Holy Island(15)
She fished out the scrap of paper where she’d written the name and number of the person in charge. Detective Chief Inspector Ryan. Gregson had been vague on the details, come to think of it. He had just told her to report to Ryan, who would give her instructions. Apparently, Ryan was based on the island, but she didn’t remember him. There wasn’t a police presence on Lindisfarne that she knew about but her local knowledge was badly out of date. She fingered the piece of paper for a moment then shoved the scrap back in her pocket. Before she went against every instinct she had and stuck her oar into other people’s business, it was time to face her own past.
Ten minutes later, bundled into a smart black woollen coat and jeans, Anna pushed open the door to the Jolly Anchor. She and the plastic Santa exchanged a long look and she took his jovial welcome as a good luck omen. Anna needed it. Inside, the pub was almost exactly as she remembered it when she’d last seen it eight years ago. Stretched along the wall to the right was a long wooden bar with stools taken by the regulars, the surface polished to gleaming. That was different, she thought. When it had been her father standing behind that bar, he hadn’t often taken the trouble to polish the wood. As a child she remembered counting the tiny bar flies which used to gather around the beer spillages while she watched her father pull pints with his big hands.
Big, hard hands.
She blocked the thought and focused on the present, continuing to scan the room. There were old wooden tables scattered in nooks in the main area and each held a pretty carnation sitting in a miniature vase in preparation for the lunch crowd. The table tops had been polished too, their old scars covered over. It was the kind of thing her mother would have liked to do but the old clientele - made up mostly of gnarled fishermen and the disenchanted - wouldn’t have appreciated it. A log fire blazed cheerfully in the huge fireplace which dominated the bar room and a couple lounged in comfortable leather chairs beside it, drinks in hand. A Christmas tree stood, fully decked, in the corner. All in all, it looked like a pleasant place to pass the time.
Anna moved out of the shadow of the doorway, her boots clicking softly on the slate floor. She scanned the room and headed for the bar. Bill Tilson, the landlord, spotted her immediately and let out a cheerful bellow in the Scottish brogue he had never quite lost.
“Anna!”
She smiled and tried to relax when he enveloped her in a bear hug. Bear being the operative word, she thought. The man was well over six feet and an easy two hundred and fifty pounds of red-faced charm. The last time she had seen him, he had been the sole bartender working beside her father, underpaid and underappreciated.
“Not a pickin’ on you,” he grumbled, setting her at arm’s length and casting a critical eye over her. “Girl, you’re so thin you could hide behind a lamp post.”
Anna was lost for words, thinking that anyone would appear thin in comparison with his bulk, but she smiled cheerfully.
“I see you haven’t changed, Billy,” she murmured the old endearment and he smiled warmly in response.
“Well, you’ve done nothing except grow even prettier. Must have been breaking hearts all these years, that’s why you haven’t been back to visit us sooner.”
She swallowed the bittersweet pain and tried to keep things light. “You know me, Bill. The folks at Durham University just call me the Heartbreak Kid.”
He smiled, but the look in his eyes was a knowing one. He still remembered a cute little girl with soft dark hair he liked to ruffle and unhappy brown eyes.
Anna glanced uneasily around the bar. “Is she here?”
Bill ran an uncomfortable hand over his bushy hair and didn’t need to ask who she meant. “Somewhere around here but God knows she comes and goes as she pleases. Ah,” he shifted from foot to foot, “you want me to find her for you?”
Anna looked into his worried eyes and shook her head. “I’ll just wait here awhile, grab a sandwich. I guess she’ll be back soon enough.”
Bill nodded, thinking that all hell would break loose.
* * *
In the square outside, Ryan found himself engaged in the second awkward conversation with his superintendent of the day. He suspected it wouldn’t be the last.
“I’m not asking your permission, Ryan.”
“Sir, I believe the appointment of a civilian consultant is premature at this time.”
Ryan’s teeth set with an audible snap.
Privately, Gregson agreed with him, but he wasn’t willing to take any chances. The press would be all over this case like vultures as soon as they got a sniff. He could almost see the headline now: ‘RITUAL KILLING DESPOILS HOLY ISLAND’. For his part, he wanted the investigation wrapped up quickly and quietly.