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

by LJ Ross

  Lowerson looked up from his desk when the scent of baked cheese carried across the room, sniffing the air like a hungry wolf.

  “Did you order a veggie pizza?”

  Ryan gave him a pitying glance from his position a couple of desks over.

  “Jack, we’ve been through this before. Can I help it if you refuse to eat normally?”

  Lowerson rolled his eyes.

  “Let me rephrase the question. Which pizza has the least meat on it, so I can pick it off?”

  Ryan pointed towards a small margherita he’d kept apart from the others.

  “Only joking, kiddo. I know how much you care about the cute little animals.”

  Lowerson’s face lit up and he shovelled half a slice into his mouth, chewing blissfully while his arteries clogged with cholesterol.

  “If I die, I’ll die happy,” he muttered.

  “What’s that?”

  “Never mind. Where are we?”

  Ryan leaned back in his desk chair and ran both hands through his mop of black hair, in an automatic gesture while he ordered his mind.

  “Phillips is going to stay with us for a while.” He decided to begin with the most recent emergency and work backward. “He’s going to look after Anna.”

  “Or is she going to look after him?”

  Lowerson reached for another slice of pizza.

  “Let’s say it’s an even exchange,” Ryan admitted, lowering his voice a fraction. “I’ve left them with copies of the files to look over. I want to know about any locations Edwards mentioned in his statements over the years, including all past addresses. We already know about his old house in Jesmond, but I want to go back—all the way back—to see where else he has roots.”

  “Mmmffh,” Lowerson agreed.

  “Faulkner has sent through the forensics report,” Ryan continued. “He confirms the Toyota that was abandoned on the Quayside had been driven by Edwards and that spots of MacKenzie’s blood were found in the boot space. They found mud on the tyres, which they’re analysing as a priority to see if it can tell us anything about where he’s been, or where he might still be hiding. How are you getting along with tracing his new vehicle?”

  Lowerson gargled with full-fat coke and dug his heels into the carpet to propel his desk chair across the short gap between his desk and Ryan’s.

  “First of all, you were right about the CCTV overlooking the car park at Wharf Square. It went offline from 01:17 this morning,” he paused to check the clock on the wall and was relieved to see that it was still Tuesday. “Yes, in the early hours of this morning. We can make an educated guess that Edwards was responsible for that—”

  “Sounds like another one of those coincidences,” Ryan put in.

  “Yeah, it is. But get this, we’ve traced the registered owners of every car that was sitting in the parking bays before then and all of them are in possession of their vehicles—except one.”

  Ryan just smiled, letting Lowerson have his moment.

  “Please tell me Edwards is swanning around in a battered old three-wheeler, like Del Boy.”

  “No such luck. The missing car is a metallic grey Mercedes sports coupé—”

  “Sounds similar to mine,” Ryan observed. “He must have been delighted to find that.”

  Lowerson cleared this throat awkwardly.

  “It’s actually the same car as yours, guv, except it’s a newer model.”

  Ryan lifted his chin.

  “Not all of us are concerned with keeping up with the Joneses,” he said, in dignified tones. “How far have you traced it?”

  Lowerson flipped the page of his notebook.

  “Here’s the interesting part. We’ve got it travelling through the city centre and along the West Road until it joined the A69 at 01:32. The last sighting we have is just before the slip-road that would take you to the airport, and we know it didn’t come off the motorway at that point, which means it must have travelled further along the A69. We also know it didn’t go as far as Hexham or even Corbridge because there’s no footage outside either town. You know what that means?”

  Ryan knew exactly what it meant, but he didn’t want to ruin Lowerson’s flow.

  “Tell me.”

  “It means that the Mercedes would have come to the Styford Roundabout at some point on his journey and benefited from the same lack of recording devices as before.”

  Ryan steepled his index fingers and rested them against his lips.

  “It has to be Edwards, following the same route back to whatever rock he’s been hiding under for the past week. I want every police officer in the North East to be on alert for that vehicle, or vehicles matching the same description, if not the same number plate. Get a description out to the press and tell them to offer a reward for anybody who can offer a genuine sighting of that Mercedes.”

  “Already done,” Lowerson said, a bit smugly.

  “Then go back over all the footage on the roads leading from the Styford Roundabout during the relevant timescale when MacKenzie was taken. We didn’t have a chance before, but now we know that Edwards exchanged her red Fiesta for a dark blue Toyota. Hundreds of possibilities just got whittled down to one.”

  “The analysts are going over it now.” Lowerson nodded towards a small group of three crime analysts with their noses pressed to the screens of their respective computers, rolling through hours of CCTV footage. “They’ll let us know the moment they spot it, then we’ll know the direction and—hopefully—the destination it was headed.”

  “Good. Good,” Ryan repeated, thinking of the million other plates he had spinning in the air. “I heard from Pinter, down at the mortuary. He’s sent through an updated report on Beth Finnegan’s post-mortem but I’d advise you to digest your pizza before reading it.”

  Lowerson had a flash memory of Bethany’s headless body and felt cheesy tomato repeat on him.

  “How about her mother?”

  Ryan rubbed the heels of his hands against itchy, bloodshot eyes.

  “Devastated,” he said shortly, not wanting to think back to that painful conversation. Of all the people he had met, he would remember Kelly Finnegan as one of the strongest, as well as the most vulnerable.

  Lowerson rubbed his hands on a paper napkin, feeling at a loss.

  “I spoke to the Solicitors Regulation Authority,” Ryan changed the subject. “I’ve asked them for a complete list of Elaine Hoffman-Smith’s clients, aside from The Hacker. They won’t agree to send it without an appropriate warrant, which I’ve already put in motion. With any luck, we’ll have a magistrate sign it off first thing tomorrow. After then, we’ll be able to confirm whether Jimmy Moffa and Keir Edwards shared the same solicitor. If they did, I’ll be asking for copies of all communications. If Frank is right, she was the one who put the two of them in contact and passed messages between them.”

  Lowerson nodded thoughtfully, thinking back to the woman he had interviewed that very morning, which felt like a lifetime ago now.

  “Yes, I think she would be capable of that.”

  “If she was, she’s responsible for facilitating the deaths of—” Ryan caught himself before saying two women. “At least one woman, since Edwards broke free.”

  “He could be out there now, killing another one.” Lowerson turned towards the window.

  Ryan followed the direction of his gaze and saw their tired faces reflected in the darkened glass. He looked away and began to call up the next document on his screen, this time a summary from one of the reader-receivers containing a log of telephone calls received following a Crimestoppers reconstruction that had aired on national television a couple of days earlier.

  “Whoever it is, they don’t deserve what’s about to happen to them.”

  * * *

  Jimmy Moffa employed a daily housekeeper called Irene, who began work just before seven a.m. so that she could be on hand to prepare a healthy breakfast and take care of his immediate needs. She stayed all day to ensure the house was kept to his exact
ing standards of cleanliness and then departed in her three-door Mazda on the dot of four-thirty, in time to miss the traffic on her way home. Irene was a woman in her mid-fifties with a sharp eye for dust and grime and a selective eye for all other things. If Jimmy’s clothes were often stained with blood, she reasoned that he must have been walking through a rough area of town. She tutted and fussed and baked pies that he never ate but enjoyed having for their homely scent. She chose to deceive herself about the true nature of her employer’s business in exchange for the generous wages he paid and she slept like a baby every night.

  Irene was the only person granted entry into Moffa’s home, except on very special occasions. His bodyguards were required to sit or stand outside the exterior doors. On their first day at work, he walked them through the house so that they knew its layout and where to come running in case of an emergency but, for the most part, he relied on high-spec radio devices to communicate with them. Moffa kept his home and his business strictly separate and all negotiations or meetings were conducted at the All American Diner, never inside the suburban bubble he had created for himself. Jimmy’s reputation was so fearsome that nobody had ever tried to gain access to his home, so he had never lived to regret the lack of security inside his house, or his own complacency.

  Until now.

  When his driver-cum-bodyguard took up his position beside the front door, Moffa was tempted to break his own rule and ask Tony to come inside and hover around somewhere within shouting distance. But to do so would mean losing face in front of Edwards, who was leaning against one of the pillars and watching him with growing amusement in his enigmatic black eyes.

  “Shall we?” Edwards motioned towards the front doors, which were polished oak with grandiose plaster pillars and had miniature potted conifers to either side. “Or did you forget your key, sweetheart?”

  “I’m wondering whether you’re worth the effort,” Moffa replied, with an air of challenge.

  Edwards merely smiled.

  “I’ll leave that for you to decide.”

  Meanwhile, Tony was sweating inside his new suit as he watched their exchange. He was painfully aware of the fact that he was way, way out of his depth. What had started out as a temporary gig—just something well paid to tide him over—was spiralling into a nightmare beyond his control and Phillips’ words replayed in his head.

  What would your da’ say, if he could see you now?

  Tony swallowed and tugged at the collar of his shirt, wishing fervently that he hadn’t lied about his past exploits to get the job in the first place.

  “Ah, Mr Moffa?”

  “What?”

  “I, ah,” his eyes darted across to where Edwards watched him like a spider. “Do you need me to stay all night?”

  Edwards laughed heartily and pursed his lips.

  “I’m not as young as I used to be,” he admitted. “But I’m sure I could give it a go.”

  Moffa ignored him, feeling like the butt of a private joke.

  “He’ll be leaving in a couple of hours,” he replied, tersely. “I expect you to drive Mr Edwards back to his car. Stay here until then and let me know immediately if anybody approaches or if you hear from the boys at The Diner. Rory is around the back and Kieron is on the side gate. You’re not alone,” he lied, keeping one eye on the man who listened intently.

  Tony felt much better. The Hacker might be one of the country’s most dangerous men but nobody had ever said he was stupid and he wouldn’t try anything when the odds were stacked against him, four to one. But Moffa turned away with a sick feeling in his stomach because he knew that Rory and Kieron weren’t manning the doors tonight at all. They were probably sitting in front of their television sets without a care in the world as they enjoyed a night off.

  It was time to roll the dice and see where they fell.

  CHAPTER 18

  An hour passed slowly for Tony, who stood shivering beneath the glow of a faux nineteenth-century gas lamp outside Moffa’s lavish front door. April was a cold month in the North of England and the night air billowed against his bulky frame, whipping roses into his cheeks so that he appeared much younger than his years. He’d forgotten to bring an overcoat and gazed longingly at the Porsche sitting on the driveway, imagining the warm gust of a heated air conditioning system, but he daren’t risk leaving his post. One of the other guards might wander around the house, grass him up and that would be the end of that.

  Funny that he hadn’t heard them talking on the radio, he thought suddenly, and tapped the earpiece tucked around his left earlobe.

  There was no sound from the other guards, but Moffa’s broad Mancunian accent carried clearly through the airwaves. Tony tried not to focus on the words but on the tone. So long as Jimmy sounded happy enough, he wasn’t needed. He didn’t want to focus on the details of Moffa’s conversation with Keir Edwards, for the same reason that he didn’t particularly want to hear about anybody else’s sex life; it was like listening to his parents going at it or, worse still, his grandparents. Everybody knew it happened but the least said about it, the better for all concerned.

  Tony winced as the conversation became more explicit and he felt like the worst kind of voyeur. He was starting to wonder if there was a volume control on his earpiece, when the voices stopped.

  Just like that.

  Tony tapped his earpiece again and wondered if there was a problem, caught in an agony of indecision. Jimmy had made it very clear that the house was out of bounds unless there was an absolute emergency.

  Was this an emergency?

  His boss might have turned off his radio communicator so that he could enjoy some private time with his guest. It would be mortifying if he barged inside the house and interrupted them. It would be the end of his career and who knows what else Jimmy might inflict as punishment for his stupidity?

  On the other hand, Keir Edwards was a serial killer.

  Killer being the operative word.

  Tony picked up his heels and jogged around the side of the house to seek advice from the other guards, feet crunching against the gravel. Bright, motion-sensor spotlights flickered on as he moved, shining through the windows of the shadowed house and helping to pinpoint his location to anybody who might be watching from the interior.

  He rounded the back of the house and skidded to a halt. The wide, semi-circular terrace was completely in darkness except for a weak, greenish-yellow glow from three more old-fashioned lamps that served as a design feature rather than an effective light source. Solar-powered lighting dotted the expansive lawn and he could see low-lying mist swirling over the grass as night dragged into a new day, but he couldn’t see any other security guards. The chair positioned beside the rear patio doors where Rory should have been sitting was empty and there was no sign of Kieron manning the side gate.

  Tony’s stomach lurched and he stood there for a moment, frozen.

  Should he go into the house to help his boss? Something was very, very wrong and there was still no sound from the radio in his ear.

  His body made the decision before his brain caught up, and his feet edged backward. With panting breaths, he turned and sprinted back around to the front of the house, towards the car sitting on the driveway ready to take him back to safety. The lights flamed into life again as he flew across the ground and grasped the door handle. He cast furtive glances behind him, at the big oak doors with their ridiculous knockers in the shape of golf sticks and felt a moment’s guilt at the prospect of abandoning Jimmy to his fate.

  Then it was overtaken by a much stronger survival instinct.

  He wrenched open the car door and threw himself inside, slamming it behind him and fumbling with the interior locks. He risked another glance towards the house and was relieved to see that nobody had come to stop him.

  He reached down to grasp the ignition key but his fingers clawed the air instead.

  “Wha—?”

  He caught a flash of movement in the rear-view mirror but it was already too late.
The blade sliced a clean arc from ear-to-ear, severing his jugular and blood began to pump from his neck in an ocean of red, staining the cream leather seats.

  * * *

  PC Paul Cox had been a dispatcher at the Northumbria Constabulary Control Room for nearly three years and he was growing weary of the monotony. It went against his natural circadian rhythms to be up so late at night and he was seriously considering putting in for a transfer. His wife was expecting their first child and he didn’t want to be working such unsociable hours, dealing with the dregs of society, when he could be at home with her and their new bundle. He smiled at the prospect, then his face fell as an alert came through from one of the local alarm monitoring centres.

  He recognised the address of the so-called emergency straight away. It was the fourth time this year that Jimmy Moffa had cried wolf, just because he enjoyed seeing hardworking police officers running around after him.

  Sick bastard.

  Well, not this time, Paul decided. Three false alarms and the official guidelines permitted him to refuse a police response, and that’s exactly what he was going to do.

  With a superior smirk, he moved on to the next emergency.

  * * *

  MacKenzie had developed hearing like a bat over the past seven days spent in captivity. The instant she heard Edwards’ soft tread on the grass outside the front door, she sat bolt upright and moved quietly to the bedroom window. She stood with her back flush to the wall and inched forward so that she could peer through the tiny gap. It was dark outside and the moon was hidden behind a blanket of thick cloud, providing little relief.

  Even in the darkness, she knew that he had sensed her watching him.

  “Hello, Ruth,” he called up to the window, and she plastered herself back against the wall, angry to have been found out so quickly. “Have you missed me?”

  She heard his soft laughter carrying on the night air, then the jingle of a key turning in the lock downstairs. A moment later, the front door slammed and she squeezed her eyes shut, listening for the sound of his tread on the staircase. There hadn’t been enough time to recover her strength, she thought desperately, but she hurried into position anyway.