Dark Skies: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 7)

by LJ Ross

  “Unless somebody took Sullivan by surprise,” Ryan suggested. “Physical strength helps, but I’ve seen plenty of feeble-looking killers over the years.”

  They walked a little further along the winding track and, when the main road came back into view, Ryan turned to them with a thoughtful expression.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that Hunter never asked about the dead man? There was no polite query, no expression of concern, not even idle curiosity.”

  Phillips rubbed the side of his chin, where the shadow of a five o’clock beard was starting to show.

  “You think it’s important?”

  “I think it’s highly unusual,” Ryan replied. “And that tells me it’s significant. Could it be that Hunter didn’t ask us anything because he knew the answers already?”

  “He definitely looked nervous,” Yates said.

  “He lives on the doorstep of a crime scene that is completely isolated, so he could have been nervous because he knows he would be first on our list of house calls. If we find Hunter has a sheet, he’ll be worrying that we’ll automatically look at him for the murder,” Ryan said.

  “He didn’t exactly look like the cuddly type,” Phillips was bound to say.

  “No, but keying a car is a long way from committing murder.”

  “So what do we do?” Yates asked the pair of them.

  Ryan cast his eyes over the darkened forest then up at the big, cloudless sky overhead.

  “This is where the chase begins. Without knowing it, Guy Sullivan’s killer has left pieces of himself behind. We’ll trace them and start closing the net.”

  Phillips rubbed his hands together, partly to stave off the chill but mostly in anticipation of the hunt.

  “I’ll let the local officers know we’ll be setting up an Incident Room nearby, location to be confirmed. First briefing at five o’clock which gives us”—Ryan paused to glance at his watch—“three hours.”

  A sudden wind whipped through the trees and curled around their small huddle, nipping against their skin. Ryan turned his face up to enjoy the sensation, feeling glad to be alive. Then he thought of Guy Sullivan and of how that young man would never again know the simple joy of feeling the wind against his face.

  “I want traffic cordons in place as soon as possible,” he said decisively. “We may already be too late, but there’s only one main road in and out of this whole area and a couple of smaller B-roads. Easy enough to record who enters and leaves the Kielder area, especially since there’s no train station to complicate things.”

  Phillips made a sound of agreement.

  “We’ll see to it. I’ll look out any CCTV on the roads or local businesses while I’m at it,” he said.

  “Yates? I’d like you to supervise the house-to-house,” Ryan said, and almost smiled at the panic he read in her eyes. “Speak to the local sergeant and see how far they’ve got with gathering statements. Push out in a radius from the crime scene, in expanding circles so you don’t miss any campers or cottages.”

  “I—yes, sir.”

  “One other thing, Yates. Ask the remaining students for their consent to take a DNA sample.”

  “They might not agree,” she argued.

  “A man has been murdered,” Ryan growled. “It’s reasonable enough to ask the people in the immediate area to rule themselves out. After all, they’ve got nothing to hide—have they? If anyone objects, I want to know about it.”

  With that, he turned and went in search of Craig Hunter’s employer.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ryan drove a couple of miles further west along the main road through the forest and then took a left turn along a well-tended private track leading up to the main gates of Hot Trots Equestrian Centre, located halfway between the Kielder Waterside development and Kielder Village to the north.

  The road cut upward through the trees until the land plateaued and Ryan’s car emerged onto higher ground with far-reaching views of the valley below. There were small markers at the side of the road warning a maximum speed of five miles per hour, and Ryan crawled along the single track until the farmhouse came into view. It was large and stone-built, like many of the old Victorian properties in the area, surrounded by smaller outbuildings and a long stable block separated by a courtyard from the house. However, there had clearly been some serious investment in the facilities since the nineteenth century because now an additional stable block stood beside an enormous indoor gymkhana. Lining either side of the road were fields full of healthy-looking horses and ponies and all but the hardiest breeds wore stylish tartan turn-out coats to protect them from the cold weather.

  Ryan had to admit it was a pretty sight to behold.

  He drove through a set of pillared stone gates and into an area used for visitor’s parking. The unmistakable odour of horse manure hit him squarely in the face as he exited the car and he was momentarily transported back to his childhood spent in the countryside in Devon, where he’d grown up riding horses. Unfortunately, it was not an essential skill for a murder detective in the North East and it had been several years since he’d sat astride anything other than the scooter he’d rented to pootle around the tropics with Anna.

  Even then, she’d been the one doing the driving.

  He walked into the courtyard and rapped a knuckle on the back door of the farmhouse, assuming correctly that the bulk of business took place via that route, but there was no answer. Finding the courtyard stables empty apart from a gentle-looking mare whose neck he paused to rub, Ryan continued towards the newer stable block.

  “Excuse me? I’m looking for Kate Robson.”

  A young stable hand of fifteen or sixteen popped his head over one of the doors and peered curiously at the tall, raven-haired man with serious eyes.

  “Are y’ looking to go for a hack?”

  Ryan smiled.

  “Not today, although it’s fine weather for it. Can you tell me where I’d find Kate?”

  “Aye, she’s over in the lower field doing a lesson. D’ you want to wait somewhere until she’s finished and I’ll let her know you’re here?”

  Ryan shook his head.

  “Thanks, but I’ll wander down and watch the rest of the lesson, if that’s alright.”

  The boy shrugged.

  “It’s down that way.”

  * * *

  Ryan’s first sighting of the owner of Hot Trots reminded him that people did not always conform to stereotype. After Craig Hunter’s less than flattering description, he’d expected to find a woman with eccentric clothing and a demeanour to match. Instead, Kate Robson might have stepped from the pages of a Jilly Cooper novel and was as well-groomed as the horses she tended.

  Her voice carried across the field as she called out to the small group of novice riders trotting in a wide circle and Ryan stopped to rest his arms against the fence beside a few other men and women who were probably the parents of the children who lolloped across the grass on horseback.

  “Archie! Try to find your rhythm…that’s right, work with the horse and keep your back straight!”

  Ten minutes later, the lesson wound up and she began to lead the first rider back towards the stables.

  “Ms Robson? My name is DCI Ryan, I’m from Northumbria CID. Could I have a moment of your time?”

  Her brow furrowed at the sight of his warrant card.

  “I—yes, of course. Let me finish up here and I’ll meet you back at the house, okay?”

  Ryan nodded and followed the procession, admiring the condition of the Welsh cobb ambling to his left. Keeping horses could be a hard, expensive business and those who made it their profession usually tended to think of it as a vocation.

  The cobb nuzzled the back of his head, taking him by surprise, and when Ryan turned to look into its mischievous brown eyes he could understand the motivation.

  “Watch it, beautiful,” he murmured, reaching across to rub its neck.

  Ryan left the horses to their stables and made his way back to the main
farmhouse. Soon after, he heard Robson’s footsteps crossing the cobbled courtyard stones.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said briskly.

  Ryan followed her into the farmhouse and waited as she tugged off her boots.

  “Should I…?” He gestured to his own shoes and she cast a critical eye over them, before shaking her head.

  “No, you’re not too bad,” she said with a smile. “Come on in.”

  She made directly for the kettle in the cavernous kitchen, setting it to boil with one hand whilst waving towards one of the oak chairs surrounding a table in the centre of the room with the other.

  “Take a seat. Can I offer you some coffee or tea? I’m parched.”

  “No, thank you.”

  She selected a mug from a wooden tree.

  “You said you were from CID? I’m not very knowledgeable about the police hierarchy but I thought officers of CID dealt with serious crimes?”

  “We do,” he said, and drew back a chair. “I’m afraid my visit here concerns an incident earlier this morning. A person was found dead near Adderburn.”

  “Less than three miles away,” she said, turning back to look at him. “I’m very sorry to hear it. Who was he? I mean, do I know him?”

  Ryan’s eyes sharpened. After all, he hadn’t mentioned the gender of the person they’d found.

  “I’m afraid I can’t share those details with you at present. I can tell you he was a young man, not from the area.”

  She came across and slid into a chair, setting her mug on the table. The afternoon sunshine fell through the large sash window and he judged that Kate Robson was somewhere in her late forties and had chosen to age gracefully. She was slim, with a kind of wiry energy to her movements, and he realised with a degree of shock that she reminded him of his own mother, give or take a few years in between.

  “How awful,” she murmured, cupping her fingers around the mug as if to draw strength from it. “Was it drug-related?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  She heaved a sigh.

  “People say urban areas have the worst drug culture but I think it’s just as bad in the countryside. I’ve seen kids—young kids, who grew up here—going off the rails on heroin. And those dealers? Scum of the earth, if you ask me.”

  Personally, he couldn’t have agreed more, but that was hardly the issue.

  “It’s a good suggestion,” Ryan said. “I’ll certainly bear it in mind.”

  “I’m terribly sad for his family but I’m not sure how I can help you, chief inspector.”

  Ryan leaned back in his chair.

  “At this stage, we’re asking routine questions to see if anybody saw or heard anything of interest, particularly between the hours of four and seven this morning.”

  She took a gulp of her tea and let the liquid warm her from the inside out.

  “Well, I was fast asleep in bed until around five-thirty, when I usually get up for the day. Since then, I’ve been here or at the stables. My days are all mapped out,” she explained. “I had a private lesson from six—”

  “That’s early,” he remarked.

  “You’re telling me,” she smiled, showing a set of perfect white teeth. “But this particular client runs very much on his own schedule.”

  “Do you mind telling me his name?”

  “Oh, sure, it’s Nathan Armstrong. He lives in Kielder for half of the year and spends the rest of his time jet-setting around the world.”

  “Oh? What’s his business?”

  “He writes thrillers,” she told him. “Can’t say I’ve read any of them,” she confessed, with a conspiratorial smile. “But he’s nice enough. A bit quiet, mind. Keeps himself to himself.”

  Ryan made a polite sound in his throat and decided to let her do the talking. It was amazing what could be learned if you talked less and listened more, especially in his line of work.

  “Anyway, Nathan comes in for an early lesson every Saturday morning while he’s in the area. I had to be up to get the horses ready for him arriving, so I’m afraid I didn’t see much else.”

  “Do you manage this place alone?”

  Ryan flicked a glance towards her fingers but there was no sign of a wedding ring.

  “Oh, goodness, no!” She let out what he might have described as a middle-class snort. “This place is far too large for me to handle alone. My father died in 2003 and left everything to me. I’ve done my best to modernise things but, when it comes to horses, you can’t beat a solid pair of hands. I have three full-time stable hands and one regular part-timer, alongside quite a few volunteers who come along and muck in, in exchange for free lessons. They tend to be teenagers,” she explained, and Ryan remembered it had been the same back in his day.

  “Were any of them here this morning?”

  “Yes, they were. Saturday is our busiest day and most of them arrived around seven, in time for the early-bird lessons at eight o’clock. That gives them an hour to get the horses ready for the day ahead.”

  “I see,” Ryan murmured, thinking of how he could frame his next question. “Could you let me have a list of their names, for completeness?”

  “Sure, I don’t see why not. Kielder isn’t exactly a metropolis; I’m sure you’ll get around to meeting them anyway.”

  She rattled off a short list of names and Craig Hunter was one of them. Ryan took his time asking sufficient questions about the others and then worked the conversation back around to Craig.

  “Has Mr Hunter worked here for long?”

  “Yes, Craig’s been a part-timer for a few years now,” Kate said, polishing off her tea. “He’s a bit rough around the edges but he’s a hard worker and the horses don’t seem to mind him.”

  Ryan decided not to pass comment about animals being dumb.

  “Craig was here at seven?”

  “Oh, yes. I saw his truck coming up the hill just before then.”

  “You saw nobody unusual crossing your land during the morning?”

  “No, not at all. Tourists come and go all the time, but they’re mostly accounted for. We had a couple of walk-ins but we have a list of their details and they all came after nine o’clock.”

  Ryan shut his notebook and set a business card on the table in front of her.

  “Thank you for your time, Ms Robson. If you remember anything you think might be useful to our investigation, please contact me on this number or ring the Control Room who will transfer you through.”

  She clutched the little rectangular card in her hand, reading the plain black lettering on the front.

  “Chief inspector, should I be worried? I mean, if someone died so near here, does that mean there’s a killer on the loose?”

  His response was enigmatic.

  “It’s advisable to remain vigilant at all times, Ms Robson.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Ryan pulled into the car park at Kielder Waterside and found the place deserted, a far cry from the hustle and bustle wrought by the full-scale search party earlier in the day. Aside from his own, there were only a few cars remaining, including a single police squad car, the little Golf belonging to Melanie Yates and Anna’s university minibus, which looked as if it may finally have rusted itself onto the tarmac. The playground and Birds of Prey Centre were empty and a quick glance told him the gift shop was closed for the day. He spotted Mitch Fenwick and Freddie Milburn on the water in their bright blue jackets, but there were no paying customers with them and the passenger ferry that operated between several stopping points on the reservoir was nowhere to be seen.

  He found Anna standing on the small shingle beach overlooking the water, wrapped up in a cream knitted scarf with her dark hair blowing loose in the breeze. She was alone, which gave him a sharp stab of concern.

  “Anna?”

  When she turned, her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.

  “Oh, hello.”

  Protectiveness washed over him when she walked into his arms and rested her head against his chest witho
ut a word. He wrapped his arms around her and tucked his chin against the top of her head, wishing there was something he could say to relieve the aching sadness.

  “The police are interviewing the rest of the students now. Melanie Yates is in there with them, so I came out to get some air,” Anna said quietly. “I’ve already contacted their parents to explain the situation and there’s a grief counsellor lined up, once they’re back in student accommodation at the university. Melanie says she’ll arrange for a couple of squad cars to drive them home after they’re done.”

  Ryan nodded his approval at that.

  “You’ve done all you can,” he reassured her.

  “I should never have stayed,” she said wretchedly. “Not after that boy’s body was found in the water. I should have driven them home and then none of this would have happened.”

  Ryan spoke carefully.

  “Firstly, there was nothing to suggest Duncan Gray was killed recently, so there was no imminent threat. This place was full of families and other tourists who weren’t put off either, so don’t start second-guessing yourself on that score.”

  “But—”

  “Secondly,” he interrupted, “it isn’t your fault that Guy Sullivan died. The only person to blame for that is the person who killed him.”

  “But if I’d only stayed with them through the night,” she muttered.

  “Your students are grown men and women,” he reminded her. “They live independently while they’re at university, they survive each day without a chaperone and they can certainly drink if they want to. Short of enforcing some kind of prohibition on alcohol—which they’d ignore, anyway—and babysitting them all hours of the day and night, there’s no way you could have prevented what happened to Guy.”

  “I just can’t understand why he’d leave the lodge.”

  “It’s never the victim’s fault,” he said gently. “Regardless of whether Sullivan was right or wrong to leave his front door or to drink himself into a stupor, it didn’t give anybody the right to kill him.”