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

by LJ Ross

“Lowerson,” he turned to the younger man, still chastened from his SIO’s earlier disapproval.

  “Sir.”

  “I want your report on the narcotics.” Ryan sat back expectantly.

  Lowerson cleared his throat and battled with nerves but won. “I contacted the narcotics team in Newcastle and Morpeth, sir. Both units report that known incidents of LSA abuse have been generally low for the past ten years. However, there’s always a spike around June and December.”

  “Why?”

  “They are at a loss, sir, except to say that recreational drug use spikes over the summer months alongside better weather and outdoor activities, or as an accompaniment to the holiday festivities.” Lowerson looked up and swallowed. “However, following our present line of investigation, I considered any ritualistic element which could be relevant. As you’re aware, Lucy was killed in the early hours of the winter solstice. The summer solstice falls in June, sir.”

  “You think the drugs spike coincides with these festivals?”

  “Yes, sir. The drug is primarily used for its hallucinogenic properties, which seems to fit the bill.”

  “That’s good thinking, detective,” Ryan approved, “but we don’t have any proof. Never hurts to have a working theory, but tell me some facts.”

  “Well,” Lowerson consulted his notes, although he had committed the information to memory. “Around fifteen years ago, the only known local operation was shut down in Morpeth where large amounts of Morning Glory were harvested for the purpose of onward sale.”

  “Who was the operator?”

  “Well, that’s the funny thing, sir. The house and garden was owned by a woman living alone, who seemed to run the whole thing herself. House was registered to her. She bought five years in Durham prison after a prosecution back in ‘99.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Seems to have dropped off the face of the earth,” Lowerson complained. “Changed her name. The house is still sitting there unused. No family still living.”

  “Physical description?”

  “Back then, she was five-five, around 110 pounds, light brown hair and brown eyes. Unremarkable, by all accounts. She would be fifty-two now. I’ve asked the department to hunt out a picture of her, sir.”

  “Good work, Lowerson. Let me know the minute it comes through.”

  Lowerson barely held off a grin.

  “Any ideas about where current supply is coming from?”

  “No known operations, which indicates a private supply, sir.”

  “On the island, or near it,” Ryan muttered.

  “Seems most likely,” Lowerson agreed.

  Ryan thought of all the pretty gardens and the large nature reserve with its acres of wild flowers. He wondered if their mystery woman had moved to Lindisfarne and set up business again.

  “Have to do a search,” he decided. “Get a picture of what we’re looking for and do a house-to-house search where the owner gives permission. Too flimsy to ask for a warrant for every house on the island, but we can shake a few places down.” He paused and turned back with a fierce look on his face. “Start with the vicarage.”

  Lowerson’s eyebrows shot up but he was not in the habit of questioning his superior. “Yes, sir.”

  “Where are we with Megan’s financials?”

  MacKenzie sat forward again, slid a folder across to him.

  “Bank faxed through copies earlier this afternoon, sir, but they’ve blanked out the names of any named accounts other than Megan’s. Data protection,” she explained, with a twist of her lips. “At first glance, there appear to be a number of regular payments into her account via standing order, as well as a number of regular cash deposits.”

  Ryan hummed and glanced through the numbers.

  “The first of the month indicates her regular salary from the pub, but the other payments at other dates in the month are unaccounted for,” MacKenzie added.

  “One of these standing orders will be from Walker,” Ryan said. “You’ll probably find some of these cash payments are also from Bill Tilson. I want to know where the others are coming from.”

  “We’re looking into it now, sir,” MacKenzie said with a slightly harried air. “The bank is being very uncooperative.”

  “Tell them to get the stick out of their arse,” he muttered.

  “I may use different terminology,” Denise said primly, but her eyes gleamed with amusement. Phillips folded his arms and tried not to resent the easy camaraderie or the fact that his SIO would always have a smooth way with women.

  “DI Phillips and I found a journal of sorts in Megan’s apartment earlier this afternoon,” Ryan continued, thinking of the green and gold diary currently secured in a plastic evidence bag. “Faulkner gave it the once-over, but there’s only one set of prints on it – hers. If there’s anything tasty in it, her killer would have confiscated or destroyed it since he’s such a meticulous man. I’m betting he had no idea it was there.”

  He thought of Anna and the help she had given him that afternoon, without which they may never have found the diary. As if he had conjured her by thought alone, he saw with some amusement that she was sneaking around the back of the house like a guilty teenager. His lips quirked as he watched her through the window, battling against the wind and the rain to find the handle on the back door. Clearly, she hadn’t seen the roomful of police officers waiting behind that door.

  He strolled over and unlocked it, watched her trip and practically fall into his arms.

  “Well,” he purred, looking at her pink cheeks and mutinous eyes, “look what I’ve found.”

  Anna glanced around her in mortification. Stupidly, she had thought the back door would be a better bet than the front, if she wanted to make an unobtrusive entrance. Now, she looked into the faces of a roomful of expectant police staff.

  “Ah…” she twisted her hands together.

  Before she had time to say anything further, a cold and harassed-looking young man stomped through the door behind her and nodded to his superior.

  “Evening, sir,” he mumbled, shaking off the rain and heading towards his comrades.

  Anna looked on with undisguised shock and then turned on Ryan without a thought for the audience.

  “You had me followed?”

  Ryan’s lips compressed. Now was not the time for histrionics.

  “Actually, my loyal staff organised for you to be followed for your own protection. Clearly, you have no sense of self-preservation, so you should consider yourself fortunate that there are people willing and able to safeguard your wellbeing.”

  Anna was vibrating with anger.

  “If, by ‘safeguard’, you mean ‘keep under house arrest in your spare room’,” she snarled, “then excuse me if I struggle to be grateful. I know the island, I know the people on it. I was perfectly safe.”

  His temper snapped and he grabbed her arm in a firm grip, frogmarched her from the room and the prying eyes of his team. Once in the hallway, he rounded on her.

  “For an intelligent woman, doctor, you can be incredibly stupid.” His eyes were a swirl of emotion and she almost stepped away but pride kept her where she was.

  Anna had been called many things, but ‘stupid’ was never one of them.

  “Listen,” she said, “I didn’t ask you to play the hero and kidnap me to your cottage to be babysat.”

  “You don’t get it, do you?” he said disbelievingly. “You’re in danger, Anna. Listen to me,” he said sharply, when she started to speak. “Someone who is seriously disturbed is telling you that you need protection. We don’t know who, or whether they believe you need protecting from them or from someone else but what I do know is that I’m not letting them get their bloody paws on you. Understand?”

  Anna swallowed and realised there wasn’t just anger under the hard words, there was real concern.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I was feeling claustrophobic.”

  “I understand that,” he said in a gentler tone.
“But help me out here, will you? I can’t get this done if I’m constantly worrying about you.”

  Her lips twitched.

  “You worry about me?”

  His eyes were gentle pools now. “Yes, Anna, I do.”

  He lowered his mouth to hers in the briefest of kisses, a brush of lips only, before releasing her again.

  “I’ll stay here until you catch your killer,” Anna found herself saying.

  “Thank you,” he replied and watched her walk up the stairs. At the top, she paused and looked down.

  “I’m ordering a take-away,” she said gruffly. “Your hospitality stinks, Ryan.”

  He was smiling as he walked back into the incident room.

  “Alright, show’s over,” he said, noting that several members of his team were sporting knowing smiles.

  “We don’t have a murder weapon for Megan,” Phillips started.

  “Right you are,” Ryan agreed, grateful that Frank had dived straight back into business. “Faulkner has already given us an idea of the sort of implement we’re looking for,” he nodded to Tom and then reached for a picture Anna had printed for him earlier. “This might help us, too.”

  He turned and fixed the image onto the wall behind him. It was a diagram of various different types of ceremonial knives.

  “This diagram was found in a grimoire known as the Key of Solomon,” he began.

  “What the hell is a ‘grimoire’?” Phillips complained. Why couldn’t people just use normal words for things?

  “It’s a sort of textbook of magic,” Ryan said. “Like an instruction manual for ceremonial religions or covens.”

  Phillips didn’t bother asking where his SIO had found that out.

  “Some modern pagans use a grimoire known as the Book of Shadows,” Ryan continued. “We don’t know that our perp is following any of this, but since we’re already pissing in the dark, why don’t we carry on?”

  There were a few sniggers.

  “As you can see, there are various types of knife drawn here,” he looked at the assortment of daggers. “The most appropriate in this case would be the ‘athame’,” he flicked a finger over a drawing of a ceremonial dagger with a double edged blade and a black ornate handle.

  “Blade would be consistent with the wound,” Faulkner nodded.

  “There’s a lot of symbolism attached to it,” Ryan shrugged, thinking that he was tired of trying to understand what went through the mind of a mental defective. “It’s supposed to represent fire.”

  “Four weapons of Celtic significance,” Phillips said knowledgeably and shrugged at his SIO’s stare. “What? I can read,” he added defensively, catching MacKenzie’s eye.

  “Tell me more,” Ryan invited.

  “Earth, air, fire and water,” Phillips barked out. “When people want to fanny about in the woods calling up spirits and God knows, they use four things to represent each element. A sword or a dagger means fire, a wand represents air, a cup is for water and a pentacle is for the earth.” Phillips wouldn’t admit he had no idea what a pentacle was. “You can save yourself time and just watch Angels and Demons. Tom Hanks spends his time chasing around a Catholic killer and finds the victims by reference to the four primordial elements which make out the geographical shape of a cross in Rome.”

  Phillips wondered idly whether there was any resemblance between himself and Tom Hanks but was forced to admit that he looked a lot younger than Hanks.

  “Anyhow,” Frank tugged at his ear. “Then they purify the circle with the rest of the elements – for air, they use incense, for water, they use salt water and for the earth, they use good old-fashioned salt. The athame is more of an individual tool, whereas the sword would be used in a gathering by a high priest or whoever’s walking around wearing the bat cape. They cast a circle using the sword and it’s supposed to be like a ring of fire,” Phillips added. “Makes me think of Johnny Cash.”

  “Where did you get all this?” MacKenzie asked him.

  “I got chatting to Liz down at the gift shop,” Phillips answered casually, inspecting his nails.

  MacKenzie’s lips flattened and she looked away with a sniff.

  Ryan grinned.

  “Full marks for research,” he said dryly. “We can bear it in mind, but the setting of Megan’s body seems far too opportunistic for us to assume that our perp has put that much thought into it.”

  “Rob was found burned,” Phillips persisted.

  “But neither Megan nor Lucy were found doused in salt water, or salt for that matter. None of them were found drowned, were they? Lucy was covered in oil, but you could hardly call it ‘incense’.”

  Frank was stumped.

  “On the other hand, our perp seems to like dipping in and out of existing rituals,” Ryan carried on, “so we may be looking for a ceremonial knife like this athame. I want a list of places where somebody could get one. Lowerson, that’s your next project along with the narcotics.”

  “Yes, sir,” he bobbed his head and started scribbling frantically. Ryan tried to remember being that eager at any point in his life, but failed.

  “Faulkner, where are we at with forensics?”

  “Sir, we found trace blood samples in the drainage pipes leading from the shower in Megan’s bathroom and they’re being analysed as we speak. I’m hopeful that we’ll get those results by noon tomorrow.”

  “Good,” Ryan nodded.

  “We recovered a number of hairs and fibres, which are also being analysed. We’ll find a lot of these belonged to Megan, since they’re long, dark and appear to be porous which is consistent with coloured hair,” Faulkner added. “Still, we might find a few strays among them.”

  “Anything else which we can use?”

  “Nothing further, sir. We have fingerprint matches for Bill Tilson but none for any other sets we have taken from the islanders. Do you want me to seek further prints?”

  Ryan considered. Already on file, they had prints from the Mathiesons, Bill Tilson, Pete Rigby (after much argument from his concerned mother, Alison), Alex Walker and Anna. The only matches so far had been from Anna, Alex and Bill, none of which were in sufficient number or placement to be of concern.

  “It’s worth a try, Tom. Go on and ask the men of the island for their fingerprints, voluntarily. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “They’ll complain to Gregson? Shout about victimisation?” Phillips supplied helpfully.

  “Thank you, Frank.”

  “No bother,” he returned cheerfully.

  “Getting back to it,” Faulkner said with an owlish smile, “we have some fingerprints; the boot prints and the samples are in for analysis.”

  “Let me know when the results come back,” Ryan said and then thought of loose ends. “Did we hear back about the CCTV outside the Heritage Centre?”

  “Yep,” Phillips said. “Got precisely zero activity outside the Centre or the Gift Shop at the time of Lucy’s murder.”

  “Well.” Ryan blew out a breath. “It was worth checking. Frank, when we’ve isolated names on soap sales from the Gift Shop, go back and ask the technician to cross-check for those times and dates. That will take a lot longer and it’s working on the presumption that they’ve kept the tapes from weeks ago, but it all adds up.”

  “Aye,” was all Phillips said.

  “I’m going to go through Megan’s journal tonight,” Ryan continued. “We’ll wait for the results of the financials and see if we can cross them with any names I find in there. Meantime, I want to find the stash of morning glory kicking around on the island. First thing,” he nodded to Lowerson and received his nod in return.

  “Consider it done,” he murmured.

  “Now,” Ryan poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee and tried not to gag. “Robert Fowler.”

  * * *

  Another hour later, empty pizza boxes lay strewn around the kitchen from where Ryan’s team had attacked them like a pack of hungry lions. He had barely managed to nab a slice of double pepp
eroni with his hand intact but he was grateful to Anna for thinking of fuel for his team.

  The toxicology results had confirmed the same use of LSA on Rob Fowler but in a massively increased dosage, indicating that Fowler would have been in a mild coma while he was tied down and thrown on a fire. There was some comfort in knowing that he would have been unaware of what was happening to him, at least for a while. Fishing wire had cut into his wrists and ankles, holding him in place while the fire had been lit. They were looking into the type of wire and where it could have been purchased.

  From what had been left of Rob, the CSI’s had been able to discern some slight abrasions on the inside of his mouth, indicating that it had been forced open. Presumably, so that the seeds could be shoved down his throat. Ryan thought of Rob Fowler, of the well-built young man in his prime of life and doubted that one person alone could have taken him down. The pathologist had commented that, since the body had been so badly burned, it was nearly impossible for him to discern whether Rob had suffered any head trauma, or other wounds, before he was trussed up. It was therefore possible that he was immobilised by one person, who could have taken him by surprise with a blow to the head.

  That was something to think about.

  The fire had burned away most of the skin, removing any need to ritually cleanse the body as with the previous two. Ryan had to wonder whether the funeral pyre had been a deliberate act, or an expedient one.

  Door-to-doors had revealed that many of the islanders had been in their homes, alone or with their partner or spouses, at the time Rob had died. Without links to the other murders, they weren’t going to chase down anyone in particular.

  He had requested the call logs from the coastguard base, where Rob had been on duty the previous evening. There was nothing of interest on his personal mobile, which had been found in the pocket of his red jacket, so perhaps there would be something on the main line.

  * * *

  A few miles south of Ryan’s cottage, in a wine bar in the pretty little coastal town of Alnmouth, four men sat together, smartly dressed and affluent.

  “Apparently, Megan kept a diary,” one murmured as he enjoyed the rich merlot with a hunk of expensive cheese. “They’ve found it.”