The Hermitage: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 9)

by LJ Ross

  While their expert fiddled with the CCTV controls and alarm settings with nifty fingers, Faulkner gestured forward a team of CSIs.

  “We have forty-five minutes to get this done,” he said. “Let’s make this short and sweet.”

  * * *

  When Nathan Armstrong completed the last stage of his journey from Newcastle Airport to Kielder, night had fallen. The flight had been delayed, and a half-hour layover at the airport in Paris had only added to his rapidly increasing stress levels. As soon as he landed, he’d picked up a hire car, preferring that to the less discreet option of a taxi, and floored it all the way from the city until the dark outline of Kielder Forest appeared on the horizon.

  The darkness at Kielder was complete, so black he might not have been able to see his own hand in front of his face, were it not for the moon and stars shining diamond bright in the heavens above. Armstrong hardly noticed them, so intent was he on completing this final task—disposing of the last possible link between himself and the man whose talent had lain there in the back of his mind for two decades, taunting him. Whispering to him in the still of the night.

  Everything you have should be mine, the voice would say. You would be nothing, if not for me.

  It was there each time he saw the book advertised on a railway station platform, each time he saw the movie replayed on television. Every time an interviewer or even an ordinary reader asked him about his influences or about the research he had done, the secret knowledge of his deceit would linger in the recesses of his mind. Nagging away at him, unresolved.

  And there was nothing he hated more than unfinished business.

  He parked the car off-road and made his way down a pathway that followed a gentle slope down through the trees until it reached the reservoir and one of his homes, ‘Scribe’s End’. He’d already checked his security app, in Paris and then as the plane had taxied along the runway at Newcastle, but there was no alert to show his system had been breached.

  Armstrong emerged from the trees and into a small clearing where his house nestled, like a gingerbread cottage from a fairy tale, with the lake lapping gently in the background. He hurried to the front door and cleared himself for entry, watching the small security light switch from red to green before unlocking the door with his key.

  He scented the air like an animal in case he caught the drift of forensic chemicals on the air, but the house was musty from disuse over the past few months and nothing more.

  He wasted no more time, hurrying directly to his workspace in the impressive, Scandinavian-style living space which ran along the entire length of the house. He switched on the desk lamp and then let out a sigh of relief.

  The typewriter was sitting neatly on the shelf next to his desk, just where he’d left it—beside a number of other trinkets of various shapes and sizes.

  His little trophies.

  It would be a pity to lose one of them, but needs must.

  * * *

  Armstrong gathered together the typewriter and retrieved Andrew’s notebooks from the safe he kept beside his bed, then hurried out into the cold February night. The mist rolling across the water was so cold it sliced at his skin and he struggled to maintain his footing as he slipped and skidded along the icy deck towards the jetty. One or two loose papers escaped the stack he gripped in his hand and floated on the air, but he told himself he’d come back for them later.

  He peeled back the boat’s covering and then dumped the typewriter inside before easing himself down from the jetty and casting off the rope to begin rowing steadily out towards the centre of the lake, where the water was deepest.

  It was a hard journey, since the water was choppy, and the blistering wind buffeted the boat in all directions, calling upon all his strength to keep her steady.

  “That’s far enough,” he muttered, and without any pomp or ceremony, hurled the typewriter overboard where it landed with an almighty splash that seemed to reverberate around the silent lake. He remained perfectly still, listening for any other sign of life, but only a madman would be out on the water in conditions such as these.

  A madman, a desperate man, or both.

  Armstrong waited until the last of the notebooks had disappeared beneath the rippling water and then turned around to make the same tiring journey back, his spirits considerably lighter than before.

  CHAPTER 48

  Ryan waited until Armstrong had tethered his boat before stepping out from the shadows of the forest. Specialist firearms officers had taken up positions all around the clearing with orders to disable but Ryan had refused to allow permission for a critical shot to be fired, even if it turned out that Armstrong was armed. Unlike Tony Manetti, he did not believe that prison was too good for a man like Nathan Armstrong; he happened to believe it was the best place for him and he’d been waiting a long time to be the one to boot him in there.

  “Out stargazing, Nathan?”

  Armstrong’s head whipped around at the sound of Ryan’s voice and he abandoned the knot he’d been tying.

  “You’re trespassing,” he called out, although he could barely see Ryan’s outline in the surrounding darkness. “Leave, or I’ll call one of your colleagues and have you removed.”

  Ryan ignored him completely.

  “I thought you were heading to Naples,” he said. “I had it on very good authority. Why the change of heart, Nathan?”

  “I’m perfectly entitled to change my travel plans. Now, get off my property.”

  “It’s interesting that you should change your plans so soon after our little chat at the bookshop in Florence,” Ryan said, coming to stand at the other end of the jetty so they faced one another like two men in a duel. “But, it’s my very good fortune that you did. I came along to see if you still had that old typewriter we were talking about.”

  “I already told you, I have no idea what happened to it,” Armstrong lied. “And, even if I did, I would hardly tell you. Now, produce a search warrant, or go to hell.”

  Armstrong began to walk along the jetty, more confident now. Even if Ryan had a search warrant, it would only be to look for those specific items, none of which remained.

  Just in the nick of time.

  But, why was Ryan smiling at him? Why didn’t he react?

  “What were you doing out there on the water?” Ryan asked again. “Don’t tell me you were destroying material evidence?”

  Armstrong looked around the clearing but saw no sign of anybody else, no rustling in the bushes to suggest they were not alone.

  “And, if I was? What would you do then, Ryan?” he asked, smugly. “Let’s say, if I had—hypothetically, you understand—disposed of certain unwanted knick-knacks I had in my possession, what could you possibly do about it? Any remaining trace evidence that may—or may not—have been preserved would now be destroyed beneath the water.”

  Ryan made a tutting sound and folded his arms across his chest. He’d grabbed a thick jumper belonging to his father before leaving the Villa Lucia, but even that wasn’t enough to stop the air from working its way beneath the heavy wool to prick at the skin beneath.

  His breath clouded on the air as he let out a long, thoughtful sigh.

  “Well, let’s say—hypothetically, you understand—that I suspected you had certain knick-knacks in your possession that may have valuable trace evidence incriminating you in the murder of Andrew Wharton in 1998. Let’s say these knick-knacks were a typewriter and perhaps some notebooks containing detailed research he did to write the book and which you have passed off as your own for nigh-on twenty years. In those circumstances, I’d want to make sure a forensic team swabbed both the typewriter and the notebooks, and any other interesting evidence, before you had a chance to dispose of them for good.”

  “You’d have needed to catch an earlier flight,” Armstrong said, stopping a few feet in front of him.

  “Indeed, I would,” Ryan said. “Such as the one I caught from Pisa Airport, an hour ahead of yours.”

  Armstro
ng searched Ryan’s face for signs he was bluffing.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s irrelevant,” Ryan said. “The jury will believe me, when I show them the results from the DNA swabs we took over two hours ago. They’ll believe me when I show them the recording of you hurrying through your house, rushing directly to the typewriter, gathering the specific items you needed, then stealing off into the night to dump them in a place you hoped nobody would find them. Those aren’t the actions of an innocent man. But, you see, your dumping the typewriter in the lake doesn’t matter now, Nathan. We took all the samples we needed from it long before your plane landed.”

  Armstrong’s hands curled into tight fists as he felt his world begin to shatter, collapsing around him in an avalanche of sand.

  “And, if they didn’t believe me after all that, d’you know what they might be interested to see? The original manuscript of Il Mostro, the one you sent your UK publisher as a keepsake, after submitting the photocopied one Andrew had already given you. Both copies have already been seized by our colleagues in the Metropolitan Police Force and they’re testing them for Low Copy Number DNA belonging to Andrew Wharton.”

  Ryan swept his eyes over the man who had hurt so many, for so long, and took great satisfaction in the words he was about to say.

  “Nathan Armstrong, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Andrew Wharton, of Duncan Gray and of Kate Robson,” he said, remembering those who were murdered less than a mile from where they now stood. With the new evidence that had come to light, he hoped the CPS would reconsider their decision not to prosecute, especially since there may be more to come. “You do not have to say anything, but—”

  “Damn you, Ryan.”

  “—it may harm your defence—”

  Armstrong lunged at him, going directly for Ryan’s throat and the sensitive flesh he knew lay hidden beneath the thick sweater. But Ryan had been prepared for this and met the force of Armstrong’s body with a powerful jab to his stomach, followed swiftly by another fist to the face, which connected with the man’s jaw with a satisfying crack.

  As Armstrong fell to his knees, winded, Ryan shook off the mild pain in his knuckles and wondered if it made him petty to admit that it had felt bloody good.

  The police took that as their cue to emerge from the woods and Armstrong watched them approaching like sentries on a battlefield.

  “It may harm your defence,” Ryan continued, “if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  “This isn’t over,” Armstrong gasped.

  Ryan bent down to yank him upward and slap a pair of handcuffs around his wrists.

  “Yes,” Ryan said firmly. “It is.”

  With that, he took a firm hold of the man’s arm and marched him back across the clearing and into the next stage of his life, without money or prestige, without accolades or acolytes. In prison, Armstrong would only have memories.

  CHAPTER 49

  Wednesday, 28th February

  Villa Lucia, Florence

  MacKenzie awakened to a shaft of wintry Mediterranean sunshine spilling over her face. She blinked sleep from her eyes and, yawning, focused on the window, watching the light filtering through one of the curtains that was hanging askew. As her mind cleared, she realised it was not a curtain but some sort of fabric hanging from the uppermost curtain pole; yards of ivory fabric that fell in beautiful folds from a velvet hanger.

  A dress.

  She pushed herself upright, then turned to look for Frank, whose gentle snores would usually be rumbling from the pillow beside her. Instead, she found the space on the bed empty except for a single red rose and a small notecard.

  With trembling hands, she flipped open the envelope to find an invitation which read:

  ‘You are invited to attend the wedding of Denise MacKenzie and Frank Phillips at eleven o’clock at the basilica of San Miniato al Monte. All my love, Frank xx’

  Before she could fully comprehend what was happening, there came a tap on the door and Anna slipped inside the bedroom, armed with a breakfast tray stuffed full of Magda’s finest offerings including a glass of something fruity to start the day with a bang.

  “What’s happening here?” MacKenzie demanded, in a voice that quivered with excitement and trepidation.

  “What’s happening is, Frank’s giving you your dream,” her friend replied, setting the tray down gently on the bed. “I’ve been instructed to tell you that he’ll be waiting for you at the basilica at the top of the hill at eleven o’clock today and he hopes you’ll join him, not just there at the church but for the rest of your lives. If you don’t want to, he’ll understand, but he also wanted me to tell you not to worry about the wedding breakfast because there’ll be stottie cakes aplenty; Magda has it all in hand and is catering for an intimate party of loved ones and friends who’ve flown in especially. They’ve been hiding at hotels around Florence for the past couple of days, terrified they’d run into you and give the game away,” Anna chuckled.

  MacKenzie mind boggled.

  “But—the dress? The church? How did this happen?”

  “With a little help from your friends,” Anna murmured, and reached across to give her hand a bolstering squeeze. “Have a sip of that mimosa,” she added. “You look as if you need it.”

  MacKenzie murmured something unintelligible and took a generous glug before absently nibbling on one of the pastries arranged on the tray in front of her.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  Anna waited, a bit nervously, then watched MacKenzie’s face crease into a smile.

  “I never imagined anything like this would ever happen to me. I’m forty-four, for goodness’ sake,” she said, with a hint of embarrassment.

  “It doesn’t matter how old you are. What matters is how happy you are,” Anna said firmly. “Now, do I have to force feed you those pastries, or what? I’ve got a schedule to keep. Next up is a bubble bath.”

  MacKenzie watched her friend head towards the en-suite bathroom and a moment later heard the taps running. Alone for a moment with her thoughts, she sat there in the beautiful bedroom and looked down at the engagement ring winking on her finger. It had been chosen with care, just as this surprise had been chosen with care; every detail planned with her in mind. There would be no awkward fanfare, no argumentative relatives she barely knew, no sense of obligation. There would only be the two of them, surrounded by love.

  Anna called out that the bath was ready and MacKenzie flung back the covers, grabbing another pastry for the road.

  “I’m coming!”

  * * *

  The basilica of San Miniato al Monte stood at one of the highest points in Florence, tucked against the hillside overlooking the Piazzale Michelangelo which held unrivalled views of the city. Like the Duomo, its façade was a triumph of colourful inlaid marble whilst the interior had been decorated with an iridescent mosaic which gleamed as the sunlight reflected against the tile. It was a beautiful place, infused with history without being overpowering and Phillips had loved it as soon as he’d seen it. There had been a bit of red tape and bureaucracy to wade through, and the priest had needed some convincing, but anything was worth the effort for the woman he loved. That included asking their good friends and limited family to fly out at a moment’s notice, and that alone could not have been achieved without military precision and planning from Anna.

  “She’s late,” he muttered, glancing again towards the open doorway.

  “She’s exactly on time,” Ryan said. “Keep your hair on, Frank.”

  “Too bloody late for that,” the other complained, patting down his thinning mane. “What if she doesn’t like any of it?”

  “She’ll love it,” another voice chimed in. “Especially when she finds out there’s an Italian ceilidh band organised for later.”

  Phillips turned to Detective Constable Jack Lowerson, who was seated on the fron
t pew next to Melanie Yates. It wouldn’t have been the same without the young man who had been like a son to him these past few years, and it warmed his heart that Jack had set aside his own recent troubles to come and celebrate their happiness.

  “All I need now is the bride,” he joked, a bit nervously. “Here, d’ you think she’s had second thoughts?”

  Ryan simply shook his head and nodded towards the entranceway.

  “I don’t think so,” he murmured.

  Phillips turned to see a vision in the doorway, with the sun framing her back like a halo. His throat burned with sudden emotion and he blinked furiously as the music began, the soft strains of Ave Maria guiding MacKenzie’s footsteps as she walked down the aisle towards him. He’d been married before, he thought, to a good woman who’d passed away too soon. But this was something else. Something new and bright, like a new star having been born in the cosmos. It burned fiercely, his love for Denise, so strong that he struggled to remember all that had come before it.

  When she reached him, he took her hand in his own and found himself overwhelmed by her radiance, her beauty, her strength.

  “You sure?” he said, in a voice that wobbled slightly. To him, she was perfect and could have chosen anybody. He could hardly believe that she had chosen him.

  MacKenzie smiled and reached up to brush an errant tear from his face.

  “Silly,” she whispered. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  He raised her hand to his lips to press a kiss to her skin and then grinned like a puppy.

  “Howay then, let’s get hitched.”

  EPILOGUE

  Six months later

  Ryan, Anna, Phillips, MacKenzie and Chief Constable Morrison, alongside representatives from the Independent Police Complaints Commission, the media, local government, LGBTQ rights groups and numerous professionals from across the publishing world had gathered at the Literary and Philosophical Society of Newcastle to honour the life and death of Andrew Wharton.