
The Worm in the Bud
by
Chris Collett

In Birmingham a local journalist is found dead in his home. A puncture wound in his arm a testimony to his death by lethal injection, the cryptic note
by his side: 'no more', seems at first to suggest suicide but Detective Inspector Tom Mariner has learned to take nothing at face value. There is something
a little too staged about events, especially as just that evening Mariner had witnessed Edward Barham pick up a prostitute in a bar he was frequenting.
As the police investigate the house further they discovers there is another witness to events at 34 Clarendon Avenue. Barham's younger brother, Jamie,
is found in a cupboard under the stairs. It seems likely that Jamie Barham had witnessed his brother's killing but his severe autism has left him without
the means to communicate what he has seen... 
Mariner is determined to build enough of a relationship with Jamie to get to the truth. And the fact that this means spending time with Anna Barham, Jamie's
new - and reluctant - guardian, is no great hardship. But is Edward's death related to his recent investigations into a local crimelord. Or is there something
else, something that only Jamie can tell them - if he so chooses...  


PIATKUS
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For mum and dad, who began it all.

All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to
real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © Chris Collett 2004

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by
Piatkus Books Ltd of
5 Windmill Street, London WIT 2JA
email: info@piatkus.co.uk
www.piatkus.co.uk

This edition published 2005
The moral right of the author has been asserted
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 0 7499 3534 0

Set in Times by
Action Publishing Technology Ltd, Gloucester

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Bookmarque Ltd, Croydon, Surrey
Chapter One

Mariner glanced at his watch again. Christ, it was still only
ten to eight yet it felt as if he'd been here for hours. Getting
here first was his way of keeping control but now, as
anxious speculation clenched his stomach into a tight,
nauseating knot, he wished he hadn't been so keen.
The only vacant seat he'd managed to secure in the
crowded bar was on a stool positioned directly under an
air-conditioning vent that blew a steady stream of cold air
down inside the unbuttoned collar of his shirt. Twenty-four
hours ago this idea had seemed a good one, a simple solution
to a growing problem, but now the doubts were
creeping in faster than the chill descending his spine. If
he'd been a smoker he'd have dragged his way through half
a packet of Silk Cut by now.
The only reason he'd bought last night's Echo was to
check that his advert had been correctly placed in the
'Accommodation to Let' section. It had. Double room with
ensuite facilties. No pets, non-smoker preferred. Placing
that ad was a big step, and not one he was completely sure
he'd wanted to make, but mortgage rates were climbing
steadily, and it was the only foreseeable way of sharing his
house without necessarily having to share his life. And
having placed the ad, he'd stayed in all evening absently
leafing through the rest of the paper while he waited for the
phone to ring. That's when the 'Solos' page had caught his
eye. Lulled into a state of misplaced confidence by three
pints of Brewmaker's Traditional (one of his stronger
concoctions) Mariner had picked up the phone.
Impulsiveness wasn't normally one of his traits and now, as
his apprehension gathered momentum, he remembered
why.
Noting the assortment of ill-matched couples around him,
Mariner sensed that his venture wasn't unique. The
comfortably anonymous mix of blond wood, brushed steel
and pale blue leather upholstery made the bar of the
Chamberlain Hotel perfect for any assignation: business or
pleasure or a combination of the two, and he had to fight a
sudden hysterical urge to get out his warrant card and
watch the place empty.
'Derek?'
Mariner's stomach lurched. The girl who approached
him was sleek and attractive with thick, chestnut hair and
eyes the colour of dark chocolate.
'No.' Recovering, Mariner shook his head and watched
hope fade. For a minute there she must have thought her
luck had changed; he was tall, reasonable looking (so he'd
been told) and, thanks to Greta's past influence over his
wardrobe, he was pretty sharply dressed tonight. Derek on
the other hand would turn out to be a middle-aged, fat and
balding suit like the majority of her clients. Mariner had no
doubts that she was a tom.

With a brief smile that left her eyes untouched she
tottered away on ludicrously high heels to take a seat on
one of the squashy blue sofas, crossing her long tanned
legs. For a moment Mariner half wished he was Derek.
Being Derek would have been so much simpler. And his
intention wasn't so very different. Same planned outcome,
just glossed over with a flimsy layer of social respectability.
Suddenly the knot felt ready to explode and he had to
make a dash for the Gents.
Emerging minutes later, Mariner scanned the room, not
allowing his eyes to rest on anyone who might conceivably
be looking out for him. The brunette was on her feet again
engaged in animated discussion with a man. Not Derek,
Mariner decided. This man was a rough diamond, unshaven
with collar-length dark hair, in jeans and a well-worn
leather jacket, the Harley-Davidson logo stretched across
his broad back. The body language was pure agitation:
shoulders bunched, semaphore arms. Now he had his wallet
out, flashing money, cajoling. Her pimp, or just an over
attached client? Whoever he was, he was giving her a hard
time about something. At one point he grabbed her arm but
she wriggled free. Then, before Mariner's eyes, her resistance
seemed to crumble and with a last cursory glance
around the room for Derek she slung her bag over her
shoulder and reluctantly followed the Harley man towards
the sliding glass doors.
The whole exchange made Mariner uneasy, putting up
just the excuse he needed. Feeling only a minor twinge of
guilt for his own date he tailed the couple out of the hotel
and into the orange sodium-glare of Broad Street to where
an eight-year-old Porsche with a badly dented boot squatted
on double yellow lines, its hazard lights flashing.
Concerned for the woman's safety, Mariner watched the
couple get into the car but Harley man was visibly calmer
now and, as they drove off, the woman seemed more irritated
with him than anything. Mariner perceiving trouble
where there was none. You got the wrong idea, mister. Occupational hazard.
Left alone on the pavement Mariner stared back into the
bustling hotel lobby to where the 'attractive blonde, seeking
male 35-45 for discreet fun' was even now anticipating his
arrival and suddenly knew he wasn't going back in there.
He'd phone her tomorrow and apologise, maybe. Turning
away, Mariner threaded a path through the snarled traffic
to the opposite side of the road and into a dark and rowdy
Australian bar. Over a pint of foul-tasting non-alcoholic
beer he watched a part of what most of the city's population
would be glued to this evening; the live Worthington
Cup draw between Blues and Wolves. But after an uninspiring
and goalless second half, followed by the usual
inane discussion from the pundits, Mariner retraced his
steps to reclaim his borrowed pool car from the
Chamberlain's underground car park.

With nothing to distract him on the drive home, Mariner
reflected on the evening's non-event, knowing deep down
that it had never been a viable option however desperate the
circumstances. Was he desperate? It was nearly a year now
since Greta had left. For a while Mariner had really
believed that they had something. But that was before Greta
turned forty and mutated into his mother, running his life
for him and imposing unreasonable expectations until
finally trying to force a commitment he couldn't make.
That she'd left after that was no big surprise. The mystery
was that she'd taken his confidence with her. Not his social
confidence, his small talk had always been pathetic, but his
confidence in bed, something he'd never had trouble with

before.

That last time, when he'd been unexpectedly invited to
stay the night with a young WPC, he'd resorted to distraction
tactics. As intimacy progressed he'd tried mentally
rehearsing the names of the actors who had played the Dirty
Dozen and the Magnificent Seven respectively. It had
worked like a dream until he had inadvertently spoken
Steve (McQueen)'s name out loud.

'What?' She'd halted him mid-thrust, the expression on
her face enough to precipitate his collapse, leaving them
both agonisingly frustrated and Mariner with a big enough
question mark over his head to discourage her from ever
seeing him again. That had been nearly six months ago and
Mariner hadn't had the guts to pursue anything or anyone

since.

Tonight's quick fix was the intended solution, but if he
couldn't get it up with the assistance of Hollywood's finest,
how would humiliating himself with a total stranger help?

'Delta one to all units.' The squad car's radio, tuned to

the OCU wavelength, cut through his maudlin train of
thought. 'Request for urgent assistance at thirty-four
Clarendon Avenue, Harborne, informant an unidentified
female.' It was just a few streets away on this patch.

In normal circumstances, Mariner would have ignored
the call. It was one for uniformed patrol and in any case he
was well off-duty. But he was in no hurry to go home and,
judging from the lack of any other audible response, there
was no one else nearby. Resources tonight would be
concentrated around St Andrews, keeping the rival fans
apart and diverting any trouble. Like the comforting glow
of a distant refuge, Mariner felt himself drawn towards the
secure predictability of work. He'd take a small detour to
check whether the incident was already attended. If so, he
would simply drive on by. Making a second circuit of Five
Ways traffic island, Mariner peeled off in the direction of
Harborne.

Almost immediately the nervous energy of Birmingham
night life melted away into silent darkness, taking with it
Mariner's own anxieties. One of a cluster of mongrel
Birmingham suburbs, Harborne was populated in pockets
by university professors and consultants from the Queen
Elizabeth Hospital, their relative affluence reflected in the
sprawling detached houses that were set in immaculately
tended gardens.

Clarendon Avenue was easy enough to find, but locating
the house itself was a different matter. Here the properties
were more modest and compact, but set back from the road,
hiding behind dense hedges and gift-wrapped in swathes of
ivy and wisteria, making individual identification in the
dark almost impossible. There was no outward indication of
any disturbance or any sign of a police presence.

Picking out a number at last, Mariner counted along,
hugging the kerb as he went. Thirty, thirty-two, thirty-four
•.. That was it, a mock Georgian detached, ablaze with
lights and standing out like a bloody carnival float. Then
Mariner noticed the eight-year-old Porsche with a badly

dented boot parked on the drive, and the hairs on the back
of his neck stood on end.

Scrambling from his own vehicle, Mariner skidded up
the gravel driveway sending shingle flying in all directions,
past the empty Porsche and into a narrow porch. The solid
oak front door was slightly ajar, the only sound the babble
of a distant TV, Mariner advanced cautiously along a bare,
parquet-floored hallway, alert to any possibility. 'Police!'
he warned, easing open the nearest internal door, already
visualising the brunette cowering in a corner, her face
bruised and bloodied. But in the event there was no blood,
only a sterile and unnatural calm.

The man lay sprawled on the sofa, his arms widely
splayed. Even from a distance his eyes were glazed and
staring, his complexion waxy. The right sleeve of his
leather jacket was pulled up to above the elbow and a hypodermic
syringe dangled grotesquely from his inner arm, its
needle still tugging at the vein. A message beside him,
scrawled in block capitals on a curled scrap of paper, was
short and to the point: 'NO MORE'. Had he rolled him
over, Mariner would have seen Harley-Davidson advertised
across the man's back.

There was no sign of the brunette but the TV chattered
on, a tape running in the VCR that projected a beaming
Carol Vorderman from the screen in an obscene accompaniment.
Mariner moved quickly over, his footsteps
crunching on debris underfoot. Checking for signs of life at
each of the pulse points, twenty years of experience already
told him that he was too late, while his mind struggled to
reconcile the fact that only a couple of hours earlier he'd
seen this man so very much alive.

'Anyone home?' Though loud, the voice was too guarded
to be a threat, and even in those two words Mariner thought
he recognised the nasal intonation. 'In here,' he called

back.

A uniform appeared, confirming his hunch. PC Tony
Knox, formerly of the Merseyside Police was about

Mariner's age but had moved with the times, his number
two buzz-cut obscuring the onset of baldness and combining
with his sinewy build to make him look every bit the
hard man he was reputed to be.

'Sir?' The question hung unanswered in the air as Knox
took in the scene. 'Shit. Is he dead?' As he squatted down
to verify it, Mariner watched Knox trying to make sense of
things. Finally his gaze shifted back to Mariner, as if seeing
him for the first time. 'What are you doing here?' he
demanded, subtlety obviously not a strength. The exact
reason for the transfer from Liverpool had never been made
explicit, but rumour had it that it wasn't entirely Knox's
decision. In this case the question was justified. A DI
wasn't normally the first to the scene of a bog-standard
domestic disturbance.

Mariner hoped it wouldn't complicate things. "I was in
the area and heard the call,' he said. 'When I got here I
recognised the car on the drive.'

'You know him?'

'Not exactly.' Mariner briefly recounted what he'd
witnessed earlier in the evening. If Knox wondered what a
senior officer was doing hanging around the bar of the
Chamberlain Hotel on his night off done up like a dog's
dinner he was, for once, astute enough not to ask.

'It's ironic,' added Mariner. 'The way this guy was
behaving made me afraid for the woman's safety. But then
that was more than an hour ago.' And, as they both knew,
practically anything could have happened in the interim.

As he inhaled, Mariner caught a whiff of something, a
sort of unwashed smell. He was about to open his mouth to
comment when he noticed the grimy rim around the collar
of Knox's white shirt and the sheen of stubble coating his
chin. Tonight's match was a Category C: high risk and
officer intensive, which meant they'd be short of bodies
elsewhere in the city. It explained why Knox was solo, but
even so. 'How long have you been on duty?' Mariner asked
him.

'Since two.' Knox shifted uncomfortably. He hesitated
but Mariner wanted more. 'The wife has locked me out so
I had to kip in the car overnight. I'll get a shower at the
end of the shift.'
'Good idea,' said Mariner with feeling, making an effort
at shallow breathing and shaking off any speculation about
why Knox might have been barred from his own home.
Taking the hint, Knox got up and moved away. 'I'll
check over the rest of the house.'
'It'll be a start. John Doe here drove off with the
brunette, and it was a woman who made the emergency
call, so there's a strong possibility that it's the same one.
She looked more like a call girl than a crackhead to me, but
this guy was waving his money around so it's possible that
she supplied and serviced him. Let's make sure that she
isn't still hanging about somewhere, then get Scenes of
Crime out of bed.'
Whatever the circumstances might imply, this was a
sudden unexplained death and in the absence of any reliable
witnesses they would have to keep their minds open for
now. It didn't look like too many other crime scenes
Mariner had seen, unless the reckless dispersal of potato
snacks had suddenly become a felony, but until there was
conclusive evidence of suicide nothing was certain, and it
had to be treated accordingly.
'You'll need these,' said Knox. Throwing Mariner a
small polythene packet, he went off to search the house,
speaking into his lapel radio as he went. Mariner opened
the packet and squeezed his hands into the tight latex
gloves, grateful, as always, that he was only a policeman
and not a vet.
Knox reappeared. 'We're on our own,' he confirmed,
tactfully keeping his distance. 'No sign of life. And SOCO
are on their way.'
'Good.' Taking care not to disturb the syringe, Mariner
slid his hand into the inside breast pocket of the dead man's
jacket to retrieve the soft leather wallet he'd seen earlier.
It contained a hundred and thirty in notes, along with a
variety of standard credit and loyalty cards, plus a larger,
laminated press card, conveniently displaying a photograph
of the deceased. He'd been right. This wasn't Derek. But
it seemed he'd been way off the mark about everything
else. 'Edward Barham,' he read out loud, for Knox's
benefit. 'And this is his place, according to the address.'
He made a swift mental calculation. 'Age thirty-nine, and
a paid-up member of the National Union of Journalists.'
'A hack,' said Knox. Walking the length of the room,
he'd come to rest in front of a fitted cupboard, on top of
which, high up and almost beyond Mariner's line of vision,
was a row of plaques and trophies. 'Someone thought he
was a good one too, if this lot's anything to go by.' He
craned his neck to read the engraving. 'Midlands Reporter
of the Year in 1996.'
'But modest enough about his achievements to stick them
way up there, almost out of sight,' observed Mariner.
'Christ, and is that what I think it is?' Staring out from the
corner of the ceiling was the beady eye of a miniature,
remote-controlled video camera.
'Journalist, junkie and security nut,' announced Knox.
'This is a prime area for burglaries, it would have been
a reasonable precaution.' But even as Mariner spoke he was
conscious, studying it for the first time, that the design of
this room represented security taken to its extreme. The
substantial TV and video housing were conspicuously
bolted to the polished wood floor, while the state-of-the-art
sound system, CDs and rows of books were all present and
correct, but locked away behind elaborately reinforced
glass doors inside the same floor-to-ceiling cupboards that
ran the entire length of one wall. Apart from those items,
the four-seater sofa was the only other stick of furniture in
what was a cavern of a room. This represented minimalism
taken to the extreme.
It was Mariner's kind of place, but the overall impression
was stark and empty, with none of the usual worthless
clutter accumulated in most homes. No pictures,
photographs, pot-plants or the army of candles that these
days seemed to be practically mandatory. The only 
aberration was a pile of dog-eared catalogues that stood in a
jumbled stack by the door, topped by two weighty hardback
books.
And then there were the funny little symbols. Black and
white laminated line drawings were posted here and there,
on the side of the TV, the back of the door, beneath the
window sill. Knox was studying one at close quarters.
'What do you suppose they are? Something to do with the
occult?'
Mariner was dubious. The images were too simple and
childlike, although there was little other indication that children
lived here, and they did have a kind of alien quality.
Knox had already made up his mind. 'I bet this guy had
one of those weird compulsive disorders,' he said. It was
true. Suicide and mental disturbance were often to some
degree linked, but it was still a big leap to make.
'He could have just been security conscious and tidy,'
said Mariner, Knox's tendency towards the forgone conclusion
starting to rankle. 'And be grateful. Whatever the
purpose of that camera, if what happened here has been
filmed it's going to save us a hell of a lot of trouble.'
Mariner turned his attention back to the wallet, which also
contained a couple of personal business cards, and a folded
page recently torn from a newspaper. Flattened out,
Mariner recognised it as the column for ' Personal
Services', well thumbed and with several of the numbers
emphatically ringed in black ink. One of them the
brunette's, he wondered?
Something stale invaded Mariner's nostrils again. Knox
was back peering over his shoulder. 'See,' he concluded,
uncompromisingly. 'What kind of sad git gets his sex life
out of the paper?'
'We don't know that he did!' Mariner rounded on him
angrily, feeling his colour rise. 'There could be any number
of explanations for this. He was a journalist, remember?'
He knew he'd jumped in too soon and too defensively,
conscious of the call he himself had made only the night
before. Okay, so he hadn't followed it through, but he'd
made it all the same.
'No, well, perhaps you're right, boss.' Knox's face was
inscrutable, but Mariner could almost hear him adding two
and two to make five. It was no more than Mariner would
have expected. Blessed with the Scouse gift of the gab, Knox
would never find himself in that sorry position. It more than
likely related to why Mrs Knox had thrown him out.
'We shouldn't be making any assumptions at this stage,'
Mariner said, regaining his composure. He was tempted to
say more, but let it go. Instead he turned his attention back
to the cutting. 'These numbers will need to be crosschecked
with the calls made on that phone.'
'I'll have a vowel, please, Carol,' piped up one of the
contestants on the TV.
'Not what I'd choose as the background for my final,
dramatic gesture to the world,' Knox said, momentarily
mesmerised by the screen. 'Shall I turn it off?' But neither
of them was inclined to, not while it provided a distraction
from the bleak silence of death.
'Let's get searching,' Mariner said. 'We need to turn up
a relative or two.' Yellow potato rings cracked beneath his
feet as he stood up. 'What is all this crap?'
'Hula Hoops,' Knox obliged, nodding towards a wrapper
beside the sofa. 'But only one packet; not much of a party.'
A loud knock echoed down the hall. Christ, nosy neighbours,
that was all they needed. Where were they a couple
of hours ago? But it wasn't the neighbours; it was Stuart
Ross, the police surgeon, carelessly dressed and bleary
eyed, making Mariner wonder enviously whose bed he'd
just left. Why was it that when your own love life was on
the skids, everyone else seemed to have it on tap? Close
behind Ross, the SOCO team had arrived, too. This was
fast turning into rent-a-wake.

11



*

'Stuart.' Mariner nodded a greeting.
'Tom. What have we got?'
'Edward Barham. Pretty much as we found him, except
that I've relieved him of his wallet.'
Ross's gaze took in the suicide note. 'No more what?' he
wondered aloud.
'Monkeys, bouncing on the bed?' suggested Knox. He
caught Mariner's glare. 'Next of kin, sir. I'll get on to it.'
and left the room before Mariner could interject.
Mariner had nothing to gain by hovering over Ross
either; so, leaving the surgeon pulling on overalls, he
followed Knox up the stairs.
'Where the hell did you learn something like that?' he
asked.
'My granddaughter.'
It was said so quietly, Mariner thought he must have
misheard. He hoped that the thud of his jaw hitting the
ground wasn't audible. 'Granddaughter?'
'That's right.' Knox turned to face him, his eyes challenging
Mariner to make something of it.
'I never had you down as a granddad,' Mariner said,
truthfully.
'Neither did I,' Knox replied evenly. 'But some things
are out of our hands, aren't they? Sir.' And with a minimal
lift of his eyebrows he turned and continued up to the*
landing. Subject closed.
Of the four first-floor rooms the most promising
appeared to be a small back bedroom that had been
converted into a working office complete with computer
printer, scanner and fax machine. In stark contrast to the
lower floor, this room was by far the untidiest and there
fore the one that mattered. Papers were scattered
haphazardly over every horizontal surface and drawers
were pulled open to varying degrees, spilling out diverse
contents.
'Almost as if he was looking for something, too,
remarked Mariner.
'An anti-virus program if he had any sense. Look at
that!' Mariner tracked Knox's gaze to the computer screen.
The machine was already booted-up and as Knox nudged
the mouse the Screensaver cleared to reveal a scene of technological
devastation. Rows of data merged and tumbled
from the screen, dancing and swirling before their eyes
before mutating into giant insects that scuttled off the
screen, cackling nastily.
Although functionally competent, Mariner's interest in
computers pretty well ended there. This was the first time
he'd witnessed a virus in action but even he understood the
implications. 'Can you stop it?' he asked.
From the expression on his face, Mariner guessed that
Knox had only done the basic training too. "I might be able
to save anything that isn't corrupted,' he said.
'Get on with it then,' said Mariner. 'It might be important.'
Like holding the key to why Edward Barham,
bachelor, journalist, had just killed himself.
Knox sat down on the swivel chair and the first thing he
did was to clear a space to the left of the keyboard and
move the mouse and mouse-mat over to it. He noticed
Mariner watching him. 'I'm left handed,' he said, defensively.
"I find it more comfortable this way.'
'Right,' said Mariner dubiously, wondering just how far
Knox's ICT skills extended. Meanwhile, he rifled through
the remainder of the desk, looking for any personal papers
that might help them to build a picture of Edward Barham's
life in the days leading up to its close. The journalist, it
appeared, was nothing if not methodical, and it wasn't long
before Mariner found virtually everything he needed
contained in a single suspension file squeezed between
dozens of others in the bottom drawer and labelled
'Finance: Current'. In it were bank statements, credit card
bills and invoices, some going back as far as a year.
Making further inroads into Knox's supply of evidence
bags, Mariner tipped in the entire contents. They could sort
it out back at the nick. None of the other files of 
correspondence, newspaper cuttings and assorted instruction
manuals looked as immediately relevant. They could be
checked at a later date if necessary.
Closing the drawer, Mariner straightened, and as he did
so, noticed a filofax that had fallen on the floor, down the
side of the filing cabinet. He picked it up and tossed it to
Knox.
'While you're at it, here's your chance to multi-task,'
Mariner added. 'Have a flick through that for any likely
names and addresses.' And leaving Knox to his endeavours,
he went to look over the rest of the house, glad to escape
the stuffy office to some sweeter smelling air.
Unsurprisingly, the remaining four rooms lacked the hi
tech input and were furnished more in keeping with the age
and style of the house. Old-fashioned, Mariner would have
called them, though the lingering smell of paint hinted at
recent decoration. Only one, the master bedroom, was
obviously inhabited, although a single bed in the spare
room was also made up. Mariner opened drawers and
cupboards. No trace of any female apparel ruling out the
brunette as wife or live-in partner but several wardrobes,
including those in the spare room, were full of men's
clothes and shoes.
There were a couple of suits and some formal shirts but
mainly it was casual wear: Next, Gap, fashionable off-the
peg stuff. Reasonable quality but like the leather jacket,
most of it well worn. This wasn't a man who lived extrav
agantly. Some of the sizes fluctuated slightly too, making.
Mariner wonder if Edward Barham had been a man battling!
with his weight. In any event there seemed far more 
clothing here than one man could reasonably wear. Marine
picked up the book on the nightstand: the selected poems of
Robert Frost.
'So what was he into?' asked Knox, appearing in the
doorway.
'Frost,' Mariner told him.
'Not a bad choice,' approved Knox. 'The wife likes
Frost. I've told her it's fantasy island as far as real police
work goes, but she finds him entertaining.'
Mariner was struggling to connect Knox's response to
the information given, but eventually the fog cleared. 'Not
Inspector Frost,' he said, with mild disdain. 'Robert Frost,
the American poet; a slightly different league.'
'Oh. I didn't know you liked poetry, sir,' said Knox in
a tone that suggested he put it on a par with cross-dressing.
'Why would you?' said Mariner, placidly. 'Anyway, I
don't particularly. This was an O level set book when I was
at school.' Before putting it back Mariner turned to the
page that Eddie Barham had book-marked.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep.

One of the few poems Mariner could actually remember,
mainly because it had been simple enough to understand
right away, but here and now it was curiously at odds with
the scene downstairs.
He replaced the book and moved on. Again up here the
strange symbols were posted in places, including in the
bathroom, an otherwise pretty standard affair, which gave
little away until Mariner came to the medicine cabinet.
Prying open the flimsy lock he found inside, amongst the
standard remedies, six white plastic syringes.
As if on cue, Stuart Ross's voice echoed up the stairs.
'I've finished the preliminaries, Tom. All right with you if
we get him taken away?'
Mariner took the stairs down two at a time. 'First
impressions?' he asked, knowing that it was completely
unreasonable to expect anything concrete at this stage.
'Only what you've already worked out.' Ross was
replacing instruments in his kit bag while the scene
photographer flashed final shots from varying angles.
'Death caused by a lethal injection of some kind. The
body temperature would suggest that it occurred not long
ago, maybe not more than about an hour. The postmortem
will establish what he injected, but I'm sure we're all
thinking the same thing. Enough of the stuff would have
done the business within two or three minutes. Strange
that there's no preparation debris,' Ross observed.
'Unless he bought it pre-packed. The ultimate in convenience
shopping, eh?'
It was something that had puzzled Mariner at first, but
was in keeping with the general orderliness of the place and
with his idea of the brunette's role in the proceedings.
Alternatively, Knox could be right about a compulsive
disorder. 'Could it have been an accident, a miscalculation?'
he asked Ross.
'It's possible, of course. There's nothing on the face of
it to show that he was a habitual user, so it could have been
an experiment gone horribly wrong. Apart from the fatal
puncture mark there don't seem to be any others, and the
point of insertion makes it look like an amateurish job.' He
pointed to Eddie Barham's pale and lifeless arm. 'See
where the skin is torn?'
Mariner thought back to the computer mouse. 'He
bungled it?'
'Could be. But if it was an accident I'd say it was bloody bad luck. And you do have the note.' Now safely protected
within an evidence bag, the note would, along with the
syringe, be sent to the forensic science service laboratory
over at Bordesley Green. 'Besides, if you were about to
relax and enjoy yourself over a quiet fix, wouldn't you at least take your coat off first?'
Ross was right. The scene had a definite air of urgency.
And Mariner recalled Barham's agitation in the hotel bar, But something didn't sit right. He kept his thoughts to
himself for now. He was doubtless seeking complexity
where there was none, one of his more annoying traits, as
he'd frequently been told. Talking to those around Edward
Barham to establish his state of mind would soon settle the
matter and Knox had at last found a promising name and
address.
Mariner and Knox waited around until SOCO had
finished, but after that there was nothing more to do except
secure the scene. On the TV the Countdown audience went
wild.
'Turn that off, will you?' said Mariner. Knox did so, and
immediately a different noise became apparent.
Mariner listened hard. 'What's that?'
'What? I can't hear--'

'Sshhh!!' Barely discernible in the background was a
faint, high-pitched keening sound. Mariner tracked it to a
small, low door under the stairs, fastened on a snib-lock.
He opened it and rubbed noses with a battering ram.

17


Chapter Two

Anna Barham stretched lazily in her king-sized bed.
Although the hollow remained where Jonathan's head had
been on the pillow, the other side was cooling fast and in
the darkness she could just distinguish his shadowy figure
as he hastily pulled on his clothes. Fully dressed, he leaned
over and kissed her on the forehead, his goatee lightly
scratching her skin. Anna wished he'd shave it off. Goatees
had gone out of fashion months ago but apparently his wife
liked it so it had to stay. She feigned sleep, knowing that
he preferred to think she didn't hear him go. Moments later
she heard the front door close as her digital clock clicked
over to twelve thirteen am. Hmm, earlier than usual.
Niggling doubts suddenly resurfaced as Anna wondered
again if her suspicions that Jonathan might be cooling^
towards her were more than just unfounded paranoia. The ¦
uneasiness had started soon after Melanie Pick joined the
firm, her induction programme seeming to demand rather a
lot of Jonathan's time. But that was ridiculous. She and Jonathan had a great thing going.
Not that a part-time relationship with a happily married
man was every woman's dream, but at this time in her life
it suited Anna's requirements perfectly. With one 
disastrous, blink-and-you'll-miss-it marriage behind her the last
thing she wanted was any kind of commitment. She and
Jonathan had fun together, they had fantastic sex, but
Jonathan's family kept him right where Anna wanted him:
at arm's length. He didn't want to move in with her and
permanently impinge on her space. He wouldn't start
wanting babies with her, because he already had three of
his own. And children were definitely not on Anna's wish
list. Okay, the downside was the occasional lonely night she
had to endure when Jonathan was unable to get away, and
the odd troubling pang she felt about his other life (occurring
more frequently lately than she cared to acknowledge)
but all else considered, it was a small price to pay for the
way she liked to be and had to be: in control.
She awoke again almost immediately after Jonathan had
left, it seemed, to a lightening sky and the low humming
undercurrent of the city stirring into life. Sliding into her
blue silk kimono, Jonathan's gift from his last visit to
Tokyo, Anna opened the blinds and relished her view, as
she'd done on every single morning of her three-year
occupancy. As part of the city's new and prestigious canal
side development, the outlook from her apartment was like
a picture postcard: freshly painted black and white bridges
arching over the canal that snaked darkly towards the red
brick and ornate iron work of Brindley Place. All this set
against the backdrop of pale blocks and tinted glass of the
showpiece International Convention Centre, today rendered
clear and sharp by a burst of February sunshine.
Tearing herself away from the window, Anna took a long
shower, choosing gel, shampoo, exfoliating cream and
moisturising body lotion from rows of accumulated preparations.
Applying her make-up she noticed that her hair
would need trimming in a couple of weeks, which meant
ringing the studio today if she was to stand any chance of
getting Nicky. She was down to the last dregs of her Chanel
too, so it was as well that she'd be passing through duty
free next weekend on her way back from Milan.
In all, her whole morning routine took a leisurely hour,
ending, as always with a circuit of the flat as she straightened
the cushions, swept up a few imaginary crumbs and
replaced three CDs in their boxes, slotting them back into
the neat rank. Finally, she parcelled up last night's empty takeaway cartons to take down to the bin and wiped over
the already spotless kitchen counters one last time. Walking
out of the door, she took a last look around, getting a thrill
as she always did from knowing that when she came back
in again this evening, it would all be exactly as she had left
it.
As much as anything, Anna had chosen her flat for its
proximity, via a network of side streets, to the office where
she worked. But all this week she'd been inconvenienced by
road closures along her usual route while cables were being
laid. To follow the suggested diversions would have meant
lengthy detours into heavy rush-hour traffic, so she'd 
developed a simple strategy. Ignoring the no entry notices, she
consigned herself to the 'emergency access to frontages
category for three quarters of a mile, before swinging into
the corporate car park only minutes after leaving home.
Lowering the electric window of her fiery red company
Mazda 2.5, she tucked her pass card into the machine
before drawing to a halt in her reserved parking space
Getting out of the car, she smoothed the skirt of her dove
grey Donna Karan suit, grabbed her briefcase and laptop
from the passenger seat and, setting the remote electronic'
alarm, strode towards the modern office block that was
home to Priory International Management Consultants.
Flexi-time ensured that Anna was early enough to have'
pre-empted most of her colleagues but not Becky, her brilliantly
efficient PA, who emerged from behind her worl^
station to pick up Anna's stride like a well-trained relay racer.
'Hi Anna.' She spoke as they walked. 'The first draft off
the contract for Milan is ready on your desk for you to
approve and I've confirmed your flights for next weekend
Mr Waterhouse has booked a table for eight thirty this
evening at da Paglia.'
'Perfect.' Anna nodded approval. Helping Jonathan to
wine and dine prospective clients was becoming an increasing
feature of her job, and Robinson's Logistics PLC, their
guests tonight, were potentially amongst the biggest they
were ever likely to get. Even better, Robinson's had been
Anna's find. She'd been the first to pick up the rumours of
their sliding profit margins and a timely phone call had
generated just the response she'd hoped. The following day
her call had been returned and, so far, the chance of a deal Was looking promising. All Anna had to do now was to
make sure that she was the face of Priory Management most
visible to the Robinson's chief executive. If she could front
the securing of the contract with them it would earn her a
barrowload of brownie points with Jonathan. Something she
felt in need of right now.
'These are your phone messages.' In place of a baton,
Becky passed across a sheaf of papers. 'And,' she added
casually as Anna rested her hand on the door handle, 'there
are two policemen waiting for you in there.' So they'd got
her.
Taking a deep breath, Anna pushed open the door that
bore her nameplate in shiny brass. The room seemed darker
than usual, the view over Birmingham's city centre
obscured by the tall man who stood with his back to the
room looking out of the window.
The other man, a uniformed policeman, had been sitting in
the visitor's chair but now clambered awkwardly to his feet,
weighed down by bulging occupational hardware. It was he
who spoke first. 'Anna Barham?' he asked, waving identification
in her face and not waiting for her reply. 'I'm Police
Constable Knox and this is Detective Inspector Mariner.'
The tall man turned to face her, holding out his warrant
card, which this time she got the chance to see. Detective
Inspector Thomas G. Mariner, she read. The mug shot
adequately portrayed the pale features and the glacier-blue
eyes, but not the hideously bruised and swollen nose he
bore in reality. Anna had to stop herself from staring. What
was the story behind that, she wondered?
Talking herself out of difficult situations was one of
Anna's specialities, but in the half-minute or so she'd had,
she'd already decided to come clean. They must at least
have her licence-plate number and had probably filmed her
in the act of defying the diversions with closed circuit
cameras, although she was staggered that such a petty
traffic offence should provoke a personal house call from
two police officers, one of them a detective. 'I'm really,
sorry,' she began, apologetic but coolly professional just
the same. "I know I shouldn't keep ignoring the signs, but
I forget and before I know it, I'm just way past--'
PC Knox just looked at her. 'Sorry?'
Anna helped him out. 'The diversion signs, I should
follow them, I know.'
'This isn't about driving.' PC Knox was suddenly 
floundering.
Anna glanced up at Mariner's battered face. 'Well,
don't remember assaulting a police officer--,' she began
instantly regretting the flippancy.
'It's nothing you've done, Miss Barham,' Knox 
persevered, with a touch of irritation, Anna thought.
'You may want to sit down,' Mariner intervened, his
voice thick and adenoidal, so that Anna had to fight
a bizarre urge to pinch her nose and respond in the same
way. He gestured towards her chair and, more from
surprise than anything else, she did as she was told.
'Your brother, Edward, was found dead in his home, late
last night,' he said.
Wow, this guy knew how to make an impact. He may as
well have punched her in the stomach, and for several
seconds the room seemed to sway. 'No!' Anna blurted
uncontrollably. 'No, he can't be.' A sudden vision flashed through her mind of the occasion fourteen years ago when
she'd got home late from a party to find Eddie himself
waiting for her. 'Ann-ann, I'm afraid there's been a terrible
accident--' Now they were telling her that Eddie was dead too? It was impossible.

'I'm sorry,' said Mariner.
'When? How?' She was so sure that this couldn't be
right.
Knox had taken out a small, black notebook. 'We were
called to a house late last night; thirty-four Clarendon
Avenue,' he said. It was Eddie's address all right.
'As yet we're not looking for anyone else in connection
with his death,' Mariner added.
It was common enough police-speak and it took Anna
only a few seconds to catch on to what he meant. 'You
think Eddie killed himself?' she said.
'It's a strong possibility. There was a note.'
'Where? Can I see it?'
He turned to Knox, who was ineffectively digging
around in his pockets. Eventually he produced a folded,
crumpled photocopied sheet, which he passed to Anna.
'Does it look like his writing?' he asked.
Staring at the print, Anna gave the slightest shrug of her
shoulders. There was little that was distinctive about the
scrawled block capitals.
'Your brother seems to have died from a massive drug
overdose,' Mariner went on.
Now Anna knew for certain that they'd got it wrong.
'That's nonsense,' she told them. 'Eddie didn't do drugs.'
'But--'

'When did you last see him?'
'I'm not sure exactly,' Anna hedged.
'Days ago? Weeks?' Mariner probed.
'Weeks, I suppose.' Suddenly Anna knew what he was
getting at and resented the assumption. Her eyes flashed
angrily. 'But I know he wouldn't have killed himself. It's
absurd.'
'It would help us if you could make a formal identification,
Miss Barham. Do you feel up to it?'
Anna looked from one to the other of them. "I will,' she
said, eventually, 'but I really think you've got this horribly
wrong.' She glanced up at the outer office. 'I'll have to
arrange for my PA to cancel my diary. Could you just wait
for a moment?'
'Of course.'
Anna went out to where Becky sat at her desk, printing
off documents.
'Becky, incredible as this sounds, these policemen think
my brother has killed himself. They want me to go with
them and identify a body.' Telling it how it was helped
Anna to keep a grip on herself and ride out her friend's
shocked reaction. Then she returned to the office to pick up!
her bag, feeling the first creeping chill of apprehension as
she allowed herself to consider the seriousness of what
she'd been asked to do. 'Right,' she said. 'Let's get this
over with.'

Apart from an ominous creaking and whirring of the lift
mechanism, the trio descended to the ground floor in
silence while Mariner gave Anna Barham time and space to
assimilate what she'd been told. For once, Knox was exercising
some discretion too. And thanks to Mariner, he did
at least present more like a respectable officer of the law
this morning. After they had finished at the station last
night, he'd given Knox the spare front door key to his
house and ordered him to go and get a shower and borrow
a clean uniform from somewhere, before returning. "I'm
not breaking the news to the relatives with a tramp.'
Mariner had worked this routine a hundred times before
and was always prepared for shock and anger, even denial
Suicide in particular threw up all kinds of powerful and
often unwanted emotions. But this one was especially 
interesting. He couldn't work out whether Anna Barham realy
didn't believe them, or simply didn't want to. Or did the
lady just protest too much? Mariner hadn't of course over
looked the possibility that Anna Barham could herself be
involved. A woman had made the emergency call, and
not the brunette, why not her, making her reaction partly
an elaborate attempt to cover up for her brother? But
somehow he didn't think so. What would be the point? And
her initial surprise had seemed genuine enough.
And there was that newspaper cutting, the list of small
ads for personal escort services, leading them in one swift
move back to the brunette. Mariner hadn't changed his
view of her and Knox hadn't appeared to disagree. It was
becoming increasingly commonplace for some of the
higher-class call girls to supply, and if that was the case it
would explain why everything had been left so neat and
tidy. A pro would have cleaned up before she left. It could
easily have been the way Eddie Barham had planned things,
a discreet and distinctly personal service. But even that
explanation left one significant outstanding loose end. He
was waiting for Anna Barham to come to that.
Hers was an unusual reaction; indignant and affronted, as
if they were wasting her time. And she was taking the
whole identification procedure surprisingly in her stride,
leaving Mariner considering the dubious possibility that
she'd done it before. But he knew better than to make any
final judgements at this stage, because death is much the
same as life. Everybody handles it in his or her own unique
way. Shock can do funny things to people. And right now,
as Knox manoeuvred them out into the soupy mid-morning
traffic of the Hagley Road, Mariner was content to bide his
time. They'd know for sure soon enough.

The city mortuary on Newton Street was housed in an
anonymous-looking square Georgian edifice labelled
innocuously enough 'Coroner's Office' by the ubiquitous
brass plaque. The sign that had always afforded Mariner a
darker satisfaction was the red-topped 'T' at the entrance to
the street, so fittingly declaring the by-way a 'dead end'.
Within the bowels of the building, in a tastefully and sensitively
furnished suite of rooms, Anna Barham did,
reluctantly, provide them with a positive identification of
her brother.
Afterwards, Mariner carried two beakers of scalding, grey
tea from the vending machine to where she sat in what was
generally referred to as the recovery lounge. It was a
misnomer in most cases, though occasionally relatives
managed to regain their outward composure, as Anna
Barham seemed to have done. Now faced with the truth, she
was clearly shocked, as Mariner would have expected, but
still far from being distressed. Instead, she appeared more
puzzled and detached as if presented with a conundrum.
'Are you all right?' Mariner asked anyway	'
'Yes.' With a brief nod of thanks, she awkwardly
relieved him of one of the flimsy, polystyrene cups. 'Just
can't believe it.' Mariner took a seat opposite, and her
tawny-brown eyes looked directly into his, steady and
unblinking. No avoidance, but no trace of any tears either.
She read his thoughts. 'You must think I'm hard.'
It wasn't an apology and Mariner only shrugged.
'Everyone reacts differently in these situations,' he said.
'You'll probably cry your eyes out when you get home.'
Anna Barham smiled weakly. Christ, it was a stunning
smile. 'That's tactful of you,' she said. 'But I don't think
so. Eddie and I weren't what you'd call close. It isn't weeks*
but more like months since I last saw him even though we
live only a few miles apart. I left home to get married when
I was quite young.' There was diffidence to her admission
and from the bare fingers of her left hand Mariner guessed
that the marriage hadn't lasted.	
That aside, none of this was beyond the scope of his
comprehension. The week-old answerphone message from
his mother tweaked at his conscience, but he pushed it away
again. He braced himself. 'Miss Barham, coincidentally i
saw your brother earlier yesterday evening in the bar of the Chamberlain Hotel. He was with a woman, about five  foot,
with long, reddish hair and brown eyes. Do you have any
idea who she might be?' He'd keep his own opinions about
the brunette to himself for now.
'No, I'm sorry. As I said, I'm a bit out of touch.'
He couldn't resist. 'Yet you seem very sure that Eddi^
wasn't considering taking up a new recreational pursuit.' '

She flushed with annoyance. "I do know Eddie. We may
not have seen each other often, but I know he wouldn't
have done that. He didn't smoke, he hardly ever drank--'
'People change. Sometimes pretty dramatically.'
'Not Eddie. He wasn't a user,' she insisted.
'He doesn't have to have been. It looks as if it was his
first time.'
'No!' Again the anger flared.
When the silence stretched to breaking point and she still
made no reference to the other item outstanding, Mariner
said quietly, 'There was another man in the house.'
His words had a more dramatic effect than anything he'd
said so far and she jumped violently, almost spilling the tea.
'Jamie! God, of course! I'd completely-- Forgotten? Now
that was unbelievable. 'But I don't understand - he shouldn't
have been there. Not at the weekend. Is he all right?' She got
to finally.
'Oh he's fine.' Involuntarily, Mariner touched his
swollen nose and elicited a smirk of understanding from
her. 'Although that skull of his should be classed as an
offensive weapon,' Mariner said. 'He is--?'
'My younger brother.' It was confirmation of what
they'd already half guessed from the physical resemblance
to the dead man. He was struck by her likeness to her
brothers, too. Though smaller and more fragile, she had the
same fair hair, tinged with red and cut boyishly short so
that it curled into the nape of her neck. They were like peas
in a pod, the Barhams. 'Where is he?' she asked.
'At the station. We're waiting for him to come down so
that we can talk to him.'
'Come down?' Momentarily she was confused, but as
realisation dawned, she broke into a humourless laugh. 'Oh
great, now you're going to try and tell me that Jamie's on
drugs, too.'
'Miss Barham, Eddie was found with a hypodermic needle
sticking out of his arm. There's not much doubt about the
way he died. And we found more syringes in the bathroom--'
'Yes, probably left over from a time when Jamie used to
have seizures,' she said matte r-of-factly. 'Afterwards, he
needed an injection of Valium to help him calm down and
sleep it off.'
'And head-butting people is a normal part of his behaviour,
is it?' Mariner persisted. 'We found him hiding in a
cupboard under the stairs and when we let him out, he went
crazy.' Her reluctance was understandable and nothing
new. 'Look,' he went on patiently, trying to help her out.
'You don't have to pretend to me, I've had years of experience
of users.'
'And what's your experience of autism, Inspector?'
'Autism?' It came at him from out of left field.
'Jamie isn't on drugs, he's autistic. He freaked out
because he was frightened. He didn't know you. It's that'
simple. If he was shut in a cupboard he would have been
terrified. He's always been afraid of the dark.' Her voice
carried a triumphant ring.
It took Mariner a few seconds to fully digest what she'd
said, but gradually it began to add up. The kid's raw terror,
his apparent total lack of understanding of anything they'd
said to him, the peculiar mannerisms. 'Autistic. Christ,' he
said at last. 'That's why we couldn't find any tracks.'
'I'm sorry to disappoint you, Inspector, but Jamie won't
be "coming down" from anywhere. That's the way he is
all the time.'
'We're going to need to talk to him,' Mariner reiterated
eventually.
'You can talk away,' she said, with obvious amusement
'Jamie will completely ignore you. His understanding of
spoken language is virtually non-existent, and the only
things he says are words and phrases that he's learned,
mainly from the TV. He just echoes what he hears.'
'Echoes?' It was out before he could stop himself
Mariner groaned inwardly. This was worse than he'd
thought. The video camera had proved a nil return
there was no tape loaded, so finding Jamie Barham had
been the next best thing. They were banking on him as a
key witness. Mariner had felt confident that however stoned
he might have been, he would be able to confirm at least
some of the events of the previous evening. 'Maybe if you talked to Jamie?' he suggested, hopefully.
"Me?' Another wry laugh. 'You must be joking. Eddie's
the one you need.'
'We will have to interview Jamie, and the sooner the
better. It will help if you can be there. And then you can
take him home.'
'Home?'
'He's not under arrest. We only held him for his own
safety until after questioning. He's free to go at any time.'
'But not with me!' And for the first time she seemed
truly appalled. 'I'm flying to Milan in a few days. I
can't
look after him.'
'So is there someone else we can contact?'
"I don't know. He goes into respite care at the weekends
but the rest of the time--' Her shoulders sagged as suddenly
the fight went out of her and finally the tears looked as if
they might come. 'With Eddie gone there's nobody. God,
what a mess.'
'What about your parents?'
'My parents are dead.'
So she could have been through this before. Shit. Nice
work, Mariner.


Chapter Three

From the mortuary it was a twenty-minute drive to
Operational Command Unit 2, Granville Lane Policei
Station, where Jamie Barham was being held. The station'
was Monday-morning busy, nonetheless allowing the deski
sergeant the opportunity to call out cheerily as they passed,
'That bloke you brought in last night has been creating
havoc in the cells, sir.'	¦
'Doing what?'
'Trying to crack his head open on the walls, mainly
Draper's had him brought up here for his own safety.
Andy Draper, the station's Forensic Medical Examine
would be overseeing Jamie Barham's detention.
'Where is he?' asked Mariner.
'Observation Room Four. We're keeping an eye on him.
Draper says he can't find any traces of drug use either
He's just your average nutcase.'
'Cheers.' Mariner flashed Anna an apologetic smile. So
far, locking up Jamie Barham had been nothing more than
a misunderstanding and he'd been hoping they could keep
it that way. 'Through here.' Moving swiftly on, Marinia
led the way through a maze of brightly lit corridors until
they reached a door, which he pushed open, standing back
to allow her in.
The room itself was empty but the entire width of one
wall was panelled with glass and on the other side of it was
Jamie Barham. Mariner immediately sensed Anna's unease.
Wearing only underpants and a single sock Jamie paced
restlessly around the perimeter of the room, stopping now
and then at some random spot to spread the fingers of both
hands on the wall, laying his cheek in between, as if listening
for something on the other side. The wild, agitated
appearance his matted and spiky hair gave him was
compounded by the deep graze on his forehead, which had
streaked blood down one side of his face and on to his pale
wiry body. Here and there terracotta coloured prints
adorned the stark white walls of the room; decorative stencilling
gone grotesquely wrong. But even in that condition
Jamie Barham was strikingly handsome with the sort of
intense good looks that stared insolently from arty monochrome
aftershave ads.
'So if he's autistic,' Knox broke the silence. 'Does that
mean he's really a genius? Like Rain ManV
Anna gave a derisory snort. 'You can forget the toothpick
trick. Jamie's no mathematical genius. He's what they
poetically call "low functioning". On top of the autism he
has learning difficulties too. Unless Eddie's worked miracles,
he can't even dress himself without considerable
help.'
Knox nodded towards a pile of linen in the corner. 'We
gave him those, but he wouldn't put them on.'
'Where are his clothes?'
'They had blood on them, they're being analysed.'
Mariner told her.
'Eddie's blood?' She seemed almost afraid to say it.
'Some of it was mine, but apart from that we don't
know.'
'So what happens now?'
'We would like to talk to him. It's just an informal chat,
but he has the right to legal representation--'

They seemed to be doing a good job of keeping her
amused. This time she laughed out loud. 'I hardly think
that will be necessary. What you'll need is some kind of
incentive just to get him to sit down and take notice of
you.'
'Like what?'
'I've no idea. I don't know what he's into now. It always
used to be Monster Munch: pickled onion flavour.'

'Hula Hoops,' said Knox.
'What?'
'At the flat,' the constable reminded him. 'There were
Hula Hoops all over the floor, remember? Perhaps his taste
has improved.'	"
'That sounds the right kind of thing,' Anna agreed
'I'll see if they've got some in the canteen.' Knox left
them alone.
'Can I get him dressed first?' asked Anna.
'Of course.' Mariner stood and watched from behind the
two-way mirror as Anna Barham entered the room with her
brother. The intercom was switched off, so the scene ran
before him like a silent movie being played in slow motion
and was one of the most bizarre encounters between human
siblings that Mariner had ever witnessed.
Closing the door behind her, Anna's lips moved in
noiseless greeting. Jamie ceased pacing momentarily and
turned towards her with a wary sideways look. Anna
walked slowly to the other side of the room to retrieve the clothes. Picking out a T-shirt, she held it out towards her brother and began to gradually advance towards him, all the time her lips moving, in what Mariner imagined was some
kind of soothing encouragement. Jamie visibly tensed
bringing his hands up parallel with his ears and flapping his
fingers in agitation. Anna stopped momentarily and waited, Eventually he brought his hands down again to pluck at his
crotch like a nervous toddler. Anna resumed her approach
and as soon as she was near enough, slipped the T-shirt
over his head and guided his arms up into the sleeves in "*
swift, fluid action. She repeated the whole process with
other items of clothing, the last garment going on just as
Knox returned from his quest.
'Christ, look at that,' breathed Mariner. 'It's like dressing
a kid.' As he spoke Anna turned to the 'mirror', giving
the thumbs up signal for them to join her.
Mariner and Knox came into the interview room,
Mariner with some caution, memories of his last face-to
face encounter with Jamie Barham still fresh in his mind.
His fears were unfounded - Jamie had other more pressing
concerns. With the speed and accuracy of an Exocet he
homed in immediately on the crisp packet, hovering over
Knox while he and Mariner seated themselves at the table.
Mariner slipped a tape into the recording machine. 'Even
though this isn't a formal interview it might be helpful,' he
explained to Anna. For the benefit of the tape he set the
scene; date, time, persons present, before turning back to
her across the table. 'Let's do it.'
'Okay. As I told you, he won't understand much of what
you say to him,' she said. 'You'll need to keep your
language very simple. Short questions, using just the key
words. And say his name first each time to get his attention.'
Taking the Hula Hoops packet from Knox, she held
it up, deliberately scrunching the wrapper noisily, dangling
the proverbial carrot.
Jamie made a grab for it but missed. 'Loops. Want a
loops!' he said.
'Jamie, sit down.' Anna patted the fourth chair beside
her and Jamie obediently sat without taking his eyes off the
crisps.
'Good,' said Anna. 'Good sitting.' She rewarded him
with a single Hula Hoop which Jamie held up to the light,
turning it round in his fingers, before putting it in his mouth
then holding out his hand immediately for another. Over the
years Mariner considered himself to be up to the mark with
most interviewing techniques but this one was something
else. Anna gave him the nod.
'Jamie,' he began. Jamie glanced briefly in his direction
as if newly aware that there was someone else present.
What happened last night, at your house?'
No response. Jamie's attention had reverted to the Hula
Hoops. Seizing Anna's free hand he pushed it towards the
packet. Anna pulled away. 'Not yet, Jamie,' she said,
Mariner cleared his throat. 'Jamie, what happened last
night at home?'
This time the response was instant. 'Home! Home now!'
Jamie shouted and jumped up grabbing Anna's arm, dragging
her off the chair and towards the door. Anna wrenched'
herself free. 'No Jamie, not now. Look, Hula Hoops.' She
held up the packet and, regaining his attention, led him
back to the table.
'Loops,' Jamie echoed, reaching out for another.
As he sat down Anna gave him another of the snacks
'Yes. Jamie sit down, that's good sitting.' She looked over at Mariner. 'Try something different,' she suggested. ^
'Jamie, what happened to Eddie?' Mariner said.
'Eddie,' the word echoed back at him.
'That's right,' said Mariner, encouraged. 'Wha
happened, Jamie? What happened to Eddie last night, what
did he do?'
'Eddie,' Jamie repeated once more and then, as if a
sudden realisation, he leapt up tipping back the chair with
a crash and began to restlessly pace the room.	'

'You've said too much,' said Anna. 'It's confusing him
Jamie came to a halt, resting his face against the wal
murmuring to himself.
'What's he saying?' asked Knox. They listened.
'Sounds like "Sally",' said Mariner. For a split second
Jamie glared at him, angrily.
'No Sally-Ann! No Sally-Ann!' he shouted.
'Sally-Ann who? Who's she?'
Anna pulled a face. "I don't know.'
They listened again as Jamie's chanting grew in intensity. Then suddenly, without warning, Jamie began banging
his forehead against the wall, in time with the chanting over and over and with increasing force. Both Anna and
Knox jumped up and managed between them to drag him
away, Knox firmly gripping Jamie by the shoulders to
restrain him.
'Jamie, stop!' said Anna. 'It's all right, there's no Sally
Ann. Stop!' Slowly Jamie ceased struggling against Knox
and calmed down.
Anna turned to Mariner. "I told you, it's a waste of time.
He doesn't understand abstracts. He's only interested in
here and now. Concrete things. Things that are important
to him, like Hula Hoops.'
'All right,' said Mariner, rethinking. 'How about if we
took him back to the house?'
Anna sighed, wearily. 'It might be worth a try.'
'Get a car organised, will you, Knox?'

In the light of day thirty-four Clarendon Avenue looked like
any other in the street, with nothing except the narrow strip
of crime scene tape to mark it out as so recently called on
by death. And even that didn't look entirely out of place
alongside what resembled a small building site in the
garden next door, half of it covered by a brand new
expanse of block paving.
On the approach to the house, Jamie had become manifestly
more disturbed, flicking his fingers by his ears, his
eyes panning anxiously from one side to another. Once
Knox had pulled into the drive, the two officers stood back
while Anna attempted to coax her brother out of the car.
But before they'd even unlocked the front door, with a
sudden shout of, 'No black mouth!' Jamie took off running
down the street.
Knox was off like a shot, too, but it was Mariner who
got there first, catching up with Jamie, grabbing him and
propelling him, struggling, back to the car. 'What's all this
"black mouth" stuff?' Mariner asked Anna, trying not to let
his breathlessness show.
"I don't know. I'm as much in the dark--,' She stopped.
Wait. You said he was shut in the cupboard? That could
be it. He might think we're going to shut him in the "black
mouth" of the cupboard again. We've brought him back
here too soon. This is too frightening for him.'
'Terrific' Another avenue barred, though not entirely.
As they prepared to leave, the front door of the adjacent
house opened and a woman emerged, carrying a small
fluffy canine, to step delicately around the piles of sand and
bricks.
'Hold on.' Seeing an opportunity, Mariner jumped back
out of the car and, introducing himself, thrust his ID
towards the woman, over the low hedge.
Long past the age for reading glasses, she squinted at it,
before looking over Mariner's shoulder towards the unmarked
police car. 'Have you got Jamie in there? I thought so.'
'And you are ...?'
'Moira Warren.' She shook her head sadly. 'I can't
believe that such a dreadful thing has happened to that poor
young man. He was wonderful with Jamie.'
News travelled fast, but only apparently one way. Mariner
had already been told that so far the house to house had
turned up no worthwhile information. Nobody had seen or
heard anything the previous night. It hadn't helped that there
had been some kind of social gathering down the street early
on, which meant that cars had been coming and going for
most of the evening. Anything happening at number thirty
four would have just blended into the activity.
'But you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary
yesterday?'
'No. I've had the workmen here all over the weekend,
working on the drive. This job should have been finished
in three days, but you know what it's like. They start something
and then there's a problem. Five days it's been going
on and it's still--'
'Did you know Eddie and Jamie Barham very well?'
Mariner cut in.
'Not really, no. We only moved in two years ago this
February gone and we hardly ever saw them. I know the

last people used to help out with Jamie, sitting with him
sometimes. I did try once, but--,'
'But?'
Her tone got defensive. Conscience kicking in. 'It was
difficult, Officer. Jamie's a grown man. He's strong and
I'm not getting any younger. My husband said I shouldn't
do it. I already told all this to the young policeman who
came to see me.'
'So you haven't helped out recently?'
'No. But I don't think Eddie needed it lately because of
the girl.'
'What girl?'
'I assumed that she was Eddie's girlfriend. I never actually
asked. You don't like to be nosy, do you?' That took a stretch
of the imagination. 'We were just pleased to see that Eddie
had a young lady. He must have missed out on so much
because of well, you know.' With a glance in Jamie's direction
she lowered her voice conspiratorially, though not quite
enough to prevent it carrying as far as the car. 'To be honest
I'm not surprised it all got too much for him,' she intimated.
'There's a sister you know. Haven't seen hide nor hair of her
since we've been here but she's out there somewhere. You'd
have thought that she might have--'
'This girl. Was her name Sally? Sally-Ann?' Mariner
interrupted again.
'It might have been, we were never actually introduced.'
'What did she look like?'
'She was a pretty girl, tall, with lovely long dark hair.
But a bit ... you know.'
'What?'
'Well, sort of common looking. You know what these
young girls are like these days. Tiny little skirts that leave
nothing to the imagination.' Eddie and the brunette, sounding
like more than just a one-off. And were she and
Sally-Ann the same person?
'Did you see this girl around last night?' Mariner asked.
'No.' The micro-hound had begun to wriggle and whine

in her arms. 'I'll have to go now, Oscar needs to do his
business. But if I can be of any more help, Officer--'
After what he'd just heard, Mariner doubted that she
could, but he nodded thanks anyway. He went back to the
car, mulling over the new information. 'Could this Sally
have been Eddie's girlfriend?' he asked Anna.
"I didn't even know that Eddie had a girlfriend,' she
replied, testily. 'As you heard, I haven't been near the
place for years.'
'Well, whoever she is, we need to find her.'
'So what now?'
'We'll take you home.'
'No!'
Mariner was unprepared for the force of her response,
but then, if he imagined a home as perfectly turned out as
she was herself, and the potential effect on it her brother
might have, he could understand the reaction.
'Jamie goes to a day centre on the other side of
Harborne,' she was saying. "I think I can direct you to it.
If we take him there first, it will give me time to arrange
things.'
They drove in near silence as she issued hesitant instructions
to Knox, which left Mariner wondering how sure she
was about where they were going. 'Eddie worked for the Echo, didn't he?' he said, firming up facts as they drove.
'Yes.'
'Doing what exactly?'
She seemed relieved to be able for once to answer him.
'He was a reporter,' she said. 'It meant he could work flexible
hours and be around for Jamie.'
'Do you know what sort of stuff he covered?'
She was out of her depth again. 'All sorts, from what I
remember,' she said, vaguely. 'You'd need to talk to the
paper.'
It was on the list.
Judging from Jamie's reaction as they drew up outside a
low, modern building, Anna's memory of where he spent
his days was accurate. He bounded in like an eager puppy,
visibly relaxed and clearly at home. Knox waited in the car.
'Greencote Day Centre' was the logo emblazoned on the
chest of the middle-aged woman who emerged from an
office to greet them in the foyer. 'Joyce Clark. I'm the
centre manager. Can I help you?'
Mariner produced his warrant card yet again, which
Joyce accepted as though visits from the police were an
everyday occurrence. 'We were wondering where Jamie
had got to,' she said. 'Eddie's usually good at letting us
know if he's going to be late. Has he been running away
again?' So perhaps they were.
'I'm afraid it's more serious than that,' Mariner said, in an attempt to prepare her. 'I'm afraid Eddie Barham is
dead.'
Joyce just gaped at them. 'When? How?' she ventured
when she finally found her voice.
'Late last night,' said Mariner. 'We're not sure of the
exact circumstances just yet.'
'Oh my goodness, poor Eddie, poor Jamie. What on earth will happen to him? Where will he go?'
Taking her cue, Anna put out a hand. 'Hi, I'm Anna,
Jamie's sister,' she said.
'Oh. I had no idea--' That he had a sister? As the women
shook hands Mariner completed Joyce's statement in his
head. A pattern was beginning to develop.
'I'm so sorry.' Joyce was flustered now. 'This is such a
shock.' She turned to Mariner. 'You don't know--'
'It's early days,' he said. 'But anything you can tell us
might be helpful. For instance, when did you last see
Eddie?'
'Well as far as I remember, he came to collect Jamie
from the centre on Friday afternoon as normal. Most of our
clients travel on the centre transport, but for the last few
weeks Eddie has been bringing Jamie in and fetching him
himself.'
'Why was that?'
'I'm not really sure of the precise reason. I presumed
that it fitted in more conveniently with Eddie's working
pattern. If he wasn't home at the right time to receive
Jamie--'
'But I thought Jamie was going to Oakwood for the
weekends to give Eddie some respite?' said Anna. 'That's
where he should have been.'
Joyce looked embarrassed. 'Not any more. Eddie withdrew
Jamie from the Oakwood about two months ago.'
'Oh.' Anna reddened. So she really was that out of
touch. 'Why?' she asked.
'It was the medication, I think.'
'Medication?'
'They wanted to put Jamie on something to help his
sleeping, but Eddie wasn't keen. The next thing we knew,
Jamie was back home at the weekends.'
'How did Eddie seem on Friday?' Mariner asked.
'Oh, I didn't speak to him myself. I only saw him briefly
from a distance. You'd need to talk to Jamie's key worker,
Francine, although I'm afraid she's tied up with supervising
lunch at the moment. The last time I spoke to Eddie
personally would have been a couple of weeks ago. We had
been having some problems with Jamie's behaviour, so he
came in to discuss them.'
'What sort of problems?' Anna asked, warily.
As they talked, people had wandered past them in the
corridor and, realising they were being overheard, Joyce
ushered them towards her office. 'It might be better to
continue in here, where it's a bit more private,' she said.
'And if you can wait a moment, I'll just go and settle Jamie
with his group.' She walked over to Jamie. 'Lunch, Jamie,'
she said, gently touching his arm. And without a murmur,
Jamie turned and followed her down the corridor. Mariner
went with Anna into the cluttered office where Joyce
returned to join them a few minutes later.
'You were going to tell us about Jamie's behaviour,'
Anna prompted, before Mariner could say anything.
Joyce began cautiously. 'Well, in recent months, it's as
if Jamie has suddenly developed some kind of sexual
awareness,' she told them. 'Eddie had started having problems
with Jamie exposing himself, masturbating publicly,
that kind of thing. Only a week ago he walked up to a
woman in the swimming baths and made a grab for her
breasts. Eddie thought she was going to bring indecent
assault charges.'
'It must have been worrying for Eddie,' said Mariner,
seeing the alarm on Anna's face and wanting to steer the
conversation back round to Eddie.
'It was,' Joyce said. 'We were all concerned. It's not an
uncommon situation with the young adults we work with
here, a child's mind inside an adult body and all that, but
it doesn't make it any easier. While it might be reasonable
to ignore a three-year-old playing with his private parts in
public, at twenty-nine it's a different matter entirely. It's
vital for Jamie to learn about what is unacceptable social
behaviour, so we discussed some strategies for managing it.
Eddie took it very seriously. He even went as far as
installing a video camera at home so that we could monitor
progress.' The camera. That knocked Knox's theory on the
head.
'Jamie's other obsessions were worsening too,' Joyce
continued. 'For some time now he's had a fixation with
mobile phones. He recognises all the brand names and for
months he made Eddie drive past the same billboard on the
way to the centre because it displayed an advert for One to
One. When they changed the poster for something different,
Jamie got very distressed.'
'He was like that with pylons and radio transmission
masts when he was little,' said Anna. 'Insisted on Dad
driving past them every time we went out. He could spot
them from miles away.'
'Will Jamie be staying with you now?' Joyce asked.
Anna's face registered panic. 'I'm not sure. It's difficult,'
she stalled. "I feel as if I hardly know him,' she said.
And after what we've just heard, thought Mariner.
'Oh, I'm sure it won't take long for you to get to know
each other again,' Joyce was cheerfully encouraging. 'As I
said, he likes to go swimming, and Eddie used to take him
to McDonald's a lot. He loves his Big Macs.'
But this was evidently not what Anna wanted to hear.
'It's not really as simple as that,' she persisted. "I have
commitments. Do you know if there's anywhere that Jamie
could stay, temporarily, while I get things sorted out?'
Joyce looked doubtful. 'Nothing that could be accessed
immediately. That was Eddie's mistake. Residential places
are like gold dust. There just aren't enough places in the
city. Other parents at the support group might be able to
give you some ideas, though. You could try coming to their
meeting on a Thursday evening. They often discuss issues
around respite care.'
'I'll think about that,' said Anna, though it didn't look to
Mariner as if it would occupy her thoughts for long.
'One more thing,' he said. 'We tried to question Jamie
about what happened last night, but we couldn't get much
out of him.'
Joyce nodded knowingly, 'It would be difficult. Jamie
has very little understanding of spoken language.'
'Is there anyone here who could talk to him? Try to find
out if he does know anything?'
'Francine would be the best person, she knows him
better than anyone. But to be honest, all you're likely to get
is the odd word. It may not mean much.'
'Well, if she could give it a try and let me know the
outcome.' Mariner gave Joyce his card. 'Someone Jamie
did mention is Sally. Could be Sally-Ann. Have you any
idea who she might be? Eddie's girlfriend perhaps?'

Joyce looked blank. "I wasn't aware that Eddie had a
girlfriend. With Jamie to take care of, I'd be surprised if
he had the time.'
Back at the car they roused Knox from a snooze.

'Where can we drop you?' Mariner asked.
Anna was decisive. 'Back at the office; life has to go on.'
Or was that just wishful thinking? In those five short
words Mariner could hear the desperate desire for her life
to continue as it had done before they'd come along and so
shockingly disrupted it, a need to step out of this surreal
sequence of events and return to normality. It was a
common enough feeling for anyone following traumatic
news, and one with which he was all too familiar.


Chapter Four

'Hungry, boss?' Knox asked hopefully. They were watching
Anna Barham walk back into the Priory Management
building, where a security guard let her in with a smile and
a pleasantry. Food wasn't at that moment featuring
anywhere in Mariner's thoughts but now that Knox raised
the subject, he realised it was the middle of the afternoon
and he'd eaten nothing all day. No wonder he felt light
headed. Knox could be forgiven for feeling the same.
'So what's it to be? Drive-in McDonald's?'
'Something infinitely better.' Mariner directed Knox
back into the city centre, casting his eyes about as he had
been all morning in the vain hope that a tall, elegant girl
with long chestnut hair might suddenly emerge from around
a street corner. If only he'd known at the time how important
she was to become.
On the Ladypool Road, Knox waited in the car while
Mariner went into Nazeem's and picked up six assorted
samosas and a couple of bottles of Evian. They parked up
in a side street of brown Edwardian villas to eat.
Knox peered suspiciously into the brown paper bag.
'This isn't food,' he grumbled.
'Get it down you. It's good stuff,' said Mariner.
'So, what do you think?' Knox asked, through a mouthful
of spicy vegetables, but he wasn't talking about the
samosa.

"I think we can't do much until we've had the postmortem
findings. Best case scenario they'll prove
conclusively that Eddie Barham killed himself by self
injecting an obscene amount of heroin. He was under stress
so he took the easy way out. Case closed.'
'It'll take more than a coroner's verdict to convince Anna
Barham.'
Knox was right. She was the fly in the ointment all right.
From where they sat, the reason for Eddie Barham's death
looked obvious, so why should Anna Barham stay so
convinced that her brother, whom by all accounts she
hardly knew, hadn't taken his own life?
'The one person who should be able to clear this up is
the brunette,' said Mariner, in between swigs of water.
'If we can find her,' said Knox. 'She's hardly likely to
just walk up and introduce herself, is she?'
'Well, Eddie had been trawling the small ads so maybe
that's where we'll find her too. We can start by going
through his phone bills, too,' he said. 'See if any of the
numbers match up.'
'And I could try ringing round the agencies themselves,'
Knox added. 'We've got a description and an approximation
of a name, so with any luck the two belong to the same
person. Somebody must know her. We should talk to
Eddie's workmates.'
'I'll do that,' said Mariner. 'Even if they can't help identify
the woman, it'll help to know what Eddie's been up to
during the last few weeks. See if there's anything else that
might have pushed him over the edge.' Although Mariner
was already beginning to think that there didn't need to
be anything else. Jamie Barham alone was probably more
than enough. Not having any siblings himself, Mariner
found it impossible to imagine a situation in which he
could be wholly responsible for another adult, let alone one
who had turned into an obsessive willy-waver. Eddie
Barham was sounding like a saint. And even saints had
their limits.
'Sounds all right to me,' Knox agreed. As a straightforward
suicide, since he'd made his statement about the
discovery, Mariner should really have handed Eddie
Barham over to uniform, in this instance Knox, to complete
the formalities. But in the early hours of this morning they
had agreed between them that having been at the scene,
Mariner would be present to break the bad news to Anna
Barham. Now he could reasonably bow out and leave the
rest to the junior officer. Mariner though, for reasons that
he couldn't quite pinpoint, wasn't ready to let go yet and
Knox was apparently happy to keep him involved. 'Aren't
we always being told what good practice it is for CID and
uniform to work in collaboration?' he said now, with more
than a hint of irony.
'Absolutely,' said Mariner.
'But that's the last time you get the dinner,' said Knox,
screwing the empty brown paper bag into a ball in disgust.
'That tasted like shite.'

Boasting the biggest circulation in the West Midlands, the Birmingham Echo was the Birmingham Post's tarty younger
sister, a tabloid that thrived on melodrama, running regular
banner headlines and editorials decrying the police, amid
dramatically soaring crime statistics: statistics that were
always, naturally, isolated from context and hugely exaggerated.
But sensation sells, and had earned the Echo an
impressive-looking imitation of New York's cone-topped
Chrysler building deep in the heart of Birmingham's
business quarter. This was the district that tried hard to
ape its more sophisticated European equivalents and had,
to a limited degree, succeeded. One of its triumphs was
the complete lack of parking space, so it was fortunate for
Mariner that today he had a chauffeur to drop him at the
door. 'See you back at the ranch, boss,' said Knox as he
dropped him off.
Inside a vast open-plan lobby, Mariner flashed his ID at
one of a whole bank of receptionists who hardly gave it a
glance. One day he'd stick a picture of Mickey Mouse over
his photograph and see if that provoked any kind of reaction.
'I'd like to talk to Ken Moloney,' he said. Thanks to
the extensive blood clots that had taken up residence in his
nasal passages, Mariner made it sound like 'baloney',
which by pure coincidence also summed up his opinion of
the newspaper.
Mariner was directed to a glass-sided lift, which would
transport him up to the eighteenth floor, a ride that afforded
him a spectacular panoramic view over Birmingham's
sprawling urban skyline and gave him a sudden yearning
for the craggy towers of the Rhinogs in North Wales. For
most of the time, Mariner was a man at ease with the city
along with all its noise, dirt and blissful anonymity. But
now and again he felt the need to get away. He had some
leave due. Maybe when this was cleared up he'd take a few
days in Snowdonia.
Alerted to Mariner's arrival, editor-in-chief Ken
Moloney greeted him at the door to his office which, unlike
the rest of the building, Mariner noted, was not a smoke
free zone. Moloney stood swathed in a bluish haze like
some science-fiction time lord, if at close range a pretty
raddled one, a half-smoked Marlboro clamped between his
knuckles. The effects of this forty-a-day habit, along with
a lifetime of burning the midnight oil to meet spiralling
deadlines, were imprinted in his coarse complexion. Add to
that the folds of several chins and lank, thinning hair, and
Moloney didn't present a physically attractive role model
for his profession.
Mariner declined offers of tea, coffee or mineral water.
Some kind of breathing apparatus would have been of benefit given his constricted airways, but that wasn't
presented as an option.
'What can I do you for?' Moloney asked drolly, when
they had settled either side of an enormous mahogany desk
that was as battered and scarred as Moloney himself, much
of its surface covered with stacks of paper.

'I'd like to talk to you about Eddie Barham.' Mariner
said.
Sizing up Mariner's damaged nose, Moloney broke into
a broad nicotine-stained grin. 'Oh yes. What's he done
now?'
'He was found dead at his home last night,' said
Mariner. 'He appears to have committed suicide.'
That took the wind out of Moloney's sails. In fact,
judging from the blanching effect on his face, it had scuttled
the whole boat. 'Jesus Christ,' he wheezed, taking a
long drag on his cigarette. 'Are you sure?'
Mariner nodded. 'That's certainly how it looks.'
'Jesus Christ,' Moloney repeated. 'I knew things had
taken a turn for Ed, but I didn't know things were that
bad.'
'You must have known him pretty well then.'
'We weren't what you'd call bosom buddies, but he'd
been around the block a few times, you know? He must be
- have been - one of our longest-serving reporters. A lot
of kids see us as just a stepping-stone to the nationals, but
Eddie started as a cub years ago and stuck with us. Poor
bastard.'
'What did you mean; "things had taken a turn"?'
Mariner probed.
'A few years back, Eddie was right there at the top,'
Moloney explained. 'You could send him anywhere,
anytime and you'd be sure to get a cracking copy from him.
His talent was for the slow-burn investigative stuff. You
could always rely on something good from him.'
'Always?'
'Eddie had a strong sense of social injustice. Once he got
hold of something he wouldn't let it go. He could be very
persuasive and was very good at getting people to talk to
him. People seemed to trust him, you know? And he was
patient. He'd just bide his time and eventually get out of
them what he wanted.'
Praise indeed, and no doubt justifiable. Mariner thought
back to the scene in the Chamberlain Hotel, when the
brunette had capitulated. 'So if he was so good at his job,
what went wrong? Drugs?' he hazarded.
But Moloney seemed genuinely appalled at the suggestion.
'No. Eddie wouldn't be the sort to do drugs. He was
a very down-to-earth guy.' He sounded absolutely certain.
'Nothing went wrong, as such. He just chose to take a step
down. He took a demotion, about three years ago, back on
to the local desk; writing fillers for the main pages.'
'Things were getting too much for him?'
'In a way, but not at work. He had a forced change of
circumstances. He lost both his parents very suddenly some
time back, and there's this brother, he's mentally handicapped
or something--'
Mariner touched his nose. 'Jamie. We've met.'
Moloney smirked. 'Oh, I see. Yeah, well, he's been here
once or twice. Bloody liability. Anyway, he needs a lot of
looking after, someone there all the time. He goes to some
day-care place and in the early days Eddie had some
arrangement with the neighbours, too, but suddenly all that
changed. He struggled on for as long a he could but eventually
he asked for a move to nine till five. I tried to
negotiate something, but whatever Eddie takes on he throws
himself into one hundred per cent. It was like that with the
boy. For the big stories, we need someone who can go
where the action is any hour of the day or night, and Eddie
said he wasn't prepared to do that any more.'
'So it was his decision?'
'Eddie knew the score.'
'And did he seem unhappy about it?'
'He was more philosophical. I think he felt that there
wasn't a choice. There is a sister around somewhere, but
there didn't seem to be any question that Eddie would take
on the kid brother. Sure, he must have found the change
frustrating, but he was never the sort of guy to whinge on
about things. Ironically, although he was working regular
hours then, we saw less and less of him. He did his job then
went home. Either way, he still made his deadlines, so it
didn't bother me. He never stopped being reliable.' The
original Steady Eddie.
'And would you have known if things were getting too
much for him?'
It took Moloney several seconds to meet Mariner's eye.
'The man was a pro. He wouldn't have found it acceptable
to have his home life interfere with his work.'
Mariner let him off the hook. 'Who were Eddie's close
friends?'
'I'm not sure that he had any what you'd call close
friends. Eddie got along okay with most people, but he was
a bit of a loner. Not much choice given his domestic setup.'
'Did he have a girlfriend?' Mariner asked.
Moloney shook his head. "I never got the impression that
there was anyone because of the boy, but I suppose there
could have been.'
'Do you know a girl called Sally, possibly Sally-Ann?'
'No, can't say I do.'
'When was the last time anyone here would have seen
Eddie?' asked Mariner.
'Friday, he was in for work as usual, as far as I know.
He'd have been working with Darren Smith, one of our
photographers. They'd got to be quite a team. They worked
together on a regular basis.'
'I'll need to speak to Darren. And I may want to look at
Eddie's workspace and check the files on his computer.'
'Sure.'
The interview had run its course. 'Well, thanks for your
time Mr Moloney,' Mariner said.
'No problem. Anything we can do.'
Mariner stood up and even though it was only a few
paces, Moloney walked him to the door. Something was
still bothering him. 'We can run this as a story?' he asked
at last. So that was it.
'It's news, isn't it?' said Mariner, drily.

'So what can we print?'
'Let's go for novelty. How about the facts?'
His sarcasm went unremarked. 'Which are?'
'That Eddie Barham was discovered dead at his home
late last night. Police are not currently looking for anyone
else in connection with his death, but would like to speak
to a woman who may have been at the scene, and who made
the emergency call.'
Moloney nodded, sadly. 'Eddie was a good bloke,' he
said. 'A lot of people round here will miss him. And I think
we'll all feel bad that we didn't see this coming.' He
sounded entirely sincere and for some reason Mariner was
surprised. A press man with a conscience was a new
phenomenon.
On the wall by the door to Moloney's office Mariner's
attention was caught by one of several framed front
pages: 'LOCAL HOMELESS CHARITY EXPOSED',
byline Edward Barham. Mariner scanned the page. 'This
was one of his?'
'Yeah. Caused quite a furore at the time. Eddie won a
couple of awards for it, too. I think his only regret was that
Frank Crosby didn't get put inside. Still, the publicity
didn't do the bastard much good.'
Frank Crosby. Although Mariner had never personally
had dealings with the man, Crosby's was the name you
heard bandied around the station canteen with frightening
regularity, in connection with just about anything criminal
you could shake a stick at. Drugs, gambling, prostitution,
Crosby was up to his ears in it. That was an interesting
link.
Darren, Eddie Barham's erstwhile co-worker, it transpired,
had called in sick, so interviewing him would have
to keep until another day. If indeed that proved to be necessary.
For Mariner a clear picture was emerging of a man
under pressure, and he still hoped that the path report
would remove any remaining traces of doubt.
Returning to the office, Anna couldn't help but remark
on the contrast with her entrance earlier this morning,
when the world had been a different place and she'd been
in command of her life. Now, in a matter of hours, she
felt as though chaos theory was being tested out at her
expense. She tried not to dwell on it. If she was going
to keep on top of things, she needed to focus on her job
again.
Becky came in, full of concern. 'It's true?' Anna nodded.
'Oh, Anna, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?'
Anna smiled bravely. 'I'm fine. It's a shock of course,
but we weren't exactly close.'
'Do you want us to re-schedule tonight?' Becky asked.
Anna didn't know what she was talking about. 'Tonight?'
'Robinson's at da Paglia,' Becky reminded her.
'Oh shit.' With all that had happened, the dinner engagement
had flown completely out of her mind.
'If you're not feeling up to it, I'm sure Jonathan will
understand.'
Anna didn't share her friend's optimism. The meeting
with Robinson's had been set up weeks ago and to cancel it
now would be a PR disaster, both for Priory and for her
personally. 'It's not that. Remember my younger brother,
Jamie?'
'Yes, of course.'
'Well, with Eddie gone, I'm left with him.'
'Oh God. What will you do?'
'Try to find someone else to look after him I suppose.'
She'd have to. There was no alternative. A thought
suddenly struck her. 'Mark's a GP. Would he know anyone
who could help?'
'He might. I can ask him.'
'Tell him I'm desperate.'
'I'll see what I can do.'
Becky had been gone less than a minute when a second
knock preceded Jonathan, as suave as ever in a navy blue
Paul Smith suit, his well-chosen tie providing a tasteful
splash of colour. He closed the door behind him. "I heard
the news, Anna. I'm so sorry.' For a moment he looked as
if he might hug her, but then, remembering that they were
in full view of the outer office, he settled for taking Anna's
hand in both of his. It was one of those few occasions when
it wasn't enough. Anna wanted to sink into his arms and be
held, close and tight. 'You'll need a few days off,' he was
saying. 'Take as much time as you like.'
'No, it's okay, I'll be all right.'
Jonathan allowed a respectable pause.
'What about Robinson's, tonight?'
'It shouldn't be a problem,' Anna said, with far more
conviction than she felt.
'Are you sure? I mean, we can't call it off at this late
stage, but if you don't feel up to it, I'm sure I could ask
Melanie to stand in for you.'
'No. I'll be fine. Really.' The offer of Melanie as substitute
had come a little too quickly for Anna's taste. Fine or
not, she was damn sure she wasn't going to let that little
upstart muscle in on her deal. She was already beginning to
play a more prominent role around here than Anna was
happy with.
'Good,' Jonathan smiled. "I told Gillian it would be a very late night.'
Anna liked the sound of that. Now it was imperative
that she find somewhere for Jamie. Alone once more, she
turned her attention to her in-tray, firing off rapid
responses to memos and e-mails where she could, sending
faxes. After a whole morning out, there was a lot to
catch up on if she was to be ready for Milan by next
weekend. So much so, that when Becky put her head
around the door to say she was going, Anna didn't notice
how empty the outer office had become. The phone rang
and kept ringing, and glancing up irritably from her PC
monitor, Anna suddenly realised it was dusk and everyone
else had gone.
She picked up the handset. 'Hello?'
'Hi, this is Francine,' said a friendly-sounding voice.
'Francine?' Anna didn't know a Francine.
'I'm Jamie's key worker at the centre,' the voice
explained. 'I was wondering when you were coming to
collect him. All the other clients have gone home--'
Jamie! Anna had forgotten all about him. 'I'll be there as
soon as I can,' she said, already on her feet and stuffing
papers into her briefcase.
When she got to the centre it was practically deserted,
apart from the omnipresent cleaning staff. Jamie sat alone
in the foyer, head bent, gently rocking.
'Hi Jamie.'
He didn't even look up. He wasn't punishing her for
being late. He just wasn't interested.
A young mixed-race woman emerged from the office.
'Hi, I'm Francine, you must be Anna?'
'Yes. Look, I'm really sorry, I completely lost track of
the time.'
'That's okay,' Francine smiled generously. "I had some
paperwork to do and Jamie didn't seem to mind.' She hesitated.
'I'm so sorry about Eddie. I couldn't believe it when
Joyce told us. It must be hard for you.'
'It's bad timing,' Anna agreed. She still had this
evening's little problem to solve. Taking advantage of
Francine's sympathetic smile, Anna tried a long shot.
'Actually all this couldn't have come at a worse time for
me. Do you know if there's anywhere that would be able
to just look after Jamie for tonight?' But, predictably,
Francine didn't.

In the early evening gloom, Tom Mariner also sat at his
desk in a deserted office. His nose throbbed painfully and.
despite assurances that it wasn't broken, every time he
exhaled he emitted a low whistling sound. A bag of frozen
peas sent up by some wag in the station canteen was generating
a slow-spreading puddle on one corner of the desk,
like the dull ache that was inching its way around his
skull. He'd been through the files of local known prostitutes
over and over now, hoping he'd missed her the last time
and willing those brown eyes to gaze out at him. Once he
even thought he saw her, but he was kidding himself.
Either she was new or she was careful, or she wasn't what
he thought.
Knox had finished for the night, stating his intentions to
go and try to patch things up with 'the wife', but sounding
more as if he was trying to convince himself than anything.
Mariner's plans for this evening, which had at one time
included the digital reworking of Hitchcock's Rear Window playing at the MAC, had been comprehensively sabotaged:
he was loath to squander the cinematographer's talents on
his intermittently blurring vision. The rain that had in the
last hour begun beating relentlessly on the windows
precluded a walk, even for him. So, other options closed,
courtesy of Jamie Barham, Mariner was left flicking
through the information gathered by the canvas of Eddie
Barham's neighbours.
Apart from what he'd already learned from Moira
Warren, it didn't amount to a fat lot, even though Eddie
Barham had lived in Clarendon Avenue all his life.
Neighbours hardly seemed to know him and certainly
nobody had heard or seen anything the previous night, or
at any rate was admitting to it. Glimpses of Eddie or Jamie
over the whole weekend were sparse. No one was prepared
to get involved. The John Donne line kept coming back to
him. 'No man is an island, entire of itself.' Maybe not in
the seventeenth century, when Donne had first made the
observation, but these days, despite mobile phones and
e-mail, the gulfs between people seemed to be widening all
the time. More people than ever were choosing to live alone
and cars, personal computers and home entertainment
systems all made it increasingly possible to exist without
the need for social interaction of any kind. And there,
at the extreme end of the scale was Jamie Barham, for
whom even the simplest human exchange was meaningless.

Even Mariner had read about the growing so-called
autism epidemic: evolution's kick in the teeth for an
era when communication had never been easier or more
invasive.
Trawling through the paperwork now, there seemed
little here to help or hinder the case either way, but
maybe it wasn't necessary. Mariner was already getting
the sense of a man near enough to the edge to take his
own life. Even in practical terms Eddie Barham couldn't
have had an easy time of it. Living with Jamie must have
been a nightmare. Add to that the stifling of any career
ambitions Eddie might have had, and an explosive cocktail
was beginning to develop. But was it enough to make
him throw in the towel without even letting their sister
know first?
Eddie's computer had been brought in to the IT department
to see what could be salvaged, but the lads in that
section were stretched and Mariner had been warned that it
would be a couple of days at least before they could come
up with any kind of result. The only other items to plough
through were the pile of zip-lock wallets of paperwork
harvested from Eddie Barham's house. Mariner began with
the least interesting first: the bank statements. There was a
year's worth folded into each other. Spreading them out
over his desk Mariner started with the oldest, scanning the
columns of figures in search of any anomalies. No competition
for Grace Kelly, but they did turn out to be more
interesting than expected.
The first obvious fact was that from last summer, Eddie
Barham had been sailing pretty close to the wind with his
finances, to the extent that, over time, significant debts
were beginning to accumulate. By the end of every month
Eddie was in the red, with a gathering overdraft. A closer
look at his expenditure revealed that a large portion of his
monthly salary was paid out to an organisation called Bright
Care.
Mariner had seen that name before, and hunting

through the other wallets he found that the amounts corresponded
with invoices issued from 'Oakwood', the respite
care home that Joyce Clarke had mentioned. The puzzle
was that those payments only began to appear on the
current account statements back in June, while Mariner
had got the impression that Jamie had been attending
Oakwood for years.
The answer to that query lay deeper in the wallet where
Mariner came across a now redundant building society
account book. The account dated back to 1983, when it had
been opened with a substantial sum and some irregular
deposits. From 1986 there were regular monthly standing
orders to Bright Care along with the occasional additional
payment. But though the outgoings were regular, from what
Mariner could see there had been no cash paid into the
account, and by June of last year it had dwindled to
nothing. CLOSED was stamped in large forbidding letters
over the remaining empty pages.
Helpfully, the timing of that closure corresponded with
the sudden appearance of the debits to Bright Care on
| Eddie's current account statements, which solved one
'' mystery. Payment switched to another account. The debits
were then recorded until in line with what Joyce had told
them, suddenly ceasing two months previously when
Jamie had left Oakwood: there were none in January or
February and that alone left Eddie's bank account looking
altogether healthier. Mariner couldn't help wondering to
what extent these numbers had given added impetus to
Eddie Barham's death. Medication may have been one of
the reasons Jamie left the respite provision, as Joyce
Clarke had told them, but it looked to Mariner as if the
monetary constraints were greater. Like any other human,
Eddie would have needed some relief from the demands
of caring for Jamie, but he simply couldn't afford it. And
« he couldn't put in the overtime to make more cash
because there was no one to look after Jamie. Catch-22.
; This was building up to look like a classic case.
 and
Anna Barham's doubts about suicide receded a step
further into the background.
After a while, the figures on the paper began to jump
around before Mariner's eyes and his throbbing head felt
ready to burst. Aside from the injury, he'd barely slept in
forty-eight hours. It was time to go. But, as he started to
gather up the statements, something else sprang out at him.
At the end of December, Eddie's bank account had taken a
sudden, unprecedented upward turn, thanks to a single
deposit made by standing order from another unknown
account. When Mariner checked, the same sum appeared
again on the same day in January. On the day of his death;
on Sunday, Eddie Barham had been a comparatively
wealthy man as each of those payments was for five thousand
pounds. Suddenly it turned everything he'd been
thinking on its head, but right now Mariner hadn't the
stamina or the inclination to figure out the full implications.
The crux of it all would be the pathology report, which
Mariner felt confident would be categorical enough to allow
them to tie this thing up and move on, but so far this
evening the telephone had remained mute.
Leaving a note instructing Knox to follow up the source
accounts for those standing order deposits, which he felt
sure would turn out to be cosmetic, Mariner retrieved his
jacket from the hook on the back of the door, switching off
the light as he left.
One more job to do before he went home: the bar of the
Chamberlain was quieter than it had been on Sunday night,
so she would have stood out as much as he did, drawing
half-concealed stares from around the room. But one look
around told Mariner that the brunette wasn't working here
tonight, unless she'd been in earlier and he'd missed her.
The same barman was restocking the bottles of deceptively
colourful alcopops. In the absence of a photofit Mariner
gave him as close a description as he could muster, but it
was to no avail. If the girl was regular here she'd struck a
deal with the barman to keep shtoom.

Eschewing the inflated prices charged for the exotic
beverages of the Chamberlain, Mariner deferred having a
drink himself until he was closer to home, and even then he
wasn't sure. Being the centre of attention was becoming
wearisome. But some ten minutes later he pulled into the
car park of the Boatman Inn. His vehicle brought the total
number to five, mainly because most of the Boatman's
regulars were beyond the age when it was safe for them to
drive. Lacking the dubious attractions of piped disco music,
fruit machines or wide-screen satellite TV, the pub was on
borrowed time, ripe to be snapped up by one of the larger
brewery chains and turned into one of the 'fun pubs' that,
in Mariner's experience, were too much of an assault on the
senses to be anything like fun. An old man's pub, Greta had
dubbed it, and not as a compliment.
Locking his car, Mariner decided to risk a pint, in the
hope that the few customers knew him well enough by now
to leave him alone. He'd be the first to admit that he wasn't
an attractive sight, but if anyone else asked where he'd
been 'sticking that' he didn't quite trust himself not to give
them one to match.
The only sounds to greet his ears in the Boatman were
the comforting clatter of dominoes that underpinned the
gentle banter from four elderly gents playing fives-and
threes up one end of the lounge bar. This was occasionally
bolstered by the ebb and flow of the murmured conversation
of a younger couple on one of the side benches. Irish
landlady Beryl was on her own, gliding gracefully under
the weight of her extravagantly bouffant hair, which, like
the pub, belonged to a different age. Seeing Mariner and
without prompting, she slid a straight pint glass under the
Marston's Pedigree tap. 'You've been in the wars then,'
she commented blandly, as Mariner approached the bar,
her gaze lingering just a little too long.
'Walked into a door,' said Mariner, stealing the line he'd
been given in countless domestics over the years. He wasn't
sure whether Beryl caught the irony, but she certainly took
the hint, allowing Mariner to retreat to a corner table to
enjoy his beer without further interrogation.
'I'll leave the car,' he told Beryl, twenty minutes later,
replacing his second empty glass on the bar.
'Right you are, darlin'.'
It was something Mariner did regularly, journeying the
100 or so yards back to his house on foot. The pub car park
was as safe as anywhere to leave a car, overlooked as it was
by the small, local Norton Road Police Station.
The rain had stopped and, though it was mild for
February, a fresh breeze blew as Mariner wound his way
along the sixties-built cul-de-sac that was to the one side of
the pub, and into the small service road that few people
even knew existed. Ominously, a silver Ford Focus was
parked just down from his house, and walking up the path
of the narrow, three-storey, Victorian red-brick, Mariner
noticed the blue-tinged flickering of a cathode tube in the
darkened window of his living room. He opened the front
door and turned on the light.
'Fancy a spring roll, boss?' asked Knox, brightly. He'd
made himself at home, slouching on the sofa with his feet
up on the coffee table amid a clutter of greasy takeaway
cartons, from which emanated the pervasive smell of egg
fried rice. On screen the subjects in a reality TV show were
arguing loudly.
Mariner felt his anxiety level crank up a notch. 'I take it
the peace negotiations didn't go as planned,' he said,
closing the door.
Knox killed the sound on the TV. 'Not exactly, although
she did chuck me down some clothes, so at least I'll be
clean. Is it all right if I kip here tonight, sir?' Although the
reply seemed to have already been taken for granted.
'I suppose so,' said Mariner, doubting the decision
already. Knox could have the second-floor room, the one
that he'd been trying to rent out. 'As long as you remember
that we're off-duty,' Mariner reminded him. 'You don't
have to call me sir here.' Interestingly Knox had never

bothered with the formality at the station, so it was puzzling
that he should start now.
'Right.' Knox held up a glass of brown liquid. 'And I
helped myself. I hope you don't mind,'
'No,' Mariner said, dubiously. 'What do you think?'
'It's all right,' Knox was unenthusiastic. 'Though I'm
more of a lager man myself.'
Mariner was disappointed; he'd thought it was a good
brew. To check it out for himself, he went and fetched a
bottle.
'You've got a nice place here,' said Knox, when Mariner
returned. 'Very neat and cosy.'
'Yes, well, I have my last girlfriend to thank for that,'
said Mariner. 'She took an immediate dislike to the place
and refused to set foot in it until it was liveable.'
Mariner could still remember the buzz he'd got from
seeing the 'For Sale' sign on the property, the day he'd
come across it. Right from when they'd first met, Greta had
been nagging him to make the move from renting to owning
a house that they could share, but unfortunately this wasn't
the sort of place she had in mind. Her dream was of a brand
new house on a regimented estate of clones, not an ancient,
rundown cottage in the middle of no-man's-land. The
writing was on the wall even then.
Having been owned for years by an elderly bachelor
(Mariner liked the symmetry there), the property had been
virtually derelict; something Greta seemed to interpret as a
deliberately constructed obstacle to their cohabitation.
Nevertheless, under her" close scrutiny, Mariner had, in the
space of a few short months, sanded the wooden floors,
slapped a coat of emulsion on the walls and had central
heating connected to the wood-burning stove. Despite her
initial reservations, Greta had helped out with the furnishings.
Not that there was much for her to do. The builder,
clearly unfamiliar with the advantages of a spirit level, had
compensated by covering every irregular nook and cranny
with doors. The result was a hoarder's heaven, the small,
compact rooms resembling the cabins of a boat. Every
square inch of space was utilised, with numerous tiny
cupboards and hideaways, many ornately inlaid with
varnished walnut and oak.
'It looks liveable to me,' said Knox looking around him.
'It is.'
'So where is she?'
'It didn't work out,' said Mariner, making the understatement
of the century.
Displaying unprecedented tact, Knox didn't pursue it.
'So if she didn't even like the place, what was the big
attraction?'
'I'll show you.' Mariner got up and walked out of the
snug living room and into the galley-like kitchen. Opening
the kitchen door, a dank smell greeted their nostrils and as
their eyes adjusted to the darkness, it was just possible to
make out the oily black ribbon of the Worcester Canal, the
trees on the opposite bank a wall of black silhouettes
against the indigo sky and reflected dully on the water
below.
"I wanted to be by the water,' said Mariner. 'That was
the attraction.'
'Must be something to do with being a mariner,' said
Knox. 'Must be the nearest you get to the sea around here.'
Mariner laughed. 'Christ, do you know, I'd never even
thought of that.'
Just outside the door, under the kitchen window, in the
small garden that separated the cottage from the canal's
towpath, was a stone bench, sheltered by the overhanging
eave. Mariner sat down on it and Knox joined him.
'There's canals everywhere round here,' said Knox.
'I've noticed that. But I didn't know about this one.'
'It's part of the Worcester and Birmingham,' said
Mariner. 'What with the Birmingham-Fazeley and the
Grand Union we've got over a hundred miles of man-made
waterways in and around the city. More canals than Venice,
so they say, though I can't imagine that Birmingham has the
| same romantic appeal. Hard to picture a gondolier punting
his way down past the Tysely incinerator waxing lyrical
about love and romance. But all that's changing.' In recent
years Mariner had walked for miles along the towpaths,
watching whole sections transformed from decaying industrial
wastelands to gleaming fashionable walkways with
shops and restaurants to accommodate the growing tourist
industry. Here though was far enough out of the city to
have escaped the cycle of urban renewal and Mariner liked
his shabby, unpretentious section of the waterway.
'Not so much traffic here as in Venice either,' surmised
Knox.

'There would have been once,' Mariner said. 'A hundred
years ago, even at this time of night, this stretch would
have been as packed as the M42,' he said. 'Constant flow
of barges. Sometimes you can almost hear the boatmen
shouting at each other--' He broke off. Knox would think
he was suffering from concussion.
But Knox was just soaking it all in, and hardly seemed
to notice. "I like it,' he said finally. 'It's got style.'
'That's not what Greta, my girlfriend, thought. She spent
most of her time complaining about the damp and the huge
spiders. I didn't dare tell her about the rat.'
'You're a lucky bastard,' Knox said, after some consideration.
'You've got it made; good job, a great house and
you're still single. Birds must be throwing themselves at
you.'
Mariner had a sudden mental image of sparrows and
pigeons hurling themselves at his windows. 'Oh, all the
time,' he said. But his sarcasm drifted off into the darkness.
'To single life,' said Knox, raising his glass.
His heart not really in it, Mariner joined in the toast,
'So, are you going to tell me why your missus threw you
out?'
'It's complicated,' said Knox, vaguely, which Mariner
decoded into 'mind your own business'. He didn't pursue
it.
Instead, it made sense to bring Knox up to date with what
he'd learned at the Birmingham Echo, and what he'd found
on Eddie Barham's bank statements.
'What do you think those payments are?' Knox asked.
"I don't know. They could be anything; fees for a
story--'
'Or his sister could have been subbing him.'

'Whatever it is, we're going to have to ask a few more
questions. And check out more paperwork.'
"I can't wait.' Swallowing the dregs of his beer, Knox
got to his feet. 'But first I've got some kip to catch up on.'
He held up the empty glass. 'And this stuff may not taste
much, but it's knocked me out.'
'Mission accomplished,' said Mariner.
After Knox had gone in, Mariner sat on his own a while
longer, breathing in the cool air as best he could through
his blocked nose, and listening to the low, distant rumble
of the city, punctuated incongruously by the occasional
croon of nocturnal wood pigeons. The chirping of the
phone jolted him back to the here and now and he scrambled
inside to get it. Knox had disappeared upstairs, but,
Mariner noticed with some appreciation, had cleared up the
debris from the living room before he went. Maybe this
arrangement wouldn't be so bad. He picked up the phone.
'Tom? It's Bill Croghan.' Christ, the Home Office
pathologist must be working late. It was nearly eleven. 'I
know it's late, Tom,' he said, echoing Mariner's thoughts.
'But I've just finished writing up the case notes on Edward
Barham,' he said. 'I thought you might like a preview of
the main findings.'
'Technically, it's PC Knox's case,' Mariner reminded
him, without real conviction, thinking at the same time that
Knox was only a few metres away. 'You should talk to him
first.'
'Like I said,' Croghan repeated cheerfully, "i thought
you might like the main findings on Edward Barham.
We've turned up some interesting stuff.'
Upstairs, everything had gone quiet and Mariner caved
in immediately, feeling only slightly guilty about his failure
to summon Knox to the phone. 'Let's have it then,' he said
grabbing the nearest piece of paper, which happened to be
a grease-stained napkin from the Rising Sun takeaway

Chapter Five

Taking Jamie into her flat for the first time was like guiding
a blind man. Anna could sense his fear, but at least he
wasn't actively resisting. Switching on all the lights, she
hung back to allow Jamie to set his own tempo. Gradually,
reassured that it was safe, he began to pace, touching the
walls and surfaces, checking them over. A Waterford
crystal candleholder smashed loudly to the ground, but
Jamie ignored it. Anna followed him at a distance; when he
moved a photograph she moved it back again. Jamie
slapped his hand to his mouth and bit down hard, Anna
returned the photograph to where he had placed it.
Eventually, having completed his tactile circuit of the
room, Jamie gravitated to the TV, which he switched on
without hesitation and using the unfamiliar remote control
almost instinctively, channel-hopped until he found something
he liked, loud and brash with canned laughter. Then,
choosing a corner of the room, he lay down on his back on
the polished wood floor, his knees raised and both hands in
front of his face, peering through his fingers at the light
cast on the ceiling by the standard lamp.
Anna stood watching for a moment, waiting for him to
get up again but he didn't. She suddenly recalled his
favourite 'spot' at home behind the sofa, where the sun
shone in through the window to highlight the top of the
radiator in a series of lines and curves, that kept him transfixed
for hours on end. Right now Anna couldn't see what
had attracted him to this particular place in her flat but in
time she would. Meanwhile Jamie seemed contented
enough and she had things to do. In less than an hour she
had to be at da Paglia, looking her most alluring. And
before she could even think about that, she had to enlist
some help.
Despite Joyce's well-intentioned encouragement, Anna
had already made up her mind that her priority was to find
residential accommodation for Jamie as soon as possible,
preferably tonight. She was not about to be sucked into
playing a more active role in his life than she needed to. It
wasn't as if it would make the slightest difference to Jamie
anyway, as long as he had his Hula Hoops he'd be happy
enough.
Picking up the phone, she tried the number for
Oakwood, without giving her name, but it was as Joyce had
predicted, they were full. A search of the Birmingham business
directory turned up the next number she needed, and
after being re-routed three times by recorded messages
finally spoke to a human voice. 'Hello, is that the Social
Services department? I'm looking for somewhere for my
brother to stay. He's autistic'
But several minutes of questioning established that the
voice at the other end was unable to assist. Unless Anna
was homeless herself it was assumed that she would be
responsible for Jamie. She was not considered to be an
emergency. Long-term they may be able to help her to find
residential care, and could even furnish her with a list of
establishments that was only slightly out if date, but could
offer nothing at seven fifteen on a Wednesday evening. 'So
sorry.'
That was a blow. Time for 'Auntie Anna' the one-time
babysitting queen to call in a few favours. But Nigel and
Sue were going out themselves tonight, to the gym Nigel
cheerfully told her, having recently taken on this wonderful new au pair.
'Have a great time,' Anna said, distractedly, her mind
already exploring the next possibility. She had obliged Kate
on odd occasions, well once at least, and an exhausting
experience it had been taking care of the two little dears.
Now would be a good time for Kate to reciprocate. Her
kids must be old enough to look after themselves 		by now.
Anna punched in the numbers. 'Hello, Kate? It's Anna.
I'm fine, how are you? Look, I need a favour. My younger
brother is staying with me at the moment but I've got a
really important business dinner tonight. Is there any
chance you could sit for me?'
Kate was clearly confused by the request, having forgotten
about Jamie.
'He's twenty-nine,' Anna reminded her. 'But he's--' but
by now Kate's memory was restored and in the same instant
she also suddenly remembered a prior but unspecified
engagement that she couldn't possibly rearrange. Anna
brought the conversation to a polite close between gritted
teeth and tried Becky's number.
'I'm sorry,' declared the irritatingly cheery BT reply.
'There is no one here to take your call ...' Anna slammed
down the phone in frustration. She searched through her
address book. She flicked through it again. One last hope.
She pushed buttons and thankfully a real voice answered.
'Hello? Auntie Helen, it's Anna, your goddaughter.'
Auntie Helen sounded surprised to hear from Anna. 'Yes,
I know, it's been a long time,' Anna conceded, but ignoring
the pangs of guilt, she came straight to the point.
'Actually, Auntie, I'm in a bit of a fix and wondered if
you could help. I need someone to take care of Jamie for
me--'
It was to no avail. Learning that Auntie Helen had only
left hospital the previous day following an angina attack
made Anna feel worse than ever. 'Oh, I'm sorry to hear
that,' she said. 'No of course not. Never mind. You just
concentrate on getting yourself well again. I'll be in touch
soon. Bye.' She hung up. 'Shit.'
|	And now it was twenty to eight. If she was to stand any
chance of getting to the restaurant on time she needed to get
ready right away. By five past eight she had showered and
dressed in a smart two-piece, not too casual, not too
formal. She'd also reached a decision, and walked purposefully
into the lounge where Jamie sat in a corner of the
room flicking through an Ikea catalogue he'd found. In an
hour he'd hardly moved.
'Right Jamie,' Anna announced to no one, in an attempt
to strengthen her own resolve. 'You're going to have to
stay here on your own.'
Before leaving, Anna made a quick tour of the flat,
unplugging any unnecessary appliances to minimise the risk
of fire or electrocution. In the kitchen she stowed away the
food processor and removed all the sharp implements from
the drawer, tucking them into a high cupboard out of sight.
Throughout, Jamie stayed where he was, on the same spot
on the floor.
Anna walked down the hall. 'See you later, Jamie. Be
good.' And she closed the front door on him, listening for
the Yale to click. On her way out she would just alert Ted,
the doorman, to the fact that Jamie was in her flat, then if
there was a fire - A fire. Her train of thought suddenly
began moving along an unwelcome track. What would
happen if there really was a fire? Ted wouldn't go up there
to get Jamie out. And if the fire started on her floor? Don't
be ridiculous, she told herself. There had never been a fire.
Why should there be one tonight of all nights?
Then, as she was getting into her car, Anna remembered
her bedroom window, the one with a broken lock that she'd
yet to report. Had she closed it? She couldn't remember.
Straining her eyes in the darkness, she turned and looked
up at the building, searching for her own flat and at the
same time thinking about Jamie's penchant for climbing.
Then she saw it. Open. Abandoning her car Anna ran back
into the building and up the stairs. She fumbled at the lock
to her front door. 'Jamie!' she yelled bursting back into the
flat. Jamie looked up disinterestedly from where he lay on
his stomach, turning the page of the Next directory, in
exactly the same spot as she'd left him. Her heart pounded
and her knees had gone weak. She felt faint. Oh God, she
couldn't do this. How could she possibly concentrate on a
business meeting, knowing that Jamie was here alone? It
wasn't even as if she could phone to check up on him. But
she had to get to that meeting.
'If you can't stay here, Jamie,' she said out loud. 'You'll
have to come with me.'
But time was running out. Jonathan would be at the
restaurant now, the Robinson's team due to arrive at any
minute. Taking Jamie's arm Anna encouraged him to his
feet. 'Oh God, look at you.' The ill-fitting police issue
clothes smelled of the day centre and he badly needed a
shave. On the plus side, he could get away with having
designer stubble where they were going. But the clothes . . .
Then Anna remembered Jonathan's emergency overnight
bag. Not much in it, but there were the basics: a Ralph
Lauren shirt, dark chinos and underwear.
Still clinging to the shopping brochure, Jamie sat impassively
and allowed Anna to dress him. Jonathan was bigger
than him though and the clothes swamped him, the main
problem being the trousers, which were several inches too
big in the waist. From Anna's own wardrobe she unearthed
a broad, black leather belt to tighten them up but the length
left them baggy at the ankles, Charlie Chaplin style. He
didn't look great, but it would have to do. Then she washed
Jamie's face and combed his hair, before foolishly attempting
to relieve him of the catalogue. Jamie held on tight.
Anna tried again, eliciting a sustained moaning until,
finally, she wrested the catalogue from him with a jolt,
leaving him jumping on the spot, flapping his hands and
wailing loudly.
That was when Anna reached the crushing realisation
that whatever Jamie might be wearing she wasn't going to
be able to pass him off as a fellow executive. She'd been
mad to think that she could pull it off. Practically throwing
the catalogue back at him, she sank down on to the sofa,
raking her hands through her hair in frustration. Finally she
made herself pick up the phone. Luckily, Jonathan had his
mobile switched on.
'It's me,' Anna said, in a small voice.
'Hold on.' There was a pause and some scuffling, during
which Anna heard Jonathan making excuses before moving
to somewhere more private. 'Where are you?' he said at
last. What's happened?'
'Nothing, at least nothing more. I couldn't get anyone to
have Jamie.'
Another pause while Jonathan took this in. 'Well can't
you just leave him in your flat? He's a grown-up, isn't he?'
Immediately Anna could hear the contest between lover
and boss playing itself out. 'In years, I know, but ...' She
looked over at Jamie who was already tugging at his
trousers, fidgeting with the unfamiliar underwear. 'It's
complicated.'
'Damn. What am I supposed to say to our guests?
They're here. We're waiting to order.'
'You'll just have to tell them I've been taken ill or something.'
'Leaving
me to do all the work. Thanks. I really wish
you'd thought of this earlier, Anna.' Short contest, settled
already, and suddenly Anna felt angry. Whatever happened
to sympathy?
'Well, I didn't know it was going to be such a problem,
did I?' she snapped. 'Where do you think I'd rather be? Do
you think I planned for Eddie to top himself?' That last was
a cheap shot, but it had the desired effect.
Jonathan was grudgingly contrite. 'Okay. I'm sorry.
Look, I'd better get back.'
'Good luck.'
'Thanks.'
'You'll be--' But he'd cut her off.
By now, Jamie had discovered a programme he liked on
the TV, and Anna had little choice but to sit miserably
beside him in her Karen Millen cocktail number and ridiculous
strappy sandals, drinking her way through a bottle of
red wine. She had a sudden horrible premonition that this
is what her future life would be like, and she'd be
consigned forever to drinking cheap wine and watching the
sickeningly smug Chris Tarrant striving to turn Mr or Mrs
Boring from East Sussex into millionaires. It had been a
long day and much later she was roused from a drowsy
reverie by the phone ringing.
'Hi.' It was Jonathan. Anna looked at her watch. It was
ten thirty.
'Why are you ringing?' she slurred, unsteadily. There
was a din in the background. He was driving.
'Mrs Robinson needed her beauty sleep,' said Jonathan.
'And boy, does she need her beauty sleep.'
'It's over?'
'It's over, and it was bloody hard work, but I think
they're hooked.'
'That's great. Well done you,' said Anna, trying to
muster some enthusiasm.
'So, what I thought was, I'm just around the corner, I
could come and celebrate my triumph with you. I can be
with you in less than five minutes.'
A mild pain was beginning to throb just behind Anna's
eyes and she thought longingly of her comfortable bed and
the prospect of a long, deep sleep. 'It's a nice idea, Jon,
but actually I'm whacked.'
'Oh, come on, Anna. I'm sure you can find some energy
from somewhere.' His voice went low and sexy. 'I'm practically
bursting out of my boxers here.'
Anna looked across at Jamie, still wide eyed and
engrossed in a TV show. 'I'm sorry Jonathan, I can't. I'm
not on my own, remember?'
A sigh. 'Does that matter?' Her lack of response was his
answer. "I see.' His plans thwarted, Jonathan's voice hardened.
'Look, you're due some holiday, Anna. Why don't
you take a few days off? Get things sorted out?' It was
more of an instruction than a suggestion.
'But Milan's coming up,' Anna reminded him. 'There's
preparation I need to do.'
'Well, it's not essential that you go, is it?'
'What?'
Hearing her dismay, Jonathan seemed to relent. 'Look,
see how things go over the next couple of days, eh? I'll
give you a call.' With that he broke the connection, and in
that same instant Anna felt her flimsy bond with the outside
world being severed, too.
Using one of Jonathan's emergency toothbrushes, she
helped Jamie to clean his teeth before settling him down in
her guest room. 'Good night, Jamie.' Turning off the light,
she went through to her own room, but climbing into bed
saw that Jamie had followed her back and was hovering in
the doorway.
'No, Jamie,' she said. 'Not in here.' She took him back
to his room. 'This is your room. Jamie sleep here.' They
repeated the same routine four more times before Anna had
to give up and sit on Jamie's bed beside him until, at
twenty-nine minutes past three in the morning (not that she
was counting), Jamie finally fell asleep and she could go to
bed, too.

73


Chapter Six

It felt like only minutes after closing her eyes that a crash
startled Anna awake, and she looked up to see Jamie flash
by her bedroom door. Naked? Naked. In the bedroom his
underwear lay on the floor in a soggy heap and there was
a funny unidentifiable smell. He'd wet the bed. Ripping off
the sheets, Anna bundled them into a heap and took them
into the kitchen, stuffing them furiously into the washing
machine.
The TV blared out from the living room but Anna
tracked Jamie to the bathroom where he was busily working
his way along her row of toiletries, sniffing at each
container of moisturiser, shampoo and talcum powder,
before pouring its contents into a congealed sticky mess on
the floor.
'Jamie!' Anna struggled to hold back' her anger. Jamie
ignored her and kept on emptying. Her fury ruptured its
banks. 'Stop!' she yelled. Jamie stopped what he was doing
then calmly walked over to her, taking her hand and pressing
it to his rough chin.
Anna sighed. "I know. You need a shave.' After ruining
her Lady shave trying to give him one, she turned on the
shower and tried to persuade him under the jet of water. He
wouldn't go, so she ran a bath and Jamie climbed in
happily, so happily that twenty minutes later when the
water was tepid, he wouldn't get out. They were going to
be late for the day centre at this rate. In desperation Anna
grabbed the TV remote control and, dangling it in front of
him as bait, pulled out the plug. It gurgled loudly and Jamie
leapt out of the bath, snatching the remote and running
through to the lounge, still dripping wet. Anna gathered up
what remained wearable of his sorry collection of clothes,
resolving to fetch him some clean ones from the house as
soon as possible, just enough to last until she could find
somewhere permanent for him to stay.
She hooked the T-shirt over his head. 'Come on, you
help. I'm not going to do it for you.' But Jamie had other
ideas and Anna found herself physically manipulating him
into every garment while he sat with his eyes glued to the
TV screen.
By the time they were hurrying out through the door,
Anna was exhausted. She'd managed somehow to throw on
jeans and a sweater after a quick shower but make-up was
a complete non-starter. They both looked as if they'd spent
the night on the streets, leaving Anna praying that they
wouldn't meet anyone she knew.
The day centre was buzzing with activity when they got
there and Francine greeted them cheerily. "I like the kit,'
she said. 'How's he been?'
'A nightmare.' Anna had already decided to play it
straight. "I never realised what a powerful weapon passive
resistance could be.'
Francine chuckled. 'You need to be firm with him.'
'But he just looks at me as if I'm mad.'
'Probably because he doesn't understand what you want
him to do,' Francine said. 'Jamie's much better at picking
up visual clues than auditory ones so we use a lot of
pictures to help him. Eddie had photographs showing
things like getting dressed, eating, going out, so that Jamie
could see what's about to happen and what he's meant to
do. If he knows what's going on he's much more likely
to cooperate.'
By way of a demonstration, Francine took Jamie by the
hand and led him over to a wall that was covered in strips
of photographs. 'This is his timetable,' she told Anna, then,
turning back to Jamie, 'Jamie look,' she said. Familiar with
the routine, Jamie followed her point.
'Work first, then drink.' As she spoke, Francine moved
her finger to a photograph or line drawing that illustrated
each activity while Jamie watched her out of the corner of
his eye. She went back to the first. 'Work now. Jamie, sit
down.'
Without hesitation Jamie went to sit at one of the tables
set up with light packing work for which the clients at the
centre were paid a token wage.
Anna couldn't help but be impressed. If they achieved
that kind of result pictures might be good, even in the
short-term. 'I'll see you this afternoon,' she said to
Francine. 'And this time I'll try not to be late.'

Waiting for Jamie to drop off to sleep last night had given
Anna an opportunity to plan her strategy and her first stop
this morning was the surgery of the man who had been their
family doctor for years. Eddie had stuck with him because
it was easier to continue with someone who knew Jamie
well, and it was equally important to Jamie to visit someone
he trusted. Dr Owen Payne, whose name had provoked a
lifetime of hilarious quips, had always been more like a
family friend than a GP as Anna was growing up, and she
was hoping that today he would be able to offer some
advice. Although Anna had long since transferred to a more
local practice, walking into Dr Payne's waiting room was
an oddly familiar experience. During her childhood years,
she'd spent countless mornings here helping to keep Jamie
occupied and out of trouble whilst awaiting consultations.
Today, Anna queued at reception with the intention of
merely making an appointment, but while she was standing
in line, Dr Payne emerged from his consulting room, and,
seeing her, did a double take. 'Anna?'
Anna returned the smile, 'Hello, Dr Payne.' She was
amazed that he'd recognised her so quickly, it must have
been at least fifteen years since they'd last met. Although
the Celtic, dark good looks were fading to grey and the raw
Scots brogue had softened to a southerner's lilt, he
remained as engaging as ever.
'Are you here to see me?'
'It's Eddie.'
'Eddie?'
'He's ... he ...' Suddenly her predicament was impossible
to describe, but seeing her distress, Dr Payne stepped
out and put an arm around her. It felt like coming home.
Even after all this time he was more comforting than Anna
could have imagined, the nearest she could get to sharing
the awful news with Mum or Dad.
'Come with me.' Looking over Anna's shoulder the
doctor squared things with his receptionist. 'Give us a few
minutes, would you?' Always accommodating, nothing had
ever been too much trouble for Dr Payne. When Jamie was
first diagnosed, he'd been a constant visitor to the Barham
household at all hours of the day and night, and again at the
onset of the epilepsy, becoming virtually an honorary
member of the family. Anna could recall Mum joking on
more than one occasion that Dr Payne should have his own
front door key, or be initiated into hiding place of the spare
one. That was back in the days when doctors made twentyfour-hour
house calls themselves, without relying on
night-time deputising services.
On top of that, Dr Payne had been a brilliant support to
Anna and Eddie too, at a time when they had needed
someone to listen but Mum and Dad were too busy with
Jamie. As a consequence Anna had developed quite a teenage
crush on Dr Payne and she was slightly disconcerted to find
as she walked through to his office supported by his guiding
arm, that her feelings hadn't entirely dissipated.
In his consulting room he sat her down. 'Now tell me
what's happened.' When she finally managed to articulate
the sequence of events as they'd been told to her, his 
reaction was exactly as Anna would have expected, mirroring
her own horror and disbelief.
'I'm so very sorry, Anna,' he said. 'How can your
family have suffered such terrible tragedy again?'
'It's becoming a habit,' Anna agreed, darkly.
A troubled look crossed the doctor's visage and standing
abruptly he paced across the room, coming to rest with his
back to Anna and palms pressed down on the windowsill.
"I have a confession to make.'
'Confession?'
He turned to face her. 'Eddie came to see me several
times during the last few weeks. Jamie was going through
a difficult patch,'
'Yeah, well, it's what he's good at. The day care staff
have already been candid about what's been going on.'
'So you know that the respite placement at Oakwood had
broken down?'
Anna nodded. The knowledge had done nothing to
assuage her mounting guilt.
'It was a blow but, unfortunately, all I did was to try and
solve the problems with Jamie. I had no idea that Eddie was
in such a state himself.'
Some confession.
'You wouldn't have known,' Anna reassured him. 'Eddie
was an expert at hiding his feelings.'
'But I should have guessed. He took his care of Jamie so
seriously.'
And you didn't? Anna studied Dr Payne's face for any
implied meaning, but saw none. She was being oversensitive.
"I should have seen that he needed help too, but instead
I focused all my energies on Jamie.' He paused. 'How's
Jamie doing?'
'He seems fine. It's almost as if he hasn't noticed that
Eddie's gone.'
'And there are no ill effects from his ordeal on Sunday
night? Is there anything to indicate that he's distressed by
what happened?'
Anna thought back to the police interview. 'No, although
someone called Sally seems to be on his mind, Sally-Ann.
You don't know her, do you? One of Eddie's friends
perhaps?'
'Sally-Ann?' Dr Payne shook his head. 'Not someone I
know, I'm afraid, but then I wasn't party to Eddie's social
life. Look, it might be an idea if I checked Jamie over at
some point. Is he staying with you?'
'At present, yes he is. But that's what I wanted to talk to
you about. I'm finding it really hard--' Anna floundered.
She didn't want this to sound whingeing, but she needn't
have worried, the doctor was immediately sympathetic.
'Of course. Although he'd withdrawn Jamie from
Oakwood I know Eddie hadn't ruled out the idea of finding
alternative care for Jamie. In fact, despite your parents'
views, he'd expressed an interest in something far more
comprehensive. We talked at length about what the options
might be. I took that as being a wise long-term precaution,
but now I wonder if he had other, very different motives.'
Like planning his escape.

Anna paused. 'Well the thing is, I was hoping you could
help me in the same way,' she said. Dr Payne was already
with her.
'I'd be happy to. I compiled a list of possible residences
for Eddie to try. I'm sure I must still have a copy somewhere.
Bear with me one moment.' Getting up, he went out
of the room, returning moments later with a handwritten
list on a sheet of headed A4 paper. 'I'm afraid it doesn't
look much, mainly because provision for adults with special
needs is still pretty scarce. It's a case of phoning up each
and arranging a visit. As I advised Eddie: have a good
look, be thorough and don't be afraid to ask questions,
these places vary enormously in what they offer for the
price. And there may be some hard choices to make, particularly
around issues such as the use of medication.' He
frowned. 'The other thing you must be prepared for is that
none of these places is cheap.' So there was the rub.
Despite the encouragement, was that final comment subtly
designed to discourage her?
Whether or not that was the case, as Anna left the
surgery, those were the words that resounded in her head.
She felt ruthless doing it so soon, but the next logical
step was to establish where she stood financially. From
Dr Payne's practice, Anna drove to the small block of
offices on Harborne High Street that accommodated the
Barham family solicitor. It seemed unlikely that Eddie
would have made any kind of will; after all, he wasn't yet
forty--
'But actually he had.' Paul Jenner was another man who
had lurked on the margin of Anna's past life. That he was
a junior partner in the firm was a misnomer as he must be
fast approaching retirement and had been the one to assist
Eddie and Anna through the legal minefield that had
followed the deaths of their parents. As Anna had told him
the news he'd whitened, called to request tea from his
secretary, more for himself than for Anna, before moving
on to business. 'Fortunately, Eddie's forethought will make
things much simpler. You'd be amazed at the mess that can
be left behind in some cases,' he said. 'But prudence would
seem to be a strong quality in your family. Eddie came in
to see me a few weeks ago to talk through the arrangements.
Then he came in to sign the finished document a
week or so later.' Jenner looked uncomfortable. 'I'm sure
he even used the phrase "in case anything should happen",
which, naturally I took to be a superstitious response to
your parents' accident. But now of course - if what the
police say is correct - I'm so sorry.' He drew to a faltering
close leaving Anna to consider further proof, were it
still needed, of the way in which Eddie's mind was
working. Anna had been so sure that the police weren't
correct, but little by little that certainty was being severely
undermined.
Moving to the back of his small, conventionally
furnished office, Paul Jenner flipped through the top drawer
of a filing cabinet before removing from it a slim folder,
which he brought over to the desk. Taking out two documents,
both of which bore Eddie's signature, he passed one
to Anna.
'Here we are. As I said, he seemed in a hurry, so he
asked me to act as sole executor.' Jenner shifted uneasily.
"I expect he didn't want to trouble you. And it's all very
straightforward. Edward's entire estate has been left to
James.' Suddenly he was finding it hard to meet Anna's
eye.
Then it dawned on her. He thought she'd come to claim
her share of Eddie's legacy for herself. 'That's good,' she
said, to allay his anxiety. 'A huge relief.' But her words
seemed to have little impact.
'As you already know, the house was left to James as
part of your parents' bequest, not to be sold until professional
care for him becomes essential.' Providing Jamie
with lifelong security and at the same time making explicit
her parents' desire that Jamie should, until it was no longer
viable, be cared for in the family home. "I seem to remember
that Edward and yourself were compensated by the will
accordingly.'
'We were,' Anna agreed. The sum of money had allowed
her to put a deposit on her first flat. Eddie, she recalled,
had been rather more impulsive. That was when he'd developed
his taste for Porsches, albeit secondhand ones. The
house was something she'd have to consider. With a bit of
lateral thinking she was sure it didn't have to be the millstone
it had become for Eddie.
'The most effective way of administering the residue of
Edward's estate will be through a trust fund, with yourself
named as the sole trustee.' At last he met her eye. 'Edward
didn't mention any of this to you?'
'No.'
'Well, as I said, it seemed to have been quite a sudden
decision. Perhaps he was planning to discuss it.' And
perhaps not. Why make excuses for the fact that she and
Eddie had hardly spoken to each other for years? 'For the
moment,' Jenner concluded. 'It will make James quite a
wealthy young man--'
'Wealthy enough to be able to afford some kind of long
term residential care, I hope,' murmured Anna. She was
thinking aloud, but now that it was said Paul Jenner's
uneasiness compounded before her very eyes. 'I'm sure
that's not what your parents had in mind when--'
'My parents are dead, Mr Jenner,' Anna quietly
reminded him.
'Yes, of course.' Now she'd really embarrassed him. He
covered his confusion with the professional matter in hand.
'Once probate has been granted, it will take me a week or
so to draw up the papers. After that I'll need to ask you to
come in and sign them.'
Anna nodded to indicate that she'd understood, feeling
better than she had done since the news of Eddie's death.
It was what she needed to hear; that she would not have to
bear the financial burden of residential care for Jamie
entirely on her own, which in turn meant that she could find
him somewhere good and find it soon. The house was a
complication, but not one that couldn't be overcome. Her
relief was palpable. 'Thank you,' she said, and began gathering
together her things.
'Your brother did leave one other specific item with me,'
Jenner added, almost as an afterthought. He disappeared
into a walk-in cupboard, emerging moments later carrying,
somewhat bizarrely, an old shoebox tied with string. 'I'll
leave it with you for a few minutes.' He walked out before
Anna could demur.
As the door closed behind him, Anna slipped off the
string and inside the box found a bundle of letters held
together by an elastic band. Big deal, she thought. They
looked old, but as Anna riffled through them, some had got
numbers scrawled on them in what looked like Eddie's
handwriting. She freed one of the letters from the pile and
scanned it. It was addressed not to Eddie, but to her father.
At first she couldn't see any relevance, but by the second
paragraph, she was hooked.
'Our daughter Maria was born at full term,' it read.
'Delivery was normal and she weighed 51bs 4oz. She was
a happy, healthy baby, a joy to everyone, until at around
eighteen months she suddenly began to cry and scream.'
An unexpected pain speared Anna as a vivid memory of
one of Jamie's first 'screaming days' came rushing back to
her. A hot summer day, they had gone to visit Auntie Meg
and Uncle Keith down in Gloucestershire. Jamie, who
would have been about two at the time, had started crying
as soon as they got there, but for no identifiable reason.
The crying had quickly escalated into screaming, in terror
or agony, it was impossible to tell, but every time Mum
tried to comfort him, he pushed her away, recoiling from
her touch and screaming even louder. More plainly than
ever, Anna could picture her mother's face, stricken with
the knowledge that she couldn't even soothe her own child.
The incident had shocked Anna because it was the first time
she'd seen her mother cry. It was far from the last. And
even then, at the age of seven, Anna knew that the other
adults were looking on and making their own judgements.
What she hadn't understood, couldn't have understood, was
that their lives would never be the same again.
The neat, copperplate handwriting blurred in front of her
eyes. Blinking back tears, Anna glanced over one or two
more of the letters. Not all were as fluently written and there
were subtle differences to each. A child who was eerily
passive and undemanding, another whose obsession with
light switches had become intolerable. But from every page
came the painful desperation of parents living with a child
beyond comprehension. Anna couldn't imagine why on earth
Eddie had kept the letters, unless it was to punish her.
Paul Jenner cleared his throat, making Anna start. She
hadn't noticed him come back into the room. 'It seemed
important to Eddie that you got those,' he said. 'Perhaps
they're of particular sentimental value?'
Mm. Or perhaps in the last few weeks of his life, Eddie
had been going slowly insane. Suddenly Anna was overwhelmed
by an urge to be outside. Making an effort to pull
herself together, she handed the shoebox back to the solicitor.
'It's all right, you can keep these, for now.' And with
a brief thank you and goodbye, she hurried from the building.
Out
in the air again, part of her was relieved, knowing
now that Jamie was financially sound and that she could
safely turn her mind to some serious research. But her
relief was tempered by everything else that was falling into
place. Eddie had been making arrangements. He had been
planning. Doing all things you would expect of a man who
was about to take his own life. It was not an easy thought.

Anna was still brooding on it when she met Becky for their
regular lunch date at Chez Jules.
'How are you doing?' Becky asked.
'Not wonderful,' Anna had to concede. 'When the police
told me Eddie's death was suicide I wouldn't believe them,
but now it seems obvious. The things he'd done, preparations
he'd made. It's all beginning to fit.'
'That's awful.'
'Not least because it leaves me with the knowledge that
I could have done something about it. I keep asking myself,
how could Eddie have been so desperate and I didn't even
know? I'm his sister for God's sake. Why didn't he talk to
me?'
'Because you weren't close. You said it yourself. How
could you have known? What you need is some retail
therapy to cheer you up. There's a mid-season sale at
Monsoon. Come on, let's go.'
They settled the bill and left the restaurant, but for once,
even shopping couldn't shake Anna from the sudden
depression that had descended on her. Her attention
snagged on a newsstand headline: City Journalist Found
Dead. Eddie, she thought, numbly. And suddenly, trying to
find a sweater in exactly the right shade of blue seemed a
totally pointless exercise. 'Actually, I think I'll give it a
miss,' she told Becky. 'I'm not very good company today.'
Becky didn't put up a fight. 'What have you got planned
for this afternoon?' she asked.
"I need to get some of Jamie's things.' 'How's it going? I heard about last night.'
'Oh, did you? Yes, I suppose it's all round the office by
now. Unreliable Anna. It pretty well sums the way life is
going. I'm hoping that there might be things back at
Eddie's house that will keep Jamie occupied so that I can
start trying to get back to normal. I'll go straight there now
I think.'
Becky shuddered. 'Rather you than me.' She saw Anna's
look. 'Sorry, but you know what I mean.'
'It's only a house,' said Anna. But driving out to
Harborne, she knew precisely what Becky meant, and her
apprehension began to grow.


Chapter Seven

Even under normal circumstances Anna didn't look back at
thirty-four Clarendon Avenue with any great fondness. It
wasn't that her childhood had been unhappy, it had just
never been quite right, and she'd hardly been back here
since her parents died. Contrary to their wishes, she and
Eddie would both have preferred to sell the oversized house
along with all its memories, but at the time their reasoning
had seemed sound: that whatever other dramatic changes
there might be in Jamie's life after they were gone, here at
least there would be continuity.
On the approach to the house, the police squad car at the
kerb-side heightened her anxiety, and she was mystified to
see another car parked on the drive behind Eddie's, until
she recognised it as the one belonging to the detective,
Mariner. Its presence slightly tempered her fears. Having
never knowingly been into a building where someone had
died, let alone committed suicide, her usual self-confidence
seemed to have deserted her.
Inside the squad car a young uniformed officer sat eating
his sandwiches. What could be more normal than that?
Walking up the drive Anna took a deep, calming breath. All
she needed were a few of Jamie's clothes, his toothbrush
and shaving kit. A quick in and out was all it would take.
Beyond the strip of crime scene tape, the front door was
open, leaving her free to enter, so why wasn't she pleased?

Anna ducked under the tape and went in. Inside, the place
had an illusory look to it where surfaces had been painted
with grey metallic fingerprint dust. Following the sound of
movements, she pushed open the lounge door.
"I wouldn't mind a place like this--' PC Knox was
saying.
'It's one of the few perks of losing your parents prematurely,'
Anna interrupted, and both men reeled around to
face her.
'How did you get in here?' Mariner's frown mirrored the
accusing tone.
'Through the door, the same as you,' Anna defended
herself. 'It was open.'
'It shouldn't have been.' He glared at Knox, who just
returned the glare.
"I just need to get some of Jamie's things,' Anna said.
As he turned to her, Mariner's expression softened
slightly. 'How is the Hula Hoop kid?' he asked.
'His clothes are beginning to smell. He could use some
more.'
For a moment their eyes locked. She should do it now,
but admitting she was wrong had never come easily. Oh
well, here goes. 'You were right,' she said, eventually.
'About the way Eddie died. It's all beginning to fit. He had
begun making plans for Jamie. His GP knew it, and he'd
even made a will. Hindsight is a wonderful thing and I'm
sorry I doubted what you said. At the time it seemed impossible,
but I suppose that's what everyone says. I still find it
hard to believe that Eddie didn't stick around long enough
to see Jamie settled, but that must be an indication of how
desperate .. .' She tailed off, all at once seeing that both
men were staring at her with a degree of discomfort. Something was slightly off kilter. 'What?' she said. 'Why
are you here?' The question had suddenly occurred to her.
Then Knox gave Mariner a 'go on, tell her' sort of look
and the tall man sighed. 'Eddie didn't stick around to see
Jamie settled because he didn't take his own life,' Mariner
said. 'You were right. It wasn't suicide. We've been trying
to contact you to let you know.'
'What?' Anna struggled to take in what he was saying.
'We've had the postmortem report. Eddie was murdered.
But someone went to great lengths to make it look like
suicide'
For the second time in two days, Mariner watched Anna
Barham absorb what to many would be devastating news
with great self-control. He'd been pretty shocked himself,
when Bill Croghan had broken it to him late last night.
Everything they'd turned up so far pointed to Eddie Barham
as a man at the end of his tether taking up his final option,
but now that theory had been completely overturned.
'How can you be so sure?' Anna Barham asked, echoing
Mariner's own question to Croghan.
'Eddie's killer made one or two mistakes, he said.
'Either hadn't thought things through, or was in a hurry,
probably the latter.' Suddenly he saw how wobbly she
looked. 'Why don't we--?' Mariner gestured towards the
sofa and she sat at one end, while Mariner took up the
opposite corner, a pair of bookends propping up an empty
space. 'We were right about the drugs of course,' he went
on, gently. 'Eddie definitely died from a massive overdose
of diamorphine - heroin to you and me - but he didn't
administer it himself. Eddie was right handed, wasn't he?'
Mariner had known that from Knox's remark about the
computer mouse.
'Yes.'
'But he'd injected into his right arm. Not normally the
most natural thing for a right hander to do.'
'Somebody did it for him,' she said, dazed.
'That's the implication. And Eddie wasn't exactly cooperative
about it. There's indication that he was being
forcefully restrained at the time he died.' Extensive bruising
to the wrists and upper arms, Bill Croghan had said,
consistent with being held down. Along with some old cuts
and bruises whose provenance was unclear. 'We've run
some basic forensic tests on the syringe, too. Significantly,
there were no fingerprints on it, not even Eddie's. Meaning
that whoever injected him either wore gloves or deliberately
wiped it clean afterwards. It's not something suicides
generally do.'
'You'd know more about that than me.'
'The other curious thing is that the heroin used was of a
particularly pure grade, although we're not sure how
important that is at this stage. And the preliminary analysis
of the blood that was on Jamie's shirt shows that although
it's consistent with the timing, the blood isn't his or
Eddie's. Some of it's mine - big surprise - but there was
someone else in the flat, too. We have to conclude that it
was Eddie's killer. Or one of them.'
'Is that why Jamie was in the cupboard?'
'It's possible Eddie put him there for his own protection.
But it's more likely that Jamie was shut in there out of the
way while Eddie was dealt with. It was an effective strategy.
Jamie could tell us nothing about what happened, even
if he was able to.' Only this morning Francine the care
worker at Jamie's day centre had rung to confirm it. Using
a photograph of Eddie she'd tried to elicit something,
anything, from Jamie, but had got nothing.
Anna frowned. 'But what about the note?' she asked,
suddenly. 'You found a note.'
'Mm.' Mariner felt the blush rising from his neck. It had
been a pretty fundamental error, and so obvious in retrospect.
'Half a note, actually. There was a postscript,' he
said. 'We found it stuffed in the hedge outside. Fitted
together again with the so-called "suicide note" it would
have read: "NO MORE MILK UNTIL THURSDAY
THANKS, NO 34".'
'Oh.'
It was one of the things that had jarred with Mariner; that
a man who made a living from words would make his
last message to the world so brief. 'Eddie must have left
it on the doorstep that evening,' he said. 'It was a gift to
whoever killed him. It may even have influenced the way
they set things up.'
Anna shivered as Mariner watched her efforts to digest
what he had just told her. 'It's funny,' she said, eventually.
"I thought it would make me feel better to know that Eddie
hadn't taken his own life, but it doesn't.' Her eyes glazed
over as she momentarily drifted off into her own thoughts,
and Mariner could only guess at the images crowding her
head. It was the stuff of nightmares. He began to wonder
if he'd given her too much information too soon, but in a
matter of minutes she seemed to come round again.
'So what happens now?' she asked, at last.
'At the moment it'll help if we can keep all this to
ourselves,' Mariner said. 'If Eddie's killer is still around,
it suits us that he or she should think that we're still treating
the death as suicide. It's good that you're here, though.
You may be able to help. Tell us if you see anything else
unusual, anything about the place that strikes you as odd.'
He wasn't holding out much hope, especially in such
austere surroundings, but it was always worth a shot.
"I wouldn't know,' she confessed, looking absently
around her, at a home she must have once known intimately.
'I've only been here once since my parents died.
And that time Eddie succeeded in making me feel so guilty
that I just walked out again.'
'Guilty?' It seemed an odd choice of word.
'Well look at it,' she raised her arms. 'This room is like
a monastic cell.'
Mariner nodded, grimly. 'And we thought it was all
fashionably minimalist.'
'Fashion doesn't come into it. There are only so many
times an insurance firm will pay out for "damage caused by
autistic sibling". Add into that Eddie's own little fetish for
order. We used to joke that he was on the spectrum too.'
'Sorry?' She'd lost him.
'The autistic spectrum,' she elaborated. 'These days it's
pretty well accepted that autism is a continuum, with
"normal" at one end and "severe" at the other. If you take
it to the extreme, we're all on it somewhere, with our own
little routines and obsessions,' she smiled suddenly. 'I'm
sure you must have some autistic traits.'
From the corner of his eye, Mariner saw Knox suppress
a grin. Okay, so he kept his desk tidy. What was wrong
with that? "I can live without Hula Hoops, if that's what
you mean,' Mariner defended himself uneasily.
'Either way, it all screamed "sacrifice!" at me,' Anna
said. 'Which is exactly what Eddie wanted.'
'Why?' Mariner sensed a sudden reluctance. Maybe she
didn't expect him to understand. Maybe he wouldn't. But
he wanted to know.
'Because after our parents died, Eddie was prepared to
take Jamie on, and I wasn't,' she explained with great
patience. 'It shocked a lot of people. After all, I'm the
woman, the nurturer. The fact that I had a husband and a
home to run, as well as a successful career didn't count for
anything.'
There was an awkward silence, which Mariner wasn't
sure how to fill.
'Families, eh?' Knox chipped in, and the word hung in
the air for several seconds, where Mariner was content to
leave it, for now. After all, what did he know about families?
'You wouldn't know if Eddie had any enemies, then?'
he asked, moving on.
With the change of subject Anna perceptibly relaxed.
'I've already told you. I had very little idea of what was
going on in his life. But it's hard to imagine that he would
have. Eddie was such an easy-going guy. Except where I
was concerned of course.' She shot Mariner a wry look.
'Does that confession make me a suspect?'
He managed a smile. "I don't think so. Although it would
help, for the record, if you could tell me where you were
between the hours of nine and midnight on Sunday night.'
'That's easy. I was at home with my boyfriend. He's
"happily married", so we don't go out much.' Something
nipped at Mariner's gut, but he couldn't quite identify it as
disapproval or disappointment.
'Will he back that up?' he asked.
'As long as you don't ask him to broadcast it on the six
o'clock news it shouldn't be a problem. What do you think
happened?'
'That's what we're here to try and find out. It's not
looking like a robbery. Nothing valuable seems to have
been taken and Eddie's wallet, when we found it, was still
stuffed with cash. And there's no sign of a forced entry. If
Eddie went out leaving Jamie at home, would he have left
the door on the latch?'
'He might have.' She was unsure.
'If not, we have to conclude that it was someone who
knew Eddie and wanted something from him.'
'Eddie had made a will. He told the solicitor where it
was in case anything happened to him.'
Mariner nodded. 'If he was feeling under threat from
someone, he might have started to make those kinds of
preparations. And it might explain why he'd begun collecting
Jamie from the day centre himself, too. He could have
believed that someone would try to get at him through
Jamie.'
'But who? And why?'
Mariner was beginning to formulate some ideas about
that, but he wasn't ready to share them yet. 'It was
someone who was well organised. They had a purpose and
they came prepared. They apparently weren't keen to
advertise that they were here, either. There were men
working on the driveway next door all weekend, so they
had to wait until a Sunday night after dark, when everyone
had gone home. And what we haven't got yet is any kind
of motive.' Though, if pressed, Mariner would have laid
bets on a connection with those large payments of money
into Eddie Barham's bank account.
Knox had been researching those, but so far his investigations
had drawn an intriguing blank. The account wasn't
from a UK bank and so far they hadn't even managed to
identify its country of origin, let alone any other details.
Mariner didn't imagine Anna Barham having access to an
off-shore bank, but the question had to be asked. So he
asked it. 'Did Eddie ever talk to you about money?'
'No. It wasn't something we ever discussed.'
'So you haven't lent him any recently?'
"I'd be the last person Eddie would come to for money,'
she said. 'And anyway, he wouldn't need to. He wasn't
rolling in it, but he was solvent. His solicitor said that he
left quite a large sum.'
Mariner decided to spare her the details for now. 'He
did,' he agreed. 'We're currently trying to identify the
source of two large payments into Eddie's bank account in
December and January.'
'How large?'
'Five thousand pounds each. They were paid by standing
order. Any idea about where they may have come from?'
Her response was in the negative, as he'd expected and
as she seemed unfazed by the line of questioning Mariner
was inclined to believe her.
'We really could do with finding Sally-Ann,' he said. 'If
that's her name.'
'You really think a woman might have done it?'
"I saw Eddie with a woman earlier on Sunday evening,
they drove off together. It may have been the same woman
who later made the call to the emergency services. She has
disappeared and so apparently has Sally-Ann. It's quite a
coincidence. Whether or not she's implicated, she was one
of the last people to see Eddie alive.' Mariner braced
himself for what could potentially be a sensitive area. 'In
Eddie's wallet we found a page torn out of the local newspaper.
It was the list of ads for personal services, escort
agencies, that kind of thing.' Mariner hesitated. 'It was well used. The woman I saw him with I'm pretty sure was
in that line of work.'
'What are you getting at?' she demanded.

'Do you know if Eddie had ever been in the habit of
using the services of a prostitute?' he asked.
He'd shocked her. 'Absolutely not!'
'It could have been connected with something he was
working on, of course, but we have to check out all the
possibilities,' Mariner said, to cool things down again.
'We're trying to recover what remained of Eddie's
computer files, too.'
'You think it could have happened because of something
he was writing?' It was easier to bear than the alternative.
Mariner shrugged. 'Or something he'd written in the
past. People bear grudges.' Characters like Frank Crosby
did it big time.
Knox's mobile trilled. "I'll take it outside, boss,' he said,
fumbling for it. In his haste to leave the room, he tripped
over the two large volumes propping open the door,
sending one of them sliding across the floor. Mariner got
up to retrieve it, inspecting the spine as he did so. It was a
fairly dated edition of Gray's Anatomy.
'Was Eddie's reading always so light, or was he thinking
of going into medicine?' he asked, turning over the
book in his hand.
As Anna took the weighty tome from him, a trace of
recognition registered.
'It's one of Dad's old medical books,' she said. 'I didn't
know Eddie had kept them.'
'Your father was a doctor?'
With a brief smile, she shook her head. 'A frustrated
doctor. He taught chemistry and biology at St Mark's
Comp. But he had his own little research projects on the go
all the time, too.'
'His autistic trait?'
'Something like that.'

'What was he researching?'
'What else? Bloody autism. The bane of our lives.'
'Trying to do what? Find the cure?'
'Cause or cure, he thought the one would lead to the
other. But above all he wanted to prove to my mother that
Jamie's condition wasn't her fault.'
'Was that necessary?'
'Oh yes. Twenty years ago when my parents were first
told what was wrong with Jamie, everyone thought that
autism was a result of the mother's failure to bond with her
child. They called them "refrigerator mothers".'
'That sounds like a lorry load of antiquated Freudian
crap.'
'It does now, but at the time nobody knew anything
different. So, not only did my mother have this miserable,
screaming, uncommunicative child, but she had to live with
the experts telling her that "Oh, and by the way, it's your
fault that he's like that". Never mind that she's already got
two happy, healthy children.'
'And your father didn't believe it?'
'Dad never took anything at face value. He was a scientist,
so all the psychological stuff was just too airy-fairy for
him. Then when people began to realise that there could be
other, more tangible explanations for autism it was all the
encouragement he needed. Now, of course, it's pretty much
accepted that there are a whole range of biological and
genetic factors at play.' She could tell that Mariner was
impressed.
'You know a lot about this, don't you?' he observed.
Despite herself, Anna laughed. 'Something must have
sunk in from the endless discussions we were dragged into
over Sunday lunch. Dad was obsessed. It was his little one
man campaign. Looking back, I think it was his way of
dealing with Jamie. Our lives were like a roller coaster, each
time some new theory or therapy or medication came out
there was hope or there was guilt. We were a completely
dysfunctional family. Dad shut away in his study for hours
on end, Jamie taking all Mum's time and energy--'

'And not much time for you and Eddie.'
'It's probably why we hated each other so much. We
took out our anger on each other.'
'Did any of your father's work get published?'
Another sardonic smile. 'No.' Then a pause as something
stirred in her memory. 'Although they did print some letter
he wrote to an autism journal, expounding one of his theories.
I was living away from home by then, so Mum sent
me a copy. She was so proud of him. She claimed it had
created quite a stir. But I was sick to the back teeth with
autism. I'd left home to get away from it, so I didn't even
bother reading it. It went straight in the bin. It's one of
those stupid things I really regretted, because only a few
weeks later Mum and Dad were dead.'
'What happened to them?'
'Their car skidded off an icy road and went into the
canal. They were both killed outright. Dad had learnt to
drive fairly late in life and he was never a very confident
driver. It was a shock, of course, but in some ways we
weren't that surprised.'
'I'm sorry,' Mariner said.
Anna shrugged, 'It was a long time ago.'
'How long?' asked Mariner.
'1985. It was a great year, 1985. My parents were killed
and my marriage hit the rocks. Still, at least Mum and Dad
weren't around to say "told you so".' By Mariner's calculation
that would make it two years after the building
society account was opened and a year before the outgoing
standing orders.
Knox re-appeared in the doorway, distracting them both
from further morbid thoughts.
'I've been called back to the shop, boss. They're short
of bodies. And that photographer at the paper has surfaced
so I said that you'd be down there,' he said. 'I've arranged
for you to look at the office, too.'
'Right.' Mariner turned to Anna. 'We'll leave you to it
then. SOCO have done a pretty rigorous job, so forensically
you can't do any harm. PC Hunter outside will lock
up when you go.'
She nodded assent. 'Of course. It's probably a stupid

question, but I have to ask. How likely is it that you'll find
out who did this?' she asked.
"I don't know,' said Mariner. 'It's too early to tell. But
I suppose this is where I say "If we get any leads, I'll call
you".' He drew back his mouth in an awful Humphrey
Bogart impression that at least made her smile. 'And in
case you think of anything else that might be important.' He
handed her his card, office and mobile number.

Hearing the front door close behind the two policemen, and
leaving her alone in the house, Anna tried hard not to feel
spooked. It wasn't just recent events that haunted her, but
over thirty years' worth of history. She climbed the stairs
slowly, unwillingly. After their parents died, Eddie had
moved into the master bedroom and both that and Jamie's
room had since been decorated, but her own room was
almost exactly as she'd left it, two months before her eighteenth
birthday. She fingered the lock that she herself had
inexpertly fitted in an attempt to safeguard some privacy
from her marauding younger brother. A consequence of too
many days of coming home from school to find that he had
pulled records off the shelves, destroyed her school project
or ripped her precious pop posters from the walls. Mum
and Dad had refused to secure Jamie's room, insisting,
reasonably enough it seemed now, that he wasn't an animal
to be caged. So she'd fitted a lock on hers instead, and
retreated to her own safe haven at every opportunity.
Dad's sanctuary had always been his study, the room
that now housed Eddie's computer. It was where their
father had laboured night after night, the angle-poise lamp
highlighting his thinning hair as he frowned with concentration
over his work, barely even noticing when, in rare
moments of consideration, Anna had set a mug of tea or
coffee down in front of him. 'Families', Knox had said.
Anna couldn't remember them ever having been a real
family.
Mariner's lack of response was significant too, virtual

proof that a perfect wife and two beautiful children awaited
him at home.
Jamie's bedroom was largely untouched by the police
investigation. Under the bed she found a holdall, and
opening drawers, packed into it a selection of underwear,
shirts, jeans and sweaters. Not too many. She wasn't
expecting to host Jamie for that long.
The phone rang, splitting the air and making her jump.
For a moment she just stood, frozen to the spot, reluctant
to answer it, before chiding herself. It's just the phone for
God's sake. She picked up the computer room extension.
'Hello?'
A male voice responded. 'Eddie, it's Andrew Todd. We
need to talk,' he sounded tense, urgent.
'Mr Todd, this is Anna Barham, I'm Eddie's sister,' she
took a deep breath. 'I'm afraid my brother is dead. He--'
A click and the line went dead too. Anna was left
suspended in mid-air. 'Mr Todd? Hello?'
She tapped down on the cradle, punched in 1471 and was
rewarded with the standard recorded message: 'You were
called today at 14.42, the caller withheld their number.' No
surprises there. But Mr Todd, whoever he was, obviously
hadn't seen the local papers.
Downstairs in the lounge, Anna sorted through the extensive
video collection. There were eleven tapes labelled Countdown with various dates, others simply marked
'Jamie'. In the kitchen there was little. She threw away the
remains of a carton of milk and half a stale loaf, but took
with her the multi-pack of Hula Hoops that was in the
pantry. Something she was learning - you could never have
enough Hula Hoops.
On her way out, Anna realised she'd forgotten Jamie's
shaver. She retraced her steps to the bathroom, where she
found toothbrushes too. The only razors were disposable
ones. Had Eddie wet-shaved Jamie every day? Jamie would
never have managed it himself without cutting his face to
shreds. It was yet another measure of Eddie's devotion to

his younger brother. She picked up a few, along with a can
of shaving gel. In the bathroom cabinet, its child safety
lock forced open, doubtless by the police, were more
deodorants and hair gel, and beside them, a bottle of aftershave.
On impulse, Anna uncapped the lid and briefly held
it to her nose. The effect was disturbing in its familiarity,
as though Eddie was suddenly standing beside her in the
room. Tears welled up in her eyes and she wiped them
away irritably.
'Shit!' she spoke aloud. 'Why did this have to happen,
Eddie? What had you got into?' Through tear-blurred vision
she gathered up the rest of the things she needed and feeling
suddenly, overwhelmingly claustrophobic, headed for the
door.


Chapter Eight

With the revelation of Eddie Barham's murder came a shift
in the dynamics of the enquiry. This was now a criminal
investigation, giving Mariner no option but to take over as
Senior Investigating Officer. There were plenty of detective
constables at his disposal, but he was inclined to reciprocate
Knox's generosity and keep him involved as much as
he could. Knox had been in at the very beginning of the
case and, other duties permitting, would want to see it
through. So far they'd worked well together. Like Mariner,
Knox was a pragmatist who had no interest in station politics
but simply wanted to get the job done. Right now
though he was hostage to the flu virus that was sweeping
Granville Lane and had been called back to base. He
dropped Mariner off at the Echo offices on the way.
This afternoon Mariner was directed to the basement
canteen where he was told photographer Darren Smith was
finishing off a late afternoon lunch break. The cafeteria was
a subterranean vision in chrome and melamine, loud with
clattering cutlery, with a munificently subsidised menu; a
brave but unsuccessful endeavour to keep employees out of
the surrounding bars.
Illness hadn't suppressed Darren's appetite. Mariner,
who hadn't eaten since a snatched slice of toast this
morning, had to make an effort not to salivate as Darren,
who looked about fifteen by Mariner's reckoning, tucked
into a particularly juicy looking medium-rare steak. The lad
looked as if he could do with the nutrients. His close
cropped hair and sallow complexion gave him the
appearance of an Auschwitz survivor, although the scales
would have probably shown a healthy reading, thanks to the
extensive metalwork threaded through ears, nose and
eyebrows. He made Mariner feel middle-aged and past it.
News that Eddie's death was not after all self-inflicted
had by now permeated and, though less demonstrative,
Darren appeared as distressed as his chief had been. 'I've
been Eddie's partner for the last three years on and off,' he
told Mariner, in his laconic Black-Country whine, and
dispelling the age myth at once. "I can't believe it. He was
a straight-up bloke. Why would anyone want to do that to
him? You don't know--?'
Mariner shook his head in response.
'God. And I was only with him Friday. I keep going over
it, trying to think if there's anything I should have seen.'
'He didn't talk to you about his plans for the weekend?
Whether he was meeting anyone?' Mariner asked.
'No, he never talked much about what he did after hours.'
'It would help now if you could tell me a bit about
Eddie,' said Mariner. 'What was he like?'
Darren shrugged. 'There's not much to tell. Eddie was
all right.'
This might be an exercise in getting blood from a stone.
'And the two of you got on okay?'
Darren's alibi was solid, he'd been drinking in a pub in
Cradley Heath with his mates all of Sunday evening, but it
was still worth posing the question. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Eddie
was really good to me when I first started. We were a good
team.'
'Was there anything about his behaviour during the last
few weeks or days that seemed odd or out of character?'
Darren shipped his knife and fork. 'No. I mean, I keep
going over it, trying to think. But Eddie was never a
conventional sort of bloke.'
And you would know? Mariner eyed the rows of assorted
rings that adorned Darren's ears, and the studs in his left
nostril. Unconsciously his finger and thumb went up to the
two puncture holes remaining from his own modest youthful
rebellion. The extent of Darren's pierced bits was extravagant
by comparison, but then maybe with a name like Darren
Smith you had to find other outlets for self-expression.
'What did the two of you get up to then?' Mariner
prompted in an effort to get him talking.
'Oh, we covered local stories, the really exciting stuff,'
Darren said, meaning exactly the opposite. 'You know,
"Edna the dinner lady retires after thirty years", "Terry the
fireman cycles up Everest for charity".' He feigned a yawn.
'Must have been quite a change from what Eddie had
been used to,' observed Mariner.
'You can say that again.'
'Did Eddie seem to mind?'
"I don't think so, not really. One of the things he taught
me was: no matter how small it was, any story had potential.
You never knew when the small tug on the line might
turn out to be a big fish. Eddie took all our assignments
seriously. And in any case, he usually had his own agenda
to keep him going.'
Mariner's interest stirred. 'What do you mean?'
'Eddie always had his own little private investigations on
the go. Force of habit I guess, but he was always on the
lookout for the big story.'

. . . / have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep

'What sort of big story?' asked Mariner.
Darren smiled, shaking his head. 'I never knew exactly
what. He just liked to chuck out these hints from time to
time, that he was working on something much more important
than the dross we got landed with.'
'Like what?'
'He never told me. Things. Sometimes he used to just
disappear without telling me where he was going. He used
to say he had leads to follow up.'
'And you didn't mind that?'
'We weren't joined at the hip. I'm a picture man. If there
wasn't anything to photograph, there wasn't much point in
me going, was there?'
'And when he did his disappearing act, there were no
hints about where he was going?'
'No, although he did say once that he was on to some
drug story. He said it was the drug story to beat all drug
stories. Made out like it was something really big.'
'When was this?'
"I don't know, few months ago. It never came to
anything,' Darren added, dismissively.
'Was that drugs, as in narcotics?' Mariner persisted.
He'd already noticed the redness around Darren's nostrils,
but maybe it was a cold that had kept the lad away from
work.
Darren snorted. "I didn't get the impression it was
Sanatogen he was on about.'
'What else did he say about this "story"?'
'Nothing that I can remember. That was pretty well it.
Apart from it being personal.'
Again Mariner's antennae twitched. 'As in personal
services? You know, like the columns of ads in the paper?
Or could he have meant personal as in revenge, some kind
of vendetta?' He caught the whiff of a distant motive, but
Darren wasn't inclined to help him out.
"I don't know.' His brow creased to a frown. 'It could
have been either or none I suppose. To be honest, half the
time I used to think he was just winding me up. Letting me
know that he hadn't lost his touch, that he still could be one
of the major players if he wanted.'
'Eddie was involved in a big prostitution case a few years
ago. He ever say anything about that to you?'
'He mentioned it.'

'Recently?'
'No. When we first got together I asked him about it, but
he didn't say much.'
'Did he ever talk to you about a man called Frank
Crosby?'
'No, but I've heard of him.' Darren's eyes widened. 'Do
you think--?'
Mariner cut that one off at the pass. 'Eddie ever get
involved in any rough stuff?' he asked. 'Anything that was
likely to get him into trouble physically?'
'No. He didn't take chances, if that's what you mean.
But he did get mugged the other week,' said Darren,
absently, giving Mariner the growing impression that he
wasn't actually all that bright.
'When?'
Again a pause while Darren thought it over. 'It must
have been about three weeks ago.'
'What happened?'
'Eddie turned up for work with a black eye, cut lip, all
that.' Darren glanced up at Mariner's own battle scars. 'He
said he'd been mugged the night before.'
Mariner sensed Darren's discomfort. 'Did you believe
him?'
'When I asked if he'd reported it to you lot, he said he
wasn't going to bother. In fact, he got really annoyed, told
me to stop banging on about it because it was his business.'
Mariner's thoughts came back to the brunette. 'What
about women?' he asked.
'Oh, girls liked Eddie. They all fell for his charm. Not
that he seemed to notice'
'So there wasn't anyone special.'
'Not that I knew about. He's got this brother--'
Mariner nodded. "I know all about Jamie.'
'Well, you'll know that he came first, then.' Darren
picked up his knife and fork in a less than subtle hint.
Mariner was content enough to take it. He'd probably got
as much as he was going to squeeze out of Darren. 'Thanks

Darren, you've been very helpful. I'm going to have a look
round Eddie's office now. Will you be around if there's
anything I need to check with you?'
'Sure, I'll be in the labs, I've got some shots to develop.'
'Great. And if you should think of anything else--'
Mariner finished the sentence by sliding his card across the
table. Darren picked it up and studied it for a moment,
before tucking it into his shirt pocket and returning his
attentions to what was now a considerably less appetising
stone-cold steak and chips.
Ken Moloney himself had taken time out to escort
Mariner to Eddie Barham's workspace. Mariner took the
opportunity to quiz him again as they travelled up in the
lift. 'Eddie's piece on Frank Crosby must have been a
pretty big story.' Mariner had been considering those
payments. 'Would anyone else have been interested in it?'
'Like who?'
'Was it the kind of thing Eddie could have syndicated to
the nationals?'
"I wouldn't have thought so. It was a local story, pretty
shocking at the time, but every city has a similar tale to tell.
It wouldn't have been anything that unusual.'
Besides, thought Mariner, it was old news. So why
would anyone have been interested in it as recently as three
months ago?
'Though, as a matter of fact, he did come back to me on
that with a proposal for a follow-up story,' Moloney added.
'When was that?'
'About six months ago.'
'And?'
"I nixed it. The world isn't ready for another expose yet.'
Mariner wondered if Eddie Barham would have agreed with
that.
They had come to the corner of an expansive open-plan
office. Islands of desks were randomly scattered, many
topped with flickering flat-screen monitors, and the room
hummed to the tune of phones and fax machines. That none
of the handful of staff present gave them a second glance
told Mariner that Moloney's approach was hands-on. They
were used to the boss wandering in.
Eddie Barham had created himself a small zone of tranquillity
in one corner, by blocking off a section of the room
with tall filing cabinets.
'Eddie liked his own space,' confirmed Moloney.
'Sensible man,' said Mariner.
It was an orderly workspace, everything left neat and
tidy, the way it might have been left by a man who knew
he may not be returning. Moloney called over someone
called Phil who logged Mariner on to Eddie's computer,
then they both left him to it. But Mariner already had a
feeling that he wouldn't find much here. The virus on
Eddie's home computer was a clear sign that anything
important had been stored there, which is why he, or
someone else, had taken steps to eliminate it. The only
documents they'd so far managed to salvage from it were a
few fairly low-key stories and the remains of a database,
the meaning of which they had yet to fathom. Eddie's work
computer was networked, meaning that practically anyone
could gain access to his files. If he really was on to something
big it was unlikely that he'd leave key information
here.
Eddie Barham's particular little obsession appeared to be
databases, which he kept for everything. His file management
system was a detective's dream: methodical and
transparent, electronic documents arranged as neatly as the
hard copies. The first thing Mariner did was a search for
Sally-Ann and all other possible permutations of the name
but, unsurprisingly, it yielded a nil return.
Eddie's diary and work-log in the weeks prior to his
death revealed nothing that particularly stood out, either.
Specific assignments were coded and most of the items on
the work log tallied with his computer files, the stories he'd
been working on. True to Darren's word, it was pretty
mundane stuff and nothing to get Mariner's pulse racing or
to justify any five-thousand-pound payouts. There were one
or two blank spaces, but cross-referencing with Eddie's
diary explained some of these as meetings at Greencote,
and on one occasion at Oakwood, along with routine
medical appointments. For now, Mariner noted the few
slots that were unaccounted for, like half a morning on
14 November with only a telephone number occupying the
space.
Out of curiosity, Mariner picked up the receiver by
Eddie's desk and tapped in the number. As he picked up the
receiver he heard a click echo somewhere down the line.
Ken Moloney keeping track of the calls made by his staff?
It seemed a bit excessive. The ring tone sounded.
'Charles Hanover and Associates,' said an efficient PA,
announcing one of the largest law firms in the city.
Mariner identified himself. 'I'm trying to trace the last
known movements of an Edward Barham,' he said. 'And
on the morning of November the fourteenth I see that he
had an appointment with someone at your firm. I wonder if
you could check that for me.'
'One moment please.'
She returned quickly. 'That's right sir. The appointment
was with Mr Lloyd.'
'Could I speak to Mr Lloyd?'
'I'm afraid he's away on holiday at present. He won't be
back until the twenty-first.' Almost a week away.
'Is there any indication of what this meeting was about?'
Mariner asked.
'I'm sorry, I can't access Mr Lloyd's files, they're confidential.
We'd have to wait until he returns.'
As an afterthought Mariner asked, 'Does Mr Lloyd have
any kind of specialism?'
'He's one of our best compensation lawyers,' she said,
with such pride that Mariner wondered if Lloyd's PA
perhaps had the tiniest crush on her boss.
With luck, Darren would be able to shed some light on
that.
The remainder of the system revealed Eddie Barham as
a journalist of eclectic interests. Other computer files were
given over to the copy for old news stories and some reference
material, some of it dating back years and covering a
huge range of topics. Even during the last few months he'd
been researching variously the National Front, GM foods
and something called Foetal Valproate syndrome. Mariner
didn't even pause to speculate on what that may be. It
sounded vaguely medical but a check on the date revealed
that it had come to Eddie's attention only after the appointment
with Lloyd, so was unlikely to be related. It was
impossible to pick out any single project that may have
contributed to his death, unless size was the criterion.
By far the largest folder was one dedicated to Frank
Crosby. According to the machine the file had last been
modified four years ago, but that wouldn't have prevented
Eddie Barham from using it for reference or from putting
fresh material on his home computer. Out of curiosity,
Mariner glanced through some of the notes, which began
with records of interviews with the street kids. For Mariner
they made uncomfortable reading.
'How's it going?' Darren's sudden appearance startled
Mariner into minimising the file, but not before noting the
occurrence of Doug Lowry's name, which he stored in his
head for later use. 'Fine,' he said. 'Though there are a
couple of things you can help me with.'
'Sure.' Darren pulled up a chair.
'There are some gaps in Eddie's diary, I noticed. Would
these be the sort of occasions where Eddie was pursuing his
own lines?'
'They might be.' Darren dug into a filthy khaki rucksack,
one of the army surplus store's best, and produced a
dog-eared diary. 'What have you got?'
Mariner flicked back through Eddie's notebook. 'The
twelfth of January, pm,' he said
Darren looked it up. 'That afternoon we had a union
meeting.'
And the fourteenth November. This appointment. He's
got a telephone number that belongs to a compensation
lawyer. Any idea what that would have been about?'
Darren thought for a couple of minutes, flicked idly
through the diary. Stopped at one particular page. 'The
only story I can think of was this couple we went to see.
They'd already got four kids and they weren't supposed to
have any more, the woman had been sterilised, but then she
got pregnant again. They were suing the health authority.'
'Do you remember the name of this couple?'
Darren thought for a minute. 'Powell, I think. Yeah, I'm
sure of it, Mr and Mrs Powell.'
'Thanks.' Mariner checked and sure enough the name
and number of Mr and Mrs Stephen Powell were recorded
on one of Eddie's databases. When Darren had gone,
Mariner called them up but the line was engaged. The STD
code was for an area Mariner would pass through on his
way home. Perhaps he'd stop by and talk to them instead.
Finally he rang Knox to see if there had been any progress
on tracing those bank accounts.
'Sweet FA,' was the concise response. 'We've narrowed
it down though; it's a foreign bank offshore, we're trying
to identify which one. We'll probably need an access
warrant to get anywhere near.'
'Well, start--'
"I already have, boss.'



Chapter Nine

Back home, Anna made coffee and took out the list of residential
accommodation that Dr Payne had given her. At
first glance there seemed to be half a dozen possibilities, all
within a radius of about twenty miles. She chose the most
attractive-sounding one, middle-distance, and picked up the
phone.
A woman answered her call almost immediately. 'Hello,
The Limes.'
It was a jolly voice, and Anna tried to reciprocate.
'Hello, I'm looking for residential care for my brother,' she
began.
"I see. Is he an older gentleman?' asked the woman.
The question threw Anna. 'No, he's twenty-nine, but
he's--'
'I'm sorry,' the woman cut in. 'This is a retirement
home.' Brilliant. She terminated the call. The next was
more promising. It was, as Anna established straight away,
a home for adults with learning difficulties of all ages, but
there was a hitch.
'We don't have any vacancies at present,' a woman with
an equally merry voice told her. But there was hope, 'We
operate a waiting list and you're welcome to come and have
a look. How about next Monday? Around two o'clock?' It
was a start.
'I'll do that. Thank you.' Leaving her name, Anna

replaced the phone, punching the air with a triumphant,
'Yes!' It was a foot in the door. Once she was there she
might be able to persuade them to take Jamie anyway, especially
as she could pay. She could be very persuasive.
At the thought of Jamie being taken care of by someone
else again, her depression lifted, slightly. Their relationship
could be restored to a safe distance and her life returned to
normal. Anna felt a sudden ache for Jonathan, the touch of
him, the smell of him. Something else she was learning
from Jamie; celibacy didn't suit her.
To avoid being late in fetching Jamie from the centre
she'd set her alarm, but halfway there, realised she hadn't
done any shopping. They'd have to do it on the way home,
she decided, dismissing nagging memories of Jamie as a
boy, throwing himself on shop floors and screaming if he
couldn't have or do what he wanted.
Fortunately Francine had given her an envelope of
photographs, duplicates of the ones Eddie had been using at
home, so that consistency could be maintained between
home and the day centre. As Francine had suggested, she
prepared the ground first. 'Going shopping,' she said,
thrusting a snapshot of Sainsbury's in front of Jamie.
'We'll get you some Hula Hoops.' Even though her
cupboard at home was bursting with them. It was
unashamed bribery.
Jamie didn't care. 'Loops,' he echoed, contentedly.
The expedition went reasonably smoothly, if painfully
slowly and Jamie for his part appeared to enjoy it. Being
one of the busiest times of the week, the store was
crowded. But after an initial wariness, Jamie developed a
profound interest in the tiny numbers written on packets
and tins, in fact so much so that he wanted to stand and
examine each one for several minutes.
Anna reminded herself to be patient, especially when
Jamie selected items that caught his attention, sniffing,
shaking and squeezing them, before absently dropping them
on the floor. Anna simply replaced them. No problem.

Ill

They spent a good five minutes at the display of pay as you
talk mobile phones while Jamie recited the brand names one
after the other, touching the appropriate box as he spoke,
until Anna could move him on. They were awarded some
funny looks, that was all.
En route Anna grabbed what she needed as quickly as
she could. Decisions that in other circumstances she would
have agonised about were made in an instant. For once she
didn't care whether the chicken was free range or battery
farmed, the coffee decaffeinated or packed with stimulants,
she just hurled it in the trolley and kept on moving,
dragging Jamie along behind her. They'd made it to the last
aisle, frozen vegetables, the end in sight, when Anna
spotted a new and exotic stir-fry mix. Jonathan was
passionate about Thai food, well, that and other things, and
right now she could do with topping up the brownie points.
She stopped to study it for a few minutes. It was expensive.
Should she get it?
A child's shrill voice pierced her consciousness.
'Mummy, what's the man doing?' and something made her
look up. For a few seconds she couldn't see Jamie and
began to panic that he had run off. Then she caught sight
of his rear end. He was leaning so far into one of the vast
chest freezers that he was almost in it.
'Jamie, what are you--?' Anna walked over to see what
was so compelling and froze with horror. With consummate
skill, Jamie was systematically prising the lids from the
cartons of chocolate ice cream, before plunging his hands
into the soft, icy mass and scooping out handfuls to shovel
into his mouth.
'Jamie!' Anna dragged him out of the freezer. He had
chocolate ice cream up to his sleeves and his face was Coco
the clown on a bad day.
Tee 'ream,' he said, beaming at Anna, as a blob of
melted chocolate dripped off his chin and on to his sweater.
'I'll give you bloody ice cream!' hissed Anna. 'You can't
just eat it. We have to pay for it!' Holding him at arm's
length, she ran a quick visual inventory. Shit. He'd
despoiled at least five cartons that Anna could see.
Fortunately there was now no one else nearby, and for
several seconds Anna was tempted to replace the lids on the
tubs and bury them. But her conscience got the better of
her, so abandoning the rest of the shopping she stacked the
cartons one on top of the other and headed for the checkout,
Jamie trailing along behind.
'Somebody couldn't wait then,' commented the checkout
girl helpfully, giving Anna a very dubious look. 'Did you
want school computer vouchers with these?'
Anna gave her an icy glare, fumbling for cash with one
hand while using the other to fend off Jamie's sticky hands.
Ignoring the fascinated stares of other shoppers, she re
stacked the ice cream and strode out of the supermarket.
In the car park she strapped Jamie into the car before
gingerly loading the rapidly thawing ice cream into her
boot, noting the interesting stains that were being added to
the upholstery. Jamie, sensing her anger, was uncharacteristically
quiet and subdued.

Rarely had Anna been so relieved to retreat to the safety of
her own home. Hurrying inside, she began stuffing what
she could of the ice cream into the freezer. The buzz of the
intercom startled her, and Anna half expected to find the
supermarket manager at her door with a policeman, accusing
them of product abuse. But it wasn't.
It was Jonathan, smiling and stomach-churningly handsome.
Glancing at Anna's chocolate-covered hands he
grinned, lasciviously. 'This looks like fun. Can anyone join
in?'
'Don't,' said Anna. 'I'm not in the mood.' When she
told him what had happened the story only seemed to amuse
Jonathan even further and eventually Anna was able to see
the funny side too.
'Except that I had to leave a trolley full of shopping at
the supermarket.' She smiled sweetly. 'Would you do me a

favour and just sit with him for half an hour while I go and
get it? It won't take long.'
'What, now?'
'I'll make it worth your while.' Anna ran a hand down
his shirt front and lower. Then she grabbed her keys and
hurried out of the door before he had the chance to object.
The full trolley was still where Anna had left it, and by this
time of night the queues were minimal, so she was back
well within the half hour.
As she unpacked in the kitchen, Jonathan crept up behind
her and slipped his hands around her waist and up over her
breasts. 'Now Dicky Stiff wants his reward,' he said, pressing
himself against her.
Through in the lounge Anna could just see the top of
Jamie's head as he sat, intent on the screen. 'I'm not sure
about this,' she said, uncertainly.
'Come on.' Jonathan was persuasive. 'He's not a baby.
You don't have to watch over him all the time, do you? We
can go to your bedroom. He needn't know what we're up
to.' He turned her towards him and his lips touched hers.
Anna moved her head away, unable to relax. "I need a glass
of wine first.' The shopping stowed, Jonathan poured her one
and brought it to where she sat near to Jamie. Leaning over
the back of the sofa, Jonathan began to massage her shoulders.
It felt wonderful. Then he leaned down and murmured
in her ear: 'Why don't we continue this in the bedroom?' And
taking her hand, he practically dragged her along the hall.
Closing the door behind them, Jonathan's arms went
around her, his mouth on hers, hungrily seeking her out.
Anna could feel his excitement, but for some reason, she
was unable to reciprocate. Inside she felt somehow deceitful,
uncomfortable, as though she was setting some kind of
double standard. She worried that Jamie might walk in on
them? What would he make of it?
Jonathan hardly seemed to notice. 'God, I've been dying
for this,' he breathed, but Anna pushed him away and
broke free. 'What?'

Anna didn't really know what, and stood for a moment,
helplessly, looking at him. 'It's very quiet in there,' she
blurted out.
'What do you expect? He's watching telly.'
'If he is still watching. When he gets bored he gets up to
all sorts. I think I'll just go and check, I won't be a
minute.'
'Okay.' Jonathan was humouring her.
Creeping back along the hallway, Anna peered into the
lounge. Jamie was exactly where they'd left him, three feet
from the TV, his eyes fixed on the screen. 'He's fine,' she
told Jonathan on her return.
'Of course he is.'
So why couldn't she relax? Jonathan reached for her,
trying a different, gentler tack. Slowly unbuttoning her
shirt, he slipped it down from her shoulders. There was a
crash from the lounge.
'What was that?' Anna pulled the blouse back on.
With Jonathan's frustrated groan ringing in her ears,
Anna went back out to the lounge. Jamie had pulled the pile
of magazines on to the floor and was sprawled out and
happily occupied flicking through their pages. She perched
on the edge of the sofa watching him for a moment, not
wanting to return to the bedroom, but not really knowing
why. She glanced up to see Jonathan come in, buttoning his
shirt.
'What are you doing?' she asked.
His eyes gleamed with barely repressed anger. 'What
does it look like? I'm obviously wasting my time here.'
'I'm sorry. I just can't. He could walk in on us at any
time. Look, I know it's difficult, but you don't have to go.
Couldn't we just watch TV, talk for a while?'
Jonathan stopped dressing and stared at her. 'Have you
any idea how hard it was for me to get away tonight? You
honestly believe that I'd want to spend all night in front of
the TV? And while we're at it, if I'd wanted to child-mind
I could have done that at home, with my own kids.'
'He's not a--' Anna began, but was halted by a the image
that for months had lain dormant on the edge of her
consciousness, of Jonathan's wife, Gillian, at home managing
the constant demands of three small children, while her
husband was out indulging his own selfish pleasures, egged
on by Anna. Her desire to argue evaporated. As Jonathan
pulled on his jacket, Anna trailed behind him to the door,
stepping over Jamie, who remained blissfully oblivious to
his new gooseberry status.
As an afterthought Jonathan turned back to Anna. 'There
was something else,' he told her. 'The panic is off about
Milan.'
'Oh. Have they cancelled?' asked Anna, stupidly.
'No, I'll be sending Melanie in your place.'
Anna was horrified. 'What do you mean? There's no
need. I'll have something fixed up for Jamie by then!'
But Jonathan was adamant. "I can't rely on you at
present, Anna. When things have settled down, I'll give
you a call.'
Anna made a flash decision. 'No, please don't bother.'
'Okay, if that's the way you want it.' Jonathan regarded
her evenly for a moment.
'It is.'
.'I'll see you at the office then, when you're ready to
come back. Goodbye Anna.'
Anna closed the door on him and leaned on it. 'Thank
you so much for your support,' she murmured.
As she walked back into the living room, Jamie jumped
up and took her hand, pulling her towards the kitchen.
'Want a drink,' he said.
'Don't you ever say "please"?' Anna snapped back at
him, the hurt, frustration and confusion of the evening
spilling over.
'Please,' Jamie echoed, cheerfully. Despite herself,
Anna laughed and complied. The packet of photographs
Francine had given her was on the kitchen table. If they
were to be of any proper use, she'd need to sort through
them and see what there was. She tipped out the contents
and shuffled through the pile: Jamie at the day centre,
Jamie in the garden. Jamie with a woman Anna had never
seen before. She stared at the picture. She was a pretty
woman, with long dark hair and chestnut coloured eyes.
Anna remembered Mariner's description of the woman
he saw with Eddie. Was this Sally-Ann? On impulse,
Anna showed it to Jamie. 'Jamie look,' she said. 'Sally?
Sally-Ann?'
But Jamie frowned as he reached out to touch it. 'Kay,'
he said. 'Kay no cry."
'She's not crying Jamie,' Anna said. 'She's happy, she's
smiling.'
'Kay,' Jamie insisted. 'Kay no cry.'

Mr and Mrs Stephen Powell lived on the Bournville village
trust, the estate created by George Cadbury in 1885 to
accommodate the employees of his newly built chocolate
factory. Of varying shapes and sizes, to meet the needs of
workers at different levels of income, the houses carried a
distinctive collective style of orange brick and Georgian
style or leaded windows. Along with the narrow winding
streets, fronted by neatly manicured pocket-handkerchief
gardens, the impression was of a child's toy village, perfect
in every detail. As Mariner climbed out of his car the image
was completed by the sound of the quaint melodic chimes
of the Carillon as it struck the quarter hour.
The Powells' home was a semi-detached set back behind
an expansive green, where in the gathering dusk the 'No
ball games' sign was being used as a goal post by a group
of noisy young boys. Mariner wasn't really sure what he
was looking for or whether the Powells' story was likely to
be of any importance, but he was curious about why Eddie
Barham would have contacted a top-notch compensation
lawyer, and this had seemed the only remotely viable possibility.
Steve
Powell answered the door and immediately
Mariner was aware of the family Darren had described, a
hoard of boisterous children rushing past their dad and up
the stairs, shouting and yelling.
'Detective Inspector Mariner,' Mariner raised his voice
above the racket and held out his warrant card. 'This is
nothing to be alarmed about Mr Powell, just a routine
enquiry. Would it be convenient to talk to you for a few
minutes?'
'Yes, of course, come in.' Closing the door, Powell led
him through to the quiet oasis of a lounge where a young
woman sat feeding a bottle to a tiny infant. 'This is my
wife, Ceryn and our daughter, Isobel.'
Sitting down as invited, Mariner found himself
mesmerised by the scene. The baby's tiny hands clasped
around the bottle, huge dark eyes wide and unblinking,
gazing up at her mother as she suckled. With some effort
he turned his attention back to Steve Powell and briefly
explained the purpose of his visit. When he got to the part
about following up Eddie Barham's death both Ceryn and
Stephen were shocked, but then with five young and
exuberant children in the house (Mariner could hear the
continued thudding of footsteps running around upstairs),
the opportunities for keeping up with local news events
must be limited.
'That's terrible. He was such a nice man,' Ceryn said.
'We contacted him back in September of last year,'
Stephen Powell told Mariner. 'At the time, Ceryn was
about seven and a half months into the pregnancy. We were
tearing our hair out. We didn't know how on earth we were
going to cope with another child. I work up at Longbridge,
where the threat of redundancy never seems far away. We
sought legal advice on taking action against the health
authority and a friend suggested that the publicity would
bring some additional pressure to bear. That was why we
phoned the newspaper.'
'And Eddie Barham came to talk to you.'
'Yes, he brought a photographer too. But after some

discussion we decided that it would be more effective to run
the piece after the baby was born, when we were due to
start proceedings. So we waited, and then Isobel came
along and we changed our minds.'
'About the publicity?'
'About suing. We dropped the action. We rang the paper
to tell Eddie.'
'When was this?'
'The beginning of December, shortly after Isobel was
born.' Only weeks after Eddie's meeting with Mr Lloyd.
'And what was his reaction?'
'He was pretty surprised. He said he thought we had a
very strong case, and obviously he recognised it as a good
story. But we'd already made up our minds that we couldn't
go through with it. Touch wood, we're not badly off
and we had a beautiful, healthy baby. We felt that to try to
blame someone for Isobel's birth would be an act of
betrayal. I mean look at her.' Steve Powell relieved his
wife of the now replete infant, who blinked uncertainly
towards Mariner. 'How could anyone not want one of
these?'
Mariner did look, and for some inexplicable reason, he
found a lump rising in his throat.
'Have you got children, Inspector?' Ceryn Powell asked,
but fortunately Mariner was saved from making a reply by
a thud and a loud wail from upstairs. Never a comfortable
question, right now Mariner would have been hard-pressed
to answer truthfully. Ceryn hurried from the room to attend
the incident and, as Steve Powell was engaged with his
youngest child, Mariner saw himself out.
Driving away from the house, Mariner couldn't help
imagining what it might have been like to hold that tiny
infant in his arms, while Steve Powell's words rang inside
his head: 'How could anyone not want one of these?' How
indeed? Mariner needed a drink. Along with the seven and
a half thousand dwellings on the Bournville estate, were the
churches, schools and shops required to serve the residents'
needs. Unfortunately though, thanks to the Cadburys'
Quaker roots, the one glaring deficiency was a decent pub,
indeed any kind of pub, so Mariner was forced to return to
the Boatman.
Over his pint of Boddington's he considered where this
case was going. The Powell family appeared now to be a
complete red herring. No money had apparently changed
hands and, in any case, the Powells would have been paid
for their story, not the other way round. And Mariner
couldn't quite imagine them keeping their funds stashed
away in some offshore account.
All they were left with then was a partial database lifted
from Eddie Barham's corrupted hard drive, and a fragile
link with Frank Crosby. Not much to offer at the inquest.
He could do with showing that database to Anna Barham.
It was possible that she might have an inkling of what it was
all about, though somehow he doubted it, given the tenuous
nature of her relationship with her brother. They should go
back to the original clues, too, namely the page of small
ads. So far those had yielded nothing, but Mariner felt sure
that there must be something in there.
After a couple of pints he wandered home. Despite the
Focus parked outside, the house was unexpectedly dark and
quiet, meaning that Knox was either on a night out, or had
turned in early. Switching on the living room light, the
mystery was solved by a pair of pink patent leather trainers
neatly aligned with Tony Knox's size eleven Doc
Martens. This hadn't been part of the deal, and Mariner's
immediate thought was that he wished he'd discussed the
point. Too much to hope for that it could be Mrs Knox,
come round for a reconciliation.
Again Mariner pondered on the stupidity of Knox's
behaviour. 'You've got it made' he'd told Mariner, failing
to realise that actually he was the one with all the advantages
of a loving wife and family. A grandkid. Something
that Mariner had started wondering lately if he would ever
achieve.
Until Greta had come along he'd been content to be
alone. It had always been his natural state. Most of his relationships
tended towards the purely functional and he'd
only ever really cultivated friendships because somehow it
seemed to be an expectation: of his mother, his teachers, or
his girlfriends. Left to his own devices he'd always
preferred to be entirely self-reliant. Now though, he'd
reached that age where some kind of settled family life had
begun to look vaguely appealing. The irony of the situation
wasn't lost on him. Just at the time when he felt ready for
a long-term relationship, the possibility had begun to recede
rapidly into the distance. The reasons for this he tried not
to dwell on too much, but someone, it seemed, was determined
that he would.
He'd only been in bed ten minutes when he suddenly
became aware of low rhythmic groans emanating from the
room above his. They got louder. If this was a reconciliation
then it was a pretty comprehensive one. He tried to
ignore the noises and go to sleep, but he was startled and
ashamed by how much the undulating, animal-like sounds
aroused him. And when, eventually, they built to a screaming
crescendo, his own climax followed soon afterwards,
leaving him feeling self-disgusted, like some dirty little
Peeping Tom, and rubbing salt into an increasingly festering
wound.


Chapter Ten

For Anna Barham, the days that followed were marked out
by the rituals of sudden death. The nature of Eddie's
demise necessitated an inquest, which, in the event, was
blissfully short. Mariner had already talked her through the
process and it went pretty well as he'd predicted. Once the
pathologist had presented his findings: cause of death a
lethal injection of pure grade diamorphine, the request for
an adjournment was duly granted for fourteen days pending
police enquiries. Meanwhile, permission was given to
release Eddie's body to be laid to rest, allowing Anna to
make the final arrangements.
The Friday of his funeral was bitterly cold, with a biting
wind and a blanket of thick grey cloud that pressed claustrophobically
down over Lodge Hill Crematorium. It was a
little over fourteen years since Anna and Eddie had come
to this very place, on a crisp, sunny afternoon, to say the
last goodbye to their parents. For that brief window in
time, united in grief, they had almost been like a normal
brother and sister, although even then, Anna seemed to
remember, they'd found time to argue about Jamie.
Like then, today was a day of ghosts and strangers and
Anna found herself surrounded by a group of unknowns,
who paradoxically all knew her. It was like being on the
wrong side of a one-way mirror and one of the rare circumstances
when she wished she wasn't on her own. Despite

what had happened last night, it would have been comforting
to have Jonathan beside her to soak up some of the
attention from all those sympathetic eyes. Even DI Mariner
would have been a welcome presence. He'd rushed off after
the inquest and she hadn't yet had the opportunity to pass
on the photograph she'd found. It would have been good
just to talk to him, but she wasn't sure why, except that
they shared a common cause. That must be it.
Auntie Helen was there; looking ill and making Anna feel
guilty about that phone call. There were some remaining
distant relatives Anna barely recognised, who presumably
had seen the newspaper story, along with a clutch of younger
people who Anna took to be Eddie's former work colleagues.
Glancing behind her once again, Anna was relieved to eventually
catch sight of Becky and Mark slipping into the back of
the chapel of rest at the last minute and acknowledged with a
smile Becky's reassuring wave.
She'd kept the ceremony brief and simple, the eulogy
read by the same minister who had officiated at her parents'
cremation. Anna had furnished him with what few details
she could about Eddie, but had no desire to stand up herself
and spout hypocritically. Honesty, she felt, was the least
she could give him in death. Eddie's dedication to caring
for Jamie formed the main theme and Anna was glad. It
was only during the last few days that she had got a real
measure of that devotion. Afterwards, Anna led the mourners
back out into the foyer past the floral tributes.
As Becky and Mark caught her up, Becky gave her a
much-needed hug. 'How are you doing?'
'I'm coping.' Anna took Mark's outstretched hand.
'I'm really sorry, Anna,' he said.
'Thanks.'
'I've brought you this.' Reaching into his pocket, Mark
took out a slip of paper. 'Becky said you were looking for
a place for Jamie? This one is new, and it's a bit out of
town, but it's got an excellent reputation.'

Anna took the paper from him. She didn't recognise the
name.'We've got to go,' Becky was apologetic. 'Jonathan has
allowed me two hours exactly.
'That's very generous of him.' Anna struggled to keep
the sarcasm from her voice.
"I didn't know if he might have come himself,' Becky
went on. 'Moral support and all that.'
'No,' said Anna, unable to keep the bitterness from her
voice. 'Far too public' Becky gave her an odd look, but
Anna left it at that. Her friend would find out soon enough,
and now was hardly the time.
'Will you be all right?' Becky asked.
'I'll be fine.'
'Well, keep in touch,' Mark said. 'And if there's
anything else we can do--'
How about babysitting my twenty-nine-year-old brother
once a week? Anna was tempted to say, but she just smiled
thanks and retained the thought.
As Becky and Mark moved away a youth, tall and looselimbed
with a shaven head, and face dotted with hoops
and studs, broke away from the group and loped across to
Anna. 'Darren,' he said, simply. "I worked with Eddie at
the paper.'
'Thank you for coming Darren,' Anna said automatically,
noting that Eddie's co-workers looked considerably
more interesting than her own.
'No problem. Eddie was a good guy, I'm really going to
miss him.'
'We all will,' said Anna, with feeling. There seemed
little more to add until she suddenly recognised an opportunity.
'Darren, you may be able to help me,' she said.
'You may know that Eddie and I weren't particularly close,
and I've never met his girlfriend. Is she here today?'
But Darren just looked confused. "I told that copper; I
didn't know Eddie had a girlfriend. He never talked about
one.'
	Rifling quickly through her bag, Anna took out the photo

of Jamie and the unknown woman. 'I thought this must be
her. Do you know who this might be?'
Darren pulled a face. 'I've never seen her before. I'd
remember a face like that, I'm sure of it. Pretty girl.'
'Oh, well, thanks anyway.'
'Sure, and hey, I'm really sorry.' He dipped his head
before moving back to the group.
'Thanks,' said Anna.
Darren's place was immediately taken by an older
woman, her greying hair set off by an elegant claret,
tailored suit. She smiled warmly. 'Hello Anna. I'm so sorry
about Eddie.' She accepted Anna's blank expression with a
smile. 'You won't remember me. I'm Liz Trueman,' she
obliged. 'Richard and I were friends of your parents. Our
son Michael is autistic too. It was a long time ago, I know,
but you visited us once or twice when you were all children.
'
'Oh, yes, of course.' Thankfully her words began to
strike a familiar note with Anna. Mum and Dad had got to
know the Truemans along with several other families when
Jamie was young. The Truemans had subsequently moved
to a bigger house in Sutton Coldfield, to the north of the
city, that Anna vaguely remembered visiting. Michael had
the autistic label, like Jamie, but there any similarity ended.
Michael had seemed to make much more progress and had
lots of language, although he didn't always know how to
use it properly. Anna's overriding memory of Michael was
having him follow her around their garden all day because
he'd taken a liking to her then waist-length, red hair. 'How
is Michael?' she asked now, out of politeness more than
anything.
Another smile. 'He's doing really well. Especially since
he's been on his new medication. He was on the same one
for years, but it started to have a very odd effect on him.
It was very worrying. But the drug he's taking now is brand
new and so much better. He's got his own flat now, with a
lot of support from his dad and me of course, but he holds
down a part-time job, so he helps to pay for that himself.'
'That's great,' said Anna, struck by the huge contrast.
Hard to imagine Jamie living in his own place, how ever
much support he was given.
'He's still Michael though,' Liz added, tempering her
enthusiasm as if she too had recognised the discrepancy.
'And that will never change.' She put a hand on Anna's
arm. "I do know how hard it can be. And if you and Jamie
ever want a day out sometime, change of scenery, you
know where we are.'
'Thank you.' It wasn't until later that Anna wondered
how it was that Liz had even known about Eddie's death.
To the best of her knowledge they hadn't been in touch for
years. But then, they did get newspapers in Sutton.
Before Anna had time to work it out, she was confronted
with yet another sympathetic smile, but this time from Dr
Payne. Anna relaxed, pleased to see a familiar face.
'How are you bearing up?' he asked.
'I'm managing,' Anna said.
'Good. And what about Jamie?'
'He seems to be okay. Life just goes on for him, doesn't
it?'
"I suppose so. You haven't noticed any ill effects?' he
asked. 'Nothing bothering him?'
'Nothing obvious, no. Give him a packet of Hula Hoops
and he's as happy as Larry.'
'Good, and the staff at the day centre haven't reported
anything? He's still at Greencote isn't he?'
'Yes, he seems to really like it there. I don't know how
I'd manage without it.'
'Well, if there is anything I can do, you know where I
am.'
'Yes, thank you.'
The undertaker hovered tactfully nearby. 'When you're
ready, Miss Barham,' he intervened gently.
"I must let you go. Your car is waiting.' Dr Payne
grasped her hand and squeezed it hard. "I really am so
sorry, Anna.' As always, he was taking it so personally.
And when Anna looked back from the car window it was
Dr Payne who caught her eye again, deep in conversation
with one of many people at the funeral she didn't know.

Anna was so relieved to get the funeral over with, that
collecting Jamie was almost a pleasure. 'I'm worn out
Jamie,' she told him, getting into the car. 'Let's go to
McDonald's.'
'McDonald's. Big Mac. Big Mac,' Jamie grinned. At
this time on a Friday afternoon, the car park at the fast food
restaurant was almost full. Anna squeezed the car into a far
corner and they walked across the car park, Jamie trailing
his customary five yards behind. A party of about twenty
effervescent children was advancing from the opposite
direction.
'Come on Jamie, keep up,' Anna urged. Although they
pre-empted the children, they still had to join a long queue,
but for once Jamie stayed calm. Tucking a hand into the
crook of Anna's arm, he waited patiently, with a half smile
on his face. It was good to see him happy and Anna could
understand why Eddie had been a regular customer here.
Her focus shifted from Jamie's face to beyond the window,
where a man sitting in a blue van parked in the spaces
reserved for customers to 'eat out', appeared to be looking
directly at her. As he continued to stare, Anna held his gaze
for a moment, trying to ascertain if she knew him. The
queue shuffled forward.
'Can I help you?' asked the acne-studded teenager behind
the counter, revealing a set of metal-plated teeth, and by the
time he was limply encouraging them to 'Have a nice day,'
the identity of the man had eluded Anna and the van was
gone. She'd probably been mistaken anyway; he could have
been looking at anything. Chronic fatigue could play tricks
like that.
Back home Anna was uncorking a much-needed bottle of
Pinot noir when the phone rang. It was DI Mariner. His
voice was a welcome sound, but since they'd returned from
MacDonald's Jamie had been prowling restlessly, making
talking difficult. Cordless phone in hand, Anna was following
him from room to room, trying hard to concentrate on
the conversation.
'I'm sorry I couldn't make it today,' Mariner was
saying. 'Something came up.'
'A policeman's lot, eh?' quipped Anna, finding herself
strangely comforted by his voice. 'I'd half expected to see
you lurking in the background, waiting for the murderer to
give himself away.' That glass of wine she'd drunk was
going straight to her head.
'Another media myth,' Mariner assured her. 'How did it go?'
'It was a good turn out. At least fifty people I'd never
seen before.'
'Well, it's over now. You can move on.'
Said with such quiet authority, even the cliche was a
consolation. But Mariner hadn't called just to ask about the
funeral. 'There's something I need you to see,' he said.
'We've come up with the remains of some documents on
Eddie's computer. Most of them look like the drafts of
some minor stories he was working on, but there is one
thing that we're not sure about. It may be significant, so I'd
like you to see it as soon as possible. Would you be able to
call in at the station sometime tomorrow?'
'Yes, that should be all right.' Anna thought of the
photograph. 'Actually, I've turned up something that might
interest you, too.' A sudden impulse overcame her. 'You
could always come here,' she said. 'If you want to.' She
hadn't intended to be so blatant, but the wine she'd drunk
was taking effect, and the truth of it was, she was desperate
for some normal adult company, even a policeman's.
Perhaps she'd overdone it, though. There was silence at
the other end of the phone; the sound of a man weighing up

his chances, or working out how to politely refuse? 'Okay,
that would be helpful,' Mariner said at last, coolly professional.
'The sooner we can do this the better. I could finish
up here and then call round.' He was going to play. 'What
time would suit you?'
'Any time you like.' Anna watched Jamie as he carefully
selected his place and lay down on the floor. 'We're not
going anywhere.' Replacing the receiver, Anna had a
sudden inexplicable urge to tidy the house, before changing
into jeans and a loose shirt, in a colour that she knew suited
her. It was more comfortable. She was checking her hair in
the mirror when the intercom crackled noisily and she
buzzed down to let Mariner in.
The detective looked as if he'd had a hard day at the
office, but then maybe he had. His grey suit was creased,
his tie was loosened at the collar and there was the dark
shadow of a beard around his jaw line. He wasn't going to
win any 'best dressed man' awards tonight, but to Anna he
looked pretty good. She noticed that the bruising around his
nose was subsiding, too. Not a bad-looking bloke under all
that. Reining in her wayward thoughts, she took Mariner
into the lounge, where his arrival was completely ignored
until he fished in his jacket pocket and brought out a bright
red cellophane packet.
'Loops!' Jamie jumped up and made a grab for it.
'Jamie, say please,' Anna prompted automatically. Jamie
muttered something in response, simultaneously snatching
the pack from Mariner's hand.
'You don't have to bribe him to like you,' she said
'Who said it was bribery?'
Anna saw Mariner's gaze take in the bottle on the kitchen
counter, already a third empty. 'It's been a long day,' she said,
only partly in self-justification. 'Would you like a glass?'
Mariner glanced at his watch and a million questions ran
through Anna's head, all of them far too personal to voice.
At last he nodded. 'That would be great, thanks.'
They retreated to the kitchen, mainly to escape from
Carol Vorderman, and while Anna poured the wine,
Mariner took off his jacket and slung it over the back of a
chair. Anna, pulled up a chair to sit opposite him. 'Right,'
she said, impishly, encouraged by the wine she'd already
consumed. 'I'll show you mine, if you show me yours.'
Mariner smiled, 'I'm afraid you might find mine a bit of
a disappointment,' he said, holding her gaze. Was he flirting
with her? Momentarily perhaps, but that was all.
Almost immediately he was back to business as he reached
into the inside pocket of his jacket and took a single sheet
of folded paper. 'The most interesting thing we found on
Eddie's home computer was a powerful virus. Someone
had made a deliberate attempt to destroy all his files.'
'His .. . killer?' Anna struggled to form the word.
'Possibly, or it may have been Eddie himself, if he knew
he was under threat. Whoever it was did an effective job.
The only thing of any interest we managed to rescue was
this.' He was right. It wasn't much. The A4 sheet that he
spread out on the table was a database of some kind, rows
and columns divided by gridlines. The left-hand column
contained only letters, and the row next to it numbers, but
beyond that, halfway across the page, the data began to be
replaced by rows and rows of meaningless hieroglyphics,
where the virus had begun to corrupt this document too.
Anna had witnessed a similar effect when a bug had entered
the system at work.
'As you can see,' Mariner said. 'We're not left with
much, even on this. But this is our starting point.' He
traced a long, pale finger down the left-hand side of the
page. His nails were clean and neatly trimmed, Anna
noticed. No ring, but that could be a matter of personal
choice. He didn't seem like a man who'd go in for any kind
of jewellery. She dragged her thoughts back to the task.
The column of figures Mariner was showing her appeared
to be initial letters, paired with dates. 'Any of them mean
anything to you?' he asked.
Anna studied them dutifully for a moment, but none of
them did, and he didn't seem particularly surprised. 'At the
moment we're thinking that they probably relate to the
escort agency ads. We've checked these initials against the
names Eddie had highlighted in that Personal Services
column and one of them did match up, although as we don't
have the date to go with it, it's too early to say whether
that's just coincidence. They could be the names of the girls
working out of those particular agencies. Or it could be that
these are places Eddie's already checked up on, and those
highlighted in the newspaper are the ones he had yet to add
to the list. Without knowing what the other details mean,
we can't be sure.'
'But why would he do that?' Anna wanted to know, not
entirely comfortable with this line of enquiry, though at
least Mariner seemed to have moved away from questioning
Eddie's personal life.
He shook his head. 'We're not sure, yet. When I spoke
to Ken Moloney, Eddie's boss, he told me that Eddie had
done a story on prostitution some time back. He won some
awards for it.'
'Yes, it was a sore point. I didn't go to the presentation.'

'Well, according to Ken, it was a mission neatly accomplished,
except that one of the key players, Frank Crosby,
got away with it. We're considering the possibility that
Eddie had developed a renewed interest, possibly tied in
with drugs this time, too. Drugs and prostitution are not
exactly mutually exclusive these days and Darren, who he
worked with, gave the impression that Eddie had been
working on something of that kind on his own initiative. He
did it all the time apparently, going off on his own for
hours on end.'
'It sounds like his style. I met Darren today at the
funeral.'
'Did he tell you that Eddie had been mugged?'
'No. Do you think that was to do with what he was
working on, too?'
'There are some pretty hard guys tied up in that kind of
racket and if Eddie had been ruffling the wrong feathers
...' He left her to draw her own conclusions.
"I asked Darren about possible girlfriends, too. But he's
saying the same as everyone else. As far as he knew, Eddie
didn't have one.
'And nobody we've talked to yet has heard of Sally-Ann.
Apparently she's disappeared off the face of the earth.
Unless of course she never existed in the first place.'
Reluctantly, Anna put into words what she was increasingly
learning. 'Or it's just a name Jamie's picked up from
the telly.'
'Terrific. That's just what I needed to hear.' He smiled
but she could see him physically slump in his seat. 'What
was it you were going to show me?' he asked, making an
effort to sound interested.
'It's probably nothing,' Anna said, mirroring his dejection.
Reaching for the photograph she slid it across the
table to him. 'Francine gave it to me. Eddie was using
photographs to communicate with Jamie, people and places
he might know, to help him to prepare for change. This was
among them. I've never seen her before and neither had
Darren.'
'But I have.' Mariner looked up at her, suddenly alert
again, his blue eyes gleaming. 'This is the woman Eddie
was with on the night he died. The brunette. That's brilliant!
You've found us a connection!'
Anna flushed with unexpected pleasure. She'd always
been a sucker for praise. For one bizarre instant she
thought he might be going to kiss her, but he was studying
the picture again. 'Yes, it's her all right. And if her name
happens to be Sally-Ann, we've hit the jackpot.'
Anna shook her head. "I don't think so. Watch.' Taking
the picture from him, she got up from the table and Anna
took the photograph to where Jamie sat on the floor in front
of the TV. 'Jamie, look.' She held out the picture again,
for Jamie to see.
He glanced momentarily at it. 'Kay, Kay no cry,' he said

before turning his attention back to the screen.
Anna came back to the kitchen. 'Meet Kay,' she said.
'Christ, how many mystery women can a guy have?'
Mariner wondered aloud, visibly disappointed. 'I'll need to
take that to make a copy,' he went on. 'We can show it
around, see if anyone else recognises her. Somebody made
that emergency call, and presumably it wasn't the invisible
woman.'
His sarcasm was drowned out by a clatter from the
living room. Mariner and Anna rushed in to find Jamie
on the rampage, running the length of the sofa, pulling
things from the shelves as he went. His TV programme
had ended.
'Jamie, get down! Down! Now!' Anna commanded.
'Jesus.' Mariner looked on with disbelief as Jamie
jumped down from the sofa and ran off down the hall,
sweeping his arm along a radiator shelf and knocking its
contents to the floor.
With a weary sigh of resignation, Anna knelt and began
to retrieve them. "I don't know what's wrong with him
tonight. He hasn't settled since we got back from
McDonald's.'
Mariner bent down to help. 'It's all those additives.
You could do with some space. You haven't got a garden here?'
'Oh, there's a garden all right. The only problem is, it's
on the roof, with very little to separate it from a two hundred-foot
drop. Jamie wouldn't last five minutes.'
Mariner glanced back at his watch again, and Anna
waited for the inevitable 'Actually-I-must-be-going'
routine, that any of Jamie's more extreme behaviour always
seemed to prompt in people.
Instead Mariner said, 'Why don't you come and keep me
company? I was on my way to The Wall.'
'The Wall?'
'The indoor climbing centre. You could get in as my
guests and Jamie can climb as much as he likes there. He'd
have to wear a harness of course, and a helmet, but if you
think he can handle that we'll give it a go.'
'Game on,' said Anna and somehow she meant more than
the climbing.

Chapter Eleven



'Are you sure this is no trouble?'
'None at all. It'll ensure that I actually go. I've had about
as much use out of the membership as your average person
gets from the gym: not much. Somehow there's always
something more important to do.'
'Well I appreciate it. I had no idea what a comprehensive
service the police offered these days,' said Anna.
'Hadn't you heard? It's all about customer satisfaction.
Even the felons get a customer satisfaction questionnaire.'
Mariner was watching in the rear-view mirror as she
strapped Jamie into the back seat of the car beside her. He
wished now that he'd hung on to the borrowed squad car,
which tended not to include the optional extras of discarded
polystyrene cups, cellophane sandwich packs and chewing
gum wrappers that littered the floor of his own neglected
vehicle. Deep down, he knew that he was pushing the
boundaries of professional conduct with this, although if it
came to it, he could fully justify his actions. Jamie Barham
provided the link with his brother's killer. All Mariner was
trying to do was build enough of a relationship with him to
get at the truth. Anna Barham's presence was just a necessary
but pleasant by-product. Wasn't it? Tony Knox would
have approved.
The Wall was actually more like a vast cavern lined with
layers of towering moulded and riveted panels, lending it
the surreal appearance of an old set from Dr Who. Once a
disused firearms factory, abundant EU regeneration grants
had helped to reinvent it as a comprehensive climbing
centre with a thriving clientele. Despite being a long-standing
member, Mariner continued to be treated with the
customary cool suspicion afforded police officers in most
social situations. It did mean, however, that there was no
argument about Jamie and Anna gaining entry.
Mariner had brought a bag in with him and once inside,
left Anna and Jamie to go and get changed. Returning
minutes later, wearing khakis and a T-shirt, he felt more
relaxed, and sensed Anna Barham looking at him differently
too. Jamie had at first seemed overawed by the new
surroundings, but as they walked round to the climbing
area, he suddenly came to life and was at the nearest wall
in a couple of bounds, forcing Mariner and Anna to physically
restrain him.
'Wait Jamie,' Mariner said, firmly. 'Helmet and harness
first, then climbing.' Jamie complied, but under duress, and
it was like trying to keep hold of a wriggling eel getting his
harness on, and ensuring that it was safe. Mariner was
worn out before they'd started. The beginner's climbs
provided fixed ropes, making the walls simple and safe for
anyone to try. But it soon became obvious that for Jamie
Barham these were unnecessary precaution. Quick and
unerring, he reached the top of the first wall in a matter of
minutes. A small audience gathered to watch as Mariner
gradually introduced Jamie to increasingly complex climbs.
He had, it seemed, an insatiable appetite, but after an hour
Mariner called a halt.
'It's taken me years to achieve this level,' Mariner told
Anna. "I refuse to be completely humiliated by a novice.
Let's get a drink. Jamie drink?'
'Drink,' echoed Jamie happily.
"I thought he didn't have any special talents,' Mariner
said, bringing over two bottles of beer and orange juice to
where Anna sat watching Jamie as he prowled.
'So did I,' said Anna.
'He's a natural. Most of us have to give it some thought.
You sure he hasn't climbed before?'
'Apart from at every opportunity around the house? How
would I know? One of the things I've learned in the last
week is how little I've ever really known about him or
Eddie, or for that matter, my parents. And now they're all
gone and it's too late.'
'Does that bother you?'
'Well, I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but yes,
in a way it does. It's weird, knowing that there's only
Jamie and me left. No one else to answer to.'
'Sounds all right to me,' Mariner said, without thinking.
'Oh, yes? Nobody keeping tabs on you?' she asked,
cheekily.
'My gaffer mainly,' smiled Mariner, trying to keep it
professional.
But she wasn't satisfied with that. 'What about family,
brothers and sisters, mum and dad?'
'There's just me. I see my mother from time to time. I
never knew my dad.'
'Oh, I'm sorry.' She'd misunderstood, as people always
did.
'No, I mean, as far as I know he's still out there somewhere.
I've just never met him. Don't know who he is.'
'Oh.' Naturally she didn't know what else to say. It was
a situation people generally seemed to have difficulty in
grasping, which is why Mariner on the whole kept it to
himself. In fact he didn't have a clue why he should be
talking about it now. Apart from Greta, he hadn't told
anyone in years. But perhaps he felt that Anna deserved
something back from him. Through her brother's murder
he was uncovering more and more of the intimate details of
her life, it only seemed fair to reciprocate on some level.
'My mother didn't tell me,' he said, in response to her
unasked question. 'She didn't think it mattered.'
She'd also made it clear that his father didn't want to
know. She was fobbing him off of course. This was the
sixties, when the consensus was still that children ought not
to be troubled with the complexities of adult lives. To her
credit Mariner couldn't ever remember being lied to, it's
just that what he was told was vague; his dad was an important
and very busy man, so he couldn't live with them in
the same way that other dads did. It didn't explain why the
man also couldn't be identified, but by the late sixties his
fantasies ranged from Neil Armstrong to the Krays to Geoff
Hurst, depending on his mood.
By the time he was old enough for his questioning to be
more probing and direct, his mother had conveniently
developed migraine. Any talk of his father was guaranteed
to induce an attack, long before any answers were forthcoming.
Repeatedly he was dismissed with a vague promise
that one day 'when the time was right' he would know. The
few friends he had were those who took him for what he
was, and when he began, in his mid-teens, to attract girlfriends,
his predicament afforded him an aura of mystery
that he used shamelessly to his advantage.
'And what do you think?' Anna Barham jolted him back
to the present.
"I think there are times in my life when it's been more
important than anything else in the world, and other times,
like now,' Mariner shrugged, 'when it seems almost irrelevant.
'
'It must have been hard, growing up though,' she said.
It was a simple observation, no more.
'Difficult for my mother at times,' Mariner agreed,
deliberately deflecting any imminent concern she might feel
for him. 'She got to be very dependent.'
'On you?'
T was all she had. She gave up a lot to raise me.' Mainly
her itinerant lifestyle. Marching for world peace wasn't so
easy with a toddler in tow, so the sisterhood had come to
her. 'It got a bit intense sometimes.'
Anna was pensive. 'I'd always thought I had a raw deal,

not getting enough attention. I'd never considered the possibility
that too much could be worse. What did you do?'
"I stuck it for as long as I could. Then I ran off to join
the police force.'
'Very romantic'
'Yeah, well, this was during the great circus shortage of
1977.'
'And you lived happily ever after.'
She was right. He'd made it sound glib. But then, he'd
missed out a couple of chapters in the middle. There
seemed little point in telling her about the filthy squalor
he'd moved into, the near starvation, or the months of
depression that had followed. It was a bad time in his life,
when the boundaries had become blurred and chaotic:
dismal days and black, lonely nights when, unable to sleep
he had sought out the open spaces, and prowled the dark
chasms of the canals that on occasions had looked so very
inviting. For a while he teetered on the edge of a slippery
slope, until a young detective constable, Les Randall, had
thrown him a lifeline. Even now, years later, he never
failed to appreciate the comfort of clean sheets and clothes
and an orderly, disciplined environment.
'You didn't have it so easy, either,' Anna remarked, to
bridge the silence that followed.
Mariner shook his head, grabbing the opportunity to
change the subject. 'It hardly equates with having a disabled
sibling,' he said. He looked around him. 'Where is Jamie?'
Jamie, who only minutes ago had been hovering near an
adjacent fruit machine, was now nowhere to be seen.
'Oh God,' said Anna. 'He does this all the time.'
A loud 'Hey!' pointed them in the right direction, as they
saw a young man snatch back the phone that Jamie had
helped himself to from a table. He relinquished it, but only
under protest, leaving Anna to make profuse apologies. She
and Mariner were still laughing about it going out to the car
park. She had a terrific laugh. A little later, Mariner
dropped them outside the apartment block.
'Thanks for that,' Anna said. 'Jamie loved it.'
Him and me too, thought Mariner. 'No problem,' he
said, lightly.
'So did I,' she added, unexpectedly. "I mean it's great to
have some normal adult company again. And who knows,
Jamie might even sleep tonight.'
'Let's hope so.'
She'd sat in the front passenger seat for the return
journey and was smiling up at him, a warm, encouraging
smile. Mariner breathed deeply, inhaling her perfume,
sweet and heady. All he had to do was lean a little closer--
'Consernunt please, Carol,' piped up Jamie inaccurately
from the back seat. They laughed again, and the moment,
if that's what it was, had passed.

Mariner thought his timing for getting home would be about
right, but his heart sank when, on the approach, he saw that
the ground floor lights were still on. To compound his irritation,
he'd decided tonight to drive right up to the service
road, to find it blocked not only by Knox's car, but also a
scarlet Fiat Panda.
Inside, a touchingly domestic scene greeted his eyes.
Knox and his female friend were watching TV together. Or
at least they might have been, if the blonde hadn't been
draped across Knox's lap treating him to some alternative
entertainment. As Mariner walked in they jumped up like a
pair of teenagers caught in the act, though in fairness, one
of them at least appeared to accurately fit the age profile.
'Hi boss,' Knox said, running a nervous hand over his
cropped scalp. 'Erm, this is Jenny.'
'Hello, Jenny,' said Mariner, politely.
Blonde, petite and stunningly attractive, Jenny stepped
forward and offered Mariner a hand, the same one that only
moments before had been groping around inside Tony
Knox's police-issue shirt. 'Hi. Tom isn't it?' she said
turning on a beaming white smile that looked used to
getting its own way. 'Nice to meet you.'
Mariner nodded but declined the hand.
"I love your house,' she went on, effusively, as if
seeking to justify her presence.
'Thanks.' Mariner was non-committal.
In recognition of the sudden awkwardness, she cast a
meaningful glance at Knox and nodded towards the stairs.
'I'll go on up then.'
'Sure,' said Knox. 'I'll be up soon.' The two men stood
and watched her go. 'Hope you don't mind, boss,' Knox
said, sheepishly, when her small, shapely bottom had disappeared
from sight.
Mariner gave an indifferent shrug that belied a powerful
and irrational urge to punch Knox's lights out. Instead he
said. 'How did you two meet?'
Knox squirmed like a guilty schoolboy. 'She's a second
year medical student at the uni. I responded to a burglary
at the hall of residence a couple of weeks back.' He left
Mariner to fill in the rest.
"I take it she's the complication.'
'You could say that, yes.'
What the fuck are you playing at? Mariner wanted to
ask. You've got a wife, a family, and a grandchild for
Christ's sake. How can you throw it all away for a five
minute fling with kid who's probably just turned on by the
uniform? But he didn't say anything. Mariner couldn't
begin to understand what Knox's motives might be. And
perhaps underneath it all he was just jealous, plain and
simple.
'Well, cheers, anyway,' said Knox, clumsily.
Mariner just nodded again in response.
'I'll say goodnight then.' There seemed little else to say.
Tonight, Mariner noted, lying awake below them, their
lovemaking lasted a mere seventeen minutes. Not long by
most standards, but still enough to be a painful reminder of
what he was missing.
In a moment of half dream, half rampant fantasy, he
imagined asking out Anna Barham, taking her out for
dinner, or to see a film and back home afterwards. And
what? Dazzle her with his non-existent conversational
skills? Mariner had never had any problem attracting
women, but until Greta came along his relationships had
rarely strayed beyond the superficial. 'There's less to you
than meets the eye,' one former girlfriend had unkindly
commented. A psychologist would have had a field day; an
only child, bled dry by his mother. What else could you
expect?
Over the years he'd come to rely heavily on sex, but now
he couldn't even manage that. Drastic action was called for.
Ignoring his problem in the hope that it would go away
hadn't worked. And he hadn't had the guts to go through
with the one-night-stand remedy. What any sensible man
would probably do was see the doctor, but he just couldn't
face it. Somewhere at the back of his mind was a nagging
worry. Didn't a man reach his sexual peak at nineteen or
something ridiculous? He was more than twice that age
now. What if it didn't get better and he was over the hill?
An ecstatic cry erupted from the room above his and
Mariner shoved his head under the pillow and tried to block
it out.


Chapter Twelve

The following cold and blustery morning Mariner was
scheduled to appear at the Queen Elizabeth law courts in
the city centre, giving evidence in a fraud investigation he'd
been involved in sixteen months previously. Small and
unassuming, Peter Foley had single-handedly relieved the
insurance firm for which he worked of two hundred and
fourteen thousand pounds over a six-year period. His ingenuity
was spectacular. If it weren't for the fact that he'd
broken the law, Mariner would have had a sneaking admiration
for him. Mariner's contribution to the prosecution
case was over by mid-morning and as he was in the vicinity,
he took the opportunity to drop in on DI Doug Lowry,
ex-Vice Squad, now based with the recently formed Crime
Support Team at headquarters in Lloyd House.
It proved an uncomfortable experience. Amid the overflowing
in-trays, out-trays, stacks of files and empty coffee
mugs, Lowry's office resembled a landfill site, with about
enough free space to swing a pencil. The only absent
feature was the hovering seagulls. Mariner found the clutter
almost unbearable.
'Sit yourself down then,' Lowry insisted cheerfully,
leaving Mariner wondering if he was expected to perch
on top of the filing cabinet. Instead, shifting a pile of
dubiously stained paperwork from a moulded plastic chair,
he parked himself gingerly on it. Lowry's office was
windowless, airless and overheated, and already the big
man was sweating profusely. Mariner hoped this wouldn't
take long. 'You knew Eddie Barham, didn't you?' he
kicked off.
'That journalist you lot thought had topped himself? Yes,
I did.'
Mariner let the implied criticism go. 'What did you think
of him?'
'That he wouldn't be the sort to kill himself, for a start,'
said Lowry, smugly.
Mariner refused to rise to the bait. 'What sort was he
then?' He pressed on.
'To be honest, I quite liked the guy,' Lowry admitted.
He made it sound like a major confession, and understandably
felt the need to qualify his remark. 'He was down to
earth and pretty straight as reporters go. Had an unusual
propensity for wanting to get at the truth.'
Mariner tugged at his collar. If he'd been in a cartoon a
jet of steam would have escaped. 'When was the last time
you heard from him?'
Lowry shook his head. 'Not for a long time. But I
worked pretty closely with him on a story a few years
back.'
'Frank Crosby?'
'That's right.'
'Tell me about that.'
'You must know most of it,' he said. 'About four or five
years ago. Eddie Barham was researching a story for the Echo about kids who were sleeping rough on the streets in
Birmingham. It was going to be one of those social
conscience pieces, you know. Shocking that this could be
happening on our doorstep. He got to know one or two kids
who used the drop-in centre on Alcester Street, the one run
by the Streetwise charity.'
Mariner nodded, he'd driven past the place frequently.
'They do some good work I'd heard.'
Lowry snorted, 'Most of the time, yeah. Anyway, Eddie
Barham got to know this one kid in particular, built up a
friendship with her. She was bright, articulate, but had a
bad start. Stepfather had knocked her about, so she'd run
away. She'd ended up sleeping rough and God knows what
else.' Lowry told the story as if it was a normal every day
occurrence which, in his line of work, it probably was.
There but for the grace of God, thought Mariner, grimly.
'Anyway, one evening this kid had arranged to meet
Eddie for an interview, but she didn't show. Next time he
saw her, the explanation was that the guy running the drop
in had offered her some alternative work, and as it was well
paid, she'd gone for that instead. Barham managed to
wheedle out of her that this "work" was of the largely horizontal
variety, in a seedy hotel with a fifty-year-old Dutch
businessman who was visiting our fair city. When pushed,
she admitted that it was common practice. Other kids, girls
and boys, from the drop-in were regularly "employed" in
exactly the same way. Some of them considerably younger
than her.' Lowry paused to allow that to sink in.
'Under age?'
'As young as eleven and twelve.'
'Jesus Christ.'
'No, Paul Spink actually; one of the workers on the
project. Seemed he had a direct link with Frank Crosby and
was lining his pockets nicely by procuring youngsters for
Frank's customers. If the kids turned him down, they were
no longer made welcome at the drop-in. And most of them
weren't in much of a position to refuse.'
'How do you mean?'
'Rumour had it that Frank supplied them, too. If they
didn't cooperate, it was cold turkey time, whether they
liked it or not.'
'Shit.' Blackmail was never more cruel or effective.
'Over a three month period Eddie Barham documented
all this, with the help of the girl. Then he did the sensible
thing and brought it to us,' Lowry went on, 'on the understanding
that he got the rights to the story and a couple of
good quotes from yours truly. I was impressed. He'd been
bloody thorough - had photographs, dates and places. He
as good as handed us Paul Spink and a couple of prominent
local councillors on a plate. The rest is history. The news
story exposed the drop-in for what it was, the guy working
there was successfully prosecuted and his little racket was
stopped.' So Eddie Barham wouldn't exactly be flavour of
the month.
'What about Crosby?'
'He was the weak spot. Although Eddie Barham wrote a
damning indictment of his involvement, Crosby's no mug.
He must have known that it was only a question of time and
he'd been very good at covering his tracks. We couldn't get
anything in the way of hard evidence to charge him on.
Apart from a bit of adverse publicity, he got away scotfree.
Barham was pretty pissed off about that, as you'd
expect.'
'Did anybody else go down for it?'
'A couple of councillors lost their jobs over it, but Spink,
the guy working the shelter, was the real scapegoat. He was
the only one to get time. About eight years if I remember
rightly, for procuring minors.'
'Is he still inside?'
'No idea. He had no previous, so it's possible he could
be out on parole by now.'
And thirsting for revenge, thought Mariner. 'What
happened to the girl?'
'Vanished before she was due to testify. Not that we
were dependent on her. She and Barham had already given
us enough. It wouldn't surprise me if Eddie Barham helped
her to get away. Protecting his source. I think he felt sorry
for her.'
'And Barham hasn't been back to you since?'
'No.'
'Am I right in thinking that Frank Crosby deals in more
up-market stuff, too. Escort agencies, that kind of thing?'
'Frank Crosby deals in any shit that's going. He owns a
lot of properties across the city, rents out to all kinds of
undesirables.'
'Would he have anything to do with in the kind of agencies
that might supply their clients with optional extras,
chemical optional extras, if you take my meaning.'
'He was probably the market leader. Why?'
'Looking at what he left behind, Eddie Barham seems to
have developed a recent interest in that area, too.'
'Really?' Mariner waited patiently while cogs turned in
Lowry's head. 'You think he was planning to have another
pop at Crosby?'
'What do you think?'
"I think Eddie Barham wasn't the sort of bloke to let
someone like Frank Crosby get away with it.'
Precisely what Mariner was thinking. 'And if Frank
Crosby got wind of it, he's unlikely to sit back and wait for
Eddie Barham to come to him,' he completed the equation
for both of them. 'One more thing,' he took out the photo
of 'Kay'. 'Do you know this girl?' Lowry didn't.
'Could she have been Eddie Barham's source?'
"I don't know. I never met her. Like I said, Eddie was
protective.'
'Do you remember her name? Could it have been Kay?'
Lowry shook his head. 'Eddie gave the girl an assumed
name, but I don't think that was it.'
'Have you ever heard of a Sally-Ann something, possibly
Sally Dean?'
Lowry hadn't. But then, who had?
'There's something else,' said Mariner. 'Eddie Barham
came into some money a couple of months before he died,'
Mariner said. 'It was paid in from some obscure off-shore
account which we've yet to trace. Does Frank Crosby have
any connection with organised crime?'
Lowry was doubtful. "I wouldn't have thought Frankie
moved in such sophisticated circles, but on the other
hand--'
'Yes?'





146
147
"I wouldn't rule it out either.'
It was what he'd wanted to hear, and Mariner emerged
from Lloyd House into blissfully cool, fresh air and an
unexpected burst of spring sunshine with adrenaline
pumping through his veins again. It was beginning to fit.

Back at Granville Lane, Tony Knox was less optimistic.
Before Mariner had even had the chance to take off his
coat, he appeared in the doorway.
"I must have phoned every bloody massage parlour in the
city,' he complained. 'It's a wild fucking goose chase.
Nobody's heard of Sally-Ann anyone.'
'That's because we might be looking for Kay instead.'
'What?'
Mariner showed him the photograph and told him about
Jamie's reaction. 'You may need to start again.'
'Oh thanks, boss, I had nothing else planned for the next
three years.'
'What about those bank accounts?' Mariner asked.
'We've identified the bank: Charlemagne Investment
Trust.'
'Never heard of it.'
'Could be because it's based in Belize. I've faxed
through the access warrant and they're "following their
security procedures". They're going to get back to us with
the account holder.'
'When?'
'I'm not holding my breath,' said Knox. 'Any chance of
letting me in on where all this is going, boss?'
'In the right direction,' said Mariner.
'What are we trying to find?'
'The same two things that Eddie Barham was in pursuit
of before he died.'
'Money,' said Knox.
'What else?'
"I don't know. You tell me.'
'Frank Crosby.' Knox was as blank as a new cheque.

148
Mariner persevered. 'A little while back, Eddie went to his
boss with a new proposal that would happily combine both
of those interests; a follow-up to the expose he'd written in
1995. You remember I told you about the original case?
Well, our Eddie wasn't happy with the way that it ended,
and I think he wanted to have another go at Crosby. He
knew, probably through his earlier research, that amongst
other things, Frank Crosby deals in high-class call girls
who also illegally supply drugs.'
'So?'
'How about: Eddie decides to find one that he likes; a
brunette say, Sally-Ann maybe, or Kay, who's also run by
Crosby. He cultivates a relationship, invites her to his
place, then asks the girl to supply the additional extra, too.
He captures it all on film. He gets a great story and also
the potential to get Crosby put away for running a highly
illegal operation.'
'So why didn't it happen?'
'Eddie's boss wouldn't buy it. According to him, Frank
Crosby is old news. And why would Echo readers be interested
in the sordid lives of hookers. It lacks the sympathetic
"this could be your daughter" element of the earlier piece.
But Eddie could have decided to go ahead with it anyway.
The only thing he wouldn't get out of it would be the
money, unless--'
'He got it by extortion,' said Knox.
'Right.' Mariner felt a surge of elation. If Knox could so
easily reach the same conclusion he had, then it must be
beginning to make sense.
'Christ. He really did have a death wish if he was trying
to blackmail Frank Crosby.'
'Eddie was desperate for the money. Without it he couldn't
afford respite for Jamie. This way he could kill two
birds with one stone.'
'What do you think went wrong?'
'Crosby found out what was going on and saw his own
chance to get Eddie Barham off his back once and for all.
He played along with it, let Sally-Ann/Kay go with
Barham, but then he sent over a couple of minders. They
sorted Eddie Barham for good, got rid of the tape, and
rigged it to look like suicide. Sally-Ann disappears. QED.
I just hope to God that we don't have another body show
up. What do you think?'
'Sounds feasible.' Though Knox didn't sound entirely
convinced.
'All we need is some firm evidence.'
Knox shot him a look. 'Oh, that all?'
'And first I'd like to find out whether Crosby had an
accomplice, someone else with an equally powerful
motive.'
'Like who?'
"I was wondering what became of Paul Spink.'
It didn't take long to locate Spink on the computer files.
After an initial stint in Winson Green, his 'exemplary
behaviour' had earned him a transfer to Hewel Grange category
5 open prison, between Birmingham and Bromsgrove.
Mariner put through a call. 'Have you still got a Paul
Spink in residence?'
The person at the other end went away, returning a few
moments later. 'Not any more.'
This was looking promising. 'He's out?'
A pause. 'In a manner of speaking. Spink hanged himself
in his cell last March.'
'Shit.' Mariner passed on the good news to Knox.
He was philosophical. 'Okay, so the joint revenge
theory's down, but that still leaves Crosby trying to guard
himself against another onslaught from Eddie Barham. And
that must be solid enough.'
Mariner agreed. 'We need to go back to the small ads.
The brunette holds the key. Let's concentrate our efforts on
her.' In between uniformed duties Knox had done a sterling
job in phoning round the agencies, but so far had achieved
nothing. It was time to try a more personal approach.
The house looked like any other large rambling Victorian
detached one along Birmingham's outer circle route. Set into
the thick beech hedges that topped the boundary walls was a
discreet sign, saying rather unnecessarily, 'The Beeches'.
Anna pulled on to the small tarmac driveway and sat for a
moment, critically inspecting the exterior of what could
potentially become Jamie's new home. From the outside
appearance the building could have been anything, from a
retirement home to a dentist's surgery. Everything on the
outside looked well cared for, paintwork was in good condition
and the hedges were neatly trimmed. A promising start,
and Anna approached the main door high on anticipation.
This marked the first step towards reclaiming her life. It was
going to be so much better for her and for Jamie.
Going to the main entrance, she pressed the security
buzzer next to the door, which crackled into life with a
muffled
'Hello?'
'Anna Barham,' Anna spoke enthusiastically into the
speaker. "I have an appointment to look around.'
'One moment.' But it was several moments before the
huge panelled door swung open and Anna was greeted face
to face by a smiling middle-aged woman in M & S spring
range skirt and sweater, who introduced herself as Linda
Kerr, the manager of The Beeches. 'Please do come in.'
Anna stepped into a wide, ornately tiled vestibule and
into a very specific atmosphere. The combined smell of
ammonia and boiled cabbage was heavily reminiscent of the
nursing home in which Anna's grandmother had spent her
final years, and the first impression was everything she'd
hoped it wouldn't be. And when, thirty minutes later, she
emerged from the same door, her enthusiasm had been all
but extinguished.
The contrast between the homely exterior of the building
and the functional, institutional interior was stark. An occasional
picture on the wall and a pile of dog-eared magazines
on one of the tables in the communal lounge was the extent
of the finer touches. Elsewhere, walls were grubby with
finger marks, and the carpet stained in places and there
were few comforts.
'As you can see,' Linda said, encouragingly. 'There's a
lovely outlook from the back of the house.' A large lawn
surrounded by shrubs and dotted with benches. 'The residents
spend a lot of time out there in the summer months,'
Linda was saying. A sudden graphic image appeared in
Anna's mind's eye of Jamie, sitting alone on one of the
benches gently rocking, as dusk fell around him. She felt a
sharp inexplicable pain in her chest.
Upstairs, the small, cubicle bedrooms were simply
furnished. A single bed, wardrobe and nightstand in each,
some adorned with soft toys and posters of sports or pop
stars, while others, by far the majority, were bare and
impersonal, like cells. Anna thought of how confining
Jamie would find it.
'Do all the, er, residents have autism?' Anna asked.
'Oh no. Most of our younger clients have learning difficulties
of some kind, but we also have one or two older
EMI residents.'
Anna tried vainly to work out what EMI meant, but
couldn't. Later she discovered that it referred to Elderly
Mentally Infirm. Hardly Jamie's peer group.
'Normally we try to group according to age and ability,'
Linda was saying, 'but with staff shortages, we sometimes
have to be a little more - flexible.' She was honest at least.
The tour over, Linda took Anna back to the reception
area and the office, so that she could 'take some details'.
This appeared to involve completing a long and detailed
questionnaire on every aspect of Jamie's life so far. And
Anna stumbled on the second question, Jamie's date of
birth. She knew it was March, and she knew he was
twenty-nine, but the exact date eluded her. Unable to bring
herself to admit her ignorance, she took a guess. If it was
wrong, she'd have to change it later and tell them she'd
made a mistake.
The written application complete, Anna stood to go, but
Linda hadn't finished. There were, she said, some 'more
sensitive' issues to discuss. 'Does Jamie have any, er, challenging
behaviours?' she asked, her attempt at sounding
casual not quite succeeding.
Now we're getting to it, Anna thought, not unless you
count public masturbation. She played ignorant. 'Such as?'
'Violent outbursts?' Linda suggested. 'Smearing.'
For a moment Anna really didn't know what she meant,
Jamie wasn't exactly up to spreading malicious gossip about
anyone. 'Smearing?' she repeated.
'Faeces,' said Linda calmly, but with obvious distaste.
'No!' Anna was horrified, Linda clearly relieved.
'And how is his sleeping?' she asked, moving quickly
on.
'He doesn't,' said Anna, candidly. Even after the climbing
Jamie had only lasted four hours the previous night.
'And does he take any medication for that?' asked Linda.
'No.'
'Have you considered it?'
'No.' Was it her imagination or did Linda suddenly
appear less welcoming?
'And where does Jamie live at present?'
'He's staying with me, but it's really not convenient. If
he was to come here, how soon could he move in?'
'Well, as I said on the phone, we do have a waiting list,
but clients do "move on", especially the elderly ones, if
you know what I mean. We could probably take your
brother in about two months.' Two months? That was eight
weeks.
'No sooner than that?' Anna asked, in desperation, seeing
her life slipping from her grasp again. "I can pay--'
'I'm afraid we just don't have the space,' Linda reiterated.
'But I can contact you as soon as we do. And we'll
send someone to see Jamie, too. We'd like to meet him
first.' To check on the challenging behaviour, no doubt.
And with a well-manicured handshake, that was that.
Back in her car, Anna sat for a moment and attempted to
visualise Jamie living at The Beeches. But however hard
she tried, the image wouldn't present. Instead, unaccountably,
her eyes filled up and the pain in her chest returned.
She couldn't look after Jamie, but nor could she consign
him to that kind of place. It had to be somewhere sunny and
caring, not a place where there might be staff shortages and
imposed 'flexibility'. If she couldn't care for him she
wanted a place where people would understand Jamie's
needs and take the time to communicate with him, using his
photographs if necessary. She felt suddenly angry to have
been put in this impossible position, angry with Eddie and
the person or people who killed him. She would look back
at Dr Payne's list and the name given her by Mark. There
had to be other places that were better, and she'd visit them
all if necessary. After all she had at least eight weeks to
make up her mind.


Chapter Thirteen

There were hundreds of escort agencies and massage
parlours in the city and Knox couldn't be expected to
handle them all. Questioning of this kind could potentially
take weeks, so division of labour had to be fair, without
concession to rank. The plan was to start close to Eddie
Barham's home and work their way out. By the following
afternoon, Mariner was on his third house call, this time
seeking Heaven's Gate, although, on the face of it, the
main drag through Selly Oak hardly seemed a promising
location for the portal to the land of milk and honey.
Once a thriving shopping centre and community strung
out along the main arterial road south out of Birmingham
towards Bristol, these days the A38 is the route most
people take to get to somewhere more interesting.
Boarded-up shop fronts, shaggy with torn and blackened
fly-sheets are interspersed with an assortment of functional
takeaways and laundromats, economically shored up
by the term time influx of university students, like the
last decaying teeth in an old man's mouth. Parking up
on a side street, Mariner zigzagged his way through clusters
of the nation's most privileged youth dawdling their
way to afternoon lectures.
The Heaven's Gate Agency was accessed through a door
to the side of one of the suburb's increasing number of Balti
houses, where the smell of garlic and coriander hung richly
in the air even at this early hour. Climbing the narrow
stairs, Mariner couldn't help wondering if the operation
was any more successful than the Michael Cimino film of
the same name.
At the top of the staircase, an effort had been made on a
small budget to create a welcoming reception area with a
faded sofa and a low wood-effect coffee table bearing
heavily leafed motor and amateur photographer magazines,
along with the mandatory portfolios of beauties. Further
portrait pictures of attractive young women gazed seductively
down from the walls, a number of them exotic
looking, possibly eastern European.
St Peter's female counterpart was speaking into the
phone on the other side of a cheap melamine desk, and was
a projection of the pictured models across twenty years.
Comfortably into middle age, the auburn hair was from a
bottle and the glowing complexion thickly crafted from the
latest in the Avon range. She apparently and quite understandably
assumed that Mariner was there for an
appointment and with a coy smile, gestured him towards the
sofa. Thankfully it was clean enough to sit down on.
'I'll book you in with Sonia at ten thirty then?' she was
saying into the receiver, her voice bright and businesslike.
'Your usual rendezvous?' She asked, pronouncing it
'rendyvoo'. 'Right you are, duck, Sonia will be there.
Thank you.' Cradling the phone she turned a beaming smile
on Mariner. 'One of our regular clients,' she confided,
stressing the word 'regular'. As Mariner got up and
approached the desk she offered him a hand crowded by
heavy, jewel-encrusted rings and topped off by lethal
looking scarlet talons. 'Maureen,' she purred. 'Your
hostess at Heaven's Gate. You're new to our agency, aren't
you?' At close range the smell of perfume was overpowering.
Mariner made an attempt at a shy smile and taking this
as encouragement Maureen looked around at the portraits,
'Do you see anyone you like? We can accommodate all
desires.' She gave him another smile.
Mariner smiled back and with impeccable timing, opened
out his warrant card for her to see. 'You should be able to
accommodate me then, Maureen.'
The effect was instantaneous, as clouds of charm rapidly
evaporated into the ether. 'The first thing I'll tell you is that
I run a legitimate, respectable business,' she retorted. She
switched her attention to rearranging the papers on her
desk, though there was nothing Mariner had seen that she
needed to hide. 'What do you want?'
Pulling up a chair, Mariner took out the accumulated
documentation, beginning with the photograph of Eddie
Barham. "I want to know if this man has ever been here.'
A definite, but almost imperceptible flicker of recognition
passed over her face and was gone again. "I couldn't
say, I have to protect my clients' confidentiality, you
know--'
'He was a client then.'
She reddened. 'Not exactly--'
But Mariner wasn't interested in 'not exactly'. 'Listen,
Maureen,' he cut in. 'Eddie Barham, that's his name in
case it had slipped your memory, couldn't give a toss about
confidentiality any more. He was found dead in his own
home, just over a week ago.' Maureen blanched under the
layer of foundation. 'He died from a drugs overdose. Any
of your girls provide "optional extras"?'
'No!' she was affronted.
'Are you sure about that? Is that what they'd say if we
talked to them? Of course we'd need ID before we could
interview them, passports, work permits and all that.'
Maureen capitulated. 'All right, he did come here, but
it's not what you're thinking. I couldn't help him.'
'Oh? I thought you catered for "all desires".'
'It wasn't that; he wanted a girl to go to his place. We
don't do that. It's too much of a risk.'
'Anonymous bars and hotel rooms are safer eh?'
'As a matter of fact, they are.'
'So you didn't help him at all? I'd like to remind you that
this is a murder enquiry. We might have to delve a little
deeper into your working practices.'
'All right, he did look through the book. Poor bugger
seemed as if he'd really built himself up to this and when I
turned him down he didn't know what to do. I persuaded
him to have a look in the book and he did see a girl he
liked.'
'Who? Was it Sally-Ann? Or Kay?'
Maureen looked blank. 'Neither. It was Kerry-Ann.'
Kerry? Kay? Too close to be coincidental, surely. And
she'd gone up-market, added another name. Mariner felt
the satisfying sizzle of a connection being made. 'This
her?' he produced the second photograph.
'Yes.'
'Show me.' He waited while Maureen leafed through the
book until she came to the picture. It was the same girl all
right, the chocolate brown eyes staring out at him. 'And did
you fix up an appointment with Kerry for Eddie Barham?'
"I couldn't, she doesn't work for me any more. She
stopped working here weeks ago.'
'So why was her photograph still in your book?'
Maureen actually had the grace to blush under the thick
make-up. 'I must have forgotten to take it out.' Nothing to
do with the fact that the girl was a stunner.
'What happened to her?'
'She just left. Decided to go independent. Good luck to
her, that's what I say.'
'Did you tell Eddie Barham who she was?'
'Not to begin with. I tried to offer him an alternative, but
he wasn't interested. He'd made up his mind.'
'Did you tell him where he could find Kerry? Or is that
bad for business?'
"I told him all I knew. It was no skin off my nose, was
it? I gave him one of these.' Pulling open a desk drawer,
she rifled through it, eventually coming up with a business
card that she handed to Mariner. 'She left me a handful of
them, but I don't know if the number still stands.' The card
was cheaply and inexpertly printed: 'Kerry-Ann, for all
your personal needs'. At a glance the number, a mobile,
gave no clue about location, but hopefully it could be
traced.
'She was hoping I might put some punters her way,'
Maureen said. 'But she knows I don't operate like that.
They either work for me or they don't. I like to take care
of my girls.'
Along with a substantial portion of their earnings, too,
thought Mariner. 'And you didn't recommend anyone else
to Eddie Barham? How about a Sally-Ann?'
Maureen frowned. "I don't know any Sally-Ann.'
On balance, Mariner thought she was probably telling the
truth. 'Is there anything else you can tell me about this
Kerry?'
'Not much more than you can see there. She's pretty,
like I said, and classy. Got a nice voice and knows how to
make the best of herself. To be honest, I was sorry to lose
her, she was popular with the punters, especially round
here. I get a lot of university professors you know. But she
thought she could do better on her own.' Like keep her own
earnings.
Mariner had a sudden thought. 'Who was setting her up?
Did Kerry have someone backing her?'
'I don't know, but she knew Frank Crosby, so she said.
Poor cow seemed to think it was something to be proud of.'
Mariner's stomach flipped. 'And did you tell Eddie
Barham that?'
"I don't think so. Why would I?'
But maybe she hadn't needed to because Eddie already
knew. 'Any idea where Kerry-Ann was planning to go?' he
asked.
'No.'
'Do you have an address for her?'
'No.'
'Do you know if Eddie Barham tried to contact her?'
'How the hell would I know that?'
'But you're certain it was "an appointment" he wanted,
not just information.'
'What do you mean?'
'Eddie Barham was a journalist. I think he might have
been following up a story.'
'Oh my God.'
Mariner could tell from her face that it was news to her.
He stood up to go, he'd got what he came for. 'If Kerry
gets in touch again, call me straight away.' He gave her his
card. But he wasn't convinced that he'd get a result that
way.
Fired with enthusiasm, Mariner tried Kerry-Ann's
number as soon as he got back to the car, but all he got
was: 'The number you have dialled has not been recognised,
please hang up and try again.' Somehow he wasn't
surprised.

Anna was pleased when Becky had rung her to say that
there was a lunchtime leaving celebration for Gareth from
human resources. It would be an opportunity for her to
spend some time in the normal world again and remind
people that she was still around.
But after only ten minutes in the noisy city centre bar,
she realised what a mistake it was to have come. Eddie's
murder seemed to have created an impermeable aura
around her and beyond offering their condolences people
didn't know what to say. In addition, six days' absence had
cast her so far adrift from the rest of her colleagues that her
knowledge of office gossip was wildly out of date, putting
her at a significant disadvantage in the small-talk stakes.
Taking Becky on one side yet again, to fill her in on the
who, the what and the wherefore of yet another anecdote,
she realised that even her friend was beginning to find her
tiresome. What's more, the gripes and grumbles about the
meagre bonuses and narrow range of available company
cars seemed banal and juvenile. Anna felt like the only
grown-up at a child's birthday party.
In an attempt to involve herself in the conversation, she
tried recounting some of Jamie's escapades, but got only
polite but uncomprehending smiles in return. They're
humouring me, she thought. She was sure the supermarket
story would go down well, but it fell flatter than the
Norfolk fens, and afterwards she felt wretched for having
used Jamie as some kind of cheap entertainment. She
wondered how he was doing. He'd looked a bit pale when
she'd dropped him off at the day centre this morning and it
had crossed her mind that he might be sickening for something.
Perhaps he was beginning to pine for Eddie after all.
A roar of raucous laughter broke out signalling the end
of yet another story Anna had completely missed, and
suddenly she couldn't stand it any more. Making excuses
about 'things to sort out' she wished Gareth good luck and
walked out of the bar.
To kill some time before collecting Jamie, she wandered
around some of the city centre shops, drawn unexpectedly
towards the men's wear departments, imagining how Jamie
would look in some of the gear. She bought him a couple
of new shirts and a pair of up-to-the-minute cargo pants,
enjoying planning what he'd wear. Even so, she managed
to be early at the day centre, and was rewarded by Jamie
coming over to her, taking her hand and putting it to his
face. 'Ann-ann.'
Anna found herself unexpectedly moved by the gesture.
It was the first time in years that Jamie had fully acknowledged
her, even if his version of her name did make her
sound like a giant panda.
'How's he been?' she asked Francine and found herself
genuinely wanting to know how Jamie had spent his day.
He looked okay now, his colour was better, and Francine
was reassuring. 'He's been fine,' she said. 'Didn't eat
much lunch, but then, it was spaghetti Bolognese so what's
new? Are you staying for the parents and carers support
group tonight?'
The innocent enquiry threw Anna onto the wrong foot. "I
don't know,' she blustered. In truth, the prospect terrified
her.
"I thought that perhaps it was why you were here early,'
continued Francine cheerfully. 'Jamie loves the activity
club they run alongside it. And it might help him to get rid
of some of his excess energy.'
It was a dilemma. Worrying about Jamie was one thing,
getting involved in his life was something else.
'I'm sure Eddie was involved in arranging the speakers
tonight, too,' Francine chattered on, persuasively. 'One of
the topics up for discussion is about encouraging good
sleeping patterns. Mightn't that be relevant?'
Anna gave in. A couple of hours of her time seemed a
minor commitment, and Francine was right, she might
learn something useful. With Jamie in tow, she followed
Francine's directions back to a large recreation room,
which already echoed to the sound of loud pop music.
Various activities had been set up and a number of other
adults, some with obvious difficulties, but others like Jamie
whose needs were less clear, were already engaged with
volunteer helpers. Jamie hovered initially on the periphery,
hands flapping, but pausing now and then to watch the
others, until a young student, evidently an old friend,
encouraged him to get involved in a basketball shoot.
Anna watched with fascination as Jamie went to join in,
responding with a smile to some gentle teasing from the
other adults. This was his social life. She'd never for one
moment imagined he could have one. After a few minutes,
she pried herself away to follow the flow of people to
another communal room, where chairs had been set out in
rows. Wanting to remain inconspicuous, Anna took a seat
towards the back. Gradually, the room filled with other
people, mainly women, mainly middle aged or beyond,
who quickly huddled into small knots, to talk.
Eavesdropping shamelessly, Anna caught snippets of
strangely reassuring conversation.
'How's she doing this week?'
The woman addressed held up crossed fingers. 'Only up
three times last night, so we were really pleased.'
'Then he just knocked his dinner all over the floor. It
was so embarrassing.'
Feeling that she was blending into the background
nicely, Anna began to relax, but the anonymity didn't last
for long.
Like many there, the woman who approached her was of
her parents' generation, attractive without make-up and
casually dressed in jeans and T-shirt. 'It's Anna, isn't it?'
she said.
'Yes.' Anna was wary.
"I thought I saw you with Jamie. I'm Gill. Our daughter
Susannah is here at the centre, she's autistic too. In fact we
used to know your parents quite well. We were all terribly
shocked to hear about Eddie. I'm so sorry.'
'Thanks.'
'How's Jamie coping?' Gill asked. 'He must miss Eddie
dreadfully. Eddie was so good with him.'
'He seems to be okay.'
Gill smiled, encouragingly, 'Well, we all think you're
very brave to be taking him on.'
'There wasn't much choice really,' Anna reminded her.
'No,' said Gill. 'There isn't for any of us.'
There was a beat of self-conscious silence before Anna
felt compelled to set the record straight. 'Actually, Jamie
will only be staying with me as a short-term measure,' she
said. 'I've already been to look at a residential home and it
seemed very nice.'
'Oh, I see.'
Did Anna sense a cooling towards her, or was it paranoia
striking again? 'It's called The Beeches,' she
elaborated. 'Do you know it?'
Gill looked uncomfortable. 'No. We've never considered
anything like that. I couldn't think of having anyone else
care for Suzie. We haven't left her with anyone else in
nineteen years.'
Anna was appalled. 'What do you do if you want to go
out?' she asked.
'We don't,' was the simple reply. 'We haven't been out
together since she was born.'
Anna didn't know what to say. It seemed like a life
sentence that Gill was proud of and suddenly Anna
wondered how her parents had coped.
'It's good to see you here, anyway, Anna,' Gill was
saying. "I hope you enjoy the evening.'
'Yes. Thank you.'
Shortly after that, the meeting was called to order, but to
Anna's discomfort, the first item on the agenda was the
news of Eddie's death, followed by her introduction to the
group as Jamie's new carer, making her feel more fraudulent
than ever.
The session then began encounter-group style with a
general sharing of problems, especially relating to sleep.
Anna listened to people describing many of the difficulties
she'd already experienced with Jamie, though often far
more extreme, leaving Anna marvelling at the resilience of
the human spirit. One couple admitted to never having had
an unbroken night since their twenty-seven-year-old,
doubly incontinent son, had been born.
Although it made caring for Jamie sound like a picnic,
there was a ring of familiarity to it all, and Anna began to
find some small comfort in the knowledge that she was not
alone. In fact she realised, with a jolt, that she felt less of an
outsider here than she had done in the pub earlier in the day.
The first guest speaker of the evening was an alternative
therapist, who recommended the use of aromatherapy and
massage in encouraging good sleeping habits. Her philosophy
sounded wonderful, although the large woman sitting
next to Anna remained healthily sceptical, 'My Andrew
would love it,' she murmured to no one in particular, her
voice laced with sarcasm. 'Considering he can't stay still
for two minutes and he hates being touched, it would be
perfect.'
The alternative therapist was followed by a clinical
psychologist, who advocated the use of behavioural techniques
for the management of routines. The principles
seemed to be well founded in theory, and successful, if
individual intervention could be given for twenty-four hours
a day.
Professor Ivan Fellowes, the final speaker, was tall and
authoritative, and was introduced to the group as a visiting
consultant from the Queen Elizabeth Medical Centre and
specialist in the treatment of sleeping disorders, particularly
for people with autism.
Not surprisingly, his was the more conventional medical
approach, advocating the use, in certain circumstances, of
drugs. He explained that while, in the early days, treatment
had been confined to some fairly crude anti-depressants, in
recent years much more refined versions of the treatments
had been developed, reeling off a list of names that could
have been varieties of potato for all the meaning they had
for Anna.
His presentation was altogether much more professional
with accompanying overhead transparencies, copious handouts
and an almost scripted commentary, beginning with a
detailed look at different areas of the brain and the impact
that certain substances might have. He talked at length about
a group of recently developed drugs known as PSTIs, that
worked, he said, by controlling the release of hormones
that regulate sleep, aggression, and anxiety levels.
But as the professor went on to describe in great detail
the various neuro-chemical processes that could be influenced
by the use of pharmacological treatments, Anna
could see him being far more at home addressing other
medical experts, and noticed faces beginning to glaze over.
Almost a week of disturbed sleep was taking its toll on her
too and her powers of concentration were suffering. Interest
was briefly revived as Professor Fellowes described some
highly successful trials of the different medications, which
made them sound like wonder drugs, until he followed that
with a damning indictment of the potential and actual side
effects. Anna drifted away again, her parents' opposition to
medication for Jamie apparently vindicated. They had travelled
this route years ago, with endless visits to Dr Payne
and even an assessment with an expert in London, before
rejecting the idea of medication outright.
When the lecture ended, Anna found herself standing in
the queue for coffee beside Dr Fellowes and felt obliged to
offer some comment.
'It was a very interesting talk,' she said, neutrally.
The professor smiled an acknowledgement. 'But was it
useful?' he wanted to know.
'Not really in a practical sense. Drug therapy isn't an
option for my brother, Jamie. He was removed from a
respite placement for that reason.'
But having been present when Anna was introduced, the
professor looked surprised. 'It was Eddie who invited me
to come and speak tonight,' he said. 'He seemed keen to
learn more about what the possibilities for Jamie might be.'
'Did he?' Now it was Anna's turn to be surprised.
'Oh yes, he was very interested in the effects of particular
medications. We had several telephone conversations
about it. I'm only sorry that, in the event, we were unable
to meet.'
So what had changed Eddie's mind? Afterwards, when
the main body of the meeting was over and people were
beginning to disperse, Anna went with all the other carers
to collect their charges from the recreation room. En route,
she went to thank Gill for an interesting evening. What
followed seemed to come from nowhere. Gill's husband
wandered over while they were talking. 'We ought to be
getting back, love,' he said to his wife, smiling at Anna.
'Yes, of course. Well it's nice to meet you, Anna,' Gill
said, rather formally. 'And if there's anything we can do.'
The now habitual offer tailed off, but Anna was nonetheless
grateful for it.
But as Gill moved away, her husband lingered a moment

and suddenly and unexpectedly, his expression hardened. 'I
hope you're not going to start stirring things up, like your
brother did,' he hissed at Anna, under his breath. 'There's
no point in dragging up the past. We all have to move on.'
And with that he walked away, leaving Anna flabbergasted.
Francine, standing a few feet away, had witnessed the
exchange.
'What was that all about?' Anna asked her, baffled.
'Oh don't worry about Jim,' Francine was dismissive. 'It
doesn't take much to get him going. He gets a bit intense.
It was just that your brother had a journalist's instinct,
didn't he? Asked a lot of questions. It didn't always go
down well.'
But the incident left Anna feeling unsettled and angry.




Chapter Fourteen

It had been another long evening. After time spent pursuing
mobile phone companies only to establish that
Kerry-Ann's number was untraceable, Mariner had whiled
away a couple of hours attending to overdue paperwork,
before reluctantly deciding that it was time to go home. On
his way out, he almost fell over a box of assorted hardware
in the corridor. 'What's all this?' he asked the duty
sergeant.
'The surveillance techs have been spring cleaning,' said
the sergeant. 'That's all the obsolete stuff waiting for
disposal.'
Something lying on the top of the pile caught Mariner's
eye. He knew who could use one of those and, what's
more, it would give him the perfect excuse to take a detour
on his way home.
'So it's all being thrown away?' he checked again.
'Waiting for the bin men, so to speak,' the sergeant
confirmed. 'Help yourself.'
Mariner did, and sorting through the rest of the box he
came up with the unit's other component part, batteries
even included. He ran a quick check to make sure that it
still functioned. It did. That would do nicely.
Turning into the residents' parking bay outside Anna
Barham's flat however, he was disappointed to note that her
car wasn't there. He had the choice of waiting it out or
going home. A brief flashback of Jenny's orgasmic cries
came back to haunt him, and he settled for the former,
flicking on the radio to keep him occupied.
'Impotence can strike any man at any age, for a variety
of reasons,' a health expert was saying. 'And in tonight's
programme we'll be exploring how this and other common
problems can affect thousands of men.' God but life was
full of cruel coincidences. Mariner reached out again to
switch it off. His love life might not be at its best right
now, but impotent? No way, Jose. His finger hovered over
the on/off button. On the other hand, he had precious little
else to do. Leaving it on, he slid down in the seat, closed
his eyes and pretended not to listen.
Dazzling headlights sweeping over him roused Mariner
from a graphic description of the premature ejaculation
avoidance technique. Anna and Jamie Barham were home.
He jumped up, and in his haste to silence the radio, banged
his knee hard on the dashboard. Shit! He turned it off,
refusing to allow his mind to speculate on where Anna and
Jamie might have been until this hour, but was reassured
that at least that they were alone. Mariner waited while
Anna parked up, then, picking up the tracking device from
the seat beside him, climbed out of his car.
He hadn't expected to be welcomed with open arms, but,
as he limped over, carrying in his hand the small black box
sprouting wires, he saw how tired she looked and noted,
with some disappointment, her apparent indifference
towards him. He pressed on regardless, holding up the
equipment for her to view. 'Hi. I saw this, and thought of
you,' he said.
'Thanks,' she said, forcing some kind of enthusiasm
towards the so-far unidentified object. 'What is it?'
'It's a Kestrel Short Range,' said Mariner, helpfully.
'Oh,' she said, not even remotely hooked. 'Do you want
to come in, then?' It was a reluctant, ungracious invitation,
but she'd made it, so Mariner accepted. If the tracker was
to be of any value, she needed to know how it worked.
'I'd almost given up on you,' he said, conversationally,
as they travelled up in the lift. 'Been somewhere nice?'
'A lecture about PSTIs,' Anna said, provocatively.
'Pesticides? That must have been fascinating.'
That raised a smile at least. 'No, not pesticides: P.S.T.
Jamie!!' Her shout came from nowhere. As the lift doors
had opened on to the third floor, Jamie bolted out ahead
of them, not in the direction of the flat but towards a
gaping doorway at the end of the landing. Running after
him, Mariner grabbed Jamie's sleeve and hauled him back
just in time, slamming the door shut before he could
escape.
'God, why are people so thoughtless!' Anna said, white
faced. 'That's the door leading up to the roof garden. It's
meant to be kept locked.'
'Do you have a residents' group?'
'I've already told them--'
'Perhaps I should have a word.'
Her resigned sigh said, 'suit yourself. Safely inside her
flat, Anna settled Jamie in front of a video, while Mariner
made himself comfortable at her kitchen table. When she
joined him he attempted to demonstrate the finer features of
the tracking device.
'It's easy to use,' he explained. 'You just attach this clip
to his clothing somewhere, and the receiver will tell you
where he is in relation to you. Just set the central arrow in
the direction that you're looking and Jamie's position will
be shown on the screen.' The LCD display he showed her
looked like a miniature radar. 'It's a fairly crude gadget,'
he admitted, 'but it will give you an idea of direction and
distance for up to a mile, so if you use it straight away, it
should be effective.'
'Thanks,' Anna said. It was grudging, but there nonetheless,
and he hadn't done this for gratitude, had he?
'So, tell me about these pesticides,' he said, moving on.
'PSTIs; Potent Serotonin Transporter Inhibitors,' she
recited again, struggling to remember the terminology.
'They're the types of medication used to manage the behaviour
of autistic people.'
'Oh. Any good?' Mariner asked, out of politeness, after
all, he'd started this.
'It was complicated,' Anna said. 'Too much for my
limited brain capacity. But Eddie had arranged it, so they
said, and I felt obliged to display some interest.'
'You sound surprised.'
She frowned. "I am. Was. It's not something I would
have expected him to think about. You heard what the
centre manager said. He'd taken Jamie out of his respite
care placement precisely because he didn't want Jamie put
on medication.'
'And because he couldn't afford it.'
'Yeah, whatever. But after what I heard tonight? Frankly it's enough to put anyone off.'
'Even if it means a good night's sleep?' Mariner had
already noticed the dark circles under her eyes. 'Perhaps
Eddie was having second thoughts.'
'He wouldn't have. Mum and Dad were always
completely opposed to medication for Jamie, too. He
wouldn't have gone against their wishes.'
'But that was then, this is now. Things move on, don't
they?'
'Not that much. Some of the side effects described
tonight were horrendous.' She shuddered.
'Perhaps you need to weigh those against the benefits,'
said Mariner.
She shot him a look, but then probably the last thing she
needed was someone else offering unwanted advice. 'So
how's your investigation going?' she asked, blatantly
turning the tables.
Now it was Mariner's turn to shrug. 'Slowly,' he said.
'There are a couple of things we're following up.'
'Escort agencies?' She wasn't comfortable with that
line of thinking, but Mariner could only be honest with
her.
'Eddie had definitely been making enquiries in that area,'
he said. 'We're on the trail of the woman I saw Eddie with,
the one in your photograph, too. We think her name is
Kerry-Ann, not Kay. We haven't exactly found her yet, but
we do know who linked her up with Eddie.'
'So, tell me the worst.' She was daring him to.
'It seems she is some kind of call girl,' Mariner said,
with reticence. 'Eddie was very specific about wanting a
girl who would come to his place. And she fits the description
his neighbour gave us of his "girlfriend".'
'Oh.'
'It could easily be a story he was working on,' Mariner
said, quickly.
'But you don't really think so.' She was beginning to
read him like a book. Mariner didn't like that much.
'It just seems odd that no one at the paper knew anything
about it.'
'Darren knew about it though, didn't he? He said he
thought that Eddie was working on some story on his own
initiative. Maybe Eddie had found something really big and
didn't want someone else getting to it first.'
Mariner was loath to disillusion her. He could understand
her unwillingness to believe that her brother would
pay for the services of a prostitute. Fortunately, Jamie
chose that moment to wander into the kitchen, saving him
the trouble. Ignoring Mariner, he tugged at Anna's arm.
'What is it, Jamie? What do you want?' she asked. She
took out a bundle of pictures and spread them out on the
table. 'What?'
Jamie scanned them until he found the picture he was
looking for, picked it up and gave it to Anna.
'Good. Jamie wants Hula Hoops? Say, loops please.'
'Loops,' said Jamie.
'Please,' Anna prompted, waiting patiently.
'Please.'
'Good. Good talking, Jamie.' She went to the cupboard
and got out a packet, opened it and gave it to him. With a
brief transient smile, Jamie took them and retreated back to
the lounge.
Mariner had watched the whole exchange with interest.
'So that's what all those pictures are about,' he said, thinking
back to the line drawings in Eddie's house.
'They help Jamie to make sense of what goes on around
him. He finds pictures easier to understand than words. It's
why he had the picture of the girl. Kay, Kerry or whatever.'
Meaning that the girl had been a feature of their
lives. Suddenly, Mariner saw her understand that fact, and
she didn't like it a bit.
As a distraction, Mariner picked up one of the longer
strips. 'So what's this? A whole sentence?'
Anna shook her head. 'That's Jamie's timetable. It helps
him to predict what's going to happen next during each day.
He finds it hard to handle change, so the pictures act as a
kind of early warning system to let him know what's
coming up.'
Mariner studied the pictures. 'Okay, the breakfast cereal,
the car and the day centre I understand, but I don't remember
it snowing today.'
'It's not snow, it's a snowflake.'
'Of course.' Clear as mud.
'A snowflake stands for "something unexpected",' Anna
explained, with exaggerated patience. 'Eddie and Francine
were trying to get Jamie used to the idea that sometimes
there are events you can't predict, that you have to be
prepared for the unknown. That's what the snowflake
means. Something unknown is going to happen. I wasn't
sure what we were going to do this evening; hence the
snowflake.'
'Clever stuff,' said Mariner. 'You two are beginning to
behave like the odd couple.'
'Yes, well, as long as he doesn't get too comfortable,'
retorted Anna immediately. 'I've started looking into long
term residential care for him.'
'Oh.'
'Unfortunately, I'm coming up against the same thing as
Eddie. They want to use medication if necessary.'

'So, why bother? He seems pretty settled here. I'd have
thought--'
'My God, don't you start!' she cut in, accusingly.
'Start what?'
'Trying to make me feel guilty.'
Although it was obvious that she didn't need his help. "I
wasn't--' he began.
But she wasn't listening. 'And if one more person tells
me how "wonderful" Eddie was with Jamie, I'll strangle
them with my bare hands. There, I'm confessing to that one
in advance.'
'I'll make a note of it,' Mariner said, evenly, holding her
gaze.
She kept eye contact, but he could see the inner struggle
going on, as she fought to keep a lid on her emotions. "I
just want to get on with my life,' she said, her voice breaking
ever so slightly. 'Is that so unreasonable?'
'Of course not,' said Mariner.
'You have no idea what it's like. Only two weeks ago I
had a job, friends, a social life. I did all the things that
normal, independent adults do. I got up, went to work,
stayed late if I wanted to, went to the pub afterwards if I
wanted to, ate what I liked, saw who I liked. As a matter
of fact, I wouldn't blame Eddie for seeing a prostitute,' she
went on. 'There's bugger all opportunity for any other kind
of love life with Jamie around. He's been with me less than
a fortnight and I've become a social pariah.' In a visible
effort to hold it all together, she pushed back her chair and
strode the length of the kitchen to bang down her mug in
the sink. When she spoke again her voice was a whisper.
"I can't go back to that. I should, but I can't.'
Mariner watched a single tear escape in a wet trail
down her cheek, before she turned away from him,
pretending to be fascinated by the view from the window
that she saw many times each day. But he could see from

the movement of her shoulders that the battle had been
lost. Mariner felt he ought to do something, but he wasn't
sure what. He'd never been much good at this stuff.
Prepared for rejection, he went over to her and rested
his hands lightly on her shoulders. 'I'm sorry,' he said.
"I really didn't mean to--'
But the rest was left unsaid as she turned and clutched at
him, all the pent-up stress and emotion of the past days
pouring out in great wrenching sobs, her head pushing into
his chest, while Mariner held her, breathing her in. Sod
professionalism, he thought.
After a while her crying subsided and she stepped back
from him, rubbing angrily at her eyes. 'Oh God, I'm so
sorry, that was stupid.'
Mariner could think of several words to describe the
experience, but stupid wasn't one of them. 'It's been a
tough time,' he said, inadequately.
She managed a short, staccato laugh. 'You can say that
again.' She took a gulp of air. 'The irony is,' she went on,
'that this is the last thing in the world Mum and Dad would
have wanted. They knew first hand what hard work Jamie
is. They never intended for either Eddie or me to have to
take care of him. Look out for him, yes, of course, but not
wash him, dress him, feed him, clean his teeth, day in, day
out. They didn't expect that of us. It's always people on the
outside who make the judgements.'
"I wasn't judging you,' said Mariner truthfully.
'Oh, it's not your fault--' She tailed off, exhausted and
spent. 'Sorry, I've made your shirt wet.' She patted the
damp patch and Mariner thought her touch would burn a
hole in his chest.
'That's all right, I've got another one at home,' he said
casually, stepping away so that she wouldn't notice the
effect she was having on him.
'Not in that colour I hope.' Mariner took the weak
attempt at humour as a good sign.
"Fraid so,' he said. 'Do you keep any brandy?' She told
him where and Mariner found it and poured her a generous
measure.
"I was wrong about what I said before,' she said, taking
it from him and leaning back against the kitchen units.
'What?' Mariner sat down again, finding that he couldn't
quite trust his knees to support him.
'About Eddie being a martyr. It wasn't his problem, it's
mine. I was the one who felt guilty, about leaving him to
cope with Jamie. At first I could use my marriage as an
excuse. By the time it was over I'd convinced myself that
Eddie didn't need my help, he had it taped. He and Jamie
were a team.' She fixed her gaze on the glass she slowly
turned over in her hand. 'When Jamie was born, Eddie was
old enough not to mind,' she said. 'He was the grown-up,
responsible one who helped out whenever he could. Jamie
responded to that. He'd do things for Eddie that he wouldn't
do for anyone else. I suppose in a funny sort of way I
was jealous of their special relationship. I'd always
resented Jamie like hell, because until he came along and
wrecked everything, I was Daddy's sweet little girl. That's
why I was determined that it wasn't going to happen all
over again. Perhaps I still am. I'm the selfish one. I've had
enough of autism and what it does to you. I just want a
normal life.'
'Nobody can blame you for that.'
She looked up at him, her eyes shining brightly. 'No. But
it doesn't stop me from blaming myself.'

To his considerable relief, Knox and Jenny had already
retired when Mariner got home. So, safely alone, Mariner
got out the dictionary and looked up PSTIs in the abbreviations
section. It wasn't listed. He tried the word potent,
'cogent and strong' it said, so little to be learned there.
Then, almost unconsciously, his eye slid down the page to
'impotent'. It didn't make for comforting reading.
'Powerless; helpless, decrepit; wholly lacking in sexual
power, unable to copulate or reach orgasm.' Hm. Not all
bad then. He didn't have any problem with reaching
orgasm, just as long as no one else was involved. With the
right woman, at the right time it would be resolved. It was
just a question of finding the right woman. He refused to
allow himself to speculate on whether he already had. God
he'd wanted to kiss Anna Barham so badly tonight, and that
was a new and worrying experience. Never before had he
been tempted to overstep that particular professional line.
And there had been no shortage of opportunity. Right from
his first week in the job on his first solo call-out when he'd
been asked to attend a domestic, and the door had been
answered by a young woman in a negligee so sheer it
needn't have been there. Only when she insisted on encouraging
his attentions had he realised it was a set-up. His
initiation into the squad, that no one would let him forget
for months. Since then, unlike Tony Knox, he'd kept everything
well under control, until now. This deprivation was
beginning to impact on everything.
Crawling up to bed, Mariner passed the small hours in a
restless sleep and by the time the birds began singing, he'd
resolved to at least phone the doctor. He wouldn't be
offered an appointment for weeks anyway, so he'd have
time to prepare.
'If you can you pop down to surgery in about twenty
minutes, Mr Mariner, we've just had a cancellation.' The
receptionist's response the following morning wasn't the
one that she'd given during his nocturnal rehearsal, and he
almost bottled out. But surely it couldn't be that big a deal.
In his head it had all gone pretty smoothly. A brief chat
with the Asian guy he'd seen last time
But things weren't going Mariner's way. Dr Suliman was
on holiday, and in his place was a young female locum,
fresh out of sixth form, judging from her youthful appearance,
and a fully paid-up member of the Spanish Inquisition
to boot. 'How can I help?' she asked.
Her innocent gaze fixed earnestly on him, and all of
Mariner's careful, mentally prepared descriptions of the
problem deserted him. "I can't get it up,' he blurted out,
with rather less eloquence than he'd intended.
'Is the problem erection, ejaculation, or both?' she
asked, as if she was offering him a choice of pizza
toppings.
'Erection,' Mariner said, shrivelling inside.
'Since when?'
'About a year.'
She looked up. 'You've waited a long time before
seeking help.'
"I thought it would get better.'
'Mm.' Despite her youth she seemed to have heard that
one before. 'Take off your jacket and roll up your sleeve,
would you?'
It seemed a novel approach, but Mariner did as he was
told.
'How old are you, Mr Mariner?' she asked, slapping a
strip of inner tube around his exposed bicep and pumping
it up until all circulation to his lower arm had been
staunched.
'Forty-three.' Compressed air escaped with a hiss.
"I see. That's fine.' He took that as a comment on his
blood pressure and not his age. 'Any other health problems?'
'Not that I'm aware of.'
'You're not on any medication?'
'No.'
'How's your peeing?'
Mariner looked blank.
'Bladder control okay, steady stream and all that?' the
doctor prompted.
'It's fine,' said Mariner, not knowing what else to say.
'And is your difficulty in achieving an erection, or maintaining
it?'
'Maintaining it.'
'Okay then, let's have a look.' A look?? 'Take off your
things and get up on the couch please.' Mariner wanted to
ask if this was strictly necessary, but presumably she
wasn't just doing this for fun. Presumably. Feeling vulnerable,
with only his shirttails to protect his dignity, Mariner
hoisted himself on to the couch, praying that he wasn't
about to be caught in a lie. He needn't have worried. Her
cool, latex-sheathed fingers had an intimidating effect.
'Well physically everything seems in order,' she assured
him. 'We'll need a urine sample to rule out diabetes, but
that's unlikely if you're getting no other symptoms. You
can get dressed.'
But after he'd pulled on his clothes there were further
questions. They started innocuously enough. What was his
occupation? Was it often stressful? Had he felt particularly
stressed during the last year or so? No more than usual.
That seemed to disappoint her, so she tried a different,
more intimate tack. Did he masturbate successfully? Well,
yes. Was there a pattern to when he lost his erection, was
it always at the same point during intercourse? Yes, just
prior to penetration, he just - collapsed.
Ah. Was he in a stable relationship? No, his last one
finished just over a year ago.
'Tell me about that,' she said.
Despite reservations about the relevance of this line of
questioning, Mariner found himself pouring out the whole
sorry tale about Greta. It had started off so well until she
moved in with him and started holding him to account for
every minute of his day. He felt physically sick, even just
thinking about it, as the memory of that final evening
replayed itself in his mind.
'Dinner won't be long,' Greta had chirped from the
kitchen the second he'd walked in the door. He groaned
inwardly. After a harrowing day spent interviewing a
seventy-two-year-old woman who'd been brutally beaten in
her own home, he needed space to get normal again. To
this end he'd retreated to the bathroom, but he hadn't yet
got around to fitting a lock and Greta had pursued him
there, wrapping her arms around him as he leaned over the
washbasin.
'Who's a clever boy then?' She smiled enigmatically
back at him from the mirror, a hand straying down over his
groin.
Mariner wished she wouldn't talk in riddles all the time.
'What?' he asked irritably.
'You're going to be a daddy.'
Mariner had almost passed out. Horror wasn't the
desired response, he could tell immediately from Greta's
face, but he couldn't help it, he was horrified.
"I thought we wanted a family,' she wailed, her misery
equal to his. And maybe he did, somewhere in the safe and
distant future, in an abstract kind of way, but not now.
Occasionally since then he'd wondered if he could have
compromised. But he couldn't, not over something so big.
And the experience had shaken him, because up until that
point he'd always considered his mother and himself to be
the wronged parties, when they'd been abandoned by his
own father. But now, for the first time he could see it from
the opposite perspective. Had his mother sprung the same
unwelcome surprise on his dad?
Greta was distraught, and later that night Mariner had
tried to make it up to her but had failed dismally, as he had
done ever since.
'So it's since then that this problem has developed?'
asked the doctor, bringing Mariner back to the present.
'Yes.'
'And have you had further contact with your girlfriend?
Did she go ahead with the pregnancy?'
"I assume so, yes.' Even though he'd tried contacting her
to offer financial support, Greta had completely
stonewalled him. It wasn't enough she said. She didn't want
his money. She wanted a husband and father for her child.
After a while he'd just given up.
'Well,' said the doctor, after a considered pause. "I think
this is all in your mind. You're feeling guilty.'
'Guilty about what??' Mariner was indignant. He wasn't
the one who'd walked out.
'Well, you must surely have thought from time to time
that you might be a father, that there could be some small
being out there who's your responsibility?'
'My partner made it very clear. Whatever she chose to
do, she didn't want me involved. She was going to take
care of it.' But the doctor was right. It hadn't stopped him
from wondering. Rarely a day went by when he didn't
consider the possibility of a small child out there going
through life under the same cloud of uncertainty that he
had.
The doctor looked at him. "I would suggest you look for
a resolution, because at the moment your body is telling
you loud and clear that it won't risk getting into that kind
of trouble again.'
'Is it?'
'Yes. It's saying "don't have sex, it leads to unwanted
pregnancies". Sort things out with your ex and I think
you'll find that this is just a passing phase. I'll prescribe
you a couple of Viagra though, just in case. That ought to
be enough to kick-start you again.' Mariner winced at the
choice of phrase. 'There might be side effects of course,
including headaches and nausea. But see how you go.
You'll need to weigh those against the benefits.' His own
line coming back at him.
Taking the prescription, Mariner tucked it into his wallet
where it kept ironic company with a packet of three,
purchased six months before but still unopened.


Chapter Fifteen

DI Mariner was astute, Anna thought as she waited for
Jamie to wrestle into his T-shirt. They were getting used to
this. For some weird reason she'd woken up this morning
thinking about the detective. She liked him. She liked him
a lot. After he'd gone, she'd tried to remember the last time
she'd been held by a man, not as a precursor to sex, but
just held. She couldn't, not even by her dad. Despite the
emotional turmoil going on inside it had felt good. She
could still recall that musky smell of a man who's put in
an honest day's graft, sweetened by the faintest hint of
aftershave.
It came as something of a surprise to her that she could
be even remotely attracted to a man like Mariner. She
unfailingly went for 'dark and classically handsome', never
for 'pale and interesting', however blue the eyes. Mariner
was thin to the point of skinny too, and older than the men
she generally fancied, he must be well into his forties. But
there was something about his quiet dependability that she
found somehow warm and reassuring.
Jamie could have a complete change of clothes today; the
new ones she'd bought for him. The rest could go in the wash, including those he'd worn a couple of nights ago. But
as Anna turned them inside out something heavy dropped
out of the pocket. Jamie pounced on it and she had to wrest
it from him. It was a mobile phone. Not hers, but
Jonathan's. She had to smile at that. He'd be lost without
it, but too proud to contact her to get it back - if he even
knew where it was. Just out of curiosity she had a look at
the stored numbers. Hers was the third in the list, probably
about what she'd expect. And Melanie? In at number eight
and climbing steadily.
In the hall, the letterbox snapped shut. A couple of bills
and a package had dropped on to the mat. Anna went to
pick them up, turning her attention to the large padded
envelope first. Clearly one of the postal service's sorting
office disasters, it was battered and crumpled and somewhere
along the way one edge had been repaired with
adhesive tape. But reading the address made her shiver.
'It's Eddie's writing,' she murmured in disbelief.

'Eddie,' Jamie echoed meaninglessly, continuing to
shovel cereal into his mouth, some of the milk not quite
making it and running down his chin. Anna had drawn the
line at Hula Hoops for breakfast, and after several mornings
of scraping various glutinous substances off the walls,
had finally found a cereal that he liked.
Anna's hands trembled slightly as she took the thick
envelope into the lounge. It was postmarked a week ago last
Friday, so it had taken a long time to get here, literally
caught up in the system judging by its battered condition.
But why was Eddie sending her things through the post, and
why now? Had he known then that his time was running
out, or was it just an unhappy coincidence? Tearing open
the flap she slid out a blue envelope folder. It contained a
sheaf of papers held together with a paperclip. There was
no explanatory note, just a series of computer printouts that
looked as if they'd been taken from the Internet.
It took Anna several moments to work out that they
represented information on medication, the kind used to
control autistic behaviours and suddenly Anna got the
message. Eddie was helping her out. He'd have known that
if anything happened to him, one of the first things she
would do was to try and find a residential place for Jamie,
and that she would come up against the same insistence on
medication as he had. So he was sharing his knowledge
with her. Perhaps it was even his way of saying it was all
right, he'd had to consider it too.
Not for the first time, Anna wondered what Eddie could
possibly have been involved in that would put him in such
danger, and experienced a stinging guilt that she hadn't
been able to help. All she could do now was accept and
make use of what he'd given her. There wasn't time to read
it all now, and at first glance she wasn't even sure if she
would understand it anyway, so she slid the papers back
into the folder envelope and put them in a drawer for when
she could set aside more time.

The journey to the day centre was becoming routine and
Anna no longer had to make a conscious effort to steer the
car in the right direction.
'Wow, look at you today,' said Francine, to Jamie when
she saw him.
"I thought he could do with a new wardrobe,' Anna said.
'We didn't have too bad a night either, he was only up a
couple of times.'
'That's great.'
Yes, it was. And in a strange way Anna was beginning
to feel like an old hand. She'd planned on going back to the
office today, if only to touch base, but the package had
brought Eddie back to the forefront of her thoughts. After
the funeral, she had requested that his ashes be buried in
the garden of remembrance, along with a small commemorative
plaque. The crematorium official had told her that it
would take at least forty-eight hours to arrange, and now
she felt a sudden desire to check that the task had been
done. Leaving the day centre she took a diversion to Lodge
Hill.
It had rained during the night and as she crossed the
damp grass, a layer of early morning mist hung suspended
over the ground. Combined with the noise of several rooks
cawing in the trees it lent the crematorium the quality of a
gothic horror film, and it was almost a relief to Anna to
find that she was not quite alone. As she approached the
area where Eddie's plaque should have been planted, she
saw another woman, dressed, not in the black hooded cloak
that would have sustained the illusion, but in jeans and a
leather jacket. As Anna came nearer, she realised that the
woman was crouching directly in front of Eddie's newly
planted memorial, arranging a small bunch of carnations,
and unaware of Anna's presence, until she spoke.
'Hello,' said Anna. The effect was immediate. The
young woman turned and seeing Anna, scrambled to her
feet and began to back away, until with enough distance
between them she turned and ran.
But those few brief seconds were enough for Anna to
recognise her. 'Wait!' she called, but to no avail. Realising
that the woman wasn't going to stop, Anna wasted valuable
seconds debating whether to follow on foot, or return to her
car. She opted for the chase, running after the woman as
she fled from the cemetery out on to the main road, and
praying that she wouldn't get into a waiting vehicle. An
extensive housing estate had grown up around the crematorium,
and glancing back occasionally to see Anna in
pursuit, the girl kept on running, through the network of
almost identical streets, until finally she emerged on to the
busy dual carriageway of the main Bristol Road.
She seemed to be heading for the bus stop, which would
take her back towards the city centre. If she boarded a
bus Anna didn't have a hope, it would move off long
before Anna could catch up. But for once things were going
Anna's way, and there were none of the familiar double
deckers to be seen. Anna was gaining ground now and the
girl showing signs of panic, until suddenly a black cab
appeared from nowhere and with the minimal wave of a
hand, the girl flagged it and jumped in. Anna was still too
far off to read the cab's licence number, but not for the
vehicle registration. Rehearsing it over and over to herself,
she fumbled in her bag for a pen and scribbled down the
number on the palm of her hand. Breathless, but still
running on adrenaline, she retraced her steps to the crematorium,
where she retrieved her mobile phone from the car.
In seconds she was connected.
'I'd like to speak to Inspector Mariner, please,' she
gasped. 'It's urgent.'

Tony Knox was nearer to the phone in Mariner's office
when it rang. He picked it up.
'Anna Barham, boss,' he said, watching Mariner's reaction
a little too carefully as he handed it over.
'Who? Oh.' Mariner took the phone, masking, he hoped,
the fact that Anna had barely been absent from his
thoughts, conscious or unconscious, since last night. She
was probably embarrassed now about what had happened,
but when she spoke, if anything, she sounded excited.
"I think I've just seen Kerry.'
All thoughts of the previous evening evaporated. 'Where
are you?'
'Selly Oak; at the crematorium. She went off in a cab,
but I've got the registration.'
It was tenuous, but it was something. 'Okay, go ahead.'
But he sensed hesitation.
'On one condition,' she said.
'What?' That we don't talk about what happened last
night? Fine. But it was nothing like that.
'I'll give you the number,' Anna said. 'But I want to be
there when you talk to her.'
Christ, she didn't ask much. 'Alternatively, I could just
charge you with obstruction,' he said, coolly, but, like that
other significant aspect of his life, it was impossible to
maintain. 'All right,' he conceded. 'When I talk to her
informally you can be there, as long as you stay quiet and
don't interfere. But if I have to bring her to the station for
formal questioning, you know that will be different, don't
you?'
'Of course. Look, I know you're going out on a limb for
me. Thanks.'
'Sure.'
She recited the cab's registration number for him to write
down.
'It will take time to trace this back,' Mariner warned her.
'And even then we may not be sure. If the taxi has dropped
her off somewhere in the city, we'll have lost her. Go back
to your place and if we do find her, I'll pick you up from
there.'
'Thank you.'
More gratitude. He'd save it up for a rainy day.

A weak sun was trying to push its way through the low,
grey cloud when, fifty minutes later, Mariner drove down
Millpond Road, one of the shabbier aspects of Edgbaston,
with Anna Barham beside him in the passenger seat. They'd
been lucky. The taxi driver who picked up Kerry had been
able to furnish them with the exact dropping-off point and
even the number of the house he'd seen her let herself into,
perhaps making a note of it for his own personal future
reference.
The road comprised mainly Victorian three- and four
storey houses of rusty brick that had long since passed their
heyday. Most were now segregated into numerous flats and
bedsits, to provide cheap accommodation for asylum
seekers, DHSS claimants, and anyone else with a high level
of desperation. None of whom had any long-term interest
in the aesthetic qualities of the properties. Consequently,
gardens were untended, stray rubbish littered the streets
and this morning a couple of mangy wire-haired dogs
foraged for pickings amongst the over-spilling bins.
Number seventy-two blended perfectly into the squalor.
Torn, grey net curtains hung at some of the windows,
although those higher up looked new. There was no bell or
knocker, so Mariner banged his fist on the door, creating
as much noise as he could.

187

After a faint burst of music and some scuffling, the door
was opened by a large African-Caribbean woman of indiscernible
age. 'What you want?' she barked, squinting
suspiciously at Mariner's proffered warrant card.
'We're looking for Kerry,' he said.
'Kerry?'
'We've got reason to believe she lives here. We just want
to talk to her.'
'There's a girl lives on the top floor,' the woman said.
'Don't know what her name is.'
Mariner held out the photograph. 'Is this her?'
The woman peered. 'Yeah, a real sweetie.'
'We need to come in.'
The woman shrugged, turned and shuffled back into her
own apartment, slamming the door behind her and leaving
them alone in a dark and desolate hallway. Mariner led the
way up grimy, uncarpeted wooden stairs, through a dim
atmosphere, thick with the stench of stale cigarette smoke
and rotting food. He cringed on Anna's behalf. It was all
in a day's work for him, but for her it must be like a different
planet. They passed one landing and continued on up to
the next. A door at the top was crudely daubed 'la' in grey
paint and had a tarnished knocker in the centre. Mariner
rapped on it. Kerry was apparently expecting someone. The
door was pulled back almost immediately, wide and
welcoming, by a tall slim girl, with glossy shoulder-length
chestnut hair and chocolate eyes, which were instantly
wary. An inch of her midriff was visible, showing off a
small, neat tattoo of a butterfly.
Mariner held out his warrant card again. 'Hello Kerry.'
Kerry stared at him, suspiciously, trying to work out
where she'd seen him before, but then she saw Anna, and
making the connection, attempted to slam the door shut
again. But Mariner was prepared for this and the door
rebounded off the sole of his shoe. 'We just need to ask you
a few questions about Eddie Barham,' he said. 'We can do
it here or at the station. It's up to you.' He'd said the magic

188
words. Her resistance breached, Kerry led them through a
short hallway into a lounge.
The small flat was surprisingly neat in comparison with
the rest of the building. She doesn't bring her clients back
here, thought Mariner, it's far too homely and personal.
Even to his undiscriminating eye the decor was tasteful and
pleasing, and above all it was scrupulously clean. For
Anna's sake he was glad of that. That wasn't the only
surprise, either. Kerry, when she spoke was surprisingly
articulate, although her manners didn't extend to offering
them a seat. Mariner sat down anyway and Anna followed
his lead, leaving Kerry with little choice. Mariner also held
back on any introduction of Anna, allowing Kerry to make
the assumption that she, too, was a police officer.
'Tell me how you first met Eddie Barham,' began
Mariner.
'It was a long time ago, I can't really remember.' She
was cool and closed.
'Try.'
Glancing over at the window, Kerry made a show of
trying to recall, though it was more likely that she was
weighing up how much to tell him.
'It was a couple of years ago,' she said at last. 'Maybe
three. I was living rough. A bunch of us used to go to this
cafe, greasy spoon place near the bus station, when we
could afford it. Eddie came in there. We got talking.'
'About what?'
'I don't know, just chit-chat, you know. Nothing really,
but he was very good at getting stuff out of you. He was
just nice, friendly, and he seemed interested.'
'In what?'
'Anything, everything. How we lived. What we did all
day. I did think it was a bit weird, until one day he coughed
that he was a reporter. He said he was working on an
article about what it was like to be living on the streets
in Birmingham. He wasn't going to use real names or
anything, but just write about how kids ended up there, and
what happened to them. He said it was a chance to tell our
story.'
'And you helped him with it?'
'Yeah. I thought it would be a laugh. Besides he was
offering good money.'
'Did you know about what was going on at Streetwise?'
Kerry blushed, more in anger than anything. 'Yeah of
course I knew. Everyone did.'
'So you were aware that Frank Crosby was using the
drop-in centre as a way of procuring under age kids for
prostitution?' Mariner had to be sure of this. From the
corner of his eye he saw Anna's eyes widen almost imperceptibly,
but he couldn't help that. She'd asked to be here.
"I didn't know about Frank then,' Kerry said. 'I'd seen
him around, but I just thought he was a friend of Paul's.
Paul was the one who did all the deals.'
'Did you ever do any "work" for Paul?'
'You know I did, don't you?'
'And you told Eddie about it.'
"I missed one of our meetings. Eddie wanted to know
where I'd been, so yes, I told him. I think I wanted to
shock him.'
'And did you?'
'Sort of. But Eddie was too much of a pro. He just found
it more interesting than the piece he was writing. He
wanted to know all the details.'
'Did you tell him?'
"I could only tell him what had happened to me. I said he'd
have to find out the rest himself. I don't grass.' Implicit was
her utter contempt for informants. Mariner wondered what
she'd have thought if he'd told her that it was how he'd first
joined the payroll of the West Midlands Police.
'The next thing I knew, your lot had arrested Paul and
Frank Crosby. That was when I first knew who Frank
really was. But by then Eddie had paid me enough to put
down a deposit on this place, so I didn't have to go to the
drop-in any more.'
'Is that when you started working for Frank Crosby
yourself, Kerry?' Mariner asked innocently. He hadn't
been sure, but her reaction verified it all right.
"I don't work for him,' she said, petulantly. "I work for
myself.'
'And where do you work?' asked Mariner. 'Where do
you take your clients?'
"I rent a room.'
'In one of Frank's seedy little hotels?' Mariner could tell
from her face that he'd hit the mark. 'And I suppose Frank
puts the occasional punter your way, too.'
'It's worth it, they're always generous, Frank's clients.
I had to get started somehow.'
As if there was no other option in life. "I bet Frank
doesn't know that you helped Eddie with his story, does he?
Does he ever encourage you to offer your clients extra
services?'
'Like what?'
'Like a little additional chemical stimulation.'
'No. I don't mess with any of that stuff.' She was rock
steady.
Mariner let it go for now. 'And did you see Eddie again
after the story broke?'
'Not for a while, no.'
'So when did you see him?'
'A few weeks ago. He'd been in to Maureen's.'
'Heaven's Gate.'
"I know.' Even she could see the irony. 'He'd seen my
picture. Maureen gave him one of my cards, so he phoned
me.'
'For an appointment?'
Crunch time. But Kerry just laughed. 'Not exactly.'
'So why did he contact you?'

'He wanted a favour.'
'Another story? About what? Frank Crosby?'
'No, it wasn't like that. Eddie's got this brother who's a
bit backward, you know?'
The sudden shift in the conversation caught Mariner off
guard. 'Jamie?' he said, nonplussed.
'Yeah, that's right. Eddie looked after him. Anyway, he
was having trouble with him getting horny. He'd started
playing with his dick in public, groping women, that kind
of thing. Eddie thought it might help if he actually had sex,
you know. He thought it might calm him down. He could
hardly ask any of his friends to do it, so he had been trying
escort agencies. That's how he finished up at Maureen's.
Trouble was, none of the girls would go to his house, and
Eddie needed Jamie to learn that sex is something you do
in private, in your own place. Then when he saw my
picture in Maureen's and she told him what I was doing, he
thought I'd be able to help. He knew I looked after myself.'
'And did you agree to do it?' asked Mariner.
'Not straight away. I mean, I felt sorry for the boy. Nearly
thirty and had never been laid. Can you imagine that?'
Mariner didn't say that actually he was beginning to get an
inkling. "I said I'd want to meet him first,' Kerry went on. "I
wouldn't do it with just anybody. Some of these people are,
well, you know, I don't know if I could. So one night I met
Eddie in the pub and he took me back to his house. '
'When was that?'
'About a month ago, I suppose.'
'And did you do the business?'
Anna visibly flinched, but Kerry remained casual. 'No,
but I would have. He was quite sweet and good looking too.
You couldn't really tell that there was anything wrong with
him, apart from some of that weird stuff. But he wouldn't
come near me. It was as if he wanted to, he kept sort of
looking, but Eddie thought it might take time for him to get
used to me.'
'So what did you do?'
'I started just going to see them. I used to stop by at their
house on my way back from other appointments. I would
have been bloody stupid not to. All I did was sit and watch
TV with them, but Eddie still paid me.'
'Did you tell Eddie Barham that you work for Frank?'
'I told you, I don't.'
'All right then, did Eddie know about your little
"arrangement" with Crosby?'
'Not to begin with, no. Why should he? It was none of
his business.'
'So who was it who had him beaten up three weeks ago?'
Kerry fell silent, avoiding Mariner's eye. 'Frank must
have found out that I'd been seeing Eddie and jumped to
the wrong conclusion.' She glared at Mariner. 'Like you
did. He wanted me to stop seeing him. Said he knew what
crap reporters wrote. I told him it wasn't anything to do
with that, but Frank didn't believe me.'
'So he gave Eddie a going-over. And then what?'
'Frank told me not to see Eddie again. That if I did, the
next time he wouldn't get off so lightly and neither would
I. I called round to tell Eddie I couldn't see them any more.
It upset me to do it. I think even Jamie realised something
was wrong. He was really sweet, tried to comfort me.'
Mariner remembered Jamie's words: Kay no cry. 'Eddie
was disappointed of course, but he understood.'
'So when did you see Eddie Barham again?'
'Last Sunday night, he called me. He'd had a bad week.
Jamie had walked up to some woman in the swimming
baths and grabbed her breast. Eddie was worried that she
might bring indecent assault charges. He was desperate. He
wanted me to go round. Just one last time.'
'And?'
"I told him I couldn't. I had another appointment anyway.
Then when I was waiting for the punter to show--'
'Derek.'
Now Kerry realised where she'd seen Mariner before.
She looked at him anew. 'Yeah, that's right. While I was
waiting for Derek, Eddie turned up. He knew where I met
people and he came to talk me into going with him.'
'And you went with him. Even though Crosby had
warned you not to.'
'Eddie could be persuasive, and like I said, I felt bad.
He'd already paid me a lot with nothing to show for it. I
wanted to wait to explain to Derek, but Eddie had left
Jamie at home on his own so we had to go straight away.'
So that's what the argument was about. 'Did Eddie ask
you to bring him a little extra something this time?'
'No. He wasn't into that shit and neither am I.'
'So what happened?' Mariner asked, even though he was
already beginning to assemble the jigsaw for himself.
'Eddie took me back to his house in the car. But when we
got there, his front door was wide open and there were these
two guys inside. Jamie had gone. Eddie went ballistic'
'What guys? Frank Crosby's men?'
'No. I'd never seen them before. They were going
through Eddie's stuff upstairs, after money I suppose.
Eddie tried to take them on, but there were two of them.
He didn't stand a chance.'
'And?'
Kerry looked down at her hands. 'What could I do? I was
behind Eddie and I didn't think they'd seen me, so I went
to get help. The battery in my mobile was dead and there
were no bloody call boxes around there. I had to go for
miles. In the end I found a phone box and called 999.'
'Very public spirited of you. I thought you said you liked
Eddie Barham.'
"I did.' She was defiant.
'So at the first sign of trouble, you just bugger off and
leave him.'
"I told you, I went to get help. What else could I do? I
was scared. I didn't know what was going to happen, that
Eddie would be--'
'Why didn't you go to the neighbours?'
'Oh yeah, like they're going to help me. You should see
the way that snotty cow next door looks at me.'
'Are you sure it wasn't more to do with the fact that you
knew who those men were? That Frank Crosby told you to
disappear? I think you did as you were told, but then your

conscience got the better of you, so you waited a while and
then called us.'
'That's not true!'
'Crosby had already had Eddie beaten up once, but it
hadn't worked, had it? And he was afraid of what Eddie
Barham was going to write, wasn't he?'
'It wasn't like that--'
"I think you're lying, Kerry. I think you know very well
who killed Eddie Barham. And that's why you ran away
that night and why you ran away again today, from Eddie's
sister.'
'His sister?' She hadn't until then realised who Anna
was. "I don't know who those men were. I swear it.'
'Who's Sally-Ann?' Mariner asked suddenly.
'Who?'
'Sally-Ann. Sally-Ann/Kerry-Ann. Is she a friend of
yours? Or do you sometimes use another name?'
'No. I've never heard of her.'
'I think you have.'
'All right. I heard the boy mention her once, that's all.
But I don't know who she is.'
Mariner stood up. 'Get your coat.'
'What for? You said--'

'You were probably the last person to see Eddie Barham
alive, Kerry. We need you to make a statement.'
'But I'm expecting--'
'Leave a note on the door. You're the only person who's
seen these two men, and even if you didn't know them,'
Mariner could barely keep the scepticism from his voice,
'you can give us a full description. While I have a little chat
with your friend and beneficiary, Frank Crosby.'
Kerry sighed and got her coat. On the way out she turned
to Anna. 'I'm sorry, I really am. Eddie Was one of the good
guys. How's the boy?'
Anna smiled, weakly. 'He's fine.'
'This is where you have to leave it to us,' Mariner told
Anna, depositing her outside her flat.
Anna nodded. "I know. But thanks for letting me hear
that. I want to know what happened.'
"I know. I'll stay in touch.'
'Thanks, I appreciate that.'


Chapter Sixteen
Mariner left Kerry in the capable hands of a WPC at the
Facial Identification Bureau, at Lloyd House. There, in
accordance with Home Office guidelines, she'd be shown a
selection from the 25,000 or more mug shots they kept on
file. The department also operated a sophisticated e-FIT
system, which could create a computer image based purely
on descriptions Kerry gave them. It was a step or two up
from the crude cut-and-paste jobs they were doing when
Mariner had started on the force. But if all that state of the
art razzmatazz failed, there was always the graphic artist on
hand.
Mariner's next stop was DCI Coleman's office. Burly
and balding, Jack Coleman was an old generation copper
who had risen through the ranks through sheer slog and a
powerful conviction that simple but dedicated attention to
detail achieved results. It was a doctrine bordering on
pedantry that in his previous posting at Severn Road Station
had earned him the nickname of 'the Severn Bore'. But
Coleman's principles were founded on bitter experience.
Only five weeks into the job he'd been one of a handful of
officers on foot patrol on the night of 21 November 1974,
when a coded warning was received to say that two bombs
had been planted in Birmingham city centre.
He'd been present later too, at Steelhouse Lane, when
the six Irishman had been brought in, branded guilty and
savagely beaten before they'd even opened their mouths to
protest their innocence. He'd seen the fear on their faces
and known that it was wrong, but like dozens of others he
kept silent and had lived with the guilt ever since. These
days he made sure that his officers had solid facts before an
arrest was sanctioned, and despite the occasional frustration
most of them felt, his squad's high conviction record spoke
for itself. Today he was characteristically bedded deep in
paperwork when Mariner went in.
"I want to shake Frank Crosby,' Mariner told him,
without procrastination.
Coleman put down his pen and sat back in his seat. The
glare from his desk lamp bounced off his shining scalp. 'On
what grounds?'
Mariner explained what they'd uncovered, including the
link with Kerry. Saying it out loud, even to his ears it was
beginning to sound flimsy and insubstantial. Unsurprisingly,
the gaffer apparently felt the same way.
'Eddie Barham's murder doesn't on the face of it look
much like Crosby's usual style, does it?' he said. 'He's not
known to dress things up, as someone patently did.'
'No, but he does have ready access to drugs and women,
so that part at least makes sense. And he has a history
with Eddie Barham, too. I just want to talk to him, see his
reaction.'
It must have been enough because Coleman didn't argue
any further. 'Just go carefully, Tom,' he warned, unnecessarily.
"I could really live without Frank Crosby bringing a
complaint of harassment.'
'Yes sir.'
'What about Tony Knox?'
'If he's available I'll take him along. The uniform could
be an asset.'
'You would seem to be having quite an influence over
him,' Coleman remarked.
'He's good at his job,' said Mariner, not having any
reason to say otherwise. 'He could be CID material.'
Coleman glanced down at the paperwork on his desk,
suddenly avoiding eye contact. 'Yes, I'd heard that he was
desperate to get back into plain clothes.'
'Back?'
'Didn't he tell you?'
'We work together. He doesn't confide in me. What
happened?'
'Let's just say that during his last spell out of uniform he
lacked a certain self-discipline. I'm sure he'll fill in the
details for you if he wants to.'
So, Tony Knox had been a detective before. No wonder
he'd taken to it so well.

Frank Crosby was taking an afternoon off to get in touch
with his human side, playing the role of respectable businessman
to improve his swing, putt and very possibly
perfect his techniques for employing golf clubs as instruments
of torture. Mariner and Knox sat in the car waiting
for him to return from the green, watching the clusters of
grown men in their gaudy checks and pastels pushing
around their golf carts like old women with their shopping
trolleys.
'Bunch of poofs,' Knox muttered under his breath,
before casting Mariner a wary sidelong glance. 'You don't
play, do you, boss?'
Mariner let him off the hook. 'No, I'm with Twain on
this one: "Golf's no more than a good walk spoilt".' He
looked at Knox. 'That's Mark Twain I'm talking about, not
Shania.'
Knox flashed back a sarcastic smile. 'Still,' he added
slyly, 'the state of the football teams down here, there has
to be an alternative sport.'
It was too good an opportunity to miss. 'So, if you didn't
come down here for the football, why did you move to
Birmingham?' Mariner asked. 'It wasn't for the clean air.'
'I just fancied a change,' said Knox without missing a
beat. And he was spared further interrogation by the
appearance of Frank Crosby, his perambulation apparently
over for today.
They watched Crosby and his entourage of two go into
the clubhouse, before tracking him down in the members'
bar where he was ordering a Campari and soda. Even in
their golfing gear, it wasn't hard to pick out Crosby's goons
from the general public. It was a question of size, though
paradoxically, the exception was Crosby himself.
Less than five feet six of concentrated muscle and teeth,
Crosby resembled a Pit Bull terrier in human form, and had
a reputation for being every bit as vicious. The baby pink
polo shirt was stretched grotesquely over his hairy, tattooed
arms, as anomalous as biker's leathers on a newborn infant.
Although Kingswood Golf Club was not as exclusive as
some, Mariner doubted that many other club members had
any idea what Frank Crosby really did for a living. Right
now he was enjoying a joke with his coterie.
'Mr Crosby?' Making no effort to lower his voice,
Mariner openly displayed his warrant card for the benefit
of all those present. 'Detective Inspector Mariner, West
Midlands Police. Could I have a word?' With Knox's
uniform providing added visual effect, Mariner had
succeeded in capturing the attention of everyone in the
room: everything so far going to plan.
Crosby's fury was visible in the flush that spread up
through his Bob Monkhouse tan. But this was a man who'd
learned over time to control his temper, and by the time
he'd picked up his drink and separated from the group there
remained only a hint of irritation in his voice. 'Over here,'
he said, tautly, leading the way to a secluded corner of the
room, well away from listening ears. Despite the unnaturally
dark hair and gleaming white teeth, Crosby was
approaching sixty and running to fat. If you knew where to
look, his throat still bore the deep scar sustained in a scuffle
in Winson Green, although it was many years since he'd
been a guest of Her Majesty. He'd become far too skilled
at delegation for that. These days he could afford to be
relaxed, play a round or two of golf give or take the occasional
rude interruption from the law. 'What do you want?'
he demanded, at a safe distance from his fellow club
members. He regarded Mariner like something nasty he'd
just stepped in, his annoyance betrayed only by the bulging
muscle in his jaw.
"I want you to tell me about Eddie Barham,' Mariner
said, with equal directness.
Crosby snorted, almost with relief, making Mariner
wonder what he'd thought was on the agenda. 'What about
him? He's a reporter. Pain in the arse if you must know,'
Crosby said, candidly.
'Really?'
'Yeah. Spends too much time sticking his nose into
things that don't concern him.'
'Into your affairs, you mean. He landed you right in it
four years ago, didn't he?'
The eyes narrowed and hardened. "I was never charged
with anything.'
'Eddie Barham dragged your name through the mud
though, didn't he? That must have been bad for business.'
"I got over it.'
'But not the sort of thing you'd want to happen again, if
you could help it.' Mariner glanced around him at the
opulent surroundings. 'Wouldn't go down well here, would
it? Your name splashed all over the papers a second time.
It must have made you a bit nervous, when Eddie linked up
with one of your girls again. I don't suppose you wanted to
play the lead in anything else he was about to write. Is that
why you had him roughed up?' Crosby had seen this
coming and was far too street-smart to deny it. After all,
Eddie Barham hadn't pressed charges so there was nothing
to worry about. 'My colleagues offered him a little advice,
just in case he was thinking of doing anything stupid.'
'It was hard advice. It left Eddie with enough bruises to
fabricate a mugging story.'
'Yeah, well, it's what he's good at, isn't it? Making
up stories. I just wanted to make sure that he got the
message.'
'But he didn't, did he, Frank? So you had to go back.
Was he threatening you with blackmail? Is that why you
had to get into his house to recover any incriminating documentation?'
'What?'
Crosby suddenly had the look of a man who had
completely lost the plot, though masking his reactions
would come naturally by now.
'What were you doing?' interjected Knox, increasing the
pressure. 'Following Kerry? Or had you tapped Eddie
Barham's phone?'
'Where were you on Sunday the sixteenth of February,
Frank?' Mariner demanded. 'The night Eddie Barham was
killed.'
Finally they provoked a reaction, but not the one Mariner
expected. 'Killed? I didn't know he--'

'Oh really. Don't you read the papers, either?'
'Why would I? Full of crap most of the time.' Crosby
was on the defensive. Then Mariner remembered someone
telling him that Crosby couldn't actually read very well.
Knox pushed again. 'How far were you prepared to go,
to keep Eddie Barham quiet, Frank? Or were you doing it
for Paul?'
'Paul who?'
'Paul Spink. Forget him already? Even though he took
the rap for you back in '95. Were you repaying the compliment?'
Mariner had no idea whether there had been any
contact between the two men since Spink's conviction. It
was just a simple logical pursuit, but one which apparently,
Crosby was having difficulty keeping up with.
"I don't know what the fuck you're on about,' he said,
finally beginning to lose his cool. 'A Sunday night? I'd
have been at the dog track all night.'
'And what about your "colleagues"?' Mariner nodded
towards the group at the bar, who cast the occasional
anxious glance towards them.
'Carl and Terry were with me. We'd have been at the
track till two in the morning. Ask anyone.'
'We will,' Mariner assured him. Unexpectedly, Crosby
seemed then to relax, again making Mariner wonder what
else was bothering him. But seeing the now smug expression,
Mariner had a nasty feeling that, about Eddie Barham
at least, Crosby was telling the truth.
'I'll need you and your monkeys to come in and give a
blood sample,' Mariner dropped in, as a last ditch attempt
at unnerving him. 'Just so that we can eliminate you from
our enquiries.'
Crosby didn't bat an eyelid. 'Always happy to oblige,'
he lied.

'What do you think, boss?' asked Knox when they were
back in the car.
"I think Frank Crosby's an accomplished actor,' said
Mariner. 'Let's wait for the blood tests.' But even Mariner
wasn't holding out much hope. Crosby had taken it all too
much in his stride.
'Dinner time?' Knox started the car, ever the pragmatist.
'No thanks,' said Mariner. 'There's something I've got
to do.'
'Oh?'
'It's personal,' Mariner said, enigmatically. 'I'm going
in search of a resolution, Tony. You should try it sometime.'
But
Knox just looked at him as if he was mad.
Mariner tried Greta's office number first. With a small
child to clothe and feed, he couldn't imagine that she'd had
the luxury of being a stay-at-home mum. He was right.
'Tom! What a surprise.' A mutual one. She sounded not
displeased to hear from him. Equally unexpectedly she
agreed to meet him for a quick drink after work in a couple
of hours, giving Mariner ample time to make his debut visit
to Toys R Us.
Greta wasn't in the appointed bar when he arrived a few
minutes late and it crossed his mind that she might yet stand
him up for old times' sake. He'd trailed round every appropriate
shop in town to look for a present for the baby, but
when it came to it he hadn't a clue what to buy. He didn't
know the gender of the child, or for that matter exactly how
old it was. In the end he'd settled on a generic cuddly
rabbit. Greta had chosen as their meeting place a wine bar
close to where she worked. Sitting down at a table, Mariner
ordered a bottle of obscenely expensive mineral water with
two glasses. Greta had never been much of a drinker and
he needed to keep a clear head.
When she appeared, short of breath, Mariner was for
several moments thrown into confusion. 'Greta.' He stood
up to kiss her cheek. 'How are you?' But he hadn't really
needed to ask. She was clearly blossoming, her belly
swollen by about six months of pregnancy.
'I'm great,' she said. 'Really well. Do you want to see?'
And with the enthusiasm of any new parent-to-be she sat
down, and without waiting for his reply, rifled through her
handbag to produce a monochrome snapshot of what resembled,
to Mariner, an oversized tadpole. 'The consultant
says that she's a perfectly average size, plum in the middle
of the fiftieth percentile. If she keeps growing at the same
rate, she'll weigh about seven pounds at birth. Sorry, that's
probably too much information, but I get told everything.
First baby at my age, you can't even fart off the record,
especially coming so soon after a miscarriage.' She looked
into Mariner's eyes, pausing for the first time. 'I'm afraid
ours didn't make it.'
'I'm sorry,' said Mariner, as something stabbed at his
chest.
'So was I at the time, but it was probably for the best,
wasn't it? I should have let you know, but I was--well, let's
not go over all that again.'
No, let's not.
'Dominic, an old friend was very supportive.' She placed
her hands on her 'bump'. 'So supportive, in fact, that we
ended up with this.'
Finally Mariner recovered his power of speech.
'Congratulations,' he said. 'I'm really happy for you.'
Which he was. He remembered the gift. "I brought you
this,' he said, handing over the plastic bag. 'It was for . ..
But you can ...' He tailed off as Greta took out the soft
toy.
'Oh, it's sweet, Tom. Thank you.' She leaned across and
kissed him. 'Anyway, how about you?'
"Me?'
'Yes. Are you seeing someone?'
Good question. 'Not right now. That's probably for the
best, too.'
'Mm. Still working all the hours God sends, I suppose.'
He couldn't really disagree. They talked a little longer
about inconsequential things, mutual acquaintances who'd
really been Greta's friends, and polished off a second bottle
of spring water.
"I should be going,' Greta said, at last. 'As it is I'm
going to get all the rush-hour traffic'
They both went up to the bar to pay. As Mariner took
out his wallet, another slim, white sheet of paper fluttered
out, landing at Greta's feet. The prescription! Shit!
Simultaneously, they stooped to retrieve it, Mariner snatching
at it before Greta had the chance.
'Throwing away your love letters now, Tom?' Greta
smiled. And Mariner had to stifle a sudden urge to laugh
hysterically at the irony of the situation. The bill settled,
they hugged and wished each other well for the future, then
went their separate ways. Greta back to Dominic, and
Mariner into the nearest proper pub, where he ordered a
single malt, on duty or not, and knocked it back in a couple
of burning mouthfuls.
So now he knew. There was no Mariner junior inhabiting
the planet and oddly he wasn't sure whether to be
relieved or disappointed. If pressed he'd have tended
towards the former, but either way he wasn't about to take
any more risks with that prescription. Taking it out from
where he'd stuffed it in his pocket, he screwed it into a ball
and dropped it into the ashtray. For some strange reason,
he felt an urge to call Anna Barham.

But Anna had already left work, and was at the day centre
collecting Jamie, prior to visiting the residential home
recommended by Mark. She'd specifically been asked this
time to take Jamie with her.
'The social worker came this morning,' Francine
informed her.
'What social worker?'
"I assumed it was to do with your last visit.'
The Beeches. Anna was surprised, she hadn't expected
things to move quite so fast, but she wasn't about to
complain. 'Did she want to see Jamie?' She recalled the
questions about 'challenging behaviour', hoping that Jamie
hadn't done anything that might have put the social worker
off.
'It was a "he",' Francine said. 'And no, he didn't want
to see Jamie. Said it was unnecessary at this stage. He just
asked the usual questions, particularly about Jamie's
communication skills, level of understanding, that kind of
thing.'
It was years since Anna had had any experience of this
and even then it wasn't first hand. Her parents had always
arranged everything and she'd given it minimal attention. It
seemed odd that no one had contacted her first, but then it
was probably the protocol, eliminating the opportunity for
any advance preparation.
"I hope it was all right for me to talk to him,' Francine
said, suddenly concerned. "I kept everything very positive.'
'Yes, of course it was. Thanks Francine. Come on
Jamie, let's go.'

Unlike The Beeches, Manor House was out of town, set
deep in the Worcestershire countryside, and though based
around an old manor house, included modern purpose-built
facilities in acres of wooded grounds. According to a
commemorative plaque in the lobby it had been opened in
1995 by HRH Princess Anne.
Run by the Autistic Association, it was designed specifically
with the needs of autistic adults in mind, subscribing
to the principles of the Higashi Institute in Boston, with a
focus on physical exercise and a rigidly structured
timetable. In addition, a number of different therapies and
approaches were favoured, including the use of various
functional communication aids. Wherever there were signs
in words, there were pictures and symbols too. Colours
were muted and displays kept to a minimum, with no strip
lighting. Special attention had been given to sound absorption,
too, creating a calm and relaxed atmosphere.
Anna didn't detect all this on her own, some of it she
read in the glossy prospectus she was given while she and
Jamie waited for 'one of the team' to show them around.
All the staff, she read with interest, were trained in the use
of alternative communication, including PECS, the picture
exchange communication system. This was more like it.
And above all, there were no funny smells.
'Miss Barham?' Anna was greeted by man of around
thirty-five, blond and tanned, who introduced himself as
Simon Meadows, 'One of the team of care staff.' His
accent had an Australian twang to it.
Anna noticed from the picture board on the wall that
Simon was actually the senior member of that team, but she
liked that he hadn't said that.
'And this is Jamie?' he asked.

Anna nodded.
'Jamie, hello.'
Jamie responded with a fleeting glance, which Simon
answered with a thumbs up sign. 'That's good looking.
Thank you.' He turned to Anna. 'Shall we go?'
Their first stop was 'the gym', which turned out to be a
Wacky Warehouse for grown-ups, with ball pools, climbing
apparatus and 'soft' areas.
'It's the letting-off-steam area,' Simon explained.
'Essential for the clients and the staff. Jamie probably
doesn't want to do the boring tour, so he can stay here.' He
called over one of the care-workers and assigned him to
watch over Jamie. 'He'll be leaving at quarter past four,'
he said. 'You can start counting him down when you're
ready.' Counting him down. Anna had seen Francine doing
that with Jamie, preparing him for the end of an activity so
that he wasn't upset when it stopped or changed.
They began the tour. Simon was friendly but pragmatic,
and not in the least bit ingratiating. The building was busy
with other people, but often Anna was hard pushed to tell
the difference between staff and clients. Overall the age
profile was much nearer to Jamie's own and relationships
looked friendly and easy. Facilities for men and for
women were clearly delineated and there were self
contained facilities for individual independence training.
Instead of a heavy question-and-answer session at the end,
Simon Meadows gently elicited information as they walked
around.
'How old is Jamie? Where is he living right now? That
must be hard, how is he doing? How is his eating, and his
sleeping?' Anna was so impressed with the place, she
would have told Meadows anything, and she had no qualms
about being completely honest with him.
'His sleeping is awful,' she confessed. 'He's up several
times every night, but I don't want to resort to medication.'
No harm in making it clear from the start.
'Neither do we,' said Meadows. 'Though I have to say
that in extreme cases we do consider it. In isolated cases
the use of medication can be highly successful, but we have
to have tried everything else first.'
Anna was pleased to hear it. 'So when can he start?' she
asked, straight away, only half-joking. They'd arrived back
in reception.
Simon Meadows smiled. 'Let's just jot down a few
details,' he said, as if he hadn't just extracted everything there was to know from Anna. 'We try to operate like a
community so we do try to take clients who will be compatible.'
He handed her a short concise application form. Full
name? Easy. Date of birth? Anna even had that off pat now,
too. Seventeenth of the third, 1970. At the end of the document
was a small section requesting permission for the staff
to administer appropriate medications to regulate sleeping
and behaviour.
'As I said, it's when all else fails,' said Meadows, seeing
her hesitation. 'Why don't you think that part over, and
give us a call.' Finally he handed her a list of charges.
Anna did a double take. 'This is for a year?' she asked.
Meadows made a sympathetic face. 'No, it's quarterly. I
know. It's expensive, but the work we do involves very
high staff ratios. That's how we can avoid the use of
medication. I think you'll find that's not unusual.' So that
was the catch.
Meadows glanced up at the clock. It was fourteen
minutes past four. 'Now, we'd better not keep Jamie
waiting.'

Late in the afternoon, as he walked back into Granville
Lane, Knox confirmed Mariner's worst fears. 'Crosby's
alibi checks out, sir. We've got a whole pile of witnesses
who saw him at the track on that Sunday night, including
some of our blokes who were down there keeping an eye
on things. He had a successful run apparently and was
throwing his money around. Laurel and Hardy were with
him, too.'
'Shit!'
'It's not conclusive though, is it? Even if the blood tests
turn out to be negative Crosby could easily have hired some
temporary help.'
'Maybe, but unless we can identify who that might be, it
isn't enough to pull him in either. And if that sum of money
in Eddie Barham's bank account wasn't about blackmail
then what was it?'
'For what it's worth, these are the e-fits Kerry came up
with.' Knox passed him the crudely assembled
photographs. They could have been anyone. In fact one of
them had the look of Pope John Paul about it. Mariner
wondered what His Holiness was up to last Sunday night.
The other had a neat, dark moustache. 'No black mouth,'
said Mariner, almost to himself.
'Sorry?' asked Knox.
'No black mouth,' Mariner repeated. 'It was what Jamie
shouted when we took him back to the house. I think he
was telling us that one of Eddie's attackers had a moustache
- a black mouth.'
'That rules out about nine tenths of the population,' said
Knox, helpfully.
'We're almost there, then,' Mariner replied, matching
his sarcasm. The fact of the thing was that it was now
almost two weeks since Eddie Barham was murdered and
every hour took them further from the likelihood of finding
his killers. Their one tenuous lead had come to a dead end
and they were left with virtually nothing. If they had any
suspects, they could arrange a line-up based on Kerry's
descriptions, but he wouldn't know where to start. Who the
hell else wanted Eddie Barham dead?

Chapter Seventeen

Despite the careful preparation, Jamie wasn't too thrilled
about leaving Manor Park, and moaned all the way home.
Anna had been so impressed with the place that she was
tempted to just ring Simon Meadows and tell him that she'd
reached her decision, but the cost had taken her breath
away. Selling her parents' house would make all the difference,
but their will had made it patently clear that in
Jamie's lifetime that just wasn't an option. Renting it out
might be one creative solution to the problem, but she'd
have to be certain of a long-term let and even that could
prove to be messy to maintain. Jamie could live to be a very
old man, at a time when she herself would be getting older
and looking forward to an untroubled retirement.
The enormity of the responsibility was overwhelming, as
it must have been for Mum and Dad. There was some hard
thinking to be done about the medication issue. Even to be
considering it made her feel the family traitor, but DI
Mariner was right. Times were changing. Drug therapy
was becoming more commonplace because the medicines
used were more sophisticated and reliable. And if Manor
Park wasn't affordable in the long-term it was no good to
her, so alternatives would have to be considered. Eddie had
clearly been thinking along those lines too because once
you started looking at cheaper residential care there seemed
little choice. He'd been backed into the same corner.

Retrieving the handouts from Professor Fellowes' talk,
Anna spread them out on the kitchen table before seeking
out the package that Eddie sent her. She took the blue
folder out of the drawer in the lounge. The effect on Jamie
was startling. He jumped up from where he was on the
floor and hovered a few feet away, giving the folder his
customary sideways 'anxious' look. He was muttering to
himself and initially Anna couldn't hear what he said, but
then she made out,
'No Sally-Ann, no Sally-Ann,'
Puzzled, Anna thrust the folder towards him and he
immediately backed off, chanting more loudly. Anna
laughed. 'What on earth is the matter, Jamie? It's only a
folder,' she opened the lid to show him. 'Paper. There's
nobody in here.'
But even so, it was some time before he would settle
again. As she'd noticed before, the folder comprised a
collection of photocopied sheets and printouts, some of
them downloaded from the Internet. Cross-referencing
them with Professor Fellowes' information there were
several common names: Ritalin, Fenfluramine,
Imipramine. For most, there were chemical formulae,
along with descriptions of recent studies that had been
carried out relating to their effectiveness. She tried reading
one of the articles, but was beaten back by the jargon: 'Opioids have long been known to reduce serotonergic
transmission by stimulating the presynaptic auto receptors,'
she read. 'A drug which, unlike serotonin itself would selectively
stimulate the post synaptic receptors, could be of
value in controlling aggression and sleep patterns.' Of
course it could.
A common factor seemed to be that the drugs apparently
acted on the serotonin system, as Professor Fellowes had
said, and Anna now wished that she had paid more attention
to the talk. She didn't even really know what serotonin
was.
Systematically, she worked her way through the Internet
printouts and every story was the same, doubts raised about
the effects of long-term courses of treatment using the
drugs mentioned.
The only deviant from this pattern appeared to be something
called Pinozalyan, but that was mainly because of the
dearth of information on it anyway. All Anna could find
was a none-too-clear photocopied paragraph from some
kind of medical journal. But interestingly, Eddie had
double starred it. Did this mean that it was the one he had
settled on at the end of all his research? Anna sifted through
the paper and sifted back again. There didn't appear to be
any further printouts. And there was nothing amongst the
notes from Professor Fellowes. She would have to do her
own research. She plugged in her laptop and logged on to
the Internet. There was at least some information about the
other drugs, again mainly in the negative, but nothing on
Pinozalyan. Strange.
Yawning, Anna was overcome by a sudden, unexpected
wave of fatigue and, glancing up at the clock, saw with a
shock that it was twenty past eleven. The flat seemed unnaturally
quiet. Jamie! Jamie? He was sprawled on the floor,
having fallen asleep where he sat, still clutching a video
box. The tape had come to an end, leaving the TV scrolling
scratchy horizontal lines, as fuddled as Anna's brain felt
right now. Pinozalyan would have to keep until tomorrow.
It might be time to pay Dr Payne another visit, to see if he
could enlighten her.
For a moment, Anna considered whether to wake Jamie
and put him properly to bed, but decided against it and
instead tucked a pillow under his head and arranged his
duvet around him. He'd be awake soon enough anyway.

She was right. Woken at six thirty by Jamie poking a video
in her face and tugging at her arm, Anna groaned. What
wouldn't she give for a good night's sleep? Driving Jamie
in to the centre, she couldn't shake off the feeling of
exhaustion and despondency. Where was all this leading? In
the cold light of day Manor House seemed an impossible
proposition, too. It was enormously expensive and, despite
what Simon Meadows had said, they did employ drug
therapy, which her parents would have disapproved of, and
on top of that it would mean taking Jamie away from the
day centre, at least for some of the time, when the thing he
needed most of all was consistency.
As a matter of interest, Anna asked Francine about any
other clients at the centre who were taking medication.
Francine knew of at least two who were on Ritalin
and another who took Impramine, but she hadn't heard
of Pinozalyan either. 'Could be something new,' she
suggested. They're always trying things out.
Anna tried to contact Professor Fellowes, but was told by
his secretary that he was lecturing in London and couldn't
be reached.
She waited until mid-morning before going to the surgery
in the hope that the morning rush would be over. Even so,
there were still half a dozen people waiting to see Dr Payne
or one of his partners.
The doctor seemed surprised to see Anna again so soon.
'Is everything all right with Jamie?'
'Yes, he's fine,' Anna reassured him. 'Although it is
about him that I've called.' Anna explained about her visits
to the two homes and the references to medication. 'The
one Eddie seemed to have been focused on is called
Pinozalyan. Have you heard of it?'
Dr Payne frowned and shook his head doubtfully, 'No. I
can't say I have.' But there was something else on his
mind. 'Are you sure this is the right thing to be doing
Anna?' he asked.
'What?'
'Considering medication for Jamie. Many of these drugs
haven't had time for the long-term effects to be known, and
may lead to problems with dependency and side effects.' So
he felt that way too. 'Your parents and I discussed it at
length over several years and I know that neither of them
wanted to put Jamie at any kind of risk. Naturally it's your
own decision, but--'
But. Always a but. Just when she looked as if her life
was back within grasp, something swung by to knock it out
again. She left the surgery despondent and depressed.

On top of that, she had to go into the office today. There
was a mountain of post waiting for her, but seeing Becky
provided an immediate distraction. 'Is Mark at work
today?'
'I hope so,' said Becky. 'Unless he's swanned off somewhere
for some secret passionate affair he hasn't told me
about.'
'Do you think I could phone him for some information?'
'He'd love it. He's always had a soft spot for you.'
'He can keep his soft spots to himself. I just want to talk
to him.'
Becky reeled off the number of Mark's surgery. She
seemed edgy and Anna soon found out why.
There was a knock on the door. It was Jonathan, looking
astonishingly naked. He'd shaved off his goatee. 'Anna,
how are you?'
Any cooler and Anna would have shivered. 'I'm fine,
thank you,' she responded, icily. Two can play at that
game.
'Well, it's good to see you back again.' His voice lacked
a certain sincerity, but he was gone again before Anna
could allude to this.
'What happened to the facial hair?' she asked Becky
instead.
Her friend had the grace to look embarrassed. 'Melanie
doesn't like goatees.'
'Well, that puts me in my place then, doesn't it?' said
Anna, cheerfully.
Alone again in her office, Anna ignored her bulging in
tray and keyed in the number Becky had given her. 'Hi
Mark, it's Anna.'
'Anna, how are you? Has Becky got you checking up on
me?'
'No, you're perfectly safe. I wanted to pick your brains
on something.'
'Pick away.'
'I wondered if you'd ever come across of a drug called
Pinozalyan? I think it could be something used in the treatment
of autism.'
'Pinozalyan? Can you spell that for me?' Anna did.
There was a pause at the other end of the line, while
Mark considered. 'No, I can't say that I have Anna, but
then there are thousands of drugs marketed every year. It's
impossible to keep on top of them all. I can look it up on
the database for you though, if it's important.'
'It is Mark. That would be great.'
More helpful than Dr Payne had been, but then, he might
not have a surgery full of people waiting. And there was a
rider. 'Okay, leave it with me, but I may not get back to
you until later in the day, I'm just about to start my
rounds.'
No problem. To while away some time, Anna sorted
through her pile of urgent phone messages and e-mails. She
responded to a few and wrote some memos, but by the
middle of the afternoon she'd had enough. Today she
wanted to do the grocery shopping before fetching Jamie.
The first thing Anna noticed as she and Jamie entered her
flat was that the bin had moved. She was sure she hadn't
left it like that, standing away from the wall. It was a
feeling, nothing more, that someone had been in there
while she was out. Jamie was oblivious, making a beeline
for the now dog-eared Ikea catalogue, squatting on his
usual spot on the floor and flicking through the pages. But,
after stowing the shopping, Anna found that she couldn't
relax. She checked her answerphone. No new messages.
For a while she paced, undecided, before eventually trying
Mariner's number. As she waited for someone at the other
end of the line to locate Mariner, she had a tidy up. As
usual, this entailed gathering up far too much, and Eddie's
package, balanced as it was precariously at the top of the
pile, slid off with a crash, scattering the contents.
'Bugger!'
'Everything all right madam?' asked the voice at the
other end.
'Yes, thanks. I just dropped something.'
'I'm sorry, we can't seem to track down Inspector
Mariner. Would you like to leave a message?'
Yes, would you tell him that someone has broken into
my flat and moved my bin? Suddenly Anna felt foolish.
'No, it's okay,' she said out loud. 'There's no message.'
She hung up the phone, regretting the call already. She was
being totally paranoid, and about what?
As Anna turned over the empty folder to replace the
papers, she caught her finger on something raised just inside
the flap. She looked more closely. Something had been taped
to the underside. It was a small, slim envelope. She pulled it
off. Inside the envelope was an even smaller, flat black
plastic square; a floppy disk. Eddie had posted her his
computer files. So what was all this about? Slamming Carol
Vorderman into the VCR yet again, to keep Jamie occupied,
Anna grabbed her laptop and plugged it in.
She loaded the disk into the drive. Double click.
Windows Explorer, 3.5 in Floppy. She double-clicked the
icon and a dialogue box appeared inviting her to enter the
password. Anna attempted to override it, but it wouldn't let
her through. She tried to cancel, but the screen returned to
Explorer. Damn! This time Eddie had been a mite too
clever. She took the disk out to examine it, but the label
was blank, naturally. Not much point in having a secret
password then advertising it all over the packaging. Okay,
she'd have to think of the password. It should be simple.
Only fifty thousand words in the English language to
choose from, and that was always supposing Eddie hadn't
strayed into French, German or Esperanto. She began with
the obvious, family names: Eddie/Edward, Jamie/James,
Anna, Malcolm, Susan, Mum, Dad. Nothing. Tried them
in upper case and lower case, with and without initial capitals.
Zilch. The phone rang.
It was Mariner. 'You wanted to speak to me?'
Anna felt foolish. Her feelings of anxiety had long gone,
and she was convinced now that her imagination had just
gone into overdrive. 'It was nothing,' she said. "I thought
someone had been in my flat.'
'Has anything been taken?' He was treating it more seriously
than was necessary.
'No, I was being ridiculous. Just pure paranoia. I keep
forgetting that Jamie's here with me and he moves things.'
'Oh, well, I'm glad you're okay.' He was signing off.
'I've found something else that you might be interested
in though,' Anna said, quickly. 'Eddie sent me a parcel. He
must have posted it just before he died, but it got delayed
and didn't arrive until yesterday. At first I thought it just
contained papers, information about medications. I didn't
think it was important.'
'But?'
'I've just found a floppy disk, too. It was taped to the
inside of the envelope, out of sight.'
'Eddie's files?' Mariner audibly perked up.
"I don't know yet. The bad news is that it's password
protected and of course I don't have the password. I'm
trying to get into it right now.'
There was a pause at the other end of the line. 'Kerry
helped us to compile some e-fits of the men who were in
Eddie's house that night. I'd like you and Jamie to have a
look. How about if I bring them by?'
'Okay.'
'Now?'
'Why not?'
Eager to have something to show him when he arrived,
Anna took her efforts wider, trawling her brain for any
minor detail about Eddie that might hold the key. She knew
he had once supported Aston Villa, but did he have a
favourite player? What was his favourite food, drink,
colour, movie, book? She hadn't a clue. This was the
payback for hardly knowing your big brother. She typed in
Post, Mail, Greencote, Countdown . ..
Anna became aware of Jamie hovering at her elbow.
'Want a loops.'
'In a minute,' Anna said, distracted.
'Want loops, get a loops,' he repeated, tugging at her
sleeve.
'In a minute Jamie,' she shrugged him off impatiently.
'This is hopeless,'
Jamie mirrored her exasperation. 'Loops!' he insisted
grabbing at her arm.
'Oh! You and your bloody--!' Anna banged on the keys
irritably, 'Hu-la-Ho-ops.' And the screen unfurled in front
of her.
'Oh my God, Jamie, you're a genius!' Without thinking,
she put out her arms to hug him. He backed away in alarm,
fearful of the sudden contact, making Anna laugh. 'You can
have all the Hula Hoops you like.'
The intercom buzzer sounded, and Anna let in a worried
looking Mariner. 'Sure you're all right?' he asked.
For a moment, Anna didn't know what he meant. Then
she remembered the bin. 'Oh, yes, I'm fine. Going a bit
nuts, but fine.'
'Good.' He was examining the door. 'How do you lock
this when you go out?'
'On the Yale.'
'Maybe you should consider using the mortice, too.'
'Yes, Inspector,' Anna said meekly.
Mariner smiled. 'Okay. Here ends the Mariner lecture
for today. Call it compensation for the fact that our
enquiries seem to have hit a brick wall. Frank Crosby has
got a solid alibi for the night Eddie was killed. So unless
there are some other unknown heavies doing his dirty work,
it looks as if Kerry was telling the truth and Frank wasn't
involved. It leaves us pretty well back at square one.'
'Not quite,' Anna said.
'What?'	,
'I've found the password to Eddie's disk. Jamie s obsession
with Hula Hoops finally paid off.'



Chapter Eighteen

'I'm not even going to ask what you mean by that,' Mariner
said. 'Have you found anything interesting?'
'Not yet. You're just in time to help me look.' Mariner
dragged a chair round to Anna's side of the table so that
they could both look at the screen. As he did so, his arm
brushed against hers, making her skin tingle. Focus, Anna,
focus, she told herself sternly. With a curiously wobbly
hand, she opened up the disk. It contained a single document.
MS Access. Untitled.
'Eddie and his databases,' commented Mariner, shaking
his head. 'He had them for everything.'
Anna double-clicked the icon and rows of data unfurled
on the screen before them.
'It's the same document as we found,' Mariner observed
straight away.
'Except that now we've got all the data as well,' said
Anna, hopefully, examining around thirty rows and five
complete columns containing an assortment of numbers and
letters.
'If that makes a difference,' he said, with obvious disappointment.
'Unfortunately there are still no headings to any
of the fields, so we don't know what any of the numbers
relate to.' Without any indication of what the digits represented,
the database told them nothing. 'We're no further
on.'
But Anna was staring at one of the columns. 'We might
be,' she said. 'I think it's got Jamie on it.'
'Jamie?'
Jamie looked around momentarily from where he lay on
the floor in the lounge.
'Look,' she pointed to one of the dates. 'Seventeenth of
March 1970. That's Jamie's date of birth. It didn't mean
anything when I saw this the first time, but since then I've
had to memorise it.'
'It's just a date,' Mariner was less sure. 'That could just
be a fluke.'
'No, look at the initials.' Anna traced a finger back along
the row. 'JB, Jamie Barham, and there in the first column,
SB, Susan Barham, that's my mum. That's got to be more
than chance, surely?' Anna shuddered. This was creepy.
Mariner remained sceptical. 'Anyone else you recognise?'
he asked, dubiously.
Anna studied the column of letters, her mind now
moving along a completely different track. AR, DM, CJ,
ET, she mulled over each set of initials, searching for a
link. 'It's a long shot, but that could be Liz - Elizabeth
Trueman. I hadn't seen her for years, but she came to
Eddie's funeral. And that's their son, Michael.' She indicated
the MT, further along the row. 'They live in Sutton
now but our families were close when we were kids, you
know? We used to go and visit them. They had this
massive copper beech tree in the garden that Jamie once
fell out of.'
'So what we have here are the initials of children and
their mothers. That makes sense. The last initial of each
pair seems to match up.'
'It's only one child: Eddie and I are not on here.'
'The youngest child?'
'No, Michael's got a younger sister, Carol. But
Michael's autistic, like Jamie. It's the autistic child.'
'So this is about autistic people and their parents, and
what?'
Anna thought for a moment. 'Medication,' she said
picking up the envelope that came in the post. 'This is what
Eddie sent me. The rest of this stuff is about different kinds
of medication. Those PSTIs I was telling you about. And
when I met Liz Trueman, she was full of how well Michael
is doing these days, mainly because of the new medication
he's on.'
'But Jamie doesn't take anything, does he?'
'Not yet, but I think Eddie must have been considering
it. I didn't want to believe it at first, but given that he was
having mega-problems with Jamie's behaviour, and all the
residential homes seem to want to have that option open to
them, he must have been. The ones that don't use medication
routinely are incredibly expensive.'
'And Eddie wasn't exactly rolling in it.'
'So he was being more or less forced into it, in the same
way that I am. But Eddie being Eddie, he wouldn't have
taken that step without doing some thorough research. It's
what all this is about.' She indicated the other rows of
figures. 'Maybe he wanted to compare Jamie's data,
whatever that may be, with others' before making the decision.
'
Mariner was unimpressed. 'But if that's the case then this
is pretty harmless information. Who else would be even
interested in it?'
'I don't know.'
'Because no one would. If this was Eddie's so called
"drug story", Darren was right. It was a wind-up. The
drugs Eddie was talking about were these PSTIs. And the
project was "personal" because it was for his own use.'
Anna wasn't about to give up so easily. 'But if that's all
it was, why would anyone need to wipe it off his
computer?'
'They could have been after anything,' Mariner pointed
out. 'This database was one of the items that was left. They
could have already successfully destroyed what they
intended to.'
'So that's it?' Anna was crushed. 'All this stuff is irrelevant
after all?'
'Well it may be helpful to you. But I can't see how it will
help us find Eddie's killer.'
'I'm not really sure if it will be much good to me,'
Anna said, finally conceding defeat. 'As you said, without
titles for any of the fields, there's no way of knowing
what the remaining data could be. It's impossible to tell
what the units are for these numbers, let alone what they
represent. I'm sorry. I seem to have wasted your time,
too.'
Mariner smiled. 'Not entirely. It means we've effectively
ruled out another possibility.'
'Would you like a coffee or something?' Anna said,
quickly, partly because she didn't want him to leave yet.
'Okay, thanks.'
Anna got up to put the kettle on. Mariner picked up the
envelope. 'This was all Eddie sent you?'
'That's it. Oh, unless you count a shoebox full of old
letters he left with our solicitor. They went back years, and
were addressed to my dad, not Eddie. I left them where
they were.'
Mariner was staring thoughtfully at the computer screen.
'If you've got Jamie, it shouldn't be that difficult to work
out what the rest of this means,' he said.
Anna came back to the table with the coffee. 'Is there
any point?'
'Eddie must have thought so.'
Anna shrugged. If he really wanted to, she'd let him get
on with it.
'Let's start from what we do know. We've got your
mother's initials, Jamie's initials, Jamie's date of birth,
then a number, 2.1. How old was Jamie when you found
out he had autism?'
'Older than that, much older, in fact not really until he
went to school, even though Mum had been up at the
doctor's with him every other week for years. Everything
was put down to colic or teething, or the terrible twos and,
she was told he'd grow out of it. It wasn't until he was
about five or six that autism was even mentioned.' She
looked across the page. 'In fact this next column is more
likely to refer to that.' The fourth column said simply
March 1977. 'It would make Jamie almost six. That was
more like the time he was diagnosed.'
'Okay, that's good. It would account for the variation
across the other kids, too. Presumably they were diagnosed
at different ages. So what is this 2.1?' Jamie's rating
appeared lower than many of the others, which were anything
ranging between four and nine. What could it be
measuring if not time? Quantity? But of what? Measurement?
Height? No, too small. Suddenly Mariner thought of
Greta's tadpole. 'What about Jamie's weight, when he was
born?'
'He was seriously underweight,' said Anna. 'Tiny. You
should see the photographs.'
'So it could be that.'
'I suppose it's possible.' She sounded doubtful, but
Mariner pressed on.
'Let's go with that for now. Okay, so we've got some
names, dates of birth, birthweights, dates of diagnosis.'
'So what? It still doesn't tell us why all these people are
on the database, except that all these people might be diagnosed
autistic on those particular dates.'
'Which still doesn't tell us why it was important enough
for Eddie to go to all this trouble.' Mariner picked up the
envelope. 'You've been through this information?'
'Yes, it's about drugs, but the only common factor seems
to be that none of them is particularly safe. The only one
that doesn't appear to have endless awful side effects listed
is this one, Pinozalyan, but that's because there's hardly
any information about it.' Anna showed Mariner the short
paragraph.
'This is all there is?' he asked.
'Yes, I tried the Internet, but there was nothing. And
when I went to ask Dr Payne about it this morning, he'd
never heard of it either. Mark, my friend's partner, is a GP.
He said he'd look into it for me, but he hasn't come back
to me yet.'
'Pinozalyan,' Mariner read. 'A relaxant. Prescribed for
the treatment of insomnia. Acts as a depressant to hormone
serotonin, which controls levels of arousal and anxiety. So
that would be useful for treating someone like Jamie,
wouldn't it?'
'You bet. Anything to calm him down and help him sleep
more would be a miracle drug.'
'And there's no mention of side effects?'
'That's what makes it unique.'
'But your doctor hadn't heard of it?'
'No, he was pretty dismissive actually. But then he did
have a packed waiting room this morning.'
Mariner was saying the name over and over to himself,
frowning as he did so.
'You're spending too much time with us,' remarked
Anna.
'It just has a familiar ring to it, as if I've heard it somewhere
before. Pinozalyan, Pinozalyan.'
'No Sally-Ann,' murmured Jamie, suddenly, from where
he lay on the floor. Mariner and Anna stared at each other.
'Oh my God,' said Anna.
'God,' repeated Jamie.
Mariner tried it again. 'Pinozalyan,' he said.
'Sally-Ann,' the echo bounced back at him.
Mariner shuffled through the papers. Tmpramine,' he
said out loud. Nothing. 'Ritalin.' Silence. 'Pinozalyan.'
Jamie shook his head irritably, 'No Sally-Ann.'
Mariner looked at Anna. 'Well, that has to be more than
coincidence.'
'He must have heard Eddie say it.'
'And why would Eddie say it? Because it was of some
significance. Maybe Eddie had stumbled across a drug that
would help Jamie that has no side effects. What exactly did
the doctor say when you asked him about it?' Mariner
asked, showing a renewed curiosity. 'Just that he hadn't heard of it.'
'But did he ask what it was, or how you'd come across
it?'
Anna thought back to her brief meeting with Dr Payne.
'No, he didn't. That was strange, wasn't it? He just
cautioned me against going down that route. He reminded
me about my mum and dad.'
'So without even asking for more information he actively
put you off the idea?'
'I suppose he did. Do you think it could be illegal or
something?' Suddenly Anna began to share Mariner's gathering
interest. 'That might have given Eddie his story.'
But Mariner was less sure. 'If a drug's illegal, normally
the first place you'd find it would be on the Internet and
you've tried that. Unless it's just unavailable.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, either it's so new that it hasn't yet been clinically
approved in this country. Or it could be like Viagra.'
'Viagra?'
'Yes, it's for--'
"I know what it's for,' Anna said, curious about where
this was going.
Mariner shifted in his seat. 'Yes, well. When Viagra first
came on the market, if you remember, the government tried
to withhold it in this country because of the predicted
burden the massive demand for it was going to place on the
NHS,' he said. 'It was thought to be too expensive and too
popular to make it widely available. But in the end, the
government had to bow to public pressure, because anyone
could get hold of it from the US and a vast Internet black
market for it was going to develop. Once people knew
about Viagra they wanted it. You've been looking at drugs
that might be of benefit to Jamie, haven't you. But what
puts you off?'
'The side effects.'
'Right, so you don't go for anything. But say one
company developed a drug that was both effective and free
of side effects. What would you do then?'
'I'd grab it with both hands.' Anna was beginning to see
what he was getting at.
'As would any other person who's caring for someone
with autism. And the NHS would have to foot the bill.'
'Except that there wouldn't be anywhere near as much
demand for it as for something like Viagra. It wouldn't be
much of a bill.'
'Wouldn't there? I thought autism was on the increase.
And don't some treatments for illnesses like multiple sclerosis
run into tens of thousands of pounds, just for one
person? If Pinozalyan turns out to be considerably more
expensive in the first place, then the cost would soon mount
up. And what better way to avoid having to pay out for any
drug than to suppress it.' He was becoming perceptibly
more animated.
'But that's immoral.'
'Which I would have thought made it exactly the kind of
story Eddie would have been interested in,' Mariner
concluded, with faultless logic. 'This database could be the
list Eddie was collating of the people who would potentially
benefit from the drug, were it available. Including Jamie.
And there's your scandal: all these people being denied an
effective drug that doesn't carry the side effects that all the
others do.'
'But how would Eddie have found out about it in the first
place?'
'He was an investigative journalist. He'd have ways and
means. And he certainly had the motivation. Now, assuming
that these other initials also belong to autistic kids,
where would Eddie have got the names? Jamie's day
centre?'
Anna was doubtful.
'The people there have a whole range of learning difficulties.
I'm sure there wouldn't be enough specifically
with autism.' Remembering Susannah's parents, she
scanned the colunin of initials. There was no S, but then
she remembered the comment from Susannah's father: "I
hope you're not going to start stirring things up ...'
Perhaps Eddie had tried them, but they didn't want to be
involved.
'So maybe it's not just autism we're talking about.'
For a few minutes they both sat staring at the screen,
hoping it would yield an answer. It didn't, and eventually
Mariner sat back, rubbing his eyes. 'Christ. It's like having
the first three pieces of a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle and
trying to fill in the rest.'
Because when it came down to it, all they had was speculation.
Without specifics they had reached another dead
end. Anna knew it, but Mariner wasn't about to admit it.
'There must be a bigger picture, something that would help
us to complete it,' he said.
Anna couldn't help but admire his doggedness. It was
doubtless what made him good at his job. 'How can you be
so sure?'
'Call it a gut thing.' Right on cue, Mariner's stomach
gurgled loudly.
Anna laughed. 'You trust a gut that makes that noise?'
'Sorry.' Mariner grinned, mildly embarrassed. 'I'm late
for my appointment with Mr Lau.'
'Mr Lau?'
'The proprietor of my local Chinese takeaway.'
'We haven't eaten either,' Anna realised suddenly.
'Jamie will be famished. You can stay and have something
with us if you like, though it will only be pizza. I haven't
yet found anything else that Jamie will eat. Apart from
chocolate ice cream.' She tried to make it sound casual,
take it or leave it, but she hoped he would stay.
'Pizza sounds good, thanks.'
'And how about a proper drink? Or are you on duty?'
'I officially went off duty hours ago,' said Mariner. 'I
could murder a beer.'
'Help yourself. I don't drink the stuff and it doesn't look as if anyone else will be coming back for it.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' though to Anna's ears, he didn't
sound entirely truthful. The microwave pinged to indicate
that the pizza was ready. Jamie stayed sitting at the kitchen
table until he'd eaten two slices.
'That's a record,' Anna observed. 'You must be a good
influence.'
'Not on everyone.' Mariner's blue eyes held hers for a
moment and something in the air crackled. Then the phone
rang.
'Hello, Anna? It's Mark. I'm sorry it took so long, but
I've got you the information you asked me for about
Pinozalyan.'
Fantastic. 'Hold on a minute, Mark.' Anna switched the
phone to speaker mode so that Mariner could listen in, too.
'I'm not sure how much use this will be,' Mark went on.
'Are you certain this is the drug you're looking for?' To
double-check he spelled it out.
'Yes, I'm sure.'
'Okay, here goes then. But, be warned, we're talking
ancient history here. Pinozalyan was on the market between
1957 and 1973. Basically it acted on the pineal gland,
blocking the electrical impulses that inhibit the release of
the hormone melatonin. Melatonin is what makes you feel
sleepy; Pinozalyan was used in the treatment of insomnia.
It seems to have been quite successful, but with some minor
side effects.'
So it wasn't brand new drug at all, it was old. Obsolete
in fact. Mariner could barely conceal his disappointment.
'Mark, this is Inspector Mariner, West Midlands Police,'
he said. If Mark was surprised that Anna had a policeman
in her flat this late in the evening, he didn't question it. 'If
Pinozalyan was so successful, why did they stop making
it?'
"I expect because it was superseded by something better,
more effective. It happens all the time.'
But Mariner wouldn't let it go. 'Would there be any way of getting hold of it again?'
'I doubt it. And if there are better products around,
who would want to?' Mark hesitated, apparently confused
by the conversation. 'Look Anna, if you need anything
why don't you come in and see me. Are you having
trouble sleeping?'
Anna laughed. 'Not me, Mark. If Jamie would let me,
I'd sleep for a week.'
'What would have replaced Pinozalyan,' Mariner asked.
'Particularly for anyone with autism?'
They could hear Mark tapping keys at the other end of
the line. 'There are a number of possibilities around just
now,' he said. 'It would depend on the precise nature of the
symptoms, but it could be something like Fenfluromine, or
Impramine. There's a whole group of them, these days
they're commonly referred to as PSTIs.'
'But they have side effects too,' Anna said, practically an
expert now.
'Possibly Anna, I don't know much about them, I'm
afraid. I'd have to look them all up individually.'
'Could you fax through what you've got on Pinozalyan?'
'Sure, and if you wanted anything more, you could try
the Barnes Medical Library at the university.'
'Thanks, Mark.'
Moments later Anna's fax machine coughed out a
single sheet of paper, confirming what Mark had already
told them: that, once manufactured by pharmaceutical
company Bowes Dorrinton, Pinozalyan was no longer on
the market, and hadn't been for more than twenty-five
years.
'A brilliant theory bites the dust,' said Mariner, ruefully.
'But what would have been Eddie's interest in a drug that
had become obsolete so long ago?'
'You tell me,' said Anna forcing her mouth back into
shape. She was hoping that Mariner hadn't noticed her
stifling the yawn, but apparently he had.

"I guess it's one for another day,' he said, getting up to
go. She would have liked to ask him to stay, but what was
the point? She had a night of fielding Jamie to look forward
to.

Chapter Nineteen



The house was dark as Mariner let himself in the front door
and he noted, with some gratitude, that it was also quiet.
On the way home, Anna Barham, together with his wandering
imagination, had combined to produce the half-mast
erection that he could always rely on when it wasn't
needed. Being forced to listen to Knox and Jenny shagging
each other senseless tonight would have been more than
flesh and blood could stand.
His mind was still buzzing from their discussion, and he
didn't feel much like sleep, so cracking open another bottle
of home-brew, he poured himself a glass. It was a big
improvement on the lager Anna Barham had kept in her
fridge, but then he couldn't expect everything.
Jenny, he noticed, was beginning to make her mark on
the house. A vase of flowers stood on the mantelshelf, and
unless Knox had dramatically updated his musical taste, the
pile of CDs by the player had to be her introduction.
The table in the dining room was covered in papers too:
Jenny's assignment, an apologetic note to one side
explained. Straining to decipher the scrawl, Mariner could
see that Jenny already had one major qualification for
joining the medical profession. As he stood over the table,
his attention was caught by a whole series of striking black
and white photographs. At first glance Mariner thought
they looked rather like pictures of cauliflower florets, until
he realised that they represented a foetus in different stages
of development, right through from embryo to fully formed
infant.
Underneath were descriptors explaining which part of the
baby developed at which stage; at week six, the head, liver,
intestines; week ten, the nervous system; week fourteen,
the muscles and sexual organs. Greta's baby was developing
like that, Greta's baby that wasn't his. Mariner still
couldn't decide whether he minded that or not. Although at
the time the prospect of fatherhood had terrified him, the
idea of bumping into a ready-made replica of himself had
also been an intriguing one. The way things were going,
that chance may never present itself again and a tiny part
of him regretted that. Maybe it always would.
The phone rang, shattering the silence. Mariner grabbed
at it. At the other end was a small voice. 'Hello. I know
it's late, and I'm sorry to bother you, but could I speak to
Anthony please?' An unmistakable Liverpool lilt.
'I'm sorry,' Mariner began. 'There's no one--' A penny
fell from a great height, spun where it landed and came to
rest. 'Ah, You mean Tony. Er, I'm sorry he's not around
just now. Can I take a message?'
A pause, then, 'No. There's no message.' Another
pause, then the voice even lower. 'Is he still with her?'
'I'm not sure.' Technically it was the truth. Mariner
couldn't be certain that at that precise moment they were
together, but all the same as he said it he still felt like a
shit.

That night, Mariner dreamed he was climbing Tryfan, way
up high above the snowline, the spectacular view bearing
an uncanny resemblance to the Himalayan range. He was
on a steep and narrow winding path, a knife-edge that he
had to cling to with both hands, but when he looked down
he saw Greta with a whole gaggle of kids, skipping along
carelessly like the family Von Trapp from The Sound of
Music. Sporting brilliant white, beaming smiles, they were

waving at him but as he raised his hand to wave back he
lost his balance and fell, tumbling down the mountainside
until he woke with a jolt to see the first pale traces of dawn
creeping over the sky outside.
Almost immediately he became aware of a gentle rhythmic
creaking from the bedroom above. He felt a sudden
buzz of excitement, but for once it had nothing to do with
sex. During the night, in that slow osmotic way that
thoughts form and consolidate, Mariner had developed the
ghost of an idea about why Eddie Barham had been killed.
Details eluded him and, thanks to his late night drinking
session, his head felt as though he'd made a recent investment
in ear-to-ear cavity wall insulation.
He would need Anna's help in confirming what he
thought, so he had to be sure of the logic of what he'd
already worked out. He couldn't plough in there at half
cock (ho ho!). For one thing it was bad policing and for
another it would raise her hopes, but most of all, and he
even admitted this to himself, Mariner wasn't eager to
make a total idiot of himself in front of her. That would
come later perhaps. What he needed now was some fresh
air and time to think.
Pulling on an old pair of combats, he drove through the
empty streets to the outer limits of the city to where the
Lickeys, a huddle of rolling hills that straddled Birmingham
and Worcestershire, rise gently out of the urban sprawl.
Leaving his car at the Rose and Crown, Mariner put on his
boots and strode out on a cushion of brown pine needles up
the steep incline through dark conifers, the raw early
morning air searing into his lungs and the dank smell of
vegetation invading his nostrils. It was a dull and misty
morning, and on the climb up he passed no one except a
couple of conscientious dog walkers, the impression of
isolation dispelled only by the permanent auditory backcloth
of the rumbling motorway traffic.
From the castle-like monument on the summit, Mariner
looked out over the conurbation spread out at his feet like
a bluish grey patchwork, intricate in its detail. It was an
unspectacular sunrise, the skies too grey and overcast to be
anything more than a sluggish paling of the sky to the east,
and at first only the geological features were discernible: to
the west the rise of Dudley Castle hill, the north of the city
marked by the mound of Barr Beacon. But, little by little,
landmarks emerged in the developing daylight, linking
together to form the coherent whole, as the facts of Eddie
Barham's death continued to take clearer shape in his head.
Back home, enervated, Mariner showered and ironed
himself a clean shirt; a habit he'd clung to since his return
to the civilised world all those years ago. When he went
downstairs again, Jenny was in the kitchen, wearing what
looked like one of Tony Knox's sweaters. It barely covered
what it needed to.
'Hi,' said Mariner, keeping his eyes above shoulder
level.
She gave him a sleepy smile in return. 'Hi.' Then, noting
that he was fully dressed. 'You're keen this morning, aren't
you? Want a coffee before you go?'
'No thanks,' Mariner said, raising his half-drunk mug.
'But there is something you can help me with, Jenny. I
noticed your project--'
She grimaced. 'Oh, I'm sorry about that. It's just that
there's more space here than in hall. I will tidy it up today,
promise.'
'No, it's not that. There's something I wanted to ask
you. The endocrinal system, that's hormones isn't it?'
'A medical student in the making.' Jenny smiled.
'If you took something, some form of medicine that
impacted on the system in adults, does it follow that it
would also have an effect on the same system in an unborn
child?'
'Wow, this is heavy stuff for eight o'clock in the
morning. Actually, I couldn't say for sure. Pharmacology
isn't until year four, but it would seem logical that it
would.'
She hadn't said no.
Knox appeared, looking equally dozy. 'Any chance of a
fry-up love?' he asked.
From the expression on Jenny's face, it didn't look much
like it and the atmosphere suddenly thickened.
'You haven't got time for that,' Mariner said, partly to
relieve the growing tension. 'We've got work to do.'
'Like what?'
'Like when you get into the station, I want you to get
hold of whoever dealt with the paperwork on Susan and
Malcolm Barham's accident.'
'What for?'
'I'm short of light reading material. See you at the shop.'
And, swigging back the rest of his coffee, Mariner picked
up his keys and strode purposefully out of the house.

From the station, the first thing Mariner did was to phone
Anna.
'I'm sorry, she's not in the office yet,' said her secretary.
'Can I take a message?' Mariner asked that she should
call him back. His mind on other things, he checked his emails
while he waited for Knox to put in an appearance.
Eventually, there was a knock on the door and Knox
entered clutching a manila folder in one hand and a half
eaten canteen bacon sandwich in the other. Add
assertiveness to Jenny's many talents.
'Managed to tear yourself away from love's young
dream, then?' said Mariner.
Knox only grunted in response, so Mariner turned his
attention to the information the constable had come up with. The car accident in which Anna's parents had been killed had occurred over the border in Worcestershire and so had been handled by the West Mercia force, renowned for their
paperwork efficiency.
True to form, they had been able to provide the accident report in a relatively short time and Knox had recorded the details of one of the officers who had dealt with it. But
half an hour later, as Mariner listened to the gentle
Worcestershire burr at the other end of the line, his optimism began to fade.
No, there had been nothing suspicious about the accident.
Malcolm Barham's car had run off the bridge and into
the canal, in treacherously icy conditions. From the pattern
of skid-marks the investigators had concluded that he had
suddenly lost control of the car, perhaps braked suddenly to
avoid hitting something in his path, a badger or a fox,
before veering off the road. Yes, the vehicle was checked
over and no, there were no overt signs of any tampering or
faults to the braking system, although the car was eight
years old, so there was the usual wear and tear; some
damage to the back of the car suggesting that Malcolm
Barham had been in some kind of previous accident.
Like a shunt?' asked Mariner.
'Could have been I suppose,' the officer agreed. 'I
remember one other thing, too,' he added. 'There was this
bloke who kept phoning up for months afterwards, claiming
to be a work colleague of Malcolm Barham. Wanted to
know if Barham's briefcase had been recovered, and could
we let him know as soon as it was.'
'And was it?'
'No, never. Which was surprising, given that the canal
wasn't specially deep at that point, and there wouldn't have
been any current to wash it away. Besides, apart from the
cracked windscreen, the car was still completely sealed.
That was how they got the kid out alive.'
'Jamie Barham was with them?'
"I don't remember his name, but there was a young
lad in the car, yes. He suffered a minor head injury, but
otherwise--'
'So what do you think happened to the briefcase?'
Mariner broke in.
'Mr Barham obviously didn't have it with him, did he?'
'That's a bit strange, isn't it? I thought he'd been lecturing
that night?'
'As Sherlock Holmes used to say,' the sergeant spoke as if the fictional detective had once numbered among his
personal friends, 'if you eliminate the impossible, then
what remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'
Mariner couldn't really argue with that one.
'Do you remember this guy's name, the one who kept
phoning?'
'We would have logged it, he was a persistent bugger.
Hang on a sec' A clunk and the line went quiet for several
minutes. 'Yes, here we are. Todd. Andrew Todd.' Mariner
knew exactly where he'd seen that name before.
'And there were no other witnesses to the accident?' he
asked.
'No. But then it's not a particularly well-used road,
which is probably why it was so icy. It was a bit of a
mystery why Malcolm Barham had taken that route. It's not
the most direct way from Droitwich to Birmingham.'
'But it passes close by the radio transmission masts?'
'Yes, it runs right alongside for about two miles.'
Then that was why. The young Jamie Barham was
obsessed with masts and pylons. And whoever had shunted
into the back of Malcolm Barham's car, causing it to skid
off the road, would certainly have known that. Not that
there was a shred of proof, naturally.
'Thanks for your help,' said Mariner, to the
Worcestershire policeman. 'And thanks for getting back so
quickly.'
'No problem, the report was to hand anyway. We had
another enquiry about it a couple of months back.'
'Oh yes, who was that?'
'The son of the deceased. A Mr Edward Barham.'
Well, well. Thanking the officer again, Mariner went
down to the property store where Eddie Barham's personal
effects were being held, and took out the wallet. The money
was still there, as were the credit cards, along with another
old and faded business card. Andrew Todd, Clinical
Research Team. And the name of the company he worked
for? Bowes Dorrinton Pharmaceuticals. Another brick in
the wall.
'So what's all this got to do with anything?' Knox understandably
wanted to know.
Mariner told him what he thought.
'You've been overdoing the home brew,' was Knox's
verdict. 'It's rotted your brain.'
'Is that why you're like a bear with a sore head today?'
slipped in Mariner.
Knox just shot him a venomous look. The phone rang
and Knox picked it up. 'Anna Barham,' he said, passing it
over. Time to test the water.
'I think I know why Eddie and your parents were killed,'
Mariner said, as an opener.
'My parents? What have they got to do with it?'
'Everything. We need to talk to their friend Liz
Trueman. Do you remember where she lives?'
'I don't know the address, but I might remember the
house. It's up near Sutton Park somewhere. We went there
a couple of times when we were kids.'
'Can you take me there?'
'Yes, think so, but what's this all about?'
'The Brocken Spectre.'
'Oh.' If she thought he'd lost it there was no clue in her
voice.
'I'll pick you up in ten minutes.'
'Want me to come?' asked Knox, sulkily.
Mariner shook his head. "I think you should take a
couple of hours off and go and sort out your personal life.'
'Thank you, sir. If I need any more advice, I'll be sure
to come and ask you for it.' And he turned and walked out.


Chapter Twenty

Collecting Anna from her office, Mariner drove them north
out of the city, along the six-lane Aston expressway where,
fortunately, at this time of day most of the traffic was
heading in the opposite direction. Over to the left they
passed the stately Jacobean towers of Aston Hall nestling
incongruously alongside the ultra modern Villa Park football
stadium.
'So what's the Brockle Spectre when it's at home?' Anna
asked.
Mariner smiled. 'The Brocken Spectre,' he corrected
her. 'It's an optical illusion.'
'Oh, that Brocken Spectre.'
Mariner ignored her. 'It's called that because it was first
seen on Mount Brocken, in Germany. It's a phenomenon
that occurs when you're up on a mountain above the clouds.
The sun shines down and projects your shadow on to the
cloud below, but magnified several times, so you look
down on this huge outsized shadow of yourself. It's
amazing, very dramatic. But the interesting thing is that
however many people are there on the mountain with you,
the only shadow you see is your own, you can't see any of
the others around it. That's what's happened to us. Me.
I've been so focused on Jamie's "shadow" on that database that I couldn't see any of the other people on it, and I
completely missed the person it's really all about.'
'Who?'
'I hope that is what we're about to find out.'
'Oh, come on, you have to tell me more than that,' Anna
implored.
But Mariner wouldn't. "I want to hear it from the horse's
mouth,' he said. 'Without any hints from us.'
They were coming into Royal Sutton Coldfield, once a
small market town in its own right, but now just an outer,
if more exclusive annexe of the city. Mariner always
thought of it as Birmingham's Bel Air, as did many of its
residents.
'Okay, where to now?' asked Mariner.
'The house is near Sutton Park itself, close to the south
gate. If they still live there, that is.' But approaching the
park, Anna began to recognise landmarks. 'It's somewhere
along here, I'm sure.' Then she saw it. 'That's it. That's
their house,' she said, picking out a solid thirties detached
in the shade of a huge spreading copper beech. 'That's the
tree Jamie fell out of.' There was a car already parked on
the drive. It was a good sign. Mariner pulled in behind it,
and Anna rang the doorbell.
After some delay, Liz Trueman appeared, drying her
hands and wearing attire suitable for gardening. Despite the
smile, her welcome seemed uncertain. 'Anna, what a
surprise. Please, come in. But I'm afraid Michael isn't
here.' They followed her into an airy, large comfortable
lounge. Almost immediately Mariner noticed the black and
white symbols, like those in Eddie's house.
'This is Detective Inspector Mariner,' Anna said, once
they were seated, and had declined the offer of refreshment.
Mariner
proffered his ID. 'This isn't exactly a social
call, Mrs Trueman,' he said, sensing that she'd already
guessed.
'It's about Eddie, isn't it?' she said, apprehensively.
'Yes, it is. We now know for certain that Eddie's death
was not suicide.'
"I knew it.' Liz wrung her hands together anxiously. 'I
said that to Richard, my husband. It was all so - unnatural.
First Susan and Malcolm, then Eddie.'
'How long had you known Mr and Mrs Barham?'
Mariner asked.
'Years. We first met soon after Jamie was diagnosed.
Finding out that your child is autistic is a very lonely experience,
Inspector. Back then it was even worse because
there were no ready-made support groups and much less
was known about the condition. It was both devastating and
isolating. Then one day, completely by accident, I ran into
Susan Barham in the doctor's waiting room. That was when
we lived in Birmingham of course, shortly before we
moved out here. The relief of finding someone else who
was going through the same emotional turmoil was indescribable.
We clung to each other. We grieved together.'
'Grieved?'
'For the sons we didn't have, and never would have,' she
said, her voice filled with sadness. 'It never stops, you
know. Every time your child fails to reach another milestone
you grieve all over again for what might have been.
One of the hardest things is when you realise they're not
children any more, they're adults and they're never going
to change.' Her eyes glistened as momentarily her emotions
got the better of her.
Mariner allowed time while she composed herself. 'Mrs
Trueman, have you ever seen this before?' He showed her the
database. 'This is Jamie and we think this must be Michael.'
Liz studied the document for a few moments. 'I haven't,
but I know what it's about. You're right. It is Michael. Did
Eddie put this together?'
'We found it on his computer.'
Liz Trueman sighed. 'Eddie contacted us last summer.
He said that he was coming under increasing pressure from
Jamie's respite care home to allow them to use some form
of medication for Jamie, so he'd begun to research what
was available. In the course of this, he had looked up your
father's old notebooks.' She glanced over to Anna. 'He
came across our name and address amongst the paperwork
and said he wanted to renew our acquaintance. He was
having a difficult time with Jamie, so we were only too
willing to offer him some support. He said he was interested
in the fact that Michael has been on a programme of
medication for several years now, because he was considering
it for Jamie too. In retrospect I think that was
probably just an excuse to come over and talk to me. He
and Jamie visited us here a couple of times and spent some
time with Michael. Not that Jamie or Michael were in the
least bit interested in one another of course.'
'And is that all you talked about? Michael's medication?'
She shook her head. 'On the second visit Eddie brought
the notebooks with him.'
'Dad's research project?' said Anna.
'What was left of it. Your dad had always been determined
to find some kind of logical explanation for autism.
I'm sure it was his way of coping with Jamie. Anyway, at
the back of your father's notebooks was a whole section
about a drug called Pinozalyan, but Eddie didn't know
why. It was a drug that could treat insomnia, so Eddie
thought it might be of benefit to Jamie. He wanted to know
if we'd ever heard of it.'
'And had you?' Anna held her breath.
Liz looked suddenly tired, as if she'd been through all
this before. 'Oh yes.'
'But it wasn't for Michael, was it?' said Mariner.
'No.'
'Then what?' Anna was confused.
'Michael didn't take Pinozalyan, I did. Back when I was
expecting Michael, I was finding it hard to sleep and my
blood pressure had rocketed as a result, so I was prescribed
Pinozalyan. It was something else your mother and I found
we had in common. When your father realised we had both
taken the same drug while we were pregnant, he seized on it.'
'Pinozalyan, which acts on the serotonin system.'
'Yes. Being a chemist, he realised at once that there
could be a link between the drug and the fact that our children
had both subsequently been diagnosed autistic,
displaying the very behaviours that excess serotonin would
cause. So he set about proving it.'
'The Brocken Spectre,' said Mariner, grimly. 'We were
so busy looking at Jamie on the database, that we missed
your mother completely. We thought it was all about the
treatment, when really it's about the cause.' He turned
Liz's attention back to the database. 'So this last row of
dates, the ones before Michael was born--'
'Refers to the dates when I was prescribed Pinozalyan. I
didn't remember, of course. I had to go back to my GP and
asked to see my medical records.'
'And have you any idea who any of these other people
may be?'
Liz frowned. 'No. There were a couple of other local
families, but not nearly this number. Although shortly
before he was killed, Malcolm did make some kind of
breakthrough and got what he considered to be some
concrete evidence. I don't know where it came from, but
he was very excited about it and published a letter in Autism
Review. The response he got was overwhelming.'
'The letters,' Anna said, suddenly.
'What letters?'
'The letters at the solicitor's I told you about last night.
They were from the parents of autistic children, describing
their children's behaviour, the date of diagnosis. They were
addressed to Dad, because it was his research in the first
place, but Eddie must have been trawling back through them.'
'To compile his database.'
'The next thing we heard was that Malcolm and Susan
had been killed. We just couldn't believe it.'
'But surely you don't think--' Anna began.
But Liz's silent tears made perfectly clear what she was
thinking.
By the return journey, however, scepticism had set in. 'I'm
sorry,' Anna said. 'It's just too far-fetched, like some
second-rate sci-fi film.' They were driving south again,
over the tangled roads of Spaghetti Junction, cars scurrying
around its loops and strands like mice in a maze, reflecting
the muddled confusion of Anna's thoughts.
'On the contrary,' Mariner argued. 'It all makes perfect
sense. Your father discovers the link between a prescribed
drug and a debilitating condition, publishes his theory in a
magazine. Weeks later he's killed. Then, years after that,
Eddie discovers your father's notes and starts following the
same line of enquiry, and now he's dead, too. What other
explanation is there? Lightning doesn't strike twice. And
where are your father's notebooks now? Our lads have been
into every nook and cranny of that house and haven't come
across them.'
'Eddie might have hidden them somewhere safe.'
'No. He'd have left them with the solicitor. I think that
when Eddie went to meet Kerry that night, someone was
waiting for him to go out. While he was gone they broke
into the house to look for your father's notebooks and any
other evidence of what he was up to. They shoved Jamie in
the cupboard under the stairs and began to destroy Eddie's
computer files. But Eddie and Kerry came back too soon
and disturbed them.'
'That's ridiculous, it's far too melodramatic. Who would
kill Eddie just for the sake of some half-baked theory of my
father's?'
'Someone who knew he was right. Imagine if your father
was really on to something. If he could conclusively prove
that Pinozalyan had caused Jamie's autism and that of other
kids? It would be like Thalidomide all over again. A drug prescribed to women during pregnancy that led to the births
of hundreds of damaged children.'
'But that was thirty years ago.'
'It makes no difference. The end result is the same. Once
the link between Thalidomide and birth deformities was
proven, the company responsible for producing the drug
was liable. Think about it.'
Anna did. 'It's mind-blowing,' she said, numbly.
T know. And all we're left with is the task of proving
it.' Even to Mariner's own ears it sounded frighteningly
simplistic. 'There was a business card in Eddie's wallet
belonging to an Andrew Todd, an employee of Bowes
Dorrinton, I'm sure he must be involved somehow.'
"I know that name,' Anna looked at him. 'A man called
Andrew Todd phoned Eddie's house that afternoon, when
you told me he'd been - after you'd gone. When I said what
had happened to Eddie, he just hung up. I tried calling him
back but the number was unobtainable.'
'Why didn't you tell me?'
'I didn't know it was relevant.'
'He's the connection with the drug company,' Mariner
snorted with disgust. 'He was checking that the job had
been done.'
'But that's crazy. Surely Eddie wouldn't have been naive
enough to go to the company directly with this.'
Mariner let that one go for now. 'Somebody found out
what he was up to,' he said. 'Eddie must have talked to
someone apart from Liz Trueman.'
'It wasn't Darren.'
'Darren's only a kid. Who else would Eddie have told?
Who would he have trusted?' But as he'd already learned,
Eddie was a loner. Nobody came to mind.
'So what now?' Anna asked, tentatively.

'It would help if you could get access to your mother's
medical records. At least then we'd have confirmation that
she took Pinozalyan, too. And we need to get hold of those
letters to your father and cross-reference them with the
database. Where's your solicitor's office?'
'Harbome High Street.'
'We'll go straight there.'
They'd left the expressway and come almost to a halt in the
inevitable queue of traffic. Anna had gone suddenly quiet.
'You all right?' Mariner asked, lightly. From the corner
of his eye, he saw that she was staring intently out of the
window.
"I was just thinking about what Liz said. I don't think
that in all the time I was growing up I ever considered what
Mum and Dad might be going through with Jamie. Never
once did I acknowledge their courage or their patience. All
I ever did was complain about their lack of understanding
of me. I never once thanked Eddie for taking on the responsibility
of Jamie either. He just did it so that I could get on
with my life. Now it's too late to tell any of them.'
'You can't keep beating yourself up over it.' But she
was. He could tell. Not knowing what else to say, Mariner
laid his upturned hand on the seat beside her. When she put
hers in it, he squeezed, gently. It seemed to help. It did
wonders for him.
Curiously, a marked patrol car was already stationed
outside Jenner, Mason and Partners and, walking into the
small office block, Mariner and Anna stepped into a scene
of utter devastation. Desk and filing cabinet doors were
thrown open, papers strewn everywhere, and the word
'fuck' was spraypainted across one wall.
'We've been burgled,' Jenner said, unnecessarily. 'Kids,
I suppose. Had too much to drink.' He gestured towards the
empty lager cans that littered the floor.
'What about your alarm system?' Mariner asked.
Jenner looked sheepish. 'We had been having some problems
with it.'
'Anything reported missing?' Mariner asked one of the
uniformed officers.
'It's difficult to tell yet, sir.' One look at the mess justified
the vague reply. Whatever had become of the predicted
paperless office?
'We need to find some letters that had been left here,'
Mariner said. 'They're in a bundle, tied with string, all
addressed to a Malcolm Barham and were originally in an
old shoebox. Let me know if you come across them.'
'We'll keep a look out, sir.' It was the most they could
do, but Mariner didn't hold out much hope. Someone else
had got there first.
"I can't believe it,' said Anna. They were back in the car.
"I don't understand how anyone else could have known
about those letters, and if they knew about them, why wait
until now to get hold of them. Did you tell anyone else
about them, where they were?'
'No. To be honest, I'd forgotten myself until last night.'
Last night, when she'd thought her flat had been broken
into, that something had moved. Nothing had been taken,
but what if something had been left behind? Christ.
'Where's the disk now?' Mariner asked.
'At the flat.'
'We need to put it somewhere more secure.'
'Like where?'
'A safety-deposit box would do it.'
Mariner returned to Anna's flat with her to collect the
disk. It took a matter of seconds to transfer the contents of
the folder to her handbag, but Mariner insisted on coming
with her right into the kitchen while she did it.
'And you're sure this everything?' he asked. 'You've got
the disk and the hard copy documents, there's nothing else?'
'Yes.'
'Okay, so we'll put it all in the safety-deposit box. Don't
leave anything behind.'
'No. Okay.' Anna didn't quite see the need for the
running commentary, and thought it strange that he was
almost shouting. He was being weird.
The bank she used was one of the larger city centre
branches, within walking distance of her flat, via Victoria
Square. Although normally slow, Mariner's warrant card
hurried things along and in a matter of half an hour Anna
was the proud owner of a credit card style key to her own
safety-deposit box. Mariner had insisted on an instant
access arrangement, too. He wasn't going to be kept around
waiting to get hold of evidence when the need arose.
For Anna the whole process only served to fuel the
growing feeling that she was caught up in some second-rate
spy thriller, and she was a little alarmed at how seriously
Mariner seemed to be taking everything. He'd slipped into
a different, ultra-professional persona, taking complete
control of the situation. With anyone else she would have
kicked against it, but somehow Mariner made it feel exciting.
His insistence then on accompanying her to collect
Jamie from the centre seemed to be taking things a bit far,
but it seemed to keep him happy, so Anna went along with
it.
Jamie was touchingly pleased to see Anna, but getting
him into Mariner's car was a different matter and he pulled
back violently. 'No black mouth, no black mouth.' Then
Mariner saw what Jamie had seen. The e-fits lay ignored on
the back seat and Jamie had recognised them. Scooping
them up before Anna noticed, Mariner stalled. 'I'll be back
in a minute, wait here.'
Inside the day centre, Mariner showed the pictures to
Francine. 'Ever seen these people before?'
'Yes, he looks like the social worker who came to talk
to us about Jamie.'
It confirmed what Mariner had already suspected.
Someone was on to Anna, too. But returning to the car, he
said nothing. The last thing he wanted to do was to scare
her witless.


Chapter Twenty-one

What Mariner did do, was to go and try to convince Jack
Coleman that some protection for Anna was essential. "I
believe she could be in danger, sir.'
'From whom?' Nothing if not grammatically correct,
Coleman.
'I'm not absolutely sure yet.'
On the face of it, this story sounded considerably more
contrived than the Crosby effort and, understandably,
Coleman was reticent. 'Not much in the way of evidence
for all this, other than the circumstantial, is there Tom?'
'Not apart from the fact that Miss Barham's parents and
brother have already been killed sir, no.' He could see
Coleman searching his face for sarcasm, but Mariner was a
picture of innocence.
'We don't know for certain that her parents were
murdered though, do we?' Coleman reminded him.
'Their car had damage to the rear, consistent with being
shunted from behind. I think Malcolm Barham was forced off
the road into the canal. It probably wouldn't have taken much.
According to Ann - Miss Barham her father was not a confident
driver. It wouldn't have taken much to unnerve him.'
'Even so--'
'And I'm not saying that they intended killing him, just
giving him a fright. "We know where you live and where
you go" sort of thing.'
'So you're saying that they were followed? Unless the
attacker knew that the Barhams were taking that route. It's
not a very popular one.'
'It was with Jamie Barham. He was obsessed with radio
transmission masts. He would have made them-go that way.
Anyone could have known that,' Mariner persevered. 'The
pharmaceutical angle ties in with the way Eddie Barham
died, too. Who else would have access to pure grade
diamorphine, but a drug company that legally trades in the
stuff day in, day out? I'm pretty sure that Anna Barham's
flat has been bugged, too.'
'What??'
'She called me yesterday because she thought her flat
had been broken into, something had been moved, but
nothing taken. She dismissed it as paranoia. Then shortly
after we had a discussion about them, some letters were
stolen from her solicitor. It's a lot of trouble for someone
to go to.'
'Do you want to do a sweep of the flat?' Coleman asked,
beginning at last to take notice.
Mariner shook his head. 'I've thought about that. If we
did uncover a listening device, whoever planted it will
know that we're on to them. I've kept my suspicions from
Anna too, because I don't want her to start behaving differently
and give out the same message. I don't think there's
anything else to be learned from it, so we may as well let
sleeping bugs lie.'
'So what do you want to do?'
'Talk to Andrew Todd. He works for Bowes Dorrinton
and has been in recent contact with Eddie Barham. He
should be able to clear it up one way or the other.
Meanwhile I would feel safer if we posted someone outside
An-- Miss Barham's flat until I've spoken to him. If Todd
can come up with a satisfactory explanation, we'll call them
off. All I'm asking is a couple of days, sir.'
Coleman seemed to consider for a moment, although
experience told Mariner that he had already made up his
mind. 'All right then,' he said at last. 'Just until you've
spoken to Todd. Where does he live?'
'Northumberland. That's where the pharmaceutical
company Bowes Dorrinton is based. I'll speak to the force
up there and try to arrange a meeting with Todd for tomorrow.'
Coleman
rolled his eyes. 'So it will mean an overnight?'
'Yes sir.'
'Well don't go living it up at the Hyatt on police
expenses, not if we're providing Anna Barham with a
twenty-four-hour watch as well.'
'I'm not sure that there is a Hyatt in that part of the
country, sir.'
Coleman walked him to the door, so Mariner knew there
was more. 'You seem to be on easy first name terms with
Anna Barham,' he observed. So he'd noticed the earlier slip
of the tongue.
'I've had to work closely with her, sir. It's been necessary
to the investigation, but the relationship is entirely
professional.' Unless you count what's going on in my
head.
'Just make sure it stays that way, Tom.'
'Yes sir.'
'At least until the case is closed.'
Coleman's remarks made Mariner think. Perhaps it was
time to back off a bit. He phoned Anna. 'We're posting a
man outside your house,' he said, trying to make it sound
like the most natural thing in the world.
'This is getting scary.'
'Not at all. It's just a precaution, my boss's idea,'
Mariner lied. 'But it's important that you try to carry on as
normal.'
She gave a derisory laugh. 'What's normal?'
'Just try to do the things you would usually do at the
weekend.'
'What about you?' she asked.
Mariner had already decided not to tell her about his

plans regarding Andrew Todd. If she was under scrutiny,
the less she knew the better. 'It's my weekend off,' he said,
casually.
'Oh.'
He thought he sensed disappointment, but perhaps he was
flattering himself. 'I'll speak to you early next week. And
try to relax, okay?' Patronising git, he thought as he put
down the phone.
Immediately the connection was severed, Mariner
dialled the STD code for Northumberland, followed by
the Bowes Dorrinton number, and asked to speak to
Andrew Todd. The receptionist had apparently never
heard of Todd and asked Mariner to wait one moment.
There followed a pause of considerably more than one
moment, during which Mariner was treated to the whole
of 'Autumn' from Vivaldi's Four Seasons. Three months
gone, just like that. Eventually a man's voice came on
the line. 'I'm sorry, Mr Todd no longer works for this
company,' he said, coolly.
'When did he--?' but Mariner was talking to himself.
First sign of madness he thought, wryly. So Andrew
Todd had left the company. What, Mariner wondered,
had precipitated his departure? Whatever had occurred,
he was still being protected. If Mariner tried phoning
back he would doubtless get profuse apologies that the
line had been cut off, but he wasn't going to join in with
that farce.
Knox wasn't around so Mariner had to enlist the help of
PC Hunter to get hold of Eddie Barham's last phone bill. It
was a simple enough task to trace Andrew Todd's home
address from the data already collected relating to Eddie
Barham's phone calls. There was only one Northumberland
number on the list. Todd may not be employed by Bowes
Dorrinton now, but he still apparently resided in Chapel
Dene, the town where the pharmaceutical company was
located. This established, Mariner made a courtesy call to
a DI Dennis Weightman, a detective on the local force, and

briefly outlined his plans, as he was required to do. It
would also help for Weightman to be put in the picture in
case Mariner needed back-up.
"I can contact Mr Todd and set up a meeting for you, if
you like, man?' Weightman volunteered straight away in a
dense Geordie accent.
But Mariner declined the offer. 'Thanks, but I'd rather
not give him time to prepare.' Or to leave town.

Chapel Dene, a sleepy market town, tucked away in the
remote world north of the Pennines seemed an unlikely
home to a multi-national pharmaceutical company. To get
there meant a potentially tiresome journey up the M6, but
for once Mariner relished the prospect of the long uninterrupted
drive. Borrowing a pool Mondeo to give him the
benefit of a CD player, he threw in some CDs of Bob
Marley and The Stranglers, along with his boots and a
fleece jacket. It was unthinkable to venture up to that part
of the world without them.
Holidays with his mother as a small child had been
simple and economical, motoring round in a succession
of dubious vehicles, staying in youth hostels and walking
in the countryside, taking in the occasional folk festival
along the way. That basic pleasure had stayed with him,
though his goals had become ever more ambitious. Over
successive summers in his youth he'd tackled the best of
Britain's long distance footpaths: the coast-to-coast, Offa's
Dyke, The Ridge way. It was what had helped him to get
a grip on his life again. Amongst the best times of his
life had been weekends spent hitchhiking out of the city,
walking all day before getting pissed or laid, and on some
happy occasions both. 1981 had been the year of the
Pennine Way, England's last wilderness. Mariner had
pounded the wild and rugged, sparsely populated route
often alone with only the sheep for company. Pure
heaven.
Since then the amount of traffic on the roads had more
than doubled and tonight the traffic going north on
Europe's busiest stretch of motorway was bumper to
bumper. By the time Mariner was on to anything resembling
open road it was late evening. He checked in, in
accordance with Coleman's wishes, at the cheap and cheerless
Travelodge off the A66 at Penrith. Thanks to a major
agricultural event in the town that weekend, all they could
offer him was a double room. It was relatively quiet, but
Mariner lay awake anyway, wishing he had someone to
share the double bed with, preferably Anna Barham.
Coleman was right. He had spent a lot of time with Anna
and Jamie and whether he cared to admit it or not, he was
becoming emotionally involved. Greta would have been
proud of him.
Before eight the following morning, with a Little Chef
'Breakfast Special' congealing to form a leaden mass in the
pit of his stomach, Mariner drove over bleak moorland,
following the route described to him over the phone by
Dennis Weightman. His memories of the area were of the
lush greens of summer, backed by the extravagant trill of
the curlew. Now, in February, the countryside was bleak
and cold, still in the grip of winter, skeletal trees standing
stark against a milky white sky, rooted in the muted greys
and browns of dormant vegetation. Even the sheep were
down from the hills for the winter and would not be back
up again for weeks. Despite this there was something
uniquely restful about the vast emptiness and the smooth
undulating skyline of the moors.
High Bank turned out to be an inhospitable, ramshackle
stone-walled farm, a little way out of the town and set
up on the hillside under a cowl of windswept beeches.
Progressing slowly towards it along a rough unmetalled
track, pitted with potholes that intermittently scraped the
Mondeo's undercarriage, Mariner wished he hadn't worn
a suit. He was going to look like the man from the
MAFF.
He parked up outside a rusting five-bar gate and was just
unfastening its frayed nylon cord to step into the yard,
when, from nowhere, bounded a huge long-haired Alsatian,
snarling and barking, and intent on tearing him to shreds.
Shit! Mariner jumped back, banging the gate shut again as
the beast leapt at him. He heard shouting, and from behind
a stone barn emerged a small woman of pensionable age,
wearing mud-spattered Wellingtons and a dark anorak.
Mariner half expected to see a twelve-bore nestling in the
crook of her arm, but she carried nothing more threatening
than a galvanised metal bucket.
The dog had quieted obediently to a low warning growl,
but the woman made no attempt to call it off, instead
coming right over to the gate where Mariner stood, his
palms sweating and heartbeat gradually slowing to normal.
'What canna do for you?' She squinted warily at him.
Mariner took out his warrant card, struggling to keep a
steady hand. 'Mrs Todd? I'm Detective Inspector Tom
Mariner, West Midlands Police.'
'You're a long way from home,' she observed.
But, despite the remark, Mariner got the impression that
she wasn't all that surprised to see him. 'I wanted to speak
to your husband. Is he here?'
Close to, her face was ruddy from exposure to the
elements, and small dark eyes regarded him warily. 'You'd
better come in.' Mariner pushed open the gate with more
than a little apprehension, but the Alsatian seemed content
to grumble at him from a distance. 'Don't mind him.' Mrs
Todd ordered, brusquely.
The farm was as cluttered and dilapidated inside as it was
out. Removing her boots, Mrs Todd took Mariner through
a working kitchen and into a musty smelling lounge,
crowded with aging furniture, and randomly piled with
books and half-completed knitting projects, its sofa already
half taken up by a large complacent-looking tortoiseshell
cat. Shooing away the animal, Mrs Todd cleared a space
for Mariner to sit down, on a garish crocheted afghan, and
grudgingly offered him tea. Mariner accepted, hoping it
would have a dual effect on the raging thirst the aberrant
cooked breakfast had given him, and his now ragged
nerves. Heart and stomach sank in unison when minutes
later, along with the tea, came a chunk of weighty-looking
fruit loaf.
"I baked it myself. I hope you've got room for it,' she
challenged, and Mariner wondered if this was his penalty
for disturbing them. 'My husband will be down,' she
added, and left him alone with the disgruntled feline.
Andrew Todd would have been tall at one time, but now
his shoulders were bent, a weight of anxiety pressing down
on them. His eyes swept the room nervously, never resting
on anything for more than a few seconds. After introducing
himself, he perched on the edge of the seat opposite
Mariner, hands on his knees and fingers drumming relentlessly.
'How can I help you, Inspector?'
Mariner saw no merit in bush-beating. 'Mr Todd, I'm
investigating the murder of a journalist, Eddie Barham.'
Emitting a groan, Todd closed his eyes, his horror
genuine and absolute. 'So it's true. I hoped that there had
been some mistake.'
It wasn't the reaction Mariner had anticipated. 'I'm
afraid not,' he said, uncertainly. 'You admit to knowing
him, then?'
'I knew o/him,' Todd corrected. 'We spoke only once
on the phone. I knew his father, Malcolm Barham, much
better.' Todd's openness caught Mariner off guard. This
wasn't going the way he'd planned. But maybe this was
a calculated strategy. Todd must after all have known that
Mariner or someone like him would turn up sooner or
later.
'What was your relationship with Malcolm Barham?'
'He first contacted me in 1983,' Todd said. 'He'd come
across a paper I'd written and wanted more information.'
'What paper?' Mariner's confusion was growing. He was
beginning to lose the plot.
Todd heaved a weary sigh. 'Between 1951 and 1964 I
worked for Bowes Dorrinton, the pharmaceutical company.
They're based here in Chapel Dene. I was on one of
their clinical research teams, testing new drugs.' This also
astonished Mariner, who hadn't expected Todd to be
employed at such a grass-roots level. 'We were responsible
for running checks on all manner of new drugs, conducting
experiments using rats, mice and so forth, monitoring for
any side effects the drugs might cause before they could be
approved and put on the open market.'
Mariner remained silent, waging battle with the fruit loaf
but allowing Todd to talk, intrigued now about where this
was leading.
'In 1962,' Todd went on, 'a drug called Thalidomide hit
the headlines. You'll know all about that, of course.
Hundreds of babies born with severe limb deformities.'
Mariner did indeed. Further down the school from him was
a kid who had been affected by the drug. In place of arms
the boy had two flipper-like appendages, about eight inches
long. Not that it stopped him from doing anything. The guy
was amazing.
'The problem arose with Thalidomide,' Todd continued,
'because it had never been tested on pregnant animals. At
the time that was not a procedure required by law, which
is why the appalling teratogenous side effects could never
have been predicted. But once it had happened, of course,
there were fears that other drugs could have similar effects.
Consequently, most manufacturing companies began retesting
a whole range of contemporary drugs. We were
no exception. One of the drugs we re-examined was
Pinozalyan.' Suddenly Mariner could see the story unfolding,
but he let Todd continue. 'Miraculously we found that
there were no apparent resulting foetal or birth deformities,
so everyone breathed a sigh of relief and it continued to be
marketed.'
'But?' Mariner prompted through a mouthful of stodgy
cake that was resisting descent of his gullet. He took a
gulp of tea to help it on its way.
'I had conducted my tests on Pinozalyan using pregnant
rats, and as the offspring subsequently born appeared
healthy we retained them for other different procedures.
Then, one day, one of my lab technicians reported that rats
in one of the cages were behaving strangely. They were
hyperactive, engaging in extreme self-stimulating behaviour,
apparently oblivious to the resulting pain. More
detailed observation revealed highly disturbed nocturnal
patterns and high levels of anxiety too. I carried out some
routine checks on them and found that levels of melatonin
were dangerously low. It was then that I realised these were
the creatures whose mothers had been administered
Pinozalyan, which should have stimulated production of
melatonin. It was almost as if the second generation rats
had developed a compensatory mechanism to supress the
hormone.'
'Naturally I reported all this straight to the clinical
manager. We couldn't be certain that it was Pinozalyan
that had caused the behaviour, but having eliminated all
other environmental factors, I felt that there was a close
correlation and therefore an element of risk. Something
had caused significant chemical changes within the brains
of those rats that were in turn influencing the patterns of
behaviour. I felt it imperative that we should withdraw
Pinozalyan from sale until we could conduct further
tests.'
'So why didn't that happen?'
Todd snorted. 'Although my manager supported my
view, those in the higher echelons of Bowes Dorrinton did
not agree. The timing was bad. Pinozalyan was at that time
a high profile, high profit drug, in direct competition with
a new, innovative drug soon to be released; Prozac. Taking
Pinozalyan off the market then would have been potentially
disastrous so they wanted more concrete evidence before
they were prepared to take any action. As you will appreciate,
this wasn't the kind of data that could be produced
overnight. The rats whose behaviour had changed were

now eight months old. To set up a new experiment would
have taken at least a year, and that was too long. In the
meantime the most Bowes Dorrinton were prepared to do
was issue a drug alert memo individually to GPs, warning
of "possible risks".'
'That's all?' queried Mariner.
'It was the minimum requirement at that time. I was very
unhappy about it and felt it wasn't enough but no one would
listen, so I decided to publish my findings in a pretty low
level science publication. At least then I would have tried
to do something. But, when the article was published, I was
asked to leave my post for failing to "act in the best interests
of the company". As an alternative to direct dismissal
I was given the option of taking retirement on the grounds
of ill health. Financially it was the sensible thing to do, but
it of course meant that my research findings could be
discredited as the ramblings of a sick man. I was also made
to sign a disclaimer, preventing me from passing on any
information relating to the work I had done at the
company.'
'Is that usual?'
'It's a common enough practice, to guard against
commercial espionage, but this one went further. I was also
advised, verbally, not to compromise my own or my
family's personal safety.'
'That was an open threat. You didn't report this to the
police?'
'What was the point? I couldn't prove anything, and it
would have just looked like sour grapes from a man who
had been forced out of his job.' He was right.
'And the company took no further action on Pinozalyan?'
'The memo was the only thing. And that would have made little difference. Many GPs are living in the pockets
of the major drugs firms anyway. Pinozalyan continued to
be distributed for another nine years, up until 1972.'
'It was withdrawn because a substitute had been found?' said Mariner, but Todd shook his head.
'That was the year the Medicines Act was introduced to
control the manufacture and sale of medicinal products in
the UK and all drugs were required to be submitted for
licensing. Although the law itself was introduced in 1971,
there had been a "transitional exemption" for any drugs
that were on the market before licensing began, but in
September 1972 that transitional period ran out and licences
"as of right" had to be applied for. For the first time,
Pinozalyan would have come under close scrutiny from the
Committee on the safety of Drugs. Pinozalyan mysteriously
vanished from the market shortly before then. By that time
even Bowes Dorrinton seemed to consider that it was too
much of a risk.'
'So your fears were vindicated.'
'What did that matter?' snapped the old man, crossly.
'More significantly, Pinozalyan had remained in circulation
for almost a further ten years, during which time I was
entirely impotent.' Mariner tried not to flinch. 'The good
thing was, however, that in that time I came across no
reports of any negative effects on humans, so I told myself
that what I had seen was peculiar to rodents. I concluded
that I had been wrong and that by some miracle Bowes
Dorrinton had got away with it. I decided to leave the pharmaceutical
industry altogether. That was when we bought
this place and I tried to forget.'
'Until Malcolm Barham came along.'
'Malcolm wrote to tell me about his thirteen-year-old
son, Jamie, who had been diagnosed autistic. In researching
possible causes of his son's autism Malcolm had
identified a possible link with Pinozalyan and then he'd
come across my article, which supported his hypothesis
exactly. At first I tried to put him off. The last thing I
wanted was to get involved again, I was afraid of what I
might learn I suppose. But Malcolm was clever. He invited
me to go and meet Jamie. It was a surreal experience. The
boy exhibited almost exactly the same behaviours as those
lab rats: obsessive, repetitive self-stimulation, high anxiety.
The disastrous consequences of Pinozalyan were right
there, staring me in the face. Impossible to ignore. Susan
Barham had been prescribed Pinozalyan for three months of
her pregnancy.' Andrew Todd gazed at a point somewhere
in the middle distance, appalled anew. A nervous tic had
taken control of his right eye. Then suddenly he turned to
Mariner. 'The worm in the bud,' he said. 'Its devastating
corruption invisible until the flower blooms.'
'What did you do?' Mariner asked.
'Malcolm persuaded me to help him, to provide him
with the clinical evidence he needed to support his ideas.
But one isolated case isn't enough to verify anything.
Although I had the theoretical material, the scientific data,
we also needed more in the way of statistics to prove
that this wasn't pure coincidence or that Jamie didn't have
some kind of predisposition. Autism is a complex condition
with many and varied causes. For every child whose
condition had been caused by the drug there was at least
one who had developed it for other reasons. Malcolm and
Susan Barham knew other parents of autistic youngsters,
so they began to contact them, to find out whether any
more of these mothers had taken Pinozalyan during pregnancy.
But the cases were few and far between, until
Malcolm wrote a letter to some kind of autistic group
magazine.'
'And got an overwhelming response,' said Mariner,
thinking of the letters in the shoebox and the names on
Eddie's database.
'Did he?' Todd said. "I never knew, because shortly after
his letter was published, Malcolm and Susan were killed.'
'The car crash. Did you ever consider that it could be
related?'
"I tried to believe that it was just an unhappy coincidence,
but afterwards I attempted to establish whether
Malcolm's briefcase had been recovered from the scene.
I knew he kept a lot of the vital information with him, for security reasons. It never was. It just vanished. I
suppose I had a feeling then that there could be more to
it.'
'But you never attempted to follow this up yourself?'
'No. I'm ashamed to say that since Malcolm's death I
have never pursued it. I didn't have Malcolm's emotional
incentive and I was fearful. My family had already been
threatened. The implications of this thing are enormous,
Inspector. Were this ever to be made public, Bowes
Dorrinton would be liable for hundreds of thousands, possibly
millions, of pounds in compensation. I always suspected
that they would do anything in their power to suppress it
and as far as I was concerned, Malcolm's death was confirmation
of that.'
'But how did Bowes Dorrinton know what Malcolm

Barham was up to?'
'I don't know.'
'Did they know that he'd been in touch with you?'
'I've sometimes wondered about that. Even after leaving
the company, I often used to get the feeling that I was being
watched, but put it down to my own paranoia. So now I
have that on my conscience too. If only I hadn't published
that research, if only Malcolm hadn't read it--'
'You couldn't possibly have foreseen the outcome,'
Mariner said, feeling an unexpected sympathy for the
burden this inoffensive man had carried for so long. 'So
what happened next?'
'Nothing, for years. I thought that was finally an end to
it, until a few weeks ago Eddie Barham tracked me down.
He'd discovered his father's original notebooks and begun
compiling data from the letters sent to his father. He
wanted to meet. I tried to call him back to warn him, but
apparently I was too late.'
'That was when you spoke to Anna Barham. His sister.'
'Oh. Poor girl.'

'Who's behind all this, Mr Todd? Who does Bowes
Dorrinton get to do their dirty work?'
'You mean the real people? I honestly can't tell you. I
don't know. They used to have a whole department of
people to deal with complaints. They called them "the
bleachers" because they made everything look whiter than
white. But now? I don't know. I'm sure procedures are
much more sophisticated these days.'
Mariner hadn't really expected any different.
But the old man was becoming increasingly agitated, the
nervous twitches becoming more pronounced. 'I've said
more than enough. I'd like you to go now.'
'But I will have to come back, Mr Todd.'
Mrs Todd walked him to the gate.
'My husband isn't a well man. If anything happens to
him, I shall hold you personally responsible,' she said,
uncompromisingly.
Leaving the farm, Mariner couldn't help but feel
desperately sorry for Andrew Todd. He, Mariner, had got
this so spectacularly wrong. Todd was on Malcolm
Barham's side and probably, in his way, had suffered just
as much; a man with integrity, trying to do the right thing.
But what had it got him? He'd exchanged a comfortable
indoor job for a rundown farm, and carried the deaths of
three people on his conscience. What a thing to wake up to
every morning.
From the farm, Mariner dropped down to the more
familiar territory of County Durham, and the desolate,
undulating moors. In the distance, he could see a single
stone-built chimney standing alone, the sole remnant of the
once prevalent smelt mills, built to carry the poisonous filth
from populated areas in the valley, to be expelled high on
the deserted hills, out of harm's way. Unsettled by the
interview with Todd, Mariner pulled up on the roadside,
discarded his jacket and tie in favour of a fleece, and
changed his shoes for boots. He probably looked ridiculous,
but there was no one around to see as he strode out
over the brown springy heather along the course of the
underground flue. The moors were eerily silent, with not
even the distant bleat of a sheep.
The higher Mariner walked up the winding single track,
the mistier it got, until he was enveloped in a dense freezing
fog and a biting wind that whipped at his ears and he
could see only a few grey yards in each direction. But the
route was well marked, occasionally the sky lightened as
the fog drifted away, and from the top it suddenly cleared
again, exposing a commanding view of the rusty red moorland.
It took him twenty minutes to reach the tall,
crumbling tower of the chimney and sitting on its plinth he
leaned back against the rough stone, gazing out over the
vast exhilarating emptiness, and asking himself as he
always did in this situation, why he didn't leave the city
completely. There was nothing keeping him there. Not yet
anyway. But if he lived somewhere like this all the time,
where would he escape to?
Afterwards, Mariner drove into the town to have a look at Bowes Dorrinton Pharmaceuticals. It was more or less as
he'd expected; a complex of vast, featureless, factory
hangars and a block of offices, set back off the road behind
immaculately groomed lawns. The only identifying feature,
the company trademark: capitals BDP linked together to
form a distinctive logo. The guard at the barrier wasn't
overtly armed, but as far as Mariner was concerned, he
may as well have been. Somewhere on the other side, in
those innocuous-looking buildings, were individuals who
had gone as far as conspiring to murder in order to protect
their own interests. The question was: who did they get to
deal with their filth?
Not knowing how difficult Todd would be, Mariner had
planned to stay in the north-east for another night. But the
job was done and it was still only late morning. One of his
options was to have a lunch-time drink in a couple of the
nearby pubs and chat up a few locals to see if anything
interesting turned up. But it was a long shot. He couldn't
see anyone around here spilling the beans to a complete
stranger, even if there was anything to spill. This was
evolving into a different beast, and a far more dangerous

one than he had anticipated. These people were resourceful
and sophisticated, and the conversation with Todd had left
Mariner feeling uneasy about Anna Barham, with or
without police surveillance.






Chapter Twenty-two

Although Mariner had instructed her to do nothing, Anna
had found it impossible. Inactivity just was not in her
nature. Besides, the two of them shut in the flat, Jamie was
going to drive her crazy. The climbing club seemed the
obvious solution, but when she'd phoned to book had been
told that Saturday and Sunday mornings were dedicated to
under 16s. She'd even considered taking Jamie swimming,
but couldn't face the complications that getting him changed
would cause.
At the surgery, Dr Payne was out on call and the officious
receptionist was uncertain of the procedure for getting
hold of Anna's mother's medical records. She promised to
get back to Anna 'as soon as possible'.
The only other useful option Anna could think of was a
visit to the library to see if she could locate a copy of her
father's letter to Autism Review, which surely couldn't do
any harm. Mariner had told her to behave normally and
normal people went to the library every day. And part of
her was intrigued now to know what it was that she'd
missed all those years ago. Besides, the city's main central
library was only a short walk from her flat.
To be on the safe side Anna decided to employ the tracking
device Mariner had given her earlier that week. Activating
the handset as Mariner had shown her, as she and Jamie were
poised to go out of the door, she surreptitiously slipped the
tiny receiver into his shirt pocket. But, despite her subtlety,
Jamie saw immediately and wasn't having that, so he pulled
it out again. Diverting his attention, Anna then tried clipping
the receiver to the back pocket of his trousers, but he felt it
and ripped it off. As a last ditch, using distraction tactics
again, she attached it to a belt loop. This time, it stayed
where it was, but only until they got out into the hallway.
'No!' With an emphatic shout Jamie tossed the tiny black
button on the floor. Defeated, Anna picked it up and
pocketed it before recognising the stupidity of carrying the
now-redundant, bulky transmitter with them. Unlocking
the front door again, she dropped the device just inside
on the floor. Securing the flat again she sneaked them out
of the back entrance to the apartments, so avoiding any
awkward questions from the young PC who was vigilantly
keeping watch outside in his car.
Being a Saturday, the canal basin swarmed with tourists,
day trippers queuing for narrow boat excursions along the
waterway and shoppers seeking refuge in the restaurants
and coffee houses overlooking the picturesque quayside.
But Anna and Jamie passed along it and through a bustling
Brindley Place without incident, Jamie lagging his customary
five feet behind his sister. The library was a quiet
haven amid the frenetic activity. Archive copies of Autism
Review, Anna was told, were not in great demand and
would be stored on microfiche up on the fourth floor. After
a brief demonstration from one of the librarians, she
stationed herself at one of several machines, leaving Jamie
to meander around the aisles. Wary of him straying too far,
Anna looked up to check on him constantly but for once he
seemed to be staying out of trouble, content to study and
recite the catalogue numbers on the book spines; enough to
keep him occupied for days. Two other people were using
the machines, and several students browsed the shelves.

A monthly publication, Anna noted that an issue of Autism Review had been issued three weeks before her
parents' deaths in January 1985. Anna scanned each of its
pages in the tiny print of the microfiche, eventually finding
what she wanted towards the end of the letters page, from
Malcolm Barham, Harbome, Birmingham. 'Dear Editor', it
read. "I am the father of a fourteen-year-old boy with
autism, and am currently looking into possible causes of his
condition. I would like to hear from the parents of autistic
children born between 1957 and 1973, particularly where
forms of medication were prescribed during pregnancy.
Yours faithfully, Malcolm E Barham.' It was so true to her
father's style, concise and formal, that she could actually
hear him reading it. She rubbed at her eyes, cross with
herself for being so weepy lately.
Setting up the machine to print off the article for her, she
went to find Jamie to warn him that they would be going
soon and so hopefully avoid a major incident. He'd been
great, she'd hardly known he was there. She'd reward him
with lunch at McDonald's, even though twice in one week
was rather too much of a good thing for her. She walked
over to where she had last sighted his black jacket through
the gap in the shelves, but he'd moved on. Gradually Anna
worked her away around the rows, scanning each one,
'Jamie? Jamie, where are you?' but Jamie was nowhere to
be seen.
Her initial calm began to accelerate into concern and then
towards mild panic. Jamie wasn't here. Anna had never
considered the possibility that he would ever really wander
off without her, but now he'd done it. Why the hell hadn't
she insisted on him wearing the tracking device? The transmitter
button was burning a hole in her pocket. In case he
was simply keeping one step ahead of her, Anna moved
more quickly, her eyes sweeping up and down the aisles,
desperately seeking out the familiar black coat and cargo
pants. At one point she thought she saw his flapping hands,
but it was only a middle-aged man scratching his head in
concentration.
She'd covered the whole of the fourth floor now, but
Jamie wasn't in evidence. The escalators were tucked away
in the corner and Anna had felt sure he wouldn't have
ventured on to them alone, but now she had to consider the
possibility that he must have. The problem was, had he
gone up or down? It would be impossible to search the
whole six-floor library herself. She approached the librarian
on the desk, trying to keep the tremor from her voice,
'Excuse me, I need some help. I've lost my brother.'
'Yes, of course.' With a minimal hand signal, the woman
summoned a uniformed security guard. 'This lady has lost
a little boy, can we do a search?'
'No,' Anna interrupted. 'He's not a child, he's a man,
an adult, but he's autistic. He can't communicate and he
has no sense of danger. I have to find him.'
The guard was reassuring. 'Don't worry, madam, this
kind of thing happens all the time. We'll soon find him.'
Taking out a walkie-talkie, he activated a button. 'Put out
a call on a missing person, John,' he said and relayed the
description Anna provided. Meanwhile, Anna went shakily
down to the main library reception area where, she was
told, the search would be coordinated and Jamie would be
brought when he was found.
She waited for an agonising fifteen minutes, at the end of
which the original guard came back to her shaking his head.
'I'm sorry, love, we've looked everywhere. He's not in the
library. Would you like us to call the police?'
Anna didn't know what to do. She couldn't understand
how Jamie could have managed to find his way out of the
building on his own. Then, suddenly, by the main doors to
the library, she caught sight of something red and shining
lying on the ground. It was an empty Hula Hoop pack. She
shivered as someone walked over her grave. 'No,' she said.
'No thank you. I'll do that.' Outside the library she took
out her mobile phone. 'I need to speak to DI Mariner. It's
urgent--'
'I'm sorry, madam, Inspector Mariner isn't in the station
today.' Of course, he wasn't. In her distress she had
completely forgotten. He'd taken the weekend off and was
not expected back until Monday. 'Is there anything I can do
to help?' the officer asked.
"I don't know. It's my brother.'
'And what's his--' There was a deafening hiss, and the
sergeant's voice was drowned out by a wave of interference.
Anna waited for the static to clear. It didn't, there
was no other option but to terminate the call. She would
have to move to somewhere else and try again. But before
she could, her phone rang again.
'Thank you for calling back, Sergeant,' she began.
'There was some interference--'
'Miss Barham?' An unfamiliar male voice cut her off.
'Yes?'
'Let me reassure you. Your brother is safe and well.'
'What? Who is this?' Anna grappled for understanding.
What was going on?
'Don't worry,' the man reassured her. 'As I said, your
brother is perfectly safe, but he's going to stay with us for
now, because you have something that we want.'
'What do you mean?'
'Why don't you just listen for a moment, and I'll tell you
how you can ensure your brother's safe return.' He had an
accent. Northern, or was it Welsh? 'It's very simple,' he
went on. 'But as soon as we have finished this conversation,
I want you to take your phone and drop it into the
black rubbish bin, five yards to your right. Just so that you
won't be tempted to use it again to dial 999.'
Anna looked across to her right. About five yards away
was an ornate, cast-iron bin. Who ever she was speaking
to, had her in his sights. He was right here in the street
with her. She scanned the crowd of people around her in
Victoria Square. Everyone seemed to be hurrying purposefully,
to the shops, back to the office, in and out of the
nearby museum. She could see no-one talking into a mobile
phone. 'All right,' she said, trying hard to keep her voice
steady. 'What do you want me to do?'
'Go to your safety-deposit box now and get all the

272
documentation relating to your father's research project.
You'll have to hurry up, before the bank closes. Take out
everything. The disk, the database and the printouts. Don't
be tempted to leave anything behind, or to try to make
copies of anything. In any case, you won't have time for
that.' How did he know about the safety-deposit box? How
did he know what was in it?
'When you've got it, go straight to the International
Conference Centre. You'll see there's to be a presentation
at two o'clock called "Being an Effective Communicator",
which you're to attend. On your way in, pick up a delegate's
pack and drop all the information into it. Ten
minutes into the presentation, you'll get up and go, leaving
the delegate's pack on your seat. Return immediately to
your flat and wait for a call. When we're satisfied that
we've got everything we need, I'll call to let you know
where you can find your brother. Don't make any attempt
to contact or involve the police, even DI Mariner. If you
do that, I'll no longer be able to guarantee your brother's
safety. The same will be true if you try to evade us,
communicate anything to anyone or otherwise draw attention
to yourself. You are being watched. Do you
understand?'
'Yes.' Anna's voice was barely a whisper.
'I'm sure you appreciate how serious I am.'

'How do I know that you'll do what you say?'
"I don't think you have a choice, do you?' His conviction
was chilling. 'As I said, the conference presentation
begins at two.'
From where she stood, Anna could see the council house
clock. It said one fifteen. The bank would close at one
thirty. 'But that's no time--'
'It's all the time you have.' And the line went dead.
Anna had never before felt so alone. Jamie hadn't wandered
off at all, he'd been lured away into a trap. She may never
see him again. Except that she must. She just had to do
what she was told. Sick with fear, she hurried back towards
the bank, dodging other pedestrians and forging a way
through. On this unseasonably sunny February afternoon
there were plenty of people about, men and women in business
suits, tourists photographing each other in front of the
featureless Iron Man. Someone was observing her, following
her, but she dared not look back. Anna had to resist an
urge to grab someone, another woman perhaps and say 'call
the police, I'm in trouble'. Instead she kept an unnatural
distance from everyone she encountered.
The bank thronged with people carrying out final transactions
before the weekend, and Anna had to wait in a
queue that moved agonisingly slowly.
'Hurry up!' she wanted to scream.

Chapter Twenty-three

Mariner shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Traffic on the
southbound M6 had been going at an uneven, caterpillar
crawl since Wolverhampton, he was beginning to get cramp
in his right leg and his bladder was uncomfortably full. He'd
been considering whether to phone Anna, just to check that
everything was all right, tell her what he'd learned from
Todd, but was delaying it while he mentally debated whether
the interest was more professional or personal. In the end he
just thought 'bugger it' and called anyway.
When there was no answer from her flat, he phoned the
station and spoke to the duty officer. 'It's Tom Mariner.
Can you tell me who's doing the surveillance on Anna
Barham?'
There was a pause while Sergeant Reilly checked the log.
'Tony Knox is on it now, sir. He took over about an hour
ago.'
So he'd reappeared. 'Good,' said Mariner. 'And he
hasn't reported anything?'
'He last called in at eleven thirty and it was all quiet.
They haven't been out all day.'
'So why isn't she answering the phone? I've been ringing
for the last ten minutes.'
Another interlude while Sergeant Reilly's mind ticked
over, 'Oh bugger,' he said suddenly, guilt oozing down the
phone. 'An Anna Barham called here, about half an hour
ago, to speak to you, sir. I didn't make the--'
'What did she want?'
'She said it was her brother.'
'Her brother?' What had Jamie been up to now? 'What
about him?'
"I don't know sir, we didn't get any further because she
was calling on a mobile. She got wiped out by interference
on the line.'
'And she didn't call back?'
'No sir.'
'What exactly did she say?'
Reilly consulted his notes. 'She asked to speak to you. I
told her you weren't here, but asked if there was anything
I could help with. She said, "I don't know. It's my
brother", then we got cut off.'
'Shit! And she was definitely on a mobile?'
'Sounded like it, sir.' Reilly was with him now. 'Shall I
get Knox to go up and check the flat?'
'Yes.' Mariner tapped in Anna's mobile number. It was
switched off. His own phone rang. He almost dropped it
and, momentarily distracted, veered out into the adjacent
lane of traffic, causing the car coming up alongside to slam
on his brakes. The driver hooted.
If only you knew, thought Mariner. 'Yes?' he barked
into the phone.
'It's Knox. I'm in Anna Barham's flat. There's no one
here.'
"I thought they hadn't gone out.'
'How the hell was I meant to know there's a back
entrance?' demanded Knox, defensively.
'Bloody brilliant,' said Mariner. 'Wait for me there.' But
it was a further twenty minutes before he drew up outside
the building where Knox was waiting for him at ground
level. He was wearing civvies, but Mariner didn't ask why.
Instead he asked Knox the same question he'd been asking
himself. 'Why would she ask to speak to me urgently, and
then switch off her phone?'
'Perhaps whatever it was resolved itself and she didn't
want you to waste a call,' Knox suggested.
'It was something to do with Jamie.'
'Maybe he ran off again.'
'So why hasn't she phoned us back? And why didn't she
alert you? For Christ's sake, she knew you were here.'
'She found him?' Knox was humouring him.

'So where are they now?'
'Having their dinner at McDonald's.'
What Knox was saying wasn't unreasonable, so why
didn't Mariner buy it? Because he'd talked to Andrew
Todd, and because now he understood what Malcolm,
Eddie and now Anna Barham were up against. 'Let's take
a look upstairs.'
'I've already done that, sir. There's nothing--'
'So we'll look again. Anyway, I need a pee.'
The disgruntled building supervisor let them into Anna's
flat for a second time, but once inside, Mariner was struck
by how normal it all looked. In the kitchen, Eddie's folder
lay on the table where he'd seen it yesterday, now conspicuously
empty. Why hadn't he thought to make copies of
that disk or at least print off a hard copy of the database?
Stupid! There was no clue whatever about where Anna and
Jamie might have gone, but Mariner was convinced that it
was an ominous sign.
Then, on his way out of the bathroom, Mariner caught
sight of the red light of the Kestrel receiver winking at
him, from where it lay discarded on the floor. It was still
switched on, but the transmitter was nowhere to be seen.
'That looks like one of ours. How did--?' Knox began.
'Not now, Knox,' Mariner silenced him. He was
studying the LCD display and trying to determine what had happened. 'If Jamie's wearing this then he's not far
away.' Crossing to the window, he looked out. 'Somewhere
near the Conference Centre. She must have gone after
him.'
'So why didn't she take the tracker?'
'God knows. I'm not even sure that she understood how
to use it. But it's all we've got. At least if we can locate
the transmitter we should get Jamie.' But something was
telling him that there was more to it. They kept moving,
but as they walked Mariner had Knox call through on his
mobile to Anna Barham's bank. It was no longer open for
business, but the manager was still on site and able to
confirm that Anna had accessed her safety-deposit box
shortly before closing time. Homing in on the signal, as a
precaution, Mariner called for back-up, and by the time he
and Knox reached the entrance to the International
**'''	Conference Centre, there were three more officers waiting
for them. Crammed into the squad car, Mariner could only
brief them with guesswork.
'Anna Barham called in at ten forty-nine this morning to
speak to me urgently, possibly because Jamie had run off.
Since then she has disappeared, though we're getting a
signal from the tracking device she had for Jamie.' Mariner
said. 'We just need to bear in mind that all may not be as
it seems. I have reason to believe that Anna Barham is in
some danger, because she holds some information that
would be highly damaging to a major drugs company. I'm
certain that they've killed for it before. I think it's possible
that she's been asked to meet someone to hand over that
information. She may well have been warned against
contacting us, which is why she evaded PC Knox and has
switched off her phone. Someone will need to go inside,
locate the transmitter and try to establish what's going on.
It can't be me, because her observer's likely to know me
too.' Scanning the group, his eyes came to rest on Knox,
the only other officer not in uniform.
'Looks like I'm the lucky volunteer.' Knox flashed a
humourless smile.
'Get in there and see if you can see what's happening,'
Mariner told him. 'Let me know as soon as you do. The
rest of us will take up positions around the building and
maintain radio contact at all times.' They watched Knox
disappear into the centre, before following him part of the
way. Five slow minutes passed before Mariner's phone
rang.
'I've found Anna Barham, sir. She seems to be waiting
to go into a presentation. She's carrying a delegate's bag
and a small handbag, nothing else.'
'What about Jamie?'
'No sign of him. The transmitter must be on her. She
looks petrified.'
It was Saturday. Jamie wouldn't be at his day-care
centre, so where the hell was he? 'How big is the bag?'
Mariner asked.
'It's just a plastic carrier. It looks bulky though. There's
more in it than I've got in mine.'
'She must be making a drop.'
'Do you want me to show myself?' Knox was asking.
'Make eye contact, try to let her know you're there, but
don't approach her directly. Stick to her like glue, but leave
it to her to make the first move. And Knox?'
'Yes sir?'
'Try to be subtle for Christ's sake.'

Anna stood outside the conference hall of the ICC, sipping
coffee from a polystyrene cup and trying to control the
tremor in her hands. Surreptitiously she glanced around,
wondering who was the one watching and waiting.
In front of her a balding man in a black leather jacket
dropped his delegate's pack, spilling the contents on to the
floor. As he knelt to retrieve the pamphlets, his eyes for a
brief second met hers. Recognition turned to relief and then
fear. It was Knox, Mariner's colleague. He gave her an
almost imperceptible nod, before gathering his papers
together and moving off. Anna's heart pounded. Why was
he here? Was it because of her? Did they know what was
happening? Oh God, if the police intervened it would wreck
everything. They had to stay away. She searched the
crowded room for Mariner, but saw no more familiar faces.
Perhaps Knox's presence here was just a bizarre coincidence
and he really was here to learn about being an
'Effective Communicator'. From his performance when
they first met, it wouldn't do him any harm.
At that moment the doors opened and the horde began
moving into the conference hall itself. Anna took a seat at
the back of the vast room, at the end of a row. She hadn't
seen Knox again. It seemed an eternity before the audience
was settled and the duo of presenters introduced themselves.
Anna hoped it wouldn't be one of those events
where the delegates were asked to introduce themselves
too, 'Hello, my name's Anna and I'm being blackmailed.'
On the wall clock ahead of her the passage of time
seemed interminable, but finally as the minute hand hit the
two, Anna got quickly to her feet and, leaving the plastic
carrier bag on her seat, walked out of the hall. She half
expected someone to hurry after her to point out that she'd
forgotten the bag, but they didn't. The door closed behind
her and she walked across the now almost deserted lobby,
towards the entrance, her footsteps echoing unnaturally
loudly on the marble floor. No one had followed. Weak
with relief, Anna forced her legs to keep moving, telling
herself that the ordeal was nearly over. Once they had what
they wanted they'd let Jamie go. She didn't know whether
to be pleased or disappointed not to be greeted by a cavalry
of police surrounding the building, but everything outside
seemed oddly normal, the world going about its regular
business.
The walk back to her flat was one of the longest of her
life. She studiously avoided looking around her, knowing
that she must still be under scrutiny. Back at her flat, her
hands shook uncontrollably as she poured herself a strong
drink and waited. Then she saw that the tracker box had
gone.

Fifty metres away, from the cover of the carefully
concealed squad car, Tom Mariner's heart leapt in his chest
when he saw Anna Barham emerge from the Conference
Centre. Against the immense building she looked more
vulnerable than ever, and he was astonished by the strength
of his urge to run over to her and gather her up safely.
Instead, he dispatched WPC Karen McLaughlin to tail her
at a discreet distance; though he was sure Anna would be
returning to her flat. Then he and the other officers left
their cars and took up what Mariner hoped were casual
looking positions outside the main entrance of the centre,
and waited.
Tony Knox stayed inside the conference hall, having
moved to an empty seat along from the one recently vacated
by Anna. He'd been puzzled to see her leave, but catching
sight of the carrier bag she'd left behind, suddenly he
understood what was going on. The boss was right. Knox
bided his time. It was just what he wanted, he thought, an
hour's presentation on effective communication. The boss
should be here. He might pick up a few tips. The rest of
the audience seemed enthralled though, and as the lecture
drew to an end it was received with tumultuous applause.
As the clapping died away, people began gathering their
things, standing to leave, networking. While appearing to
browse his course brochure, Knox kept his eyes riveted to
that seat. As it was, he nearly missed the pick-up when it
happened. A man shuffling along behind the row, a quick
snatch over the back of the seat and it was gone, but Knox
had clocked him: medium build, red hair, charcoal suit and
white shirt; identical to at least fifty per cent of the other
people in the room. This one was going to be tricky,
particularly as two hundred delegates surged simultaneously
towards the exits.
'Excuse me, excuse me,' Knox stumbled his way to the
end of the row. Snatcher had moved off at a pace, but Knox
caught up and stayed with him, ducking and diving through
the mob to keep up. Outside the lecture hall the crowd
thinned and his task was much easier. Knox had expected
Snatcher to make for the main entrance and the pick-up
bays, to a waiting car, so was surprised when he seemed to
be heading in the opposite direction. He was making for the
rear exit of the Conference Centre, going towards
Symphony Hall and the canal, away from where Mariner
and the other officers were waiting.
As he ran, Knox put a call through to Mariner waiting
outside. 'I've got him sir. IC one male, thirty-ish, five-ten,
short, stocky, ginger hair, wearing a grey suit and white
shirt.'
'Well done, Knox. We'll have him. We've got cars
standing by on all exit routes and he'll never get out of the
city in this traffic'
'He doesn't seem to want to. We're going out the back
way, towards the canal.'
'Where the hell is he going?'
'Anna Barham's flat?' said someone. It was certainly a
possibility. They began moving to the other side of the
building. But as Mariner ran, Knox's voice broke in again.
'We're down on the canalside sir. Going over Farmer's
Bridge towards the Fazeley Canal. Oh shit! You'd better
get round here!'
'What??'
Knox couldn't believe his eyes. Approaching the canal
side, Snatcher had suddenly broken into a run, at about the
same time as Knox became aware of background revving of
a high-powered motor. Moored to the side of the canal was
a motor-driven inflatable dinghy. It was over in no time.
Snatcher jumped in, and the dinghy roared away, up the
canal.
'Stop! Police!' Knox shouted ineffectually after the
receding vessel. 'Oh fuck! They've got away!'
'No they haven't,' said Mariner arriving at his side,
gasping for breath. 'The canal doesn't go on for ever. I
know where they're going.' Knowing the network of canals
as well as he did, it didn't take superhuman powers to work
out their destination. They needed a map.
'This is where they're heading,' said Mariner and indicated
the point at which the canal met one of the largest
road intersections in Europe. Spaghetti Junction. 'They're
going back up the M6 to the north.'

Traffic around the city ring road was already gridlocked
and in an unmarked car, even with the aid of hazard lights
and siren, Knox could only stagger through the reluctantly
parting lines of vehicles. 'Move, you pillock!' he shouted
at one driver particularly slow to respond.
'Let's find out where big bird is,' said Mariner. 'We
could use some help.' Based out at Birmingham
International Airport, the Air Operations Unit could be
anywhere in the West Midlands in under ten minutes, with
a flying time of up to two and a half hours before needing
to refuel. It was standing by and only minutes later, the
McDonnell Douglas MD 902 Explorer came into view.
'Alpha Oscar One to Delta Victor Two-Four, awaiting
instructions.' They had airborne support.
Mariner rapidly briefed the crew, and as he and Knox
continued to plough their way on to the expressway, got the
response he was hoping for.
'Alpha Oscar One to Delta Victor Two-Four, we have a
red, inflatable dinghy heading north along the BirminghamFazeley
Canal, just coming round the back of the UCE, two
occupants.' They were neck and neck.
'Received,' and relieved, thought Mariner. 'Do a sweep
to see if there's any sign of a pick-up vehicle at on or
around Spaghetti Junction,' he instructed. 'Suspects are
thought to be heading north up the M6. Don't stick too
closely to the dinghy. I don't want them to know they're
getting any special attention.'
'Understood, sir.'
Moments later the helicopter was back in contact: 'We
have a possible, sir. A blue transit parked on Argyll Street,
adjacent to Cuckoo Road Bridge, and about fifty yards
down from the motorway junction.'
Mariner consulted his map. Cuckoo Road was a side
street off the main Lichfield Road and joined the northbound M6 within a quarter of a mile. The canal passed
right underneath. It was the ideal spot. 'And the status of
the van?' he asked.
'Just parked up, sir, facing out, looks as if the driver's
sitting tight.'
Weaving through the heavy traffic, progress was still
painfully slow, so Mariner mustered two unmarked units
from the nearest OCU to keep a closer watch over the van.
Meanwhile, he had time to check in with WPC
McLaughlin.
'Anna Barham's still in her flat, sir, she hasn't moved.'
'No sign of Jamie Barham?'
'No sir.'
'Because he's in the back of that van,' muttered Mariner
to himself, and then, to Karen, 'Give Anna a call, as an old
friend, ringing to see how she is. Don't identify yourself or
give any clue that we're abreast of the situation. Nothing
clever, just a fishing call.' And as an afterthought, 'Give
your name as "Karen Brocken".'
McLaughlin called back as the jumbled carriageways of
Spaghetti Junction loomed, HGVs trundling high along the
M6 like a procession of lethargic snails. 'Contact made, sir.
She caught on straight away, too. Jamie has "gone out"
with friends. She doesn't know where they've taken him,
but she's waiting for a call to say when and where she can
collect him.'
'He is in the back of that van.'
Knox killed the lights and siren. 'You think they're planning
to keep him?' he said.
'Or dump him off at a motorway services somewhere.
What could be more natural. They can make it look as
if they're dropping off a hitch-hiker, then blend straight
back into the traffic' Leaving Jamie Barham to fend for
himself.
The radio crackled again, 'Two-man dinghy passing
through Salford Trading estate, approaching Cuckoo
Bridge, at about two hundred yards, all units standing by,
sir.' Just as the blue transit came into view. Knox drove
straight past it, round the corner and out of sight, made a
three-point turn, doubled back and pulled into a gap
between kerb-side vehicles thirty yards away. The driver of
the transit may have seen them, but Mariner doubted it. He
was too busy watching for someone else.
'All units from DI Mariner. Wait for my signal. When
all suspects are in the van, we move in.'
Knox glanced across at him. 'Wouldn't it be better to
follow them, wait until they make contact with the recipient,
sir? If we take them now, all we get are the errand
boys.'
Mariner had considered that option, but he could only
think of Anna Barham, sick with anxiety for her brother.
He was unequivocal. 'They've got Jamie Barham. I want
him safely recovered, now.'
But in the end the task proved impossible. With surprise
on their side, the operation was over in minutes. On
Mariner's instructions the teams at the scene watched as the
dinghy approached Cuckoo Bridge. Right on cue the two
men abandoned their getaway craft and, scrambling up the
steps from the bridge, made a run for the van. As the rear
door opened and it began to pull away, Mariner gave the
order, 'Go!' and the officers moved in, blocking the van
and giving chase to the men. Two were caught immediately,
but the driver of the transit escaped back down the
steps and on to the canal, running off along the towpath
beneath the soaring concrete pillars that shored up thousands
of tons of continuously-flowing motorway vehicles.
Mariner gave chase into a dark and dank no-man's-land
of harsh concrete and scrubby wasteland that echoed to the
constant and deafening thunder of overhead traffic. The
man dodged behind a concrete pillar and into a tunnel,
Mariner trailed him, his lungs burning, splatting through
oily puddles that soaked his socks, pursuing his quarry out
and on to one of the walkways that crossed and re-crossed
the canal. Cat and mouse in the centre of a vast and deadly
theme park ride.
For a while it looked as if Mariner would lose the man
in the complex mass of tunnels and bridges, but following
under a low, dark flyover he emerged to be confronted by
a sheer forty-foot wall, the only way out via crudely hewn
steps leading up to a slip road high above. Undeterred by
the dead end, the driver was heaving himself upward,
already twenty feet from the ground. But this was
Mariner's territory and launching himself at the wall, he
ascended quickly and began to gain ground. Almost within
grasp, he made a lunge for the man's ankle, but simultaneously
the driver kicked out viciously, causing Mariner to
momentarily lose his footing. For several seconds he flailed
in mid-air while he struggled to regain a hold, before slithering
down again over the jagged concrete, landing hard in
the dirt at the bottom.
The driver gave a triumphant leer back over his shoulder,
before vaulting over the crash barrier to freedom.
Almost instantaneously, there came a prolonged, blood
chilling screech followed by the smallest muffled thud. A
cloud of bluish smoke billowed into the air. It was a
freedom short-lived. Mariner knelt over in the dirt and
vomited.
When the retching diminished, Mariner brushed himself
down, buttoning his jacket over the spots of blood that were
already seeping through his shirt, before calling for an
ambulance and staggering back to Cuckoo Bridge. His
priority now was to make sure that Jamie Barham was well
looked after. But he was in for another disappointment. All
that had been found in the back of the van were sleeping
bags, clothing and empty fast-food cartons. Jamie Barham
wasn't there. We just lost the moon.
'What happened to the package?' Mariner asked the
nearest uniform, hoping to at least salvage something from
the fiasco.
The uniform looked sheepish. 'It's down there, sir.' He
pointed to the grille of a drain in the gutter. 'He did it
before we could stop him.'
Mariner walked over to the drain and peered down into
the foul black abyss.
'Well get someone down here to get it out,' said Mariner
calmly.
'Yes sir.'

Chapter Twenty-four

The transit driver was declared dead at the scene and
Mariner was present when the other two men were booked
in at the station. Initially they could be detained for resisting
arrest, and possession of stolen goods, though Mariner
was confident that those charges would be just the hook.
'Don't look much like hitmen, do they?' was Knox's
observation, seeing the way that Snatcher's conference
suit unhappily accommodated his bulky frame. 'I bet the
only time he's ever put on a suit before is for court
appearances.'
Mariner hoped that it would be to their advantage. That
discomfort might just give them the edge.
The smaller man was dark with rodent-like features and
a moustache to match his lank, oily hair. Black mouth. He
had an injury identical to Mariner's, the bruising around his
beak-like nose faded to greyish yellow blotches. 'I see
you're acquainted with Jamie Barham too,' Mariner said,
but all he got in return was a blankly defiant look.
'Take a blood sample,' Mariner ordered. 'It will match
with the one that was on Jamie Barham's shirt.' But it
wasn't going to help them find the boy.

The interviews didn't get off to a very promising start.
Bobby Weller and John 'Snatcher' Holmes were both,
as Mariner had guessed, residents of Tyneside. The NCS
database produced surprisingly light rap sheets, mainly
detailing drugs-related offences. It meant that they were
either new to this or smart enough not to get caught. It soon
became clear that the second of these was true. Although
Weller from the outset appeared to be the brighter of the
two, it seemed that they were both experienced at this
game. Their first move was a blatant stalling tactic.
"I want to wait for my brief to get here,' Weller said,
with some satisfaction.
Fortunately, Mariner had already discussed the issue
with Jack Coleman, who was inclined to agree with his
view. 'Sorry, no can do,' he said pleasantly. 'We believe
you know of the whereabouts of Jamie Barham, who may
well be in danger, so if you're going to be that choosy
you'll have to start without legal representation.'
Weller's other option in the circumstances could have
been to exercise his right to silence, but perversely he chose
not to take it. Unlike his partner, he seemed happy to talk.
It smacked of an agreement between the two that Weller
would act as spokesman. So, from necessity, Mariner
concentrated his efforts on him. Weller chainsmoked his
way through the interview, allowing him convenient opportunities
to pause and keep his story on track, and after only
a matter of minutes they were conversing through a choking
blue fog.
'What were you doing in Birmingham today?' Mariner
began, when the preliminaries had been gone through.
Weller drew on his cigarette. 'We came to collect a
parcel.'
'What was in this parcel?'
"I don't know.'
'So why did you want it?'

'We were collecting it for a friend.'
'Without knowing what was inside? That's very trusting
of you.' Mariner observed.
'It was documents,' said Weller, vaguely.
'This friend must be quite a mate for you to go to all the
trouble of coming down here, just to collect some documents.
Most people use Parcel Force.'
'He prefers the personal touch.'
'So who is he, this friend?'
'Al.'
'You'll have to do better than that.'
'It's all I know.'
'And you call him a friend?'
'Let's say he's more of a business associate.'
'But you don't know his full name.'
'He just contacted me to do the job.'
By now it was more than the smoke that was getting up
Mariner's nose. 'So this "business acquaintance" calls you
up, asks you to do something for him, and you just jump.'
'He pays well.'
'He must do. That was quite a performance today. What
I don't understand is, if this was all so straightforward, why
not just knock on Anna Barham's door and ask for these
documents?' Mariner asked.
A shrug. 'We just did what we were told to do - collect
the package from the conference. It had already been set
up.'
'By this friend. That was convenient. And what about
Jamie Barham's abduction? Had that been pre-arranged,
too?'
Weller shook his head uncomprehendingly. 'Sorry,
you've lost me there.'
'You needed an incentive to persuade Anna Barham to
give up those documents, and her brother was it. That's
why you snatched him from the library.'
"I don't know what you're talking about.'
Mariner switched to a different tack. 'You were in quite
a hurry to leave once you'd got your package.'
'There were other interested parties. Our friend wanted
the documents pronto.'
'So why not just leave the city by car or train like most
other people?'
"I like boats.'
'So, tell us a bit more about this friend,' Mariner said.
'How does he contact you?'
'On the moby, how else?'
'So where's your phone?' Mariner had seen the bagged
up possessions when they'd been logged into custody, there
was no mobile phone among them.
And for the first time during the interview Weller looked
mildly unsettled. 'I must have dropped it somewhere,' he
said.
Mariner was prepared to lay bets on the canal being the
most likely resting place. He'd have to find out if anyone
had seen Weller ditch it. Alternatively, it could have gone
into the drain along with the package. A search team was
working on that at this very moment. Perhaps that's what
bothered Weller - the realisation that his phone, and all the
information on it, might be recovered. It was some small
comfort.
'Have you worked for this friend before?'
'A couple of times.'
'Including Sunday the sixteenth of February, the night
someone got into Eddie Barham's house, locked his brother
in the cupboard and turned over his house before injecting
him with a fatal quantity of heroin?'
Weller shook his head doubtfully. 'I'm sure I'd remember
something like that.'
'What were you looking for then? More documents?' A
blank look. 'Are you denying that you were in Birmingham
that weekend?'
"I don't know. I'll have to check with my secretary.'
That was when Mariner nearly swung for him. Instead,
straining to keep a lid on his frustration, he suspended the
interview. On one level, Mariner had to admire the man for
being so composed under pressure and sticking rigidly to
his story. He was consistent and plausible and, from the
Crown Prosecution's point of view, hardly incriminating at
all. And they had no leverage. Knox was right, all they'd
got were the errand boys, and they were having a laugh on
him.
Worst of all, he couldn't even balance the books with
the recovery of Jamie Barham. He'd just disappeared into
thin air. Weller simply denied all knowledge of him.
According to him, he'd just been attacked in the street,
'some nutter' had walked up and head butted him,
completely unprovoked, which would neatly explain why
a sample of his blood was going to match with the stains
on Jamie's shirt.
Amongst the items that had been bagged up by the
custody sergeant was a bill for two nights' accommodation
at a cheap motel on Lee Bank, which indicated that
they'd checked out earlier in the day. By the time a team
of officers was dispatched, the chambermaid had cleared
up the detritus and had discovered no bodies, dead or
alive. They'd check for fingerprints but Mariner doubted
that Jamie Barham had made it that far. Mariner felt as
if he was trapped in a maze. What earlier in the day had
seemed like limitless possibilities was gradually being
undermined as each, one by one, led them into a blind
alley.
The one remaining hope of prising open the case was the
man who knew the whole history. But the news that finally
came through from Dennis Weightman wasn't good.
'Have you brought him in?' Mariner demanded, his
patience beginning to fray at the edges.
'We couldn't,' Weightman said, glumly. 'We went up to
the farm, but his wife hasn't seen him since this morning.
She claims not to know where he's gone.'
It was a growing trend. Mariner pushed a hand through
his hair as he felt the world falling down around him.

Anna Barham was wandering amongst the ruins of her own
life. On returning to her flat, she'd sat for almost an hour
over the phone, willing it to ring so hard that it physically
hurt. Then, instead, her door buzzer had sounded.
Cautiously, leaving on the chain, she opened it and peered
out. To her surprise it was a woman, a police officer.
'Anna Barham?'
'Yes.' What the hell was she doing here? What was
going on?
'DI Mariner asked me to call round. We need to ask you
some questions.'
That had seemed unreal, like days ago, when WPC
McLaughlin had come to tell her about the chase and the
arrests. 'Where's Jamie?' Anna kept asking, but all that
came back at her were more questions: Who did you speak
to? Would you recognise his voice? Then gradually it began
to dawn. They hadn't got Jamie.
'Where is he?' she demanded, finally, angrily.
And at last WPC McLaughlin admitted it. 'I'm sorry.
We don't know.'
At first Anna was furious, then frightened, and as soon
as she was left alone, she knew she had to act. Okay, so
according to WPC McLaughlin, the police had issued a
description city wide, and there would be an appeal broadcast
on tonight's local news bulletin, but Jamie was hardly
likely to turn himself in on the strength of that. Someone
had to get out there and look for him, and if the police
weren't going to do it then she'd have to do it herself.
As soon as McLaughlin had gone, when it had already
begun to get dark outside, Anna had embarked on her
own search. Since then she'd been trudging the streets
for hours, praying for a glimpse of her younger brother,
even though deep down she knew it was a vain hope.
England's second largest city, Birmingham's population
was a little over one million. It was like trying to find
a needle in a whole field of haystacks. But Anna couldn't
bear the thought of Jamie out there on the streets, or
lying in a gutter, while she sat at home and did nothing.
Besides, she had to do something to answer the guilt that
was gnawing away at her inside.
She'd let everyone down; her parents, Eddie and now
Jamie, too. For fourteen years Eddie had successfully
looked after Jamie, and now after less than a week she'd
failed spectacularly. Voices in her head berated her: if only
she'd stayed at home, if only she'd watched Jamie more
closely, if only she'd been more attentive to Eddie and been
less absorbed in her own pathetic life. It was all her fault.
She was responsible.
Unable to come up with anything more logical, she'd
begun her search back at the Conference Centre. Someone
had to have been waiting there to collect her package and
perhaps, having achieved their aim, they had released Jamie
somewhere in the vicinity, too. They had no reason to hold
him any longer. He was of no further use to them. Keeping
a steady pace, she scoured the inside of the building, before
moving out to its surrounding walkways, the warren of
underground car parks, searching each face she saw, studying
the movements of people as they walked, frantic for a
glimpse of Jamie's gangling walk.
She carried a photograph of Jamie with her, and occasionally
showed it to passers-by, but all she got in return
were blank looks, slow shakes of the head. The population
on the streets began to diminish as people went home and
faces began to blur and merge. What had begun systematically
quickly degenerated into an aimless lurching from one
passage on to another, her movements driven by fear and
desperation, the voices in her head getting louder and more
insistent.
All the time she walked she tried not to think about how
Jamie might be holding up. It was bitterly cold and he
would be freezing. The rain earlier in the day meant he
might be soaked through, too, and beyond his carefully
maintained environment he would be petrified. But as the
minutes and hours ticked by, the vision that loomed
terrifyingly larger was of Jamie lying lifeless and beyond
fear in some dirty, back street alleyway. As darkness
enveloped the city, black shadows lurked in the emptiness.
The lights were inadequate and Anna realised that she

would need a torch if she was to cover everything and she
was exhausted. She would go home and eat something,
have a short rest, collect a torch and then she would start
again.

Mariner left the office late. He could no longer think
straight, which was probably why, ten minutes later, he
found himself sitting in his car outside Anna Barham's flat.
He didn't know quite why he was here. What was he planning
to do? Apologise? Explain? Offer some comfort? Ha!
That was a joke. He caught a whiff of something acrid and unpleasant. His clothes reeked of the filth and smoke of the
interview room, so before going into her building, he
walked over to the canal to allow some fresh air to wash
over him.
Up on Farmer's Bridge, he leaned his elbows on the railings
and looked along the glistening oily strand, dotted with
lamplight, that disappeared into the darkness. Just up ahead
the canal split. To the left began the Farmer's Bridge locks,
a series of deep watery vaults that took the canal down
underneath the city. Up ahead, five hundred yards along the
main route, the bright lights of the Brindley Place restaurants
vibrant with activity; friends and couples enjoying a
night out. He'd never been part of that. This was where he
belonged, on the outside looking in.
If you carried on beyond that past the tourist areas,
through the university complex and beyond, eventually
you'd come to his home. It made him and Anna Barham
practically neighbours, he thought suddenly, on the same
continuum but poles apart.
He was procrastinating. Mariner hadn't imagined he
could ever be reluctant to see Anna Barham, but facing up
to her now was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to
do. He had no answers, only more questions. The desire to
turn back the clock and make everything right again as
intense as a physical pain. He stood longer, mustering the
courage to go up to her flat, but in the end he didn't have
to. As he looked out over the canal a small familiar figure
emerged from the gloom on the towpath below. Initially he
couldn't be sure that it was her. The posture was all wrong.
Her shoulders were hunched, and her feet dragging. Christ,
he thought, I've done that.
'Anna?' he called out to her. Immediately her face lifted,
and her pace quickened as she hurried towards him,
injected with sudden optimism. The transformation cut
through him.
'You've found him! Have you found him?'
'No.' Mariner shook his head, extinguishing the flame of
hope with a single word. 'I'm sorry.'
She crumpled again, devastated. 'What do you want
then? Why are you here?' Even in the dim halo cast by the
streetlights she looked pale, and her eyes red-rimmed.
"I just came to see that you're okay,' he said, lamely.
'Okay?' she was incredulous, though her lower lip trembled.
'You've got a nerve.' Anger began to take over. 'This
is all down to you. If you hadn't barged in--'
'I thought you were in danger. You were in danger. You
vanished without telling anyone where you were. What did
you expect me to do?'
'Nothing. It was your weekend off! Don't you get it?
They had Jamie! They told me if I contacted the police they
wouldn't guarantee his safety! And you gate-crashed the
whole thing like a bull in a fucking china shop! What the
hell were you playing at??'
"I was trying to help,' said Mariner, lamely.
'Well you didn't, did you? You've ruined everything.
You shouldn't have interfered!' And unable to contain her
fury any longer, she hit him, a stinging blow across the face
that jarred his still fragile nose. Despite the sudden rush of
heat down the inside of his left nostril, Mariner didn't
move. Unable to meet his eyes, she looked away, jamming
her hands down in her pockets. Tears flowed freely down
her cheeks, though she seemed not to notice.
'You're bleeding again,' she said, finally, glancing up at
him. Her anger had moved on like a passing storm, leaving
her weary and desolate. 'You'd better come up.' Cupping
a hand under his dripping nose, Mariner followed her in
silence. Standing in the lift he wanted to reach out and put
a comforting arm around her, but she kept her distance.
This impotence thing was spreading through him like wild
fire.
Her flat wasn't the same one he'd been into just a couple
of nights previously. It was a bomb site. There were spent
coffee mugs and glasses on nearly every surface. Clothes
were draped over furniture and it was untidy and neglected.
In the bright light he could see that she was the same. She
wore no make-up and her hair was unbrushed, her baggy
clothes carelessly thrown on.
Mariner followed her into the living room where from
beneath a pile of clothing she unearthed a box of tissues.
'Thanks.' Mariner took it from her as his mobile rang.
It was Knox. 'Boss? I've just picked up something on the
radio. A serious RTA involving a young IC 1 male, close
to the city centre. He was behaving erratically and ran out
in front of a vehicle.' A wave of revulsion struck Mariner
and he struggled to keep his voice normal. 'Okay, thanks.
Give me a minute.'
'I've got to go,' he said to Anna, hoping that his tone
didn't betray the emotions raging inside him. 'Please stay
here now. We'll find Jamie. I promise you.' Pressing a wad
of tissues to his nose, he hoped to God that they hadn't
already.
'How can you be so sure?' She was scathing. 'You have
no idea. He could be anywhere. He could be--' But she
couldn't bring herself to complete the sentence. 'You
should have stayed away,' Anna told him.
'I'm sorry. I did what I thought was right.' Christ, how
many times in his life had he said that?

In his car, Mariner patched back through to Knox. 'Let's
have the details.'
'It's at the Bristol Road, the junction with Lee Bank
Middleway. It doesn't sound good.'
The nightmare was escalating. With blues and twos to
speed him, Mariner was at the scene in minutes. The roadside
was chaotic, lit by the strobing blue lights of the
emergency vehicles. The HGV involved had swerved into
the crash barrier and was blocking the carriageway.
Uniforms were diverting the traffic around it. Mariner
parked some distance away and walked towards the melee.
As he approached he could hear the remonstrations of the
van driver.
"I didn't stand a chance, he just ran out in front of me!
I couldn't have done anything!' A WPC was trying to calm
him.
A small group of green-clad paramedics was huddled
over something at the side of the road. As Mariner headed
towards them, one sat back on his haunches. 'What a
waste,' he said. There were murmurs of assent around the
group.
Getting nearer, Mariner saw the crumpled and twisted
body on the ground, its upper half now respectfully covered
by a blanket awaiting a stretcher. He took out his warrant
card and waved it at the nearest paramedic.
'I'm DI Mariner. I need to get a look at him. I may know
him.'
The man appraised him warily, taking in Mariner's
dishevelled appearance, the bloodstained clothing. 'Go
ahead mate, you might save us some bother,' was the
almost indifferent reply. With incidents like this commonplace,
it was pure self-preservation.
As Mariner got nearer, the commotion seemed to fade
away into the background, leaving only the sound of his own heart punching at his ribs and pulsing the blood in his
ears. He knelt down beside the broken figure and gingerly
raised the blanket. He closed his eyes as an express train
roared its way around his skull. The boy had bleached hair
and a single gold hoop in his ear. It wasn't Jamie.
'Any luck?' asked the paramedic.
Mariner felt weak enough to pass out. 'No, sorry. It's
not who I thought.'
Somehow Mariner communicated this to the senior
officer at the scene, who also seemed to study him too carefully,
before lurching back to his car, nauseous with relief.
He called Tony Knox. 'It's not him. Keep looking.'
'Thank Christ for that,' said Knox. 'All that leaves is the
muggers and perverts then.'

Mariner studied himself in the rear-view mirror. He wasn't
a pretty sight. Pale and unshaven, there was a thin crust of
dried blood around his nose, and looking down he saw that
more blood had stippled his tie and shirt. He should get
cleaned up. Knox would contact him if there were any
developments. He also felt an urge to wash away the nasty
taste left by Knox's words. His first port of call was the
Boatman, where Beryl didn't even bat an eyelid.
In Mariner's estimation the biggest threat to Jamie out
there wasn't from perverts, but that wasn't to say that it
didn't exist. Back when he was living in the squat there
were several occasions when Mariner had woken up to find
unwelcome hands pawing at him. He'd been strong enough
and aware enough to fend them off. Jamie Barham wouldn't
have that advantage.
Suddenly he realised he hadn't eaten much today and the
two pints and whisky chaser were starting to make his head
spin. He walked home while he still could. The house was
dark, but for the comforting glow of the wood-burner. He
didn't bother with the lights.
'Bad day?' said a voice as he crossed the room.
Christ! He hadn't noticed Jenny sitting there, curled up
in the armchair.
'Hideous,' he said recovering from the shock. 'Couldn't
get much worse, but I won't bore you with the details.
Couldn't even if I wanted to.'
'Anything I can do to help?'
Jesus, what an offer. 'No, I'm fine,' Mariner slumped on
to the sofa. 'Anyway, what are you doing up and about at
this hour?' he asked, eventually.
"I couldn't sleep. Tony's gone. Back to his wife.'
'Ah.' That explained a lot.
'I don't mind,' she said. 'It was only a fling. We both
knew that.' She said it with the worldliness of a forty-year
old. 'Thing is,' she went on. "I was wondering if you'd let
me stay on. I really like it here. I'd pay rent and everything,
and Tony said you were looking for a lodger.'
A young, pretty, female lodger; never in his wildest
dreams had Mariner imagined-- 'Sure,' he said. 'Why
not?'
'Great,' she said. 'You won't regret it.'
That settled, Mariner, closed his eyes. After a while, out
of the darkness, Mariner heard Jenny get up and pad over
to him and felt the warmth from her body as she plopped
down beside him, very close. 'Are you sure there's nothing
I can do?' A hand snaked over him, finding its way inside
his coat, opening up his jacket, and moving down to
massage his crotch. "I'll do anything you like,' she whispered,
close to his ear, her hand moving harder and faster.
Mariner groaned in response. 'How about something
special?' But as she enunciated the last word, Mariner
exploded, his orgasm rushing uncontrollably through him.
'Oh God, I'm sor--' But when his eyes snapped open the
sky was lightening to a pale grey, and he was completely
alone, Jenny an illusion manufactured by his overactive
brain. The fire had died, leaving the room icy cold as rain
lashed against the windows. The same rain that would be
beating down on Jamie Barham wherever he was.
Mariner didn't dare think about where the boy might be
now, or in what condition. A statistic flashed unbidden into
his mind; 200,000 people go missing in Britain every year.
Three thousand of them are never found.
And, reasonably enough, Anna Barham blamed him. It
was the biggest monumental fuck-up of his career.
Heaving himself out of the chair he hung up his coat and
dragged himself upstairs where he stood under the shower
for twenty minutes trying to get warm. Afterwards he lay
on the bed, waiting for dawn to break.

Chapter Twenty-five

When it did, nothing had changed. Mariner slipped out of
the house early before Jenny surfaced. Even though it was
only a dream, he couldn't face her after their moonlight
encounter.
As Mariner turned the car ignition the radio came on too,
tuned to local station BRMB. He caught the end of the news
bulletin, '--growing concerns for the safety of twenty-nine
year-old James Barham, who went missing in the city
yesterday. Mr Barham, who has autism and severe learning
difficulties, is described as being of medium build with
short blond hair and green eyes. He was last seen in the
vicinity of Birmingham Central Library. Police are appealing
to anyone who may have witnessed anything unusual in
or around the library at around midday.'
Mariner was certain Anna hadn't slept much last night
either.
At Granville Lane a shake of the duty sergeant's head
told him all he needed to know. Mariner went straight to
his office, but it wasn't long before Tony Knox pursued
him there. "I thought I should let you know, boss,' he said,
sheepishly. 'I've--'
'Moved back home. I know thanks.'
'You'll be able to rent the room out,' Knox said, helpfully.
'I
already have,' said Mariner. 'Jenny's staying on.'

Knox's face was a picture: almost enough to make
Mariner crack a smile. 'That's great, boss,' he said, recovering.
Inevitably, a sly grin crept over his face. 'You two
should get to know each other, boss. She goes like the--'
'Have you made any progress with that bank account?'
asked Mariner, hoping to wipe the smirk off Knox's face.
But the look just turned to smug. 'As a matter of fact,
that's what I came to tell you. It belongs to an organisation
called the Queensbridge Trust.'
'Which is what, exactly?'
"I don't know, yet. It's not listed in any of the UK businesses
directories I've looked at so far. But it sounds to me
like a charity,' said Knox.
Mariner wasn't so easily fooled. 'Just because it sounds
like it, doesn't mean it is.'
Knox was hesitant, as if aware that he was on sensitive
ground. 'If it was though, it might mean that those
payments into Eddie Barham's bank account were legitimate,
and not relevant to his murder.'
But after all that they'd been through, it wasn't a possibility
Mariner was prepared to entertain. 'They are,' he
said, firmly, fixing his gaze on Knox. 'Keep looking.'

Weller's brief had arrived in the city from Newcastle and
turned up at Granville Lane mid-morning. Mariner didn't
hold out much hope of it changing anything and he returned
to the interview room with a heavy heart. His fears were
borne out, and before long they were going round in the
same old circles, so that Sergeant Reilly's interruption,
soon after the interview commenced came as a welcome
relief. 'There's a Colin Lloyd on the line, sir,' Reilly said,
once they were out in the corridor. 'From Charles
Hanover, the law firm. Wants to know if he should still
come in to see you.'
Mariner had completely forgotten about Lloyd. He shook
his head. 'No, just tell him that things have--' He stopped
mid-sentence. What he was about to say was right, things
had moved on. The Powell family had been cancelled out
of the equation long ago. But, on the other hand, Colin
Lloyd was a lawyer specialising in compensation claims. It
was just possible that he might have something to contribute
regardless of that. Mariner reversed his decision. 'Tell him
I'll be out to see him in about half an hour.'
'Right you are, sir.'

The offices of Charles Hanover were located close to the old
Birmingham law courts and constructed from the same red
brown sandstone imported from the Welsh borders nearly
two hundred years ago. The leaded, stained-glass windows
gave the place a monastic feel and, inside, the polished wood
floors and oak panelling smelled of old money. Colin Lloyd
wasn't your average ambulance chaser. Ancient portraits
gazed down on Mariner from the walls as he followed the
short-skirted secretary to Lloyd's office.
'Good morning Inspector.' Colin Lloyd stood up from
behind his desk and extended a hand in greeting. It was a
firm, no-frills handshake and accompanied by a genuine
smile. Unusual for a lawyer and Mariner liked him immediately.
Tall and athletic, Lloyd had the healthy glow of a
man who's just spent a relaxing fortnight in the Seychelles.
'Our first child was conceived there,' he explained,
sitting down again opposite Mariner. 'We try and go back
when we can. Sentimental reasons, I suppose.'
On his salary, Mariner thought, wryly, it would be no
more of a commitment than a weekend jaunt to France.
"I was stunned to hear about Eddie Barham,' Lloyd was
saying. 'He was a good man.'
That surprised Mariner. 'You knew him?'
'Mainly it was by reputation, I must admit. A colleague
on the criminal side of the business, the one who referred
him to me, spoke highly of him. That view was substantiated
by the one meeting we had.'
'Regarding Mr and Mrs Powell.'
Lloyd's face creased to a mystified frown, but 
presumably he couldn't be expected to remember a case that had
never materialised.
'Mr and Mrs Stephen Powell versus the Birmingham
Health Authority,' Mariner elaborated, to help him out.
'Expecting a baby post-sterilisation.' But already a creeping
realisation was making his spine tingle.
'No, Inspector,' Lloyd corrected him calmly. 'Eddie
came to talk to me about some research his father had done,
into a drug called Pinozalyan.'
Of course he had. Now that Lloyd had said it, it was so
glaringly obvious. So why the hell hadn't Mariner made
that leap before? It was he who had made the assumption
that Lloyd and the Powell family were connected, and in
his head that connection had lingered. 'Shit!' he said out
loud, at his own stupidity.
'You know about all that?' Lloyd asked.
Mariner gave a sardonic laugh. 'Yes. I know all about it.
It just hadn't occurred to me that you would, too. I thought
Eddie had come to talk to you about something altogether
different.'
'So you'll know that Eddie felt that his father had uncovered
some pretty conclusive proof that Pinozalyan had
caused Jamie's autism. Eddie came to me for advice on
whether what he'd got would stand up legally, and on how
he should proceed.'
'And what did you tell him?'
'Unfortunately, I think, not what he wanted to hear. On
the plus side, I felt that with his father's notebooks, the
testimony from all those other parents, he probably had a
strong case against the drug company. On top of that of
course he had the backing of one of the clinical researchers,
Andrew Todd. Todd had actually published a paper on the
harmful effects of the drug back in the late sixties. He'd
also informed the company management, yet they had
failed to act.'
'They circulated a warning to GPs,' Mariner reminded
him.
'A drug alert, yes. But post-Thalidomide there would be
a powerful argument that it wasn't enough. Not when there
were such clear indicators that Pinozalyan was unsafe.'
'But surely all this was exactly what Eddie did want to
hear?'
'Oh yes, that part was. The problem was that Eddie was in
a hurry. Of course he wanted justice, but I gather he was also
under some financial pressure and, as you know, these things
can't be resolved overnight. At best the legal process moves
at a snail's pace, and that's without all the obstacles that a
company as large as Bowes Dorrinton can throw in the way.
And running alongside that are the costs of bringing a case
like this. It could amount to hundreds of thousands of
pounds. Sure, there might be a massive payout at the end, but
you have to have the money to finance it to begin with.
Regretfully, I think by the time Eddie left here I'd successfully
discouraged him from taking any action at all.'
Mariner shook his head. 'Not at all, Mr Lloyd. I think
what you did was divert him from the legitimate legal path.
Eddie Barham took a shortcut. I think he attempted to
blackmail Bowes Dorrinton.'
'Good God.' Lloyd took a moment to absorb the information.
'And you mean his death is tied in with this?'
'Shortly before he died Eddie received two large
payments from an offshore bank account, a month apart.
We've traced them to an outfit called the Queensbridge
Trust. You don't know it, do you?'
Lloyd didn't.
'We haven't yet identified what exactly the organisation
is or does, but I'm certain there will be a link with Bowes
Dorrinton. I think the company played along with Eddie to
begin with, humoured him. But Eddie was a journalist.
They could never be sure that he wouldn't expose the truth
about Pinozalyan.'
'Or increase his demands. On principle, major organisations
don't give in to blackmail. They either ignore it, if
they didn't consider it enough of a threat, or--'

'If they did take the threat seriously?'

'The simplest thing would be to eradicate the source.'
Lloyd's words had a chilling formality.
'And you really think they would go that far?'
'Drug companies have a turnover of billions of pounds
annually, Inspector,' Lloyd said in reply. 'It's a cutthroat,
competitive field. Almost all firms have their own
versions of the same drug, so they're completely dependent
on advertising and promoting positive image. It's not
dissimilar to the rivalry between Coca Cola and Pepsi,
though in this case billions of pounds are spent cosying
up to GPs. And on top of that, many of them still like
to see themselves as benign entities, the saviours of the
modern world, ridding us of disease. If the case were
proven it would cost financially, but far worse, their
reputation and the public confidence in them would be
severely damaged, possibly beyond repair. In my experience
drug companies will do whatever they have to do
to prevent adverse publicity.' Lloyd's confidence was
reassuring. He was the only person who hadn't questioned
Mariner's logic.
'Even murder,' said Mariner.
Lloyd didn't contradict him. 'There are plenty of cases
where clients have been intimidated by large corporations
into withdrawing actions against them, through hate mail,
fire bombs - remember Samantha Drummond?'
Mariner did. The five-year-old had been abducted from
a playground in north London, prompting a nationwide
search.
'Her father was bringing an action against Piersmont for
failing to disclose the sugar content of their paediatric products.
Samantha was released after three days unharmed, but
the message was clear enough. "Watch your back, because
this is what we're capable of." Naturally, Drummond withdrew
his claim.' Lloyd smiled. 'Samantha's abductors were
never traced. The people who specialise in this kind of
damage limitation have massive resources at their disposal,
they're clever and they're careful. They tidy up after themselves.'
'On
the night Eddie was killed his father's notebooks
went missing. Since then, the letters from other parents
who took Pinozalyan have been stolen and, as of yesterday,
Andrew Todd has disappeared.'
Lloyd remained sanguine. 'Someone's done a highly efficient
job, then,' he said.
'You could say that.'
'But if you could track down Andrew Todd--'
'We're working on it, believe me.' Mariner thought for
a moment. 'If Eddie did decide to make a direct approach
to Bowes Dorrinton, who would he have made it to?'
'That depends on how brave or foolhardy he was. He
might have gone for someone right at the top, the chairman
or the chief executive.'
'And what would the likely response be?'
'They'd turn to their legal department who would handle
any complaints or grievances against the company or its
products. Someone would be nominated to look at how
much of a threat was being posed and then deal with it
accordingly.'
The bleachers, Andrew Todd had called them. 'So that's
where we need to look? At the company's legal department?'
'That's
what I would suggest. Though I wouldn't expect
too much. Those guys will be squeaky clean. I can start you
off if you like.' Opening up a desk drawer, Lloyd took out
a plastic wallet, which he passed to Mariner. 'After Eddie
Barham came to see me I did a little research of my own
into Bowes Dorrinton. I didn't get very far, but you're
welcome to it. And if there's anything else I can do to help
I'd be glad to. Gratis.'
Mariner tried to conceal his surprise, but apparently
without success.
Lloyd smiled, sardonically. 'That child I told you about,
our oldest, Daniel, has an autistic spectrum disorder. That's
partly why Eddie was referred to me. Danny was born long
after Pinozalyan had come and gone of course, but if
there's anyone out there who's responsible for inflicting
autism on any child or family I'd bloody well want to see
them brought to book.'
'Well whatever happens at the sharp end of all this, there
are still all those families out there who have suffered as a
result of Pinozalyan,' said Mariner, Anna Barham uppermost in his mind. 'If we could identify them all again-- But
I don't have the time or the manpower to do it.'
'It should be a simple enough task,' said Lloyd. 'The
quickest route would be through the Autistic Association.
We could arrange to have a circular sent out, perhaps in the
guise of a more general survey. If we log the details of
anyone who took the drug all over again we may be able to
instigate a public enquiry into the drug. It will be slow, but
at least it would be something. Even better would be some
press coverage. That would open up the whole case.'
Mariner thought about Ken Moloney. 'I'm sure we can
arrange that,' he said.

Back in his car, Mariner scanned the information Lloyd had
given him. On the list of company personnel, one name on
the board of directors had been highlighted. Alan
Crowther. Or was that just Al? If it was, Al had got careless.
He wondered if it was worth having a chat with
Crowther. It was unlikely to turn up much, but it was all
they'd got. Mariner deliberated about giving Dennis
Weightman another call, but in the event that decision was
taken out of his hands. Arriving back at Granville Lane
there was a message for him to call Weightman.
The detective got straight to the point. 'We've got
Andrew Todd. Some ramblers found him up on the moors
in his car, a length of hosepipe leading in from the exhaust.
He's alive, but only just and we don't know what state he'll
be in if he ever regains consciousness. I'm sorry.'
'Oh Christ.' How many more blows could they take?
'He left a lengthy suicide note detailing what happened
over Pinozalyan,' Weightman went on. 'But I doubt that it
will be of much use. It reads like a history lesson.'
'Can you fax it through anyway?' asked Mariner,
dejected.
'Sure.'
'Oh, and have you ever heard of something called the
Queensbridge Trust?'
Weightman considered. 'Yeah,' he said, at last. 'It
sounds familiar. I'll see what I can find out.'
'Cheers.'
But still there was nothing on Jamie Barham.
When it came through, Mariner pored over the faxed
letter. Todd's handwriting was shaky and barely legible in
places. In it he detailed his research paper on Pinozalyan.
His letter concluded with the hope that someone would have
the courage that he did not. A separate sheet provided
details of meetings and there was a copy of a letter congratulating
him on his retirement.
Mariner compared it with the information given to him
by Lloyd, but none of the names matched. Like Weightman
had said, it was all in the past. No one named by Todd
could be held to account.

Mid-afternoon, Mariner got a summons to Coleman's
office. Invited, he slumped down in the chair facing the
gaffer.
'What are you doing about Holmes and Weller?'
Coleman asked.
'What about them?'
'We've held them for nearly twenty-four hours. Their
brief is putting pressure on. And he wasn't particularly
impressed that you cleared off after only half an hour and
you haven't been back since. What are you playing at,
Tom? In twelve more hours we have to charge them or let
them go.'
'Ironic, isn't it? If we can contact the other parents we

can link Pinozalyan to autism all over again. And I'm sure
that we'll be able to find a connection between Bowes
Dorrinton and the payments made into Eddie Barham's
account, but we still have nothing more than circumstantial
evidence linking anyone to Eddie's Barham's murder. The
guy in the legal department at Bowes Dorrinton who set up
the whole thing will be as clean as a whistle, won't he?'
Coleman was inclined to agree. 'I doubt that when their
records are seized and scrutinised they'll come up with any
invoices for 'hitmen, two', if that's what you mean.'
'To be honest, the interviews with Holmes and Weller
are going nowhere.'
'Would Jamie Barham be able to pick them out of a lineup?'
'Even
if we knew where he was? I doubt it. All we'd find
out was whether he recognised them or not. And that seems
a bit immaterial right now, sir.'
'It's not looking good, is it?'
'Not especially, no.'
'It could have gone either way, Tom. Self-flagellation
isn't going to help.'
'No one else made it happen,' said Mariner and walked
out of Coleman's office.
A little later, Dennis Weightman called back. 'I've
tracked down the Queensbridge Trust. I thought the name
rang bells. It's a local charitable organisation. They were
pretty high profile a few years back, doing "good works"
with local deprived kids, that kind of thing. But since then
they seem to have slipped into oblivion. They're still registered
though, and guess what? Alan Crowther, one of the
trustees, is also--'
'On the board of Bowes Dorrinton.'
'You've got it. It's flimsy, but it's better than nothing.'
'Better than nothing will do fine,' said Mariner. 'Can
you go and talk to him, see if he's willing to help with our
enquiries, say first thing in the morning? I'd like to know
more about the Queensbridge Trust, wouldn't you?'
'Consider it done,' said Weightman. 'I'll keep you
posted.'

By eight o'clock, most of the team had left for the night,
but Mariner remained in his office going back over the
details of the case again and again, trying to find something,
anything, that would link Weller and Holmes to
Eddie Barham one way, or to Bowes Dorrinton the other.
Knox appeared in the doorway.
'Bugger off,' said Mariner.
Knox ignored him. 'You might want to hear this, boss,'
he said. 'St Barnabas, the men's hostel, just phoned.
They've had a bloke show up there, bit of a weirdo. They
don't think he's on booze or drugs, but the description fits
Jamie Barham. They're bringing him in.'
'Christ!'
Mariner was waiting at the desk when the manager of St
Barnabas arrived with a loudly protesting Jamie. The lad
was filthy and his clothes stank, but Mariner wanted to hug
him.
'Shall I?' Sergeant Reilly picked up the phone.
'No,' said Mariner. "I'll do it.' While Reilly took some
details from the hostel manager, Mariner put through the
call. 'Anna?'
'Yes.' Her voice was stretched taut with anxiety.
'We've found Jamie. He's fine. A bit grubby, but I'm
sure he'll clean up.'
'Oh, thank God.' Her voice choked with emotion.
'Where is he?'
'We've got him here at the station.'
She must have broken every speed limit to get there, and
burst into the station only minutes later. 'Where is he?'
'Through there.'
Immediately he saw his sister, Jamie walked over to her
and put a weary head on her shoulder, while his right hand
grabbed at her coat, clutching on for dear life.
Her lower lip trembled. 'Hi Jamie.'

Mariner could see she was holding back tears. 'If you
can wait a few minutes, we can get the FME to give him
the once over,' he offered.
'No thanks,' she said curtly, with a look that said you've
done enough damage. 'His own doctor will do that.'
'Okay.' It hurt, but it was no more than he deserved.
'Come on, Jamie, let's go home.'
Mariner watched them go out of the building. The hostel
manager had finished and was leaving too.
'Thanks for contacting us so promptly,' Mariner said,
the relief of finding Jamie alive had sapped what remained
of his dwindling energy.
'No problem.' But moments later, the manager was
back, holding something out to Mariner. "I forgot to give
you this. It was in his pocket. We had to take it off him.
Something like this can cause a riot in the hostel. It's partly
how we knew he wasn't one of our usual crew.' He handed
Mariner a mobile phone.
Something inside Mariner crowed. 'Cheers mate,' he
said, with remarkable calm. 'Thanks a lot.'

Jamie had fallen asleep in the car on the short journey
home, and Anna had to wake him to get him into the flat.
He was so groggy he didn't even protest when Anna put
him under the shower, and afterwards he munched his way
listlessly through almost a whole pizza while Anna put a
call through to Dr Payne's surgery. Inevitably, all she got
was the after hours answering service, but moments later
the doctor himself called her back. With some difficulty,
Anna explained what had happened during the last forty
eight hours. Dr Payne was typically unfazed and full of
concern. 'How are you?' he asked.
'I'm okay. But I am worried about Jamie. He's too
quiet.'
"I'll come straight away and check him over.'
'I'd really appreciate that, thank you.' While she waited,
Anna thought about DI Mariner. She'd been pretty 
unpleasant to him. God, she'd hit him too! In truth she'd been
annoyed with him for deserting her at the weekend, and her
anxiety about Jamie had compounded the anger, but
Mariner didn't really deserve that. After all, he was only
doing his job. She must call him to apologise. She'd do it
later when Jamie was settled. No she wouldn't, she'd do it
now. But of course, when she tried, Mariner was unavailable.
When her door buzzer sounded, just a few minutes
later, Anna half hoped that it might be him, but it wasn't,
it was Dr Payne with a wonderfully reassuring smile.
'So, how's the patient?'
'Strangely subdued,' Anna said. 'Look who's here, Jamie.'
But Jamie had seen who it was and was suddenly
animated again. In fact rarely had Anna witnessed such a
look of sheer abject terror on his face. 'No! No black
mouth! No black mouth!' he shouted, backing hastily
towards the bedroom.
Anna was stunned. He was more traumatised than she'd
realised. 'Jamie! It's all right. It's Dr Payne, Jamie's
friend,' she tried to reassure him, casting the doctor an
apologetic smile. "I told you. He's all over the place.' After
a few minutes, she managed to calm Jamie by fetching him
a drink and putting on a video.
Dr Payne dismissed Jamie's reaction with his customary
understanding. 'He's been through a lot. It's not at
all surprising that he should be reminded of the last
ordeal. It might help if I prescribe you something to help
him sleep, just for a few nights, until he's back into a
normal routine again.' Sitting down at Anna's kitchen
table, he took out his prescription pad and pen and scribbled
down something. 'Now, let's go and have a look at
him.'
This time Jamie remained passive while Anna took off
his shirt, and he allowed Dr Payne to listen to his chest.
The phone rang.
"I'll take it in the kitchen,' Anna said, to minimise the
disruption.

It was Mariner, 'Hello, I got your message. How's it
going?'
'All right, thanks.' Now that he was on the line, Anna
didn't know quite what to say to him. 'Look, I wanted
to--' but as she spoke something caught Anna's eye.
Something embossed in gold on the leather case of Dr
Payne's prescription pad: BDP, the capital letters all interlinked.
That was interesting; he must know the company
too. Perhaps he'd have some idea
Snippets of a past conversation crept uninvited into her
head. Who would Eddie have told about this? Who would
he have trusted? Anna's mind raced as she grappled to
achieve some kind of coherency to the invading thoughts.
Jamie shouting No black mouth!
'Are you all right, Anna?' Mariner asked, at the other
end of the line.
'Yes,' Anna said, immediately distracted by further
remembrance. How did they get in so easily? The voices
echoed. Eddie went out leaving Jamie . . . Maybe he always
left the door on the latch. Or somebody else had a key to
Eddie's house.
Who would Eddie have trusted? Who had she trusted?
The person who knew her family intimately and would have
known her mother's medical history, who knew about
Jamie's obsessions with Hula Hoops and radio transmission
masts, and knew about the spare key to Eddie's house.
Anna shivered violently as understanding took shape.
'Look I've got to go,' she said suddenly. 'The doctor is
here examining Jamie.'
'Okay,' said Mariner, uncertainly.
'We'll keep in touch.'
'Sure.'
Terminating the call so abruptly, Anna could sense
Mariner's confusion at the other end of the line but she had
to give herself time to think this through. She must be
wrong about this. There would be a reasonable, rational
explanation for everything. All she had to do was ask.
'Dr Payne,' Anna walked back into the lounge, but unexpectedly
the doctor and Jamie weren't there. She went
through to the bathroom, and as a last resort, Jamie's
bedroom, but the flat was empty. They had gone.

As weird phone calls went, that one was off the scale,
thought Mariner. She hadn't even told him what her original
call was about. With Jamie safely recovered, he'd
anticipated an opportunity to patch things up, but he'd got
it wrong, again. It was becoming a habit. But the last few
days had been a hell of a strain on her. She must be
exhausted. And so was he. He couldn't do this any more.
He'd have a quiet drink at the Boatman, pick up a takeaway
and head for home. Then Knox appeared in the doorway,
like a familiar picture in its frame.


Chapter Twenty-six

'Dr Payne?' Anna called out, bewildered. What the hell
was happening? Then she noticed that the front door was
slightly ajar. Struggling to quell a rising panic, Anna
rushed out into the hallway, her fears beginning to crystallise.
This late at night, everything was deathly quiet,
there was no one around. She ran towards the lifts, but saw
that they were both at ground floor level. Surely there
hadn't been time - then, deafening in the silence, the door
at the other end of the hallway, the one leading up to the
roof garden, banged shut on its spring.
Anna's blood ran cold. 'No,' she gasped out loud.
'Jamie!' Anna raced up the stairwell, taking the stairs
two at a time. She burst on to the roof, to see Jamie and
Dr Payne standing by the waist-height railings, like a
couple of old friends admiring the view.
Dr Payne turned towards her. 'Anna,' he said, mildly.
'Come and join us.'
Anna walked slowly towards them. 'What's going on?
What are you doing?' she asked, hoarsely, her voice barely
audible, even to her own ears.
'You must have already worked that out, Anna,' smiled
the doctor. 'I'm protecting myself. I
have to make sure that
no one will ever know.'
Anna was chilled to the marrow. She'd been right. "I can
help you,' she said, urgently, hating herself for pleading
with him. "I can keep it to myself. I won't tell a soul. I
promise.'
The doctor shook his head. 'It's too much to expect. I
need to be absolutely certain that I will never be implicated
in what has happened to your family.' In the white glow
cast by the floodlights his face took on the grotesque
appearance of a gargoyle.
'What can you hope to do?' Anna said, finding sudden
strength. 'That was Inspector Mariner on the phone. He
knows you're here. If anything happens to us--'
'But I'm here to help, Anna. I'm your family doctor, an
old friend, and when I tell Mariner what happened, he'll
think the same thing as everyone else.' He smiled
grotesquely. 'That it was a tragic accident. He'll have no
reason to think otherwise. It's the kind of thing that could
have occurred at any time, especially now, when Jamie is
so traumatised.'
'What accident? What are you talking about?' But even
as she spoke, Anna knew.
'You've come a long way in the last few weeks, Anna,'
he said. 'Eddie would be proud of you. But how far would
you go? How far would you really go for Jamie?' And he
took a step nearer to the edge.

'Christ, I can't believe I didn't see it before. It's been there
all the time, staring us right in the face!' Mariner talked as
he ran, long strides towards the area car, Knox running to
keep up. Within seconds they were on the road and speeding
towards Brindley Place. The streets were steady with
traffic even at this time in the evening, but with enough
slack to clear the way ahead. Mariner dreaded to think what
they were going to find. 'Please God, let us not be too late,'
he murmured under his breath. As they drove he asked
CAD to run a vehicle check. Moments later the radio
crackled with the information that the car registered to Dr
Owen Payne was a green metallic Lexus. The officer
recited the registration.
'And there it is,' said Mariner, as they squealed into the
parking bay below Anna's flat, to see it looming alongside
Anna's bright red Mazda. There was even a 'Doctor on
Call' sign resting audaciously on the dashboard. Knox
skidded to a halt.
'Have we got back-up, boss?' he asked, but Mariner
didn't hear. He was already out of the car and running
towards the building where he hammered on the doors
loudly until the doorman appeared.
'All right, keep your hair on,' he grumbled, as Mariner
and Knox thrust identification in his face.
'Has anyone left the building during the last fifteen
minutes?' Knox asked him.
'No.'
'You sure?'
'Positive. What is--?'
'What about the back entrance?'
"I locked that up hours ago.'
So they must still be here.
'Don't let anyone out of this building until we say you
can,' ordered Knox, running after Mariner who was
already racing up the stairs.
'I can't--' But the protests went unheard.
The third floor was surprisingly undisturbed. Emerging
from the stairwell Mariner and Knox moved slowly along
the landing towards Anna's flat. Seeing the door slightly
ajar, Mariner pushed it, gently. 'Anna? Is everything all
right?' There was no reply. The flat was deserted. They
checked each of the rooms in turn. 'So where the fuck are
they?' said Mariner.
He walked through Anna's flat and into the kitchen,
trying to figure it out. Looking out of the window on to the
car park, everything was quiet and normal. What he'd
expected to be a siege was beginning to look like another
abduction. 'But if Payne's car is still there,' he said, thinking
aloud. 'Where have they gone?' His gaze swept over
the canal, its towpath dark and empty at this time of night.
'Go and talk to the doorman again,' he said, to Knox.
'Make sure there isn't any other way of getting out.'
'Right boss.' Knox disappeared down the hallway.
Then, turning away from the window, Mariner happened
to glance down at the table. Knox!' he yelled. 'Get back
here!'
Anna had always considered the roof garden beautiful.
An effort had been made to create a soothing green oasis
away from the stress of city living. But in the light of
the horror unfolding before her it had become monstrous
and ugly. She was exhausted and part of her just wanted
this over. She wanted to close her eyes and for this to
end. But she had to keep Dr Payne talking. If he let go
of Jamie now, it would be disastrous. But she needn't
have worried. The last couple of days had reaped one
advantage at least, and Jamie was clinging to the doctor
like a leech.
'So you were the one Eddie trusted,' Anna said, advancing
slowly, straining to form the words.
The doctor smiled ruefully. 'Eddie and your parents,
yes. I do regret that Anna. I hope you can believe me. I'm
truly sorry for the way things have worked out.'
He was sickening. Anna couldn't imagine now how
she'd ever even liked the man. 'So why didn't you put
a stop to it?' she said, coldly. 'You could have. You
could have warned my parents and Eddie that they were
in danger.'
'No, Anna. I couldn't afford to allow your father or
Eddie to make that information public, any more than the
drug company could. When it was first suspected that
there might be a problem with Pinozalyan, Bowes
Dorrinton sent out a memo, warning of the dangers, long
before I prescribed it for your mother. Oh, other GPs
probably ignored the warning too, but if your father's
little campaign had succeeded, I would have been the one
singled out and accused of negligence. Bowes Dorrinton
would have made sure of that. They'd have needed a
scapegoat. Not to mention the details about Pinozalyan I
later removed from your mother's medical records. I'd
be struck off for that.' He was becoming agitated, his
breathing coming fast and uneven. 'Bowes Dorrinton
knew it, so they used me to keep an eye on your father
and provide them with any additional inside information
they needed to get things under control.'
'Like where Dad was giving his lectures. And Jamie's
obsession with transmission masts,' Anna said, bitterly.
'You have to understand my position, Anna. I was a
young GP, just starting out. I had my own family to think
of, debts to pay off. Alongside that warning were the
financial rewards for prescribing drugs. What was I to
do? I was offered good incentives for my cooperation,
too; holidays abroad, the odd bonus payment to supplement
my pension fund. I'd have been a fool not to go
along with it. And up until your parents' accident, I really
had no idea of how far they would go. That came as
quite a shock, believe me, but by then it was too late.
When Eddie started pursuing the same line of enquiry, I
was in too deep. I had to stop him.' Beads of sweat had
broken out on the doctor's upper lip. Anna was close
enough now to see them glistening in the light.
'Did you kill Eddie?' Anna asked, her voice a whisper.
'No, Anna, I didn't kill Eddie. I merely provided access
to the house and a sterile syringe. It wouldn't even have
been needed if Eddie hadn't come back so soon. All they
wanted were your father's notebooks.' Jamie moaned and
struggled at his side. 'Jamie's getting bored,' he said. 'We
should get this over with.'
'And the people at Bowes Dorrinton?' Anna pesisted. 'Is
this their idea, too?'
'Oh no, this is what you might call simple self-preservation.
I've no other option. But the final decision is yours,
Anna. Who is it going to be? Jamie, or you?'
'How do I know that you won't let Jamie fall anyway?
After all that you've done, why should I trust anything you
say?'
'That's your choice, of course. But you're his only
chance, Anna.' Payne relinquished his grasp slightly and
Jamie struggled to wrench himself free.
'Wait!' Anna blurted, desperately. "I'll do it. You don't
have to hurt him. He won't give you away. Look, I'll do
it.' Feeling suddenly weightless with fear, her legs shaking
almost uncontrollably, Anna stepped up on to the first and
then second rung of the railings. Payne watched, urging her
on with his eyes. She glanced below to where the city
streets swayed and blurred. So this was how her life would
end, in ultimate, futile sacrifice.
'Anna, stop!' Another voice rang out over the roof and
with overwhelming relief Anna recognised it as Mariner's.
'You don't have to,' he said. 'It's over. Walk away from
the edge, Payne. And bring Jamie with you.' Everything on
the rooftop froze. 'It's the only sensible thing, Doctor,'
Mariner continued, persuasively. 'You can't win this. We
know what you've done. We have records of your calls.
We've just heard your confession. You have nothing to gain
by this now. There's nowhere else to go.'
For what seemed an eternity nothing happened as Payne
hesitated, weighing up his situation. Anna halted, poised on
the precipice. Seconds ticked by, everything deathly silent,
but for the background hum of an ignorant city amplified
by the light rain that had begun to fall. Then miraculously
Dr Payne began, inch by inch, to move back across the roof
towards the policeman. For a moment it looked as if he
would comply, until suddenly, as Anna's foot touched back
down on the roof, he shoved Jamie to one side, turned and
lunged for the railings.
Mariner and Knox exploded from the doorway as Jamie,
panicked by the sudden activity started running towards the
outer edge of the roof.
'No!' Anna screamed. Mariner took a flying leap at
Jamie, bringing them both crashing heavily onto the
concrete, but for Dr Payne it was too late. Blocked by
furniture and plant pots, Knox couldn't get to him fast
enough to prevent him from hurling himself over the edge
to certain death.
The sirens of the summoned back-up team grew louder.
Retaining a tight hold on Jamie's shirt, Mariner got to his
feet and walked over to where Anna stood, dazed and
shaking. He put a protective arm around her. 'Come on,'
he said. 'Let's get off here.'
Behind them Knox turned into his radio. 'Echo Charlie
Two-Nine to control, ambulance required at Brindley Place.'

In Anna's flat, officers came and went and statements were
taken. Mariner went down to watch the mutilated body of
Dr Owen Payne secured in its body bag and being loaded
into the ambulance. When he got back, most of the others
had gone, leaving Knox alone with Anna. Jamie wasn't
around.
'In there,' Knox told him, gesturing towards the
bedroom. Exhausted by two days wandering the streets, for
once Jamie was asleep. And as if that wasn't enough
surprises for one day, Knox had made tea. But Mariner
declined the offer, so there was nothing more for him to do.
"I'll get going then, boss,' he said.
Mariner saw him out. 'Thanks, Tony. You've done a
good job,' he said.
Knox flashed a sardonic smile. 'First time for everything.
Put in a word for me with the gaffer eh?'
"I'll see what I can do.'

"I'll even promise to stay away from his missus.'
'Is that why--?'
Knox grinned. "I was more ambitious then: the Assistant
Chief Constable's wife. Not for nothing was I known as
"Opportunity Knox".'
'Someone must have found out.'
'He caught us at it, actually.'

'You bloody idiot.'
'Oh, I don't know. Look where I ended up. See you,
boss.'
Mariner knew that he should go too, but as Anna hadn't
suggested it yet, neither would he. He walked through to
where she was in the kitchen.
'What made you come back here tonight?' she asked
him. 'Was it my phone call?'
'It certainly got me wondering. But when Jamie was
picked up he had a mobile phone in his pocket that he must
have lifted from Weller - one of his abductors. The manager
at St Barnabas gave it to me after you'd gone. We traced the
calls on it. Just after I spoke to you, Knox came to tell me that
one of the names that featured on the account regularly in the
last few days was a Dr Owen Payne. We got here and I saw
those.' Jamie's pictures were scattered across the table,
amongst them the snowflake and the garden.
'Not bad for a beginner. Thanks for showing up.'
'It's what I'm paid to do.'
'And I'm sorry, I've been a bitch.'
'Well, the last couple of days haven't been much fun,
have they?' But if you want to make it up to me--
"I probably shouldn't have hit you though.' Mariner
shrugged it off. 'That shirt's a mistake by the way,' she
said, to bridge the awkward silence. "I'm not sure that the
bloodstain effect really works.'
Mariner glanced down at where blood had seeped
through the fabric. 'No? Well, that's police work for you.
No respect for fashion.'
'Let me see.' Before he could argue, she was unbuttoning
his shirt and pulling it loose from his trousers. At one
point her fingertips touched his bare flesh making Mariner
gasp, but not with pain. A series of raw abrasions an inch
wide spread from his stomach down over his abdomen,
angry red against his pale skin.
'You should get those seen to.'
"I'll be all right.'
'Well at least let me clean them up.' She returned from
the bathroom, moments later, with cotton wool. Filling a
bowl with warm water, she began gently dabbing at his
wounds, tracing their downward progression until they
disappeared beneath his waistband. She looked up at him,
a mischievous gleam in her eyes, before Mariner felt a tug
and heard the rasp of his zip being lowered. Oh God. Why
hadn't he cashed in that prescription?
'Look,' he began. 'I've got this--'
But suddenly, uttering an expletive, she jumped back
from him, and Mariner turned to see Jamie shuffling sleepily
into the room.
'Want a drink,' he said, walking over to Anna and
tugging her arm.
She gave Mariner an anguished glance. 'Sorry,' she
mouthed.
Christ, so am I. 'I'd better go.' With a silent howl of
frustration, Mariner turned away from them and zipped up.
Jamie provided for; Anna walked Mariner to the door.
'Thanks for everything,' she said.
'Don't you mean, thanks for screwing everything up?'
'You were there when we needed you.'
'Now that we have evidence of Dr Payne's involvement,
we can press charges for Eddie's murder,' Mariner said,
still trying to wrench his mind away from the disappointment.
'We've got a lawyer working on the case now, too.
And if Andrew Todd pulls through, the case against Bowes
Dorrinton will be blown wide open.' He'd make the phone
call himself to Ken Moloney first thing in the morning.
'You and all the other families can look forward to the
justice and the compensation you deserve. You'll be able to
get your life back.'
'If I want it.' Suddenly she seemed less certain. 'The last
few days have brought a few things into sharp focus. Look
I'm sorry about--' She gestured back towards the kitchen.
'Some other time perhaps?'
'Sure.' Perhaps.
Outside, the rain had turned into a steady downpour, and
Knox, of course, had taken the car. Turning up his collar
ineffectually against the torrent, Mariner started towards
Broad Street to flag a taxi.

The End.


Author's Note

The National Autistic Society estimates the population of people with Autistic Spectrum Disorders in the UK to be
over 500,000, ranging from those people moderately
affected to those with greater difficulties. Whilst professionals
are becoming more skilled at diagnosing and
managing the condition, the specific causes of autism
remain largely unknown. The debate about the link between
the MMR vaccine and autism rages on, but at the time of
writing the link is far from being proven.
In a small number of cases certain drugs may be used to
control the effects of autism. Some of these have been
mentioned in this book. However the drug Pinozalyan is
entirely fictitious, as is the pharmaceutical company Bowes
Dorrinton, and to the author's knowledge there is no established
or hypothesised connection between any medication
taken during pregnancy and the onset of autism.