by LJ Ross
Ryan sighed. He could see where this was going, he’d heard about the wake and selfishly, he had hoped news of it hadn’t reached Anna. He knew that the islanders and many of his colleagues, even his superior, felt that the case was almost closed. Until he’d spoken with Mathieson, located Lowerson and Ingles, he wasn’t ready to celebrate an end to it.
“You can’t ask me to miss it,” she added into the silence.
He paced away and then back again.
“I plan to be back on the island by the time it starts,” he said eventually, trying to be reasonable. “I’ll take you myself. If I’m not, I don’t want you going anywhere unless there’s an officer with you.”
“I can live with that,” she agreed.
“I’ve been trying to get hold of Lowerson,” he frowned at his mobile phone. “No word from him, yet. I want to do a run by the vicarage – he was supposed to be there this morning.” He checked his watch as he spoke. Nearly one-thirty.
Anna’s brows raised.
“You suspect Ingles?”
“Or, perhaps, his wife.”
“Wow,” she concluded. “You think they worked with Mathieson?”
“No real motive to kill,” he shook his head, “I pegged them for the narcotics, but people can surprise you.
“Give me a minute,” he murmured, distracted. He dialled a number. “Ops team? Yeah, this is DCI Ryan, badge number 4007852. I need a trace on a phone. No, he’s one of ours, Detective Jack Lowerson, I don’t have his badge number, but the phone number is 07849684756.” There was a pause. “I need this marked Code 1, there’s a risk to life.”
He rang off and scanned Anna’s pale face.
“You think something’s happened to Lowerson?” she thought of the young man with the smiley face, always eager to please.
Ryan passed his phone from hand to hand.
“I hope not, but I don’t have a good feeling,” he said. “I’ve asked them to trace his phone. The mobile’s a work issue so we don’t have to waste time tracing the phone provider. They’re running it now, should be able to triangulate the location fairly quickly.”
Ryan looked unseeingly out at the sea through the kitchen window, where he’d stood contemplating the water so many times before. He thought of a young man filled with ambition and the thrill of being part of the team hunting a killer. There was a draw to it, Ryan understood that, had felt it in the early days himself.
Hell, he still felt it.
But Lowerson should have known better than to go over there alone. Basic training told you never to enter the premises of a suspect without a partner. Lowerson knew that, Ryan told himself, could have taken any one of the officers on duty, but he hadn’t.
Maybe that’s because he hadn’t gone to the vicarage, after all? Maybe he had prioritised the other work.
Maybe pigs could fly, Ryan thought, worry rolling through him again in swift waves. There were no available officers on the island aside from him, so he made a decision. He would have to take Anna with him.
“Anna, I need to check the vicarage, start a search for Lowerson –“
His phone rang, mid-sentence and he snatched it up.
“Ryan.” He listened for a moment. “That was quick. Thanks. Yes, I know that location. I need an air ambulance over here immediately, suspected accident or injury. Thanks.”
Anna was on her feet, pulling on a jacket when he rang off.
“The vicarage?” she said shortly. “I’ll ring Doctor Walker and ask him to meet us there.”
Ryan nodded, appreciating her foresight.
“Let’s go,” he said, pausing only to unlock a small metal tin from one of the topmost cupboards. Anna didn’t say a word when he drew out a small handgun from the locked tin, checked it for ammunition and tucked it into the back of his jeans, pulling his jacket over it. If she had asked him, Ryan would have told her that he had specialist firearms authorisation, as did certain members of his team, but his eyes were hard when they turned back to her, signalling that there was no time for small talk.
They left the cottage at a run.
* * *
Lowerson lay where he had fallen, his battered body exposed to the elements for nearly five hours. Ryan had known real panic as he circumvented the vicarage, seen the darkened windows and locked doors. In a move which came naturally to him, he urged Anna behind him as he stalked the outskirts, using his body to shield her if need be. He had considered breaking a window, forcing his way inside, until common sense had kicked in. Lowerson would have followed his instinct and it would have led him exactly where it had led Ryan and Phillips the day before.
The greenhouse.
Ryan sprinted across the lawn and Anna was less than a metre behind him all the way. Later, he would add to his list of things to love about Anna and include the fact that she wasn’t a simpering, insipid woman he had to lead by the nose. She matched him and, in many ways, exceeded him. That was something to think about.
Not now, though, not while one of his junior detectives lay broken and bleeding in a crumpled heap on the cold ground.
Lowerson’s skin was very, very pale. Almost blue, Ryan thought frantically, desperate for a paramedic. He dropped to his knees and brought his face up close to Lowerson’s, waited to feel a breath against his skin while his fingers struggled to find a pulse.
He waited, for what seemed like an eternity, but there it was. Thin, thready, but a pulse nonetheless.
“Thank Christ,” Ryan said, yanking off his coat and laying it over the other man. Anna did the same, covering Lowerson’s legs. Close up, they could see the ugly indentation of a sharp implement on the side of his head and face. Blood congealed and crusted around a large gash and Ryan prayed that there wouldn’t be permanent brain damage, but the force of the blow made that an outside chance.
Anna laid a gentle hand on his arm, understanding that he would feel responsible for this.
After endless moments, they heard Steve Walker shouting for their location and Anna stood up, waved him over.
The man came at a run, bag in hand.
“What’s happen- ” Walker broke off, taking in the scene immediately. “Move back, please.”
Ryan stood a few metres away and watched the doctor work with nimble, gentle hands on Lowerson’s injury, checking for vital signs, covering him with another thick blanket. Anna went back to the front of the house to wait for the ambulance.
“What are his chances?” Ryan asked eventually, when there was nothing more that Walker could do.
The older man passed a hand across his forehead and turned to him with sad eyes.
“Frankly, it’s a miracle he’s still alive,” he said quietly and Ryan realised that was his way of trying to prepare him for the worst.
“He’s come this far,” Ryan said stubbornly.
“We’ve done all we can,” the doctor said, understanding. “It’s up to the specialists now.”
It seemed like an eternity from the time they first heard the helicopter until they finally saw the neon jackets of the paramedics racing across the lawn. Still, they waited while Lowerson was moved, painstakingly slowly so as not to jar his spine, onto a board and strapped down. They watched him until the helicopter lifted into the sky, seemed to sway against the winds for a nauseating moment before moving off.
They all prayed, whether they believed in a God or not.
“Thank you for everything, doctor,” Ryan said, feeling inadequate. “I’m going to follow in my car, contact his parents so they can get down to the hospital. Anna –“
“Don’t worry about me,” she said, anticipating him.
“Come with me,” he said, but thought of the tasks which lay ahead, clouding his mind.
“No,” she shook her head. “I’ll be here for you, when you come back. Do what you need to do, Ryan.”
He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
CHAPTER 27
Two hours later Ryan
left the clinical, whitewashed walls of the intensive care unit at the county hospital, for the clinical, whitewashed walls of CID headquarters.
Everything was familiar; the ugly décor, the worn, industrial-grey linoleum floors, the unique mixed smell of stale body odour, lemon-scented floor cleaner and cheap coffee. When he walked into the homicide department, which consisted of a large, open-plan office filled with noise and clutter, it was like coming home. He stood for a moment, just taking it in. Most of the men and women sitting at desks or mouthing off down the phones had been assigned to Operation Lindisfarne and had been in and out of his cottage on the island. Still, it was different, seeing them here in their natural habitat.
It felt right, again. Not like the last time he’d walked out of the office, head bent and soul weary, ready to pack it all in. He belonged here, along with the rest of them who spent their lives seeking justice for the dead.
He spotted Phillips at his desk in the corner, sporting a fresh tie decorated with tiny palm trees against a banana yellow background. Frank was nothing if not original.
“Phillips? What’s the word on Mathieson?” Ryan exchanged a few handshakes as he walked towards Frank’s desk.
The man himself swung around in his olive green desk chair.
“He’s in conference with his solicitor. Been easy-going so far, lots of ‘please’ and ‘thank you’s. It’s a bit creepy, to be honest.” Phillips pulled an expressive face and then glanced at the big clock on the far wall. Four-thirty. “Haven’t got much time left with him, before his lawyer’ll start complaining. The wife – Helen – she’s sitting in the family waiting room with Yvonne Walker who drove her across.”
Ryan nodded, thinking of the doctor’s wife.
“He got himself a lawyer pretty quick.”
“He has to know that he’s in deep shit,” Phillips shrugged. “Heard from Faulkner – the results are looking good for us, bad for him. Found blood traces on the far edge of the carrier attachment, Lucy’s hairs on the inside of that and on the floor of the garage. Camphor residue on the floor, too.”
“Nice work,” Ryan said.
“How’s Lowerson doing?” Phillips’ face crinkled into lines of concern.
“Touch and go,” Ryan said and his lips flattened into an angry line as he thought of how Jack Lowerson had looked lying on his hospital bed, surrounded by tubes. He’d looked so young, only serving to remind Ryan that he’d been responsible for him. Lowerson was one of his.
“They’ve operated on the head wound, put splints into his face. They’re not sure if there’ll be permanent damage, he’s still in a coma.” He faltered. “I should have been quicker.”
“Don’t start that,” Phillips said in a surprisingly firm voice which brought Ryan’s head around. “Not your fault, nobody’s fault except the person who did that to him.”
Ryan said nothing.
“No sign of the vicar, or his wife,” Phillips continued in a business-like tone. “We put out an APW for them.”
Ryan nodded, thinking that an all-ports warning should prevent Mike and Jennifer Ingles, or persons matching their description, from leaving the country. If they had been responsible for putting Lowerson in that hospital bed, he would personally hunt Ingles and his wife to the ends of the earth.
“You ready to hit Mathieson now?”
“More than ready,” Ryan replied, thinking of the people – and one in particular - he had left back on the island and the unshakeable feeling of unease which increased by the minute. “Let’s do this.”
* * *
Daniel Mathieson sat in Interview Room A with his hands folded and his face expressionless. To the casual observer, he looked exactly what he was; a retired schoolteacher with thinning hair, average features and a penchant for beige slacks. His solicitor was of a similar type: a middle-aged man in a poorly-fitting suit, nearing the end of his unremarkable career and hoping to avoid too many dramas between now and then.
“Standard procedure, Frank,” Ryan murmured as they stood watching the couple through the two-way glass.
“Aw, now, you always get to play bad cop,” Phillips complained, chewing steadily on his nicotine replacement gum.
“It comes naturally to me,” Ryan said with a tigerish smile.
“I could be a bad cop,” Phillips assumed what he thought of as an uncompromising stance, put on his meanest face. Unfortunately, he just managed to look constipated.
“Keep trying.” With that, Ryan pushed open the door and walked directly to the table. He made the introductions for the sake of the tape recording, stated the names of those present along with the time, the date and other formalities. He repeated the standard caution and asked if Mathieson understood everything that had been said.
“I understand,” he said placidly.
“Mr Mathieson, I have here a copy of three signed statements which you provided to the police. The first is dated 21st December and was taken shortly after you were informed that your daughter, Lucy Mathieson, had been found dead at Lindisfarne Priory. Is that your signature?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wish to re-read your statement?”
“No, I remember what I said.”
Ryan flicked a glance at the lawyer, whose jaw was clenched tight.
“Very well. In that statement, you told the police that the last time you saw your daughter was at roughly ten past six on the evening of 20th December. Do you remember saying that?”
“Yes.”
“Before we go any further, is there anything you wish to add?”
“I killed my daughter, Chief Inspector.”
They could have heard a pin drop in the room during the heavy silence which followed Mathieson’s bald statement. The lawyer practically dropped his head in his hands.
“Might I have a moment to confer with my client?”
“You’ve just had two hours to confer,” Ryan pointed out, reasonably, before turning to Mathieson again.
“To confirm, you are admitting to having killed your daughter, Mr Mathieson?”
There wasn’t a flicker in the other man’s eyes, just the same, slightly vacant expression accompanied by a calm monotone. Ryan tried not to feel disappointed that his legendary ‘bad cop’ routine appeared to be unnecessary after all.
“Yes, Chief Inspector, that’s right.”
“Would you like to tell us how it happened?” Ryan poured the other man a glass of water, held it out.
“Of course,” Daniel took a sip of the water, set the glass back down gently in the same controlled manner. “Lucy left for the pub around ten past six, as I said…”
He stopped abruptly and his eyes flickered.
“I should go back further than that, so that you understand why – why I felt I needed to – to do it.”
“Alright, Daniel, take your time,” Phillips said quietly.
They waited while he straightened in his chair, refused further advice from his counsel.
“I worked as a teacher for twelve years. I taught music to boys and girls of high school age in Newcastle. I was told to take early retirement, or be sacked.”
“Why was that?” Ryan prompted him.
“Apparently, I was deemed to have developed an unhealthy relationship with some of my students.” This was said with a tinge of defiance, Ryan noted.
“You didn’t agree?”
“Some of the girls – it’s natural for teenage girls to become…intrigued by mature members of staff.”
“You’re saying they flirted with you?” Phillips asked.
“Of course, they did,” Mathieson said unflinchingly. They could see where this was going. “Still, rather than risk a scandal, the school offered me early retirement. Naturally, I could have stayed to argue my case.”
“Naturally,” Ryan murmured. If he needed to find out any details, he could contact the school, the parents or the children, since that’s what they had been.
Children.
“For the sake of Helen, for my
family, I felt it was easier if I took what they offered me.”
Neither Ryan nor Phillips said anything, so he continued.
“Lucy was just like any other teenage girl,” Mathieson continued. “She had always been a well-behaved child, no trouble at all really, but just recently she became very rebellious.”
“In what way?”
“Seeing all kinds of men, staying out all hours; that sort of thing.”
“You disapproved of her relationships with other men?”
Ryan could see the moment when Mathieson’s careful mask began to slip. It was there, when he was forced to think of Lucy with other men.
“She never really had other relationships, as such.”
“What about Alex Walker?”
There, Ryan thought, there’s the trigger.
“He was entirely unsuitable for Lucy.” Mathieson took several deep breaths as he said this and reached for his water again, took a long gulp.
“You mean, because of his reputation with other women, or because he wasn’t you?”
A muscle jerked near Mathieson’s left eye and Ryan wondered if he had pushed too hard.
“Both.”
That was quite an admission, Ryan thought, and had probably been more difficult than admitting to her murder.
“Your feelings for Lucy went beyond father-daughter?” Ryan concentrated on keeping the disgust out of his voice, so it came out more clipped than he intended.
“I felt that Lucy belonged to me, Chief Inspector, not simply because I fathered her. I don’t expect you to understand. Most people are constrained by ordinary societal values.”
Ryan paused, made sure he was calm before continuing.
“Lucy didn’t feel the same?”
“She used to,” Mathieson said, swallowing sudden tears.
Phillips and Ryan remained silent, unwilling to think too hard about what Lucy Mathieson’s childhood might have been like. They would question Helen again, if only to determine whether she was aware of all that had happened under her roof, but for now they needed to stay focussed.
“To summarise,” Ryan said, “would it be fair to say that you felt frustrated by Lucy’s independence, her rebellion, as you called it?”