Sycamore Gap: A DCI Ryan Mystery(98)
Anna finished reading an article written by Jane Freeman, entitled, ‘Myths and Magic of Northumberland’s Greatest Historic Sites.’ It had proven to be an interesting yarn; short on historical sources but long on unsupported but entertaining arguments about the real reason behind the deaths of prominent historic figures in the region.
Bored, she flung it on the desktop beside her and yawned, once more feeling small and insignificant in the open conference space. Though Anna knew there was a hive of police activity going on around her, she heard nothing outside the soundproofed walls of the Incident Room.
She spent another few unproductive minutes propelling the foam-stuffed desk chair from one wall to another, before giving up on that too.
Her eye fell on Ryan’s desktop computer, then on the small CCTV camera in the corner of the room. Nope, she thought. Better not to snoop.
Presently, the doors whooshed open with a small gust, to reveal a figure in the doorway.
“Jeff?” She raised her eyebrows and hastily wheeled herself back towards Ryan’s desk with the heels of her shoes, feeling slightly flushed. “Nobody’s here, I’m afraid. They’ve all gone up to Sycamore Gap.”
Her brow puckered.
“Shouldn’t you be up there with them? I thought they needed a pathologist to confirm death or something like that?”
Pinter closed the door behind him with a gentle click and moved further into the room. He had discarded his navy blazer and stood in comfortable shirtsleeves. He placed his bag on the floor beside him.
“Good news! Colin isn’t dead,” he said, expansively.
“What? Why would Ryan say that he was? Faulkner’s on his way –”
“Now, now,” Pinter shushed her, moving further towards the desk where she sat. “Nothing to worry yourself about. Everything’s taken care of.”
“What do you mean?”
Pinter held up a single, bony index finger and retrieved a small vial of liquid from his inner pocket. Anna squinted at the label, which read, ‘FLUMAZENIL’, in plain black lettering. With dawning horror, she watched him place it on the desk between them, the wrinkles beside his eyes creasing into a broad smile.
Doctor Paddy Donovan clicked off the lights in the hallway and checked his pockets. Keys, phone, wallet, bag, he rattled off his mental checklist and reached for the front door. He was already running behind schedule and couldn’t wait any longer.
When the door swung open, an unexpected visitor awaited him, walking slowly up the flagstone pathway to his front door.
“Denise?” His voice was laced with genuine surprise.
“Paddy,” she began, apologetically. “I’m sorry to disturb you at home. It’s just that you said I could stop by anytime, if I needed to talk things over. I can come back on Monday …” she trailed off.
Donovan looked beyond her to the quiet street and made a split-second decision. Stepping backwards into the hallway, he flicked the switch on again and gestured her inside.
“You’re always welcome, Denise. Come inside, and we’ll talk.” He took another glance over her shoulder as she brushed past him and added, “Did you come alone or would Phillips like to come inside for a dram?”
“Oh, no, I’m on my own tonight. Frank’s up at Sycamore Gap with Ryan. They found Colin dead, you know.”
“Good heavens,” Donovan replied, with a sympathetic tut. “Poor, troubled soul. God rest him.”
He hesitated in the hallway, wondering where to lead her, but decided upon the study towards the back of the house. It was quieter there and less likely that they would be disturbed.
When she had settled herself comfortably into one of the expensive chairs, her copper hair fanning out against the mulberry leather headrest, he spoke again.
“Can I offer you a drink? Something warm? Better yet – something alcoholic, or are you on duty?” He winked, charmingly.
MacKenzie offered a cheeky half-smile in return.
“We-ell, you know I probably shouldn’t, but … go on then. If you’ve got a glass of something red and fruity, I won’t say no.”
“Don’t move a muscle,” he ordered, leaving her to survey the room while he nipped along to the kitchen.
This was clearly Donovan’s personal retreat, MacKenzie thought, taking in the mementos encased in glass cabinets, the expensive sound system tucked away discreetly on a shelf to the side of an original Victorian fireplace. The colours were subdued, every surface clean of dust. Above the fireplace was a large, framed pen-and-ink drawing of Satan’s war against God, as told by Milton. It was a contorted, disturbed image and she was forced to look away. The French-style carriage clock on the mantle chimed eight-thirty in one loud strike.