‘Who is it?’ she demanded.
‘Not “is” but “was.” You’re going to find this hard to believe.’
‘Try me.’
‘Tom’s father was Geoffrey Ryland.’
‘Sir Geoffrey Ryland?’ Anna checked, incredulous.
‘He told me that his mother and Ryland were friends,’ Coleman spoke up.
‘They were more than that,’ said Knox. ‘And since he found out, the DI’s been on a mission to find out why Ryland was killed.’
‘But they know why Ryland was killed,’ Coleman said. ‘The papers have been full of it.’
‘The boss thinks they’ve got it wrong. It’s why he’s kept going off the radar. He’s been working his own investigation. He only told me all about it a few days back.’ Knox cast Anna an apologetic look. ‘And he made me promise not to say anything. I think this guy Flynn must be involved too. There are messages on Tom’s answer machine at the cottage asking him to call Flynn back urgently.’
Anna brightened. ‘So that’s where Tom could be now,’ she said, hopefully. ‘Somewhere out there pursuing this investigation.’
‘Do we have a number for this Dave Flynn?’
Knox produced his pocketbook. ‘Him and a woman called Fliss?’ He looked to Anna for clarification, but she pulled a face.
‘Never heard of her. Unless she’s a friend of—’ She broke off and flashed a wry smile. ‘I’ve just realised something. I overheard Tom leaving a message for someone called Maggie. He said she was connected to a current case, but last year when his mother died we met one of her old friends; Maggie. I’d bet anything it’s the same one.’
‘Let’s start with Flynn, see what he has to say.’ Coleman dialled the number, switching to speaker phone, to allow them all to listen in. Flynn picked up on the third ring. Coleman introduced himself and the others present. ‘We’re concerned about where DI Mariner might be. We need to know what you know DI Flynn.’
Flynn recounted his meetings with Mariner since December. ‘Tom had become obsessed with the investigation and was sure that the team had got it wrong. He’s been convinced that O’Connor wasn’t behind the shootings, and that Ryland was the intended target. He’d got it into his head that there was some kind of conspiracy going on. He thought there was somebody after him too.’
‘The bomb has been explained. It—’
‘No,’ Flynn cut in. ‘When he was down here in London there were a couple of incidents.’ Flynn recounted what Mariner had told him. ‘But the last time I spoke to him was at the inquest and he seemed to be over it.’
‘He had a problem with his car, too,’ Knox said. ‘The brake cable had been cut, and he found a tracking device attached.’
‘Jesus,’ said Flynn. ‘There was a tracking device on Sir Geoffrey Ryland’s car, too. Maybe Tom was right.’
‘But I thought Special Branch had someone in the frame for the shootings,’ Coleman said.
‘They have, in that they think they know who it was based on motive and circumstances, but I spoke to a couple of the guys yesterday and they admitted that to date they still have no material evidence to back it up.’
‘So it’s altogether possible that they could be wrong and Tom could be right.’
Flynn was reluctant to admit it. ‘As far-fetched as it sounds, yes.’
‘And now he’s disappeared.’
‘When he was interviewed by Thames Valley he told them that he thought Ryland might have another illegitimate child, who Ryland had refused to help through the JRC, but they’ve spoken to him and he’s as clean as a whistle. Turns out he’d been brought up to believe that he was Ryland’s son, but his mother had lied about it. Sir Geoffrey offered to take a paternity test, so the guy gave up on it.’
‘So who does it leave us with?’
‘I don’t know.’
There was a knock on the door and Charlie Glover looked in. ‘I’ve got a lady here who wants to talk to DI Mariner, but I can’t locate him. She insists that it’s urgent she speak to him. Do you want me to pass her on to someone else?’
‘What’s her name?’ asked Coleman.
‘Felicity Fitzgibbon.’
‘Fliss,’ said Knox and Anna as one.
Chapter Thirty-Two
When Mariner opened his eyes, it was to darkness so absolute that there seemed little discernible difference from when they were closed. He blinked a bit to try and clear his vision, straining to distinguish some kind of form or shadow but there was nothing, only blank night. He was lying face down on hard ground, so cold that it stung his cheek. He must have fallen. He remembered lifting his key to put in the door and then nothing. But where was the street light, and where was his house?
Disorientated, he wondered if he was back in the cathedral. If the muddle of events he’d been trying to navigate for so long had been an elaborate hallucination and he’d been in the church when the bomb went off after all. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe this was what death was like and would be for all eternity. Slowly he became aware of his body. Though his limbs were stiff he found that he could move them and the oppressive blanket that seemed to push down on him was only empty space. Dead air.
He twisted his head to look around him, but shooting pains stabbed the backs of his eyes and the vice that gripped his skull tightened, as if it was squeezing out his brain bit by bit. The slightest movement made him want to retch. A pounding like a drumbeat in his head came and went at intervals; the blood pumping through his ears. The back of his head tingled and he lifted a hand to touch something tacky, his hair matted. Blood. He must have hit his head when he fell. But where was he, and how had he got here?
Something pricked at his senses, reminding him of childhood; of winter Sunday teatimes sitting with his mother by the fire eating ham sandwiches. At last he identified it. It was the coalscuttle. He could smell the coalscuttle. But that was impossible. That had been in the house in Leamington, except it wasn’t even there anymore. After his mother died, the house had been sold, the contents cleared. As the thoughts bounced around his head the pain intensified. He let them go.
His mouth was parched, but perversely he needed to pee, so much that he was hard and aching. He could just let it happen, put up with the discomfort. Too much effort to do anything else. But he couldn’t quite let go. He raised his head, resurrecting the agonising hammering on his skull. Pausing to let it settle, he tried again, and bit by bit managed to inch himself to a sitting position. As he moved his legs, something rattled on his right ankle; he reached down to feel a cold steel band a couple of inches wide clamped around it and attached by a thick bolt to a heavy-duty chain. He felt along it as far as he could reach, but every link was smooth and sound. In the absence of any tools it was indestructible.
He returned to his original aim. Each movement felt like shaking up a snow-globe in his head. Reaching out his hands to push himself up onto his knees, he gagged and retched again, a violent spasm that came deep from his gut. But he hadn’t eaten for hours, maybe even days, and only sour gastric juices burned in his throat. Eventually he was on his feet. White lights flashed behind his eyes and he staggered and almost fell, striking his head on something solid. In front of him was a wall, wider and taller than he could stretch. Pushing off from the icy wall he shuffled to the limits of his bonds. Grit crunched underfoot. When the steel tugged at his ankle, he unzipped his fly and emptied his bladder with painful relief.
He moved back towards the shelter of the wall, weakness overtaking him, and sank down again onto the ground. In a rush, he remembered Anna. It was his fault, of course. He’d made this happen. This was God’s plan to deprive him of parenthood; forty-odd years of not being on the receiving end and now he’d screwed up, the chance of being a father to be snatched from him. It was like the dream he had frequently as a kid, stepping out to play at Villa Park only to find that he’d forgotten his football boots. He’d spend the duration of the match, and the dream, fruitlessly searching for them, the opportunity for glory c
ruelly stolen. This was his punishment for abandoning Anna at the meeting.
They’d done all the planning but he still wasn’t sure, couldn’t embrace the idea. He was afraid of it and now he’d pushed it away.
Something that Anna had said kept coming back to him: ‘I’d love to be able to say that. That’s my son. Tom and Anna’s son.’ It had seemed important at the time but he couldn’t remember why. Then the fog rolled in and swallowed him again.
* * *
Jack Coleman’s office was becoming cramped now that Felicity Fitzgibbon had joined the party.
‘I’ve been trying to get Tom on his mobile since early this morning,’ she said. ‘When I couldn’t get through I thought the best thing was just to come straight here. I’ve found something among my sister’s papers that I think he needs to know about.’
‘And your sister is—?’ Coleman voiced the question for all of them.
‘Was, Diana Ryland,’ she said. ‘Tom thought that Geoff was being blackmailed, and that the blackmailer had tried to up the stakes. Geoff wouldn’t play, which is why he was ambushed and shot dead.’
‘Did he think the blackmailer was Ryland’s other illegitimate son?’ Knox was finding it hard to keep up.
‘Initially, yes. But Rupert Foster-Young wasn’t Geoff’s son. He’d given it up, and he was abroad when the killings took place. Tom realised that. He came to ask me about my sister’s mental illness. He thought that perhaps someone who knew her history of attempted suicide and drug dependency might have had access to records that, if they were made public, would have humiliated Diana and damaged Geoff.’
‘Did he have any idea who the blackmailer was?’ Coleman asked.
‘No, but he asked me to go through Diana’s papers, beginning from when she had her first breakdown, to look for anything that alluded to the treatment she’d had, or anyone who had helped her or had access to her medical records.’
‘And you found something?’
‘It wasn’t at all what I expected.’ From her handbag Fliss produced a letter. ‘I don’t think Diana ever posted it.’ The letter was written on the headed notepaper of Our Lady of Lourdes Retreat, and was dated July 1963. Knox, who was sitting nearest to her, took it and read it first.
* * *
Dearest Mummy,
It’s all over now and the baby boy is born. I was in labour for twenty-one hours and I thought the pain would never stop. I’ve called him David and he is so perfect I thought my heart would burst, even though the nurses have warned us not to get too attached. They took a photograph that I will be able to keep. He is feeding well and putting on weight. The nurses take good care of us but they’re not friendly. They make it clear that they disapprove. There are eight other girls here and I’m one of the eldest. The youngest is only thirteen and five of the girls have travelled from Ireland. We have little in common so we don’t talk to each other very much, all keeping ourselves to ourselves, though one or two of the other girls seem to have struck up friendships . . .
‘I thought my sister’s mental health problems stemmed from her failure to cope academically at university,’ said Fliss, as the letter circulated the room. ‘Diana never told me the truth, but when I found this I contacted her friend Norman Balfour. He knew all about it. It seems that shortly after she started at university Diana went out with a man who raped her. The resulting pregnancy came as a terrible shock for my parents. My father died not long afterwards. Diana always blamed herself for his death, and now I understand why.’
‘So the baby was adopted?’ Knox said.
‘In the circumstances giving up her baby must have seemed the only option. Norman helped to arrange it all. It must have been terrible for Diana. She travelled up to the home all on her own and was alone when she gave birth. She got to take care of her baby for six weeks, but at the end of that time she just had to hand him over and never see him again. No wonder she never got over it.’
They’d forgotten that Flynn was listening in. ‘Tom had asked me to find out the location of the photographs we found,’ he said, his voice crackling from the phone. ‘While most of them were in Sir Geoffrey Ryland’s safety deposit box, one of them was found at the house. He must have known it was different.’
Fliss Fitzgibbon’s voice trembled. ‘It would have been the only picture Diana had of her baby.’
‘There’s something else,’ said Flynn. ‘It didn’t seem significant at the time. The message — vengeance is mine — it was written in Diana Ryland’s blood. Forensics thought it was convenience, her body was next to the closed window, but perhaps it was a conscious decision by the killer.’
‘Vengeance is mine,’ repeated Coleman. ‘This man took revenge on the mother who gave him up at birth. You said someone told you about this?’ he asked Fliss.
‘Norman Balfour. He’s an old family friend.’
‘Does he know what happened to Diana’s child? If he ever contacted her?’
‘Norman doesn’t think so. They wouldn’t have wanted that.’
‘That’s what made Sir Geoffrey so vulnerable to blackmail,’ said Coleman. ‘He wasn’t protecting himself, he was protecting his wife.’
‘It’s exactly what Geoff would have done,’ Fliss agreed. ‘He’d have gone to the ends of the earth to keep her safe.’
‘This child would be in his forties now. Do we know anything about him?’
‘Nothing.’
The letter had found its way back to Coleman’s desk. Knox picked it up and re-read the heading. ‘But this retreat, Our Lady of Lourdes, arranged the adoption, so they might have records, or know where they are. It’s what the boss was trying to find out. He knew it could lead him to the identity of the killer.’
‘And if our man knows that Tom is on to him—’
‘He’ll be after Tom, too.’
‘If he hasn’t found him already.’ Anna’s voice trembled as she voiced the thought they’d all been avoiding.
‘And we don’t have a fucking clue who he is, or what he looks like.’
‘Where is this place?’ Coleman asked Knox, who was studying the letter.
‘I looked up the place, Wicktown,’ Fliss Fitzgibbon broke in. ‘It’s about fifteen miles north of Glasgow.’
‘You want me to get hold of the local force, boss?’ Knox asked.
‘That will take time, and if it’s remote then they’ll be low on man power.’ Coleman was considering the options. He reached a decision. ‘We’ll achieve more — and achieve it faster — by going up there ourselves. We know what we’re looking for, so will be alert to anything more loosely connected, too. See how quickly we can book flights.’
Knox was unenthusiastic. ‘Me too, sir?’ It was the last thing he wanted.
‘Is that a problem?’
‘No,’ said Knox, his reluctance unmistakable. ‘I’ll get on to it.’
As he left the room Knox overheard Anna enlightening his baffled boss. ‘Tony doesn’t like flying,’ she said.
* * *
Mariner came round abruptly, disturbed by a movement. Something or someone was there. Terror tightened his chest, and he tried to slither back, pressing himself against the wall. ‘Who’s there?’
‘I’ve come to say goodbye, Tom.’ It was a man’s voice, a few feet away to his left, hoarse and unrecognisable, like the voice that had phoned him in London.
‘Why am I here? What do you want?’
‘I want what’s owing to me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I want a life. The kind of life you’ve had. Swaps are very fashionable these days, aren’t they? There are house swaps and wife swaps so why not a life swap too? You can have my shitty one and I’ll have yours. And I want you to share my experiences. Don’t worry, not all of them. I’ll spare you the beatings, and you won’t be forced to scrub the floors and walls until your hands bleed. But I will leave you in this dark, freezing cellar and starve you, to death eventually, so that when the time comes, I can take what’s rightfully mine.
’ The accent was beginning to show through.
‘You killed the Rylands,’ said Mariner, his tongue gluey in his dry mouth.
‘You’re good at your job, I’ll say that for you. When did you work it out?’
‘After I’d spoken to Fliss. I realised what her sister’s breakdown was all about. It was nothing to do with academic failure. It was you, wasn’t it?’
‘I’ve never been described as a breakdown before, though I’ve been called a few nasty things, most of them by my loving parents, when they could be arsed to speak to me at all.’
‘Your adoptive parents. Is this what this is all about? Getting back at the one who landed you with them?’
‘I should have had a different life. It should have been privileged, with wealth and a fine education, or at the very least love and affection. I could have been successful. Instead I grew up in a house where beatings, starvation and filth were the norm, where I was treated the same as the pigs in the sty. It’s no start in life, you know.’
‘Things didn’t work out perfectly for me, either.’
The bitter peal of laughter made Mariner shudder.
‘You have no fucking idea. Look at you, a good job, nice house, a lovely woman. I bet she’s a great shag. You’ve got everything you could possibly want. Except that now I want it. I’ve had my revenge on the bitch who abandoned me. Sadly not so satisfying as I had hoped it would be. I had to get the job done quickly so I barely had time to introduce myself to my mother before blasting her brains out. But now the recompense; a comfortable life, the life that’s rightfully mine.’
‘But you have a good life, a successful business—’
A sardonic laugh. ‘What business? I packed that in years ago, working my arse off being nice to people. Earning a pittance from a boss who thrived on humiliation? The best thing about it was trying to try and sell a security system to Hollyfield Grange, when suddenly my life took a turn for the better.’
Killer Lies (Reissue) Page 28
