Killer Lies (Reissue)

by Chris Collett

  ‘Is that why they split up?’

  ‘Theirs was always a volatile relationship.’

  ‘And Sir Geoffrey married Diana Fitzgibbon.’

  ‘Rebound with a vengeance? Partly, I suppose. Diana was about as far from Carrie as you could imagine. While the rest of us were out making the most of free love, Diana was at home doing her flower arranging.’

  ‘One extreme to the other,’ Mariner remarked. ‘But then, Diana was a better career move.’

  ‘You make it sound calculated,’ said Balfour. ‘It was more complex than that. It’s true, Diana was from the right kind of family, but she and Geoff also had a lot in common and there was a genuine connection between them. You only had to see them together. Diana was a very fragile sort. When I introduced her to Geoff she’d been away recuperating from a depressive illness, a break down. Geoff took her under his wing, as I knew he would. They just seemed to click straight away. I suppose they each had something that the other needed. Isn’t that often how it works?’

  Like Knox and Selina, Mariner thought. ‘You introduced them?’ he asked.

  Balfour held up his hands. ‘Guilty as charged, officer. Diana’s family has been friends with mine for years. I was taking her out to dinner one evening. The thing with Geoff and Carrie had just blown up so I asked Geoff to come along. Diana had been through the mill and needed someone solid and dependable, and Geoff responded to that.’

  ‘Carrie must have been upset.’

  ‘Furious, I’d say. One thing worse than a woman scorned; a pregnant woman scorned.’

  ‘Did you ever find out who the child’s father was?’

  ‘Not definitively. Carrie pointed the finger at all of us. She was a manipulative woman, skilled at playing one of us off against the other. At that time of course paternity was impossible to prove and since she was bedding several of us, it could have been anyone.’

  ‘Except Ryland. So pregnant Carrie was abandoned?’

  ‘Oh, Carrie did very nicely out of it. Her own family in the States cut her off without a dime because of her predicament. But she was a parasite. Even managed to scrounge the money to put the little wretch through public school. Not that it did him any good.’

  ‘You know Rupert Foster-Young?’ Mariner was surprised. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  ‘About ten years ago, I would guess. His mother was in a bad way. He couldn’t get near to Geoff so he came after me for money, accusing me, and all of us, of ruining her, claiming that we had started the drinking and drug abuse. I knew differently though.’

  ‘And did you give him money?’

  ‘I’m a priest. Do you know how much I’m paid? He might not have been sure who his father was but he was his mother’s son all right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Drugged to the eyeballs himself. It was what he wanted cash for; to feed his habit. Insisted that I owed it to him. He was a nasty little shit.’ Colourful language for a priest. Balfour saw what Mariner was thinking. ‘Something for the confessional this week,’ he said. ‘I agonised for days about whether I should help him, after all it’s my job. But giving him money would have simply speeded his demise, so I prayed for him and trusted in the Lord to find another way.’

  ‘Did Foster-Young claim Sir Geoffrey as his father?’

  ‘Carrie’s doing, I suppose, but it was also the collective responsibility for his existence that he seemed angry about. He was one of those people who believes that the world owes him a living.’

  ‘He’s done a spell in prison since you saw him, you know.’

  ‘Geoff told me. He’d been pestering them at the JRC. Then everything went quiet. He’s probably dead himself by now. No great loss to mankind, I’m sorry to say.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Mariner. ‘From what I’ve learned, Rupert Foster-Young has got his life back together again.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad to hear it.’ But for a priest, who one would expect to have faith in the essential goodness of man, Balfour didn’t sound very convinced. Even if Foster-Young could play the part of the supportive neighbour, babysitting a small child when needed, it didn’t mean he’d completely changed.

  It was Mariner’s belief that Foster-Young had equally powerful and not entirely wholesome reasons for cleaning up his act. If he harboured resentment against Ryland and was planning to do something about it, he’d need to be thinking straight. And just because he’d persuaded the professionals he was over it, didn’t mean that there wasn’t a grudge lurking underneath the surface somewhere. In Mariner’s experience resentment like that didn’t simply evaporate, and the last person he’d allow to see it would be his parole officer. Wise had described Foster-Young as being focused, but focused on what exactly?

  ‘Sir Geoffrey and Mrs Ryland didn’t have children,’ he said.

  ‘They both wanted it that way,’ said Balfour. ‘It was one of the things that bound them together. After her illness, Diana remained fragile and susceptible. Not that it was common knowledge, of course. I think most people made the assumption that they had tried to start a family and failed. Back then of course there wasn’t much you could do about it. Had to accept your lot and get on with life.’

  ‘Did you know Diana well?’

  ‘We saw less of each other over the years, but she came to mass from time to time.’

  ‘She was Catholic?’

  ‘No, but she was a great support when I entered the priesthood and after a while I think she found some comfort in the ritual of it all. Many people do. She occasionally came to mass and afterwards we would talk.’

  For one outlandish moment Mariner considered the possibility that Diana and Balfour could have been having an affair, but he dismissed it almost immediately.

  It brought Mariner to the blackmail. ‘Was Sir Geoffrey Ryland always a gambling man?’ he asked, casually.

  ‘Delete always, insert never,’ Balfour said. ‘I’m the one who used to like a flutter. Geoff was always chastising me for wasting my money.’

  ‘You don’t think he could have changed?’

  ‘It’s my experience that people are born gamblers, they don’t turn into them.’

  It was Mariner’s view, too. It confirmed his theory.

  ‘Geoff thought a lot of your mother, you know,’ Balfour said. ‘He had me contact her old friend Maggie quite recently.’

  ‘She told me that. Was there any special reason?’

  ‘He was writing his memoirs and I think it had stirred up all kinds of thoughts and regrets. I guess he just wondered how you were getting on, his only son. It wasn’t the first time I’d fulfilled that role. Our lives had followed very different paths, and politicians have to exercise such discretion in their private lives, but I think I remained a trusted link with the past.’ Balfour seemed to hesitate. ‘You should know that I counselled Geoff against contacting you. I know he considered it from time to time. I warned him that it would do more harm than good. So if you’re looking for someone to blame, I’m your man.’

  But by now Mariner was beyond blame, and somehow the priest made it sound too simplistic. Leaving the church Mariner felt he was in the middle of a balloon debate. Who did he believe? The probation officer backing his reformed client, or the Catholic priest who perceived Foster-Young as a ‘nasty little shit’? The only way of making up his mind would be to meet Rupert Foster-Young in person. But when he checked his phone there were no messages.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The following morning Mariner got to the inquest minutes before the proceedings opened. As expected there was a high level of security and a large official representation, for what, as it turned out, was something of a non-event.

  Mariner took a seat in the public gallery, nodding an acknowledgement to Sharon O’Connor who seemed to have come with a considerable entourage of family and friends. It saddened Mariner that the one person conspicuous by her absence was Eleanor Ryland, but that aside he felt detached, as if he was here in a professional
rather than a personal capacity. Dave Flynn sat below with the police contingent, but the main body of evidence was presented by DCI Caroline Griffin, tall imposing and ridiculously young-looking. Several lines of enquiry were being pursued, she informed the court, including the recent history of Joseph O’Connor. It seemed his original sentence being quashed was being conveniently overlooked. He’d been involved with ‘the wrong people’ before so it could certainly have happened again and Terry Brady had helpfully left the country so was not available to contradict this point of view.

  There were several points at which Mariner expected Sharon O’Connor to shout out in protest and if she had he’d have been tempted to join in. But she simply sat quietly, shaking her head in disbelief. Under Section Twenty of the Coroner’s Act the inquest was adjourned pending further enquiries, but the coroner agreed to release the bodies for burial.

  Flynn caught up with Mariner in the lobby melee. ‘I’ve brought you a present.’ He passed over a brown envelope. ‘Don’t say I never give you anything.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Mariner felt unnaturally calm. This envelope contained nothing more than confirmation of what he now knew was almost certainly true.

  ‘You’re not going to open it?’ said Flynn.

  ‘Somewhere more private,’ said Mariner, pocketing it. ‘I’m pretty sure it won’t be a surprise.’ Part of him wanted to talk to Flynn about everything else he’d learned in the last few days, but he decided against it, considering the reception Flynn had given his other theories. Better to have some concrete evidence first. From the corner of his eye he saw Norman Balfour affectionately greeting an elegantly-dressed woman. Flynn was watching too. ‘Who’s that talking to the priest?’ Mariner asked.

  ‘Sir Geoffrey’s sister-in-law, Felicity Fitzgibbon.’

  ‘The one who lives in Switzerland?’

  ‘That’s right. Your aunt, I suppose. . . technically.’

  ‘Technically.’

  At first glance Felicity Fitzgibbon was very different from her sister. Although approaching her sixties, she was every inch the exotic continental. Petite and slim with shoulder-length ash-blonde hair, she was wearing what looked like beige cashmere.

  ‘A stunner,’ Mariner observed. ‘She’s here on her own?’ he asked casually.

  ‘She’s a single woman so I gather,’ said Flynn. ‘Rich and divorced.’

  ‘Attractive combination. Got her phone number?’ It was flippantly said, but Mariner was rather hoping that Flynn had.

  He shook his head sadly. ‘Too flash for me. Not to mention a little on the mature side.’ They watched her say her goodbyes to Balfour, and followed her out to where an official black sedan was waiting on the kerb. ‘I can’t imagine she’d be able to tell you much, either. She’s lived abroad for years.’ Flynn was warning him off.

  But at the start of the inquest when the clerk had read out Ryland’s personal details, Mariner had made a note of the address in Chelsea. Always prudent to have a pocketbook handy. Chances were that Felicity Fitzgibbon would turn up there at some point and Mariner rather hoped it would be today.

  She did eventually, later that afternoon as Mariner stood freezing in a doorway opposite beginning to think that he’d been sold a dummy. By now she’d eschewed the official vehicle and was driving herself in a soft-top BMW, probably hired, which she squeezed into a vacant parking spot.

  The police presence in front of the mews property deterred Mariner from approaching her at that point, so he flagged down a cab, waited until she emerged again and then asked the driver to follow the BMW. Mariner had assumed she’d be going back to her London hotel, but to his surprise and dismay she joined the north circular and then the M40. This was going to be one of the most expensive cab rides ever.

  ‘Where the hell are we going?’ the driver demanded, and Mariner had no alternative but to produce his warrant card. ‘I’ll make it worth your while,’ he said. Forty minutes later, as they pulled up in front of Eleanor Ryland’s home the meter was on seventy-nine quid and rising.

  Now that the Manse was designated a crime scene, there was an officer back on the gate and the press pack had doubled. Mariner cast his eyes over them wondering who it was had been making stuff up about him. Probably not a good idea to try and follow Ms Fitzgibbon into the house. He’d have to try and catch her on the way out. But she didn’t go right in. Instead she had a lengthy conversation with the young constable just inside the gate, which involved consultation with the map she’d brought. Finding out where Eleanor’s body had been taken perhaps? Then it was back in the car and off again, but this time across country to the outer edges of Wythinford, and what looked like a garden centre. Then Mariner saw the sign for animal rescue and realised what was going on. She’d come for Nelson.

  Paying off the taxi, which almost completely cleaned him out of cash, Mariner walked past the cafeteria and through the Alpines section to the rescue centre, catching up with Felicity Fitzgibbon outside Nelson’s pen. The animal was scratching at the gate to be let out, and jumped around wagging its tail as Mariner approached. ‘Nice dog,’ Mariner observed, pretending to read the information tag, which had a ‘Reserved’ sticker on it. ‘You’re having him?’

  Her smile was reluctant. Close up her make-up was heavy, her age more apparent. ‘He belonged to my sister,’ she said. ‘She died suddenly. But I have a pretty hectic life with not much room for a pet. I live abroad too, so it would mean quarantine, and it never seems fair to put an animal through all of that.’ The dog whined pathetically, its tail wagging with hope. ‘It’s hard though. He meant the world to my sister and I feel I’d be letting her down if I didn’t at least find him a good home. Are you looking for a dog?’ For a second her eyes held the same optimistic gaze as the animal’s.

  ‘I’m considering it,’ Mariner said. And it was true. At the back of his mind for the last couple of weeks he’d been thinking that a dog might be a reasonable alternative to having children. ‘My partner would prefer a child though.’

  Another half-smile. ‘My sister and her husband didn’t have children. I’m sure he was a substitute.’

  ‘Previous experience in the role then,’ said Mariner.

  This time she chuckled, a deep, throaty laugh. ‘You could say that.’

  A chilly gust of wind rattled the cage door and Mariner saw her shiver. ‘Look, I realise you don’t know me,’ he said. ‘But while you’re thinking it over would you like a coffee? It’ll give you a chance to try and talk me into it.’

  It was a gamble, but she was a sophisticated woman and probably got propositioned all the time. All the same, her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not a reporter, are you?’

  Mariner feigned astonishment. ‘No. I promise you. I’m not a reporter.’

  ‘It’s just that my brother-in-law was well known. I have to be careful.’ She smiled. ‘I’m sorry. That sounded terribly rude. Coffee would be lovely.’

  Mariner offered her a hand. ‘Tom Mariner.’

  Shaking it, she laughed again. ‘There you are, it was meant to be. Who else but a Mariner could take on Nelson?’

  ‘I’m not sure that he’s named after that Nelson,’ said Mariner, then realised his blunder. ‘What I mean is, I’m sure these days Mr Mandela is more of a household name.’

  ‘Knowing my brother-in-law, I’m sure you’re right.’

  Predictably on a cold winter weekday, the cafeteria was practically empty, but the coffee, served in workmanlike mugs, was hot and surprisingly good. During the course of the conversation Mariner learned that Felicity (‘but everyone calls me Fliss’) lived in Lausanne, where her second husband had been in banking, and that she ran her own fashion boutique, often travelling to Italy to buy stock. ‘So you see having a dog just wouldn’t be fair.’ Her scarlet lipstick glistened over perfectly maintained teeth. ‘What do you do, Mr Mariner?’

  He’d been waiting for this. ‘I sell security products, burglar alarms, that kind of thing.’

  ‘And you’re having a day off?’
/>
  ‘I’ve a couple of customers in the area, time between appointments, so I walked out here from the village.’

  ‘Ah, you like to walk, too! A dog would be the perfect companion.’

  ‘Your business must be successful,’ Mariner said. ‘You have an eye for an opportunity.’

  ‘That’s what it’s all about, don’t you think?’ After a little more small talk, she’d finished her coffee. ‘I should go,’ she said.

  ‘What about Nelson?’ asked Mariner.

  ‘I’m here for a few more days, hopefully during that time the kennels can find him a good home. It really would be impossible for me to have him.’ She smiled. ‘You’re sure I can’t persuade you?’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ Mariner said, but they both knew he was being polite. He walked her back to the BMW.

  ‘Can I drop you at your car?’

  ‘No thanks. It’s not far, and you were quite right. I like the exercise.’ She looked uncertainly at the dark sky, but the rain had held off so Mariner hoped he didn’t appear too eccentric.

  * * *

  He watched her go before asking at the garden centre for the number of a local cab firm and calling them on his mobile. In order to pay, he had to ask the driver to stop at a cash point en route to the nearest train station, where he had to wait an hour and fifteen minutes on a freezing platform for the train back into London. The expenses claim for this little trip was going to look interesting. Despite the warmth of the hotel, Mariner was shivering uncontrollably and could feel the beginnings of a cold coming on. Suddenly the room seemed stark and unwelcoming, and the comfort of home a much more attractive prospect. By the time he’d checked out and caught the next train back to Birmingham, it was late evening when he arrived, exhausted and aching. Anna was out, having taken Jamie to his activity club at the day centre, but she’d left a note to say that Jack Coleman had been trying to get hold of him, and to contact Coleman at home if necessary.

  Glenys Coleman was not pleased to hear Mariner’s voice, especially so late. ‘I’ll go and get him,’ she said, shortly. In the ensuing delay Mariner heard raised voices in the background, and then Coleman came on. ‘Thames Valley police contacted me this afternoon,’ he said. ‘They want to interview you as a significant witness in the murder, somewhere east of Banbury, of a Mrs Eleanor Ryland, who I understand was the mother of the late Sir Geoffrey Ryland.’ Coleman paused. ‘What in God’s name is going on, Tom?’