by LJ Ross
HEAVENFIELD
– A DCI RYAN MYSTERY
By LJ Ross
Copyright © LJ Ross 2016
The right of LJ Ross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Original cover photograph copyright © Roger Clegg.
Cover design copyright © LJ Ross.
OTHER BOOKS BY LJ ROSS
Holy Island
Sycamore Gap
For James, the love of my life.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
“It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys of London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside.”
—Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle
CHAPTER 1
Sunday, 2nd August—St. Oswald’s Tide
He expelled the damp air in short, panting breaths and the harsh sound of it echoed around the walls of the church. His eyes darted across the vaulted ceiling above him and he could smell his own sweat, sickly sweet and cloying.
How poetic that he, of all people, should find himself the victim.
The cold point of a gun prodded his right temple and the taste of fear was bitter and strong, like the bile which flooded his throat. His chest shuddered as he fought to stay calm, though he knew that the end must be near.
“I’m not afraid of you!” he shouted desperately, but there was no answering reply, only an angry shove from the metal aimed at his head.
He trained his gaze straight ahead and brought Anna’s face to his mind, imagining her beside him.
How he loved her.
How he wanted her.
He heard the soft ‘click’ of a trigger being pulled back, ready to discharge.
“Just do it!” he burst out, tears leaking tracks over the lines of his face.
The sound of the gunshot was like a canon being fired in the confined space. Outside, resting birds squawked their disapproval and fluttered into the night, before settling once again into a silence that was almost religious.
* * *
The air was hushed and reverent as a line of men and women made their way up the gentle incline towards the place known as Heavenfield. A little stone church stood eerie and alone atop the hillside, overlooking the rolling landscape of Northumberland. The sun made its final descent into the horizon at its back, casting deep amber rays over the fields while stars began to pop high in the darkening sky above. Nature was the master here and all around her handiwork bloomed; a patchwork blanket of lush green grass, gorse bush and sprouting purple lavender.
The pilgrims held their lanterns aloft, moving like a fat glow-worm through the empty fields. Their feet made little sound as they moved across the mossy floor, trampling the ground where soldiers had fallen centuries earlier. Now, the only sign that a battle had once waged lay in the simple wooden cross which marked the spot.
The pilgrim leader was surprised to find the heavy oak doors standing ajar. It was true that God’s house was always open for business but it was unusual for anybody to make the trip to this deserted spot unless they were part of the pilgrimage trail.
With slight misgivings, he led the crowd into the darkened interior. There was no access to electricity or running water here; only pungent gas lamps, which had not been lit. The glow from the pilgrims’ lanterns filtered through the gloom and their excited chatter died abruptly. There was a loud shriek and the leader threw out his arms, urging them back towards the door they had just entered.
A man lay sprawled over the altar at the rear of the church, blood and brains spattered across the floor and the wall at his back. In the sudden silence, they could hear the soft tap tap of his life force dripping onto the flagstones. Another man stood over the body, one bloodied hand held out in warning, his tall figure silhouetted against the stained glass window at his back by the last light of day.
“Keep your distance!” he barked.
“You’ve…you’ve killed him! Don’t come any closer!” The pilgrim leader shouted, his voice wobbling. “I’m going to call the police!”
The man frowned, his dark brows pulling together.
“You don’t understand—” he said sharply.
“Keep back!” The pilgrim leader repeated, stumbling as people fled the church, their lanterns swaying dangerously as they took the light with them.
Detective Chief Inspector Ryan watched them leave and wondered how long it would be before two of his colleagues turned up in a squad car. At least it saved him the job of calling it in. He mustered a detachment he didn’t entirely feel and looked down at the shell of a man who had once been Doctor Mark Bowers, eminent local historian.
Ryan sighed, his breath clouding despite it being summer outside. The plain lime-washed walls were an effective barrier against the sun and, consequently, the room felt like a fridge.
Or a morgue, he amended, with an eye for the dead man.
He crouched to the floor and took a slow survey of his surroundings, eventually rising again dissatisfied. It was nearly impossible to see the details of the room now that the last of the sun had gone and the light from his mobile phone did little to help. He could still make out the lines of the body in front of him and the skin was warm to the touch; in fact, if he didn’t know better, he would have said that Bowers had died only moments before. Blood oozed from the bullet-wound at his skull and was only just beginning to coagulate.
Yet, there was no gun and no other person for miles around.
CHAPTER 2
The Blue Bamboozle was a popular drinking hole amongst the men and women of the Northumbria Criminal Investigation Department, being located conveniently less than ten minutes from their headquarters in Ponteland, on the upmarket western edge of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. In deference to its middle-class surrounds, the exterior of the formerly dingy little pub had recently been refurbished in shades of cream and sage, to give the impression of a country manor and not a longstanding den of iniquity.
While its main bar shone with polished brass and smelled of new leather, the function room had yet to receive the same treatment and so, for the time being, it remained a homely space with sticky flooring and red velvet seating arranged around small mahogany tables pock-marked with numerous scratches and scars. At the far end of the room,
there was a small raised stage where local bands warbled the angst of their generation.
It was not a bedraggled youth who commanded the stage tonight. Her chin resting on her hand, Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie watched indulgently as her present beau spun the microphone and threw back his ruddy head, crooning to the accompaniment of Neil Diamond on the karaoke machine.
Her brow arched as she watched him jiggle his denim-clad rear, much to the delight of a group of elderly women seated at the front, who were rounding off a pleasant evening of bingo with an unexpected floorshow. Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips executed an interesting hip wriggle and crooked his finger in her direction, topping it off with a lewd wink which was met with ludicrous giggling from the front of the room.
Denise found her lips curving. One of the greatest facets of Phillips’ uncomplicated nature was that he didn’t take himself too seriously. The music switched to Glenn Campbell and she rolled her eyes, grateful that there were no rhinestone-studded cowboy boots to hand.
A short while later, Phillips exited the stage to riotous applause and with an apologetic wave to his small army of fans, re-joined their table with a smacking kiss for Denise and a thirsty drink of his pint.
“You’ve missed your vocation,” she smiled, her smooth Irish accent drawing out the words like honey. “It’s a singer you should be, not a murder detective.”
Phillips affected a modest sigh.
“Aye, it’s a shame to deprive the masses of this kind of talent.”
“It’s a very rare talent,” she agreed, with a chuckle.
Phillips favoured her with a haughty look, but his response was interrupted by the shrill sound of his mobile phone.
“Bugger,” he muttered, eyeing the number flashing on the screen, which belonged to the Control Room. “We’re off duty.”
“Better answer it,” she said, polishing off the last of her wine. “It might be important.”
* * *
The room was cramped and smelled of stale urine. The breezeblock walls, which had once been painted an industrial beige, were now yellowed with age and covered in suspect stains. There was a single iron bed, drilled into place with deep bolts to the concrete floor, a metal toilet and a basin. The solitary window was of grimy, reinforced Perspex and boasted a spectacular view of the car park. Since one of the newer detective constables—not a usual member of his team—had deposited him in these glamorous surroundings, Ryan had spent the time alternately pacing or standing motionless as he considered the possible ramifications of a prominent chief inspector finding himself on the receiving end of the law.
“Get out of my way, muppet!”
The gruff voice filtering through the cracks in the metal door had never sounded sweeter. Ryan pushed away from the greasy wall of the holding cell and stretched out his long body in time to greet DS Phillips.
The man in question shrugged off the officious young police constable hovering at his side and barged into the room, planting his stocky frame inside the doorway. He cast a keen eye over Ryan and folded his arms.
“Son, you better have a good explanation for why I’ve been dragged over here.”
Ryan stuck his hands in his pockets.
“I hear that you’ve killed someone.” Phillips raised a single bushy eyebrow.
Ryan nodded briefly.
“Apparently.”
Phillips huffed out a breath.
“Unless you’ve finally lost your marbles and offed that bloke who keeps nicking your parking space, it’s a load of bollocks.”
“Well, to the best of my knowledge, my marbles are all present and accounted for. Bollocks, too.”
“Howay then.”
They fell into step down the wide, musty corridor. Ryan was surprised to feel genuine relief as he left the cell behind him and wondered whether it was an emotion felt by all of the men and women he had ever slung inside it. There was a raised eyebrow from the duty sergeant at the desk and a few nudges from junior members of staff as he made his way towards the interview suite, but they were outnumbered by a far greater number of friendly slaps on the back. For too many years, this ugly sixties building had been more of a home to him than his apartment gathering dust on Newcastle’s Quayside. Only recently had he begun to appreciate the finer things a home could offer, only since his relationship with Anna.
Anna.
“Crap,” he muttered aloud.
Phillips grunted and looked across, a question in his beady brown eyes.
“It’s Anna,” Ryan explained. “I didn’t tell her where I was going. I said I was heading out for a drink—with you, actually.”
Phillips cast him a look of stern disapproval.
“I didn’t think you’d go in for all that cloak and dagger stuff. She’s a nice girl—”
“No,” Ryan interjected, before Phillips’ imagination could run away with him. “Keep your hair on, Frank, it’s not what you’re thinking.”
Phillips softened marginally.
“She’ll need to be told,” he concluded.
“I know,” Ryan snapped, wondering how he could tell his girlfriend that Mark Bowers, the man she thought of as a surrogate father and had looked up to for most of her life, had been found dead in a deserted hilltop church. Added to which, there was the small matter of him having been arrested on suspicion of the bloke’s murder.
“You want me to call her?” Phillips offered, but Ryan shook his head.
“I get a phone call, don’t I?” He had to laugh. “I’ll talk to her after you’ve finished the inquisition.”
Phillips squirmed. Ryan might have been fifteen years younger, but he was a professional superior. And, after all they had been through together, he was like family. That being the case, it made for an awkward interview scenario whichever way you looked at it.
They made a pit stop for watery, vending machine coffee in polystyrene cups and settled themselves into an interview room.
“Look,” Phillips cleared his throat. “We’ve got to do this properly and have an interview, with two detectives. Best to do things by the book, what with everything else…” he trailed off, lamely.
“No problem,” Ryan said, but felt the burn of humiliation. Six weeks ago, he had been unceremoniously stripped of his warrant card and suspended from his duties pending investigation, at the order of Detective Chief Superintendent Arthur Gregson. The inquiry was ‘ongoing,’ so he was told, but so far there had been little progress. He had hoped to make a triumphant return to CID with his name cleared of all blemishes, but instead he seemed to be racking up further charges.
A couple of long minutes later, the door to the interview room opened and Detective Constable Jack Lowerson bounded into the room. His young face broke into a broad smile when he saw Ryan.
“Sir!” He pulled up a chair and the sturdy brown legs scraped against the carpet tile floor as he took a seat next to Phillips. “Good to have you back.”
Ryan raised a sardonic eyebrow.
“Jack, I’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder. I wouldn’t bother organising a party just yet.”
Lowerson flushed.
“Thanks, though.” Ryan relented.
“Right, let’s get on with it then,” Phillips began in his ‘formal’ voice, shuffling some papers, turning on the tape recorder and reciting the standard caution. “You understand your rights?”
“Yes, I understand, and no, I don’t need a solicitor.”
“You sure?”
Ryan huffed out a laugh.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Phillips gave up on the formality and fixed him with a baffled stare.
“I’m thinking of your best interests. You’ve got to admit, it looks fishy! Bowers found dead as a doornail, no murder weapon anywhere around and you standing over him with bloody hands…”
“When you put it like that, it does sound damning,” Ryan had to agree. “The only problem is, I didn’t kill him.”
“Well we know that!”
Lowerson burst out and then, remembering the tape, snapped his lips shut again.
“Why don’t I tell you what happened?” Ryan offered, to make life simple. “At approximately four o’clock this afternoon, I received a text message from a number I didn’t recognise. You can check my phone to confirm. The message appeared to be from Mark Bowers, telling me that he needed to meet with me urgently this evening, at Heavenfield Church, at nine o’clock sharp. He said there was something that I needed to see. The message went on to say that Anna would be in danger if she or anyone else knew about the meeting, so I shouldn’t tell her.
“Obviously, I thought it sounded like a prank, so I tried calling the number to catch this joker out. There was no answer. I tried calling the visitors’ centre on Holy Island, where Bowers worked, but there was no answer there either—probably because it’s a Sunday. I called the landline number at his home on the island, but it rang out, and those are the only numbers I have for him. You can trace the calls,” he said wearily.
“All things considered, I thought I’d better head up there to see him, just in case he was telling the truth. I expected it to be a wild goose chase.”
“Then what?”
Ryan lifted a hand and let it fall again.
“I drove up to Heavenfield on time, arriving just before nine. The place was nearly dark and the door was open. I went inside and saw him straight away. He was already dead.”
Phillips nodded.
“How could you tell?” This from Lowerson, who was always keen to know the gory details.
“Aside from the hole in his head? He wasn’t breathing,” Ryan explained, deadpan.
“Ah.”
Phillips ran his tongue over his teeth, preparing for a tricky next question.
“So, after you found his body, why didn’t you call an ambulance?”
The ghost of a smile played over the strong planes of Ryan’s face and he pitied Phillips his task. Nobody liked to ask difficult questions, especially of a friend.
“I didn’t get a chance. I was there only minutes before the others.”
