Blood Ties

by Oliver Davies

  She reached up and gripped her son’s hand, letting him take her weight as she rose and led her away through the kitchen. She touched Maud’s shoulder, and the maid clambered up, following after them, Dennis too, until only Mills and I remained with Lord Hocking.

  “We couldn’t face it,” he said, staring at the fireplace, “not with Selene and Rosemary both gone. Couldn’t put on a play, not without them there in the audience. I haven’t read that play since before Henry was born.” He shook his head and looked up at me.

  “I’ve let them down,” he muttered softly, “all of them.” He rose, clasping his hands behind his back. “You have work to be getting on with, gentlemen, work that does not entail handling our family mess. Allow me to walk you out.”

  “Thank you, Lord Hocking.”

  “My apologies for dragging you into all of this,” he said over his shoulder as we walked back into the entrance hall.

  “It’s part of the job,” I assured him. “We end up involved more often than we care to be.”

  “Makes you good with people, I imagine. I was never much good with people.”

  “Me neither, in truth. But we learn.”

  He gave a weak chuckle and opened the front door. “And my sincerest apologies for what became of you, Sergeant Mills. I can assure that fixing that door is top of the list for the house.”

  Mills didn’t answer, and I didn’t blame him. What was he to say? No, it's fine that I almost suffocated, thank you for trying to keep your house from being a death trap? He offered a grim sort of smile and pottered down the steps, heading to the car.

  “I’ll keep you updated, Lord Hocking. And if I can, I’ll get your painting back to you.”

  He chuckled again. “You know, Inspector, in all that’s happened today, I’d rather forgotten about the painting.” He scratched the back of his head, looking older, and exhausted.

  I felt some sympathy for the man, he was in for a rough few months, so I offered him a hand, which he shook and a brief smile before jogging down the steps to Mills and jumped into the car. I drove us down the drive and off the estate, pulling into a small layby off the main road, turning the engine off and we sat there for a moment, bewildered.

  “I’m tired,” Mills said, sounding surprised by the fact. “Are you tired?”

  “Weirdly exhausted. You’ve more reason to be than I do,” I added. “I should probably take you to a doctor.”

  “I doubt that’s necessary, sir.”

  “Lena can take a look at you then,” I decided, starting the engine back up. “We’ll need something to do to kill the time, anyway. Searching for children born over twenty years ago is a hell of a process.”

  “You think the twin is involved?”

  “I think they might have more reason than anyone else to be angry if they are,” I pointed out. “Sebastian is bitter enough towards the Hockings, but at least he had his mother. We don’t know what became of his twin.”

  “Unless” Mills started hesitantly, “he lied about having any siblings.”

  “Maud too?” I shook my head. “I’ll wager that whatever the circumstances, Sebastian Whitlock did not grow up with a sibling.”

  “Will he want to meet them, do you think? Sebastian, I mean, wanting to meet Henry and the others?”

  “We’ll certainly offer it. I’m not sure if we should even tell him.”

  “So, let his mother do it.” He nodded to the letter in my coat pocket. “It might be comforting hearing it from her than us.”

  Or it might make him even angrier, I thought, but I nodded anyway. It would be better for him to learn about his father in a way that wasn’t so, clinical, I supposed.

  “So, what next, then, sir?”

  “We’ll head back to the station, update Sharp before she tracks us down like a bloodhound. Get in touch with welfare, see if we can find the channels to go down and let Crowe have a poke at your lungs while we wait.”

  “Delightful.”

  “And since you’ve had such a trying day, I’ll buy you a pint before we call it a day. Won’t be much to do until tomorrow, in any case.”

  Mills was quiet for a moment, watching the fields blow past. “Will she really poke my lungs?”

  “I’d say no, but when it comes to Lena Crowe, I’m none the wiser.”

  Mills laughed through his nose and checked his phone. “Nothing from our art dealer,” he murmured, “so it’s not being sold. Yet.”

  “Not surprised. Though things might move a bit more quickly now.”

  “Wishful thinking that, sir.”

  “I know,” I muttered through my teeth, “I sound like you.”

  Twenty-Five

  Thatcher

  I stopped off at the coaching house before calling it a night, wanting to make sure everything was holding in the rain. A storm was due tonight, Crowe had told us as such as she gave Mills a quick once over; perfectly fine of course, but better safe than sorry. I unlocked the chain across the door and shoved myself in. I’d left the bowls and basins lying around, just in case, but the roof was holding, and there were no plinking drips echoing around the room. It was rather quiet without them. I stuck my hands in my pockets and headed up the stairs, reinforcing those was next on the list, and went up again into the wide loft. Gran had used it as a painting space, the long narrow room taking up most of the roof, little round windows on either end. The rain was loud up here, thundering against the pitched slate. I wandered to the far window, looking back into the garden, to the sprawling oak. Up here, we were on the same level. I could probably reach out and touch the branches if I wanted to. It was cold up here, noisy and dustier than any of the other rooms, but it was dry. Thank god for that. Mother had liked it up here too, liked the stained-glass window and being on the same level as the trees. I hadn’t been up here for some time, a long time.

  It got easier each time I came into the house, each time I put something back in the right place or patched up a hole. It got easier. Easier to look at pictures of her without guilt rising up and swallowing me whole. But it wasn’t good enough, and I knew it wasn’t, whatever Elsie might say. She was gone, end of.

  I made sure all the windows were locked or boarded up in anticipation of the storm and headed out, glancing at Elsie’s cottage before climbing into my car. It was dark downstairs, but her bedroom light was on, dimmed through the closed curtains.

  The day had been long, and it had dragged painfully slowly. Sharp had taken one look at Mills and me, had taken Selene’s letter and the task of following up with welfare and ushered us from the station. As promised, I fetched Mills a pint, and we sat in the pub, either silent or talking about absolute rubbish until it was a reasonable hour to start yawning and head for home. I was looking forward to it now, zipping along the country lanes and back to the bright lights of the city. My street was quiet as I pulled into the driveway, most of the houses dark by now. At least the sky wasn’t, the nights were drawing longer again, finally, though today, a large dark cloud was pushing its way over, heavy and humid. I shut myself in the house, crawling into bed in a pair of pyjama bottoms with my teeth hastily brushed, sheets drawn over my head as the first roll of thunder came down from the moors.

  My phone rang as I was getting ready the next morning, Sally’s face lighting up the screen. I answered, holding the phone against my shoulder as I padded down the stairs for some food.

  “When did you get back, and why are you calling me so early?”

  “Hello to you too,” she answered dryly. “Yesterday. And I have a question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Never mind then,” I replied, flicking the kettle on.

  “Max.”

  “Sally.”

  “What happened with Molly?”

  I paused, a mug dangling from my fingers. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you went out, didn’t you?”

  “We did,” I answered, putting the mug down and rubbing my face. I was t
oo tired for this. I made a bowl of cereal, eating as I waited for her to carry on.

  “And? What happened? You haven’t called her in ages.”

  “She hasn’t called me,” I corrected her.

  “Explain?” she asked, her voice sounded breathless, and I realised she was walking. Last night’s storm had cooled the air down, leaving the day brisk.

  “We had a lovely few weeks,” I told her through a mouthful of cereal, filling up my travel mug when the kettle boiled, “and then I got a phone call at five in the morning. That murder down on the riverside, remember?”

  “Bloody hell that was a gristly one. She didn’t like that?”

  “The murder was fine. It’s the vanishing at five in the morning and not getting back to her until the following five in the morning she didn’t like.”

  “You didn’t get back to her until the following five in the morning?” Sally exclaimed, breath huffing.

  “A man was dead!” I defended myself, putting my bowl in the sink and trying to smooth my hair into a more professional demeanour. It wasn’t happening, so I picked up my flat cap from the coat rack and slung that on.

  “So, she hasn’t called you?” Sally asked, her voice sounding a touch more sympathetic than she first had.

  “I told her to let me know what she wants to do. Not everyone likes the inspector schedule, Sally dear.”

  In fact, I’d only ever met one person who could put up with it, and that’s only because if anything, hers was worse.

  “Why are you asking me all this, anyway? At this hour of the day?”

  “I just had coffee with her,” she explained, muttering sorry to someone as she skirted about. Sally liked to walk fast, slow walkers annoyed her like nothing else, but she often went careening into other people as she rounded corners or crossed roads.

  “Ah.”

  “Thought I’d talk to you about it. No.” I could picture her shaking her head. “If Molly can't handle your work hours, that’s not your fault.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Though maybe you should work a little less.”

  “Unkind,” I informed her, putting her on speaker as I pulled my coat on.

  Sally scoffed. “When you’re not working, where are you?”

  “Home.”

  “Liar. You spend every free minute of yours at that old place.”

  “The roof’s not leaking anymore,” I informed her proudly.

  There was a brief pause. “Really?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  My doorbell rang, and I peered out the kitchen window to spot Mills loitering outside.

  “I have to go, Sally. I’ll see you on Saturday, yeah?”

  “Seven o’clock don’t be late. Lots of love!” she called down the phone.

  “Lots of love,” I replied, hanging up and slipping the phone into my pocket, reaching for the front door and letting Mills inside.

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Mills.”

  “That storm last night,” he muttered with a shake of the head, leaning against the wall as I put my shoes on. “Apparently, they’re only getting worse.”

  “According to Lena?” I asked, standing and grabbing my things.

  “Her, and the MET office.”

  “Brilliant,” I muttered, ushering him from the house and locking the door behind us.

  “I got a call from Sharp,” Mills told me as we walked to his car. “All’s good with welfare. They’ll expect us as half ten.”

  I nodded, clambering into his passenger seat, surprised when I didn’t kick any small creatures as I did so.

  “You cleaned your car?”

  “I did.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  Mills smiled and pulled away from the curb. “You still want to have another word with Richard Sandow?”

  “Might comfort him to know that Sebastian isn’t his,” I murmured, watching the rain-sodden city blur past, the sandstone buildings darkened to murky browns and greys. “Ease some of that guilt he’s been carting around.”

  “Could make matters worse between the brothers,” Mills pointed out.

  “They’ve not seen each other for over twenty years, haven’t even met each other’s children. How much worse can it get?”

  “What about Sebastian? How much are we telling him?”

  I sighed, propping an elbow up on the window, resting my head against my fist. “We’ll tell him that we know who it is but won’t give him a name unless he wants it.”

  “And the twin?”

  “Let’s find out what happened to them first. I don’t want to go around spreading false hope.”

  “So, until half ten?”

  “Let’s follow up a few threads. Call our art dealer and check that nothing’s cropped up, same with the other markets. I’ll stick my nose into Crowe’s lab, see if she’s picked up anything useful from that note they left.”

  Mills nodded. “I take it,” he began carefully, “that Dennis is no longer your chief suspect?”

  I turned to look at him. He was staring straight ahead, focused on the roundabout ahead, but a small smirk toyed at the corners of his face, and I squinted at him.

  “You were the one who brought up Agatha Christie,” I reminded him.

  “True. I wonder if he’ll be staying at the house much longer in light of all of this,” he mused aloud.

  “I can’t imagine there’d be much incentive to stay,” I agreed, “unless he really is as close to them as all that.”

  “Might not be much of a ‘them’, anymore. The children seemed raring for a fight. They might leave the nest because of this.”

  “They might,” I allowed, “but families like these are strange, Mills. They play by a different set of rules. I think it would be strange for them not to have some sort of illegitimate scandal at some point in their rich history.”

  Mills laughed. “The wonderful aristocracy,” he said through his chuckles.

  The hour passed quickly, leads followed up and as predicted, nothing. No sign of the painting on any of the markets and the most Crowe had to offer me this fine morning was a quip about lighthouses and a gingernut. Mills and I made ourselves presentable, fetched every tiny slip of information we could get to welfare and headed out, walking through the city to the old building.

  It was one of those nice Georgian builds, converted into offices sometime in the sixties. The children and family offices were on the third floor, and once inside, we clambered up the steep carpeted steps to the wood-clad space with glass dividers.

  Mills looked around and whistled. “Like a time capsule,” he muttered.

  “Can I help you?” A grey-haired woman appeared from a desk; her glasses perched on the edge of her nose.

  “Good morning,” I smiled down at her, “Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills,” we showed her our warrant cards, “I believe we’re expected?”

  “Of course! You have an appointment with Susanne. She’s in records. This way.” She led us past the desks through a set of wide wooden doors into a room lined with shelves, drawers and filing cabinets.

  “Susanne? The police are here. Please have a seat.” She indicated the two chairs that sat opposite the large desk, a heft pile of folders on top.

  “Thank you, Muriel!” a young woman called as she appeared from a tall shelf, waving the old woman out. She crossed the room, and Mills and I clambered back to our feet to shake her hand. Light ginger hair rolled down to her shoulders, a chunky yellow cardigan wrapped around her and she pushed her glasses up her nose as she pulled away and walked behind the desk.

  “Susanne Peters, I oversee the records here.”

  “Inspector Thatcher and Sergeant Mills,” I said as we sat back down, “thank you for going through all this.”

  She waved a hand. “It’s what we do, Inspector. I found everything we have on the name Whitlock. Although,” she added apologetically, “it's not much. Things weren’t quite as thorough
back then.”

  “That’s alright,” Mills assured her. “Anything you have will be a help.” She smiled at him and flipped open the first folder.

  “Selene Whitlock,” she murmured, pulling out a sheet. “We have the birth certificate, of course.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, a copy. Given up for adoption,” she said, sitting down opposite us, glancing down at the sheet.

  “She gave one up for adoption?”

  “One?” Susanne looked confused and rifled through her files, pulling out another sheet. “She gave birth to two children,” she propped her hands on her chin as she read, “and,” looking at the birth certificate, “gave one up to be adopted. How strange.”

  “We know about the one she kept,” I informed her, and she looked up at me. “What we would like to know about is the one she didn’t keep.”

  Susanne nodded and passed me the photocopied birth certificate. “She. A girl.”

  I looked down. A girl, indeed.

  “She didn’t name her?”

  Susanne shook her head. “That’s not all that uncommon. She’d have been baby Whitlock until she was given a name.” She pulled out a stack of sheets and blew out a breath. “She wasn’t adopted,” she told us sadly. “Foster system.”

  “Poor girl.”

  “Looks like she spent a lot of time in a group home just outside the city,” Susanne told us, “was with a family for a while, but not long.”

  “Do you know much about her?” I asked.

  “We’d have stopped keeping tabs after she turned eighteen,” she told us, “but it seems she came in about eight years ago or so, wanting to know about her birth.”

  “What could you tell her?”

  “Not much,” Susanne admitted, “all we had was the name Whitlock, but that didn’t mean anything to her. She might have found the mother.”

  “The mother’s dead. But her twin brother is alive and well.”

  “Though he made no mention of knowing her,” Mills pointed out.

  “Well sometimes they don’t,” Susanne told us. “They just want the questions answered. They come in all the time wanting to know who, but not wanting to ever actually meet them. And there’s no record of a father, so there’s little to go on from what we could give her.”