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

by LJ Ross

He simply stared at her for an endless moment, and the sheer intensity of his gaze would have caused a lesser person to quiver.

  Thankfully, MacKenzie did not fall into that category.

  “We’re here in connection with the disappearance of Rochelle White, aged twenty-five. We understand Ms White is your girlfriend, Mr Singh, and that you live together. Is that correct?”

  “Just a minute,” he said, affecting an air of surprise. “What do you mean, ‘the disappearance’?”

  “Precisely that, Mr Singh,” Yates said. “Rochelle White was reported missing to the police yesterday morning.”

  Singh leaned forward urgently, and MacKenzie told herself to remain seated where she was and to fight the automatic urge to move away from him. Any sign of weakness would be ruthlessly exploited by this man, and she was determined to show none.

  “This is all news to me,” he was saying. “The last time I saw Rochelle, she was leaving for work, last Thursday morning.”

  “We understand Ms White was living with you—is that correct?”

  He inclined his head.

  “Didn’t she return home, after work on Thursday?”

  “I presume she did, but I wasn’t there to see it,” Singh said. “When I came back from a charity dinner, I found some of her things were missing and she’d left me a note. I still have it, if you wish to see it.”

  “We may well do,” MacKenzie said, although what evidential value it might have, she didn’t know. “Are you saying Rochelle moved out?”

  Singh tried to look as he imagined a heart-broken man might look.

  “It didn’t come as too much of a surprise. I had a feeling she’d been seeing somebody else for a while,” he said.

  MacKenzie didn’t bother to waste any time discussing the hypocrisy, given his relationship with his personal assistant. That wasn’t her focus.

  “Do you know the name of this…other person?”

  “Not a clue,” he said. “I thought he might have been one of yours, as it happens.”

  Both women looked up, at that.

  “A police officer?” Yates said, and her stomach gave a funny little lurch. “What gave you that idea?”

  Singh just shrugged.

  “Just an impression,” he said. “Little things she said. Do you think this man might have hurt her?”

  Unbelievably, his eyes began to tear up, in what was either genuine concern, or a great piece of showmanship.

  “I should have found out where she went,” he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “I’ll never forgive myself, if something has happened to her.”

  They said nothing.

  “Who reported Rochelle missing?” he asked, still looking tearful.

  “We’re not at liberty to divulge that information,” MacKenzie replied, and saw it again. The little flash of anger mingled with something else, something darker, because she had crossed him again.

  “Well,” he said slowly. “Rochelle was a very…special lady, and I hope you find her. I wish I could be more helpful but, really, I don’t know anything more than you do. I came home to find she had left me, to be with another man. I was hardly going to chase after the bird, once it had flown. I have my pride,” he said.

  They didn’t believe a word of it.

  “Just a few more questions, Mr Singh—”

  He came to his feet, cutting Yates off, mid-sentence.

  “No, I’m afraid that’s all I have time for, today. I think you’ll agree, I’ve been very helpful, and I’m a busy man. This evening, I’m hosting a charity event in aid of Alzheimer’s and, I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s a cause we should all care more about. Good evening.”

  With that, he sauntered off, stepping through a glass door and into another part of his office, out of sight.

  “I’ll show you out,” Roger said, and the looming security guard punched the button in preparation for their departure.

  “How long have you worked for Mr Singh?” MacKenzie asked the solicitor, who gave her a reproachful stare.

  “Really, inspector, you don’t expect me to answer any of your questions, do you? To do so would be a breach of client confidentiality as well as my employment terms, which include a very strict clause on non-disclosure. I’m sure you understand, Mr Singh’s business concerns can be market sensitive.”

  They stepped into the lift and, a moment later, it reached the ground floor.

  “Thank you, Mr—?”

  “Fentiman. Roger Fentiman. You’ll find the name listed on the SRA website, as with all practitioners in good standing. Have a pleasant evening.”

  The foyer was quiet, now that most of the workers had left for home, but the eagle-eyed receptionist and the security staff remained.

  “Where’s Vogue?” Yates found herself asking.

  “She’s gone,” the receptionist replied, with a malicious smile. “Good evening, do come again.”

  * * *

  Outside, after they’d put a healthy distance between themselves and Singh’s place of legitimate business, MacKenzie turned to Yates with a sad expression.

  “Did you notice it, Mel?”

  “Notice what, in particular? He’s given us plenty to think about, as far as I can see.”

  MacKenzie smiled grimly.

  “He referred to Rochelle in the past tense.”

  Yates swallowed, thinking of the elegant blonde woman she had met only once, and who was their best chance of providing a direct line into Singh’s inner circle. If she was gone, their hopes on that score were gone too.

  “He’s lying about the policeman,” she said, vehemently. “He’s fabricating some old cock and bull story about Rochelle having run off with someone else so he can play the wounded party. Did you see those crocodile tears?”

  “Chilling,” MacKenzie agreed. “Unfortunately, a lot of people would fall for that. Maybe even a jury. Plus, he’s good-looking.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “You know what difference it makes,” MacKenzie replied. “Psychological studies have proven that people tend to ascribe positive characteristics to people they find attractive, and negative characteristics to those they find unattractive. If Bobby Singh turns on the tears and bats his big brown eyes at the female jurors, they’d acquit him on grounds of reasonable doubt.”

  “That’s why the physical evidence is so important,” Yates said. “We need more.”

  “We’ll get it,” MacKenzie said, with an admirable confidence she didn’t altogether feel. He was smooth, that one. Charismatic and dangerous, well-organised and well-financed.

  It was a lethal combination.

  * * *

  Much later, Simon Watson watched the night sky from the kitchen window in his bungalow, which looked out across Penshaw Monument. The moon was supernaturally bright and low in the sky, casting an ethereal white glow around its old walls, as if they had an aura or a soul. It was funny to think of the monument as a living thing, but he wondered if its vitality came from the people who had touched its stones or woven through its columns. Perhaps they left something of themselves behind, and the stones retained the memory of it. He wondered what secrets the monument might tell of all the men and women in the village, and the visitors from further afield. Times had changed, but the monument had not; it stood firm, everlasting and immovable on its mound of earth.

  And so must he.

  Simon moved away from the window and walked through to his mother’s room, to check she was still sleeping soundly. He found Joan snoring peacefully, the medication having lulled her into a deep, dreamless slumber. He moved quietly beside her and, ever so gently, pressed a gentle kiss to her brow.

  “Sleep well, Mum.”

  He tiptoed out again but left the door ajar, as always.

  After that, Simon went back into the living room and settled himself on his favourite chair.

  He was expecting a visitor.

  CHAPTER 19

  It was after ten when
Lowerson felt his eyelids begin to droop.

  His body was in desperate need of sleep, the deficit now running so high he was almost hysterical, but his fear outweighed every other bodily need. Sleep could wait, when his own mortality was in question.

  Images of Rochelle invaded his mind, playing like an endless showreel in a horror movie. In his mind, he imagined her skull shattering all over the bed, the life dying in her eyes as her fingers reached towards him for help. He wanted to spit out the awful taste in his mouth, the remaining bile he couldn’t quite divest himself of.

  He dragged himself off the sofa to do another round of checks; first, the doors, then all the windows. They were all locked but, by the time he returned to the living room, he felt the need to check them all over again. He stumbled to the fridge and sought out an energy drink, which he forced himself to swallow. He needed to think clearly and stay awake, just a little while longer.

  The man sitting in a parked car across the street watched Lowerson’s front door for almost thirty minutes before he finally got out of the car and crossed the street, wanting to be sure there was no surveillance detail. The road was badly lit, so it was hard to be sure, but he was reasonably certain nobody would see his approach.

  He had a job to do.

  Inside the house, Lowerson took up his usual position sitting in the hallway, and waited.

  It took longer than he would have thought, but then he heard the soft tread of a man’s footsteps on the path outside. His heart began to hammer against the wall of his chest as the man’s body was silhouetted against the glow of the streetlamps, and his breathing stopped completely when the figure raised a hand to the front door handle.

  It turned, left and right, but would not open.

  Then came a soft tap.

  Lowerson rose on shaking legs and made his way towards the door, breathing quickly, the air coming in short gasps through his open mouth.

  “Open the door, Jack.”

  * * *

  When Lowerson unlocked the front door, he found Ryan standing on the porch step, his face in shadow.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said, and Ryan gave a brief nod before stepping inside.

  “You said it was urgent.”

  Lowerson nodded, and led the way through to the living room, where the curtains had already been drawn. He tried to pull himself together, to grasp at the threads of his sanity, before facing the man who had been his living idol as a younger man and remained the person he most admired.

  Ryan was studying his face, searching it for clues.

  “I’m here now, Jack. What’s going on?”

  Lowerson swallowed painfully, trying to find the words.

  I’m sorry.

  I’ve let you down. I’ve let the team down, not to mention myself.

  “I’m out of my depth,” he said, and was proud that his voice didn’t waver too badly. “I’ve got myself into a situation I thought I could handle, but I can’t. I need help.”

  Ryan frowned, and moved across to one of the chairs.

  “You’d better sit down too, before you fall down,” he muttered.

  Lowerson complied, grateful to take the weight off his injured leg.

  “What kind of situation?”

  “The worst kind.”

  Ryan ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, looking at the man he’d trained, trusted and defended from foes within and without. If Jack had a failing, it was that he had a propensity to cut corners. He wanted to jump straight to the finish line, before running the race, which invariably meant making clumsy mistakes along the way.

  But this was something else.

  Something dark.

  “What have you done, Jack?”

  Lowerson’s eyes fell away.

  “I made a deal with the devil.”

  * * *

  It was almost four o’clock in the morning by the time Ryan made it home.

  The roads were empty at that time of night, which was lucky because he could not have vouched for the state of his driving skills at that particular moment. He drove on autopilot, keeping to a reasonable speed that was at least twenty miles per hour slower than his usual, and almost missed the turn-off for Elsdon while his mind was far away, consumed by other thoughts.

  The house was in darkness except for the porch light, which had been left on by Anna and acted as a beacon, guiding him safely back into harbour. He questioned himself again, asking himself whether he had made the right decision.

  Did he do the right thing?

  All roads led back to the same question: where was Rochelle White?

  Ryan locked and bolted the door behind him and, as Lowerson had done, made a thorough inspection of the other windows and doors around the house. Personal experience had taught him to be cautious, so there was a state-of-the-art security system at the touch of a button. He activated the alarm and then went upstairs, in search of his wife.

  Anna was curled up on his side of the bed, her arms wrapped around the pillow. A book lay open on the bedside table, some sort of tome on Northumbrian myths and legends, and it made him smile.

  Almost swaying with exhaustion, he stripped off his clothes and climbed naked into the bed, too tired to care about pyjamas. He curved his long body around hers and breathed in the coconut scent to her hair, feeling his body begin to relax into sleep.

  Just as he was drifting off, she stirred.

  “I love you,” she mumbled.

  When he fell asleep, he was smiling.

  CHAPTER 20

  Wednesday, 13th June 2019

  Joan Watson awoke to the sound of birdsong outside her bedroom window and reached out an arm to the other side of the bed.

  Force of habit.

  Alan wasn’t there, and hadn’t been for a very long time.

  As the chirping continued in the tree outside, her mind was caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness as she caught snatches of the dream the birds had interrupted. In it, she was young again, and dressed in an outfit she’d worn in the late sixties, when she’d been a woman in her twenties. High boots and short skirts had been all the rage, along with a back-combed, beehive hairstyle, just like Nancy Sinatra.

  These boots are made for walkin’…

  She could even remember the feel of those old boots, and the way the right toe had rubbed a bit. Still, she’d worn them until they’d practically fallen apart and, in the dream, they were new again. There were no wrinkles on her face, no deep grooves or sagging skin she hardly recognised as her own. In the dream, she’d been Joanie, and they’d gone dancing.

  Alan had always been a good dancer.

  She remembered his touch, even the shape of his hands. Funny, the little things you remember.

  Simon had the same hands; large and strong, with square nails.

  Still groggy with sleep, she checked the time and realised it was still early; not yet seven o’clock. Simon would be up and about soon, so she would just sit and wait until he wakened naturally. He might have had a rocky start, but he’d put his life back on track and he worked hard, so he needed his sleep.

  But when the clock slipped past seven-thirty, she began to worry he would be late for work.

  “Simon?” she called out.

  It wasn’t a large house, so she didn’t need to bellow for him to hear.

  No answer.

  She tried again.

  “Simon!”

  She waited, but there was no rustling in the bedroom next door, none of the usual clattering as he moved around, or the spray of the shower.

  This time, she shouted.

  “SIMON!”

  There was no reply, and never would be again.

  * * *

  The call came through as Ryan was savouring the first hit of caffeine through his veins. He’d slept less than three hours, but it was better than nothing and he’d coped with much worse, in his time.

  “Ryan.”

  “It’s Morrison,” said the Chief Constable. “I’ve just heard from Control. Th
ere’s been another one.”

  Ryan paused; a fraction too long.

  “Another what, ma’am?”

  “Another death in Penshaw,” she said, as if it were obvious.

  Ryan was surprised.

  “In Penshaw?”

  She made an irritated sound at the other end of the line.

  “Ryan, for goodness’ sake, stop repeating everything I say. Yes, it happened in Penshaw, and that’s not the worst of it. The DB is Simon Watson.”

  Ryan’s face became shuttered. If he had been wavering as to whether Alan Watson’s death had been an unfortunate accident or a suspicious death, he wasn’t any longer. Two deaths in the same family, within a matter of days, was too much coincidence.

  “Do you have any other details?” he asked.

  “Just that the responding officer thinks it’s looking like an accidental overdose,” she replied. “The AC isn’t going to like it.”

  “I’m sure Simon Watson likes it much less,” Ryan said, with no small amount of sarcasm. But how to investigate?

  He had urgent business to deal with today, and important calls to make.

  “Ah, I could send MacKenzie over,” he offered.

  “You know how highly I think of Denise,” Morrison said. “But I told you at the start, Ryan, the AC wants my most senior man on the job. Whether I happen to like it or not, that’s you.”

  Ryan held off making any further remarks and resigned himself to a difficult day ahead.

  “I’ll be there within the hour,” he said.

  * * *

  Word had already spread by the time Ryan and Phillips arrived back in the little village of Penshaw. Local people gathered at the end of Simon Watson’s street, edging closer like zombies to the feast, until they were warned off by the two local bobbies tasked with guarding the scene.

  “They don’t mean anything by it,” Phillips said, as he watched another nosy neighbour skirt around the side of a parked car, trying to get a better look. “They just can’t help rubbernecking.”

  “I don’t mind them taking an interest, if it helps the investigation,” Ryan said, fairly. “But I’ve no time for people who come to pick over the bones of somebody else’s misfortune.”

  In cases of accidental overdose, people could be quick to judge.