BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense

  BLOOD SECRETS

  A gripping crime thriller full of suspense

  GRETTA MULROONEY

  First published 2016

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

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  http://www.joffebooks.com/contact/

  ©Gretta Mulrooney

  PLEASE NOTE THERE IS A GLOSSARY OF UK WORDS IN THE BACK FOR US READERS

  READ THE FIRST BOOK FEATURING TYRONE SWIFT

  THE LADY VANISHED

  http://www.amazon.com/LADY-VANISHED-gripping-detective-mystery-ebook/dp/B0170HJAMY/

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/LADY-VANISHED-gripping-detective-mystery-ebook/dp/B0170HJAMY/

  How can someone vanish without a trace?

  Carmen Langborne is a woman who no one seems to like very much, and now she's gone missing. But there is no body, no leads and no real suspects. And the police have stopped investigating her disappearance.

  Carmen's stepdaughter Florence hires private detective Tyrone Swift to find the missing woman. If the body is found, Florence will inherit half of a very valuable house. As Swift delves deeper into the family’s affairs, he discovers dark family secrets that threaten the reputations of powerful people. Will Swift get to the truth before those with much to hide stop him?

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  READ THE FIRST BOOK FEATURING TYRONE SWIFT

  UK/US GLOSSARY

  CHARACTER LIST

  ALSO BY GRETTA MULROONEY: OUT OF THE BLUE

  Other books you might enjoy

  Dedication

  For Lesley, my personal forensics expert.

  Chapter 1

  I’ve had enough of all this crap. I’ve had it with misery and suffering. And secrets. No one cares about anyone else. Everyone’s in it for themselves. They’re all just using other people and it stinks. The innocent suffer or just get left behind. I’m leaving it all. I’m setting out to free my spirit. I’m going to travel to the Otherworld, to embrace the place of transformation and peace. I want the deep calm of the shining stars.

  Tyrone Swift scanned the handwritten lines several times. They read like a despairing suicide note. The words suggested someone who found the idea of death powerfully seductive. Romantic, almost. Someone young, he thought. There was a drawing of a bird at the top of the note. It was darkly shaded and looked like a raven. He recalled a girl he had known at school who had drowned herself, filling her pockets with stones and walking into the sea at midnight in Brighton. She had become mournful during the year prior to her suicide, introspective and immersed in the melancholy poetry of Christina Rossetti and Robert Frost. He couldn’t remember her name now.

  The note was attached in an email sent to his business, swiftinvestigations.com. He scrolled back to the body of the email, sent just ten minutes ago at eleven p.m. and read the message from a Rowan Bartlett:

  Dear Mr Swift,

  I have scanned the attached note for you to see. It was found in my son’s room on the day he disappeared from home and it seems to suggest that he intended to commit suicide. He was found the day after the note was discovered. He had been brutally beaten about the head and left for dead. He was blinded, sustained severe brain damage and was paralysed. Whoever did this terrible thing to my son has not been found. I will ring you tomorrow to discuss further.

  It was an odd way to establish contact with a private detective. The message was somehow clinical yet melodramatic at the same time. But Swift was used to all sorts, and grief made people act strangely. He decided not to reply. He would leave the initiative with Bartlett. He switched off his laptop, stretched and headed for bed. The anguish expressed in the note played on his mind for some time.

  * * *

  A thundering on his front door woke Swift in the early hours. He lay for a moment, muzzy-headed. The sound, like an erupting sky, was repeated, followed by a prolonged ringing of the doorbell. He looked at the clock: three a.m. He dragged himself from bed, threw on a dressing gown and ran downstairs, twisting his ankle on the last step. He yanked the door open and was confronted by two large firefighters, framed against a fire engine complete with flashing lights.

  ‘We had a call from this address. Do you have a fire?’

  Even as the tallest one spoke, they were shouldering past him into the hallway, jackets rustling. The two of them filled the space with their urgent bulk.

  ‘Hang on. I haven’t phoned you. There’s no fire here.’

  They looked at each other and the tallest one consulted a phone.

  ‘We definitely have this address. You’re a Mr Swift and this is your address?’ He read it out.

  ‘Yes, that’s my name and this is my address but I didn’t ring you. You just woke me up.’

  ‘We’ll check anyway. Are you alone in the house?’

  ‘No, I have a tenant upstairs in the top flat, Mr Cedric Sheridan.’ The knot was coming loose on Swift’s dressing gown and he pulled it tight. There was a certain disadvantage in being naked under a thin layer of towelling in front of these well-padded men. ‘Cedric’s in his eighties, let me wake him. You’re welcome to look in my place and my office in the basement. I’ll get you the basement keys.’

  One of the firefighters went out to speak to the rest of the crew while Swift fetched his office keys. As he handed them over, he saw that several of the neighbours had their lights on or were looking out of their windows. He was going to be popular. He headed up to Cedric’s flat, letting himself in with the spare key. Cedric disproved the commonly held view that old people were light sleepers. He was lying on his back snoring, the earpiece of his radio trailing across the pillow. Swift shook him gently, sitting on the side of the bed to avoid looming over him.

  ‘What is it, dear boy?’ Cedric sat up, resting on his hands. He always wore gaudy pyjamas and his top was patterned with pink and yellow butterflies.

  Swift explained about the fire brigade. He handed Cedric his dressing gown, glad that he wasn’t the kind of man to get into a flap. He took a quick look in Cedric’s kitchen and bathroom and headed back down to find the firefighters, who were trudging around his flat looking grumpy.

  ‘I’ve been to the top flat and can assure you there’s no fire, but I know that you have to check anyway. Presumably you haven’t found anything here or in the basement?’

  The one in charge folded his arms. ‘Nothing. You do know that it’s a criminal offence to waste the fire brigade’s precious time?’

  ‘Yes, I do know that and as I’ve already told you, I didn’t phone you. Two weeks ago an ambulance arrived here in the early hours because I had apparently reported a heart attack. A month ago the police came to an alleged break-in just after midnight. We’re talking malicious calls.’

  ‘Got enemies, have you?’ T
he firefighter who had been up to Cedric’s was eyeing him curiously.

  ‘It seems so. I’ll let the police know about this, to add to the other two false call-outs.’

  ‘What do you do for a living?’

  ‘I’m a private detective.’ He braced himself for the inevitable witticism.

  The tall one laughed, throwing his head back. ‘Hopefully you can solve it for yourself, then. Okay lads, let’s be on our way.’

  Swift flinched as the man bellowed at the crew, oblivious to the hour and the neighbours. His unwanted visitors strode away into the night, slamming doors. He watched as the fire engine revved and drove off. The neighbours had vanished and lights were being switched off. He stood for a few minutes, looking up at the pale full moon sliding between banks of dark, fast-moving cloud. The chill breeze bore the marshy night scent of the nearby Thames. He breathed it in. It was early September and the days already carried the edge of autumn, the wind streaming from the north.

  Upstairs, he accepted a cup of cocoa from a wide-awake Cedric, who maintained that it had kept him going during the war.

  ‘Your hoaxer again, then, Ty?’ Cedric asked.

  ‘Looks like it.’ Swift didn’t care much for cocoa but made an effort.

  ‘Still no idea who it is?’

  ‘There are a couple of possibilities. I gave the names to the police. I’m sure they’ll tell me that this call is like the first two, made from a public phone box in London. Sorry about the disturbance.’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear boy. It’s far more annoying for you.’

  Back in his flat, Swift drank a glass of water to get rid of the milky coating on his tongue. These hoax calls were more than annoying, he sensed a cumulative malice behind them. The police had asked him to listen to the first two recorded calls to the emergency services but the sexless, muffled voice gave no clues. He had also looked at some grainy CCTV images from around the phone boxes but could see no one he recognised. He lay in bed, thinking about the names he had given the police. Vincent Lomar was a nasty piece of work he had come across when investigating a missing woman, but Lomar was still serving a jail sentence. Peter Carmichael was a slave trafficker Swift had uncovered, but he had fled London and had last been heard of in Amsterdam. Swift himself had verified this with an old colleague in Interpol. He had wondered about Cedric’s abusive son, Oliver. Swift had almost broken his arm when ejecting him from Cedric’s flat, but Oliver had disappeared for six months to an artists’ colony up a remote mountain in Andalucía with no Wi-Fi or phone signal. Swift could think of no one else from the recent past who was vicious enough to employ these methods, focusing on his home. He knew that such hoaxes carried a threat and it was Cedric he worried for, rather than himself. As he drifted into sleep he thought that he had better do an apologetic round-robin note to the neighbours.

  * * *

  Swift finished breakfast and threw breadcrumbs out for the birds. He had noticed that the hanging nut container was almost empty and refilled it. The swallows were still around, not yet ready to migrate and he liked to think he was helping them prepare for their journey. Cedric had cleaned out the two nesting boxes that hung on the sycamore tree at the bottom of the small, rectangular garden. He was a treasure of a sitting tenant. He had been an old friend of Swift’s Aunt Lily and Swift had acquired Cedric with the house in Hammersmith which she had left to him. As well as cutting the lawn, providing Swift with jams and chutneys and occasional hot meals, he was an inspiring and kindly presence in the house and Swift was deeply fond of him. If only Cedric could find the strength to refuse access to his son, Oliver, who visited in order to hassle his father for money and sometimes physically abuse him. Swift was entertaining the unlikely hope that Oliver might get lost in mists up the far-flung Spanish mountain and never be found, when his phone rang.

  ‘Swift Investigations,’ he answered.

  ‘Ah, yes, good. Good morning, that is. You’re the detective?’ A man’s voice, mild and hesitant with a slight accent he couldn’t place.

  ‘A private detective, yes.’

  ‘Good. Well . . . oh dear, now I’ve rung you I don’t know where to start . . .’

  ‘How about your name?’

  A robin had appeared and was pecking at the breadcrumbs. Swift stayed very still.

  ‘My name is Rowan Bartlett. I emailed you last night.’

  ‘Yes, I read your email and the attachment.’

  ‘I thought . . . that is I felt I needed to do something. I simply can’t accept that the police never found the person who attacked my eldest son and left him blinded and beaten within an inch of his life. I don’t know why he left that note or what it meant and he can’t tell me. He can’t communicate. I can’t rest, you see, until I find out.’

  ‘When did this attack take place?’

  There was a pause and a sound like a sigh. ‘Fifteen years ago.’

  Swift was taken aback. The email had suggested a recent event. ‘That’s a significantly long time ago.’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’

  ‘The police found no trace of the perpetrator?’

  ‘They found nothing except the rock that was used to beat him.’

  Bartlett’s voice was becoming quieter as the conversation progressed. The robin hopped sideways, selecting a larger breadcrumb.

  ‘So if this happened fifteen years ago, why are you asking questions now?’

  ‘I retired recently and came back to London. I suppose . . . I suppose I have time to think, time to grieve for the man my son is now and the man he should have grown into. This is complicated, you see and not easy to speak about. Is it possible for you to come and talk to me? I have arthritic hips and I’d rather not travel across London. I saw on your website that you used to be in the police, so it seemed you would be well-suited to such an investigation.’

  ‘I might be able to help. I can come to your home. When would be convenient?’

  They agreed eleven a.m. the following morning and Swift made a mental note of the address in Tufnell Park.

  ‘What is your son’s name?’

  ‘Edward Bartlett. We call him Teddy.’

  Swift recorded the address on his phone, shifting slightly. The robin glared at him and flew away with a final crumb. He folded his long limbs on to the dew-dampened cushions of the garden swing and googled Teddy Bartlett. Several newspapers had carried the story. A paragraph in a north London paper dated August 29, 2000, recorded that he had been reported as missing by his sister, Sheila Bartlett:

  Mr Bartlett left a note indicating that he might be intending suicide. He was found the following day near Low Copsley in Epping Forest by a woman walking her dog. He had been badly beaten and is in a critical condition in intensive care. The police are appealing for anyone who might have seen him in the area.

  Swift looked at his watch. Nine thirty. He was due to meet Ruth, his ex-fiancée, for lunch at one o’clock. Today, at last, he was determined to tell her that he couldn’t go on seeing her. His chest felt heavy at the thought and he pressed his hands across his heart momentarily, as if to secure his courage. He headed down to his office to write a brief letter of apology to the neighbours. As he was printing off a dozen copies, his phone rang. The call was from PC Simons, who was liaising with him about his hoaxer. Simons had discovered that Swift had worked for the Metropolitan police and Interpol and had subsequently started addressing him with exaggerated respect.

  ‘Ah, Mr Swift, good morning. How are you, sir?’

  ‘Fine, thanks. Any news?’

  ‘I’m ringing to let you know that last night’s 999 call was traced to a phone box at Paddington station.’

  The previous two had been from Euston and Charing Cross.

  ‘Seems like our hoaxer might be a traveller or a train lover, or just using large public areas to ensure anonymity.’

  ‘Exactly, sir.’

  ‘PC Simons, please cut out the “sirs.” They make me nervous.’

  ‘Of course, s . . . of c
ourse, Mr Swift. I’ve listened to the call and it does seem to be the same voice. Our computer program thinks it’s probably a male but it’s only seventy per cent sure. We’ll look at CCTV from around the station, but as you know, we’ve found nothing helpful at the other locations.’

  He knew too that these incidents would be low on the police radar and that he was only getting this contact because of his ex-Met status.

  ‘I think it’s clear that whoever is doing this is canny enough to work their way around cameras.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I see. Well, thanks for letting me know.’

  ‘Just to remind you to look out for your personal safety in this situation.’

  ‘Thanks, yes.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch if there are any developments.’

  Swift thought the only development likely would be the next hostile contact, which would be in a few weeks if the current pattern was maintained. All the emergency services had been used. What next? He had told Cedric to ensure the front door and his own door were securely locked at all times, but he had the feeling that whoever was behind this was unlikely to show their hand in person.

  * * *

  Swift caught a bus to Sloane Square from Hammersmith, then walked to the Evergreen, the small pub in a side street near Victoria where he and Ruth had been meeting for more than a year. They had been engaged when she left him five years ago for Emlyn Taylor, a barrister. She married her new man speedily, moving to Brighton. Swift had taken a long time to recover from the blow, immersing himself in work and spending hours rowing on the Thames, trying to drown his sadness in the deep waters. They had met again a couple of years later at a friend’s engagement party. Ruth’s husband had developed MS and she had become subdued, unlike the carefree woman Swift had lived with. They had started to meet for lunch once a month when she came to London to teach. Swift had been about to tell her that he had to stop seeing her when she’d had a miscarriage. She turned to him for help, phoning him frequently. Swift knew that while he carried on seeing Ruth he was blocking his path to any new relationship. He was filled with guilt and self-disgust at the covert nature of their meetings. He had told no one about them, not even his cousin Mary, who he was close to. Yet, when Ruth was on a two day course in London several weeks back and stayed overnight at a hotel near Holborn, he had slept with her. Or rather, he had not slept. Lying awake in the airless hotel room as she slumbered, he had gazed at her beauty, which was no longer his, thinking of her husband in the wheelchair in Brighton, whose breakfast would be prepared by a paid carer. Earlier in the night, lying in the crook of his arm, she had whispered, I’m so fond of Emlyn and I can’t leave him, but the longer I’m with him the more I understand how much I love you and always will.