A short pause, to convey regret.
“Doctor Donovan was arrested for the murder of three women: Amy Llewellyn, whose body was found at Sycamore Gap on Sunday morning; Claire Burns, whose body was found at the same location on Monday; and Geraldine Hart, a seventy-three-year-old woman who was found dead in her home on Tuesday.”
“Did he kill himself to avoid being tried for his crimes?”
Gregson nodded wisely.
“We can only assume that Donovan could no longer live with his actions.”
There was a barrage of questions, until Gregson held up both hands to quieten the din.
“We are still piecing together the evidence in our possession,” he qualified, “but we strongly believe that Donovan intended to frame another man for his crimes. To that man, who has suffered the indignity of police questioning, we offer an apology on behalf of Northumbria CID.”
“What?” Phillips was about to blow a fuse, as he listened to the bumf. “Colin Hart connects to Donovan and Edwards! It was a legitimate line of enquiry, damn it!”
“We have since released that man without charge,” Gregson was saying. “And hope that his life will no longer be marred by the wrongful suspicions of certain police staff.”
“What? You were the bastard who was convinced it was Colin who did it!” Phillips nearly shouted at Gregson, but stopped himself in time.
“Where’s Ryan?” One observant journalist shouted out the question and Gregson smiled to himself, having anticipated it.
“Owing to certain … regrettable decisions made during the course of the investigation, Detective Chief Inspector Ryan has been suspended from his duties pending further enquiry. You may rest assured that all further matters relating to the deaths of those women will be handled under the unbiased, careful eyes of other highly competent members of Northumbria CID.”
“Are you saying DCI Ryan couldn’t handle the pressure? Did he harass Keir Edwards?”
“Did DCI Ryan overlook important evidence?”
“Where is DCI Ryan now?”
“Please, please,” Gregson raised his hands again. “It would be inappropriate for me to discuss any further details relating to what remains an internal matter –”
In the shadows, Phillips snarled, MacKenzie bared her teeth and Lowerson felt a burgeoning sense of disillusionment. Was this the reason he had joined the police force, to stab his fellow men in the back?
“Was the Circle involved?”
Gregson faltered, just for a second, seeking out the source of the question. His eyes came to rest on a sharp-eyed young woman, with a mic extended in her left hand.
“There is no Circle,” he said stiffly.
“There are rumours that one of the women was ritually marked, as with some of the victims on Holy Island,” the journalist persisted. “What if the dead doctor was part of the Circle? Is it still operating?”
Gregson felt a line of sweat trickle down his spine, beneath his dress suit.
“Any cult circle which previously operated on Holy Island has since been disbanded,” he said quickly. “Next question.”
“Amy Llewellyn went missing around 21st June 2005,” the journalist hammered on, for all to hear. “There are at least eight other women on the Missing Persons Database who were reported missing on or around 21st June, for a period of over ten years. That looks like ritual, doesn’t it? Will you be conducting a further search of the area around Sycamore Gap?”
Of all the questions he had anticipated, it was the one Gregson wanted to answer the least. To open the search would be tantamount to opening a can of worms. Big ones.
“Once we have reviewed all of the evidence –”
“JUSTICE! JUSTICE FOR THE DEAD!” A man shouted from somewhere in the crowd. Following his lead, several reporters shouted out, calling for a thorough search. Gregson was starting to feel faint. He could already see the local and national news, plastered with the sorrowful faces of family whose loved ones had gone missing around the solstice.
Things were spiralling out of control.
From their position on the outskirts, Phillips and MacKenzie regarded Lowerson with a new level of respect. Out of nowhere, the man had dissolved into the crowd and shouted his plea, thereby ensuring that the case would not be brushed under the carpet with the kind of ‘hush-hush’ method Gregson had been angling for.
“Good lad,” Phillips approved, with a hearty nudge in the ribs.
On the television monitor in the National Heritage visitor’s centre on Holy Island, Doctor Mark Bowers watched Gregson’s performance with a keen eye. The man looked nervous, he thought, and there had been no mention of them having lost any young detective constables during the course of the investigation.