Sycamore Gap: A DCI Ryan Mystery(49)

Anna rubbed a hand in soothing circles over the planes of his back and up to the tight cords of muscle in his neck.

“Ssh,” she soothed, drawing his brittle body towards her, offering what comfort she could.

He allowed himself to be enfolded and drank deeply of her warmth, inhaling her scent, clutching her soft body to him.

“What can I do?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing anybody can do.”

Those disconsolate words concerned her more than anything else. A long time later, when he fell into a light, fitful sleep at her breast, she lay awake and worried.





CHAPTER 11


Tuesday, June 23rd 2015

Northumberland was an overcast grey the following morning. Thick blocks of cloud sat heavily in the sky and seemed to accentuate the cheap grey-tinged exterior of CID Headquarters. The building was an anachronism sandwiched between more classic structures, having been built during the 1960’s which had, in Ryan’s view, been a bad era for architecture.

He glanced at his watch as he headed for the stairwell.

Seven-fifteen.

After a disturbed night, he had eventually woken up for good just after five. To jumpstart his system, he’d left Anna to sleep peacefully while he grabbed his muddied trainers and went for a long, muscle-warming run around the empty streets of Durham. There was an eerie beauty to the place, which reminded him of fantasy elven cities in The Lord of the Rings. It had stateliness; grandeur blended with classic town planning which spoke of untold wealth in days gone by.

While his feet pounded the cobbled streets, things had begun to order themselves in his mind.

That was why he was here, in the chilly Incident Room, long before his contractual hours formally began. Hell, who was counting anymore? It took however long it took, until the job was done.

Alone, he spent fifteen silent minutes staring at the murder board, sipping intermittently from a take-away coffee cup he’d purchased from the little van parked along the street. It was owned by a man who worked as an estate agent from nine ‘til five, and then sold tea, coffee and steak pies outside those hours.

Possibilities roamed his mind, twisting this way and that, until the lines of enquiry presented themselves.

He took another hour and a half to re-read all the relevant paperwork that had been generated so far. Telephone enquiries, witness statements, forensic and archaeological reports.

“Morning, guv.”

He could have predicted that Phillips would be the first to step over the threshold. As always, his eye was drawn to his sergeant’s colourful ensemble and he noticed that today’s tie of choice was a sporty little number: bright green, covered with tiny black-and-white footballs.

Ryan pointed to the large take-away cup sitting atop Phillips’ desk. Caffeine was one of life’s basic needs, after all.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Phillips said, making a grab for the cup and gulping down some of the murky brown liquid, which had been sweetened according to his preference.

“Rough night?”

“You’re telling me. That woman is an animal.”

Ryan held off a shudder. Much as he liked his sergeant and DI MacKenzie, much as he was happy for them, he didn’t want to know any details. Especially not any details.

Uncaring, Phillips ploughed on.

“I’m telling you, she’s just got so much energy. If I wasn’t half the man I am,” Frank adopted what he thought was a manly stance, “I would be worried for my health.”

“Frank, for pity’s sake …” Would it be childish to stick his fingers in his ears?

“I loved my wife, God rest her soul,” Phillips tapped a hand to his heart as he thought of his first wife who had died years earlier. “But this is a whole new kettle of fish.”

“I get the picture,” Ryan drawled. “You’re a Studly Stud from Studsville. You’re the Man of the Moment. You’re Mister Lover-Lover. Anything else?”

Phillips pursed his lips, thought about it and then shook his head.

“That covers it.”

“Thank God. Now, do you mind if we get down to business?”

Phillips plopped down in his desk chair and flipped open his notepad.

“I spent some time last night going over what we know about Amy Llewellyn,” he began.

“Was that before, or after?” Ryan queried, then waved a hand. “Forget I asked.”

“Before. I managed to speak to Amy’s old housemate on the phone, which is the only way we’re likely to get hold of her, since she’s now living in Australia. She remembers things pretty well,” Phillips continued. “They went to school together and they were both studying medicine at Newcastle, same year, same course.”

“She should have some decent observations, then?”