Blood-Tied

  Title Page

  Prologue

  As soon as the lie left her lips she realised her mistake.

  She stood behind the armchair avoiding his eyes, her trembling fingers gripping the upholstery and praying that now he would leave. She felt weary suddenly. She groped her way round the chair and painfully lowered herself into it.

  He hadn’t moved from the window and she risked a glance in his direction. He was leaning back against the window sill, his hands in his trouser pockets. What was he thinking? Would he leave her alone now? His face gave nothing away.

  ‘Was that all you wanted?’ she asked, clasping her hands in her lap. ‘I’m very tired…’

  ‘I’m glad you recognised the injustice,’ he interrupted. ‘You understand that, don’t you?’ He turned to stare at her and she winced under his close scrutiny.

  ‘Of course.’ She pulled her eyes from his gaze and looked towards the oxygen cylinder on its trolley in the corner of the room. She must stay calm, yet already she could feel the constriction in her chest. Perhaps now that he had got the reassurance he was seeking he would leave her in peace.

  She felt him move and she turned her head. He stepped towards her and crouched down, his knees almost touching hers. She recoiled into her seat.

  He smiled but his eyes remained cold and empty. ‘It was wrong what he did. It should never have been yours and soon it will be mine. By rights.’

  Her breathing was becoming laboured now. With his face so close to hers she could almost imagine that he was pressing against her, his weight pushing down on her lungs. She pulled her head away, arching her neck, trying to take control.

  ‘My air…’ she gasped, gesturing frantically towards the cylinder in the corner.

  He stood up and turned to where she was pointing, but made no indication that he understood her meaning.

  She groped for the arm of the chair and pushed herself to a standing position, pausing to catch her ever-diminishing breath. She stumbled past him but he moved ahead of her. He reached the oxygen cylinder and pulled it away from the corner of the room. She halted, panting, and steadied herself against the back of the sofa.

  ‘Mask…’ she wheezed. She reached out towards the contraption. The pain in her chest was intensifying. Time was running out.

  And then she saw his face and she knew what he intended. His black eyes were no longer empty. Malevolence filled them. In spite of everything she’d learnt about him, she had underestimated his capacity to hate. Instead of buying herself time, her little indiscretion had merely goaded him into revealing the extent of his vindictiveness.

  She watched helplessly as he wheeled the oxygen container away from her and out into the hallway. He turned back and stood on the threshold, observing her. She stared back, struggling for breath, her vision blurring as she weakened, knowing she didn’t have the strength to take a step forward, let alone get past him.

  He began slowly shaking his head. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. She could barely hear his words against the rasping sound in her ears as she fought to stay conscious. ‘But it’s not as though you’ve years ahead of you. You said it yourself; it’s only a matter of time. Why wait? Do it now.’ He folded his arms. ‘Then everything will be resolved. Everything will…come to an end.’ He laughed out loud at his own witticism.

  The sound of his vile laughter was her last memory. The groping for air became too much for her frail breathless body and she slid on to the floor, her damaged lungs expelling the last gasps of life.

  1

  It began with a telephone call. Not late at night or in the small hours of the morning, which might have served as a harbinger of bad news, but early in the evening. Yet something unnerved Esme Quentin the moment the telephone rang. Perhaps it was a sixth sense which forewarned her, developed over years of being on her guard. Certainly nothing which had gone before, no event that she could recall or snippet of information she could bring to mind had hinted at what she was about to hear and prepared her for what was to follow afterwards. For Esme it was the first step on what would prove to be a strange and bewildering journey.

  When the call came Esme was kneeling in the large inglenook fireplace in her cottage, trying to relight the wood-burning stove which she had mistakenly allowed to go out, so engrossed had she been in her current research project. Local Ordnance Survey maps were strewn across the floor and reference books lay open on every available surface in the room. She was plotting the route of the long since defunct Shropton Canal, recording snippets of historical information to put into her report, in accordance with her client’s brief.

  April had started a cold and wet month and she was glad of the comforting warmth of the woodstove in her living room where she worked. It was only when the chill of the room penetrated her absorbed state that she realised the fire had died. If it had been later she might have opted to go to bed and tackle the job the next morning but the fascination of her task, and the early hour of the evening prompted her attempt to reignite the embers.

  The shrill pitch of the telephone startled her. She frowned and wiped her charcoal-blackened fingers on her jeans. For a moment she didn’t move, just stared towards the instrument, gripped by a sense of dread. Then a compelling urgency took over. She scrambled to her feet and stumbled across the room to answer it.

  ‘Esme Quentin. Hello?’

  The distress of her niece, Gemma, at the other end of the line was evident.

  ‘I’m at Shropton hospital,’ she said, in a shaking voice.

  At first Esme didn’t understand. Gemma was a theatre nurse, so it was perfectly usual for her to be at Shropton hospital, but as Esme opened her mouth to frame a question Gemma’s next words explained everything and sent a stab of horror through Esme’s body.

  ‘It’s Mum,’ Gemma’s continued, emotion threatening to overpower her. ‘She’s been beaten up. Badly. You better come. They don’t know if she’ll survive.’

  *

  The hush in the intensive care unit was broken only by the relentless rhythm of beeps and clicks from the monitoring machines. Esme stared with dismay at her elder sister’s bloodied and swollen face through the tangle of tubes snaking into her nose and mouth. Who had done this? Who had inflicted such injuries to leave her so damaged?

  Esme’s fingers were instinctively drawn to the disfigurement on her own face and a memory of another time and another place filtered into her consciousness. She thrust it from her mind. Thoughts of such times were inappropriate here. It was Elizabeth she had to concentrate on now.

  It wasn’t surprising that, amidst the paraphernalia of medical technology, Elizabeth appeared much older than her five years’ seniority over Esme, more like sixty than fifty. In addition, the extent of her injuries emphasised a vulnerability that Esme had never before attributed to her.

  Esme lowered herself on to a chair. She stared at the pristine white sheets and became aware of the grubbiness of her appearance. Her jeans were streaked with black smudges from kneeling in the fireplace and her unruly hair had escaped its fastening and was sticking out in all directions. She smoothed the loose strands back off her face, tucking them into the clip on the top of her head, and noticed that her fingers smelt of wood smoke. She shuffled uncomfortably on her chair and slid her hands under her thighs. She’d always been the scruffy one in the family. In comparison with Elizabeth, that was. Even with half her face shattered, Elizabeth managed to retain a certain calm elegance.

  Esme sighed. This wasn’t real. Somehow she had been transported into a false world, where everything was wrong, unnatural, bizarre. She struggled to find the right word but nothing adequately described it.

  There was m
ovement from the other side of the bed. Esme looked across at Gemma. She was rocking slightly in her seat. Even though hospitals were familiar territory to Gemma she looked as bewildered as Esme, as though she didn’t recognise where she was.

  Gemma looked up. Her thick chestnut hair hung heavily around her face, making her round hazel eyes seem even larger than usual.

  ‘You OK?’ said Esme. Her voice sounded disproportionately loud in the hushed tension of the room.

  Gemma smiled weakly and nodded.

  There was a sound behind them. Esme looked round and saw a nurse in the doorway.

  ‘That’s Helen,’ said Gemma getting up. ‘She might have something to tell us.’ She went out into the corridor. Esme followed.

  Helen was a hospital colleague of Gemma’s. Esme vaguely remembered meeting her once before.

  ‘This must be one hell of a shock, Gem. I’m so sorry.’ Helen glanced at Esme, concern showing in her eyes from behind wide-rimmed glasses.

  ‘She’s going to be all right, isn’t she?’ Gemma’s voice had an edge of despair.

  Helen looked uneasy. ‘You know what it’s like with head injuries, Gem. Too early to say. The first few hours are the most critical.’

  ‘When will she come round?’ asked Esme.

  Helen shook her head. ‘I’m afraid we don’t know that either. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’

  ‘They didn’t say what exactly happened,’ continued Gemma. ‘Why was she brought here?’

  Helen glanced down at her watch. ‘The police should be here soon. They’ll fill you in. Apparently she was found in the park.’

  ‘What park?’

  ‘Here, in town.’

  ‘What was she doing there?’

  ‘I don’t really know any more. Like I say…’ She looked over Gemma’s shoulder. ‘Ah, looks like the police are here. You can ask them.’ She approached two men coming out of the lift and spoke to them.

  Esme saw Gemma shudder. ‘I could never understand it before, when relatives said they hated hospitals,’ Gemma whispered. ‘Now I know.’

  Esme went over and put an arm round her shoulders. ‘You’ve never been on the other side of the fence before.’

  ‘Why have I never noticed the cold, unsympathetic sense of the place? I’ve walked these corridors hundreds of times, yet now they seem unfamiliar, even threatening.’ She looked blank. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’

  Helen came back up the corridor, the police following behind.

  ‘They’d like a quick word,’ said Helen, as she passed. ‘I’ve told them you’ve only just arrived. They said it won’t take long.’ She went back to her duties.

  Esme turned towards the two policemen. The younger man was skinny with cropped blond hair and bright blue eyes. The older one was shorter and stockier. His grey hair was pushed back off his face but his long fringe had slipped down and partly obscured his left eye.

  ‘Detective Inspector Barry and this is Detective Sergeant Morris,’ said the older man. Both men held out their police identity. Esme glanced at both in turn. She was aware of their brief scrutiny of the scar on her face but neither gaze lingered.

  ‘I’m Mrs Holland’s sister, Esme Quentin, and this is her daughter.’

  ‘I’m sorry to impose on you at a time like this,’ said the older man, ‘but if you could answer a couple of questions –’

  ‘What happened to my mother?’ said Gemma, her eyes darting from one to the other.

  ‘We’re treating it as a mugging, at present,’ said the inspector, ‘as there was no sign of her handbag. She did carry one, I assume?’

  Gemma nodded.

  ‘One of the park staff found her,’ said the sergeant. ‘There must have been a struggle, which would explain her injuries.’

  The inspector addressed Gemma. ‘Was your mother meeting someone, do you know, Miss Holland?’

  Gemma frowned. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Does she have business associates in town, friends, relatives whom she may have been visiting?’

  Esme answered. ‘We’re Elizabeth’s only relatives, Inspector, and neither of us was expecting a visit from her, were we, Gemma?’

  Gemma shook her head. ‘I didn’t think she ever came to Shropton otherwise. She lives forty miles away. I suppose she might have friends here, but I don’t know of any.’ She began to move away. ‘Look, I’d really like to go and sit with my mother, now.’

  ‘Couldn’t you talk to Gemma later, Inspector?’ said Esme. ‘I can probably answer your questions.’

  The inspector hesitated briefly. ‘Yes, all right.’ He nodded. The wayward flap of hair slipped further down across his eye. He flicked it off his face. Esme wondered why he didn’t simply get it cut short. Surely it must irritate him.

  Gemma peeled away, back to Elizabeth.

  ‘So,’ continued the inspector, ‘if you could establish whether she was meeting anyone?’

  Esme stared blankly at the inspector. ‘I suppose there may be something written on her calendar at home,’ she said, trying to concentrate. ‘She doesn’t normally use a diary. Is it important?’

  The sergeant spoke. ‘Possibly. A witness saw your sister having a heated argument with a man in the park.’

  Esme’s mouth fell open. ‘Elizabeth?’ Esme shook her head. ‘I can’t believe that. Your witness must be mistaken.’

  ‘Your sister may have made a note of his name,’ continued the inspector. ‘We need to eliminate him from our inquiries.’

  Esme was still trying to take in what they were saying. ‘You think Elizabeth was meeting this man?’ She immediately felt foolish. Why shouldn’t Elizabeth meet a man? She was an attractive woman. Just because Elizabeth had seemed content to remain a widow since the death of Gemma’s father didn’t mean that her social life excluded men. Yet it seemed inconceivable to her that Elizabeth would arrange to meet an unknown man in a park. But then why assume he was unknown? Perhaps there were things in Elizabeth’s life about which she chose not to tell her sister.

  Esme shook her head, her thoughts spinning. She felt suddenly exhausted. The last ounce of energy drained from her and she felt her shoulders sag. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t quite got used to this whole thing yet. It’s such a shock.’

  ‘We quite understand,’ said the inspector.

  Esme suspected that it was a line he must use frequently, though she had no reason to believe he wasn’t genuine.

  ‘If you could just check that date, Mrs Quentin,’ said the inspector. ‘Anything you find out, perhaps you’d pass on to my sergeant.’ They turned to go. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot.’ He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket. ‘This was found on the path next to your sister. Is it hers?’ He held out a locket.

  Esme gathered her bewildered thoughts and concentrated on the necklace. She swallowed. ‘Yes, that’s Elizabeth’s. It was our grandmother’s.’

  The inspector dropped it into Esme’s palm. ‘The chain is broken. I expect it snapped in the struggle.’

  The policemen expressed their hopes for Elizabeth’s imminent recovery and left.

  Esme opened her hand and examined the locket. She fingered the small dent on one side where Elizabeth had accidentally trodden on it, years ago. It held miniature pictures of their maternal grandparents and had been left to Elizabeth as the elder grandchild. Instinctively Esme snapped the catch and opened it.

  What she saw compounded the whole evening’s catalogue of confusion and turmoil. The photographs inside were of two people whom she had never seen before.

  2

  Elizabeth’s condition stabilised overnight and Helen sent them home to get some rest. There were no obvious signs of Elizabeth regaining consciousness but at least, Esme reassured herself, she was off the critical list. That was an important step.

  Esme told Gemma of her conversation with the po
lice and the need to establish whether Elizabeth had arranged to meet someone in the park. She hadn’t, though, mentioned the argument, only that the police had spoken of a witness. Esme was herself struggling with the idea of Elizabeth being involved in a violent dispute and felt that at this stage it was premature to involve Gemma. She didn’t need further complications. If Elizabeth regained consciousness in the next few hours, it might all be explained away soon enough.

  Although they hadn’t implied it, Esme wondered whether the police secretly suspected Elizabeth of being involved in something underhand. Wasn’t that customary? If you spent your working life dealing with criminals did you eventually come to assume that everyone had something to hide? It must be an occupational hazard, surely? With both her and Gemma admitting to the police that they had no idea why Elizabeth had been in the park, and a witness’s report of an argument, it was inevitable that suspicions would be aroused. After all, she had questions of her own. Not least, whose pictures were in the locket.

  She had handed the necklace to Gemma afterwards wondering whether, like Esme, she would open it and find the same enigma inside, but Gemma nodded her thanks and slipped it into her pocket without giving it a second glance. Esme hadn’t felt able to say anything further. Her head was still in turmoil. If it hadn’t been for the distinctive damage which identified it as Elizabeth’s she would have convinced herself that it belonged to someone else.

  Esme offered to go alone to Elizabeth’s house but Gemma seemed keen to accompany her. Perhaps Gemma felt the visit would offer some comfort, being in touch with familiar possessions which she associated with Elizabeth. Or maybe she simply felt it gave her something constructive to do. They set out together, Esme envisaging that the trip would involve no more than a quick scan of the calendar, the picking up of the post and that they would be back at Elizabeth’s bedside by late afternoon.

  It took an hour to drive to Elizabeth’s house. The windscreen wipers droned rhythmically most of the way, but there was a break in the weather as they arrived and a patch of blue appeared between the intimidating clouds. They’d said little on the journey apart from discussing Elizabeth’s continuing unconsciousness. The medics were at pains to stress that there were no definitive answers as to how long her recovery would take. Patience, along with hope, was what was needed. Esme revisited her thoughts on having an early explanation of everything from Elizabeth. Keeping Gemma in the dark about the argument in the park might not be an option she could stick with. Perhaps the opportunity to tell her would present itself shortly.