Sycamore Gap: A DCI Ryan Mystery(106)
Paddy struggled against the metal but eventually allowed himself to be lifted to his knees, then to his feet. Ryan stood apart, eyeing him with flat, emotionless eyes.
“This time, Paddy, it’ll be me asking the questions.”
When Ryan returned to the Incident Room, Anna was sitting back with a cup of lukewarm sludge and a Jaffa Cake, laughing along with Jeff Pinter and Tom Faulkner like old friends. On his arrival, all three came to attention.
“Ryan? What happened?”
Knowing what Donovan had intended, or at least having his suspicions proved correct, did not give Ryan any pleasure. It made his face hard and his voice harder.
“Exactly as we planned. Donovan confessed to Amy’s murder and there’s a truckload of evidence at his house. Faulkner? I need you to get over there and start going over it. We still don’t know where he killed them. See if your infrared lamps can uncover a kill site.”
Back to work, Faulkner thought, but with a degree of optimism he hadn’t felt in a long while. He murmured his thanks to Anna and made ready to round up his team.
“Jeff? Babysitting duty’s over. You had a date tonight. Why don’t you see if she’s still available?”
Pinter thought wistfully of the attractive blonde woman he’d met through an online dating service. He’d been nervous as a schoolboy but strangely relieved to receive Ryan’s call for help. It meant he was still one of the team.
“Maybe we can have a late bite to eat,” he agreed, smiling fondly at Anna in farewell.
Anna hadn’t seen this particular mood on Ryan, before. He was prowling around, but instead of facing her with that direct, merciless stare which was so much a part of his personality, his eyes were evasive. In fact, they were avoiding her.
“Ryan? What’s the matter?”
She stood up and moved across to face him.
He didn’t answer directly but jerked a thumb in the direction of the door.
“What’s the beef with Faulkner?”
Anna crossed her arms, not appreciating the tone.
“Perhaps you should ask him –”
“I have,” Ryan bit out.
“In that case, you should be aware that Tom’s been having some financial troubles lately. We had a bit of a chat about how he could try to manage, juggle things around a bit, that sort of thing.”
Ryan listened with half an ear. He might have known it would be something completely prosaic that was troubling Faulkner. He’d have to have a word with him, talk about how the department could help. Hell, if the man was that hard up, he’d give him a loan. Thanks to various wealthy ancestors, money was one thing he didn’t need to worry about.
He watched Anna and felt again the burning guilt of having so nearly been the reason for her coming to harm. If he’d been too late, if he’d missed a clue, she might have been the next to be found inside a wall cavity up on a miserable, windy hill somewhere.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” She tried again.
“Nothing’s the matter,” he snapped. “Jesus! Why does it always have to be talk, talk, talk? It’s been a long day, chasing down a killer. How do you expect me to behave?”
Her eyes narrowed into angry slits.
“You could start by at least being civil,” she snapped.
“Sorry, princess, my manners fly out of the window when I’m trying to deal with homicidal maniacs,” he flung back.
Anna wouldn’t humiliate herself by becoming emotional. He didn’t deserve such consideration. Instead, she walked back to the desk to retrieve her bag and coat.
“I’ll be at my home,” she said quietly. “You know where to find me, when you’re in a better mood.”
He could have stopped her, called her back. Instead, he watched her leave the Incident Room with her back straight and her head high. He knew he had behaved like a prize tosser. He knew the reason for it, as well. He couldn’t stand being faced with her, alive and well, so soon after reading Donovan’s detailed notes on how he had planned to mutilate her.
“Ryan has a prize, but it will bring him down a few pegs once I claim her,” the man had written. “What then, for his fragile psyche? Will he try to avenge, or crumble?”
It wouldn’t have been about Anna, he realised. Her death would have been a means to hurt him; a means for Donovan to prove his superiority, once again, just as he had killed Amy Llewellyn to cheat another man out of the pleasure.
Like a revolving door, Phillips entered as Anna left. Instead of her usual friendly ‘Hello, Frank!’ she offered him a murmured farewell. Her eyes looked suspiciously damp.
“’Bye, pet,” he said in return and then faced Ryan with a look of parental disappointment.