A Darkly Bound Betrayal Read online

  For a moment he thought he’d gone too far. At first, she’d gone pale but then she’d seemed to recover and she’d stared at him in a strange way, as if she were assessing him, although her look had become distant. It made him feel uneasy, although he couldn’t say why. He interrupted her thoughts.

  “Well, more recent forensic evidence has shown that someone else was hurt in the incident that resulted in your father’s death. We bel—”

  Her turn to interrupt now, brittle, catch him out, make him suffer too.

  “Now it’s an incident? What happened to murder?” she asked coldly.

  He looked across at her. She was leaning towards him, her face intense now, eyes wide, a small oval face framed by blonde hair, which, in a different life, in different circumstances, he would have liked to have got to know better. He closed his eyes for a moment as Caitlin’s face appeared before him. With an effort he continued.

  “I’m sorry, we have reason to believe that the person who killed your father in the laboratory on Wednesday evening was himself shot and wounded by your father, presumably as he tried to defend himself. The gun had been fired twice. We found two cartridges, and one bullet hit one of the pillars in the laboratory and fragmented. One of the fragments must have hit the other person – we’ve found traces of blood that don’t match that of your father’s.”

  It wasn’t what she’d been expecting and it didn’t lead to the cover-up she’d been prepared for. This could be worse, far worse, and she wasn’t prepared for it. She sat stunned, feeling the oppressive atmosphere around her, imagining the dark thunder clouds gathering outside, willing them to go away, willing him to go away, to let her collect her thoughts and leave her alone. Paul mistook her confusion.

  “I think I must have shocked you? I know that at first we told you that we thought someone must have forced their way into the laboratory when your father was working late, and either surprised him there or been surprised by him. There didn’t seem to be a motive. We assumed at first it might be petty burglary, the computers for example, an opportunist crime gone wrong, a thief caught out and killing in panic. We weren’t very happy with that idea – Mayhims is not the easiest place to break into – but Mr Sutherland, the managing director, initially seemed to think that your father may have been somewhat lax in resetting the security system when he went in, thus allowing another person to gain entry reasonably easily. He also told us that the security cameras have been malfunctioning recently.”

  “Yes, but surely if it was an opportunist crime, that would indicate they weren’t expecting my father to be there, so they wouldn’t have known that it would be easy to break in?” she objected.

  “Exactly, we had thought of that ourselves. Mayhims is well-known locally for its security system, although we did wonder if someone might have been watching the laboratory, knowing your father’s habit of working late. But it would still be a brave or foolish petty thief who tried it, and a rather unusual killer who then ’phoned the police to tell us where to find the bod… I mean, your father.” He paused to loosen his tie. The atmosphere had become very heavy again, the rumblings drawing closer.

  Outside, a loud crack of thunder broke the silence and they both instinctively looked to the window where a flash of lightning flew briefly across their field of vision to leave darkness and the heavy drumming of rain. Anna rose slowly and moved behind him to the window to pull across the heavy curtains, shutting out the unfriendly elements.

  Time, give me time. Let me think. It’s not what I’m thinking… It can’t be… He couldn’t have, she thought, trying to control the panic that threatened to overcome her.

  As she settled back into her place on the sofa, he continued.

  “The blood we found would appear to match your brother, Michael’s, blood group, which, as you probably know is type AB, rather uncommon. It doesn’t of course prove that Michael was the person who killed your father, or even that it was necessarily his blood, but you must understand that we have to find him to ask him where he was that night.”

  Michael, no. Not Michael.

  Yet, that dreadful night, Michael ’phoning so late, sounding so distraught. “Anna, something terrible has happened. Father is dead, and they want me now. I have to hide, I can’t see you yet. Don’t tell anyone, not anyone that I’ve ’phoned you. I promise I’ll explain but I can’t come to you yet. If I do, you’ll be in danger too.”

  She’d tried to interrupt him then, to question him, the shock of what he was saying not really sinking in, only the desperation in his voice, but he’d continued hurriedly. “I have to go. When it’s safe, I’ll come to you, but tell no one, remember, not even the police, that I’ve contacted you.” And with that he’d ended the call, not even a goodbye.

  She looked blankly at Ravell and then stood up to get herself a drink. Not a spirits drinker normally, apart from the odd glass of brandy enjoyed after a good meal, she nevertheless poured herself a generous portion of neat whisky and then, as an afterthought, dropped in a couple of ice cubes. The whisky was Glenfiddich single malt, a present from Michael, only because, as she’d said to him at the time, it was his favourite and he couldn’t bear to be always offered red wine.

  “Well, for God’s sake, Anna,” he’d laughed, ruffling her hair. “If you never keep any decent drink in the house, you can’t be too surprised if your guests bring their own.”

  Even through her heavy curtains she could hear the storm building up outside, the loud rumbles of thunder getting closer, a heavy oppressive atmosphere building up to match the increasing tension within the room.

  Blood type…

  Michael always (well, for as long as she’d known him) had no fear for himself. How well she remembered that day; him pulling the neighbour’s child back from the path of the oncoming car and ending up in hospital himself. The child was fine, a few bruises only, shaken not stirred, she’d said at the time. Not so Michael who’d spent eight long weeks in plaster, recovering from the compound fracture he’d received, and even longer to walk comfortably again. I suppose that was when they’d tested him for his blood group, she thought, although she couldn’t remember. Perhaps he’d had to have a transfusion; certainly there was a lot of blood. Maybe they were just being careful, maybe it was just procedure. It didn’t matter. Michael was group AB; that she did know. Her thoughts drifted back now, unchecked. Eight o’clock it was, one Saturday evening, six years ago.

  “You have a half-brother and he is coming to live with us next week.” It was her mother who had spoken, but her father who had looked across at her, engaging her eyes, forcing her to look directly at him for the first time that she could ever remember. He’d never been one for direct eye contact so why now? To assess her reaction? So might he after suddenly producing an illegitimate sibling for her, out of the blue, with no explanation given, a result of some early philandering presumably?

  Had her mother known before? Was it before she’d met her father? At that moment, Anna hadn’t even bothered to ask, the shock was too great.

  Certainly, when she met Michael, he hadn’t looked much older than her own twenty-one years. Strange that they’d never really discussed age. Michael had always seemed to possess a certain detached maturity that belied his looks. She’d found out later that he was actually four years older than herself. He’d lived with his mother whilst being supported by her father. His mother, who was Spanish, had lived somewhere in the Midlands (Nottingham, she thought it was), and had suddenly died. Michael wasn’t enjoying the job that he’d just started and was eager to come to Bath to join in the research work with her father. Initially it had been agreed that he’d actually live with them until he decided if he wanted to stay in Bath permanently.

  There had been about her parents a kind of restrained affection. They had never been particularly outwardly demonstrative towards each other, her father’s doing, Anna had always believed; a bit of a cold fish, she might have called him if asked to describe him to a strang
er. Yet she grieved for him now. He had been her father, and she had tried to love him as much as he would allow her. An inhibited man, he was always preoccupied, but not unkind, not unlikeable, just seemingly incapable of any open demonstrations of love. But she had loved him as a child, as children need to love.

  And then to suddenly produce a lovechild, and a grown-up lovechild at that. Had he loved the mother of this child? It belied comprehension and certainly at first, in the shock of it all, she hadn’t even tried to understand. She had been going through a difficult time herself with no support from her parents at that time, not even from her mother, who had always shown affection to her in the past. Straight out of university with a seemingly useless second-class degree in business studies, and straight out of her two-year relationship with Craig, there was a sense of time wasted, futility, and no enthusiasm for the future. She’d screamed at her parents that night six years ago, and stormed out to stay with Sarah, not to return for two weeks, by which time Michael had arrived in their home and into their lives…

  Ravell interrupted her thoughts. “Have you seen Michael since we last spoke?”

  “No, I told you, I haven’t seen him since the day before my father was kill… died.” How difficult to comprehend a violent death for her reclusive father, so quiet and self-contained. Perhaps she’d never really known him.

  “And he hasn’t tried to contact you by ’phone?”

  What was this? Was he trying to imply that Michael was some kind of criminal, hiding away and furtively trying to contact her? But yes, of course, that was exactly what he had done. That ’phone call. In her shock at the time, she hadn’t absorbed the reality that Michael couldn’t have known that their father was dead unless he’d been there himself. And he was in hiding. He was being so secretive, asking her not to tell the police that he’d ’phoned her, and he hadn’t been back in touch since. “They’re after me,” he’d said (or something like that). “I have to hide.” Who was after him? It could only have been the police. Michael – impossible to think that he had anything to hide. Michael, her newly-found brother, a companion she hadn’t thought possible to hope for, who'd brought life and laughter into their sterile, dysfunctional family. Michael, with his dark eyes and crooked smile, wide cheekbones in a lean face; a legacy no doubt from his Spanish mother, certainly not from her father who had endowed his daughter with his pale, golden English good looks.

  “No, I haven’t heard from him at all,” she lied.

  But doubt must somehow have crept into her voice. She’d never been a good liar, and Paul looked at her sharply. She’s lying, he thought. I may be able to break her. Yet, how could he think like this? He, who in his childhood had wept at the sight of a moth, batting helplessly at the light, unable to free itself from its eventual kamikaze end. How had he ever come to choose this way of life? But he knew why, really: it was because he was untainted then, out to search for justice in some naïve way, seeking a career in the police force as if it were some righteous path to put right the wrongs of the world.

  “Can you tell me if he has any friends in the area where he could be staying?” he insisted.

  “I’ve told you already of all the friends that I know of. Have you not checked with them?” She was trying not to sound as fearful as she felt.

  “Yes, we’ve spoken to the people you mentioned and, like you, they haven’t seen or heard from him since the day before the incident. A few have tried to ’phone him in the last couple of days but his ’phone doesn’t seem to be switched on, which in itself seemed strange to them. Now, when I spoke with you before, you told me what you knew of his background: that he’d been to university in Newcastle, and that he’d lived and been educated prior to that in Nottingham. Did he have any connections from his earlier life that you know of? What about friends from his university days, old school friends, childhood friends or relatives of his mother’s?”

  “I have absolutely no idea,” she sighed. “He never mentioned anyone, and no one ever visited, at least not whilst we were all living together. And I never asked; it just didn’t seem right to pry. My parents were very private people, they weren’t very demonstrative and… Well, as a family we didn’t… We weren’t very close. But Michael changed all that for me, and I didn’t want to spoil it by questioning him about things he might not have wanted to discuss.”

  But it was strange – Michael without a past. Once she’d decided to swallow her pride and return home from Sarah’s, she’d found Michael established in her home. Tall and lean, with his long black hair, he might be the antithesis to her blonde, blue-eyed family, but he had a warmth and humour that had taken only days to break down her hostile resolution and barriers. Despite her mother’s illness, long known to her parents but kept from her (like a child, she’d thought in disgust), Michael had managed to bring light into their lives with a quick wit, an affectionate smile and a peculiar accent! How strange she’d found that at first; he spoke perfect English but his pronunciation failed him occasionally, with stresses on the wrong syllables that, try as he might (and she was sure he tried), he couldn’t quite disguise. The Spanish mother, she’d thought, and when she’d teased him, he’d just laughed.

  “I have a mixed birth, Anna. I have a strange combination of genes that we may never understand. Don’t let’s worry about that. Now, tell me about this new boyfriend, George, isn’t it? Is he right for you or do I have a brotherly chat with him and tell him just exactly how you look first thing in the morning? It’ll be sure to put him off, you know.”

  Equally strange was the way her boyfriends never really managed to get through to her in the same way after Michael had arrived in her life. The day that she received confirmation of her long-awaited promotion at Blastints, the culmination of her years of study and the proof that she was recognised, respected and had a bright future ahead of her, it was with Michael that she wanted to celebrate, certainly not with George who hadn’t been allowed past the fumble stage, let alone to see her first thing in the morning.

  And as time went on, when Anna and Michael no longer lived with their father, they’d still been constant companions. Incestuous, her friends had called it.

  “Come on, Anna, don’t be so greedy. Let’s have a share of your hunky brother. You can’t have him all to yourself, you know,” Sarah had laughed, the others nodding their agreement.

  Had he had many girlfriends? She didn’t really know. Certainly, if he had, she’d never met them and he didn’t talk of them. Close as they were, they didn’t live in each other’s pockets. Although, when she thought about it, he did sometimes disappear for several days at a time with no forwarding address, no explanations offered and no questions encouraged.

  Paul tried again, breaking into her thoughts. “I understand that you moved away from your family home some time ago, as did your brother. When was this?”

  “Well, a few years ago now I bought my cottage here just after my mother died, and Michael bought his flat in Bath before that.”

  “And do you know where Michael got the money to buy his flat?”

  Anna was getting annoyed. “I really can’t see how that is relevant, Inspector, and I really don’t know. I bought my cottage with my inheritance from my mother. I assume that Michael must have had some savings with which to buy his flat.”

  “Thank you. So before that, when you lived in the same home, did he ever seem to be secretive? Receive or make furtive ’phone calls? Receive letters that he didn’t want you or your family to see?”

  This persistent policeman! What could he possibly understand of their strange family life? An increasingly sick mother, an increasingly work-obsessed father, and then her and Michael, striking up a close friendship against the odds, against the strange familial forces that beset them. She’d often wondered how he’d settled in so well and had been stronger than she had; she who’d lived with this introverted couple from birth and should at least have been able to distance herself, but hadn’t; she it was who fell
to pieces when her mother had finally succumbed to her pain and died, and her father had retreated into a silent world of work. It was Michael who had held her together, had handled all the practical aspects, the funeral, the…

  “Are you sure that none of his friends from Newcastle University ever came to visit him?” he persisted.

  “No, I’ve already said, none that I knew of.” What was he getting at? Where were these questions leading?

  “You must have thought it strange that this should be the case. I know, from what you’ve told me, that before he first came to live with you six years ago, you hadn’t even known of his existence. Didn’t you think that it was strange that your parents had never mentioned him before?”

  She looked at him impatiently. Had he not listened when she’d tried to explain her family’s dynamics? How could she possibly explain to this stolid man, whose mental boundaries probably extended no further than a wife and children at home, with work as a welcome interlude between the comfortable pressures of a normal life, that some families were very different? Of course she’d thought it strange, but then her whole childhood and growing up had been strange, as was her father with his well-paid but highly secret research work.

  ‘We mustn’t talk about Daddy’s work’ had been her mother’s favourite phrase and, from early childhood, she had complied; to the point that when in adolescence she’d become curious and wanted to question him, she hadn’t, because her mother’s words still echoed in her head. All she really knew was that he left in the morning to go to Mayhims and, as often as not, returned home in the evening. When he didn’t, she was told he’d had to travel abroad, and, conditioned from early childhood, she had never questioned it. Admittedly, she had met Graham Sutherland, who was the managing director of Mayhims, several times. Sometimes he would come round to dinner at their house and on occasions they had been invited to cocktail parties at his house, but work was never discussed. Rather sumptuous parties, she recollected, held at his very impressive house in Bath. Graham Sutherland was something of a contradiction: a small, slight, almost effeminate figure of a man, but with a personality that was both effusive and commanding.