‘Tony said you’ve got Jamie back with you. How’s that working out?’
‘It has its moments, but Anna’s taken it surprisingly well,’ said Mariner, thinking again that she’d taken it in her stride. ‘After the initial disappointment she’s all fired up to find him somewhere else. Not that it will be easy.’ He turned to Knox. ‘Anyway, I came to lead you astray,’ Mariner said. ‘Fancy a pint at the Boatman?’
Knox looked sheepish. ‘I would but I’m cooking tonight.’
Mariner nearly choked on his last mouthful of tea.
‘Just shut it, will you?’ snapped Knox in anticipation of the response.
‘No really, I’m impressed.’
‘You’re welcome to stay,’ said Selina. ‘It’s pork à la moutarde.’
Mariner cast a sidelong glance at Knox. ‘Blimey. You’ll be making all your own frocks soon.’
Selina giggled. ‘You should see his baby blue chiffon number.’
Suddenly Mariner felt like an interloper in this comfortable domestic setup, and realised how ridiculous it would be to unburden himself here.
Knox saw him out. Standing in the hall, he seemed about to say something, but then Selina called from the lounge. ‘Shut the door, love, will you? There’s a draught.’
‘See you back at the station then,’ Mariner said, and heard the door close behind him.
* * *
Watching Mariner’s blurry form disappearing down the path, Knox went wearily back into the lounge.
‘I wish he wouldn’t just pop up like that,’ Selina said, straight away. ‘Can’t you get him to phone first? We could have been doing anything.’
‘We weren’t though, were we?’ said Knox, regretting his irritation immediately. ‘We weren’t doing anything.’
Her anger flared from nowhere, nought to sixty in two seconds. ‘I didn’t ask for this!’ she yelled. ‘I didn’t want to be a cripple. If I hadn’t gone with you to that stupid fucking church this never would have happened. It’s all your fault!’ And reaching for the nearest thing to hand she picked up one of the aluminium crutches and viciously swung it at him. This time Knox caught it before it struck, calmly taking it from her grasp and laying it against the sofa. He was straightening up when the mug struck him on the side of the head. ‘I’ll go and start the tea.’
Escaping to the kitchen Knox went through the motions of filling the sink to peel the potatoes, his eyes burning and vision blurred, still smarting from the blow. What the hell had he got himself into? He could walk out right now, of course, go after Mariner and tell him the truth — that he was being subjected to physical assault on a daily basis. But his stomach curled at the thought, because when it came down to it, Selina was right. It was his fault she was in this mess.
* * *
Exhausted, and feeling somehow let down by Knox, Mariner drove back to Anna’s house, which is what he should have done in the first place. For a few minutes he sat in the car on the drive. Hers was a nice place, warm and welcoming, but it was funny how he still thought of it as her house. The truth was that right now he didn’t really feel at home anywhere. Perhaps if he told Anna, if they could just get a few minutes to sit down quietly and talk . . . with renewed purpose, he jumped out of the car and strode up the drive.
Inside he found Jamie in the lounge with the TV turned up way too loud and Anna on her hands and knees in the kitchen, washing the floor, the only thing visible from this angle her bottom, clad in tight jeans.
‘That’s a sight for sore eyes,’ he said, truthfully, his good intentions already thwarted.
‘Just don’t,’ she turned, her face grim, ‘unless you want to find yourself cleaning up the mess.’
‘What is it?’
‘Orange juice. It was in the wrong type of carton. They’re not the cartons they have at the hostel.’ It needed no further explanation. Jamie would have taken exception to the change and thrown it. ‘We’ll be sticking to the floor for weeks.’
‘Anything I can do?’
Bit bloody late for that, her glare conveyed.
‘Bad day?’ he asked.
‘I’ve had better. They’ve arranged a case conference next week to decide what will happen to Jamie. The neighbours of the hostel have made it clear that they don’t want him back living there and Louise is understandably ambivalent. Any further incidents would put the whole project under threat. I can understand her concern.’
‘So what are we going to do?’
‘We?’ she said. ‘That’s interesting.’ She sighed. ‘How about you?’
He didn’t know what she meant.
‘Jack Coleman’s do. Was it a good one?’
‘It went well. A good turn out.’ He wouldn’t tell her he left in disgrace.
She nodded towards a white NHS envelope on the table. ‘We’ve got an appointment with the genetic counsellor, too.’
‘What already?’ Mariner’s stomach lurched.
‘Christmas must be a quiet time for them. Don’t look so surprised. You were the one who thought it was such a good idea, remember?’ She turned to get on with the cleaning.
‘I’ll go and get changed.’
‘Oh yeah, and you’ve had a fax,’ she called after him.
Mariner went straight to the office and saw the fax from Helena James. He sat down at the desk to read it. Rupert Foster-Young’s date of birth was 9 October 1963, only months after Ryland broke off the engagement with his mother. At the time of his referral to the JRC Foster-Young was serving his time at Chapel Wood prison, where Joseph O’Connor had been a guest of her majesty, and at about the same time. If the lobbying started four years ago it would have been about the time when O’Connor’s appeal was heard.
This opened up the possibility of fresh resentment that O’Connor had succeeded where Foster-Young had failed, in getting his case appealed. O’Connor subsequently going to work for Ryland presented a golden opportunity to get both of them at the same time, and Foster-Young would already feel antipathy towards Diana Ryland for usurping his mother’s place. But would all of that be enough to drive a man to commit a violent triple murder?
Mariner had handled enough cases over the years in which the stakes were lower, and as a long-term drug-user, Foster-Young could well be prone to paranoia, even schizophrenia. The MO also made sense. The assassinations were too clean and neat for a disorganised mind. Serving time Foster-Young would have mixed with the kinds of people who’d be skilled at the short, sharp hit and could disguise it to look like a drugs-related shooting. It would have hurt to waste those few crumbs of cocaine though. In the space of a few short hours Mariner had shifted from eliminating Foster-Young as a suspect to realising that he was looking more like a contender.
A picture was attached to the fax, and the face that stared out at Mariner bore all the signs of substance abuse. Rupert Foster-Young was as Helena had described him: a pale, hollowed-out face framed by longish, lank hair and half-concealed by a straggling beard. All in all, he was in a bit of a state. Maggie had described Carrie Foster-Young as the antithesis of Diana Fitzgibbon, implying that Rupert Foster-Young had lacked stability in his early life. There but for the grace of God, thought Mariner.
The final sheet was a record of the calls Foster-Young had made to the Commission. They ended eighteen months ago, coinciding almost exactly with the start of those mystery payments. Rupert Foster-Young had found a more lucrative way of putting pressure on Sir Geoffrey Ryland.
‘Who’s he?’ Anna had come into the room and was standing behind him.
‘The possible suspect in a murder enquiry.’
‘Madeleine?’
‘No.’ Mariner hesitated. ‘Something I’m only partly involved in.’
‘He looks old.’ She half smiled. ‘And now you’re going to say he’s only twenty-five but he’s had a hard life.’
‘He’s an addict.’
‘Ah.’
Mariner was thinking of the baby photo. ‘How does a tiny innocent child get to end up li
ke this?’
‘All sorts of reasons,’ said Anna. ‘In your line of work, you know that more than anyone.’ She put her hands on his shoulders and was gently massaging them. It felt good.
‘It’s such a huge fucking responsibility though isn’t it, bringing a child into the world? So much can happen if you get it wrong as a parent.’
‘You just have to do the best you can.’ She was philosophical. ‘Millions of people have kids, but they don’t necessarily have them in perfect circumstances. Look at you and me. Neither of us had what you’d call a conventional upbringing but our parents must have done something right.’
‘It was touch and go at times,’ Mariner reminded her.
‘But you kept it together. And you come across plenty who have had it all, but still end up like this guy. For all you know he may have had an idyllic childhood.’ She was right. There were plenty of Rupert Foster-Youngs in the world and they hadn’t all had rough starts. It was all too easy to blame it on the parents.
‘But even if you do a half-decent job there’s the outside world to contend with,’ he said.
Anna stopped massaging. ‘Chloe Evans,’ she said, reading his thoughts.
‘—and Yasmin Akram, and Ricky Skeet.’ The two teenagers who’d been brutally murdered the summer before. ‘Their parents are good people, trying to do their best but they still ended up going through hell. Why does anyone expose themselves to that?’
‘Because the bonuses far outweigh the risks. If you spent some time with Becky, Mark and Megan you’d see why.’ She slid her hands inside his shirt and down over his chest, hugging him to her, and making his lower belly begin to tingle. ‘I know you’re anxious about it all but there’s no need. Those other kids, they’re the exceptions. Just because you see the worst side of life doesn’t mean it’s all like that, does it?’
‘I just don’t know if I’ll measure up.’
Leaning over him she reached down further, running her hands over his crotch. ‘Oh I think you measure up all right,’ she murmured in his ear, swinging the chair round until they faced one other. She knelt down in front of him, her face level with his lap and slid her hands along his thighs. The sound of intermittent applause from the TV floated up the stairs.
‘Look, there’s something I need to tell you,’ Mariner said, just as an ear-splitting crash came from downstairs.
Sometimes they just never knew why Jamie did it. Could be something the TV presenter said, could be that the video jumped, but whatever it was, it had upset him enough to pick up the nearest object – in this case the coffee table - and hurl it at the set. They’d forgotten it could happen. By the time they’d cleared up the mess and Jamie had been dispatched to his room the moment had passed. So Mariner still hadn’t told her, but maybe that was for the best. He’d have more to offer when he’d solved the case.
Lying in bed much later, mulling things over, Mariner realised that much of what he thought he knew was speculation. He had to find out what had happened to Carrie Foster-Young, and the one person who might be able to help would be Eleanor Ryland.
‘Tom?’ So Anna was awake too.
‘Yes?’
‘Is there something going on that I should know about?’
Where do I start? ‘Only the usual crap,’ he said. ‘Nothing for you to concern yourself with.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely.’ And he was so wrapped up in his own endeavours that it never occurred to him that he should ask her the same question. He rolled over and began nuzzling her neck, pressing himself against her hip. At first she resisted with a sleepy moan, but nonetheless put her arms round him and drew him on top of her. And miraculously this time his body didn’t let him down.
Perhaps Anna was right. A move to the country could be good for all of them and maybe he should start thinking about a family, too. Would there ever be a ‘right time’ for that? Whatever their differences might be, he didn’t want to lose her.
Twenty-Four
After making love Mariner’s breathing settled into a rhythmic pattern, but Anna couldn’t sleep. Turning her head, she studied the contours of his face in the half-light. She could only really see his profile, the detail of his features were masked by the shadows, much the same as he was. Many of his thoughts and ambitions she knew intimately, but there were always parts of his being that remained undefined and just out of reach. She’d thought it would simply be a matter of time, and that eventually those things would become clearer, but lately she felt more than ever that there was so little she understood about him and what he wanted from life.
Once, on a rare family holiday, Dad had taken Eddie and her fishing. After hours of boring inactivity, Anna had finally got a bite and the contest to reel in the fish began. At first the creature came easily, openly, before suddenly jerking back and shrinking away into the murky obscurity of the water, pulling part of the line with it, and each time she had to start again, until finally the fish was near enough for her to land it in the net. She’d never come close to landing Tom. It had been worse since St Martin’s, of course it had, but she wasn’t kidding herself that it was anything new. His mystery was something she’d always found attractive, that sense of something deeper and darker lurking beneath the surface. But whatever had happened in the church had affected him. He’d become increasingly remote over the last few weeks, disappearing for days at a time. It wasn’t wilful, this cutting her out of his life, it was simply how he was. Immersing himself in work was his coping strategy. And she’d known for a long time that he didn’t take easily to change. But she was beginning to wonder if what they had was a strong enough foundation on which to build a future. It felt as if they’d reached a watershed. Soon she would have to decide if she wanted to always be here when he chose to come back, or if she should follow her own path.
* * *
Saturday morning was crisp and clear and once more Anna woke to an empty bed. Putting on her robe she went downstairs to the lounge. Tom was talking on his mobile leaving what was obviously an answer machine message. ‘Hi Maggie, it’s Tom Mariner. Just a couple more things I wanted to ask. If you could call me back that would be great.’ He left his number and ended the call, staring down at his phone.
‘Who’s Maggie?’
He coloured slightly, unable to meet her eye. ‘She’s helping on a case.’
‘The drug addict?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a Saturday,’ Anna pointed out, knowing that she was being provocative.
‘She’s a therapist, works all hours.’ Although calm he hadn’t liked the challenge, and she knew what was coming next. ‘I feel as if I need to stretch my legs today. Is that okay?’
What came out of Anna’s mouth was, ‘Sure,’ though a surge of disappointment coursed through her. Here we go again. Well, two could play at that game. ‘Actually, I’ve got plans too,’ she added, coming to a quick decision. ‘I think I’ll take Jamie down to see Becky and Mark, as he’s with us at the moment.’
‘Is that wise, Jamie and a baby in the same house?’ Mariner finally looked up at her. She’d surprised him. Good.
‘It’s a big house,’ she said. ‘The properties out there are much bigger for the money.’ A point well made, Anna felt, but she said it with an artful smile to show that she was winding him up. ‘It’ll only be overnight and Becky and Mark already know Jamie. They’d like Megan to get to know him too.’ She was working hard to justify her actions. ‘And Becky’s been a great support, she’s a good listener.’
‘And I’m not?’ He recoiled slightly as if she’d physically slapped him.
‘You’ve been through it too,’ she added, regretting the inference. ‘Becky’s in a position to be more detached.’
She’d only come back a couple of days before and it would have been reasonable for Mariner to object, but he didn’t, and Anna saw in his face only relief that he’d have the freedom to pursue his own plans. So that’s the way it was.
‘Okay then,�
�� he said.
‘Okay.’
* * *
It had been a strange conversation, Mariner thought, setting off on his journey to Wythinford. He’d left Anna packing again, for her and Jamie this time. He couldn’t work out why she’d made what was obviously a spur of the moment decision, but by the time he was parking up he’d pushed it to the back of his mind.
Even in chilly January a smattering of tourists could be found milling the pavements of any Cotswold village, perusing the craft and antique shops, the occasional snatch of an American accent heard. It was still early and there was only one other customer in the Lygon Arms, the kind of guy who’d always be the first in at opening time because he had nowhere else to be. Noting the absence of anyone serving behind the bar, Mariner’s heart sank.
‘Lovely day for it,’ said the man, predictably opening the conversation, observing Mariner’s walking gear.
‘Yes,’ Mariner nodded politely, by which time the barman had thankfully appeared to take his order, but there was a further wait while the beer was drawn.
‘Which way are you headed?’ the conversationalist persisted.
‘I haven’t yet decided,’ Mariner lied. ‘Probably west.’ He was being deliberately evasive.
‘Ah. You’re not local, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Well, may I recommend that if you’re out that way—’
‘I’m fine, really, thanks,’ said Mariner as the barman produced his pint of Old Hookey. With some relief Mariner handed over the right money and made a hasty retreat to a corner table to study his map uninterrupted.
He’d already seen that there was a public footpath from the village into the next town that went close to Eleanor’s house, skirting the side of her property. And that was the one he took. It was a beautiful day. Frosty grass crunched under Mariner’s boots and low sunlight pierced the hedge branches casting a giant barcode shadow onto the footpath. It was the middle of the afternoon as he approached, and he could see the Manse bathed in golden sunshine. The track brought him directly to the side of the garden where the fence gave way to a stile. Entering this way he could avoid the journalists, but as he got nearer he saw that they had gone anyway.
Killer Lies (Reissue) Page 20
