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

by LJ Ross

Alex seemed to relax.

  “That’s right,” he nodded, calmer now. “Once you’ve finished your search, you’ll see that there’s nothing there.”

  Phillips already knew that nothing untoward had been found at Alex’s cottage - except an interesting stash of porn and other sex paraphernalia which had been confiscated – but that didn’t preclude the possibility of there being something in the little wooden hidey hole behind him.

  Phillips said nothing and continued to keep an eye on proceedings, until he heard muffled sounds from the doorway. Faulkner emerged, covered in his overalls and goggles. With him, he carried a plastic evidence bag.

  “Phillips, I think you’ll want to look at this.” His voice was muffled behind his face mask and light brown hair stuck out at odd angles beneath his plastic cap.

  Phillips took the bag and opened it. Inside, there was a bundle of women’s clothes, a pair of black high-heeled boots and a mobile phone with a pink cover. He looked up and caught the eye of the man standing shaking in his coastguard’s jacket which the people of the island trusted as a symbol of protection. Something in Phillips’ expression must have transmitted itself, because he watched the last vestiges of colour drain from Alex Walker’s face.

  Phillips spat out his gum.

  “Can you explain where these clothes came from, Mr Walker?” Phillips added the standard caution about giving statements to the police.

  Alex started to tremble.

  “I have no idea.”

  Phillips took a step towards him, intending to ask him the same question again, when Walker panicked and shoved at one of the officers standing beside him, turned as if to run.

  “Whoa there, lad, you need to calm down.”

  Walker was lightly restrained by the officers as he grew increasingly aggressive, shouting and raving about the police planting false evidence. Phillips made a judgement call.

  “Alexander Walker, you are under arrest on suspicion of the murder of Lucy Mathieson and Megan Taylor. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” Phillips shook his head as one of the officers started to pull out his hand cuffs. Restraints wouldn’t be necessary, Frank thought, since Walker had visibly slumped after his tantrum. The man looked as though he could be knocked over with a feather.

  “Son, you’re going to have to come with me.”

  * * *

  While Alex Walker stood shivering on a cold Northumbrian beach, Anna basked in the warmth of a friend’s hearth.

  “It’s so good to see you again,” Doctor Mark Bowers settled himself opposite Anna in a worn leather wingback chair and sipped herbal tea.

  Anna felt so much at home in the cluttered room with its floor to ceiling shelves stuffed full with books. Doctor Bowers was a leading historian in his field, having taught for years at the university in Durham before deciding to settle on Lindisfarne to complete his life’s work: the history of Holy Island from the Dark Ages to the present day. He had been the one to write her recommendation for entry onto the History programme at the university, for which she would be forever grateful to him. When Mark wasn’t writing his book or researching, he managed the Heritage Centre and the attached gift shop by the Priory gates. When he wasn’t doing that, he was volunteering with the island coastguard, supervising archaeological digs or encouraging young people to develop an interest in history on one of the many visitors’ tours.

  She wondered how he found the time.

  “It’s good to be here,” she said in return, enjoying the companionship. “Thanks again for letting me use the cottage. I’m sorry I haven’t called in a while.”

  He brushed that away with one hand. “Never mind that.”

  “No, really. I don’t know…I suppose it was just a bit easier to forget all about the island.”

  He took another sip of tea. “I was sorry to hear about your sister.”

  Anna appreciated the straightforward tone and nodded her thanks. She didn’t want to discuss it, not yet.

  “How are you finding it in Durham? Still the same as ever?”

  Anna smiled and tucked her feet up onto the comfy leather.

  “It probably hasn’t changed,” she agreed. “Things are going well for me there, I’m enjoying lecturing and there are a few good students this term.”

  “But..?”

  She smiled into his intelligent eyes and thought that he knew her too well.

  “I’m restless, I suppose. Recently, I’ve been a bit distracted. When the call came from CID -”

  “They called you?” He interjected sharply.

  “Yes, to ask if I would help them to develop an understanding of pagan ceremonial practices. I guess they wanted someone who didn’t live on the island, otherwise they would have contacted you.” She sipped her tea. “Anyway, when the call came, I suppose I was looking for an excuse to come back home.”

  She pulled a face and looked into the flames of the fire.

  “I feel terrible saying that,” she confessed. “Death is an awful reason to come back.”

  “You would have come back eventually,” he said firmly. He was glad she had made herself at home, as she used to all those years ago. He could remember a young waif with a keen intelligence and unlimited potential. He had enjoyed nothing more than to help her to discover her talents and reveal the ambition beneath the shy exterior. Now, a cultured, beautiful woman sat before him.

  Anna leaned her head back in the chair and looked around the cosy study. It was an eclectic mix of memorabilia Mark had collected on his travels abroad. African and Venetian masks vied for wall space with framed lithographs of Egyptian monuments. In a small glass cabinet there were pottery reproductions of Roman fertility goddesses and a polished wooden cabinet held various trinkets including spoons and bracelets. Amid the vast array of books, there was a mounted sword from the eighteenth century, which had been presented to him by English Heritage as a ‘thank you’ for all his years of loyal service.

  She remembered the hours she had spent sitting in this room, or in the study area at the Heritage Centre, poring over textbooks and manuscripts to quench her thirst for knowledge about the past.

  “You always did like this room,” he said affectionately, watching her eyes roam over every surface.

  “Who wouldn’t? It’s wonderfully eclectic; a testament to learning.”

  He mulled over her words and found he agreed with them.

  “What’s on your mind, Anna?”

  “Aside from murder?” She turned sad eyes towards him and Mark wondered what she saw. An old man in faded corduroy trousers and a crumpled sweater with hair that was more grey than brown. He looked away from her into the bright flames.

  “I met a man,” she mumbled into her tea cup and felt like a teenager again. “He’s difficult, complicated and utterly compelling. I don’t want to like him but I do. The timing couldn’t be worse.”

  In all his years spent as a bachelor, Mark had never known heartache or particularly wondered what it would feel like. He marvelled at his own naivety. Why hadn’t he known that the pain would be exquisite, a shard through a heart which had been closed and comfortable for so long?

  His unremarkable face remained affectionate and he swirled his tea before gulping it down whole.

  “DCI Ryan,” he said.

  “How did you know?” She seemed genuinely surprised and his smile widened. Ah, still so very young.

  “I have eyes in my head,” he said shortly.

  “I don’t know what to do about it…or him,” she admitted.

  Bowers stood up and traced a finger along the edge of the mantle in front of the fire. Aromatic candles stood on the stone hearth and he contemplated lighting a few of them but decided to do it another time.

  “You must do what your heart tells you,” he said quietly, his profile shadowed except for the light which flickered from the fire. “You’ve spent too
long using your head.”

  He wondered if he was talking to Anna or himself.

  CHAPTER 14

  Living on Lindisfarne was a logistical nightmare, Ryan thought. There was no police station and since the tide had already rolled out, no way of transporting their suspect to the mainland. So, instead of spending a nice sweaty, sleepless night crying for his mother in one of Her Majesty’s finest establishments, Alex Walker was currently sleeping off the stress of the day upstairs in Ryan’s own spare room. At least the door and windows had locks, he thought, but it was hardly ideal.

  His team milled around the dining area squawking about their success but Ryan wasn’t convinced. The arrest, although justified, was a farce. Whoever heard of a suspect spending the night at the SIO’s home?

  His house phone rang again and he swore.

  “No comment,” he barked down the line after listening for a few seconds. Reporters had been hounding him all day, having finally got a whiff of two juicy, ritual murders on a secluded island. Those vultures would be circling as soon as the causeway opened.

  Phillips cleared his throat meaningfully.

  “What?” Ryan re-directed his wrath.

  “Had Gregson on the line earlier,” Phillips said. “Said we were to be co-operative with the media otherwise we would have a circus on our hands.”

  Ryan leaned back in his chair with a face like granite.

  “I don’t give a flying fuck about what Gregson wants. He’s denied our application for funds to requisition a helicopter to transport Mr Lover-Lover off the island for formal questioning, which will potentially compromise us later on if and when this thing goes to court.”

  Phillips opened his mouth to speak, when there was a sharp rap on the front door.

  Ryan turned disbelieving eyes heavenward. One of the rookies opened the door and directed their visitor into Ryan’s front room. It wouldn’t do to have members of the general public getting an eyeful of the murder wall.

  After confiscating Phillips’ coffee, he gestured the other man to come with him. Together, they found Dr Walker tramping muddy boots angrily across the living room floor. He looked furious.

  “Dr Walker, what can I do for you?”

  The older man stepped towards him and, although Walker was a good few inches shorter, Ryan almost felt that he was looking up to him.

  “You have my son in custody. I would like to talk to him.”

  “I’m sorry but I can’t allow that before questioning.”

  A muscle twitched in the other man’s face. “He may be in need of medical assistance.”

  The man was tenacious, Ryan thought.

  “Phillips? Would you please ask one of the attending officers to check that Mr Walker doesn’t require any medical aid at this time?”

  “Will do,” the other man nodded and stepped out into the hall.

  “Alex is also entitled to a solicitor,” Walker said through gritted teeth and Ryan had a moment to admire family loyalty and the automatic support of a father for his son.

  The situation was definitely tricky.

  “Indeed, he is, Doctor. Since we are unable to leave the island presently and likewise nobody is able to cross without a great deal of trouble, rest assured we won’t be questioning your son until the morning. He will be able to exercise his legal rights then.”

  The doctor nodded but was nowhere near mollified.

  “I will contact our family solicitor in the morning. In the meantime, I speak for our whole family when I say that this arrest is wholly without foundation.” His voice lowered in appeal, “I know my son, Chief Inspector. He wouldn’t have the heart to kill a bug, let alone commit the atrocities we have seen over the past two days.”

  Ryan watched Walker’s face and thought that he truly believed what he was saying. However, just because his family had blind faith in him, didn’t mean that Walker Jr. hadn’t upped and decided to go on a killing spree.

  “I understand you’re in a difficult position, Dr Walker. I want you to know that we appreciate your cooperation with our investigation and we will conduct ourselves in line with the departmental code of conduct at all times in our dealings with your son.”

  Walker’s face grew sad, the lines around his eyes no longer seeming to enhance his features. “I expect nothing less,” he said quietly. After a pause during which he scrubbed a hand over his face and through the cap of blonde-grey hair, he turned to Ryan again.

  “I don’t understand what has led you to arrest him. I heard that there was a search of Alex’s home and his storage hut on the beach?”

  Ryan had no intention of discussing any details pertinent to the investigation but he could understand the need to know how any father’s nightmare had come about.

  “Evidence and information has come to light which, we believe, provide us with reasonable grounds to suspect your son of these offences, added to which he appeared on the verge of absconding when questioned informally. I’m not at liberty to discuss anything further with you, Dr Walker. I am sure that things will become clearer in the light of day.”

  Steve Walker stood quietly for a moment, dreading the walk home to tell his wife her son wouldn’t be coming back tonight. Not to mention the chatter of the village once this got around. He supposed it couldn’t be helped. He handed over the small bag of fresh clothes Yvonne had sent for her son.

  “I’ll be in touch in the morning. Please tell Alex that his family have faith in him.” With that, he pulled the hood of his anorak over his head and stepped out into the rain.

  Phillips stood in the hallway behind Ryan and, like his superior, was impressed with the solidarity displayed by the Walker family.

  Once again, the hour was late, heading towards nine-thirty by the time Ryan called his team together for their final briefing of the day. As he looked around the room, he saw the clear signs of fatigue but also of renewed energy which came from the belief that they had their culprit.

  “Alright, settle down,” he didn’t need to raise his voice; the tone of command was enough to quieten the din of chin-wagging police officers.

  “Firstly, let’s tie up some loose ends. Harbour master and Coastguard logs confirm that no vessel was logged entering or leaving the harbour in the early hours of December 21st, which tells us one of two things: either, no boats came in or out, or there was a boat and it simply wasn’t logged. Neither option would surprise me. No cars were sighted and the witnesses don’t think they heard a car engine, in any case. We’ve re-questioned locals to see if anyone else heard an engine sound and a couple have added their recollection of a low rumbling sound but can’t be sure of the time. Let’s keep our ears open, there’s not much more we can do for now.” Ryan picked up his coffee, held it but didn’t drink.

  “The CSI’s conducted their search of the Mathieson home and car last night and came up nil on suspicious evidence, correct?” Ryan gestured to Faulkner.

  “Right, sir. There were, of course, prints and DNA all over the house and prints on the inside of the car but nothing which gave us any cause for concern. No blood, no fluids, nothing in the boot of the car. The bathrooms were clean but not spotless and contained DNA samples from all three inhabitants. We took samples from the parents and have retained them but in summary, sir, everything looked normal.”

  “On that note,” Ryan pointed a finger at Faulkner again and, remarkably, the other man blushed under the scrutiny. “Tom, I want a round-up of where we are with forensics and pathology.”

  Faulkner shuffled some papers and faced his superior.

  “Pinter has really come through for us, sir,” he started, referring to Jeffrey Pinter, the senior police pathologist.

  “He should,” Ryan drawled. “He was paid double time to work through the night.”

  “Well, the incentive seems to have worked. He’s come back with reports on Lucy and Megan, ahead of schedule. Beginning with Lucy Mathieson, he confirms the cause of death as strangulation. The toxicology report has come back negative of
narcotics but her blood alcohol level was 0.19, which is pretty high.”

  Ryan thought back to Megan’s witness statement, Bill Tilson’s too.

  “None of the staff reported her drunk or disorderly,” he observed.

  “No, it’s more likely that she would have appeared merry. At that level, the alcohol would have made her more emotional, perhaps with some slurred speech, impaired motor function and so forth.”

  “So, we can safely assume that she wasn’t operating at full capacity which would have affected her ability to defend herself against an aggressor.”

  “True, sir, but there are still no defensive marks on the victim’s body; no skin or fibres under the victim’s nails and so forth.”

  “We’re already working on the assumption that she knew her killer.”

  “That’s the safest bet,” Faulkner commented, then consulted his paperwork again. “As we suspected, there was no foreign DNA found on Lucy’s body and nothing further of interest in her blood work.”

  “Hell,” Ryan muttered.

  “On the flip side, whilst we found minimal alcohol levels, we did find a reasonable quantity of lysergic acid amide in Megan Taylor’s blood.”

  Phillips groaned at the back of the room. “Tom, you’re killing me here.”

  Faulkner laughed shortly. “It’s a hallucinogenic drug known as LSA. It’s closely associated with the more common LSD, but it’s fifty or a hundred times less potent.”

  “Effects?” Ryan asked.

  Faulkner blew out a breath. “Well, although there are some similarities to LSD, it’s a lot less stimulating, as I say. If the dose was too high, it would be more likely to act as a sedative. On the other hand, ingesting the right amount would bring about a psychedelic state where she would have been floating.”

  “So, are we looking for some sort of compound?” Phillips’ voice came from the back of the room again.

  “No,” Faulkner shook his head. “LSA occurs naturally; you can find it in the seeds of certain plants. It’s much easier and more cost-effective to just grind down and eat or drink the seeds rather than trying to extract the active alkaloids.”