‘I see. Thanks for that. I’m interested also in the significance of the yew tree for Druids, if you can tell me anything about that.’
Adamsbreath was clearly delighted at these enquiries. Swift thought he probably didn’t get many phone calls like this, where he could air his particular knowledge.
‘I can indeed. The yew tree has a reputation for long life. It has always been a symbol of death and rebirth, from the time of the ancients. It speaks of the new springing from the old. The yew grows in a particular, quite unique way. The branches grow down into the ground to form new stems. They then rise up around the old growth as separate but linked trunks. After a while, they become indistinguishable from the original tree.’
‘That’s very helpful. Thanks so much for your time.’
‘We’re having a mistletoe thanksgiving ceremony next month, if you would like to come. It’s in my garden and you would be very welcome.’
‘I’ll think about it. Thanks again for your help.’
Swift rang off, not wishing to be sold any belief systems. It seemed that Teddy was planning to enact some kind of ritual in The Yew Grove that symbolised leaving his old life behind and moving to another way of living. He made a few notes about what he had learned and found the details Sheila had given him for Teddy’s form teacher. He phoned Fairacres School and asked if Deaven Harrow still worked there. He was told by the icy-sounding receptionist that Mr Harrow was the head teacher. Swift explained the reason for his call and asked to make an appointment to see Mr Harrow. The receptionist said it seemed an irregular query and Mr Harrow was a very busy man. Swift advised that he would call the query unusual rather than irregular and added that he too was a busy man. The receptionist said she would consult Mr Harrow’s diary but it could be weeks before an appointment might be available and perhaps Swift would prefer to send an email. Swift asked her for her name, then inserted a chip of ice into his own voice and told her that he wanted to see Mr Harrow in person. Presumably the head would wish to be as helpful as possible regarding what had been a tragic episode for one of their pupils and his family. There was a brief silence, then a request for him to hold. He walked around with the phone, bending and stretching. The afternoon was mild and the river beckoned. The receptionist returned, her tone slightly less arctic, and offered a half hour appointment at four on Friday afternoon. Swift accepted and thanked her for being so helpful. He rang off before she could respond to the sarcasm.
* * *
Mayfields was a single-storey, functional building run by a charity. Swift waited for Teddy Bartlett’s key worker in a pleasant room furnished with magazines, pictures of wildflower meadows and a water dispenser. He could hear strange, high-pitched cries now and again and the rhythmic sound of tambourines.
‘Mr Swift? I’m Peter Alfonso. How can I help a private detective, with regard to Teddy?’
Alfonso’s handshake was firm. He was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt with the slogan don’t tell me I can’t. He wore an earring and a stud in his left eyebrow. Swift had been expecting a nursing uniform of some kind and was pleasantly surprised.
‘Teddy Bartlett’s father has engaged me to try and find out who attacked his son back in 2000.’
Alfonso put his lips together in a soundless whistle. ‘The police never charged anyone?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve worked with Teddy for two years so I know he was critically injured, but not any details.’
‘I felt I should come and see him. He is the victim of a terrible crime and it seemed the right thing to do.’
‘You know he can’t communicate, or at least not in any way that anyone’s able to understand?’
‘Yes. Do you think he has any awareness of who or where he is?’
‘It’s hard to say. All I can tell you is that Teddy has lived here since 2001 and there’s been no evidence of it.’
‘Okay, I won’t stay long. Would it be alright to tell him why I’m here and mention the attack?’
‘I don’t see why not. He won’t respond, though. Have you met anyone with a severe brain injury and paralysis before, or been to this kind of centre?’
‘No.’
‘It’s just that you might be shocked. We work with people who are profoundly in need. Some visitors can find it difficult to deal with.’
Swift nodded and Alfonso led the way to a large, airy room, saying that Teddy was having massage therapy. The room held a pool full of brightly coloured plastic balls. Scattered about were plastic percussion instruments and glowing lava lamps. Quiet choral music played. There were half a dozen people, a couple in wheelchairs and several in recliner chairs. In a corner, lying on his side on a large sheepskin, was a thin, shrunken man. A young woman was kneeling beside him, massaging his hands and speaking quietly to him. There was a scent of lavender in the air. Swift wasn’t easily shocked but he was taken aback as he and Alfonso approached.
‘Hello, Teddy. You have a visitor today. Mr Swift has come to see you.’
Teddy’s face was shrunken and blank. The skin over the missing eye was dark pink and neatly folded, the other eye unseeing. He was wearing shorts and a sleeveless sweatshirt. His limbs were almost skeletal, his frame twisted, his mouth drooping. It was impossible to tell what age he might be. Swift would never have recognised him. The therapist smiled up at Swift.
‘It’s okay to talk to Teddy. You could crouch down and touch his hand as you speak.’
Swift knelt at the other side of the sheepskin and touched Teddy’s hand lightly. It was warm and supple from the massage oil but he could feel the frail bones through the skin.
‘Hello, Teddy, my name’s Ty. We haven’t met before. That hand massage looks good.’
There was no reaction. The therapist had moved to Teddy’s right leg and was massaging the calf.
‘This is your regular time with me, isn’t it, Teddy? We always have a chat while we do this. I think you like this oil.’
A woman in a wheelchair let out a high shout. Teddy made a soft noise in his throat. The therapist carried on. Swift felt intrusive. He touched Teddy’s hand again briefly.
‘I’ve come here because your father contacted me. He’s living back in London now. He’s asked me to try and find the person who attacked you in Epping Forest.’
Teddy gave no sign that he had heard. The music changed to Vivaldi, a burst of bright violins. There seemed little reason to stay longer.
Swift stood. ‘Take care, Teddy. It was good to meet you.’
He walked back to the waiting room with Alfonso and drank a cup of water. He was used to seeing victims of violence, yet he felt more distress than he had anticipated at the sight of the damaged young man. Perhaps it was the contrast between his broken body and the caring environment around him.
‘What’s Teddy’s life expectancy?’ he asked.
‘Hard to say. He has low level antibiotics to ward off infection but with someone with such complicated needs, life can be tenuous. But he has good care so he might live a good many years.’
‘Does he have visitors?’
‘His father’s been once. His sister Sheila comes a couple of times a year. There’s a brother who never visits. Says he can’t face it.’
‘It seems strange that Sheila doesn’t come more often. She and Teddy were very close when they lived at home.’
‘It is difficult for families when someone can’t respond to them. I know she’s a nurse but that doesn’t necessarily make it any easier when it’s personal. And so many years on, it can be hard to maintain visits because life moves on and gets busy. We don’t pressurise families, we make them welcome when they come.’
Swift was glad that he had seen Teddy, the visit had made him a real person. But he was deeply relieved to walk away from the confines of Mayfields into the busy hum of the city.
Chapter 5
Swift met Nora Morrow in The Parterre, a bar near Portobello Road. She had told him that she liked its eastern bazaar décor, with shabby leather
chairs and ethnic throws, because it was a world away from the soulless offices she worked in. She was there, tapping on her laptop, when he arrived and she had a glass of merlot waiting for him. She was wearing one of her natty suits and string ties and trainers with purple laces and flashes. He felt a rush of pleasure at seeing her as she smiled at him.
‘Hi there, Ty.’ She stood and kissed his cheek. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘I’m fine. Thanks for the wine.’
‘Slainte!’
They clinked glasses and she took a long draught of her drink.
‘I can smell that you’ve been on the river,’ she said.
‘I did have a shower, honest . . .’
She laughed. ‘It’s lingering in your hair. It’s lovely, something wild and tangy.’
They talked for a while about work and ordered two more drinks. She woke her laptop with a tap.
‘I had a look at the file on Edward Bartlett. It’s pretty inconclusive. You’ve seen the strange note he left?’
‘Yes. Despairing but ambiguous.’
‘Hmm. The area in Epping Forest where he was found at eight in the morning was combed but nothing was retrieved except his leather rucksack. His wallet was gone but there were no fingerprints or DNA other than Teddy’s, so whoever attacked him came prepared with gloves. It had poured with rain all night, so it’s possible that evidence was washed away. He had no defence wounds, no scratches on his hands, nothing under his fingernails.’
‘So the attack came as a complete surprise, no chance to put up a fight.’
‘So it seems. We’re looking at a sudden, frenzied assault. His house was searched. There were interviews with family, teachers and a couple of classmates. He appeared to have led an oddly quiet, unsocial life for a teenager. No leads to anything or anyone. The family seem to have been quite strange. There’s a medical report on the mother, saying she was on big-hitting anti-depressants and appeared to be in a bit of a fog most of the time. The sister, Sheila, was hysterical in the early stages and took quite a bit of calming before she could be interviewed. She turned up in Epping Forest and caused a fuss, demanding to see the exact spot where Teddy had been found. She was in such a state the local police had to drive her back to London. The father was in Australia and flew back, but just temporarily. That’s about it. Have you already got all that?’
‘Pretty much. The father had run off with his wife’s younger sister.’
‘Ouch! I’ve heard of keeping it in the family . . .’
‘Hmm, a touch biblical. Nothing significant was found in Teddy’s bedroom? He was big on mysticism, Celts and Druids.’
Nora shook her head. ‘There were a number of books and drawings he’d done but nothing that seemed important. No diaries. No links to any Druid activities or organisations were found. Have the family still got stuff of his?’
‘According to Sheila, the sister, the mother burnt it all about a year later. Sheila told me that a DI Peterson was in charge of the investigation.’
‘That’s right. I checked him. He’s retired now, living in Brighton. He wasn’t highly thought of, I have to say. The consensus seems to have been that he was a corner-cutter, serving his time, waiting to retire. I have an email address for him, so I’ll send it to you.’ Nora shut her laptop. ‘Well, I wish you good luck with it. Let me know how it goes. It would be a result if someone was nailed for it.’ She sat back and finished her drink, saying it was good to be at this end of the day.
Swift smiled at her. ‘I wondered . . . would you like to have dinner? There’s a decent bistro up the road.’
As he spoke the door opened and Nora’s eyes lit up. She beamed over his shoulder, waving her fingers. A compact, well-built man with cropped blond hair and carrying a briefcase came over and sat beside her. He nodded to Swift and touched Nora’s arm in a way that indicated intimacy.
‘Ty, this is Alistair,’ she said. ‘We’re off to dinner now, in fact.’
‘Hi there,’ Alistair said, ‘good to meet you. I hear you’re a rower.’
‘That’s right. Do you row?’
‘Only on the machine at the gym, but I think I’d better learn to keep Nora happy.’ He took her hand and squeezed it, leaning in to her.
Nora laughed. ‘Ah, a man whose mother has taught him the secret art of hanging on to a woman!’
Swift nodded and drank up, thanking Nora for the information and wishing them a good evening. He headed into the night, that tasted now of disappointment. He shook his head ruefully. He could only be grateful that Nora’s new man had arrived when he did, before he had made a complete fool of himself.
* * *
Swift stood looking despairingly at his much-loved boat. It had cost him four thousand pounds and now it lay mangled at his feet. Thierry, the manager of the rowing club, had called him first thing, saying that he had discovered a break-in. Swift’s boat was the only one damaged.
‘Looks like someone’s taken an axe to it,’ Thierry said glumly.
‘Yep. It’s a thorough job.’
‘I’ve called the police. You’ll be covered by our insurance.’
‘I’m sorry about this. Someone is harassing me and now it’s spilled over on to you.’
‘You’ve suffered the only damage. The door lock can be fixed easily. I’ve been suggesting an alarm system for a while. I think it’s time to do something about it.’
‘The police will no doubt suggest it.’
‘You’re welcome to borrow a boat until you get a replacement. I know it won’t be the same but . . .’
‘Thanks. I’ll take you up on that.’
Swift crouched by the wrecked boat, touching a splintered segment. It had become a part of him, his companion on many river journeys, as familiar to him as his friends. He stood at the club door and looked out at the choppy, fast-flowing Thames, waiting for the police to arrive. Maybe this time they would get a fingerprint, but somehow he doubted it. He had planned to row for an hour before breakfast. He could almost taste his anger and frustration. Who are you? The river flowed on, unheeding.
His phone rang and he heard Sheila Bartlett’s breathy voice.
‘Hello, Mr Swift. I just wondered if you’d found anything out yet.’
‘Nothing significant, no. Investigations do take some time, you know, especially when the incident occurred years ago.’
‘Oh yes, of course. I understand. But you have started? You’ve been speaking to people?’
‘I’ve talked to your brother, your aunt and the police.’
‘Oh, that’s good. I’ve just snatched a moment between meetings. The head of service is visiting us today so I’ve had to make sure everything is ship-shape. The buck stops with poor old me and if I don’t check all the staff and equipment myself there are things that just don’t get done or left in a mess and—’
Swift cut across her bragging. ‘You didn’t tell me you went to Epping Forest after your brother was found.’
‘Oh, didn’t I? I suppose I forgot. As you said, it was a long time ago and so much was happening, I was all over the place. I have to go now to chair a meeting with the top brass, no rest for the wicked! I’ll keep in touch.’
It was PC Simons who arrived to take details about the break-in, part of trying to offer a seamless service, he said. Swift guessed he had been on a training course recently. He was a robust, fresh-faced man with a strong handshake. He stood, gazing at Swift’s boat, shaking his head and stroking his neat beard.
‘This is crap, isn’t it?’ he said cheerily. You still have no idea who might be targeting you?’
‘No. I’ve given it plenty of thought. I take it you have no useful information for me?’
‘Afraid not. I suppose whoever it is has moved away from your home, at least.’
‘Oddly enough, I don’t find that terribly comforting.’
‘No. Sorry, sir. A bit crass of me.’ He coloured up.
‘That’s okay but you do need to be more tactful with the public. I can’t tell
you anything about this incident, except it’s my boat. Whoever’s doing this is a careful planner and using their imagination to keep changing tactics.’
‘We’ll do what we can, as you know. I’ll make sure you get a crime number today for your insurer.’
Swift spent twenty minutes with him, then left for home. He stocked up on wine, cheeses and bread on the way, reflecting on Sheila’s call. She seemed selective about her memories in a way that snagged his interest. Her phoning him seemed another expression of her need to exercise control. Barbara Stead’s comments about her lying were also worth further exploration. He couldn’t help guessing that she was brewing the tea for the important meeting rather than chairing it.
* * *
Swift had an arrangement with Cedric. He borrowed his tenant’s car occasionally, in return for takeaway meals, odd jobs or a bottle of wine. He had decided that, having met Teddy, he should visit Low Copsley and see the place where he had been attacked. Studying his map, he had seen that there was a village of the same name and decided that he would park the car there and walk to The Yew Grove, which was marked as a feature of the area. It was about two miles from the village but after a chill start the sun was warming the day and he looked forward to exploring a place he had never visited before. Browsing information about the area, he read that for centuries it had been a royal hunting ground and Elizabeth I had had a lodge there. Queen Victoria had declared it The People’s Forest and Swift learned that if he wished, he could collect ‘one faggot of dead or driftwood’ when he visited. The woodland comprised of heaths, bogs and rivers, and the trees had not been cut since the nineteenth century. He was astonished that he had lived in London most of his life but had missed this particular jewel.
He drove the rarely used Mini Cooper along the busy North Circular and took the turning for Woodford. The road became less congested, the forest encroaching on either side. He slowed as he saw several deer grazing amongst the trees. One raised its head and stood absolutely still, gazing at him for several moments before moving away. He wondered what significance Teddy might have read into the encounter. He had noted that farmers were allowed to graze cattle in the forest in summer and that the occasional wild pony might be seen, having escaped from travellers. He drove on as the ancient trees grew ever thicker and more majestic, shading the road. Some had massive crowns with branches like trunks.
BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense Page 6
