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

by LJ Ross

  * * *

  Elsewhere on the island, the circle met again. Its members were shaky with nerves without the benefit of the drugs they had come to expect. In hushed voices, they whispered about the risk they took and skirted around their unspoken fear that one of their own had committed the island murders. Their leader tried not to sneer. How weak they were, he thought with disgust. How pathetic.

  He nodded to one of them, who drew out a small velvet bag filled with the seeds they seemed to need. He watched each of them take a handful and swallow greedily.

  He raised the sword and cast the circle, enjoying the theatre of it all. At his signal, they started to say the usual words, each of them wishing for his own share of good fortune.

  Cernunnos, we call to You.

  Horned One, Dark One, Receiver of the Dead, Granter of Rest, we call to You.

  Hunter and Hunted, we call to You.

  He held up a hand so the circle stuttered and fell silent. Beneath the animal masks, each of them darted confused glances to each other. He tried not to laugh. They would understand soon enough.

  Tonight, their chant would be different. His voice rang out clear and true into the darkened night with words none of them had heard before.

  Emperor Lucifer, master of all the rebel spirits,

  We beg you to favour us in the call that we make to you.

  O, Count Astarot!

  Be favourable to us and make it so this night you appear to us in human form.

  Accord to us, by the pact that we make with you, all the riches we need.

  Ave Satani!

  His eyes glowed through the holes in his mask, as if the edifice of a horned goat had come to life. Those around him swayed, no longer frightened but mellow now. He was no longer a man, he realised. He was the bringer of life and death, more than the feeble Horned God their pagan circle had worshipped.

  He channelled the power, had made his sacrifices and had become a God.

  One by one, they chanted, but one of them scattered their handful of seeds on the ground and watched his High Priest with a clear mind.

  CHAPTER 23

  December 24th

  Christmas Eve dawned on a misty, grey day. The fog rolled thickly across the sea in a slow chug until it settled heavily over the island. It crowded the walls of the Priory and poured through the streets of the village until visibility was so poor that it was impossible to see beyond a few metres.

  At first light, Ryan left Anna sleeping peacefully in his bed. He felt the uncomfortable ache of a man growing used to having a warm and willing woman nearby.

  It was more than that, he thought. This woman was under his skin, in his thoughts. How else could he explain how he found himself humming Bonnie Tyler in the shower? It was bizarre. Shaking his head, he headed downstairs to finish reading Megan’s diary and gulp down his customary gallon of coffee. Last night’s cathartic outburst seemed to have cleared his mind and lifted his spirits. Another thing he had to thank Anna for.

  Clearing out the emotional junk had been a lightbulb moment, he realised. Although it was an integral part of the investigation to understand the motivations behind three ritual murders, it had become so that he couldn’t see the wood for the trees. At the heart of it, their killer was using ritual and ceremony to provide himself with a reason for killing, when he was really no better than your average murderer. Ryan had seen men and women like that before and had put them in a cell. That made life much simpler.

  He sat down with the green and gold journal, filled with renewed purpose.

  The diary made for poignant reading, Ryan thought with a twinge of sadness. He knew Megan had been unhappy, but there was nothing more intrusive than reading through the private thoughts of an embittered and disillusioned woman. It was a fat book, filled with small, neat writing. Some of the earlier pages were yellowing with age, but Ryan opted to read the most recent entries and work backwards.

  December 21st

  Anna came back today. She looked so capable and untouchable in her expensive clothes. I was so angry; I could feel it welling up inside me. I wanted to upset her, to make her shout and scream so that we could make up like we used to. I wanted to tell her I was sorry about Ken, but I said the usual crap instead. I don’t know why I did it.

  It had taken him a moment, but Ryan worked out that ‘Ken’ was the nickname Megan attributed to Alex Walker. He had to laugh; the Ken doll was a spitting image of the island’s coastguard. He read a few more paragraphs where she’d described, in excruciating detail, the love-hate relationship she had with her sister. He thought he understood that already, so he skipped ahead until he found Lucy’s name.

  Little Lucy was found dead this morning. Lucy was harmless, but she was getting herself in too deep. She shouldn’t have poked around or prodded into things which she didn’t understand.

  Ryan looked at the words and wished fervently that he knew what Lucy had been getting herself into and why Megan hadn’t disclosed what she knew about it. Frustrated, he carried on. The day before, Megan had written about the mundane quality of her life, about a jacket she had liked, and of her landlord:

  December 20th

  Billy told me he loved me again today and for some reason I wanted to cry. He’s a nice man, but I could never love someone who stands in the same spot my father did, day after day.

  Ryan wondered if it was meaningful that, although she had mocked all those around her by replacing their real names with nicknames he had yet to decode, she had always referred to Bill Tilson by name. Perhaps she had cared more than she realised.

  December 9th

  Greenfinger harassed me again today. I said I wasn’t interested in doing any more business and to back off, otherwise D would hear about it.

  So, Ryan thought, the unfortunately-named ‘Greenfinger’ enjoyed doing business with her. What kind of business? And what the hell did she mean by ‘D’?

  He read on.

  October 15th

  Skinny-P asked me out tonight. I told him to find someone his own age, although it might have been fun to bounce around and teach him a few tricks. His next girlfriend would thank me.

  Ryan was disposed to think that the hapless suitor was their own Pete Rigby, the innocent-looking bartender-cum-deputy coastguard.

  September 2nd

  The God Squad tried to convert me again today. A group of them cornered me and started mouthing off about eternities spent in Hell. I told them to have their hair done and they might feel better. But I was thinking that I had fucked their husbands, every last fucking one of them. I had seen them panting with their trousers round their ankles. It made me laugh to think that maybe the wives couldn’t afford a decent dye job because their husbands had already spent the petty cash.

  This was the darker side to Megan, Ryan thought. The woman who claimed to have slept with a group of married men, for profit. She must have known what that made her. Was this the ‘business’ she referred to?

  At the back of the diary, Megan had inserted a loose table of monthly figures, entered by hand alongside the various nicknames. Ryan bet that these characters exchanged money for Megan’s favours and that the sums would be tidily arranged as deposits to her account. No cash had been found in her apartment, which either meant her killer had decided to help himself to her stash, or she was a careful woman who didn’t keep cash lying around. He would have to find out.

  If they were anywhere else in England, Ryan would have been intrigued by the mention of a ‘God Squad’. Unfortunately, on an island that was aptly named ‘Holy’ and its population ninety per cent Christian, that could be a reference to almost anyone.

  Ryan found himself embarrassed by one of the entries she had written about him:

  August 31st

  TDH arrived on the island today in a dark grey Merc. Don’t know if he’s coming or going, but I would love to have a taste of that one. Never had a policeman on the island and I think it’s a shame he doesn’t wear a uniform, but maybe he’ll wear one ju
st for me once we get to know each other a little better. That’s one I wouldn’t mind doing for free.

  After a puzzled moment, Ryan had worked out that ‘TDH’ meant ‘tall, dark and handsome.’ He took another hasty drink of coffee and tried not to think about the fact that her sister was sleeping upstairs. His eyebrows shot up when Megan described regularly wandering by his cottage in order to try to catch him. He’d never even felt her pursuit, he realised with some awe. If he had, he didn’t know what frame of mind she would have found him in. Perhaps he would have succumbed to her charms, like the rest of her tally of men. Where would that have left him with Anna?

  He made a copy of a series of passages which interested him the most, all describing the enigmatic ‘D’.

  June 21st

  D invited me to the circle today. I’ve never felt so powerful, so included. We were one and I felt whole. It was amazing. He was amazing.

  July 1st

  Met D in the usual place. He was desperate today. It was funny, really, seeing him reduced to that. Not quite so powerful, or in command when he was begging me to do him harder. What a joke.

  July 8th

  D came over mid-afternoon, unexpectedly. Told him he needed to make an appointment. He didn’t like that and said that I was his property, not to be shared. I told him I needed an incentive. He took his watch right off his wrist and told me it was mine. Should make a healthy dent in my credit card bill for this month, which will do for now.

  July 21st

  Circle met again today. Slightly awkward seeing so many of them naked and recognising each of them despite their faces being covered. I wonder if D knows. He said he loved me last night and I think he’s on the verge of making a big commitment. Won’t that be a shock to the island’s elite?

  Ryan sat back and re-read the notes he had taken. So, ‘D’ was an elite member of the island’s community and there had been meetings at or with a ‘circle’, consisting of some or all of the men she had already known. That confirmed an element of ritual existed that wasn’t confined to one person acting alone.

  He noticed too how easily Megan’s feelings towards ‘D’ had changed from admiration to contempt, as the months had rolled from mid-summer to mid-winter. Where she had once described him as ‘amazing’, soon enough she referred to him as a pathetic old man, outstaying his welcome in her life. Even more pertinent was Megan’s intention to deliver the man with an ultimatum. Had he been married? Ryan wondered. It was a definite possibility.

  He thought once again of Lucy Mathieson and started to plan the rest of his morning.

  * * *

  Ryan was ready when the first members of his team began to filter in, groggy and bleary-eyed after a short night’s sleep. MacKenzie and Phillips were both staying at the Lindisfarne Inn and so filed in together, already arguing despite the fact it was just shy of seven-thirty.

  “It should have been obvious, even to you, that the bathroom is a shared one,” Denise was saying as she unwound her poppy red wool scarf.

  “Bloody hell, woman, how was I to know there was a door on the other side?” Frank’s face was set into hard lines, which Ryan recognised as acute embarrassment. He didn’t have to be a genius to work out what had happened.

  “Now, now, children,” he said with a gleam in his eye.

  “Tell him,” MacKenzie jerked a thumb behind her. “He’s the one who got an eyeful this morning and then just…just stood there!”

  Phillips went an even deeper shade of puce.

  “Minding my own business, heading for a shower, that’s all I was doing. Wasn’t my fault you didn’t lock the door,” he grumbled.

  “You could have turned around,” she said with one hand on her hip. Frank would have endured all manner of torture before he’d admit that he couldn’t have moved a muscle that morning. Not after seeing Denise MacKenzie in full, glorious technicolour.

  “Could have happened to anyone,” was all he said, looking away.

  “Always seems to happen to you, doesn’t it?” She brushed past him haughtily and helped herself to a coffee.

  Ryan sidled up to his friend and clucked his tongue sympathetically.

  “Got a temper on her, that one,” he said under his breath.

  “You can say that again,” Phillips said heatedly.

  “A temper and, if you don’t mind me saying, an excellent arse.”

  “You can say that…” Phillips cleared his throat and brushed some lint from his jacket. “I couldn’t possibly comment. Like a perfect gent, I averted my eyes.”

  “Like hell you did,” Ryan said.

  Phillips warred with himself for a nanosecond.

  “Mighty fine arse,” he said gruffly. “Shame she’s got a tongue like a poisoned dagger.”

  “Aw, now, you don’t really think that,” Ryan slapped a hand on Phillips’ broad back.

  “Doesn’t matter what I think, she never looks twice,” Phillips grumbled.

  “Hmm,” Ryan stroked a thoughtful hand across his chin and realised he’d forgotten to shave again. “Don’t remember her getting so riled up before, do you? Makes me wonder if you’ve gotten under her skin.”

  Phillips slanted him a look.

  “Just because you’re feeling fresh as a daisy this morning – and three guesses why that is – doesn’t mean the rest of us will be so lucky.”

  “I’m a closet romantic,” Ryan grinned.

  “Humph,” was all Frank said.

  “By the way,” Ryan said as he moved towards the table, “nice tie.”

  Phillips looked down and was devastated to find that, amid the drama of the morning, he’d forgotten to wear one. That was definitely MacKenzie’s fault, he decided.

  He slunk after his SIO, feeling half-naked.

  * * *

  It was astonishing, Ryan thought, what could be accomplished after a good night’s sleep. In one hand, he held a list of the names of people who had purchased sandalwood soap from the Heritage Gift Shop within the last month. In the other, he held CCTV footage from a particular builders’ merchant in Budle, the little town farther down the coast. Not only did MacKenzie have an excellent arse, he decided, she had an excellent eye for detail. She had spent the early hours of the morning looking through the tapes for a face they might recognise.

  And she had found one.

  Interestingly, the name of that person was also listed as having purchased a bulk load of gents’ sandalwood soap, only two weeks’ earlier. It could just be a coincidence, but Ryan didn’t believe in them.

  That was why he had ordered Phillips to requisition the CCTV footage from the Heritage Centre on the date the soap had been purchased.

  While he stewed over that, Lowerson would be firing through a list of specialist blade smiths with a description of the type of athame dagger they were looking for. It could just be a hunch, but on the other hand, they could hit the jackpot. The pathologist and secondary pathologist Ryan had called in confirmed each other’s independent findings. It was disappointing that they hadn’t found another vital piece of missing DNA, but it was no more than he had expected.

  The financial data had been delivered to him complete with names and dates of transactions.

  “Seems like quite a few of the island’s gentlemen were donating to the Megan Taylor Charitable Fund,” he remarked, scanning the list of names. “Well, look-ee here, Frank.”

  Phillips looked over, grunted, and then his pug-like face split into a mile-wide grin.

  “Our favourite person,” he said.

  “Now, Phillips, the reverend is a man of the people. A shepherd, if you recall. Perhaps he was concerned for her welfare.”

  “My arse.”

  “Get your mind off arses,” Ryan said with a grin. “And trot over to see Ingles. I want him questioned under caution as to why he took it upon himself to make regular deposits into Megan’s account. Take MacKenzie with you.”

  Phillips’ grin turned into a scowl.

  “Now, why would you want to go
and spoil my mood like that?”

  “Nothing could spoil your mood, after this morning.”

  Phillips hid his smile with a bout of coughing.

  “Better get on with it,” he said glumly, eyeing the wind and rain currently battering the windowpanes.

  “Take a coat, won’t you?” Ryan said cheerfully, checking his watch. “We’re meeting the Mathiesons at eleven, sharp. I want you with me.”

  “Aye,” Phillips nodded and walked off to break the good news to MacKenzie.

  Ryan turned back to the accounts summary he held in his hand and smiled when he found the other name he had been looking for.

  He decided he definitely didn’t believe in coincidences and called Phillips back over from where he had been hovering around MacKenzie’s back.

  “Frank, never mind Ingles for now. Send Lowerson over instead and tell him to bring the reverend back here. We’ll get around to questioning him later. You’re coming with me.”

  CHAPTER 24

  The vicarage was still in darkness when Jack Lowerson trudged up the pretty gravel path to the wide front door. His dark shoes were still shiny from the polishing he’d given them before work. His white shirt was crisp, his grey suit immaculate, even if it was a bit big across the shoulders.

  He had been wearing a conservative navy tie, but that had been appropriated by Phillips, on pain of returning to duty as reader-receiver. Lowerson had taken pity on his DS, who had borne the look of a man who considered himself the protagonist in The Emperor’s New Clothes.

  Chuckling to himself, he came to a standstill on the gravel path leading to the front door of the vicarage.

  “That’s unusual,” he murmured as his eyes fell on the darkened windows. He checked the time. Eight-thirty.

  Reverend Ingles should have been up for hours, since the island church opened religiously – ha ha – at five-thirty each morning. Shivering slightly, Jack hoped that he wouldn’t find another mangled body in the bushes somewhere. The island was getting so that you couldn’t turn a corner without finding a pair of dead eyes staring back at you.

  Still, he took the job seriously. If there was something to find, he wouldn’t shy away from it. He moved to the big oak door with its ornate knocker in the shape of a Celtic key.