by LJ Ross
“How did you find her progress, and her aptitude for the job?”
“Both excellent,” she said, without a pause. “I’d have tipped Jess Stephenson for officer candidacy in the next twelve to eighteen months.”
“Did she speak to you about her feelings or emotions following the tactical exercise, yesterday?”
Huxley lifted a shoulder.
“She only spoke when spoken to,” she explained. “For an infantry soldier, that’s an exemplary quality… but, for a human being, it can be antisocial. The other members of her section felt able to talk about the emotions they were experiencing after learning a woman had died, whereas Private Stephenson remained largely closed off.”
Huxley paused, before adding, “She did mention several times that she needed to ‘check’ something. I don’t know what that something was, but, given where she was found this morning, I presume she meant she needed to check back over the incident site yesterday. It breaks my heart to think that, if she’d only waited a few more hours, she would have had the reassurance of knowing she hadn’t shot that woman at all; none of our soldiers did.”
But Ryan had not ruled out that possibility. It may not have been one of the six firers participating in the tactical exercise, but there was no reason another soldier from the base could not have been on the ranges that night.
“The CO will be compiling a list of all persons licensed to have possession of a personal hunting rifle, in addition to their standard-issue assault rifle, but can I ask you—do you, or do you know of anyone, who owns a hunting rifle with a .306 calibre?”
Huxley moistened her lips, and her eyes darted briefly away, then back again.
“None that I know of.”
CHAPTER 22
There was a rainbow over the city of Newcastle upon Tyne, and as the soldier stood by the banks of the river looking up at it, he wondered if it was a sign. A rucksack with all his worldly possessions lay by his feet and, as the office workers began to stream out of the smart, renovated old buildings lining the Quayside, he wondered whether the time had come to bid the world a fond farewell.
He was tired, you see. So tired of waking up each day with a hungry belly and without hope for the future, relying on the charity and disdain of others. So tired of going to sleep at night, wondering if he would even wake up at all.
Once, he’d been a man to be reckoned with but, thanks to the fire, partial blindness had left him unable to use a screen for long periods of time, in an age where computers, laptops, tablets, smartphones and every other kind of phone were king. Ongoing weakness in his hands, arms and legs left him unable to do many types of manual labour without special provision, which some workplaces were unwilling to arrange—not if they could hire somebody else, who needed no such provision. It made it hard for him to type, too, and e-mails at the twenty-four-hour internet café were achieved with slow concentration; not the fast, speed-typing that many office places looked for.
Most of all, there was the crippling PTSD that could strike at any time, reducing him to a shaking, vomiting mess of a man that made others feel uncomfortable to be around.
And still, he tried.
He went along to the internet café every day and searched the database for a job he might be able to do, steeling himself to find an inbox full of rejections from his previous day’s efforts. Sometimes, he went along to the People’s Kitchen, to remind himself that there were still good people in the world. Other times, he came here, to the river.
And wondered whether it was time to call it a day.
Just then, he felt a nudge against his leg and looked down to find the dog sitting beside him, tail wagging against the pavement as it stared up at him with its dumb, trusting face.
The soldier sighed, and bent down to ruffle its ears.
“What do you call him?”
He turned in surprise to find an old woman standing beside him. She appeared to be out walking a chocolate Labrador that was at least half her size, and looked as though it might make a bolt for the nearest Greggs at any moment.
“This here’s Charlie,” she said, patting the dog’s head with a bony hand. “What did you say your dog’s called?”
He hadn’t.
The soldier looked down at the dog and smiled.
“Naseem,” he whispered. “This is my dog, Naseem.”
* * *
Ryan and Phillips found Sergeant Major Gwen Davies in the gymnasium, where she was completing a long run on the treadmill. When she spotted them in the doorway, she stopped the running cycle and turned off the music that was blasting from speakers around the room.
“Sorry I’m a bit sweaty,” she said, self-consciously. “I could run and have a shower?”
“We don’t mind if you don’t,” Ryan said, with a smile. “We only want to ask a few more questions, in light of events earlier today.”
Davies nodded, and took a long swig of water from a bottle emblazoned with the motto, ‘STRONGER, HARDER, FASTER’.
“We understand you were the first point of contact, when Privates Becky Grainger and Sarah Abbott contacted you to report their roommate missing. Is that correct?”
Davies nodded, as she wiped sweat from her brow.
“Yes, that’s absolutely correct.”
“What time was that?” Ryan asked.
“It would have been just after nine,” she said. “I happened to be in my room, which I share with Corporal Huxley, at the time.”
“What was your reaction, when you heard Private Stephenson was missing?”
Davies raised a hand, then let it fall away again.
“To be perfectly honest with you, chief inspector, I was dubious, at first. Private Grainger is prone to exaggeration, at times, and I wanted to be sure we’d checked all the obvious places before raising a hue and cry. I asked 2nd Lieutenant Dalgliesh to help myself and Corporal Huxley to search the main areas. When, after ten or fifteen minutes of searching, it became clear Private Stephenson wasn’t on-base, and hadn’t been seen since the previous evening, I felt it wise to inform the CO and convene a full-scale search party.”
“Were you surprised that Private Stephenson had gone missing?” Phillips asked.
Davies shook her head.
“No, I can’t say I was surprised. She seemed very unsettled after the events on the training exercise, and she believed herself to be wholly or partly responsible. Whilst she took part in the debriefing exercises, she didn’t appear to feel any better about the situation following their completion. I had, in fact, registered my concern over her wellbeing with the Medical Officer following the debrief.”
Ryan nodded.
“Were you close to Private Stephenson?” he asked. “Despite the difference in rank, would you have considered her a friend?”
“We’re all friends in the 1st Royal Welsh, chief inspector.”
He nodded towards her wrist, which bore a small support bandage.
“Hurt yourself?”
She looked down at it and pulled a face.
“Nothing specific, just repetitive strain, unfortunately. It’s my trigger arm and my writing arm, so it gets the most use.”
“That’s like me and my tennis elbow,” Phillips put in, and Ryan turned to him as though he’d sprouted three heads.
“What?” Phillips said. “They used to call me Frank Sampras, down at the tennis courts.”
CHAPTER 23
It was shortly after five when Ryan and Phillips completed the process of re-interviewing the officers at
Otterburn Camp, following which they responded to the urgent summons of their Chief Constable and made their way through rush-hour traffic back to Police Headquarters.
Sandra Morrison considered herself a fair woman in most things. She was prepared to accommodate a certain measure of ‘charming eccentricity’, if and when it brought results. However, there were limits to her patience and, in the light of a forthcoming Commissioner review, she needed to be sure that the men and women under her comma
nd were, in fact, under her command.
“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal detective,” she declared, when Ryan stepped into her office, with Phillips at his heels.
They stood to attention and prepared themselves for what promised to be a dressing down for the memory books.
Morrison eyed the two men in front of her in a mixture of pride and frustration. Though they couldn’t be more physically different—and nor could their ages or backgrounds—their personal attributes were remarkably similar and probably explained why they got along so well.
“Ryan, I thought we agreed that, in future, you’d spend less time scampering—what? Is something funny?”
Both men had grinned at the mention of ‘scampering’, and then rearranged their faces back into neutral.
“Nothing, ma’am.”
“Just something in my eye, ma’am.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“As I was saying, there’ll be no more charging around the countryside—well? What is it now?”
“With respect ma’am, I believe you said ‘scampering’ rather than ‘charging’.”
She threw her hands up in the air.
“What difference does that make?”
“Oh, there’s a great deal of difference between a scamper and a charge,” Phillips said, gravely.
Her lips twitched, and she fought valiantly to contain the laugh that bubbled to the surface.
“I—now, look—whether you’re scampering, charging, or bulldozing your way around this glorious county, I need you to remember something. This goes for the pair of you,” she added. “You have duties and responsibilities here, too. I need to know I can rely on you to manage the staff in your command.”
Ryan raised a single eyebrow.
“Has there been any suggestion to the contrary?”
Damn him, she thought, for calling her bluff.
“Well, for starters, can you tell me what progress has been made in the hate crimes case that Lowerson and Yates are running?”
“Certainly,” Ryan said, having already sought an update from Lowerson on his way back to the office, as well as a speedy lesson in Nordic symbology from his wife. “DC Lowerson and DC Yates sought expert consultation on the meaning of the symbol that was left at all three of the recent attacks. They learned that it’s an old Norse symbol, ma’am, associated with the Viking god, Odin. There’s a peaceful branch of the Odinist faith that celebrates all things mystical, but there’s a less peaceful, extremist branch that has cropped up in recent years. It’s commonly associated with white supremacy groups, and they advocate fighting for their beliefs—until the death. These extremists actively encourage the persecution of those whose beliefs, values or culture differ from their own.”
He paused to take a breath, and Morrison gave him a slow clap.
“Alright, you’ve proved you know all about the symbolism,” she said. “What advice did you give your younger colleagues about tracking down these extremists, before any further damage is done? I need hardly remind you, Ryan, it takes very little for tension to build between the communities.”
“Indeed, which is why I’ve advised Lowerson and Yates to focus on legwork,” Ryan said. “Knowing the symbolic pretext behind why somebody commits an act of terror doesn’t necessarily help you to find and combat the source. Therefore, I’ve asked them to seek out all available CCTV footage from the main roads and businesses surrounding all three buildings for analysis, dating back over the past two weeks; to have the incendiary devices fully tested and analysed; and to liaise with colleagues in Anti-Terrorism to access shared intelligence that could throw up some potential suspects. I’ve also asked them to interview and re-interview potential witnesses and look at previous offenders with affiliations of this kind who’ve recently been released from prison.”
Morrison was relieved.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “Have you considered that this Odinist group may also be responsible for the hunting and execution of the sex worker at Otterburn—Layla Bruce, was it?”
Ryan’s ears perked up.
“I hadn’t considered that possibility, but it would be in keeping with the ideology of the group, to hunt and persecute those they perceive to be ‘undesirable’ in the community. However, it would be a side-step from the group’s usual MO, which is to set fire to buildings whilst they are uninhabited.”
“Could be a lone wolf,” Phillips suggested. “Someone who’s part of the group and supports its ideology, but likes his own little projects, too?”
The other two nodded.
“We’ll bear it in mind, until further evidence comes to light,” Ryan said. “The main problem is trying to build up a picture of Layla Bruce’s last movements. She’d had no contact with her family or friends for quite some time and canvassing for witnesses in the local area hasn’t turned up anything useful. It might be time to run a Crimestoppers campaign, to see if any of her newer friends would be brave enough to get in touch.”
Morrison could see the sense in it.
“I’m happy to authorise that,” she said. “What else do you need?”
The two men exchanged a glance and wondered if it would be too much to ask for an all-expenses-paid week in the South Pacific.
Perhaps another time.
“I could use a small boost in resources, to pay for an express forensic analysis of the samples taken from the site around where Private Jessica Stephenson’s body was discovered earlier today.”
She paused.
“Done.”
“Th—”
“However,” she overrode his next demand. “I expect you to do something in return.”
Both men took an involuntary step backwards, and she rolled her eyes.
“The media liaison wants a press conference,” she said. “With news leaking out about there being some sort of hunter-killer running amok over the hills, together with the terror attacks in the city, we need to come out with a show of strength.”
Ryan could almost feel the sweat breaking out in the base of his spine.
“When?” he asked simply.
She checked her watch.
“About half an hour,” she said, and gave him a broad smile. “The local news channels are coming over, and we’re both going to speak to them.”
Phillips glanced at his friend’s crestfallen face, and worked hard to keep his own from cracking up.
“Don’t think you’re off the hook, Frank. I’ll think up something for you, yet.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, meekly.
CHAPTER 24
As Ryan prepared to stand in front of a roomful of journalists, the woman prowled the walls of her underground cell, trying to work out its dimensions. She counted her footsteps as she crossed from one side to the other, careful to avoid any trip hazards he might have left for her to discover, like the tiny razor blades and nails concreted into the walls.
The room was still completely dark.
She counted fifteen footsteps in one direction, and twelve in the other.
Next, she stood completely still and listened. She even closed her eyes, though it made little difference to the light in the room.
At first, all she could hear was her own fast breathing while her body struggled to stay calm, having been in a constant state of ‘fight or flight’ for more than twenty-four hours. She knew it must have been that long, because she’d started to feel an even greater sense of dread over the past hour or two, and she realised her body’s natural rhythms must have been telling her it was almost night-time.
And this hunter preferred to do his hunting at night.
She tried to settle her mind, listening to the surrounding darkness, blocking out everything except the noise in the room.
She heard the scrabbling sound of an insect or a rodent somewhere to her left, and the distant baa of a sheep somewhere outside.
Then, she heard it.
The rumbling sound of an engine approaching.
* * *
> Having made a swift costume change into a pristine navy suit, Ryan found himself seated at a table beside the Chief Constable, all decked out like a Christmas turkey. Behind them, a large ‘exhibition stand’ displayed the constabulary crest and logo and, in front of them, there was a row of television cameras and microphones.
“Crack a smile,” Morrison said, under her breath.
“If I smile, my face might crack,” Ryan shot back. “Besides, you never said smiling was part of the deal.”
She gave him a withering look.
“You’re a surly, misanthropic git, aren’t you, Ryan?” she said, rhetorically. “I have no idea why I like you so much.”
That did make him smile, just as she’d hoped.
The cameras started to roll.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I want to thank you for coming to our briefing,” she said. “I know I speak not only on behalf of colleagues at the Northumbria Police Constabulary, but on behalf of the entire city, when I say that we are deeply saddened by the recent terror attacks. We pride ourselves on being a warm and generous community here in the North East, and I know many people will be horrified by the dangerous actions of a small minority who do not speak for the wider community.”
She paused, to let that settle in.
“Many of you will, by now, have also seen the news reports surrounding the death of a woman who has been identified as Layla Bruce, of St Boswells in Scotland. Her next of kin have been informed and I’d like to extend my heartfelt sympathies to them, at this terribly difficult time.”
She was good, Ryan thought. There was nothing he disliked more than the public-facing part of his job—which was probably why he’d turned down a promotion to Detective Chief Superintendent on more than one occasion. However, Sandra Morrison was a virtuoso.
“—I’m now going to hand you over to Detective Chief Inspector Ryan.”
He came to attention and sat up a little straighter in his seat, focusing on the camera straight ahead of him.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll welcome questions at the end but, before then, I’d like to echo the Chief Constable by offering my sympathies to all those affected by the recent attacks. No matter which faith you follow—or if you follow no religion—we are all equal citizens, whose customs and beliefs are worthy of respect. One of the greatest attributes of our society is the value it places upon individual liberty; that includes the freedom to follow any religion, or to wear any clothing, so long as no harm is done to others. Newcastle Central Mosque is a peaceful place of worship, as is the Synagogue in Gateshead. Those who enter their walls and follow their customs should be able to do so without fear of persecution or attack.”
