DC Jack Lowerson looked up from his bored position playing Solitaire at the sound of Ryan’s purposeful stride down the centre aisle of the ward.
“Sir?”
Ryan nearly smiled at the eagerness. He conducted a quick assessment and thought that Jack’s colour looked good. He also noticed that the same pretty young nurse bustled straight over to check that Lowerson had all he needed.
“I’m fi –”
“Actually, we could do with some fresh water over here,” Ryan overrode Lowerson, all charm. The nurse hurried off to fill the jug on the table, which lay untouched.
“Fancy a walk?” Ryan asked cheerfully.
Jack gave him a bewildered look.
“I thought you wanted water?”
“Changed my mind. Let’s go for a wander.”
He led Lowerson out of the ward, one hand under his arm, checking the nurse’s station as he went.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m busting you out of here.”
Lowerson started to panic. While he was in the hospital, unwell, he was also safe from the world that awaited him outside. He still had no idea what he was going to do about it, but he wasn’t ready to leave.
He began to dig in his heels, but Ryan practically shoved him inside one of the large hospital lifts before rounding on him.
“You ready to get back to work?”
Lowerson stopped fidgeting, in sheer surprise.
“I – yes, I suppose so –”
“Yes, or no?”
Lowerson followed instinct, to hell with the rest.
“Yes.”
“I need your absolute discretion, Jack. This goes no further.”
The Adam’s apple in Lowerson’s throat bobbed up and down as he swallowed. If there was one thing that Jack understood, it was how to keep his mouth shut.
“What do you need?”
“I need you to be my eyes and ears, and to be a shield for MacKenzie.”
“MacKenzie? What’s going on?”
“I can’t do it myself, Jack, I’m too recognisable, too visible. MacKenzie is working on a special project,” he laid out the plan in summary and watched Lowerson’s young mouth turn from eager to angry.
“I don’t believe it,” he hissed. “The bastard –”
“Cool, calm, collected,” Ryan reminded him. “I need you to think with this.” He tapped a finger to Jack’s temple.
“I need forensic evidence,” Ryan said simply. “I want to draw him out of hiding. I want him to be tempted to kill again, but this time, we’ll be waiting for him.”
“It’s risky.”
“I know,” Ryan agreed. “That’s why I need people around me that I can trust.”
“You can rely on me.”
Elsewhere, the streets were mobbed with a lunchtime crowd. Families looked for somewhere to sit and eat sandwiches while young children flicked yoghurt; office workers and shop assistants sought a quiet corner to themselves without needing to think about KPIs or the Customer Always Being Right. Pigeons circled above Grey’s Monument, the stone needle jutting from the ground at the apex of Newcastle’s historic centre. At its foot, teenagers lounged on the steps of the monument, chattering loudly. All around was activity; along the grand, nineteenth century streets, which led from there down to the cathedral and eventually to the River Tyne.
Two men walked along Grey Street, past the theatre with its Doric columns and signs advertising the Moscow State Ballet.
“He paid a visit to Lowerson this afternoon,” Gregson began without any pleasantries. There was no time for them.
The High Priest continued to stroll along the busy street, confident that they would not be noticed amongst the horde.
“This is exactly what I anticipated,” he said, without a trace of complacency or censure. Somehow, that made it all the more menacing.
“Where is Lowerson now?”
“He left the hospital. I presume he’s still with Ryan.”
“What did they discuss?”
“Since Ryan hasn’t come storming into my office, my best guess is that they discussed the current investigation, rather than the last one.”
“Then you still have time.”
Gregson did not miss the distinction. This was not to be viewed as a shared responsibility but as his responsibility. The sword of Damocles hung over his head, a constant reminder of the jeopardy of his position.
“I’ll see to it.”
“See to it personally, Arthur,” came the tranquil response. “I’m well aware that you’d rather not muddy your hands but I would say the situation calls for it.”
Gregson thought of the young detective constable and remembered a time, long ago, when he had been so young.