by LJ Ross
“I see. How did you find it, working for Professor Freeman?”
The girl bit her lip and started to shred the tissue. MacKenzie noted the action.
“She was very knowledgeable.”
“And on a personal level, how would you describe her?”
“Very professional.”
MacKenzie almost laughed but instead she sighed deeply and came to sit next to the girl on the bottom step while she waited for Phillips to return.
“You know, Charlotte, there isn’t much to be gained from being polite, not at a time like this. You’re not going to get an ‘F’ for telling me she could sometimes be a bit of an uppity madam,” she said, casually, then felt it necessary to add, “I’m not here to judge the woman but I do need to find out why she might have died.”
Charlotte shredded the remaining tissue and then clutched at the pieces. Thoughts of retribution swarmed her young mind, of what the Circle might do to her. They might think she had killed their leader and then what would they do?
She began to blubber and, silently, MacKenzie offered a second tissue.
“Honestly, I don’t know how this has happened!” The girl sniffled. “She was fit as a fiddle the last time I saw her!”
“Which was when?”
“Um,” Charlotte hiccupped and thought back. “It was around two…yes, two o’clock. I delivered some books for her to sign ahead of her event this weekend, at the Literary Society in town. She seemed happy enough, so I left her to it.”
“What did you do then?”
Charlotte gulped and began to shred the next tissue. Should she admit that she had snuck off to the dunes for a clandestine meeting with one of the young archaeology students currently excavating the eastern side of the castle grounds?
“I went for a walk on the beach,” she said instead.
MacKenzie watched guilt play over the girl’s face and shook her head, wondering if they would ever learn.
“I take it that somebody can vouch for you during this, ah, beach walk?”
“Yes, he…yes.”
“I’ll get his name later,” MacKenzie said, wryly. “But, for now, tell me this: was Professor Freeman expecting anybody, later in the afternoon? Had anything, or anybody, upset her?”
Charlotte thought hard about what she was at liberty to say.
“No, she seemed fine,” she said, truthfully. “The last time I saw her really blow a gasket was after she had a visitor yesterday.”
“Oh? Do you remember the visitor’s name?”
“Doctor Anna Taylor.”
* * *
Night was setting in by the time Gregson finally reached the village of Bamburgh. He dragged his aching body upwards and shuffled off the bus. The driver waited patiently until he had eased himself onto the pavement on the village high street and bade him a friendly farewell before moving off again to motor the return route back into the city.
Alone, Gregson cast a wary glance in either direction along the street and tugged the woollen hat further over his head. There would be people here who would recognise him, he knew that. In fact, there would be people throughout the county who knew his face, publically and privately.
Across the road, the castle was a dark outline against the sky, which was a magnificent royal blue blending into deep midnight navy. The rain had stopped and the skies were clear once again, a cloudless blanket where stars would soon begin to twinkle. His stomach was rumbling and his head was light but Gregson began the slow walk towards the castle’s southern entrance, known as ‘St. Oswald’s Gate.’ It was the oldest entrance to the castle and gave access to a natural harbour on the seaward side, as well as the castle itself. It was not accessible via an ordinary pathway—tourists used the main entrance to the north of the castle along Vale Typping instead. Only archaeological staff, castle workers and members of the Circle sometimes hiked up the steep grassy incline to use the old gateway.
Bamburgh had been used by the Circle for generations. A castle which had once been home to the first kings of England and had replaced ancient burial grounds with commemorative monuments to Oswald and his Christianity was now infiltrated by the enemy. It was one of the perks of being the High Priest—or Priestess—to occupy the castle, in one form or another. Mark Bowers had spent his year in office under the legitimate guise of excavating Bamburgh’s southern walls. Freeman had taken over that responsibility and had gone one stage further to secure a suite of permanent offices for herself inside the clock tower.
Gregson lumbered along the underside of the western walls of the castle, then stopped and looked up and over the grassy incline ahead of him until he found the small stone archway demarcating St. Oswald’s Gate. It appeared nothing more than a black hole, small and insignificant against the taller castle walls built around it. Shamefully, his legs began to weaken. The grassy verge might as well have been a mountain to climb and for a moment he considered swallowing his pride and fear by prostrating himself at Freeman’s feet, begging her forgiveness, appealing to her softer side.
Then he remembered that she didn’t have a softer side.
There was nobody around and the village was quiet, particularly at this end which led away from the pubs and the holiday cottages. The air was still and there was barely a breath of wind from the sea as Gregson stood shaded by the castle’s outer walls. Looking upward, he felt like an interloper, David to the castle’s Goliath.
He dug one tennis shoe into the grass and leaned forward to grasp two handfuls of the long straw to find purchase. He fell forward and his knees hit the hard ground but he was hardly a foot away from the pavement, with over a hundred feet yet to cover.
Gregson fisted his hands and began to climb. First thing he was going to do was to get his hands on a mobile phone, so that he could contact Ryan and strike a bargain.
* * *
It had taken a short, hard exchange of words with the consultant, but Ryan lay atop his hospital bed with his faculties returned to him, free of the drugging effect of strong painkillers. It wasn’t the first time he had suffered a knife injury. He knew the score and he could handle the pain.
And, God, it was painful.
It wasn’t all about pride, he admitted. He hated feeling out of control, not being in charge of his own senses. Between the facile drone of prime time television and the painkillers, he hadn’t been able to think clearly.
Now, the television was firmly off. They meant well, he was sure, but he didn’t need the banal background noise of a reality TV show to keep him company. The characters inside his head were enough for any man and, failing that, there was always Lowerson to talk to.
“Jack!”
Lowerson turned at his voice and was inside the room in a heartbeat, casting suspicious glances around its walls for signs of intrusion.
“Calm down,” Ryan said, conversationally. “Pull up a pew.”
Lowerson shut the door behind him and dragged the visitor’s chair over to Ryan’s bed.
“How’re you feeling, Chief?”
“Like I just got stabbed and thrown in a river, but I’ll live,” came the predictable reply. “Give me an update, detective.”
Lowerson shifted in his seat.
“Ah, now, Phillips said you weren’t to be bothered with anything—”
Ryan fixed him with a cool, ice-grey stare.
“Who is of higher rank, Jack?”
Lowerson pursed his lips. In terms of authority and respect, there wasn’t much to choose between Ryan and Phillips except a couple of letters at the front of their names.
Ryan caught the look and had to smile.
“Alright, that’s an unfair question,” he relented. “But let’s say for argument’s sake that I’m a higher ranking chief inspector whereas Phillips is only my sergeant. In those circumstances, you’d be obliged to override his orders, wouldn’t you?”
Lowerson met him stare for stare.
“Well, that wouldn’t account for the fist which might end up planted in my face
if anything happened to you on account of me ignoring the order of a mere sergeant.”
Ryan tried to look stern but failed miserably.
“Damn it, man, you’re all in this together.”
Lowerson reached across to dip into the bag of goodies Anna had brought earlier and began to unwrap a chocolate bar.
“Oh, and now you’re robbing me of my private stash of life-enhancing chocolate,” Ryan said peevishly, before dipping back into the bag himself.
“Seriously, though,” he gestured with a Twix a moment later. “I’m going mad in here.”
Lowerson was a sucker for emotional blackmail, Ryan thought. Sure enough, the younger man folded like a Hallmark birthday card.
“Well, alright,” Lowerson said. “Phillips and MacKenzie are up at Bamburgh Castle now. They wanted to poke around a bit, have a word with Professor Freeman—”
“Good thinking,” Ryan interjected. “She has to be connected, somehow. Senior position…”
“Well, ah, she’s dead.”
Ryan chewed the last of his chocolate very slowly.
“Christ Jesus,” he murmured. “Who knows?”
“Only Pinter and Faulkner.”
“And if anyone in their teams is affiliated with the Circle, that means a bunch of dangerous psychopaths might also know that they’ve lost another one of their number.”
“Freeman might not have been with the Circle,” Lowerson objected.
“And the Pope might not be Catholic,” Ryan said darkly. “She had to be. It has to be the reason she’s dead. How’d she die?”
“Phillips says it looks like some kind of poisoning. Crime scene doesn’t show any signs of an aggressor.”
“That’s interesting,” Ryan ran his tongue over dry lips. “Anna’s theory is right, by the way: whoever is leading this onslaught is picking sites of historical significance. We wondered what Bamburgh would hold and we’re too late, again.”
Ryan drummed his fingers against his thigh, obviously frustrated.
“Gregson is still under twenty-four hour surveillance at the RVI?”
“Yes, sir. The last I heard was that he’s awake and lucid. We can ask questions whenever we’re ready.”
Ryan thought of the resources and of how many hours Lowerson had been sitting outside in the corridor, guarding him like a lap dog. It was time he returned to ordinary duty.
“Jack, I want you to head over there and start asking him some pertinent questions. I want to know who cracked his skull and I want to know who killed his wife. It’s her blood all over their kitchen and I want some answers. If the Circle are involved, they could be coming back at any moment to finish the job and we can’t guard him forever. He needs to start talking.”
Lowerson was torn between competing desires.
“I can’t leave you here, unattended.”
“For pity’s sake, Jack, I’m in the middle of a crowded hospital. This is important,” he crooned. “I couldn’t trust this to just anybody.”
Lowerson flushed with pride, even though he wasn’t fool enough to miss the obvious flattery.
“I won’t be more than an hour. I’m going to call in a replacement to stand in for me, while I’m gone.”
“Forget that,” Ryan snapped. “Get going. The sooner you leave the sooner you can return.”
Lowerson had been gone less than ten minutes when Ryan received the message.
I’m at Bamburgh. Meet me at St. Oswald’s Gate if you want the answers. Come alone. G
There was a saying somewhere about being wary of Greeks bearing gifts and this was not the first time a text message had led Ryan along a sinister path. But it told him one crucial fact that could not be ignored: whether or not Gregson had sent the message himself, he was no longer under police guard at the Royal Victoria Infirmary. He may not even be alive.
Ryan spent a quiet moment considering the best course of action, then bowed to the inevitable. He raised his phone to his ear, intending to call Lowerson back from his journey across town, but the man himself burst back into the room.
“I got into my car,” he explained urgently, slightly out of breath. “And I got a call from PC Yates. She went off shift at four o’clock, to get some rest, then returned at eight-thirty when the shift changed again. She opened the door and—”
“Gregson had vanished?”
Lowerson looked deflated.
“How do you always know these things?” he asked, dumbfounded.
“I’m psychic,” Ryan replied, then eased his legs out of the hospital bed. Lowerson surged forward, as if to catch him.
“Sir? What are you doing?”
“I’ve been summoned, Jack, and you’re helping me bust out of here.”
“I can’t—”
“Lowerson, shut up and get over here. Lend me your shoulder, there’s a good lad.”
* * *
You wait half an hour for a bus and then three arrive at once.
For days, Ryan’s small task force had been waiting for key information and then, with typically bad timing, the results of various tests and diagnostics all filtered through when nobody was manning the incident room to deal with them. First, MacKenzie took a call from the pathologist to confirm that Daniel Mathieson had died from acute respiratory failure following two collapsed lungs and a cardiac arrest. Swabs had been taken from Mathieson’s body and the pathologist was hopeful that there would be DNA evidence identifying the inmates who had been responsible. For now, that was all he could tell them.
While Pinter’s bookish voice imparted the news, MacKenzie’s eyes strayed to a brown package on Jane Freeman’s desk, close to where her body had recently lain. Though Faulkner and his CSI staff were appropriately attired, she shouted out a warning that they should approach it with extreme care. Freeman appeared to have been poisoned and, until they found the source, she didn’t want to see anybody else falling foul of it.
Phillips took a similar call from his sources at the hospitals—both of them. One to say that DCS Gregson had vanished from his bed during a change of police guard and another to tell him that DCI Ryan had discharged himself against the better judgment of the medical staff and with the assistance of a young man bearing a striking resemblance to their very own DC Lowerson.
He would wring the lad’s scrawny neck, Phillips swore it.
Phillips hesitated but ultimately decided to call Anna on the off-chance that Ryan had returned to the bosom of his home and family, only to be told in worried tones that she knew nothing about him leaving hospital. If he was any judge, Anna would be hounding the life out of their illustrious chief inspector if he didn’t turn himself into her tender care. It was a small comfort to know that.
Damn, stupid thing to do, Phillips thought angrily. What had possessed him to leave the hospital, in his condition? What had possessed either of them, for that matter?
The world was going mad.
His phone rang again and he snatched it up, ready to snarl obscenities in the event that Ryan was on the other end of the line. Instead, it was a member of the tech team back at CID. They were in the process of going through Arthur Gregson’s financial statements received from his bank and they had found some unusual activity. Several large deposits recently made into his current account, of all places.
Phillips shook his head. The world had definitely gone mad if a detective chief superintendent couldn’t take a better stab at covering up the proceeds of his crimes. At least try to make it difficult for them, Phillips thought.
“Who made the deposits?” he asked.
This was a slightly trickier question, since the numbered account used to transfer the funds into Gregson’s account was based overseas. They would need some time to trace the account holder who made the payments but, on the face of it, the funds didn’t appear to have any legitimate source and that was a further black mark against Gregson.
Phillips ended the call and frowned. What use would the money be to Gregson if he couldn’t access it? His house had al
ready been sealed off and a patrol car had checked for signs that he had returned there but 17 Haslemere Gardens was in darkness, not a hair out of place. All important documents pertaining to Gregson and his wife, including their passports, had been confiscated in accordance with the search and discovery warrant. Therefore, if Gregson had left the hospital, he would have very little to sustain him in the outside world.
MacKenzie came out of Freeman’s office and stripped the plastic shoe coverings from her feet, dropped them into a plastic evidence bin, then walked down the stone stairwell to join Phillips. The lamps had been lit around the mezzanine floor beneath and spread a warm yellow glow around the room, which offset the howling wind rocking the windows on the eastern side as it rolled in from the sea, contrasting sharply with the relative calm a short while earlier.
Phillips let out a sigh.
“Gregson’s given Yates the slip, while she was on her break. Some idiot constable left his post to nip along to the gents and Gregson disappeared.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“We reckon at least three hours.”
“And this other constable—who?—didn’t notice before Yates returned? Bring him in for questioning.”
“Already done,” Phillips answered. He’d thought the same thing himself. “The hospital is going through their CCTV cameras now, to see which direction Gregson headed and if he had help. One of the doctors who was supposed to be doing the rounds on Gregson’s ward is also missing, apparently—that’s why the hospital didn’t notice that Gregson was gone.”
“He must have had help. There’s no way he could manage on a few quid and the clothes on his back.”
Phillips rolled his aching shoulders.
“Desperate men,” was all he said. “They’ve already checked his house and there’s been no sign of him. Without some clue about where he’s headed, your guess is as good as mine.”
“We’ll have to tell Ryan.”
“Fat chance of that, since he’s discharged himself from hospital and isn’t answering his phone,” Phillips growled.
MacKenzie didn’t bother to ask any more questions. It was clear from the look on Phillips’ face that he was already none too pleased about it.