Penshaw: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 13)

by LJ Ross

  The rest of her sentence was lost on the morning wind.

  * * *

  Back in the city, Ryan’s sergeant was enjoying a very different kind of morning routine; one that did not involve runs in the country or spontaneous bedroom workouts, more was the pity.

  “I don’t want to wear a tartan dress. I’m not even Scottish!”

  At the sound of the mutinous voice wafting downstairs, Frank Phillips rolled his eyes and decided to add another spoonful of sugar to his morning tea.

  He had a feeling he was going to need it.

  There came the sound of galloping footsteps and, moments later, the newest addition to their family entered the kitchen with a stubborn look in her eye.

  “Why do I have to wear this stupid dress to school?” Samantha demanded, gesturing to the blue and green tartan with obvious disdain. “How am I supposed to run around, if my knees keep getting caught in the material?”

  The precocious ten-year-old they’d agreed to take into their home and treat as their own looked him squarely in the eye, clearly awaiting a response.

  Phillips cleared his throat.

  “Well, now, all the other kids will be wearing the same thing—” he began.

  “No, they won’t! The boys get to wear trousers. How come I can’t wear trousers—or shorts, since it’s summer?”

  Phillips opened his mouth and then shut it again, because she had a point.

  “It’s…tradition,” he finished, lamely, and made a mental note to raise it with the teaching staff. If his girl wanted to wear shorts, why shouldn’t she, in this day and age?

  “Seems a daft tradition to me,” she muttered, taking the words right out of his mouth.

  “Daft or not, that’s the school uniform, young lady.”

  This last remark was delivered by Phillips’ wife, Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie, whose lilting Irish tones preceded her entrance into the kitchen. She set her briefcase on the countertop and brushed his lips with her own, before pouring herself some tea from the pot. They prided themselves on having a relationship of equals, albeit MacKenzie happened to be his senior in the police hierarchy, which was something Phillips didn’t mind one little bit.

  “Some schools don’t even have a uniform,” Samantha continued, never having been to one herself. She’d grown up in a travelling circus community and her education had been patchy at best.

  “Well, this one does,” MacKenzie said.

  She took a fortifying sip of tea, then placed a hand on Samantha’s shoulder and steered her gently towards the breakfast table.

  “What’ll it be? Cereal or toast?”

  “Can I have a bacon sandwich?” she asked, hopefully.

  “There’s a girl after my own heart!” Phillips let out a rumbling laugh. “And, it just so happens, I made one earlier.”

  He opened the oven door to retrieve the plates he’d been warming, then set them on the table for the two most important women in his life.

  “Thanks, Frank!”

  “Can’t have you going hungry on your first day, can we?”

  Phillips gave Samantha’s ponytail a playful tug and winked at his wife.

  “What if they don’t like me?” she asked, having munched half the sandwich in the time it took most people to draw breath. “Everybody probably has friends already. They might not want any more.”

  “Why wouldn’t they like you, sweetheart?” MacKenzie replied. “Just be yourself, and you’ll make lots of friends.”

  “What if they’re into stupid stuff? I don’t want to talk about boys and make-up all day.”

  MacKenzie couldn’t help but smile.

  “Why don’t you tell them about your horse, Pegasus? You could bring your new friends to meet him, one day?”

  The little girl’s face lit up.

  “That’d be good!”

  Then another thought crossed her mind.

  “What if they all know what happened to my mum and dad?”

  “Even if they do know about it, they probably won’t say anything,” MacKenzie soothed, thinking of how cruel children could be. Samantha’s parents had been murdered by the same hand, eight years apart, and the news had been full of it over the past few days. As her new foster parents, she and Frank had discussed things at length with Social Services and had come to the conclusion that it was best for the girl to make a fresh start and put down some roots.

  “If anybody is unkind, just ignore them or tell the teacher,” MacKenzie decided.

  “Stick up for yourself, if you have to. Just remember to keep your guard up,” Phillips threw in, and earned a hard stare from his wife. “I mean to say…”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Samantha assured him, taking another mouthful of bacon. “I’ll remember to go for the sides, first.”

  MacKenzie sent him a fulminating glare, following which Phillips took a hasty gulp of builder’s tea.

  “Nearly time to head off!” he said, cheerily.

  “I’ll take your head off, in a minute, Frank Phillips.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The ignoble lines of the Northumbria Police Headquarters lay to the east of the city of Newcastle upon Tyne, in an area known chiefly for its association with two great fallen empires: shipbuilding, and the Romans. ‘Wallsend’ took its name from the latter, being located at the end of Hadrian’s Wall nearest the North Sea. Thus, when it came time for the Powers That Be to relocate their constabulary offices, it had been decided that what was good enough for the Romans was certainly good enough for the Criminal Investigation Department.

  Which was appropriate, Ryan thought, as he crossed the tarmac towards the main entrance, when you considered their stock in trade.

  “Hold up!”

  He recognised the unmistakable sound of his sergeant’s booming voice carrying across the forecourt and turned to find Phillips and MacKenzie making their way towards him. Superficially, at least, theirs was an unlikely partnership. Denise MacKenzie was a smart, capable woman in her mid-forties with a mane of flowing red hair and an army of admirers. In the end, she had chosen Frank Phillips; a man ten years older than herself, with a short, boxer’s physique and salt-and-pepper hair that grew thinner by the day. He boasted an unhealthy relationship with carbohydrates and karaoke, as well as a razor-sharp eye for police work.

  He was also the best friend a man could ask for.

  “Frank, Denise.” Ryan greeted them with an easy smile. “Everything go off smoothly, this morning?”

  The other two exchanged a telling glance.

  “Yes…and no,” Phillips replied, as they ambled towards the automatic doors. “We had a call from the headmaster on the way here. Apparently, Sam’s set up a petition to allow the girls to wear summer shorts instead of dresses. It’s been signed by more than half of them already!”

  Ryan checked his watch, which read eight forty-five, and let out a bemused laugh.

  “She doesn’t waste any time,” he said, with a trace of admiration. “What does the headmaster expect you to do about it?”

  “I suspect he wanted us to clamp down on any political activism,” MacKenzie drawled. “However, I pointed out that it was an excellent demonstration of lateral thinking, which put a different complexion on matters.”

  “You’ve got a wonderful way with words,” Phillips cooed.

  “Don’t think flattery will get you anywhere,” MacKenzie warned him, swiping her card across the door scanner with unnecessary force. “I still haven’t forgotten the little pearls of wisdom you gave Samantha, this morning.”

  Ryan’s lips quirked.

  “Teaching the kid bad habits already, Frank?”

  “Aye, and don’t you start,” his friend muttered. “I’m just lookin’ out for her, that’s all. Don’t want people thinking she’s a push-over.”

  Ryan thought of the fiery little girl they’d more or less adopted, and nearly laughed out loud. Instead, he clapped a bolstering hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “Frank, I don’t think th
ere’s any danger of that.”

  * * *

  When Trainee Detective Constable Melanie Yates entered the open-plan office space which housed the Criminal Investigation Department, she immediately scanned the room, anxiously seeking out one face in particular. Jack Lowerson wasn’t anywhere to be seen, but she spotted his suit jacket hanging limply over the back of his desk chair. He hadn’t been into work on Thursday or Friday, having been afflicted by a stomach bug—or so he’d told her, in the measly couple of texts he’d sent over the weekend—and she’d been worrying about him for days.

  Dropping her bag on her desk, she bade a hasty retreat into the corridor. Ryan had called a briefing at nine o’clock but, if she was quick, she might catch Jack before it began.

  She found him in the break room, staring listlessly at the kettle.

  “Jack!”

  When he spun around, she thought he looked hunted. Then, his face cleared.

  “Hi, Mel. Are you heading to the conference room?” He made a show of checking his watch.

  She blinked in astonishment. From his impersonal tone, anyone would think they’d never shared a…a moment, in his car the week before.

  “Jack,” she hissed, and reached out to grasp his arm as made for the door. “What’s the ma—?”

  Her grip was light, but he jerked as if she’d struck him. Melanie dropped her hand in a combination of shock and surprise.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, angling his body away from her. “We need to get going, or we’ll be late for the briefing.”

  She didn’t budge.

  “How are you feeling?” she persisted. “I wish you’d let me help you. I could have brought chicken soup.”

  “I’m vegetarian, remember?”

  She flinched at the abrupt tone.

  “Look, thanks for the concern but, as you can see, I’m fine,” he said, focusing on a point somewhere just above her head. “Actually, a bit of time off work has given me a chance to think about things. About us.”

  “Us?” she queried.

  “Maybe we were a bit quick off the mark, last week,” he said, affecting a bored tone. “You’re a great girl, but I don’t really have any space in my life for a relationship at the moment. If things went wrong, it’d be pretty awkward around the office, wouldn’t it?”

  Even as he said the words, his heart yearned for her to tell him he was wrong. He wished she would argue with him, tell him he was a hypocrite—tell him anything, so long as she stopped looking at him with those big, all-seeing brown eyes.

  But Melanie Yates was a proud woman.

  “If that’s how you feel about it,” she said, softly. “From now on, you can rest assured, it’ll be strictly business.”

  Lowerson felt his stomach plummet, but he managed to work up an empty smile.

  “Great. I knew you’d understand. See you at the briefing.”

  Melanie watched his retreating back for long seconds, trying to make sense of it all. What had gone so badly wrong? How could he have been so warm a few days earlier, and yet so cold to her now?

  What had she done?

  Tears threatened, but she would not allow them to fall.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Crikey, we’ll need a cattle prod to get through this lot!”

  Phillips made his delicate observation from the doorway of Conference Room A, where a sea of law enforcement personnel had gathered ahead of the nine o’clock briefing.

  “Standing room only,” Ryan agreed, and his eyes scanned the room.

  There was a smorgasbord of police staff in attendance, ranging from his own team of murder detectives from the Major Crimes Squad to representatives from the Drugs Squad, Intelligence and Organised Crime, Digital Forensics and Cyber-Crime Units; not to mention the regular detail of support staff and crime analysts who mingled with the rest. The air hummed with friendly chatter, interspersed with an occasional burst of laughter as his colleagues chewed the fat. Each team was possessed of its own internal hierarchy, and the room had already divided into smaller clusters of people who kept to themselves and spoke in undertones.

  “We’re going to need coffee,” he decided. “A lot of coffee.”

  “Or a pair of fast horses,” Phillips shot back.

  “Chance would be a fine thing. C’mon, Frank—let’s go and catch some bad guys.”

  “I reckon we can collar a few of ‘em before I have to do the school run,” Phillips replied, and then laughed richly when Ryan looked at him as though he’d sprouted three heads.

  “What’s next?” he demanded. “Bring Your Kids to the Office day? A bake sale for the school gym?”

  “The thought never even crossed my mind,” Phillips said, gravely, thinking of the school raffle tickets tucked inside his breast pocket.

  Ryan eyed him with suspicion, and stepped inside the conference room.

  “There’ll be no raffles or tombolas, either,” he threw back over his shoulder, leaving Phillips to wonder whether he had x-ray vision.

  * * *

  As Ryan made his way to the front, a quiet hush spread throughout the assembly. It was interrupted only by the late arrival of Chief Constable Sandra Morrison, who shuffled to the back of the room in a vain attempt to remain inconspicuous, the effort serving only to draw more attention. There followed the predictable rustle of papers and scraping of chairs as people sat up a little straighter in their seats, never more conscious that their boss was in attendance.

  “Alright, settle down,” Ryan began, in crisp, well-rounded tones. “Before we get into it, I want to thank you for being here so promptly. We all have full caseloads, so the last thing any of us wants or needs is more work. That said, it’s my hope—my belief—that, if we work together in a co-ordinated way, we’ll save ourselves a lot more work further down the line.”

  Ryan paused, allowing that to sink in, then took a marker pen and wrote the name of the operation he had been tasked to lead in block capitals across the whiteboard behind him.

  “OPERATION WATCHMAN is a new initiative,” he explained, turning back to the room. “Some of you may already know what it’s all about, but here’s the gist for the benefit of those who don’t.”

  He leaned back against the desk at the head of the room and spread his hands.

  “WATCHMAN is a cross-constabulary effort, which means we’ll be working alongside our colleagues in Durham and Cleveland to tackle a new wave of organised crime in the region. As you know, ‘organised crime’ includes burglary, drug-dealing, cyber-crime, fraud, vice and, of course, murder,” he said, nodding towards each respective team. “Within each constabulary, those units falling under the remit will be required to share intelligence, resources and allow reasonable access to active, closed and cold investigations—”

  “Look mate, I don’t mean to piss on your bonfire, but isn’t that what we do already?”

  Ryan’s head whipped around, seeking the source of the interruption, until his eyes clashed with those of a heavily-overweight man in his early-forties he knew to be one of the detective sergeants from the Drugs Squad.

  “Tim Gallagher, isn’t it?”

  “Detective Sergeant Gallagher,” the other enunciated.

  “Right. Well, sergeant, I’m delighted to hear you’ve been doing your job and I’ll look forward to hearing your insights as the operation progresses,” Ryan said, with the ghost of a smile. “You say you’re already exchanging information with the other units in a co-ordinated way? I say, there are too many cases that drag on for longer than they should, because one unit didn’t contact another. We need to work together with Specialist Ops to tackle a new breed of criminal—”

  “Oh, aye? And who gets to notch one up for the quota? Major Crimes?” Gallagher sneered.

  “We all do,” Ryan said, taking the wind out of his sails. “This isn’t about who gets the collar, sergeant. If we can drag a few more dealers off the streets or, better yet, disrupt their supply and eliminate the sourc
e, it’s a win for all of us and for the people we serve.”

  He pushed away from the desk, speaking to all of them now.

  “There’s a new gang operating in the area, and it’s crossing police boundaries. I’ve been in touch with the National County Lines Coordination Centre, who tell me the ‘Smoggies’ have been assessed as one of the most serious threats to community safety, not just here in our region, but on a national level.”

  Ryan referred to the street name that had been given to the most powerful gang in the area, the shadowy leader of which was rumoured to have been born in Middlesbrough. ‘Smoggie’ was derogatory slang, coined by rival football supporters on account of the factory smog that once hung over the streets of that city. It seemed that whoever was in charge had appropriated the term for their own use.

  “We’ve been approved for a special grant from central government,” Morrison chipped in, and a roomful of heads turned in her direction. “This operation will form part of a nationwide crackdown, and I’ll do my bit to ensure you have all the resources necessary to get the job done.”

  Ryan nodded his thanks.

  “If there’s one thing we can learn from the past, it’s that we work best when we work together. For once, this isn’t about hitting targets, or winning Officer of the Month,” he said, pointedly. “The Smoggies are highly-organised, well-funded, and their leader doesn’t play by the old rules—”

  “Used to be, they’d deal in Newcastle, Gateshead and Sunderland,” Gallagher put in, grudgingly. “They’d squirrel their gear into the clubs and pay off the bouncers through a syndicate. Nowadays, supply’s outweighing demand, so they’re pushing out into the villages to shift the goods, and it’s getting ugly. We’re not talking about coke anymore; they’re cutting dangerous mixes full of all kinds of crap and we can’t keep up with it.”

  Ryan nodded his agreement, fighting the instant, impotent rage as he thought of all the men and women who slipped into the cycle of drugs. Down and down they went, until they died on the streets or in a filthy doss house somewhere for Ryan or one of his team to discover.

  “Two years ago, the Moffa brothers were in charge of the ruling gang, and the youngest brother, Jimmy, was its leader,” he said, casting his mind back. “He was brutal, but he had his own code. Since Jimmy died, there’s been a turf war waging across the North East and we’re dealing with the consequences of that. Cyber-crime, money-laundering and fraud are all on the up, trafficking has sky-rocketed and, most obviously, the death toll from gang-related crime is the highest it’s been in years.”