by LJ Ross
Ryan passed through the village and followed the road north until he came to the turning for the camp. There had been no other traffic on the road but, as he neared the military entrance, he found himself caught behind a slow-moving Volvo that he recognised on sight.
With a smile playing around the corners of his mouth, he punched a speed dial number on his hands-free system and waited for the driver up ahead to answer.
“Mornin’!”
Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips’ unmistakably gruff voice boomed out of the car speakers, and Ryan hastily adjusted the volume control to avoid permanent damage to his ears.
“Are you nearly there?” he asked, wickedly.
“Aye, I’m on my way. Nearly at the entrance to the camp.”
“Did you get stuck behind a tractor, or something?”
“For your information, I’m driving at the national speed limit,” Phillips said, with dignity.
Ryan glanced at the speedometer on his own vehicle, which read less than thirty miles per hour, in a sixty zone.
He leaned on his horn, and gave a casual toot.
“Some joker behind is in a bleedin’ hurry—” Phillips complained, and then glanced in his rear-view mirror.
Ryan waved at him.
“Oh, har bloody har,” Phillips said, good-naturedly. “I s’pose you think you’re funny?”
Ryan grinned.
“Shake a leg, Frank. This joker wants to get there sometime before nightfall.”
* * *
They left any humour at the large security gates, which were manned by a pair of serious-looking armed guards. Once they’d been cleared for entry, the two detectives made their way along another winding road across undulating moorland until they reached Otterburn Training Camp. It was an extensive site, consisting of a collection of one and two-storey utilitarian buildings which had clearly been designed with functionality in mind, rather than style.
They proceeded directly to the guardroom, where they were met by a small welcoming party.
“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Ryan, and this is my sergeant, Frank Phillips. We’re from Northumbria CID,” he said, drawing out his warrant card for inspection.
A clean-cut, uniformed man of around fifty stepped forward and extended his hand, which Ryan took.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” he said, in a soft Scottish burr that was common in the borders. “I’m 2nd Lieutenant Pat Dalgliesh, and this is Corporal Amanda Huxley. I was the Range Conducting Officer for last night’s live-fire tactical exercise and Corporal Huxley was one of our safety supervisors.”
Ryan nodded politely.
“Thank you for meeting us,” he said. “What steps have been taken, so far?”
Dalgliesh indicated that they should walk and talk, and began to lead them from the guardroom towards a battered-looking army jeep parked in the forecourt nearby.
“At around oh-five-twenty hours, a section from the Royal Welsh came across what they believed to be a thermal target, and opened fire,” he said.
“The point of the exercise was to locate and neutralise two moving thermal targets, simulated at a running speed,” Huxley put in. “Without any natural light source, the section relied on their night vision equipment which picks up thermal energy. They found the first target as planned, and then proceeded to look for the second. The locale was very dark and otherwise deserted. At that hour, I don’t think anybody could have expected to find a civilian on the ranges. It’s a terrible tragedy.”
Ryan made no comment, but thought privately that it seemed the army had already begun to close ranks to protect its own.
“Both myself and Corporal Huxley attended the scene immediately and called a stop to the exercise when we became aware of the false target,” Dalgliesh said, after he’d settled himself behind the wheel. “We called in the medical officer, who was with us, and then radioed back to camp, who called the emergency services immediately. We moved the casualty via stretcher around half a mile further east, to be nearer the access road, and I believe the paramedics arrived shortly before six.”
Neither Ryan nor Phillips queried the time it had taken the ambulance service to arrive on-scene. The Northumberland National Park was a vast area of land, much of which was largely inaccessible other than on foot or with an all-terrain vehicle. He also happened to know that the nearest air ambulance helicopter was based in Hull, and wouldn’t have arrived any sooner—even if it had been authorised for night service in the region.
Dalgliesh sighed, and started up the engine.
“Our soldiers are trained to act quickly, and according to instructions. As Corporal Huxley says, it’s extremely regrettable, but that’s why the controlled access area is clearly marked with red ‘danger’ flags and signage to the public not to enter.”
“Where is the victim now?” Ryan asked, and the other two exchanged an uncomfortable glance at his descriptor.
“The scene of the incident is approximately twelve miles north of here, near Witch Crags, which is roughly in the middle of the controlled access zone,” Dalgliesh said, and steered the car along one of a network of smaller roads giving access to the more remote parts of the training ranges. “Having been pronounced dead at the scene, the casualty was transported by ambulance to the larger mortuary in Newcastle.”
Ryan nodded, and made a note to contact the police pathologist.
“What about the trainees?” Phillips asked.
“When we stopped the exercise, they were instructed to remove their packs and to set down their rifles,” Huxley replied, looking over her shoulder from the front passenger seat. “It’s protocol whenever there’s an incident like this, to mark the position of firers on the range.”
“Makes sense,” Phillips said. “We’ll need to confiscate the gear and the weapons, for ballistics.”
She nodded.
“We’ve got an investigator on the way from Defence AIB,” she said, referring to the Accident Investigation Branch responsible for conducting independent inquiries into service-related fatalities and other major incidents. “They should be here within the hour. They’ll be able to unload and hand over the weapons for testing.”
The Defence Accident Investigation Branch fell under the remit of the Defence Safety Authority, which in turn fell under the authority of the Ministry of Defence. Its investigators were supposed to defer to the primacy of the regional police Major Crimes Unit, but in Ryan and Phillips’ limited experience of army-civilian fatalities, this wasn’t always the case.
“Has the forensics team arrived?”
Dalgliesh shook his head and made a sharp right turn along another barren road, where the wind blew in across the fields and buffeted the sides of the car as it made its lonely way over the moorland.
“We’ve given directions for the CSIs to use the army access roads, and I’ve stationed soldiers at checkpoints to guide them in from the main road at Harbottle when they arrive,” he explained. “In the meantime, we transported the section back to base as they were beginning to display signs of shock. Their clothing has been confiscated and held in plastic bags, and they’ve been given a warm meal alongside some debriefing.”
Quick work, Ryan thought, and ample opportunity for members of the training section to confer, as well as for commanding officers to ‘debrief’ along party lines, if they wished to.
Perhaps he was growing cynical, in his old age.
Time would tell.
CHAPTER 3
An hour before dawn, Imam Aayan Abdullah had left the modest terraced house he owned in an area of Newcastle upon Tyne known as ‘Arthur’s Hill’ and made his way towards the Central Mosque. It lay to the west of the city centre, overlooking rows of residential houses and shops running all the way down to the banks of the River Tyne, in a vibrant, multi-cultural area where people of all skins and faiths flocked to enjoy the best sugary dodol that side of the Indian sub-continent.
The sky was still a deep, navy blue speckled with stars as he made h
is way through the quiet streets, but he knew that, before dawn, the streets would bustle as men—and women—of his faith flocked to the mosque to say their Fajr Prayer, the first of five daily prayers in the Muslim faith. The Imam was proud of the community he served; of the way it pulled together in times of hardship to offer free food and clothing to the needy, and of its outreach programme that aimed to break down barriers and show people that the true followers of Islam practised peace and submission, not hatred.
He allowed himself to hope that, in a few more years, he’d be able to walk down the street without seeing fear and mistrust in the eyes of his neighbours. His mind was pleasantly occupied with these optimistic thoughts, when he heard what sounded like an enormous firework exploding somewhere nearby.
With a sense of foreboding, he hurried along the main road to where a small crowd of people had gathered.
And then, he saw what they saw.
The mosque they’d worked and saved so hard to build was burning, orange flames crawling over its carved wooden doors like serpents. A large black symbol depicting three interlocking triangles had been spray-painted on its white walls, alongside the message, ‘MUSLIMS GO HOME’.
In the distance, Abdullah heard the sound of sirens approaching, and knew that one of his brothers or sisters must have called for help. Around him, the community stood solemnly and looked to him for guidance, so he set aside his personal sadness and drew on his strength to counsel forgiveness and love.
Behind the burning building, the dawn began to rise, and his heart was heavy as he prepared to tell those who shared his faith to go back to their homes, and pray there instead.
But, before he could speak, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Come and use our hall,” the priest offered, and nodded in the direction of a small, Christian community hall tucked behind the main road. “It might be a squeeze to get everyone in, but you’re welcome.”
The Imam held the man’s hand in both of his own.
“Jazak Allahu Khayran,” he murmured. “Thank you, my friend.”
* * *
Detective Constable Jack Lowerson was otherwise very pleasantly occupied when the call came from the Control Room to attend the scene at Newcastle Central Mosque and, for the first time in his career, he found himself torn between a desire to serve and an even greater desire to stay exactly where he was, possibly for the rest of his life.
“Who was that?” a sleepy voice asked, and he turned to smile into the eyes of his newly-promoted colleague and—he dared to say—girlfriend, Detective Constable Melanie Yates.
“Control,” he replied, while his eyes roamed over her flushed skin and spiky cap of blonde hair. “There’s been a hate attack on the Central Mosque. Ryan’s already attending an incident up in Otterburn with Phillips, so this one’s ours.”
Melanie’s eyes clouded with sadness, and she sat up straighter in bed.
“What kind of attack?” she asked.
“Arson,” he replied. “The fire’s still raging now.”
“That’s dreadful,” she said, softly. “Was anybody hurt?”
“Not that they know of,” Lowerson murmured, and curved an arm around her shoulder when she laid her head against his chest. “That makes two attacks on non-Christian places of worship, in as many weeks.”
She nodded, and the top of her hair brushed the underside of his chin.
“Arson in both cases, too. D’you think they’re connected?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” he said, and threw back the covers so the cool morning air hit them both in a rush.
“Time to go to work,” he declared.
But, before he padded towards the bathroom, she tugged him back to her and bestowed a slow, thorough kiss.
“To be continued,” she murmured.
It took his brain less than a second to reject that option, and her eyes widened when he plucked her off the bed and up into his arms.
“On second thought, it’ll be much quicker if we shower together, don’t you think?”
“Very sensible,” she agreed, and broke into a wide smile.
CHAPTER 4
The sky was a bright, bold blue by the time the Jeep reached a small mass of water known as ‘Linshiels Lake’, on the eastern edge of the Controlled Area and not far from the village of Harbottle. A number of other army vehicles were parked nearby, as well as a plain, unmarked van they knew belonged to Tom Faulkner, the senior CSI attached to Northumbria CID.
“We have to go on foot from here, but it’s not far to walk,” Dalgliesh said, and slammed out of the vehicle. “All of this area falls within the controlled zone, but the lake is protected from fire since there’s a dam attached to it. The training plan for last night’s exercise took the section through the middle—between the lake and Witch Crags, a couple of miles further west. That’s the direction we go from here.”
At the thought of having to walk for at least a mile, Phillips looked down at his comfortably worn-in hiking boots and then made a surreptitious inspection of Ryan’s feet, half expecting to find them clad in a pair of fancy suede shoes. Instead, he was surprised to see a pair of scuffed, top-of-the-range boots in their place.
Noticing the direction of his gaze, Ryan’s lips twitched.
“The last time we were called out to the middle of nowhere, I seem to recall I almost fell arse-first over Hadrian’s Wall,” he explained. “I learned my lesson.”
“Glad to know some of my good sense is rubbing off,” Phillips said. “We’ll move on to your southern mispronunciation of the word ‘scone’, next.”
Ryan snorted, and looked out across the wide, open space.
There was both beauty and isolation in that part of the country, which had allowed rare species of birds and mammals to flourish without man’s interference—and the hills and crags, burns and lakes provided endless opportunities for quiet contemplation for those who sought it. However, it was also a detective’s nightmare; an enormous mass of gullies and caves, of abandoned buildings and woodland where dark deeds could and probably did happen.
“It’s a logistical nightmare,” Ryan murmured, as they waited for Dalgliesh and Huxley to finish having a word with one of the sentry officers standing guard over the vehicles parked at the side of the road.
Phillips nodded, and screwed up his face against the sun as he looked out across miles of untamed wilderness.
“Aye, and I can’t help wondering what somebody was doing all the way out here, at that hour of the morning,” he said. “Anybody planning to come out here would know which areas to avoid, and we’ve seen how hard it is to wind up in this neck of the woods purely by accident.”
Ryan agreed.
“It’s too far from any campsite or tourist destination to be accidental,” he said. “Therefore, we have to assume the visit to the Controlled Area was planned, or for some other reason, as yet unknown.”
“Suspicious, you mean,” Phillips put in, with his usual forthrightness.
Ryan smiled, and nodded.
“You know what struck me, Frank? From the outset, both officers have been very keen to tell us how accidental and tragic the whole thing is. That may still be true, but they also told us the section was given orders to neutralise a moving thermal target, simulated to run. You know what that means?”
Phillips nodded grimly.
“It means the lass was running, when she was hit.”
“Exactly,” Ryan murmured. “And we need to find out what she was running from, or to.”
There was a short, meaningful pause, and then Phillips heaved a long sigh.
“Well, there go my plans for a peaceful few days at the holiday camp,” he said.
Ryan gave him a bolstering slap on the back, and they began to follow the two army officers, who set a brisk pace across the moorland.
“Chin up, Frank. You’ll be back with Sam and Denise toasting marshmallows before you know it.”
* * *
It may not have been toasted
marshmallows, but Phillips would have shed a manly tear if he’d known that, at the very moment his boot connected with a large pile of sheep dung, Denise and their foster daughter were tucking into a couple of bacon stotties, fresh out of the oven from a mobile van that passed through Wooler every morning.
“I think I like the ones from The Pie Van best,” Samantha declared, between bites of bacon smeared in ketchup. “I’m particular about my bacon sandwiches.”
“You’re getting as bad as Frank,” MacKenzie chuckled, as they made their way towards the swimming pool. “It’s a shame he’s still on duty, but at least we can spend a bit of time together.”
Samantha felt a warm glow spread through her belly. Never, in all her life, had anybody told her they were happy to be spending time with her, until now.
“Are you looking forward to going back to school?” MacKenzie asked.
There hadn’t been much in the way of a regular routine for Sam, and the process of starting school and making new friends had been a challenge, to begin with. But, soon enough, she’d made a nice group of friends and they’d been relegated to little more than glorified taxi drivers to facilitate the ten-year-old’s newfound social life during the long summer holidays.
“Yeah, it’ll be nice to go back, but I’m sick of talking about boys.”
MacKenzie almost choked on her bacon sandwich.
“Right,” she said, dumbly. “There’s been a lot of talk about boys, has there?”
Samantha nodded.
“There’s a disco on the first Friday back at school, and everybody thinks Jamie Webb is going to ask me to dance with him, but I said Jamie Webb is too young for me—”
“Aren’t you the same age?” MacKenzie enquired, mildly.
“Well, yes, but he’s sooo immature. I mean, he still collects Pokémon cards,” Samantha said, and pulled an expressive face. “Anyway, I definitely won’t be dancing with him. Unless he swaps his Pikachu card with me,” she added, as an afterthought.
“But, I thought you said—"
“I’m keeping my options open,” the girl said, wisely.
