Angel: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 4) Read online

  “Not a chance,” she said firmly. “We’ll grab a sandwich after we’ve spoken with the manager.”

  The manager turned out to be a tall, fair-haired man wearing an exquisitely tailored navy blue suit. MacKenzie judged him to be around forty-five but with bright blue eyes and a light tan, he could pass for younger.

  “Good afternoon,” he said politely, casting appreciative eyes over MacKenzie. “I’m Paul Cooke, I own and manage the restaurant here,” he held out a hand, which they both shook. “I understand that you’re with the police. How may I help you?”

  His accent was what MacKenzie would have called ‘affected’. Although Cooke had clearly made an effort to adopt the kind of Queen’s English spoken by upper-crusty southerners like their very own chief inspector, she could still detect the tell-tale lyrical twang of a northerner, born and bred.

  “DI MacKenzie and DC Lowerson, Northumbria CID,” she held out her warrant card. “We would like to ask you some questions regarding a regular customer of yours.”

  A shadow passed across the man’s face.

  “CID? How sad,” he murmured. “Of course, I’ll be happy to help you however I can. Let’s discuss it in my office.”

  He turned and, with a subtle gesture to one of the serving staff, led the way up a short flight of spiral stairs to a mezzanine level and along a corridor to a door bearing a plaque with ‘MANAGER’ engraved on it.

  “Please, take a seat,” Cooke indicated a seating area with a couple of single chairs and a small two-seater sofa. “Can I offer you a drink?”

  “Yes—” Lowerson began.

  “We’re fine, thanks all the same,” MacKenzie overrode him. This wasn’t a social call.

  “Well, then,” Cooke crossed a leg and settled back in his chair. “How can I help?”

  MacKenzie handed him a photograph of Barbara Hewitt.

  “Do you recognise this woman?”

  He didn’t flinch.

  “Yes, I do. Barbara is a regular customer of ours. She has a standing reservation for lunch on Fridays at one of our window tables on the main floor.”

  “I see,” MacKenzie added it to the growing list of ‘habits’.

  “Has something happened to her? It must have done, otherwise you wouldn’t be here,” he answered his own question.

  “Miss Hewitt died in suspicious circumstances, we believe sometime late last Friday 18th, or early Saturday 19th.”

  Cooke laid the photograph on the glass coffee table in front of them and leaned back again.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that and it would certainly explain why she didn’t turn up for lunch yesterday. We were all very surprised, as it’s the first time.” He spread his hands. “But I’m not sure how I can assist.”

  “You could start by telling us what you remember of Barbara’s last visit here. What time did she arrive?”

  Cooke blew out a breath.

  “Ah, well. I couldn’t say for certain because it would have been one of our hostesses who greeted her at the door before accompanying her to her usual table. It’s worth checking with them but it would likely have been one o’clock or thereabouts. Barbara was rarely late and she had a standing reservation for that time on Fridays, as I say.”

  Lowerson scribbled a note.

  “Do you know if she was alone?”

  “I’ve never seen her with a guest and last Friday was no different. She was alone throughout her meal, to the best of my knowledge.” His eyes brightened. “Why don’t I pull out the security tape for you?”

  MacKenzie smiled politely.

  “That would be very helpful, thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” his eyes lingered on her face and roamed over her hair. She noticed the action and shuffled uncomfortably in her seat, feeling hot and bothered.

  “Ah, next question,” she made a show of looking down at her notes. “Did you speak to Barbara personally?”

  “Yes, every week I made sure to exchange a brief word with her. It’s good business,” he explained.

  “What did you think of her?”

  He let the question sink in and gave himself a moment to formulate an appropriate response.

  “Barbara was a very independent lady,” he said, politely. “She was also a creature of habit. She ordered the battered cod and chips with a side of mushy peas every time.”

  “Really?” Lowerson piped up, thinking of all the mouth-watering delicacies he’d seen on the extensive menu.

  Cooke chuckled.

  “Yes, she told me once that it was traditional to eat fish and chips on Fridays and that was what she would do.”

  “What do you remember, specifically, about your discussion with her on Friday 18th?”

  He frowned.

  “Well, I believe she was just about to start her dessert—treacle pudding and custard—when I stopped by to say ‘hello’. I asked how she was keeping, she told me she was well. I asked if she had enjoyed her lunch, all those usual things. I’m sorry, detectives, I don’t remember anything that stands out.”

  “You never know what might be important,” Lowerson said. “Let us worry about that.” MacKenzie threw him a look of approval.

  “How did she seem to you?”

  Cooke rubbed his chin and grimaced as he forced his mind back to over a week ago.

  “I suppose, now that you mention it, she seemed grumpier than usual,” he muttered, then looked horrified at the minor indiscretion. “That is—”

  MacKenzie held up a hand.

  “Please, speak freely.”

  “In that case, yes, I’d say she seemed to be quite agitated. The waitress who was serving her—Maia,” he told Lowerson, for the benefit of his note, “also mentioned that Barbara had been dissatisfied with her meal and the standard of service, right from the start.”

  “Did she confide in you? Had something happened to her that day?”

  “No,” he shook his head. “Really, we hardly knew one another except to exchange pleasantries. She seemed to be a lonely woman who liked to treat herself to lunch every Friday. Perhaps she was feeling particularly lonely last Friday, which made her waspish. Who knows?”

  “You can say that again,” Lowerson snapped his notebook shut and prayed to whichever god was listening for a breakthrough.

  * * *

  As they emerged onto the pavement, Lowerson lamented the fact that he would not be enjoying lobster bisque any time in the near future. He tried, unconvincingly, to tell himself that a ham and cheese toastie from the nearest café was equally good but his stomach knew better.

  “So, Barbara liked to make an excursion into town to do her favourite things,” he said, with one last longing look behind them. “Not that you’d have known it, considering she liked to make complaints wherever she went. It sounds like she was a real peach.”

  MacKenzie began to walk back along Grey Street in the direction of her car.

  “She’s a dead peach, Jack, just remember that. However rude or obnoxious she was in life, she didn't deserve to die the way she did. Nobody does.”

  Suitably chastened, Lowerson waited a moment before delivering his next observation.

  “Speaking of peaches, that restaurant manager looked as if he wouldn’t mind taking a bite out of you.”

  He grinned at her and wiggled his eyebrows.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, in dignified tones.

  “Uh huh,” he laughed.

  MacKenzie struggled for a full minute to find a suitably cutting retort, but failed.

  “Shut up, constable,” she muttered instead, and the sound of his delighted laughter followed them all the way up the winding street.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Powers That Be agreed that the deaths of Krista Ogilvy-Matthews and Karen Dobbs were linked and approved Ryan’s request to set up a task force, which he did at lightning speed. By the time MacKenzie and Lowerson returned to CID Headquarters, the largest conference room had been converted into a ‘Major Incident Room’ an
d now bore a sign spelling out ‘OPERATION ANGEL’ in capital letters on the wall outside.

  Inside, the room was a hive of activity. Printers and photocopiers hummed in a line along the back wall, constables huddled over a bank of telephones and spoke in a constant drone of hushed voices while others scurried between the desks with a palpable sense of urgency. Spearheading the operation was Ryan, who stood in front of the long whiteboard at the front of the room arranging images and notes ahead of a briefing scheduled for five o’clock. Phillips sat at one of the desks and barked out a command that some poor minion should “pull the finger out of their arse and get on with it,” before slamming the phone down and returning to his inspection of a growing pile of statements.

  Ryan caught sight of the new arrivals and raised a distracted hand to greet them.

  “Mac, Lowerson, pull up a chair, you’re just in time.”

  “Ah, sir, that case we caught yesterday, about the old woman—” MacKenzie began, but Ryan interrupted her.

  “If you need more time to make a determination, I can’t give it to you.”

  “We’ve already made the determination,” she said firmly. “Thanks to a fast post-mortem, we’ve been able to confirm that the victim, Barbara Hewitt, was murdered. Strangled, in fact. We’re investigating.”

  Ryan’s eyes narrowed at the cause of death. That made three deaths by strangulation and the weekend wasn't over yet.

  “Strangled—how?”

  “The circumstances and methodology are very different to these women,” she glanced behind him at the images of the two redheads and then snatched her eyes away again. “Barbara was strangled manually and left in her own home, without any ritualistic features.”

  Ryan accepted her word without a qualm and moved on to practicalities.

  “Understood. The fact is, things are heating up and the press are like bloodhounds. Half of the phone calls we’re getting are from women claiming to have seen men dressed up as priests following them home or hiding in the bushes,” he said, with a trace of irritation. “We’re going to be working around the clock on this and I can’t promise not to pull Lowerson—maybe you, too—over to this investigation. I’m sorry, but we need the man hours.”

  MacKenzie was a practical woman herself.

  “I appreciate you’re against the wall. Let’s hope I can tie up these loose ends quickly, then we can put our combined energies into finding The Graveyard Killer instead.”

  “The name is certainly catching on,” Ryan said caustically, then turned back to the murder board he had created.

  Blown-up images of both redheaded victims had been tacked up in a prominent position to capture the attention of every officer in the room. Ryan knew that by creating an emotional connection between the victims and his team, he would be assured of their hard work and dedication over the coming days. He only hoped that the investigation wouldn't run into weeks.

  “Can you spare half an hour? You might as well stay for the briefing and keep abreast of how things are progressing.”

  MacKenzie looked across to where Lowerson was already nosing into the stack of papers on Ryan’s desk. She didn’t need a psychic to tell her that the young detective would much rather be part of the task force assigned to The Graveyard Killer.

  Half an hour couldn’t hurt, she supposed.

  They settled themselves in the row of chairs that had been placed in a semicircle facing the board. Phillips ended his latest threatening phone call and moved across to join them, followed by the rest of the support staff. As the clock struck five, the double doors swung open and Faulkner hurried in with one of his junior CSIs in tow, carrying a large bundle of files and steaming cups of coffee which Ryan’s superior nose detected from across the room.

  When everybody was assembled, Ryan moved to the front and thrust his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans.

  “Alright, settle down,” he called out, and waited for the chatter to dim.

  When he had their full attention, he pointed to the images on the wall.

  “The woman on the left is Krista Ogilvy-Matthews, a thirty-eight-year-old secondary school teacher whose body was discovered by a council grave digger on Friday morning at the West Road Cemetery. Thanks to the quick work of our pathologist and the forensic team, we’ve made good progress excavating the crime scene and we now know that she was strangled using a ligature of some kind. As some of you will have heard, Krista’s body was arranged into an unusual formation and a Latin note, apparently granting Catholic absolution, was buried beside it. Given the religious overtones, our current thinking is that Krista’s body was staged to parody an angel or something similar.”

  There were a few expected murmurs whilst the team looked through their information packs and surveyed the ‘after’ photographs detailing the manner in which Krista had been found. Ryan gave them a couple of minutes to digest the news before moving on.

  “The woman on the right is Karen Dobbs, a thirty-two-year-old prostitute and mother of one, whose body was discovered by a member of the ground staff at Heaton Cemetery this morning. Again, preliminary observations from our pathologist confirm the same MO. As you will see from the images, her body was staged and a note was once again left beside her. You’ll find copies of each note in your packs—they’re almost identical in style and the wording is the same. Although we’re waiting to hear back from the handwriting expert about the note found this morning, she has already confirmed that the card used in both cases is of the same type. It’s a heavyweight cream card stock—around 200 grams—and is widely available from any stationery shop nationwide. Likewise, the ink comes from your average black Sharpie marker pen.”

  “The handwriting expert did raise one interesting point,” Phillips spoke up. “About the handwriting style. According to her, the rigid neatness indicates a highly ordered mind and focused concentration, rather than somebody who was off their chump.”

  “Highly technical term, there,” Ryan said, dryly. “Graphology is hardly an exact science so I don’t want anybody running away with the idea, but it’s something to bear in mind. Our killer was organised and focused when it came to planning the act itself, if his handwriting is any indication of his mindset.”

  “What about the message in the notes?” Lowerson piped up.

  “It’s the traditional passage recited by a Catholic priest when granting absolution to a sinner. Obviously, we can imagine several scenarios, in terms of motivation. As far as our victims are concerned, Krista’s only ‘sin’ in the eyes of her killer could lie in the fact that she was gay. Likewise, Karen was a member of the oldest profession. That’s all we’ve been able to come up with so far.”

  “They’re both redheads in their thirties,” MacKenzie stated the obvious.

  Ryan met her eyes across the room.

  “That’s true enough and we have to consider the possibility that there is, or was, a significant person in our killer’s life who was possessed of red hair, around the same age as both victims. Otherwise, it’s simply a coincidence.”

  “You don’t believe in coincidences,” MacKenzie parried.

  Ryan was silent for a moment, then sighed deeply. He believed in a policy of honesty at all times.

  “No, I don’t. Which is why I haven’t downplayed its significance to the press. I want the women of this city to be cautious because there’s reason to be.”

  MacKenzie swallowed and felt Phillips shift towards her. They both knew that Ryan was issuing a warning to guard her own safety, as much as the other women in the North East.

  She nodded and looked back down at the papers in her lap.

  “At the moment, we have enough to think about,” Ryan leaned back against his desk and picked up the thread of his briefing.

  “We identified our second victim, Karen Dobbs, after receiving an anonymous call through the local Crimestoppers helpline. We don’t know whether the call came from the killer himself or from another concerned party but the telephone company is working hard t
o trace the origin of that call. So far, we know it came from an unregistered mobile but we’ll triangulate to narrow down the field. I can’t see that happening before Monday at the earliest.”

  The rumbles around the room intensified as his team listened and looked up at the image of Karen Dobbs taken from her old high school yearbook and compared it with the image of her in death. Though their perpetrator had taken her life, it was clear to see that drug addiction had taken her spirit long before then.

  “She looks so different in that early photograph,” Lowerson said, voicing what they were all thinking.

  “She still had hope back then,” Ryan said simply.

  Lowerson continued to study the image of a woman who was only a couple of years older than himself, yet, when she died, her face had borne the marks of a woman at least ten years his senior.

  “Karen looks older than thirty-two,” he said. “If the killer has a ‘type’ he’s looking for, it could be that he thought she was closer to forty, like Krista.”

  Ryan turned to look at the images and nodded his agreement.

  “That’s good thinking, Jack. Redheads in their late thirties might be closer to his target victim. But while they might look similar, these two women couldn't be more different in terms of background,” Ryan continued. “Krista was educated to postgraduate level and she came from a secure family background. She was happily married and enjoyed her work and the esteem of her peers. As far as we can tell, she was abducted or lured into a car sometime after nine-fifteen on Thursday night, after she left the All American Diner.” He sucked in a breath. “On the other hand, Karen Dobbs left school at sixteen and fell in with the wrong crowd. She had a long record of drug abuse, shoplifting and solicitation; she went into the Drug Interventions Programme after the first arrest but the story I’m getting is that she just couldn't hack it. Social services did their best to help her stay clean, for the sake of her little boy, but he was taken in by the grandmother two years ago by order of the court. I spoke with Karen’s mother, who seems a decent woman, but she hadn’t been in contact with her daughter in months.”

  Ryan thought back to the difficult house call they had made earlier in the day, to the little retirement flat where a tired old woman had answered the door. He remembered the look in her eyes—eyes that were the same shade as those of her daughter and grandson. The look had been one of devastation and expectation in equal part. It wasn't the first time the police had visited her home to discuss Karen and over the years she had prepared herself for that final visit, when they would tell her that her daughter was dead. Karen had chosen to lead a hard life and her mother had resigned herself to the fact that her little girl was long gone, although in the end ‘choice’ had played no part at all.