BLOOD SECRETS a gripping crime thriller full of suspense Read Free

near Holborn, he had slept with her. Or rather, he had not slept. Lying awake in the airless hotel room as she slumbered, he had gazed at her beauty, which was no longer his, thinking of her husband in the wheelchair in Brighton, whose breakfast would be prepared by a paid carer. Earlier in the night, lying in the crook of his arm, she had whispered, I’m so fond of Emlyn and I can’t leave him, but the longer I’m with him the more I understand how much I love you and always will.
    That night had perhaps been a necessary final betrayal. Swift knew that whatever happened to Ruth in the future, she had to deal with it within her marriage.
    Today was their first meeting since that night in the hotel. He saw her walking towards him as he reached the Evergreen, striding with her easy step, her coat flying open, long butterscotch hair glinting in the sun. He felt a terrible sadness as he smiled, stooping to kiss her cheek. The pub had been redecorated in a greyish white paint with photos of cypress, spruce and holly trees on the walls; all evergreens, Ruth pointed out. They said hello to Krystyna, the waitress who had been serving them every Monday since they started meeting and who assumed they were husband and wife. They ordered wine and looked at the menu, which rarely changed except for the soup of the day. It was so familiar, their browsing was a mere formality and provided a bridge into their meeting.
    ‘You look well with your nut brown tan,’ Ruth told him. ‘Have you been rowing a lot?’
    ‘Every other day the last couple of weeks. The weather’s been so good, it was hard to resist.’
    She smiled. ‘You’re an addict.’
    ‘You’re right, it is a kind of addiction. I definitely get restless and cranky if I miss out for longer than a couple of days. I suppose there are worse cravings.’ Like seeing you, he thought. Seeing you is a terrible, destructive yearning.
    Her eyes seemed to cloud, as if she had read his thoughts. As their food arrived she started talking about her class and he listened, eating without appetite, his stomach clenching when he thought of what he was going to say to her. He swallowed his wine, not really wanting alcohol but needing Dutch courage.
    ‘How’s Emlyn?’ he asked after a while.
    She studied her plate. ‘Up and down. He’s been getting these bouts of sudden anger recently. It’s not uncommon in people with MS but I’ve found it hard to adjust to. Emlyn has always had such an even temperament, yet some days now he’s full of a sort of bitter rage. Shouting at me, at himself. Cursing life and the hand he’s been played.’
    ‘I’m sorry. How do you handle it?’
    ‘I just listen. Sometimes I walk away, come back when he’s calmer, and talk to him. He’s always apologetic — well, for a while. Then he’ll turn on me without warning. Anyway, I don’t want to dwell on it now. Did you have lunch with Joyce?’
    ‘I did, yes. I got away reasonably unscathed although I had to work my way through heaps of food. She’s immersed in her golf club these days.’
    Joyce was Swift’s stepmother, a well-meaning but overwhelming woman. Swift had lunch with her each year on the anniversary of his father’s death. He would have preferred to spend the day quietly, remembering both his father and mother, attending vespers in Westminster cathedral and lighting candles for them. Swift was no longer a Catholic. His parents had shared a solid, enduring faith and the only time he entered a church these days was when he wanted to recall and converse with them. Yet Joyce deserved his presence and attention. She had loved his father, even if Swift couldn’t bring himself to love her. She had cooked a huge roast for lunch. It was far too much food for the two of them, but Swift had manfully made his way through as much as he could. Over the dense, sherry-laced trifle he had fielded the usual questions about his single status and lack of romance . . . I don’t understand, Ty. You’ve