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

by LJ Ross

“No, I never told them.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you before, they’re conservative people. They have a certain idea about me, about marriage and grandkids one day. I think,” he scrubbed at his eyes again. “I think I married Kim to keep them quiet. I’ve never seen my mother so happy. Rob was my best man.” Tears started to fall again and his body shuddered.

  “Do you know of anyone who would wish Mr Fowler harm?”

  Alex shook his head. “No, never. He was so gentle. Nobody would ever want to hurt him.” Walker smiled into the distance, remembering.

  “Are there any individuals on the island who have spoken out against homosexuality?”

  Walker started to shake his head again and then reconsidered.

  “You might get a few comments from the kids. You know, ‘that’s gay’, ‘you’re gay’.” Alex shrugged it off. “Mostly, it’s harmless chat from a bunch of kids who haven’t lived enough of life to know any better.”

  He paused again, thinking back.

  “There was one thing. I remember Rob was upset about it.” Tears threatened again but were held back by willpower alone. “It was a couple of months ago. We went along to the Sunday church service – separately – with our families. Reverend Ingles said a few things which cut a bit close to the bone.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Managed to include some long-winded quotes about man not lying with another man. Leviticus, I think. He more or less said he was pleased the island wasn’t ‘plagued’ with mortal sinners but the few who were out there would be forgiven by God.”

  “Do you know if he was referring to anyone in particular?”

  “No idea. We just hoped it wasn’t us.” Walker looked away, through the window out across the sea, before he turned back to them.

  Ryan changed track.

  “Who else would have access to your fishing hut, Alex?”

  The other man appeared to think for a few minutes and Ryan was on the verge of asking his question again, when Walker finally spoke.

  “You don’t understand the way this island works, Ryan. Everybody knows everybody; people know where you’ll be, what’s yours and where you live.” He turned to them. “Practically everybody would know which one’s my hut and that I never padlock it. A twelve-year-old could unpick the lock on that thing.”

  Ryan said nothing but angled his head.

  “One other thing, Alex,” he fixed the man with a stare and watched for any ticks. “What was Lucy wearing the night she died?”

  Alex screwed his face in concentration.

  “What relevance does this have, Chief Inspector?” the solicitor roused herself from her slumber.

  Ryan merely held up one finger, telling her to wait. She bristled.

  “God, I…” Walker scrubbed his eyes. “I can’t remember. Maybe jeans and a bright top?” He looked up hopefully.

  “What colour?”

  Alex shook his head desperately. “I really don’t remember.”

  Ryan nodded and looked down at his paperwork.

  “Tell me how he died.” Alex said quietly.

  Ryan turned off the recorder, stood and put a hand on the man’s shoulder for support.

  “Don’t ask me that, Walker. Do yourself a favour and get some rest. We’ll be releasing you without charge.”

  * * *

  After Walker left with his parents and all the paperwork was done, Phillips turned to his superior with some surprise.

  “I know it’s a sorry tale of Brokeback Mountain romance, but just because he shed a few tears over Fowler doesn’t mean he didn’t do those women. He admitted Megan Taylor was blackmailing him and he might have wanted to pop Lucy off because she was starting to get clingy.”

  Ryan smiled grimly.

  “That’s why I’ve assigned two men to watch him. This way, he’s relaxed. He thinks the worst is over.”

  Phillips shook his head, partly in admiration and partly fearing the shard of ice lodged somewhere in the heart of the tall man standing next to him.

  “Still doesn’t explain Fowler.”

  “No, Frank, it doesn’t.”

  CHAPTER 17

  At eleven-thirty, Anna stood amongst the crowd which had gathered in the main square, listening to DCS Gregson giving a statement to the press. A small platform had been raised just in front of the statue of St Cuthbert and a crowd of local and national reporters fired out questions while their cameras rolled. Roads were blocked from the village to the causeway by vans and cars. Local hotels which hadn’t already reached capacity with police guests were now overflowing with cameramen and reporters. For once, the tourists fought to gain entry.

  Amid the spectacle, the Priory stood, unchanging and unmoving as before.

  “The Northumbria Police Constabulary is working hard to bring justice to the families of those who have lost their loved ones in these tragic and senseless crimes. We want to assure those families that we have our best men and women investigating. We are sparing no resource in our hunt for the person or persons responsible.” Gregson was authoritative, a man of the people who had a habit of command. Every intonation in his voice was designed to build trust in those who listened.

  “Is it true that these are ritual murders?” One reporter shouted out.

  “We cannot confirm or deny anything that may prejudice our investigation.” Gregson favoured the short woman from the local television studio with a hard stare.

  “Is it true that there has been a third murder?” She didn’t relent.

  “I can confirm that a third person identified as Robert Fowler, a local man who worked as a volunteer coastguard and fisherman, was found dead this morning. We are investigating and our condolences go out to his family.”

  Several voices shouted out at once.

  “Is it true that a suspect has been released without charge? Do you have any other suspects?”

  “The investigative team can and will question individuals where appropriate.”

  “Is it true that the police have no other leads?”

  “The CID team are pursuing all leads and will continue to work quickly to bring the person or persons responsible to justice,” Gregson reiterated firmly.

  “Are the three murders connected?”

  “The CID team are treating these crimes as linked,” Gregson confirmed shortly. They would know that already.

  “Is it true that DCI Ryan is heading the investigation?” one smart-mouthed little weasel shouted out and was pleased to see the consternation on Gregson’s face. “Do you really feel he is competent to lead, given the events following the Hacker?”

  Away from the platform, Ryan felt his stomach sink. Gregson turned to him with a question in his eyes and Ryan nodded. His hands were sweaty and his knees wanted to shake but when he stepped up to the platform to face the cameras and the questions, he was in control.

  In charge of himself and his team.

  Gregson moved smoothly away from the microphone as Ryan stepped forward.

  There was an unusual hush. Many of the reporters recognised him instantly as the tall, handsome detective who had taken over the Hacker case earlier that summer. The aptly-named ‘Hacker’ made a habit of slashing his victims, cutting them apart with surgical precision. At the beginning of the investigation, the press had seen Ryan at the height of his game, appearing before them in sharp suits, speaking to them in his usual articulate but concise manner. He had brought fresh energy and sparked new confidence in an investigation which had dragged on for months, without any apparent leads.

  By the end of it, they had seen him battered, broken and bloodied. Ryan had brought the Hacker to justice but only after he had stalked and killed Ryan’s own sister. Although the national papers had been offered paparazzi photographs of Ryan as he’d been carried out of the house where Natalie had been found, along with her killer, they had chosen not to print them.

  Even the toughest hacks had a heart.

  Now, they saw a harder man, a colder one p
erhaps, but the light in his eyes had returned. If they had questions, he would answer them.

  “Good afternoon,” Ryan began in his velvet-smooth voice. “I can confirm that I have returned to full duty after a period of voluntary sabbatical leave.”

  Everything inside him screamed and the faces of the crowd blurred for a moment, then his gaze locked with Anna’s. She was near the back of the crowd but she stood out. In that instant, he noticed everything about her. The rich fall of hair rippling over one shoulder beneath her woolly hat. The bloom in her cheeks and pink tinge to her nose, which had reacted to the cold weather. The unswerving, forthright look in her dark eyes which seemed to demand that he say whatever he had to say.

  “As many of you will be aware, the Hacker investigation closed six months’ ago. I will always grieve for my sister,” he said honestly, feeling the truth of it burn through his system. “However, life must move on. That being the case, I would remind you that I have over fifteen years on the force, firstly working with the Metropolitan Police and the last twelve years in Newcastle and Northumbria. I have worked on numerous serious crime investigations and was appointed Chief Inspector two years’ ago. In that short time and with the help of an excellent team of staff and colleagues, we have closed fifty-seven cases with successful prosecutions.”

  It was an excellent statistic and he knew it. If they were going to question his competence, then the press should know it too.

  “With that record, I am confident that our investigative team, comprised of some of the force’s finest men and women, will conduct itself with all expedition to bring justice to the families of those who have been robbed of their loved ones.”

  His eyes moved away from Anna’s and scanned the crowd, passed over a number of people he recognised. It crossed his mind that their perpetrator was likely to be one of them.

  He looked squarely into the crowd, as if speaking to the killer. “To the person responsible, I say this: we can and will find you. There is nowhere safe for you now. We will continue to hunt you until there won’t be a corner of this island or this country that can shelter you. That’s it.”

  Ryan left the words hanging and stepped down. Reporters and cameramen surged forward to get a picture of him shaking hands with Gregson, to have a few more sound bites for the evening news. Anna turned away and began to walk back through the crowd. Several pairs of eyes watched her progress.

  * * *

  Among the crush of people, a man shivered and huddled further into his coat.

  They knew, he thought frantically, eyes darting from side to side.

  They were watching him.

  His fevered mind saw police officers in full uniform around every corner. He caught the eye of some of them.

  We know it was you, they seemed to say.

  His hands began to shake. Why hadn’t they charged Walker? They must have found Lucy’s clothes by now. Why hadn’t they charged him?

  His eyes fell on the tall figure of the Chief Inspector, who stood solemnly on the platform looking like an avenging angel with his black hair blowing around his face. He shivered again as Ryan’s words rang out into the crowd.

  We will hunt you…there is nowhere to shelter you…

  The woman hanging on his arm began to rub his fingers, mistaking fear for cold. He smiled down into her expectant face but sweat ran cold and clammy down his back.

  * * *

  Another man watched the proceedings from the outskirts, his face carefully schooled into a grave mask. He nodded politely to his friends and neighbours. Earlier, he had offered a heartfelt embrace to the woman who had lost her only son that morning and had sat and consoled with another family who had lost their only daughter.

  He had felt invincible, divine.

  He listened to the words of the Superintendent and nearly smiled. He had to remind himself to keep his face blank but oh, how he wanted to laugh. He wanted to soar, high and far above the little people who stood around him wittering like the idiots they were.

  They thought they could hunt him.

  They knew nothing.

  His gaze passed briefly over DCI Ryan and he felt the anger building inside him, rising and ready to erupt.

  Ignorant, arrogant fool, he thought while his fists clenched.

  Grasping for control, he looked away again and felt his blood cool. He met the eyes of the woman standing beside him, pretty as a picture in her navy winter coat and he smiled.

  He was still smiling when he turned back to meet the eyes of his hunter.

  * * *

  “Ryan? With me,” Arthur Gregson barked out the order and moved swiftly through the crowd to his vehicle. He ushered Ryan inside before the cameramen could follow.

  The car moved off slowly but the department had sprung for blacked-out windows, so Ryan could feel reasonably comfortable that the flashes of cameras wouldn’t have much effect. He resented the fact that he was forced to hide in armoured cars, while a murderer roamed free.

  “Stop brooding,” Gregson said forcibly and without a thought for social proprieties, lit a fat cigar. He took a couple of long puffs to soothe his nerves. Even he wasn’t immune to the pressures of the media. “You did well out there. Came across strong, met the criticism head-on. Especially liked your monologue to the killer,” Gregson puffed his cigar and let out a wheeze.

  “Thank you, sir.” His hand had been forced, Ryan thought. He hadn’t had time to tell Anna about any of it personally, but now she knew.

  “He’s got us on the run,” Gregson carried on, his eyes narrowed. “That has to change.”

  “We’re doing everything we can, sir.”

  Gregson waved that away. “Am I blind? It isn’t me that you have to convince, it’s them.” He jerked an angry thumb back towards the reporters they had left behind.

  “There’s hardly any physical evidence, which is a major obstacle,” Ryan admitted. “CSI’s are due to come back with more detailed reports today. There were prints and potential DNA evidence at Megan’s crime scene. I’ve forwarded the report to your desk, sir. As for the ritual element, we’re trying to get a handle on it.”

  “You know that you can’t use Doctor Taylor anymore,” Gregson interjected.

  “Of course,” Ryan agreed smoothly, his face carefully neutral.

  Gregson watched his chief inspector through a haze of cigar smoke and his eyes gleamed.

  “I’m glad we understand one another,” he said, equally smoothly. “One of the few things in our favour is the fact that all three victims are young and good-looking. Rightly or wrongly, that will capture the public imagination a lot more than it would if it were the other way around. People always sympathise more when it’s about attractive people.”

  Ryan may not like it, but he couldn’t argue with the truth of that. How often did the press keep up with an investigation, when the perpetrators or victims were old, or ugly, or defective in some other way?

  Rarely.

  “I want to get my head around this sooner rather than later. Our perp has been on a spree, but now it’s time to call in the debt.”

  “Nicely put.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  * * *

  In her bid to escape the gabble of people crowding the main square, Anna headed for one of the little cobbled alleyways. Sensing freedom was near, her heart jumped into her throat when a strong hand grasped her arm and pulled her back.

  “Psst,” said the familiar female voice. “Let’s escape this way.”

  Anna looked back and down into Yvonne Walker’s face. She was in her fifties, but had the slim, well-kept build of a much younger woman. Her hair, which had been a light brown years ago, had since been darkened and stylishly cut. Her face held few lines and was flushed with good health.

  “Mrs Walker? You look wonderful.”

  The other woman blushed with pleasure and instinctively touched a hand to her hair.

  “Do you like it? I suppose I just got bored with myself,” she chuckled.


  Unexpected tears burned the back of Anna’s throat. Yvonne Walker had been a long-time friend of her mother’s and even now, Yvonne’s new hair colour was a fresh reminder of a woman who was long gone.

  “Darling, have I upset you?” Instantly concerned, Yvonne took Anna’s hand in a motherly grip and held her close.

  “No, no. It’s nothing.”

  “Come on then,” Yvonne tugged her hand and they made for one of the side roads. Anna knew the route so well she could have made the journey blindfolded.

  Eventually, they came upon the large, stone-built property which housed the doctor’s surgery and the Walker family.

  “Um, Mrs Walker, I don’t know if Alex would really want to see me just now,” she began hesitantly.

  Yvonne sent her a knowing look.

  “He would always like to see you, Anna. He may have made his mistakes in the past,” it was always hard for a mother to admit them, Yvonne thought, “but he’s grown up a lot since then. This recent experience will have been a shock to him, as well.”

  “Still, I don’t know – “

  “You needn’t worry. Alex has his own cottage nowadays.”

  Anna relaxed a bit and stepped into the old house. It was still lovely, she thought with a wave of nostalgia. Built in a Georgian style, the floors were wooden and polished to gleaming. Expensive, worn rugs were scattered over the floors. Family photographs covered the surfaces and tasteful art adorned the walls, which were muted, restful shades. House plants added bloom and colour to the rooms and a sense of peace.

  Anna had always felt peaceful here.

  “It’s just as I remember,” she murmured.

  “Of course it is,” Yvonne said briskly, shrugging out of her coat. “Let’s get a cup of tea and catch up.”

  Five minutes later, Anna found herself seated in the slouchy sofa which stood in one of the smaller sitting rooms. A fire had been lit and was just starting to blaze. In one hand, she balanced a small plate which held an enormous slab of cake. Her other hand was occupied in trying to keep the family’s cat, Tennyson, from devouring that cake.

  Realising that he was not in luck, the cat eventually abandoned hopes of an afternoon snack and turned to curl up at the far end of the sofa, favouring her with the view of his ginger backside.