by LJ Ross
More time passed and more confusion until nothing was certain anymore.
Was she dead?
Was this what happened when you died?
It was a slow, endless process. Like an elastic band stretching to breaking point. Only, she hadn’t broken.
Not yet.
Her eyelids flickered, and she saw a splinter of light, thought she heard a bell ringing. She gasped for the breath to speak, to shout for help, then the darkness came again.
No more pain.
* * *
Ryan and MacKenzie stood at the foot of the bed where Isobel Harris had been found. The light from the torch moved over the small details of the room: framed photographs of Isobel and Amaya, of Isobel as a child standing beside an older woman who might have been her grandmother or a foster parent. An enormous silver make-up case had pride of place on the shelf she’d used as a dressing table with a small stool tucked beneath. Stuffed toys sat on the window ledge, some of them worn with age.
The bed had been stripped of its mattress and bedding for forensic testing but the carpet beneath it remained, crusted with dried blood.
“Just like Sharon,” Ryan murmured. “He doesn’t like to sully his own doorstep or risk killing them out in the open. He likes to take his time and do it on their own turf.”
“Adds insult to injury,” MacKenzie said. “He invades every element of their lives.”
“What drives him?” Ryan thought aloud. “Where does this level of hatred come from?”
MacKenzie looked across at him in the inky blue darkness.
“Hatred would imply a strong emotion,” she reminded him. “It’s possible that the person we’re looking for doesn’t experience any normal human emotion. He may see them simply as bodies.”
Ryan heaved a deep sigh.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ve seen enough.”
* * *
Ryan knew something was wrong the instant he entered his apartment.
It was after eleven by the time he’d collected his car from CID Headquarters and driven home through the quiet streets. He’d taken a longer route along the river so he could stop and look at the bridges lit up against the night sky and clear his head. Phillips had been right when he’d issued his warning about self-protection; stepping into the mind of a killer was like suffering from a kind of cancer that could strike without warning and make a home in your heart, festering there until there was nothing good and pure anymore. He’d felt the shadow of Isobel Harris’s killer crawling against his skin when he’d entered her home. It had been an almost tangible thing, as if he’d been standing in the room beside them.
Every step they took brought them closer, and the greater his understanding, the more likely it was that Ryan would recognise him when the time came. That wasn’t policing. It was pure instinct.
Just like the instinct warning him that he was not alone.
Quietly, Ryan set down his briefcase and reached across for a heavy ornamental bowl sitting on the console table in his hallway. He moved softly across the wooden floor and almost swore when one of the boards creaked.
He froze, listening for any sound of movement behind his living room door and, beyond it, the bedrooms.
Nothing.
But he knew he was not alone. His body was on high alert as he prepared to defend himself.
He stepped into the living room and came to a halt as the scene unfolded.
Long, tanned legs stretched out on his sofa in striped pyjama shorts. The woman they belonged to was fast asleep and snuggled into one of his sports sweaters with a faded tick on the front. Her face was bare of make-up and her long hair was still wet at the ends from the shower. She had the face of an angel and was even more beautiful in repose.
Ryan let the air in and out of his lungs in one long breath and set the bowl back on the table before walking across to sit on the coffee table beside her.
“Natalie?”
She stirred, then rolled over.
Ryan let out a short laugh and wondered if her timing could possibly be any worse. It was neither safe nor convenient for his sister to be there, but it seemed the decision had been taken out of his hands. That would teach him in future not to go handing out keys, willy-nilly.
His mother was behind it somewhere, he was sure of it. She’d been making noises recently about him spending too much time alone and not seeing enough of his family. He’d tried telling her that he was caught up in a murder investigation, but his protests fell on deaf ears.
“Come on, sleepy-head,” he said, unconsciously echoing a killer. “Time for bed.”
“Mm.”
“I see you helped yourself,” he muttered, eyeing the carnage she’d left in his kitchen with long-suffering acceptance. “When did you arrive?”
“Couple of hours ago,” she yawned, leaning against him comfortably as he led her through to the spare bedroom. “You’ve run out of milk. And chocolate.”
“I don’t keep a ready supply in my chocolate cupboard,” he replied.
“That’s why you’re so grumpy all the time.”
He moved across to switch on the bedside lamp and ran an awkward hand through his hair.
“Natalie, look. You know, it’s great to see you but now is a really bad time. There’s a lot going on—”
“You always have a lot going on,” she pointed out, and settled herself under the covers. “You need to relax more.”
“Not right now,” he said. “I’m in the middle of a major murder investigation. I can’t have any distractions.”
“I get that,” she said, yawning widely. “But I’ve been given strict instructions to make sure you eat properly and get a bit of sleep. Oh, and I’m supposed to make you laugh, if I can.”
“Mother.”
“Yes, Mother,” she replied. “Otherwise known as, She Who Must Be Obeyed.”
“Let’s talk about it in the morning,” he said. His eyes were so tired he could hardly see, let alone think straight.
“You’ll hardly know I’m here,” Natalie said, with an imperious wave of her hand.
“Right. Like a hole in the head.”
“Switch the light off, will you?”
“I live to serve.”
CHAPTER 12
Tuesday 8th July
A new day dawned dull and misty, curling its way in from the sea in thick white clouds so the river was barely visible. Ryan watched the city awaken as he polished off a piece of toast and warred with himself over what to do with Natalie.
His sister was almost ten years younger than him and most of their childhood had been spent apart at separate boarding schools. He loved his parents, respected them, but would make a different choice when the time came to educate his own children.
If the time ever came, he corrected.
At present, his work was all-consuming. Even if he did find somebody patient enough to put up with the antisocial hours his work dictated, how could he expect them to share the burden of what he carried home each night? When you saw first-hand the violence that one person could do to another, it was hard to shrug it off and speak of other things.
It was easier to remain alone.
“You look thoughtful.”
He turned to see Natalie enter the lounge area, rumpled from sleep.
“I am. I was thinking you should go back home today. I can’t look after you,” he said, as gently as he could.
“I don’t need you to look after me,” she said, testily. “As it happens, I’m between jobs so I came here to look after you, for a change.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“Thanks, but I don’t need anything.”
“Bollocks,” she said, heading across to switch the kettle on. “You need a shave, for a start. There’s designer stubble and then there’s whatever you’ve got on your chin.”
Ryan raised a hand to his face and found it alarmingly bristled.
“I have more important things to worry about,” he muttered.
�
�Temper, temper,” she warned. “You’ve got bags under your eyes so big they could carry shopping and I’ve seen the state of your fridge. Why don’t you let me help for a few days? I can feed you some steak and consider my sisterly duty discharged.”
Ryan checked the time on his watch and shoved the last of his toast in his mouth.
“Fine,” he mumbled. “Just don’t start scattering any cushions about the place.”
* * *
According to Sharon Cooper’s neighbour, her son, Will, had been the last person to see her alive. However, Will Cooper’s recollection of events was very different and so it fell upon Phillips and Lowerson to find out whose version was correct.
“The thing is, son, you can’t go in guns blazing,” Phillips said, as they made their way towards the main entrance of the Dental Hospital, where Will was a student. “The last thing we want is for him to clam up. We need young Will Cooper to tell us as much as possible about his relationship with his mum and he won’t do that if he thinks we’re against him.”
Lowerson nodded vigorously.
“D’ you want to be good cop or bad cop?”
Phillips barked out a laugh.
“Let’s not run before we can walk, eh? We’re not interviewing Al Capone.”
Lowerson was mildly disappointed but recovered quickly.
“He says he was at home on Saturday night, studying, and hadn’t seen his mum for a couple of weeks.”
“And what do you make of that?”
They paused outside the main doors to the Dental Hospital while Lowerson considered the question.
“Cooper’s bank accounts haven’t flagged any unusual activity and no large sums were paid out to anybody, including her son. She wasn’t minted, she got by the same as the rest of us, so there’s no obvious financial motive that I can see for Will Cooper wanting to off his own mother. On the other hand, her neighbour seems adamant it was Will she saw entering his mum’s home on Saturday night, around eight o’clock. I don’t see what possible reason the neighbour would have to lie.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Phillips said, and clapped an arm around the younger man’s shoulder. “You’re growing more cynical and suspicious every day and it’s enough to warm the cockles of m’ old heart. Howay, let’s go and find out whether Will Cooper has any reason to lie.”
* * *
Ryan had been ambushed.
He realised that he should have seen it coming when Gregson rang him twice in the space of half an hour to make sure he was running on time for their supposed progress meeting. He also should have seen it coming when Gregson told him to wear a tie.
And yet, when he entered his superintendent’s office to find the constabulary’s media liaison officer and two of the city’s leading journalists already seated with half-drunk cups of coffee, he was taken aback.
“Sorry, sir, I thought we said ten o’clock.”
“We did, Ryan. Pull yourself together and close the door.”
Ryan did as he was told but remained standing beside the door, in case an emergency exit was required.
Gregson was not fooled.
“Come in and meet Tayo Jackson and Jacqueline Beard, from the BBC and ITV News, respectively.”
“We’ve met before,” Ryan replied. Innate good manners compelled him to shake their outstretched hands.
Two pairs of probing eyes watched him, stripping him bare.
“Sir? I’m sorry to hurry things along but we have quite a busy morning ahead of us.”
Gregson steepled his hands and smiled genially. He recognised the ploy and had used it many times himself.
“It’s time we spoke to the public,” he said, in his usual forthright manner. “It’s necessary, for us and for them. There’s a lot of unease on the streets and it’s time we put their minds at rest.”
“Sir, if I can speak freely?”
Gregson glanced meaningfully at their guests, who listened with unconcealed delight.
“By all means,” he said mildly, but his voice held a warning.
“The public interest is better served by letting our team do its work. Without interruption,” Ryan said. “There’s been enough news coverage of the murders and it’s only inciting more panic.”
“That’s where you come in,” the woman spoke up. “They want to hear from the person leading the investigation. It’s important they see you and connect with you, so they know somebody is fighting to protect them. Otherwise, you’re just another faceless name and rank.”
“This isn’t up for debate,” Gregson put in, before Ryan could argue. “Jacqueline and Tayo have some questions they’d like to ask ahead of a press conference which has been scheduled for eleven. I trust you’ll be able to allay any concerns they might have.”
Ryan stood for one fulminating second, irritation radiating from his body and transmitting itself across the room. But duty and professionalism won out, as they always did.
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
The Dental Hospital in Newcastle resembled any other clinical facility across the land, built sometime in the eighties and with the laissez-faire attitude towards inspiring architecture that characterised the era. It was located next door to the Royal Victoria Infirmary and the university medical school, forming a triangle of buildings within a two-minute walk of each other.
After some time spent navigating a series of badly signposted corridors, Phillips and Lowerson made their way to the Undergraduate Student Office with the intention of finding out Will Cooper’s schedule. Unfortunately, that was not possible, since Will Cooper had been suspended from the university and was not scheduled on any shifts for the foreseeable future.
“Are you sure?”
The administrator glared at them.
“I’m sure,” she said, tapping a long fingernail against her computer keyboard in a staccato rhythm. “He’s been suspended. That’s all I can tell you.”
“Why was he suspended?” Lowerson asked.
She turned her withering gaze on the younger detective with the impressively gelled hair.
“I can’t tell you that. It violates Data Protection, doesn’t it?”
Phillips made a noise somewhere between a growl and a cry.
“We’re from CID,” he said. “It’s information pertinent to our investigation.”
“I don’t care if you’re from Mars,” she retorted. “If you have the proper authority, then you won’t mind putting it in writing, will you?”
Phillips knew when he was beaten.
“Have you got a manager?”
“I am the manager.”
Phillips weighed up the likely success of waging a charm offensive and thought his chances were slim to none.
“We’ll be in touch,” he said.
* * *
Ryan stood outside Police Headquarters dressed once again in his emergency tie and jacket, feeling like a man about to face the gallows. It wasn’t that he minded public speaking or that he disagreed with the general proposition that the public deserved peace of mind. He objected to the whole rigmarole simply because it was premature. There was nothing new to report and nothing he could say that wouldn’t prejudice their investigation. He’d already proven that during the last hour spent answering tedious questions in an overheated room while time continued to march forward.
There was something else to consider, too.
The last person to address the cameras about the murder of Isobel Harris had been DCI Sharon Cooper, less than a week before she’d turned up dead herself. It was a strong possibility that their killer had watched the press conference on television and had taken it upon himself to lash out at the police with her as the figurehead.
As her successor, it was a sobering thought.
“Ryan? We’ll be ready for you in a couple of minutes.”
He nodded and watched the media liaison scurry away clutching a clipboard filled with questions she hoped he would avoid answering.
“How do you intend to play i
t?”
Gregson came to stand beside him while they watched the press gather themselves together, fiddling with microphones and earpieces.
Ryan frowned.
“I’m not playing at anything, sir. I’ll answer any reasonable questions with a truthful response that takes account of the need to reassure the public of their safety and security.”
Gregson nodded.
“Good. You’re up. Oh, and Ryan? Try to look a little less forbidding and a bit more approachable, there’s a good lad.”
Ryan ignored that edict, stepping up to the freestanding microphone and simply waiting until he had their attention. Gregson watched him with interest and thought the man was a chameleon. Ryan could cloak himself in a tailored suit that fit him like a second skin and, suddenly, it was as though the bloke in jeans and shirtsleeves had never existed. That was breeding, he supposed. He knew Ryan came from somewhere down south and suspected his family had a big pile of bricks down there. Probably owned horses and rode with the hunt, too. It had taken a good couple of years to figure out why he’d left his roots behind and chosen a new life in the north after living it up at the Met, in London, but he’d come to realise that the landscape suited his newest Chief Inspector. Ryan might have the airs and graces, and he might know the difference between a Petit Chablis and a Chardonnay, but he had the stomach for the kind of work they did and wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. There was a core of pure ice beneath the pretty face the lasses seemed to love, and his temperament suited the climate.
Right on cue, a light drizzle began to fall.
“Thank you for coming,” Ryan began, in a clear tone that carried across the crowd. “There has been a lot of press coverage over the past few weeks concerning the death of Isobel Harris and, more recently, of my colleague, Sharon Cooper. Before I say anything else, I’d like to start by offering my sincere condolences to their families and loved ones, and to assure them that we are doing everything in our power to bring the person or persons responsible to justice.”
“Are you treating their deaths as linked? Was it the same person, Chief Inspector?”
Ryan turned to the reporter and pinned her with a stare.
“Unofficial reports of that nature have already been circulating in the press thanks to unscrupulous journalism. I have no intention of confirming or denying any element of our active investigation.”
