Yet there was hope beneath it all.
Northerners were from hardy, fighting stock and it took more than a few knocks to crush their spirit. Phillips could see that in the fresh coats of paint on the walls, the neatly tended gardens and the new businesses popping up in the old shop fronts on the high street. A group of women stood chatting and laughing outside a local supermarket and, to Phillips, they represented everything that was good about his city; they were getting on with life and living it, not harkening back to the past.
He came to a stop at a set of traffic lights and glanced at the building to his left, which bore a sign saying, ‘ST. PETER’S CLUB’. He smiled and shook his head, thinking back to his younger days and the times he’d driven his father down here for a pint with his mates and a sing-song around the bar. Nobody had called it by its true name for years; it had always been known as ‘The Bottom Club’ and had been a meeting place for local men for at least fifty years. Its doors were closed now and he wondered whether the locals still gathered there, and whether the community spirit lived on despite the hardships it had faced.
He hoped so.
The lights changed and Phillips put the car in gear, hardening his heart so that he could focus on the reason he was here. Half a mile north lay the new police headquarters but he had been given a different mission, one which might provide the final answer they were searching for.
As he passed the site where tall ships and destroyers had once been raised onto the water, Phillips slowed his car, watching for the building that still housed the records from the old days. He almost didn’t notice the beginning of Hadrian’s Wall jutting from the ground, its ancient stonework seeming out of place among the industrial surrounds but, on reflection, very fitting. Here, within footsteps of each other, were the remnants of two magnificent empires.
Phillips spotted the place he was looking for and, a few minutes later, he shook hands with a young man who had agreed to help him search for the records they needed.
As he stepped over the threshold, he cast his gaze upward to the sky and to the sun which was already beginning its slow descent.
The clock was ticking.
*
Ryan set aside the papers he had now read a dozen times and set off through the forest to complete a final, vital task that would resolve the question that had been puzzling him since the beginning. What had caused the power failures at such precise times? First, eleven o’clock on Saturday evening and then nine o’clock last night. He refused to believe it was a coincidence.
Ryan paused as he always did on the iron bridge spanning the burn to look down into the gorge where Alice Chapman had fallen. Although her killer was now a victim himself, it made no difference to his approach. He would seek justice for Henderson, just as he had for Alice Chapman, for the principle was the same. It was not for anybody to play God or to judge who should live and who should die.
Only the law could balance the scales.
He continued across the bridge and let himself into the house, careful not to make his presence known. He’d deliberately chosen a time when most people would be busy with work but he paused to listen out for any sounds of footfall, just in case. Then he moved quickly to begin an intensive search of some of the rooms, stopping to check he was alone before shifting large items of furniture.
It only took ten minutes to find what he was looking for.
Ryan smiled grimly and then turned to retrace his steps, leaving just as quietly as he had come.
CHAPTER 34
By four o’clock, there was still no word from Phillips.
Ryan’s team assembled once again in the rental cottage, with Faulkner in attendance and Jeff Pinter on speakerphone.
“I’ve done the post-mortem on Henderson,” his upper-crusty voice rang out into the kitchen and Ryan hastily adjusted the volume.
“What did you find?”
“Well, firstly, he couldn’t have been dead more than half an hour when you found him in the basement,” Pinter said. “His core body temperature was still thirty-seven degrees and his skin was warm to the touch.”
“What about the rest of him?” Ryan asked.
Pinter gave a theatrical sigh.
“In cases of rapid deceleration such as we see in victims of falling, there are all the usual arterial lacerations, haemorrhage…almost every organ in Henderson’s body was torn apart by extreme impact.”
Yates swallowed a gulp of tea and felt it slosh around her stomach, settling uneasily as she listened to the pathologist.
“One of his nails was badly torn on his right hand and Faulkner tells me the corresponding fragment was found during their search. After some testing today, they were able to match the metal compound beneath the nail fragment to the type found on the lift doors on the first floor of the house.”
“Defensive wound, you think?”
“Not for me to say,” Pinter was quick to point out. “I can only tell you what shape he was in but, if you want my opinion, I’d say he was making a grab for something to hold on to as he fell.”
“Anything in his blood?” Ryan enquired. “Anything that would point to accident or suicide?”
“I put a rush on the toxicology report, as requested. His bloodwork came back nil of alcohol or drugs, other than a small quantity of propanoic acid, otherwise known as ibuprofen. That certainly wouldn’t have impaired his judgment. As for any pathological indications of suicide, there were no historic contusions or lacerations on his arms or wrists that might support a psychiatric history of suicidal tendencies.”
Ryan nodded, glad to have his own suspicions confirmed.
“Anything else we need to know?”
“Just a lot of medical bumf,” Pinter said honestly. “I’ll send my report through to you now.”
“Thanks, Jeff.”
Ryan stabbed the red button on his phone to end the call and looked up at his team, who were half-seated, half-standing around the kitchen in a state of agitation. He knew the feeling; it came when an investigation was taking too long, when they had worked solidly for days and there were no fruits to show for it.
All that would change very soon.
“So,” he clapped his hands to get their attention. “Pinter has more or less confirmed that Henderson was pushed. Faulkner? What can you tell us from the forensic side?”