Sycamore Gap: A DCI Ryan Mystery(22)

“Are you trying to say that I’m … impolite?”

Now, she laughed.

“Let’s just say that you don’t suffer fools gladly,” she qualified. “Besides, I think I would have recognised by now if you were a raging nutter.”

“True,” he mused. “Very true. But they do exist. We know that better than most.”

She had to agree with him there.

“If you manage to keep hold of this investigation, it might be … difficult.”

He had thought of that.

“Anna, if you want me to pass this over, I will.”

She looked down at their joined hands and smiled.

“I know that you would, but I also know that it would eat away at you, having to watch from the sidelines.”

He said nothing. She was right, after all.

“I just want us both to be prepared for what might come,” she added. “It’s always painful to rake up the past, and you have to be careful not to let it influence your decisions in the present.”

He turned and kissed her, very gently.

“I love you.”

“Ditto.”

There was another long pause while the playlist switched to Dusty Springfield.

“Here’s a question,” Anna said. “Why hide the body in the wall, at that particular spot? It’s quite memorable, isn’t it? Do you think her killer attached some sort of meaning to it?”

Ryan crushed her against him for an unexpected kiss before releasing her again.

“What was that for?”

“You’d have made a good detective.”



News travelled fast in certain circles. The man replaced his telephone receiver and the room fell silent. With an economy of movement, he re-crossed his legs and reached for the crystal tumbler on the antique side table beside him. Floor lights cast shadows here and there; large, leafy plants accented the space and tasteful landscapes adorned the magnolia walls. Each item had been chosen and positioned with care and an eye for aesthetic.

He liked beautiful things.

As the alcohol warmed his tongue and shot through his oesophagus down to his belly, he allowed himself to open the door to memories. He could admit to a certain measure of unease when he had first heard about the discovery, but that had passed quickly. Now, he settled back against the cognac-coloured leather and consciously relaxed his body and mind, to enjoy the remembrance. Excitement shot through his loins, as he thought of that first time.

The first time was always the sweetest.

All these years, he had basked in the knowledge that Amy would, forever, be his. Only he had known her final resting place, only he had known the exquisite, omnipotent pleasure of having taken her life.

Now that she had been found, another man would be credited with her death. He should be thankful that nobody even suspected his involvement. He should be grateful that he could continue, happily enjoying his life’s work without fear of exposure.

Yet his fingers trembled on the heavy glass at his side with growing rage.

Edwards dared to try to take what was rightfully his? Again?

He could not allow that to happen.



After night had fallen on the longest day of the year, those from the island and from the mainland met on consecrated ground beneath a star-studded sky. The High Priest cast his sword high above his head and called to the Master, while his circle of followers fell on bended knee to celebrate the summer solstice.

The High Priest watched them dispassionately, understanding that not all of them truly believed. Yet, all of them appreciated the rewards of loyalty, which they had each earned in one way or another.

He recognised Jane Freeman, naked but for the long black cloak and animal mask which covered her face and half of her bright blonde hair. She had been an early convert, all those years ago, when another High Priest had presided over their circle. Hers had been a necessary conversion, following her accidental discovery of things that were not for the public domain. He had to respect her obstinacy in making her demands; he might have done the same himself.

But there could be only one High Priest, a position he presently occupied and intended to continue occupying for many years to come. He would brook no competition to his authority and there would be no mutiny.

He had made examples of others before and would not hesitate to do so again.

After the small crowd scattered back to their cars, three remained, dressed once again in their ordinary clothes.

“Why are you allowing him to remain in charge of the investigation?”

The High Priest snapped out the question which was in the forefront of his mind, causing him the most unease.

Gregson spread his hands in supplication.

“If I give him enough rope, he will hang himself. He believes there’s a connection between Amy Llewellyn and Edwards.”