by LJ Ross
“Any idea where that is?”
Ryan dragged his fingers through his dark hair.
“Faulkner hasn’t been able to find a site within the immediate proximity of Sycamore Gap. Expanding any wider would take weeks … months, even. I had hoped to ask Donovan outright but now it’s possible we’ll never know.”
“What about Colin?”
“What about him?” Ryan answered with anger but it wasn’t directed towards her. “I’m off the case, Anna. That means I can’t interview him, can’t access the files or investigate. Phillips and the rest of the team will have to handle it.”
There was a short silence where she felt his heartache keenly. This was a man who had for years been defined by the work that he did. It was his business to bring justice to the dead and their families, and now someone had robbed him of that purpose.
“Why would Gregson do it?”
Unconsciously, they had edged closer into the room, each within reach of the other. Anna could feel the warmth emanating from him but it didn’t match his cold demeanour. She stayed where she was.
“There’s a good question,” he muttered. She wished she didn’t feel as much for him; wished she didn’t understand how affected he was by the degradation, the injustice of it all. “He wants me out, on the grounds that my methods put officers at risk, particularly MacKenzie.”
He digested the thought and, always a fair man, turned to Anna for an honest answer.
“Do you think he’s right?”
Anna considered the question, realising that he would not want platitudes or useless prevarication. Unlike Gregson, she understood that Ryan was a man who would rather cut off his own limbs than unnecessarily endanger life.
“Was there another way of outing Donovan?”
Ryan had thought of the ins and outs, in detail.
“I could have brought Donovan in for questioning, cards on the table, but we had no forensics to support a warrant or even take a DNA swab. He would have eliminated any scrap of incriminating evidence at the house and would likely have dropped back under the radar. He lasted for years between kills,” Ryan reminded her. “Besides which, he had lined Colin up as the fall-guy. He had Gregson gunning for the man, based on the fact he’s a prize turkey.”
“How did Donovan know Colin?”
“That’s another question I would have liked to ask both of them,” Ryan nodded. “I assume that Donovan remains connected to Edwards, who connects to Colin. It’s more than likely Donovan found a means to contact Edwards, who gave him some information on Colin Hart, enabling him to take advantage of his vulnerable character.”
They gave in to the inevitable and settled into a comforting embrace, arms banded tightly.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered against the top of her head, which was tucked under his chin. “I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you like that. I was angry at myself; if it weren’t for your association with me, Donovan would never have set his sights on you.”
He felt her body go still.
“Yes,” he continued. “You were supposed to be the next on his list.”
Anna said nothing for a moment, examining her own feelings.
“I understand that your natural inclination is to protect, and, in this case, I’m grateful for all the measures you took. Your instincts were obviously good. But,” he looked down into her eyes as she stepped away. “I’m more grateful that you choose to trust me now; enough to come to me when you’re hurting, enough to tell me the truth about Donovan. It means more to me.”
Ryan looked away, feeling foolishly happy.
“I want it to be this way between us,” he agreed. “I can’t hide who I am from you, Anna, just as you can’t hide yourself from me. There may be other times that a lunatic delves into our private lives, other times you might be touched by danger. I hate thinking of it,” he swallowed, “I hate imagining you being tainted by it, but –”
“Ryan,” she put her hand into his, gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze. “I knew from the start the kind of work that you do. Besides, I’ve already been ‘tainted’ by murder, if you recall.”
She gave him a small, sardonic smile.
“That aside,” she continued briskly, “what are we going to do about Gregson?”
Ryan grinned broadly for the first time in days.
“Now, you’re talking.”
* * *
At precisely three o’clock that afternoon, DCS Arthur Gregson stood atop a makeshift podium outside CID Headquarters. Behind him, young, ambitious men with an eye for promotion stood in a smart row of navy suits. In front of him, the local press were poised and ready to begin.
Phillips, MacKenzie and Lowerson remained a good distance apart from the media throng, which was a statement in itself.
“Turns my stomach,” MacKenzie snarled, fully recovered from the excitement of the day before. “Ryan should be standing up there, telling the press all about how a killer got his comeuppance.”
The other two nodded their heads in unison.
“Far too bloody early to be talking about it,” Phillips snarled. “Haven’t had a chance to go over Pinter’s conclusions, to discuss it all with the CSIs, nothing. How can Gregson stand there and say that Donovan killed himself when we don’t know that for sure?”
MacKenzie’s lip curled.
“He’s covering his arse.”
“His and the department’s,” Phillips corrected. “But there’s nothing to cover! Everything was done by the book, from start to finish.”
MacKenzie gave him a quick squeeze.
“What are we going to do?” Lowerson spoke up, his eager voice laced with indignation on behalf of his SIO, the man he looked up to, modelled himself on and generally hoped to emulate one day. “Ryan shouldn’t have been suspended.”
“Aye, it’s not right,” Phillips agreed. He had tried to contact Ryan several times, but the number rang out. He told himself that Anna would look after him, but also knew that he would drive up to see him at the first opportunity.
“Ssh,” MacKenzie hushed them all. “Let’s hear what this smart aleck has to say for himself.”
“I can confirm that Doctor Patrick Donovan, an eminent clinical psychiatrist, was found dead in his cell early this morning,” Gregson began, in sombre tones. “Although all measures were taken in accordance with the relevant Police and Criminal Evidence Guidance, I am sorry to say that he apparently committed suicide.”
A short pause, to convey regret.
“Doctor Donovan was arrested for the murder of three women: Amy Llewellyn, whose body was found at Sycamore Gap on Sunday morning; Claire Burns, whose body was found at the same location on Monday; and Geraldine Hart, a seventy-three-year-old woman who was found dead in her home on Tuesday.”
“Did he kill himself to avoid being tried for his crimes?”
Gregson nodded wisely.
“We can only assume that Donovan could no longer live with his actions.”
There was a barrage of questions, until Gregson held up both hands to quieten the din.
“We are still piecing together the evidence in our possession,” he qualified, “but we strongly believe that Donovan intended to frame another man for his crimes. To that man, who has suffered the indignity of police questioning, we offer an apology on behalf of Northumbria CID.”
“What?” Phillips was about to blow a fuse, as he listened to the bumf. “Colin Hart connects to Donovan and Edwards! It was a legitimate line of enquiry, damn it!”
“We have since released that man without charge,” Gregson was saying. “And hope that his life will no longer be marred by the wrongful suspicions of certain police staff.”
“What? You were the bastard who was convinced it was Colin who did it!” Phillips nearly shouted at Gregson, but stopped himself in time.
“Where’s Ryan?” One observant journalist shouted out the question and Gregson smiled to himself, having anticipated it.
“Owing to certain … regrettable
decisions made during the course of the investigation, Detective Chief Inspector Ryan has been suspended from his duties pending further enquiry. You may rest assured that all further matters relating to the deaths of those women will be handled under the unbiased, careful eyes of other highly competent members of Northumbria CID.”
“Are you saying DCI Ryan couldn’t handle the pressure? Did he harass Keir Edwards?”
“Did DCI Ryan overlook important evidence?”
“Where is DCI Ryan now?”
“Please, please,” Gregson raised his hands again. “It would be inappropriate for me to discuss any further details relating to what remains an internal matter –”
In the shadows, Phillips snarled, MacKenzie bared her teeth and Lowerson felt a burgeoning sense of disillusionment. Was this the reason he had joined the police force, to stab his fellow men in the back?
“Was the Circle involved?”
Gregson faltered, just for a second, seeking out the source of the question. His eyes came to rest on a sharp-eyed young woman, with a mic extended in her left hand.
“There is no Circle,” he said stiffly.
“There are rumours that one of the women was ritually marked, as with some of the victims on Holy Island,” the journalist persisted. “What if the dead doctor was part of the Circle? Is it still operating?”
Gregson felt a line of sweat trickle down his spine, beneath his dress suit.
“Any cult circle which previously operated on Holy Island has since been disbanded,” he said quickly. “Next question.”
“Amy Llewellyn went missing around 21st June 2005,” the journalist hammered on, for all to hear. “There are at least eight other women on the Missing Persons Database who were reported missing on or around 21st June, for a period of over ten years. That looks like ritual, doesn’t it? Will you be conducting a further search of the area around Sycamore Gap?”
Of all the questions he had anticipated, it was the one Gregson wanted to answer the least. To open the search would be tantamount to opening a can of worms. Big ones.
“Once we have reviewed all of the evidence –”
“JUSTICE! JUSTICE FOR THE DEAD!” A man shouted from somewhere in the crowd. Following his lead, several reporters shouted out, calling for a thorough search. Gregson was starting to feel faint. He could already see the local and national news, plastered with the sorrowful faces of family whose loved ones had gone missing around the solstice.
Things were spiralling out of control.
From their position on the outskirts, Phillips and MacKenzie regarded Lowerson with a new level of respect. Out of nowhere, the man had dissolved into the crowd and shouted his plea, thereby ensuring that the case would not be brushed under the carpet with the kind of ‘hush-hush’ method Gregson had been angling for.
“Good lad,” Phillips approved, with a hearty nudge in the ribs.
On the television monitor in the National Heritage visitor’s centre on Holy Island, Doctor Mark Bowers watched Gregson’s performance with a keen eye. The man looked nervous, he thought, and there had been no mention of them having lost any young detective constables during the course of the investigation.
In other words, Mark thought, his servant had ignored a direct order from his High Priest.
Interrupting his reverie, a young boy tugged at his sleeve, reminding him that he was due to give a tour to a group of primary school children. His face transformed into a welcoming smile as he led the boy towards the historic treasures dotted around the room in glass cases.
As he spoke of kings and queens, of warfare and Vikings, he thought of the future.
* * *
While friends worried for him and colleagues spoke sadly of his absence from the hallways of CID, Ryan flicked off the television screen and reached for the book resting on the cushion beside him.
Paradise Lost.
It had often been remarked that Ryan had eyes like a hawk. In reality, his eyesight was largely dependent on his level of sleep deprivation, but one thing he could lay claim to was having noted the appearance of Milton’s seminal work one too many times for comfort over the past few days.
A copy on the bookcase in Donovan’s office.
A quote from Edwards, in prison.
A pen-and-ink sketch above the mantle in Donovan’s home.
No, Ryan thought, that wasn’t coincidence.
He settled back to read.
EPILOGUE
One week later
Colin thanked the community mental health nurse for stopping by. In fact, her visits were part of a rigorous programme of care in his home environment. Every day, he and Mandy discussed his childhood, how he was feeling and then she administered an injection of a mild anti-psychotic into his rear end.
She had a cup of strong tea, a few biscuits and then left him with the harried air of one who was overworked and undervalued. That day alone, she probably had another ten appointments, not all of which she would be able to keep.
NHS cutbacks, he tutted sympathetically.
The house had been cleaned thoroughly by a specialist company who had gone over the rooms and in particular his mother’s bedroom with a substantial volume of cleaning chemicals. The forensic team of CSIs, led by a methodical man in his late thirties and possessed of sharp eyes behind thick spectacles, had confiscated numerous personal articles from the house including his computer. That was no matter, Colin thought. Computers could be replaced.
Now, Colin felt truly free; even the air smelled sweeter, albeit laced with disinfectant.
He checked the time on his slick new watch. Eleven o’clock. Oops! Running later than usual this morning.
He selected a heavy volume from his bookshelf – The Oxford Handbook of Criminology – and settled himself on the sofa. Opening it, he took out the small pay-as-you-go mobile phone that lay nestled inside a crevice within its folds.
He dialled the number and did not have to wait long before Edwards answered.
“My friend,” came the beloved voice. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”
“Hardly,” Colin replied, crossing his legs as he reclined. He admired the smooth silk-cashmere blend of his trousers as it stretched over his thighs. He had treated himself to a few new things, modelling his style on Edwards’ former days with a few select pieces from Ryan’s outdoor ensemble.
“I see that all has gone as planned,” Edwards prodded.
“Better than expected, from your perspective,” Colin remarked. “Ryan has been suspended from duty, I understand.”
There was a quivering silence at the end of the line, while Edwards savoured the information.
“How very unfortunate,” Edwards cackled. “In some ways, I wish my dear old friend, Doctor Donovan, had been able to see the mighty Ryan dethroned.”
“Do you really think Donovan killed himself?” Colin was intrigued.
“Of course not,” Edwards laughed. “The man was indomitable. I should have thought it would take a nuclear bomb to dispose of him, but apparently a bit of material and a couple of strong pairs of hands will do just as well.”
“Who?”
“Ah, now, all in good time. We all must have our little secrets, mustn’t we?”
Colin’s lips trembled, just once. Keir Edwards was behind bars but still managed to exert power over him. What would he do without his friendship, his inspiration?
“I followed your advice, to the letter,” Colin spoke again, seeking praise for his efforts.
“Well done, Colin, well done indeed. Didn’t I tell you, it would all come right in the end? Don’t you feel better, having ridded yourself of her cloying, hateful presence in your life?”
Colin thought of his mother, with her flabby folds of wrinkled skin, her constant odour and her constant whining. Even thinking of it raised his blood pressure. Yes, he felt better. He felt like a man reborn.
“When the police came to take me in for questioning, I rang Donovan, just as you said. It seems Ryan followe
d the trail. It led him straight back to the psychiatrist.”
“Ha! And the vial?”
“Yes,” Colin said. “I told him I could hardly sleep, that I was at breaking point. He handed some Lorazepam to me from his own private store. Trusting fool.”
“Perhaps my old mentor had a heart, after all.”
Both men laughed.
“I don’t know what to do, now that she’s gone,” Colin found himself saying. “I’d grown so accustomed to her being there … and … and the flashbacks, they’re quite bad.” When he closed his eyes, he could see his mother’s final shocked expression as he had stabbed the needle into her neck. He remembered, too, the woozy feeling of release as he had watched her body convulse and then die. He had cried a little but the tears had been a mixture of regret and happiness.
At the end of the line, Edwards raised his eyes to the ceiling of his cell, fighting to remain composed in the face of such weakness. Why all the fuss about some old bitch who would probably have hung around for another thirty years, just to plague the man?
“The flashbacks will go,” he snapped at Colin. “Forget about your old life, forget about the old Colin. You are a new man.”
When Edwards ended the call, with Terry the prison guard loitering outside to make sure none of the other guards should overhear his conversation, he could hear the distant sound of an old A-Team episode playing on the communal TV screen down the hall. He emerged from his cell and nodded towards Terry, whose family would be enjoying an unexpected holiday on the Costa del Sol. Edwards considered it money well spent.
He headed in the direction of the TV and thought about how much he loved it when a plan came together, especially one that had been years in the making.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, LJ Ross moved to London where she graduated from King’s College London with undergraduate and postgraduate degrees in Law. After working in the City as a regulatory lawyer for a number of years, she realised it was high time for a change. The catalyst was the birth of her son, which forced her to take a break from the legal world and find time for some of the detective stories which had been percolating for a while and finally demanded to be written.
