Dark Skies: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 7)

by LJ Ross

  Ryan tapped his pen against the map to locate the Forest Drive and then straightened up again.

  “There’s a secondary checkpoint there, but it’s a toll road and the traffic will probably be lighter than via the other surfaced roads. We’re waiting to see whether the CCTV cameras at the toll booth by the castle can give us any useful footage. I’m grateful to all of you for your hard work in putting these cordons in place but as soon as possible, I want us to set up additional cordons on the north side of the reservoir, which has a minor road running parallel to the shoreline known as ‘Lakeside Way’. I’d like one on either side of the dam road, too, which runs along the top of the dam at the eastern tip of the reservoir and which gives access to both sides of the water.”

  “That’s a lot of manpower,” Phillips cautioned.

  “I want this case shut down by Monday or Tuesday, so we can stretch to it for a couple of days.”

  Ryan let those words hang in the air and watched some of the local police shuffle in their seats, clearly surprised by the speed at which they would be required to work.

  “The first few hours are the most important to a murder investigation,” he told them. “Now, I know it’s unfamiliar territory for some of you, but we’re not dealing with your average criminal; we’re dealing with an unknown quantity who has the upper hand because we’re on the back foot. It’s our job to turn that situation around as quickly as possible.

  “Frank? Give us the lowdown on where we stand with preliminary enquiries.”

  Phillips pushed up from his chair and moved to the front of the room.

  “Thanks to all the local officers drafted in from Hexham, we covered a lot of ground this afternoon. PC Yates took care of liaison with the victim’s classmates, who have all given statements and consented to DNA buccal swabbing which has already been done and sent for testing. As for the rest, we’ve been covering every building in expanding circles from the crime scene and we’ve interviewed thirty-eight people so far, including Craig Hunter, who is the closest resident to where the search party found Guy this morning.”

  “His alibi checks out from seven o’clock,” Ryan put in. “I visited his employer, Kate Robson, at the Hot Trots Equestrian Centre who confirmed he was on the premises from that time onwards.”

  “That’s handy, because we hadn’t got around to talking to her yet,” Phillips remarked. “Still doesn’t cover what Hunter was doing before seven o’clock.”

  Ryan nodded.

  “What about CCTV footage around the Waterside area?”

  Phillips let out a blustery sigh.

  “There aren’t any cameras outside the holiday lodges, only outside the main visitor’s facilities, which we’ve already checked and we know that Guy didn’t wander down there. There’s a couple of cameras on the main C200 road and we’ve requested the footage but we’re unlikely to get that before Monday. Bearing in mind the general direction of the tracks, I’d say our first conclusion was right: Guy walked through the trees rather than following the path of the road.”

  Phillips reclaimed his seat and one of the local constables stuck a hand in the air.

  “Excuse me, sir? Given the size of the search area, how are we going to narrow it down?”

  “Process of elimination,” Ryan replied. “DS Phillips and PC Yates are supervising the house to house interviews up to a radius of five miles from the crime scene. That sounds like a lot of turf but, in this landscape, it’s peanuts. While that’s going on, we’re going to look at the statements we have already and see who has an alibi between four and seven o’clock this morning, which is the timeframe when Guy Sullivan died. We focus our attention on the people who cannot account for their whereabouts.”

  “But what if they all say they were in bed, sleeping?”

  Ryan smiled.

  “That’s where solid forensics comes in,” he said, and gestured to Faulkner across the room. “Tom? Tell us what your search turned up today.”

  Faulkner cleared his throat.

  “It’s good news,” he said. “We isolated a hair sample from the victim’s clothing that doesn’t match his own, so we should have an excellent basis for comparison with any DNA samples we receive from individual suspects.”

  “Can’t we just swab everybody and get to the bottom of it that way?” Yates asked, innocently enough.

  “I wish we could,” Faulkner said, with feeling. “It would make everybody’s job much easier, but it would also diminish a fundamental right to privacy.”

  “But, surely, when there’s been a murder?”

  “We can seek voluntary consent, to begin with,” Ryan interjected. “Most people are happy to help because most people have nothing to hide. I’m sorry to tell you that it comes down to the same old chestnut once again: resources. The department won’t spring for mass DNA-testing, even if the subjects agreed to it, because it would be costly and time-consuming.”

  “So, what do we do?” Yates asked.

  “Our jobs,” Ryan said, shortly. “We look at these people and we look hard to see who had the means and opportunity to be on that bridleway to kill Guy Sullivan and who lived close enough to make a hasty retreat afterwards without being seen. We prioritise those people and swab them first. If that doesn’t work, we expand the net.”

  “What happens if they refuse consent?” Yates wondered.

  “Then, if we have solid grounds for suspicion, we arrest them and use our powers to obtain a sample anyway. They can do it the easy way or the hard way, Yates, but whichever way they decide, the killer will find themselves behind bars.”

  * * *

  As the sun fell off the edge of the world and night reigned once more, they met at their usual spot overlooking the water. They could just make out the lights shining from the conference room on the other side of the lake where Ryan and his team continued their briefing, plotting how they would find the person responsible for taking a life.

  “The police came around today.”

  “Yes, I saw them. You brought this to our door. If you had only let things lie, they would have consigned Duncan to the pile of unsolved cases in their archive room and everything would have carried on as before.”

  “I-I didn’t think—”

  “You seldom do.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll try to be better, next time, I’ll…”

  The other listened with half an ear while planning how to dispose of the childhood friend who had been a constant, oppressive burden for the last thirty-three years. It had never been possible to relax, not knowing that Roly could crack at any time or get drunk and start frothing at the mouth about poor Duncan Gray lying dead at the bottom of the lake.

  This was a course of action that was long overdue.

  “…do you think?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was asking whether you think I should go away for a while, just till everything blows over?”

  “It’s too late for that. They’ve set up traffic cordons.”

  “They have? That means we’re trapped—”

  “You’re trapped.”

  “Okay, alright, I could still use one of the smaller roads and go cross-country. I could head for Scotland—”

  “If you leave now, your absence will be noted immediately and they’ll set up a full-scale manhunt. Now, listen to me, trust me.”

  “I’ve always trusted you.”

  Poor, stupid Roly.

  “Good. I want you to keep your head. Stay calm and, if the police come around again, I want you to stick to the story we agreed. Above all, you must remain in control. Can you manage that?”

  Roly watched the shadows in the trees around them and fancied there was a boy lurking in there, somewhere.

  “Y-yes, I’ll try.”

  * * *

  After a short break, Ryan turned to the other young man whose innocent, open face was forever captured in time like his wasted body now lying on an impersonal slab at the mortuary.

  “Duncan Gray,” he sa
id. “Aged sixteen when he went missing back in 1981. Yates?”

  Melanie jerked in her seat.

  “Sir?”

  Ryan gestured for her to come to the front of the room.

  “You and Phillips worked the case yesterday,” he said. “Give us a run-down of your progress so far.”

  Ryan had learned over the years that the best way to deal with fear was to channel it into productivity. In this case, Yates needed to overcome her fear of public speaking so she could move forward and meet her own potential.

  “Just the key points,” he said. “We won’t bite.”

  Melanie could feel her palms growing sweaty. Why hadn’t she noticed before how cramped and claustrophobic the conference room was?

  “Um—”

  The faces of the local police swam before her eyes and her stomach churned, then her gaze locked with Phillips, who gave her an encouraging nod.

  “We, ah, after the body was recovered yesterday morning, DS Phillips and I went about the usual searches with Missing Persons and with the help of local police we obtained preliminary statements from everybody who was present at the marina. We also visited and spoke with Lisa Hope, the diver who first discovered Duncan Gray’s body in the reservoir, and confirmed the sequence of events. Later in the day, we spoke with the police pathologist and a forensic anthropologist who confirmed the cause of death and approximate age of the body, which is supported by a bus pass found on his person and the facts now in our possession following identification.”

  “How did he die?” Ryan asked.

  “There was a major fracture to the skull and a series of shallow knife wounds to the chest, any of which might have led to asphyxiation or cardiac arrest. The pathologist is of the opinion these were not self-inflicted.”

  When no further questions were forthcoming, she continued.

  “We were able to identify Duncan Gray thanks to an existing profile on the Missing Persons Database and his dental records, which were already on file. His mother was informed first thing this morning.”

  Ryan folded his arms comfortably.

  “What’s your game plan?”

  “Sir?”

  “If you were managing the case, what would you do next, Yates?”

  Melanie thought of the next logical steps and was surprised to find she was no longer in fear of her audience, who looked on with professional curiosity.

  “I would review the original investigation,” she said, tentatively. “It was a Missing Persons case in 1981 and it doesn’t look like the police took matters very seriously. It seems there was a widespread feeling that Duncan Gray left of his own accord and the sergeant in charge at the time accepted that without too much rigour. It’s a murder investigation now, and we need to re-interview all relevant parties and use any evidence at our disposal with the advantage of thirty-three years’ worth of advancements in forensic science.”

  Ryan was impressed.

  “Who was it? The sergeant in charge of the case, I mean.”

  “Arthur Gregson.”

  The room fell completely silent at the mention of a man whose name was now notorious throughout the echelons of the Northumbria Police Constabulary; their former superintendent who had risen so high and fallen so far.

  “I might have known,” Ryan muttered.

  CHAPTER 16

  Jack Lowerson rubbed a tired hand across his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He was seated at his new desk in a cubicle beside DCS Lucas’s personal assistant, who had busied herself for the remainder of the afternoon before leaving on the dot of five o’clock without saying ‘goodbye’. He tried not to mind; after all, he had a serious job to do and had been offered a pathway to promotion.

  He should be happy.

  Shouldn’t he?

  It was hard not to miss the camaraderie of the office he’d shared with the other detectives of CID on the first floor, where there was always somebody to talk to and share a joke with, or a pint after work. It softened the blow of heading home to an empty house. By now, they would have heard about his transfer and were probably wondering why he hadn’t been down to tell them all about it.

  The truth was, he was embarrassed.

  Lowerson thought back to his argument with Ryan and cringed at the memory. He’d admired the man for years and had hardly been able to believe his luck when Ryan had plucked him from the quagmire of obscurity as a young constable and helped him along the pathway to becoming a detective three years ago. Ryan had taught him so much during that time; how to read people, how to lead people and, perhaps most of all, how to believe in himself. They’d become more than work colleagues, they’d become friends and he’d always felt included, right down to being invited to Ryan and Anna’s wedding three weeks earlier.

  And how had he repaid their kindness?

  He’d bitten the hand that fed him and, worse still, used his friend to vent all his paltry frustrations at life.

  There was only one thing to be done.

  Apologise.

  Galvanised, Lowerson shut down his computer and shrugged into his blue blazer, slapping his hands against the pockets to make sure he had his wallet and car keys. He secured the paperwork back in his filing unit and was about to make for the exit when it struck him that, really, he ought to bid his new boss farewell for the evening.

  He turned back and knocked on her office door.

  “Come in!”

  When he stepped into the room, Lowerson couldn’t help but marvel at how pristine she still looked, even after a full day’s work. He’d been mildly surprised to find she wasn’t required to be at work this weekend, so it was obviously dedication to her job that led her to put in the overtime and bring herself up to speed with her new environment.

  “Ma’am? I’m sorry to disturb you but I wanted to let you know I’m heading off now.”

  Jennifer Lucas laid her pen down at a perfect right-angle to the paperwork on her desk and then glanced at the clock across the room. Clocks were usually the same design in whichever public service building you went—round, white plastic wall-mounted monstrosities—but hers was an antique walnut affair with gold dials and it gave her much pleasure to know it was a cut above the ordinary.

  “You’ve stayed well past the hours you’re obliged to work,” she said, in a tone that held both approval and reproof. “Are you heading home now?”

  Lowerson reddened slightly and thought it best not to mention his fall-out with Ryan, or the reason for it in the first place.

  “Ah, yes, ma’am.”

  “Oh, but it’s not even eight o’clock,” she purred. “What do you say we have a quick drink to celebrate our new jobs?”

  He hesitated, feeling torn.

  “I’d like to, but—”

  She looked at him and he was suddenly convinced that she would see through any lie he might tell. Perhaps it would be easier to have a friendly glass of wine at the local drinking hole, then go their separate ways.

  “Okay, thanks. That would be nice.”

  She smiled.

  “I’ll see you in the car park in five minutes.”

  “Oh, but the pub we usually go to is within walking distance,” he told her. “Just a couple of minutes around the corner, so you can keep your car parked here if you like.”

  She looked at him indulgently, wondering if he had any idea what fate had in store.

  “The place I have in mind is on the way home,” she told him. “Not far from where you live.”

  Lowerson shrugged and agreed to meet her downstairs. Only later did he wonder how she knew his address but he assumed she had reviewed his HR file before offering him a promotion.

  That must have been where she’d seen it.

  * * *

  It was nearly nine o’clock by the time Phillips let himself into the little three-bedroom semi he owned in Kingston Park, a suburban area on the western fringes of Newcastle. The cul-de-sac was occupied mainly by young families, most of whom would already be in bed, and the street was quie
t except for the faint glare of his neighbour’s television.

  The lamps were on in the hallway when he stepped inside the house and toed out of the comfortable brown leather loafers he invariably wore for work. When he spotted MacKenzie’s smart navy woollen coat hanging over the newel post, he knew his fiancée must be around somewhere.

  “Denise?”

  The house remained quiet and he cursed himself for feeling the old dread rise again, the remembered anguish of a time months ago when he’d come home to find her gone.

  Taken.

  “Denise?”

  He moved swiftly from room to room and was ready to heave himself up the stairs two at a time when he heard an odd sound coming from the direction of the garage. It was attached to the house through a door via the kitchen and when he cocked his ear against the wood he thought he heard fists hitting flesh, followed by the grunts and moans of a woman in pain.

  “Denise!”

  He grabbed the nearest thing to hand, which happened to be the kettle, and threw back the adjoining door to face whichever thug was attacking the woman he loved.

  * * *

  Denise MacKenzie had spent half an hour setting up her new, top-of-the-range punchbag. It hung from the ceiling in a heavy sack of black and red leather, to match the training gloves and mat she’d bought as a multi-save deal. Obviously, the sales assistant had seen her coming, but she didn’t mind. The long strip light flickered its energy-saving white light around the concrete walls of the garage, spotlighting the imaginary ring she’d created in the centre of it all.

  When she threw her first punch, it reverberated up her arm and along her funny bone eliciting a few choice words in response.

  She stared at the bag and then closed her eyes, meditating until she found the anger she needed to expel.

  His face. The knife. His eyes.

  His eyes. His eyes.

  Her own flew open again and, this time, she pounded the hell out of that leather bag. She pummelled out her rage in the empty garage and felt no pain as she danced on tiptoes against the plain rubber mat. There might be bruises the next day but it would be worth it, if only to get rid of the bubbling anger she carried.