by LJ Ross
“You noticed, eh?”
She laughed.
“Well, anyway, I want to thank you for always keeping faith in me,” she said. “You and Frank have always had my best interests at heart. I appreciate it.”
Ryan smiled.
“Just remember that, when I’m coming to you asking for more resources, and many more outlandish things,” he said.
A reply was on the tip of her tongue, when they were interrupted by one of the constables from Ryan’s team.
“Sir? We’ve just had a report come through,” she said, urgently. “Another body has been found at Marsden.”
Ryan’s face became shuttered.
“Another woman?”
“No, sir, apparently the victim is male.”
“We’re on our way.”
CHAPTER 28
“It’s like what happened to John the Jibber.”
Ryan waited for Phillips to elaborate and, when he didn’t, asked the obvious question.
“Who?”
They stood just inside the opening of a small cave beside the lift shaft at Marsden Grotto, while the storm raged at their backs and the forensics team scurried to protect the scene from the onslaught of wind and rain which swept in from the sea. A large film light had been erected to provide some illumination through the gloom, and its merciless beam was directed upon the sorry sight of a young man’s body which had, until a short while earlier, been swinging limply from a rope attached to the ceiling of the cave by means of an old, rusty hook.
“He was a smuggler, back in the day,” Phillips explained. “Legend says, he sold information about his comrades to Customs and Excise, and they hung him inside a barrel from the roof of this cave until he starved to death, as a punishment. They say he haunts the place, now.”
Ryan looked across at the young man’s contorted face, with its network of broken blood vessels, then at an old barrel lying on its side, nearby.
“He can’t be more than eighteen,” he said, quietly.
Phillips nodded. “Doesn’t look like suicide,” he said, gruffly. “He couldn’t have kicked that heavy barrel over by himself, for one thing.”
“No, it’s not suicide,” Ryan agreed, noting the bruises on the boy’s wrists, and thinking of the matching ones they’d found on his ankles.
“Who found the body?” Phillips asked.
“Owner of the pub,” Ryan replied shortly. “Lowerson’s in there with him now, taking a full statement.”
“I ran a check on him and the Grotto—nothing cropped up.”
“So did I,” Ryan said, with a smile. “Great minds, Frank.”
“Can’t be too careful—”
“Or suspicious,” Ryan put in.
Phillips nodded. “To tell you the truth, I thought they were going to tell me another woman had been found, after all that malarkey, yesterday.”
“Me, too, Frank,” Ryan said. “But, if you’re right, and this is a punishment kill, I think we might have found our anonymous caller…which means there may still be another woman unaccounted for.”
“They wouldn’t kill anyone for a prank call,” Phillips agreed.
“There’s no ID on the body,” Faulkner put in, emerging from the darkness looking very much like a ghost himself, dressed as he was in white polypropylene overalls. “We’ll sweep the whole area, but it’s the same story as the day before yesterday. We’re fighting a losing battle against the elements, here.”
“Just do what you can,” Ryan said.
“We found one interesting feature,” Faulkner said, and went back to retrieve a small evidence bag which he handed to Ryan. “A Bible, with the page turned back at the Book of Job.”
“I haven’t exactly been keeping up with my Bible readings,” Ryan said, as a self-confessed atheist. “Frank? Does the Book of Job resonate with anything here?”
Phillips cast his mind back to his Catholic schooling, and wished he’d paid more attention.
“It’s all about the Problem of Evil, isn’t it?” he said, eventually. “This bloke, Job, has got it all—money, a nice big family and all that—and he’s God-fearin’, n’all. Anyhow, when God’s chattin’ to Satan, like they do over a scone and a cuppa, Satan says he reckons Job wouldn’t be half so pious if he didn’t have all those things in his life. To prove the point, God takes it all away from him and Job still stays loyal.”
“So, it’s a test of faith—and loyalty,” Ryan murmured, looking down at the boy’s body, which now lay atop a heavy sheet of tarpaulin while the CSIs went about their business. “I wonder who Job is, in this analogy.”
“We’ll find out, soon enough,” Phillips said.
“I might have the answer to that,” Yates said, joining their conversation after a brief exchange on the phone. “I’ve just had an update on that list of names and addresses of ‘notable’ families in the Cowgate area. The Nicholsons live within the closest range of that phone box, and the father’s had a few pops for possession and intent to supply, over the years.”
“What’s his name?”
“Gavin Nicholson,” she said. “The wife’s Keeley, and they’ve got two children. A daughter, Rebecca, who’s four or five, and a son, Oliver, who’s…”
She glanced over at the young man lying dead on the floor, and swallowed.
“Sixteen, sir.”
They followed her line of sight, and agreed it could be possible.
“Thanks, Mel. See if anyone’s put in a Missing Persons report, and check the driver’s license database,” Ryan said. “He might have applied for his provisional licence, in which case we’ll have a positive ID before we go and pay Mr Nicholson a visit.”
It took her less than five minutes to procure an answer.
“It’s a match, sir,” Yates said. “Oliver Hayden Nicholson, aged sixteen.”
She held out the DVLA record, which showed a beaming, round-faced boy on their provisional database, one who would never pass his test.
“There’s no record of any Missing Persons report having been made,” she added.
“I’m going to speak to Morrison about setting up some surveillance,” Ryan decided. “If the family is involved, I want to know their movements. In the meantime, let’s go and break the news, Frank.”
* * *
Gavin ‘Gaz’ Nicholson watched the pigs park their car on the kerb at the bottom of his driveway, and decided to finish off the last of his cigarette while he got the measure of who had come to inform him of his son’s death. There were two of them, both men, and he recognised the taller one immediately.
DCI Ryan.
So, the man himself had come, had he?
They were honoured.
He watched Ryan unfold himself from the car and walk around to the kerb, eyes scanning the neighbourhood while he waited for his partner to join him. He wore a smart coat and a smart haircut, Gaz thought, but he carried an air of readiness about him, as though he kept himself tightly on a leash.
Not to be underestimated.
As for the other one, he was another thing entirely. Shorter, and older by more than ten years, he looked exactly what he was: tough, with a stocky, boxer’s physique and knuckles to match.
Gaz stubbed out his cigarette as they made their way up the path, and took a couple of deep breaths while he waited for them to ring the doorbell.
When he heard the daft, ding-dong chime Keeley had installed a few months ago, he made his way down the hallway.
“Who’s that, Gaz?” she called out, from the kitchen.
She was always in the bloody kitchen.
“Dunno,” he lied. “I’ll go and see.”
Ryan’s first impression of Oliver’s father came as a mild surprise.
Though he preferred not to categorise people, after a certain amount of time it was impossible not to form stereotypes when it came to the various types of criminal they were faced with, on a daily basis—and there were many. When it came to drug dealing, they tended to meet men and women who bore the physi
cal effects of having sampled their own product, or having taken or received physical assaults as a matter of course.
However, the man who greeted them at the door was smartly dressed, with a light tan. He wore chinos and a fitted polo shirt, such as they might have found at their local golf course, and, aside from the shadows beneath his eyes, there was no evidence of any recent trauma. From what they could see, his home appeared well-kept, and had been recently decorated.
“Can I help you?”
“Are you Gavin Nicholson?”
“Aye, who’s askin’?”
“DCI Ryan and DS Phillips, Northumbria CID,” Ryan said, and they held out their warrant cards for his inspection.
Gaz didn’t bother to look. “What d’ you want?”
“May we come inside, please, Mr Nicholson?”
It was still raining heavily.
“Not until you tell me what this is all about,” he repeated, folding his arms across his chest.
“Gaz? Who is it?” Keeley asked again, from over his shoulder.
A moment later, she appeared, squinting at the first light she’d seen that day. When she caught sight of Ryan, she dragged the ties of her dressing gown together and patted a self-conscious hand to her hair.
“These two are from the police,” he said.
She looked them up and down. “Well, howay, let them in, it’s pourin’ out there!”
“Thanks, Missus,” Phillips said, injecting some warmth into his voice for her benefit. “We need to speak to the both of you, as it happens.”
She led them through to the sitting room, and waved towards an enormous L-shaped sofa, which they politely declined in favour of standing on the far side of the room, by the window.
“Well?” Gaz repeated.
Ryan straightened his shoulders, looked him in the eye, and said the words he’d said to so many other parents—this time, without the same open-minded sympathy he might otherwise have felt.
“I regret to inform you that your son, Oliver, was found dead this morning,” he said, watching closely for the man’s reaction. “We’re very sorry for your loss.”
“What?” Keeley whispered. “What did he just say, Gaz?”
Her husband looked down at the floor, then across to her, belatedly remembering he ought to be consoling her, as any normal husband would.
“They said they’ve found Oliver dead,” he said, and moved across to put an awkward arm around her shoulders.
She might have been surprised by the unusual display of affection, if she wasn’t trying to compute what had just been said.
“That’s—that’s just nonsense,” she argued, and her voice began to rise as hysteria took hold. “Ollie’s at school. Tell them, Gaz.”
“You’ve got it wrong,” he said, and tried to sound like he believed it.
“I’m afraid there’s no mistake,” Ryan said. “However, we will need one of you to come down and make a formal identification.”
Keeley began to wail, and tears spilled from her bloodshot eyes, running in tracks down her face.
“Gaz—I—I—”
She sank onto the nearest chair and, when Gaz looked down at her with the expression of a man who didn’t know what to do, Phillips stepped into the breach.
“Have you got any tissues, Mr Nicholson?” he asked. “With your permission, I could make your wife a cup of tea?”
Gaz hardly wanted them nosing around his house.
“I’ll get it,” he said, and sent a warning glance towards his wife, before leaving the room.
Ryan moved to sit on a chair beside her, taking full opportunity of the man’s brief absence.
“We’re very sorry, Mrs Nicholson,” he said again.
It seemed she hadn’t heard him, but then she looked up and sought out his eyes. “Is it true?”
Ryan nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
Her face crumpled again, her body heaving.
“Mrs Nicholson? I’m sorry to have to ask you any questions at a time like this,” Ryan said, keeping an eye on the door. “But, could you tell me when you last saw Oliver—Ollie?”
She hiccupped, and opened her mouth to speak.
“Last night,” Gaz interrupted, from the doorway. “He went to bed around ten, as usual.”
“You didn’t see him for breakfast this morning, before school?” Phillips queried.
Gaz set a cup of tea on the table beside his wife, who looked at it as though it might be poisoned. “I left for work before eight,” he said, and Ryan glanced meaningfully at the clock on the mantle, which read ten-thirty.
“You’re home early,” he observed.
Gaz thought quickly.
“I’d left something at home,” he explained. “I was planning to head back, when you arrived.”
“What line of business are you in?” Ryan asked.
“Scrap metal and salvage,” he said, after an infinitesimal pause. That was their legitimate front, at least.
This time, it was Phillips who sent a meaningful glance around the room, and over Gaz’s attire.
“Business must be boomin’,” he remarked. “Back in my day, workin’ the scrap was a messy job.”
Gaz said nothing.
“Been on holiday, lately?” Phillips prodded, eyeing up the man’s tan.
Again, Gaz remained silent, and so Ryan turned his focus back to Keeley. “Mrs Nicholson? When was the last time you saw Ollie?”
“I’ve already told you, it was last night,” Gaz said.
Ryan gave him a long look. “I’d like to ask Mrs Nicholson, please.”
“I don’t want her upset,” Gaz said. “If you have any questions, you can ask me.”
“Oh, I will,” Ryan said. “Don’t worry, Mr Nicholson.”
When any further questioning was met with stony silence, they knew their time was up.
“One final thing, Mrs Nicholson,” Ryan said, as they prepared to leave.
She raised her head, and tried to focus.
“Your son was found hanged,” he said, looking across to her husband. “With a Bible tucked inside his jacket, marked at the Book of Job. We’re treating his death as murder, not suicide.”
She dissolved into fresh tears and, this time, when Gaz laid a reluctant hand on her shoulder, she shrugged it away.
“We’ll see ourselves out,” Phillips said.
* * *
Outside, Ryan stood for a moment beside his car, letting the rain wash against his face.
“He never asked, Frank,” he said. “He never asked how his son died.”
Phillips nodded, and looked back towards the house.
“Neither did she,” he said.
Ryan ran his hands over his hair, slicking back the water, and got behind the wheel again.
“They’ll close ranks,” he said. “If we could only get her alone—”
“He’ll not let her out of his sight,” Phillips said. “She’s a liability to him.”
Ryan sat there for a minute, thinking of the boy who’d risked his life to save another, even though it went against every principle he’d been taught and every instinct of self-preservation.
“They’re not all lost causes, are they, Frank? Sometimes, we’re the ones who fail.”
Phillips thought of his own upbringing, with all its hardships and imperfections, and nodded.
“Sometimes the apple rolls away from the tree,” he agreed. “If we’d only had another day, we might’ve found the lad and been able to take him somewhere safe. But there isn’t anything we failed to do, lad. It’s what his own kin failed to do that matters.”
Ryan started the engine.
“Let’s make his sacrifice worth something, and find those other women, Frank.”
CHAPTER 29
Lawana awakened to another day, and to the familiar, shaking feeling of drugs withdrawal.
She didn’t know what the man had injected her with, the night before, but it had made her sleepy afterwards, for which she was grateful.
&n
bsp; When memories snapped at the corners of her mind, they were violently thrust away.
There were some things she would never choose to remember.
But she recalled the blinking light of the camcorder, sitting on its tripod, and the flash of an old-fashioned polaroid camera, again and again. She wanted to flay her own skin as she remembered the feel of his hands washing her body with pungent soap, every crevice and corner, every intimate place, until he was satisfied that she was clean enough for him to despoil.
After that, her mind closed the door.
She’d wished for death, all the way through the night, and yet it hadn’t come. She’d waited for it, waited for him to choose his implement and strike, and had made her peace with God long before the first blow.
Yet, it seemed she had pleased him, because he’d spoken tenderly to her at the end, mopping up the blood and dabbing at her wounds, before leaving her there to wait and wonder how long it would take him to come back for seconds.
Slowly, she came around, and saw things clearly again.
She had not survived this long to die such a death, at the hands of such a man.
She refused.
Lawana pushed herself up onto her elbows to survey the room again, ignoring the headache raging at the base of her skull and the dull, painful ache between her legs.
The door was locked, there were no windows or air vents, no telephones or other means of contacting the outside world, and she had no use of her legs. These were the basic facts; therefore, the chances of her escaping were almost zero, and any remote chance was entirely dependent on her actions. She’d considered the possibility of trying to befriend him, or otherwise build some sort of rapport, such that he might keep her alive long enough for her to formulate a better plan.
But she saw nothing behind his eyes she could appeal to; no spark of human kindliness she could hope to ignite.
She’d spent much of the previous day shouting and screaming, banging on the door with all her might, but nobody had come. She had to assume, then, that the place where she was being held was somewhere remote, or otherwise sound-proofed.
He was no fool, that one.
