by LJ Ross
Tammy’s face fell.
“Oh. You’d better come in, then.”
* * *
Tammy made herself a cup of tea, belatedly offered them one—which they politely declined—and led them through to a sunroom dominated by flowery chintz sun loungers and what seemed to be acres of golfing trophies and other memorabilia.
“Sorry about the junk,” she said. “It’s all they do.”
“They?” Phillips asked.
“My parents,” she supplied, with a roll of her heavily-lined eyes.
“Right, well, thank you for your time, Ms Crichton. We understand you were friends with Layla Bruce?”
“Were, is right,” she said, bitterly. “We used to be tight, but then she got this boyfriend and he was all she could talk about. It was boring.”
“You don’t happen to remember the name of this boyfriend, do you?”
“Course I do. She wouldn’t shut up about him, would she? He was called Pete Caldwell. Said he came from over in Melrose and that he was a photographer for all the actors and pop stars and that.”
She huffed out a laugh.
“I can’t believe she fell for that. As if some bloke called Pete from Melrose was a celebrity photographer! He probably worked down at the Cash ‘n’ Carry.”
She took a slurp of tea, pleased with herself for that last jibe.
For Ryan’s part, he didn’t mind how the information came out; just so long as it did.
“So, Melrose Pete,” he said, to make her laugh. “What did he look like? Do you know how old he was?”
“Well, I’m going back to 2014, start of 2015, yeah? He was sort of tall, with dark blonde hair a bit darker than Layla’s. He had these weird, golden-brown eyes. She used to say they were mesmerising,” Tammy said, using her fingers to affect quotation marks. “I think he was about twenty-five.”
“And she was sixteen?” Phillips queried, his newly-discovered paternal instincts getting the better of him.
“Yeah,” Tammy nodded. “Lookin’ back, I s’pose it was a bit pervy.”
She shuffled in her chair.
“So, what’s all this about, anyway? Has she got herself in trouble with the law?”
“Layla was killed, yesterday morning.”
Tammy’s mouth fell open, into a perfect ‘o’ of surprise, then her eyes welled with tears.
“Dead? She’s dead?” Tears spilled over, running tracks through the make-up on her cheeks. “I—look, when I was saying all that stuff before…I didn’t mean. We were friends all through school. She was really fun to be around, and we had a laugh. How did she die? Was there an accident?”
Ryan shook his head.
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk about any of those details at the moment, but it would be very helpful to our investigation if you could tell us anything important you can remember about Layla, or her boyfriend.”
Tammy used the edge of her cuff to wipe away her tears and, by force of habit, Ryan reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket and brought out a small packet of Kleenex that he reserved for occasions such as these.
“Thanks,” she said, and blew her nose loudly.
“Um, well, I know she was having trouble at home,” Tammy began. “Maggie and Stu are really nice people, but they’re strict. No short skirts, church on Sundays, that kind of thing.”
Ryan and Phillips nodded.
“Anyway, Layla just wasn’t cut out for the quiet life. She loved to be out, meeting people, laughing, having fun. She didn’t want to be stuck at home watching Antiques Roadshow.”
Ryan could hardly blame her.
“So, the relationship was strained?”
“Yeah, you could say that. Layla was dabbling in a bit of weed, back then, and her dad hit the roof when he found out. Said she should be focusing on schoolwork, but you’ve got to understand, she wasn’t into it. She just didn’t enjoy it.”
“So, she left?”
“Yeah, apparently. She never told me, and I guess I never forgave her for that,” Tammy admitted. “All these years, when she’s been off living it up, I’ve been stuck here in St Boswells, working at the Golf Club Bar.”
Ryan smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Believe me, Tammy. If your friend could trade places with you, right now, she would. Many other people would, too.”
CHAPTER 20
The woman awoke in darkness.
It was so empty, so complete, she thought she had died and been reborn to a half-world, somewhere between heaven and hell. She no longer heard the patter of raindrops somewhere in the outside world, nor the scurry of rats and mice beneath the floorboards at her feet.
She missed them.
She missed having the sunshine on her skin, the wind in her hair.
She missed her mother.
She missed her son.
He didn’t know her, of course. They’d taken him away, just as soon as they’d found out what she did, and what she was.
Druggie.
Prostitute.
She was both, and yet she was neither.
Did either of them mean she couldn’t love the small, perfect bundle that had been the lasting gift of a man she’d never known? Did they know how hard she’d fought against the symptoms of withdrawal, to keep his little body free of her toxins?
All for nothing—they’d taken him, anyway.
And, as so many people had told her, it was for the best.
For the best, for the best, for the best, her mother said. And, soon enough, she’d said it too. She recited it, like a mantra, every time she looked at herself in the mirror. She told herself not to worry about him, wherever he was now, because he had a family that would love him, and give him all the things she never could.
For the best, for the best, for the best.
Tears ran down her skin and onto her knees, which she pulled up to her chin. She clasped her arms around her legs as half-formed memories swirled around the darkness beside her.
* * *
Lowerson and Yates made their way directly to the large, leafy road in Gosforth where one of its most prominent inhabitants had recently become the latest victim of an Odinist hate attack.
Daniel Odawu was Newcastle United’s most recent star acquisition, with pundits saying he had not one but two magic feet, when it came to scoring goals. Naturally, the price of those feet had been eye-wateringly high, but it made the fans happy and the club happy, too. It didn’t hurt that Daniel was a family man with a glossy-looking wife and two perfect children; nor did it hurt their opinion polls when people learned that he volunteered regularly at homeless shelters and food banks throughout the city, before returning to his enormous detached home in the city’s premier locale.
Though Daniel was British, as was his father and mother, he was of West African descent; a small factor that made no difference whatsoever to his army of loyal fans, but a lot of difference to the extremist minority group who had decided to target his home.
“Bloody hell,” Yates said, eloquently.
Even severely fire-damaged, the three-storey mansion Odawu called home was an impressive sight to behold.
“Remind me again, will you? Why did I choose to become a detective, rather than a footballer?” Lowerson asked.
“That would be because you can’t play football,” Melanie said, helpfully.
“Ah yes, now I remember.”
They wandered across to where the Fire Investigator was making notes on a large clipboard, having found a perch on the edge of the ornamental fountain that was the centrepiece of the driveway.
“Careful it doesn’t start up, all of a sudden,” Melanie said, eyeing the giant marble dolphins with frank suspicion.
The Fire Investigator chuckled.
“Don’t worry, I’ve turned the mains off,” she said. “Some of the pipes had burst, thanks to the heat and the pressure, so we just shut it all off once the blaze was in hand.”
“Pity about the house,” Lowerson said. “But it’s a
relief nobody was home.”
The investigator nodded.
“The letter bomb had a bigger reach, this time,” she said. “If anybody had been within twenty yards when it detonated, you’d be talking risk to life.”
“It definitely feels as though the attacks are getting worse,” Yates remarked. “Would you say the same?”
The investigator nodded.
“The first attack—at least, the first we’ve attributed to the same group of people—seemed more amateurish, whereas the last two attacks are definitely in another league. The craftsmanship of the incendiary device is quite sophisticated, for example, and I’d say they chose the area to spray-paint their symbol with a bit more care.”
“Where’d they choose, this time?” Lowerson asked, and the investigator jerked her head in the direction of the lawned gardens, around the back of the house.
“Come and take a look at this,” she said.
They followed her around the side of the mansion, through an intricate iron gate with gold-leaf detailing, and around to the back patio. There, an enormous valknut symbol had been mown into the grass.
“Well,” Yates said. “They certainly didn’t feel like they had to rush, did they?”
“Probably because they managed to deactivate the security system,” the investigator said. “It’s a complex system, with several indoor and outdoor cameras, linked remotely to the local police station as well as Odawu’s own smartphone, so he can turn the alarm off remotely and so on.”
“If they managed to deactivate it, they must have a systems expert in their group, or at their disposal,” he said. “Either that, or somebody who used to work for the security company.”
“There’s been quite a crowd, all morning,” the investigator said. “A couple of the local bobbies have been keeping them back, but you’re bound to get a few paps trying to get over the fence for a look inside the house.”
“Odawu’s solicitor emailed earlier today, to say he’d engaged a private security firm to assist the police,” Lowerson said. “Odawu himself is coming back on the first flight from St Bart’s tomorrow.”
“What about the components used to make the incendiary device?” Yates asked, and dragged her wayward mind back from thoughts about rum cocktails and sunset walks on a Caribbean beach.
“We’re still analysing them,” the investigator said, with a note of apology. “The lab’s going as fast as it can, but we’ve had a busy couple of weeks, with one thing and another.”
Yates nodded.
“In the meantime, we’ll wait to see what the CSIs come back with. Who knows—maybe, one of these morons will have left a fingerprint on the ride-on lawnmower?”
“Maybe Newcastle will win the league?” Lowerson quipped. “We can always live in hope.”
CHAPTER 21
The rain stopped suddenly, as though somebody had turned off a tap somewhere in the sky. As the sun broke through the clouds, it cast an enormous rainbow over the county, but it could not displace the spectre of murder and suicide that presently hung over the soldiers encamped at Otterburn.
After speaking to Layla’s family and closest friend, Ryan and Phillips gave instructions for urgent enquiries to be made about a Pete Caldwell, living in Melrose. While they waited for further information to come through about Layla Bruce—from her GP, her bank, her telephone provider and the forensics team—they decided to turn their minds to the other, no less important death, which had occurred that very morning.
The atmosphere around the camp was subdued, to say the least. Soldiers kept to their dorms or to themselves, while a search was made of Private Jess Stephenson’s bunk area to see if they could find any clue as to her mindset when she’d left the camp, early that morning.
Ryan and Phillips stood a safe distance away from the bunk while Faulkner’s team went over the area, their suits rustling as they shuffled around the floor and under the bed.
“I still can’t wrap my head around it,” Phillips said, in an undertone. “I can’t believe she took her own life, believing she’d killed someone in the line of duty.”
Ryan made a non-committal sound.
“We haven’t had any of the results back from the scene this morning,” he said. “I agree, it looks a lot like suicide, but we’ve seen plenty of those staged before.”
“True,” Phillips said. “But for what reason?”
“None, that we know of,” Ryan said. “But you and I both love a good mystery, don’t we?”
“I love a good curry, n’all, but it doesn’t mean I’m lookin’ for one all the time.”
They both came to attention, as did the military personnel in the room, when Lieutenant Colonel Robson appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, at ease, at ease,” he said, waving the formalities away in a manner that gave Ryan the strong impression he would be sorely put out if those formalities ever slipped.
“How’s the search coming along?” he asked.
“As expected,” Ryan said, ever the master of understatement.
Robson held out a book he’d tucked beneath his arm. It was a dog-eared copy of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy.
“I think I mentioned I was reading this, the other day? Well, I thought I’d better tell you, the book belonged to Private Stephenson, who kindly loaned me her copy before she died. I thought you’d want to have it back.”
He held out the book, which Ryan took between a gloved thumb and forefinger.
“Thank you, sir.”
“How did it go with the family?” Robson asked. “The Army will, of course, settle all funeral and other bills associated with the woman’s burial. Please let us know, when the time comes.”
“It’s good of you,” Ryan said. “But really, that’s a decision for the family to make.”
“Of course, of course,” Robson said. “I quite agree.”
They looked across to where Faulkner was beginning to peel back the layers of bedclothes on Private Stephenson’s bunk.
“We’re all very, very sorry she felt she was left with no other choice, especially given what we now know about the presence of an outside gunman.”
Ryan nodded.
“We plan to re-interview everybody over the coming days,” he said. “In the meantime, it would be helpful for you to compile a list of all soldiers—including those permanently stationed here at Otterburn—who have a licensed or unlicensed hunting rifle, .308 calibre. The sooner we have those names, the sooner we can start to eliminate them.”
A shadow passed over Robson’s face, but he nodded.
“I can’t believe any of my officers would be capable of hunting that woman, as if it were a sport,” he said softly. “But I’ll do as you ask, chief inspector.”
“Thank you. If you could also ask them to think back and make a note of any times or dates when they may have witnessed anyone carrying a hunting rifle of that kind, that would also save us some valuable time.”
“Certainly, chief inspector.”
After the CO had departed the room, Ryan looked down at the book he held in his gloved hands and idly flipped through the pages. Private Stephenson had been a doodler, it seemed. Notes had been made in the margins, and what appeared to be a list of numbers—some tens, some hundreds—he assumed to be a totting up of her personal accounts, or something similar.
“Anything interesting?” Phillips enquired.
“I don’t think so,” Ryan said.
He slid the book inside a plastic evidence bag and added it to the pile of other personal effects Private Stephenson would no longer need.
* * *
The services of a Police Dogs Unit had been requested, in an effort to retrace the path Layla Bruce had taken before she met with her untimely end near Witch Crags the previous day. The pathologist had provided a sample item of her clothing to give the dogs her scent, and Ryan watched them set off across the moors in two small jeeps, the dogs yapping happily as they went.
He turned away from the window and back to the other
people in the room, consisting of Phillips, Malloy, and Corporal Amanda Huxley, who had been the first to find the body of Private Stephenson earlier that day.
“Thanks for your time, Corporal,” Ryan began. “I know it’s been a difficult day.”
“Jess was a good soldier, and a good friend,” Huxley said, with a catch to her voice. “She’ll be greatly missed.”
He nodded, and pulled up a chair beside her.
“I’m going to ask you to talk me through what happened when you found Private Stephenson this morning, which might be hard. If you need a break, just let me know.”
Huxley nodded.
“I’m alright,” she said, with the kind of stoicism he would have expected of one of Her Majesty’s finest.
“In that case, can you tell me when you first became aware that Private Stephenson was missing?”
“That would have been shortly after nine o’clock in the morning,” Huxley said. “I share a room with Sergeant Major Davies, and she received a message from two female members of her platoon—Privates Becky Grainger and Sarah Abbott—who informed her that their roommate was missing. I happened to be there at the time, so I assisted the sergeant major in raising the alarm.”
“I see. And, when was the last time you saw Private Stephenson, personally?”
Huxley thought carefully.
“It would have been in the ladies’ bathroom, at around eight o’clock last night,” she said. “I thought I heard Jess talking to herself, while I was in the cubicle, but it stopped when I came out. She wished me ‘goodnight’ and went back to her own dormitory.”
“So, you were not altogether surprised to know that Private Stephenson was suffering a mental health crisis, of some form?”
“No, I wasn’t surprised,” she said. “I booked the counsellor for today, because it’s the first appointment they had. I tried to debrief all the trainees about what they’d seen the night before, but clearly I failed to recognise Private Stephenson was in need of more specialist care.”
“I’m sure you did all you could,” Phillips put in, and she gave him a watery smile.
“How long had you known Private Stephenson?”
“Well, I’ve been with the 1st Royal Welsh for the past five years, and Jess came to us about a year ago,” she replied.
