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

by LJ Ross

  “He left the hospital. I presume he’s still with Ryan.”

  “What did they discuss?”

  “Since Ryan hasn’t come storming into my office, my best guess is that they discussed the current investigation, rather than the last one.”

  “Then you still have time.”

  Gregson did not miss the distinction. This was not to be viewed as a shared responsibility but as his responsibility. The sword of Damocles hung over his head, a constant reminder of the jeopardy of his position.

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “See to it personally, Arthur,” came the tranquil response. “I’m well aware that you’d rather not muddy your hands but I would say the situation calls for it.”

  Gregson thought of the young detective constable and remembered a time, long ago, when he had been so young.

  CHAPTER 19

  An hour later, when Geraldine Hart’s body had been transported to the mortuary and into Pinter’s artisan hands, Ryan yielded to the proper chain of command. He paid his next visit to the Detective Chief Superintendent, which he recognised was long overdue.

  “Well, well,” Gregson spared no time on small talk. “I’m honoured.”

  Ryan’s heard the sarcasm, but stood firm.

  “I apologise if I have not been as communicative as I should have been, sir.”

  “On the basis that you did, in fact, attend the scheduled session with Doctor Donovan and that you have, by all accounts, made progress on Operation Hadrian, I’m willing to let it slide.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Gregson grunted and, with a cheerful two-fingers to the ample signage declaring the building a ‘NO SMOKING’ zone, he lit a fat cigar.

  The thick smoke oozed, filling the air with its pungent aroma. Ryan presumed that the Chief had disabled the standard smoke detector fixed on the ceiling above his desk.

  “Report,” came the order.

  “Sir, pathology and forensics reports are now very near completion as regards the bodies of Amy Llewellyn and Claire Burns.”

  “Give me the main bullet points,” Gregson demanded.

  “Three DNA samples were found on Amy Llewellyn’s bracelet, but none remaining on her skeleton. Sampling of the fibres of her clothes is taking much longer and is nearly done, but in the meantime we’ve only been able to look at those on the bracelet. One sample belongs to Amy herself, another has now been confirmed as belonging to Colin Hart and a third remains unidentified.”

  “That looks damning,” Gregson commented. “Doesn’t it?”

  “The samples are LCN DNA, sir. They’re subject to argument, given the tiny sample sizes. There have been unsuccessful prosecutions on the basis of that evidence alone.”

  Gregson grunted a second time, signalling for him to continue.

  “The bracelet was purchased from a shop we have identified in Newcastle, which is the only shop to stock that particular bracelet given the fact that the owner’s son is the silversmith who produces them exclusively. The owner states categorically that Keir Edwards purchased ten such bracelets in cash, around the time period Amy went missing.”

  “Intriguing. But Edwards’ DNA doesn’t account for the third sample on the bracelet?”

  “No, sir, it doesn’t.”

  “Even more intriguing,” Gregson mused. “Could be any number of people, though. Maybe a friend tried it on, before the girl died.”

  “Yes, sir,” but Ryan wasn’t convinced.

  “Carry on.”

  Ryan shifted his feet but didn’t take the chair that Gregson offered him. He preferred to remain standing for the next part.

  “Following an interview conducted with Keir Edwards yesterday –”

  “Come again?” Gregson spoke through a cloud of smoke. “I thought I heard you say that you had compromised the integrity of your investigation by conducting an interview with a man against whom you have clear personal bias, without seeking prior authorisation from me.”

  Ryan looked at his Chief with growing animosity.

  “I made clear from the start that my intention was to arrange an interview with Edwards, using all appropriate channels. Phillips duly arranged this, giving Edwards ample time to seek legal representation. Phillips conducted the first stages of the interview, until Edwards made it abundantly clear that he would speak to nobody but me. Everything was recorded and above board.”

  “You actually believed that it was worthwhile to put yourself in that situation? You think the man gave you any truthful answers?”

  “I was willing to put myself in an uncomfortable situation,” Ryan nearly laughed at the understatement, “because I felt it would be for the greater good. If we are able to find anything useful in the answers he gave us, which leads us to find the answer to who killed those two girls, my time was well spent.”

  Gregson studied Ryan and thought, not for the first time, that it was a crying shame they couldn’t see eye-to-eye in more areas than simple police work. The man was gutsy; he had conviction and he was like an immoveable rock when the situation called for it. It was a bolt from the blue to realise that he would have liked him for a son.

  He shook himself and focussed instead on the here-and-now. The answer to the next question he posed could be a game-changer for them all.

  “Was there anything useful in what he said?”

  “Edwards confirmed that he had a sexual relationship with Amy Llewellyn in the months before she died, but seemed to suggest that he ‘gave her up’ – in his own words – somehow bowing to another man he claimed to respect. I inferred from that a mentor of some kind, a man he looked up to.”

  Gregson said nothing, only listened while his stomach turned slow somersaults.

  “He denied purchasing the bracelets, but admitted to having been in communication with Colin Hart.”

  “Clearly, he’s trying to throw you off the scent,” Gregson scoffed. “He refuses to admit to having killed Amy Llewellyn because he doesn’t want to add to his list of convictions, or he likes feeling in control, bugger only knows. What about this Colin character?”

  “There is a growing weight of evidence against Colin Hart. Copies of prison correspondence bear out Edwards’ claim that the two have been in fairly regular contact and record what can only be described as abnormal hero-worshipping. We believe that Edwards may have directed Colin up to Sycamore Gap, potentially to unveil Amy Llewellyn, perhaps intending to bring Colin into the fold.”

  “Some kind of initiation, you mean?”

  “Possibly. The fact is that Colin was one of few individuals privy to the exact spot where Amy Llewellyn was found. Our second victim, Claire Burns, was found in exactly the same spot only a few hours later.”

  “The second girl lived on his street, I understand?”

  “That’s correct, sir. She lived a few doors down and we have statements from various parties to suggest that Colin had an unhealthy obsession with her. Added to which, following the discovery of Colin’s mother at his house this morning, we found files on his computer tracking his obsession with Claire, amongst others.”

  Ryan thought of the names of the other women he had seen in Colin’s file and was gripped with real fear.

  “So he’s gone on the run,” Gregson said, straightforwardly.

  “Yes, sir. The surveillance team missed him, I regret to say. The mother died between six and nine p.m. yesterday evening, which covers the time Colin would have been at home, as well as a short timescale when he was at the station awaiting questioning.

  “Sir, we have to assume that Colin is our main suspect in the murders of both Claire Burns and Geraldine Hart, given the facts I’ve already laid out. Additionally, his were the only prints confirmed on the syringe used to kill Geraldine and there is a lot of circumstantial evidence which relates to items found on Claire’s remains.”

  “Seems like a cut-and-dry case, if you ask me,” Gregson stubbed his cigar out with a firm hand. “Colin thinks Edwards is a hero, because he’s a bit of a
nobody and wouldn’t mind a bit of crazy-fame himself. Edwards decides to play along and lets him uncover one of his secret victims, one we’ve never been able to prove. Colin feels strong and special, so he looks at his own mediocre life and decides to shake it up a bit. Claire rejected him, so he pays her back, simultaneously drawing mega attention to himself, emulating the skill of the killers he has previously admired. He offs his mother, for good measure, since he’s on a roll, then panics.

  “Sound about right?”

  Ryan considered the explanation and found it highly plausible. In fact, it would explain almost every facet of the behaviour and certainly fit most of the forensic and circumstantial evidence in their possession.

  Yet, it didn’t explain the phone call that Colin had made, yesterday. It didn’t account for the mentor Edwards had spoken of, with what Ryan believed was genuine conviction.

  He remained silent, outwardly accepting of his commander’s synopsis.

  “What efforts have been made to recover him?” Gregson continued.

  “We’re going through all the usual channels to find him,” Ryan answered truthfully. “We’re keeping tabs on his bank accounts, looking into CCTV from the local area and there’s been an APW out on him all day.”

  “Let me know when you find him – and I’d appreciate being the first, rather than the last to know, this time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the corridor outside, MacKenzie stood beside the vending machine with two bars of chocolate in hand. Ryan took one and, after the first nourishing bite, glanced across at his co-conspirator.

  “Stage one is complete.”

  MacKenzie smiled and licked chocolate off her fingers.

  * * *

  “Edwards! You’ve got a visitor.”

  The hoarse voice of Terry, the prison guard, filtered underneath the door to his cell before it opened. With unhurried movements, Edwards rose from where he had been meditating on the bed, deep in thought.

  “Anytime this year,” the guard added, sullenly.

  Edwards didn’t alter his gait, or his demeanour, by a fraction. They both knew that he topped up Terry’s income with the monthly hand-outs that kept his kid in the latest trainers, in return for which Edwards’ stash of mobile phones and cash was never uncovered during any of the spot-checks.

  “I didn’t realise your wife missed me so much,” Edwards purred and then enjoyed the sight of Terry battling against his natural inclination to pummel him to the ground.

  “Shut up and turn around,” the man said instead, snapping the handcuffs to his wrists with added force.

  They followed the usual route through the long corridors until they reached a small conference room. He was never allowed into the main visitor’s area. Much too chancy.

  “Can you give me a clue?”

  “You’ll see, soon enough. Don’t know how you manage it.”

  Edwards entered the small room and directed his gaze to the woman who sat at the table. Then, he let out a short, low whistle of appreciation.

  “This is a delight,” he said, quite candidly.

  “I’m so happy that you had time to see me,” came the breathless response.

  My, but she has a voice like melted butter.

  “I always like to make time for a beautiful woman,” he smiled, but his eyes were calculating. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “We’ve been corresponding for a while now,” she said coyly. “I finally had the nerve to come and visit you. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

  “Not at all,” he crooned. “I’m thrilled.”

  He thought of all the women who wrote to him and tried to recall her face. He came up blank, which was a red flag. For some things, he possessed a photographic memory.

  “May I ask your name? You’ll forgive my rudeness, but I’m sure you understand that I receive rather a lot of mail.”

  She waved a feminine hand but looked slightly put out, not to be the only one.

  “I’m Ruth,” she supplied. “Ruth Grant.”

  He flicked through his internal filing system and found her name. Ruth Grant, aged forty-one, resident of Newcastle-upon-Tyne for the past ten years. Widowed, mother of two. He didn’t have a picture of her, which is why he hadn’t recognised her.

  “Of course!” He exclaimed. “I remember now. How nice to meet you, Ruth.”

  As the minutes ticked by, they talked of many things, of the world outside and of the man he used to be. She marvelled at his exploits and commiserated with his current situation, agreeing to help him wherever she could. Then, the talk turned to Ryan.

  “I presume you’ve heard of the most recent news?” He asked.

  Eyes like saucers, she shook her head.

  “Since they stopped reporting your story, I haven’t bothered much with the news.”

  “Ah, well, let me enlighten you,” he said, with his signature smile. “I seem to have been in the press again, and this time they’re accusing me of murdering a girl ten years ago. Some student I’ve never even heard of.”

  “That’s terrible,” she gasped. “You’re always being victimised.”

  “I know,” he said sadly. “My lawyers keep trying to appeal the convictions, but how can I win against the corruption which is rife amongst the police? Just take that man – DCI Ryan.”

  “You mean, the one who found those cult killers up on Holy Island around Christmas?”

  “That’s the one,” he said encouragingly, hating her more by the second. “He wanted to find someone to pin the murders on, so he picked me. He’s fanatical.”

  Ruth clapped her hands to her mouth, shocked.

  “You don’t think … he let you go to prison, knowing you were innocent?”

  It took real effort not to laugh, but somehow Edwards managed it.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “And he’s trying to do it again. This time, he can’t find any evidence against me, except the fact that I worked in the same hospital. It’s a travesty.”

  “I thought – I mean to say, aren’t they looking for a man called Colin? The guys at work were talking about some man who’d killed two girls and his own mother, then gone on the run. Everyone’s a bit worried about it. Maybe the police aren’t interested in you, after all?”

  She regarded him with large, guileless green eyes.

  “That idiot wouldn’t have the brains,” he spat.

  “You mean Colin? Do you know him? My goodness, you’re so famous!”

  Edwards shrugged.

  “He’s written to me several times, looking for inspiration in his humdrum life.”

  “Do you think he might have killed those girls?”

  “How would I know?” He countered, layering on the charm by leaning in as much as he was able, pinning her with his chocolate brown eyes.

  It usually worked and, sure enough, she began to blush daintily. She really was quite lovely. He wondered what she would look like roped and bound, her eyes glazed with pain and fear.

  “I just thought, since he’s been writing to you, you’d be able to tell if he had killed anybody. You seem so intelligent.”

  He had always been a sucker for flattery.

  “Colin’s nothing more than a pawn.”

  * * *

  Ruth hurried out of the electronic prison gates and, with a quick glance around her, made directly for the plain black Fiat, which was parked across the way.

  Inside, she began to shed. First, the long, dark-haired wig, which masked the fall of molten red she had been born with. Second, the electronic wire, which lay plastered against her chest. When she felt that her breathing had returned to normal, she turned to the man seated behind the wheel.

  “Well? Did you get it?”

  “Clear as a bell,” Lowerson replied, tugging the headphones from his ears. “He seemed to fall for it, hook, line and sinker.”

  “It looks that way,” MacKenzie replied. “But he’s a devious, unscrupulous man. He might have made me as soon as he walked into the room; we
have no way to know for sure. He might have been playing along for his own amusement.”

  Lowerson’s ready smile turned down at the edges.

  “If we work on the basis that he believes you’re one of his fans who can’t resist him –”

  “He’s got the ego for it,” MacKenzie snorted.

  “If he truly believes that’s who you were, then he could have been telling the truth about Colin. The chances of him recognising you from the newspapers or TV coverage are slim to none.”

  “I avoid the media like I would a fungal infection,” she agreed roundly, running her fingers through her hair to shake off the feeling of having been in such close quarters.

  “He seems to think Colin isn’t our man,” Lowerson said dubiously.

  “Let’s get back to Ryan and talk it over.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Anna could see a car parked across the street. It had been sitting there for over three hours with a driver behind the wheel, though she couldn’t see whether it was anyone she recognised. She stepped back from where she had been snooping behind the curtain in her bedroom and unconsciously clutched at her throat.

  Was this another case of paranoia?

  She tried to think rationally. The little row of mews cottages on the street where she lived in Durham had long back gardens leading down to the river. At the front, they were approached by a narrow road, which forked off from the main road. The spot was idyllic, with wonderful views, but it was also isolated even though the city sprawled all around.

  It certainly wasn’t the usual haunt of visitors looking for overflow parking while they took a turn around the city-centre. There were six cottages and she knew the cars belonging to each one, as well as their owners. Her own dark green Mini was parked directly in front of her cottage.

  This car was out of place.

  She worried at her lip for a minute, before reaching for her phone. She didn’t like to disturb Ryan, not when he was so busy, but there was nothing else for it.

  The phone rang three times before he picked it up.

  “Anna?” His strong, direct voice came down through the wires. Already, she felt better, which was a troubling thought for her feminine principles.