by LJ Ross
Tebbutt made a sympathetic sound.
“It’s hard, sometimes, when they grow up.”
“It wasn’t just that he had a new girlfriend,” David said. “To tell you the truth, we’d have been happy for him. It was the fact she was his boss…the fact that Jack never sounded happy. He was forever cancelling plans, never spoke to us on the phone for more than a couple of minutes, it was like he had no family any more. We were worried.”
“I’m sure,” Tebbutt murmured, and then sighed deeply, preparing to round things up. “That’s about all the questions I have, at the moment. I’ll be in touch.”
“That’s it?” David asked. “Isn’t there anything else we can do to help? Can’t we—can’t we see him?”
Tebbutt didn’t answer directly.
“There is one thing you can do,” she said, confidentially. “I understand Jack has a cat—Marbles, is it? Somebody will need to look after it. Perhaps you could do that?”
But David gave a sad shake of his head.
“Jack did have a cat, but I’m surprised he didn’t mention that it’s gone. He says it went missing but…who knows what happened. It’s not around anymore, so there’s no need to worry about that side of things,” he said.
Tebbutt feigned surprise.
“Sorry to hear it. I suppose that’s one less thing to worry about,” she said, and reached across to stop the tape.
“Thank you both for your help.”
CHAPTER 24
When Ryan arrived home just after four o’clock, he found the place empty, but Anna’s car was still on the driveway, so his wife hadn’t ventured far. The thought of curling up in bed was a tempting prospect after the day he’d had but, instead, he changed into a pair of sturdy walking boots and went in search of his wife. The wind was bracing when he stepped back outside, and he made a mental note to start planting some trees to provide a bit of shelter through the winter months. The skies were clear, though, and that first gulp of cold, crisp air into his lungs was a balm after the smoky air of the railway station. They’d built their home on high ground above the village of Elsdon and its position made it vulnerable to the elements but that was the price they paid to live somewhere that looked like a scene from an oil painting, with snow-tipped peaks spreading out across the quiet valley all the way to the Rothbury Hills and beyond.
His feet crunched against the melting snow as he followed a pathway leading him down into the valley, stepping carefully to avoid tufts of grass and mounds of partially-frozen sheep dung until he re-joined the road that ran through the centre of the village.
Almost immediately, he was spotted by one of the locals.
“Saw you on the telly, last night!” they called out.
It was disconcerting to be recognised on the street and Ryan found himself returning an awkward half-wave. When further conversation was forthcoming, he made a polite, non-committal sound but didn’t stop to chat. It might be deemed anti-social, but he was in no mood to pass the time. Instead, he kept a look-out for Anna, in case she should pass him on the way, but if he was any judge he knew exactly where she would be. In times of stress, some people turn to drink or drugs, others overeat or gamble away their money.
His wife liked to learn about local history.
He took a left turn and followed the road past the village hall—which, he noted, was advertising a night of ‘murder and mayhem’ with a local crime writer—and followed a single-track lane leading to what looked like a dead end. However, at the end of the road there was a small heritage plaque and Ryan let himself through a wooden gate before making his way up another sharp incline that would take him to Elsdon Castle, the ancient motte and bailey fortification that overlooked the village.
There was another set of footprints in the snow and he smiled as he reached the brow of the hill to find Anna standing at the top, taking a few snaps on her smartphone. Ryan stopped a few feet short, indulging himself in a private moment so that he could admire the tall, slender woman with long, dark hair blowing in the gale. She wore a pair of bright red earmuffs he’d given her for Christmas, ones that doubled as headphones, so she could listen to her favourite power ballads from the eighties without offending the rest of society.
Whatever she was listening to at that moment must have been good, judging by the way her hips were jiggling.
Sensing his presence, she turned and her face broke into a smile.
“Hello, stranger.”
“Hello back,” he said, and covered the distance between them.
Anna’s arms wound around his neck as he caught her up against him, burying his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her.
“I missed you,” he said, his voice muffled against the side of her neck.
Her arms tightened, holding him close. They stood there for a long moment, two living statues amongst the ancient landscape. Then he speared his fingers through her hair, pushing back the ear muffs with a lopsided grin before lowering his face to hers to kiss her mouth, her face and finally the tip of her nose.
She chuckled, nudging him away to take his hand and look out across the quiet vista.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
He nodded, turning his face up to the breeze and taking several deep breaths before he spoke again.
“Jack confessed to murder,” he said, quietly.
The words were suspended on the air while Anna went through the processes of shock, all the way through to acceptance.
And back around to denial.
“I don’t believe him,” she decided.
Ryan turned to look at her, searching her face.
“Why do you say that?” He’d thought the same thing, himself. “In my experience, almost anybody is capable of extreme violence.”
“I could believe that she’d accidentally fallen in the course of a struggle,” Anna said. “But to take her head and smash it against a radiator? That’s cold-blooded and it’s personal. It shows a level of contempt. Jack isn’t that person.”
Such simple reasoning, he thought, but it mirrored his own.
“What’s going to happen to him now?”
Ryan took her hand again and they started ambling back down the hill towards the village. He could feel the tiredness seeping into his bones and knew it was time to rest.
“Jack’s in custody at the moment but, strangely, Tebbutt hasn’t charged him yet.”
“Even though he’s confessed?”
“Mm,” he said.
“Do you think she’s onto something?”
Ryan opened the wooden gate for her and shut it behind them.
“Put it this way,” he said. “If the roles were reversed and I was in Tebbutt’s shoes, the only reason I would have for failing to charge Jack Lowerson at this point would be if I had other, more compelling evidence pointing towards a different suspect.”
With that, he draped an arm around her shoulders, tucking her against the warmth of his body as they headed home.
* * *
Phillips had just closed the blackout curtains in their bedroom when he heard MacKenzie’s sharp cry of pain. He rushed across the room to the small en-suite bathroom and found her lying on the floor, clutching her leg.
“Denise! What happened, love?”
He hurried over to help her, kneeling beside her on the tiles to run gentle hands over the exposed skin.
“It’s just the old scar tissue,” she managed, and her face was deathly pale and sweating as she fought the shooting pain that ran through her leg and up to her hip and back.
A year ago, she’d been the victim of a notorious serial killer who’d kidnapped her and held her for days before she’d escaped. Since then, she’d worked hard, every day, to rebuild her strength both physically and mentally. But though the physical scars were healing, she bore invisible scars that would never heal, memories that would never to be forgotten.
Just when she thought she was winning, her treacherous body would suffer a setback like this to remind her that she wou
ld never be the same woman again.
“Let me help you up,” Phillips said, gently.
“I can do it,” she started to say, but she’d hurt her elbow and her lower back when the cramp had taken hold and she knew there’d be bruises in the morning. “Alright, if I could just take your hand—”
Phillips lifted her up into his arms without another word and she was too surprised to argue. For all his love of a bacon butty, her fiancé was a keen boxer and had been since childhood. He was constantly active and, judging by his sudden show of strength, he could still pack a decent punch if he wanted to.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” she murmured.
Phillips let out a rumbling laugh as he deposited her on the bed.
“I’m just saving myself for the honeymoon,” he told her, with an outrageous wiggle of his bushy eyebrows.
MacKenzie laughed, just as he’d hoped, and tugged him down onto the bed beside her, where he rubbed firm, soothing circles on her bad leg as the physiotherapist had shown them.
“I’m looking forward to it,” she said. “Not long to go, now.”
“You’re right,” he agreed, thinking of the wedding they’d planned.
She reached up to cup his cheek, running the pads of her fingers against the stubble on his chin.
“I can’t wait, Frank. I never thought I’d find my soulmate in my forties.”
He looked across at the vibrant, beautiful woman who had—to his endless amazement—agreed to become his wife.
“You’re no spinster yet,” he joked. “Besides, who says there’s a time limit? Some folk meet each other when they’re just kids and end up spending the rest of their lives together. Some folk only meet each other in their eighties. And, even if you’d never met me, you’d have been just fine.”
MacKenzie nodded.
“I agree that I would have carried on and been happy because I’m too stubborn to do otherwise,” she grinned. “But, all the same, I’m thankful every day that I met you, Frank.”
“Aye, me n’all, love. I’m a lucky man.”
He leaned across to bestow a gentle kiss.
“How’s the feeling leg, now?”
“Much better,” she whispered, and took hold of the lapels of his pyjamas to give them a firm yank so that he tumbled forward into her waiting arms.
CHAPTER 25
Monday, 12th February
The sun had not yet risen in the sky by the time Kayleigh-Ann Dobson made her way down to the riverside from her apartment on the south side of the Tyne. Usually, she didn’t mind the early-morning twilight because it made her feel so alive to join all the other men and women making their way into the city, making their way in life.
Like in that old movie, Working Girl.
She was no Melanie Griffith, and this was hardly New York City, but she was still proud to join the ranks of those in paid employment, unlike so many of her generation. Besides, working at the courthouse was an interesting job. She’d seen so many people come and go over the past two years since she’d started there, people accused of crimes ranging from the most heinous to the downright bizarre. It couldn’t help but make her wary of people and frightened of who might be sitting next to her on the bus or brushing past her in the street. After all, they said one in five people were psychopaths, didn’t they? She was sure it was something like that.
She paused to swap her takeaway coffee cup from one hand to the other, letting the hot liquid warm her fingers. It was only a five-minute journey to work via the Millennium Bridge, which spanned the river from the Baltic Art Gallery on the south side to the courthouse on the north, but already her hands were numb.
She stopped as she reached the art gallery, a towering old converted flour mill that was now a sprawling space for new and established artists to exhibit their creations. She’d gone in once or twice but, since she’d met her feller, there’d been less time for mooching around galleries. He was the kind of man who preferred the big outdoors and they’d spent plenty of time braving the wind and rain on the beaches further north, not to mention plenty of time rocking the bedsheets inside most of the hotels in between.
She started to wonder how long it would be before they could live openly and freely, without worrying about who might see them. She wondered when he would get the divorce he’d been talking about and marry her instead.
She watched a mother hurrying along the Quayside with a little girl in tow, rushing to drop her off at nursery before she went on to work, no doubt. It reminded her of the constant juggling act her own mother had been forced to do, after her father had left them.
It made her wonder whether his wife would be forced to do that, when the time came, and Kayleigh felt a vicious stab of conscience.
Home-wrecker, it whispered.
She tried to distract herself from thoughts of what her love life might be costing others and took a hasty gulp of her coffee, burning her tongue in the process. Why should she care? She was happy—deliriously happy—and that’s all that mattered. Besides, his wife was a bitch, she reminded herself. Hadn’t she been miserable and unfeeling, all these years? At least, that’s what he’d told her. They didn’t live as a couple anymore and they hardly spoke, that’s what he said.
Why then, did they have such a young child? Things couldn’t have been all bad, could they?
She didn’t want to think about any of that, not today.
Maybe tomorrow, or the day after.
The sun was rising as she looked out across the water and she watched the morning come alive in all its splendour, relieved to see that the bridges had been re-opened after being declared safe. Still, she waited until she’d seen a few other people crossing before she decided to take her chances. Yesterday, the courthouse had been shut down thanks to the terror alert and it had taken hours to get home, despite the fact she could see her apartment from the entrance to her workplace.
She yawned, then made her way towards the entrance to the bridge. It was a swing structure, elegant and curved so that when a boat passed beneath it, the underside of the bridge rotated upwards in a delicate arch. There was a bin situated halfway along and, if she timed it right as she usually did, the coffee would be finished, and she could dump the cup in there as she passed by.
Funny, the habits people developed.
She couldn’t leave her front door without checking the lock at least ten times, and she couldn’t step on a particular paving stone outside her apartment block without worrying that it would bring her bad luck. She didn’t know why; it was one of those things, she supposed.
As Kayleigh stepped onto the Millennium Bridge, her only concern was whether she would finish her coffee by the time she reached the centre.
It would be bad luck, otherwise.
* * *
Just before eight, Ryan awoke to the sound of his mobile phone bleating out a metallic rendition of the Indiana Jones theme tune, wakening him from a very pleasant dream. At around six, he’d been dimly aware of Anna leaving for work in Durham and of her leaning across to kiss him, but he’d fallen into a dead sleep the moment she’d left. It was unlike him to sleep for longer than a few hours, but he acknowledged that his system needed to catch up on the deficit, otherwise he’d be of no use to anybody.
He threw out a hand and felt around the bedside table until he located the source of the offending noise and stabbed his finger on the green button to take the call.
“Ryan.”
His body and mind went straight to full alert as he listened to the message from the Control Room and, within the space of ten minutes, he’d left the house and was driving back towards the city.
He put a call through to Phillips using the hands-free.
“Frank?”
“Mornin’, lad,” he said, between mouthfuls of toast. “I’m on my way into the office, I’ll be there in time for the briefing—”
“There’s been another explosion.”
Phillips swallowed the bread and leaned back against the worktop
in his kitchen for support.
“Where?”
“Millennium Bridge,” Ryan said, and activated the blue light on his car to get past the traffic leading into the city centre. “I’m on my way now.”
“We’ll meet you there,” Phillips said, as MacKenzie walked back into the kitchen to join him. “When did it happen?”
“Ten, fifteen minutes ago.”
“There was no warning e-mail,” Phillips said. “The online counter hit two million and the bridges were thoroughly checked. How—?”
“We’ll find out,” Ryan said. “This is worse than before, Frank. There were people on that bridge; I don’t know how many. Get on to the Underwater Search and Rescue Team because we’re going to need divers down there. I’ll alert EOD.”
* * *
A short while later, Ryan drove past his old apartment building on the Quayside and followed the narrow roads leading down to the river until he reached the courthouse, where a crowd of people had already gathered. A couple of squad cars had arrived at the scene and were doing their best to keep people back, but several bystanders had witnessed the blast and were suffering from shock, while others were in the throes of panic.
Ryan slammed out of his car and hurried towards the crowd, pushing past them until he reached the flimsy police barrier that had been erected beside the north side of the Millennium Bridge. He could feel his phone vibrating inside the pocket of his jeans and a quick glance told him it was Chief Constable Morrison.
“Ma’am?”
“Ryan, I’ve just heard. What’s being done? I need you to get down there—”
“I’m on the scene now,” he shouted above the din. “We need to close all the bridges again and put the city back on full-scale alert.”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll get onto that. I thought it was over,” she added, brokenly. “I thought they had what they wanted—”
“We were wrong,” Ryan said. There would be time enough to think about motivations later but, for now, he had a job to do. “I’ll be in touch.”