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

by LJ Ross

  Ryan realised he must have become desensitized to the mortuary environment because he barely glanced at the bank of metal drawers lining the back wall, or the new immersion tank which oozed all manner of unpleasant smells. God only knew what festered inside its slimy interior.

  He found Pinter in his office, his skeletal body draped over a metal wheelie-chair as he tapped away at his computer.

  “Jeff?”

  Pinter favoured Ryan with a haughty expression which Ryan met, stare for stare.

  “I had plans today,” the pathologist complained.

  “Yeah, well, I had plans too but a little, itty-bitty thing called murder got in the way of my Sunday morning lie-in.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, I’m trying to work on having a Sunday morning lie-in which doesn’t involve just me and the cryptic crossword,” Pinter muttered. “I had a date last night and it was shaping up very nicely.”

  Ryan’s lips twitched.

  “What’s she like?”

  “Gorgeous,” Pinter said, dreamily. “She’s a curvaceous divorcee who doesn’t mind real-life crime documentaries.”

  “What’d you tell her you do for a living?” Ryan asked, settling his long body against the doorframe. “Fitness instructor?”

  Pinter guffawed and removed his glasses to polish the glass against the back of his lab coat.

  “Doctor,” he confessed. “I just didn’t mention what kind…not yet, at least.”

  Ryan felt a moment’s sympathy. Telling somebody you worked with dead bodies for a living was hardly an aphrodisiac.

  He’d know.

  “Well, once you tell her you helped to catch a killer, that’ll make you sound a lot more heroic,” Ryan offered.

  Pinter perked up a bit at the thought of that new spin.

  “Maybe,” he agreed. “Although I hardly know what to tell you about this one, Ryan. The face was so badly mangled, it was difficult to—well, let’s just say, it was bloody difficult.”

  “Just tell me what you can,” Ryan urged. “And, Jeff, his parents came to see me today.”

  Pinter sighed, and this time there was no trace of the usual theatrics he sometimes employed.

  “Hell.”

  “Yes,” Ryan said. “Is there anything you can do for him before they have to see? I’ve told them to stay away but they won’t listen.”

  Pinter looked away, obviously thinking of the body, then shook his head sadly.

  “The face was completely destroyed. We’ve cleaned him up as best we can and I can stitch… I’ll do what I can for them,” he offered. “Otherwise, we’d need a specialist.”

  Ryan nodded his thanks and left it at that. He couldn’t expect miracles.

  “Let’s start from the top,” Jeff said briskly, and Ryan prepared to face another kind of horror.

  * * *

  Denise MacKenzie decided to spend her precious day off with her friend, Anna.

  Ryan’s wife was more than just her boss’s spouse; she was a trusted friend, an intelligent professional and it had often been said she had the makings of an excellent murder detective—if she ever decided to swap her life as an academic historian. Denise had asked Anna to be Maid of Honour at her wedding and it provided an excellent excuse to go shopping and eat cake.

  Anna needed no second bidding and the two women found themselves in the elegant town of Corbridge for the day, roughly halfway between Newcastle and Kielder. There were drinking holes aplenty and after a respectable time had been spent roaming the little shops filled with quaint knick-knacks, they took themselves off to a quiet corner with two large glasses of something fruity.

  MacKenzie took a generous gulp and watched her friend from the corner of her eye.

  “How’d you feel about apple green?”

  Anna almost choked on her wine.

  “In what context?”

  “In the dress-wearing context. With a flower garland and bangles.”

  Anna searched MacKenzie’s face and decided it was a fifty-fifty risk.

  “I call bullshit,” Anna said.

  MacKenzie feigned offence.

  “It’s an old Irish tradition,” she lied. “All the women of my family get married in green and the bridesmaids wear the same shade.”

  Anna snorted.

  “Well, in that case, I’d better tell you it’s an old Geordie tradition for the groom to wear a black and white Lycra onesie.”

  MacKenzie laughed, but Anna’s smile slipped as she became aware of a strange creeping feeling, one she’d experienced before. Her skin tingled in reaction and she cast her eyes around the pub to see who was watching her.

  She found the source of her discomfort immediately and her spine stiffened.

  It was the same man from the observatory the previous evening. He was sitting at one of the bar stools, watching her.

  Just watching.

  Anna turned pointedly away.

  “Is everything okay?” MacKenzie asked, noting that her friend had turned pale.

  When Anna looked back, the stool was empty and a pint glass stood untouched beside it.

  “It’s probably nothing,” she murmured.

  * * *

  It was early afternoon by the time Phillips and Yates paid a visit to the final address on their list of residents within a five-mile radius of the crime scene at Adderburn. The thriller writer Nathan Armstrong lived part of the year right on the banks of the reservoir, his residence accessible only by a footpath from the road or by private motorboat. The house nestled on a secluded bluff known locally as Scribe’s End, thanks to its owner’s literary exploits, and afforded complete privacy from the rest of the world.

  “Storm brewin’, I reckon,” Phillips remarked.

  Yates lowered her face against the wind.

  “How far is it?”

  “Can’t be much further now,” Phillips puffed.

  The walk couldn’t have been more than ten minutes over even ground that undulated gently towards the water until the trees parted and gave way to a view that stole their breath away. The water seemed to go on forever, shimmering in choppy waves against the short wooden jetty and the small red motorboat moored against it. The vista was so all-encompassing it was easy to miss the old stone hunting lodge that seemed to perch on the very edge of it all.

  A far cry from the ordinary three-bed semi Yates still shared with her parents. She had dreams of her own little place but never in a million years could she afford this slice of heaven.

  “Wow,” she breathed.

  “Looks like an insurance nightmare,” Phillips said. “And I bet it’s draughty in winter.”

  “I’d risk it,” she muttered.

  * * *

  Craig Hunter had not been wrong about quiet places leading to heightened senses, but it didn’t hurt to employ a little technology either. Nathan Armstrong knew he had police visitors long before they emerged from the trees to stare at his home, thanks to a series of top-end CCTV cameras fixed to high branches at intervals around the trees surrounding his property. The lenses tracked their bumbling journey and transmitted a live feed to Armstrong’s computer screen so he could watch their progress from the comfort of his desk chair.

  He had plenty of time to save his work and lock away his research materials, to turn off the grinding rock music playing through the linked speaker system running throughout the house and even to put on the kettle.

  Police and tradespeople always wanted cups of tea or coffee, didn’t they?

  The doorbell rang and he padded along the hallway to answer it.

  “Mr Armstrong? Detective Sergeant Phillips and Police Constable Yates. We’re here in connection with the murder of Guy Sullivan,” an astute-looking man in his mid-fifties made the introductions and showed off a tattered warrant card.

  “Please, come in.”

  He led the way through to an enormous room with views out across the water, sumptuously furnished with objets d’art and an entire wall of books.

  “Can I offer you somethin
g to drink?”

  The sergeant declined politely and took stock of his surroundings with a pair of sharp brown eyes that gave the impression of missing very little. His companion seemed less guarded and stared openly around the room, as if the plain walls and antique furnishings would tell her something of the man who lived there.

  “Mr Armstrong, we’re conducting routine enquiries into Guy Sullivan’s murder and we’re hoping you’ll be able to help us.”

  “Certainly, if I can.”

  He continued to make coffee, to give himself something to do.

  “Could you start by telling us your movements between four and seven a.m., yesterday morning?”

  “I was writing,” he said. “It’s what I do for a living.”

  “Yes, so we understand. That seems rather early to have been writing, doesn’t it?”

  Armstrong took a sip of his coffee and leaned back against the countertop, crossing long legs at the ankles.

  “Does it? I assure you, that’s the least unusual element of being a writer, sergeant. I’m often plagued by insomnia and, during those times, I find writing very cathartic.”

  “You didn’t go riding?”

  Phillips sighed inwardly and reminded himself to have a word with Yates about questioning techniques.

  “Oh, yes,” Armstrong turned to the woman and watched her pupils dilate. “I tend to go for an early morning hack every Saturday. It’s one of my little habits. I have quite a few, I’m afraid.”

  He flashed a smile for Yates’ benefit.

  “What time was that?”

  “Oh, around six o’clock. I left here about twenty minutes’ beforehand.”

  “On foot?”

  “No, I drove,” he said. “I pay to park my car at one of the smaller visitor’s centres down the road so I have the option if I want it. As you can see, there’s not much in the way of parking around here.”

  Phillips prepared to ask a delicate question.

  “Can anybody vouch for your whereabouts during the hours of four and six?”

  “This is getting very intriguing, sergeant. Perhaps I’ll find inspiration for one of my stories,” he said, but found no answering smile on the faces of the two police officers who watched him.

  “Murder is a very serious matter, Mr Armstrong. I’m sure you can appreciate the difference between fictional crime and the real situations we’re faced with.”

  Armstrong held his hands up.

  “I apologise, sergeant. In my business, it’s easy to get caught up in the world you create for others and to forget the real world that exists out there. You wanted to know if anybody can vouch for me? I’m afraid not, but I think I have something better.”

  He sauntered across to his desk at the other end of the room, facing out towards the water. With a few clicks, he brought up the CCTV images and a rotating live feed jumped onto the screen.

  “I record everything within the bounds of my property,” he told them. “I can provide you with copies of the CCTV which will prove I never left the house until around five-forty, which is when I said I went up to the equestrian centre.”

  Yates was disposed to feel relief that this tall, charismatic man could be eliminated from their enquiries but Phillips was less easily pleased.

  “That would be much appreciated, Mr Armstrong. There’s just one more thing. We’re asking all local residents for their consent to provide a DNA sample so we can eliminate as many people as possible. Would you be willing to provide us with a sample?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  There was a short, awkward silence.

  “May we ask why?”

  Armstrong pushed away from the countertop and he was no longer the relaxed writer at home; he was an authoritative man who knew the law and its limits.

  “You have no reasonable grounds to request it in the first place. My whereabouts have been accounted for and should be sufficient to eliminate me from your enquiries without the need for any DNA. If you want it, you’ll have to go through the proper legal channels and get a court order.”

  Phillips gave the man a good-humoured smile, as if the refusal made no difference to him whatsoever.

  “Thanks for your time, Mr Armstrong. If you could forward the CCTV footage to the e-mail address on this card,” he took one from his wallet and laid it on the countertop. “We’d be much obliged.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The evening news was a regurgitation of the lunchtime news and the morning news before that. Ryan listened as he sent an e-mail summary to DCS Lucas—he would never be accused of failing to report to his commanding officer—detailing the progress of Operation Stargazer, as well as three others currently on the books which he had delegated to the other DIs in his wider team. He trusted them to do their jobs because they were all able men and women but that was a concept Lucas would never truly understand.

  Trust.

  His hands flew over the keyboard and then he clicked ‘send’ with a decisive stab of his index finger.

  The noise of the television in the conference suite at the Inn filtered through and Ryan set aside his laptop to listen. The newscaster’s sombre face filled the screen and then the report cut to old footage of himself during the first investigation into The Hacker. Some clever media graduate had overlaid the footage with dates and times so the viewing public would be reminded of the chronology of recent investigations in CID, following which the newscaster flew dangerously close to the wind by postulating that one of those killers might also have been responsible for the deaths of Guy Sullivan and Duncan Gray. The footage skipped to Arthur Gregson as he had once been; an imposing man who had possessed enough gravitas to run the Criminal Investigation Department but whose inherent weakness of character had led him to turn away from the very principles he fought to protect.

  There seemed to be a never-ending stream of footage but Ryan couldn’t bring himself to look away. It was all filler, but to Ryan it was more than just a showreel of names and faces, it was a reminder of everything he’d lived through.

  He swore inwardly at the next segment.

  “Sources close to the investigation tell us the initial investigation into Duncan Gray’s disappearance was led by Detective Sergeant Arthur Gregson, who rose to prominence in later life as Detective Chief Superintendent of Northumbria CID. Following his arrest in 2015, he has been remanded in custody and is awaiting trial while the authorities continue to investigate what has amounted to over thirty years of corruption and criminality. The family of Duncan Gray told this programme in an exclusive interview that they are considering legal action against the Constabulary…”

  Right on cue, Ryan’s mobile phone began to ring.

  “Ryan.”

  “Did you see the evening news?”

  Chief Constable Morrison’s voice barked down the line.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What is Phillips doing about it? I assume he’s still the SIO on the investigation?”

  “Phillips and I are acting as joint SIO,” Ryan told her. “DCS Lucas and I came to an agreement about how to direct operations that was acceptable to both of us.”

  Back in her home office, Morrison wondered what that entailed but that was something to worry about another day.

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” she said cautiously. “But that still leaves the problem of how to manage the media. Ryan, we’ve worked bloody hard for over a year to repair the damage Gregson left behind. Now, they’re hashing it all up again, then there’s the talk of legal action—”

  “I want to know who leaked the information about Gregson,” Ryan interjected quietly.

  He thought of the police staff attached to the investigation but dismissed them almost immediately. He had warned them in no uncertain terms about giving unauthorised information to the press and had been met with affronted faces that told him the thought had never even crossed their minds.

  “Could have been the family,” Morrison offered. “They must remember Gregson was the per
son in charge of the investigation back in ’81.”

  Ryan acknowledged that was a possibility, but there were others much closer to home. As always, there was no way to prove that Lucas deliberately set out to put obstacles in their path.

  “There’s been no suggestion from Duncan Gray’s parents that they’re considering legal action,” he said. “That sounds like speculation.”

  “All the same, I’ve spoken to Lucas who says she’s ready to step in if you want her to do a press briefing.”

  “I’ll handle it,” he said firmly. “There’s a better way of getting the message across.”

  Morrison felt an immediate sense of relief.

  “Whatever you do, do it quickly,” she muttered.

  * * *

  When Ryan chose to act, he fell like a lightning bolt.

  Within half an hour, he had arranged a town meeting to be held that evening at Kielder Castle, which was a major visitor’s centre with sufficient space to house the press and any local people who might choose to attend. As it turned out, Mitch Fenwick was the elected local councillor for the Kielder community in addition to his water-sporting exploits and he was only too happy to help organise and chair the meeting. With those arrangements safely in hand, Ryan put the word out that he would be briefing the locals at seven-thirty and the media were welcome to attend if they wished. That way, he could be satisfied that, to all intents and purposes, the town meeting had not been arranged specifically to meet the needs of the press.

  Finally, he put a call through to Angela Gray to issue a personal invitation to the town meeting. Her voice seemed far away on the telephone, with the dreamy quality he associated with an anti-anxiety drugs prescription and Ryan did not hold out much hope for her attendance but at least she made no mention of any pending legal action.

  Duncan’s father could not be reached.

  As he finished his last call, Ryan’s staff began filing into the room in time for another five o’clock briefing.

  “I could murder a cuppa,” Phillips declared, then let out a long whistle of appreciation when he caught sight of the view. “Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes.”