by LJ Ross
Accord to us, by the pact that we make with you, all the riches we need.
Ave Satani!
Gregson looked up at her from his position at her feet, his joints stiffening and his mind racing. A new age had begun and he was more terrified than ever before.
CHAPTER 8
Tuesday 4th August
The Chief Constable of the Northumbria Police Constabulary was a short woman with hair the texture of straw and strong features not enhanced by the tightly fitting dress suit, which was necessary apparel on formal occasions such as disciplinary hearings. Beneath the fuzzy hair and pronounced overbite, Sandra Morrison had a mind as sharp as a tack and a shrewd idea that something was seriously amiss in this cop shop.
She was seated at the centre of a long, boardroom table, flanked on either side by two mousy chief inspectors drafted in from the neighbouring Tyne and Wear division. The fourth member of the panel was a woman called Daphne, who worked in Human Resources and was nearing retirement. She had agreed to act as note-taker.
“Full name and rank,” Morrison began quietly, without looking up from her inspection of the paperwork stacked neatly in front of her.
“Detective Inspector Denise Mary MacKenzie.”
“You’re Irish?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I had an Irish grandmother,” Morrison pronounced.
MacKenzie didn’t know how to respond to that and an awkward silence descended. If the admission was intended to be an icebreaker, then it had fallen flat. Thankfully, the Chief Constable dived straight into her list of questions and rendered further small talk unnecessary.
“On Wednesday 24th June this year, you were involved in an unauthorised sting operation. Correct?”
“Partially correct, ma’am. On that date, I was involved in a sting operation properly authorised by my superior officer, DCI Ryan, who is of sufficient rank.”
Morrison steepled her fingers together and raised her eyes to meet MacKenzie’s indignant glare.
“To your knowledge, was your commanding officer informed of the sting?”
“DCI Ryan was my commanding officer.”
Morrison sighed.
“Denise, we can make this process as easy or as hard as you like. You know that I was referring to Detective Chief Superintendent Gregson.”
MacKenzie took a breath and acknowledged that Morrison was right. Losing her temper would only make things worse.
“Given the gravity of Donovan’s crimes, the very real time pressure before he killed again and our strong suspicion that Donovan was gleaning information from DCS Gregson on the basis of his former relationship with Northumbria CID, it was best to keep the operation under wraps.”
Morrison’s gaze did not waver.
“You are referring to Patrick Donovan’s association with the department as an occupational psychiatrist?”
“Yes, ma’am. He was the department’s preferred clinician for a number of years.”
“Did you agree with the determination that DCS Gregson should not be informed?”
“Yes, I did,” MacKenzie replied, without hesitation.
Morrison tapped the tips of her forefingers together, while the other two inspectors continued their silent observation.
“Why? You said something about ‘gleaning information.’ What did you mean by that?”
MacKenzie treaded carefully, now.
“Gregson and Donovan were friends. I believe it would have been understandable if certain facts—”
“DCS Gregson is aware of the meaning of ‘confidentiality,’ surely?” Morrison interrupted, in the same gentle voice.
MacKenzie licked dry lips.
“I simply meant that it would not have been beyond the realms of possibility for Donovan to have used his inside knowledge, perhaps from private clinical discussions as well as friendly chats, against us.”
“Do you believe DCS Gregson was aware of Donovan’s…extracurricular behaviour?”
There was a tiny pause, hardly noticeable, but Morrison caught it.
“Of course not, ma’am. I’m sure that DCS Gregson was as surprised as we all were.”
“I see.”
There was a tense silence and MacKenzie crossed and then re-crossed her legs before instructing herself not to fidget. She glanced up at the clock, which told her that she had been inside the room for less than ten minutes, but the air was stuffy and the collar of her blouse was strangling her.
“Moving on to the details of the operation itself, it has been alleged that you were placed in a highly dangerous scenario by DCI Ryan, which might have been avoidable. Do you agree with this assertion?”
MacKenzie thought back to her role in capturing Patrick Donovan. Yes, it had been frightening, it had been risky, but there had been no other way.
“No, ma’am, I disagree that the situation was avoidable. Donovan was escalating his activities and had evaded capture for over ten years. We are still in the process of uncovering his many victims, based upon the detailed notes we uncovered at his home. It is highly unlikely that we would ever have found this evidence or secured a partial confession from him, without taking positive action. He was planning to kill another woman that night and, without our interception, he might have been successful.”
“I understand what you are saying, Denise. Although you feel that the operation was necessary to bring him in, did you feel that it was executed in a manner which adequately safeguarded your own life and the lives of others involved in the operation?”
MacKenzie’s lips firmed.
“I wore a wire and my partner, DC Lowerson, was in a car outside the property at all times. DCI Ryan and DS Phillips, accompanied by a team of armed support staff, moved into position quickly afterwards and surrounded Donovan’s home. I knew that these plans were in place. Likewise, we knew his preferred method of immobilising his victims: Donovan used a potent sedative which enabled him to move his victims to his kill site—”
“Which was where?”
“We don’t know the answer to that question yet,” MacKenzie answered, honestly.
“Alright, carry on please.”
“He used a sedative, the effects of which could be reversed or at least reduced by its antidote, a drug called Flumazenil. We were prepared for this eventuality and I was administered a safe dose before entering Donovan’s home.”
“Who administered the drug?”
“Doctor Jeffrey Pinter.”
“He’s a pathologist,” Morrison said, sharply.
“Yes, and he’s also a trained medical doctor, trusted by the department. I consented.”
Morrison’s fingers began to tap again.
“What else?”
“Aside from these precautions, I have extensive training in self-defence and had prepared myself for physical combat, if necessary.”
“This is all very neat, Denise.”
MacKenzie smiled slightly.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m glad that you agree.”
* * *
“Full name and rank,” Morrison repeated, in a carefully measured voice.
DS Phillips fiddled with the knot of his tie, which was a sedate number in tasteful blue. No patterns, no silly design; just blue, the same colour as the sky. He was a man who understood propriety and that there was a place for all things; now was not the moment to unveil piano keys or pineapples in woven silk. That, he would save for later.
“Detective Sergeant Frank Henry Phillips.”
“Thank you for joining us,” Morrison began, smiling in a sisterly fashion. Phillips was a popular character throughout CID and beyond. They were of a similar age and had joined CID around the same time, she going on to carve out a political career within the constabulary, he to focus on legwork, which was what he loved best. She remembered him as a younger man, full of the blarney and with plenty of charm to go around. It seemed that not much had changed.
“Frank, I know this will be difficult for you, but I want to say outright that I
need you to set aside your personal feelings towards Ryan. Try to answer my questions honestly and objectively.”
Phillips grunted, but said nothing. Morrison set her teeth and carried on regardless.
“How would you describe your working relationship with DCI Ryan?”
Phillips pulled an expressive face.
“Professional, friendly…it’s smooth,” he lifted a blunt-fingered hand and held it flat. “He’s a safe pair of hands.”
“I know that you may feel a fatherly affection—”
“Aye,” he overrode her, with ease. “I do. But I’m not a blithering fool who follows any old pied piper. Like I said, he’s a safe pair of hands.”
“Would you say he is sometimes cold—ruthless, perhaps?”
Phillips huffed out an irritated sigh. The woman had a way of twisting things.
“We can all be cold when we have to, but he’s not an unfeeling bastard.”
Daphne stopped her careful note and flashed him a look of matronly disapproval.
“Excuse my language, Daff,” he muttered.
“Moving on, then,” Morrison continued, firmly. “To 24th June. Were you confident that DCI Ryan’s planning, execution and oversight of the sting operation to entrap Patrick Donovan included adequate safeguards?”
“Yes.”
Phillips did not elaborate. Sometimes simplicity was best.
“I understand that you are involved in a romantic relationship with DI MacKenzie?”
“What of it?”
“You did not, at any time, feel worried for her safety?”
“’Course I did! What do you take me for? Anyone would have felt nervous, but the fact of the matter is that Denise knew what she was doing and so did Ryan. That’s what being a team means, ma’am. You trust one another to keep their end up.”
Morrison chose to ignore the insubordinate undertone and continued in the same, monotonous tone which she had found to be highly effective in wearing people down.
“Individual members of the team may very well have kept their end up, as you put it,” she said. “But there must always be an adequate safety net to cover unexpected variables. What if, for example, Donovan had chosen to kill Denise on the spot?”
“The operation was a calculated risk,” Phillips argued. “All of them are.”
Morrison and Phillips waged a silent battle over the breadth of the table, eyes locked, neither willing to budge an inch from their position. Eventually, it was she who cracked.
“Patrick Donovan was later found dead in his cell, in the early hours after his arrest. Correct?”
Phillips crossed his arms over his chest and prepared himself for the next part. There was a lot he could say about the circumstances surrounding Donovan’s ‘suicide,’ about the whitewashing of the entire situation by Gregson and his cronies, but he didn’t have any hard evidence.
“Aye, that’s right. He hanged himself.”
“I understand that you accompanied him into Holding?”
“No,” Phillips shook his head. “Ryan and me, we made the arrest, then handed him over to a couple of DCs and a medic.” Phillips rattled off their names, for the record. “Medics said he was fit and able and the last I saw of him, he was getting into a squad car shouting blue bloody murder at all of us.”
“He didn’t seem depressed?”
Phillips barked out a laugh.
“He was full of himself. Shouting about how we’d regret it, how nobody held him back, never had and never would. Started mumbling in tongues, or something.”
“Tongues?”
“Aye,” Phillips frowned, thinking back. “Couldn’t make it out, thought he was muttering obscenities, or something.”
“Alright. So, you last saw him getting into a squad car. Then?”
“I checked that he’d been booked in, which he had. Duty sergeant took care of all that and offered him the usual amenities. He refused a legal rep, which was fine by us. It was getting late, so we made the call to leave it until the next morning to begin questioning.”
“We?”
Phillips scowled at her.
“Alright, you want to be pedantic, Ryan made the call. I agreed with him. We were all worn out, needing a night’s sleep, Donovan included. He was tucked up in his cell, all the formalities were seen to and so we went home to clear our heads.”
“Yet, sometime during the night, Donovan managed to construct a makeshift noose and hang himself.”
“That’s a fact,” Phillips agreed.
“Who was responsible for checking him, through the night?”
“There was a PC who had sentry duty. Claims he fell asleep on his watch.”
“You don’t believe him?” Morrison’s eyes bored into him.
“If he says he fell asleep, that must be what happened,” Phillips dodged the question with aplomb.
“To your mind, then, Donovan had been through the proper motions, presented no apparent suicide risk and the fact that he wound up dead was a case of bad luck and the oversight of a humble PC?”
“Seems to be the long and short of it.”
Morrison set aside her black biro and leaned back in her chair, suddenly weary. There were undercurrents here, she thought, which made her neck tingle.
“One final thing concerns Detective Constable Jack Lowerson. He was attacked in the course of his duties last Christmas on Holy Island. He sustained severe head injuries and was in a coma for six months.”
Phillips nodded soberly. They had all worried over Lowerson. He and Ryan had visited his unresponsive body as it had lain in a hospital bed. They had chatted to him about football match fixtures, gossip and cases they had worked on, for nearly six months before he had eventually awoken. The lad still couldn’t remember who had done it to him but they had their suspicions.
“Only days after DC Lowerson emerged from his coma, he was taken from hospital by DCI Ryan before being granted medical release, to assist in a pivotal role in the aforementioned sting operation. Correct?”
Phillips didn’t bother overmuch with formality at the best of times, and now all pretence flew gaily out of the window.
“Now, just wait a minute,” he began, in a deceptively calm voice, which was infinitely more threatening than his usual lyrical twang. Morrison’s brows lowered, ominously.
“I don’t like your tone, Frank.”
“I couldn’t give a stuff, love. I won’t have you suggesting that Ryan barged into the hospital without a second thought about Lowerson’s wellbeing. Firstly,” he tapped one stubby finger, as he began to list his arguments. “The doctors told us Jack was physically fit and well. The only thing they were scratching their heads over was his amnesia. Well, he wasn’t remembering anything sitting in bed all day, was he? Secondly, he was bored stiff and was desperate to get back on the horse, he told us himself. Thirdly,” Phillips leaned forward, butting out his chin to emphasise the point, “Ryan came with me every Saturday—every Saturday, mind—to see the lad. Just sat beside him, talking to him and all that. So don’t give me any twaddle about him not caring.”
Morrison spent a moment or two considering whether it was worth writing him up for insubordination but concluded that she must be growing soft in her old age, because looking at Phillips’ jowly face, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“Alright, Frank. You’ve made your point.”
* * *
Ryan studied the mud brown carpet tiles on the floor of the hallway outside, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped together. Anna was seated beside him, one shapely leg crossed over the other, clad in expensive hosiery. If he wasn’t so distracted, he would have had a greater appreciation of the picture she made, dressed to kill in a tailored black dress and heels, long hair swept away from the fine bones of her face. Slender fingers flicked the pages of the Northumbria Constabulary’s monthly newsletter.
Her fingers stilled and his head jerked upwards as the door to the conference room swung open and Phillips trundled out, looking har
assed. Ryan searched his face for clues, for any indication of what had happened beyond the scuffed doorway marked ‘MEETING IN PROGRESS.’
Phillips took a furtive glance in either direction before snaking his way over to where they had congregated beside a bank of visitors’ chairs.
“Morning,” he nodded to both of them, noting the signs of strain. “Won’t be long now. It’s almost over.”
Ryan wouldn’t ask what had been said, it wasn’t his way. But then, Phillips had just told him all he needed to know and the warmth of his greeting spoke volumes.
“Thanks, Frank,” Ryan said, meaningfully.
“Don’t mention it,” came the easy rejoinder.
* * *
Arthur Gregson could think of many things he would rather be doing at the present moment than driving across town through lunchtime traffic to meet his wife. After a disappointing morning where he had seen his diplomatic efforts of the past six weeks go up in a billowing cloud of smoke, he was not disposed to find humour in the fact that Cathy Gregson had locked herself out of their extensive, five-bedroomed home.
Damn woman was going senile, he grumbled, pressing hard on the accelerator to edge past a learner driver.
There had been three text messages waiting for him, each more hysterical than the last. Why on earth she couldn’t have gone shopping, or had a coffee with one of her dull friends, he didn’t know. All he knew was that it wasn’t worth the argument, not at his time of life, so here he was crawling along the streets of Newcastle towards the upmarket cul-de-sac where they lived.
He fiddled with the radio, swearing loudly when the local dance station blared out some kind of shouty, electronic crap. He gave up and switched it off altogether, turning his mind to the problem of Maxwell Ryan.
The man just wouldn’t go away. Like a bad smell, Ryan plagued his life. Sleepless nights and indigestion abounded at the thought of him finding out about half of the things Arthur had taken great pains to conceal. Ryan loved nothing more than hunting out vice and violence, shining a light on the shaded underbelly of their little northern town and the countryside around it. How admirable, Gregson thought, with a prick of conscience. Had he ever aspired to the same?