Heavenfield: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 3)

by LJ Ross

  “What others? Did you see anyone acting suspiciously?”

  Ryan shook his head.

  “The place was completely deserted when I arrived, although I could see a bunch of people about a quarter of a mile away, at the foot of the hill leading up to the church. They were carrying lanterns,” he added. “Must have been the pilgrims who stumbled in about five minutes later.”

  “Pilgrims?” Phillips queried.

  “Every year there’s a pilgrimage from Holy Island to Heavenfield, but there’s also a sort of ‘mini’ pilgrimage from Hexham Abbey to Heavenfield Church on the first Sunday in August—that’s today—to commemorate Saint Oswald’s famous victory. He’s credited with re-introducing Christianity in the region after beating a pagan army off.”

  “Didn’t think you kept up with all that,” Phillips observed lightly. Ryan was not a religious man, never had been.

  “I don’t,” Ryan agreed. “But I live with a historical expert, remember?”

  Phillips grunted his understanding. Anna Taylor had been a civilian consultant the previous Christmas on Holy Island, when ritual murder had intruded into the quiet lives of that island community. She had paid dearly, losing her sister and nearly losing her own life before the killing spree had seen its end. Perhaps the only saving grace had been the resulting unlikely relationship between a quiet historian and a surly murder detective.

  “Still don’t know what she sees in you,” Phillips joked.

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” Ryan replied easily.

  Humour faded and Phillips forced himself back to the matters in hand.

  “You don’t think one of the pilgrims could have sneaked off earlier, killed Bowers, and re-joined the crowd later on?”

  Ryan considered the question, but shook his head.

  “The area around the church is remote. It’s just a few trees and empty fields until you reach the road. I would have seen someone fleeing the scene. Besides, there were no other cars parked nearby—only mine and Bowers’.”

  Phillips drummed his fingers against the table, clearly flummoxed.

  “The body’s been transferred to the mortuary and the pathologist has already given it a quick once-over. He hasn’t completed the post mortem yet but he’s pretty sure Bowers had been dead less than two hours. Factor in transportation time and that gives us a very tight timescale.”

  “You’re saying that Bowers had only recently died when I found him around nine o’clock? I agree with you,” Ryan said simply. “I checked for a pulse, which is how I had blood on my hand. The skin was still warm.”

  The unspoken question was why he had gone against all of his police training and contaminated a crime scene, but neither Phillips nor Lowerson asked, and Ryan did not volunteer anything further.

  There was a humming silence around the table until Phillips let out a long breath and spoke again.

  “Faulkner’s up there with his team now,” he referred to the senior Crime Scene Investigator. “He hasn’t found a weapon.”

  “I couldn’t see anything beside the body,” Ryan said. Then, for good measure he tagged on, “considering that the church is tiny, without a convenient river nearby for me to dispose of a gun, I hardly think I would have hung around if I had killed the man, do you? Besides, give me some credit for being able to plan and execute something with a little more finesse.”

  Phillips had to admit that was a fair point.

  “So, we’ve got a recently dead man with a gunshot wound but no perpetrator and no gun.”

  “In a nutshell.”

  Phillips sucked in a breath, intending to say something pithy, but was cut short by the entrance of another latecomer. Detective Chief Superintendent Gregson strode into the interview room, recited his name and time for the recording and then signalled for the tape to be stopped. Lowerson obliged, noting that the temperature in the room seemed to have fallen by several degrees. Gregson looked every inch the man in charge, from the top of his steel grey head to the tips of his shiny black shoes. He wore his tailored navy suit with panache and carried an air of dignity to match his expensive aftershave.

  “Well,” he scoffed. “You just can’t keep yourself out of trouble, can you?”

  When Ryan replied, his voice was frigid.

  “I was the first to find a body. Instead of being treated as a material witness to a crime, I have been arrested by one of your over-zealous cronies on suspicion of murder. If you call that ‘trouble,’ then yes, I would tend to agree with you.” He leaned forward slightly, pinning Gregson with a flinty stare. “You’ll find it hard to make any charges stick, considering the utter lack of forensic evidence.”

  Gregson did not answer, but turned to Phillips, who pasted a neutral expression on his face.

  “Control Room say a man was found dead in suspicious circumstances at Heavenfield. Have we identified him?”

  Phillips nodded.

  “Yes, sir, he was identified at the scene. Doctor Mark Bowers,” he thumbed through his notebook. “Aged fifty-three, employed by National Heritage as a senior historian and manager of the visitors’ centre on Holy Island. You might remember him from that business on the island last Christmas.”

  Gregson stood very still and said nothing until he could trust his own voice.

  “You’re sure it’s him?”

  Phillips frowned slightly, while Ryan watched the exchange with interest.

  “Positive, sir.”

  Gregson recovered himself quickly.

  “I want MacKenzie handling it,” he commanded, overriding the automatic objection on Phillips’ lips. There was little Frank could argue against, in any case. DI Denise MacKenzie was an excellent detective; sharp-witted and fair, with good instincts for sniffing out criminal behaviour. She was a higher-ranking officer, but the fact that she happened to be his girlfriend didn’t hurt, either, Phillips thought wickedly.

  “MacKenzie will be grand for the job,” was all he said.

  “And,” Gregson purred, “I am sure I can rely on her professionalism. If I so much as get a whiff of any protocols being breached, she’ll be straight up to my office on disciplinary charges, with you straight after.”

  Satisfied that his threat had hit the mark, he took another glance at Ryan, who was seated comfortably in an uncomfortable plastic tub chair, one long leg crossed indolently over the other. He looked supremely confident, Gregson thought uneasily, for a man being questioned on suspicion of murder.

  What did he know?

  Gregson thought back to that night six weeks ago, when he had suspended Ryan. He had felt liberated, happier than he had been in months, perhaps years. He could take charge of his life again and get his house in order without Ryan’s constant hawk-like presence watching his every move with distrust. In the early days, he had treated Ryan like a protégé, a man with a talent for the job and instincts that were second to none. He had nurtured him and promoted him accordingly.

  That was then.

  Now, Ryan had become a serious threat, one that needed to be neutralised by fair means or foul. It should have been a simple matter to trump up some disciplinary charges and have the suspension upgraded to dismissal. Unfortunately, things weren’t going to plan and the Chief Constable was threatening to muscle her way into the inquiry, which would make things even more difficult.

  For all these troubles, Gregson had just been given the greatest news he could have hoped for.

  Mark Bowers was dead, and he was free at long last.

  CHAPTER 3

  Monday 3rd August

  Doctor Anna Taylor looked fragile and forlorn as she perched on the very edge of one of the broken visitors’ chairs in the foyer at CID Headquarters. Her dark hair fell in a long wavy curtain over one shoulder and she had thrown on some slim blue jeans and a baggy wool jumper. In her hands, she jiggled car keys while she waited. She had taken a call from Ryan just after ten-thirty in the evening asking her to come and pick him up from the police station; it was now nearly one o’cl
ock in the morning and she had been watching people—mostly drunk—coming and going for the past two hours. At one point, Denise MacKenzie had swung through the main doors but hadn’t stopped to chat before hurrying towards lock-up and the duties awaiting her there. Consequently, Anna was no further forward in understanding what had happened to call her out here. All manner of dreadful scenarios played out in her mind.

  Finally, the security door buzzed and she jolted out of her seat. She watched as Ryan was escorted out of the secured area, a tall, absurdly good-looking man with a mop of black hair and a curiously unhurried gait, regardless of the circumstance. In his present predicament, it would have been gratifying to see him hurry across to her, to hear some effusive apologies and quick explanations about why she had worried herself sick for, apparently, no good reason. Therefore, she was disinclined to feel sympathetic and she stood up, jabbing a finger at the air in his direction.

  “You lied to me.”

  She might have looked fragile, but looks could be deceptive.

  “Wait a minute,” Ryan said, holding both hands out in mute appeal.

  “Don’t tell me to wait,” she snarled. “I could write the book on it!”

  “Now, just calm down—”

  That clinched it.

  “Calm down? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been sitting here worrying about you? I didn’t know what had happened, you didn’t give any details over the phone and nobody has told me a thing,” she flicked an accusatory look towards the duty sergeant. “What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were supposed to be having a drink with Frank but now I find you’re happy to lie to me without batting an eyelid. I won’t have it—”

  “I didn’t want to lie,” he said quietly, bringing her up short.

  “Explain, please.”

  He cast a glance around the empty foyer and then towards the duty sergeant who was sitting behind his safety glass window wearing a studiously disinterested expression as he thumbed through a glossy magazine.

  “Can’t we get out of here?”

  She said nothing, but continued to regard him with stormy eyes. He ran an agitated hand over the back of his neck then shoved both hands in the pockets of his jeans.

  “Fine. You want to do this here, that’s fine.” He met her eyes, cool grey clashing with warm brown. “I found Mark Bowers dead up at Heavenfield Church. A couple of rookie PCs joined me shortly afterwards and assumed I must have killed him. I didn’t.”

  The hard lines of anger fell from Anna’s face, leaving it slack and strangely empty of emotion. Mark was dead? No, it was not possible. There must have been some mistake.

  “It can’t have been Mark,” she said slowly.

  Ryan often had the unenviable task of imparting bad news to the families of the dead. It was the worst part of the job: worse than picking over the remains of a body like a scavenger or feigning detachment at the mortuary. The abject grief of those who still lived, and must learn to live with their loss, was always harder to bear.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured, kicking himself for blurting out the awful news without a basic level of tact. He led her back towards a chair. Pliant and shocked, she followed him.

  “I don’t understand,” she shook her head.

  “He sent me a text,” Ryan explained. “It said explicitly that if I told you that we were meeting, you would be in danger. I had to make a judgement call, but I’m sorry that I couldn’t be open with you.”

  “He—how?”

  Ryan took one of her cold hands and held it between his own, hoping to warm it.

  “He was shot.”

  She thought of Mark, the man who had been more of a father to her than her own flesh and blood. Now, they were both dead and she had no family left. The sense of loss was so acute, so keen, that it stole her breath away. Memories flooded in, of weekends spent on the island digging up treasures from the past, of his tanned hands with their calloused fingertips, of his soft blue eyes looking on with pride at graduation ceremonies. He had been to every one.

  She swiped at tears with the cuff of her jumper in the absence of anything better, and then turned back to the man who sat quietly beside her waiting for the storm to pass.

  “You said that they think it was you? They can’t be serious.”

  Even in the throes of grief she offered her support, without a trace of doubt that he could ever have killed in cold blood. It was humbling. Ryan squeezed her fingers and said simply, “thank you.”

  Anna mustered a wry smile.

  “You may be many things,” she observed. “But a murderer isn’t one of them.”

  * * *

  It had taken the combined forces of MacKenzie, Phillips and Lowerson to convince their unyielding superintendent that Ryan should be released without charge, rather than suffering a chilly night in the cells. Tempting though it had been to insist that Ryan remain there, Gregson was a pragmatic man and had eventually acknowledged that he presented no flight risk. However, he refused to dismiss Ryan as a suspect until a thorough forensic investigation had been completed and he could be unequivocally ruled out. He had taken pains to point out that Bowers had been a regular feature in Ryan’s life thanks to his connection with Anna Taylor, which presented all manner of questions as to motive. Had Ryan felt threatened by Bowers’ longstanding relationship with Anna? Was there some hitherto undiscovered vendetta? Furthermore, Ryan’s story about having received a text from the dead man sounded somewhat far-fetched. He had rounded off his speech by saying that, unless evidence could be brought to light, Ryan remained the prime suspect in his eyes and he didn’t give a damn that he was one of their own.

  On that note, Gregson had swept out of the incident room in the direction of his own office, intending to place a call to the Chief Constable weighted heavily in favour of Ryan’s guilt.

  The three who remained loyal released Ryan into Anna’s care with apologetic eyes, reminding him that he should return to CID Headquarters to answer further questions if required.

  * * *

  Later that morning, while forensic specialists combed through the debris on the floor of Heavenfield Church and the pathologist lifted what was left of Mark Bowers’ brain out of his broken skull, Ryan paced the walls of Anna’s tiny cottage.

  “Why don’t you go out for a walk?” she suggested, putting the finishing touches to her make-up in an attempt to conceal the ravages of a broken night’s sleep. She had wept for her friend until morning had finally broken, washing away the tears with its bright reminder that life must go on; she could not help Mark by hiding under the covers, wallowing in her grief.

  Apparently, Ryan agreed with her.

  “I should be out there doing something, not sitting around here getting fat,” he muttered irritably, coming to a brief standstill in front of one of the pretty picture windows overlooking the river.

  Glancing at his reflection in the mirror above the dresser, she knew that he wasn’t appreciating the view. Outside, the sun shone down on the city of Durham, glittering diamond-bright over the water, but Ryan’s eyes were stony and unseeing, his mouth flat and unsmiling.

  “It won’t help to prowl around the house,” she said.

  “I can’t just sit around doing nothing,” he ground out. “I need an occupation, for God’s sake.”

  Anna cocked her head at him.

  “I don’t think self-pity suits you.”

  He spun around, eyes blazing.

  “I’m telling you they’ve cut me out; Gregson has cut me out.”

  Anna shrugged a shoulder.

  “Yes, he has, and wouldn’t he be delighted to see how much it’s affecting you?” She paused, waiting for her words to sink in. “You need to find another way to fight him.”

  Ryan felt his throat go dry. Damn it, she was right.

  “Pretty smart, aren’t you?”

  Anna turned back to the mirror.

  “I’ve heard it said.”

  “Mm hmm,” he murmured, moving away from the window
to stand behind her, tugging her back against his body until the top of her head tucked snugly beneath his chin. “I can think of other ways to fill my time.”

  “Oh?” She made a show of checking her mascara. “Are you planning to take up a hobby?”

  She felt the low chuckle rumble through his chest and watched his dark head in the mirror as it lowered to nuzzle her neck. Her mascara wand paused mid-air while her head fell to one side, to allow him better access.

  Just for this moment, she savoured the present and the simple joy of being alive.

  CHAPTER 4

  Detective Chief Superintendent Arthur Gregson checked his watch again and fidgeted beside the display of curtains in the home furnishings department of Fenwicks, the famous local department store in the centre of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. Discreet lighting illuminated the handiwork and he fingered some fabric, picked up a few picture frames and sniffed at scented candles for a further five minutes while he waited with resentful impatience for the other half of his meeting to arrive.

  Finally, he saw her weave through the stands of expensive vases and display bowls, looking very much at home beside the glinting china and polished glass. Professor Jane Freeman was, as always, dressed impeccably in tailored trousers and a cream silk shirt. Blonde, carefully highlighted hair framed her face in an attractive halo and she looked much younger than her forty-three years.

  She came to a standstill beside him and her glacier blue eyes swept over his greying figure with ill-concealed contempt. Her lip curled at the display of roman blinds and she let out a quiet laugh.

  “Thinking of redecorating, Arthur?”

  Gregson turned a slow shade of red, as much in anger as embarrassment at his choice of meeting place.

  “Nobody is likely to recognise us here,” he said, defensively.

  Freeman spared a smile for the hovering sales assistant but shook her elegant head to ward off any assistance.

  “We’re just browsing,” she explained in friendly tones, which died on her lips when she turned back to Gregson. He was starting to crumble, she thought idly. Sweat pearled on his pallid skin and the spotlighting overhead made him look old, highlighting the deep wrinkles on his forehead and the crow’s feet beside his eyes.