Then she shuddered to a standstill, her knees buckling.
“Bruno!”
Automatically, she called her dog back from its exploration of what lay ahead. Horror came next, with an acid flavour. Retching against the bile which flooded her throat, Liz stumbled backwards, her body unconsciously denying what her eyes could not. She struggled to breathe, to get past the first waves of shock. Eventually, she forced herself to look again.
The girl who had been Lucy Mathieson lay naked on a thick altar. Crumbled stone walls sheltered her from the worst of the wind and sea and brought a certain solemnity. Her body was arranged carefully, arms and legs spread-eagled to remove all vestiges of dignity, even in death. Ugly bruises smudged the lifeless skin on her throat and arms. Long dark hair lay fanned out behind her in a graceful arc, matted with blood at her temple and damp from the rain which had fallen overnight. Her eyes, which had once been a lively cornflower blue, were now filmed white and stared unseeingly towards the new dawn.
* * *
In a cottage on the other side of the village, Ryan knocked back his first cup of coffee and savoured the hit of caffeine as it swam through his veins. He’d spent another sleepless night listening to the waves slapping against the shore, wishing for oblivion. He moved to a window overlooking the causeway and rested his tall frame against the wooden sill. Eyes the same colour as the overcast sky watched the tide roll smoothly back towards the sea and he knew that, in another hour or so, the causeway road would be open from the island to the mainland. Lights flickered on the other side of the channel and provided small consolation that he was not the only soul awake at that hour. Another five minutes, he told himself, and he would go for that run he’d been putting off for weeks.
“Yeah, right.” He muttered, watching a couple of two-man fishing boats heading back towards the harbour.
As a kestrel swooped low on the rocky beach outside his window, his thoughts turned to work.
You’re not at work, came the sly reminder that his services would not be required by the Northumbria Police Constabulary in the immediate future. His lip curled and he dragged a hand through disordered, coal black hair.
“Arseholes,” was all he said, but he was more angry with himself. The department had suggested that he take a leave of absence for at least three months. As if they knew what was best for him.
As if they had given him a choice.
He rested his forehead against the cold glass of the window. Taking time away from the job could be the best thing he’d ever done. Only problem was, he had too much time on his hands. The quiet had a way of opening the door to memories best forgotten.
Heavy-lidded eyes drooped wearily then flew open again at the sound of a sharp bang. He had a brief moment to think that it could have been the sound of the brutal hangover rattling around his head, then the sound came again, more insistent this time. He pushed himself away from the window towards the door.
The banging grew louder.
“Yes – I’m coming!” The smooth accent became more clipped when he raised his voice. A leftover from his days spent in a boarding school where the Queen’s English wasn’t just expected, it was demanded, along with appropriate dress and manners. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he caught his reflection in the hallway mirror.
Not exactly abiding by house rules, there, Ryan, he thought, noting the rumpled wool jumper and faded jeans, the stubble on his jaw.
Maxwell Charles Finley-Ryan. He preferred just ‘Ryan’. Life was complicated enough without adding a series of ridiculous names into the mix.
He fiddled with the locks and eventually the door swung open. He struggled to place the woman who stood shivering in front of him. Mid-fifties, trim, with short, ash blonde hair styled in a bob which was currently weather blown and damp. Her hands clutched at the lapels of her anorak and shook slightly. A dark brown Labrador whimpered at her heels.
Dawn? Jeanette? He thought he had seen her working in one of the craft shops in the village.
“Ah…” he tried to remember the basic social graces but she cut across him, the words tumbling out of numb lips.
“I found her up at the Priory. You have to come with me.”
Ryan lifted a brow, but instinct was setting in. Her pupils were like pinpricks. Her hands shook and her breathing was unsteady.
“OK, look…Liz,” he remembered with a flash of insight that she had sold him a flowery scented candle he’d sent to his mother. “Come inside, out of the cold.”
“No, no, you have to come now.” Her body shuddered as he tried to take her arms in a gentle grip.
“I’m going to help you, but first you need to come inside and sit down.”