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Sycamore Gap: A DCI Ryan Mystery(26)

By:LJ Ross


“Aye, it’s bad taste. What do you plan to do about it?”

Ryan opened his mouth to answer and then heard his desk phone begin to shrill. He wove his way through the other desks and caught the receiver.

“Ryan.”

“It’s MacKenzie,” Denise began, her lyrical accent sounding down through the wires. “I think you’ll want to head up here. There’s been a major development.”

Ryan frowned and his eyes swung up to the clock on the wall above the door.

Eight-forty. The excavation team were due to continue prospecting from eight-thirty. What could have happened, in a mere ten minutes?

“There’s another body,” Denise answered his unspoken question without preamble.

“Where?”

“In the wall cavity.”

Ryan automatically brought the image of the wall cavity back into his mind. It had been fully excavated, the day before.

“You mean, further along?”

“No, I mean we’ve found another body inside the same cavity,” MacKenzie reiterated. “And this one is as fresh as they come.”

“Secure the scene, contact Pinter and Faulkner. No – I repeat – no leaks to the press. No access, no interviews, I want it locked down. Tell Freeman to halt excavation work because this one takes priority for the moment. I’m leaving now.”

Ryan replaced the receiver slowly, his mind working overtime. Overnight, once the ground team had packed up their gear, person or persons unknown had snuck up there to make another deposit, taking advantage of the momentary lack of police presence. Was it a case of opportunism? Had somebody decided to broadcast their own foray into crime, taking advantage of the expected media interest?

Whoever it was, they moved fast.

There was one thing Ryan was forced to admit: there was no way that Keir Edwards could have decamped from his snug home in the confines of HMP Frankland to kill and deposit a body, in the space of a few hours. Still, it bore his theatrical style, so Ryan took an extra couple of minutes to put a call through to his contact at the prison.

All prisoners were present and accounted for, including Edwards.

Face thunderous, he gestured to Phillips, who had been listening to the telephone exchange with interest.

“Another drive into the country, then?”

“Yeah. Bring your boots and cancel any lunch plans.”



Less than an hour later, MacKenzie had taken a thorough approach to securing the scene. After making short work of dispatching Professor Freeman, she had ensured that the area remained cordoned off and had issued strict instructions that there should be no access to the press. That didn’t stop local journalists swarming around the entrance to Housesteads Fort, clamouring for a sound bite in time for the lunchtime news, nor the intrepid few who had taken a circuitous route to Sycamore Gap from the other direction. That was dedication to one’s trade, Ryan supposed.

Luckily, police constables manned the entry points, armed with logbooks and serious faces. It was enough to deter even the most hardened hacks, for the time being. As Ryan donned his polypropylene overalls, he could see Faulkner and his team of CSIs were ready to make a start with Jeff Pinter, the pathologist, in tow. Yesterday had been all about searching for clues to the past, with most of the police contingent feeling the silent frustration of having to rely on the expertise of archaeological specialists who weren’t usual members of their team. In other words, they were outsiders, to be distrusted until they proved themselves trustworthy. However, today was a chance for Faulkner to shine. With conditions overnight having been dry and clear, if there was anything to find, he would find it.

With a distinct sense of déjà vu, they made the familiar journey from Housesteads Fort towards Sycamore Gap. It was another fine morning: cottony white clouds moved slowly across the blue skies overhead, pushed along by gentle winds. Only the rustle of their overalls broke the peaceful hush as they made ready to inspect the wall.

As before, they descended into the dip of the landscape. Almost immediately, the scent of death, which had been noticeably absent the day before, assaulted their nostrils as it wafted upwind. Only mild, but definitely there. Ryan felt an uncomfortable clutch in the pit of his stomach.

Moving closer, being careful to leave a few metres between themselves and the wall cavity, they rounded the corner. A few early-hatched maggots had begun to feast on what had formerly been a woman with long dark hair, but now was mere body parts stuffed inside a makeshift tomb. Ryan forced himself to observe and to look upon the waste with dispassion.

God, it was hard.

Like a series of shuttered photographs, which his mind would later recall as nightmares, he took in the scene. The body parts were all an ashen, waxy shade of pale grey, which – together with the fact that there was little blood to be seen around the wall cavity – indicated that she had bled out elsewhere before being transported. Experience told him that the millions of bacteria that lived on inside the body long after it had died had begun the process of putrefaction. This caused the scent of methane and sulphide that carried faintly on the air.