by LJ Ross
Ryan looked around the room and saw the stony faces, read correctly the instant defence of their colleagues and understood how that unquestioning loyalty developed. It came from shared experiences, often unimaginable to the general public. He thought of his relationship with Phillips and tried to conceive of his sergeant stalking through the streets of Newcastle or luring young women to their deaths. At that moment, Phillips looked up from where he had been trying, without success, to replace a tiny pin in his sunglasses with stubby fingers that were not designed for such an intricate task.
Ryan simply couldn’t imagine it.
But that was sentimentality. The facts spoke for themselves and every man and woman under his command must be made to understand that personal feelings had no place in his Incident Room. If he told them often enough, perhaps the message would eventually filter through to his brain too.
“I’m saying that whoever we are looking for has had access to information which has not been made public. That doesn’t necessarily make him police, but he’s getting his information from someone inside or he was part of it in some other way.”
“Information leaks –”
“Consider this,” Ryan interjected, pointing a finger at nobody in particular. “How did our killer know where to dump Claire Burns on Sunday night, when the facts surrounding the discovery of Amy Llewellyn’s body had not been made public?”
“Professor Freeman gave an interview –” MacKenzie started to say.
Ryan shook his head.
“I spoke with the film crew, as well as Freeman. The interview was pre-recorded but not aired until the breakfast news the following day – on Monday. The film crew check out, every last one of them.”
“I spoke to that journalist with the silly name – Ophelia Whatsherface. She said she had to ‘protect her sources’ or some rubbish and said that we could come to her with an appropriate warrant, otherwise she wouldn’t be saying shit.”
“Helpful, as always,” Ryan observed caustically. “So, I repeat, how did the bastard know?”
“Somebody blabbed,” Phillips said, roundly.
“Obviously,” Ryan nodded. “The question is who, and why? Was it a case of two colleagues discussing the incident, one of which is suspect? Or, was it a case of somebody overhearing something they shouldn’t?”
“Impossible to know,” MacKenzie surmised.
“At this stage,” Ryan agreed. “But a pattern has emerged, which we can use to help us.”
He opened his mouth to give them the details, but was intercepted by Phillips.
“It’s all to do with muggins, over there,” Frank shook his thumb in Ryan’s direction. “It’s looking like we’ve got someone with a big old crush on the Chief Inspector. He’s wanting a bit of attention.”
Ryan opened his mouth again, but had to admit that Phillips had hit the nail on the head. Whoever it was clearly craved attention, perhaps demanded it, from the world in general and him in particular.
“Amy Llewellyn connects to Keir Edwards, who connects to me. Claire Burns’ death mirrored Edwards’ style, once again connecting to me and, for good measure, her wounds mirrored the victims on Holy Island, which also connects to me.”
The light dawned on them all. He could see it, spreading through the room.
“Remember that the ritual markings on the Holy Island victims were also not made public, which is something else he has managed to find out and use to draw attention to himself. It’s as if he’s saying, ‘I’m better than The Hacker and the Holy Island Killers.’”
“Copycatting them to show off, you mean?”
Ryan nodded.
“I think I may know someone to fit the bill,” MacKenzie said quietly and all eyes turned to her. “Late yesterday afternoon, I spoke with Claire Burns’ friend and landlady, Mathilda. She told me that Claire was being harassed by a man who lives on the same street. A man going by the name of Colin Hart.”
Ryan’s brows drew together, a slash of black against his face.
“The same Colin …?”
“Same guy,” MacKenzie confirmed, remembering his breath against her face. She held off a shiver. “Sir, being unable to contact you or Phillips at the time, I took the opportunity to ask him some follow-up questions given the new information. Colin Hart was known to Claire Burns and I have a witness statement from Mathilda Compton, confirming that he had repeatedly pestered Claire.”
“Colin Hart happens to find our first victim, then, also by chance, happens to live on the same street as the second?”
“I thought it was too great a coincidence, sir.”
“I agree with you. Go on.”
MacKenzie felt foolish, all of a sudden. How could she express the fear she had felt in Colin’s home, in professional terms?
On the other side of the fence, Ryan watched MacKenzie closely. As a trained observer, two things immediately struck him as unusual. The first was that Phillips’ hand rested protectively over MacKenzie’s in a public display of affection, which was not usual, despite their relationship. In working hours, they stuck to professional boundaries, though he couldn’t vouch for what happened in the copier room during lunchtimes. The second thing he noticed was that MacKenzie was pale and, rather than facing his gaze directly, her eyes were trained on the carpet.
She was spooked.
“Mac?”
She jumped a bit in her chair, which was also a first. Of them all, MacKenzie was usually an unshakeable force to be reckoned with.
“Sorry,” she muttered, drawing herself together. “I identified myself and entered his home at around four o’clock yesterday afternoon. He was not cautioned, sir.”
Ryan said nothing. If she expected a reprimand, she would be waiting a long time.
“You know the legalities,” Ryan eased a hip onto the edge of his desk. “Cautions are not always necessary.”
“Thank you, sir,” Gratitude made her tone more formal than she intended.
“Tell us why you think a caution might have been needed.”
“Right enough,” she murmured, dragging herself back to the point. “We already know that Colin Hart is now his mother’s main carer and he has access to her medical supplies. Prior to changing profession, he was employed by the university from 1998 to 2007 in a research capacity.”
“Which faculty would that be, now?”
“Biomedical Sciences.”
“Puts him in range of Amy Llewellyn as well as Claire Burns,” Ryan observed.
“Upon entering his residence, I could see that he keeps an extensive collection of literature on true crime and criminal behaviour, which he confirmed was an interest of his.”
“Access to medical knowledge, potentially unhealthy interest in criminal behaviour, you think?”
“That was my impression, sir, but that’s all it was. An impression.”
Ryan thought back to his own impression of Colin Hart and remembered how he had claimed an interest in Ryan following the events of Holy Island. He also remembered how the man had mentioned Anna by name.
Unhealthy.
Criminal prosecutions could not be built upon impressions alone. They needed facts and evidence.
“What did he have to say about Claire Burns?”
“He appeared very angry when I brought up the subject of Claire. Given that her next of kin have been informed, I felt it was appropriate to inform him of her death and to gauge his reaction. He appeared neither surprised nor shocked by the news, but was adamant that he had been on friendly terms with her.”
“You were uncomfortable in his presence?”
“It’s ridiculous, I know, but –”
Ryan held up a hand to stem the flow of excuses.
“Bring him in for questioning.”
“We don’t have any forensic link,” Phillips threw in.
“He’s a known person in Claire Burns’ life. Tell him we want to ask him about his relationship with her.”
“I’ll make a start,” MacKenzie stepped
out of the room to put the wheels in motion and, in her temporary absence, Ryan called a ten minute coffee break.
By mutual assent, Ryan and Phillips convened by the murder board.
“Do I need to be concerned?”
Phillips sighed.
“MacKenzie’s not been herself,” he had to admit. “It was a long day, yesterday. First, finding the body in the morning, then handling Colin Hart. We stopped into Claire’s workplace before we packed in for the night and the owner’s Jimmy Moffa. He’s not exactly Mr Nice.”
Ryan ran a thoughtful hand through his hair, ruffling it further out of style.
“It’s not like her to be agitated, even taking all that into account. I’ve seen her handle bigger fish and not break a sweat.”
Phillips knew it too.
“She just needs a good night’s sleep and some of my tender loving care,” he said aloud, trying to keep things light. “She’s a good policeman.”
Ryan slapped a hand on Phillips back and shook his head.
“She’s the best.”
* * *
Colin was polishing off an omelette when the knock came at the door.
“Colin?” His mother’s voice shrilled. “Who’s that at the front door? Tell them to go away!”
“I’ll take care of it, Mother,” he called out.
His heart jumped when he looked through the peep hole and saw who his visitors were, but settled down again when he remembered that he had taken all necessary steps to protect himself.
“I’m just popping out for a couple of hours, Mother. You have everything you need.”
“What? Colin!” She began to whine, long snivelling tears rolling down her puffy cheeks as she thumped the bedsheets in frustration. She could never ‘pop out’ on a whim and the knowledge of it made her even angrier.
With a brief glance around him, happy that everything was in order, Colin opened the door to where two detective constables stood solemnly on his doorstep.
“Colin Hart?”
“Yes.”
“We would be grateful if you would agree to accompany us to the station to answer some questions in connection with the murders of Amy Llewellyn and Claire Burns,” one of them said.
The words washed over him in a haze. He found his eyes drawn to the slightly greying collar of the man’s shirt. He noticed that the other one had dirty, over-long fingernails.
“Am I being arrested?”
“No, sir, not at this time. We would like you to attend an interview, where you will be asked some questions under caution.”
“I’m entitled to a solicitor, aren’t I?” he asked. “I’ll call one now.”
They nodded silently and he felt their eyes watching him as he made the short trip across the hallway to the telephone. He had memorised the number for the best firm of solicitors in the city, so he dialled it without needing to look up the digits. Overhead, he heard the thump of his mother’s stick; one she never used for walking anymore, only to attract attention.
“Colin?” Her voice had reduced to a long, keening sound, which he ignored. After another moment’s hesitation, he turned his back to the doorway and placed a second call. He spoke quickly into the receiver and then replaced the handset.
“I’m ready,” he said.
* * *
With the wheels in motion for an interview with Colin Hart, Ryan left MacKenzie to chase up the CCTV footage relating to Claire Burns’ abduction. It would give them some ammunition in the interview, if they could ask Colin why he had been captured on camera speeding out into the night in the direction of Hadrian’s Wall. While MacKenzie did what she could to find a face or a car they recognised, he and Phillips made their way across town to a jewellery store, which stocked silver bangles in the same design worn by Amy Llewellyn.
Traffic was heavy with commuters eager to get across town and, in the momentary standstill, Ryan turned to Phillips.
“Any progress on Amy Llewellyn?”
Phillips fiddled with the air con while he arranged his thoughts.
“I spoke to those people who claimed that they saw Amy on the night she went missing. Most of them couldn’t even remember what they told the police back in 2005, let alone corroborate it.”
“Helpful.”
“Yeah, really helpful,” Phillips shaded his eyes from the sun and watched Ryan draw out a pair of aviators. “There was one bloke who sounded solid, though. He’s a taxi driver and he says he saw a woman matching Amy’s description walking around the edge of the Moor, in the direction of the cut, which takes you through Jesmond.”
“I know it,” Ryan said, edging the car forward.
“Anyhow, when I spoke to him on the phone, he remembered her straight away. He saw the original television appeal for Amy back in 2005 and rang the Crimestoppers helpline. He says he remembered her because it was the evening, around ten, and she was walking alone. He was clocking off for the night, but he put his light back on just in case she needed a lift anywhere. He called out to her, which is how he got a good look at her face.”
“How did he describe her?”
“Young, early-twenties, dark, petite, good-looking.”
“Drunk, disorientated?” Ryan flicked the indicator to turn left.
“No, none of that. He says she looked smartly dressed –”
“In what?”
“Beige mac, jeans, some sort of flowery scarf.”
“OK,” Ryan nodded. It helped to build a picture.
“He thought she looked like a smart young woman and he was a bit concerned about her walking alone at that time of night, in that part of town.”
Ryan understood the man’s concern. It wasn’t a dangerous area, but it was quiet and any individual walking alone would need to be on their guard. It was a matter of good sense, especially in the dark, where street lighting was intermittent.
“Any CCTV footage to corroborate his sighting?”
“None,” Phillips shook his head. “There was a camera, but it was broken. A lot of them were at the time. Council making cuts,” he added.
Or perhaps the camera had been sabotaged? There was no point getting angry about it, Ryan reasoned to himself. These were the facts of life.
“Right, so if we trust this sighting, we have her on the edge of the Town Moor at around ten, heading in the direction of Jesmond. She was sighted at a bus stop near her house after nine – what did she do in between times?”
“No idea,” Phillips said succinctly. “But at least we know that she headed west, from her house towards Jesmond.”
Ryan’s mouth flattened.
“And we all know who used to live in Jesmond – before he came down in the world, that is.”
“Aye, we do.”
Keir Edwards’ former home stood on one of those upmarket, tree-lined streets.
“Although, we also know somebody else who resides in the same part of town,” Ryan added after a pause. “Colin Hart.”
Phillips tugged at his lower lip.
“Those other missing women – at least three of them were reported missing or last seen on that corner of the Moor, n’all,” he said glumly.
Circles, Ryan thought. Things always came round in circles.
* * *
The owner of Goldfingers was, unsurprisingly, a fan of the James Bond franchise. The shop interior was decked out like a Christmas tree, with trays of diamonds sparkling under well-placed spotlights and autographed portraits of Sean Connery and Roger Moore gracing the wall space. To cap it all off, Shirley Bassey’s voice boomed out from hidden speakers.
Remarkably, the shop managed to avoid being gaudy and was instead enjoying the patronage of several upscale customers who seemed to appreciate the kitsch style of the place.
Ryan’s eye fell on a young couple poring over a tray of diamond solitaire rings and he felt a ripple somewhere in his belly. He imagined, just for a moment, standing in the same position with Anna and then immediately retreated from the thought, more out of habit than fear
. He gave it a full minute, re-assessed himself, and concluded that the thought of marriage had not terrified him half as much as it should have.
Interesting.
Phillips, with a brilliant lack of complication, headed directly for the ring selection and bent over the glass case.
“I’d peg Denise as a fan of emeralds,” he began conversationally, “they would match her eyes. But, you can’t beat a diamond …”
Ryan shifted his feet, amazed to find himself overheated in the air-conditioned room.
“You, ah, you’re thinking along those lines, then?”
Phillips didn’t bother to look up, but smiled to himself. Times like these, he remembered he had fifteen years on his SIO.
“Why not? I’d have to be a bloody fool not to realise that I’m punching well above my weight with MacKenzie,” Phillips replied, unguardedly, then cleared his throat. “Not to say that I couldn’t punch a fair weight, you understand.”
“Naturally.”
“Aye, well. Had a fair few rounds in my time …”
“Of boxing?” Ryan asked sweetly.
Phillips looked up from the sparkles to bestow a withering look.
“Less of the cheek. Point is, why wait? Life’s too short.”
“What about … making sure they’re … you know, the right person?”
Ryan couldn’t remember feeling more awkward in his life. Where the hell was the manager? He looked around the shop expansively, trying to find someone who looked remotely like they were in charge.
Phillips stood up straight and fixed him with a fatherly look.
“Son, when it’s right, you just know.”
Ryan sent up a prayer of thanks to whichever god was listening, as their conversation was interrupted by a glamorous-looking woman in her early sixties. She modelled a heavy pair of ruby and diamond earrings that matched the bright red dress she wore with panache. Her smile was wide and genuine.
“Hello! Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“No –”
“Yes –”
She looked between both men and gave them an understanding smile.
“I think I have something which may suit you,” she said delicately. “Some couples prefer a less traditional, more masculine engagement ring. Over here, we have a lovely selection of white and rose gold, which can be engraved …”