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

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Penshaw: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 13) Page 8

by LJ Ross


  “We have to investigate every possibility, Mr Watson,” Ryan said, and Phillips took his cue that it was time to leave.

  CHAPTER 11

  It was almost seven by the time Ryan made it back to Elsdon.

  He dropped Phillips off on the way, so that his sergeant could be home in time for dinner after Samantha’s first day at her new school, and had politely declined an offer to join them. He’d been surprised to find Yates there too; but then, Frank and Denise had always been open-armed in their gestures of friendship. It was obvious to even the most casual observer that things were rocky between Yates and Lowerson, and he hoped it would be of short duration for both their sakes.

  By the time he reached the top of the hill and turned into his driveway, Ryan’s mind was pleasantly occupied with thoughts of an al fresco dinner with Anna on the patio, to make the most of what was shaping up to be a lovely sunlit evening. Unfortunately, he spotted two other cars parked on the driveway: one of them he recognised immediately as belonging to Chief Constable Morrison, but the other was anybody’s guess.

  “Shit,” he muttered.

  When the Chief Constable started paying house calls, it was time to ease off the pedal.

  As he opened the front door, he heard the sound of polite conversation wafting down the hallway. It came from the direction of the large kitchen-dining room they’d built, with views across the valley. He might have liked a quick shot of whiskey to prepare him for whatever unexpected emergency had arisen, but office rules still applied when the Chief was on-deck, and he resigned himself to yet more coffee instead.

  As he entered the room, his eyes were drawn to where Anna hovered with a jug of iced water, and then to the seating area, where Morrison lounged beside a man he’d never seen in his life before. He was around his own age, with a military-style buzz cut and the hard, muscular look of one who spent much of their time in the gym.

  “There you are,” Anna said, and crossed the room to greet him with an expression on her face he translated roughly as, ‘Thank God you’re back, and what the hell took you so long?’

  “Sorry,” he said, under his breath. “Have they been here a while?”

  “Half an hour,” she replied, in the same undertone. “I didn’t realise you were expecting visitors?”

  “Neither did I,” he muttered, with a frown. “Thanks for holding the fort.”

  Anna smiled, and then excused herself to return to her own pressing work deadline in her study upstairs.

  “Sorry to intrude on you at home,” Morrison said, rising from the chair she occupied. “Your wife’s taken very good care of us, considering we landed on her unexpectedly.”

  Ryan didn’t bother to hide the fact that he was deeply unimpressed.

  “A phone call would have been polite,” he said, coolly, and then turned to the stranger who was making himself very much at home. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “We haven’t,” the man said, extending a hand. “DCI Andrew Blackett, Ghost Squad.”

  The ‘Ghost Squad’ was a slang term used to describe a secret Metropolitan police squad of anti-corruption officers, trusted former detectives, ex-MOD police and financial experts that was set up back in the nineties. Although it was now disbanded, the term had been taken up to describe any officer attached to the Anti-Corruption Unit of the Police Standards Department in their regional area.

  Ryan’s eyes flew to Morrison, who held up a hand.

  “We’re not here to make an accusation, Ryan, don’t worry.”

  “Why are you here, then?”

  The two exchanged a glance, and then Blackett gestured towards the door.

  “Mind if we take a walk outside? It’s a nice evening for it.”

  It was on the tip of Ryan’s tongue to make some caustic remark about not really being in the mood for a romantic stroll, when it struck him that the man was clearly concerned his home may be bugged, or that Anna may overhear.

  “This way,” he said, and opened the patio doors.

  Once outside, Blackett made a few polite comments about the beauty of the gardens and the views, but Ryan’s day had been a long one and he was in no mood for small talk.

  “Look, why don’t you just come to the point?”

  Blackett folded his arms and squinted in the early evening sunshine, watching a flock of birds rise up and float on the air.

  “Alright. You’ve got a fox in the hen house, Ryan. Maybe more than one of them,” he said. “We’ve monitored and analysed the outcomes following major operations across various units, including Drugs and Vice, and cross-checked against murder rates. For over a year now, the numbers have been going in the wrong direction. Nothing too big, nothing too obvious, you understand. But there’ve been too many times when a bust has gone wrong, or an operation has gone tits-up because there were no goods to seize or the person of interest had legged it. There’s only one explanation.”

  “Somebody’s tipping them off,” Morrison finished for him, and Blackett gave a short nod.

  “When Gregson was superintendent, the constabulary was a mess. Corruption was rife, and well organised; in fact, we’re still unravelling the web he left behind. Still, after all that went down, we thought it would be too hot for coppers to think about going on the take, what with us watching their every move. As it turns out, maybe they were just waiting for things to calm down a bit before they returned to business as usual.”

  Ryan looked away, out across the garden. It had been two years since he’d put Arthur Gregson behind bars—the man he’d looked up to almost as a father when he’d first joined the constabulary. It had been hard, but he would do the same all over again.

  “Are you sure of this?”

  “As sure as we can be,” Blackett replied.

  “Why bring this to me?” Ryan turned on him. “You mentioned Drugs and Vice. What does this have to do with Major Crimes?”

  Blackett and Morrison looked at him with twin expressions of pity.

  “You can’t possibly think someone in my team is bent?”

  “We don’t know anything for sure, yet, Ryan,” Morrison said quietly, watching the emotions play over his face.

  When Morrison had first learned that ACU would be conducting an undercover investigation into CID, she’d had much the same reaction.

  “I don’t want to believe it, either,” she said. “But the facts speak for themselves, and it’s worthy of further investigation.”

  “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t make you aware of this at all,” Blackett said. “I’m making an exception, on the recommendation of several parties, because you have an unimpeachable reputation. Added to which, we believe you’ll be perfectly placed to help us since you’re leading Operation Watchman.”

  Ryan’s lips twisted, because he could see the sense of it.

  “You’re asking me to spy on my colleagues, some of whom are my friends,” he said, very calmly. “I want to know the names of those you are looking at, in particular. Give me names.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Then I won’t help you.”

  “Ryan—” Morrison began, but Blackett interrupted her.

  “I can’t give you specific names, Ryan. All I’m asking you to do is report back with any behaviour you deem unusual or that gives rise to suspicion. I should add that, with the exception of Chief Constable Morrison, you are the only other officer who is aware of the existence of our investigation. We have our own systems, our own databases, and operate as a separate force within a force.”

  The warning was clear: should anybody else happen to find out about their investigation, ACU would know who to blame.

  “Well? Will you help us?”

  The faces of his team passed before his eyes, every one of them dear to him.

  “You’re wrong about my team,” Ryan said, quietly. “No man or woman amongst them would betray their badge.”

  He paused, battling with his internal moral compass, which never failed.

  “Because I’m s
ure of that, right through to my very core, I’ll agree to help you, if only to disprove your allegation.”

  Blackett smiled, and handed him a business card.

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  * * *

  As Ryan showed Morrison and Blackett to the door, Simon Watson waved off the nurse, who’d taken over from his sister in looking after their mother while he was at work. A quick peek inside Joan’s bedroom told him that she was fast asleep, and he topped up her water glass and replaced the straw, in case she woke up feeling thirsty. He left the door ajar, in case she called for him, and then made his way back to the kitchen to prepare a quick dinner for himself.

  Looking around the bungalow, he could see his sister had given it a once-over, since the carpets looked considerably fresher than when he’d left them that morning, and the surfaces were sparkling clean. He had never been what you might call house-proud, and he couldn’t stand trinkets or dust-collectors sitting around. He supposed it was a bit impersonal, though, and he made a note to himself to put some pictures on the walls and a few framed photographs around the place.

  As he stirred boiling water into his Pot Noodle, Simon reflected that it was a surprise, really, that his mother had chosen to stay with him, rather than at Sally and Mike’s much larger home in Shotley Bridge. He could guess the reason, although his mother would never admit it.

  She was still worried about him.

  Three years on, and she still worried that he would slip back into the old ways.

  Simon wanted to feel angry about it, but he couldn’t work up the feeling. He’d been an almighty pain in the arse, those years when he’d been addicted, and hadn’t been able to see the wood for the trees. He knew, now, that he’d always be an addict, deep down. He might be in control of the urge, but he’d always have to be vigilant or risk taking a wrong turn. It wasn’t easy; access to drugs was so simple, nowadays—they were practically giving them away. They’d give you a few grams and tell you it was alright to pay next time, and the debt would rack up until the dealer had something over you.

  That’s when they’d come for you.

  Just this one favour, they’d say. One favour, and we’ll call it quits.

  But it was never just the once and, if you refused, they’d use muscle, or threaten your family.

  He thought of his mother, lying asleep in the room next door, and set the noodles back on the countertop, his appetite having suddenly vanished.

  That’s when he spotted a stack of mail that Sally must have picked up and left for him to open. He reached for it and thumbed through the various circulars and junk post, weeding out the bills until he came to a thick brown envelope. It was addressed to his father, and Simon realised the postie must have decided to re-route the mail to Alan’s widow.

  Were they allowed to do that?

  “Law unto themselves,” he muttered, good-naturedly.

  He wondered whether to wait until his mother was awake or open it on her behalf. He worried about its contents; what if his father had taken it upon himself to stir up trouble, or make some kind of ill-advised investment? It could be many a thing, none of which she was in a position to deal with at the moment.

  He slid a nail beneath the seal and tore open the envelope.

  Inside, there was a short stack of papers with a covering letter from the Freedom of Information Officer at GCHQ. Simon heaved a sigh, thinking that his father must have been sending off spurious demands for copies of official records again. He’d gone through a phase of trying to get hold of government memoranda a few years ago, but had been refused. Now, it seemed they’d decided to send him a few token bits.

  Not expecting to find much of interest, Simon reached for his fork again and was about to take a mouthful of salty chicken noodles when his eye fell on something that would change the course of his life irrevocably.

  The fork clattered onto the counter, splattering sauce onto his trousers and shirt, as Simon began to shake.

  Dear God.

  His father had been right all along.

  There was an enemy within, after all.

  * * *

  Anna heard the front door close behind Morrison and Blackett but, when a few minutes passed by and Ryan hadn’t come to find her, she shut down her computer to go in search of him.

  She found Ryan standing on the patio outside, looking out across the mellow, sun-washed hills. He hadn’t heard her approach, so she spent a moment admiring the long, straight line of his broad back, that seemed always to bend beneath the weight of whatever new drama came to his door.

  Quite literally, in this case.

  He was dressed casually in jeans and a white shirt rolled up to the elbows, and his hair brushed the back of his collar since he’d forgotten to have it cut for the past few weeks, softening the hard lines of his profile.

  “Come and join me,” he said, taking her by surprise.

  Bam, she thought, as Ryan’s bright, silver-blue eyes locked with her own and she experienced an outpouring of love that hit her like a fist to the belly. It had done so from the first time they’d met in a tiny pub on Holy Island, and would, she suspected, continue to do so until they were both old and grey.

  Anna stepped out onto the patio beside him and, to her surprise, he reached for his smartphone and scrolled through a few songs until he found one of their favourites. He set it to play, put the phone on the table nearby, and then pulled her into his arms so they could sway together while Neil Diamond sang about a life lived forever in blue jeans.

  It was like coming home, every time they touched. No matter what happened in the world outside, here was peace, pleasure, love and friendship. Here, there was no need to be anything other than themselves.

  “I can’t tell you why they came,” Ryan said, rubbing his cheek against her soft hair. “It’s confidential.”

  “I suspected as much.” Her voice was muffled against the wall of his chest. “Just tell me you’re alright.”

  “I’ll be alright,” he said, softly.

  It wasn’t quite the same thing, but it would suffice.

  “Ryan?”

  “Mm?”

  “Whatever it is, please be careful.”

  He stopped moving and cupped her face in his hands, gently tipping it up so he could look at her and say what he needed to say.

  “When you first met me, I was lost. I didn’t know myself anymore. I was angry—”

  “You were grieving,” she said.

  “Yes, that too.” He still was. “The only thing I felt I had was work—it’s how I coped, you see. If I could just save one more person; if I could just put one more killer behind bars…but, it never ends. Their faces…the faces of the dead—they haunt me.”

  I know, love, Anna thought. Sometimes, she was awakened by his thrashing on the bed, or she woke to find the bed empty beside her because he’d been unable to close his mind to the ghosts that crept in each night.

  “The thing is, when it was only me, I didn’t care what it took. I’d do whatever I needed to do, to get the job done. But, now…you’ve taught me caution, Anna, without ever meaning to. Just by existing, you’ve taught me to love something more than myself. If I wasn’t careful before, I’m careful now because I can’t stand the thought of losing what we have, and all that’s to come.”

  “You’re a smooth one,” she said.

  “I try,” he said, and lowered his mouth to hers.

  * * *

  “Frank and Denise, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

  Samantha sang out the classic, tinkling rhyme and fell into giggles after catching her new foster parents in a quick smooch over a bubbling saucepan of meatballs marinara.

  Phillips pretended to come after her with a tea towel, which sent her into even more wild giggles.

  “Out of the kitchen, you two!” MacKenzie ordered. “Sam, go and lay the table in the dining room, please. Frank, why don’t you see if Melanie would like a drink? I think she’s in the lounge.”

  “Ho
w’s she doing?” he asked, in a stage whisper.

  “Hard to tell,” MacKenzie replied, keeping an eye on the doorway so as not to give offence. Their gossip was well-intentioned, but it was still gossip, after all.

  “Somethin’ happened with Jack? I tell you, that lad’s got no way with women,” he grumbled. “Almost feel sorry for him.”

  “Aye, right enough, and I suppose you’re a regular Casanova?” she teased. “It took you at least five years to ask me out on a date, as I recall.”

  Phillips adopted a haughty expression.

  “All part of my strategy. Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen, so they say. Here, I hope that isn’t what Jack thinks he’s doing. There’s playing hard to get, and there’s just being a wally.”

  MacKenzie huffed out a laugh.

  “Whatever he’s doing, it’s not working,” she decided, and picked up a wooden spoon to stir the sauce with an idle hand. “Come to think of it, he seemed out of sorts all day.”

  “How’d you mean, love?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, gesturing with the spoon. “On edge, I suppose. Not quite himself.”

  “He was off work with that sickness bug,” Phillips reminded her. “Maybe he’s still hankering for it.”

  MacKenzie made a non-committal sound in her throat.

  “He’d better not pass on his germs to me,” Phillips said, and went to dip his finger into the sauce, before it was promptly slapped away with the back of the spoon.

  “Go on and see if she’s alright,” his wife urged.

  “Alright, alright. I’m going.”

  Presently, Samantha skipped back into the kitchen.

  “I’ve put all the cutlery and napkins out,” she said. “Do you want me to put bowls and plates out, too?”

  “Thanks, sweetheart, but I’ll just serve the pasta, here,” MacKenzie said, and set a timer.

  While it ticked away, she gave her full attention to the little girl.

  “So? How was your first day?”

  Samantha considered the question, thinking back over the course of the school day.

  “Weird,” she said eventually.

  “I see,” MacKenzie said, slowly. “Weird good? Or weird bad?”

 

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