‘I don’t know if I can do this,’ Selina wept. Dabbing at her eyes she forced a smile through the tears. ‘I can’t even get up and storm out of the bloody place!’
Knox closed a hand over hers. ‘It won’t be like this forever,’ he soothed. ‘It’ll get better.’
A group at the next table had gone quiet. ‘What are you all staring at?’ Mariner retorted.
Somehow they got through the meal, the forced conversation a stark contrast to the raucousness around them. Mariner had considered telling them all his news, but somehow this didn’t seem the right moment. By the time they’d waded through three courses Selina was exhausted and wanted to go home. In the car park they soberly wished each other a happy new year before Knox and Selina drove off.
Since the millennium celebrations it had become de rigueur to launch fireworks at midnight to mark the start of the New Year. Driving up to Rednal, Mariner and Anna parked at the Rose and Crown to walk up Rose Hill on the footpath through the woods, to where the trees opened out on panoramic views across the city. They found a spot away from the crowds and Mariner put his arms round Anna, holding her close to him as they watched the eruption of light and colour.
‘Poor Selina,’ said Anna. ‘A whole new life to get used to. Makes you wonder what the New Year will bring.’
‘I think the old one brought more than enough surprises,’ said Mariner.
‘It’s going to be a good year for us,’ said Anna, hugging him tight. ‘I know it. We’ve everything to look forward to.’
And so much to look back on, thought Mariner.
* * *
Mariner had tacked an extra day’s leave onto the bank holiday, so that on the first day it re-opened he left Anna still sleeping and went to the archives department of the central library. He was the only one there and before long the librarian, a fluttery woman in an ankle-length skirt and jangling ethnic jewellery, that Mariner was certain must contravene the library’s rules on quiet, came to help.
‘I’m researching Sir Geoffrey Ryland,’ Mariner told her.
‘A wonderful man,’ she enthused, ‘. . . and such a sad loss. I’ll see what I can find for you.’
It being a slow day, she was back in a matter of minutes with hard-backed albums of newspaper archive material, so much of it she’d had to stack it on a trolley. Minutes later she returned with more and eventually Mariner had to call a halt.
‘Well, let me know if there’s anything else you need,’ she smiled.
‘This time next year,’ Mariner murmured under his breath.
He’d already decided that the simplest thing would be to work backwards chronologically, so first he looked up the most recent coverage of Sir Geoffrey Ryland’s shooting. It had made the front page of all the main nationals so he had plenty of material to choose from. The incontrovertible facts were that Ryland’s car had been ambushed in Oxfordshire late at night on the way back to London from a regular visit to his mother. The shooting had happened in woodland close to a local daytime beauty spot, and the car had been discovered by a local farmer in the early hours of the morning.
Police arriving at the scene found Ryland and his wife shot dead still sitting in the back of the car, but more importantly, Joseph O’Connor, also assassinated, and left lying on the road beside the open boot of the limousine. The spare wheel compartment had been prised open, yielding traces of heroin, and ballistics had identified the weapon used for the shootings as a nine-millimetre Browning automatic, the drug dealer’s common choice. The police’s conclusion — that O’Connor had either been transporting the drugs knowingly, or was being used in the way he claimed to have been at the time of his original conviction — was entirely logical. In any event O’Connor was perceived to be the cause of the hold-up, and had been the focus of the investigation from the outset. A key factor influencing officers in the current investigation was that only days before the shooting O’Connor had been seen in the company of Terry Brady, the suspected owner of the original stash of heroin. A witness reported having seen O’Connor and Brady together. Despite the column inches, the hard copy largely regurgitated the same few facts over and over and Mariner had to switch to microfiche to pursue other aspects of the case.
A search on Joseph O’Connor brought up details of his acquittal in May 1998. The original sentence had been eight years for possession of a kilo of heroin with intent to supply. Much as Flynn had said, the conviction was subsequently ‘stayed on the grounds of abuse of process’ — another way of saying that his confession had been coerced. At first glance it seemed a very humble case to have sparked the interest of the JRC. But then it was a while ago, and was probably one of the first cases reviewed by the Commission, meaning that it was clear cut. They’d have played it safe in the early days to establish credibility.
Because O’Connor’s case was a relatively minor one there wasn’t much. A short piece in the London Standard included details of where he lived (Mariner made a note of that), and a brief statement of gratitude from O’Connor and his wife Sharon for everything Ryland had done for them, accompanied by a strong denial that he had ever been involved with drugs. All this below a photograph of the newly reunited couple.
O’Connor had been working for Ryland since shortly after his release. What had prompted that? Ryland couldn’t go giving jobs to everyone he got off. And then O’Connor, it seemed, had let him down. It must have been a good job — not too taxing — and, according to the newspaper reports, O’Connor was a family man, married with four kids. So why jeopardise a bloody good job by getting involved in drugs again? Why even risk making contact with the man said to have set him up the first time round? Unless, as Flynn had implied, it was for the money.
There were reports on some of the other sentences the JRC had been instrumental in getting overturned, some of them well-known high-profile cases that Mariner had read about previously. The Commission had also been responsible for exposing a number of corrupt special operations squads in different forces across the country. As Dave Flynn had rightly said, the JRC itself was established mainly as a result of the public outcry that had followed the cases of the Birmingham Six and Guildford Four. Ryland might have left the government but he’d continued to play an active part in the politics of justice.
While he was in the library Mariner cast back through the newspapers for any other personal information he could glean about Ryland. In the early seventies he seemed to be often in the headlines, at around the time when he entered parliament. Prior to being an MP he’d been something of an agitator and on joining the government he hadn’t entirely given up the cause. Mariner was specifically interested in the time around 1959/1960 when he was born, but he could find nothing much at that time that hadn’t featured in Ryland’s memoirs.
In 1963 there were a couple of pictures of Ryland with an attractive looking blonde hanging on his arm and for a heart-stopping moment Mariner thought it was Rose. But it was only momentary self-delusion. The paper described the woman as Ryland’s fiancée, socialite Caroline Foster-Young. Interestingly though, Mariner noted, the pictures were taken only a matter of months before Ryland had become engaged to Diana Fitzgibbon. From one fiancée to another in a matter of only months; what had expedited that speedy move? There were a couple of news stories about Diana Ryland, along with an entry in Who’s Who, chiefly as the daughter of Sir Reginald Fitzgibbon who had died shortly before Diana’s engagement. She came across as Mariner had surmised, as the archetypal dutiful politician’s wife and was involved as trustee of a number of charities, notably helping to launch the birth parents’ register for adoptees. That might imply that childlessness hadn’t been a conscious decision, although the Rylands hadn’t gone on to adopt.
Mariner worked all through the day photocopying and making notes on relevant areas until suddenly he realised how dark it was becoming outside.
‘Did you get what you wanted?’ The librarian saw him leave.
Had he? ‘Yes, thanks.’ He’d also reached a decis
ion. From his vehicle in the darkened car park, Mariner phoned Dave Flynn on his mobile. Flynn was still working.
‘I’d like you to fix up that DNA test.’
Flynn didn’t miss a beat. ‘Can you send me a sample?’
‘I’ll get it in the post to you tomorrow.’
‘It’ll take a few days.’
‘Sure. I’d like an address for Ryland’s mother, too.’
‘I don’t know about that.’ Flynn was cagey. ‘Meeting you would be a hell of a shock for her and she’s still getting over her son’s death. She’s in her nineties and not in the best of health.’
‘She’s my grandmother, remember?’
‘So she is.’ Despite his reluctance Flynn had been expecting the request and had the details to hand. He recited an address to Mariner over the line.
On his way to Anna’s house, Mariner went to the cottage where he sterilised a needle and jabbed his finger, squeezing some of the blood out onto the lint of a fresh plaster. He tucked it into an evidence bag with his name and date of birth, sealed it and addressed the envelope to Dave Flynn, marking it ‘Confidential.’
Walking to the post box took him past the Boatman, so he stopped in for a quick pint. Three of the old regulars who Mariner knew only by sight needed someone to make up the numbers for fives and threes. The dominoes game was a welcome diversion from everything else going on around him, and it was closing time before he left.
Chapter Ten
On the drive to Anna’s house, Mariner felt as if Eleanor Ryland’s address was burning through his pocket. A whole chapter of his life, both exhilarating and intimidating, was opening up before him. The house was dark so he crept in quietly, undressing in the bathroom so that he wouldn’t disturb Anna.
‘You’ve worked late,’ she said, as he was half way across the bedroom floor.
‘I called in at the pub,’ he admitted, not correcting her first assumption.
‘Becky phoned. She’s invited me to go and stay for a few days.’
Mariner got into bed and she moved over to snuggle up against him, her body smooth and warm next to his.
‘That sounds a great idea. The peace and quiet will be good for you,’ he said. Ordinarily he might have felt abandoned but this time what he was really thinking was: great, some time on my own.
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Of course not, I’ll be fine.’ He thought of how icy the roads had been lately and for some inexplicable reason had a flash of Anna’s car skidding off the road and into a ditch. His heart quickened. ‘I should drive you though.’
‘There’s no need. I can drive myself, unless of course you want to come too. It might be good for you to get away for a few days, and I know they’d love to see you. You could meet Megan.’
‘There’s a lot to do here.’ Same old excuse but she didn’t push it. Mariner knew he should tell Anna what he’d learned, but for some reason he couldn’t. He wanted to find out more about Ryland first and have the chance to work out how he felt about it before others started giving their views. Besides he didn’t have absolute proof yet that it was true. What if he told her and then it turned out to be a mistake? He didn’t want to risk that. He knew he was behaving strangely but she’d put it down to what they’d just been through.
‘Might be just as well that you don’t come this time,’ Anna said. ‘Megan’s teething with a vengeance apparently, so they’re not getting much in the way of sleep. I wouldn’t want it to put you off anything.’
‘What about you?’
‘Oh I can take it. It’ll be good preparation.’ The fingers lying on his chest began a downward progression. ‘We should start getting in some practice.’
He caught her hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m pretty tired.’
‘Okay, whenever you’re ready.’
* * *
But even as she said it, lying in the dark, Anna wondered when that was likely to be. This desire for children had crept up on her suddenly, when she had least expected it and, though she was striving to keep it under control, to play it cool with Tom, it was becoming all-consuming. Staying with Becky and Mark would be a mixed blessing. She loved spending time with Megan, but the longing for her own child was growing stronger, a feeling that Tom didn’t entirely seem to share.
The explosion had been a setback — he’d seemed keener before that — but she couldn’t help but think his experiences that night had simply compounded his existing, unspoken doubts. She could sense him retreating from her again as he sometimes did. She’d just have to be patient and sit it out. Often he was more receptive in the early morning, but when she woke and reached out for him, it was already light and he had gone.
* * *
Mariner was with Jack Coleman, watching as the gaffer pored over a list of names. ‘The guests for my retirement bash,’ he told Mariner. ‘God, there’s some ancient history here. Why can’t they just let me slip out quietly through the back door?’
‘You deserve more than that.’
‘Even if it’s not what I want?’ Coleman shook his head sadly. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you?’
‘To be honest, I’m finding it hard to concentrate.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
‘I wondered if I might take a few more days’ leave.’
‘Of course, take as long as you need. You and Anna going somewhere?’
‘We might, yes.’ He wouldn’t tell Coleman that it was to opposite sides of the country.
‘Charlie Glover’s got the Albanian covered?’
‘We’re still waiting for Alecsander Lucca to turn up back home. Interpol have been notified and they’re going to let us know. Meanwhile Charlie’s putting together the information for the CPS. But until we’ve found Lucca there’s not much else we can do.’
‘And then we’re into extradition, which could take forever,’ Coleman surmised. ‘Okay. Tell Glover to keep me posted.’
* * *
Mariner was home again in time to help Anna to load up her car.
‘Look after yourself,’ she said.
‘You too. And be careful, the roads are icy, don’t drive too fast.’ He quelled the feeling of rising panic as that same image of Anna’s car going into a skid flashed through his mind. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to take you?’
‘Certain. I’ll take it carefully. Shall I call you when I get there?’
‘I’ll be out and about. I’ve got Becky’s number. I’ll call you.’
* * *
The address Flynn had given him for Eleanor Ryland was not so very far away, an hour’s run down the M40 and into Oxfordshire, the south Cotswolds. On the motorway Mariner took it at a steady speed but had to concentrate hard to ward off the fear of trucks swerving and slamming into the side of his car. Only when he stopped and felt the tension drain out of his shoulders did he realise how tightly he’d been gripping the steering wheel.
A little way out of the village of Wythinford, the Manse was a Georgian manor house built from the distinctive yellow ashlar stone that characterised the Cotswold area, set thirty metres back from the lane behind wrought iron gates and glossy rhododendrons; a splash of mellow warmth in the pallid, frosty landscape. It occurred to Mariner that if things had turned out differently this is where he might have spent his summer holidays, instead of in a caravan at Barmouth. Initially he hadn’t the nerve to go in, but the couple of reporters camped outside made it easier for him to loiter inconspicuously for a while.
‘Any action?’ he asked one of them.
‘Not for days. We’ll be packing up soon.’
When Mariner did finally get up the courage to approach the gates, his warrant card was enough to get him past the uniformed constable standing sentry duty. The dog he could hear energetically barking on the other side as he rapped the knocker, did nothing more than wag its tail and sniff at his legs once the door was opened. When her son’s wedding photographs were taken Eleanor Ryland had been impressively tall, but since then her height had
been diminished by the effects of osteoporosis, which had curved her shoulders over like the handle of a walking cane. Her clothes hung loosely from her wasted frame but she stood unwavering to greet Mariner, sharp eyes peering from a face that was pale and furrowed with age, her thinning silver hair drawn back and fixed with a tortoiseshell clip from which several wispy strands escaped.
‘Inspector Mariner,’ she read from his warrant card, before studying his face. ‘Are you new? I don’t recall the name.’ Despite the physical frailty, her voice was steady and clear; the clipped no-nonsense intonation of the upper classes.
‘I’ve been working with DI Flynn.’
‘Ah, yes. Mr Flynn. He’s a pleasant young man.’ She stepped back. ‘Nelson. Let the gentleman in!’ The dog, a rusty brown wire-haired creature, similar to those pictured in Ryland’s memoirs, shuffled backwards, sniffing the air.
Inside, the house was a museum piece, not so different from those country homes that Mariner’s mother had dragged him round as a kid, on the rare occasions when she’d been trying to infuse him with some culture. They passed through a cavernous vestibule into a formal living room where Queen Anne chairs, a sofa and several small card tables were arranged in front of a real log fire. French windows overlooked a terrace and several acres of lawn and shrubs. Eleanor Ryland invited Mariner to sit, before lowering herself carefully into the armchair facing him. ‘This is about Geoffrey I imagine,’ she said.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Ryland.’
‘Thank you.’ She seemed to be studying him intently. ‘I suppose you’re of the same view?’
‘What view is that?’
‘That he was killed because of Joseph, his driver.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Mariner.
‘I feel that’s what I should believe, because it’s what everyone keeps telling me.’
‘But you think differently?’
‘Joseph seemed so agreeable, and always so genuinely grateful to my son for what he had done.’
Killer Lies (Reissue) Page 8
