Cragside: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 6)

by LJ Ross

  There were nods around the table.

  “Second, I want to formally welcome Melanie Yates to the team. She’ll be joining us in CID and I know you’ll make her feel welcome. Lowerson? I’m hoping you’ll show her the ropes.”

  Lowerson barely held off a grin.

  “Happy to,” he said, keeping his face as nonchalant as possible.

  If Yates was disappointed that she would not be taken under Ryan’s wing, she didn’t let it show.

  “I’m looking forward to working with you all,” she said, and meant it.

  “Just give us a shout if you need anything, lass.” Phillips smiled at her warmly. “We don’t stand on ceremony round here.”

  “He’s right. I’m constantly faced with insubordination in the ranks,” Ryan said, before tapping his fingers against the pages of the summaries he’d printed earlier. “Now we’ve got the preliminaries out of the way, let’s talk about Victor Swann.”

  They looked down at a recent photograph of the former valet provided by Maggie, then compared it with pictures Faulkner had snapped of him as he’d lain at the foot of the stone staircase.

  “To recap, on Saturday evening, Anna and I attended the staff murder mystery party at Cragside house. It’s an annual party that Lionel and Cassandra Gilbert have thrown every year since they first bought the place in ’98. It was supposed to be an evening of harmless fun but, at around eleven o’clock, the lights failed. I can bear witness that Victor Swann volunteered himself to go downstairs, from the drawing room where we were all assembled, to check the fuse box. The house was completely dark but Swann did have a small torch he kept on his person and there was some solar-powered lighting on the exterior stairs.”

  Ryan paused and leaned back in his chair, casting his mind back to the events that night.

  “At the start of the evening, it’s been confirmed there were forty people at the party, including Cassandra Gilbert. Her husband, Lionel, was present in the house but states that he remained in his room the entire evening. By the time the lights went out, there were twenty-two people present in the drawing room—twenty-three people still in the house including Gilbert.”

  “How can you be sure of the number?” Yates asked.

  “We have to rely on witness statements. Having gone through all of them, I’ve eliminated people who left the house at least an hour before the power failure.” Ryan said. “There’s always the chance that somebody pretended to go home and doubled back. That’s a secondary line of enquiry but we have no way of knowing for sure given the fact there’s no CCTV around the house and nobody other than Victor himself to tell us otherwise.”

  “We found no trace evidence around Swann’s body,” Faulkner chimed in. “The lab is testing his clothing and we’ll compare the swabs we took from his body against the DNA samples provided to us by the people at Cragside, as soon as we have them.”

  Ryan nodded. That was an urgent job for tomorrow morning.

  “Thanks Tom.” He turned to the rest of them and spread his hands. “As you can see, it looks a lot like accidental death up to this point. I’m waiting to receive Jeff Pinter’s pathology report and that will likely shed some light on cause of death and tell us the extent to which foul play was involved.”

  “Why else would somebody raid his locker and house?” Lowerson asked.

  “That’s where Alice Chapman comes in.” Ryan flicked a page and looked down into the open, smiling face of a young woman who had been destroyed, along with her incredible artistry.

  “Her body was discovered at around seven-fifteen this morning by the head gardener, Charlotte Shapiro. A fingertip search was made throughout today, in expanding circles from where her body was found.”

  Ryan turned to a list of items recovered by the search team.

  “Various small items and clothing have already been identified by Lionel and Cassandra Gilbert as belonging to Victor Swann. One or two items were recovered still within a blue and white plastic carrier bag which had become entangled in the undergrowth. I think this points to a strong possibility that Alice, or her attacker, was in possession of the missing items taken from Victor’s locker sometime in the early hours of Sunday morning.”

  “D’ you reckon she might have done away with Swann and then killed herself?”

  Phillips dunked another custard cream into his lukewarm coffee.

  “Until Pinter gives us his report, we don’t have any evidence to suggest Alice was attacked and thrown from the bridge, so suicide can’t be ruled out yet,” Ryan was obliged to say. “But, in my opinion, it doesn’t fit the wider circumstances or the girl’s behaviour.”

  He nodded towards Yates, who sat up a bit straighter in her seat.

  “We spoke with Alice in the staff room, yesterday. What were your impressions?”

  “She seemed a very steady sort of person, sir. Quiet, studious, very dedicated to her work. Although she was saddened by Swann’s death, she didn’t exhibit any unusual behaviour that would give cause for concern.”

  “I came to the same conclusion. And there’s something else to consider. Alice Chapman was one of the party-goers who left early on Saturday night, over half an hour before the power failure and Swann’s death, so it’s even less likely she was responsible.”

  The table fell silent for a long moment until Phillips spoke up again.

  “The thing is, guv, I can’t see what was so bloody important that somebody would kill an old man and then snuff out somebody else just to keep it quiet.”

  “We may not have found the answer to that yet, but there was obviously something and it was obviously highly motivating. Until we hear from Pinter and the lab, we need to focus on the paper trail and a process of elimination.”

  “Alice’s body was exposed to the elements last night and, apart from the rain damage, there was a lot of animal contamination. We’ll do our best,” Faulkner assured them, “but I need to manage expectations.”

  Ryan steepled his fingers and looked at each of them in turn, the light of battle shining in his eyes.

  “Looks like we’ll have to use our little grey cells.”

  * * *

  By the time they were settled at a table in the late afternoon sunshine, MacKenzie was feeling much better. When a friendly waiter approached their table with a cocktail menu, she felt even better still. “I could get used to this,” she sighed, rubbing absently at her knee. It was throbbing after the fall and she wondered if she ought to look out some antiseptic cream.

  The waiter asked to take their order and, after feigning indecision for the sake of appearances, she ordered a caipirinha.

  “It’s happy hour,” they were told, “two-for-one, until seven p.m.”

  “I’m driving,” Anna said, with considerable regret, and ordered its non-alcoholic equivalent. When the waiter departed, she rested an elbow on the table and cupped her chin in her hand.

  “How’s your knee?”

  MacKenzie made a sound of frustration.

  “It’ll be fine. I didn’t fall flat on my face—I managed to do it in stages.” She smiled weakly. “It’s mostly the embarrassment that gets to me.”

  Anna pursed her lips.

  “Are you speaking to anyone about the panic attacks?”

  MacKenzie shrugged a shoulder.

  “I went to the GP and got some beta-blockers but I’ve been doing a cognitive behavioural therapy course online, while Frank’s at work. It works better when I’m alone,” she explained.

  “That’s good,” Anna said, encouragingly. “Do you think it’s helping?”

  MacKenzie thought about how to answer.

  “Hard to say. Yes, I think it helped me through a hard patch because it trains me to focus my mind on the good things in life, rather than harkening back to…to what happened.”

  She paused briefly as her cocktail arrived and she took a generous sip.

  “I haven’t needed to take any medication for two days now,” she added, tapping a fingernail against the edge of the
glass. “Actually, ever since you swept into my house like a force of nature and told me to get a grip on myself.”

  Anna opened her mouth to object and MacKenzie laughed.

  “Four months of CBT and all I really needed was a one-woman whirlwind to come and lay down some home truths,” she continued. “It’s done me the world of good.”

  She raised her glass to toast her friend and, in doing so, the sunlight caught the square-cut emerald glinting on the ring finger of her left hand.

  Anna did a double take.

  “What is that?”

  MacKenzie looked down at her hand and realised she’d become so comfortable wearing the ring, she’d forgotten it was there.

  “Oh, this old thing?”

  She wriggled her fingers and gave a sly smile.

  “You dark horse!” Anna squealed—it was the only word for it—and leapt from her chair to wrap her arms around MacKenzie, who couldn’t help but laugh.

  “We got engaged last night.”

  “Where? How? Tell me everything,” Anna demanded, taking a long slurp of her drink.

  “Well, I was dressed in my ancient dressing gown and the evening news was on,” MacKenzie said, dead-pan. “It wasn’t moonlight and roses but, you know what? I didn’t need them. I realised something last night, something I don’t think I’d really known until then.”

  Her hand came to rest on her heart.

  “I’ve been in love with Frank Phillips for years and I was so clueless, I didn’t even know it. Maybe even when his wife was still alive because I saw how he looked after her, how he nursed her. It’s hard not to appreciate that kind of devotion. He’s a good, kind man and I love him.”

  “He’ll want corned beef pasties and Newcastle Brown Ale at the wedding,” Anna warned, her eyes shining. “And he’s bound to sing a rendition of Fog on the Tyne.”

  MacKenzie laughed delightedly.

  “He’ll have to do it in front of my Irish family, then, since we’re planning to have the ceremony on the Emerald Isle,” she said, and then waved her hands in the air as if to clear the thought. “I don’t want to start planning anything until after your big day. I’m excited enough about seeing you and Ryan finally tie the knot.”

  Anna’s smile slipped, just a fraction, but MacKenzie caught it.

  “What’s the matter?” She was instantly serious. “You’re not getting cold feet?”

  “No,” Anna replied, “but I’m a bit worried that he might be. These last few days, Ryan hasn’t been himself. It feels like he’s keeping something from me.”

  “He’s been tied up with the Cragside investigation,” MacKenzie offered but Anna shook her head.

  “It’s not just that. It’s probably paranoia but I’m worried he’s having second thoughts.”

  MacKenzie was having none of it.

  “That man adores you,” she said firmly. “There might be something on his mind but I’ll eat my hat if it has anything to do with you.”

  “You’re probably right,” Anna said brightly, polishing off her drink.

  MacKenzie saw the hurt and confusion in the younger woman’s eyes and wished she could tell her that there would always be a fairy tale ending to every story.

  Unfortunately, life didn’t work that way.

  CHAPTER 17

  “As far as I can see, there are eight potential suspects.”

  With a blithe disregard for his tenancy agreement, Ryan began tacking photographs in an even row along one of the kitchen walls. Phillips scratched his chin and wondered if it had been painted recently.

  “Ah, not to piss on your bonfire, lad, but how can there be suspects without a confirmed crime?”

  “Because if Alice Chapman threw herself over that bridge, then my name is Rita Hayworth,” Ryan snapped, without bothering to turn around.

  “Fair point, well made,” Phillips said cheerfully, settling back to listen.

  Ryan tacked up the last photograph and moved to the side, so they could see the full line-up.

  “Dave Quibble was Alice Chapman’s line manager during the painting restoration work at Cragside. In his statement, he says that he last saw her at approximately four-thirty, when she came down to the kitchen for a cup of tea. This is corroborated by Cassandra Gilbert, who was in the hallway next to the kitchen with Quibble looking at the fuse box and discussing how the power might have failed on Saturday night. We’ll come to that,” Ryan added. “The important thing is, those two were the last to see Alice alive yesterday.”

  Other than the person who killed her.

  He pointed to the eight faces he’d tacked up on the wall.

  “These are the people who were on site until at least five o’clock, when most of the staff were due to go home. Given the lack of CCTV surveillance, we have no way of knowing who actually did go home but these are the people who were due to come to Cragside and were seen to be on site yesterday.”

  Ryan watched his team look from one face to the next.

  “First and most obviously, we have Cassandra and Lionel Gilbert, both of whom were in the house all day.” He tapped a finger against the faces of the old couple. “Lionel spent most of yesterday in his rooms, whereas Cassandra was more active helping the police teams in their investigation following Swann’s death. After the teams packed up, she states that she went upstairs because she felt unwell, having come down with the same flu virus as her husband.”

  “Can anybody confirm that?” Lowerson asked.

  “The housekeeper, Maggie.” Ryan moved to a picture of an approachable woman of around seventy. “She lives in a small apartment inside the main house, so was on site the whole evening. She says that she made the Gilberts a light supper which she took up on a tray at five-thirty. Lionel Gilbert was awake and listening to the radio, whereas Cassandra Gilbert was fast asleep and seemed under the weather. She asked if they needed anything further, then headed to her own room for the night. Her movements have been confirmed by Lionel Gilbert and Dave Quibble.”

  “None of them saw Alice after then?” Yates asked.

  Ryan shook his head.

  “Anna and I went up to the house during the storm last night, after seven o’clock. The conditions were bad,” he recalled, thinking of the near darkness wrought by the storm clouds. “I was sure I heard a scream and we went out to look. It was a fruitless journey but we asked up at the house to see if anything had happened. They hadn’t seen or heard anything and only the Gilberts were present.”

  “How do you know?” Yates asked, and Ryan had to admire her eye for detail.

  “Because I walked through every room in the main part of the house while Anna stayed with the Gilberts,” he replied silkily.

  “Anybody ever tell you, you’re the suspicious sort?” Phillips let out a rumble of laughter.

  “I was merely concerned for their safety,” Ryan grinned, then looked back at the photos of the Gilberts. “Generally, they operate an ‘open-door’ policy because they employ so many staff who are constantly coming and going during working hours. Only a small number have keys to the house but they tend to leave the main door unlocked anyway, except after ten o’clock when they lock up for the night. The crime rate is extremely low around here.”

  “Can’t see your average burglar getting away with a smash ‘n’ grab in that fortress of a place,” Lowerson agreed. “They’d need a battering ram and a fork-lift truck.”

  That got a few laughs around the table and even brought a smile to Yates’s face.

  “Moving on to David Quibble, the conservation manager.” Ryan indicated the next picture on his line-up, taken of a smiling man in his mid-fifties with endearingly crooked teeth, glasses and wiry grey hair.

  In short, he was a living stereotype of the average historian.

  “In his statement, he tells us that he went home to his house in Morpeth at around five-thirty. He didn’t see anybody else in the staff room and, although he remembers seeing Alice’s car still parked in the staff car park, he didn’t think mu
ch of it because he didn’t tend to micromanage or disturb her while she was engrossed in her work.”

  “Convenient,” Phillips snorted. “Which other cars did he see in the staff car park, out of interest?”

  “The housekeeper’s car was still there, obviously, as was Charlotte Shapiro’s. Martin Henderson’s BMW too, since he has the estate manager’s cottage within the grounds and it’s more convenient to keep it there, or so he tells me.”

  Ryan blew out a long breath.

  “All of that assumes Quibble is telling the truth, but it seems to be borne out by what the others say.”

  Just then, they heard the front door opening and Phillips’ superior nose detected the scent of calorific goods even before Anna stepped into the kitchen, carrying two enormous paper bags full of Chinese takeaway.

  “Anybody hungry?”

  They fell upon the food like a pack of starving hyenas.

  * * *

  “Lad, I’ve said it before but I’ll say it again. She’s too good for the likes of you.” Phillips dabbed soy sauce from the side of his mouth and gave Ryan a sideways glance.

  “She’s one in a million,” the other agreed, looking across to where she chatted with Melanie Yates, already helping to put the other woman at her ease.

  “If it were left to you, we’d all waste away to nothing.”

  It was Ryan’s turn to give his sergeant a sideways glance.

  “No immediate fear of that,” he drawled.

  “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to respect your elders?”

  Ryan grinned, then checked his watch. It was almost six-thirty and he needed to move things along.

  Anna caught the action and began to stand up.

  “Well, I’ll leave you all to it,” she said, blowing them a kiss.

  Yates watched Ryan’s face soften as he waved Anna off and wondered what it would feel like to have somebody look at her with even a tenth of that affection.

  * * *

  “We’ve covered the first four suspects on my list, so let’s move on to mug shot number five.” Ryan gestured towards the photographs with a prawn cracker.