The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(13)

It was on the tip of Ryan’s tongue to say ‘no’ and play down the possibility that a new serial killer had been born so they could deceive themselves about the level of threat they were facing.

But that was not his way.

“Yes, Jack. I think we should assume we’re dealing with a methodical, experienced killer who has taken more than one life.”

“Otherwise known as a fruitcake, son,” Phillips put in, from the row behind.

Ryan rolled his eyes.

“The alternative definition,” he said dryly. “From Professor Frank Phillips, MD…”

“Well, he mustn’t be a full shilling. Normal people don’t flit about like they’re Jack the Ripper.”

“What makes you think we’re looking for a man?” DI MacKenzie queried, from her position a few chairs along.

Phillips opened his mouth and then snapped it shut again.

“Well, i-it fits the bill, doesn’t it?” he stuttered, much to his irritation. “Normally, it’s men who kill violently. Women don’t like to get their hands dirty, do they?”

“Oh, believe me, Frank. Women can be just as deadly,” MacKenzie shifted in her seat to pin him with the kind of direct stare that would have terrified a lesser man. “And, as I’m sure you’re aware, the toxicology report on Isobel Harris’s body showed abnormally high levels of sedative and adrenaline in her system; enough to disable her. It creates a level playing field when physicality isn’t an issue, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Look, love,” Phillips began, and failed to see MacKenzie’s eyes flash dangerously. “There’s no way a woman could have dragged Cooper’s sedated body up a flight of stairs and along to her bedroom. She would have been a dead weight. Same goes for Isobel Harris.”

“Look, sweetheart, it may interest you to learn that, since being liberated from the kitchen, women tend not to sit around growing fat and playing X-Box,” she hit back, touching a raw nerve. “I’ll be happy to demonstrate just how strong we can be, just name a time and place.”

Phillips turned a dangerous shade of puce, imagining all kinds of scenarios with Denise MacKenzie proving her feminine strength.

Ryan rubbed the side of his nose to hide a smile but decided it was time to step in before his sergeant went off the boil.

“MacKenzie makes an excellent point,” he said briskly. “The presence of lorazepam swimming around Isobel’s system was another black mark against John Dobbs. Working at the hospital makes for easy access to drugs, doesn’t it?”

There were nods around the room.

“But the fact remains, unless he was Houdini, Dobbs couldn’t have killed DCI Cooper because the pathologist has already confirmed that she had been dead no more than seven hours by the time we found her. That puts her death somewhere after seven this morning, during which time Dobbs was under full police surveillance at his home. It’ll be a couple of days before the tox report comes back but, once it does, we’ll know for sure whether we have a copycat or the real thing.”

“And if it’s the same person?” Lowerson asked. “What happens then?”

There was an infinitesimal pause.

“Then we go back to the start, Jack. We re-interview witnesses, chase the source of the drugs, think about who had the skill and the cold-blooded inclination to kill and carve up those women like they were pieces of meat. We look at every element of Isobel Harris and Sharon Cooper’s lives to build up a picture until we find the missing piece we didn’t see before. We don’t just look at Isobel’s love life, we look at her daily routine and every person she came into contact with during her final days, then we do the same for Cooper. That includes police personnel,” he added, and almost felt their backs stiffen.

“Nobody said this job would be easy,” he bit out. “We look at everybody. Is that understood?”

There were reluctant nods around the room, and he reached for the cup of cold, forgotten coffee, downing it in three long gulps.

“Alright, let’s get to work.”





CHAPTER 6


“Did you miss me, sweetheart?”

Confusion clouded her foggy brain. The words seemed to come from very far away, as if she was swimming underwater and a voice was calling her back to the surface. She remembered a time when she was very young, when her mother had walked into the bathroom to find her holding her breath beneath the bathwater to see how long she could stay there. She’d never forget the look of panic as she’d been snatched from the water and into her mother’s soft, loving arms.

But it was not her mother calling to her now.

Fear raced across her cold skin and her eyes flew open. The first thing she saw was his face rising above her, blotting out the light from the hallway.

She shrank back against the covers of the bed that were damp with sweat and urine, shivering uncontrollably.

“There she is,” he murmured.

She wanted to scream but the terror was so acute she found she couldn’t do much more than stare limply into his eyes, half concealed beneath a paper mask and goggles.

His terrible eyes.

“I hate to tell you this, darling, but it’s getting a bit stale in here,” he said, conversationally. “Very unladylike, you know.”

She said nothing. She couldn’t speak, anyway.