Holy Island: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 1)

by LJ Ross

  He lowered his camera and frowned. The girl looked like she had been arranged. She lay there naked, palms both upwards, outstretched. Blood from the gash he could see matting the hair at her temple had been used to mark her forehead and palms, to sweep lines along her torso from chest to navel. Her hair seemed to have been combed out to frame her face. He sniffed the air. Amid the ripe scent of the beginnings of decay, there was definitely something else. Something herbal, which made him think inappropriately of curry. He filed the thought away and looked again. She hadn’t died from the bump on her head, he thought. Treading carefully, leaving a wide berth around the body, he could see the mottled bruises on her slim throat and the signs of burst blood vessels under the skin on her face. Somebody with big hands had choked the life out of her.

  Her clothes were missing.

  “Careful, weren’t you?” Ryan murmured.

  Eyes tracking, always tracking, he moved back to the entrance to guard the scene until the coastguards arrived.

  “Taking their sweet time,” he said, checking his watch. Nearly six-fifteen.

  It would be another forty minutes until police could get across to the island; calling out a helicopter from the RAF base on the mainland would take the same amount of time, as would trying to get a boat across.

  There was a call he needed to make and he couldn’t put it off any longer.

  He slipped out his phone, keyed in the number and unconsciously squared his shoulders.

  “Gregson.” The familiar bark of the Detective Chief Superintendent, CID commander for Northumberland area, came down the line.

  “It’s Ryan, sir.”

  There was an infinitesimal pause.

  “Good to hear from you. Is this a social call? If so, it’s an unsociable hour. ”

  Ryan ignored the question since he happened to know that Arthur Gregson arrived promptly at his desk at six sharp every morning, come rain or shine. Despite his rank, Gregson was still the first to arrive and the last to leave. He didn’t appear to have been informed of the latest news, so Ryan came to the point.

  “Sir, you’re aware I’ve been spending some time on Lindisfarne. An incident was reported to me approximately fifteen minutes ago by one of the islanders, a local woman who was the first on the scene. In the absence of an attending officer, I took a preliminary statement from the witness and duly contacted the coastguard in the absence of a standing police presence on the island. I have advised them to contact the local authorities, referring the matter to your office.”

  “Incident?” Gregson was never a man to waste words.

  “Yes, sir. I felt it prudent to attend the scene at the Priory ruins and will instruct the coastguards to cordon off any other access points at the earliest opportunity. First observation indicates the suspicious death of a local girl, approximately twenty years old.” He thought of the body lying a few feet behind where he stood and spoke more firmly. “It looks like a homicide, with ritualistic overtones.”

  There was a barely audible sigh at the end of the line. “It sounds like you’ve done your duty, Ryan. I’ll send Phillips or MacKenzie.”

  “Sir, requesting permission to return to duty and lead the investigation.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Ryan gritted his teeth. It was no more than he had expected.

  “I feel there has been a sufficient period of recovery since I was last on active duty,” he couldn’t bring himself to speak of it. When he continued, he made sure his voice was even.

  “Respectfully, I would remind you that I have been an active member of the local community,” he didn’t blink at the lie but thought of all the hours spent lying in bed, staring out of windows. “I am acquainted with the island and its inhabitants. I am uniquely placed to interview and investigate.”

  At his desk at command headquarters, Arthur Gregson sat back in his wide leather desk chair – a present from his wife to ward off constant backache – and tapped broad, workmanlike fingers against the standard issue beech desk he kept neat as a pin. Ryan was one of the best he had. Until recently, he had been energetic, diligent and Gregson knew there was a razor sharp mind underneath that pretty exterior the girls seemed to love. Ryan had climbed the ladder quickly. A fancy education had helped get his foot in the door but it was no substitute for experience and he had to admit that Ryan had knuckled down and gone the rest of the way himself. Two years ago, he’d personally handed Ryan his promotion to Detective Chief Inspector.

  Six months ago, Ryan had been in an impossible position and the personal cost had been high. The question was whether he was ready to get back on the horse. Gregson quickly considered the department’s psychological report, the protocol and the paperwork.

  “Have you been seeing that counsellor the department recommended? Had a check-up at the GP recently?”

  The pause was just long enough to give Gregson his answer.

  “I -”

  “Christ, Ryan.”

  Ryan tried hard to swallow his pride, thinking again of the girl lying dead beside him. “I can address both of those matters.”

  In a tailored suit the same colour as his dress uniform, with a mop of steel grey hair, Gregson was an imposing man who could play politics and give speeches with the best of them. Still, he wasn’t so comfortable at the desk that he’d forgotten the time he’d spent on the beat, the years he had put in working CID before he took the helm. He was a cautious, meticulous man but he wasn’t afraid to go with his gut.

  “See that you do.” Another pause. “I confirm the termination of your sabbatical period, subject to you contacting your GP, who will provide a written confirmation of your physical health. It would put my mind at ease if you were to find a counsellor.”

  “The report listed that as a recommendation, rather than a requirement, sir.”

  Gregson acknowledged the truth in that and tried not to worry about it.

  “Return to duty, effective immediately.” He hesitated, but took the risk anyway. “You’re the SIO on this. Choose your own team.”

  Relief was palpable but Ryan’s voice stayed level. “Thank you. I’ll take Phillips for starters. I’ll need a CSI team, couple of officers for sentry and house-to-house,” he glanced around him and thought of the size of the area, the elements involved. “No real preference on the CSI, but Faulkner’s good.”

  “I’ll get onto Phillips myself and tell him to scare up forensics.”

  “I’d appreciate it if we could hold off on the media for as long as possible. I haven’t had an opportunity to inform next of kin yet.”

  “Get a preliminary statement out by this afternoon otherwise these things have a habit of leaking on their own. I want regular progress reports. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “Understood.”

  “Oh, and Ryan? Welcome back.”

  Ryan slipped the phone back into his pocket as he heard the sound of approaching feet, lowered voices. Part of him braced and adrenaline kicked in his system before he relaxed again. The customary red jackets of the coastguard station officer and his deputy rounded the corner. He nodded to both men, assessing. He recognised Alex, the senior, as a regular feature around the village. He was a little over six feet, around thirty years old, blonde and athletic with friendly features which made him popular with the ladies. He looked more like a surfer than a coastguard; Ryan had seen him jogging past his cottage in the early evenings and had almost worked up the motivation to head out and join him.

  Pete, the deputy, had a young face. In fact, he looked like his voice had only recently broken but he’d worked up a bit of a goatee to try to offset it. He was around the same height as his superior, but thinner, his limbs longer. He had messy light brown hair at odds with the rigidly sculpted beard, which told Ryan that he’d recently dragged himself out of bed.

  Both men looked nervous.

  “What the hell took you so long?”

  “Ryan,” Alex nodded to him, took off dark sunglasses and propped them in his abundant blonde h
air while he extended a hand. “Sorry for the delay. We had some trouble chasing up plastic sheeting this time of the morning.”

  Ryan took the man’s hand briefly, ignored the sarcasm and nodded to the silent Pete.

  Ryan stood back, eyed them both and wished for a professional crime team but knew he had to make do with what he had.

  “First thing I need you to do is cover your shoes and clothes. Did you bring overalls?”

  “Ah -”

  Ryan swore inwardly and rummaged in his rucksack. “Here,” he barked, shoving a couple of plastic bin bags towards them and waited while they tied the plastic around their boots and the bottom of their jeans. “Make do with this for now. I need you to haul up some plastic sheeting to protect the scene. It looks like rain to me.”

  Alex lifted dubious eyes to the sky, which was papered blue and washed with pale sunshine, but said nothing.

  “Come on.”

  They headed up the visitor’s trail, plastic buffeting in the breeze. As they turned into the Priory, Ryan watched their reactions. Pete was the first to buckle. Hand clutching his stomach, he turned away and puked up his breakfast without preamble.

  Ryan couldn’t blame him. It affected you, the first few times.

  Alex slapped a manly hand on Pete’s back but judging by the greenish tinge under his all-weather tan, it looked like he was only just holding up himself.

  “Jesus…” he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Jesus.”

  “Jesus had nothing to do with it,” Ryan muttered, watching the other man. Alex wore a look he’d seen a hundred times before and recognised as a kind of horrified fascination. Eyes like saucers, he was staring at the body now, throat constricting. Ryan stepped in front of him, cut off the view and watched his eyes snap back.

  “I need a tent set up in a perimeter around the body,” he started, waiting for the other man’s full attention. Ryan checked the sky, which was beginning to look overcast.

  “Her name was Lucy,” the other man interrupted, voice hard.

  Ryan paused, confusion clouding his face before he nodded. “You’re right. I need the area around Lucy protected- a ten metre perimeter around her body. Rain’s coming in.”

  Together, they staked out a perimeter of plastic sheeting leaving a wide berth around Lucy’s body and tacked a makeshift ceiling over it all. Ryan noticed that, by the end, both men were breathing heavily and he was glad they held it together without contaminating the scene. If they needed to throw up, they could do it elsewhere. Both men kept their eyes fixed on the task and said nothing until Pete’s watery voice broke the silence.

  “Can’t you cover her up? I mean, why are you leaving her lying there naked?” Ryan turned and looked at the man, barely more than a boy, and saw sorrow in his eyes. He told himself to stay firm.

  “This is a crime scene, Pete. You did your initial response training?”

  “Yes, but -”

  “Then you should know that the scene should not be interfered with in any way before the CSI team arrives.”

  “It’s just…” Pete’s eyes watered. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  The job finished, Pete walked out of the tent towards the far end of the church.

  “It’s hard on him,” Alex began, watching his deputy struggle to maintain composure. “He went to school with Lucy. We all knew her, but they grew up together.”

  “Uh huh,” was all Ryan said and stored the information away for later. There were more pressing matters to attend to.

  “I need you to guard the visitor’s entrance. Are there any other access points?”

  Alex shook his head. “It’s the only way up onto the headland. The monks built it defensively that way,” he gestured to the sea through the gaps in the stonework, “only other way up here would be to scale those cliffs.”

  Ryan turned in the direction Alex indicated and saw the sheer drop towards the beach, protected by a wooden fence around the perimeter of the grounds. He nodded, satisfied for now.

  “Send Pete to watch the gate, he needs to clear his head. I want names and times for everyone coming or going. Here,” Ryan pulled a bottle of water out of the small rucksack he carried, “give him this.”

  Alex nodded thoughtfully, re-assessing the man he’d initially considered remote. He turned to dispatch Pete. Ryan watched the younger man nod eagerly, breathing through his teeth still. He turned and half ran back down the incline to the gate.

  “Pete’s a good kid,” Alex defended his deputy. “Nothing like this has happened on the island for a long, long time. Not in my lifetime.”

  “People kill each other all over the world.”

  “Sure, but Lindisfarne - it’s holy.” Alex shook his head sadly. “It’s like killing someone in church.”

  While Alex headed off to stand with Pete, Ryan turned back to Lucy and silently apologised. It was easier to work CID when you took a step back, tried to keep things impersonal. If he started thinking about Lucy with the brown hair and pretty blue eyes who had been home for the Christmas holidays, then about all the Christmases she wouldn’t see, he wasn’t sure he would be able to face it.

  He stood frowning, a tall, unapproachable man who stood as still as the stones around him. This was personal. He may have only been on the island for a couple of months, but people like Liz trusted him to do his job. He’d told her that he would take care of Lucy and that was what he was going to do. Whether they knew it or not, the islanders had given him a home and a sanctuary when he had needed it. He owed them.

  Besides, he thought as he rubbed his chilled hands together, they needed protecting from one of their own. He was damn sure the medics would find Lucy Mathieson was killed last night after the tide had rolled out and cut them off from the mainland, which meant somebody already on the island had her blood on their hands.

  He checked the time again. Fifteen minutes until the causeway opened.

  “Alex!” He called the man back from where he was hopping from one cold foot to the other. “I need you to send a couple of people down to the beach to man the road across. Set up a road block - nobody leaves or comes over the causeway unless they live or have business concerns on the island.”

  “Ryan, we can’t do that. There’s going to be a huge influx today, you know that.” Alex’s face looked pained. “Besides, we haven’t got the man power. I’ve got Pete on the visitors’ gate and I – ah- haven’t been able to get hold of Rob. He worked the night shift. Mark’s on his way.” He ran through his short list of coastguard volunteers.

  “Why would today be so special?” Ryan shrugged. “Because it’s almost Christmas?”

  Alex looked at him as if he had grown two heads. “Well, sure, Christmas is always busy on Lindisfarne, but it’s the 21st today.”

  Ryan flipped through a mental calendar but came up blank.

  “The winter solstice,” Alex supplied with a look on his face which seemed to say, “stupid outsider”.

  Ryan wouldn’t know a solstice from a cough remedy.

  “OK,” he said, face blank.

  Alex shifted his feet and adopted an authoritative tone. “It’s the day of the year when all the neo-pagans gather round to celebrate shorter nights, longer days. Basically, everyone meets on the beach, they light a few fires, sing a few songs and eat barbeque.”

  Ryan didn’t consider himself to be a religious man. He had seen too much of life and of what one person was capable of doing to another, to believe in a deity which could allow that to happen. Still, if people wanted to dance around a few pogo sticks and get drunk, there was no real harm in it. Unless one of them had decided to take symbolic sacrifice a step too far, he added, thinking of the girl lying on a cold slab behind him.

  “What do the residents make of it?” he asked.

  “The older population tends to be Christian but since most of them own the B & B’s and the gift shops, they just smile politely and turn a decent trade. The rest of us don’t really give a shit,” he shrugged eloquently.
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  Ryan considered this for a moment.

  “What about the vicar?” his eyes fixed on the steeple of the island’s church, just visible rising above the rooftops in the village beyond. The church graveyard backed directly onto the Priory grounds.

  “Mike?” Alex laughed. “He loves it. Every year, it’s an opportunity for him to spread the word, try to convert a few unbelievers.”

  Ryan paused to file it all away. Interesting, but it didn’t change the fact that the last thing they needed was a hoard of tourists trampling all over the place.

  “If there’s going to be a swarm of visitors, that’s precisely why they can’t access the island. Think!” he cut across the other man’s protest. “It had to be somebody who’s already here, Alex.”

  Alex’s expression darkened. “That puts a different complexion on matters. Still, the islanders won’t like it.”

  “They’re going to like the fact that one of their own has been brutally murdered a hell of a lot less.” He wasn’t prepared to be compromising. “Find Rob and Mark, drag them out of bed with your bare hands if you have to, but for God’s sake get them down to the beach. I want names and licence plates for all cars approaching or leaving.”

  He paused, remembered Liz.

  “Mark – is that Mark Bowers?”

  Alex nodded. “He volunteers once or twice a week with the coastguard. The rest of the time, he manages the Heritage Centre and gift shop, does history tours.”

  “You need to tell him that the Centre will be closed for business today. There won’t be any visitors coming up here. Tell him not to pester Liz Morgan, either. She won’t be in for work at the gift shop.”