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

by LJ Ross

  Ryan and Phillips exchanged a look and then grinned.

  “You’d be lucky,” Ryan mouthed across to Phillips, then got back down to business.

  “Thank you,” he stilled the woman’s progress across the room. “Actually, we’re not here to make a purchase. We’d like to ask you some questions regarding a particular item of jewellery you stocked in 2005 and, I believe, still have in stock.”

  He took out his warrant card and made the introductions. To her credit, the woman, who turned out to be Penny Sutherland and the co-owner of the shop, didn’t bat an eyelid.

  “Of course,” she nodded. “Please, follow me.”

  They were seated in the back office, which boasted more shiny things, including a brand new coffee machine.

  Catching the direction of Ryan’s gaze, Penny set the machine whirring.

  “How can I help you both?”

  Phillips drew out a picture of Amy Llewellyn’s bracelet, since cleaned up so that the design could be more clearly identified. It was a silver bangle, fashioned into the shape of a coiled snake.

  Penny recognised it straight away.

  “Yes, we sell quite a few of these. They’re quite popular at the moment, it’s all festival chic these days.”

  Ryan didn’t stop to worry about what counted as ‘festival chic’.

  “You stocked these in 2005? Could you tell us when you started to stock this particular bangle?”

  “Oh yes,” she said without hesitation. “We’ve stocked that design ever since we opened the shop in 1992.”

  “How can you be so sure? Don’t you need to check your records?”

  Penny simply smiled.

  “I’m positive, because my son makes that particular model. It’s part of his range. He’s a silversmith.”

  “Would you – or he – have a record of how many units have been sold, and to whom?”

  “Now, that’s a bit trickier,” she said, with regret. “Like I say, that range of jewellery has always sold very well, which means there are quite a few sales to go through. It would help to know a date range, to narrow it down a bit?”

  “We were hoping that you could tell us the ‘when’ part,” Phillips put in. “But how about we start with 2004-05, and go from there?”

  Ryan nodded. They would work from the assumption that the bracelet had been a gift from Amy’s unknown lover and hope for the best.

  “You’re lucky,” Penny said, tapping at the keyboard in front of her until she found the correct spreadsheet. “If you’d asked me for records from the nineties, they would be long gone. It wasn’t until 2000 that we really moved everything across onto the computer.”

  She made a clacking noise with her teeth, while she searched the digital files.

  “Another thing in your favour is that we offer a guarantee on that range, so we take down a customer’s details in case they need to use it.”

  The computer pinged a bit more.

  “Here we are! From 2004-5, we sold sixty-eight of those bracelets.”

  “Names?”

  “Ah, well.” She linked her hands together and adopted a resigned expression, ready to impart bad news. “It isn’t that I don’t want to help you, but the thing is, I can’t just hand out names and addresses of customers willy-nilly. Data protection, I think they call it.”

  Ryan knew it well. They stumbled into that particular piece of legislation at least once during every active investigation.

  “We’re investigating the murders of two young women.”

  Penny heaved her ample chest theatrically.

  “Boys, believe me, I want to tell you everything you need to know, but I’ve got enough years behind me to know better. If you could only narrow it down a bit?”

  Ryan paused to consider.

  “How about this: can you tell me how many of those purchases were made in cash, versus card?”

  “I can!” She beamed at him again and turned back to the spreadsheet.

  “That’s certainly narrowed it down,” she said after a moment. “During that timescale, only nineteen bracelets were paid for in cash, ten of which were bought by the same person.”

  “Ten?”

  She nodded.

  “How many of them preferred not to give a name or address for warranty purposes?”

  “Well, now, I’m sure that most people …” she trailed off, a frown crinkling her face into a myriad of fine lines. “Well, look at that! There was one customer who didn’t give a name and paid in cash. In fact, he’s the one who bought ten bracelets in bulk.”

  She turned back to them and her face remained troubled. “I remember exactly who he was.”

  “You just said that he didn’t leave a name –”

  “I know,” she nodded, her earrings glinting against her ears. “I remember him because he’s quite famous now and what with him making such a large purchase … he used to come in here regularly, to buy himself cuff-links and things like that. He liked his finery. He was … well, I suppose I should be honest and say that he was a good-looking young man. Quite memorable.”

  “Who?”

  “It was that man – the one they called The Hacker. It gives me the shivers to think that we used to see him all the time.”

  Silently, Ryan took out his phone and brought up a picture of Edwards.

  “Is this the man that you remember? Ten years is a long time.”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “He’s older in that picture, but I recognised him on the news last year. I’m positive that’s him.”

  Penny watched them exit the shop with a puckered brow. She really had liked the young man and even his gnarly sergeant. If she’d been a few years younger … well, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, she thought sadly.

  Smiling over at one of the shop attendants, she closed her office door behind her and rummaged around in the bottom drawer of her desk, until she found the little pay-as-you-go mobile she kept there for emergencies.

  She made a short phone call and then considered her duty discharged.

  * * *

  Outside, Ryan turned to Phillips.

  “Did you speak to HMP Frankland?”

  “Aye, they’ve agreed to make a room available whenever we need it.”

  “Put a call through, Frank. I want us there inside the hour, but I want everything by the book. He can call his solicitor, do a country jig, whatever the hell he wants, but by six o’clock I want this dirty laundry to be aired.”

  “There isn’t a cat in hell’s chance of Gregson letting you run the interview,” Phillips said, matter-of-factly.

  “Which is why you’re going to run it and I’m going to observe.”

  Phillips didn’t relish the prospect.

  “We’ve got Colin Hart sitting back at the station, ready to go.”

  “He can wait. He’s attending voluntarily, because we don’t have enough to charge him. If we speak to Edwards, we might find something more.”

  Phillips nodded.

  “You still need to run this past Gregson.”

  Ryan found himself more reticent than usual to report to his superior and put it down to the sensitive subject matter.

  “Gregson knows this was my intention, from the start. Besides, I’m going to be in the observation area. Edwards doesn’t even need to know I’m there.”

  Phillips looked up at Ryan with a dubious expression. It wasn’t so much a case of following protocols, as avoiding further heartache. Coming face-to-face with the man who had killed your sibling, even with a reinforced glass panel between you, was seldom a smart move.

  CHAPTER 13

  Her Majesty’s Prison Frankland was another architectural triumph, set on the outskirts of the city of Durham. The plain red brick buildings which housed an interesting mix of standard and high risk Category A male prisoners certainly fulfilled its raison d’être, being at once depressing to look at and well-fortified.

  “Charming place,” Phillips muttered from his hunched position in the passenger seat of
Ryan’s car. To say that he had misgivings about being here at all was an understatement.

  “It’s not meant to be a holiday camp,” Ryan returned.

  Phillips folded his lips.

  The car slid along the driveway, past an enormous sign reading, ‘H.M. PRISON FRANKLAND.’ As if there could be any doubt that the boxy buildings with their flat, metal-topped roofs and strategically-placed cameras could constitute anything other than a place of detention.

  Drawing on a core of pure will, Ryan managed to suppress his personal feelings throughout their journey through the various levels of prison security. A couple of the prison guards recognised him and wondered, but none of them questioned his right to be there. Phillips risked another glance across at him.

  “Does it bother you, knowing how close he is?”

  They stood outside one of the many steel gates, waiting for the buzz and the metal clank which precipitated its opening.

  “I prefer to keep my enemies close.”

  Phillips tried to choose his words with care.

  “There’s such a thing as being too close, mate. What does Anna think about it?”

  “She understands.”

  That wasn’t quite true, Ryan admitted. She had listened to his explanation of where Edwards had been incarcerated, had continued to listen as he detailed how it would not be a problem for him, in the future, staying at her home in Durham. But she hadn’t said that she understood, or that she thought it was a good idea, for him to be within such a short radius. The fact of Edwards’ presence was a constant reminder of what had happened.

  “Look, Frank. I don’t need you chewing my ear off about this. Not now. Focus on why we’re here.”

  Phillips drew his chin up, telling Ryan more clearly than words that he was offended. Well, that was tough luck. They had more important things to think about than hurt feelings.

  The barrier creaked open and they stepped over the threshold, into the Westgate Unit of the prison, an area reserved for those prisoners requiring more secure detainment, or segregation. Ryan cast his eye around the foyer and his lip curled slightly at what he saw. This area was almost brand new and sparkling clean. He knew that there was a library, a faith room and access to TV, video games; all manner of hobbies, crafts and classes. The men here could enjoy an hour of Pilates, if the mood struck them and they needed to find their inner zen.

  He concentrated on emptying his mind, slowing his breathing. Before the events of last year, he had maintained a balanced opinion of the criminal justice system. It was easy to do that, when you didn’t know any of the victims, or their families, personally. It was easy to talk about restorative justice and the value of rehabilitation when the damage and destruction had never hit too close to home. He had been an active proponent of giving prisoners useful occupations during their incarceration and was a staunch supporter of psychological programmes designed to alter negative behaviour in the hopes of reducing rates of recidivism.

  That was before.

  Lying there, injured, holding the body of his sister as the lifeblood emptied her and seeped onto his hands, through his clothes, something had broken inside him. He recognised that it had been the tiny core of idealism, which had survived the day job. Now, there was a hollow little space where it should have been, occupied every day with a mixture of cynicism and bitterness. That little space would have been swallowed whole by resentment and loathing, were it not for Anna’s calm, positive influence in his life.

  “Boss?”

  Phillips interrupted the introspection and Ryan turned his attention to the guard who motioned them towards a private conference room, equipped with cameras and an audio recording system. The table in the middle of the room was constructed from a heavy metal, drilled into place by strong bolts to the floor.

  “I’ll fetch him,” the guard said.

  The air felt thick and heavy as they paced around the small boxy space. Or, rather, as Ryan paced and Phillips sat with every sign of comfort and ease with himself in one of the newer plastic chairs. He took his time retrieving a note pad and file of relevant paperwork, licking the tip of his thumb every so often as he flicked through the pages.

  Eventually, he gave up the pretence and sighed.

  “You know what we need to cover?” Ryan asked.

  Phillips held back another sigh. They had been through their planned line of questioning, several times during the car journey to the prison.

  “Course I do.”

  “Good. Good,” Ryan was gibbering and he knew it.

  “You better head on back now,” Phillips said quietly. They had already agreed that Ryan would remain in the observation room only. There was a long panel of thick, two-way mirrored glass separating the two rooms, which had been modelled on the standard interview suite at any police station in the land.

  He didn’t like it, Phillips thought, as he watched his SIO stalk out of the room, but it was for the best.

  As the minutes ticked by, he could almost feel Ryan’s eyes boring through the glass and sweat beaded across his forehead under the glare of the overhead light. He reached for the inner pocket of his blazer to feel the emergency cigarette stashed there and then remembered that Ryan had smoked it earlier. He patted the material nonetheless and told himself that he could smoke an entire pack at the end of the day as a reward once this ordeal was over.

  The door clicked open and two guards escorted Edwards through the door. They would remain in the room, at all times, and were fully kitted out in stab vests and protective gear. Phillips didn’t bother to stand up or to utter any kind of greeting. He followed Edwards’ progress across the room and tried to assess the man.

  Superficially, he looked very much the same. He was still tall and athletic. He wore his dark hair in a shorter, military style rather than the foppish, windswept waves he had favoured before his incarceration. His handsome face was sharper, somehow, the bones leaner than before. He had kept himself in shape, Phillips noted, but that was hardly a surprise. There were gym facilities and he was a raging narcissist. Of course he would keep himself in peak physical fitness.

  The eyes were the same: dark, stony pits, which stared unblinkingly from two holes in his face.

  With no particular rush, he settled himself comfortably in the chair opposite Phillips and linked his fingers together. The guards clipped his handcuffs onto the steel hooks atop the table to prevent undue movement, which Edwards tolerated with seeming equanimity. Given his history, there could be no predicting what Edwards might try to do, given the chance.

  All the while, his gaze trained somewhere over Phillips’ right shoulder, looking directly at the two-way mirror behind him.

  Sneaky bastard, Phillips thought.

  Once the preliminaries had been tended to, Edwards turned his attention to Phillips.

  “Well, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he drawled. His eyes bored into the burly sergeant sitting opposite him. “Have you missed me?”

  Phillips let the words fly over his head.

  “I am here in connection with an investigation into the murders of Amy Llewellyn and Claire Burns. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

  Edwards laughed.

  “I seem to have heard it somewhere before.”

  “Do you understand?”

  “Naturally. I haven’t been struck by idiocy during my time here.”

  “Good. You are entitled to have a lawyer present.”

  “Hardly seems necessary, does it?” Without moving his hands, Edwards seemed to gesture to the space around him.

  “Are you waiving that right?”

  “Go on, then. Let’s live dangerously.” He bared even, white teeth.

  “Let the record show that Mr Edwards is waiving his right to legal representation,” Phillips wanted it all tied in a nice, neat bow. He took a sip of water while he co
nsidered where to start, but was interrupted.

  “I have a condition,” Edwards continued silkily. “I’ll waive my rights, but I won’t be speaking to you. I think that a man of my stature deserves someone a little higher up the ranks.”

  Phillips listened with a sinking stomach.

  “Who did you have in mind?” He knew that the question was totally superfluous.

  Edwards smiled again, enjoying himself.

  “You do like to draw it out, don’t you?” His face fell into hard lines, and he leaned forward menacingly. “I’ll speak to Ryan, or nobody. Your choice.”

  He leaned back in his chair and glared beyond Phillips, to the mirrored wall, with an unspoken challenge.

  Phillips said nothing but knew with certainty that Edwards meant what he said. The man had nothing to lose. They needed information and he would happily clam up for all eternity without a second thought.

  He called a fifteen minute break.

  * * *

  Ryan was waiting outside when Phillips exited the interview room.

  “Let me talk to the bastard,” he gritted. “I’ll be only too happy.”

  Phillips put a heavy hand on Ryan’s chest.

  “Use your head, son. You’re giving him what he wants.”

  A muscle ticked in Ryan’s jaw and it took willpower to drag his eyes from the doorway and the man who sat waiting, like a spider.

  “You think I can’t handle him?”

  Phillips began to walk away, in the direction of the foyer and the seating area reserved for visitors. He kept a hand on Ryan’s back, urging him forwards.

  “You need to keep a clear head,” Phillips said with absolute calm. It was the same sort of voice he had once heard Robert Redford using in the Horse Whisperer, when he had tamed an unruly horse.

  It seemed to work.

  Ryan stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and closed his eyes for a moment while he consciously emptied his mind. Slowly, he let air in and out of his lungs, smelled the scent of industrial floor cleaner and something that reminded him of school dinners. Jacket potatoes and beans, or shepherd’s pie, cooked in bulk.