Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(9)

“Deus adiuva nos…” he whispered, and fell to his knees to pray, with the stench of rotting flesh permeating the air around his bent head.





CHAPTER 4


Eighty miles north of Crayke College, in a quiet residential cul-de-sac on the western outskirts of Newcastle upon Tyne, Detective Inspector Denise MacKenzie raised her mascara wand to apply the final touches to her daily war paint. She’d almost completed this delicate task when the unexpected sound of a bedroom door slamming caused her to jump and jab herself in the eye.

Swearing bitterly, MacKenzie blinked and held a tissue to her streaming eye while she stuck an angry head outside the bathroom door.

“Hey! What’s all the racket about?” she demanded of her husband, who stood on the landing looking flustered.

Detective Sergeant Frank Phillips lifted his hands and let them fall again in a gesture of frustration.

“You might know, it’s non-school-uniform day, today,” he huffed. “Well, Samantha came downstairs dressed in a pair of bleedin’ hot pants and a crop top and I told her, no daughter of mine is stepping foot outside that front door unless she’s fully clothed!”

MacKenzie smiled privately at how easily he used the word ‘daughter’, especially now that they’d completed the formal process of adopting Samantha as their own.

“Are you talking about her little denim shorts?” she asked. “Usually, Sam wears them with a pair of tights underneath and those new trainers she likes so much, with the gold star on the side. It’s all the rage at the moment, Frank.”

“I don’t care if Kate Moss and half the known world is wearing them!” he raged. “She won’t be!”

He jabbed a finger towards Samantha’s bedroom door, which opened on cue to reveal a skinny girl of ten, whose long red hair fell in crimped waves down her back.

“Who is Kate Moss?” she asked.

“A famous mo—never mind that!” Phillips blustered. “I thought I told you to go and find some proper clothes!”

“And I told you, I’m already wearing them! Tell him, mum,” Samantha appealed.

MacKenzie felt her heart flip over at the girl’s endearment, the novelty of being called ‘mum’ not having quite worn off, but she was determined not to find herself in the middle of their battle.

“Frank, all the girls wear the same kind of gear at school, so get with the programme,” she said. “Sam? Don’t start crowing too soon, because you know we made an agreement when I bought you that outfit. We agreed that you’d be wearing it with tights for the winter, and a proper jumper over that crop top, especially if you’re planning to wear it to school. You’re not heading out for a day on the beach, so don’t push it, young lady.”

Both of them stuck out mutinous chins and crossed their arms with the kind of synchronicity an Olympic swimming team might have been proud of.

“Don’t bother giving me that look,” she warned them. “We’ve got exactly—”

MacKenzie checked the time on her watch, and groaned.

“—minus five minutes to get out of the house, otherwise we’ll be late!”

Galvanised, all three members of the MacKenzie-Phillips household hustled towards the front door, only for MacKenzie to catch sight of herself in the hallway mirror and let out a small cry of alarm.

“Why didn’t anybody tell me I’ve got a black streak running down my face?” she wailed.

Phillips and Samantha exchanged a guilty look.

“You can hardly see it—”

“I didn’t even notice—”

“Oh, get in the car!” MacKenzie cried, and slammed the door shut behind them.

*

On the other side of the River Tyne, in the small, pretty village of East Boldon, Detective Constable Jack Lowerson and Detective Constable Melanie Yates awoke to the sound of a heavy crash.

Reverting to training, both sprang out of bed and into action, Lowerson throwing out a protective arm, which Yates duly swatted away.

“I can handle myself,” she reminded him.

“Sorry, it’s force of habit,” he said. “You can go first, if you like.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to make some smart comment about him being a real gentleman, but, given her recent complaint, she feared it would sound hypocritical.

“Happy to,” she declared, and began making her way down the corridor towards the living room of the lovely new house they’d recently bought together.

Trailing behind, Lowerson dragged his eyes away from the appealing sight of Melanie’s long legs cased in novelty Christmas shorts, and told himself to stay focused. There could be a dangerous intruder on the loose, or many a thing.

But it was not a murderous criminal who had wrought carnage upon their new home—that might have been easier to handle, in the grand scheme of things. The culprit was rather a tabby kitten, with markings like a tiger and a temperament to match, whom they’d rescued and named, ‘Sir Pawsalot’ in a fit of temporary insanity.

“Paws! What have you done?” Jack cried, while Melanie looked upon the devastation and began to laugh, a little hysterically.

The kitten was entangled in a long strand of red tinsel in the centre of their living room, amidst the wreckage of a fallen Christmas tree whose ornaments lay smashed and scattered across the floor. To top it all off, the tree had connected with their new flat screen television as it fell.