The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(21)

He heaved himself up again, rising above her like a towering demon.

“I can’t stay long, this time,” he whispered, reaching for his bag and the scrap of vomit-soaked material he’d used to gag her the previous day.

“N-no,” she gargled.

“I’ll have to make do with a quickie.”

*

At four o’clock, Ryan’s team re-assembled. Most of his workforce had mustered enough strength to stay for the duration, so the Incident Room hummed with a sense of renewed purpose. Strategic teams huddled in groups while telephone operatives occupied a corner fielding a constant stream of prank and nuisance calls from the public. Crime analysts requisitioned four tables at the back of the room and were seated in silence, eyes trained on their computer screens as they scrolled through pages of data. Lowerson and MacKenzie had stationed themselves in the centre of the room and sifted through an avalanche of paperwork, learning all there was to know about Isobel Harris and Sharon Cooper. Phillips had taken a seat as far away from them as possible—no doubt an act of self-preservation—while he harassed other law enforcement and government agencies for the information they held. In the corner of the room, a wall-mounted television had been tuned to the local news channel with its sound muted and subtitles enabled. News of another murder had taken the city by storm and reignited a state of panic, causing ordinary people to imagine a killer lurking in every shadow and behind every door. Even if they had wanted to, there was little the press could do to subdue an increasingly restless mood. After all, if the police could not protect themselves, what hope did they have of protecting the rest of them?

These sobering thoughts had been echoed by the Chief Constable and Superintendent, who had issued Ryan with a stark reminder of the consequences they faced as a constabulary if justice was not seen to be done.

Having extricated himself from the stuffy confines of Gregson’s office for the second time in as many days, Ryan now stood in the doorway surveying the activity in the Incident Room. He was pleased to see anger harnessed into productivity but considerably less pleased to see another sensational news report rolling across the television screen. With growing resentment, he watched a reporter walk down the street where Isobel Harris had lived, gesticulating towards the solitary constable whose unfortunate job it was to remain and protect the scene from intrusion. The camera zoomed in on his bored face and Ryan rolled his eyes heavenward, making a mental note to schedule a mandatory session on media training once it was all over. The segment moved on to another reporter, this time stationed outside Police Headquarters capturing footage of DCS Gregson dishing out a few soundbites earlier in the day.

“I want to reassure the public that we are sparing no resource in our efforts to bring to justice whoever is responsible for the deaths of Isobel Harris and Sharon Cooper—”

“So, you believe they are one and the same, Superintendent?” one of the reporters shouted. “We were led to believe that John Dobbs killed Isobel Harris. Are you saying an innocent man committed suicide? Have you heard from his family, Superintendent? Will there be an investigation?”

“Dropped the ball there, Arthur,” Ryan murmured, folding his arms across his chest.

“I cannot confirm or deny anything that would prejudice an ongoing investigation,” Gregson said, back-peddling furiously. “That’s all I have to say for now.”

“Superintendent! Who has taken over the investigation?”

“Detective Chief Inspector Ryan will be leading a joint investigation. Anyone with relevant information should contact the Incident Room number. That’s all I have to say.”

Across the room, Phillips slammed his phone down with alacrity.

“Bloody, buggering hell!” he roared.

Ryan decided it was an apt description for the train-wreck he’d just witnessed on television but presumed the outburst related to something other than shoddy public relations.

“Another ambulance-chaser trying to flog you OAP life insurance?”

Phillips snorted.

“I should be so lucky. I’ve just had some trumped-up, pen-pushing moron from Cooper’s bank telling me they can’t release her accounts information without a warrant. Same shit as usual.”

“Privacy laws,” Ryan commiserated.

“If I ever find the jobsworth who drafted the Data Protection Act, I swear, I’ll wring their scrawny neck for them and consider it a public service.”

“So, what’s the upshot? They won’t release her information without a rubber stamp from the magistrate?”

“Aye, that’s about the long and short of it. I’ll get the paperwork signed off this afternoon and get things moving.”

“Alright. Money doesn’t look like the motivation here, but it’s usually involved somewhere.”

“Money talks,” Phillips agreed. “Cooper wasn’t rolling in it, but she did alright for herself.”

“It’s enough for some people,” Ryan said, then broke off the conversation as Tom Faulkner, the Senior CSI, stuck his head around the door and gave Ryan the ‘thumbs up’ sign.

“Alright, listen up!”

Ryan hitched a hip onto the edge of his desk and waited until he had their full attention.

“It’s been over twenty-four hours since Sharon’s body was discovered. What have we got to show for it?” He let the question hang in the air. “Let’s start with the basics. Sharon was a forty-nine-year-old woman in the prime of her life. She went through an acrimonious divorce six years ago but there’s no evidence to suggest her former husband is involved; he’s sailing around the Mediterranean with his new wife, happy as Larry.”