BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense (12 page)

Swift was about to decline the cake when she placed another slice on his plate. He accepted more tea.

‘What about Teddy? Did you know him fairly well?’

‘Only in passing. I saw him about half a dozen times, when he accepted a lift home from the art club. He seemed a quiet, introspective boy. He loved drawing. Imogen told me a bit about his home life, which seemed rather inward and closed off. When I was packing to move, I found a few of his pictures amongst Imogen’s things. I had no idea she had them and I left them in the folders. I thought you might like to see them.’

She fetched a plastic zip folder from a shelf and took out several pieces of A4 paper, handing them to him. She went to add hot water to the teapot while he looked. He fanned the three pages out on the floor. They were signed in the bottom right hand corner,
Teddy B.
Two were paintings with the kinds of interwoven Celtic designs that had featured in Teddy’s English exercise book. The third was a charcoal sketch of a circle of trees with two shapes in the centre. Swift lifted and scrutinised it. The shapes were human figures in pale robes, holding hands. Underneath them Teddy had written;

The gift of the Druids

Two searching souls in the forest

Twin seekers at the sacred place

We need to be lost to find ourselves

Life will spring refreshed

When Mrs Thornley returned, Swift asked if she had any idea when the drawing of the trees had been done.

‘I’m afraid not. As I said, I didn’t even know Imogen had those. She had hundreds of pieces of art work. She probably picked some of Teddy’s up after art club by accident.’

‘Can I hold on to this drawing?’

‘Of course. Is it important?’

‘Yes, I think it is.’

It was a fine day with a mellow breeze. Swift decided to walk off the cake and headed along Dartmouth Park to Parliament Hill Fields. Teddy had intended to meet someone at Low Copsley, someone he thought of as a twin soul. A twin soul in terms of Druidry or sexual identity or both? He had probably intended to go away with this person to make his new start. At Parliament Hill, Swift sat on a bench dedicated to the memory of a Maggie Murphy. He gazed at the horizon. The anonymous money had been donated to Teddy four years ago and Mr Saltby had been injured a short time before. Serena Clayhurst had referred to compensation. Perhaps the payment had been compensation, but not for the reason she thought. He googled
Saltby
and found a newspaper article and a church reference. He read the newspaper first. It was dated May 12, 2010:

Local plumber Mr Steven Saltby, 59, was badly injured last Friday. Mr Saltby was involved in a house renovation in Palmerston Crescent when heavy scaffolding fell on him as he exited the property. He was taken to hospital and has had surgery. Top Tower, the scaffolding company, have been unavailable for comment.

The second item was a website for The Select Flock. It was a no frills site with a home page that informed him:

We believe that Jesus Christ came into this world to save a
particular
people, who alone shall share this blessing.

There followed a verse:

Free from the law, O happy condition,

Jesus hath bled and there is re-mission,

Cursed by the Law, and bruised by the fall,

Grace hath redeemed us, once for all.

There were links to local chapels. Swift followed the link to their London churches and found Hope Chapel in Tufnell Park. There was a short paragraph of information and a small photograph of the pastor.

Mr Joshua Saltby is the pastor of Hope Chapel.

Our pastor leads The Select Flock Sunday service at 10.30 a.m.

Bible classes are held on Sundays at 11.45 a.m. and Wednesdays at 4.30 p.m.

When the righteous increase, people rejoice.

Joshua had risen up the religious rankings since his sister left home. The photo was a head shot of a long-faced man with a constrained smile.

It was a while since Swift had been to church. He thought he would take a look at the righteous on Sunday.

Chapter 10

The following morning, a Saturday, produced two interesting contacts concerning the Bartletts. Nora Morrow emailed him:

Hi there, Ty. A sweep on Sheila Bartlett brought up something in 2002. She was interviewed because she had attended a party at a house in Islington. It was a birthday do for a nurse she was working with, an Amelia Olewo. There were over forty guests. Amelia had a baby, a girl who was asleep in an upstairs bedroom. The child was found dead in its crib when the mother went to check on her late evening. The final verdict was probable suffocation due to a loose blanket in the bedding.

Take care, N.

A baby again. There was something troubling in this. He rang the Bartlett house, deciding to visit and speak to Sheila. Rowan Bartlett answered, sounding exhausted.

‘I believe I’m making some progress regarding Teddy, Mr Bartlett. I would like to speak to Sheila. Is she around today?’

‘She’s at work this morning, back at lunchtime. Actually, Mr Swift, this isn’t the best time . . . things are difficult here.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Yes. On Thursday, Annabelle arrived here unexpectedly from Sydney. There has been a lot of arguing and difficulty with Sheila. Oh dear, I’m afraid it’s all become too much . . . I can barely explain . . .’

Swift’s interest grew. ‘Perhaps it would be best if I called in. I’ll keep it brief.’

‘Very well, if you must.’

Swift arrived there just after noon. Bartlett opened the door, looking more faded than ever in a loose-fitting beige cardigan. He showed Swift into the living room. A woman with glossy blonde shoulder-length hair, wearing designer jeans, a silk shirt and sporting a ripe black eye was sitting on the sofa. The eye didn’t prevent her from radiating a confident glamour.

‘Annabelle, this is Tyrone Swift.’

She stayed seated, waving at him in a regal fashion while openly examining him.

‘That’s a nasty bruise,’ Swift said, gesturing at his own jaw. ‘We’ve both been in the wars.’

‘You could say that. Mine’s courtesy of my lovely niece. It’s always nice to receive a warm welcome.’

‘Now, Annabelle, there’s no need to start telling Mr Swift. It’s all very unfortunate . . .’

‘Unfortunate!’ Anabelle laughed, a tinny sound. ‘I don’t call a fist unfortunate. She’s lucky I didn’t call the cops.’

‘Sheila hit you?’ Swift asked.

Annabelle twitched her shirt collar and settled her hair. ‘She certainly did. She landed a good one. I’d only been off the plane a couple of hours and
wham!
She’s lucky I was still jet-lagged or I’d have been tempted to land one back.’

Bartlett was fidgeting around with the fire, poking logs and causing sparks.

‘Oh do sit down, Rownie,’ Annabelle said. ‘You’re making me nervous.’

Swift didn’t think that Annabelle would frighten easily. She had sat forward and was looking him up and down, head to one side. He recognised a woman who responded to a new male presence with keen interest. Bartlett sat next to her on the sofa.

‘Why did Sheila hit you?’ Swift asked. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind at all. Let’s see . . . to quote the lady herself, “
if you think you can just waltz in here and make yourself at home, you can think again.
”’ She touched the eye gingerly. ‘Do I look as if I’ve done ten rounds with a heavyweight?’

‘I’ve seen worse.’

Bartlett made a throat-clearing noise. ‘Sheila found out earlier this week that I’d had the house valued. She was already very angry about that, then Annabelle arrived without warning.’

‘And the shit really hit the fan,’ Annabelle said. ‘Aunty wasn’t welcome.’ She pulled her mouth down. ‘Poor me.’

Hardly surprising, Swift thought. Bartlett had put a tentative arm along the back of the sofa, behind his wife. She was aware of it but didn’t sit back. Swift wondered why she had come all the way from Sydney. He didn’t think she was lovelorn. Did she have a whiff of money, with the house being sold?

‘So, have you come for a holiday?’ he asked.

She smiled and patted Bartlett’s knee. He looked like a puppy who’s been thrown a treat.

‘I just wanted to see my family,’ she said.

The front door slammed and Annabelle pretended to be scared.

‘Stand by your beds, it’s Mike Tyson!’ she hissed.

Sheila stomped in, eating a chocolate bar. She stood with her back to the fire, chewing.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked Swift. ‘Have you found something out about Teddy?’

‘I’m making progress.’ He smiled at her, making his voice gentle. ‘I was sorry to discover that your friend’s baby had died, a couple of years after Teddy’s terrible accident. That must have been hard for you. And having to talk to the police about it. It must have brought back bad memories.’

She stared at him, chewing the end of the bar. She turned and threw the wrapper in the fire. Two red spots flared high in her cheeks.

‘How do you know about that?’

‘When you’re a detective you come across random information while you’re investigating. That was very bad luck for your friend. Emily, was it?’

‘Amelia,’ she corrected. ‘Yeah, it was rotten.’

‘What was the baby’s name?’

Sheila ran a finger along the mantelpiece, then moved to stand by the window, sticking her thumbs in her uniform belt.

‘She was called Clara.’ She stammered a little over the name, reminding him of her brother Tim.

Swift knew he had hit a nerve. He pressed on. ‘That’s a pretty name. I expect you were fond of her, bought baby things for her.’

‘Well you’re wrong. I hardly knew her.’

‘I never knew about this, Sheila,’ her father said. ‘How sad. I don’t think you mentioned it in a letter. I’d have remembered something like that.’

‘I didn’t think you’d be interested.’ She spoke stiffly, looking at Swift. ‘I still don’t understand why you’d want to come here, talking about it. It’s nothing to do with Teddy.’

‘I just felt for you,’ Swift lied. ‘How terrible to attend a birthday party that ends in tragedy like that.’

‘The baby died at a party?’ Annabelle asked.

‘Amelia’s birthday party,’ Swift told her. ‘Amelia found her daughter dead at the end of the evening. It was a cot death.’

‘That’s awful. The poor woman! You haven’t had much luck, Sheila, have you? All these dreadful events happening to people around you. There must have been times when you felt like a jinx.’ Annabelle took her husband’s hand and patted it, leaving the barb in the air.

There was a silence, filled with Sheila’s breathing. Then she erupted, seizing a china vase from the mantelpiece and throwing it at Annabelle, who ducked so that it bounced off her shoulder and smashed on the floor.

‘Shut up, you fucking bitch! You’re the jinx, ruining my parents’ marriage and all our lives! I know why you’re here and it’s not because you miss Dad. It’s because you think you’re going to benefit from the sale of this house. Over my dead body you will!’

‘Careful what you wish for,’ Annabelle said calmly.

‘Oh please, let’s not start all this again. I can’t bear the shouting. Mr Swift doesn’t want to get involved in this.’ Bartlett held up his hands pleadingly.

Sheila laughed, wheezing. ‘Oh, I don’t think Mr Swift minds our dirty laundry. He likes poking about in the bins. If you want a quiet life, Dad, it’s not a good idea to go around behind my back planning to put the house on the market. This is my home. It always has been and it always will be. I’ll go to court and do whatever it takes to stop you. You’re not getting me out of here. My
memories
are here, my whole
life
!’ She was screaming and trembling, punching her right fist into the palm of her left hand. ‘As for you,’ she yelled at Annabelle, ‘you can fuck off back to Sydney, because you’re not getting a penny from this this place. You’re a whore and a bitch and nobody in this family wants you around!’

Annabelle went to speak, then thought better of it, glancing at Swift. Sheila ran to her bag and produced a large package which she brandished in front of her father’s face, making him recoil.

‘This is a padlock and two bolts and they’re going on my bedroom door this afternoon. I can lock myself in and when I’m out you can’t get in there or let any nosy Estate Agents and their grubby buyers in. I’m getting a microwave and kettle and I’ll have my meals in my room until that fucking bitch leaves this house and there’s no more talk of selling. D’you hear me, Dad? Loud and clear?’ She leaned into his face, yelling and spitting. There were bubbles of foam at the corners of her mouth.

Bartlett shrank back and Annabelle moved into the corner of the sofa. She’s becoming her mother, setting up a bedsit, Swift realised. He stayed sitting and spoke quietly.

‘I’m sorry you’re so upset, Sheila. Maybe it would be best if you get on with your locks now. Things are getting a bit heated.’

She turned to him, her face draining of colour. ‘Has anyone ever tried to sell your home from under you?’

‘No.’

‘No. Well, it will get even more heated before it’s finished.’ She pointed at her father. ‘He betrayed me once before and now he’s planning to do it again. He’s scum. I loved him all those years and asked him to come back here, made a home for him and he’s scum. Tim’s right about him. Maybe I’ll change
my
name to Christie too!’

She ran from the room and thudded up the stairs. There were dragging noises and then the whine of a drill as she started to fortify her room.

‘She’s completely bonkers,’ Annabelle said. Then, in a pronounced Australian twang, she added, ‘Or as we say in Oz, “she’s got kangaroos in the top paddock.”’

Bartlett put his head in his hands. ‘What am I going to do?’ he asked.

Annabelle stroked his shoulder. ‘Well, we’re not going to be bullied, that’s for sure. Let’s make a cuppa and a plan while she builds Fort Knox. I’m relieved she’s locking herself in. I might do the same! Want a cup of something, Mr Swift?’

‘No thanks. I’ll be going.’

She nodded. ‘I can imagine you’ve had enough of this soap opera. The Tufnell Park version of Neighbours! Tune in soon for the next instalment!’

Swift wasn’t sure if she was really taking the situation so lightly. He judged that she was a woman used to having pole position, especially with her husband and she seemed unheeding of the dynamics she had wandered into. He knew that Sheila was near the end of her tether and volatile.

‘I’d tread carefully with Sheila. She’s hurting.’

Bartlett didn’t look up. Annabelle pointed to her eye and then the broken vase, saying smartly that she thought she was the injured one.

Swift left them to it. The drill was still boring through wood as he closed the front door. He was convinced that Sheila had had something to do with the death of that baby. She was clearly capable of anything if roused, capable, strong and terrifying. Could she have attacked Teddy? If he had crossed or disappointed her in some way, it was possible. The stifling bond that Sheila had woven might have been threatened and she clearly reacted viscerally if anything jeopardised her home. Peterson had said she had been at work when he died, but Swift’s doubts about the thoroughness of that investigation were growing. It would be impossible to check her alibi, fifteen years later.

* * *

When Swift returned from a row in his borrowed boat he saw Cedric outside the front door, bowing to the CCTV camera.

‘It’s okay, Cedric. I’ve turned them off. I might as well leave them in place as a deterrent now they’re there.’

‘Ah, jolly good. I was feeling that I had to be on my best behaviour all the time. You’ve had no more trouble from Mr Howell, then?’

‘No, that’s all resolved.’ He thought Cedric seemed a little despondent, his eyes strained. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Oh, yes, dear boy, just didn’t sleep too well. I heard from Oliver yesterday. He’ll be back at Christmas. He wants to spend it with me.’

‘I see. Well, I’ll be around so maybe we can get together.’

Cedric patted his arm. ‘Kind of you to say that but you mustn’t feel obliged. I’d best get going.’

‘Where are you off to?’

‘I need to buy a new shirt to wear to Mary’s wedding. Milo is meeting me at Bond Street, then we’re going to the cinema in the afternoon followed by a quiz in The Mermaid.’

Milo was one of Cedric’s closest friends and his sartorial adviser. Milo’s taste verged on the eccentric, so Swift was looking forward to seeing the purchase. He watched the tall, erect figure, imagining the conflict of emotions he must be experiencing, dreading his only child spending Christmas with him.

He showered, removing the dressing from his arm wound. It was healing well and the bruising on his lip was fading. Shaving was still a delicate process but it had to be done. Swift hated stubble on his skin and Kris voted it a turn-off. He rang her number. She had said she would phone him during the day to arrange where to meet for dinner, but he hadn’t heard from her. He knew that sometimes she got delayed when she visited customers’ homes for measurements and fittings. Her phone instructed him to leave a message. He said he would head for home and wait for her call. She had sent him a photo of the dress she was making for the wedding. Sitting on the train, he looked at it. It was pinned together on her sewing mannequin and looked like a gown from a glossy Hollywood film. She was going to look stunning. He had better get his own act together and consult Mary about suitable attire.