by LJ Ross
Perhaps he had crowed too soon, Ryan thought, when the next question came down the line.
“What does this Doctor Taylor look like, Ryan?”
“I hardly feel that’s relevant, sir,” he prevaricated.
“On the contrary, I believe it could be very relevant,” Gregson replied.
“Doctor Taylor is twenty-eight, I believe. She is approximately five feet eight inches tall, with dark brown hair and eyes.”
“I hear she’s a looker.”
Ryan vowed to tie Phillips’ wagging tongue around his neck the next time he saw him.
“Doctor Taylor is attractive, yes.”
“Uh huh,” Gregson drawled. “Just make sure you keep the blood flowing to your brain, Ryan. We can’t afford sloppy mistakes at a time like this.”
“Understood, sir.”
“I’m on the road to Newcastle, got a press conference down there. Don’t want the media running away with themselves any more than they have already. Did you see the afternoon papers?”
Ryan had seen them.
“They’ve thought of some novel nicknames.”
“They can call the bastard whatever they like,” Gregson snapped, but thought that giving the killer titles ranging from ‘The Butcher of Lindisfarne’ to ‘The Lindisfarne Loony’, depending on the standard of paper one chose to read, was both unhelpful and predictable.
“It will feed his ego,” Ryan said.
“Yes, it will,” Gregson agreed. “Another thing he’ll be enjoying is the bloody slow job we’re making of this investigation. Did you see the headlines?”
Ryan’s lips firmed.
“Yes, sir.” He could hardly fail to have seen the broadsheets plastered with their theories on the killings, their damning report on the police investigation so far and the fact that they had raked over all the old ground relating to Natalie’s murder and his involvement.
“’POLICE STUMBLE OVER FLAT FEET WHILE KILLER ROAMS HOLY ISLAND’, was my personal favourite,” Gregson said.
Ryan knew it was no use going over the hours of work or the dedication of his staff. Gregson was letting off steam: that was the chain of command in action. As he held the phone to his ear, he spotted Phillips heading back towards him and smiled thinly.
CHAPTER 20
Bill Tilson looked distinctly harassed when Phillips and Ryan walked into the Jolly Anchor. The lunch crowd had been particularly busy, catering to the swollen numbers on the island. He’d fended off dozens of questions about Lucy, Megan and Rob from reporters frantic for a scoop.
Now, he cleared away the debris in a mechanical fashion, his wide bulk moving smoothly between the tables collecting empties. The Santa costume hung limply from a peg behind the bar.
“Afternoon, Bill.”
Ryan watched the man swing his head round, the light of battle in his eyes in the event that any more reporters had chosen to darken his door. The look faded and was replaced by a mix of curiosity and wariness when he saw who had come to visit.
“Gents,” he nodded to both of them. “Get you something?” He jerked a shoulder towards the bar, his hands filled with empty dishes.
“You still serving food?” Phillips’ eyes rested greedily on a bar menu.
“Aye, no problem. Let me know what you’re after.”
The selections made, Ryan gestured them all to a quiet table in the corner with a wide view of the room. After a quick scan, he saw that the place had cleared out except for a few regulars dotted around the room.
“Bad business,” Bill said deeply, when they were settled.
“Agreed,” Ryan said, taking a sip of his lemonade and wishing it were something stronger. “We need to ask you a few more questions, Bill.”
“Fire away,” the other man said, but felt his stomach jitter.
Ryan paused to recall the information he needed. At the time of Lucy and Megan’s death, Bill Tilson had been in full view of the community, pulling pints. Likewise, he had been calling last orders the previous night when Rob Fowler was dying on the beach. Still, it didn’t prevent the man from dipping out of the pub for a few minutes here and there.
Especially if it was just to nip upstairs to visit a pretty woman.
“You’ve already told me that you’ve known Megan and Anna since they were girls,” he began.
“Aye, that’s right.”
“Tell me again how Megan came to be staying in the apartment upstairs?” Ryan watched surprise flit across the other man’s face.
“Well, I don’t know how that’s important, but if it makes any difference to you…”
“It might,” Ryan confirmed in a mild tone.
“Well, it’s like I already told you. Andy Taylor had mortgaged the pub to the hilt. I’d managed to save a few pennies here and there and so I could afford the buy the place from the girls.” He shuffled in his seat. “They lost their home, because the bank repossessed that straight away. Anna didn’t want to stay; she left the island soon as she could. Megan asked if she could take over the apartment upstairs.”
“What was the rent?” Ryan picked up his pencil, as if ready to make a note of the answer. A red flush began to seep into the other man’s skin.
“She didn’t pay me any rent.”
“Oh?” Ryan smiled with apparent understanding. “I suppose she worked some hours for free, instead?”
“No,” Bill said with a tinge of irritation marring his usually cheerful demeanour.
Ryan put his pencil down and steepled his fingers.
“How come you didn’t charge her any rent?”
Phillips grinned into his sandwich. There was nothing like watching his SIO squeeze facts from a witness.
Bill shifted in his chair again, clearly uncomfortable.
“Look, I felt sorry for both the girls. Megan needed a start in life and I said she could stay there for free while she got on her feet. My way of saying ‘thank you’ to her parents for the start they gave me.”
“That was very generous of you,” Ryan gushed, not believing him for a second. “Eight years is a pretty generous start, isn’t it? I guess you didn’t mind her having gentleman callers, either?”
Watching Bill Tilson’s face, Ryan caught the moment when jealousy sparked behind Tilson’s mild brown eyes and thought, there we go.
“She didn’t have any callers,” Bill said, his jaw tense.
“Sure, she did,” Ryan said affably, sweeping the other man’s denial aside. “The whole village knows about her rep. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she was a nice girl, but she did the rounds, didn’t she?”
He watched as Tilson visibly tried to keep his temper under control. Ryan almost smiled, thinking that the big man looked like he could happily shove a fist in his face. Gone was the merry Santa Claus.
“That was all in the past,” Bill ground out, breathing harder.
“That’s not what I hear,” Phillips piped up, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“Who’s been talking about her?” Bill turned on him. “They’re filthy liars, whoever they are.”
“Why didn’t you tell us you had a thing for her, Bill?” Ryan said quietly and watched the other man’s eyes close.
“I just cared about her, that’s all.”
“Nothing more?”
There was a hesitation before Bill spoke. “Nothing more.”
“I don’t think you’re telling us the full truth, Bill.” Ryan said with disappointment. “We found your fingerprints all over her apartment,” he added.
“Well, so what?” Bill said with some heat. “I own the place, I check it every now and then.”
“That wasn’t the only thing you were ‘checking’, was it?” Phillips smirked and earned himself a glare from Ryan.
“Shut your mouth,” Bill gritted, temper sparking again.
“Bill, we’ll find out eventually, you know we will. Make it easy on yourself,” Ryan advised.
Tilson clasped both hands on the table and they shook slightly.
�
�We were never…” he took a breath. “She didn’t want people knowing about us. Said that I was like her older brother or an uncle and how it was wrong for me to have feelings for her.”
“Go on,” Ryan nodded.
“I honestly never expected anything from her,” Tilson said. “Things just sort of happened one night.”
“You slept together.”
“Yes,” he nodded. “This was years ago. She told me that we could carry on just like that, but she would be keeping her independence because she didn’t want to be tied down.”
“And you never charged her rent, in return,” Ryan finished in a monotone.
Bill’s lips wobbled. “I know how it sounds.”
“Really? Because it sounds like you were paying her for services rendered.”
Bill looked murderous, Ryan thought.
“You have no right to talk about her that way,” he said.
“Did you give her any expensive presents, petty cash?” Phillips asked. “We can check the records,” he added.
Bill warred with himself.
“I gave her a few bits and pieces.” Bill listed some jewellery and clothes he had gifted to her over the years. “She…I suppose she used to help herself to a bit of cash from the till now and then.”
Ryan and Phillips both held off making any obvious comments. Their earlier baiting had served its purpose now.
“Making false statements to the police is serious,” Ryan said quietly, pinning Tilson with a stare. “I have to ask myself why you would do that.”
“I was embarrassed,” Bill mumbled. “I felt like a fool every day that I was with her. You think I didn’t see how she went on with other men?” he turned blazing eyes on them. “I saw.”
“Made you angry, didn’t it?” Ryan kept his voice gentle.
“Bloody right, it did!” Bill said without thinking. “She knew how I felt about her.”
“Angry enough to kill her?”
Pure shock entered the other man’s face. Shock, mingled with something else, Ryan thought.
“I could never have done that. I loved her.”
Ryan was silent. Sometimes that was best.
“Megan spent years looking for someone who would love her, spoil her. I spent years trying to do that and all I got in exchange were a few tumbles in the hay and the odd kind word.” Bill’s voice was flat. “Still, I would have settled for that rather than nothing at all.”
He turned back to them and said simply, “I would give anything to bring her back, but I can’t.”
* * *
At precisely the same moment as Ryan and Phillips found a blood-stained green and gold diary hidden in the mattress at Megan’s apartment, Anna was sneaking out of Ryan’s cottage like a thief in the night.
She’d had enough of being held prisoner and wanted a taste of freedom. She didn’t think too much harm could come from a walk in the middle of the afternoon through a village teeming with people.
She snuck along the road, expecting to bump into Ryan at any moment. Guiltily, she took the back alleys through the village, skirting around the edge rather than taking the more direct route through the centre. She didn’t see the young police officer a few hundred yards behind her, hurrying to keep up.
The Heritage Centre came into view and she trotted over to slip through the automatic doors. Letting out a sigh of pure guilt, she found herself smiling at the familiar sights and sounds. How many times had she led visitors around the displays? Too many to count.
“Lindisfarne Priory is the site of the earliest known Anglo-Saxon Christian monastery. Irish monks settled here in 635 AD following an invitation from Oswald, the Northumbrian king who has been the inspiration for characters such as Aragorn in Lord of the Rings,” Bowers’ voice rang out clearly as he brought history alive for a group of children from the local school on the island. “Northumbria was the largest kingdom in Britain at that time, so it was very powerful.”
Mark caught her eye above the heads of the children and smiled, gave her a gesture to say he would be five minutes.
Anna smiled in return and settled back against the wall of the visitor’s centre to listen. She had heard it all before but she never grew tired of hearing about the island’s past.
“A monk called Cuthbert came to the island around 670 AD. He became Prior of Lindisfarne and was eventually made a bishop. Eleven years after he died, his body was exhumed and they found that it looked just the same,” Mark paused for effect, watching the avid faces of the young teens listening to the tale. “Which was said to be a miracle and a sure sign of his saintliness.”
He pointed to a painting which showed the body being exhumed from its coffin and smiled when a few of the boys made the obligatory gagging noises to attract attention.
“Miracles started to be reported at St Cuthbert’s shrine,” he continued. “People started to make the pilgrimage to Lindisfarne which also meant that the Priory grew in power and wealth, because the important people of the land made donations and gifts.”
He moved along to the next viewing screen, where a portion of the Lindisfarne Gospels was displayed in an airtight cabinet.
“Another thing to remember is that Lindisfarne was a great centre of Christian learning and scholarship. Most importantly, there was the Lindisfarne Gospels, a beautiful example of early Mediaeval art made around 710 AD. Here’s a bit of it,” he gestured to the case and several eager faces moved closer, pressing their noses against the polished glass.
Anna smiled as she watched him enthral the next generation of young minds. She remembered when she had come here as a child, wanting to know more about her heritage. He had been as patient then as he was now, she thought.
“Didn’t the Vikings come?” one of the children asked, thinking of long-ships and horned helmets.
“They did, young man,” Mark nodded. “They raided Lindisfarne in 793 AD. The Pagans desecrated the Priory.”
“What’s a Pagan?” the same child asked.
“It was a word used, mostly by Christians, to describe unbelievers of any kind. In this case, the Vikings.”
Anna raised her eyebrows at the response, but said nothing. She hadn’t realised Mark took such a sympathetic approach to interpretation.
“What happened to the miracles?” Another child asked.
“Well, they were still said to happen,” Mark answered, “but they had to move St Cuthbert’s relics to the cathedral in Durham, for safekeeping.”
“Didn’t he miss being on Lindisfarne?”
“I’m sure he did,” Mark answered, looking at Anna. “But he was brought back, years later, during the Norman Conquest.”
That wrapped up the lecture for the day and Anna watched the children file out. Funny, but Mark was right, she thought. Like Cuthbert, she had come back to her home after a period of unrest.
Mark waved the children off and turned back to where Anna stood, tall and serene in the dim room offset by the subtle lighting of the display cabinets.
“Missing me already?” he said, only half-joking.
“Always,” she agreed with a smile but she was already turning away to look at the old coins and relics resting carefully on their cushioned beds.
Mark walked over to join her.
“How is the investigation progressing?” he asked after a few moments’ companionable silence.
She shrugged. “Hard to tell. They’re tireless and dedicated but I think frustrated because they can’t find any DNA evidence.” That was no more than most of the islanders already knew.
“I understood that you were on the island to assist with the police,” he said quietly, then added, “terrible news about Rob.”
“Yes,” she agreed quietly, thinking of her childhood friend, but mindful of the agreement she had made with Ryan. “I can’t help them officially because I’m related to one of the victims.”
Mark looked at her with one of his enigmatic smiles.
“Officially.”
“Exactly,” she sai
d.
They were both silent for another moment.
“But they asked for you in the first place,” Mark circled around to the point. “I suppose that means that you have relevant expertise. Pagan rituals?”
She sighed. She could never hide the truth from her mentor and besides, he had a sharp mind.
“Yes, they believed I could help to inform the police in matters of pagan ritual and history.”
“Is that what we’re dealing with?”
“Hard to say,” she muttered, not wanting to give away too much but feeling conflicted. “There are distinct overtones.”
“Such as?”
“Mark, look, I…”
“Never mind, forget I asked.” He held up his hands.
“It isn’t that I don’t want to discuss it with you. I wish that I could,” she said with feeling. “I just don’t want to break any rules.”
“Don’t you mean any more rules?” he said mildly.
Anna said nothing.
“Let’s talk of other things,” he murmured, leading her away.
* * *
Ryan and Phillips found the vicar of Lindisfarne bundled in his outdoor gear, wrestling with the door of his greenhouse.
“Reverend Ingles, we’d like a moment of your time, please.” Both men walked across the lawn and watched the vicar jam the door shut with an almighty heave.
“Looks like that door hinge could do with oiling,” Phillips commented.
“Oh, it’s the weather,” Ingles said. “Always freezes the joints.”
Ryan followed the line of an electric cable leading all the way from the vicarage to the greenhouse.
“What’s the cable for?” he asked.
“That’s for the heater,” Ingles replied. “To keep my tomatoes warm.”
Ryan glanced at the fat red tomatoes sitting cosily inside the greenhouse and was reminded of his mother’s blooming garden.
“That’s pretty fancy,” he said with some admiration. “It must take dedication and a hefty electricity bill to keep the tomatoes ripe at this time of year.”
“That and a touch of madness to even try to harvest tomatoes in winter,” Ingles agreed with a smile. “Shall we?” he gestured them across the lawn towards the vicarage.
