by LJ Ross
“I’ll be at my home,” she said quietly. “You know where to find me, when you’re in a better mood.”
He could have stopped her, called her back. Instead, he watched her leave the Incident Room with her back straight and her head high. He knew he had behaved like a prize tosser. He knew the reason for it, as well. He couldn’t stand being faced with her, alive and well, so soon after reading Donovan’s detailed notes on how he had planned to mutilate her.
“Ryan has a prize, but it will bring him down a few pegs once I claim her,” the man had written. “What then, for his fragile psyche? Will he try to avenge, or crumble?”
It wouldn’t have been about Anna, he realised. Her death would have been a means to hurt him; a means for Donovan to prove his superiority, once again, just as he had killed Amy Llewellyn to cheat another man out of the pleasure.
Like a revolving door, Phillips entered as Anna left. Instead of her usual friendly ‘Hello, Frank!’ she offered him a murmured farewell. Her eyes looked suspiciously damp.
“’Bye, pet,” he said in return and then faced Ryan with a look of parental disappointment.
“Don’t start,” Ryan pointed a finger at his sergeant and hoped it would be enough to stave off the lecture.
“None of my business, of course,” Phillips mused. “But seems to me you’ve sent your lady packing after she waited here, patiently, not knowing what was going to happen. She trusted you to do right by her, Ryan.”
“D’you think I don’t know that? It’s because of me that she needed to be here at all!”
Phillips scratched at the side of his chin, the fingernail rasping against the stubble on his chin.
“Fancy yourself a bit, don’t you?”
Ryan was shocked. Never, in thirty-five years, had anybody suggested he was arrogant. That didn’t make it untrue.
“Look, lad, Donovan might have got his jollies at the thought of getting one over on you but, on the other hand, he might have targeted her anyway. Either way, no sense in beating yourself up about something you can’t change.”
“Thanks for the pep talk,” Ryan retorted.
Phillips sighed. There was only so much he could say on affairs of the heart before he started to sound like an agony aunt. He changed the topic.
“Donovan’s been checked into his cell for the night,” he confirmed. “He’s ranting and raving like a lunatic. We’ll get no sense from him this evening.”
Ryan nodded.
“And, Colin?”
“Fast asleep and dreaming,” Phillips yawned himself, imagining the feel of his own memory foam mattress with MacKenzie snuggled beside him. “So, what do you reckon has gone down?”
Ryan hitched a hip on the side of his desk and caught sight of the little framed picture of Anna. He snatched his gaze away.
“Edwards admitted to a relationship with Amy Llewellyn, which she called off, apparently because she didn’t like the direction it was taking. We’ve got the university GP records showing sex-related injuries around the time she would have been seeing him.”
Phillips grunted his agreement.
“For obvious reasons, she didn’t feel she could run and tell Mummy and Daddy. She became depressed, so she took herself off to Donovan for private counselling. Maybe she thought nobody would find out. Turns out she was right, as far as it goes.”
“Poor lass,” Frank commented. “Probably had no idea what she was getting herself into.”
“She stumbled into a spider’s web,” Ryan agreed. “One who hadn’t made his first proper kill and was desperate to start.”
“How does Edwards connect to Donovan?”
“From what Donovan told MacKenzie, it seems that Amy might have still harboured some feelings for Edwards. That would have made Donovan jealous; he can’t stand competition and wanted her for himself.”
“Aye, so he went to lay the smack down?”
That brought the ghost of a smile to Ryan’s lips.
“Seems like he and Edwards had a man-to-man chat, with Donovan coming out on top. I can’t imagine that happening with Edwards today, but ten years ago? He was a younger, more impressionable man. He said himself that he respected his mentor. Perhaps they exchanged notes, learned from each other, he became a kind of protégé.”
“Christ Almighty, it’s like a ‘members only’ club,” Phillips remarked, with distaste.
“Yeah, but Edwards wasn’t that good of a student. Obviously, he still made a play for Amy and that’s what flipped the switch for Donovan. He says he didn’t intend to kill her? Bullshit. He took her all the way out there, to Sycamore Gap, knowing that he would be coming back alone.”
Phillips settled himself in one of the hard plastic tub chairs, wiggling his hips to try to find comfort.
“He was stamping out his superiority,” Phillips agreed. “Which means that Edwards knew it was Donovan all along.”
“Edwards sent Colin that postcard of Sycamore Gap as a message, directing him up there, knowing all along there would be something to find. It’s his form of revenge. It’s a sinister thought, imagining him waiting for his moment to strike against Donovan; waiting until he had been lulled into false security. Don’t forget, he’s got a memory like an elephant.”
“His loyalty has limits, though,” Phillips observed.
“What do they say about ‘loyalty amongst thieves’? Maybe there’s a similar saying for whacked out murderers.”
“So, Edwards used Colin to lead us to Donovan,” Phillips summarised. “We could charge him with perverting the course of justice.”
Ryan huffed out a laugh.
“Yeah, right. I can see the CPS spending their money and resources prosecuting a man who’s already in prison for life.”
Fair point, Phillips had to admit, then had a worrying thought.
“What if Edwards coached Colin into killing Claire Burns?”
“I would have said it was possible, but the skill needed to dissect her body in that way took some degree of medical training. Added to which, her torso was marked to replicate the Holy Island victims. That took inside knowledge, which Donovan had. More likely, when Donovan heard who had found Amy’s body, he did a bit of digging and realised that Colin was connected to Edwards. He couldn’t punish Edwards, since he’s already behind bars, but he could punish Colin.” Ryan shrugged. “What’s the best way? Killing the two people Colin Hart valued most in the world – Claire Burns and his mother, Geraldine. He had the opportunity to do both.”
“Cold-blooded,” Phillips said.
“Vengeful,” Ryan added. “With the added bonus that the police would turn their sights on poor old Colin, the weirdo who has an obsession with true crime and lived across the street from Claire.”
“Completely stitched him up,” Phillips tugged at his lip while he thought about it. “It’ll be an interesting chat with Donovan tomorrow morning.”
“You’re telling me,” Ryan murmured. There were so many things he wanted to know. Chiefly, how Colin had come to call Donovan’s home telephone number. Had Donovan ingratiated himself with the man in a psychiatric capacity?
Phillips yawned again. “Wonder what Faulkner will find in Donovan’s house?”
“I dread to think.”
* * *
With facts and statements crowding his mind, Ryan headed home to his empty apartment on the Quayside. Walking through the door, he no longer faced the ghostly image of his dead sister. Instead, the space felt devoid of any soul at all, and he wished Anna were with him. His body yearned for her and his mind sought the peace that she could bring.
The call from the Control Room came in the dead of night, jolting him awake from a light, fitful sleep. On a routine check of the occupants in the holding cells, the duty sergeant had made a grisly discovery. Doctor Paddy Donovan had committed suicide, his limp body found twisted at the end of a makeshift ligature tied to the tap on the little sink inside his cell.
The man had been nothing, if not resourceful.
&nbs
p; CHAPTER 27
Thursday, June 25th 2015
“Phillips? What the fuck?”
Frank stood inside the foyer of CID Headquarters sipping sugary caffeine, awaiting Ryan’s arrival. He, too, had been disturbed from his sleep and had left his foam mattress and his love to slumber peacefully while he returned to deal with the man who could have killed her.
“Short answer is that we haven’t got a clue. Pinter’s in there now, checking him over, but he says it looks like a classic case of suicide.”
“Not good enough.” Ryan jabbed a finger at his chest, causing Phillips to raise a mild eyebrow in warning. “I want to know who is the weak fucking zebra, in all this. Donovan was transferred to Holding with a medic and two DCs, after being placed under arrest by yours truly. You took Denise home. Who failed to check him, through the night?”
Phillips took another silent sip of his drink before responding.
“Logbook says that all personal items were removed before he was checked in. The duty sergeant swears blind that Donovan was checked and double-checked before he was put to bed. He seemed defiant, cursing like a sailor when he was booked in; nothing to suggest that he was a suicide risk.”
“What about CCTV?”
Phillips pulled a face.
“No camera in his cell or the corridor outside.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed.
“This stinks, Frank,” he breathed.
“Aye, it does. There’ll be an inquiry,” he pointed out.
“More than that,” Ryan shook his head angrily. “Donovan, the world’s most egotistical killer, decides to end himself before the glory of a high-profile trial? That’s about as likely as icicles in hell. Have I stepped into the twilight zone, Frank?”
Phillips was lost for words, a state of affairs made worse by the arrival of their superior.
DCS Gregson walked through the main doors to CID, his face set into angry lines. He was groomed and dressed smartly in slacks and a work shirt, his white-grey hair once more brushed away from his strong-boned face. He glared at both men.
“Does somebody want to tell me what the bloody hell is going on?” His eyes blazed. “Ryan, the last orders I gave you were to find Colin Hart. I then hear that the man was apprehended and taken into custody under psychological supervision. Job done, I think to myself. Next thing I know, I get a call telling me a respected clinical psychiatrist has committed suicide whilst in police custody. Somebody give me a sodding report!”
Ryan surveyed him with interest. Gregson’s eyes were awake and alert. He was dressed smartly but his hair was damp, despite the fact that the rain stopped hours earlier.
Either he had stopped for a shower before coming down, which was unlikely given the short timescales, or he had been up and about before the call came in. He glanced down at his watch, which read a little after four-thirty in the morning.
Ryan shook himself. He was starting to suspect everyone.
“Sir, under my orders, a small team conducted a sting operation during which we were able to obtain recorded evidence of Donovan having killed Amy Llewellyn –”
“A sting operation? Have you gone mad?”
“No, sir,” Ryan hoped, at least. “DI MacKenzie conducted a successful ‘honeytrap’ scenario in which Donovan eventually attacked her, then proceeded to begin a confession of his crimes. In anticipation of this, DI MacKenzie was administered a dose of Flumazenil prior to entering the property, which offset the effects of the drug Lorazepam and enabled her to remain lucid. Officers including Phillips and myself were stationed nearby at all times. We had ears on her throughout.”
Gregson continued to regard him with an empty-eyed stare.
“You conducted all of this without my authorisation.”
“Sir, the result was positive –”
“A man is dead, Ryan. A friend of mine is dead.”
Ryan fought to remain patient.
“I regret that you have lost a friend, sir, but that friend was a killer. Three women, probably more, are also dead at his hands.”
“Donovan has committed suicide?”
This question was posed to Phillips.
“Ah, yes, by all accounts. The duty sergeant checked him according to the usual guidelines but it seems that Donovan took the first opportunity to hang himself. He used the material from his own shirt.”
“I see,” Gregson said flatly, turning back to Ryan. “You bring in a suspect using a highly risky entrapment scenario, endangering police staff, despite already having your prime suspect in custody. You then allow him access to the means by which to end his own life.”
“I wouldn’t say we ‘allowed access’ –”
“Shoddy job all round,” Gregson ground out, quieting any defence from Phillips. “You,” he pointed a finger into Ryan’s mutinous face. “I hear young DC Lowerson is out of hospital, after you took it upon yourself to discharge him, without seeking medical advice. He certainly hasn’t been cleared to return to duty. This all demonstrates to me that you have little or no concern for the welfare of the staff under your command.”
“Sir,” Ryan shook his head, disbelievingly.
“You are suspended from duty, effective immediately, pending a full inquiry. I presume MacKenzie is recuperating after the stress of her experience; therefore, Phillips will take over your duties in closing this investigation down, reporting directly to me. You will turn over your warrant card, now.”
Gregson held out his hand for the card.
For Ryan, the world seemed to have slowed to a standstill. His ears were ringing, the blood having rushed through his veins so loudly as to drown out all other noise. After a few seconds, the world filtered back in; the drone of early morning traffic, the murmured voices of police staff and the slurred ones of drunk and disorderly revellers from the previous evening. He watched one professional-looking man stumble into the building alongside two PCs with tired, fed-up faces. Two buttons had popped on his smart white shirt, now stained by alcohol and vomit.
With trembling fingers, Ryan drew out his warrant card and placed it into Gregson’s hand. He didn’t immediately withdraw it, but gripped Gregson’s fingers tightly, forcing the man to face him. Ryan tugged him closer in an unexpectedly quick movement and bore down upon him, silver eyes blazing into brown.
“I’m coming for you,” he ground out, and watched Gregson pale under his tan. He let the hand drop away with disgust and then walked out of the building.
Phillips was torn. He wanted to follow his friend and superior, to take his own warrant card and chuck it in Gregson’s face, on principle alone. But this was the real world. He was now tasked with handling the fall-out with Donovan and Hart, something Ryan should rightly be overseeing. He watched the tall, retreating figure with regret.
Beside him, Gregson put a hand on his shoulder and sighed.
“We need men like you in this department, Frank. Steady, dependable men who don’t take unnecessary risks.”
“You need men like him too,” Phillips shrugged off the hand and trudged away in the direction of the cells.
Gregson crossed his arms over his chest, feeling better than he had in a long while. He exchanged a meaningful glance with the duty sergeant at the desk, the man who had been responsible for booking Paddy Donovan into Holding and for logging any subsequent visitors.
Of course, the log would say that there had been no visitors at all, which was just as it should be.
* * *
Anna slept hardly a wink. Nightmarish effigies of men dressed in animal costume had chased sleep away. Eventually, she had given up on the battle, tucked a blanket around herself and watched senseless television through the night and into the early hours of the morning. She remained alert, hoping that Ryan would come to his senses and walk through the door, tired but apologetic. When it became clear that wasn’t going to happen, she had called her old friend Mark, just for somebody to talk to. Mark Bowers lived alone and usually enjoyed a discussion of Northumbrian history however
early in the morning but there had been no answer there either. It seemed that the small number of people who mattered in her life were dropping like flies, reminding her of just how isolated she had become.
She moved around the kitchen on autopilot, stirring tea and making toast she had no intention of eating. She was still dressed in the black leggings and oversized t-shirt emblazoned with a faded Bon Jovi slogan that she had worn the previous evening.
The toaster pinged at the same moment she heard the front door opening. Clutching her mug of tea, she moved into the hallway in time to see Ryan pushing the door closed behind him and falling back against the doorframe as if life had simply beaten him.
Snide, unworthy thoughts she had ruminated on throughout the lonely hours of the night simply melted away. He looked even worse than she felt; his eyes were glossy with fatigue and when they raised to meet her searching examination of him, she saw they were filled with melancholy.
“Gregson took my warrant card,” he explained simply, the words slurred as if from drink but he hadn’t touched a drop.
“What? Why?”
They remained a short distance apart, neither of them ready to breach the gap.
“Gregson thinks I was reckless; I went ahead with a sting before getting approval. Then Donovan killed himself.”
Ryan’s eyes closed briefly, as if the lids could no longer manage to support the weight.
“Donovan’s killed himself? I don’t believe it.”
His eyes opened again, a crack of glistening silver.
“Neither do I.”
“Well, then, surely –”
“You don’t understand,” Ryan interrupted her righteous tirade on his behalf, though he was grateful for the sentiment. “They’ll say it was an oversight, that Donovan wasn’t properly supervised. Just, ‘one of those things’. Gregson is angry because he doesn’t believe Donovan killed those women.”
“You’ve got evidence,” Anna waved her free hand mutely.
“Yeah, for all the good it does me. Faulkner’s found some forensics pointing at Donovan and we even have it from the horse’s mouth that he killed Amy Llewellyn. He tried to disable MacKenzie with Lorazepam, just like Claire, and it was pretty obvious he was about to make a move on her, maybe take her to his kill site.”
