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

by LJ Ross

  “What about the fence?”

  Tom smiled in an almost fatherly fashion. Ryan didn’t miss a trick. “We found tiny traces of black polyester wool on the fence where the perp crossed over. That will take a day or so to analyse. We found trace skin samples on the fence and there were matching scratches on the victim’s left flank and waist.”

  “From where he struggled to push her over the fence,” Ryan surmised, imagining the actions of a desperate man.

  “That would be my guess.”

  There was a moment’s pause as the people whose profession it was to avenge the dead grieved for a girl none of them had known.

  “And the return route?” Ryan broke the silence.

  “More difficult to trace,” Tom began. “We believe he returned by the same route, according to some shallower markings which follow the same path. He wasn’t carrying such a heavy load, so we’ve been able to hazard a more educated guess as to his likely weight and height. Looks to be between five-nine and six-one, between one hundred and seventy to one hundred and ninety pounds.”

  Ryan took a long breath.

  “So, what you’re saying is, he’s a man of average height and average weight.”

  Tom nodded miserably.

  “Any other possibilities?”

  Faulkner sighed. “There are other fresh tracks leading around the perimeter heading towards the turnstiles. We’ve eliminated those which appear to have been made by Liz Morgan and her dog,” he added. “We’ll keep looking, but for now I’m minded to think that our perp left via the route he came.”

  “OK, understood. What about phone data?”

  “We haven’t been able to recover her mobile phone, sir, although her family confirms she owns a black iPhone with a pink cover and her friends say she had it with her last night.”

  “There’s one other thing,” Phillips said cheerfully, after another brief pause. “There’s no CCTV on the island apart from just outside the Heritage Centre, where they keep some relics and whatnot. I’ve requested the tape for last night, but nobody at the centre knows how to operate the system. I’ve asked one of the techies to come across from HQ tomorrow to help with it. Thought you’d want to know.”

  Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose to stop the pounding which had started there.

  “Frank, we’re going to need some more coffee.”

  * * *

  Hours later, Ryan’s head was heavy and his stomach was churning from too much caffeine. He watched from the top of the dunes overlooking the causeway as his team dispersed to cross over to the mainland, back to their ordinary lives and families. The sun rested low on the horizon and mist swirled above the water as the last tourist vehicles made their progress along the winding road. The cars moved like ants across the shadowed water, or rats deserting a sinking ship.

  He watched them for a moment longer then turned to walk back towards the village, deep in thought. First, he would head back to the pub. The pub was the epicentre of the community. Perhaps some religious types would have disagreed with him but he knew plenty of people who said their prayers in church then headed down to the local drinking hole. His discussion with the Jolly Anchor’s resident barmaid hadn’t been especially helpful, he recalled, unless of course he counted the part where Megan tried to give him a palm reading or the part where she had brushed her leg against his in a move too practiced to be accidental.

  When he sifted through the useless flirtation, he saw a dissatisfied woman stuck in a monotonous job without either the means or the motivation to better herself. Megan Taylor was a woman who lived by her looks, whether she was tending bar or rubbing up against murder detectives. He figured she would get a shock when she woke up one day, twenty years older and no further ahead.

  Unlike her sister, he mused. There was classic beauty, without artifice.

  Where the hell had that thought come from?

  He gave himself a mental shake and dragged himself back to the point.

  Megan may seem like a bit of fluff, a pretty butterfly that enjoyed flying from man to man seeking attention, but he had been trained to analyse behaviour. She was perceptive and she was observant. Megan had been on shift from five until midnight with a break from ten until ten-thirty and, in that time, she had seen who had come and gone. She could describe, in detail, what most of them had been wearing, what they had ordered and what they had spent, almost to the penny. She had seen Lucy come in around six-thirty with her friends, giggling and chatting. He was inclined to take her word for it.

  Amid a host of transient visitors and regulars, Rob Fowler, the coastguard volunteer, had stopped in around seven-thirty for a couple of hours before leaving again in time for his night shift at eleven. Like a revolving door, Alex Walker had stopped by for a late drink at around eleven-fifteen after the end of his shift. Pete went home, according to the statement provided by his mother and the four guests staying at his family’s inn. He was home by eleven-fifteen and tucked up in bed shortly after then. No doubt with a cup of warm milk and a bedtime story, Ryan thought with a smirk.

  Lucy had stayed the whole night, eating, drinking and making merry during the festive season until she’d left around eleven forty-five to wander home alone. She hadn’t worried for her safety; in fact, nobody had worried because nothing sinister ever happened on Lindisfarne.

  Until now.

  * * *

  Elsewhere on the island, another man thought of Lucy as he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His hands shook as they clutched the porcelain rim of the sink, the knuckles turning white.

  Just as they had turned white against her throat as he had watched her struggle through a haze of confusion and fear. He had felt the awful power of it, the momentary arousal of invincibility.

  He started to cry, tears rolling hotly down his face and he brought both hands up over his mouth to stifle the sound, rocking slightly. He dragged shaking fingers through his hair, pulling at it to try to ease the awful pressure in his head.

  Lucy…Lucy. I didn’t mean to do it. I would never have hurt you, if only you hadn’t looked at me that way, if only you hadn’t laughed. Please, Lucy. He whimpered softly under his breath.

  He looked up again and a scream of terror welled up in his throat as he mistook a flash of red behind him for the red she had been wearing. He looked at his hands again and thought he saw her blood smeared across them. He groped for the soap and ceramic pots fell to the tiled floor, smashing into pieces. He ran the water to boiling and scrubbed desperately at his hands to cleanse his body before he could cleanse his spirit.

  He had cleansed Lucy’s spirit, offered her up to the Mother on consecrated ground.

  He had to believe it.

  He fell to the floor, nicked his hands against the shards of ceramic and curled his body into the foetal position.

  Eventually, he rose, calmer now. Methodically, he tidied the bathroom, washed and dressed himself.

  He had work to do.

  CHAPTER 6

  “What did you tell him?”

  The man’s voice was deep, almost musical. It was one of the things Megan liked most about him. That and his bank balance. She turned from inspecting her make-up in the small mirror above the bureau in her cramped apartment and caught his eye in the reflection. Watching her, he remembered briefly what had attracted him to her in the first place. That look in her eye, the one she had now, held promises of dark pleasure. Even now, he felt himself grow hard.

  “Tell me,” he asked again and she rolled her eyes.

  “Don’t worry. I just gave him the basics; when I was on shift, when I took my break. I couldn’t exactly lie about that, since Bill was there last night and could have told him the same thing.”

  “Did you tell him what you did in your break?”

  Megan turned to him fully now and toyed with the buttons on her snug red top. Red was his favourite. She loved playing with him, could see the way his eyes followed the movement of her fingers and felt power course through her.r />
  He would pay, they all did.

  She flipped open a button, ran her tongue lightly over her full lips and watched his pupils dilate. Men were so easy.

  “I told him I went back to my apartment all on my lonesome and watched some TV.”

  “That was stupid,” he ground out. “He could have asked you what you watched.”

  She didn’t care for his tone, not at all. Her eyes narrowed and she thought of the ways she would bleed him this time, but her voice stayed soft, breathy.

  “Shh,” she walked her red-tipped fingers up his chest, scraped them across the nipples through his shirt and felt his breath catch. “As a matter of fact, he did ask. Luckily for you, I’m not a complete idiot. The same show plays at ten on a Thursday night.” She named a popular crime drama and he thought it was poetic.

  “That’s good, that’s my clever girl.” Relief rushed through him and his arms came around her, cradled her and then tightened as he felt her clever hands roam lower to curl around him.

  Anticipation ran through his veins like a heady drug as he watched her walk away to crawl slowly over the bed with its cheap satin cover.

  Megan widened her eyes and fluttered her lashes because it was expected.

  “Honey,” she purred, “we still haven’t finished discussing that important matter we talked about last night.”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched and he felt his erection wane. She never knew when to stop, when to accept her limits.

  “I’ve already answered you.” His voice was hard.

  “Well,” her voice was abruptly hard too as she sat up again, yanked the top back down over her bare breasts. “Perhaps I didn’t like your answer.”

  “Megan, I can’t give you more than I have already.” He thought of all the money he had poured into her waiting hands. For clothes to make herself pretty for him, she had said. For payment, that was the truth of it.

  “I think you can give me plenty more,” she hissed, the seduction over. “What happened to all your talk of love?”

  He closed his eyes briefly and thought of his own stupidity. It was true, he had said those words, at the height of the crazy, all-consuming passion he had felt for her in those first few months. At times, she could still move him that way, but he knew that his obsession for her had passed and it was time to move on.

  “Let me think about it,” he said, but this time she wasn’t buying.

  “I think you’ve had plenty of time to think about it,” she stalked towards him now, hands on hips. She cocked her head to one side, baiting him. “I know somebody else who would be interested to hear the tale I have to tell.”

  He stood silent, perfectly still.

  “You won’t be telling anyone anything.”

  Megan had a moment’s concern at the odd note in his voice and then chose to ignore it. He was just a man and she could wrap him around her little finger. Still, he needed the stick before she gave him the carrot.

  “I mean it,” she ground out. “I’m sick of this dump.” She gestured to the tiny apartment with its stick furniture, the cheap curtains and flaking paint. You told me months ago we would be married this summer. I’m sick of waiting.”

  “It’s not that simple,” he started.

  “You’re full of shit.” She paced back to the bureau, lit a cigarette. She didn’t usually indulge since she wanted to avoid the wrinkles in later life, but she needed the nicotine. After one long drag, she swung back around, black hair settling sleekly down her back.

  “I’ll tell you how simple it is. Either you marry me, or I’ll fucking sky-write it. Oh yeah, imagine what the village would think if they found out about your little weaknesses.” She paused, considered. “There is another option,” she gestured with the cigarette in her hand. “Give me enough money to start again somewhere else and nobody needs to know a thing.”

  Megan’s lips curved. That was a much better idea. If he was so attached to his reputation and this dead end community, then he could pay through the nose. That way, she didn’t have to be saddled with him for the next however long and she could always tap him up again when the money started to run low. Perfect.

  “You’re trying to blackmail me?” There was that note in his voice again, she thought. Maybe she needed to sweeten him up a bit, get him back to where she wanted him.

  She stubbed out the cigarette and let the side of her top edge down over the creamy swell of her breast.

  “Sweetheart,” she was all silky again, “don’t be like that. I’m just talking about being fair. After all, I’ve been waiting for you all this time, expecting to be the new Mrs…”

  He let out a short, mirthless laugh, cutting her off.

  He would never have married her. It had been madness which had led him to even suggest it. Madness, some recreational drugs and her young, nubile body riding him like a stallion, making him feel like a man.

  “You have to give me a day or so to think about it.”

  She swallowed, tears suddenly burning her eyes and she turned around again so that he wouldn’t see them. She thought of all the men she had known. They had always wanted her, enjoyed her, but none had said they loved her and meant it. Oh, of course she had known that he hadn’t meant it either. She had just half-fooled herself into believing that he might have. It didn’t matter that she didn’t love him. She would have been faithful…or tried to be.

  Her face was composed again, her voice brittle with control when she turned back.

  “That’s fine. Only fair for you to consider your options, but remember, you’ve got until the end of the week.”

  “I understand what I have to do,” was all he said.

  “That’s fine then.” Her pretty face brightened and he realised she hadn’t put as much make up on as usual. Looking at her in that moment, he thought she was beautiful, like a rare and exotic flower.

  “Now,” she continued, thinking it was time to sweeten the deal. “Why don’t we pick up where we left off?” She draped herself over the bed, raised her arms above her head.

  Like an offering.

  “No,” he said quietly, reaching for the bag he had brought. “We’re going to play a different game tonight.”

  * * *

  The Jolly Anchor had been decked out like a Christmas tree. Strings of multi-coloured lights were draped in uneven arcs along the edge of the roof. White lights edged each of the windows and the window panes had been sprayed with false snow. Judging from the chill in the air, it wouldn’t be long before they had the real thing.

  A mechanical Santa guarded the door but a real one waited inside.

  “Bill?” There was only one man on the island who could possibly fill out that garish red suit without needing extra padding.

  “Ho, Ho, Ho!” Bill’s booming voice with the attractive Scottish lilt turned and greeted him.

  Against his better judgment, Ryan’s lips quirked.

  “Playing dressy-up?”

  Bill pulled down the elasticated white beard to reveal his ruddy red face underneath.

  “I do the same every year,” he puffed, wiping a hand over his brow. “I work at the grotto down by the harbour for the kids during the day and it tends to bring a smile to the big kids here too.” He waved a hand at one merry-maker Ryan recognised as the local newsagent, who declared all he wanted or Christmas was a kiss from a girl called Faye. The girl sat across the bar and shook her head but there was a flirty look in her eye. Bill turned back with a smile. “I thought about whether I should tone things down…you know, after what happened to Lucy.” Bill heaved out a sigh. “Hell, Ryan, life has to go on.”

  “You’re doing a good trade tonight,” Ryan looked Bill square in the eye and the big man acknowledged the hit, had the grace to look slightly abashed. It was Friday night and the bar area was full to bursting. Looking at the smiles, the merriment, you would think nothing had changed. Then again, most of the people in the room hadn’t seen the wasted body of a young girl in the early hours of that same morning.
>
  Ryan decided to let it go. He couldn’t blame the man for making a living.

  Several hands rose to greet him and he sent a nod in return.

  “Looks like a good place to meet people,” he turned to face Bill.

  “Sure is,” he agreed. “We’re short on restaurants or fancy wine bars on Lindisfarne.”

  “Good for business at the Anchor. How long have you been here?”

  “Crikey,” Bill scratched under the white wig as he thought. “Fifteen years at least, the last eight as Landlord.”

  “Oh?” Ryan’s interest peaked although he knew it wasn’t particularly relevant.

  “Andy Taylor used to own and run the place before me. I started out as the barman and all-round dogsbody when I was a lad. I bought the place when he died, got it for a song.”

  There was that name ‘Taylor’ again, Ryan thought.

  “That would be Megan’s father?” And Anna’s too, he added silently.

  Bill nodded. “Aye, that’s right.”

  For an open, chatty sort of man, Bill seemed suddenly tight-lipped. Ryan wondered why.

  “He died, you said? Wouldn’t he have left the pub to his girls?”

  Bill huffed out a breath and took a surreptitious look around the bar.

  “Look, mate, it’s a touchy subject around here. It was a bad business, a very bad business.” Ryan tried to focus on the man’s words and not on the ridiculous white moustache as it moved up and down.

  “I’m the soul of discretion,” he murmured.

  Bill hooted out a laugh at that dry comment. “I believe you are,” he nodded, thinking he’d never met a man with a better poker face. “Still, there are people who would still rather forget all about Andy.”

  “You’re one of them?”

  Bill paused for a moment, chose his words carefully. “Look, Andy gave me a job when I needed one, when I had nothing and nobody. Now, I got a nice home, a good business and decent friends.” He paused before continuing. “I was grateful to him but, by God, he got his pound of flesh.” Memories swirled in his eyes. “I wasn’t the only one who paid a toll. He had a beautiful wife and two sweet girls. It wasn’t enough for him to enjoy what he had.”