Ryan remembered having asked the same question six months’ earlier, on the windy summit of an island priory.
“It’s the summer solstice,” he said quietly. “Neo-pagans and several other religions including Christianity consider the date an important one.”
“Aye,” Phillips said, turning to the detective constable. “But what you really need to know is that those loonies we caged up on Holy Island thought that the solstice was important. Now, we’re wondering if there isn’t somebody else out there thinking the same thing.”
“Or if it’s somebody else, at all.” Ryan muttered.
CHAPTER 8
The list of ‘More Important Things’ that he could be doing was many and varied, Ryan thought. He could be investigating two murders, which, unless he was very much mistaken, was about to turn into an investigation of several older murders, too. When he had, with rigid calm, tried to explain this to his superior officer less than thirty minutes’ ago, his remonstrations had been met with a bland look and a force as strong as iron.
“We made a deal, Ryan. An appointment has been made for you. If you choose not to keep it, you will be removed from this investigation.”
With almost anybody else, Ryan might have been tempted to call his bluff and blow off the appointment with the departmental psychiatrist and to hell with the consequences. But one look at Gregson’s face told him that the man was serious.
That was how, instead of interviewing potential suspects, he found himself sitting awkwardly in the waiting room of the serviced office building where Doctor Patrick Donovan worked. He had been here many times before, mainly to attend what they liked to call ‘psychological supervision’, which all officers in his line of work were required to submit to from time to time, particularly following a difficult case. Over the years, he had seen more than his fair share. Those sessions had never bothered him greatly. They constituted a sixty-minute chat with someone who had, much to Ryan’s surprise, turned out to be a very amiable person. Patrick “Paddy” Donovan was a man very comfortable in his own slightly sagging skin. Hair which had once been as black as Ryan’s was now peppered with grey as he edged closer to fifty and there was a definite paunch beneath the linen shirt he wore, but in general he was a man unfazed by the passing years.
No, Ryan mused, he had no personal grievance with Paddy Donovan, but he did have a problem with what he represented. Voluntarily arranged, promptly-attended sessions which came part-and-parcel with his job had morphed into strictly enforced appointments recommended by the occupational therapist attached to the Northumbria Police Constabulary. Following his sister’s death, he had not been left to grieve in private. The press had hounded him, hungry for a glimpse of the detective who had failed to stop the man who killed his own sister. Then, pressure had come to bear from the Powers That Be, who felt that it would be in everybody’s best interests if he attended some sessions with Doctor Donovan.
You know, just to get a few things off his chest.
He could understand that the department wanted to cover its own arse. The last thing they wanted was a prominent murder detective suing them for post-traumatic stress disorder or something equally predictable.
Not that he ever would have. He considered Natalie’s death to be his fault and his alone. He may not have wielded the knife, but he had enabled a dangerous man to keep killing.
There was nobody who could convince him otherwise, though they had tried.
Ryan leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees and looked at the beige carpet. It was the same colour as the carpet tiles in the Incident Room, but managed to look a whole lot more plush. That was what a career in private practice gave you, he surmised. Healthy-looking potted palm trees, a fancy coffee machine, magazine subscriptions on a glass coffee table and thick-pile carpet.
Presently, the door to Paddy’s office swung open and the man himself appeared in the doorway, his healthy bulk filling most of it. With a gentle arm, he ushered a young man through the door who had the mottled skin of someone who had recently been crying.
“Keep in mind what we discussed today. Drive safely and I’ll see you at the same time next week.”
He watched the man leave and sighed deeply before turning to his next patient with a smile that lit up his entire face.
“Maxwell!”
Ryan winced as he rose from his chair. Only a small handful of people knew his full name, Maxwell Charles Finlay-Ryan, let alone called him that.
“Ryan. Just, Ryan.”
The other man boomed out a laugh and held both hands up.
“Honest mistake!” But his eyes twinkled with humour. If it was intended to be an icebreaker, it worked, because Ryan found himself smiling too.