by LJ Ross
“Get a man on Alex Walker; I want a full statement of his movements for the day.” Ryan was saying, looking down at his worn boots as he thought.
“Ah, technically we can’t declare a crime…” Phillips snapped his mouth shut as Ryan turned on him.
“Then he can report us for harassment, can’t he?” Ryan’s voice was one stage away from a snarl.
Phillips pursed his lips, tugged at them with thumb and forefinger but said nothing.
“He’s an arrogant bastard,” Ryan said thoughtfully.
“Walker?”
“That goes without saying,” Ryan huffed out a laugh. “But I was thinking more generally. Whoever he is, Frank, he’s an arrogant son of a bitch.”
Phillips grunted.
“He does two women in less than twenty-four hours and he does them in style. He doesn’t care about the fact that the island was crawling with police today. Unbelievable.”
“We don’t know that Megan’s dead,” Phillips said half-heartedly.
Ryan didn’t bother to turn his head.
“You know as well as I do, nobody survives that kind of blood bath.”
Phillips knew and he wondered what had gone through Ryan’s mind when he had walked into that nightmare.
“Each time it’s a shock,” was all he said.
Ryan drew himself up, tried to focus on the here and now.
“There’ll be a body, Frank. He likes to leave them for us to find, he enjoys showing off his handiwork.”
“Could be more than one of them,” Phillips muttered.
“It’s possible,” Ryan considered, “but unlikely at this point. What would be the chances there are two of them on the loose? The island’s full of well-meaning do-gooders.”
“Always the quiet ones,” Phillips said knowingly and Ryan couldn’t help but smile.
“You may be right, Frank.” Ryan stuck his hands in his pockets. “Let’s concentrate on finding Megan. That should give us some answers.”
Ryan wandered out past the police barrier, left the back-slapping and morale-boosting to Phillips. The main square faced him with its central figure of a long-dead saint. Lights still bloomed in the cottages facing the square despite it being well past midnight and he knew the inhabitants would be wondering and worrying. He moved to a wooden bench in the centre of the square and sat down for a moment’s solitude, with the intention of clearing his mind. He watched the blanket of stars above him, felt his own insignificance and then dropped his gaze to the equally insignificant skyline of the island’s settlement.
The pub was a long, low building with an odd sort of tower at one end, square with a weathervane on one side which seemed to be slanted at an unnatural angle.
He stood up slowly then moved quickly back across the square.
“Phillips.” He broke through the other man’s conversation with one of the CSI’s.
“Still no word yet, Ryan.”
“She’s on the roof.”
“Wha..?” Phillips took a moment to process and then swung his head around to look up. “How do you know? How the hell would he get her up there?”
“Just like he managed to drag Lucy Mathieson up the side of a steep rock face in the dead of night. Supernatural powers, clearly,” his voice was dry and he looked up again. “Probably some sort of ladder up there. Tell MacKenzie to call off her search team. Megan’s on the roof, I know it.”
* * *
While men and women dressed in animal costumes danced their jigs around fires on the beach to celebrate the solstice, Ryan and Phillips stood guarding the dead, their faces forbidding and eyes bleak.
Megan Taylor had been dumped above her own home, her arms and legs clumsily balanced on top of a stack of old bricks, roof tiles and an assortment of punctured footballs and other rubbish which had found its way onto the roof. Her left leg lay heavily against the wiry foot of the copper weathervane, which had caused it to sag northwards.
“We might find our answers here,” Ryan spoke into the heavy silence with a voice deliberately devoid of emotion.
“Looks like he used the bedspread to wrap her up, carry her here without trailing too much blood,” Phillips said, eyeing the few spare drops leading up to the site.
Ryan could see it now. Most of the blood had been on the sheets, so maybe they’d kicked the duvet off the bed beforehand. He killed her on the bed, let her bleed out. The blood had seeped all the way through the mattress. After, he dragged her body to the bathroom, cleaned her up a bit, then wrapped her up in the duvet cover and took her up the fire escape. Probably used a fireman’s lift to carry her.
Ryan paused, looked at the neck wound.
“Make a note for the pathologist,” he said. “I want to know how long it would have taken for her to bleed out. It might affect our timings.”
Phillips made a scribbled note.
“He wrapped her up in the duvet, carried her up the fire escape and dumped her on top of the stack of rubbish. Maybe he stopped to pile it all up, first, in a grotesque parody of an altar. He arranged her body, cocked her leg that way so that the weather vane pointed north, or maybe it had just fallen that way, then he went back downstairs and cleaned himself up.
“It’s happening again,” Ryan finished quietly.
Phillips looked up at the younger man with concern.
“It’s not the same, Ryan.”
“I know it isn’t, Frank. Don’t worry.” Both men knew that they were comparing another death far away from here, at another time. “Let’s try to do what we can for her.”
Phillips nodded, his bright eyes dulled with pity.
“He really enjoyed himself,” Ryan noted with disgust, wishing manners would allow him to spit out the foul flavour in his mouth.
“Sick bastard,” Phillips managed, his jaw working.
Megan’s body lay spread-eagled, her dark hair swept behind her. Blood red markings adorned her body, which had obviously been cleaned beforehand. Her skin bloomed an unnatural grey in the false glare of the photographic lights, providing her with the attention in death she had craved so much in life. The underside of her arms, legs and back were speckled reddish-brown where what blood she had remaining had succumbed to gravity. An angry, jagged line showed against her pale throat and tiny rivulets of dried blood crusted on each side in a delicate, web-like pattern. Brutal marks had been slashed into her torso and one of her eyes bulged unnaturally from its socket.
The other had fallen prey to the birds.
CHAPTER 9
December 22nd
When the CSI team had finally recovered all they could from the rooftop where Megan lay, Ryan told his team to pack up for the day. Or, more accurately, to pack up for the morning, since it was nearly four. They needed no further bidding and scattered across the island to various B & B’s in the early hours. Eyes burning and heart-weary, he and Phillips oversaw the removal of Megan’s body to the only secure cold storage on Lindisfarne: the huge ice hut by the harbour, where the fishermen stowed their catch before selling it. She would stay the night with the fish before she could be transported off the island. It seemed like one more insult.
Phillips knew better than to presume he would be offered a bed at Ryan’s cottage. His SIO was an intensely private man, lacking in certain social graces, so Phillips had already secured himself a room at Pete’s family inn.
“Keep your eyes and ears open,” Ryan said and then scrubbed at his own eyes which burned from too many nights without sleep. “I want impressions; of Lucy, of Megan, anything you think may be of interest.”
“I’ll be everybody’s best friend while I’m there,” Phillips flashed a wicked grin which nearly managed to cheer them both up.
“Makes me think of the Bates Motel,” Ryan said.
Phillips laughed nervously and hoped he wouldn’t find any stuffed animals in his bedroom.
Their boots scuffed the tarmac road as they walked from the harbour back through the village. Ryan noticed a light burning in Anna’s wind
ow as they passed her cottage and told himself not to worry. Purposefully, he carried on walking and then exchanged a quick handshake with Frank as they passed the Lindisfarne Inn, where Phillips took his leave. In a protective gesture, Ryan found himself waiting until Phillips was safely inside the solid oak door before continuing.
He walked towards his little sanctuary, which now housed a room devoted to murder; a shrine to the worst side of mankind. He walked slowly through the silent village, past the pub and the police tape and hoped that he would be able to banish what he had seen that day to the recesses of his mind, at least enough to enable him to sleep.
* * *
Sleep didn’t come easily but, when it did, it brought with it nightmares which were more memory than fiction. They replayed in his mind, tormenting him until the first tentative rays of sunshine broke through the sky.
He saw himself as he had been that night in June, dressed in jeans and shirtsleeves spotted with the blood of the girl he cradled in his lap. Her dark mop of hair was matted with her own blood which spilled in drying streams on either side of her mouth. A scream lodged in his throat as he watched her lifeless head turn in his hands and terror gripped him as she turned grey eyes which were so like his own.
“You did this to me,” she said through bloodless lips, before her head fell away from her body. Ryan could feel the warm spray of torn arteries drenching his face, his hands, his clothes.
He scuttled away from her on all fours, breathing hard. He watched her broken body lift itself off the ground to crawl towards him, the torn clothes she wore hanging from her. Small animal sounds escaped him as he slept, imagining himself running until he found himself backed against a stone wall, plunged into darkness. He could smell the moss and something herbal as he scaled the wall blindly, trying to find an exit. He felt something wet on his hands and knew it was blood. The tinny scent filled his nostrils and he gagged, pushing away into the darkness.
Arms came up to steady him and he saw a young woman illuminated in the moonlight, the Priory at her back. He tried to make out what she said to him but the roar of the sea was deafening. Her hands turned to vices on his arms before they came up to his neck. He choked, gasping for air as her fingers tightened. Her eyes shone a bright, unmoving blue and when he looked down he realised his hands circled her throat and he could breathe again.
He dropped them in disgust, scrubbed his fingers frantically against his trousers.
“Be careful with me,” she said softly, reaching out to him.
Again he ran, his bare feet skidding against the dewy ground as he tried to escape. He fell on the steep hillside leading to the village and landed heavily, hit his head on the hard ground beneath. He tried to lever himself up but found himself pinned by another soft body, sinewy limbs winding around his. His hands tangled in silky dark hair and full lips sought his. He relaxed, brushed a hand down the smooth skin of her thigh and found her naked. His breath hitched.
“Anna,” he whispered, seeking her warmth but finding her ice cold. He brought his arms around her to warm her, tried to soothe her restless movements.
“Love me,” she said breathlessly.
His hands froze against her skin and she threw her head back and laughed so that the moonlight shone against the serrated gash at her throat. Blood seeped in lines from the tear, over her rounded breasts.
Ryan shoved the woman away and awoke covered in a film of sweat, clawing at the duvet. Breathing erratically, he stumbled from the bed and into the tiny en-suite bathroom, yanked on the overhead light. When he saw the dark-haired man staring at him from shadowed, bloodshot eyes, Ryan didn’t recognise himself. His cheeks were hollowed out, the bones in his face sharper than usual, the pallor of his skin telling tales of sleep deprivation and poor diet. He touched a hand to his face to make sure he was truly awake and was shocked to find that he was shaking, his fingers trembling uncontrollably. He moved to the cabinet and fumbled about until he found what he was looking for.
Diazepam, the label read in clear, printed lettering.
The plastic safety catch was still intact on the unassuming white container he held in his hand. Ryan looked down at it for a long, long moment. He understood why he had been prescribed benzodiazepines. Logically, he knew that the capsules would enhance the effect of the neurotransmitter GABA in his brain, producing a sedative effect which would help to reduce the panic attacks and anxiety which had plagued him for months.
That was textbook, something he could read and understand.
Slowly, he returned the unopened container to the cabinet, shut the door with a steady hand.
* * *
While Ryan sought respite from his demons, another man slept soundly in his bed. Work complete, his mind wallowed in new-found contentment and was satisfied in a way he had never dreamed possible.
Earlier, while the blundering police had searched the island for Megan and the tourists had danced in a circle around a bonfire on the beach, the faithful had convened in the usual place. He had gone through the motions, swept a circle of symbolic fire with the little black-handled knife. As he had said the ritual words to consecrate the circle and held the knife aloft to draw a pentagram in the air, he had watched the faces of his followers as they knelt before him. Eyes unnaturally bright from the drugs, the people in the circle swayed as they watched the knife and repeated his words. He held the blade in his hand, he felt the power of it course through his arm to the rest of his body and he almost believed the words he was chanting. Remembering the potency of his arousal, the incredible strength he had felt as he had watched her eyes die, he felt like one of the gods he was praying to.
He felt like the supreme God; the giver and taker of life.
He called to the four elements and his voice grew strong. There was a well-timed break in the clouds and the moon shone through, as if he had conjured it.
The occupants of the circle watched their High Priest, nude but for the long animal pelt which he wore over his shoulders. They didn’t know that the fur was fake and the ‘pelt’ had been purchased from a thrift shop in Newcastle. All of them felt his supremacy, none questioned it.
Except one, who shivered in the cold air and was afraid.
* * *
While the light was still thin, shining hesitantly on Lindisfarne and thawing the thin layer of frost which coated the windows, Ryan sat at the table in what had formerly been his dining room but was now firmly the Incident Room. A half-finished cup of cold coffee sat on the table top, lost amid a mass of papers which covered the surface in disarray. The murder wall faced him squarely with its black timeline and tacked-on photographs with arrows indicating potential links here and there. To his right, the wide window provided an unbroken view of the sea across to the mainland and Ryan could see a family of seals hunting for breakfast in the shallow waters as the tide gradually swept out.
Copies of statements which had been taken from the islanders lay before him, alongside Lowerson’s summary containing facts which were heavily peppered with gossip and innuendo about the deceased. Meticulously, he went through the summary and then each statement, noting down times, gaps, possibilities. He was ready when the first of his team began to arrive at the door just before seven and he had even taken the trouble to shave.
“So,” Phillips began without any pleasantries, slumping tiredly on one of the spindly wooden chairs. “We got a serial on our hands?”
“There hasn’t been three,” MacKenzie chimed in needlessly as she shrugged out of her coat, shook out the light rain which had dampened her copper hair. Every man and woman in the room recognised the official definition of a serial killer, but instinct went a long way in their business.
“I think we can presume that the two are linked, on which basis CID command has confirmed that the death of Megan Taylor should also fall under the remit of Operation Lindisfarne.” Ryan paused, took a sip of coffee. “Presuming we are looking for the same person - which seems most likely at this point - whether we can call him a
serial killer is immaterial in comparison with the fact that he is clearly escalating.”
That dimmed the chatter.
Ryan pointed to a blown-up photograph of Lucy, taken by the CSIs after she had been found. It was a full frontal image, taken from a height a few steps above the ground to give a quasi-aerial shot.
“Here, she’s been laid out, but carefully. Her arms and legs have been placed in position on an altar. Her body has been meticulously washed.”
He tapped a finger to a similar image of Megan, taken from the same angle.
“Not so careful here,” he commented. “Not so much arranged, as deposited on the roof of the pub and her arms and legs are positioned at unnatural angles. This suggests one of several possibilities; he was short on time, he got lazy, he got carried away with the act. Maybe Lucy was his first, caught him by surprise but he also felt some remorse, hence the careful treatment. With Megan, he’s started to get cocky.”
There was general agreement.
“Strange mix of planned and unplanned,” Phillips commented as he chugged down sugary coffee. “Strangulation is up close and personal, usually done in the heat of the moment.”
“Agreed,” Ryan nodded, interested.
“And going to all the trouble of transporting her up there, running the risk, it’s all a bit amateur,” Phillips shrugged. “On the other hand, the cleaning, it’s thorough. The ritual, special oils and stuff to put on her. That looks a bit more planned out.”
There was momentary silence as the room thought it over. Ryan was in agreement. It was a perplexing mix.
“Notice anything else unusual?” He gestured to the room at large, interested to see if their observations matched his own.
“Both were cleaned up,” Phillips carried on squinting at the images. “But is it part of a ritual, or to cover his tracks?”
“Still waiting for the chemical analysis to come back on the disinfectant, sir,” Faulkner chimed in. “But Phillips is right. Both women had undergone extensive cleaning, in every orifice as far as we can tell. Mouths, ears; we even found traces of the disinfectant in Megan’s vagina last night.”
