BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense Read online

  ‘I have an hour for lunch,’ she said to Swift, looking at him with blank, muddy-coloured eyes. ‘I’m a district nurse, for my sins.’ Her voice was loud and breathy, accompanied by a slight wheeze. She gulped and swallowed now and again as she spoke. ‘I’m not keen on Dad employing you. I don’t think it will do any good, raking over the past but he’s determined, so . . .’ She pulled a face and folded her arms.

  ‘I understand you found your brother’s note. Could you tell me about what happened? I know it’s some time ago but as much detail as possible would be helpful.’

  ‘Oh, I told the police so many times, I think I know it all by heart. It was August 27, 2000. I came home from the hospital about five o’clock — I had just started my nursing training. Mum was lying down as usual and I expected to find Teddy working on his summer reading. He was due to go into the sixth form. Teddy usually timetabled that part of the day for study. When I couldn’t find him, I looked in his room and found the note on his pillow.’ She coughed, holding her chest.

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘Obviously I was very worried. I woke Mum up. We searched the house and garden, twice. We were frantic. Then I called the police.’

  ‘It was school holidays when this happened. Had Teddy been at home that day?’

  ‘He was still in bed when I left at eight a.m., Mum had no idea what Teddy had done that day. Mum wasn’t well, she took medication for depression. She slept a good deal, in the day and night.’

  Bartlett had covered his face with one hand as his daughter talked. Swift added to his notes while Sheila cleared her throat, took a sweet from her pocket and popped it in her mouth.

  ‘What did you make of his note?’

  ‘Well, it was terrible, shocking. He sounded so upset. The police asked if Teddy had been depressed in any way but we didn’t know of anything that might make him want to take his own life. I’d been anaemic for a couple of months that summer so I hadn’t been as on the ball as usual, but I hadn’t noticed any problems.’

  ‘And this Otherworld he referred to in the note and the drawing of the bird?’

  ‘Otherworld means the next life, after death. Teddy had been studying Druids in connection with Roman Britain and started reading about Celtic mythology. That’s where he found out about the Otherworld. The bird he drew on the note is a raven. It has special meaning for Druids. Teddy was imaginative, you see, always had his head in the clouds.’ She smiled for the first time.

  Bartlett shifted in his chair and she turned to look at him, taking his hand and patting it.

  ‘Are you okay, Dad? This must be hard for you.’

  He shook his head and ran his free hand through his thinning hair. He seemed to have faded even more in his daughter’s presence. Sheila pulled up the cushion behind his back. Bartlett wasn’t an invalid but her solicitous tone made him seem like one. Swift watched, thinking how much her stoutness aged her, despite her unlined skin.

  ‘Teddy was found the next day?’

  ‘That’s right, the twenty-eighth. A woman found him and called the police. It was in Epping Forest, a place called Low Copsley, near Chingford. That’s where he had been attacked. We were told about two o’clock that afternoon and we went straight to the hospital. We were informed immediately that Teddy had major brain injuries.’

  ‘Why would Teddy have been in Epping Forest?’

  Sheila shook her head. ‘We never knew. The circle of trees where he was found is called The Yew Grove. It’s meant to be a sacred place to Druids, so all we could think was that he had gone there to take part in something to do with those beliefs.’

  ‘What about friends or girlfriends?’ Swift asked. ‘Did none of his friends or other students from his school know anything?’

  Sheila transferred her sweet from one side of her mouth to the other, hamster-like.

  ‘Teddy didn’t have a girlfriend. He was young for his age, a bit of a nerd. He didn’t have many friends, at school or outside. He wasn’t much of a joiner. If he wasn’t studying or drawing he spent time with Mum or doing the garden. He loved nature.’

  He wasn’t much like an average sixteen-year-old, Swift thought.

  ‘Given his interest in Druids, did he have connections with any groups with those beliefs?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’

  ‘What about your brother Tim? Did he know anything about what Teddy had been doing that day?’

  ‘Tim wasn’t here. He was staying with our Aunty Barbara in Dorchester. That’s our mum’s sister. He went to her in the middle of July and came back for the start of school in September. He had a cousin about the same age to play with there, so it was a good arrangement.’

  ‘Did the police give you any results from their investigation?’

  Sheila pinched the bridge of her nose and swallowed. ‘Not much, to be honest. They visited Teddy’s school, talked to the neighbours and looked through his room and all his things. They didn’t find anyone who’d seen him that day. The last time I saw anyone was when a Detective Inspector Peterson came round and said they had no evidence of who had been with Teddy. The rock used to attack him only had his blood on it. That was about eight months later. We knew by then that Teddy would never be able to tell us what had happened. In the end the police seemed to think it had been a random attack.’

  A phone rang and Sheila pulled her mobile from her pocket. She stood up and stepped towards the window where she conducted a low conversation about an order for drug supplies. She was clearly issuing instructions. Bartlett stood also, grimacing and rubbing his right hip. He indicated that he was going to get a glass of water and Swift nodded that he would have one. The dry air had made his throat rough. He read quickly through his notes, writing down a few more questions. Then he watched Sheila, who was rubbing the window pane with a finger as she insisted that someone check details on a database.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, sitting again. ‘I head up two teams and it seems no one else can ever make a decision. I don’t know what they’d do if I broke my leg or decided to go away for a couple of months. They even rang me when I had flu!’

  Swift smiled. There was a self-importance to her boasting. He imagined she liked to rule the roost.

  ‘Was there anything missing from Teddy’s room when he left home that day? Did he take anything with him?’

  Sheila shook her head. ‘Nothing apart from his leather rucksack. That would have had his wallet in. The rucksack was found near him but the wallet had gone.’

  ‘Mobile phone?’

  ‘He didn’t have one, none of us did in those days. The only other thing the police said was that he had bits of whitethorn in the left pocket of his jacket and bits of blackthorn in his right pocket. That’s Druid stuff again.’

  ‘Do you have anything of Teddy’s I could look at — old school books, diaries, personal things?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Mum burned all his stuff on what would have been his seventeenth birthday. I came home and found a bonfire at the bottom of the garden. She did the same with anything Dad left behind after he went to Australia. Mum used to say — this will sound terrible — she used to say it would have been better for Teddy if he’d died, instead of being left a vegetable.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I’m afraid to say that I’ve found myself thinking like that at times. I go to see Teddy and talk to him but there’s not much point. He gives no sign of knowing anyone, or any understanding. That probably sounds terrible, coming from a nurse.’

  She dropped her voice and coughed as Bartlett came in carrying a jug of water and three glasses on a tray. Sheila leapt up to take it from him and busied herself pouring. Bartlett stood by the fire and took a couple of painkillers from a packet on the mantelpiece.

  ‘Did you never want your children to visit you in Australia?’ Swift asked him, taking a glass of water and drinking. It was tepid.

  Bartlett looked down, then at Sheila. ‘I did ask once, about a year after I emigrated, offered to send the tickets .
. .’

  ‘Mum wouldn’t let us go,’ Sheila said. ‘Dad sent me a letter asking and she got hysterical. She made us promise never to go there.’

  ‘So, you hadn’t seen Teddy since you left, when he was eleven. You didn’t ever visit London?’ Swift looked straight into Bartlett’s eyes, determined that this time he wouldn’t be allowed to let the lids drop.

  ‘No . . . Tessa said she would refuse to let me see the family, so it seemed best to stay away. I didn’t want to cause any more distress to them all. I hope you don’t think too badly of me, Mr Swift.’ The whining note had come back into his voice. He sat down and once again, Sheila reached for his hand.

  ‘I wasn’t asking from a moral standpoint,’ Swift said neutrally. He looked at the two of them, hands entwined. It was an interesting scenario and he wondered how chaotic the abandoned family had been. ‘I am happy to take a look at this. I’ll need you to sign a contract and give me a deposit. I need a few more details as well, the name of Teddy’s school and any friends he had, however casual, your Aunt Barbara’s details and Tim’s address. Does he know you’re asking me to investigate?’

  ‘Sheila has emailed him,’ Bartlett said. ‘And you’ll need to know that he calls himself Tim Christie these days. It was his mother’s name. He decided he didn’t want to keep mine.’

  ‘I tried to persuade him not to but . . . we don’t really have much contact anymore.’ Sheila gave a despondent sigh.

  ‘Okay. I’d like a photo of Teddy as well, please, as near to the time of the attack as possible.’

  ‘I have a couple ready, the police used them too. There’s a school photo from the previous November and a family one that Aunty Barbara took when she visited for New Year in 2000. We weren’t big on photos so they’re the most recent before Teddy was attacked.’

  Sheila went to a bookcase and found an A4 envelope. Swift decided to open it later.

  ‘Do you think you can find out who did this?’ Sheila had gone to stand behind her father, one hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I can try. If I can’t find anything significant, I’ll tell you that there’s not much point in continuing. I must add that if I am successful in identifying Teddy’s attacker, you’ll be opening yourselves up to a lot of new pain.’

  Bartlett rubbed at his face and covered his eyes for a moment. Sheila looked grim. Swift thought he saw a flicker of something like annoyance in her expression.

  Bartlett spoke first. ‘At least we would know something instead of always wondering why and who. We would have some sense of justice being done.’

  Sheila nodded. ‘I miss him so much, Mr Swift. I miss my Teddy every day. I still make a birthday cake for him every year, strawberries and vanilla with a teddy bear piped in chocolate icing. His favourite. I take it to him in Mayfields. They mash some up for him.’ She put a hand to her heart as she spoke emphatically. ‘This has been a terrible wound in our family.’

  Swift wondered if Sheila had heard those words spoken in a TV drama or police appeal. They sounded scripted.

  ‘You and Teddy were close, then,’ he said.

  ‘We were, yes. We did everything together, really. Mum used to say I was a mother hen, the way I was with Teddy. I used to iron his uniform, make his packed lunch, organise the dentist, and remind him to take his vitamins. I suppose because Mum wasn’t well, I had to step up.’

  She cast a wary glance at her father but Swift could see that the memory gave her satisfaction.

  ‘And Tim? Presumably you had to do a lot for him as well.’

  ‘Yes, of course, but Mum was better with him. In fact she focused mainly on Tim. He was her favourite. She called him “my little man.” I suppose that’s often the way with mothers and youngest children, especially boys.’

  Swift would have liked to be a fly on the wall in the household she was describing. He leaned forward.

  ‘Sheila, you were here with Teddy. As his big sister, almost a second mother to him, you knew him as well as anyone. Have you ever had any ideas about the reason for Teddy’s note, or recalled anyone Teddy had got mixed up with who might have wanted to harm him?’

  She shook her head slowly, clasping her hands together dramatically. Her father motioned her to sit down. She took a breath, her mouth twisting in distress.

  ‘The police asked me all that. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now. I just don’t know and I blame myself. I’ve lain awake so many nights, wondering what was going on with Teddy and why he couldn’t tell me. It hurt as well, you know, that he wrote that terrible note and couldn’t turn to me. I asked myself over and over what I missed, what on earth he was doing out in Epping Forest. There hasn’t been a day gone by since when I haven’t woken up hoping it was all a bad dream.’ There were tears in her eyes.

  Bartlett handed her a hanky, patting her shoulder. She dabbed at her eyes, her gulps for air mingling with sobs. Swift waited, then told her calmly that he would do what he could to establish what had happened. He made sure he had all the details he needed, secured the deposit and signed contract and said he’d be in touch. As he left, he heard Sheila urging her father to have a hot lunch, reminding him she’d left soup in the fridge. He had reached the end of the road, hunching his shoulders against the persistent drizzle, when his phone rang.

  ‘Mr Swift, I just wanted to thank you again for coming.’ It was Sheila, sounding breathy.

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘I wondered . . . if you do find out anything, could you contact me first? Dad’s quite frail, you know, physically and emotionally. I’d like to be able to break any news to him.’

  ‘My contract is with Mr Bartlett. I understand that you feel protective towards your father but I’m obliged to inform him as he’s my primary client. If you like, I can make sure I tell you at the same time.’

  ‘Oh. I just thought that it would be for the best, given Dad’s situation.’

  He could hear her irritation. ‘Maybe your father is stronger than you think. I’ll be in touch.’

  There was something about the woman that he found disturbing and it wasn’t just her bossiness. Her fussing over her father seemed unnecessary and a little ridiculous. He sat on the dank tube train, thinking that being the oldest child left in charge of a depressive mother and two younger siblings couldn’t have been a picnic. Perhaps now she had her long lost father back she couldn’t help but focus on him. There was no ring on her finger and there had been no hint of a partner.

  He opened the envelope and drew out the two photographs. The first was the family group taken by their aunt. They were sitting on a sofa by a Christmas tree in the room he had just visited. Tessa Bartlett sat at one end, staring with glazed, unfocused eyes at the camera. She was a plump, long-faced woman in a drab navy tracksuit, lank hair scraped back in a ponytail. Her daughter looked very like her. She had her arm around Tim, drawing him into her. He was pulling a funny face, a thumb held up, a half-opened present on his lap. Teddy was next to Tim, thin like his father and with a sweet expression. He was a good-looking boy with neat features, dressed in a greyish white sweatshirt and jeans, his short dark hair like a cap. Sheila was beside him, an arm around his shoulders, not as hefty as she was now but already tending that way. She looked frumpy. She was squeezed into a roll-neck jumper and her face was impassive as she looked towards her brother. The school photo of Teddy was the usual head-and-shoulders shot. It showed him with a hesitant smile. His face, with its narrow bones and pale grey eyes emphasised his wistful, slightly elfin look.

  Back at Hammersmith, Swift glanced in the window of a hair salon, ran a hand through his thick dark hair and decided it was time to brave a trim of his unruly curls. He was having dinner that night with his cousin Mary Adair, and last time they’d met she had asked innocently if he was deliberately cultivating the eighties perm look. He resisted the hairdresser’s suggestion that he should have a warm wax conditioning treatment and sat watching the scissors dance. Then he closed his eyes, puzzling as to why a quiet, studious sixtee
n-year-old would leave a harrowing note before coming to terrible harm.

  Chapter 3

  Mary Adair had been Swift’s close companion since childhood. She had supported him when his mother died just as he turned fifteen and when Ruth left him, a quiet, unobtrusive presence. He in turn had held her hand after a couple of failed love affairs. She bore a marked resemblance to his deceased mother and every time he saw her handsome face and wavy brunette hair he felt a jolt of welcome and fond recognition. They had both joined the Met after graduating and Mary was now an assistant commissioner. She had met her partner, Simone, the previous year and they were living together in Clerkenwell. Their apartment was one of six converted from a four-storey Victorian workhouse. It was the largest, on the top floor, with a wide balcony that ran the length of the building.

  When Swift arrived, Simone told him that Mary was running late. The rain had stopped and the evening was just warm enough to sit outside, where Simone had put out plates of antipasti and bread. As always, she was dressed in a linen dress in pastel tones that complimented her café au lait skin. They drank wine and talked while a chicken roasted in the oven — or, rather, Simone talked in her lilting Geordie accent. As usual, she was like a tap turned on full, her conversation flowing unrelentingly. Her heavy, auburn-tinted hair formed a curtain around her face as she described a lecture she had recently attended on the usefulness of insects in determining time of death. She was a forensic pathologist and sliced the bread with the kind of deft strokes Swift thought she must use on the autopsy table. He was pleased to see how happy Mary was with Simone. They were a close couple. They had bought a state-of-the-art tandem on which they cycled at weekends, touring parts of Surrey and Essex, and spent evenings planning routes for their adventures. Yet he was never quite at ease with Simone. He thought that this was to do with her barrage of words and her overwhelming opinions on every subject that came up in conversation. It seemed to him that, despite her keen intellect, she was judgemental and too quick to pronounce on people and situations. He realised that this discomfort was partly due to a difference in temperament. He approached the world with a cool, dispassionate eye that sometimes resulted in others finding him standoffish. These were useful talents in the private detective but not always so advantageous in the man.