by LJ Ross
But now it was time for Detective Sergeant Phillips to get back to work.
“Don’t think about the ‘what ifs’,” Ryan said. “Think about how to find her.”
“How?” Phillips burst out. “Nearly a week has passed and we’ve got nothing. No leads, no sightings…what if he’s killed her already?”
Ryan mustered a confidence he didn’t entirely feel.
“We have to believe that MacKenzie isn’t his main objective. Edwards will make contact and tell us his demands. He must know that we’re watching the airports and the ferry ports; he has limited means and his face has been splashed all over the regional and national news. There’s a nationwide manhunt underway. He can’t hope to escape without trying to use Denise as leverage.”
“What if he doesn’t want to escape?” Frank said.
Ryan’s mouth flattened. There was always the possibility that Edwards had an entirely different motive in mind, one that didn’t require him to keep live hostages.
“If he wants a crack at me because I’m the man who put him away, he’ll have his wish just as soon as we find him,” he raised a hand to give Phillips’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “But I need you on board, Frank. I need you with us, helping us.”
Phillips blinked a couple of times and looked away.
“I let her down. I should have been with her.”
“You haven’t let anybody down,” Ryan said forcefully. “There was no way you could have known. Now, for God’s sake, put your shirt on and come back to work. I don’t know how much longer I can stand here looking at your belly.”
Phillips’ chin jutted out in a manner reminiscent of his former self.
“There’s a layer of pure muscle beneath this belly.”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
CHAPTER 2
The atmosphere was hushed when Ryan and Phillips walked into the Northumbria Criminal Investigation Department on the leafy, western border between Newcastle and the county of Northumberland. They stood inside its scuffed double doors and breathed deeply of the homely smell; a potent mix of pine cleaning detergent and casserole that wafted its way upstairs from the direction of the canteen.
Ryan was relieved to see a healthy number of staff in attendance, although the room was nowhere near the hive of activity it had been when news had first broken of Edwards’ escape and MacKenzie’s disappearance. Durham CID were leading the investigation into how Edwards managed to engineer an escape from HMP Frankland, while Northumbria CID focused their efforts on tracing the whereabouts of their colleague and her abductor. Tyne and Wear Constabulary and several other neighbouring constabularies had offered their time and resources. Despite it, they were now entering the seventh day of a joint investigation that showed no sign of light at the end of the tunnel.
Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie was a popular woman and a good murder detective with a solid history of public service. Her kidnap had elicited an outcry from local and national media, who rallied around to ensure that ordinary people could not fail to recognise her abductor’s face as they went about their daily lives. But inevitably, as time passed, the news bulletins began to refer to her in the past tense, betraying an assumption that the worst had already happened. They discussed her life and profession as they would a fallen soldier, sacrificed in the line of duty. Newscasters began to speak of institutional failings and budget cuts to explain how a notorious killer had escaped his pen and opinion was divided on whether the police were doing enough to find her. Was there a lack of resources or were they merely incompetent? Chat shows re-opened the hackneyed debate on capital punishment, stoking a fire that already burned in the hearts of the men and women of the North East. It was inconceivable to think of a man such as Edwards roaming free again, able to hunt new victims and devastate other families. The idea of putting down such a dangerous animal was tempting and Ryan couldn’t deny that the prospect held a certain allure.
But that would make him no better than a killer.
Underneath all the scaremongering was a generous dose of good, old-fashioned fear. It was the kind that kept people awake at night and led them to imagine that their neighbour was a homicidal maniac. They rang the Incident Room to report a killer living next door; one who looks exactly like that escaped convict everybody’s been talking about and, oh, would they mind sending a couple of policemen around to arrest him?
Time wasters, every one.
Ryan looked around the tired faces of his team. Despite what the papers said, he knew they had worked tirelessly for six days. Their loyalty was commendable but he had not been able to prevent their gradual reallocation to other casework. After all, serious crime had not stopped in the wake of CID’s own tragedy.
“Alright, listen up!”
Conversation was suspended as detectives and support staff noted the arrival of the two newcomers.
Poor old Frank, Phillips imagined them saying.
His button-brown eyes darted from one display board to the next, images of Denise blurring with those of Keir Edwards in blown-up technicolour. One of the constables hastily moved to stand in front of one board but it was too late: he had already seen the lurid photographs of Edwards’ previous victims. He remembered each of their faces, anyway. He had seen their mangled bodies lying on an impersonal metal gurney at the mortuary and he had mourned every one of them.
Now, the same man was at large again and this time he had Denise.
Denise.
Phillips took a long, shaky breath and dragged his eyes away from the board to look at an enormous map of the North East. It was dotted with pins to denote areas of interest while a bank of photocopiers and printers hummed along another wall. A single telephone began to ring plaintively across the room, in painful contrast to the incessant ringing of several telephones only a few days ago.
The trail was going cold and people were beginning to lose interest.
Just then, a hand came to rest solidly on his shoulder. He whipped around and saw a young man wearing an earnest expression on his clean-shaven face.
“Good to have you back,” he said, and practically threw himself into Phillips’ arms.
“There, lad,” Phillips gave him a manly pat on the back as his face was crushed against the shiny fabric of Detective Constable Jack Lowerson’s suit jacket. The overpowering scent of some flashy aftershave filled his nostrils, damn near choking him.
Ryan grinned and took the opportunity to address the room at large, making sure his voice carried into all four corners.
“As some of you may know, DS Phillips has been out of the office on a short period of special leave,” Ryan lied smoothly. “He has now returned and is eager to get on with the business of policing, which is what we all do best. Let’s keep the idle chatter to a minimum and welcome him back.”
There followed a short, spontaneous round of applause and Phillips felt a lump rise in his throat.
“Aye, thanks for all the cards and messages,” he managed. “I know—I know Denise would appreciate it.”
Ryan waited a beat and then clapped his hands together.
“Alright, get back to work!”
* * *
The summons came exactly twenty minutes later.
Ryan and Phillips retraced their steps along a wide, utilitarian corridor and up an equally minimalist stairwell towards the Chief Constable’s office. In other circumstances, they might have made a pit-stop at the ancient vending machine for a cup of bad coffee, but not today.
Ryan’s footsteps slowed as they approached the door with its tarnished brass plaque.
“You ready?”
Phillips patted the collar of his shirt in an automatic gesture and was dismayed to find his necktie hanging in a loose knot. He took a moment to adjust it, smoothing down the fabric.
“Ready.”
Ryan decided to keep his opinion of Phillips’ apparel to himself. He had chosen a tie of bright emerald, embroidered with a series of tiny dancing leprechauns. At any other
time, it would have been ridiculous, but he imagined Phillips had acquired it on one of his visits to Ireland with Denise, and so he held his tongue.
He rapped a knuckle against the Chief Constable’s door.
“Come!”
When they entered, Chief Constable Sandra Morrison had a telephone handset wedged between shoulder and ear as she flipped through a large file of paperwork with one hand and scribbled notes on a dog-eared notepad with the other. Her sandy blonde hair had been tamed into a tortoiseshell hair clip at the back of her head, but it was starting to come loose amid the stress of the morning.
She paused to raise her index finger, indicating that she would be another minute.
Taking advantage of the brief lull, Ryan made a beeline for the coffee machine in the corner of the room. He happened to know it served a far better standard of caffeine than the machine downstairs.
“I think another press conference would be premature…yes, of course, I understand your position—”
Morrison dropped her pen and began to knead an ache developing at the back of her neck. Ryan and Phillips edged towards the visitors’ chairs arranged in front of her desk and settled themselves.
“I can assure you that we are pursuing every possible avenue, sir. He’s as good as vanished into thin air.”
Phillips took a small, scalding sip of coffee and felt his stomach quiver.
“Yes, sir. I’ll have an update ready for you by the end of the day.”
The air thrummed with leftover tension from Morrison’s conversation for a full ten seconds after she ended the call. In the residual silence, they could hear the everyday sound of traffic from the main road below, reminding them that ordinary life continued beyond the walls of CID.
Morrison allowed herself a moment to collect her thoughts and used that time to study both detectives. There, on the one hand, was Phillips. A reliable man, one she had worked with for nearly thirty years and whom she would venture to call a friend. Like a bloodhound, he followed the scent of a case until its conclusion through a combination of common sense and raw intelligence. He was often brash and straight-talking to say the least, but he was also scrupulously honest which was a quality she admired and encouraged among her staff. Studying his face, she saw clear signs of strain. His skin bore an unhealthy grey pallor and bruises were beginning to bloom on his face and jawline. Framed against the bright light filtering through her office window, she was saddened to note that he looked at least ten years older than he had a week ago.
Then, there was Ryan. The media’s darling, most of the time. Despite being several years younger, he was senior to Phillips in rank and, at one time, she had wondered how they would get along. She needn’t have concerned herself because the two men were more like family these days. But where Phillips was what she might call a ‘people person’, Ryan was a strategist: a born leader capable of viewing an investigation with the precision and detachment of a field marshal, with no compunctions whatsoever about giving offence if it reaped results. He had the capacity for great things and his track record proved it, but he followed instinct as much as he did rules and regulations. That meant she could never entirely trust him to follow orders, but his heart was in the right place. She knew that his family owned an old pile of bricks somewhere down in Devon and yet he had chosen to leave those soft, rolling hills for wilder, untamed northern shores. He had chosen hard work over an easy life and, looking at him now, she thought that he had made a wise decision. Being a healthy, red-blooded woman, she might as well admit that he wasn’t hard to look at, either.
Even with a swollen nose and the beginnings of a black eye.
“Well,” she said briskly, gesturing to their coffee cups. “I see you’ve already made yourselves quite comfortable.”
Phillips set down his cup with a bit of a clatter, while Ryan took his time finishing the last couple of mouthfuls.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Morrison rested her elbows against the scarred beech desktop and linked her fingers.
“In case you’re interested, that was the Commissioner on the phone,” she said. “As if the enormity of our task isn’t enough, his media liaison had a tip-off about our Senior Investigating Officer brawling with another senior detective this very morning.” She flicked a glance towards Phillips’ bruised face. “One with a remarkably similar description to you, Frank.”
Phillips squirmed in his seat.
“I can explain that,” Ryan interjected. “Given the turn of events and the fact Edwards is considered armed and dangerous, I felt it would be wise to brush up on my self-defence skills, in the event they’re needed. Phillips kindly offered to share some basic boxing skills with me this morning at a fully licensed boxing gym.”
Ryan had a strong inkling that Buddle’s hadn’t been on the official radar for years, but he wasn’t about to mention that.
Morrison fixed Phillips with a direct stare.
“Is that what happened?”
Phillips cleared his throat.
“Aye—yes, ma’am. Just like the man said. I kept the moves basic, since he’s such a novice,” he smiled winningly.
Morrison looked between the pair of them and knew when she was beaten.
“Look,” she said wearily. “I don’t know what happened, or why, but let that be an end to it. Phillips, I hear you’ve been out of the office for the last two days on a period of leave. I don’t recall you mentioning this to me, Ryan, but given the circumstances I think it was best all round.”
Morrison licked her lips and wondered how best to approach the next question.
“The fact is, nearly a week has passed. Nobody will be more aware of that fact than you, Frank,” she said carefully, “but questions are now being asked. We’re accountable for our management of the situation—”
“What are you saying?” Ryan sliced through the waffle.
Morrison sighed.
“I’m saying that the Commissioner has doubts about whether the officers investigating MacKenzie’s disappearance can remain objective, given the clear conflict of interest. This isn’t just a matter of being unbiased; it’s about making sure that we are seen to be unbiased in the public eye.”
“If you’re insinuating that Phillips—”
“I’m referring to both of you,” Morrison interrupted the beginnings of an angry tirade. “Ryan, your relationship with Keir Edwards is already a matter of public record. The man killed your sister and nearly killed you. Nobody could blame you for wanting to be part of the task force that will eventually see him returned to a maximum-security prison. But, if anything were to go wrong…well, you can imagine the backlash.”
Ryan said nothing but his eyes darkened to a turbulent grey, the same shade as the North Sea.
“As for you,” she shifted slightly to face Phillips. “Your relationship with Denise MacKenzie is an open secret around these parts. To all intents and purposes, you’re her next of kin. That being the case, how on earth do you think yourself capable of following the avenues of this investigation with the level of detachment that we need?”
Phillips’ face fell into aggrieved lines and she was sorry for it but forced herself to continue.
“Believe me, Frank, I feel for you. Everyone in this department is feeling the impact and we all want to help. I know that you want to be an active participant because I would feel the same way myself. That’s why I gave you this past week to end things quickly. But as your commanding officer, I can’t allow it to continue.”
Ryan broke the uncomfortable silence that followed.
“Let me see if I understand you correctly. The Commissioner is beginning to feel the heat from the Powers That Be. They’re fielding accusations from the press about police incompetence and they’re looking to shake things up, so they can appear to be on top of things. Correct?”
Morrison inclined her head.
“That’s hardly breaking new ground, is it? I haven’t worked on a single major investigation where the papers ha
ven’t taken a pop at our methods at one stage or another. Have you, Phillips?”
“Can’t say that I have,” came the reply. “It’s a thankless job.”
“Exactly. We don’t do this work for the plaudits and we’re not interested in playing at politics so that we can be popular with the tabloid press,” Ryan said, scathingly. “We’re interested in justice, whatever the hell that means.”
He leaned forward and Morrison felt the full force of his anger transmitting itself across the expanse of her desk.
“So, with all due respect, ma’am, don’t sit there in your ivory tower and talk to us about detachment or conflicts of interest. Because whether it’s my sister, his girlfriend,” he jerked a thumb in Phillips’ direction, “or a total stranger, once we’ve agreed to take care of them, they matter to us. Every one of them matters.”
“You’re too close—” Morrison tried again.
“Every time we get a call from Control, we have to be objective. We put on the mask of indifference and set aside that creeping feeling that tells us, just maybe, this one won’t be coming home. We visit the mothers, the fathers, the sisters, the brothers—and we shatter their lives. We try to ignore the terrible instinct warning us that there will be more lives ruined before all is said and done. So, if you want MacKenzie found, if you want Edwards back behind bars, then you won’t do any better than Phillips or me. Because not only do we do this job every day, we know MacKenzie and we know him. We know how they both tick and we’re invested. We can bring this home for you, we just need more time.”
Ryan fell silent and sank back into the foamy chair.
“I see,” Morrison linked her hands again and turned to his colleague. “Do you have anything to add?”
Phillips was no public speaker, but he set his jaw and sat up a bit straighter in his chair.
“I won’t beg,” he said forthrightly. “I won’t grovel for a place on the team. I’ve earned the right to be there. Edwards has vanished into thin air, you said? I say that’s bollocks. He’s not a ghost, he’s flesh and blood and he’s out there, somewhere, with the woman I love. I’ll tell you this, Sandra,” he didn’t bother with formalities since they had cheerfully sailed over the line of insubordination long ago. “I was born here and I’ve spent my life getting to know this land. I’ll turn over every rock, I’ll look behind every tree and search every building and outhouse from John O’Groats to Land’s End if I have to. But I’m going to find Denise MacKenzie with or without the support of the bigwigs at Northumbria CID. D’you know what else?” He jerked his head over his shoulder. “There’s a room full of people down on the second floor who’ll help me do it. Every last one of them has a personal connection with Denise as a colleague and as a friend, so good luck finding anyone unbiased in this building.”