BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense Read online

  ‘Thanks for your time. I know you need to get to your match. That last summer before Teddy was attacked, you didn’t have any particular worries about him?’

  ‘No. He’d done very well in his GCSEs and was due to start in the lower sixth form, studying English, History and Spanish. He was his usual quiet presence.’ Harrow tapped the desk, frowning slightly and sealed the packet of nuts.

  Swift sensed that the head teacher was weighing something up. ‘If there’s anything you think might be helpful, I’d appreciate it. Fifteen years have elapsed and memories fade,’ he prompted.

  Harrow nodded and rubbed his chin. ‘I used to wonder if Teddy might be gay. These were thoughts I kept to myself, you understand. Looking back and with the hindsight that comes with experience, I think it’s a strong possibility. It would help explain why he kept a low profile. It’s not easy to be a gay adolescent even now, but a lot has changed for the better in the years since he was injured. I would say that at times he acted as if he was guarding a secret.’

  ‘If that’s true, he had an awful lot happening in his life. His father married to his aunt, a mother who didn’t function, troubled siblings and confusion about his sexual identity.’

  ‘Yes, quite a brew. Struggling with all those complexities might have resulted in significant depression. How many times have you read about people who have done something out of character and their families say they had given no indication that they were feeling desperate?’

  ‘Did you tell the investigating police at the time that you thought Teddy might be gay?’

  ‘I wasn’t interviewed by the police. As I said, I was away in Jamaica.’ Harrow reached into a desk drawer. ‘By the way, I found an old exercise book of Teddy’s in my cupboard when I was looking up files about the family. It was one of his English books from 1999. It’s just essays but I thought you might like to see it. I’m happy for you to borrow it but I would like it back. His father might like to see it too.’

  He handed over a blue folder, glanced at his watch and asked Swift if he could see himself out as he needed warm-up time. As Swift left he was on the floor of his office, doing rapid press ups. Swift exited the school, thinking back to his own head teacher, a dry, finicky man with little empathy for others. He was annoyed that in 2000, the police had failed to speak to Harrow when he returned from Jamaica. He wondered if this important omission indicated other lapses in the investigation.

  Chapter 6

  Cedric knocked on Swift’s door at eight a.m. as he was making his first coffee of the day. His tenant was looking dapper in a corduroy jacket and chinos and the checked trilby hat he wore as soon as autumn approached, but his face was grave.

  ‘Ty, I assume you haven’t you been out yet today?’

  ‘No, just getting organised.’

  ‘I think you’d better come out and take a look. I was on my way for my morning paper and breakfast but that can wait.’

  Cedric led the way down the steps on to the pavement and gestured at the front of the house. The bricks, front door, basement door and window and the wall and gate had been sprayed liberally with red, purple and green paint, random daubs with the odd profanity thrown in. Cedric put a hand on his arm as he groaned.

  ‘The “hoaxer,” Ty?’

  ‘Presumably. What a mess!’

  ‘Must have been done after midnight because I got home from the pub around then and everything was fine.’

  A neighbour from two doors up stopped on her way to work, staring at the graffiti. She said helpfully that someone seemed to have it in for him and that it made the neighbourhood feel unsafe, knowing that this kind of thing was happening. Swift didn’t respond and she glared at him before walking on. He looked carefully around the area and the steps to the basement but could see no trace of the perpetrator.

  ‘Is it worth asking the police to fingerprint?’ Cedric asked.

  Swift shook his head. ‘Whoever did this will have worn gloves. I’ll report it but I want it cleaned off today.’

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘No. Thanks anyway, Cedric. You head on and get your paper.’

  ‘Come and have breakfast in a while, maple syrup pancakes on me.’

  Swift rang PC Simons. He explained the latest event, asking him to log it but adding that he didn’t see any point in the police visiting. Simons confirmed that no useful evidence had been found at the boat club.

  ‘We’re no further forward, I’m afraid. We have previously advised CCTV for your home of course . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know. I’m going to act on that now.’

  ‘And you really can’t think of anyone who might be behind this?’

  ‘No. If I do, you’ll be the first to hear about it.’

  He rang several cleaning companies and found one that could visit with a pressure washer later that morning. The cost made him wince. He called at the nearest neighbours, explaining that the graffiti would be gone by the end of the day. Then he returned to his cold coffee and heated it in the microwave. He took it outside while he photographed the scrawls, forcing a smile as the postwoman commented that it wasn’t exactly Banksy, was it?

  He found a nearby CCTV company and decided to have cameras installed by the front and basement doors. He sighed and paid the deposit on the huge cost. He set off to meet Cedric, knowing that his friend hated CCTV. He had often talked about big brother and being snooped on everywhere in London. Swift could see no other option for now, hoping that the cameras would be a real deterrent.

  * * *

  Swift sat on the bus to Tufnell Park, listening to Amy Winehouse through his earphones. The previous evening, he had leafed through Teddy Bartlett’s English exercise book. The front cover was decorated in black pen with various Celtic symbols: the triskele, crosses, sun wheels, a tree of life and many versions of an intricate circular pattern that he had googled and identified as a symbol for water. On the back cover was a circle with three dots and three lines fanning out from them. The marks Deaven Harrow had allocated in red pen throughout were never below 90/100 and the margins were dotted with comments such as excellent interpretation and thoughtful, thorough study of the text. There were essays on Sylvia Plath’s poems, Macbeth, To Kill a Mockingbird and Brighton Rock.

  Swift had turned back to the cover of the book and considered Teddy’s illustrations of water signs. His own reading on the Internet had informed him that Celts and Druids revered water as a source of life and vitality, believing that it absorbed the healing power of the sun. He looked again at his notes about the Bartlett family. Teddy and Sheila had been ‘conjoined’ according to Tim, yet they were as unalike as siblings could be. The plodding, lacklustre, food-obsessed Sheila and slim, elfin Teddy and his keen intellect and imagination. He had decided to return to the Bartlett house without notice and at a time when Sheila was likely to be out at work.

  He closed his eyes as the bus ground through Kentish Town and thought of the lunch he had shared with Mary. He had worried that Simone would have said something about her visit to him, maybe even blurted out her offer to have sex but, thankfully, she seemed to have thought better of it. Mary had been a little downcast when he explained that he couldn’t agree to father a child, but she had accepted his decision without trying to persuade him further. He had offered to meet again with both of them but to his great relief, Mary had said that wasn’t necessary and she would tell Simone. She added that she knew it had been a long shot; knowing him as she did, she couldn’t see him embracing the idea. They had already visited a clinic to discuss the matter and they could initiate the procedure as soon as they wanted.

  Then she had brightened, her eyes regaining their usual sparkle, saying she had important news. Simone had proposed to her the previous evening and she had accepted. She confessed that she’d been a bit bowled over as they had never discussed marriage. Simone felt that, as she hoped to be pregnant soon, they should marry for their own sake and for the sake of their child. The wedding was to be in December. The regist
rar was already booked. It would be a small, low-key celebration. Would he be best man? He had said of course, hugging her, expressing his delight. Afterwards, he had thought that it was all happening very quickly and wondered if Simone’s proposal had anything to do with the outcome of her visit to his house. Then he chided himself for being churlish, reflecting that he mustn’t let his antipathy for Simone get in the way of celebrating his cousin’s happiness.

  Rowan Bartlett answered the front door at just after nine fifteen, a slice of toast in his hand.

  ‘Oh, was I expecting you? Sheila’s gone to work. Have you got news of Teddy?’

  ‘No, Mr Bartlett. I hope you don’t mind me calling without an appointment. I was in the area and there was something I wanted to check.’

  ‘Well, you’d better come in. As you can see, I’m breakfasting.’

  He led the way through to a cluttered kitchen at the back of the house. There was a pot of tea on a pine table and the shells of two boiled eggs. Bartlett sat and indicated a chair opposite. The table was sticky with layers of grime.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea? I think there’s one more in the pot.’

  ‘No thanks. If possible, I wanted to look at the room that used to be Teddy’s. I realise his things have gone but sometimes it can be useful.’

  Bartlett looked puzzled. ‘What are you looking for?’

  Swift had no idea, inspiration, probably. ‘It’s hard to say. Even after fifteen years, it might help to look at his room as part of building a picture.’

  ‘Well, it’s empty as far as I know but take a look. Will you be long? I have an estate agent visiting at ten. I thought you were her at the door and she’d got the time wrong.’

  ‘I won’t be long. Are you thinking of selling?’ Looking around, Swift thought he would have given the place a thorough clean if he was inviting a valuation.

  Bartlett dropped his eyelids and looked shifty. ‘I’ve asked the agent to do an appraisal. Look, I’d rather you didn’t mention this to Sheila if you’re talking to her.’

  ‘If that’s what you want, of course.’

  ‘To be honest, Mr Swift, I would prefer a place of my own. I’m fond of Sheila and things worked out well to start with but I’m used to being master of my own house. She fusses over me and I find it increasingly difficult. Also, this place is far too big for two people and the bills are ridiculous. I would prefer to live somewhere more rural.’ He sounded testy and hard done by.

  ‘Presumably she might find it tough to leave here. It’s been her home all her life.’ Her empire, more like, from what Swift had established.

  ‘Yes. I’m afraid when I raised the possibility with her she got very angry. I do own the house still, so it’s my decision in the end. I thought that if I get a realistic idea of the market price, I can help her with a deposit on a flat. She’d only need one bedroom, after all. I’m sure she’ll see the sense of it.’

  ‘That’s between you and Sheila. May I take a look upstairs? I understand Teddy’s bedroom was at the front of the house.’

  ‘Yes, first door on the right at the top of the stairs.’

  Swift took the shallow steps two at a time. What a callous, self-absorbed man Bartlett was. He’d abandoned Sheila, returned to her life when it suited him and now he was going behind her back and planning to sell her home from under her. He opened the panelled door facing him at the top of the stairs and stepped into a good-sized, bright room. It was almost empty, containing one broken dining chair and a small chest of drawers. The walls were covered in a gold and cream striped wallpaper and bare. Swift opened the three drawers in the chest. They held only musty-smelling lining paper.

  He stepped back on to the landing and listened. Bartlett was still in the kitchen with the radio playing. He opened the next door along and found a bathroom. Opposite the bathroom was another panelled door. On it hung a white plastic plaque with tiny rosebuds forming a garland around the name Sheila. He pushed the door and looked in. A clean, pressed nurse’s uniform hung from the dado rail by the window but it was the only sign of order in the midst of chaos. The double bed was unmade, with magazines, clothing, underwear and books strewn across it. At least a dozen dirty mugs were scattered along window ledges and there were several plates smeared with food lying on the dun-coloured carpet. Chocolate bar wrappers were piled on the bedside table. A trap door was inset into the ceiling, presumably access to the loft. Swift left the door open behind him and looked at the magazines and books, which were of the celebrity watching/chick-lit variety. It was a teenager’s grubby nest, not the space of a mature woman with a career.

  He hadn’t planned to search Sheila’s room but now that he was in it, he decided it must have been at the back of his mind. What he knew of her bothered him and what bothered him made him curious. He looked in drawers and on shelves, moving rapidly. He didn’t think she would notice if he moved anything out of place. Everything was a jumble. There was a good deal of cheap jewellery, scores of magazines about health and slimming and in the corner of the dressing table, a tin tea caddy with a fat roll of twenty pound notes secured with an elastic band. The drawer of the bedside table was crammed with diet aids: sachets of dried foods, boxes of fat-burning capsules and cartons of detoxifying drinks, promising to suppress or satisfy appetite. The chocolate wrappers lay above them and Swift wondered if Sheila saw the irony. He moved soundlessly across to a built-in wardrobe and looked at a rail holding jeans, jumpers and coats. There were four shoe boxes on a top shelf. He lifted them down, placed them on the end of the bed and looked inside. One held a pair of beige patent leather court shoes, the next a small pile of airmail envelopes from Australia, another a stack of photographs and the fourth just a small package in white tissue paper. Swift opened it carefully and saw a baby’s jacket made from a fine yellow wool with tiny white bows as ties. It looked unused. The label inside said Mothercare.

  The doorbell rang. He replaced the boxes, glanced around the room and headed downstairs as Bartlett greeted a suited woman who held a clipboard. Swift waved a goodbye, saying he’d be in touch and headed for Victoria, planning to spend the rest of the day in Brighton.

  * * *

  The day had started with heavy rain, which had now ceased, leaving a washed out silver sky. The fields looked sodden and the train carriage smelled of drying clothing and of the bacon sandwich the man in the next seat was eating. Swift was on his way to meet ex-DI Colin Peterson, who had sounded bright and breezy on the phone and eager to talk.

  He bought a coffee at Brighton station and drank it as he walked to Peterson’s house. It was a bungalow in a quiet residential area with a neatly pruned garden. Peterson waved to him from the front window.

  ‘Have you heard my coffee’s that bad?’ he asked, gesturing at Swift’s cup and laughing at his own joke. ‘Come on into my humble abode.’

  The living room was decorated in shades of oatmeal with fluffy rugs scattered on the carpet. Ceramic dogs and cats featured on the shelves on either side of the fireplace. There was a bored-looking budgie in a cage by the window. On the wall beside it hung a ceramic dish with the inscription; my idea of a night out is sitting on the patio. Peterson sat in his chair, a large black leather recliner and Swift took an armchair nearby.

  ‘I won’t offer a beverage just yet,’ Peterson said. ‘The ball and chain is out for the day so we can please ourselves.’ He winked and rubbed the side of his nose.

  Swift wondered what he had in mind. Perhaps when his wife was out he raided the drinks cupboard. He judged Peterson to be in his mid-sixties but he wasn’t wearing well, with a flabby stomach propped up on a straining belt. He was tall, with thinning hair and puffy bags below his eyes. There were broken veins in his cheeks. He looked out of place in this suburban living room, as if he would be more at home propping up a bar. Swift imagined he might be finding retirement a challenge, hence his enthusiasm to discuss an old case.

  ‘Thanks for seeing me,’ Swift said. ‘As I said on the phone, I’m looking into
Teddy Bartlett’s case, for his father.’

  ‘No worries. I was looking forward to a chat about it. It was my last but one investigation. You used to be in the Met?’

  ‘That’s right, then Interpol.’

  ‘Ah, a bright young spark; climbing up that greasy pole.’

  Swift ignored the jibe. ‘You remember Teddy?’

  ‘I remember him. Nothing wrong with the old grey matter, luckily. The lungs haven’t worn so well, which is why I’m sucking on these bloody things.’ He picked up an e-cigarette and waved it about. ‘Nothing like the real McCoy but the wife insists on it.’

  He appeared and acted older than his age, with his outmoded idioms. Swift had met men like him, during his days in the Met. He thought of them as dinosaurs. They were the kind who liked practical jokes, were lazy thinkers, usually badmouthed female officers and headed for the pub at the end of every shift.

  ‘Did you have any likely suspects for what happened to Teddy Bartlett? His sister told me the police thought it was random.’

  ‘Nope, no suspects. A woman walking her dog found him. That sister of his, Sheila, she was a right weirdo. Mind you, they all were in that family. I didn’t tell her it was random. She fixated on the fact his wallet had gone and went on about it being a robbery. I reckoned the wallet was probably taken to make it look that way. There was no DNA found at the scene, so it must have been a planned attack. Whoever bashed him with that rock was wearing protective clothing and gloves. None of that was found, of course. The rock had been chucked in the bushes and was covered in Teddy’s blood and brain matter. He had bits of blackthorn and whitethorn in his jacket pockets. They seemed to be part of all that Druid hokum he liked. Is he still alive?’

  ‘Yes. He lives in a care home.’

  ‘I was amazed he survived. Whoever did it thought he was dead. There was real rage behind that attack, but I couldn’t find anyone who might have felt like that about him. Everyone said he was a mild-mannered boy. The studious type. No evidence of drugs or any illegal activities, the kind of thing that might have got him on the wrong side of some low life.’