by LJ Ross
They found a parking space several streets away, and when Lowerson and Yates returned they sought out the First Responding Officer.
“PC Zadir? DC Lowerson and DC Yates, from CID.”
They flashed their warrant cards and signed the logbook before slipping beneath the plastic cordon.
“What happened here?” Lowerson asked of the young police constable.
“Ah, well sir, several calls came through to the Control Room at around five-thirty this morning reporting a fire,” Zadir began. “I was dispatched along with PC Sheldon to the scene, as there was a strong suspicion of arson. The Fire Service arrived a few minutes before us and were already in the process of fighting the blaze, so we focused our efforts on keeping the crowds under control and setting up a safety cordon. We sought and received authority to set up a roadblock, and traffic is now being diverted into town, sir.”
“Good work,” Yates murmured, and the younger man nodded his thanks.
“We took preliminary statements from the imam and several other eyewitnesses, who claim they heard a loud, popping explosion before the fire broke out.”
“Has the Fire Investigator arrived, yet?” Yates asked.
Zadir turned and pointed to a woman standing a short distance away, chatting to one of the firemen.
“They need to make sure the building’s safe to enter, before she can go inside,” he explained.
“Alright. What about the witnesses—were there any reports of persons fleeing the scene, or acting suspiciously?” Lowerson asked.
But Zadir shook his head.
“None, sir. Most people were still in their homes, until the sound of the explosion.”
Lowerson nodded, and cast his gaze around the street until he spotted a man dressed in traditional loose robes, speaking to a small group of locals.
“Is that the imam?”
Zadir nodded.
“There’s something else, sir,” he said, and fished out his smartphone to bring up a series of photographs. “When we arrived, we could see a message and some kind of symbol had been graffitied onto the wall, so I took some pictures in case it was destroyed in the fire.”
He handed over the phone, and the two detectives put their heads together to scroll through the images. When they came to the first picture of three interlocking triangles, they paused and exchanged a worried glance.
It was the same symbol they’d seen a week before, spray-painted in blood red onto the side of a synagogue on the other side of the river, in Gateshead.
“It wasn’t isolated,” she murmured.
“We’ve got a terror group on our hands,” Lowerson agreed, and felt his heart sink.
He had been born in the north of England and was proud to call it home; he was proud of its landscape, its culture and the warmth of its people, whose generosity of spirit was the stuff of legend.
But now, as he thought of his kinfolk banding together to inflict fear and hatred upon those who were different from themselves…
Now, he felt ashamed.
CHAPTER 8
After interviewing each of the six firers who participated in the live-fire training exercise the previous day, Ryan and Phillips emerged back into the early afternoon sunshine and stood quietly for a moment, watching a flock of birds rise up into the sky.
“We won’t know until the ballistics report comes back whether Jess Stephenson was the one to fire the fatal shot,” Ryan said, as they watched a small section of troops line up outside their barracks on the far side of the base. “Clearly, she feels responsible, but a couple of the others felt equally culpable.”
“It could have been any one of them,” Phillips agreed. “Fact is, it was an easy mistake to make, in the circumstances—not that I expect the victim’s family to see things that way.”
“Where do we draw the line, Frank?” Ryan wondered aloud. “I know what the law says about lawful and unlawful killing but, I’m asking you—where do we draw the moral line?”
Phillips let out a long sigh and ran a hand over the stubble on his jaw. Ryan’s world was so clearly drawn in shades of black and white, it was hard for him to comprehend the many shades of grey in between. That wasn’t to say he was naïve, nor that he hadn’t experienced many of them first-hand, but he lived by a strict moral compass that seldom wavered. To him, killing was always killing, no matter the circumstances.
His conviction was the only thing that had stopped Ryan from taking a life himself, not so very long ago, and so he chose his words with care.
“The thing is, lad, being a soldier isn’t all that different from being a doctor, or a nurse…even a teacher. You’ve got the capacity to kill people in any of those professions, and I don’t just mean physically. You can kill somebody’s dream with a few harsh words, or their spirit, just as easily as you can stop their heart from beating. At least, when you’re fighting for Queen and Country, you’re fighting for something bigger than yourself. You’re fighting for a way of life.”
Further discussion was forestalled by the arrival of 2nd Lieutenant Dalgliesh, who brought with him a new visitor.
“DCI Ryan, DS Phillips, this is Major Alice Malloy, who’s a senior investigator from the Defence AIB.”
Both men received a firm, no-nonsense handshake.
“I’m sorry I was delayed,” she said. “Shall we find a meeting space, and discuss the progress that’s been made so far?”
She didn’t wait for an answer but swept past them both and made directly for the Officers’ Mess, leaving them little option but to follow.
* * *
“I’ve facilitated the turnover of weapons to your forensic team,” Major Malloy began, once they were seated in a quiet corner of the mess. It was a serviceable room, with taupe-coloured walls and a lingering scent of shepherd’s pie, which bore a strong resemblance to the staff canteen back at Police Headquarters.
“Thank you,” Ryan said, politely. “The sooner we can get things moving along with ballistics, the better.”
Malloy nodded, and linked her fingers on the tabletop.
“It can sometimes be tricky, managing the relationship between an army investigator, and a civilian police force—” she began.
“Oh, I’m sure we’ll get along just fine,” Ryan said, and gave her one of his best smiles. “Provided we remember that, legally, Northumbria CID has primacy over this investigation.”
Malloy pursed her lips, and tried another approach.
“My role is to conduct an independent investigation into the incident, so that the panel can assess whether there are any lessons to be learned from the army’s handling of the live-fire exercise. I have no desire to impede the progress of your own investigation, chief inspector, but I’m sure you can appreciate the value in finding out if there are ways to prevent a similar occurrence, in future.”
Ryan nodded.
“I can,” he said. “So, let’s negotiate terms, Major Malloy.”
He linked his own hands on the tabletop, and smiled.
“Here’s the deal: we’ll share pertinent details of our investigation with you, including access to interviews and external reports, if you’ll afford us the same courtesy. I don’t want this turning into a closed shop, with interviews being conducted outside of the main investigation. Is that agreed?”
Malloy knew a good deal when she heard it.
“Agreed,” she said, and then flipped open a notepad. “I understand you’ve already interviewed the firers from last night’s training exercise. Do you mind sharing copies of those interviews?”
“I’ll have them typed and sent to you by the end of the day,” Ryan said. “But I can tell you their stories are almost identical. Four out of six members of the section spotted a fast-moving thermal target crossing their line of sight, at around quarter past five, this morning. Of those four, Private Jess Stephenson was the one to sound the alarm, following which they engaged the ‘target’ and opened fire.”
Malloy made swift notes on her pad, and then looked
up.
“Do we know who was the first to open fire?”
“Stephenson is convinced she was the one to fire the first shot,” Phillips put in, returning to the table with three mugs of steaming tea. “A couple of the others seem to think it was them. We haven’t interviewed any of the officers involved in the tactical exercise, yet.”
Malloy nodded, and tapped her pen.
“What do we know about the deceased?”
“Almost nothing,” Ryan said. “I made a call to the pathologist’s office earlier this morning, but it was too soon for him to tell us anything useful. We’ll stop by the hospital later this evening or tomorrow morning, and see if anything’s changed. As it stands, we’ve found nothing to identify the victim; there were no personal items found on or near her body. The CSIs have been conducting a detailed search of the vicinity since early this morning, and have found no personal items discarded anywhere nearby.”
“Missing Persons?” Malloy queried.
“That was one thing the pathologist was able to tell us,” Ryan said, softly. “The victim suffered considerable trauma to her face, such that it may prove difficult to search for a match on the database using photographs alone.”
“God rest her soul,” Malloy whispered, and then cleared her throat. “What the DAIB needs to know is whether the signage was ineffective in providing a warning to civilians living or travelling in the area. They’ll want to know if there’s more that could have been done.”
Ryan and Phillips exchanged an eloquent look.
“Unless further evidence comes to light, we’re giving serious consideration to the possibility this might have been a case of planned suicide,” Ryan explained. “The army publishes a comprehensive schedule of its planned training exercises, sometimes months in advance, including locations in order to help civilians to avoid those areas in particular. It wouldn’t be impossible for somebody to use that information improperly, and it seems significant that the victim had no rucksack or other possessions with her when she died.”
Malloy heaved a gusty sigh.
“If that turns out to be the case, it’s a hell of a burden for a young soldier to carry,” she said quietly. “They’re trained to repel enemies and protect their country with force, if necessary—not to perform assisted suicides.”
Ryan thought of what Phillips had said about protecting a way of life, and wondered what it was about her way of life that had driven a woman to run into the line of fire.
He meant to find out.
CHAPTER 9
After Samantha had exhausted herself in the swimming pool, she and MacKenzie went in search of the only sustenance that could possibly replenish her depleted energy resources: chocolate ice-cream. Luckily for her, an ice-cream van by the name of The Dairy Dude stationed itself near the entrance to the holiday park every afternoon, and was a beacon for miles around thanks to its enormous logo featuring a cartoon cow wearing sunglasses.
“Here we are, m’lady,” its owner said, and presented Samantha with a towering cone of double chocolate fudge, complete with all the toppings.
“Thanks!” the girl said, and dived straight in.
“Lord help us,” MacKenzie said, and was only half-joking.
“Have a good day, ladies!”
The van’s owner leaned forward to wave them off. He was around thirty, and what Phillips would have described as ‘trendy’, with a carefully-tended, designer beard and plenty of tattoos covering his forearms. He wore a yellow t-shirt with the same sunglass-sporting cow printed on the front, and had the tanned look of a man who spent much of his time outdoors.
“See you tomorrow, I expect,” MacKenzie said, with an indulgent smile.
It was hard not to spoil Samantha, just a little. For much of her life, she’d been forgotten—if not mistreated, then neglected and starved of love and affection. She hadn’t enjoyed holidays by the sea, or splashing in a swimming pool along with the other kids. Denise and Frank wanted to show her some of those things and begin to build up a store of memories they could look back on, in years to come.
As she made her way back to the campervan with Samantha slurping cheerfully beside her, MacKenzie broached a topic they’d been meaning to discuss for some time.
Now seemed as good a time as any.
“Are you happy living with us, Sam?”
The little girl looked up at her with an ice-cream moustache and a quizzical expression on her face.
“I love living with you and Frank,” she said quietly, and then frowned. “Have you changed your mind about having me?”
MacKenzie stopped walking and sank down so they were at eye level, being of the firm belief that all important things in life should be said face-to-face.
She took the girl’s shoulders in a gentle grip, and smiled with her whole heart.
“Samantha, having you as part of our family is the greatest privilege of our lives,” she said softly. “We’ve never regretted, for one single moment, having you with us.”
The girl smiled beautifully.
“In fact, the reason I asked if you were happy living with us is because Frank and I were wondering if you might like to make it a permanent arrangement. I mean to say, we were hoping you might let us adopt you.”
MacKenzie swallowed, feeling suddenly nervous as the girl stared at her with wide green eyes, saying nothing at all.
“I know I’m not your real mum, but I promise to try my best—” she started to say, but was interrupted by the force of the little girl’s body as she pressed herself into MacKenzie, wrapping her arms around the woman who’d been more of a mother to her than she’d ever known.
“I love you,” Samantha said, her voice muffled against MacKenzie’s stomach. “I’d like to be your daughter.”
“I love you, too, munchkin,” she managed, blinking rapidly to stave off tears as they stood with their arms wrapped around one another, there in the middle of the campsite. “Even without any adoption papers, it feels as though you’re already ours.”
In that moment, MacKenzie would have fought any battle, waged any war, if only to keep the little girl safe and warm. She’d have travelled any distance and climbed any mountain, if only to keep her from harm. She didn’t even mind the fact that the ice cream cone had been smeared somewhere around her posterior.
* * *
Back at the Otterburn Camp, Ryan, Phillips and Major Malloy decided to interview the officers attached to the training exercise in order of rank, beginning at the top. They found the Commanding Officer of the 1st Royal Welsh Fusiliers in his office, which was reserved for the senior ranking officer of whichever company happened to be ‘on-base’ at the time.
Ryan knocked briefly, then entered.
“Ah, it’s my turn, I see?”
Some brief research had elicited the fact that Lieutenant Colonel Theodore Robson—“Teddy”, to his friends—had been born and bred in the Scottish borders, not far from Jedburgh. There was little discernible accent, all trace of it having been drummed out during his years at Sandhurst followed by twenty years of living mostly on army bases in the south. He was an imposing and, they supposed, a handsome man, who exercised a good measure of cheerful charisma to offset the duties and responsibilities that went alongside his rank, a fact which made him eminently popular with his troops.
“Come in and have a seat,” he invited. “Coffee? Tea? Or, perhaps, something stronger? I know I could use a dram after the morning we’ve all had.”
They settled on coffee, which he made himself using some ground beans and a cafetière.
“Bring this everywhere with me,” he said, jiggling the pot in his hand. “Can’t stand the weak stuff they serve in the urns.”
Ryan couldn’t have agreed more—he took a generous gulp of the fragrant liquid and was instantly revived.
“Lieutenant Colonel—”
“Ted, please,” he said, with an easy smile.
“Thank you,” Ryan said. “I’m not sure if you’ve met Major Malloy? S
he’ll be joining us in order to keep her own record, for the purposes of a report she’ll be compiling for the Defence Accident Investigation Branch. Is that alright with you?”
He spread his hands.
“Happy to be of service, however I can.”
“In that case, can you please start by telling us, to the best of your recollection, the events of last night—beginning with your involvement in the strategic planning of the tactical live-fire exercise?” Ryan asked.
Robson leaned back in his chair, settling in for the discussion.
“Well, naturally, the buck for all operations, including tactical exercises, stops with me,” he said. “That being said, the actual day-to-day planning of exercises such as the one last night usually falls to my second-in-command, Major Owen Jones, who you met earlier today. He’s the Senior Planning Officer with direct oversight of the Range Conducting Officer and his team, who report directly to him.”
“So, you had no part in planning the logistics of last night’s exercise?” Malloy asked him.
“No, none at all,” he said. “Owen ran the final plan by me yesterday afternoon, prior to briefing the troops, and after a full risk assessment had been made. I was pleased to approve it, as it met all the necessary safety guidelines, and so forth.”
“Is it usual for troops to conduct night-time exercises like that?” Ryan asked.
Robson nodded.
“Quite normal,” he said. “The fact is, we have to train our soldiers to be resilient in all conditions, across all manner of terrain. We do them a disservice, otherwise, when they come to complete their first tour and find themselves unprepared to deal with the demands of warfare.”
Ryan consulted his own notebook.
“I understand the training exercise began at around nine o’clock yesterday evening, is that correct?”
“I believe so.”
“Would you mind telling us what your own movements were, around that time?”
Robson’s eyebrows shot into his buzz cut.
