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

by LJ Ross

  Ryan stuck his tongue in his cheek to stop the chuckle. Phillips rolled his eyes.

  “What’s your question?”

  “Well, that being the case, how come nobody noticed that the wall had been tampered with?”

  Damn good question, Ryan thought.

  “Well, it’s quite a long wall to keep track of,” he said fairly. “But you’re right. Unfortunately, thanks to the efforts of our amateur archaeologist Colin, we aren’t able to see what the stones looked like in situ before he loosened them.”

  “In her report, Freeman says that there wasn’t any cement residue on the stones, or anything like that,” Phillips chimed in, leafing through the papers. “She seems to think that some of the inner stones were removed to create space for the body and the outer stones returned to their exact position so that nobody would notice the difference. She’s adamant that they would have noticed any obvious changes on that part of the wall considering its popularity with hikers and tourists.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to admit that somebody cocked up.”

  “Now, now, children,” Ryan said lightly. “That’s interesting, because it suggests that whoever we are looking for was organised. He killed her up there and was then able to remove and replace the stones so that they weren’t noticeably different, even to a professional employee of National Heritage. I have to assume that he managed all of this under the cover of darkness, or near darkness, to avoid being seen.”

  “Even in the early hours, the place isn’t overrun with visitors.”

  “Right. Let’s widen that slightly to darkness, twilight or early hours of the morning.”

  “He also has an eye for detail,” Faulkner put in. “To remember the exact placement of the stones. Either that, or he knew that spot really well.”

  Ryan nodded. All of the precision and planning reminded him of Edwards.

  “So,” he leaned back against the edge of his desk and crossed his ankles “The excavation work will continue. Faulkner, I want you and your team on standby to work on any other sites which crop up.”

  He turned to MacKenzie. “Denise, I need you to oversee the archaeological work from tomorrow.”

  MacKenzie’s eyes heated.

  “I’d rather not –”

  “It’s not a question of what you would rather,” Ryan overrode the objection, his voice like granite. “Whatever personal view you take, I need you to get past it and stay professional. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need your diplomacy on this one,” Ryan softened, marginally. “I want someone I can trust not to let Freeman run amok and, right at this moment, I can think of nobody better than you.”

  Considerably more cheerful at the prospect of handling the oversight of Freeman and her team of boffins, MacKenzie smiled broadly.

  “Leave it to me.”

  “Phillips,” he turned to his sergeant. “I want you to look into Amy’s file, alongside like crimes.”

  “We looked into them fully, last year,” Phillips was bound to say.

  “Then look again, with fresh eyes.”

  “Aye, I’ll make a start.”

  When the team began to file out, Ryan gestured Phillips to one side.

  “While you’re at it, I want you to put the wheels in motion to set up an interview with Edwards. Keep it under your hat.”

  Phillips grunted.

  “You’re a man of few words, Frank. I’ve always liked that about you.”

  CHAPTER 5

  It was after nine when Ryan finally let himself into Anna’s cottage. It was conveniently located in the centre of Durham, not too far from the history faculty where she lectured and only a short drive from Newcastle-upon-Tyne. The place was barely large enough to house one person, never mind two. Quaint, it may be, but practical, it was not.

  Wary of the low wooden beams as he entered the tiny living room, he ducked his head at the appropriate times and slung his jacket over the back of the sofa as he passed through. The jacket still smelled faintly of lemons and he would have to remember to have it dry-cleaned.

  Then, with a small sigh, he immediately went back to retrieve it because he knew that sloppy housekeeping was one of Anna’s major irritations in life. Apparently, he was being house-trained. Strange, how the prospect didn’t bother him as much as he might have imagined.

  “Anna?”

  He made another pit stop into the miniscule galley kitchen, which looked like a stall in a Turkish bazaar; colourful copper pots hung from hooks on the ceiling and green plants flourished on the window ledges. Ornamental bric-a-brac serving plates adorned the antique shelves on the only wall not fitted with kitchen units and the scent of some kind of roasted meat filled the air. He nabbed an apple in the meantime and continued his search to the first floor.

  He found her in the smallest bedroom, which she had converted into a well-equipped study. Top-of-the-range technology met old-world charm in her little sanctuary and he thought, as he often did, about whether he would ever be able to entice her away from her hobbit hole into his more spacious penthouse apartment on Newcastle’s bustling quayside.

  He paused in the doorway and tried to picture her there with all her books and the trinkets she seemed to like to collect from her travels. Somehow, it didn’t fit.

  Sensing him, she spun around in her desk chair and smiled.

  “You’ve had a long day,” she said simply, scrutinising his tired face.

  He couldn’t have explained why the acknowledgement moved him. It was there in her eyes: warmth, compassion and an understanding that he needed his work, as she needed hers.

  “Yeah, things got complicated.”

  He leaned his tall frame awkwardly against the architrave and Anna smiled. The house was much too small for him. Watching him stalk around it was like watching a large panther scaling the perimeter of its cage. Yet, his home had no character. On the occasions she had visited the large, airy apartment in a prime spot overlooking the River Tyne, she had admired it in much the same way she would view an expensive show home. Very nice, but not for her.

  Besides, the place held unhappy memories. She wondered how he could ever stand to be in the apartment where his sister had died. Her ghost was everywhere.

  She wondered what they were going to do about it, but filed the thought away for now.

  “Hungry?”

  “Depends what’s on offer,” he quipped, favouring her with one of those show-stopping smiles he reserved only for her.

  “Roast beef, for starters,” she replied primly, saving her work with a brief click of buttons before rising to meet his kiss. Slow, melting, but with just a thread of discord.

  “Something on your mind?”

  He tugged playfully at the long tail of dark hair she’d bundled at the back of her head and rubbed a small speck of blue biro from the tip of her ear. Lord knew how it got there.

  “Read me like a book, don’t you?” he murmured.

  She just smiled.

  “Dinner,” he said, taking her hand. “I need to spend thirty minutes being normal. Then we can talk about murder.”

  * * *

  They worked their way through roast beef and half a bottle of a fairly decent Malbec. Ryan took an extra few minutes to clear their plates and set the dishwasher humming before he joined her in the sitting room. Nina Simone was turned down low on the stereo and he found that, for once, there was some music they could agree on.

  He settled beside her on the sofa and took her hand, rubbing his thumb across the softness of her palm.

  “A body was found inside Hadrian’s Wall,” he began.

  As he had anticipated, she could barely contain her excitement. She turned to him with shining brown eyes.

  “Inside the wall? I was under the impression they had scanned it years ago. It was strictly forbidden, in Roman times, to bury the dead around built-up areas. But, if you’ve found a body, perhaps I’m wrong …” her brow furrowed.

  “No,” he squeezed her f
ingers. “I don’t mean that we found the body of an old Roman soldier in there. The remains are female and roughly ten years old.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, quite.” He blew out a breath. “She was only twenty-one when she died. And she died badly.”

  “I’m sorry,” Anna said quietly. “Do you know who she was?”

  “Yes. Her name was Amy Llewellyn.”

  Ryan knew that he could speak of such things to Anna. She had seen close up, the ravages of a murder investigation only six months earlier. She had been an unacknowledged member of his team while she had grieved for the loss of her sister and had been hunted herself. She was a survivor.

  “It’s better that she was found. It’s better for her family to have the answers.”

  Ryan exchanged another look with her, which she read correctly.

  “What else haven’t you told me?”

  He rubbed a tired hand over the back of his neck then looked at her again. His eyes were a turbulent grey, like the North Sea. She remembered being frightened of those waters as a child, because they often appeared peaceful but were also unpredictable.

  “She was on the database of missing persons, although since last year we’ve been pretty certain that she would be found dead, if she was found at all,” he said frankly. “A photograph of her was amongst Edwards’ possessions, recovered after his arrest.”

  Anna recognised the tone that had crept into Ryan’s voice and knew instantly who he was referring to.

  “The man who killed your sister?”

  “Exactly.”

  They sat quietly, letting the music flow and comfort them both.

  “It might not be,” she said hopefully. “He could have had a relationship with her, but nothing more.”

  “That’s what Phillips said. I’m more realistic.”

  She sighed. It was no use trying to debate the subject when she wasn’t in possession of all the facts and, besides, she hadn’t been there to witness the damage up close, as he had been.

  “You’ll want to continue running the investigation,” was all she said.

  “It’s a question of whether Gregson will allow it,” Ryan corrected. “He’s lassoed me into seeing the departmental psychiatrist as some sort of box-ticking exercise, but that’s because he doesn’t really think that Edwards will own up to it, or that we’ll find enough evidence to pin him with it. If Gregson really thought this case would lead us back along that route, he wouldn’t be letting me anywhere near it.”

  “Bias? Protocol?”

  “Yeah, all of that,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “Looks bad, from whichever angle.”

  “But..?” She waited.

  “I know the man,” Ryan said, his voice suddenly hard. “He’s England’s answer to Ted Bundy. Edwards is charming, educated and intelligent. He exploited all three of those traits, not just to lure his victims but to mask what lies beneath. Because, underneath the well-dressed doctor, there was a rampant psychopath, a seething, wretched, animalistic mass which briefly passed for human.”

  Anna could say nothing. Her throat was too tight.

  “Do you know what’s funny?”

  Again, she said nothing. The question was rhetorical, in any case.

  “At first glance, you could have lined the two of us up and you would struggle to find the differences between him and me. We’re both from the south of England. We both attended highly academic schools and played rugby. We went to red brick universities, for God’s sake.”

  Ryan looked away, his spine ramrod straight.

  “I’ve seen the press pictures of Keir Edwards,” she spoke calmly. “I know that he’s tall and dark, like you, and he might have come from a similar background. But that’s where the similarity ends. I couldn’t say whether he had charisma, but I suppose he cultivated some sort of specious charm so that he could draw people into his web. You don’t play people like that, Ryan. If anything, you can be an offhand, miserable sort of git when you want to be.”

  It took him a moment, but then he couldn’t help the laugh that welled up. Leave it to Anna, to keep his feet firmly on the ground. He turned to her with a wicked grin.

  “Are you trying to say that I’m … impolite?”

  Now, she laughed.

  “Let’s just say that you don’t suffer fools gladly,” she qualified. “Besides, I think I would have recognised by now if you were a raging nutter.”

  “True,” he mused. “Very true. But they do exist. We know that better than most.”

  She had to agree with him there.

  “If you manage to keep hold of this investigation, it might be … difficult.”

  He had thought of that.

  “Anna, if you want me to pass this over, I will.”­

  She looked down at their joined hands and smiled.

  “I know that you would, but I also know that it would eat away at you, having to watch from the sidelines.”

  He said nothing. She was right, after all.

  “I just want us both to be prepared for what might come,” she added. “It’s always painful to rake up the past, and you have to be careful not to let it influence your decisions in the present.”

  He turned and kissed her, very gently.

  “I love you.”

  “Ditto.”

  There was another long pause while the playlist switched to Dusty Springfield.

  “Here’s a question,” Anna said. “Why hide the body in the wall, at that particular spot? It’s quite memorable, isn’t it? Do you think her killer attached some sort of meaning to it?”

  Ryan crushed her against him for an unexpected kiss before releasing her again.

  “What was that for?”

  “You’d have made a good detective.”

  * * *

  News travelled fast in certain circles. The man replaced his telephone receiver and the room fell silent. With an economy of movement, he re-crossed his legs and reached for the crystal tumbler on the antique side table beside him. Floor lights cast shadows here and there; large, leafy plants accented the space and tasteful landscapes adorned the magnolia walls. Each item had been chosen and positioned with care and an eye for aesthetic.

  He liked beautiful things.

  As the alcohol warmed his tongue and shot through his oesophagus down to his belly, he allowed himself to open the door to memories. He could admit to a certain measure of unease when he had first heard about the discovery, but that had passed quickly. Now, he settled back against the cognac-coloured leather and consciously relaxed his body and mind, to enjoy the remembrance. Excitement shot through his loins, as he thought of that first time.

  The first time was always the sweetest.

  All these years, he had basked in the knowledge that Amy would, forever, be his. Only he had known her final resting place, only he had known the exquisite, omnipotent pleasure of having taken her life.

  Now that she had been found, another man would be credited with her death. He should be thankful that nobody even suspected his involvement. He should be grateful that he could continue, happily enjoying his life’s work without fear of exposure.

  Yet his fingers trembled on the heavy glass at his side with growing rage.

  Edwards dared to try to take what was rightfully his? Again?

  He could not allow that to happen.

  * * *

  After night had fallen on the longest day of the year, those from the island and from the mainland met on consecrated ground beneath a star-studded sky. The High Priest cast his sword high above his head and called to the Master, while his circle of followers fell on bended knee to celebrate the summer solstice.

  The High Priest watched them dispassionately, understanding that not all of them truly believed. Yet, all of them appreciated the rewards of loyalty, which they had each earned in one way or another.

  He recognised Jane Freeman, naked but for the long black cloak and animal mask which covered her face and half of her bright blonde hair. She had been a
n early convert, all those years ago, when another High Priest had presided over their circle. Hers had been a necessary conversion, following her accidental discovery of things that were not for the public domain. He had to respect her obstinacy in making her demands; he might have done the same himself.

  But there could be only one High Priest, a position he presently occupied and intended to continue occupying for many years to come. He would brook no competition to his authority and there would be no mutiny.

  He had made examples of others before and would not hesitate to do so again.

  After the small crowd scattered back to their cars, three remained, dressed once again in their ordinary clothes.

  “Why are you allowing him to remain in charge of the investigation?”

  The High Priest snapped out the question which was in the forefront of his mind, causing him the most unease.

  Gregson spread his hands in supplication.

  “If I give him enough rope, he will hang himself. He believes there’s a connection between Amy Llewellyn and Edwards.”

  “You’ve said this before.” They thought back to winter on Holy Island, when Ryan’s competency to conduct the investigation into three murders had been in doubt. They thought he would fold then, but instead their former High Priest now slumbered in a maximum security psychiatric ward as penance for his conceit.

  “This time, I think it’s inevitable,” Gregson was quick to reassure him. “He will ask to interview Edwards, I’ll make a show of trying to stop him, but he’ll go and be faced again with the man he’s desperate to kill.”

  “I suppose that we do have the resources to manage the situation …” the High Priest considered the men and women placed in various guises around the county. “He’ll be running like a hamster on a wheel.”

  “The only conclusions he will draw are the ones we want him to draw,” Gregson said with a confidence he didn’t entirely feel.

  “Make sure that he does,” came the quiet reply. “I will also take certain measures to ensure that he is distracted.”

  The third member of the group listened to the conversation with interest.

  “He might make for a useful addition to our circle,” she mused.