Sycamore Gap: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 2)

by LJ Ross

  SYCAMORE GAP

  – A DCI RYAN MYSTERY

  By LJ Ross

  Copyright © LJ Ross 2015

  The right of LJ Ross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Cover photograph copyright © Roger Clegg Photography

  Cover design copyright © LJ Ross

  Other books by LJ Ross

  Holy Island

  For my Mum and Dad, with love always

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “The soul that has conceived one wickedness can nurse no good thereafter.”

  ~ Sophocles

  PROLOGUE

  Tuesday, June 21st 2005 – The Summer Solstice

  A large sycamore tree grew in the dip of the valley. It stood proudly silhouetted against the last light of day, which burned fiery amber red in the sky beyond. The landscape around it was dramatic and old; the Roman wall cut through the hillside, over the peaks and troughs, over sharp crags and soft peat. The dimming light cast long, hazy rays over the fields and, transfixed by its beauty, Amy did not hear the quiet tread of footsteps approaching until he was almost upon her.

  “Worth the visit?”

  She jumped like a startled rabbit.

  “Y – yes, it’s lovely,” she admitted, trying to slow her racing heart. “It’ll be dark soon, though, won’t it?”

  “I know the way back,” he murmured.

  “I’m a little tired,” she said. “I’d rather head back now.”

  “Why such a rush?” He reached out to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “I remember when you wanted to spend all your time with me.”

  She knew that what he said was true. Once, she had been so enamoured with him, so blinded by a foolish emotion she had mistaken for love that she would have done anything to be with him. Looking with fresh eyes, she struggled to recall what she had ever seen in him.

  Mistaking her regard, he leaned forward suddenly as if to kiss her. Automatically, she stepped away, holding both hands outwards to prevent him from coming any closer.

  His features contorted, turning his bright white smile into a snarl, eyes glinting in a shadowed face.

  “Bitch,” he growled.

  Strong hands reached for her, yanking her against him. Frantically, she struggled, finally seeing the real man she had begun to suspect lay beneath the affable social exterior.

  “Please,” she said brokenly. “You’re hurting me!”

  She shook her head and began to struggle again, but he pinned her like a butterfly. Her cheek hit a solid wall of muscle beneath his all-weather coat and his arms banded around her so that she could hardly move.

  “I’m sorry,” she began to sob, hating herself for the weakness. “Please. Let’s try to be friends.”

  His arms tightened painfully against her ribcage and the breath shuddered through his body as her words penetrated.

  “You’re all the same,” he rasped, the air blowing hotly against her temple. “I gave you everything. My time. My energy. Everything.”

  “You – you’ll find someone better,” she said desperately.

  He began to laugh, the sound of it unbearably loud in the surrounding silence.

  “You’re mad,” she whispered, and he let go of her so suddenly that she almost fell, her legs as flimsy as jelly through a combination of exhaustion and fear.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

  There was a short, tense silence. Recognising the danger, she turned to run, but he was faster. His arm shot out to grab her wrist and pull her back. The force of the motion was so strong that her body twisted and the delicate bone in her wrist broke with an almost audible ‘snap’.

  She cried out in pain but instinct set in. She fought him with a strength borne from terror, scratching and kicking until she caught him full force in the stomach. He doubled over and she took her chance. She made for the tree, her mind working quickly. Her broken wrist dangled uselessly beside her as she flew across the uneven ground and her eyes strained to find a pathway in the darkness. She heard his harsh breathing somewhere not far behind and knew that she would not be able to escape him without a fight.

  Reaching the wall, she flung herself over it and crawled one-armed under the fold of the tree. Crouched beneath it, she tugged at the stones of the wall, tearing the skin along her fingers until one came free. She held it tightly in her good hand, ready to use it as a weapon.

  He was close, now.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he called out, chuckling softly. She shivered at the sound of it, her body trembling badly.

  She rose to her feet and plastered herself against the trunk of the tree while she watched him creep over the wall to her left, nothing more than a silent, inky shadow.

  “There you are,” he crooned, lunging towards her.

  With everything she had left, she swung the rock towards him and heard it connect. He faltered, but her aim had been off. He was much taller and she had missed his head by a good few inches.

  She tried again, but he had her now and the stone thudded hopelessly to the floor.

  They wrestled, but he was so strong. After a brief, hard tussle, her body fell back against the ground and winded her, giving him the opportunity he needed.

  “Little … bitch …” he enunciated the words in time to the sound of her head cracking against the rocky floor and finally he felt her body jitter, then go limp beneath him. The rush of warm blood from the gash on her skull ran over his fingers and he enjoyed the novelty of it, holding out his hand in wonder. There was a momentary feeling of panic and he pressed two shaking fingers to the side of her neck. The skin there was still warm, but there was no fluttering pulse.

  The enormity of what he had done surged through his body, the heady feeling of power swamping him so that he needed to rest awhile against the side of the wall to catch his breath. He watched the final descent of the sun against the horizon and felt reborn, like a caged bird finally set free.

  He stood up to check that they were still alone and then considered his options. He could carry her to the lake and dump her in there, but that would be an arduous journey with her added weight. Likewise, it was too far to carry her back to his car and there was more chance of him being noticed. He supposed he could bury her somewhere, but he had not brought the tools to dig.

>   His eye fell on the wall where she had dislodged the stones, then back to where Amy lay motionless. He was wearing gloves but he wondered about the rest. She did not carry a backpack, so he searched her pockets and removed any identifying articles. It might buy him some time, once her body was discovered.

  If it was discovered.

  A while later, he climbed the hill and surveyed the gap with its tree in the middle. The wall looked exactly as it always had: timeless and immoveable.

  He turned away, melting into the darkness.

  * * *

  A little further over the brow of the hill, a bonfire burned tall and bright and its smoke billowed into the night sky. Around it, men and women danced, their bodies pliant and their minds intoxicated. A man wearing a long animal pelt threw his hands aloft and chanted, calling to his Master. The circle swayed and followed his call.

  One of their circle was missing, a fact which had not gone unnoticed.

  CHAPTER 1

  Sunday, June 21th 2015 – The Summer Solstice

  It was a perfect day for walking. The morning had broken and washed the sky in technicolour; palest lemon blending into brazen orange and deep, dark ochre. Wispy clouds scattered here and there but, for the most part, the day was clear and the air was crisp.

  Colin Hart had been up well before the sun had risen, allowing himself enough time to hike the trail and to enjoy the view from the top of the fells. He had been to this special corner of the world before, but the beauty of it never aged. The landscape undulated all around him, old as time and scarred only by the presence of the long, stone wall built by Hadrian.

  Alone, he stood a little longer appreciating the scenery and took a sip of water from his flask before tucking it safely back into its specialist holder. He checked the laces on his top-of-the-range hiking boots. Satisfied that all was in order, he turned away from the hypnotic sun and continued to walk along the track, which ran beside Hadrian’s Wall from the Roman fort of Housesteads in a westerly direction all the way into Cumbria. He knew that a lot of visitors probably walked on top of those ancient stones, unable to resist the allure, but he was someone who went by the book. What would happen if everyone flouted the rules? The stones would crumble away to nothing and there wouldn’t be anything left for the next generation to enjoy. That’s what would happen, he thought righteously.

  He continued to meander along the worn trail, idly wondering how many centurions had stomped the ground before him. Sprigs of lavender sprouted from the gaps in the stones and clumps of heather bloomed purple, infusing the air with their scent. Tiny white flowers had risen beside the pathway and he wondered how they had found their way to this remote spot. He enjoyed the feel of his lungs labouring as he walked the inclines and felt the momentary fear of falling as he traversed the dips. Eventually, he slowed and came to rest under a large, leafy sycamore tree whose roots had grown thick and strong. He fished out a postcard with an artsy photograph taken of this very place and was content.

  Colin shifted his backpack and shuffled down to rest against the side of the wall. Under the shade of the tree, he looked out across the valley and thought about the errands he had yet to do when he returned home, mostly for his mother. He shifted uncomfortably and rubbed at the back of his neck. The stones were sharper than they looked. Unable to find comfort, he half rose, intending to move further away, when his eye caught sight of something shiny. Intrigued, he pushed his face closer to the wall and wished for more light.

  His prayers were answered as the morning came to life at that moment. Sunlight washed over the wall and he saw it fully then, the glint of silver between the cracks.

  Excited now, he began to tug at the stones and then froze guiltily. He shouldn’t be tampering with the wall, like this. It wasn’t right.

  But the silver winked at him.

  All hesitation forgotten, he put his weight behind the stones until the first one began to shift and give way. Emboldened, he started on another, then another …

  His hands covered in dust and chalk, he simply fell backwards and stared at the hole he had made in the wall and, beyond that, to what lay in its cavity. A silver bracelet, mostly dulled with age, hung loosely from the wrist of what was once a person. Now, all that remained was a pile of desiccated bones, shoved haphazardly inside the hollowed-out space. A skull stared back at him with empty eyes and gaping jaw.

  Colin scrambled away and thought about putting the stones back, pretending he had never found the body. Wouldn’t it be better just to carry on with his life? He didn’t like to become involved in other people’s dramas, other people’s problems. He sat on the dewy grass and gnawed at the inside of his lip, thinking about what to do for the best. It wasn’t too late to go home, close the doors behind him and try to forget what he had seen, was it?

  No, he shook his head. He should not be a coward.

  He fished around one of the inner pockets of his jacket and pulled out his mobile phone.

  No signal.

  Resigned and with the heavy, sick feeling in his stomach of a man whose life had just changed irrevocably, he headed back towards civilisation.

  * * *

  While Colin Hart trudged the lonely road back to his car, another man was taking advantage of a rare Sunday morning lie-in. Eyes still closed, Detective Chief Inspector Ryan struggled against the demonic hangover which had made itself very much at home inside his head. The nerves between his eyes throbbed and there was a distant ringing in his ears. Feebly, he grasped at the sheets and pulled himself upward.

  He risked opening his eyes and everyday objects became reality. A bed. A wardrobe. Some sort of jingle-jangle wind chime which hung in front of the window that was thrown wide open to the morning breeze. His eye caught a movement and he braced. He saw a man, wild-eyed and rough around the edges staring back at him from the oval mirror above the dresser.

  Why had he let Phillips talk him into the whisky? A “quick pint”, he was sure that was all he had agreed to by way of celebration.

  Yesterday, Ryan had received a call from the ecstatic parents of Detective Constable Jack Lowerson to say that their son had finally emerged from his coma. Last Christmas, none of them had held out much hope that Jack would ever regain consciousness, following the attack on Holy Island which had plunged him into darkness and robbed him of six months of his life. ­­There was now the hope that, one day, Jack would remember who had been responsible.

  Ryan dragged his legs over the side of the bed and stood up.

  Then, sat back down again with a thud.

  “Too soon,” he muttered with a heavy helping of self-pity. “Much too soon.”

  Before he could move again, the bedroom door swung open and brought with it the dreaded sound that had wakened him.

  It was Chaka Khan on the radio this morning.

  Looking like she was every woman and more, Doctor Anna Taylor stood in the doorway tapping her foot to the rhythm and regarded him with a mixture of pity and amusement. She set a tall glass of water on the dresser beside two aspirin.

  “Good night?”

  He let out a heartfelt sigh and stood on legs that felt as wobbly as Bambi’s.

  “I’m not sure that’s the word I would use to describe it,” he muttered. “Water. Need water.”

  Anna grinned. Watching him prowl around the bed like a bear with a sore head was comedy gold. This was the first time she had seen the illustrious DCI Ryan reduced to a physical wreck and she wasn’t above a bit of baiting.

  “I thought we might go for a long walk along the river today, after we stop by the garden centre.”

  He winced.

  “Or, we could go shopping. I need some new shoes and handbags.”

  “I don’t think –”

  “Maybe we could offer to babysit the kids next door. It would be good practice,” she layered on the icing.

  “Anna,” his voice croaked and he snatched up the water, gulping it down in three swallows. “The terrifying thing is that I don’t know whether
you’re joking.”

  He re-focused and took stock. The muscle at the side of her mouth was twitching. Dark eyes twinkled.

  “Oh, you’re a real comedienne.”

  “People tell me that all the time, but it never gets old.”

  He slunk towards her smelling faintly like a brewery. Even crumpled and worse for wear, it was remarkable how he managed to look good. Thick, black hair stuck out at interesting angles and she watched him run a hand through its length. There was a layer of stubble on his jaw, which was rugged rather than unkempt. Then, there were those bright, silver-grey eyes which killed her every time.

  All mine.

  Smugly, she crossed her arms and tilted her chin up at him. He came to stand in front of her, swaying a bit.

  “You smell like something which crawled out of a cave,” she said, deadpan.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “I could light a fire on your breath.”

  “Stop, you’ll make me blush,” he smiled slowly now, with intent.

  “You could use a shower,” she sniffed.

  “That’s an excellent idea.”

  He edged her backwards, towards the en-suite bathroom.

  “One thing you should learn about me is that I have an excellent recovery time.”

  “Oh, you’re going to need it.”

  * * *

  Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips was dreaming of a feisty Irish princess with long, red hair. He stormed the castle, fought off the shadowy figures surrounding it and rescued her from a fate worse than death, for which she was very grateful …

  Just as things were becoming interesting, he was rudely awakened by a sharp spray of cold water.

  Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie stood above him and for a pleasant moment he imagined her wearing the flowing dress of his dream. Like a baby, he held his arms out to her and smiled toothily.

  Denise tried hard not to laugh. There was a half-naked, middle-aged man sprawled in her bathtub. He looked like death and smelled even worse. Her fingers itched to turn on the shower spray again.