carefully. Shall I call you when I get there?’
‘I’ll be out and about. I’ve got Becky’s number. I’ll call you.’
The address Flynn had given him for Eleanor Ryland was not so very far away, an hour’s run down the M40 and into Oxfordshire, the south Cotswolds. On the motorway Mariner took it at a steady speed but had to work hard to ward off the fear of trucks swerving and slamming into the side of his car. Only when he stopped and felt the tension drain out of his shoulders did he realise how tightly he’d been gripping the steering wheel.
A little way out of the village of Wythinford, The Manse was a Georgian manor house built of the distinctive yellow ashlar stone that characterised the Cotswold area, and set thirty metres back from the lane behind wrought-iron gates and glossy rhododendrons; a blob of mellow warmth in the pallid, frosty landscape. It occurred to Mariner that if things had turned out differently this is where he might have spent his summer holidays, instead of in a caravan at Barmouth. Initially he hadn’t the nerve to go in, but the couple of reporters camped outside made it easier for him to loiter inconspicuously for a while.
‘Any action?’ he asked one of them.
‘Not for days. We’ll be packing up soon.’
When Mariner did finally get up the courage to approach the gates, his warrant card was enough to get him past the uniformed constable standing sentry duty. The dog he could hear energetically barking on the other side as he rapped the knocker, did nothing more than wag its tail and sniff around his legs once the door was opened. When her son’s wedding photographs had been taken Eleanor Ryland was impressively tall, but since then her height had been diminished by the effects of osteoporosis, which had curved her shoulders over like the handle of a walking cane, and her clothes hung loosely from her wasted frame. But she stood unwavering to greet Mariner, sharp eyes peering from a face that was pale and furrowed with age, her thinning silver hair drawn back and fixed with a tortoiseshell clip from which wispy strands escaped.
‘Inspector Mariner,’ she read from his warrant card, before studying his face. ‘Are you new? I don’t recall the name.’ Despite the physical frailty, her voice was steady and clear; the clipped no-nonsense intonation of the upper classes.
‘I’ve been working with DI Flynn.’
‘Ah yes. Mr Flynn. He’s a pleasant young man.’ She stepped back. ‘Nelson. Let the gentleman in!’ The dog, a rusty brown wire-haired effort of an animal, similar to those pictured in Ryland’s memoirs, shuffled backwards, sniffing the air.
Inside, the house was a museum piece, not so different from those country homes that Mariner’s mother had dragged him round as a kid, on the rare occasions when she’d been trying to infuse him with some culture. They passed through a cavernous vestibule into a formal living room where Queen Anne chairs, a sofa and several small card tables were arranged in front of a real log fire. French windows overlooked a terrace and several acres of lawn and shrubs. Eleanor Ryland invited Mariner to sit, before lowering herself carefully into the armchair facing him. ‘This is about Geoffrey I imagine,’ she said.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Ryland.’
‘Thank you.’ She seemed to be studying him intently. ‘I suppose you’re of the same view?’
‘What view is that?’
‘That he was killed because of Joseph, his driver.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I feel that’s what I should believe, because it’s what everyone keeps telling me.’
‘But you think differently?’
‘Joseph seemed so agreeable, and always so genuinely grateful to my son for what he had done.’
‘You met him?’
‘Many times. He’d been with Geoffrey for several years.
Of course everyone had always warned Geoffrey that he was playing with fire by employing a former client, but he believed strongly that if he wasn’t
‘I’ll be out and about. I’ve got Becky’s number. I’ll call you.’
The address Flynn had given him for Eleanor Ryland was not so very far away, an hour’s run down the M40 and into Oxfordshire, the south Cotswolds. On the motorway Mariner took it at a steady speed but had to work hard to ward off the fear of trucks swerving and slamming into the side of his car. Only when he stopped and felt the tension drain out of his shoulders did he realise how tightly he’d been gripping the steering wheel.
A little way out of the village of Wythinford, The Manse was a Georgian manor house built of the distinctive yellow ashlar stone that characterised the Cotswold area, and set thirty metres back from the lane behind wrought-iron gates and glossy rhododendrons; a blob of mellow warmth in the pallid, frosty landscape. It occurred to Mariner that if things had turned out differently this is where he might have spent his summer holidays, instead of in a caravan at Barmouth. Initially he hadn’t the nerve to go in, but the couple of reporters camped outside made it easier for him to loiter inconspicuously for a while.
‘Any action?’ he asked one of them.
‘Not for days. We’ll be packing up soon.’
When Mariner did finally get up the courage to approach the gates, his warrant card was enough to get him past the uniformed constable standing sentry duty. The dog he could hear energetically barking on the other side as he rapped the knocker, did nothing more than wag its tail and sniff around his legs once the door was opened. When her son’s wedding photographs had been taken Eleanor Ryland was impressively tall, but since then her height had been diminished by the effects of osteoporosis, which had curved her shoulders over like the handle of a walking cane, and her clothes hung loosely from her wasted frame. But she stood unwavering to greet Mariner, sharp eyes peering from a face that was pale and furrowed with age, her thinning silver hair drawn back and fixed with a tortoiseshell clip from which wispy strands escaped.
‘Inspector Mariner,’ she read from his warrant card, before studying his face. ‘Are you new? I don’t recall the name.’ Despite the physical frailty, her voice was steady and clear; the clipped no-nonsense intonation of the upper classes.
‘I’ve been working with DI Flynn.’
‘Ah yes. Mr Flynn. He’s a pleasant young man.’ She stepped back. ‘Nelson. Let the gentleman in!’ The dog, a rusty brown wire-haired effort of an animal, similar to those pictured in Ryland’s memoirs, shuffled backwards, sniffing the air.
Inside, the house was a museum piece, not so different from those country homes that Mariner’s mother had dragged him round as a kid, on the rare occasions when she’d been trying to infuse him with some culture. They passed through a cavernous vestibule into a formal living room where Queen Anne chairs, a sofa and several small card tables were arranged in front of a real log fire. French windows overlooked a terrace and several acres of lawn and shrubs. Eleanor Ryland invited Mariner to sit, before lowering herself carefully into the armchair facing him. ‘This is about Geoffrey I imagine,’ she said.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs Ryland.’
‘Thank you.’ She seemed to be studying him intently. ‘I suppose you’re of the same view?’
‘What view is that?’
‘That he was killed because of Joseph, his driver.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I feel that’s what I should believe, because it’s what everyone keeps telling me.’
‘But you think differently?’
‘Joseph seemed so agreeable, and always so genuinely grateful to my son for what he had done.’
‘You met him?’
‘Many times. He’d been with Geoffrey for several years.
Of course everyone had always warned Geoffrey that he was playing with fire by employing a former client, but he believed strongly that if he wasn’t
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