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

by LJ Ross

  He knocked a couple of times in a cheerful rat-a-tat-tat.

  No answer.

  He leaned closer, listening for sounds of movement inside the house, but heard none.

  He knocked again, louder this time.

  Still, no answer.

  Lowerson took a surreptitious look through the gaps in the curtains on the downstairs windows, but could only see a dim house filled with furniture. There were no people, no signs of distress or upheaval.

  Shrugging slightly, he started to turn back, then paused, chewing on his bottom lip.

  Hadn’t Ryan said to check the vicarage first, for signs of Morning Glory? Why would he have said that, Jack thought, if he hadn’t suspected that the vicar or his wife was responsible for growing it?

  If that was the case, either or both of them could be responsible for killing those people. They could be out there now, killing someone else, Lowerson thought with righteous outrage.

  “Bugger that,” he muttered, turning to head around the back of the vicarage, skirting the gravel path which bordered the house.

  The back of the house bore all the same signs as the front, Lowerson thought. The windows were closed and curtains drawn across them. The patio doors were locked, when he tried them. He knocked once more, for good measure, but received no answer.

  The temptation was ripe in his veins to force entry, to have a snoop around the house to see what he would find, but he knew that Ryan would bollock him for entering a suspect’s property without the appropriate warrant.

  He blew out a disappointed breath and looked out across the lawn at the back of the house. Lovely, he thought, taking in the careful borders with their arrangement of evergreen shrubs and fragrant herbs. There were no flowers, given the time of year, but he imagined that they would bloom in the summer, creating a patchwork of colour. The grass was manicured and touched with frost, leading from the house in a sweep towards the edge of the cliff-face which dropped down to the sea. Partially hidden behind a row of newly-planted conifers stood a large greenhouse and a shed painted dark green. Looking closer, he could see a dark green wire coming from the greenhouse across the edge of the border towards the house.

  “Wonder what the hell that’s for,” he said to himself, then, like a moth he was drawn to the flame. His shoes crinkled the frosty grass as he walked across it, following the line of the wire towards the greenhouse.

  He cast glances behind him now and then, but saw nothing. He heard nothing but the sound of his own footsteps and the crash of the sea as it broke against the cliffs.

  Stepping around the young conifers, he faced the greenhouse, with its impressive array of tomatoes framing the outward-facing windows. Above the long glass structure, the Priory loomed, visible now through the hedgerow. There was a gate leading through it, to access the Priory graveyard.

  Interesting, Lowerson thought.

  He coasted around the perimeter of the greenhouse, searching for a clear viewing space since the little door was firmly locked and double-padlocked. That alone was suspicious, he thought. Eventually he found a gap and squatted down to peer through the glass. Every inch of space seemed to be filled with pots and plants, vines trailed across the surfaces and up the glass walls.

  Someone in that household was certainly green-fingered, Jack thought.

  The glass was foggy with condensation, which made it harder to see clearly. Lowerson squinted and pressed his nose closer, focussed entirely on what lay inside. His eyes fell on one of the low wooden benches filled with long troughs of flowers which bloomed a bright, sky blue.

  The feeling of success was potent and Lowerson nearly fell backward on his haunches.

  Morning Glory, he thought happily. Trays and trays of it.

  He stood up, dusted himself off and turned, fumbling for his mobile phone to ring Ryan and tell him the good news. He was preoccupied, worrying about whether he had technically been trespassing, or whether he might be able to argue he had due cause to enter.

  He caught a movement in his peripheral vision, but was too late to avoid the swing of the metal garden spade as it crashed against the side of his skull, fracturing several bones in his face.

  He was plunged into darkness and the phone fell from his limp hand onto the grass.

  * * *

  “Any word from Lowerson?” Ryan asked Phillips as they shrugged into their overcoats and prepared to step out into weather which could, at best, be described as inclement.

  “Nah, nothing yet. He’s probably been held up. Those old biddies love him.”

  “Must be his boyish good looks.”

  “I have the same trouble, myself,” Phillips said, deadpan.

  Ryan looked over and snorted out a laugh as he looked into his sergeant’s round, mole-like face.

  “We’ll chase him up in an hour and hurry him along. Let’s go,” Ryan yanked open the front door.

  Phillips muttered to himself as they left the warmth of the cottage to face the angry wind outside.

  “Wait.” Ryan came to an abrupt standstill and ran back to the house, called out to one of the female duty officers, who jogged to meet him at the front door.

  “Sir?”

  “I want Doctor Taylor to be secure at all times, is that understood?”

  “Is she under arrest, sir?”

  Damn the woman, Ryan thought, for making him sound ridiculous. Maybe it was some sort of female solidarity thing.

  “No,” he gritted, “She’s not under arrest, but she is under protective custody, officer.”

  If Anna wanted to be stubborn and stay on the island, he would feel a lot better knowing that she was safely housed and barricaded by police. At least until he brought his man into custody, which would be sooner than expected, if all went to plan.

  He and Phillips turned back to the road and then Ryan skidded to a halt again on the wet ground and swore.

  “Give me a minute.”

  He turned and jogged back into the cottage and up the stairs, two at a time. He couldn’t say which of them was more surprised when he plucked Anna up from where she had been sitting reminding herself of Druid ritual and into his arms for a long, thorough kiss.

  “What was that for?” she gulped, when he eventually released her. He was hardly a knight in shining armour, she thought with a smile, judging by his irritated face.

  “You didn’t have to kiss me goodbye,” she said with her tongue in her cheek. “It won’t get you any more free dinners.”

  The tension eased slightly from his shoulders.

  “Maybe not,” he agreed, “but now you’re thinking about it.” He smiled and his eyes were bright before he turned away.

  “Ryan,” she said before he left, “stay safe.”

  He nodded. “You too, Anna. I’ve grown used to having you around buying me pizza.”

  He jogged back down the stairs and left her as she shoved her hands on her hips, ready to come back with a pithy retort about growing used to an old pair of worn boots. He wondered if he would ever get tired of winding her up.

  She was a fine sight when she was mad.

  Outside, his sergeant rolled back onto the balls of his feet and tried to look nonchalant.

  “Forget your gloves, sir?”

  “Pipe down, Phillips.”

  The other man sniggered and was privately relieved to see Ryan looking better than he had in months, despite the circumstances.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “The Lindisfarne Inn,” Ryan replied shortly.

  * * *

  Alison Rigby was a meticulous woman. Her hair was ruthlessly styled in an elaborate up-do. With a little help from her hairdresser, she had it coloured every week to make sure that nobody on the island ever saw a grey hair amongst her nest of fine gold curls. She might be carrying a few extra pounds on the hips, but for the most part she was a buxom woman who enjoyed regular yoga sessions with Liz Morgan and Helen Mathieson – poor woman – in Yvonne Walker’s front room. After that, they settled down to a nice
hour or two of chit-chat, every Saturday morning.

  She had two babies to keep her busy: Peter, and the Lindisfarne Inn.

  There was nothing that the first wouldn’t do for her and there was nothing that she wouldn’t do for the second. Both were a source of constant pride.

  Alison hummed contentedly as she bustled around the wide drawing room in the old house, lovingly restored over the years from a tired and dated guest house to the gleaming, polished Inn it was today. She stopped to chat with a couple of her guests, both reporters, who huddled together by the window seat. Her neighbours had no time for the press, but she took a different view. People were entitled to know about what happened on their own doorstep, which is why she led the weekly Neighbourhood Watch group and sat on the village council. It was important, she thought, to make sure that things never changed too much.

  It was fascinating, really, the things that the media could find. Not that she would know very much about that, she amended. Then again, if she happened to come across some paperwork while she cleaned their rooms, was that really her fault? She couldn’t be expected to ignore pertinent information about the people on her island.

  Their island, she meant to say.

  Her head came up from the mahogany side table she was polishing when the front door chimed.

  “Mrs Rigby, may we come in? We have questions we would like to ask Pete, if he is available.”

  Alison looked Ryan up and down. Handsome devil, she thought and her lip curled. Her Andrew had been a handsome man and look where that had gotten her. He’d been nothing but a useless layabout with a roving eye, who’d been happy to leave her to tend the Inn and their only child on her own.

  Then, he’d died. She couldn’t say she‘d really mourned the loss, since life went on much as it had when he’d been alive, only now she was better off. Still, looking at the dark good looks of the Chief Inspector, she was reminded of the fool she had been.

  “Peter is very busy, Chief Inspector,” she said regally.

  Phillips put a hand on Ryan’s arm in silent supplication and stepped forward.

  “Mrs Rigby – Alison – we would really be so grateful if you would ask Peter to spare us a few minutes. After all, it concerns his good friend, Lucy.”

  Ryan watched, dumbfounded, as Alison Rigby’s face softened miraculously. If he didn’t know better, he would have said the woman was gazing into the beady brown eyes of his DS.

  “Of course, Frank, come in out of the rain.” She fussed around Phillips, taking his coat and complaining that he wasn’t taking good care of his health. She started to lead them into the drawing room, where the reporters waited like spiders.

  “Now, Alison, I don’t want our wet clothes to damage the furnishings in your lovely drawing room,” Phillips said charmingly, taking her elbow to steer a new course. “We would be happy enough just sitting in the kitchen, that is if you don’t mind?”

  “Why, Frank, it’s so thoughtful of you to think of that,” Alison gushed. “Of course the kitchen is fine.” She shot a disdainful glance in Ryan’s direction and noted his grubby boots.

  “You can leave those boots by the door, Chief Inspector,” she snapped before leading Frank away for a cup of tea in the kitchen.

  Ryan didn’t bother to mention that Phillips’ boots were also covered in mud, but dropped to his haunches to undo the laces.

  The kitchen was a gigantic room, equipped with brand new stainless steel units which Alison had installed in preparation for the roaring success of her new restaurant. As far as she was concerned, it would be a success, or nothing.

  “This is very, ah, professional,” Ryan said lamely.

  “Thank you,” Alison returned in the same clipped tone. “I’ll go and fetch Peter.”

  Ryan watched her stomp out of the kitchen and looked back at Phillips.

  “You dark horse.”

  Phillips pulled a face.

  “It’s no laughing matter,” he said in a whisper. “She’s relentless.”

  “I always knew you were a cad.”

  They both sobered instantly when Alison returned with her son in tow. Once again, he looked barely fifteen, dressed in his waiter’s uniform of black slacks and a starched white shirt. The odd little beard still looked out of place on his child-like face.

  “Peter,” Mrs Rigby said in painful condescension, “the police would like to ask you some questions.”

  “Yes, Mum, I know. They’ve asked me questions before.”

  Watching them, both Ryan and Phillips thought of that old Hitchcock movie again.

  Alison favoured her son with a look of pure reproach and then patted his arm.

  “You’re just being testy. Now, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” she soothed, before turning icy eyes towards Ryan. “Is there?”

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  Ryan raised a brow at Pete’s question and wondered who he had been talking to.

  “That’s entirely up to you. We’re not questioning you formally, at this time. We merely hope to tie up a few loose ends which you may be able to help us with.”

  Pete relaxed as far as he could in a room built largely of metal.

  “There, now, Peter,” Alison smiled.

  Ryan eyed the woman with a sprinkling of dislike.

  “Pete, would you rather we asked our questions without your mother present?”

  Pete flushed and looked uncomfortable, while Alison bristled in her chair, ready to bite.

  “What the Chief Inspector means to say is,” Phillips hurried to smooth the waters, “Pete might not want to put you in a difficult position, by repeating things about Lucy when you know her mother so well.”

  Phillips’ eyes trained on her wide face, noticed the bright blue eye shadow and tried not to be distracted by it.

  “Well,” she said indignantly. “I hardly think I would repeat anything Peter told me about Lucy, certainly not to Helen.”

  Ryan was fast losing patience.

  “Let me be the deciding factor here, then,” he said implacably. “Either we question Pete informally in the comfort of his own home, alone, or I march him through the centre of the village in handcuffs for formal questioning. Which do you prefer?”

  He watched the woman’s face contort, before she paled again as the full connotations of his threat hit home. Marching Pete through the streets would mean that people would be there to see their humiliation.

  She could gossip about others, but couldn’t bear to be the butt of it herself.

  “Very well,” she stood and looked at Ryan with supreme distaste before turning to Pete. “Don’t let them bully you, Peter, you know how anxious you get.”

  With that, she turned and walked from the room.

  Left alone, Pete seemed to relax as Ryan had known that he would.

  “How have you been, Pete?” Ryan painted a friendly smile on his face and sipped his herbal tea, wishing it was strong black coffee instead.

  “Pretty good, all things considered. Busy here at the Inn and over at the pub, same old.”

  “Life goes on, doesn’t it?”

  Pete shrugged eloquently.

  “How about over at the coastguard station?”

  “Been quiet, which is probably a good thing since Alex hasn’t, well, you know, since you arrested him –”

  “He hasn’t what?” Ryan was unperturbed.

  “Well, he hasn’t been himself,” Pete said, feeling like a snitch. “I’m the Deputy, so I’m supposed to handle the station when Alex isn’t there. To tell you the truth, I never thought I’d have to.”

  “You don’t like it as much?”

  “It’s just that I’m stretched a bit thin,” Pete said.

  Ryan didn’t think Pete was speaking literally, but the description was certainly apt.

  “Much been happening on the high seas?”

  “Couple of tourist cars stranded on the causeway, but we got to those before the tide fully came in, which was lucky.” Pete thought back o
ver the last few days. “Group of reporters hired a boat from the harbour and nearly capsized yesterday.”

  “Where?”

  “Over by Pilgrim’s Causeway,” Pete confirmed, thinking of the stretch of water which covered the old footpath opposite the spot on the beach where Rob Fowler’s body had been found.

  “Figures,” Ryan grunted and lifted his tea, sniffed it, then put it down again. Enough of the pleasantries.

  “We’ve got a couple of things you might be able to help us with, Pete,” Ryan said in the same friendly tone, slipping out his notebook. “That OK with you?”

  Ryan saw a flicker of unease pass across the man’s face, but it passed quickly.

  “Sure, no problem,” Pete adopted a relaxed pose, one arm draped across the back of his chair.

  “Tell us again how long you’d known Lucy Mathieson,” Ryan began.

  “Since we were kids,” Pete said. “My mum and hers have been friends for years. We went to nursery school together, then all the way through middle and high school.”

  “When she left for university, were you sorry to see her leave the island?”

  “Sure, it was a shame to see her go, but she’d always wanted somewhere bigger, with opportunities. Nothing changes on Lindisfarne,” he added quietly and looked away briefly.

  “Didn’t you ever consider going to university on the mainland, travelling a bit?” Ryan asked guilelessly.

  Pete paused and his eyes darted to the door. His voice lowered.

  “I had a place at Edinburgh University to study medicine,” he said with a bit of pride. “But I was needed here.”

  “To help your mother?”

  Pete said nothing, but his eyes were dark.

  “Do you regret staying?”

  “No,” Pete denied vehemently. “As I say, I’m needed here.”

  Ryan glanced at Phillips, who picked up the signal.

  “Good looking girl, Lucy,” Phillips commented, man-to-man. “I’m surprised you never thought of asking her out.”

  Pete flushed slightly.

  “She was more like a sister,” he said defensively.

  “Aye, but you’re not her brother, are you?” Phillips winked at him.