The back door led directly into a small kitchen with top-of-the-range appliances. There was a fancy-looking breakfast table with a polished glass top and seating for four, in the centre of which was a ceramic fruit bowl containing a few bananas on the turn. A couple of the cupboard doors stood open with their contents spilling like entrails onto the tiled floor. The fridge hadn’t been closed properly and a nasty smell of raw meat permeated the air, which did nothing to alleviate the overall impression that the house had been disembowelled.
Ryan made his way through to the sitting room, where he found a hoard of treasures. Fine quality paintings hung in brass frames on the walls and objets d’art had been meticulously arranged across every available surface and inside a glass-fronted corner unit. An expensive wall-mounted television took up one wall and a soft brown leather sofa was set out with matching armchairs around an antique chest, on top of which a pile of heavy books on Renaissance art and contemporary photography had been arranged in a fan shape.
Everything else was in total disarray.
The contents of every drawer and cupboard had been strewn onto the thick-pile carpet, even the DVDs, which seemed to consist mostly of the complete collection of Dad’s Army and Monty Python.
At least he’d had a sense of humour.
The single cupboard in the hallway had been ransacked, with shoes and coats left in a heap on the floor. Turning to the master bedroom, Ryan found three wardrobes full of menswear for all occasions. Shirts had fallen from their hangers as the intruder had thrust them aside during their frantic search. The room was decorated lavishly, with pearl grey silk wallpaper and a top-quality bedspread that had been swept onto the floor. The mattress had been dislodged from the base unit and one of the side tables lay upturned on the floor.
Apart from the bathroom, the only remaining room in the single-level house was a box bedroom which Victor appeared to have used as a reading room. There were more paintings on the walls and another pricey-looking armchair but there was also a substantial bookcase filled with tomes on art, music and local history. A slimline antique bureau in elm wood had been systematically broken apart and its elegant curved legs were scattered on the floor alongside a drawer full of receipts and paperwork.
Ryan stood for a moment looking at the destruction and thought that the unknown intruder could not have been clearer in his message.
Victor had something specific that you wanted, didn’t he?
Just then, he heard shuffling footsteps near the back door and Ryan moved quickly through the house to intercept them.
“Stop right there!”
A young man of around twenty stood outside the back door wielding a garden rake and Ryan assumed he must be the resident caretaker.
“I’ve—I’ve called the police! There’s no use making a run for it!”
Ryan couldn’t help but smile. It wasn’t the first time he’d been mistaken for a criminal and he wondered if he looked like a reprobate.
He reached for his warrant card and held it out for inspection.
“Here—satisfied?”
“That could be a forgery!”
Ryan had to give the man points for enthusiasm but he didn’t have time for any more games.
“You’ve been watching too many episodes of Law & Order. Now, put that bloody rake down, before you take somebody’s eye out with it.”
*
Phillips told himself to concentrate on the road ahead and not on the fact he hadn’t heard from Denise in over four hours. He’d tried calling her several times without success and he was starting to worry. What if she’d hurt herself or had another panic attack? He could make a quick detour, just to check…
“Frank?”
From his position in the passenger seat of Phillips’ Volvo, Lowerson realised the man hadn’t heard a word he’d said.
“Sorry, I was miles away.”
“I was just saying, I don’t have a date lined up for Ryan’s wedding. Does Anna have any single friends?”
Phillips looked across to where Lowerson was patting his quiff back into place and shook his head. The lad was constantly thinking with his glands.
“What happened with that lass from the estate agents?”
“She met a gym instructor,” came the surly reply. “His biceps are bigger than my entire body.”
Phillips smiled.
“Take it from me, lad—it’s not all about brawn. Women like a man who can make them laugh, who appreciates them. Doesn’t hurt if you can dance, either.”
Lowerson turned to him with disbelief writ large on his cleanly-shaven face.
“You must be kidding—I’ve seen the way they fall over themselves with Ryan. I’d hate him, if he wasn’t such a decent bloke.”
Phillips snorted out a laugh.
“Aye, well, I never said they were struck blind, did I? But you need more than looks to win the day. Take me,” he jerked a thumb toward his own chest. “Did you ever think, in a million years, that Denise would look twice in my direction?”
Lowerson considered the question. Phillips was an intelligent man with a unique capacity to put even the frostiest witness at their ease. He was universally liked around CID and, despite being a bit rough around the edges, he was known for being a gentleman. He might not have the body of an Adonis, but what he lacked in physique he made up for in charm and humour.
“Maybe you’re right,” Lowerson conceded and let his hand fall away from his hair.
Phillips smiled to himself and made the turn for Cragside.
“You know, I hear Melanie Yates has come on board to help out with the legwork,” he added, casual as you like.
Lowerson’s ears pricked.
“Oh?”
“Mm-hmm. Nice lass, that one.”
When Phillips glanced back across, Lowerson was checking his hair again in the vanity mirror. He let out a muffled laugh which petered out as he thought of MacKenzie, alone and frightened inside the four walls of his house in Kingston Park.
*
MacKenzie swore softly when she realised she’d forgotten to bring her mobile phone. Forgetfulness was becoming a problem these days. The ‘self-help’ books Phillips had subtly left around the house told her that memory loss was a common side-effect following severe trauma. Over time, she hoped her skills would improve and return to normal, as would her sleep patterns, so long as she continued with the cognitive behavioural therapy she’d been trying to do a little of every day. All the same, it was frustrating.
“Are you feeling alright?”
Anna walked beside her as they made their way along a woodland path toward the main house at Cragside. It was a fair question to ask, considering the last time MacKenzie had been inside a forest she’d been running for her life.
She looked deeply into the shadows of the trees, imagining who or what might be lurking in the undergrowth. Then, she looked firmly away, concentrating on the path ahead.
“I’m fine,” she said shortly.
A light sweat trickled down her back but she told herself that was to be expected on a warm afternoon in August. The air was close and heavy with rain that would surely fall later in the day but, for now, sun flooded through the trees and cast long hazy beams to guide their way. Insects buzzed somewhere in the brush and butterflies seemed to float on the air, moving from one patch to the next.