by LJ Ross
Inside, the vicarage was comfortably furnished with quality antiques and expensive materials. Obviously, Ryan thought, the Anglican Church was doing well on Lindisfarne. They took a seat in a squishy pale pink sofa heaped with cushions of varying shades of the same colour.
Mrs Ingles, small and bird-like in a simple navy wool dress hurried into the room with a tray of tea and biscuits which reminded Ryan of afternoon teas at his grandmother’s house.
Phillips eyed the expensive china cups cautiously but took the offered tea. Ryan watched him sip delicately.
“Thank you, Mrs Ingles,” Ryan said politely, with a charming smile. There was no answering smile, however, merely a nod from the pinched face of a woman who was clearly old before her time. She left the room without another word.
Interesting.
“Now, detectives,” Ingles settled himself in a winged chair opposite them and took his own cup. “How can I help you? I presume I don’t need a solicitor present?”
Ryan took in the pleasant room with its fussy, feminine décor that didn’t match the mistress of the house or its master, for that matter. Ingles still sat comfortably enough in one of the flowered chairs, one thin leg crossed over the other, Ryan noted. Phillips had related the tale of the morning to him, from Ingles finding the body on the beach. The job made you cynical, Ryan thought, but Ingles could easily have been revisiting the scene of his crime when Phillips stumbled across him.
He’d spent some time considering the setting of Rob’s body, too. Wasn’t it possible that the pentagram on which the young man rested could easily have been dislodged, which meant that it could have been the correct way up all along and not inverted after all.
That made it a Christian symbol after all.
He hadn’t forgotten what Alex Walker had told him, either, he thought as he watched the harmless-looking man sitting quietly opposite.
“No need for a solicitor, Mr Ingles. We’re merely following up on the details you’ve already given in your statement. You have a lovely home,” he began genially.
“Thank you, Chief Inspector.” Privately, he thought it looked like a show home.
“I hope that you’ve recovered somewhat from your ordeal of the morning,” Ryan continued, turning to the vicar with a sympathetic look in his eye. He thought that the man looked the very picture of contentment.
“Indeed, yes,” Ingles said gravely, his face changing slightly to reflect sadness. “It was a great shock, one that I won’t forget any time soon, but the Lord works in ways you or I may sometimes find hard to understand.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Phillips said quietly.
“Quite,” Ryan said. “I’m not a religious man,” he confessed and saw disapproval pass across Ingles’ face. “So, I have to say that I do find it difficult to understand why anyone would wish to hurt Rob Fowler in that manner.”
“Why indeed?” Ingles sighed deeply and shook his head. “Such a nice young man.”
“How long had you known him?”
“He and his family have been members of my congregation since he was born,” Ingles said.
“Would you say that you knew him well?”
“I like to think that I know my entire congregation well, detective,” he said. “A shepherd should know his flock.”
Much more of the God-speak was going to start pissing him off, Ryan thought, but his face was placid when he spoke.
“Do you find that people come to you in confession, Reverend?”
“Well, now, formal confession is a facet of the Catholic faith,” Ingles said with a chuckle, “but of course, people feel that they can talk to me.”
“Did Rob come and talk to you about anything that was bothering him?”
Ryan watched mild discomfort pass across Ingles’ face.
“Not especially,” he said.
“You’re sure?” Ryan said with puzzlement. “I understood that Rob had such a high regard for your counsel.”
Ryan understood no such thing but what he did know was that Mike Ingles was a man who responded to flattery. He could see it.
Sure enough, the other man’s chest puffed out slightly.
“That’s very comforting to know,” he said. “As I say, I do my best to make all welcome in God’s house.”
“Yes,” Ryan agreed, then leaned forward as if to conspire. “Of course, it must be hard when you’re faced with, well, undesirable people.” Ryan let a trace of distaste into his voice.
“Undesirable?” Ingles enquired.
“You know,” Ryan lifted a hand, “let’s just say people who don’t follow the word of God,” he said meaningfully.
Ingles’ face cleared and he leaned forward, mirroring Ryan’s stance.
“I think I understand you, Chief Inspector.” He sighed again, as if tormented. “Sometimes, individuals do come to me to confess that they have had…we’ll say improper thoughts.”
“Mmm,” Ryan nodded knowingly.
“I do my best to counsel them towards the path of righteousness,” Ingles carried on, stirring his tea thoughtfully.
“Was Rob one such person?” Phillips interjected.
Ingles looked pained. “Gentlemen, I feel a sense of duty towards that young man. If he told me anything, confessed anything, you might say, it was in confidence.”
“Of course,” Ryan and Phillips said in unison.
Ingles looked between them.
“He might have come to me a few months ago,” he confirmed slowly, drawing it out. “I seem to remember that he was struggling with his own urges at the time.”
“Urges?” Ryan’s face was deliberately blank.
“Towards members of the same sex,” Ingles said in hushed tones, as if to speak it aloud would bring the wrath of God upon him.
Ryan’s mouth formed an ‘o’ of surprise and Phillips nearly snorted into his teacup.
“That must have been difficult for you,” Ryan said.
“Indeed it was,” Ingles recalled. “Of course, I immediately referred him to the words of the Bible. ‘You shall not lie with a man as a woman, that is an abomination.’ Leviticus, chapter 18, verse 22.”
“Hmm,” Ryan mused, putting the tea cup down. “Of course, other passages in the Bible forbid all manner of practices which are acceptable today. One could say that those lines reflect outdated cultural values, Reverend.”
Ryan’s placid voice fell like a hammer into the silent drawing room. Ingles watched him for a few quiet seconds before his hand picked up the rhythmic stirring of his tea again.
“I always welcome debate from intelligent people, such as you, Chief Inspector. However, in this case, I really think that the words of our Lord were unambiguous.”
“And how did you approach the matter when Rob Fowler told you he was gay?”
Ingles mouth twisted.
“I told him the same as I have told you, Chief Inspector. I advised him to study the words of the Bible and find healing in them.”
“Healing?” Ryan’s voice was incredulous.
“Quite so, Chief Inspector.”
Ryan looked at the man responsible for the spiritual guidance of an island.
“Do you believe that his death was motivated by intolerance toward his sexuality?”
“I couldn’t say,” Ingles commented mildly.
“To your knowledge, is there an anti-gay movement on the island?”
Ingles looked shocked. “Our little island is inhabited by loving people who embrace God’s word and His forgiveness. As such, it is likely that our congregation adheres to the words of our Lord in all things, including the subject of homosexuality. However, that does not mean that there would be a witch hunt, Chief Inspector.”
“How did you feel when you found Rob Fowler, Mike?” Ryan deliberately dropped any respect for formality. The gesture did not go unnoticed.
“Horrified, of course.”
“Did you feel that God’s work had been done?”
Ingles was silent, his face a mas
k of anger.
“I would like you to leave my house,” he said eventually, replacing his cup and saucer with a clatter.
Ryan and Phillips stood, looking down on the man sunk against his chair before they walked out into the crisp air. Apparently, they had outstayed this shepherd’s welcome.
* * *
When Ryan turned back to look at the house they had just left, he saw Jennifer Ingles peering out of one of the bedroom windows and felt a chill. If man was supposed to take a wife, he felt sorry for the reverend in his choice.
“What did you make of that?” he asked Phillips as they walked back through the village.
“Narrow-minded old coot,” Phillips said with a sunny smile.
“Enough to get rid of one of his congregation?”
“Don’t know if he’s got the balls for it,” Frank said. “You didn’t see the state of him this morning.”
“I saw the state of you this morning,” Ryan couldn’t resist saying.
Phillips merely grunted.
“Let’s get back to the cop shop and see about wrapping this damn thing up.”
CHAPTER 21
Ryan’s cottage was a beehive of activity. The log-burning fires, which invited a man to sit with a glass of good Bordeaux and a decent book, were stone cold with disuse. The hallway was littered with boots of all shape and size, caked with mud. Faulkner’s team had appropriated the smaller sitting room, where he and his gofers pored over chemical data and lurid shots of the crime scenes in an attempt to revisit their initial findings.
MacKenzie and her team sprawled in the Incident Room, which was conveniently located near to the fridge. Some thoughtful person had stocked it with sugary drinks and snacks, but it certainly hadn’t been him.
As Ryan and Phillips shrugged out of their coats, the noise level told them that Gregson wasn’t on site. If he had been, they certainly wouldn’t have heard the sound of grown men and women arguing over whether Santa Claus really existed.
Ryan was gratified to see his staff come to attention as he moved through the hall but he didn’t see Anna.
“Lowerson,” he pointed a finger at the young detective currently swallowing an over-large bite of thick chocolate in the shape of a reindeer. “You’ve got a woman in protective custody upstairs. She still up there?”
An odd flush crept up the young man’s skin and Ryan’s eyes darkened.
“Please tell me that when I go upstairs, I will find Doctor Taylor sitting comfortably at the writing desk in my spare bedroom.”
“Ah…” Lowerson’s chin wobbled dangerously. “The thing is, sir, we couldn’t hold her against her will.”
Ryan took several deep breaths.
“Where is she?”
“In the village, sir.”
“Send one of the rookies after her.”
“Already done. I’ve had a man keeping an eye on her all afternoon.”
With a face like thunder, Ryan dismissed him and headed through to the Incident Room. It was a marvel, really, how easily Anna could annoy him. Did she think that they had endless resources so that he could just send an officer to trot after her while she went for an afternoon stroll around the island?
Did the woman have any idea of the kind of danger she could be in?
Ten minutes later, the team crammed in, covering every available inch of space.
Ryan had separated the murder wall into three sections with three different timelines to indicate the last known movements of each victim. Any more deaths, he thought, and they would run out of wall space.
“I want to go through what we have on each victim, one by one,” he said. Best to keep things logical, when the volume of information was building rapidly and threatened to swamp them.
“So, beginning with Lucy Mathieson,” he pointed to a picture of Lucy as she had been in life, smiling out at them from her high school graduation picture. “We already know that a particular soap product was used to cleanse her body, containing, amongst other things, sandalwood and shea butter.” Ryan picked up the bag from the gift shop and handed it to Faulkner. “I need the analysis expedited. I have a feeling that it’s going to match what we found on Lucy’s body, but I want to be sure. Phillips will get onto the manufacturer for a list of known outlets first thing in the morning, in case it was purchased off-island. Meantime, I have a list here of the number of times that unit was sold at the Heritage Gift Shop and the credit card numbers for each.” Liz had come through, he thought with a smile.
“It’s a big leap, but say we hit lucky and this is the soap, which he bought on the island. He could have paid cash, which means we’re at a dead end. On the other hand,” he smoothed out the list from Liz, “he could have been sloppy. Phillips, get me the matching names for these card numbers.”
Phillips took the list in his stubby fingers.
“While you’re at it, I want to know where the camphor was purchased.”
“Already got that,” Phillips flipped open a dog-eared notebook. “Only two places you can buy it within a hundred miles. One of them is a health shop in Newcastle,” he said matter-of-factly, “and the other one’s the health food, jingle-jangle, crafty-type shop on the main square.”
Ryan smiled slowly.
“Naturally, you checked the shop in Newcastle first,” he said, tongue-in-cheek.
“Naturally, guv, but as it happens, camphor isn’t one of their top sellers. Hadn’t had a sale for months,” he shook his head in sympathy. “On the other hand, the craft shop here on the island reported a sale only two weeks’ ago.”
“To whom?”
“Lucy Mathieson,” Phillips returned flatly.
There was silence in the room for a full minute while various options ran through their collective mind.
“She didn’t have it on her when she was found,” Ryan said aloud and received a nod from Faulkner. “It was mixed with turpentine, in any event, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Faulkner confirmed.
“What reason would she have to buy camphor?” Ryan thought aloud.
“Could ask Pete, or one of her friends in the morning?” MacKenzie suggested.
“Good idea,” Ryan nodded and moved to the window to look out across the sea. The wind was starting to howl, he thought, watching the waves roll and crash against the sand.
“MacKenzie,” he turned back. “What about building works on the island?”
“Sir,” she nodded and flipped open her pad. Phillips tried not to notice the way her red hair glimmered in the warm light of the room. “We covered the entire eight-mile radius in a quadrant search. Some properties are unoccupied - mostly holiday homes - and we were unable to gain access to certain homes without a warrant, a list of which I have compiled.” She leaned over and handed him the list.
“What about the rest?”
“Most people were happy to give us permission to look around. There were various bits and pieces,” she said. “Lots of paved driveways, new tarmacking, a couple of house extensions. I’ve listed the details on here,” she handed him another piece of paper. “In essence, sir, nothing popped up at first glance.”
“What about purchases?”
MacKenzie turned to another page in her book. “There are five builders’ merchants in the vicinity, sir. We have contacted all of them for details of purchases of quarried building sand of the relevant type and weight. We are in the process of dissembling the card purchases and have requested copies of the CCTV footage from each establishment for the past month. They’re couriering it over at first tide tomorrow.”
Ryan nodded. It was good work but just not fast enough.
“What about Lucy’s phone?” He turned to Tom Faulkner and watched his unremarkable face come alive under the scrutiny.
“Recent text messages wiped, as with outgoing calls, but we contacted the phone provider and they’ve sent through a transcript of recent calls and texts. Seems she had six missed calls from her father between ten and midnight on 20th,” Faulkner said. “She als
o had a further four text messages asking when she would be coming home.”
“Concerned father?”
“Looks that way,” Faulkner agreed. “One outgoing message back saying that she was on her way home at eleven thirty-two.”
Ryan couldn’t remember Daniel Mathieson mentioning in his statement that he had heard from his daughter via text.
“Anything else?”
“Quite a few messages outgoing to Alex Walker,” Faulkner said. “All flirtatious,” he coloured a bit as his eyes scanned the transcripts. “A bit, er, suggestive, sir.”
Ryan decided not to torment the man, so held out a hand for the paperwork. He scanned the transcript and hitched a hip on the edge of the table while he did.
“She wasn’t shy,” he commented but thought that the messages seemed so…young. “Only one reply from Walker, saying he was busy, that he might see her in the pub.”
“Innocuous enough,” Phillips said.
Ryan nodded, reading Phillips like a book. Why would the messages need to be wiped, if they didn’t contain anything suspicious?
“Nothing else jumping out here,” he said, placing the paper in his folder. But a feeling was starting to spread in his gut. He told himself they would check things out thoroughly, first, because without the rest of the data they had nothing on which to build a case.
Perhaps there was another way, he thought after a moment.
“Phillips,” he murmured. “I need you to contact the Mathiesons. Tell them I need one of them to make a statement to the press tomorrow morning, an appeal for Lucy’s killer.”
“Just one of them?” Frank queried. “Don’t you want to contact Gregson for approval first?”
“We won’t need it,” Ryan replied, face poker-straight. Phillips sat back and clasped his fingers over his stomach, mulling it over.
“Let’s move on to Megan Taylor,” Ryan said, once again gesturing to an image of Megan tacked to the wall. It was of her leaning against the side of the pub, slim, curvy and gorgeous while blowing a kiss to the camera. Bill had given up this photograph from his personal collection.
