‘What?’
‘Two dog hairs from a Border terrier.’
Eleanor Ryland had a dog, Fliss Fitzgibbon had said so, which would mean that McCrae might have been to see Eleanor Ryland, too. What were the chances that he had murdered her as well? The possibility did nothing to reassure Knox. Ringing off he next tried the central lab who had taken numerous samples from the house. ‘Have you found anything?’
‘Nothing conclusive,’ was the frustrating reply. ‘But we found something odd. I took some residue from a footprint on the rug in the hall. You can probably see it if you look.’ Knox went back to the hall. Sure enough there was a faded print on the beige runner, halfway along. ‘It’s going out of the house,’ Knox observed. Coleman appeared, giving a brief shake of the head to indicate that nothing had been found, waiting while Knox finished the call.
‘Yes, strange in itself,’ the SOCO was saying. ‘And what I assumed to be soil turns out to be coal dust.’
‘He’s got a woodburner,’ Knox said.
‘That’s the point. It burns wood, not coal. May be nothing of course, but I just found it puzzling.’ He rang off and Knox relayed the conversation to Coleman.
‘Coal dust?’ he said. ‘So where the hell would it come from?’
‘This cottage used to service barges,’ said Knox. ‘I remember Mariner telling me that once. The barges would have burned coal on their stoves.’
‘So there must be a coal store somewhere. But where?’
‘McCrae had the plans to the cottage in his flat.’ Knox ran up the stairs, two at a time, grabbed the plans and was back, breathless in less than a minute. Spreading the papers out on the table it took a few seconds to make sense of the drawings, but then Knox saw it.
‘It’s right under our feet,’ he said, calmly. ‘There’s a cellar.’
Coleman mustered all those remaining in the house. ‘Check inside and out. We’re looking for the entrance to a cellar.’
It wasn’t easy. A circuit of the exterior revealed nothing that would lead them underground, and all the interior doors opened onto storage space, including the deep cupboard under the stairs, which was piled high with boxes of papers and miscellaneous junk. But it was while flashing a torch around it that Knox noticed the drag of fingerprints in the light layer of dust covering one of the boxes. Pulling out some of the cartons into the hall allowed him to get a better view of the cupboard’s interior walls, and there he saw the hinges and bar-catch of a door.
‘It’s here! Help me clear this junk out!’ he yelled, and was immediately inundated.
On the edges of Mariner’s consciousness the pounding had become a constant, loud and insistent, Mariner’s pulse racing and signalling the end. It was to be the last thing he heard. Was this how Chloe Evans’ last minutes had been? There was a deafening crack, and a blinding glare burned his eyes as he strained to focus on the dazzling shaft of light that had appeared, leading him away to the other place. Funny though, he never expected St Peter to have a scouse accent, nor that the guardian angel’s first words, with a catch in his voice, would be, ‘Fuckin’ hell. Look at the state of you.’
After so long in a vacuum, the activity that followed overwhelmed Mariner’s senses, so that he wanted to bellow for them to go away and leave him alone. But his mouth was so dry that he could hardly speak. Tony Knox brought him some water, which he gulped down greedily and promptly threw back up all over Knox’s trousers.
It took half an hour for the fire crew to sever the chain that bound him to the wall, and more time to cut off the ankle-cuff, exposing his raw skin. During that time paramedics stretchered him and attached a drip. As it all went on around him Mariner drifted in and out of consciousness, hardly able to distinguish what was real and what was in his throbbing head. Knox was talking to him, his face close by. ‘McCrae’s gone,’ he said. ‘Did he tell you where?’
‘McCrae?’ Mariner murmured, his tongue flopping clumsily in his mouth.
‘Dyson’s real name. It was Bill Dyson who did this to you.’
‘Mm.’ It was easier to nod.
‘Dyson seems to have been an arbitrary choice.’
Mariner shook his head. ‘. . . Diana’s son,’ he slurred. ‘... obvious.’ Drifting off again, he rallied himself. ‘Cyprus,’ he said.
‘That’s where he’s going?’
Mariner blinked a negative. ‘. . . not yet. He’s waiting . . . to contest the will . . . lying low.’
‘Loch Cree,’ said Knox enigmatically, and then he was gone.
Later Mariner learned that, taken by surprise, Bill Dyson had come quietly. Shortly before dawn local police officers including an armed response unit, had surrounded the caravan on the loch. Inside they’d found, among other things, a laptop with the necessary program to manage the tracking devices on Ryland’s car and on the Volvo.
Day 1
Mariner opened his eyes onto a white world, everything transformed from dark to light, but as his eyes focused he could distinguish a face looking into his. Anna.
She smiled and squeezed his hand. ‘Hello, you.’
With effort, Mariner smiled back, but, then, from nowhere, his chest heaved and great wracking sobs convulsed his body. Wrapping him in her arms, Anna held him tight to her. ‘It’s all right. You can let it out. You’re safe now.’
‘I should have told you,’ Mariner said, when the storm had passed.
‘And when did this profundity occur?’
‘The first time I woke up in the cellar.’
‘Bit late then, really.’
‘You could say that.’
Before she went she helped him shave.
‘If I had a mirror I could do it myself.’
‘You’re too scary for a mirror. We’ve put it away.’
Day 2
Tony Knox came to see him, bringing copies of
The Great Outdoors
and a couple of bottles of Sam Smith’s. ‘They’re bound to let me drink that in here,’ Mariner said. ‘But thanks.’
‘So when did you know it was Dyson?’
‘I’m not sure. I remembered Dyson talking about his “chosen family”. It seemed an odd phrase to use. And then he came, while I was in the cellar. He came to tell me he was going and of course I recognised his voice. He confessed it all. Is there enough to charge him?’
‘Plenty. He was stupid enough to hang on to the murder weapon. The barrel markings match the casings on the bullets recovered at Cheslyn Woods. They found dog hairs in his car, too.’
‘It could be cross contamination,’ said Mariner. ‘He gave me a lift once.’
‘Maybe, but we’ve got a sighting of his car near Eleanor’s house on that Saturday afternoon, someone sitting in it. A neighbour saw it but thought he was just another reporter. She came forward after the TV appeal.’
‘So I’m off the hook.’
‘You were never really on it, Boss.’
‘I don’t know why it took me so long to work it out. Diana’s “illness” came up time after time, and all along people were telling me how much Geoffrey and Diana Ryland had in common, but I couldn’t see what it was. I couldn’t link those two things together; him dealing with the guilt of having abandoned me, while his wife grieved for the loss of her child.’
‘You got there in the end.’
‘Only just. And if you and Coleman hadn’t realised what was going on—’
‘It was a joint effort. Would have helped if you’d told someone the full story of course, but we were lucky to be able to piece it together, with help from Anna, Dave Flynn and Fliss Fitzgibbon.’ Knox reached into his pocket and produced a letter. ‘She left you this, by the way.’
‘She’s gone back to Switzerland?’
‘Couple of days ago. Oh, and bad news on Alecsander Lucca.’
‘The extradition’s been turned down?’
‘Worse that that. Lucca was shot dead by a sniper while they were moving him from one jail to another.’
‘Is Charlie Glover any closer to identifying Madeleine?’
Knox shook his head. ‘And now we might never know. Some you win, some you lose eh?’
‘How’s Selina doing?’ Mariner asked.
Knox shifted uncomfortably. ‘She’s moved in with her mother for a while. Things were going too fast. It was getting a bit,’ he groped for the right word, settling on, ‘intense.’ He seemed about to say more, but stopped.
‘Anyway, I’d best get back. The new boss is in, so got to make a good impression.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Haven’t had the pleasure yet.’
‘Let me know when you do.’
‘Sure. You’re looking better now anyway.’
‘Thanks.’
But as Knox left, Mariner couldn’t help wondering what it was about the way he looked. It couldn’t be that bad. There had to be a mirror somewhere, maybe in the bedside cupboard. He was reaching down, conscious, but unconcerned that his hospital gown gaped, exposing his bare backside to the fresh air. With the blinds pulled shut in his private side-ward there was no one to see.
‘Inspector Mariner?’ The unfamiliar woman’s voice was low and husky, with an understandable trace of amusement. Mariner shot back up, hastily covering himself, and came face to face with a tall, slender woman, olive skinned with thick dark hair. She was impeccably dressed, and barely suppressing a smile.
‘Sexy,’ thought Mariner.
She offered him a hand. ‘I’m Davina Sharp, your new DCI. I wanted to come and introduce myself, see how you’re doing.’
‘Bollocks!’ thought Mariner, but recovering, he shook hands with her. ‘You saw my most attractive feature first,’ he said, brazening it out. ‘Since everyone keeps telling me how rough I look.’
‘And how are you feeling?’
‘Better.’
‘You’ve been through a major ordeal.’
Mariner allowed himself a modest shrug.
‘You’re quite the caped crusader,’ she went on, ‘and lucky to get away with it, from what I hear. My view is that maverick detectives should stay where they belong - on TV.’ She smiled, warmly. So this wasn’t so much a social call as an early warning. ‘Crimes are most effectively solved through teamwork, and officers who decide to go it alone, in my experience, put themselves and their colleagues at risk. I do hope this is a conversation we won’t have to repeat.’ She smiled again.
‘Ma’am.’
‘Well, I’m glad that you’re on the mend, and look forward to having you back at Granville Lane. I expect you can’t wait.’
’Specially now, thought Mariner. ‘Yes Ma’am,’ he said.
Anna thought it hilarious when he told her about it that evening.
‘Great start,’ she said, ‘flashing your arse at the new boss. Will it cramp your style, this teamwork stuff?’ she asked.
‘What do you think?’ Mariner said. ‘Some people are team players, and some are not.’
‘No guesses which camp you fall into. It might not be as bad as you think.’
‘It’s serious enough for her to come here and lecture me on my sick bed. Maybe it’s time to stop getting so hung up on work.’
Anna brightened. ‘Really?’
‘And what would you think about adopting?’
‘Adopting?’
‘I’d like to take on Nelson.’
‘We’d need plenty of space to walk him.’
‘I know. And I’m not discounting kids,’ he said quickly.
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘But one thing at a time, eh?’
‘One thing at a time.’
Worm in the Bud
Chris Collett
In Birmingham a local journalist is found dead in his home. A puncture wound in his arm a testimony to his death by lethal injection, the cryptic note by his side: ‘no more’, seems at first to suggest suicide but Detective Inspector Tom Mariner has learned to take nothing at face value. There is something a little too staged about events, especially as just that evening Mariner had witnessed Edward Barham pick up a prostitute in a bar he was frequenting. As the police investigate the house further they discover there is another witness to events at 34 Clarendon Avenue. Barham’s younger brother, Jamie, is found in a cupboard under the stairs. It seems likely that Jamie Barham had witnessed his brother’s killing but his severe autism has left him without the means to communicate what he has seen . . .
Mariner is determined to build enough of a relationship with Jamie to get to the truth. And the fact that this means spending time with Anna Barham, Jamie’s new - and reluctant - guardian, is no great hardship. But is Edward’s death related to his recent investigations into a local crimelord? Or is there something else, something that only Jamie can tell them - if he so chooses . . .
Praise for
The Worm in the Bud
:
‘This first novel comes from a writer with twenty years experience of working with adults with learning disabilities and her depiction of Jamie and his effect on those who care for him rings true . . . While lonely Mariner is immediately engaging and his sexual vulnerability and lack of confidence adds both humour and poignancy. Collett sustains the intrigue - we want to know who done what and why - and is a writer with promise.’ Cath Staincliffe, author and series creator of TV’s
Blue Murder
Blood of the Innocents
Chris Collett
When two teenagers go missing on the same day on Mariner’s patch, it seems to be nothing more than a coincidence. Leaving aside their age and disappearance, the two have little in common. Yasmin Akram is the talented grammar school educated daughter of devout Muslim professionals. Ricky Skeet disappears after storming out of his council house after a row with his mother’s latest boyfriend.
Mariner knows Ricky’s mother from his days in uniform, so he is less than happy when his superiors - bowing to media pressure - take him off the Skeet case and reassign him to the more politically sensitive investigation. The press - and his bosses - seem convinced that Yasmin’s disappearance is a racially motivated abduction, especially since the Akrams have found themselves the target of the far right and a prominent white supremacist group.