by LJ Ross
“Ryan!”
He stood up and enveloped him in a hard hug, which took Ryan by surprise. Public displays of affection often did.
“Alex,” he said easily. “Good to see you.”
Alex Walker stepped back and surveyed the Chief Inspector with a pair of arresting green eyes which held just a hint of sadness. As the coastguard on Holy Island, he had met Ryan under extreme circumstances. He had been a suspect for murder and he had lost the man he had loved to a brutal killer who turned out to be his own father.
It didn’t get much worse than that.
Ryan’s voice remained light but his gut was beginning to roll. That very morning, they had made plans to visit Steven Walker at Rampton Hospital and by lunchtime, Walker’s son was paying an unsolicited visit to CID. He smelled a rat.
He turned to the group of people hovering beside his desk, ogling the coastguard.
“Did crime take a day off? I must have missed that memo,” his voice dripped with sarcasm and he watched them scatter back to their own desks with mumbled apologies. He turned back to Alex with an indulgent smile.
“Looks like you’ve still got it,” he said.
Walker grinned widely and affected a modest expression, which he didn’t quite manage to pull off.
“What brings you to the mainland?” Ryan cut to the chase. They could socialise later.
Alex looked away for a second, gathering himself together and when he met Ryan’s level gaze, his laughing green eyes were serious once again.
“I had a phone call about an hour ago,” he said in a blank tone. “It was from the forensic psychiatrist at Rampton. She was calling to tell me that my father took a fatal overdose just after breakfast. They found him dead on the floor of his room.”
Ryan’s face did not betray any emotion whatsoever but he processed the words and searched the other man’s face.
“I’m sorry,” he offered.
Alex barked out an angry laugh.
“I’m not,” he said vehemently, but in truth he was in turmoil. He had spent the last eight months hating his father, coming to terms with the life-changing knowledge that everything he thought he had known about Steven Walker had been a lie. He had killed, repeatedly and without mercy. Alex had seen his mother’s devastation at the unbelievable news about a man she had loved deeply, had shared a bed with and borne a child to. There were no words, only a gradual shift towards accepting the truth of what Steven Walker had done.
Now, he was dead. Hundreds of miles away inside a maximum security psychiatric hospital in Nottinghamshire, his father had chosen to end his life. Part of him felt relieved that the world was now rid of him, but the other part, the small boy who stubbornly refused to forget a childhood spent playing football on the beach, mourned.
Inexplicably, he mourned.
Alex scrubbed his hands over his face and felt tired, all of a sudden. He sat back into the chair and Ryan settled himself on the edge of the shiny beech desk to listen.
“I hated him for what he did,” Alex said clearly. “He was a monster. But he was still my father. I don’t know how to feel about this. About any of it.”
Ryan put a hand on the man’s shoulder, all he could think of to show support.
“You didn’t ask to be a part of it,” he said. “And you need to remember that you’re different, Alex. I don’t believe in all this ‘sins of the father’ crap.”
Walker smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“You don’t get to choose,” he said softly.
* * *
They kept rolling with the punches throughout the afternoon, beginning with an update from Faulkner.
“We’ve had another breakthrough,” he told MacKenzie, his voice wobbling down the line. What had begun as a single suspicious death was beginning to snowball and with each new discovery demanding forensic attention, Faulkner’s pool of resources grew smaller.
MacKenzie felt a knot rise in her own chest as she waited for him to elaborate.
“We’ve finished the preliminary sweep of Bowers’ house on the island,” he said. “And…God, Mac, we’ve found more blood stains. At least two different types, in large quantities on the floor of his basement. We swept the house for any other signs of blood and there was a trace on the big sword hanging over his mantelpiece, although it looked clean to the naked eye. If I were a betting man, I would say it was used to kill at least one person.”
MacKenzie switched the phone to her other ear and scribbled down a note which she held up to Lowerson, instructing him to “FIND RYAN.” He hustled out of the incident room and down the corridor without needing to be asked twice.
“What about prints on the sword?” she asked.
“Only one set of prints, which we’ve already confirmed as belonging to Bowers.”
She looked up as Ryan walked into the room, a concerned expression marring his handsome face. She asked a couple more questions of Faulkner, then ended the call and pressed her fingers over her eyelids to give herself a moment’s respite.
“What’s happened?”
She opened her eyes again.
“They’ve found blood at Bowers’ house. Lots of blood,” she added. “Two types, neither of which belong to him. They’ve matched the samples to traces found on the ornamental sword above his fireplace.”
Ryan’s eyes darkened.
“He used the sword to kill?”
MacKenzie swiped a hand over her neck, to ease the psychosomatic ache which had begun to throb at its base.
“We don’t know for sure…” she stopped and licked her lips. “Yeah, it looks a lot like that.”
“Have you got a match?”
MacKenzie shook her head and looked over at Lowerson, who was standing looking as if his eyes would fall out of his head.
“Jack, I’m going to ask you to handle that search. Faulkner has enough on his plate. In fact, we’re all starting to drown under the weight of this.”
Ryan shuffled through his mental files and felt a soft click as something fell quietly into place.
“Lowerson, save yourself time and start by looking out the details of Mike and Jennifer Ingles,” he ordered. “They’re the only two people known to be missing from the island, the only two unaccounted for recently.”
He recalled the vicar of Holy Island and his wife, who had been responsible for supplying hallucinogenic seeds to the Circle. They had both vanished, never to be seen again. Although an all-ports warning had been in place for months, there had been no sightings, no trace of them at all.
“We assumed they went abroad—” MacKenzie interjected, but Ryan shook his head.
“I think I’m starting to understand what’s happening here,” he said. “Somebody is taking us on a magical mystery tour, helping us to tie up loose ends because apparently we’re too ignorant to handle it ourselves.”
His jaw ticked and he thrust his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.
“I don’t like being drip-fed,” MacKenzie’s fingers tapped against the desk, betraying her annoyance.
“Somebody is ticking persons of interest off the list. People who have been involved, somehow, in the Circle. For instance, guess who’s sitting at my desk, right now?”
MacKenzie frowned and shook her head.
“Alex Walker,” Ryan said shortly. “His father died this morning. Apparent overdose.”
“Christ Almighty!”
“What about Daniel Mathieson?” Lowerson threw in, worriedly, turning to Ryan. “The pistol—ballistics came back to us this morning with two possibilities. One of them was bought at auction and the sale was registered in the name of Daniel Mathieson. Could be another arrow, pointing us towards him?”
Ryan’s head whipped around and MacKenzie drew out her mobile phone, scanning the numbers quickly for her contact at H.M.P. Frankland in Durham.
“Get over there, right now!”
Lowerson left the room at a run.
* * *
They were too late.
<
br /> The ambulance was parked outside the service entrance when Lowerson and MacKenzie pulled up in front of the prison at speed. If he hadn’t been concentrating on the road, Lowerson might have enjoyed the novelty of the flashing blue light shouting out its cacophonous message that other road users should get out of his way.
They watched in silent dismay as a black body bag was hefted from a stretcher and into the waiting ambulance, its occupant having been pronounced dead at the scene. MacKenzie met the flustered prison warden at the door.
“What happened here?”
“You got here quick,” he said, dazedly. “We only rang it in a few minutes ago.”
“Never mind that,” MacKenzie snapped. “What happened?”
“That was one of our inmates, Daniel Mathieson. Seems he was attacked.”
“What? He was in solitary—”
The warden scratched the side of his chin.
“Look, love,” he began in the kind of patronising tone which made MacKenzie’s fingers itch. “He was in and out of the medical centre. We do our best, but if some of the blokes in here want to rip a piece off him, they’re going to find an opportunity to do it. Mathieson was lucky he came away with the injuries he had, rather than a fatal stab wound before now.”
“How did they gain access? I want to know who was in charge of his section.”
“Now, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” the warden said, and had the nerve to pat MacKenzie’s arm. “We’ll look into all of that, no need for you to worry—”
MacKenzie regarded him with narrowed eyes.
“A man died under your care,” she breathed. “He was attacked despite being sectioned away from the other prisoners, and to make matters worse, you moved the body.”
She nodded towards the ambulance.
“I’m not a bloody doctor,” the warden said, defensively. “How should I know whether to move him? They might have been able to save him.”
Lowerson stepped in when it was on the tip of MacKenzie’s tongue to turn the air blue.
“This is under our remit, now. I want you to set aside an interview space and we will be speaking to each of the prison officers on duty. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to keep them apart until we’ve spoken to each of them in turn.”
The warden rubbed the heel of his hand over his own chest, which was starting to contract in sympathy for the dead man.
“Alright.”
“I presume you already know who is responsible for the attack?” MacKenzie asked, considerably calmer than a moment ago.
The warden shrugged.
“Got a few names on the list but they’re all accounted for,” he said, vaguely.
MacKenzie looked at him for a long moment and watched him shuffle his feet under the scrutiny.
Then, she leaned forward, so that only he could hear her.
“They can’t protect you,” she whispered and caught the recognition flash in his eyes.
The warden rubbed a hand over his face and wondered if he should tell them. One look into the hard eyes of DI MacKenzie told him that she was a terrier. It might be best to get it off his chest now and have done with it.
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Perhaps,” MacKenzie said portentously. “On the other hand, perhaps not. Get the interview room ready, I’ll be starting with you.”
The warden nodded and thought wearily that it was going to be a long day.
* * *
Ryan had known it would not be possible to hold off the media bloodhounds for long. MacKenzie had kept Bowers’ name out of the papers, although it was enough that the local news speculated on the man found dead in suspicious circumstances at a rural church on the same night as the annual pilgrimage. The attack on Gregson and his wife’s disappearance was intriguing to say the least, and Cathy Gregson’s picture was splashed over local television news and the early evening editions of the Evening Chronicle and Northern Echo. The moment that word reached the regional news desks that both of the Holy Island killers had died within hours of each other, things went nuclear.
Sharp-eyed journalists hungry for a scoop swarmed the car park of CID Headquarters, scurrying over the tarmac like ants. Chief Constable Morrison watched them gravely from the window of her office on the second floor.
“What progress has been made?”
Behind her right shoulder, Ryan stood with his feet hip-width apart, as if poised for action.
“Forensic evidence from the crime scene at Heavenfield has elicited several unexpected lines of enquiry, ma’am,” he answered. “The circumstances leading to Bowers’ death remain unclear but MacKenzie is pursuing all the evidence available to her.”
Morrison watched the reporters set up their cameras, jostling amongst themselves for the best view of the entrance to the building where she was due to address them in twenty minutes’ time.
“Unexpected lines of enquiry?”
Ryan rubbed his lips together, considering how much to say. Morrison seemed solid but he had thought the same of Arthur Gregson. Until he knew for certain, it was a case of trusting nobody but himself and his team.
“There were blood stains on the altar at the church which match the DNA of several missing women. They have been identified as possible victims of Patrick Donovan but we won’t be able to say for certain until their bodies are found.”
If they are found, he added silently.
“You feel there’s a connection between Bowers’ murder and the deaths of these women?” Morrison was a quick study.
“Possibly, ma’am. Until DI MacKenzie’s team get to the bottom of Bowers’ death, it’s anybody’s guess.”
Morrison turned away from the window and surveyed her chief inspector, who swiftly donned an impressive poker face that was entirely devoid of expression.
“And Gregson?”
Ryan shifted his weight but not his appearance. It was important that he maintained a neutral outlook.
“DCS Gregson’s condition has stabilised. The forensic team are in the process of sweeping his home, as we speak. We have not been able to locate Mrs Gregson and have executed the usual procedure for high risk missing persons.”
“Your opinion on her disappearance?”
Morrison regarded him with a shrewd, birdlike expression and Ryan was reminded briefly of his mother, though the two women were unalike in every other respect. He found himself feeling just a little guilty for deliberately omitting to tell her the extent of his suspicions concerning Arthur Gregson, but reminded himself that his reasons for doing so were good.
“Neighbours report having seen a white van outside the property during the afternoon and there appeared to be some jewellery and other items missing from Gregson’s home. Current thinking suggests a botched burglary of some kind.”
Morrison was not persuaded.
“You’re telling me that there is no connection between Gregson and any of these other crimes?”
Ryan’s eyelashes swept low, shielding his eyes so that his face took on a guarded expression.
“I wouldn’t care to speculate, ma’am.”
Morrison laughed shortly.
“The man had you on trumped up charges of misconduct and is gunning for you to be charged with Bowers’ murder, yet you won’t say a word against him?”
Ryan remained silent and, after a moment, Morrison moved to take a seat behind her desk. She spread her hands over the material of her slacks, while she pondered how best to draw out the enigmatic man in front of her.
Finally, she surveyed him again.
“Ryan, I admire your circumspection,” she would not say loyalty.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“You’ll keep me informed of any facts which may come to light and relieve you of the present obstruction in your throat?”
Ryan’s eyes flashed appreciatively.
“Yes, ma’am.”
While Morrison dished out sound bites for the press, Ryan spent the better part of
an hour chain-calling his list of prison contacts. If there was somebody intent upon administering their own kind of rough justice to known or former members of the Circle, it was imperative that those convicted as accessories and currently serving their time in prisons around the country should be protected. He needed them alive, for the information they may yet be able to give him.
The large plastic clock on the wall showed four o’clock as he made the last call.
CHAPTER 20
Blissfully unaware of the gaggle of reporters charging the gates of CID Headquarters, Anna drove north along the coastal road from Newcastle. To the east, the North Sea spread out a brilliant steel-blue. Far off in the distance, ships chugged slowly over the water and dark clouds began to form in the sky above, signalling the onset of summer rain.
Anna zoomed along winding roads, expecting that at any moment her Mini would be forced into the hedgerows by an SUV hurtling towards her from the opposite direction or a trundling tractor with a death wish. Then, unexpectedly, it appeared before her. Like a mirage, Bamburgh Castle materialised on the horizon, its pink-hued stone glowing in the hazy afternoon sun. It was the stuff of legend, of kings and folklore, she thought mistily. As a child, she had looked out across the water from Holy Island and dreamed of living there one day. Those childish dreams had faded with the passing years but Anna’s love of Northumbrian history had not. It called to her, she realised, this thirst for knowledge.
The village of Bamburgh was quiet, with only a few elderly residents out walking their dogs, heading towards the dunes which beckoned to the expanse of golden sand beyond. Children living out the last few weeks of their summer holidays charged across the castle green and sprawled over the benches bearing engraved memorials. Anna pulled into the car park resting at the foot of the towering whinstone crag upon which the castle had been built. Thousands of years earlier, volcanic activity had thrust the dolerite upwards to form the rocky plateau and, centuries later, men had seen its defensive possibilities. Improved and upgraded over the years, now a magnificent stone castle rested atop the volcanic rock, seamlessly blending with earth and sky. One hundred and fifty feet below, the sea crashed against the impermeable cliff-face, an unstoppable force meeting an immoveable object.