The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(33)

After some time spent navigating a series of badly signposted corridors, Phillips and Lowerson made their way to the Undergraduate Student Office with the intention of finding out Will Cooper’s schedule. Unfortunately, that was not possible, since Will Cooper had been suspended from the university and was not scheduled on any shifts for the foreseeable future.

“Are you sure?”

The administrator glared at them.

“I’m sure,” she said, tapping a long fingernail against her computer keyboard in a staccato rhythm. “He’s been suspended. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Why was he suspended?” Lowerson asked.

She turned her withering gaze on the younger detective with the impressively gelled hair.

“I can’t tell you that. It violates Data Protection, doesn’t it?”

Phillips made a noise somewhere between a growl and a cry.

“We’re from CID,” he said. “It’s information pertinent to our investigation.”

“I don’t care if you’re from Mars,” she retorted. “If you have the proper authority, then you won’t mind putting it in writing, will you?”

Phillips knew when he was beaten.

“Have you got a manager?”

“I am the manager.”

Phillips weighed up the likely success of waging a charm offensive and thought his chances were slim to none.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said.

*

Ryan stood outside Police Headquarters dressed once again in his emergency tie and jacket, feeling like a man about to face the gallows. It wasn’t that he minded public speaking or that he disagreed with the general proposition that the public deserved peace of mind. He objected to the whole rigmarole simply because it was premature. There was nothing new to report and nothing he could say that wouldn’t prejudice their investigation. He’d already proven that during the last hour spent answering tedious questions in an overheated room while time continued to march forward.

There was something else to consider, too.

The last person to address the cameras about the murder of Isobel Harris had been DCI Sharon Cooper, less than a week before she’d turned up dead herself. It was a strong possibility that their killer had watched the press conference on television and had taken it upon himself to lash out at the police with her as the figurehead.

As her successor, it was a sobering thought.

“Ryan? We’ll be ready for you in a couple of minutes.”

He nodded and watched the media liaison scurry away clutching a clipboard filled with questions she hoped he would avoid answering.

“How do you intend to play it?”

Gregson came to stand beside him while they watched the press gather themselves together, fiddling with microphones and earpieces.

Ryan frowned.

“I’m not playing at anything, sir. I’ll answer any reasonable questions with a truthful response that takes account of the need to reassure the public of their safety and security.”

Gregson nodded.

“Good. You’re up. Oh, and Ryan? Try to look a little less forbidding and a bit more approachable, there’s a good lad.”

Ryan ignored that edict, stepping up to the freestanding microphone and simply waiting until he had their attention. Gregson watched him with interest and thought the man was a chameleon. Ryan could cloak himself in a tailored suit that fit him like a second skin and, suddenly, it was as though the bloke in jeans and shirtsleeves had never existed. That was breeding, he supposed. He knew Ryan came from somewhere down south and suspected his family had a big pile of bricks down there. Probably owned horses and rode with the hunt, too. It had taken a good couple of years to figure out why he’d left his roots behind and chosen a new life in the north after living it up at the Met, in London, but he’d come to realise that the landscape suited his newest Chief Inspector. Ryan might have the airs and graces, and he might know the difference between a Petit Chablis and a Chardonnay, but he had the stomach for the kind of work they did and wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. There was a core of pure ice beneath the pretty face the lasses seemed to love, and his temperament suited the climate.

Right on cue, a light drizzle began to fall.

“Thank you for coming,” Ryan began, in a clear tone that carried across the crowd. “There has been a lot of press coverage over the past few weeks concerning the death of Isobel Harris and, more recently, of my colleague, Sharon Cooper. Before I say anything else, I’d like to start by offering my sincere condolences to their families and loved ones, and to assure them that we are doing everything in our power to bring the person or persons responsible to justice.”

“Are you treating their deaths as linked? Was it the same person, Chief Inspector?”

Ryan turned to the reporter and pinned her with a stare.

“Unofficial reports of that nature have already been circulating in the press thanks to unscrupulous journalism. I have no intention of confirming or denying any element of our active investigation.”

“Isn’t it true that John Dobbs was the prime suspect in the late DCI Cooper’s investigation? Isn’t it true that Dobbs had been under police surveillance for days by the time he died?”

Ryan’s eyes turned sharp as he sought out the reporter who had spoken. The police surveillance operation was strictly confidential and had not been given the green light for open discussion. He should know; he was the one dictating what could and could not be said.