He wished he could have it framed.
But that was for another time, he thought. He knew what he was looking for and he would not stop until he found it.
Eventually, his fingers stilled their frantic search and he held a thin scrap of newspaper loosely before him. On it was an image of Ryan in the foreground, standing alongside DCS Gregson after the final press conference on Holy Island. In the background, a line of police officers stood proudly, their arrogant chests puffed out at their own self-importance.
And there, amongst their number, stood Ruth Grant. Only, her hair was lighter. He couldn’t be sure what colour on the grainy picture, but it certainly wasn’t dark brown.
He looked at the tiny print at the bottom of the image and traced a fingertip along the list of names until he found the one that matched.
Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie.
With infinite self-control, he replaced the papers, re-stacking the envelopes neatly inside their drawer. Then, he turned and stared into the silent space, drowning out the distant sounds of prison guards walking the length of the corridor outside, or of the constant thudding of his neighbour’s boot against the cell wall.
For, like Ryan, his anger was cold and his memory long.
Arthur Gregson stood in front of the square mirror he had drilled on the inside door of one of the cupboards in his office. Appearances must be kept up and never once had he been caught with his laces undone, or his tie askew.
He had changed from his classic dark navy suit and white shirt, into a more casual outfit of black trousers and a dark polo shirt. He wore trainers, rather than his usual choice of highly-polished black brogues.
“Ought to do it,” he murmured at his reflection.
He met his own eyes in the mirror and tried to see what lay behind them. Was there a soul to find there, after all these years? When he had made his decision to convert, he had always known that there would be hard times, to temper the good. Yet he was finding the edict concerning DC Jack Lowerson a particularly difficult one to bear.
He thought of the man he knew as the High Priest with a combination of fear and respect. Outwardly, he was a mild-mannered intellectual, someone who blended with the crowd, which was exactly why he had risen to his present position so easily. After a spate of disappointing, ostentatious leaders, the Circle had chosen a High Priest who would not draw attention to their select group.
Yet the position was a poisoned chalice. No man who had worn the long animal pelt, the Master’s representative on Earth, had been able to resist the beguiling lure of power. There had been some who enjoyed the money, some who preferred the glamour and the prestige, and others whose violent tendencies could thrive whilst cocooned by the Circle’s unquestioning protection.
Arthur had seen all of them. He had served under all of them. In the early days, when he had been a man of Jack Lowerson’s age, he had struggled to gain recognition. Nobody had seen his great potential, nor given him the chance to shine, until the Circle had invited him into their fold.
It had been an awakening, when he had been included as a part of something greater than himself. The cause was a true one, so he had thought, and in exchange for loyalty he had been rewarded.
Oh, how he had reaped the rewards.
Once a skinny young man with few credentials and little charm, he had flowered. Under careful tutelage, he had changed outwardly and bloomed inwardly. Gone was the stuttering teenager he had been. The promotions had come in steadily. The women had started to notice him too. His wife was amongst them; the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, standing pretty as a picture next to her father, a prominent businessman who had guided him towards several lucrative investments over the years.
Arthur combed the hair back from his face, thinking that he had aged better than his wife. There had been other women, too many to count, but he would always remember how she had been that day years ago, before life and everyday stresses preyed upon them both.
It might have helped if they had been able to have children.
He thought again of Jack Lowerson.
CHAPTER 22
The quiet of the Incident Room was broken by the loud ringing of Faulkner’s desk phone, which echoed around the walls with a tinny, old-fashioned ‘brrrrriiiiiiiing!’
“Sorry,” he mumbled, trying to locate the receiver underneath the mountain of paperwork on the temporary desk space.
Anna just smiled, as she thumbed through an old copy of The Northern Historian magazine she had found in the university archives, searching for an old article written by the now Professor Jane Freeman.
“God! Are you sure?”
She looked up again, at the unexpectedly harsh tone from Faulkner, who spoke urgently into the grimy beige receiver.