by LJ Ross
“Armstrong is the only one without a proven alibi,” Phillips said. “And he’s got the temperament. It’s nowhere near enough to charge him with murder, but it’s enough for a shake-down until Faulkner comes back to us with something more solid.”
“Let’s take a drive out to Scribe’s End.”
“Never did like his books, anyway,” Phillips muttered. “Always getting the police procedures wrong, misquoting Latin—”
“Now, now,” Ryan interrupted. “Nobody likes a know-it-all, Frank.”
* * *
The rain was like a monsoon by the time Ryan and Phillips pulled up on the main road next to the pathway that would lead them to Nathan Armstrong’s hunting lodge. They had come prepared, dressed in full waterproofs and sturdy boots, but the ground was hazardous underfoot as they made their way through the trees. Phillips pointed out the cameras as they went, and Ryan counted at least five, which was more than he’d expect to see at most banks, let alone a private residence in the middle of nowhere. Crime rates in the area were almost non-existent, except for the odd siphoned tank of oil or stolen vehicle, and certainly not high enough to warrant the kind of security Armstrong had erected.
“He’s either packing gold reserves to rival Fort Knox, or the man’s a control freak,” Ryan said.
“Could be both,” Phillips panted, as he made a valiant effort to remain upright on the muddy pathway. “Tell him to invest a bit of his gold in a new pathway.”
A moment later, they emerged from the trees and the hunting lodge appeared before them. Ryan hadn’t visited before and he was forced to agree that the setting was something special, regardless of its owner. However, when they approached the front door, they found the place deserted. No lights shone from inside the windows and the doors were firmly locked. A heavy-duty alarm system glowed neon green, which presumably meant it had been activated against intruders while the master of the house was gone.
Ryan and Phillips circled the perimeter, checking all the windows and doors until they met at the back entrance, which stood beneath an attractive wooden canopy with a decking area and seating. Sheltered there from the rain, they looked out across the panoramic reservoir and could see Armstrong’s little red boat still moored by the jetty.
“What now?” Phillips shouted above the loud patter of the rain against the canopy roof.
“We need to find out where the hell Nathan Armstrong is,” Ryan replied. “You liaise with the local police and get a squad car out here to meet you at the main road and watch to see if Armstrong returns. Meanwhile, I’m going to see if I can track him down.”
“What if he’s already made a run for it?”
“Then we’ll put out an APW and he won’t get very far. If he killed those people, there’s nowhere he’ll be able to run to without always looking over his shoulder and seeing us right there behind him.”
* * *
Nathan Armstrong congratulated himself on another resounding success.
The women in the audience were especially lapping it up, he thought, sending a cheeky wink out to one of the middle-aged biddies in the front row who blushed furiously and started wittering to the friend seated beside her. He knew what they were saying, too.
What a handsome brute he is!
There was an enormous banner with images of his forthcoming book splashed across it, but on the projector screen behind him there was an even bigger portrait of himself in moody black and white. It had been taken beside some grubby industrial unit or other to reflect the grit in his novels and he’d been bloody glad to get back inside the comfort of his car afterwards. Still, the photographer seemed to have caught his best side, which made the ordeal worthwhile.
“… and thank you so much once again to Mr Armstrong for joining us this evening,” the woman in charge of the book-signing event gushed, sending him a deferential smile which he returned with just the right amount of condescension. “After this, he’ll be going on a tour of Europe and North America, so we are honoured that he was able to find the time in his very busy schedule to come and talk to us.”
A polite round of applause followed, and he held up a self-effacing hand.
Afterwards, a stack of smaller A5 copies of his portrait waited to be signed and he handed them out to each adoring fan, posing for selfies and demanding re-takes where the image was not up to his exacting standards.
When the queue began to dwindle, he reached inside the pocket of his tweed jacket to switch his phone back on.
Almost immediately, the cloud storage system linked to his security cameras back at the hunting lodge pinged with a series of alerts and he stepped aside to fumble with the app so he could see who had been to the house. Less than twenty seconds later, video images of Ryan and Phillips popped onto the screen and he watched them circling the house, knocking on the doors and peering through windows.
The rest of the queue forgotten, Armstrong hurried to collect his briefcase and overcoat.
“Mr Armstrong? I thought you were planning to stay and sign a few more copies of your book?”
The event organiser hurried to stop him, and he almost thrust her aside in his impatience to get away.
“Something’s come up,” he said, and made swiftly for the exit lobby.
But when he flung open the panelled doors, he came to a shuddering halt as he caught sight of who was standing there waiting to greet him.
Ryan turned at the same moment and smiled grimly at the surprised look on Nathan Armstrong’s face.
“Mr Armstrong? I’d like to speak with you, please.”
“I have a plane to catch this evening, so I’m in quite a hurry.”
“I’m afraid you’ll need to cancel.”
“Get out of my way,” Armstrong hissed, suddenly becoming aware that they were drawing a crowd as his audience began to file out of the event room.
“Mr Armstrong, this will be much simpler if you will come to the police station voluntarily to answer a few questions and provide a DNA swab.”
“I’ve already told your sergeant, I won’t be giving you anything without the appropriate order.”
“Then I guess we’ll do this the hard way,” Ryan said, and he motioned forward a couple of local constables. “Nathan Armstrong, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Duncan Gray and Kate Robson. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
Armstrong’s eyes bulged from his face as a crowd of horrified fans watched him being led away.
“I’ll sue you for this.”
“And I’ll counter-sue, for crimes against literature.”
While Armstrong was rendered momentarily speechless, Ryan took his opportunity and stuffed him into the back of a squad car.
CHAPTER 34
Wednesday, 5th October
It had taken Faulkner’s team the rest of the previous day and most of the morning to complete their testing of the postage stamp and takeaway cup. As time ticked away, Ryan had already begun preparations to make an application to the magistrates’ court to hold Armstrong for a further twenty-four hours, in case the forensic results did not come back within the legal timeframe during which he could detain a suspect without charge.
Luckily, Faulkner came through long before the eleventh hour to confirm a match had been found and that had provided Ryan with reasonable grounds to compel a sample from Armstrong to confirm that his DNA matched that found on the cup and the stamp.
It did.
And yet, Nathan Armstrong appeared entirely unruffled by the news.
He was seated beside his solicitor at a table opposite Ryan and Phillips inside one of the smaller rooms in the basement interview suite at Police Headquarters. The room had been chosen deliberately to create a feeling of claustrophobia because, in their long experience, they had found a stuffy room could be remarkably conducive in drawing out an unresponsive subject.
> Not so, in the case of Nathan Armstrong.
His only concession had been to remove his jacket, but otherwise he continued to sit comfortably on an uncomfortable metal-legged plastic chair while he churned out a series of ‘no comment’ answers.
Ryan watched him with interest.
“Mr Armstrong, forensic testing has proven that your DNA was found on a postage stamp used to send a postcard to Mrs Angela Gray. Can you provide any explanation for that?”
“No comment.”
“Mr Armstrong, how did your DNA find its way onto a postcard supposedly sent from Duncan Gray to his mother in January of 1982?”
“No comment.”
“Mr Armstrong, the postcard in question was stamped by a London mailing distribution centre. Can you tell us where you were in January of 1982?”
“No comment.”
“Mr Armstrong, isn’t it true that you lived with your family at an address in the Borough of Islington and attended school there during January of 1982?”
“No comment.”
“Mr Armstrong, is Islington a borough in London?”
“No comment.”
“Mr Armstrong, isn’t the Mount Pleasant Royal Mail Distribution Centre located on the outskirts of Islington?”
“No comment.”
Ryan paused to draw in a frustrated breath. He had encountered interviews like these before where the subject refused to be drawn out, but he had seldom come across a person who showed no indications of panic or self-preservation.
Not since…
Not since The Hacker.
He met Nathan Armstrong’s eyes across the table and realised they were the same; not the colour or the shape, but what lay behind them.
Nothing. No remorse, no pity—just an empty chasm where his soul should have been. It was like staring into an abyss and Ryan was suddenly afraid that, if he didn’t look away, it would consume him too.
He carried on with his line of questioning.
“Mr Armstrong, where were you on the night of 21st October 1981?”
“My client has already answered that question in full in his statement dated 22nd October of the same year, Chief Inspector. He was at a holiday cottage with his parents and did not leave at any point during the evening. Statements from his parents confirm the same.”
Ryan looked at the solicitor and wondered whether it bothered her to know she was defending a killer. The law dictated that everyone was entitled to a defence; that was the way the system worked, and he respected it—if not all the people who benefited from it.
“Are your parents still living, Mr Armstrong?”
“It is a matter of public record that Mr Armstrong’s parents are both deceased,” the solicitor piped up again. “Any further questioning on that subject could be perceived as harassment.”
“My condolences,” Ryan said flatly. “Let me put this another way: did you tell your parents to provide false statements to the police, prior to their deaths?”
“Chief Inspector, that is provocative and, once again, we will not hesitate to make a complaint if this harassment continues.”
Ryan switched course.
“Mr Armstrong, where were you on the evening of Sunday 2nd October this year?”
“No comment.”
“Did you, at any time, go to visit the Hot Trots Equestrian Centre?”
A slight smile touched Armstrong’s lips.
“No comment.”
Ryan held his eyes for a moment longer and then closed his file. If forensics was not enough to make the man talk, perhaps there was another way.
“Duncan was good-looking, wasn’t he, Nathan? And popular with the kids around Kielder.”
Armstrong said nothing, but he unfolded and re-folded his legs in a gesture that could have signified irritation.
“Is that a question, Chief Inspector?” the eagle-eyed solicitor cut in.
“I’m getting to it.” Ryan shooed her away. “You, on the other hand, were an awkward teenager, weren’t you Nathan? Not quite the self-assured, bestselling author we see sitting before us today.”
Not a muscle moved on Armstrong’s face, but his eyes burned.
“Chief Inspector—”
“Must have been hard, growing up without many friends. Did it make you feel powerful when you killed him, Nathan? Did it make you feel better about yourself?”
A tiny muscle flickered at the side of Armstrong’s face; the only visible sign that he had heard the question.
“Did you kill Duncan Gray?”
The two men locked eyes and, for a moment, Phillips and the solicitor were forgotten. Armstrong continued to stare across the table at Ryan, memorising his features, and then leaned forward to open his mouth for a final time.
“No comment.”
* * *
They worked on him for another hour before they called it a day and, as they left the interview suite, they were met in the corridor by DCS Lucas and a man they recognised as belonging to the Crown Prosecution Service, the central body who would decide whether to prosecute Armstrong’s case given the evidence in their possession.
Lucas swept her eyes over both detectives.
“In here. Now.”
She pushed open one of the doors and they followed her into a small, windowless conference room. Once inside, she turned on them.
“You’re making no progress with Armstrong,” she said, straight off the bat.
“He’s guilty as sin,” Phillips replied. “Give us another pass at him and—”
“We’re not in the business of badgering witnesses,” she snapped.
“He’s not a witness, except to his own crimes,” Ryan said. “Phillips is right. We could see he was beginning to crack when we started picking apart his psychological motivations. If we try again later today, there’s every chance he’ll slip up.”
“If, but, maybe,” she said, cuttingly. “I’ve given you a free run at this because you assured me you would bring it home for the department. Instead, all you’ve found is a thirty-year-old postage stamp and a bit of spit on the edge of a takeaway cup. Do you really think that’s sufficient to hold up in court?”
“The significance of those items is the DNA found on both.”
“And it’s purely circumstantial,” she said.
“I’m sorry, but I must agree with DCS Lucas,” the CPS man spoke up, although his voice was barely above a whisper. “Without a more specific causal link between Nathan Armstrong and the two murders, the CPS is unlikely to bring the case to trial.”
Ryan turned to him with furious eyes.
“You’ve got to be kidding! How else would the man’s saliva find its way onto the stamp, unless he was the one who forged the postcard to lead people away from the scent of Duncan Gray’s disappearance? What other explanation is there?”
The man squirmed.
“His barrister will argue that licking a stamp is not tantamount to murder and no jury will convict where there is reasonable doubt. Besides, he’s a public figure. People will assume he is innocent.”
Ryan wished he could argue with that.
“Look,” he said, trying to keep his temper on a leash. “We’re executing a search and seizure order this evening to confiscate Armstrong’s CCTV and whatever else we find of interest at his house. That’s sure to turn up something,” he told them.
But Lucas just smiled.
“CCTV can be doctored,” she said. “And, if he’s been clever enough to remain undetected for over thirty years, he’s surely been careful enough to remove any incriminating evidence from his home. Besides, the fact he visits so regularly will look like a positive thing in the eyes of the jury.”
“Not necessarily,” Ryan argued. “It could also look like him returning to the scene of his crime.”
“Pure conjecture,” she said. “Do you have anything else?”
“What the hell are you expecting? A signed confession?” Ryan burst out. “They don’t come cap in bloodied hand, ready to admit gui
lt!”
“Unlucky for you, then.”
Ryan looked into Lucas’s sharp blue eyes and realised she was enjoying herself. She revelled in the power that came from seeing him fail, feeding off situations like these.
“Who called you down here?” He turned back to the CPS man, who looked uncomfortably between the three of them before answering.
“I received a call from DCS Lucas’s office,” he replied. “Although I hardly see how that’s relevant to the situation.”
Ryan smiled grimly at his superintendent, who didn’t so much as flinch.
“It’s relevant because, if we’d had a few more hours, your decision might have been very different.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “My hands are tied.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Ryan watched Lucas sign the paperwork to release Nathan Armstrong without charge. He had refused to sign the release papers himself, so she had overridden him and made the determination.
“He’s threatening to sue the Department,” she muttered. “That makes two in one week.”
“It’s a bluff, you know that. You’re making a mistake.”
She turned and stalked back to her office without another word.
Across the foyer, Nathan Armstrong emerged from a lift and walked over to retrieve his personal effects from the duty sergeant. His eyes swept over Ryan and something passed between them. In that moment, he knew that Ryan had seen him—really seen him—and yet he was being forced to let him walk free, unable to stop it.
The feeling of power was intoxicating.
He turned to pick up his briefcase and was outside the main doors when a firm hand swung him back around.
“This isn’t over,” Ryan growled. “Wherever you go, whatever you do, know that I’m watching you because you’re on my radar now. You’ll never know the same freedom again.”
Armstrong shook him off and pushed his face close to Ryan’s, so close they were almost touching.
“Oh, but I will. In fact, I’m catching a late flight out to Paris tonight. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll send you a postcard.”