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

by LJ Ross

  He found Kate Robson lying on her kitchen floor in a cruciform formation, her arms spread wide. One side of her face showed the evidence of blunt trauma and a heavy copper pan stood proudly on the kitchen table, advertising its exploits.

  “Poor woman,” MacKenzie breathed.

  “We were too late,” Ryan said quietly. “She called us for help and we were too late.”

  Before MacKenzie could offer any kind of platitude, Ryan stepped back to allow Phillips and Yates space to take in the scene while he called it in. He stood in the yard outside until his team re-joined him and they huddled around to wait for the CSIs to arrive while the dogs tried to detect Craig Hunter’s scent amongst a multitude of others on the wind.

  “One of the horses is missing,” Ryan said, and they followed his line of sight towards the empty stall at the end of the row. “Hunter probably came here for transportation and petty cash.”

  “He’s out of control,” Phillips said. “If he’ll kill a woman for a horse, there’s no telling what else he might do.”

  “He’s already wanted for several murders,” MacKenzie pointed out. “It doesn’t get much worse than that.”

  “They’re not having any luck,” Yates pointed out, looking across at the Canine Unit. “They’ve been trying for fifteen minutes now.”

  Ryan folded his arms and thought of Craig Hunter, who was putting more and more distance between himself and the police with every wasted moment.

  “What’s the quickest route to the Scottish border from here?”

  Phillips pulled out his map and Yates shone her torch light so they could see.

  “He knows he can’t take the roads,” MacKenzie said. “They’re cordoned off at every major exit and there are patrol cars running back and forth. It’d be risky to take the forestry roads, too, because the rangers are patrolling those. He’s smart enough to know that his best bet is to go cross-country.”

  “Here,” Ryan said, tracing his finger along a red-dashed line. “What’s this?”

  “The Bloody Bush Trail,” Phillips read out. “The guide here says it’s a difficult mountain biking trail, but it’s a trail nonetheless.”

  “It starts near the end of the lower field,” Ryan said, pointing a finger out into the formidable darkness.

  “We should tell the 4x4 team and let them know,” Phillips said.

  Ryan walked along the line of stalls until he found the one he was looking for. As if she’d been expecting him, the mare he’d seen the other day popped her head out and butted him gently in welcome.

  “You do that, Frank, but they’ll tell you the trail is inaccessible to vehicles. There are rock faces and narrow gorges that a 4x4 couldn’t handle—but a well-trained horse certainly could.”

  “We could wait for the helicopters to track his heat,” Phillips said, already having guessed what Ryan planned to do.

  “There are thousands of acres of land to cover. With every passing minute, we’re losing precious time and increasing the probability that Hunter will kill again. I don’t want that on my conscience, Frank, not when I’m an experienced rider and we need somebody on the ground.”

  Even as he spoke the words, Ryan told himself that he would soon find out whether riding a horse was just like riding a bike. But before he began to saddle up the mare, he paused to look at MacKenzie. It remained unspoken, but this portion of the investigation belonged to her new Cold Cases Team just as much as it belonged to his.

  “What do you say, Mac?”

  She weighed up the pros and cons but, ultimately, agreed with the logic.

  “It makes sense,” MacKenzie pronounced. “I’ll let the tactical team know. Stay in radio contact and don’t approach.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ryan said, with a grin.

  MacKenzie’s eyes narrowed and she nodded towards a powerful looking black stallion braying in a neighbouring stall.

  “Don’t you want to ride that one? He’ll be faster.”

  Ryan looked across at the sleek black horse, then into the chocolate brown eyes of the Welsh cobb standing beside him.

  He must have a weakness for brown-eyed women.

  A carved nameplate next to the stall told him her name was Mathilda. It was true that a thoroughbred would be faster across open ground but he needed a sure-footed, reliable horse that didn’t mind cold weather.

  “No, I think Mathilda and I will do just fine together.”

  A couple of minutes later, he’d saddled the horse and with one smooth motion, he propelled himself onto her back.

  “Howay man, you can’t go on your own,” Phillips called out, and to their shared surprise began muttering endearments to another sturdy-looking horse in a neighbouring stall. “There, sweetheart, you don’t mind if we go and see the stars, do you?”

  He opened the stall doors to a chorus of “No!” and with a supreme effort, he used a nearby bench to boost himself up onto its bare back—before promptly sliding off the other side.

  “For God’s sake, Frank, stand aside before you do yourself an injury,” MacKenzie muttered.

  Phillips bristled as MacKenzie reached for a saddle and deftly began strapping it onto the horse’s back.

  “Do you know how—?”

  The rest of the question died on his tongue as MacKenzie gave him a withering stare, took a fistful of the horse’s mane and swung herself up.

  The horses whinnied and they all turned at the sound of the dogs becoming restless, somewhere out in the fields.

  “I think they’ve got something,” Yates said, and handed them a couple of riding hats. “Safety first.”

  “Be careful,” Phillips said.

  MacKenzie leaned down in her saddle to bestow a quick kiss on Phillips’ upturned face, then looked across at Ryan.

  “You ready?”

  As MacKenzie urged her horse out of the yard with a clatter of hooves, Ryan spared one last word for Phillips.

  “You know, if I wasn’t already married to the greatest woman on earth, I want you to know I’d be seriously considering making a play for Denise MacKenzie right now.”

  “Aye, and if I wasn’t such a peace-loving man, I’d be seriously considering planting my fist in your pretty face, lad.”

  Ryan laughed and with a gentle flex of his thighs, he and Mathilda disappeared into the night.

  * * *

  That had been close.

  Too close.

  Only once the door was firmly locked and the curtains drawn was it possible to let out a long, self-satisfied laugh. The poetry of the situation was most pleasing of all; a collision of circumstances that provided the perfect opportunity to say farewell to an old friend who had long outstayed her welcome, like the dinner guest who never went home or the fungal infection that never quite cleared up.

  The feeling of release was euphoric; the elation indescribable.

  Free at last.

  CHAPTER 23

  The air in the forest was thick and heavily scented with pine as Hunter followed the narrow bike trail through the trees. His eyes had almost adjusted to the darkness and he seemed to have picked a decent horse because it trod carefully across the stony path and only skidded a couple of times when the trail dipped downhill. It was like being on a ghost train at the fairground, unable to see where the car was hurtling and feeling branches brush against his skin like cold fingers, but he knew these woods and felt no fear.

  Plus, he hadn’t come across a single living soul since he’d almost floored a pair of idiot cyclists who were bedding down for the night on a patch of ground near Little Burn. He couldn’t be sure if they’d seen his face but it had been dark and he hadn’t stopped to let them catch a better look.

  Once he reached the main trail, Hunter dragged the horse by the bridle down the steep section towards the small burn and went upstream to make it look as though he was heading north, towards the observatory. Then, after a quarter-mile of forcing the horse through icy water, he turned around and retraced their steps.

  That w
ould confuse the dogs.

  He wasn’t stupid. There were bound to be dogs, maybe even helicopters, but he hadn’t heard any choppers flying overhead so he guessed they weren’t even close to knowing where he was. Hunter smiled to himself and gave the horse another nudge when it protested at the next incline.

  * * *

  Ryan and MacKenzie kept pace with the sniffer dogs for the first half-mile as they strained against their handlers’ leads and shook with excitement. Now and then, they stopped to stick their noses inside a bag of Hunter’s clothes to be reminded of his scent but they led the police to the far corner of Kate Robson’s property without any trouble and then veered north until they reached the edge of Little Burn running through the valley below.

  Ryan and MacKenzie dismounted and secured their horses, then used their torches to pick their way down through the trees until they reached the water’s edge. There, a gap in the trees overhanging the burn allowed the moon to shine a pearly white light over their surroundings.

  “Which way?” Ryan asked.

  The sergeant from the Canine Unit shook his head.

  “They’ve lost the scent,” he replied, watching the dogs. “We’ll split them up into pairs and check either side of the riverbank to see if it helps.”

  Ryan and MacKenzie waited while the handlers walked along the high reeds lining the banks of the burn, stopping regularly to allow the dogs to sniff Hunter’s clothing.

  But still, it was no good. One of the dogs barked and strained in one direction, only to stop and quiver then turn in a full circle and come back again.

  “I think he was here, guv, but we don’t know which direction he took,” one of the handlers called out.

  “He had to go through the water,” MacKenzie murmured, watching the moon shimmering on the burn. “He probably doubled back on himself because he knew it would confuse the dogs.”

  “And waste our time, in the process,” Ryan added, thinking of the surrounding geography. “This direction leads north, back towards civilisation. If Hunter has any sense, he’ll head towards Scotland, which is west of here if you take the trail.”

  MacKenzie looked back up to where the horses waited on higher ground. Behind them, an open expanse of mossy fields connected to the Bloody Bush Trail skirting through the trees, up and over the hills until it met with the Scottish Border.

  During the day, it was difficult terrain but at night, it was nothing short of treacherous.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  * * *

  Three miles west of their position, Hunter led his exhausted horse up another rocky incline and when the animal stumbled again he was forced to accept it was time to take a short break. He’d hoped to put more distance between himself and the police but, since he hadn’t heard any helicopters yet, he began to think they hadn’t even noticed he was missing.

  He’d assumed Kate Robson would get straight onto the coppers after she’d seen him stealing the horse, but maybe she decided to cut him a break or else assumed he was only borrowing it.

  She never had been the sharpest tool in the box.

  Not to mention frigid. She’d turned him down several times, as if he wasn’t good enough for her.

  Bitch.

  Just for that, he gave the horse another good kick and was angry when it came to a complete stop.

  “Howay, man, y’ lazy brute!”

  But the horse would go no further.

  For a moment, he was tempted to kill it but he managed to control the impulse. He would need the horse for the rest of his journey, so there was no sense in killing the animal.

  Yet.

  Hunter peered through the trees on either side of the trail and calculated roughly how far he had come. By his judgment, he was still around six miles shy of the border but he was making good progress.

  He steered the horse off the trail and into the trees, out of sight.

  * * *

  Phillips and Yates returned to the incident room at Kielder Waterside to find a maelstrom of activity. Some thoughtful person—probably Anna—had made a mountain of sandwiches for the mixed group of forestry staff, local police, volunteers from mountain search and rescue, and tactical support teams who had fallen upon the stack of bread and cheese like wild animals. Now, they milled in their respective groups and there was a constant buzz of police chatter as they argued over the next steps.

  Although there had been very little time in which to muster the full-scale resources they would usually deploy for a manhunt, Phillips had to admit that the local response had been exemplary. A dozen officers with specialist firearms training were on their way in armoured vehicles from Northumbria Police Headquarters but army officers from the nearby military training camp at Otterburn had beaten them to it and were closing in from the north, south and east while their cohorts across the border awaited Hunter to the west. There was a lot of ground to cover on foot but they were equipped with night-vision goggles and, cloaked by the forest, military-trained personnel would move like swift shadows.

  Phillips shrugged out of his coat and made a grab for one of the sandwiches before they were all snaffled.

  “Any word on air support?” he asked the tactical team leader, between bites.

  The woman nodded.

  “There’s an RAF GR4 tornado jet on its way from the base at Marham. It’s fitted with infrared cameras with heat-seeking technology. The helicopter would have to come from Humberside Airport, which would take too long.”

  Phillips nodded his approval.

  “What about the residents? Have we had any more sightings?”

  “None whatsoever. The local police have made house-to-house calls to warn people to remain indoors and have evacuated three houses within a five-mile radius of the Bloody Bush Trail, for safety. There’s a couple of officers stationed back at Hunter’s cottage, just in case he’s crafty and tries to double back home to collect his vehicle or supplies.”

  “Good to cover all bases,” Phillips agreed. “Are the media aware?”

  The team leader pulled a face.

  “Somebody must have tipped them off,” she said. “The regional news channels were reporting a manhunt less than thirty minutes after Kate Robson’s body was discovered, and now the nationals have picked up the story about another murder and there being a manhunt underway.”

  Yates looked across at the wall-mounted television and watched the silent news broadcast.

  “Will this hinder us?” she asked. “What if they tip him off?”

  “Unlikely,” Phillips said. “Hunter’s out there in the wilderness, so he’s not going to be getting news updates, even if they did have anything useful to report.”

  “That’s a point,” Yates said brightly. “Has anybody checked to see if Hunter’s mobile phone is still transmitting?”

  Phillips smiled.

  “Now you’re getting the hang of this, aren’t you?” He called over one of the intelligence analysts, who darted across the room with an energy Phillips could only admire. “We need to run a search on Hunter’s phone to see if it’s still transmitting. He might have taken it apart and dumped it—that’d be the smart thing to do—but in the heat of the moment it’s easy to forget the simple things. Let us know if you have any luck triangulating a signal.”

  The analyst nodded and raced back to his desk.

  Anna spotted them both and wove through the crowded room, feeling oddly at home in an environment that would have seemed alien three years before.

  “I heard you found another body at the equestrian centre and there’s a man on the run. Where’s Ryan? Is he in one of the 4x4s?”

  Anna looked expectantly between them, then held up a hand as the silence became awkward.

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Ryan decided to go off into the woods on foot?”

  Phillips pursed his lips.

  “You’re close.”

  “On a mountain bike?”

  “Getting warmer.”

  “On…horseback?”
>
  “Got it in one.”

  Anna folded her arms and adopted a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Right, so, my husband is now pursuing a dangerous murderer across some of the most difficult physical terrain in the country, at night—and now it’s starting to rain,” she added, as raindrops began to patter against the windows. “I suppose I can’t say he didn’t warn me. It’s been nothing but an adventure since I met Maxwell Charles Finlay-Ryan.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, love, my fiancée is out there with him,” Phillips said.

  “I almost feel sorry for Craig Hunter,” Yates piped up. “He doesn’t have a clue what’s about to hit him.”

  Just then, there came the delayed roar of a jet engine as the sleek plane seemed to tear the sky in half. The roof shuddered over their heads and the tips of the trees outside swayed wildly in its wake.

  “Reinforcements have arrived,” Phillips pronounced, and scowled as one of the constables nabbed the last sandwich.

  CHAPTER 24

  Hunter was about to remount his horse when he heard a rumbling sound in the distance. At first, he assumed it was the police helicopter arriving but the sound was growing louder and louder and approaching at a much faster speed than he would have expected.

  “Hold still!” he growled at the horse, which moved restlessly in a bid to escape its captor.

  He hauled himself back up and steered it through the trees until he found the trail again. The skies were rumbling and when the trail gave way to a short stretch of forest road, he looked up and saw the jet circling around like a giant eagle.

  “Come on! Move!”

  The horse whinnied and shied at the deafening noise of the jet and Hunter began to panic. It was the heat, he realised. They had heat detectors on those jets and they’d found him, even amongst all the trees and rivers, the moors and fields of sheep and cattle.

  They’d still found him.

  He needed to think.

  Think!

  There might still be a way.

  With a fierce kick of his heels, he spurred the horse onward as the rain began to fall.