Holy Island(13)

Ryan had followed them through to a tidy living room with a comfortable feel. The first things he had seen were the framed pictures of Lucy, her smiling image on the mantle and the window sill. Helen must have read something in his eyes because her hand instantly groped around for Daniel’s and he grasped it. Ryan stood there and watched them shatter as he had told them their daughter had been killed. He tried to keep his mind detached, his eyes watchful as he had given them the news that their lives would never be the same again. He had steeled himself while he watched Helen Mathieson clutch a hand to her womb, a heart breaking reminder of what she had lost, before she collapsed onto the sofa.

He had watched the father, too. Lucy had been found nude and although he hoped otherwise, the manner of her death wouldn’t rule out sexual assault. Daniel Mathieson had been on the island all night, he said, and Ryan recalled that most victims knew their killers and many lived under the same roof. Knowing that fact had not helped to ease the constriction in his chest while he had questioned a couple who displayed all the signs of complete emotional breakdown.

“Why, why has this happened? Who would do this?” Helen had moaned the words.

“I’m going to do my best to find those answers for you, Mrs Mathieson.”

“No, no, no,” Helen had begun to rock, her sobs guttural, still in denial. “It can’t be Lucy,” she shook her head vehemently, her eyes both pleading and angry. “You’ve made a mistake. It isn’t Lucy.”

“Ssh, Helen,” her husband tried to soothe a pain which he felt keenly himself.

“Your daughter has been identified, Mrs Mathieson.”

Still she shook her head, angry jerks from side to side while her eyes burned into him. “I’ve told you it can’t be. Lucy was out with friends last night and she’s probably staying over at Rachel’s house. I’ll ring her now and then you’ll see.”

Helen surged upwards, her eyes frantic as she looked around for the phone. Her husband scrubbed both hands across his face before pushing himself wearily off the sofa to follow her.

“Come on, Helen, come on now.”

Ryan watched their half-hearted tussle until Helen had simply sagged against her husband, emotionally exhausted and sobbing bitter, vicious tears which shook her body.

He waited patiently for the worst to subside. He knew that any normal person would have left them to their heartache, rather than spectating. He wasn’t a normal person, though, and he had a job to do.

“I’m sorry to have to ask you this now,” he began gently, waiting for them to raise their eyes to his face. He realised they had forgotten he was still there. “I need to ask you some important questions about Lucy, about where she was last night and about her life and her habits so that I can bring her killer to justice.”

“How…how…” Helen couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence, but Ryan knew what she wanted to ask. They always wanted to know.

“We haven’t determined that yet, Mrs Mathieson.” He had a good idea, but until the pathologist confirmed cause of death, there was nothing he could tell her.

“You said ‘killer’,” Daniel spoke quietly. “How do you know there wasn’t an accident of some kind?”

Always sticky, Ryan thought.

“The manner in which we found her doesn’t indicate an accident, Mr Mathieson.”

“Was there…” Helen drew in several deep breaths. “Was she hurt, you know, that way?” Her eyes pleaded with him, begged him to tell her that her baby girl had died quickly and without pain, without the terror of sexual assault. He wished that he could.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Mathieson, we don’t know any of those details yet. We’ll be working hard to find out.”

Helen dissolved into fresh tears, the knuckles on her hands turned white as she gripped her husband’s arm. Daniel Mathieson drew on some inner strength to face Ryan, to lift his head and meet his gaze squarely.

“We’ll tell you anything we can.” There was anger underneath the misery, Ryan could see. Beneath the mild-mannered man, there was a father, and beneath that there was a hard knot of impotent anger. He could give the man something to focus his anger on.

“Thank you, Mr Mathieson.” He took out his notebook. “Let’s begin with her movements last night. Can you tell me what Lucy did yesterday?”

“Lucy was with me,” Helen whispered. “We drove over to Morpeth and had lunch, did some shopping.” Tears coursed down the woman’s ravaged face, which had aged visibly.

“Around what time was that, Mrs Mathieson?” Ryan kept his voice low and careful.