by LJ Ross
Ryan took a careful step towards the edge of the grave and peered inside.
His first thought was that their perp had made some effort to bury his victim by shovelling a few armfuls of soil over her body, perhaps in the hope that she would not be discovered, ensuring that today’s funeral would go ahead and forever disguise the fact that somebody lay beneath.
Whether that was the killer’s motivation or not, it was a futile one in Ryan’s view because even after a cursory glance it was impossible to miss the presence of the woman’s thin, cadaverous body lying at the bottom of the murky pit.
“Let’s see, then,” Phillips shuffled over to stand beside him and took a quick glance before stepping back again, fearful of falling inside face-first. You could never be too careful.
“Aye, that’s two.”
Ryan’s jaw clenched.
“He’s on a roll,” he said in a voice entirely devoid of emotion, while his mind went into overdrive. “The placement of this woman’s body is slightly different because it looks like he didn’t have to dig the grave himself, which could mean one of two things. First, that he was lazy or short of time, so he decided to take the opportunity and use an existing gravesite rather than creating a fresh one. Second, that we were wrong in thinking that he wants the bodies to be found and, in fact, he’s just getting better at trying to hide them.”
There was a slight pause before Ryan tagged on,
“Or the wildcard option, which is that none of the above applies and we’re simply dealing with a deranged, homicidal maniac incapable of planning and executing the perfect murder.”
“He’s getting away with it so far,” Phillips had to say.
They stepped back outside to wait while the CSIs continued their work, enjoying the feel of the cool, fresh air as they stripped off their sticky overalls.
Ryan ran a hand through his black hair and let it fall again.
“Somebody has made an effort to ensure that the woman’s arms were left drawn above her head, bent at the elbows and that her legs were drawn together. Just like Krista. This time, there was no blouse to tear, only a camisole top by the looks of it. Given the depth of the grave, it couldn’t have been an easy task to arrange her body.”
Phillips grunted.
“Do you think he jumped into the grave, arranged her body, then scrambled back out again? He didn’t cover her very well, so he might have been interrupted.”
“I’ve no idea,” Ryan said. “Faulkner should be able to tell us.”
He turned to take another wide, sweeping look at the cemetery and its surrounds.
“Again, there’s the problem of access to the cemetery grounds. The place would have been closed after four forty-five since it’s a bank holiday, same as the West Road Cemetery. No signs of forced entry, so how did he get in?”
Phillips butted his chin towards the hedgerow bordering the cemetery.
“Could have come through a gap,” he suggested. “Behind that hedge, there’s a side street. He could’ve parked and transported the body from there.”
“Still highly risky,” Ryan said.
“He might have had a key,” Phillips tried again and this time Ryan turned with a light in his eyes.
“Good thinking, Frank. Try to find out who has keys to both cemeteries, who has copies and if any have gone missing lately.”
Ryan ran a hand over his chin and realised he’d forgotten to shave. A sure sign that the case was starting to interfere with his ordinary routine. He would worry about that later.
“Another thing. We don’t know whether either woman was killed in situ, or killed elsewhere and then transported afterwards.”
“Faulkner has a job on his hands to coordinate two separate teams of CSIs, covering acres of ground,” Phillips said, fairly. “Two major crime scenes in two days isn’t easy.”
“That’s the job,” Ryan wouldn’t budge. He expected the highest standards from his team and although the CSIs weren’t technically a part of CID, Ryan counted them in anyway. They all knew that the best evidence was found immediately after an incident and the clock was ticking.
“Check out the CCTV cameras in the area and within half a mile of the cemetery. We’ll probably find the same problem as before but check it out anyway.”
“Will do,” Phillips nodded. “I’ve got a couple of PCs doing the door-to-doors, so we’ll see what turns up.”
Ryan’s eyes narrowed as he gazed across the field of headstones.
“Something has just turned up,” he said. Phillips followed his line of sight and watched a news van pull up directly outside the main gates to the cemetery.
“Vultures,” Ryan muttered.
* * *
“This is turning into a farce,” Chief Constable Morrison declared, a few hours later.
“Ma’am—”
She shot Ryan a steely glare.
“I told you to prepare a press release as soon as your victim’s next of kin was informed. I understand that happened yesterday afternoon, which means you wilfully disregarded my instruction. Furthermore, a second victim has now been found in almost identical circumstances. Is that correct?”
Phillips pursed his lips and rocked back on his heels, wishing he were anywhere else. In contrast, Ryan stood with his feet planted and looked supremely confident.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Morrison narrowed her eyes at Ryan’s uncompromising response.
“Yes, those timescales are correct, or, yes, you were wilfully insubordinate?”
“Both, ma’am, but with all due respect my reasoning was sound.”
“By all means,” she said, waving a gracious hand. “Enlighten me.”
Ryan didn’t break eye contact. In times like these, he found that it was best to brazen it out and accept the consequences.
“I felt it best not to advertise the killer’s exploits, particularly given the events of last year. Unfavourable comparisons might be drawn, leading to a degree of panic which would be unhelpful at this point in our investigation. Similarly, given the religious connotations, I am conscious that the last thing any of us needs is to incite a witch hunt for anybody who looks vaguely Catholic.”
Morrison drummed irritated fingers against the side of her chair.
“That’s all very well and good, Ryan. But in case it has escaped your attention we are now having to deal with the very thing you wished to avoid.” She tapped an angry finger on the mousepad beside her, bringing her computer screen to life displaying the front page of an online news outlet. “Thanks to your little foray into the world of broadcast media this morning, every local news channel, including BBC Newcastle, has run the story.”
She clicked a button to replay a video of Ryan standing outside the gates of Heaton Cemetery with a menacing expression marring his handsome face as he dished out some choice insults to the local press hounds.
“We have a hard enough job trying to keep these people onside,” she gritted out, “without you being captured on film calling a newscaster—what was it?—a snotty little weasel?”
Phillips sniggered and Morrison sucked in an angry breath.
“Social media is going haywire with warnings to redheaded women that they should stay inside and lock their doors, whilst simultaneously eschewing church, just in case. Oh, and some helpful person has created a hashtag on Twitter. #GraveyardKiller, in case you’re interested.” She slammed her hand onto the desk.
Ryan raised a single black eyebrow at her tone.
“The press were already aware of the details,” he pointed out. “Somebody must have tipped them off, which is how they got up to Heaton Cemetery so quickly.”
“It doesn’t matter how they knew; the fact is we now have a circus to deal with, not to mention hoards of redheaded women stampeding to the nearest supermarket for brown hair dye.”
The ghost of a smile played over Ryan’s lips.
“Perhaps they’re right to be wary,” he said, earning himself another venomous look.
&n
bsp; “Needless to say, the Deputy Commissioner has been on the phone to give me an earful. I hardly need to tell you he’s reconsidering his idea of promoting you to Superintendent,” Morrison stated.
“That doesn’t concern me, ma’am, considering I have already decided not to apply for the position.” Ryan lifted a negligent shoulder and tried to ignore Phillips’ eyes boring into the side of his face. “I prefer legwork to paperwork any day of the week.”
“You’re made for the job and you know it,” Morrison argued.
“I could do it but I wouldn’t enjoy it,” Ryan said, in a tone which suggested that was the end of the matter. “However, on the subject of promotion, I’ve been meaning to ask you why DS Phillips hasn’t been considered. He’s overdue his promotion to Detective Inspector and I’d like to see that remedied as soon as possible.”
Phillips’ jaw fell and Morrison looked blindsided, completely diverted from the course of their original discussion.
“Yes, yes, of course. Frank, you’ve been an asset to Northumbria CID for many years. I’d be happy to consider your application for promotion.”
* * *
As the door to Morrison’s office closed behind them, Phillips turned to Ryan with a knowing smile.
“Good tactics in there, lad. You know, going on about me needing a promotion so that she wouldn’t keep on about the press—”
Ryan didn’t break his stride as they made for the conference room at the end of the hall but he spared Phillips a sideways glance.
“Don’t be a bloody idiot, Frank. I brought it up because you’re overdue a promotion. That’s the beginning and end of it.”
Phillips found himself lost for words and looked around the dingy corridor as if it would inspire him.
“You’re welcome,” Ryan grinned.
* * *
The man had been covered in a film of clammy sweat all day long.
Of course, when people started to notice, he’d told them that he was coming down with the flu and that he hadn’t been sleeping well, which happened to be true. They’d offered him well-meaning advice about not working too hard, taking time to himself and all that bumf.
They didn’t understand that he couldn’t stop. If he did, he would fail her all over again and he would fail in the eyes of God. He didn’t know which would be worse.
“Did you hear about the police finding the bodies of those women? Terrible, isn’t it?”
He cast an agitated, unfocused glance in the direction of the old woman who had spoken to him and seemed to be expecting a response.
“Yes, awful,” he agreed, with apparent sincerity. “I hope they catch whoever did it sooner rather than later.”
“You can say that again,” she nodded enthusiastically. “It gives me the creeps just thinking about it. I read online that both victims were redheads. What do you make of that?”
He said nothing but the pain in his head intensified until it was almost a roar. His vision began to cloud and black spots danced in front of his eyes.
“Anyway,” she babbled, “I’ll be telling my daughter to stay at home until they catch him. She’s got a mane of beautiful red hair and I don’t want this maniac getting any ideas.”
She laughed, a bit nervously.
“How old is your daughter?” he asked quietly.
“She turned twenty-three last week,” the woman said, with maternal pride.
He nodded, thinking that she was too young to interest him.
“At least they’ve got that detective handling the case,” she said, after a moment. “You know, the one who was injured last year after he uncovered all that corruption. He always seems to get his man. So good-looking, as well,” she giggled. “If I were only twenty years younger!”
He smiled, thinking that he would like to choke the breath from her stupid, chattering body. The throb at the base of his skull pierced along his optic nerve so that he could barely see past the waves of pain.
“Do you think they have any idea who did it?” Amazingly, his voice sounded normal.
“I’ve no idea. There was no mention of any suspects on the lunchtime news, that’s for sure,” she replied. He relaxed a fraction, only to tense up again when she added, “That doesn’t mean that they don’t have their eye on somebody already. I’m sure this Graveyard Killer made some sort of slip-up, they always do,” she said, wisely.
Images of that very morning flashed into his mind and he replayed his movements, worrying suddenly that he had made some sort of minute error. He wasn’t wholly in charge of himself when he was performing God’s work and he worried that he had put himself—and therefore his work—in danger.
He needed to be careful.
“…do you?”
He blinked, trying to focus on what the old woman had said, but he couldn’t remember. He tried smiling and made some sort of non-committal sound of agreement, which seemed to satisfy her.
“Anyway, dear, I’d better get on. Take care of yourself—you’re working too hard.”
He stared at her retreating form and the pain in his head slowly receded. He knew that ordinary people wouldn’t understand his mission and they would try to stop him. People like DCI Ryan, a godless man who obviously had no respect for a Higher Power and no regard for the sanctity of his own soul. Yes, Ryan would try to stop him, so it was important that he kept up appearances until he found her.
She.
The one he had been searching for, all his life.
CHAPTER 7
The Tyneside Cinema was a local treasure on Pilgrim Street in the centre of Newcastle. It had been refurbished to polish up the old world charm of its art deco interiors and now boasted three screens, a bar and a café. In the absence of any solid leads in Rothbury and to piece together Barbara Hewitt’s last movements, MacKenzie and Lowerson decided to retrace her steps on the day she was likely to have died: Friday 18th March. An avalanche of ticket stubs discovered inside one of the drawers at her bungalow in Rothbury told them that Barbara hadn’t missed an afternoon showing at the Tyneside Cinema for at least six months.
The silver screen awaited them.
“I love this place,” Lowerson declared, looking around at the cosy décor and vintage posters advertising It’s a Wonderful Life and To Catch a Thief. “We used to come here all the time when we were kids. We used to sneak in through the back and hide under the seats so we could stay for a double feature.”
“You’re such a rebel, Jack.”
“Ah, the days of my youth,” Lowerson said, wistfully.
They breathed in the comforting smell of popcorn mingled with hot dogs and MacKenzie lowered her voice.
“The Automatic Number Plate Recognition cameras on the A1 picked up Barbara’s Citroen heading south from Rothbury towards Newcastle at 10:27 at the first check point, then again at 10:37 entering the city from the west. I’ve requested the footage from city centre CCTV but there’ll be a wait on that, since it’s the long weekend. For now, we know she was in the city by ten-thirty on Friday 18th. The receipts we found inside her purse tell us that she paid for parking at the New Bridge Street car park, which is just around the corner from here. The time stamp on that is 16:48, which must be when she left. You pay for the parking on the way out,” she added, just to be clear. “The ANPR cameras confirm that she drove out of the city, apparently alone, at 17:03.”
“What did she do between ten-thirty and four-fifty? That’s quite a chunk of time,” Lowerson said.
“Let’s say she was parked up by ten forty-five, we can check the details with security at the car park later,” MacKenzie replied. “From there, we know that she bought some lingerie from Marks and Spencer on Northumberland Street, time-stamped 11:09. She must have gone for a wander around the shops,” MacKenzie suggested. “She headed down Grey Street to The Lobster Pot for lunch and paid up at 13:38. The only other receipt we found was for the cinema here, showing that she paid for a single entry to see Batman vs Superman at 14:00.”
Lowerson grinned.<
br />
“Interesting choice for a lady like Barbara.”
MacKenzie gave him a superior smile.
“Why? Muscle-bound superheroes appeal to women of all ages, Jack.”
“I’m sure they do,” he winked.
“Not that I would know,” she added swiftly.
“Your secret is safe with me.”
* * *
They emerged back onto Pilgrim Street half an hour later sucking boiled sweets from pink-and-white striped paper bags. A discussion with the duty manageress of the Tyneside Cinema confirmed that Barbara Hewitt was well known to the staff there, partly because she was a regular and partly because she liked to make petty complaints. Despite that, the staff expressed sadness at her death and assured MacKenzie and Lowerson that they would do all they could to help the investigation.
“What do you reckon?”
MacKenzie sighed.
“The staff were honest about the fact that Barbara was a cantankerous old git but I didn’t get the impression any of them wanted to strangle the life out of her,” she replied.
“Some people take their cinema trips very seriously,” Lowerson said, but agreed with her assessment.
“I’m not getting any kind of buzz from this place,” MacKenzie turned to look back inside the foyer for a moment, at the streams of people tumbling down the stairs at the end of a showing. “Let’s try the car park and see what we find there.”
* * *
Michael ‘Mick’ Jobes was a sullen man in his mid-fifties who bore the marks of one well-accustomed to casual fighting and hard drinking. In MacKenzie’s estimation, he had enjoyed both of those pursuits the previous evening. By the time they found Mick in his tiny security office at the multi-storey car park on New Bridge Street, the hangover had well and truly set in. His beady eyes were bloodshot and the left one was puffy with purpling bruises. His upper lip displayed a fresh cut and the knuckles on both of his hands were still raw.
