by LJ Ross
Risible, if it wasn’t so nauseating.
“Mrs Sisodia and her husband came back to the house at six-fifteen on the dot but found it in darkness. They were worried, so they tried around the back and stumbled across DCS Gregson, who was lying face down on the patio in what appeared to be a critical condition. They rang for an ambulance immediately and the call was referred through to us.”
Ryan nodded.
“What time did you arrive?”
Yates gestured to her partner, who continued to man the door as if it were Buckingham Palace, standing rigidly to attention.
“PC Wickham and me, we got here at six-thirty, maybe six-thirty-five.”
Ryan glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes ago.
“We made our way around to the back of the property as the paramedics had already arrived. I directed Mr and Mrs Sisodia to remain inside their house for the present, until a statement could be taken from them.”
“Good,” Ryan approved.
Yates’ heart rate accelerated under the praise. She was only human.
“Some of the other neighbours were congregating on the driveway, so we moved them on.”
Ryan’s eyebrow flicked upwards, since he could still see several people milling around on their front lawns. Yates shrugged.
“Well, we did our best,” she qualified.
“Just a minute,” Ryan strode into the middle of the street, where he raised his voice so that he could be heard. “I’m DCI Ryan, from Northumbria CID. We will be paying each of you a visit to take down a statement but for the present you’ve all been asked to remain inside your own homes. I see that you have chosen to ignore that instruction, so I’m going to ask you once again to return to your homes or risk receiving a police caution. That goes on record,” he added, darkly.
Sure enough, they scurried back into their houses.
“Aye, and now there’ll be some busybody making a complaint about police brutality, no doubt,” Phillips said.
“Give me strength,” Ryan muttered, then turned back to PC Yates.
“Tell us what happened to Gregson.”
“Well, sir, the paramedics were worried about moving him since he had head injuries—”
“What kind of injuries?” Phillips asked, starting to pull on paper overalls.
“He was attacked, sergeant. The back of his head was covered in blood and the paramedics were concerned about clotting in his brain. His body was also in deep shock; he had been lying out there for hours.”
“Did you find a weapon, an implement of any kind?”
Yates shook her head.
“No, sir. We haven’t made a full search the property, I—we—felt it would be best to preserve the scene.”
Ryan raised his eyes from the task of zipping up his own overalls.
“No sign of Mrs Gregson?”
Yates understood him immediately.
“No sir, there’s been no sign of her, but her car is still on the driveway.”
Ryan noted the silver Audi parked a short distance away, beside Gregson’s larger saloon. At that moment, he also caught sight of Faulkner’s less impressive vehicle pulling into the quiet street and the corresponding flicker of curtains in several windows. He was taking no chances with forensics. Whatever the Powers That Be would have him believe, Ryan was convinced that whatever incident had put Gregson in hospital, whatever they would find had happened to his wife, was nothing to do with bad timing or bad luck. That being the case, he wanted his best CSI on the job.
He turned back.
“Thanks, Yates. Continue to man the entrance here, we’ll call you if we need anything.”
Ryan let his eyes linger on the other PC, who had been silent throughout the exchange, and made a mental note of his name and identification number.
“Got anything to add to that, constable?”
The man’s eyes blinked but he shook his head.
“No, sir. PC Yates has covered it all.”
Ryan wondered why the man was avoiding eye contact but he decided to shelve it for now, as Faulkner ambled towards them dragging a small wheelie-bag filled with what Ryan assumed to be forensic gadgetry.
“Where’s the fire? I’m up to my neck working on the Bowers case,” he began.
“I know, Tom. I appreciate you coming over. I’m not sure what we’re dealing with yet but Gregson was attacked and they’ve taken him to the RVI,” he referred to one of the larger hospitals in the city. “There’s been no word from his wife, so your guess is as good as mine on that score. As far as the Chief Constable is concerned, DCS Gregson deserves our best efforts, so that’s what we’ll give him.”
Faulkner looked towards the house.
“You’re thinking she might be somewhere inside?”
“Only one way to find out.”
* * *
Anna shed the dark dress she had worn earlier in the day for more comfortable attire—jeans and a faded t-shirt emblazoned with an old Guns ‘n’ Roses motif. She was ensconced in the smallest bedroom in her cottage, which had been converted into a comprehensive home office. Her computer had long since reverted to ‘stand by’ mode, owing to a period of inactivity where she had done nothing more than stare at the screen.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Mark.
What had happened? How could a man with so many friends and the esteem of his colleagues wind up dead at a church in the middle of nowhere? Why hadn’t he confided in her about his tumour—unless, he hadn’t known it existed.
Ryan had warned her to leave it to the professionals. In kind but firm tones, he had asked her not to begin her own amateur sleuthing. In his view, she was too close to the victim to remain objective, besides the fact that she was a civilian.
Try telling that to her dead friend.
Ryan, MacKenzie, all of them were hindered by the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, which came with a list of rules and regulations as long as your arm. People could be reticent to speak to the police, whereas if Anna did a little gentle prodding around the university, spoke to Mark’s family and followed a few leads of her own, perhaps she might find out something that could help.
First, she needed to understand where Mark had been found.
With renewed energy, she packed up her papers and made a grab for her coat.
* * *
Night had fallen by the time Anna reached Heavenfield Church. The roads had been empty for the past fifteen miles, the fields silent as her car motored from the city limits towards relative wilderness. She imagined her friend making this journey, alone and defenceless against the calamity that would eventually befall him. Her lip trembled, thinking of Mark’s final moments. Who had pulled the trigger? Whose face had loomed above him as he died?
She parked in the lay-by nearest the church, almost precisely where Mark’s car had rested two days before, then sat for a few minutes with her hands resting on the steering wheel. Ahead of her, the night sky was ablaze with stars. For an instant, she was transported back in time, through her imagination, to this place centuries before. Had Oswald’s army looked overhead into the mystical cosmos, as she had done? Had they prayed for victory to a God she had never believed in?
Anna shook herself and slammed out of the car, the sound echoing into the quiet night. Her torch flickered on, shining a comforting pathway ahead. She could see the church on the hill, spotlighted by the white light of the moon overhead. It was the stuff of old-fashioned horror movies. There ought to be bats flying out of the bell tower and zombies rising from the graveyard to complete the picture. She half expected to see Peter Cushing’s ghost emerge from behind a gravestone.
It was nothing more than light and shadow, she told herself. Uneasiness came from the knowledge that Mark had died here, but that was all.
Resolutely, she walked towards the church, her boots squelching into what smelled like sheep dung or a cattle pat as she traversed the gentle incline.
Lovely.
She marvelled at her own predictable nature, re
cognising the signs of heightened stress as her mind and body responded to the darkness and the unnerving outline of the church looming above her.
Approaching the entrance, she could see police tape stretched across the doorway barring entry. Despite it, she was startled to find that a dim light shone through the small diamond-shaped windows, suggesting that she was not alone. Somebody had disregarded the barrier and let themselves in.
Her torch swung back around, its light seeking the outline of her car at the foot of the hill but finding only a thick blanket of darkness as opaque as any fog she had ever known.
With a shiver, Anna tugged the door open and stepped inside.
CHAPTER 12
The church smelled of mildew and something faintly sulphuric. Two of the gas lamps were alight and fizzed away, giving off a thin yellow light which softened the unrelenting darkness. Somewhere, a rodent scuttled.
The church was empty but Anna could have sworn that the walls were alive. The room seemed to watch her and the night breeze whistled through the mullioned windows like a banshee.
Get a grip, she thought, taking a firm handle on herself.
She used her torch as a guide, taking a couple of steps further inside before she remembered the yellow forensic markers still tacked to the floor. The idea was to come and go clandestinely, not like a bull rampaging inside a china shop.
She stepped carefully to one side and traced the perimeter of the room, keeping her eyes on the thick wooden slab which served as an altar at the back of the church. She was overcome by sadness at the thought of Mark lying there, alone, his body violated. Anger followed quickly and she forced herself to take in the details. The placement of the pews, the number of windows. She took out her phone and snapped a few images for reference. Carefully, she skirted the edge of the wall and captured different angles, her heart in her throat each time she was forced to step deeper into the shadows.
All of a sudden, she knew that she was not alone.
She heard no sound; she saw no flash of a shrouded figure. She felt it, as an animal feels that it has become prey to a hunter, her skin tingling with awareness.
Anna slunk back into the shadows, extinguished the light of her torch with shaking fingers and waited.
Sure enough, another person crept into sight. She saw them crouch to the floor as if searching for something. She heard their agitated breath as they fanned the floor near the altar, growing ever closer to where Anna stood, her body plastered to the damp stone wall.
It rose again and Anna tried to note identifying features; anything which could help her to describe what she had seen, but in the gloomy light all she could make out was a person dressed in dark clothing, of average build. She would have thought male, but something about the movement of the arms, the posture, told her that she could be wrong.
The figure continued to search, its movements hurried but thorough, then it rose again and seemed to study a patch of stonework at the rear of the altar. Anna frowned, trying to make out what had captured its attention, but as far as she could tell it was nothing more than a bare wall.
The figure turned, suddenly, scenting the presence of another and a scream welled up inside her throat.
* * *
In the city, Faulkner stood beside the patio at the rear of 17 Haslemere Gardens snapping pictures with an expensive-looking camera. Lowering the zoom lens, he let his studious gaze travel over the scene, illuminated by a bright safety light which responded to movement. Every now and then, Phillips waved a hand to keep its garish light shining.
“Well?”
Faulkner continued to scan the ground, noting the direction of the blood spatter and the overturned bistro chair a few feet away from it. He retrieved a fresh stack of yellow flags and stepped forward to mark the blood where Gregson had been found spread-eagled on the tiles.
Eventually, he shook his head in the manner of one trying to solve The Times cryptic crossword.
“It’s a pity nobody took a photo of Gregson in situ when they found him. At the moment, Yates’ description tells us that the direction of his body was angled away from the house. That would suggest he was fleeing from the direction of those patio doors,” he pointed towards the French-style veranda doors that were standing wide open. “If and when Gregson wakes up, I suppose he’ll be able to give us a clearer picture.”
Ryan held off making any caustic response to that.
“The blood spatter is consistent with a hard blow to the back of the head,” Faulkner continued, directing their attention to a patch of drying blood on the floor. “There are a couple of prints leading away from the house, which suggests that our perpetrator either used his boot, or trod in some blood on his way out. There’s just one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“The chair, over there,” Faulkner replied. “It’s lying as if somebody overturned it, in a rush to get up. But, looking at the scene as a whole, it’s nowhere near the spot Gregson was found and doesn’t match the direction he was heading.”
“Somebody else might have been sitting there,” Phillips offered. “Mrs Gregson, perhaps?”
“Could be,” Faulkner’s brow cleared at the thought. “Yes, that might make sense.”
His brow furrowed again.
“I suppose if she had been sitting outside and saw her husband fleeing…but that doesn’t match what we know about her movements, does it?”
“Nope,” Ryan agreed, roundly. “Cathy Gregson was supposed to be at home today. Gregson was at work, or should have been. It would make more sense to imagine him coming back home for some reason and finding her in distress.”
“She could be the aggressor,” Phillips pointed out. “He might have been running away from her.”
“It’s possible,” Ryan said, fairly. “And some might say he had it coming.”
Faulkner and Phillips exchanged a telling glance.
“I think it’s time we took another look inside the house,” Faulkner said swiftly.
They had taken no more than a few steps inside before they smelled the bleach. The scent was overpowering, assailing their nostrils with its noxious odour.
“It’s funny,” Faulkner said softly. “Earlier today, I was talking to MacKenzie about bleach being the disinfectant of choice for a killer trying to cover up widespread blood loss.”
“Somebody’s used a vat of it in here,” Ryan observed, taking in the smart living room with its new widescreen television. “It’s coming from the kitchen,” he added, following his nose.
The kitchen was gleaming, every surface shining. The windows stood open in a pathetic attempt to clear the stench of disinfectant.
“Either Cathy Gregson believes that cleanliness is next to godliness, or somebody died in here,” Phillips concluded.
“And, before you say it,” Ryan warned, “I agree that Gregson’s injuries weren’t self-inflicted, so it’s more than likely that we’re looking for a third party. The angle made it impossible, for one thing, and for another it would take a seriously fucked up person to smash their own skull in order to provide themselves with a defence.”
“No weapon lying around, either,” Faulkner said, letting out a tired breath. His mid-brown eyes were glassy with fatigue. “I’ll snap some pictures while I’m here, but I’m going to have to hand this one over, Ryan. I can’t be in two places at once.”
Ryan made his own quick assessment and nodded briefly.
“Understood, Tom. The Bowers investigation should be your first priority. All we’ve got here is a hell of a lot of suspicions but no facts. I’ll do my job and start getting those facts. Maybe, by the time I do, some of the legwork on Bowers will have been completed.”
Faulkner nodded.
“You’ve spoken to the Chief Constable?”
“Yeah. Let’s just say, we’re on the same page. For the moment,” he tagged on. Turning, he met Phillips’ placid eyes beneath his paper cap. “Let’s start by getting chatty with those neighbours.”
Phillips
pointed a broad finger at Ryan’s chest.
“You’re not throwing me to the wolves, lad. If I’ve got to sit around drinking herbal tea and listening to neighbourhood gossip, then I’m taking you down with me.”
Ryan grinned.
“Privilege of rank,” he explained breezily, chuckling as Phillips’ brows fell into an ominous line.
* * *
MacKenzie rubbed at her eyes, which were itchy and sore after three hours spent trawling through digital files. She heard the faithful, monosyllabic tap of Lowerson’s fingers against the keyboard at his desk across the incident room. Sensing her inspection of him, he paused to look up.
“Any news, Mac?”
She had been forced to issue a strict command that he no longer call her ‘Sir, I mean…Ma’am.’ It was embarrassing for them both.
“The lab came back with the data on those blood samples. There was some cross-contamination, so they’ve been working to separate the blood types. They’ve managed to analyse four of the samples for DNA. I’ve been searching the Missing Persons DNA Database to see if I can find a match.”
“Any luck?”
MacKenzie leaned back and wondered whether luck had played a part, then set questions of philosophy to one side.
“Well, the DNA Database has only been up and running since 2010, so that limits the scope of potential matches, but actually we hit lucky on two of them. Both missing women, one aged eighteen and the other twenty-three, dark-haired. We’ve seen their faces before.”
Lowerson turned his whole body towards her.
“Donovan?”
“And the prize goes to…” MacKenzie affected a drum roll on the edge of her desk, “DC Lowerson! Bang on, Jack. The samples match two of the women listed in Donovan’s private notes. He wrote a detailed summary about how he had killed them but never told us where. Officially, they’re still listed as missing. One back in 2011, another in 2013.” She sighed. “We can inform next of kin tomorrow.”