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

by LJ Ross

  His eyes sombre, Alex nodded and headed off.

  Satisfied that the wheels were in motion, Ryan opted to ring Gregson’s PA and leave a message. He knew it was cowardly but he could do without discussing the merits and demerits of closing off an entire island to the general public. It wasn’t up for debate.

  CHAPTER 2

  Ryan was standing guard over Lucy’s body when Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips arrived with two crime scene officers in tow. Ryan recognised them as Tom Faulkner and his assistant. The CSI’s paused for a brief word before heading straight into the tent where Lucy waited. Ryan turned back to his sergeant. Phillips was a short barrel of a man with a boxer’s physique and a weather-beaten face. He wore the dark grey suit badly but, oddly, the pale pink tie with yellow polka dots suited him.

  “Ryan,” he clasped a strong hand around Ryan’s and pumped it enthusiastically, using the other to give him a clap on the shoulder. “Great to see you again.”

  Ryan didn’t take offence at the lack of formality. He might have been the man’s superior in rank, but he was a good fifteen years younger than Phillips and had been brought up to respect his elders. There had been times in the early days when he’d had to assert himself, but experience had worn down the prickly edges to leave a smooth friendship and an even smoother working relationship.

  “You too, Frank.” He realised he meant it.

  “Wish it had been over a pint rather than picking over something like this,” Phillips shook his head in disgust. “Dispatch gave me the basics. Never fails to amaze me what some bastards will do.” His twinkling brown eyes were sharp as he took in the scene which was now protected by plastic that flapped in the wind.

  Phillips looked back at the tall man in front of him and thought he looked tired and thinner than he had a few months ago. Still, there was a spark back in his eyes which was encouraging. “Heard from Gregson,” he added, and watched Ryan’s face turn slowly, expectantly. He admired the way Ryan’s movements always seemed unhurried.

  “He gave me the rundown, told me you’re back on full duty.”

  Ryan remained silent, his eyes veiled.

  Phillips chuckled slightly, reading him perfectly. “Glad you’re back. Couldn’t stand much more shit from MacKenzie.”

  Ryan nearly smiled. It was no secret that things were touchy between DS Phillips and Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie. It didn’t help that MacKenzie was a strong, attractive woman with a crown of glowing red hair and a temper to match her heritage. It was also no secret that Frank Phillips had been circling round asking her out for the full five years since his wife died.

  “Gotta bite that bullet someday, Frank.”

  “Don’t know what the hell you’re on about.” He scuffed a worn loafer against the moss and scowled.

  Ryan’s lips quirked but sobered instantly when he saw an older man weaving through the stones on the far side of the Priory graveyard, dressed for country weather in a dark green waxed jacket and well-worn boots. The small black case he carried with him was an unmistakable signal that he was the island’s doctor. He watched the man pause amongst the grave stones to speak to Alex. Ryan could see the family resemblance between the older man and his son.

  “Forensics will give us a better idea but I’m reckoning she’s been dead no more than five hours,” he said to Phillips.

  “There was rain last night, though,” Phillips watched the progress of the doctor as he lumbered up the slight incline. Both Phillips and Ryan knew that the rain washed away all kinds of sins, including DNA evidence.

  “I know, Frank. I’m hoping that we can preserve anything that’s left.” His face was grim.

  “Gregson said it was a local girl,” Phillips blew on his hands, wished he had remembered to bring gloves.

  “Young local girl, a pretty brunette called Lucy Mathieson. I recognised her vaguely; her family live on the island. Mother’s a homemaker, father’s a retired teacher. She’d been away at university in Newcastle. She came home for the holidays.”

  Ryan was amazed to find that he knew so much about the local people. To his knowledge, he had been no more than a passive participant in island life. Maybe his natural instinct to observe everyone and everything around him hadn’t quite been extinguished after all.

  Phillips shook his head again. “Picked a nice spot for it.”

  Ryan nodded, glancing briefly at the view out to sea, then back towards the altar. The crumbled stones indicated where walls once stood tall and firm to shelter the holy men from the worst of the elements. Columns of varying height ran down the centre of what he guessed must have been the main place of worship. He frowned, black brows drawing together as he looked at the scene afresh. Chunks of the stone and rock which had once been used to form clean, well-built lines were displaced and scattered in a roughly circular pattern a few feet wide of where the girl lay. At first glance, it looked like natural deterioration but he wondered.

  “It looks,” he paused to find the right word. “Ceremonial.”

  Phillips huffed out a sigh. “I hate these bloody ritual killings. Bad enough that they’ve snuffed someone out, they have to make a song and dance about it too. Adds insult to injury.”

  Ryan knew that Phillips needed the chatter. Everyone had their own way of coping with death, especially the people who had to deal with it up close.

  “It’s the solstice today.”

  Phillips raised a bushy brown eyebrow. “Didn’t realise you were into all that hocus pocus.”

  “I’m not. It never hurts to know what’s going on around you, though.”

  Phillips chewed on his bottom lip. “In that case, you’re going to have a hard job keeping people off the island.”

  “I know. I’m expecting a call from Gregson any minute now. I’ll deal with it.”

  “The road block’s bought us a bit of time,” Phillips mused, “but this place is popular at Christmas, even without it being a special day of the year.”

  Ryan jammed impatient hands in his pockets. “Fucking tourists.”

  Phillips slanted him a look. “You’re a tourist here, yourself, boyo.”

  A ghost of a smile played on Ryan’s lips. “Guess you’ve got me there.”

  Both men fell silent as the doctor finally approached, slightly out of breath. Ryan thought he looked very much like an older version of his son. Around sixty, but with an attractively lined face and a lean, lived-in frame coming in just under six feet. He boasted a full head of grey hair which still held glints of its previous blonde and the lively green eyes he’d passed onto his son flicked over the makeshift tent, before coming to rest soberly on Ryan’s face.

  “Ryan, isn’t it?” he shifted his medical bag and held out a long, artistic hand. “Alex told me it was urgent.”

  “Thank you for coming so quickly, Dr Walker.” Ryan took the hand, found it firm.

  “Steve, please.”

  Ryan nodded, turned. “This is Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips. He’ll be working on the investigation with me.”

  Ryan watched the older man’s eyes register slight surprise and had a moment to think that he had obviously been the subject of some discussion on the island. At least the good doctor was forthright.

  “I didn’t realise you were visiting Lindisfarne in a professional capacity, Mr Ryan.”

  In other words, Ryan thought, word had spread that he had slunk across to Lindisfarne like a wounded animal. He wanted to resent the lack of privacy but the eyes which assessed him were kind.

  “Seems I’ve had enough rest and relaxation, Dr Walker,” he deliberately kept things formal, sending a telling glance at what lay behind him. “I’ll be the Senior Investigating Officer in respect of the death of a girl who has been identified as Lucy Mathieson. Her body was found just under an hour ago. In the absence of a pathologist, we’d be grateful if you would confirm life extinct and provide us with any other preliminary medical observations.”

  The doctor followed his gaze.

  “Luc
y?” he shook his head sadly, his jaw sagged and tears burned his eyes. “I helped to bring that girl into the world.”

  Ryan and Phillips stayed silent. There was nothing they could say.

  “Her parents will be devastated. There must have been a terrible accident…” his voice trailed off.

  “No,” Ryan returned flatly. “I doubt this was an accidental death but we would be grateful for your observations, as I say.” He paused, considered. “If you feel that your prior knowledge of the deceased would prejudice your task..?”

  The other man visibly pulled himself together but his eyes remained sad.

  “No, I suppose I must see it as part of the cycle of life. God knows I’ve tried to understand why good people suffer the ravages of cancer and all manner of ailments over the course of my career but I’ve only ever had the misfortune to assess an unnatural death once before.”

  Ryan’s ears pricked. “On the island?”

  “No, no. Many years ago, when we lived in Newcastle. I worked as a police surgeon for the first few years of my tenure before deciding to become a general practitioner. You expect things like this to happen in a big city, but you just don’t expect it on our little island community.”

  “I didn’t realise you had been employed as a police surgeon.”

  “Yes, when I was young and thought that it would be an exciting career choice,” the older man shook his head, presumably at his younger self. “Then Yvonne and I were married and Alex was born. We decided we wanted a more peaceful life together, with more sociable working hours.”

  Ryan nodded and said nothing while he waited for the doctor to draw himself together.

  “I’ll head in now,” Walker said quietly and nodded to both men. They watched him pick his way across the grass, head bent, to the CSI officers working the scene.

  “Poor fella,” Phillips commented. “It’s not every day that you have to sign the death certificate for someone you’ve helped birth.”

  “Yeah,” Ryan felt his chest tighten again and deliberately exhaled slowly. A light rain started to fall and Ryan watched Phillips fiddle with a flimsy black umbrella.

  “Go on inside and get a feel for the scene, speak to Walker. We’ll let the lab boys do their work and see what we see. I need to set up an Incident Room but it’s going to be difficult to do that back at HQ with the tides. Best to have the incident room here on the island, I’m thinking at my place. I’ve got office equipment there.” He thought of the printer, the fax machine and laptop gathering dust.

  “It’s not exactly protocol,” Phillips said.

  Ryan’s mouth twisted. “Agreed, but the alternatives don’t appeal, either. The base needs to be here on the island but I don’t want to set it up in a communal area where anybody and their grandmother might have a spare key. Best to keep it in the family.”

  Phillips nodded approval.

  “In the meantime,” Ryan continued, “Contact the pathologist to confirm Walker’s assessment when we have it and tell him to expect to receive the body by mid-morning.” He thought a moment. “Mortuary at the hospital in Alnwick will be the closest, so tell him to get over there.”

  “Will do.”

  “I need you to oversee the coastguards, for now. I don’t want them involved beyond crowd management.”

  Ryan didn’t have to spell it out and, in any case, Phillips was a quick study.

  “Everyone’s a suspect?”

  “You’re damn right.”

  Phillips nodded slowly, popped a stick of gum in his mouth and offered some to Ryan. “Tide went out late last night, around what time?”

  “Around eleven forty-five,” Ryan answered easily, shaking his head to the offer of gum. He’d already checked the times the tide had rolled in and out again.

  “Five hours dead, that takes us back to around one in the morning.” Phillips looked past the walls of the Priory towards the village beyond. “At least you’ve got a pool of suspects.”

  “Oh yeah,” Ryan laughed without mirth. “An entire island of them.”

  “Better get started, then.”

  Ryan watched his sergeant head towards the tarpaulin, square his stocky shoulders and dip inside. He felt his phone begin to vibrate and saw Gregson’s number flash. He ignored the call, figuring he could buy another thirty minutes if he was lucky.

  Besides, he had another call to make and this one needed to be made in person.

  CHAPTER 3

  Anna Taylor watched the clouds part high in the sky over Lindisfarne. Light streamed down on the island and she smiled from the relative comfort of her racing green mini. She could have sketched the view from memory, it was so familiar, but each time it stole her breath away.

  It was an uneasy homecoming.

  Slim fingers tapped an irritable rhythm on the steering wheel as she drove the car along the coastal road towards the causeway, sand dunes spreading out to her right. The phone call she’d received early that morning hadn’t left her any choice but to drive up here. DCS Gregson from the Northumbria Police had contacted her through her position at the University. Apparently, he had read her latest work, Pagan Northumberland and her personal knowledge of the island was an added benefit. There had been a ritual murder and he wanted to enlist her as a civilian consultant.

  Just like that, as if she consulted with the police on a daily basis.

  She had to admire the man’s style. He’d caught her half asleep and begging for caffeine, her brain not fully operational. Otherwise, there was no way in hell she would have agreed.

  The fact was, he had told her a young girl had been killed and that hit a little too close to home. Right after speaking with Gregson, she had tried calling the old number she had for Megan but it had rung out, adding to her stress. Her sister had never been an easy person to pin down, she thought with the habitual sense of sadness. Still, she was the only family Anna had left.

  She was clinging onto the fact that neither she nor Megan could be called ‘girls’ any more. Passing the threshold of late twenties and edging dangerously close to thirty put them well past girlhood and she was sure Gregson had said it was a girl who had been killed.

  Hadn’t he?

  Still, she worried. Surely, he would have told her if the girl had been Megan. They had a duty to inform next of kin.

  Didn’t they?

  Nearing the causeway entrance, she frowned at the line of cars standing stationary despite the clear road ahead across the channel. She wound her window down as a man she recognised as Rob Fowler headed towards her car with a clipboard.

  “Morning, Miss. I just need to take some details before I can allow you to cross.” He was using his official voice, Anna noted with a slight curve of full lips and she tipped down tinted aviators to meet his distracted gaze.

  “Rob? Red suits you,” she referred to the bright red coastguard volunteer jacket he wore on his broad shoulders. His name was embroidered in fancy gold lettering on the breast pocket.

  Rob’s tired face registered surprise before he flashed a broad, toothy grin which transformed him from an average-looking man, to a downright attractive one.

  “Anna! It’s been a hell of a long time. Where have you been hiding yourself?” He greeted her like the old friend that she was and leaned in closer. Anyone who had shared a couple of sloppy teenage kisses and more than a few underage drinks could definitely be called an old friend.

  “Durham,” she answered. “I’m living there now, teaching at the university.”

  “I heard you’d done well for yourself. Should I be calling you Doctor Taylor now?” He wiggled his eyebrows, brown eyes twinkling.

  “It’ll always be Anna to you,” she smiled. The reunion over, she jerked her head towards the island. “I heard there’s been some trouble. Anyone I know?”

  She kept her voice casual, but she held her breath.

  “I doubt you’d know her, bit after your time. Young lass called Lucy found dead up at the Priory.” He looked back towards the island, his fac
e abruptly serious.

  Anna let out the long, silent breath she’d been holding and felt relief surge because the girl wasn’t Megan. Guilt followed quickly because she knew some other family would be suffering instead.

  Rob cleared his throat and turned back to her. “I’ve been given instructions to take down name, number plate and purpose for being on the island before I can let you cross, Anna. So, ah…” he cleared his throat again awkwardly. “Are you visiting your sister?”

  Anna watched sympathy pass briefly over his expressive face and chose not to feel embarrassed by it.

  “No.” She paused and strove for calm. “Mark’s loaned me the cottage.” She thought of her childhood home, now owned by an old friend. “I’m actually here on official business, Rob. I’ve been engaged by the police as a consultant.”

  “Right,” Rob’s eyes widened in blatant curiosity as he scribbled something down on his clipboard. “Guess we’ll be seeing more of you, Anna.”

  “I guess so,” she turned the ignition on again now the road was clear ahead, the cars having either u-turned back towards the mainland or driven on towards the island.

  “Safe crossing, Anna.” Rob gave an arm signal to his fellow traffic marshal to indicate she had been given the go-ahead.

  As she passed, her smile widened and she slowed to wave to the marshal she recognised as Mark Bowers. As well as being the island’s resident historian and part-time coastguard, he had been her teenage idol. He was an attractive, scholarly man who looked out of place in the sporty red jacket and khaki waterproofs. She remembered him in his usual garb of cream twill trousers and shirt, the forearms always tanned from long hours spent outdoors searching the land for clues to the past. He sent her a blank look before his lined face broke into a smile and she noticed then that he looked older than the man she remembered. Then again, she was older too. She gave a couple of short toots of the horn as she passed him and promised herself that she would pay a proper visit to her old mentor.

  Even behind sunglasses, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the mid-morning sun. The shining water lapped on either side of the tarmacked road which had risen from the sea, as if by magic. The grey clouds of earlier had been swept away by the wind to leave sunny blue skies, but the air still held the deep chill of winter.