by LJ Ross
Ryan had to admit it was a good working theory.
“All this time, we’ve been thinking that The Graveyard Killer is creating angels, saving their souls and all that. But ‘angel’ has another meaning. It means ‘messenger of God’,” Phillips thought aloud. “It could be that this fruit and nut bar thinks he’s God’s messenger and he’s dishing out holy punishment or some twaddle.”
“Never mind that. Let’s not forget the very real possibility that Healy might be holding Tanya Robertson,” Morrison threw in. “She might still be alive.”
The room fell silent, sensing that a call to action was imminent.
Four heads turned towards Ryan, awaiting his command. He looked among the faces of his team.
“Alright, let’s bring him in,” he ordered, with a final glance back at the board.
* * *
Anna was absorbed in a stack of student essays. She lounged at the desk in her cosy study in Durham with a long leg slung indolently over one of the arms of an antique captain’s chair, tutting as she spotted several errors. She reached for the red biro she kept tucked above her right ear and began to scribble a comment in the margin.
When the telephone shrilled with an old-fashioned briiiiing briiiiiing, she nearly jumped out of the chair. Her eyes flicked to the clock and she was surprised to note that the time was nearly eight o’clock.
Where was Ryan?
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s me.”
Her body relaxed again as his voice came down the wires, smooth and clipped with just enough edge to keep her guessing.
“How’s life?”
“Oh, same old. Chasing bad guys, saving the world. You?”
“Hmm. Pretty similar here,” she quipped, eyeing the stale remnants of a cheese sandwich languishing on her desk beside an empty coffee mug. “Non-stop action.”
She could almost hear Ryan smile.
“Listen, I haven’t got long. I just wanted to let you know I won’t be back until late. There’s been a break in the investigation and I don’t know—” he paused, unsure of himself. “It’s a surprising twist and I’m not sure how it’s going to turn out.”
“How intriguing,” she murmured, unconsciously leaning forward in her chair. “Tell me about it later?”
Ryan smiled again.
“Doctor Taylor, you are well aware that I am not at liberty to discuss the details of an ongoing investigation.”
“Uh huh,” she chuckled. “I have ways and means.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he rumbled, wishing fervently that he was at home with her instead of standing in the draughty corridor outside the incident room about to head out into the night.
“I—ah—I just wanted to tell you…” Ryan was distracted momentarily by the sight of Phillips strolling past making kissy-kissy faces at him. He flipped him the bird.
“Ah, that is, I wanted to say that I love you.”
Back in Durham, Anna snuggled further into her seat.
“Phillips is making faces at you right now, isn’t he?”
“Yep.”
“In which case, I’m even more touched that you braved ridicule to ring and tell me that. I love you too, chief inspector.”
“I’d better go.”
“Stay safe,” she whispered, before he ended the call.
She replaced the receiver and spent a long moment staring at where it rested in its cradle. There had been a time when Ryan would never have thought to call home to set her mind at ease. He would have been so focused on his investigation, so preoccupied with the urgency of his task that there would have been no room for gratuitous affection or unnecessary telephone calls.
But today, he had called.
Progress was a wonderful thing.
CHAPTER 17
Despite any private doubts he might have harboured about whether Father Simon Healy really was The Graveyard Killer, Ryan acquiesced to the wishes of his superiors and approached the task of bringing the man into custody with military precision. Two firearms specialists were on hand to accompany his team, with strict instructions that force should be used only as a last resort. The staff of Operation Angel had been split into smaller divisions: those who would remain at CID Headquarters, those who would provide technical support and two smaller teams of field operatives led by Ryan and MacKenzie, who would approach their target from all sides.
It was another mission to distract the intrepid reporters who remained camped outside CID Headquarters. They awaited a juicy titbit to give their viewers in time for the evening news and so Morrison fell upon her proverbial sword and arranged an impromptu press briefing, thereby allowing Ryan’s team to slip out of the police compound unnoticed. While the reporters surged forward brandishing mics, four unmarked police vehicles exited the car park and made their way north.
Ryan headed the fleet in a sleek, charcoal grey Mercedes which he excused on the grounds that he had clearly suffered an early mid-life crisis and shouldn’t be held responsible for his actions. As it happened, the car perfectly suited its owner. Besides, on cold March evenings in the North East of England heated seats were not to be sniffed at, Phillips decided, jiggling more comfortably into the passenger seat.
“Team A, respond.”
Ryan spoke into his car radio and heard a crackle in response.
He gave the order and then watched in his rearview mirror as two cars peeled away from the convoy of police operatives. They would take an alternative back road into Rothbury which would allow them to approach from the other side of town so as not to arouse suspicion. It would also allow them to blockade the exit route in that direction, should Simon Healy try to make a bolt for it.
Ryan looked across at Phillips.
“I had to pull the surveillance team off MacKenzie’s house,” he admitted. “There was no further activity yesterday and nothing this morning, either.”
“Aye, that’s fair. Besides, Denise spotted the surveillance car a mile off and chewed my ear about it all night.”
Ryan flashed a grin.
“Still, she means to thank you for looking out for her. For us,” Phillips corrected.
“Don’t mention it,” Ryan murmured. “There haven’t been any further developments but until this investigation is closed, I don’t want her left alone. We still have no idea who sent her that note; all we know is it probably wasn’t the same man who is killing these women.”
“You and me both, son. I won’t sleep easy until we get to the bottom of it.”
The car fell silent again as each man looked out into the passing night, then Phillips spoke out again.
“You were quiet in the incident room, earlier.”
Ryan’s lips twitched.
“You don’t miss much, do you, Frank?”
“Rarely.”
“Alright, if you must know, I don’t think Healy is our man.”
“There’s a growing pile of—”
“Supposition.”
Phillips pursed his lips.
“There could be some truth in it,” he observed.
Conversation paused while Ryan responded to another crackle on the radio.
“I admit there could be something in the theory about Grace Turner but I’m not sure we have all the pieces to this puzzle yet.”
Phillips studied the road ahead, mesmerised slightly by the flicker of cat’s eyes demarcating where the tarmac ended and the undergrowth began.
“If not Healy, then who?”
Ryan shook his head in frustration.
“I’m working on instinct and that doesn’t hold up in court. I need evidence or I need him to slip up somewhere. Faulkner hasn’t found anything we can use; the fibres embedded in the necks of both women are a bog standard silk-cotton blend found in a wide range of clothing. He hasn’t left a damn thing behind to identify himself and he’s deliberately chosen to snatch women within his chosen hunting ground, free from CCTV coverage. His choice of cemetery is very clever, too. He’s flitting about the county
like an apparition and to get a search warrant we need something solid, particularly with Morrison worrying about the politics of it all. We have to move very, very carefully.”
Phillips brow cleared when he realised who Ryan was referring to.
“He’s a big fish, lad. You’ll need a sturdy rod to reel that one in.”
Ryan gave him a wicked smile.
“It’s a pity I won’t be able to hang him on the wall back at CID but I’ll settle for slinging him inside a maximum security prison.”
Phillips burrowed deeper into his chair and reached for his trusty pack of nicotine gum. Times like these, he needed it.
“If this really is connected to that girl—Grace Turner—and he’s been killing women who sort of resemble her, then we could just be looking at the tip of the iceberg,” Phillips said. “If Lowerson is right and Krista, Karen and Tanya are around the same age that Grace would have been if she lived today, then…”
“Exactly, Frank,” Ryan said, so quietly that he could barely be heard. “Then there’s no reason why this killer hasn’t been murdering women for all the years since the real Grace died, which makes twenty-six. There could be dozens of missing women, lying hidden beneath coffins in other cemeteries.”
Phillips was horrified.
“You don’t mean…?”
“Before we left, I asked Yates to start the process of matching every missing teenager or woman fitting the physical description of Grace Turner since 1990, bearing in mind that we’re looking for missing persons with the same approximate birth year as her. I’ve asked Yates to concentrate her efforts on redheaded women who went missing around religious holidays, too.”
“Surely we would have noticed a pattern like that before now?”
“Not if he moved around the country, or abroad,” Ryan replied. “Senior religious personnel are surprisingly well travelled.”
Phillips chewed ferociously on his gum.
“Damn cheap airfares to blame, that’s what it is.”
* * *
There was a stillness in the air which reminded Ryan of the calm before a storm. Nothing moved in the centre of Rothbury and there was no breeze within the sheltered valley. Somewhere out of sight a dog barked and it was a welcome reminder that, in the daylight hours, Rothbury lived and breathed; it was no spectre that would disappear into the hill fog at sunrise.
The teams positioned themselves at strategic points around St Agnes’ Church and the parsonage next door where Father Simon Healy lived. Residential streets were temporarily cordoned off from prying eyes and police operatives began their approach, kitted out in protective bodywear.
Not for the first time, Phillips mourned the fact that the bulky gear did little to improve his stocky physique. He felt less like an action hero and considerably more like a hobbit who had enjoyed a long and calorific lunch. To add insult to injury, Ryan stood tall and lean beside him, adjusting the straps on his stab vest like he was James Bond’s better looking brother.
The injustice of it all.
“Team B, into position,” Ryan murmured into his radio, then gestured for his own team to move towards the front of the church while others covered the rear exit and the parsonage.
As they moved stealthily across the street, Ryan experienced a growing sense of unease. Something was wrong with the picture that presented itself. The parsonage was completely in darkness; not even a porch light glowed. Beside it, the church of St Agnes appeared equally dark and its doors were firmly shut although they happened to know that there was due to be a late evening Mass.
It seemed that nobody was at home and yet Father Healy’s navy blue Honda Jazz was parked on the street outside, signalling that he was in residence.
“I’m getting a bad feeling about this, Frank,” Ryan muttered.
“Me n’all,” the other replied.
A brief radio exchange informed them that the other teams were in place as they approached the entrance to St Agnes.
“Ready?”
“I was born ready.”
Ryan tried the door handle and winced as the rusty iron wailed loudly into the night.
But the door was locked, as he had thought.
He took a quick glance through the long window to the side and saw an empty, darkened church portico through the prism of rippled ornamental glass. Candlelight was just visible through the gloom, so Ryan backed away and crooked a finger towards two young officers wielding a heavy battering ram and stepped aside to allow them to do their work.
The sound of splintering wood spoiled the supernatural quiet of the town centre and, as the door gave way, faces appeared at nearby windows to see what the devil was happening in Rothbury now.
Tongues would wag, Ryan thought.
But he didn’t concern himself with that. He crossed the threshold into the cool interior and was struck again by the quiet; nobody scuttled out of an ante room in priestly garb, demanding to know why they were there. Nothing moved among the rows of plain wooden pews, except the flame of a single votive candle which flickered beneath a marble statue of St Agnes.
Ryan reached for a light switch and a bank of energy-saving wall lights came to life, but they didn’t alleviate the glum feel to the place nor the sensation that, despite the empty silence, they were not alone.
“Father Healy! Northumbria CID! We have a warrant to enter the premises—make yourself known!”
Nothing.
Ryan and Phillips exchanged a long look. The support officers waited a few steps behind and were obviously disappointed that they would not be required to exercise their skills in apprehending a difficult suspect.
In fact, so far, they couldn’t see any suspect at all.
Ryan led the way along the central alley while Phillips and the other officers traced the outer walls, circling towards the altar at the back of the church. They scanned each pew as they went, their steps quiet and sure against the paved floor. Long shadows wavered, moving as they moved, creeping stealthily after them until Phillips let out a surprised shout.
Ryan covered the distance with fast strides and joined Phillips near the back corner of the church to look down upon the lifeless body of the parish priest of St Agnes.
* * *
Father Simon Healy’s face was twisted into a grotesque, surprised expression. It stared up at them from the floor near the entrance to a small boot-room-cum-utility space which had been built to connect the church with the parsonage next door. His neck was lying at an odd, misshapen angle and, as they moved closer, Ryan could see that a cream silk scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck and had dug so deep that it had torn the skin. Blood stained the cream silk a deep, claret red and seeped onto the floor in a growing pool.
There were no obvious markers to show that anybody else had ever been there, but the direction in which Healy’s body had fallen told them something very interesting. He had been walking from the parsonage towards the church and was dressed in his finery, presumably ready to deliver the late Mass. The angle of attack and the knotted material which strangled the man showed clearly that he had been taken from behind.
Putting all of that together, Ryan reasoned that Father Healy had been at ease with whoever had been admitted into his house. So at ease, in fact, that he hadn’t thought twice about turning his back on his killer.
“Faulkner’s on his way,” Phillips remarked. “How long do you think he’s been dead?”
Ryan looked down at the mass of flesh and his mouth flattened into an angry line.
“No more than a couple of hours. Damn it, we probably passed him on the road up here.”
He stepped away and spoke quickly into his radio, informing the other teams to stand down. A few minutes later, MacKenzie and Lowerson joined them.
“This is much more vicious than last time,” was the first thing MacKenzie noted. “He definitely didn’t use as much force when he killed Barbara Hewitt.”
“Maybe she was weaker, physically?” Lowerson suggested.
“It�
��s common for people in life-threatening situations to experience a superhuman surge in strength, regardless of age or gender,” Ryan said, laconically. “But it’s possible that Healy was harder to bring down. They would have been of a similar height.”
MacKenzie gave him a canny look.
“It’s also possible that Healy’s death represents a vengeful kill—he was executed with a fair measure of anger, judging by the violence of this attack.”
“Whichever it is, you were right,” Phillips said, matter-of-factly. “He was the killer’s next target.”
Ryan turned and walked swiftly back towards the entranceway, not daring to breathe until he was outside in the street, well away from the sudden bout of claustrophobia. He planted his feet and looked up into the night sky, opening his lungs to draw in the clean air. He focused on the constellations of stars which shone brightly above and resisted the strong impulse to shout or scream. How easy it would be, he thought, to imagine his sister up there amongst them. It would make each day more bearable if he could believe that she was loved by a higher power and that a benevolent god was, at that very moment, caring for her eternal soul.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to believe the myth. His sister was gone, taken from the world by a psychopath in front of his very eyes in the kind of malevolent display of evil that no god could possibly sanction. And now, one of His own servants lay dead, brutally killed as he was about to perform his clerical duty. How could that be?
And so Ryan looked down from the heavens and back to Earth, where reality came into sharp focus once again. The first thing he saw was Phillips, who had positioned himself a short distance away and was unstrapping his protective gear whilst he kept a fatherly eye on his SIO.
“This thing is like a bloody corset,” he grumbled, good-naturedly. “That’ll be all the ham and pease pudding stotties.”