The Infirmary (DCI Ryan Mysteries prequel)(5)

When the full weight of that implication hit home, Phillips’ eyebrows flew into his receding hairline.

“You think Dobbs got to her before he topped himself?”

Gregson sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“Too early to say, Frank. All we know is that Cooper’s police tracker is still transmitting, the doors are locked and her car’s parked outside.”

Ryan shook his head slightly.

“It couldn’t have been Dobbs, not if he was under police surveillance. His movements are accounted for.”

The room fell silent for long seconds and the sound of traffic filtered through the cracks in the walls.

“Both of you get down there as quickly as you can,” Gregson said heavily. “And keep it as quiet as you can. The people in this city think the danger has passed. Let them stay blissfully ignorant for as long as possible.”





CHAPTER 3


Ryan raced across the city with a blithe disregard for the highway code while Phillips rode in the passenger seat bracing one hand against the dashboard in case of impact. They barrelled along the Coast Road towards the sea, past old factories converted into overpriced apartments and council estates badly in need of investment until they reached the pretty village of Tynemouth, where DCI Sharon Cooper lived. Ryan slowed to a crawl along its quaint high street, finding it alive with locals enjoying the last of the summer sunshine breaking through the clouds and warming the walls of the ancient priory, presiding over things from its craggy outcrop overlooking the beach.

“Dunno why newspaper isn’t good enough, anymore,” Phillips mumbled.

Ryan gave him a distracted glance.

“What?”

“Fish ‘n’ chips,” his sergeant elaborated, nodding towards a fancy-looking restaurant. “In my day, you got a freshly battered fish and a mountain of chips soaked in salt ‘n’ vinegar, all wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper. Nowadays, it’s all artsy-fartsy paper from France wrapped in bleedin’ ribbons and bows. Waste of money, if you ask me.”

“Probably more hygienic,” Ryan said fairly. “And too much salt is bad for your health.”

Phillips made a sound like a raspberry and patted the middle-aged paunch that was just visible beneath his summer jacket.

“You need a bit of padding ahead of winter,” he explained, eyeing Ryan’s lithe physique with a trace of pity. “The lasses like to have something to hold on to, y’ know.”

Ryan couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t lost on him that Frank had a habit of lightening the mood in times of stress, such as now.

“You could just wear a jumper,” he said, executing a sharp left turn into one of the residential streets lined with smart Victorian terraces. Further conversation was forestalled when they spotted a line of police vehicles blocking the road and drawing the unwanted attention of Cooper’s neighbours.

“So much for keeping things quiet,” Phillips said.

Ryan yanked the handbrake with more force than was necessary and stalked across the road.

“You!” He pointed an accusing finger towards one of the first response officers. “What the hell do you call this?”

He spread an arm to encompass the crowd of onlookers.

“Sir, we were told to guard the scene.”

“You were told to act with discretion and intercept anyone entering or leaving DCI Cooper’s home. We don’t know if there’s any scene to guard, yet,” Ryan snapped, with rare optimism. “Above all else, you were told not to create a circus, which is what this is starting to look like. Where’s your sergeant?”

“Sorry, sir,” one of them mumbled. “The DS was supposed to be here.”

Ryan’s mouth flattened ominously.

“What steps have been taken to manage the crowd?”

They looked between themselves for divine inspiration.

“We—well, we told them to go home but they’re not listening.”

Ryan swore softly, eyeing the throng with impatience. Beside him, Phillips reached for a packet of Superkings and considered whether he had time for a smoke while Ryan delivered a quick lesson on crowd management.

“Listen up!” Ryan began, in clipped, well-rounded tones. “You’ve already been told to move along. If you continue to disregard a police instruction, I will not hesitate to issue formal cautions to each and every one of you. They remain on your permanent record,” he added, for good measure.

The crowd scattered like rats, muttering discontentedly about things being different in their day, whatever that meant. Phillips let out a small sigh and replaced the packet of cigarettes inside his breast pocket.

Maybe later.

Ryan turned back to the two constables standing on the pavement outside Cooper’s postage-stamp front garden. Behind them, the curtains were drawn at the windows of the house and nothing stirred on the air except a summer breeze.

“Set up a cordon,” he ordered. “Log every entry and exit. The official line is, ‘no comment’, in case anybody asks.”

Two heads bobbed up and down.

“And you can tell your sergeant to piss off, if he ever deigns to turn up. We can take it from here.”

“Right. Yes, sir,” they gabbled.

He began to turn, then his head whipped back around again.