by LJ Ross
Nothing moved, nothing stirred.
Under the same skies, men and women set aside their reservations about The Graveyard Killer and threw themselves into all that the city’s nightlife had to offer. They ate and drank, danced and flirted, forgetting their fear as they surrounded themselves with laughter.
Amongst them was Tanya Robertson.
She filed out of the Tyneside Cinema with two of her friends after an evening showing of North by Northwest. Around her, the restaurants and bars opened their doors to swollen numbers of patrons over the long Easter weekend. A few years ago, she might have been part of their number; however, being a mother to two children did not allow her the freedom to relive her younger days very often. With a surreptitious glance at her watch, she noted guiltily that she would already be later than expected getting home and her husband would have struggled through bath and bedtime alone with the kids.
When her friends suggested a drink, she was tempted. How nice it would be to let her hair down and go out on the town. Then she thought of two cherub faces, scrubbed and dressed in teddy bear pyjamas and the decision was easy. Shaking her head, she wound her scarf around her neck and prepared for a chilly walk back to her car.
“ ‘Night, Tanya!” Arms linked, her friends smiled and waved her off.
“See you!”
Tanya turned away and looked forward to the comforts of home, humming the unmistakeable music of Bernard Herrmann and thinking fondly of Cary Grant as her heels clicked against the pavement. The remainder of her evening would likely be spent clearing up the debris of toys and food crumbs from the sofa, but it would be worth it if she and her husband could spend the rest of the night snuggled up together. Smiling at the thought, she walked a little faster.
The streets were crowded with couples and gangs of teenagers prowled around, hoping to sneak into one of the pubs. She chuckled as she watched one group swagger towards a burly-looking bouncer dressed all in black, who promptly turned them away.
There was nothing to compare with the optimism of youth.
She veered right along a side street and suddenly the pavements were bare. The shops had closed their doors for the evening and the sounds of merriment from the city centre grew distant. The temperature had dropped and she rubbed her hands together to counteract the cold, picking up her pace as the grey outline of the multi-storey car park came into view.
Not far to go now.
Tanya watched two cars exit the car park. The yellow and white striped barriers lifted and fell like mechanical jaws and her eyes followed their progress until the red glow of tail lights vanished around the corner. The street fell back into gloomy shadow and she paused, suddenly unsure.
Should she turn back?
Chewing the inside of her mouth, she stared into the gaping entranceway and shivered involuntarily. She had used the multi-storey car park more times than she could remember, so there was no reason to feel frightened. Besides, there was a security guard on duty twenty-four hours a day and CCTV cameras all over the place.
She clutched her bag and dashed inside the cavernous entranceway. To her right, the security office glowed a yellowish-green and a figure huddled inside. They didn’t look up as she passed the thick Perspex window and made her way towards the stairwell.
Inside, the stairs smelled of old urine and her nose wrinkled, but it was still preferable to the confined space inside the lift where the stench would be magnified. She plodded upwards to the fourth level and strip lighting flickered overhead, lending her skin an unnatural white glow. She gripped the metal banister and swore briefly as the rusty metal nicked her palm, drawing blood. Sucking at the wound, she heard the clunk of the ancient lift as it swung into action somewhere behind the concrete walls and she clattered up the stairs, hearing her own breath as her heart rate quickened.
She approached the fourth level and began to root around for her car keys in the large black bag which hung from her shoulder. She smiled at the crumpled tissues and small bags of sweets she had bought for the children, pulling a face as her fingers met with something sticky.
As she reached the top step, the lift doors creaked open. Tanya didn’t look twice at the man who stepped out, except to note that he was dressed smartly. She mumbled a polite word of thanks as he held open the door to the parking level and she started to step through it. Sounds of drunken laughter echoed up the stairwell from the ground floor and, ahead of her, Tanya could see her car, waiting to take her home.
She never made it through the doorway.
Her bag fell to the floor, sweets spilling onto the dirty concrete as her hands flew to her throat. Her fingers clawed at the material of her scarf as it pulled tightly across her windpipe, cutting off the air supply to her bursting lungs. Her mouth formed a horrified ‘o’ as she fought for oxygen and her nails scratched at her own flesh to ease the constriction, missing the man who held himself apart and dragged her back into the stairwell, mumbling words in a language she didn’t understand.
The air in her chest exploded and the fine blood vessels beside her eyes burst into a lacy network of dark red. Her hands fell away and, after a moment, the man let out a long, shaking breath.
“There, now,” he murmured.
* * *
Ryan considered the selection of CDs sitting beside the discreet sound system in the living room and decided that, even if he was in the mood for Miles Davis, succumbing to moody jazz would be altogether too predictable in his line of work. Instead, he swallowed his pride and selected Simply Red’s Greatest Hits, telling himself that it must be for the love of a good woman.
The lady in question poked her dark head around the door as the music began to flow and flashed him a smile.
“Now there’s an unexpected choice,” Anna said, handing him a glass of Pinot Noir. “Are you hungry?”
“No, thanks, I grabbed something greasy with Phillips on the way back,” he confessed.
“I always knew Frank was a bad influence.”
He watched as she settled herself on the sofa and tucked her long legs up beside her, cradling the wine in both hands to warm it while she watched him over the rim. Love washed over him followed swiftly by thoughts of Nina Ogilvy-Matthews, whose love had been taken from her.
“You look troubled,” Anna said quietly.
Ryan shed his jacket and hoped that the action would help him to shed the weight of the day. He set his mobile phone in the centre of the coffee table within easy reach and then sank onto the sofa beside her. Warmth spread across his cold skin when Anna folded herself against him.
“I think he’s going to kill again tonight.”
Worry flickered across the hard planes of his face and Anna wished she could soothe it away, or tell him that he was wrong. But his instincts had never been wrong so far. Ryan’s concern for the dead and his constant quest to avenge them was an integral part of his nature. For as long as the investigation lasted, they became a part of his life, a part of him. Even more worrying was his ability to step into the mind of a killer; a peculiar skill almost like method acting that allowed him to see the world through their distorted vision.
No doubt about it, Anna thought, she had fallen for a man with many layers. But she was coming to understand him more each day.
“You can’t stop it happening?”
Ryan took a sip of wine, then set it back on the coffee table.
“No, I can’t. We don’t have enough information. But we might get lucky if he shows up at one of the cemeteries.”
“They’re calling him The Graveyard Killer,” Anna said. “I heard on the news that he goes for redheads.”
Ryan took one of her hands and simply held it.
“They’ve got it right, for once. Yes, this one likes the redheads.” He looked across at her and felt stupidly grateful that she didn’t fall into that category. “But we can’t impose a curfew on every woman with red hair. I need a lead, something that narrows down the field…”
“And the only way you get tha
t is with a combination of time, effort and another victim,” Anna realised.
Ryan nodded silently.
“It makes me sick to think of it but, yes, that’s the truth. We need him to kill again so that we have a better chance of finding him.”
“You will,” she said with absolute certainty.
He looked across and into her eyes. There were deep emotions swirling there and a heart big enough to drown himself in.
“I love you, Anna.”
“Same goes, detective. Now, let me distract you from your gloomy thoughts with some frivolous wedding nonsense.”
Ryan didn’t know how she managed it but he found himself laughing, long and loud.
“You’re unstoppable. Come on then, let’s hear it.”
She gave him a mischievous look.
“I was thinking about our first dance while I was watching Saturday Night Fever the other day—”
“I don’t like where this conversation is headed.”
“I know it would take practice but why don’t we do some sort of choreographed routine?”
It took him a full ten seconds to realise that she was joking, then he grabbed her.
“You had me going for a moment, there.”
“There was genuine fear in your eyes.”
“Any self-respecting man would have felt the same,” he said, then thought of how Phillips would no doubt have thrown himself behind the idea of a retro dance routine, white suit and all.
Anna lay sprawled against his chest.
“We could still go along for a couple of practice sessions,” she mused. “Just so we know what to do with our feet.”
Ryan lifted her up for a brief kiss.
“Wait right here,” he said.
She watched with frank curiosity as he rose from the sofa across to the main light switch and flicked it off, then wandered around the room turning on the smaller side lamps. Then, he moved back to the CD collection gathering dust on the shelves. Ryan knew exactly what he was looking for and a moment later the velvety strains of a Louis Armstrong ballad filled the room.
He turned to her and held out a hand.
“Shall we?”
She found herself moulded against his long body as they moved slowly around the room in time to the music. She laughed when he spun her away from him and then curled her back against him, where she tucked her head snugly underneath his chin. She felt the strong beat of his heart through the cotton shirt he wore and knew that she was home.
“Still want to do a more jazzy routine?” he murmured.
She smiled against the warmth of his neck.
“This’ll do just fine.”
* * *
A soporific combination of red wine and relaxed company lulled Ryan into the sleep that he craved. His body registered Anna curled beside him, slotted together like two parts of a jigsaw, and it was that which prevented the nightmare from fully taking hold of his unconscious mind.
Despite the detachment, his body jerked as he relived the pain of a knife being driven into his flesh; his skin felt the cold slap of water as he fell backwards into the murky depths of the river and his heart rate quickened at the remembered fear. But a small voice told him that he was alive and that he had survived.
Only a dream. Only a dream, he repeated.
His mind transported him across space and time to his childhood on the Devonshire coast where he and his sister had played by the sea. This time, he felt a rush of warm water as he sank beneath the waves and emerged again triumphant, shaking the water from his eyes. In his sleep, he frowned against the glare of the summer sun.
Then the sky turned dark. Clouds raced across to blot out the sun, leaving him shivering and cold. There was no longer sand beneath his feet but wet soil oozing between his toes. He looked down at his hands and they were filthy, his nails crusted with dirt. The sky was almost black now. Not even the moon shone its glimmering light over the cemetery and suddenly he was falling again; down and down into the grave.
He was breathing hard and his mind told him: stay calm, it isn’t real.
But his body fought against the limbs that entangled him, trying desperately to shrug off the pale arms that clawed at his throat and kept him from rising up again. Soil fell like raindrops and began to cover his eyes and mouth, so that he could hardly breathe.
“Ryan!”
He woke with a start and was instantly alert.
“What?”
Anna scowled at him through the early morning light.
“Nothing, unless you count nearly giving me a black eye.”
Ryan took in the tangled bedclothes and his racing heart, remembered the dream he had been fighting to escape.
“I—sorry. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.” Her shoulder was aching. “Was it a nightmare?”
“Yeah,” he sat up bare-chested and rested his forearms on his knees. “Not as bad as they used to be, but it’s been a while since I had one.”
“Forget it,” she ran a hand over his back and rested her head on his shoulder. She waited a beat, then added, “I know some other distraction techniques besides wedding planning, you know.”
Ryan’s eyes glowed silver in the morning light.
“You seem to be a multitalented lady.”
“You’re not wrong.”
* * *
Overnight, a layer of thick fog settled heavily over the neighbouring cities of Newcastle and Durham. Rain pattered against the windows and turned soil into mud, washing away all manner of sins. Miles away in the depths of the quiet countryside, one man stood with his face upturned and arms outstretched. The water washed over him like a baptism, cleansing his soul and clearing his mind of shame and fear, so that he could continue.
When he opened his eyes, there was no throbbing headache. There was no self-doubt.
He knew what he had to do and God had granted him the strength to do it.
He turned and walked back through the rain.
CHAPTER 11
Sunday, 27th March
Easter Sunday
There was an air of expectancy when Ryan arrived at CID Headquarters well before eight o’clock the following morning. The incident room was full despite the early hour and at any other time Ryan would have been encouraged by his team’s conscientious attitude.
But not today.
“What the hell is going on?”
Several pairs of tired eyes faced him.
“Nothing, sir,” one of the plain-clothed surveillance officers answered. “We were at Elswick Cemetery all night and there was no movement.”
“Same story at Jesmond and All Saints,” another chimed in, followed by a chorus of other frustrated voices until Ryan held up an imperious hand. He already knew there had been no suspicious activity overnight because he would have been the first to hear about it.
“Hold on a minute. If nothing suspicious happened in any of the cemeteries, that should give us some hope because it’s less likely that another woman lost her life.” He paused to let the words find their mark, then bellowed out, “Now, who do I have to kill to get a coffee around here?”
A bit of dark humour never hurt anybody, he thought, singling out one of the constables who was sitting twiddling his thumbs. Ryan waved him over, planted a wad of tenners in his hand and told him to come back laden with caffeine and baked goods for the whole team. From the corner of his eye he spied Phillips arriving with MacKenzie beside him, looking pale.
“Alright, whoever was on shift last night, take a break and come back after a few hours’ kip. The rest of you, get to work.”
He made a beeline across the room.
“What’s wrong?”
Neither MacKenzie nor Phillips was surprised that it had taken less than a minute for Ryan to realise that something was amiss.
“I received a note yesterday, posted by hand through my letterbox sometime while I was at work.”
MacKenzie retrieved the cream notecard which was now encased in a plastic ev
idence bag and handed it to Ryan.
His gaze swept over the note.
“It’s the same man,” Phillips gritted out, in a voice that was shaky with rage. “This is a warning.”
Ryan turned to MacKenzie. He judged her to be unnerved but not so much that she couldn’t do her job.
“I’m not sure that it is the same person,” she said slowly, then reached out for the note again to feel its weight. “Frank, you said that the handwriting expert thought both of the previous notes used cream card, about 200 grams? This feels slightly heavier than the others,” she transferred the note between her hands. “And although the writing is neat and tidy, it looks different.”
Ryan nodded his agreement.
“The previous two notes used a permanent black marker pen whereas this one looks like black biro,” he put in. “I seem to remember the letter ‘s’ being more elaborate in the previous two.”
Phillips listened to their analysis and tried to bank down his anger so that he could think clearly.
“So he used a different pen this time. That doesn’t change the fact that some bastard put a note through her door!”
“Her? Is that the cat’s mother?” MacKenzie asked in a deceptively mild tone.
“Howay, lass, I’m worried for your safety!”
Ryan took a subtle step backwards while they worked it out, amused to note that Phillips’ accent became more pronounced when he was angry or upset. It was oddly endearing.
“I appreciate that, Frank, but I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I’d like to work together on this, rather than having you treat me like the frightened little woman.”
Phillips stuck his chin out but he could never hold onto an argument when faced with irrefutable logic.
“You know I never meant to do that. But even if it isn’t him, it’s still some copycat who’s fixed his sights on you and if he so much as comes within twenty yards—”
“You’ll plant a fist in his face,” Ryan finished for him, judging it safe to return to the conversation. “That’s fair enough. In the meantime, let’s get this note across to the CSIs for print-testing and then on to the handwriting expert, who should be able to confirm if our assumptions are correct.”
