The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(11)
Ryan narrowed his eyes.
“They want to be superhuman but they’re not,” Ryan said flatly. “Our killer’s just an average, garden-variety psychopath. They’re two a penny down on the psych ward.”
“Oh, that’s all right then,” Phillips mumbled. “I’ll sleep better tonight, knowing that.”
“You think he’s challenging you?” Faulkner ignored the interruption.
Ryan’s face transformed into hard, serious lines.
“They think they’re invincible, beyond the law. I’ll not only accept the challenge, I’ll make it my mission in life. I won’t stop until they’re behind bars and neither will you.”
His words hung on the air like a prophecy.
“Be careful,” Phillips cautioned him and there was concern reflected in his eyes. “These ones, they have a way of worming their way inside your head. Make sure you keep yours clear.”
*
News of DCI Cooper’s murder spread through Police Headquarters like wildfire. Too afraid to speak the words aloud, analysts and technicians, telephone operatives and kitchen staff spoke in whispers, as if that would somehow make it bearable. A late briefing had been scheduled for eight-thirty and when Ryan stepped through the doorway of Conference Room A, it seemed every member of staff employed by Northumbria CID was in attendance and awaiting instructions from their new Senior Investigating Officer. Their faces were sombre and their eyes bloodshot, whether from tears or a lack of sleep, he couldn’t tell. While he waited for them to settle themselves in the ubiquitous plastic chairs that came with any government-owned establishment, he walked over to exchange a word with Phillips, who was chatting to one of CID’s newest recruits near the front of the room.
“Phillips.” He accepted a polystyrene cup filled with brown sludge and raised a single black eyebrow. “What the hell is this?”
“Vending machine calls it a double macchiato,” Phillips told him. “Tastes more like paint stripper.”
Ryan took a dubious sip, decided it wasn’t going to kill him, then turned to the younger man.
“You did good work on the Khan case.”
It was hardly glowing praise, but Detective Constable Jack Lowerson couldn’t quite hold back the grin. He’d spent every one of his formative years as a lowly police constable looking up to the tall man who was now, miraculously, his boss. Ryan had plucked him from obscurity and given him a chance to shine. He was doing his best each day never to make him regret it.
“Thank you, sir.”
Ryan was momentarily distracted by the glare bouncing off Lowerson’s freshly-whitened teeth and found himself wondering whether that amount of bleach was even legal.
“You’ve got the right attitude, Jack. Just carry on doing what you’re doing.”
With that, he raised his cup and walked across to the long whiteboard covering the entire length of one wall, flanked by a flip-board and a desk set up with a laptop and projector. Ryan ignored the computer and dropped a heavy cardboard folder he had tucked under his arm onto the cheap Formica desk. While the room slowly fell silent, he retrieved four large photographs from inside its folds and began sticking them onto the whiteboard.
Over his shoulder, he heard gasps from around the room.
“I can’t believe it,” they said.
He tacked up the last image and stepped away again.
“Believe it,” he said, not bothering with any of the usual pleasantries. “Most of you will have heard the news about DCI Sharon Cooper but, for those who haven’t, allow me to bring you up to speed. Her dismembered body was discovered by DS Phillips and myself at approximately two o’clock this afternoon. Her team reported her as uncommunicative after eleven o’clock this morning.”
The room was silent.
“I see some of you looking at the floor.” He watched their heads snap up again. “I want you to look at her,” he ground out, demanding their attention. “I want you to feel outrage, disgust, all the normal things you should feel. I want you to remember the woman we all knew and admired, who gave her life to the pursuit of justice and public service. And then I want you to feel angry. Really angry that somebody snatched it away from her.”
He pointed at the images on the wall showing Isobel Harris and Sharon Cooper in life beside blown-up images of them in death.
“Remember these women when you’re tired and hungry and begging for sleep. Remember that they’ll never feel anything ever again, but their families will. Their loved ones will feel that loss every day for the rest of their lives while we carry on. Never forget we’re the lucky ones.”
This time, when Ryan looked across the sea of faces, he found every one of them riveted on the wall.
He leaned back against the edge of the desk and crossed his ankles.
“I know most of you were assigned to the Harris investigation over the past two weeks and I want to thank you for your diligence and hard work. I know that DCI Cooper would have wanted to thank you, too.” He paused to let that sink in. “But what I need from you now is honesty.”
They looked at each other in surprise.
“I want you to ask yourselves whether you can come back tomorrow morning and give me everything you’ve got. Nobody will think any less of you for taking the time you need to grieve and recover. In fact, it’s a direct order. I need strong, healthy people working on my task force because we’ve got a mountain to climb. If you can’t take the pace, go home now and come back when you’re ready.”