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

by LJ Ross

  Ryan had heard that before. When he’d walked a stretch of that Great Wall a few years earlier, it had felt eerily like he was walking on somebody’s grave.

  He snapped back to the present.

  “What about Anna and Megan? The ritual is different.”

  “The ritual cleansing is an old burial ritual,” Anna supplied. “It exists amongst some neo-pagans, even today. They consecrate an area and thoroughly clean the body using special soaps and oils…”

  “Oils?” Ryan interjected.

  “Yes, they can be very specific. Usually, the oil contains an element of camphor, which is…”

  “I know what camphor is,” Ryan interrupted. “We found it on Lucy’s body.”

  “But not on Megan’s?” she queried, a small line of grief marring her face.

  He shook his head, sorry to hurt her.

  “OK,” she mused, swallowing the lump of pain in her throat. “Perhaps he didn’t have time with Megan. Either way, the cleansing usually signifies some sort of respect, usually for a loved one or ancestor. But this,” she gestured to the folder on the table, “this isn’t about respect.”

  Ryan was quiet for another minute. “Lucy’s body was treated more carefully in general. Her hair was brushed around her face and every inch of her body was taken care of. You could say that was just the actions of a guilty man wanting to remove all traces,” he said bitterly, “but it’s bothering me that he didn’t take the trouble with Megan, other than to serve the purpose of removing evidence.”

  “Yes, I see what you mean,” Anna agreed. “It’s unusual for a person who believes in the ritual enough to practice it, not to be consistent.”

  Ryan nodded. “Exactly. Why was Megan’s body dumped on the proverbial rubbish heap, whereas Lucy was transported to hallowed ground? What I need to find out is what made Megan and Lucy so different, aside from the obvious. They were chosen for a reason.”

  His face was stony as he considered the motivations of a killer and Anna felt the same kind of faith in him Helen Mathieson had felt two days earlier. This was a man who would never stop looking, never stop chasing until he had his answers.

  “So, we’re looking for someone who believes he’s making sacrifices to the gods, for whatever good fortune he’s hoping for?” Ryan asked.

  “Although the rituals are confused among the three victims, I think it’s safe to say that you’re not looking for someone who is dedicating a sacrifice to a god, or at least not one that we would think of,” she thought of the pentagram on the bodies and turned back to him. “The pentagrams were inverted.”

  He thought of what she had told him the previous day.

  “The sign of Satan?”

  “Yes,” she nodded and searched for a pen. She came back to the table and drew a five pointed star. “An ordinary pentagram drawn as a five-pointed star like this is an ancient Christian symbol of the five senses, or the five wounds of Christ.”

  “And the reverse pentagram?”

  She drew a star with two points of the star facing upwards, circled twice. “This is a well-known symbol of satanic worship. I think it even has a patent,” she added sadly.

  “It symbolises a goat – Baphomet - with the horns at the top, ears on both sides and beard at the bottom.”

  Ryan’s mouth flattened into a hard line.

  “There was a lot of that kicking around twenty years ago, mostly in America,” he thought aloud.

  “Yes, moral panic, I think they called it.”

  “There was supposed to be satanic worship around every corner, from the highest to the lowest echelons of society.”

  Anna rubbed her hands across her knees and got up again.

  “I don’t think it’s as simple as some Satanic cult,” she said.

  “Why?”

  She didn’t answer him but moved to the kitchen, where she opened a drawer and pulled out a small item wrapped in paper.

  “I found this on my doorstep, this morning,” she said, handing him the package.

  He met her eyes, saw the slight fear in hers and took out a pair of gloves from his inner pocket.

  Inside the newspaper wrapping was a small, polished stone with an intricate design in the figure of a man standing in front of a crude stick building, with one word carved underneath: ‘JOHN’.

  “What does it mean?” he looked up at her and tried to remember if there were any men named ‘John’ resident on the island.

  “I believe the building is the Priory and the man standing in front of it is Saint John.”

  Ryan had never felt particularly stupid in his entire life but spending time with a woman like Anna reminded him that there was always more to learn.

  “Explain, please,” he said simply.

  She picked up the stone and felt its weight. She didn’t notice his frown at the lack of gloves.

  “Traditionally, small copies of the Gospel of Saint John were used as protective amulets, to ward off harm.”

  “From the Lindisfarne Gospels?”

  Anna nodded, pleased that he knew the history of the Gospels which had made the little island famous. The manuscript of gospels produced by the monks on the island hundreds of years ago was one of the finest examples of artistic script in the world.

  “The original Gospel was placed inside the tomb of St Cuthbert, who was Prior of Lindisfarne around 664 A.D. He was sainted after his death,” she added. “Anyway, it was said that the gospel could heal the sick. People used to gather around his tomb and pray for healing because the book was buried with him.”

  Anna looked at the stone again and then back into his fathomless grey eyes.

  “I think whoever you’re looking for is very confused. He uses Christian symbols alongside Pagan ones, then mixes a little bit of devil-worship by using the inverted pentagram.”

  Ryan agreed.

  “Whichever way you look at it, somebody believes that you need protection.” He gestured to the stone.

  “Apparently so,” she agreed and felt her stomach jitter.

  “That settles it,” he said.

  “Settles what?”

  “You’re coming to stay with me,” he said abruptly, thinking of the complications which would arise having her stay in a house which had been authorised as a police designated area.

  He would look forward to that conversation with Gregson.

  CHAPTER 19

  She had argued until she was blue in the face. She had snarled at him while he had dragged her upstairs to pack a bag. There had been a brief respite while they tangled among the bedclothes, during which time she thought he would have forgotten his hair-brained idea that she would be moving in with him.

  He hadn’t.

  In fact, the exertion had lent a certain smugness to his handsome face, making him more determined.

  Since reasoning with him and shouting at him hadn’t made a difference, Anna had resorted to silence while he had stolen her car keys and driven them along the road to his cottage.

  She had seen the curious looks of the vicar’s wife and Mrs Rigby as they had watched their progress from the pavement on the high street. She could only imagine the wild rumours which would fly.

  “As far as anyone is concerned, I’m bringing you into protective custody,” he said into the silence.

  If possible, she grew even angrier.

  “This is ridiculous!” she burst out, rapping a fist on the plastic dashboard and regretting it when pain sang through her wrist.

  “What is ridiculous is your juvenile behaviour,” he said cuttingly.

  “My…” she had to take several deep breaths while her skin flushed dark red.

  “How dare you speak to me like that?”

  “I dare, because it’s the truth.”

  “Just because we slept together, it doesn’t give you the right to manhandle me or bully me whenever you like,” she spat.

  He turned to look at her then and his eyes were cold.

  “This has nothing to do with what we shared ea
rlier and if you think that it does, then that’s more of a reflection on your own attitude, isn’t it?” With that, he unfolded his long body from the confines of the mini and slammed the door behind him.

  Innate manners forced him to walk around to her side of the car and open the door for her. He stood in silence waiting for her to get out, his entire body vibrating with anger.

  She dared to look at him and realised that she had made him very, very angry. Looking closer, she thought she saw something like hurt and felt instantly ashamed. She had lashed out at him because she didn’t trust…couldn’t trust a man, any man.

  She wanted to, desperately.

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

  “I beg your pardon?” he said in the same coolly polite tone.

  “You heard me the first time. I apologise for the accusation that you would misuse our earlier intimacy. I still say you bullied me here,” she added vehemently.

  He cocked his head. He could accept all that, because he had essentially bullied her. It was also true that their relationship had everything to do with it. He wanted to protect her with every fibre of his being.

  He wouldn’t see another woman he cared for end up dead in his arms.

  He managed to work up a smile.

  “Forget it,” he took her hand to help her out of the car. As they walked up to the front door, he paused. “Next time, we’ll take my car. That mini nearly broke my back.”

  She had a smile on her face when she walked through the door.

  * * *

  “Look, guv, I can’t blame you for wanting to protect that girl. Very nice looking lady,” Phillips added.

  Ryan smiled as they walked towards the centre of town.

  “I won’t lie to you, Frank, the lines are blurred for me but what is crystal clear is the fact that someone has singled her out.”

  “Aye, true enough.”

  “The stone looks like protection, but this guy is fucked up. Could be someone with multiple personality; or a copycat…” Ryan shook his head. “Either way, I’m not handing her to him on a plate like a prize turkey.”

  “Well, you know what you’re doing,” Phillips stuck his hands in his pockets. “Got Faulkner’s team looking at the stone. He should be able to tell us if there’s anything to it,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Ryan nodded. “We’ll be lucky if there are any prints on it; Anna handled it before she showed it to me. Easy mistake to make.”

  Phillips clucked his tongue.

  “Still…” Ryan trailed off as they passed the Heritage Gift Shop. He stopped dead and looked in the window, where nestled amongst the candles, the crosses and the figures of St Cuthbert, there lay stones of all shapes and sizes engraved with Christian symbols.

  “Bingo,” Frank said, reading his SIO’s mind.

  They stepped through a tinkling door hung with wind chimes. Ryan recognised Liz Morgan working behind the counter. She was looking a little more like herself but alarm lingered around the eyes as she rang up orders.

  “Liz,” Ryan stepped forward when her last customer left.

  “Mr Ryan,” she said and came around the counter. He tried not to feel awkward when she took his hands. “I want to thank you for the way you helped me the other day. I was in such a state.”

  “Anyone would have done the same,” he said, thinking that he had been a cold bastard, questioning her facts and motives only minutes after coming across what would likely be the most traumatising sight she would ever see in her lifetime.

  She patted his hand and stepped back. Her eyes were drawn to the garish colours on Phillips’ tie but she remembered it was rude to stare.

  “How can I help you?”

  “We saw some unusual stones in the window,” Ryan began, moving to point at the display. “I’m looking for one in particular; polished black with a white engraving of the Gospel of Saint John on the front of it.”

  “Well, let me see,” Liz moved back to the counter and pulled out a large stock book with pictures. She flipped through the pages for a moment then gestured him closer.

  “Like this one?”

  Ryan moved to stand beside her and looked down at a picture of a stone, an identical copy of which he had seen earlier that day.

  “That’s the one.”

  “The stone is onyx,” Liz supplied. “Local artists do the engraving with a specialist chisel then paint over the engraving in white enamel.”

  Phillips tried to look over Ryan’s shoulder, but the man was a good six inches taller, so he mumbled his agreement instead.

  “How many of these have you sold recently?”

  Liz whooshed out a breath. “I would have to check the records, I’m afraid. We sell so many of those little stones.”

  “OK,” Ryan nodded and favoured her with one of his best smiles. Liz may have been nearly twice his age, but she still recognised a fine man when she saw one. She banked down a giggle and offered him a matronly smile in return.

  “I’d be grateful if you could do that as soon as you can,” Ryan said. “It could be very important.”

  Phillips looked over from his inspection of pocket handkerchiefs decorated in Celtic symbols. “Does anywhere else sell those stones?”

  “The craft shop across the square might,” Liz answered, “but I couldn’t say for sure.”

  “What about the artists? Do they work on the island?”

  “No, actually we cheat a bit and bring them over from an artist in Morpeth,” she confessed.

  “Just one other thing,” Ryan smiled again. “Do you sell any soap with sandalwood extract?”

  “Why, yes we do!” Liz reverted to sales mode, misunderstanding him. She bustled around the counter and picked up a block of elegantly wrapped soap with a dark blue tie and a sticker which explained its hand-made origins. “This one is lovely and it’s made locally.”

  “Really?” he took the block she offered and studied the list of ingredients written on the back in an elegant dark blue script. Sandalwood and shea butter were both on the list.

  “There’s a body wash and an aftershave in the same range,” she gushed.

  “I’ll take the set,” Ryan said, not wanting to burst her bubble. He waited while she wrapped them up.

  “Where did you say they were made?”

  “Oh, we get them from a wholesaler in Berwick.” Ryan thought of the old town sitting on the border of England and Scotland, further up the coastline from where they currently stood. He took down the name of the manufacturer.

  “Thanks, Liz. Have a good day.”

  Both men nodded politely and left, Phillips with one last longing look at a silk handkerchief in fuchsia pink.

  They took the trouble to check at the craft shop but their job was made easier by the fact that they didn’t stock anything like the stone Anna had been given.

  “What now?” Phillips said and almost reached for the emergency cigarette he had squirreled away in his breast pocket.

  Ryan thought back to the meeting they’d held earlier that day.

  “Faulkner’s got his work cut out for him but he’s going over the forensics again with a fine tooth comb. He says he’ll have another report on Lucy and Megan by this evening. We’ll have to make do with preliminaries for Rob. I don’t think Faulkner will discover anything new, he tends to be on top of his game.”

  “MacKenzie’s team has gone over the island, contacted local builders’ merchants and she’s come up with a list of people who’ve done a bit of DIY recently,” Phillips chimed in.

  “Good,” Ryan nodded, pleased. “Tell her to cross-check with any individuals whose statements we’ve already taken and to have the list ready when we get back.” He stopped to check his watch. “Let’s say around six.”

  Phillips nodded and pulled out his phone, made the call, spread the word for a briefing at six.

  Ryan looked down at the little bag he held and Phillips noticed the action. “I’ve seen miniature packets of that soap in my room at the Inn. Never realised; I
should have made the connection.”

  “Not necessarily,” Ryan shook his head. “Problem is that it opens the field even more. We don’t know that this is a match for the product used on Lucy, but if it is, anyone could have had access.”

  Ryan switched the bag to his other hand while he thought.

  “Go back,” he said. “Tell Liz that, as well as a list of stone sales, I want a list of people who have bought these soap products from her shop in the past month, for starters. Then, I need you to contact the manufacturer in Berwick, get a list of outlets they sell to. Afterwards, I’ll meet you at the pub.”

  Phillips’ face perked up and Ryan almost laughed.

  “I want to have a word with Bill,” he added and watched the other man’s face fall again.

  “Can’t we stop for a bite?” Phillips asked hopefully.

  “Don’t whine,” Ryan said mildly and then relented since his own stomach was grumbling. “A quick sandwich and that’s it.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Ryan watched Phillips walk off with a slight spring in his step. Keeping the morale of his team high was important, at a time like this.

  A sandwich wasn’t too much to ask, after all.

  * * *

  As Phillips wandered back to the gift shop, Ryan found himself a spot on his favourite bench in the main square. Christmas lanterns hung from the centre of St Cuthbert’s head in the middle and outward to the four corners in a delicate arrangement. They were not yet lit, but he knew when dusk fell they would illuminate, bringing much needed levity.

  He took out his phone and called Gregson.

  “Ryan?”

  “Yes, sir. I have an important matter to bring to your attention.” He proceeded to set out his concerns for Anna following the amulet she had been given.

  “An observant man would ask why you were having a cosy chinwag at Doctor Taylor’s house. I’m an observant man,” Gregson added with a touch of menace.

  “I was in the process of informing Doctor Taylor that, given her connection to one of the victims, it would be unethical for the department to employ her as a civilian consultant at this time.”

  “I bet you were happy about that,” Gregson harrumphed.

  Ryan’s lips quirked. For once, his Superintendent had misread the situation. There was nothing Ryan enjoyed more than spending time with Doctor Taylor, in a professional capacity, or not.