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

by LJ Ross

  “Why?” he asked softly, thinking of the sad loss of life.

  “The official report said there was too much oxygen in the air, which made it highly flammable. They had a big oxygen tank on the top deck, with pipes to supply the decks below. Turns out one of the pipes had been left to leak during the night but nobody ever figured out how it happened. The men responsible for checking the pipes were adamant they had done the proper checks and the logs were up to date.”

  Ryan looked at the paperwork strewn across the table and began sifting through it until he found the information sent through from the FIU.

  He skim-read the detail and then turned back to Anna.

  “A young Martin Jennings worked for a shipbuilding company at that time.”

  “Then he probably worked it,” Anna said. “He was lucky to survive.”

  Perhaps luck hadn’t come into it, Ryan thought.

  Anna turned back to her sandwiches and a moment later his arms came around her in a tight embrace.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Without meaning to, you might have just put your finger on what’s at the heart of this case.”

  Anna smiled and stuck a sandwich wedge in his mouth.

  “Anything to help the boys in blue.”

  * * *

  Not for the first time in the past twelve hours, Tom Faulkner was asking himself why he didn’t apply for a nice desk job. There would be no blood and gore to contend with, no unsociable working hours and, if the pay was going to be average, at least he wouldn’t need to spend it on endless cartons of washing detergent to remove the scent of chemicals that seemed to follow him wherever he went. He stepped out of the estate manager’s cottage in his plastic overalls and untucked the hood, breathing deeply of the fresh air. Bees buzzed in the rhododendron bushes and the sun blazed at its highest point in the sky, defying the air of gloom that had fallen upon the estate. He wondered what it would be like to work in a place like this, to enjoy its beauty and see the lighter side to nature rather than the darker side he was exposed to each day.

  Just then, he spotted her.

  Charlotte Shapiro was riding astride a quad bike, motoring along one of the access roads that took her past the cottage where he stood. The breeze ruffled her hair and gave colour to her cheeks but she wore a determined expression and exuded an air of extreme capability he found both attractive and fearsome.

  “Hello!”

  Spotting him, she slowed the bike and cut its loud engine to a purr.

  “No rest for the wicked, eh?” She nodded towards the cottage and the group of CSIs moving in and out.

  Faulkner made a non-committal sound and felt himself growing hot under her scrutiny.

  “You must be due a day off, after this is all over?”

  Charlotte gave him a winsome smile.

  Faulkner opened his mouth and shut it again, like a fish.

  “Um, yes. I think so.”

  She turned the engine off completely and swivelled in her chair so that she was perched on the edge of the quad bike.

  “Just tell me to get lost, if you’re too busy to chat,” she said but made no move to drive away.

  “Ah, no, it’s alright. I can take five minutes.”

  She nodded, watching the CSIs moving around.

  “I saw a mechanic arrive earlier to take Henderson’s car away,” she said. “I guess you have to check that for evidence, too?”

  Faulkner nodded.

  “Hard to believe all this is happening,” she said, pulling out a packet of mints from the pocket of her gilet. She offered him one but he shook his head. “I’ve worked here for years and we’ve never seen anything worse than a couple of broken arms. Usually kids trying to climb the trees,” she added with a smile.

  “It can happen anywhere,” Faulkner replied.

  “Well, I know, but…I only hope Cassandra and Lionel won’t be too upset by it all. It really isn’t their fault any of this happened.”

  “It’s a pity nobody saw Henderson just before he died,” Faulkner said.

  “Well, he was just hanging around,” she said. “Dave told me he’d been up at the house all day, as if he’d been waiting for something. Of course, none of us knew he was planning to jump.”

  Faulkner didn’t bother to correct her.

  “It seems like everyone was working late, last night,” he said instead.

  “It’s like that up here,” she said. “We don’t tend to worry about strict hours and it’s easy to lose track of the time. I was supposed to meet Dave at six-thirty for a chat about some irrigation work we want to do, but we ended up having drinks and canapés with the Gilberts and their friends. They’re such lovely people.”

  Her last words were tinged with regret.

  “So everybody was in the same room when the lights went out at nine o’clock?”

  “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “We were all over the place. I was in the bathroom, Dave was in his office, I think, and the Gilberts were in the library entertaining. I think Cassandra stepped out for a moment because I ran into her in the hallway and she was coming from the direction of the stairs.”

  She looked across the rock gardens to the trees beyond, thinking of the previous evening.

  “It’s amazing how darkness can be disorientating. I hate the dark,” she muttered.

  Suddenly, she seemed to brighten.

  “I’m going to do something very forward and give you my number.”

  He turned beetroot red.

  “Now, there’s no need to have a heart attack,” she chuckled. “Hasn’t a woman ever given you her number before?”

  “Ah, not recently, no.”

  “Their loss.” She gave him an impish smile and started searching for a pen. Her hand fell on something heavy and silver in one of her pockets and, unthinkingly, she drew it out and began to scribble on the back of a business card.

  She handed it to him and Faulkner drew off his gloves, wondering what to say, fighting the urge to kneel down and kiss her feet.

  “Give me a call if you’re ever off duty,” she told him, and fired up the engine.

  She gave a brisk wave and Faulkner watched her bright blonde head disappear around the bend. He looked down at the card in his hand and wondered whether his luck had finally changed.

  CHAPTER 33

  After a short search of the house, Ryan found Dave Quibble in the turret room.

  He stood beside the window looking out across the valley, surrounded by pots and brushes left over from its use as a studio by Alice Chapman. The portrait she had so painstakingly begun to restore had been removed to another firm of specialists, for fear that exposure to air and light might cause harm if left for too long.

  It was a timely reminder that Quibble’s first loyalty was to inanimate artefacts and not the things that lived and breathed around them.

  Ryan made a swift assessment of the man’s demeanour, which seemed somehow defeated. Quibble’s shoulders were hunched and his face downcast. He rested a hand against the wall as he continued to look out across the trees.

  “Dave?”

  His shoulders straightened immediately and he seemed to gather himself before turning to greet Ryan.

  “Hello, Ryan. Just taking a break.” He lifted a hand towards the window. “It’s the best view in the house from up here.”

  Ryan took a step closer but didn’t move to stand beside him.

  “It’s been a difficult time,” he offered, sincerely.

  Quibble ran an agitated hand through his hair and looked around the room, at all the objects and antiques, then back at Ryan.

  “I spend my life thinking about the past, about things,” he said. “Even when Victor died…well, I’m ashamed to admit, I didn’t feel too upset. He was an old man, it somehow seemed like he’d lived a full life.”

  There was the difference between them, Ryan realised. His own approach did not differ whether a victim was young or old, rich or poor, black or white, male or female, gay or straight. As far
as he was concerned, they were all victims and deserved his full attention.

  “But when Alice died, it really hit me,” Quibble said. “A young woman like that, with so much talent…”

  Ryan read a flicker of something else beneath the grief.

  “You liked her?”

  Quibble shifted his feet.

  “I never told her,” he said defensively. “I was her boss, for one thing, and almost old enough to be her father.”

  Ryan knew the value of silence in drawing people out, so he said nothing.

  “You’re sure it was Henderson who killed her?” Quibble asked, after a moment.

  “We’re almost certain, yes.”

  Quibble’s face hardened into something almost unrecognisable.

  “Murderous bastard,” he spat. “It’s no secret I never liked the man, but to kill—”

  He broke off and swiped a hand across his mouth, as if it would help to clear the nasty taste on his tongue.

  “I underestimated him,” he finished bleakly.

  “It seems nobody liked Henderson very much.”

  Quibble didn’t answer directly.

  “He’s gone now. He’ll never hurt anyone again.”

  Ryan took another step into the room and idly picked up one of the paintbrushes sitting in a porcelain cup.

  “We still haven’t got to the bottom of why these power cuts keep happening, have we?”

  Quibble rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, feeling warm.

  “I’ve looked at everything I can think of,” he explained. “I can’t work it out.”

  Ryan looked up with flat grey eyes.

  “Can’t you?”

  The words hung on the air like the dust motes that danced in the beams of light shining through the window. Then Ryan nodded and turned to leave.

  Before he reached the door, Quibble called out.

  “Ryan? Have you found out why Henderson fell?”

  Not ‘jumped’, Ryan thought. Not ‘pushed’, either.

  Interesting.

  “You’ll be the first to know when I do.”

  * * *

  MacKenzie found the housekeeper in her sitting room, which formed part of a small apartment in one of the upper wings of the house. Maggie answered the door with a tired smile and immediately offered to make tea, which was politely declined.

  “I was hoping to have a quick chat?” MacKenzie asked.

  “Of course, pet. Come in and have a seat.”

  The room was arranged around a small fireplace with an elaborate Victorian frieze and there were lace doilies as far as the eye could see. Framed pictures of family and friends were arranged across every polished surface and a small knitting bag rested beside one of the armchairs.

  “My eldest is having her second child,” Maggie said proudly, picking up a pair of tiny woollen booties.

  “I didn’t realise you had any children?” MacKenzie sank into one of the proffered chairs.

  Maggie smiled and pointed to a framed photograph with a man and a woman standing either side of her. Also in the picture were Cassandra and Lionel Gilbert with another man and woman she didn’t recognise.

  “Who are the others?”

  “Oh, those are Cassie’s children,” Maggie said, lowering her voice. “Ellie and James. They live down south and don’t tend to visit much—to be honest, they’ve never been big fans of Lionel.”

  “I understand Mrs Gilbert’s first husband died?”

  “Yes, poor thing. It was years ago and Cassie never talks about it much.”

  She reached across to a box of chocolates and offered one to Denise, who shook her head. Maggie popped a truffle in her mouth and settled in for a good chat.

  “I’m still reeling from what happened last night,” she said between bites. “I can hardly believe that Martin would kill himself; he seemed so, well—”

  She made a rolling motion with her fingers and tried to find a delicate way of saying ‘full of himself’.

  “Confident,” she decided.

  “We are investigating Mr Henderson’s death as a suspicious incident. Anything you can remember around nine o’clock last night would be very helpful.”

  The housekeeper sank back in her chair, lost for words.

  “I don’t understand,” she said and her face crumpled into sad lines. “Cragside is a beautiful, peaceful place. Murders just don’t happen here.”

  MacKenzie didn’t bother to point out the obvious fact that murders could and had happened there.

  “I understand Cragside is important to you,” she said gently.

  “It’s been my life these past few years, since the children don’t need me around so much. I have a place, here,” she said, tearfully. “I can keep the house looking beautiful and feel…useful, I suppose.”

  MacKenzie held out the box of chocolates with a smile and Maggie laughed.

  “Go on then.”

  While chewing, she pulled herself together.

  “You were asking me about last night,” she said firmly. “Let me think about this. I told that nice constable about what I saw but if you need me to go over it again?”

  “If you don’t mind,” MacKenzie prodded.

  “Well, Lionel and Cassie had friends over for dinner, to cheer themselves up a bit. They arrived just after six and I had canapés ready for them.”

  “Prepared on site or catered?”

  “Oh, these were easy to do on site. I had a couple of catering staff to take care of the cooking and the serving, I just fiddled with things here and there and directed them where to go,” she laughed.

  “They arrived at six?”

  “Yes. At around six-thirty, Cassie came through to the kitchen and invited us to have a drink with them. She asked Charlotte and Dave to join us too, and we all went into the library. It turned into more of a soirée. Cassie’s never been one for too much pomp and circumstance; it doesn’t suit her.”

  “How long did the, ah, soirée last?” MacKenzie wasn’t overly familiar with the usual running time of a soirée.

  “They chatted for a good long while,” Maggie said. “You know what Lionel can be like once he gets going. And Dave, for that matter. Get him started on all the little things that need doing in this house and you’re in for a long night.”

  MacKenzie smiled politely.

  “I popped in and out with the serving staff, so the dinner wouldn’t be ruined. When the main courses came, we left the Gilberts to their guests. Charlotte and Dave went off to the staff room for a chat, I think.”

  “Do you remember where you were when the lights went out?”

  “Oh yes,” Maggie said. “I was clearing some of the dirty dishes from the table in the library and everything just went black. I panicked a bit and dropped one of the plates on the floor in the hallway outside, which left a bit of a mark,” she said worriedly.

  “Did you see anyone else?”

  “I couldn’t see much, love, but I could hear the serving staff shrieking in the kitchen and I think I heard somebody’s footsteps heading down to the fuse box. The flooring in the servants’ corridor is stone, so you can hear everything.”

  “You didn’t see anybody going upstairs?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “I didn’t see a soul.”

  * * *

  While MacKenzie listened to the housekeeper extol the benefits of knitting for relieving stress in the workplace, Lowerson and Yates were being educated about ‘the good old days’ by the master of Cragside house. They were seated in the morning room on the first floor, which was a replica of the library beneath it and enjoyed views of the woodland leading down to the burn from a huge bay window spanning one wall.

  “Always knew Henderson was fishy,” Lionel surprised them all by saying.

  “You were telling me just last week how good it was to have him here to help manage the estate,” Cassandra argued.

  “Doesn’t mean I wasn’t keeping my beady eye on him,” he snapped, while the two det
ectives listened with interest. “Why d’ you think I never signed those papers he kept pushing at me? I wanted to look at it myself. I wasn’t about to sign away acres of land just on his say-so!”

  Lionel let out a booming laugh.

  “Wasn’t surprised at all when your colleague called me earlier,” he said as he turned back to Lowerson and Yates. “Turns out Martin was cooking the books, eh? Some men just can’t help themselves.”

  “Or women,” Cassandra put in, for the sake of equality.

  Lionel made a dismissive sound.

  “Fact is, if the little blighter had swindled me, I’d have been tempted to throw him down the lift shaft myself.”

  “Lionel!”

  “Oh, stop flapping, woman. They want the truth, don’t they?” He gestured an imperious hand to where Lowerson and Yates sat with their hands in their laps.

  “All the same, he’s dead, and at our house…”

  “That’s another blasted liberty, if you ask me,” Lionel bellowed, very much back to his former self now his flu had cleared up. “Sullying my house with death so that you can barely move without tripping over the fuzz.”

  He eyed Lowerson with obvious dislike.

  “That’s another thing,” Lionel blustered, thinking of the younger generation. “In my day, we didn’t have things like selfies—whoever heard of such a thing!—or onesies, whatever the hell they are.”

  “Ellie bought you one in the shape of a banana last Christmas,” Cassandra muttered.

  Lionel scowled and turned back to Lowerson.

  “Well? Don’t just stand there looking sheepish, tell us who’s been going around turning my house into a bleedin’ mortuary!”

  Lowerson was finally given a chance to speak and he decided to use it wisely, since the opportunity might not come around again.

  “Mr Gilbert, it would help us to know your precise movements last night, particularly between five to and ten past nine.”

  Lionel turned a slow shade of red.

  “I hope you’re not having the impertinence to suggest I’d do off with somebody in my own home?”