by LJ Ross
He headed west, not minding the sand which stuck to the sides of his polished work shoes, or the fact that the scenic route would take him twice as long.
He was whistling a show tune from Oklahoma which proclaimed the start of a beautiful morning - though he would have strenuously denied it - when he saw the vicar running towards him. Phillips envied the man’s discipline; they were of a similar age but rather than jogging off his middle-aged paunch like the good vicar, he was already regretting the hefty sandwich which sat heavily in his stomach.
He raised a hand in greeting, then lowered it when he realised that Ingles wasn’t so much jogging as sprinting full pelt. Looking closer, he could see the man’s expression was one of profound dismay.
“Detective, thank God,” the man huffed as he grew closer, his face a mottled mixture of pale skin drawn with shock and pink spots from his exertion.
“Reverend Ingles. What’s happened, man?” Phillips wanted to give him a bracing slap on the shoulder but thought it would be improper.
“B…b…back there,” Ingles started to shiver and seemed to have trouble getting his words out.
“What’s back there?”
Phillips glanced over the taller man’s shoulder and could see nothing except more sand and dunes.
“Two, three hundred yards back that way,” Ingles shuddered. “I was jogging.” Phillips mentally counted to ten.
“Pull yourself together, Ingles. What’s back there?”
“I’m sorry,” the reverend said. “There’s an inlet in the dunes. There’s a big stack of wood left over from the bonfire the other night and in the middle of it…in the middle…” he doubled over and braced his hands on his knees before taking a couple of deep breaths. “There’s a body.”
Phillips’ jaw fell. If there was another body, Alex Walker would have to be Houdini to have pulled that one off.
“Who is it?”
The vicar’s face contorted.
“I could hardly stand to look, but,” he took several more deep breaths, “there wasn’t any face left. I couldn’t make out who it was.”
Phillips looked heavenward and did give the other man a rap on the shoulder after all.
“Go on back to the vicarage. Mind you don’t speak to anyone about this, give as few details to Mrs Ingles as possible. There’ll be an officer along to take a full statement.”
Phillips watched the vicar run back along the beach towards the village as if the hounds of hell were after him. At another time, he might have laughed. Instead, he walked slowly onward, eyes tracking for footprints in the sand. After a few minutes tracing the outline of the dunes, he turned a corner and for the first time in over twenty years on the force, threw up his breakfast.
* * *
When the call came through from Phillips, Ryan told the team already milling around his cottage to stand by. The causeway would open in thirty minutes; he had his prime suspect eating cornflakes in the spare room and a crowd of baying reporters ready to pounce.
Could life get any more complicated?
Actually, it could.
He had Gregson breathing down his neck for a progress report and he strongly suspected he was developing feelings – he frowned at the word – for his unofficial civilian consultant, which not only stretched professional but his own personal boundaries.
Not to mention the small matter of a homicidal maniac running loose.
Oh yes, he thought irritably. If Alex Walker had managed to escape and re-enter the house during the night with the sole intention of committing another bloody murder to add to his existing tally, then Ryan would sprout wings and fly.
“Faulkner, bring your team. You’re with me.”
When they stepped outside, the wind hit them like a slap in the face. Ryan took a moment to gather his wits before striding towards the dunes.
As Ryan looked upon the grisly remains of another poor soul, he reflected that he had seen cruelty before. As recently as yesterday, he had seen the destruction of two women who had only really begun to live. But today, the perpetrator had outdone himself.
The remains of what must have been a rudimentary funeral pyre lay scattered in a charred wooden heap in a sheltered inlet of the dunes overlooking the causeway. Amid the pyre lay the unrecognisable body of what once had been a man, burnt and battered, skin flayed black. Stepping closer, Ryan wrinkled his nose against the lingering smell of burnt flesh and forced himself to look closer. The arms and legs had been tied down with wire at the ankles and wrists to a large wooden structure, now vastly reduced. The jaw was closed, indicating some sort of restraint across the mouth.
Otherwise, they would surely have heard his screams.
Ryan realised that this had been the bonfire he had seen on the beach the night before. Eyes darkened with fury, he stepped back again and recognised the shape of the wood as something he had seen before in one of the books Anna had shown him.
It was a pentagram.
“Who is he?” Ryan asked Phillips, who hovered a few metres away, still shaken by his earlier loss of control.
Phillips was fairly sure Ryan was referring to the victim. He stepped forward with a plastic evidence bag.
“Found these folded over there,” he pointed to a spot a few metres back from the pyre, currently sporting a bright yellow marker left by the CSI’s. “Have a look at the coat.”
Ryan exchanged a look with Phillips and opened the bag with latex-covered hands. Inside, there was a red coastguard jacket embroidered in fine gold lettering. It said ‘Rob Fowler’.
Ryan thrust the bag back at Phillips and paced away to look out towards the mainland, fists bunched in his pockets. Another life pointlessly taken, he thought angrily. Another family to devastate.
Why? He thought. Where was the pattern?
When he turned back, all vestiges of anger were gone. His eyes were hard and his voice was unyielding.
“Faulkner,” he watched the other man’s head snap up. “Report.”
Tom scratched at his chin beneath the tight overalls and passed his long-suffering gaze over the remains.
“Preliminary observations indicate male, around six feet tall. Poor bloke died a long, painful death. We didn’t call out Dr Walker to pronounce death, this time, given his relationship to Alex.”
“Good call. The pathologist can sign the formalities when we transport the body over to Alnwick. He died from the burns, you reckon?”
“Sure, that would have contributed, but the fire here looks like it was quite large. He could have died from the carbon monoxide generated by the flames. Otherwise, it would be a case of eventually capitulating to heatstroke, thermal decomposition of internal organs or simple blood loss. We won’t know for sure until we get the blood and tox report back, post-mortem results.” Faulkner lifted a shoulder and looked back at the crumbled remains with a pitying eye. “Even then, it depends on whether we have enough of a sample. We’ll get him across to the pathologist within the hour.”
Ryan nodded, lips tight.
“I want a full tent erected. The press will be swarming the island today and they’ve got long-range lenses. I want this scene protected.” He paused, eyed one of the younger CSI’s. “You,” he jabbed a finger in their direction. “If I find any leaked pictures of this poor bastard in the evening paper, I’ll know where to start looking for a rat. Understand?”
The man’s head bobbed up and down. He wondered how the SIO had been able to read his mind.
Ryan eyed him for a moment longer to ensure the message had been received loud and clear and then spoke to the wider group.
“Expect the press to be creative,” he said. “They’re not above hiring a boat to come and get a close-up from the water. Phillips, while the tide’s out, I want a barrier spanning the dunes from there,” he pointed to a spot several hundred metres further down the beach, at the edge of the causeway, “cutting across to there,” he traced his finger over the sea to a buoy which bobbed its orange head in what was left of the water
, “across to there.” His finger ended full circle at the wooden steps used to access the beach.
Phillips nodded. “Aye, I’ll see to it.”
“I want two men on the tent at all times,” Ryan couldn’t spare any more than that and the lack of resources infuriated him.
“Got it,” Phillips nodded again.
“No, Frank. Get someone to handle all that. I want you with me in interview.”
Ryan checked his watch and swore softly. The water had all but melted away and he saw the first eager cars speed across the far side of the mainland, ready to get a scoop. Amongst them, there would be Alex Walker’s solicitor.
“Let’s get a move on,” he said.
“You can’t be looking at Walker now, can you?” Phillips asked as they walked briskly back to the cottage that was their temporary base.
Ryan stopped, turned to him and his black hair flew around his face in the wind.
“Walker has no alibi, he’s lied in his statements to the police and we found material evidence on his property. I’m looking at every fucking thing, Frank. Then I’m looking at it again and again, until we find the person responsible.” His eyes were fierce. “Don’t think that just because Walker was under lock and key last night, he didn’t kill those women.”
* * *
When Ryan and Phillips got back to the cottage, they saw two unfamiliar cars in the driveway. Both were German, expensive and polished to a high sheen. Letting himself in, Ryan could sense the charged atmosphere and prepared himself for further drama.
“You’ll do as you are commanded by a superior officer.” Gregson’s unmistakable voice boomed out, filling the four walls of the house.
“Sir,” MacKenzie replied, “I am under strict instructions not to discuss anything further until DCI Ryan’s return.”
Ryan took a moment to appreciate the loyalty of his staff and then stepped into the room.
“Sir.” He nodded respectfully to Gregson. “Is there a problem?”
Gregson sent a fulminating glare towards Detective MacKenzie. “Just insubordination.”
Ryan tried not to smile. Looking at Denise MacKenzie, he could almost see the Irish curses hovering over her head.
“DI MacKenzie is operating under my command and therefore any complaint can be laid at my door.”
Gregson rolled his eyes but secretly approved of his DCI’s calm approach under fire. MacKenzie took her cue and melted away.
“For God’s sake,” Gregson ground out. “All I want is a status report.”
“Sir, I appreciate that and I will be happy to provide you with one. Unfortunately, another incident, likely homicide, was reported forty minutes ago. Prior to that – “
“Walker’s solicitor is conferring with his client upstairs,” Gregson interjected. “Are you going to tell me that he was arrested without cause?”
“No, sir, I’m not telling you that.” Ryan took a breath and leapt in. “At the time of his arrest yesterday evening, Alex Walker had made certain false statements to the police and we found material evidence on his property following a search which was warranted through the appropriate channels. He has been unable to provide an alibi for the murders of both women and has been unable to provide an explanation for the items we found – Lucy Mathieson’s missing clothes and mobile phone,” he added.
Gregson nodded. “By the book?”
“Everything has been done according to relevant protocols, sir. The suspect has been provided with food and water, comfortable facilities and access to medical care. The unusual geography of the island has prevented us from questioning Walker before now but if his solicitor has arrived I will proceed with questioning.”
“Good,” Gregson took a drink of his coffee and frowned. “This coffee tastes like shit. Get yourself a machine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has he got previous?”
“No, sir,” Ryan replied. The standard background check had not disclosed any criminal record.
“I had Walker Senior on the phone to me late last night,” Gregson said irritably. “Complained that he had been refused access to see his son.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow.
“Doctor Walker was refused access, rightly in my opinion, owing to his previous involvement assisting our investigation. Furthermore, I felt it was in the best interests of the investigation for Alex Walker not to discuss his story with anyone except ourselves, sir.”
Gregson smiled in a somewhat fatherly fashion.
“Good lad.” He thrust the mug of coffee at Ryan. “I’ll handle the press, give them nothing but the basics. We’ve set up the conference for eleven-thirty in the main square.”
Ryan felt a cowardly relief. He hated nothing more than talking to reporters.
Gregson watched Ryan closely. A dazed expression came into the man’s eyes for a moment and his skin looked clammy.
“Ryan,” he said firmly and waited for him to snap out of his daydream.
“Sir.”
“I never got that GP’s report, did I?”
Ryan’s teeth snapped together. In the space of forty-eight hours, there had been a body down on the beach, two more in the morgue and Gregson was worried about a bit of paper?
Gregson read his thoughts effortlessly.
“It can wait,” he decided. “But tie this up now, Ryan, and do it fast.”
CHAPTER 16
Ryan and Phillips cleared out the Incident Room and set up a folding table and four chairs with a tape recorder in the middle alongside a jug of water. Walker and his solicitor seated themselves on one side of the table, Phillips on the other.
Ryan preferred to stand.
He looked at Walker, who was sitting confidently with his arms folded and hair gelled. He realised that it was probably his own gel which had been sitting in the upstairs bathroom which currently graced the blonde head. Walker’s solicitor was a trim woman in her mid-forties with neat brown hair and a classy navy suit. Her small hands were folded calmly. All of which told him that neither the man nor his counsel were particularly concerned by Walker’s predicament.
Ryan could change that.
He turned on a small recorder and stated the date and time as well as the names of those present. He repeated the standard caution.
“Are you aware of your rights?”
Walker glanced at his solicitor.
“Yes,” he answered and Ryan smiled cheerfully.
“Good, let’s get started then.”
“Chief Inspector, my client would like to state for the record that the manner of his detention is not consistent with the requirements set out in the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.”
So, they wanted to play around? That was fine, Ryan thought.
“In what way?”
“He has not been held in an appropriate place of detention.”
“This building has been properly authorised as a place of detention.”
“By whom?”
“The Commanding Officer of CID, Detective Chief Superintendent Arthur Gregson.” He recited Gregson’s departmental reference number and held out a copy of the signed paperwork faxed through by Gregson’s office the night before.
“This should have been included in standard pre-interview disclosure.”
“No,” Ryan said calmly. “We are required to inform you of the lines of questioning we are likely to pursue, along with the evidence held against your client which led to his arrest. At no time did we intend to discuss the manner of his detention; that was your decision.”
The solicitor shoved the paper in her folder.
“Do you intend to waste any more time or can we get down to business?” Ryan braced his hands on the back of a chair and leaned forward slightly. He pinned her with his stare and watched a blush creep up her skin.
“The custody officer should have made a determination about whether to charge my client long before now. Failing that, he should have been released on bail.”
“There were reasonable ground
s for believing it was necessary to detain your client,” he eyed the man sitting next to her, who looked significantly less confident as the minutes wore on, “without bail or charge in order to secure evidence or obtain it during questioning. Our reasoning is detailed on the requisite form, a copy of which you were provided with on your arrival this morning.”
“Well…”
“Stop wasting all of our time,” he said quietly. “The sooner we can ask our questions, the better for your client.”
She folded her arms mutinously.
“Now, let’s start again,” Ryan folded his long body into a chair now. He placed one hand on the folder laid out in front of him and stared into the bold green eyes of Alex Walker.
“In your statement of 21st December,” Ryan retrieved a copy of it, although he knew the words by heart. “You state that you knew Lucy Mathieson only as another member of the island community. To be precise, ‘as a girl you’d seen around the island’ and ‘hardly knew’. Is that correct?”
Walker swallowed and nodded.
“Please speak up for the record,” Ryan said.
“Yes, that’s correct,” Walker said with an edge to his voice.
“Good. Later on that same day, around eight-thirty outside the Jolly Anchor you held a discussion with myself as the Senior Investigating Officer where you retracted those statements. Is that correct?”
“My client had not been made aware of his rights and obligations before making any such statements,” his solicitor swooped in.
Ryan was unperturbed. He leaned back in his chair and carried on looking at Walker.
“You are aware of those rights now, as we’ve already established. Let’s go over it one more time, then, for the record this time. Do you deny that you had a personal, intimate relationship with Lucy Mathieson?”
Walker was the first to look away.
“No.”
“Fine then,” Ryan smiled his cheerful smile. “Can you explain why you did not include the fact in your original statement?”
