by LJ Ross
For the sake of his own sanity, Phillips decided to ignore the last part of the sentence and focus on the first.
“Street sales aren’t high on LSA, otherwise we would know more about it,” Ryan noted, flipping through his knowledge of narcotics. “Where would Megan come by LSA seeds?”
“Well, you can find it in the ipomoea violacea plant, for example,” Faulkner said knowledgeably.
There was a collective silence.
“That’s Morning Glory,” Faulkner supplied and watched some of the furrowed brows clear.
“We need to isolate potential supply,” Ryan said. “There may be a cottage drugs industry on the island but frankly I’m sceptical. More likely that she would bring it over from the mainland. Lowerson?”
The young officer sat bolt upright in his chair.
“Sir?”
“You want a more active role in this investigation?” Ryan hadn’t missed the enthusiasm, the diligent hours and detailed reporting.
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to shake down known sources in the area. Start by contacting the narcotics team in Newcastle. This is our baby,” he wanted that to be clear from the start, “but they may be able to point you in the right direction.”
“Understood, sir,” Lowerson was practically chomping at the bit.
“I need the information fast,” Ryan added and was pleased to see the junior detective’s head bob up and down like a yo-yo. Still, privately, he would ask Phillips to keep an eye on his progress. He was all for advancement but he couldn’t afford mistakes either.
He turned back to Faulkner. “Carry on, Tom.”
“Back to Megan, then. Pinter confirms cause of death as asphyxiation following a severed jugular artery. Judging from the pattern of wounds, he considers it most likely that the throat was slashed left to right, first,” Faulkner gestured in the air with a sharp movement of hands.
“Likely to be right-handed, then?”
Faulkner nodded. “He followed up the initial action with a deeper slice, which cut deep into the throat, more than halfway through.” Faulkner paused again, swallowing. “Pinter’s set out the technical details in his report, for anyone who’s interested to know.”
There were nods of understanding. Unless it was relevant to the case, none of them had a burning desire to know just how many specific veins and tendons had been severed.
“Pathologist estimates at least an hour for Megan’s body to bleed out, which would be consistent with the volume of blood found in her apartment, particularly on and around the bed,” Faulkner continued.
“We have a statement from her sister, Dr Taylor, confirming Megan was alive and well until around four-twenty yesterday afternoon,” Ryan said. “The pathologist has given an estimated time of death between then and six-thirty. That gives us a window to focus on.” There were nods around the room.
“That’s all the useful info we can take from the pathologist for now, sir,” Faulkner concluded.
“Good,” Ryan shifted mental gears again. “What was the analysis of the sand residue found on Lucy’s body?”
Faulkner held out a hand to one of his minions for the chemical report.
“The results have been interesting,” he began. “Firstly, the sand found in Lucy Mathieson’s head wound has been isolated as building sand, rather than the expected marine by-product.”
“Go on,” Ryan urged.
“Building sand is quarried and tends to be quite soft, unlike the sharper marine quartz sand found on the beach by the Priory, for example.” Faulkner paused to ensure he still had his audience. “The sample in this case was reddish in colour, consistent with this part of the country. It wouldn’t be found on the island without quarrying deep into the rock.”
“You said building sand,” Phillips spoke up again, leaning forward in his chair. “What sort of building?”
“Good question,” Faulkner nodded approvingly. “This type of sand tends to be used in connection with mortars, rather than, for example, paving a driveway or something like that.”
“So,” Ryan took the information and ran with it, “our next question is whether there was any sand of that type, or recent brickwork on or near Walker’s properties?” He turned expectantly to Denise MacKenzie.
MacKenzie ran through the inventory list and description of Alex Walker’s properties. “None, sir,” she said eventually, disappointed.
“Check again tomorrow,” Ryan ordered. “Walk the access route from his hut to the Priory and make sure.”
MacKenzie nodded her assent.
“Meantime, we’re looking for any recent building work.” He spoke to the room at large. “Be observant. Lucy may have been killed elsewhere, or fallen on her way to the fishing hut.”
There were nods, less eager than before. He couldn’t blame them: if the sand in Lucy’s wound hadn’t come from a beach, and there were no building works or materials around Walker’s properties, then where the hell had she hurt her head and subsequently been killed? Was there another site, another person serving as Walker’s accomplice?
“What about the oil and soap residue found on Lucy?”
“Again, interesting,” Faulkner said, revelling in his subject. “Nowadays, most people opt for a body wash or shower gel rather than good old-fashioned soap but this wasn’t the case here, otherwise we would never have known the difference. Body wash or shower gel has a petroleum rather than a fat base, which means that it doesn’t leave much mineral residue on the skin after use,” he qualified.
Ryan nodded. “The perp used good old-fashioned soap.”
“Yes,” Tom agreed. “There was a mineral layer found on the victim’s skin consistent with saponified produce…”
Ryan slanted him a look.
“The, ah, long and short of it is, a traditional soap product with added shea butter was used, the chemical properties of which match these known labels but could also have been reproduced elsewhere.” He took out a typed list of soap manufacturers and handed it to Ryan.
Ryan glanced at the list of well-known brands. At least there were only five to choose from but those five could have been found in almost every household in Britain.
“There is one final point regarding the soap,” Faulkner added. “The interesting thing is that the fragrance compound added to the soap matches man-made sandalwood.”
“Sandalwood?”
“Yes, sir, which suggests that the soap was designed to be used by a man.”
It all added up to the whole, Ryan thought.
“I want a list of stockists on the island, to start with. What about the oil residue?”
“Well, now, that’s more unusual.” Faulkner’s eyes lit up again. “There was no known match to mass-produced body oil. Instead, we found large traces of camphor mixed with household turpentine.”
“Camphor?”
“It’s a white, sort of waxy aromatic substance found in the bark of certain evergreen trees.”
“Used for what, exactly?”
“Religious and spiritual ceremonies, mostly; sometimes in Indian cooking, owing to its aroma.”
That explained the odd scent of cooking he had smelled when he had first seen Lucy’s body.
“Any physiological effects?”
“Actually, since it can be easily absorbed by the skin, camphor can be potentially dangerous but in this case the oil was applied post-mortem. No trace found in Lucy Mathieson’s blood stream, sir.”
“So, most likely he used it for some spiritual or religious purpose?” The question was rhetorical. “I want to know if there’s a shop anywhere on the island or mainland within a hundred miles that sells camphor. Phillips?”
“On it,” the other man was scribbling on his notepad with a chewed pencil.
“Any soap or oil on Megan?”
“Although her body was cleaned, we found no soap or oil residue of sufficient sample to analyse, sir.”
That brought Ryan up short.
“What about disinfe
ctant?”
“Yes, there’s plenty of that but he didn’t take the trouble to treat her skin to soap or oil after he’d removed traces of himself,” Faulkner supplied. “However, we’re hopeful that we’ll be able to recover some DNA samples from the plugholes in her bathroom, perhaps some hair or skin samples from the rest of the flat.”
“That’s something,” Ryan acknowledged.
“It’s painstaking work,” Tom added with a note of apology. “We’re mostly working around the clock but I’ll need another couple of CSI’s brought in.”
“Understood,” Ryan said. “I’ll find the resources for it.”
“We’ve lifted several prints, as I said yesterday. Unfortunately, none of them match any on the database. We were able to eliminate her sister’s prints, one set of which were found on the doorframe to the apartment and we had one other match. The prints taken from Alex Walker when he was arrested match several sets around the doorframe, the railing leading up to her apartment and on the coffee table. I can’t give any indication of how fresh those prints are, however.”
Ryan considered the man in the bedroom upstairs and weighed up the options.
“We need to eliminate more people.” Ryan turned to MacKenzie. “I need prints from Bill Tilson and Pete Rigby, since they both work in the vicinity. They might provide them without any hassle. Realistically, they’re the only two that we can ask at the moment.”
“I’ll see to it,” MacKenzie said.
“The bathroom was spotless,” Faulkner remarked. “No prints or other samples anywhere to be found, although we’ll look at the plugholes and drainage system tomorrow morning since it’s likely the perp cleaned up in there. The entire room was drenched in bleach, sir.”
“She didn’t strike me as being a conscientious housekeeper, so we can assume he brought the bleach with him,” Ryan commented.
“There were no bottles found on the premises,” Faulkner confirmed.
“OK,” Ryan nodded, picturing the scene in his mind. “He must have brought a change of clothes, too. No way did he come out of there without blood covering him, otherwise.”
“Could have been naked,” Phillips said, causing several heads to turn.
“Just thinking outside the box,” he muttered defensively and folded his arms.
“Frank’s right,” Ryan nodded. “Let’s hope he’s left something of himself down the plughole, since he’s neglected to leave any helpful clues anywhere else.”
* * *
Later, after he dismissed his team to their beds for the night, Ryan sat in the quiet kitchen and felt doubt cloud his mind. There were too many inconsistencies here, he thought. Ritual killers followed just that: ritual. They tended not to deviate from a general pattern, preferred to follow their own internal code. With Megan, there had been escalation, brutality and what looked like ritual, but without the same tools or methodology that had been displayed with Lucy. Aside from that, the setting was all wrong. With Lucy, the man had been willing to break his back carrying her up to the Priory, risking exposure, presumably so that she would be found on religious ground.
With Megan, her killer had been lazy. He may have carried her but only up the short fire escape stairs they had found leading from her apartment to the roof. He had dumped her there, on top of a pile of rubbish which hardly passed for an altar. They hadn’t found anything except a few lipstick-covered cigarette butts, which had been Megan’s guilty pleasure. No sacred setting, Ryan thought, but it still made a statement. Maybe that was the point of it all: to capture their attention and awe.
One girl found on sacred ground, one atop a rubbish pile. Was it symbolic?
Or perhaps his quarry had decided to deviate from his chosen course, which made him infinitely more unpredictable and dangerous.
Ryan got up and looked out of the window into the darkness. The sky was black, except for a few flickering lights across the channel and the flare of a bonfire somewhere on the beach.
Ryan looked up towards the ceiling to where Alex Walker slept and wondered.
* * *
While Ryan had been preparing to brief his team, two men sat a comfortable distance apart in the main square as twilight began to fall. Just two members of the island community, passing the time of day.
“Father,” one began reverently, “there are some things on my mind I need to talk to you about.”
“By all means,” the other said in a rich baritone, waving a cheerful hand to one of their number who passed them on his way from the corner shop to St Peter’s Church for the evening service. They would show their faces there later, for appearances’ sake, but first there were matters to discuss.
The other man felt his throat dry up.
“Tell me what troubles you,” the High Priest said, breaking open a packet of mints and reclining further on the bench beneath St Cuthbert’s statue. On the previous evening, Ryan had sat in the same spot and contemplated the stars.
“I feel uncomfortable with what I’ve seen, Father. I feel – I feel that things have changed –“
“Do you question my authority, or the natural course of events set out by the Gods of Nature?”
The other felt his chest tighten.
“No, Father. Never. It’s just…our ceremonies are changing.”
“All of Nature is change,” the other said softly, but his tone brooked no argument.
“But, it used to be that we would meet and pray. Now, there’s been Lucy…and Megan –“
“If one of our number has seen fit to make sacrifices to the Master, who shall in turn rain fortune upon all of us, you should be thanking him,” the High Priest snapped, then quickly controlled his voice. It wouldn’t do for passers-by to notice anything untoward.
The other man balked at the tone, everything in him wanted to obey, not to question.
Yet, conscience demanded that he speak.
“Father, I believe I saw who killed Lucy,” he whispered.
“’Killed’?” the other snarled. “You blaspheme. Surely ‘offered’ would be a better way to describe it.”
“Very well. I believe I saw who…who offered Lucy to the Master.”
“Indeed?” The High Priest was curious to know.
“It was one of our number,” the other said softly and described how he had watched a shadowed figure haul Lucy over the fence leading up the hilly side of the Priory, how he had heard the muffled curses and gasping breaths as the man had struggled under her weight.
“If all is as you say, then he has performed the ultimate sacrifice; he has given of himself so that we all might reap the rewards.”
They both paused as one of the locals came over to greet them and exchange a few words. They all agreed that Lucy and Megan’s deaths were a terrible tragedy and bade their neighbour farewell.
After a few moments, their hushed conversation began again.
“Alex has been arrested on suspicion of their mur… their deaths,” the man said urgently.
“Naturally, I’m aware of that,” the High Priest said.
“O –Of course you are. But, he shouldn’t have to pay for another man’s actions,” the first said vehemently.
“Keep your voice down,” the High Priest ordered and was pleased when the other man shrunk away, like a whipped dog.
He thought for a moment about the predicament they were in. He weighed the pros and cons and made his decision.
“Rob,” he murmured, never raising his voice. “There is a way that we may see justice done. It will require your help.”
“Anything, Father,” the other agreed quickly, pleased not to have angered his High Priest.
They agreed a time and place to meet, finalised their plans and then bade friendly farewells audible for those around them.
The High Priest watched the young coastguard volunteer walk swiftly away towards the church, meeting others as he went on his way. Anger coursed through him, causing his hands to tremble violently.
He dared to question their worshi
p? His authority?
However, the boy was right. Alex did not deserve to rot in prison for the crimes of another man. Despite everything he had said, underneath the pomp and circumstance he was fully aware they were crimes, not sacrifices. It amused him, really, to think of how easily his followers had wanted to believe their fortunes could be turned by uttering a few prayers to nature, singing songs around a fire.
He paused, reconsidering.
Perhaps there was something in it, after all. He had thought himself lucky to go unobserved as he had entered and left Megan’s pitiful apartment but had it been luck? Perhaps it had been ordained.
Power, the heady feeling of it, overwhelmed him and he remained a little longer sitting in the quiet square savouring the feeling. He had not intended Megan as a sacrifice, or at least not in any religious sense, but perhaps he hadn’t appreciated the full import of his actions.
Only now did it occur to him that Megan had been his offering and the beauty of it almost brought tears to eyes which shone with madness and renewed purpose.
The Master always demanded more.
CHAPTER 15
December 23rd
DS Frank Phillips was up with the tides. His dark grey suit was freshly dry-cleaned courtesy of the merry widow who was his present landlady, Mrs Rigby. He ummed and aaahed a moment over his tie selection and eventually settled on one decorated in varying shades of neon. He had acquired it from a museum of modern art and so he liked to think it lent him an air of cultured sophistication.
Today would be interesting, he thought as he nodded a cheerful goodbye to Pete, who had taken the trouble to get out of bed at the unsociable hour and provide a hard-working officer of the law with a bacon sandwich and a cup of sugary tea. He hadn’t seen MacKenzie, which meant that she was either running late or – and he suspected this was the case – running ahead of schedule and was already sitting at Ryan’s table drinking his questionable coffee.
He tried not to feel bothered by it, or her.
The island was quite a sight in the grey-blue hues of a winter morning, he thought as he shrugged into his long overcoat and headed towards the centre of the village. In a spontaneous departure from his usual path, Frank found himself practically skipping down the flight of wooden stairs which led to the sandy beach which ran along the base of the cliff on which the Priory stood. It curved east towards the fort and the harbour and west towards the causeway and Ryan’s place.
