebody. Swift made more coffee and browsed the web for a while, reading articles about the Otherworld. He flagged one about Druid beliefs for further study:

Druids believed that the soul was immortal and that the dead were transported to the Otherworld by the God Belenus. Life then continued in this location. After the person died in the Otherworld, they were reincarnated to live again in another entity. This might be a plant or the body of a human or other animal. The soul rested in the Otherworld between each incarnation. After a person learned enough at each level, they moved to a higher realm, with its own Otherworld. This path continued until the individual reached the highest realm called the "Source."

Swift, who held no beliefs about supreme beings or life after death, thought it sounded a relentless and exhausting process. He could see that if you were a miserable teenager who viewed life through a bleak lens, believing that people were self-serving and exploitative, it would hold its attractions. You might well be enticed by the magical promise of better things to come and animals and birds helping you. He thought back to when he was fifteen and his mother died. He recalled the feelings of desolation and confusion that swamped him, emotions that no kind words could alleviate. He remembered also how secretive he had been as a teenager, needing to fly under the radar. His stepmother’s blundering, well-intentioned interest in him had sent him scurrying to stay at his Aunt Lily’s house, where he could operate unscrutinised and pour his anguish into the Thames as he rowed.

He returned to his laptop and looked up the significance of animals and birds for Druids. The hind indicated positive change and happiness to come. The raven was regarded as a messenger between this world and the next and was believed also to represent healing and protection. He read Teddy’s note again. What was he a victim of or needing protection from and what secrets had troubled him? Had his bitterness and despondency stemmed purely from the loss of his father or had he been speaking of some other betrayal?

A web search brought up a contact number for a Druid group near Belsize Park. Swift rang the name given, Lochru Adamsbreath. The man who answered sounded cheerful and eager to help when Swift explained his role.

‘Has your group been in existence for long?’ he asked.

‘Since 1921. I’ve been in the group for twenty-five years.’

‘I wonder if you’ve ever heard of or been contacted by an Edward or Teddy Bartlett. We’d be talking about the 1990s and he was in his early teens.’

‘Doesn’t ring a bell. We’re a small group, you see, and there’s not much coming and going. I’d say we get a new member every couple of years and it would be unusual to be approached by someone so young. If you’d like to hold on, I can look in my record book. It’s in the study, so I’ll be a few minutes.’

Swift waited, hearing the chimes of a clock in the background. When Adamsbreath returned, he was panting.

‘Study’s at the top of the house. I’ve looked through enquiries and membership from 1990 to 2000 but there’s no one of that name or age group. We only had five newcomers in that time and they were all women, which is usual these days.’

‘Are there any other groups in that area of north London?’

‘No, not to my knowledge. Although, of course, belief in the Druid way doesn’t necessitate joining a group. That is what many people like about it. You can attend ceremonies or gatherings as you wish, or not at all. It can be a private, spiritual search. Would you like me to send you some information about our beliefs?’

‘No, that’s fine, thanks. I can look on the web. Can you tell me about the significance of blackthorn and whitethorn and why someone might carry both in their pockets?’

‘Well, you know there can be different interpretations. Generally speaking, I would say that blackthorn would be used for strength against adversity. Whitethorn could be to protect from harm and help to communicate with the spirits of the Otherworld. Someone carrying both would probably be feeling the need for support in their life and in their spiritual quest.’

‘I see. Thanks for that. I’m interested also in the significance of the yew tree for Druids, if you can tell me anything about that.’

Adamsbreath was clearly delighted at these enquiries. Swift thought he probably didn’t get many phone calls like this, where he could air his particular knowledge.

‘I can indeed. The yew tree has a reputation for long life. It has always been a symbol of death and rebirth, from the time of the ancients. It speaks of the new springing from the old. The yew grows in a particular, quite unique way. The branches grow down into the ground to form new stems. They then rise up around the old growth as separate but linked trunks. After a while, they become indistinguishable from the original tree.’

‘That’s very helpful. Thanks so much for your time.’

‘We’re having a mistletoe thanksgiving ceremony next month, if you would like to come. It’s in my garden and you would be very welcome.’

‘I’ll think about it. Thanks again for your help.’

Swift rang off, not wishing to be sold any belief systems. It seemed that Teddy was planning to enact some kind of ritual in The Yew Grove that symbolised leaving his old life behind and moving to another way of living. He made a few notes about what he had learned and found the details Sheila had given him for Teddy’s form teacher. He phoned Fairacres School and asked if Deaven Harrow still worked there. He was told by the icy-sounding receptionist that Mr Harrow was the head teacher. Swift explained the reason for his call and asked to make an appointment to see Mr Harrow. The receptionist said it seemed an irregular query and Mr Harrow was a very busy man. Swift advised that he would call the query unusual rather than irregular and added that he too was a busy man. The receptionist said she would consult Mr Harrow’s diary but it could be weeks before an appointment might be available and perhaps Swift would prefer to send an email. Swift asked her for her name, then inserted a chip of ice into his own voice and told her that he wanted to see Mr Harrow in person. Presumably the head would wish to be as helpful as possible regarding what had been a tragic episode for one of their pupils and his family. There was a brief silence, then a request for him to hold. He walked around with the phone, bending and stretching. The afternoon was mild and the river beckoned. The receptionist returned, her tone slightly less arctic, and offered a half hour appointment at four on Friday afternoon. Swift accepted and thanked her for being so helpful. He rang off before she could respond to the sarcasm.