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

by LJ Ross

  Which was why he needed to tie up some loose ends tonight.

  But not before making a quick search of MacKenzie’s bedroom. There weren’t many places to hide weapons in the barren space, but he expected her to be resourceful. She had tried stabbing him, knocking him out and running away, none of which had worked so far. That didn’t mean she had given up trying to find new, increasingly innovative ways to escape—not that he minded that. If it came to it, he much preferred his targets to make him give chase, because there was nothing remotely exciting about having one’s prey already cooped up and ready to eat.

  Aha!

  When he dipped his head to look beneath the bed he was amused to find a rudimentary splint, consisting of strips of wood held together by the stained elastic covering torn from the edge of the mattress. He held it up and assumed she used it to support her broken ribs. They were probably painful, he thought, without much interest.

  Should he confiscate the splint?

  She should know better than to try to cheat him, but perhaps it would be more diverting to let her go on believing that she had outwitted him.

  He left her sleeping and headed out into the silent night, to hunt.

  * * *

  Jimmy Moffa wore the most elaborate head bandage Ryan had seen since he had visited the Ancient Egypt exhibition at the British Museum a few years ago. The man could give King Tut a run for his money, judging by the yards of clinical strapping tape wound around his head, no doubt to ham up the extent of his injuries. Ryan drove the car slowly past the entrance and watched in utter dismay as Moffa was led from the All American Diner by his greasy solicitor—who had probably hot-footed it down there faster than you could say ‘ambulance chaser’.

  “Bloody hell,” Ryan muttered, as he recognised two local news hacks running up the street with hungry looks in their eyes. “That’s all we need.”

  Lowerson grunted his agreement from the passenger seat of Ryan’s car and glumly observed another local patrol car arriving, alongside more passers-by and media.

  “What was Frank thinking, coming down here on his own?”

  Ryan gave up trying to find a legal parking space and swerved up onto the pavement, flipping on his hazard lights.

  “God only knows,” he replied, as they opened their doors and made for the circus developing nearby. “He must think that Moffa is responsible for backing Edwards’ escape.”

  “I thought the Hayworths refused to confirm or deny who threatened them,” Lowerson panted a little trying to keep up with Ryan’s long strides as they rounded the corner.

  “That’s right. But Phillips went off and did his own detective work this evening and something obviously turned up to lead him down here.”

  “He should have come to us, rather than charging in like a bull in a china shop.”

  Ryan stopped just before they turned the corner and gave Lowerson a hard stare.

  “I seem to remember a time, not so long ago, when you went into a dangerous situation guns blazing and without proper back-up. You were in a coma for months afterward, but nobody crowed about it when you woke up. We were all happy to have you back because that’s all that mattered.”

  Lowerson had the grace to look away.

  “We’re only human, Jack, especially where our loved ones are concerned. Just remember that.”

  “I—”

  Lowerson found himself talking to Ryan’s back because a moment later he was striding off again to face down the people who sought to tear down everything he had built.

  * * *

  “Chief Inspector Ryan!”

  He ignored the jostles and shouts from the local media, blinking as a camera flashed in his face. In reflex, he swiped out a hand and managed to snag its strap from the intrepid reporter’s neck, where it fell to the concrete floor and shattered.

  “Hey! That’s private property!”

  Ryan stared down his nose and smiled wolfishly.

  “Oops,” he said.

  He ignored the stream of verbal abuse which followed and barged his way through the crowd until he found the blue and white police barrier, behind which there stood a young and slightly harried-looking police constable from Tyne and Wear Area Command.

  Ryan produced his warrant card and checked that Lowerson had caught him up.

  “DCI Ryan and DC Lowerson, Northumbria CID,” he said, dipping beneath the barrier. “Where’s your commanding officer?”

  The constable pointed them inside The Diner, where they found a woman they recognised as one of the local sergeants talking to a thick-skulled bouncer with another enormous bandage hanging from the side of his face.

  “Aye, he was totally out of control,” they heard him say. “Turned up at the door effin’ and blindin’, proper rude like, all up in my face.”

  “Do you remember precisely what was said?”

  The bouncer nodded vigorously.

  “Aye, no bother. Well, I said something like, ‘Good evening, sir,’ and he started ranting and raving. Called me a twat, or something like that,” his eyes frittered away, up and to the left while he fabricated the next part of the story. “I tried to be polite, right, an’ I told him he sounded drunk and should probably head home, like.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, making a cursory note on her pad. “Then what?”

  “He just came for me, like, out of nowhere. Just thumped the side of my head and left me for dead,” the bouncer finished, with dramatic effect.

  Ryan waited until the man loped off before cornering the sergeant.

  “DS Thomas?”

  She turned to him with tired brown eyes, which brightened immeasurably when she spotted who had arrived. Lowerson watched her reaction with long-suffering acceptance and thought that, if he didn’t like the man so much, he might resent being consigned to the role of Ryan’s ‘less attractive wingman’. Some of his colleagues had begun to call it the ‘Ryan Effect’, but the man himself seemed totally unaware of the impact he had on people, which was probably for the best.

  “Yes. And you’re DCI Ryan,” she held out a hand and wished she’d had time to run a brush through her hair.

  “What happened here? All I’ve heard is my sergeant was involved in some kind of minor incident—”

  She snorted inelegantly.

  “I don’t know where you got your information but it’s not minor from where I’m standing. I’ve got four waiting staff and over twenty diners who confirm that your pal forced his way inside after flooring that hapless-looking bloke back there,” she nodded towards the bouncer who was now talking to Moffa, bowing his head like a Labrador about to have his belly rubbed.

  “He must have been provoked,” Ryan insisted, raking his gaze over them both with contempt.

  “Phillips admits to knocking him unconscious after being denied entry,” she said, in a tone that invited him to argue at his peril.

  Ryan’s lips firmed.

  “He must have had a good reason.”

  “That’s not for me to say,” she pointed out, fairly.

  “I know one thing for certain. Phillips is never, ever drunk on the job, so that bouncer is full of it.”

  DS Thomas told herself to remain patient in the face of six feet two inches of angry male, particularly one used to being in command.

  “I already know your sergeant is sober,” she was casual, but firm. “Do you think I came in on the banana boat? We breathalysed him early doors, and there wasn’t so much as a whiff of booze.”

  Ryan was relieved to hear it.

  “Alright. What’s Moffa’s valuable contribution to all this?”

  She smiled, appreciating his humour.

  “He claims that Phillips accosted the doorman outside his office and then entered shortly afterward, threatening to inflict bodily harm if he didn’t admit to being involved in the escape of Keir Edwards and abduction of DI MacKenzie.”

  “Which Moffa denies?” Lowerson asked, and she nodded.

  “Profusely. He claims that Phillips is a
man on the edge and was seeking revenge for perceived injustices of the past. He’s a cool one,” she added, thinking of those unnerving blue eyes. “Moffa says he told Phillips outright he wasn’t involved and advised him to go home to sleep it off, otherwise he would call the police. He says Phillips just lunged for him, upset the desk and hit him around the head with a glass tumbler.”

  “Frank wouldn’t do that,” Lowerson burst out.

  Thomas shrugged.

  “Phillips has a bloody hand which he admits came from cutting it on the same glass tumbler, but he says Moffa forced the glass into his hand and then used it to whack himself around the head. Sounds far-fetched, if you ask me,” she finished.

  “If he says that’s what happened, then it did,” Ryan retorted.

  “We’ll check out the swabs, any CCTV, and piece things together.”

  “I’m giving you my word,” Ryan said quietly, and she had to admit his voice was compelling. “There’s another side to this. The CCTV will show who threw the first punch, I’m sure of it.”

  She swallowed.

  “Look, I’ve told you we’ll be looking at any footage. Until then, all I have is one hell of a spectacle, which it’s getting bigger all the time.”

  They followed the direction of her gaze and watched as Jimmy Moffa was led, hobbling and clutching at his bandage for the benefit of the paparazzi, towards a black Porsche Cayenne.

  Ryan’s whipped back around.

  “You’re letting him go?”

  DS Thomas gave him a warning look.

  “I’ve taken a statement from Mr Moffa and he has seen a medic. He’s free to go home, subject to his voluntary attendance at an interview tomorrow morning. If you want to speak to his solicitor, he’s still hanging around somewhere.”

  Ryan wished it didn’t sound so damn reasonable.

  “Where?”

  She scanned the crowd outside and eventually nodded towards a portly man in a three-piece suit with a mop of blonde hair falling across his forehead in a foppish style that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a BBC period drama.

  “I might have guessed,” Ryan said, and shook her hand again. “There must be more to this,” he started to say again, but she interrupted him with another mild, knowing smile.

  “I wasn’t born yesterday. Moffa’s on our radar and we’ll be taking everything he says with a massive dose of salt.”

  Ryan told himself to be content with that, for now. He thanked her and motioned Lowerson in the direction of Moffa’s solicitor, who was holding court with several prominent journalists, his rounded baritone projecting out into the night air as if he were on stage at the Royal Albert Hall and not a street corner in Newcastle City Centre.

  “It would be unwise for me to pass any comment at this stage of an active investigation,” he said in a serious tone to be expected of legitimate legal counsel. “Except to say that my client, James Moffa, has asked me to convey his sympathy to Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips, who he considers to be deeply unwell following the sad news of his girlfriend’s abduction, which has been widely publicised. He, like all of us, wishes and prays for her safe return.”

  He paused, to ensure they had made a good note of his soundbite.

  “However, Mr Moffa’s sympathy does not extend to forgiving unprovoked attacks on his person and his staff, at his place of business. It is behaviour unbecoming of a detective sergeant of experience and rank, and Mr Moffa is fortunate not to have sustained more serious injuries. As it is, he is being driven directly to the hospital to have stitches.”

  He held up both hands theatrically, fending off any more questions.

  “Really, that’s all I can say,” he began to walk towards his own chauffeured car, where Ryan was waiting with a sneer and a slow clap.

  “Ever thought of changing profession? You deserve an Oscar, after that little performance.”

  “Detective Ryan—”

  “Chief Inspector,” he corrected.

  “Whatever. Get out of my way.”

  “I’d like to ask you some questions. Here, or at your office, it makes no difference to me.”

  The man started to reach for the door of the dark Audi but Ryan put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  “Careful, inspector,” the solicitor warned him. “You’ll end up being sued alongside your mate.”

  “I want your name,” Ryan ground out.

  “Why? Do you think you’ll be needing representation?”

  The solicitor chuckled and produced a heavy cream business card, thrusting it into Ryan’s hand. A minute later, he and the car were gone, speeding off into the night.

  Lowerson stumbled through the crowd to where Ryan stood, tall and commanding amid the throng.

  “Well? What did he say?”

  “The usual,” he replied, tapping the card against his palm. “But look at the name of his firm, Jack.”

  Lowerson took the card and glanced down at the fancy gold-embossed lettering on the front.

  “What a coincidence that a notorious gangster and a prolific serial killer share the same firm of solicitors.”

  “What do I always say about coincidences, Jack?”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Edwards leaned back against the bonnet of his newly acquired car and watched the moon shining in the heavens. It dwarfed the people and houses far beneath who continued their ephemeral lives, watching television and talking about the latest celebrity gossip as if any of it mattered. He cast his eyes upward, past the cloudy ring of light pollution above the city, higher and higher, hoping that somebody would be watching him.

  “Talk to me,” he commanded, closing his eyes to blot out the sound of mankind, hoping that it would be replaced by something ethereal and beautiful.

  But, as always, there was a deafening silence.

  He opened his eyes and considered the sky again, resplendent with stars. Pegasus and Ursa Major dominated and he was reminded of a time, long ago, when he had been gifted a telescope. What had been his most prized possession was forever lost to him now, hidden beneath the earth by years of dirt and overgrowth.

  He wouldn’t think about that now.

  All those massive burning balls of gas were named after mythical gods to inspire awe in ordinary, simple-minded people. One day, his name might join theirs, alongside Hercules and Jupiter. The Hacker would shine its fiery white light and the people would stand in awe of it. They would speak of the man who had risen above ordinary men.

  He heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle and spotted the glimmer of headlights along the single-track lane. Quickly, he retrieved his rifle and melted into the shadow of a tree until he could see the car and its driver. When the familiar lines of a black Porsche Cayenne came into view, he lowered the rifle and emerged back into the moonlight.

  * * *

  Jimmy Moffa would have preferred an army of heavyweights to accompany him to meet a man like Edwards but he was suffering a temporary staffing problem made worse by the fact that his right-hand man was taking a necessary leave of absence from the public eye. The young lad standing in his place looked the part, with a scar running across his neck and thick, gym-honed muscles after six years of boxing at one of the best rings in the city. However, Tony’s scar came from a childhood fall and he was yet to prove himself a fighter outside the ring, judging by his failure to put down Frank Phillips earlier. In the ordinary way of things, Tony would have been given his marching orders after that display.

  But good men were hard to come by and he needed somebody he could mould into the kind of creature he wanted. One thing that could certainly be said of Tony was that he wasn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the box, so he had high hopes that it wouldn’t take too long to train him.

  “Door,” he ordered.

  Tony jumped down from the driver’s seat to open his master’s door without needing to be told twice and Moffa stepped down from the back seat of his car, motioning for his driver-cum-bodyguar
d to follow him.

  “You’re late,” Edwards remarked, resting the rifle in the crook of his arm.

  “You’re a fugitive,” Moffa replied, as his feet squelched in the mud underfoot. “Put the rifle on the floor.”

  Edwards tapped his hand against the butt.

  “I don’t want to get it dirty,” he said.

  “Tony.”

  The bodyguard nodded and reached into his breast pocket for a smaller handgun, which he held awkwardly in his sweaty palm.

  “Don’t forget to take the safety off,” Edwards advised him.

  Moffa’s jaw hardened and the whites of his eyes gleamed.

  “You’ve caused quite a stir.”

  “I’m nothing if not flamboyant,” Edwards agreed. “What happened to your head?”

  Moffa swore viciously and stripped away the excess bandages, leaving only a small square surgical plaster to cover the butterfly stitches on his scalp.

  “Evasive measures,” he explained. “I had an unexpected visit from Ryan’s lapdog this evening.”

  “Phillips?”

  Moffa inclined his head.

  “He wants to know where you are.”

  Edwards’ face registered no emotion whatsoever but his mind came to an immediate decision. If the police were on to Moffa, dominoes would start to fall and it was too soon for that. There was no loyalty between them and nothing to secure his position other than the promise of money which he was in no position to fulfil. It was a precarious situation, whichever way he looked at it.

  “What did you tell him?”

  Moffa laughed, and it was a rusty, grating sound.

  “I don’t know nothing, guv,” Moffa parodied. “That was my end of the bargain. Transportation, supplies and silence. In exchange, you would finish Ryan and provide full payment for services rendered, at a heavy discount, I might add.”