Cragside: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 6)

by LJ Ross

  “Martin Henderson is the new estate manager. He gets a cottage as part of the job and free rein to swagger around the estate,” Ryan couldn’t resist adding. “He says he didn’t see Alice Chapman all day, except in passing sometime during the morning as they were all assembled to speak to the police and consent to a search of their lockers.”

  Ryan paused and took a bite of the cracker.

  “He further states that he was attending to his agricultural duties throughout the afternoon on the Home Farm.” He referred to the farm owned by the estate, some five miles yonder. “He went directly home, without stopping into the main house, at five o’clock or thereabouts.”

  “Nobody can substantiate his whereabouts because he lives on his own and didn’t run into any timely passers-by,” Lowerson put in. “Although the farm staff agree he was there until four-thirty.”

  Ryan crunched the last of his cracker and nodded at the picture of a smarmy-looking man in his early sixties, leering at the camera as if he were a matinee idol.

  “At this point, Yates, let me reiterate my words to you about objectivity,” Ryan said. “For example, I am presently thinking that Martin Henderson is one of the greasiest little buggers I’ve met in a good long while, but it would be wrong of me to rely on personal dislike because that leads to bias.”

  He leaned back against the wall and crossed his ankles.

  “What I’m going to do instead is ask you and Lowerson to delve into his history with a fine-toothed comb. I want to know every little misdemeanour, every time he cheated the tax man, every wife, girlfriend, husband, boyfriend or sheep he’s ever had.”

  Phillips laughed, then promptly choked on a piece of stir-fry chicken.

  “I’d like to know how Henderson can afford a brand new electric BMW, handmade shoes and a fat Omega watch, on his salary. While you’re at it, I want you to look at Victor Swann’s finances, because I’m damned if I know how he could afford to live like Midas on a valet’s salary.”

  “I smell a rat,” Phillips agreed.

  “We’ll get onto it first thing,” Lowerson said, thinking of the old man’s penchant for fine things. “Do you think they were on the fiddle?”

  “We’ll find out,” Ryan muttered, then nodded at the sixth photograph.

  “Charlotte Shapiro is the head gardener.” They looked at the attractive face of a fifty-something blonde. “She doesn’t spend much time up at the main house because the gardening staff have their own digs and an extensive nursery. She tends to park her car in the staff car park then go for a wander through the grounds towards wherever she’s working that day. She has a team of six staff who tend to the formal gardens around the house and access to contractors whenever she needs them.”

  “She looks like the outdoorsy type,” Phillips remarked, with a wink for Faulkner. The other man blushed hotly and shuffled in his seat.

  “She’s a very nice woman.”

  All conversation stopped as the team turned to Faulkner, who looked to Phillips for divine intervention.

  “Too late now, son,” Phillips held his hands up.

  “Well, um, I happened to get chatting with her yesterday morning. She was telling me a bit about the types of coniferous trees they have in the forest.”

  “Much as I hate to remind you, Tom, your woodland nymph could be a killer,” Ryan pointed out.

  “Aww, now, don’t go breaking the man’s heart before he’s had a chance to show her the stars,” Phillips grumbled. “She might not be a killer, after all.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Faulkner chuckled and Ryan resumed their conversation.

  “Charlotte Shapiro knows the grounds like the back of her hand. She says she didn’t see Alice Chapman at all yesterday, only when she found her body at seven-fifteen this morning.”

  “What was she doing, hanging around the burn, anyway?” Lowerson demanded.

  “She says there are plans afoot to cut back all the overgrown foliage beside the riverbank, which is becoming unmanageable and choking the life out of some of the other plants,” Ryan said. “She was assessing what needs to be done and stumbled on the body. You wouldn’t have been able to see her from the top of the bank or from the house because of the placement of the rocks and plants,” Ryan added.

  “Shapiro could have been heading back to the scene of a crime,” Lowerson persisted, and Phillips gave him a clap on the back.

  “Alreet, Columbo,” he laughed.

  “Well, I’m just saying, it’s possible.”

  “I’m with Lowerson on this,” Ryan said. “Victor Swann’s things were scattered all around the area where she was found, so it’s possible somebody would return to the scene in daylight to recover a particular item of importance.”

  “But what?” Yates asked.

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  * * *

  The remaining suspects on Ryan’s list were two under-gardeners who had been working in the grounds the previous day; their alibis had not yet been confirmed for the period between four and seven o’clock, when it seemed most likely Alice Chapman went missing. The team spent another twenty minutes or so discussing possible lines of enquiry and, having agreed that it was useless to theorise further without evidence to hand, they said goodnight. Once the house was quiet again, Ryan returned to the kitchen and spent another minute or two studying the faces of the people he had tacked up on the wall. The clock told him it was just shy of seven o’clock and he decided it was time to go in search of his fiancée.

  Anna was sitting at the little antique dressing table in the master bedroom, which she’d commandeered as a desk. A lamp burned brightly against one side of her face, so that the other side remained in shadow and illuminated her profile like one of those Victorian miniatures he’d seen scattered around the main house.

  Ryan watched her fiddle with the pencil she held in one hand while she turned the pages of a hefty-looking textbook with the other and felt love wash over him.

  “Hi,” he murmured, leaning against the doorframe. “Do you want me to leave you to work a bit longer?”

  Anna was so engrossed in first-century history that she hadn’t heard him enter the room.

  “Hi, yourself!” She leaned back and stretched her arms behind her back to ease out the kinks and was happy when he strolled across to plant a kiss on her upturned face.

  “Thank you for dinner, earlier,” he said. “It’s getting to be a habit but everyone appreciated it. Especially Frank.”

  Anna chuckled.

  “I’m used to the way you all work, by now,” she said. “You have ‘down’ periods, where there’s a sort of plateau of ordinary casework then, every so often, there’ll be a case that taxes you a bit harder. Something out of the ordinary and more urgent than the rest. During those times, you barely remember to eat a slice of toast in the morning so I don’t mind doing what I can to keep the cogs turning.”

  “You make me sound like a battered old machine.”

  “Well, you’re not getting any younger,” she teased him. “In fact, perhaps I should start buying some cod liver oil capsules to keep those cogs moving.”

  Ryan laughed, drawing her up for another kiss.

  “Do you know what I love about you, Doctor Taylor?”

  Anna smiled.

  “My intelligence?”

  “Apart from that.”

  “My rapier wit?”

  “I do appreciate it, but, apart from that.”

  “What then?”

  He wrapped his arms around her and drew her into the warmth of his body.

  “You keep my feet planted firmly on the ground.”

  Anna smiled and was reminded of MacKenzie’s words earlier in the day. Obviously, she was right and Ryan had been distracted by work, that was all.

  “Happy to oblige,” she said. “Oh, how did your interview go, this morning? I’m sorry, I forgot to ask.”

  He looked down into her expectant face and wondered where to begin.

  “Morrison ha
s already given the job to somebody else.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. Are you disappointed?”

  “No, I never really wanted it.”

  “But, this morning…?” Anna was thoroughly confused.

  Ryan sat down on the edge of the bed and prepared to delve into the past.

  * * *

  When it was done and Ryan had purged himself of that part of his life which he chose most often to forget, he looked down to where Anna’s hand was clasped tightly in his own. “You should have told me before,” she said softly. “Did you think I wouldn’t understand?”

  Ryan heaved a sigh.

  “I don’t know. I was ashamed; when I think back to that part of my life concerning Jennifer Lucas, I hardly recognise myself. I was afraid of her. I can say that now, although I didn’t like to admit it at the time.”

  Anna could hardly imagine him being afraid of anything or anyone. She’d seen Ryan face down the most dangerous criminals and situations, and yet he was telling her he’d once felt so powerless that the only thing he could do was escape. It was that admission that gave her most cause for concern.

  “Should I be worried?”

  Ryan looked at her and saw the makings of fear already beginning to mar the happiness they’d worked so hard to find.

  His hand tightened on hers, then he raised her hand to his lips to press a kiss against her palm.

  “I’d never let anybody harm you, Anna.”

  But as she watched the bedroom light fall on the top of his bent head, Anna thought privately that it was not herself she was worried about.

  Who was there to watch over him?

  CHAPTER 18

  Tuesday 16th August

  The following morning, Ryan awoke to find an e-mail from the police pathologist to say he’d completed his preliminary report and, by nine-thirty, Ryan was pulling his car around to the service entrance of the Royal Victoria Infirmary, where he found Phillips already waiting for him.

  “Morning!”

  “How the hell do you manage to be so cheerful this early in the day?”

  “I never kiss and tell…” Phillips winked.

  Ryan snorted eloquently and joined his sergeant beneath a cheap perforated plastic canopy outside the service entrance. It was deserted apart from a junior doctor who stood a few metres away sucking rhythmically on a cigarette, staring out at the car park with a glazed expression that spoke of long-term sleep deprivation.

  Phillips took a deep breath as they passed by.

  “Two years and counting since I last had a cig.”

  “Just say ‘no’,” Ryan advised him. “Think of cancer. Emphysema. Bad breath. Failing that, think of what MacKenzie would do if she caught you.”

  As a threat, it didn’t get better than that.

  “You’ve convinced me,” Phillips said, turning his back resolutely. “Lead me away from temptation.”

  Together, they made their way down into the depths of the hospital until they found themselves on the basement level. A wide corridor led them to a set of secure metal doors at the end and the air was stifling, thanks to a set of powerful air vents which expelled hot air while keeping the mortuary cold.

  “It’s tropical down here,” Phillips complained.

  “You’ll cool down soon enough,” Ryan said, and entered the security code to buzz them through the doors.

  Sure enough, there was an icy blast of cold air as they entered the main workspace of the mortuary. To their left, there was a line of lab coats hanging on pegs for visitor use and they selected a couple. They spent another minute signing into the log book and covering their heads in disposable hair caps.

  “I feel like a dinner lady,” Phillips muttered, fiddling with the elastic at his head.

  But there was no appetizing scent of rice pudding in the clinical space surrounding them. Rather, the air carried a noxious combination of chemicals that didn’t quite manage to disguise the insidious smell of death lingering beneath. Phillips cleared his throat loudly and wished he’d had a cigarette after all. It might have masked the pong.

  At that moment, the chief pathologist spotted them and made his way across the room. Doctor Jeffrey Pinter was a tall man in his early fifties whose gangly frame did nothing to improve the overall impression of a walking skeleton, which was an unfortunate comparator for someone in his line of work. His white lab coat covered just past his knees and they could see he wore a pair of conservative grey suit trousers beneath. There were deep shadows beneath his eyes, accentuating the overall pallor of his skin.

  “You look like you need a holiday, mate,” Phillips said, taking the man’s outstretched hand.

  “You’re telling me,” Pinter replied, transferring his hand to Ryan. “Good to see you both.”

  “Thanks for getting around to this so quickly,” Ryan put in, eyeing the banks of metal drawers lining one wall of the chilly room.

  “To tell you the truth, I’m intrigued. Two deaths in a matter of days could be a terrible coincidence but it looks fishy, doesn’t it?”

  Ryan gave him a small smile.

  For all that Pinter could be pompous and socially awkward, he couldn’t be faulted for his meticulous eye for detail and nose for the business.

  “Precisely what we’re thinking, Jeff.”

  “Well, I think I can shed some light on that,” he said, with the air of someone who knew something they didn’t.

  Which, of course, he did.

  Ryan and Phillips followed him past a row of central gurneys, one of which was presently occupied by the partially-shrouded figure of a recently deceased old man. A mortuary technician looked up as they passed and raised his scalpel in greeting.

  With a sharp double take, they realised the cadaver was Victor Swann. His body was hardly recognisable as it went through the stages of putrefaction, causing his skin to turn a marbled greenish-black as the organs of his body self-digested.

  Catching the direction of their gaze, Pinter paused.

  “We’re just getting around to him now,” he explained. “Sorry, it’s been a bit hectic in here the last few days.”

  “No problem,” Ryan said, wincing at the sight of all that rubbery skin. “Let’s focus on the girl, for now.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Pinter carried on past a large immersion tank towards another set of doors leading to the smaller examination rooms.

  “She’s in here,” Pinter said, pausing beside a door marked ‘EXAMINATION ROOM A’.

  Pinter flicked on the overhead lighting to illuminate another shrouded figure resting atop the single metal slab in the centre of the room. A variety of Medieval-style implements rested beneath a pale blue covering on a trolley nearby.

  Phillips had no time to steel his stomach before the shroud was peeled back to reveal the sad remains of Alice Chapman and he felt his insides somersault. He trained his eyes towards the ceiling, counting to twenty until the sensation passed.

  Ryan told himself to remain detached, to look upon the mass of assorted flesh and bone with an impersonal eye.

  But, God, it was hard.

  The mortuary staff had cleaned her up as best they could but, for the first time they could remember, Pinter had chosen not to reveal the girl’s face so that only her long dark hair was visible beneath the paper covering.

  Ryan raised sad grey eyes to the pathologist, who gave him an apologetic shrug.

  “I…thought it best.”

  Phillips wrestled his system back under control and found himself more than happy to take Pinter at his word.

  “What can you tell us?”

  Pinter blew out a stream of air and produced a retractable pointer from one of the deep pockets of his lab coat.

  “The overall picture isn’t pretty, as you can plainly see,” he began, as if he were delivering a lecture. “I’d say she’d been dead somewhere between twelve and fifteen hours, by the time she was discovered.”

  “Which puts her death roughly between the hours of four and seven p.m
., yesterday,” Ryan deduced.

  “I’d say so. The remains are quite consistent with the type of injuries I would expect to see from a fall of that height onto jagged rocks and decomposition is well underway, probably helped along by some interference from local scavengers.”

  Ryan nodded gravely, forcing himself to look at the body. It would be easier to read the pathologist’s report from the comfort of his armchair at home but that was no substitute in terms of impact. From now on, he would remember this image of Alice and think of it when he hunted for her killer.

  For there had been a killer.

  He was sure of it.

  As it turned out, Pinter was of the same opinion. He flipped open his pointer and drew their attention to Alice’s hands, which were encased in plastic bags that had inflated like small balloons as her body divested itself of natural gases.

  “We’ve spent a lot of time looking at her hands and beneath her nails,” he said. “It’s unfortunate that some of the flesh is missing but, from what’s still there, we were able to extract several useful samples.”

  Ryan’s eyes swept upwards.

  “And?”

  “I can tell you we found traces of leather fibres beneath her nails and very small traces of human skin cells,” Pinter said, puffing his chest out a bit. “The samples are with Faulkner’s team now. They’ll compare the DNA with the samples being taken from the people up at Cragside. I understand that’s happening this morning?”

  “Aye, MacKenzie’s overseeing it now,” Phillips put in. “They’ll get the swabs down to the lab as soon as possible.”

  “I’ve authorised an expedited service,” Ryan said. “If we have somebody operating up there, they’re not afraid to move quickly. Even with a murder detective on site,” he added.

  “I remember when the crims used to have a healthy respect for the law,” Phillips ruminated. “Those were the good old days.”

  Ryan and Pinter mumbled their agreement, then the pathologist moved onto the next point of interest.

  “If you look down here at the left ankle, you’ll see there’s quite an obvious swelling.” Pinter pointed at the decaying flesh.