Bloodline

I opened the front door, but it wasn’t Clare. Someone shone a torch right into my face so I couldn’t see anything.

‘Mr Shillingford?’ said a voice in an official tone. ‘Mr Mark Shillingford?’

‘Yes,’ I said, holding my hand up and trying to see past the light. ‘What is it?’

‘Kent Police, sir,’ said the voice. ‘Constable Davis.’ He held out his warrant card.

My skin went cold. Personal police calls at this time of night were never good news.

‘I’m sorry, sir, but I have some very bad news for you,’ the constable went on. ‘It’s your sister, Miss Clare Shillingford.’ He paused. ‘She’s dead.’

3

‘Dead?’ I said, my voicebox seemingly detached from my body.

‘Yes, sir,’ said PC Davis. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Where?’ I asked in a croak.

I felt weak and swayed somewhat.

‘Shall we come in, sir?’ he said stepping forward and supporting me by the elbow.

There were two of them, the other was a female officer, and they guided me into my sitting room and down onto the sofa.

‘Liz, get some sweet tea,’ the policeman said to his colleague.

I watched as she went over to the kitchenette and opened cupboards, looking for mugs.

‘Top right,’ I said automatically.

Time seemed to stand still as the kettle boiled and a cup of hot tea was pressed into my hand.

‘Drink it, sir,’ said the constable. ‘It will do you good.’

I took a sip and winced. ‘I don’t take sugar.’

‘You do tonight, sir. Drink it.’

I drank some of the sweet liquid but it didn’t make me feel noticeably better.

‘Where is she?’ I asked.

‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘what do you mean?’

‘Where is she?’ I asked again. ‘I must go to her.’

‘All in good time, sir. We need to ask you some questions first.’

I just looked at him.

‘Are you, in fact, Miss Shillingford’s next of kin?’ the female officer asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Her parents — our parents — they’re still alive. Does that make them the next of kin?’

‘No husband?’ she asked. ‘Or children?’

‘No.’

I drank some more of the tea.

‘How did you find me?’ I asked.

The two police officers looked at each other.

‘We had your address, sir,’ said the man.

‘How?’ I asked again.

‘It was amongst Miss Shillingford’s possessions,’ he said.

‘Where was she killed?’ I asked.

‘In central London. In Park Lane.’

I looked up at him. ‘How odd.’

‘Why odd, sir?’

‘She wouldn’t normally drive up Park Lane going from here to Newmarket.’

‘Was she here this evening?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, she was at Haxted Mill down the road. We had dinner there together.’

The policeman made a note in his notebook.

‘But she didn’t drink and drive, if that’s what you’re thinking. She only had fizzy water.’

‘What time did she leave?’ he asked.

‘About ten past nine,’ I said. I thought back to her spinning the wheels of her sports car as she left the car park. ‘I always said that bloody car would be the death of her.’

‘Oh no, sir,’ said the female officer. ‘It wasn’t a car crash that killed her.’

I stared at her.

‘What, then?’ I asked.

The police officers looked at each other once more.

‘It appears that Miss Shillingford may have fallen from the balcony of a hotel.’

I sat there with my mouth open.

‘Where?’ I said finally. ‘Which hotel?’

‘The Hilton Hotel on Park Lane.’

‘But, when?’

‘At half past eleven.’

Oh God! She had tried to call me twenty minutes before that.

‘How are you sure it was her?’ I asked in desperation. ‘It must be someone else.’

‘I am told, sir, that it is definitely Miss Clare Shillingford.’

‘But how can they know for sure?’

‘I don’t know that, sir. But I am told it’s one hundred per cent certain. Maybe there were witnesses.’

‘But it was an accident, right?’ I asked forlornly.

‘The incident is still under investigation. It will be up to the coroner to determine the cause of death.’

There was something in the way he said it that gave me no comfort.

‘Are you implying it wasn’t an accident?’

‘As I said, sir, that will be a matter for the coroner.’

‘But what was she doing at a hotel anyway?’ I asked. ‘She said she had to go straight home to Newmarket.’

‘I can’t say, sir,’ the policeman replied. ‘The investigating officer will no doubt look into that.’

I sat on my sofa not knowing what to think, or what to do. How could Clare be dead? It didn’t seem real. She had been so alive just a few hours ago. I found I couldn’t even cry. There were too many unanswered questions in my head.

‘Now, sir, do you have the address for Miss Shillingford’s parents? As next of kin, they need to be informed. There will also be a need for an official identification.’

Oh God, I thought. That would kill my mother.

‘How exactly did you have my address?’ I asked.

‘Apparently it was written on an envelope found in Miss Shillingford’s hotel room.’

‘What was in the envelope?’ I asked, perhaps not wanting to know the answer.

‘I can’t say, sir.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’ I asked.

‘Can’t,’ he said. ‘I was not at the scene and was simply informed about the presence of your address on the envelope. My colleague and I are not from the Metropolitan Police, we’re from Kent headquarters at Maidstone. Now, where do your parents live?’

‘Oxted,’ I said.