by LJ Ross
Soon, he reached the historic village of Elsdon, with its quaint stone houses and pele tower, and felt a sense of calm begin to descend, as it did each time he returned to the home he and Anna had made together. The house they’d built was at the top of a hill, accessed by a narrow, single-track lane flanked by tall hedgerows on either side, and boasted panoramic views of the valley. He considered himself a very lucky man, but he’d have lived in a shack in the woods, so long as they were together.
It was a warm evening, and he found his wife sitting outside, on the terrace at the back of the house. A half-full glass of white wine rested on a small table beside her, and she’d kicked off her shoes to wriggle her toes in the grass. In her hands, she held a sketchbook and a charcoal pencil, which she was using to make sweeping marks on the page.
Anna paused when she heard him step out onto the patio.
“Hello,” she said, setting aside the sketchbook to walk over and greet him. “I wasn’t expecting you for another couple of hours. I know how it is, when you land a new case.”
She curved her arms around his neck and drew him in for a lingering kiss.
“I missed you,” he said.
The Criminal Investigation Department had enjoyed a rare period of calm, following a major drugs bust at the start of the summer. That had resulted in the disbanding of a dangerous gang, the toppling of its leader and any number of his network of dealers, messengers, enforcers and runners—but it had also opened up a Pandora’s Box of professional standards misdemeanours and corruption for the constabulary to deal with. Nobody liked a clean house more than Ryan, but uncovering all the backhanders and kickbacks had wrought a human cost in terms of increased workload and bureaucracy he and his team had worked tirelessly to clear.
Now that the process was almost complete, and the Crown Prosecution Service had taken over the necessary files, he and his team were free to return to their usual order of business; namely, murder, rape and all the other serious crimes one person was capable of inflicting upon another.
“What’s the case about?” Anna asked, and offered him the other half of her wine.
Ryan took a sip and gave her an executive summary of his day, without going into any specifics, while they took a seat on the wicker sofa overlooking the garden.
“As soon as I’ve spoken to the pathologist and the ballistics team, tomorrow morning, I’ll be in a position to determine whether the death was suspicious,” he said. “Until then, it’s looking like a tragic accident.”
“It’s sadder still that nobody knows who she was,” Anna murmured. “Hasn’t anybody been reported missing?”
Ryan shook his head.
“Not anybody matching her description, and nobody in the past week.”
He paused, frowning off into the distance, and she ran a gentle hand over his back.
“Hey, are you okay?”
He pulled her close again, drawing strength from her warmth, and rubbed his cheek against her soft hair.
“I keep asking myself why she was there in the first place, and why she was running,” he muttered. “Then, there’s her clothing, and the fact nobody’s reported her missing.”
“You’re worried,” Anna realised.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m very worried. I’ve got a terrible feeling we’re only just scratching the surface, and the real investigation is about to begin.”
* * *
Over the hills in Wooler, Phillips had already been enlisted for the next investigation.
The Mysterious Case of the Missing Horseshoe was, according to its poster, a ‘theatrical triumph’, written by and starring a travelling amateur dramatic society who had decided to make their base at the holiday camp for the season. Samantha had been eager to see the play since their first day of arrival and, until today, Phillips and MacKenzie had been able to distract her.
However, they had known all along they were merely putting off the inevitable.
And so, Frank and Denise found themselves seated in the front row of the small auditorium, armed to the teeth with overpriced programmes, tubs of ice-cream from The Dairy Dude and the kind of stoical, wartime mentality Churchill would have been proud of.
“How much longer will this go on?” MacKenzie hissed, and earned herself a playful jab in the ribs from Samantha.
“Shh!” she said. “I’m trying to work out if it was the butler.”
“It’s always the doctor,” Phillips said, sagely.
“Shh!” somebody else said, in the row behind.
“Alreet, man, wind yer neck in,” Phillips muttered, and folded his arms across his paunch.
He glanced across at the enraptured face of the little girl seated beside him and smiled. If he was stuck there until the bitter end, he could think of worse people to share his time in captivity with than two lovely redheads.
He reached across and took MacKenzie’s hand and held it in his own, until the very end.
CHAPTER 13
DC Melanie Yates’ new flat was located on the first floor of a small, purpose-built apartment block in an area of Newcastle known as ‘Fenham’. It was a nice part of town adjacent to the Town Moor; a large, green common where they’d recently been called in to investigate murder within a circus community, and where MacKenzie and Phillips had first met their new foster daughter, Samantha. Murder notwithstanding, the Moor was an airy green space where city-dwellers such as herself could go for a pleasant walk on their days off.
She and Jack had decided to share a takeaway pizza and a bottle of wine in her cosy new surroundings. Jack preferred it to his own apartment, which now held so many negative memories it no longer felt like home, and she was happy to share her space with him since they were enjoying one another’s company so much.
It had been a long road, she thought, but they’d made it there in the end.
Once they’d toed off their shoes and settled themselves on her new L-shaped sofa with a slice of double cheese pizza in hand, talk turned to the events of the day.
They’d spent much of their time interviewing witnesses and speaking with the imam, whose sadness at the loss of the Central Mosque had been matched only by his forgiveness of those who had set the fire which, the Fire Investigator had told them, had almost certainly been started by the use of a small incendiary device posted through the letterbox adjacent to the main doors. It would take time for its components to be analysed, and even more time to investigate when, where and in what quantities those components had been bought, and by whom—assuming, of course, that the components were distinguishable from everyday household items and could be traced at all.
“With the first attack on the synagogue last week, they used a bit of petrol and some fire starters,” Jack said. “It was a botched job, because the flames didn’t take hold. It caused some superficial damage, but probably not to the extent they were hoping for.”
“They upgraded their technique, this time, you mean?”
“If it’s the same people,” Jack shrugged, and took another bite of pizza. “The symbol spray-painted on the walls of the synagogue and the mosque is the same, but it might have been different members of the same organisation who perpetrated each crime—could account for the difference in MO.”
Melanie nodded.
“Is it a neo-Nazi symbol, do you think?”
“I think it’s an ancient Nordic symbol,” Jack replied. “I haven’t had much of a chance to research it, properly. I was hoping we could ask Anna about it, since she’s a bit of an expert on religious symbology in these parts.”
As an academic historian specialising in ancient pagan religious practices, Ryan’s wife and their mutual friend was a fount of knowledge.
“I’ll give her a call tomorrow and see if she has a few minutes to spare.”
There was a short pause, while they each chewed contentedly.
“Religion has a lot to answer for,” Jack remarked. “So does politics, for that matter. I’ve never known the country to be so divided. It’s the pe
rfect breeding ground for extremism.”
“I think you mean, people have a lot to answer for,” she said, with a wry smile. “People can find anything to justify their cause, if they look hard enough. There have always been divides, but it comes down to human nature. Some people look for conflict and others try to avoid it.”
The pizza now finished, Jack reached over to slide an arm around her shoulders.
“I hope nothing will divide us, ever again,” he said.
Melanie cupped his face with a tender hand.
“So long as you don’t keep leaving my toilet seat up, nothing ever will,” she said, sweetly.
* * *
Night-time was the hardest.
The soldier knew they’d come for him again, once the sun went down and the crowds went home. At the moment, the streets were swollen with Friday night revellers who chattered by in swanky clothes and painted faces as they made their way towards the bars and clubs. He watched them go by and thought he must have seen every kind of shoe, and every kind of person.
Now and then, somebody stopped to throw a penny into his cracked cup and, once or twice, somebody left a cold sandwich and a cup of lukewarm tea—usually, while he was asleep, so they didn’t have to speak to him. He appreciated the sentiment, all the same.
He was getting pretty good at being able to predict which category a person would fall into.
There were the ‘do-gooders’ and the ‘missionaries’; the ‘ramblers’, the ‘druggies’ and the ‘fighters’ but, perhaps most of all, he hated the ‘philosophers’.
And he could see one coming over right now.
“Alreet, mate?”
This one had a girl on his arm, the soldier noticed. That meant he was making an effort to appear socially conscious, to impress her.
He grunted.
“How’d you end up on the streets, then? Was it the drugs?”
He eyed the man, with his perma-tanned face and dyed black hair, his whitened teeth and his over-tight jeans, and felt a surge of hatred.
“I’ve never taken that shit,” he muttered, and instantly regretted opening his mouth. Any conversation would fuel a philosopher, who loved nothing more than the sound of his own wind-bagging voice.
“Howay, man, I’m not judgin’ yer,” he said, glancing back towards the girl, who swayed slightly on four-inch heels. “I just wanna get to know you.”
He said nothing.
“What happened to yer face, like? Get caught in a fire?”
His scarred skin prickled, as he remembered the flames. The scent of his own body burning…
“Have you got any spare change?” the soldier asked, cutting to the chase. Hunger trumped pride, and the soup kitchen wasn’t open that night.
The philosopher made an elaborate show of patting his pockets and then pulled an apologetic face.
“Sorry, feller, I’ve got nowt on me. Take care of yourself, yeah?”
They left quickly, and didn’t look back.
* * *
Private Jess Stephenson couldn’t wait any longer. She couldn’t just lie there, wondering and worrying.
She’d go mad.
As one of only three women in her platoon, Jess had the female bunkroom all to herself. Now that the other two had taken themselves off to the local pub, in Otterburn, it was deserted.
The sky was darkening quickly, and, in another hour, it would be pitch black, just as it was the previous night when they’d first set out on their ill-fated training exercise.
Her hands trembled again, and she clasped them around her waist to try to stop it.
When night fell, she’d try to slip out.
She had to know for sure.
She thought again of the dead woman’s hands, and her breath lodged in her chest as she imagined them reaching out to touch her, to tangle in her hair…
Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, and she let them come.
* * *
Once darkness had fallen, the van made its way over the desolate countryside, following the road from Wooler to Town Yetholm, on the other side of the border. Occasionally, it passed through a village or hamlet, but the streets were empty of cars or people at that hour; most having tucked themselves away safely in their beds.
Or so they believed.
There was a sliver of moon that night, and occasional shafts of silvery light broke through the clouds to illuminate the solitary vehicle as it crawled its way up and over the hills to Scotland. When the clouds shifted again, darkness fell like a shroud, and was relieved only by the twin beams of the van’s headlights as it motored further away from home.
The purr of the van’s engine broke into the silent evening as it climbed steep inclines and was suspended for a moment, before racing down the other side. Its driver tried not to become too excited by the evening’s hunt; success depended upon careful planning and secrecy, above all else.
The van kept to a reasonable speed—not too fast, not too slow—and didn’t pass a soul until it reached the border.
Suddenly, it appeared.
The garish lights of a small, twenty-four-hour service station called to him, beckoning him closer.
But he didn’t drive to the main entrance.
Oh, no.
He drove to the back, beyond the truck stops and the rubbish bins, to a cold and dusty patch of soil where he knew she would be waiting. A woman who had already sacrificed herself, and all she was, for money.
Now, he’d teach her the true value of life.
CHAPTER 14
Saturday 17th August 2019
It was almost three a.m. when Private Becky Grainger and Private Sarah Abbott stumbled back to the dorm. Leave might have been cancelled that weekend, but that didn’t stop them enjoying the finest pale ales the pubs of Otterburn had to offer, nor from enjoying a quick fumble in the dark with a couple of the local boys.
Becky was about to turn on the light, when her friend stopped her.
“You’ll wake Jessh,” she slurred, and then giggled at herself.
They liked their roommate and fellow squaddie well enough, but she was far too serious—Jess Stephenson spent all her free time visiting her boyfriend back in Cardiff or reading her bloody current affairs books. She never came down for a pint at the pub or put on a bit of slap and a pair of heels. They might be soldiers, but they were entitled to have a laugh.
“She’s not here,” Sarah said, in a stage whisper. “She’s not in her bed.”
“Maybe she’s in the loo,” Becky yawned, and kicked off her shoes before flopping down onto her bunk.
Sarah wandered in that direction, since she needed it herself, and was about to tell her friend that
Jess wasn’t in there, either, when she found Becky fast asleep and snoring on top of her covers. She glanced over at Jessica’s empty bunk and wondered if she should tell someone, and then thought better of it.
If Jess wanted to cheat on her boyfriend, she wouldn’t be the one to rat her out. She’d just have to give her all the gory details in the morning, that was all.
With a huge, jaw-cracking yawn, Sarah tumbled onto her own bed and was asleep within minutes.
* * *
When Becky and Sarah awakened the following morning, Jess was still nowhere to be seen.
“Never thought she had it in her,” Becky admitted, with a bawdy chuckle. “She seems all prim and proper.”
Sarah made a murmuring sound of agreement as she wiped away the mascara smeared beneath her eyes, and then frowned.
“It really doesn’t seem like her,” she said, eventually. “I dunno, Becks. I wonder if she’s okay.”
“She’s probably bangin’ Lieutenant Love-Nuts, as we speak,” her friend replied, and sent them both into peals of laughter.
“I’m serious,” Sarah said again. “She seemed in a right funny mood, after what happened yesterday.”
“Well she would be, wouldn’t she? Maybe she needed some light relief from it all.”
“She goes on about t
hat boyfriend of hers like he’s God’s gift,” Sarah said, with just a touch of envy. “I can’t see her throwin’ it all to the wind, can you?”
“Maybe she’s thinkin’ he won’t find out.”
“You’re terrible, you are!”
* * *
It was shortly after nine o’clock in the morning when Jessica Stephenson’s roommates decided to report her missing. After all reasonable attempts were made to contact her by phone, and a quick search of the main buildings turned up no sign of her, a search party was assembled, and the police were informed.
Ryan took the call as he and Phillips stood beneath a thin plastic canopy outside the service entrance to the mortuary, at the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Newcastle.
“Did you hear that?” Ryan asked his sergeant. “Private Jess Stephenson is missing.”
Phillips was concerned.
“She was in a bad way, yesterday,” he said. “Poor lass, I hope she hasn’t gone and done something stupid. Even if she was the one to call out the target, she can’t be blamed for acting on orders—that’s a soldier’s job.”
Ryan agreed.
“They’ve got the whole barracks combing the area for her as we speak,” he said. “I told them we’d get up there, as soon as we’ve spoken with the pathologist.”
“Aye, let’s have a word with Pinter and be on our way,” Phillips said. “Hopefully, he’ll have some answers for us.”
Doctor Jeffrey Pinter was the Chief Pathologist attached to Northumbria CID, and one of the best in the country. He was a tall, mildly eccentric man, whose bony features and pale skin seemed uniquely suited to his work environment. Despite the sombre nature of his profession, he was known to be a cheerful sort of man, with a penchant for seventies soul classics, which he often played on the Bluetooth speakers he’d fitted in each corner of the wide, open-plan space at his own expense.
There was no music today, however—when Ryan and Phillips made their way along a stiflingly hot corridor and keyed themselves through the large security doors leading into the mortuary, they found their colleague in a grave sort of mood.
