Sycamore Gap: A DCI Ryan Mystery(76)

This was worth the price of a ticket.

Ryan stormed out of the house after Faulkner, who was unzipping his overalls on the driveway outside.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at, but the joke’s over. If you’re in the middle of a mid-life crisis, you’re going to have to shelve the histrionics because we’ve got more important things to think about. Such as lives already lost and lives which could be lost if we don’t find this fruitcake.”

Faulkner pushed his spectacles higher on his nose, nonplussed.

“I’ve given my working life to this department, along with a pretty big chunk of my personal life. I’ve lost a wife because she couldn’t handle the hours I put into this job, or the memories I take home. I think I’ve given enough.”

Ryan’s anger started to dissolve. He could see from Faulkner’s face that he was serious.

“Tom, listen to me. I know how you feel –”

“Sure, you do,” Faulkner said, dully.

“You know I do,” Ryan rammed the point home. “It’s no fun, the work we do. It’s fucking hard, most of the time. Every man and woman you see here takes it home with them at the end of the day.” He cast his eyes around at the spectators, who busied themselves in work as soon as he looked up. Usually, it would have brought a smile.

“The forensic work you do is what usually helps us to find them, in the end.” He referred to the perpetrators of all the violence they saw on a daily basis. “Without you and your team, we would be a bunch of suits following hunches and hearsay. If I don’t say it enough, then I’m sorry. But, you’re valued, Tom. By your colleagues, by the victims and their families and by me.”

Faulkner looked taken aback. He swallowed and looked down at the ground, searching for his voice.

“Thank you for that,” he said brokenly.

“Whatever’s on your mind, you can tell me. Surely, you know that by now.”

Faulkner listened to Ryan and was tempted, oh so tempted, to tell him. Yet, he couldn’t seem to find the words.

Instead, he re-zipped his overalls.

“Let’s just get back to work.”

Ryan knew that was as good as he could hope for right now. It wasn’t a resolution, not by a long stretch, but it would have to do.





CHAPTER 17


Ryan gave instructions for immediate checks into Colin Hart’s bank and credit card usage, methods of transportation, phone records – both landline and mobile – in addition to the foot patrol which was already underway. The techies were poring over Colin’s computer and any other electronics in the house. MacKenzie had oversight of the Incident Room, in the event that there were any incoming developments, while she continued to dig deeper into the life of Claire Burns.

Ryan and Phillips remained at Number 32, awaiting initial observations from the pathologist and the CSIs.

Agonising minutes slipped by as they stood on the gravel driveway, both men imagining where a desperate man with Colin’s personality might choose to hide himself, until Jeff Pinter’s rangy form emerged from the front door, out into the overcast day once more.

“Looks pretty cut and dry, to me,” he shrugged out of his overalls while he spoke. “Looks like Geraldine was injected with a massive dose of Lorazepam and my bet would be cardiac arrest following that, although I can’t say for sure until I’ve completed a post-mortem.”

“You’re sure she was injected, though? Did she inject herself?”

“Yes, I’m sure she was injected. Her usual medicinal injections were given to the side of her hip, judging by the old puncture sites there, whereas this injection was administered to the side of her neck, almost directly into her carotid artery, which would have given maximum impact. As for whether she injected herself, I can’t rule that out from my end. It’s impossible to tell without checking the syringe for prints – it’s perfectly possible that she could have. That’ll be a question to ask Faulkner.”

“How long has she been dead?”

Pinter puffed out his cheeks, then let the air wheeze out through his teeth in a manner that made Phillips’ fists clench.

“You’re looking at anywhere up to fifteen hours. She’s definitely on the turn.”

Phillips’ nose wrinkled at the description. The poor woman wasn’t a piece of fruit gone bad. She had been a person.

Ryan seemed more capable of ignoring the pathologist’s flippancy.

“So we’re looking at anytime after six p.m. yesterday,” he surmised, pushing back some of the dark hair which blew into his eyes. “That puts Colin within the timescale, considering he returned to the house around eight p.m.”