BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense Read online

  ‘No. I’m an only child. I think a lot of teenagers go through strange phases, though. Any idea what Teddy meant when he said in his note that everyone was using other people?’

  Christie shook his head. ‘No idea.’

  ‘What about friends? Did Teddy have any particular mates?’

  Both of Christie’s heels were tapping now and Swift thought he had better not stay much longer. On the other hand, Christie still seemed keen to talk about his childhood.

  ‘People didn’t come to our house much. That time a friend came to play with me was unusual. I suppose Teddy must have had friends at school but he never mentioned any.’

  ‘Your family was very insular.’

  ‘I see that now. I don’t really know why. I suppose it’s usually the mums who help with social stuff and mine was . . . well . . .’ He rubbed his forehead and eyes. ‘My mum used to keep me off school, you know, when she felt lonely and wanted company. We’d sit in her bedroom playing cards or dominoes. I spent a lot of time in her room with her. She had a TV, a radio and a kettle and microwave in there. She’d heat herself soup or baked beans and eat them in bed.’

  ‘Your mother established her own bedsit within the family home.’

  ‘Exactly, yes. I’ve never thought of it like that but you’re right. It smelled like a burrow, stale and fuggy. I remember when I read The Hobbit I thought of my mum’s room, except hers wasn’t clean and tidy. In some ways I didn’t mind being in there so much because Sheila hardly ever talked to my mum, so it meant I could avoid her. I must have missed loads of school. It all added up, odd days here and there. Probably explains why I left at sixteen with two GCSEs.’

  ‘So what about Sheila? She must have had friends.’ Swift thought he could guess the answer.

  ‘No, she didn’t socialise at all. She was either cooking huge meals and cakes or lying on the sofa, reading magazines. She snacked on chocolate and biscuits all the time, getting fatter by the year. That summer Teddy left us she was ill and taking tablets, but it didn’t stop her piling weight on. I remember she used to pull me and Teddy against her — she had a strong grip — and hold us with her hands locked behind our backs. I used to find it suffocating. She’d say we had each other and that was all we needed.’ He yawned, shaking his head, his face now drained of colour.

  Swift put his notebook away. ‘Thanks for your help. If you think of anything else, do contact me.’ He placed a card on the coffee table.

  Christie read it. ‘Okay, thanks. I suppose you must hear a lot of family crap.’

  ‘All families have their share, so I get to listen to some.’

  ‘Right, yeah. Okay, see you, then. Sorry again for being a pain.’

  At the door, Swift turned. ‘It might be an idea to get the missing letters on your van replaced. It doesn’t look too reassuring for potential customers.’

  ‘Oh, yeah. I’ve been meaning to get round to that.’

  Swift walked through Battersea Park, bought coffee from a kiosk and headed for the Thames Path towards Chelsea Bridge. Being with Christie had troubled and saddened him. It said a lot that a surgeon’s child had left school at sixteen and was working as an odd job man, using drugs. He pondered the deterioration and claustrophobia of the Bartlett household after their father left. No wonder Teddy had escaped into mythologies. Sheila’s controlling behaviour struck him as a needy, violent love. Perhaps Teddy had been desperate to get away from her.

  He watched a police marine boat race upriver and rang DI Nora Morrow. He had met Nora while working on a previous case and felt a mutual attraction. Ruth’s miscarriage and her need for his help had stopped anything progressing between them and Nora had backed off, clearly sensing that his life was complex. Now, hearing her cheery Dublin accent, he smiled. He said he needed a favour regarding information about a new case and asked if she could look up the old records for Teddy Bartlett.

  ‘Okay, Ty. Email me the details and I’ll see what there is. Been out on the river today?’

  ‘This morning. How about you?’

  ‘Not since we went out that time, months back. Work getting in the way, as usual.’

  ‘Can I buy you a drink as thanks for the favour?’

  There was a slight hesitation, then she said sure, that would be great. He took a deep breath after the call. That was the first time in years he had been able to ask a woman out with a clear and easy conscience.

  * * *

  Swift opened his front door just after six o’clock and was assaulted by a nauseating smell. Lying on the doormat and the surrounding tiles was a large pile of bloody offal. He almost stepped in it but managed to jump as his foot lifted. He looked down at the glistening, twisted shapes of livers, hearts, kidneys and what he thought was tripe. Blood had spattered up the walls and dripped onto the skirting board. He gagged and turned away to the doorway to breathe, bending and holding his jacket collar across his face. He looked up and down the street, in case the perpetrator was waiting to see his response. It was quiet, just a woman walking with two children and a suited man with a briefcase entering his house a couple of doors away. He could hear the sound of jazz from Cedric’s flat and moved quickly to clear the stinking pile away before his tenant knew about it.

  He left the front door open and took several photos of the entrails. Then he donned rubber gloves and found large bin bags, bleach, a scrubbing brush left by his aunt and a pack of cleaning cloths. It took him a good half hour to clear the mess. He put the door mat in a separate bag. Luckily it was bin collection the following day and the weather was cool. He scrubbed the tiles and washed down the skirting board, the paintwork and the back of the door. Even after he had rinsed the floor three times with hot water and bleach, he was convinced he could smell the feral, cloying aroma of the organs. He found some Jo Malone men’s cologne his stepmother had bought him a couple of Christmases ago. He disliked most aftershaves and had never worn it. He sprayed the hallway liberally, glad that he had finally found a use for it. It certainly helped obliterate any lingering traces. He emailed PC Simons, attaching the photos he had taken, then put his clothes in the washing machine and took a long, scalding shower. He used handfuls of shower gel, washing his hair twice.

  Whoever was doing this was becoming bolder, acting in daylight, escalating the threat.

  Chapter 4

  Swift had risen early and spent a couple of hours on the river. The water was murky and smelled of the season, with a hint of decay. There was a scent of smoke on the air and the trees along the river bank were turning shades of tawny yellow and orange. The horizon was misty and the still air soft and hushed. Contentment skirted his busy thoughts as he grasped the oars but edged away again as he remembered Mary and the conversation they needed to have.

  He headed for home, needing hot food. He microwaved some of a risotto Cedric had given him the day before, his mouth watering as garlic and parmesan scented the kitchen. When he had eaten he brewed a strong coffee and phoned Teddy’s Aunty Barbara in Dorchester.

  ‘Hello, is that Barbara Stead?’

  ‘Yes, unknown number. I’m not interested in changing my energy supplier or any other such rubbish so bugger off . . .’

  ‘Hold on, hold on! This isn’t a cold call. My name is Tyrone Swift. I’m a private investigator, hired by Rowan Bartlett.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, sorry. Yes, Sheila did email me saying her father was back.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me ringing you. I just wanted to ask a few questions.’

  ‘That’s all right. Hold on a minute, I want to let the dog out.’

  There were barks and sounds of doors banging. She returned quickly.

  ‘Right, that’s a relief. I can think now. He’s a puppy and it’s like having a toddler around. So Rowan’s back in town. Feeling guilty and looking for answers about Teddy, is he? Pity he didn’t want to at the time, when the poor boy was attacked. I hear Annabelle dumped him. That’s justice, at least, some small satisfaction in the scheme of things. If only Tess
a had lived to hear it. I mean, I know she was a difficult woman and hard going but isn’t that what marriage is all about, navigating the good and bad times? I haven’t seen any of the family since Tessa’s funeral, by the way.’

  Swift was pleased to hear that she seemed both garrulous and spiteful. Such informants usually offered rich pickings.

  ‘I gather you don’t much like your brother-in-law.’

  She snorted. ‘He’s an utterly selfish bastard. He abandoned that family and left them to sink. My sister was never a strong woman and his leaving did her in. She never got over it. Annabelle was twelve years younger than her, you know. It was bad enough being replaced by a younger model, but your sister! I haven’t spoken to that bitch since. I’ve never understood it. I mean, Rowan wasn’t what you’d call a sexy man. I always thought he was a dry old stick but he clearly had some talents I didn’t know about.’

  ‘Did you see the family often after he left?’

  She was a fast talker, rattling out her information. ‘Once, twice a year. I couldn’t make it any more often. I had a young family myself and a job. Life was busy. I was always encouraging Tessa to visit me here but she never did. She couldn’t muster the energy to make any decisions, let alone get on a train. That’s why I got Tim to visit here sometimes. At least he got some country air and a break from being smothered by his mum. I don’t mean to sound horrible but Tessa did smother him, just like Sheila smothered Teddy. They were a rum bunch, I can tell you. To be honest, I worried about them but I was glad I lived at a distance because they got me down. Visiting was ever so depressing, with Tessa moping about, on pills or booze. I used to try to get her up and dressed, do her hair, you know — encourage her — but she usually didn’t want to know. Then there would be Sheila looming around, looking surly. She always had a sort of negative aura clinging to her. Not an attractive girl and you couldn’t get much conversation out of her. Seemed to spend a lot of time up in the loft. She said she kept stuff up there for charity shops although I can’t imagine that family having anything worth giving away. She told lots of lies as well, did Sheila. If she said the sky was grey, I’d have popped outside to check.’

  ‘Why did she lie?’

  ‘No idea. It just seemed who she was and they were usually fibs told to big herself up, saying she was a school prefect when she wasn’t, that kind of thing. I remember once she said she’d come top in all her school exams and then left her report lying around. I looked at it and it told a different story. Lots of comments of the need to try harder variety. When I challenged her she got angry with me and tore the report up. She didn’t talk to me for ages after that.’

  ‘What was Teddy like? Did he ever seem depressed?’

  ‘Well, that’s not an easy question. Quiet, basically, a bit of a shadow around the place. I used to call him the Ghost Moth when I was talking to my husband about him. We’re both amateur lepidopterists, you see. He always wore pale shirts or T-shirts and he would just give me a sweet smile in passing, then head for his room or the garden. He had such a light tread, you wouldn’t hear him moving around. Sheila was never far from him. She used to cut his hair and buy his clothes, scold him for not eating enough vegetables.’

  ‘It seems that she acted as his mother, and your sister was Tim’s.’

  ‘That’s how the cards fell, yes. Probably just as well, as Tessa wasn’t really fit for any kind of mothering once Rowan took off. Sheila’s a funny one but when you think about it, it’s good she stepped up or the household would have ground to a halt. It’s hard to warm to the put-upon look though. I do feel bad for saying that. As for Teddy being depressed . . . He was such a vague presence, so . . . muted, I’m not sure that anyone would have noticed.’

  ‘Do you have any thoughts on the odd note he left?’

  ‘I never understood it. I do know that he was into mystical stuff about Druids and such, and teenagers can be so weird. My daughter went through a strange phase at fifteen, flirting with Scientology, but luckily she outgrew it when her hormones settled down. They’re an alien race, adolescents. Of course, maybe his father’s departure left him a lot unhappier than we realised. I know Tim struggled with it but he was always more vocal and emotional, which is probably better in the long run. He used to have terrible nightmares and he sleep-walked. He was still wetting the bed when he came here, I felt sorry for him because he was so ashamed. I do think coming here helped him and he had male company with my son Luke and my husband. I always think that’s so important for boys.’

  Swift didn’t enlighten her about Tim’s real feelings. She seemed a well-meaning woman.

  ‘I believe the last time you saw Teddy was when you picked Tim up during that July.’

  ‘That’s right. I’d visited just after Christmas and he was his usual unobtrusive self. He was pleased at getting a book about Druids. I remember he showed it to me. It was called something like Secrets of the Druid World. Then when I fetched Tim in the summer, he waved from his bedroom window. Poor lost boy. Poor Teddy. They look after him well in that care place, but what kind of life is it?’

  ‘Presumably you don’t have any ideas about why someone would have attacked him?’

  ‘Heavens, no. He was such an inoffensive boy. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. Well, nobody would deserve that, would they?’

  ‘Okay. Thanks for your help.’

  ‘I probably haven’t been much help to you. What do you think you can find out?’

  ‘It’s early days to make any prediction.’

  He gave her his contact details and rang off. He looked through his notes so far. Quiet, mystical, unobtrusive Teddy. Poor Teddy. Even the diminutive of his name with its echoes of the nursery seemed to accentuate his passive presence in the family. Yet there was anger and resentment in his note that belied the picture of a studious homebody. Swift made more coffee and browsed the web for a while, reading articles about the Otherworld. He flagged one about Druid beliefs for further study:

  Druids believed that the soul was immortal and that the dead were transported to the Otherworld by the God Belenus. Life then continued in this location. After the person died in the Otherworld, they were reincarnated to live again in another entity. This might be a plant or the body of a human or other animal. The soul rested in the Otherworld between each incarnation. After a person learned enough at each level, they moved to a higher realm, with its own Otherworld. This path continued until the individual reached the highest realm called the "Source."

  Swift, who held no beliefs about supreme beings or life after death, thought it sounded a relentless and exhausting process. He could see that if you were a miserable teenager who viewed life through a bleak lens, believing that people were self-serving and exploitative, it would hold its attractions. You might well be enticed by the magical promise of better things to come and animals and birds helping you. He thought back to when he was fifteen and his mother died. He recalled the feelings of desolation and confusion that swamped him, emotions that no kind words could alleviate. He remembered also how secretive he had been as a teenager, needing to fly under the radar. His stepmother’s blundering, well-intentioned interest in him had sent him scurrying to stay at his Aunt Lily’s house, where he could operate unscrutinised and pour his anguish into the Thames as he rowed.

  He returned to his laptop and looked up the significance of animals and birds for Druids. The hind indicated positive change and happiness to come. The raven was regarded as a messenger between this world and the next and was believed also to represent healing and protection. He read Teddy’s note again. What was he a victim of or needing protection from and what secrets had troubled him? Had his bitterness and despondency stemmed purely from the loss of his father or had he been speaking of some other betrayal?

  A web search brought up a contact number for a Druid group near Belsize Park. Swift rang the name given, Lochru Adamsbreath. The man who answered sounded cheerful and eager to help when Swift explained his role.

  ‘Has
your group been in existence for long?’ he asked.

  ‘Since 1921. I’ve been in the group for twenty-five years.’

  ‘I wonder if you’ve ever heard of or been contacted by an Edward or Teddy Bartlett. We’d be talking about the 1990s and he was in his early teens.’

  ‘Doesn’t ring a bell. We’re a small group, you see, and there’s not much coming and going. I’d say we get a new member every couple of years and it would be unusual to be approached by someone so young. If you’d like to hold on, I can look in my record book. It’s in the study, so I’ll be a few minutes.’

  Swift waited, hearing the chimes of a clock in the background. When Adamsbreath returned, he was panting.

  ‘Study’s at the top of the house. I’ve looked through enquiries and membership from 1990 to 2000 but there’s no one of that name or age group. We only had five newcomers in that time and they were all women, which is usual these days.’

  ‘Are there any other groups in that area of north London?’

  ‘No, not to my knowledge. Although, of course, belief in the Druid way doesn’t necessitate joining a group. That is what many people like about it. You can attend ceremonies or gatherings as you wish, or not at all. It can be a private, spiritual search. Would you like me to send you some information about our beliefs?’

  ‘No, that’s fine, thanks. I can look on the web. Can you tell me about the significance of blackthorn and whitethorn and why someone might carry both in their pockets?’

  ‘Well, you know there can be different interpretations. Generally speaking, I would say that blackthorn would be used for strength against adversity. Whitethorn could be to protect from harm and help to communicate with the spirits of the Otherworld. Someone carrying both would probably be feeling the need for support in their life and in their spiritual quest.’