High Force: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 5)

by LJ Ross

  Harry scratched the side of his bulbous nose.

  “Couldn’t tell you whether he’s alive and kicking on the Costa Brava or whether he’s making friends with the fish at the bottom of the river. But his name was something weird,” he muttered. “Made me think of a board game.”

  “Like Cluedo?” Phillips offered, without needing to rack his brain.

  “Aye, that’s the one. It rhymed with that, I reckon.”

  “Ludo,” Phillips said. “Moffa’s right-hand man is called Ludo, on account of his close and personal relationship with Quaaludes back in the day.”

  “I remember him, now,” Harry nodded. “Big lad, built like a brick shithouse, pock-marked face.”

  “That’s him.”

  It was little wonder that Helen Hayworth had been too frightened to describe the man who had abducted her. She would have known that he was so physically distinctive that any police officer within four county command areas would have identified him immediately and, in doing so, would have signed her own death warrant.

  Phillips found that he was now faced with a new dilemma. He had a solid suspect but doing anything about it might endanger a young family.

  But doing nothing would endanger Denise.

  He rose from his chair and held out a grateful hand to his old friend.

  * * *

  Ryan tried calling Phillips’ mobile for the tenth time and, when it went straight to voicemail, he swore loudly and to nobody in particular. Anna raised tired eyes from her own laptop computer and took that as her cue to shut it down for the day.

  “I don’t have time to be running around looking for him,” Ryan said, tersely. “We’ve got enough on our hands trying to hunt down a murderer before he kills again. I’d have thought Phillips would want to pitch in, instead of disappearing off into the night.”

  Anna hitched herself up onto the edge of his desk and crossed her ankles, letting him rant.

  “Perhaps he’s found a new lead,” she suggested.

  “If he had, you’d think he would damn well share it with the rest of us,” Ryan bit out. “Now isn’t the time to be galloping off, playing the hero.”

  “You’d never do a thing like that,” Anna said, ever so smoothly.

  Ryan’s next words died on his tongue and he sent her a withering look, which slid like water off a duck’s back.

  “Those were very different circumstances,” he argued.

  “Mm, going after the people who endangered my life,” Anna mused. “Yes, I can see how that’s different to Phillips’ situation.”

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic.”

  “Then climb down from your high horse, detective,” she shot back. “You’re the boss, but this is Frank’s city. He knows it, and he’s probably speaking to other people who know it, too.”

  He gave her a searching look.

  “What did he tell you?”

  “Now, don’t get mad.”

  Ryan’s eyes darkened to an ominous, stormy grey.

  “Anna.”

  “Alright, don’t shoot the messenger,” she held out both hands in appeal. “He asked me not to mention it for an hour or so because he had a couple of things he wanted to take care of alone. He said he was heading out to speak to some old friends but he’d be back by nine-thirty.”

  Ryan looked again at the clock and saw that it read 21:20.

  “Why didn’t he want me with him?” he asked, and Anna was sorry to see a flicker of hurt in his eyes. “I would have gone with him, anywhere he needed. Does he think I’m a liability after what happened this afternoon?”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t think anything like that,” she tried to reassure him. “Frank knows that this afternoon was a one-off and nobody could blame you for it. I’m sure there’s another explanation.”

  But Ryan looked unconvinced.

  “I hope he knows what he’s doing,” was all he said.

  CHAPTER 14

  Phillips sat in his car for a while after leaving Buddle’s, considering what was the right and proper thing to do. He was in a quandary; one half of him bound in conscience to a family who had not asked to be part of The Hacker’s evil game, the other half bound in love to the woman who had come to mean everything to him. Eventually, he settled on a course of action that would satisfy both sides. He fiddled with his smartphone and forwarded an e-mail to DI Rodgers over at Durham CID with an attached image of Paul Evershed—the man known more commonly as Ludo—taken from his police file. He typed only one request, which was that Rodgers show the photo to Helen Hayworth and watch for her reaction.

  After his phone made a tinkling sound to signify that the e-mail had sent, Phillips ignored the red notifications telling him Ryan had been trying to get in touch and turned his phone off. He started the car engine and steered it back towards the centre of town, slowing as he passed the house that he had grown up in. There were net curtains in the windows, which was something, but the front door had a scrap of plywood nailed across it following an attempted break-in. He felt a weight of sadness settle on his chest but he shoved it to one side and accelerated through the darkened streets.

  It wasn’t his home anymore.

  Back in the centre of town, the All American Diner was busy, even for a Tuesday night. Waitresses dressed in candy striper uniforms buzzed from table to table and men dressed to look like John Travolta flipped cocktails behind the bar. Groups of twenty-somethings laughed, enjoying the kitsch feel to the place with none of the discomfort that came from knowing how it managed to stay in business while so many other new bars and restaurants dropped like flies in the overcrowded market. The Diner managed to affect a cheerful atmosphere thanks to its bold colour scheme and classic power tunes pumping out of the jukebox in the corner, but Phillips hated everything about it.

  It was a curse of being in his line of work, he supposed, but with his trained eye, he was able to see beyond all the gloss, stripping it away to uncover what was buried beneath the surface. And what he saw was a brawny bouncer with bloodshot eyes thanks to a reliance on cocaine and a generous helping of steroids, a bar-restaurant fronted by unscrupulous men, and an awful lot of pink.

  As he approached the doors, the bouncer began speaking into a microphone at the lapel of his cheap black suit. Phillips gave him an easy-going smile.

  “Alright, lad? I was just after a quick pint and a burger. Is there a problem?”

  He couldn’t have been more than thirty, Phillips thought, and his face was too smooth, too clean to have had much experience. He was just muscle, intended to intimidate the weak.

  “We’re closing.”

  Phillips stood on his toes to look over the man’s shoulder at the bustling crowd beyond and gave him a disbelieving look.

  “Doesn’t look that way to me, son.”

  The bouncer took a menacing step forward and grabbed hold of Phillips’ jacket, thrusting him away from the door so hard that he stumbled and hit his head against the doorframe.

  “Bugger off home, pig,” he spat. “You’re not welcome here.”

  Phillips brushed a hand over his jacket to set it right again, checked his tie, then gave the man a disapproving, fatherly look.

  “If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s rudeness,” he said, before planting his fist in the man’s face.

  The bouncer crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Phillips rubbed at his knuckle, stepped around the man’s bulk and headed inside The Diner, ignoring the shocked faces of nearby staff who ran to the telephone, presumably to call the police.

  Phillips set his jaw and decided to worry about that small complication later.

  * * *

  Phillips knew exactly which door led to the executive offices of Jimmy Moffa, having had the misfortune of visiting the man on several occasions, always in connection with serious crimes. When you were party to as many shady deals as Jimmy, you could expect regular visits from the police. Phillips ignored the shouts from one of the barmen and tugged open the side door which led to a
long corridor painted in a tacky shade of red. At the end, a young man was guarding Jimmy’s office, wearing a brand new black suit with his hair brushed back from a boyish face. He had a wiry, muscular physique which seemed to tense as Phillips stomped down the corridor towards him.

  “Tony, what would your da’ say if he could see you now?”

  The younger man shrivelled inside his suit.

  “Aw, howay, Frank. I’m just filling in for a while, that’s all.”

  Phillips gave him a beady-eyed glare.

  “Aye, that’s what they all say in the beginning. Stand aside, son, this doesn’t concern you.”

  “Frank, you know I don’t want to get into anything with you, but…”

  Phillips continued to stare him down.

  “I can’t let you in,” he finished, lamely.

  Phillips watched the young man’s eyes flicking upward and to the right. He repeated the action two more times and he realised that there must be a camera watching their every move.

  “I understand what you’re telling me,” Phillips said, then shifted his feet to give the man time to prepare himself. A moment later, Tony gave an almost imperceptible nod and Phillips swung the first blow. There followed a scuffle between the pair of them that any thespian would have been proud of, and after they both felt that a sufficient effort had been made to bar Phillips’ entry, Tony fell against the wall.

  “Thanks, lad,” Phillips gave him a wink and pushed open the door to Moffa’s inner sanctum.

  * * *

  Jimmy Moffa watched the altercation from the comfort of his enormous leather desk chair via a live CCTV feed linked to the gigantic flat screen television dominating one wall of his office. In fact, the entire room was modelled on a Vegas hotel suite, from its monochrome colour scheme to the expensive photographic prints blown up on large canvases dotted around its walls. Top of the range technology was everywhere, vying for attention with expensive antiques chosen to give the impression of affluence rather than good taste.

  Amid all the glitz, it was easy to miss the man sitting behind the super-sized black desk in the centre of it all. The youngest of the three Moffa brothers was, at first glance, an average-looking man in his early thirties. He wore an expertly tailored suit of fine charcoal grey with a crisp white shirt and a fashionably skinny tie. At his cuffs, he wore a pair of diamond encrusted cufflinks to match the stud winking in his right earlobe and the Cartier watch on his left wrist. His hair was closely shaven, drawing more attention to his face, which was a mixture of sharp cheekbones and the palest blue eyes Phillips had ever seen.

  When Phillips entered, he was waiting for him with a mobile phone in his hand, poised to dial.

  “Well, if it isn’t Scrappy Doo,” he rasped. “Have you lost your way?”

  Phillips stayed near the door but faced him down.

  “I’ve got plenty of bite left in me yet, especially for a common little prick like you.”

  Moffa bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile.

  “Big talk, old man. You might have caught the bouncers off guard, but you’ll not have the same luck with me, so watch your step.”

  He jiggled the mobile phone he held in his hand.

  “Guess who I’m about to call?”

  “Your mum?”

  Phillips happened to know that Moffa’s mother had died after an accidental overdose and, sure enough, a dark red flush of anger crept along the man’s neck and he thrust upward to slap both hands on his desk.

  “You’d better turn around and walk back out of that door before I lose my temper,” he snarled.

  “Aye, remind me to shit my pants later,” Phillips shot back. “In the meantime, I want to know where he is.”

  Something like surprise flickered across Moffa’s face, quickly masked.

  “Who? Your boss? Maybe you should try looking in the loony bin,” his laugh was gleeful. “I heard the Big Man took a right funny turn, earlier today.”

  And there must be a rat in the department who told him all about it, Phillips thought, but that was a problem for another day.

  “You know exactly who I’m talking about. Keir Edwards.”

  Moffa walked around to the front of his desk and pressed ‘dial’ on his mobile phone.

  “Let’s put this on speakerphone,” he said.

  The ringing tone was replaced by a click and then an operator’s voice, asking which emergency service he required.

  “Police,” Moffa gasped, theatrically. “I’ve been attacked. He’s gone mad, attacking everyone. Come quickly…”

  He turned and threw the mobile into the corner of the office, where it smashed against a crystal decanter laid out for his more discerning guests.

  Phillips looked on aghast as Moffa strolled around to the other side of his desk and swept the contents onto the floor. His laptop fell with a crash, followed by several heavy desk ornaments. As a final pièce de résistance, he selected a large crystal tumbler which had partially broken against the polished floor and brandished it in front of Phillips.

  “What the—?”

  Moffa merely laughed.

  “Now for my final trick, ladies and gents.”

  He crossed the room and Phillips braced himself for a confrontation, fists clenched and ready to throw the first punch. But Moffa took him by surprise. He grasped one of Phillips’ fists, shoving the broken tumbler hard into his palm and driving the jagged edge of glass into his skin. Phillips cried out as Moffa continued to crush the glass against his palm, then suddenly he withdrew it.

  Phillips realised then what he planned to do and tried to make a grab for the glass, but Jimmy had been born on the same kind of streets as him and knew all the right moves.

  “You’re fucked, mate,” he spat, and brought the glass down hard against the side of his own head, once, then twice. The third time, he brought it down hard enough to dig an inch-long cut into his own scalp.

  Phillips watched in horror as blood began to trickle from Jimmy Moffa’s skull and, behind him, there came the sound of running footsteps down the corridor as the local police arrived. Raw, helpless anger rushed through Phillips’ system as he looked into the smug, self-satisfied face of the man who had been responsible for hurting so many people.

  “Don’t you ever feel it?” he whispered.

  Moffa frowned his confusion.

  “Feel what?”

  The door burst open behind them and all of a sudden the room was filled with voices.

  * * *

  Ryan ruminated on what could have taken Phillips away from the immediate task of following the leads generated by Beth Finnegan’s murder. It was probable that they would be able to trace Edwards’ new vehicle and, after that, there would be every chance they could track his movements.

  Then again, they might not.

  He let out a long sigh and felt a pair of slim arms wrap around his neck.

  “Stop worrying,” Anna said, then yawned until her jaw cracked.

  “You need some sleep,” he said. “We all do.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’ve sorted out a new place for us, just for the next few days. It’s a holiday rental, so we can pick up the keys whenever it suits.”

  “Where?”

  “A little village called Blanchland,” she said, pulling up a chair beside him.

  “I know it,” he said. “It’s over in the North Pennines, off the A68 west of Durham. It’s a bit rural, don’t you think?”

  “It’s equidistant to Durham and Newcastle,” she explained. “Your investigation seems to be split between both cities, so I thought it would make sense to choose somewhere in the middle. It’s off the beaten track and not an obvious choice for anybody trying to find us.”

  “Which makes it safer,” he finished for her.

  “Yep.”

  “I like it,” he said succinctly.

  “It comes with a small addition to the property spec,” she added, and Ryan’s eyes brightened.

  “A hot tub?”

&nb
sp; “Ah, no, sadly not. It comes with Phillips, since I asked him to come and stay with us.”

  Ryan pulled her around so he could look at her.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly. “It’s a kind thought, except that he appears to have done a runner.”

  Anna pulled a face.

  “I’m surprised he isn’t back by now,” she admitted. “I wonder what’s keeping him.”

  Just then, Ryan’s mobile phone began to vibrate and he slapped his hands against his pockets until he realised it was sitting in his direct eyeline, on top of his desk.

  “Ryan.”

  Anna watched his face transform into a forbidding expression.

  “Right. No, don’t do that, I’ll come and pick him up.”

  He jabbed a finger to end the call.

  “Damn!”

  “What is it?” she asked worriedly. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s Frank. He’s been taken into custody for GBH on Jimmy Moffa. They’ve got him inside a squad car parked outside the All American Diner.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “What on earth was he doing there?”

  Ryan shrugged into his jacket and waved goodbye to any prospect of sleep in the near future.

  “That’s a very good question.”

  He started to make for the door, stopped, then doubled back to bestow a lingering kiss.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “There’ll be staff on site here throughout the night—I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  She watched his long legs eat up the floor and a moment later he was gone.

  CHAPTER 15

  Edwards looked inside the room where MacKenzie slept soundly and was satisfied that the barbiturates he’d sprinkled into her water had served their purpose. She was in no fit state to run very far, but the sedative would serve as an added precaution.

  So peaceful, he thought.

  He stared at her for a while and felt lethal, like a cocked rifle ready to discharge. His hands began to shake with the effort of holding back, when he could so easily see her blood soaking into the mattress as life drained from her body.

  No, he warned himself. Not yet.

  He forced himself back from the brink but it left him feeling restless and dissatisfied. It would be imprudent to kill another one tonight because the streets would be rife with uniforms and they’d likely trace the car soon enough and start making connections. Even the mentally challenged rejects down at Northumbria CID would eventually begin to add the corresponding numbers together to make four.