The Shrine: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 16)

by LJ Ross

  MacKenzie thought of her friend stumbling through the fog, only to be struck a brutal blow to the back of her head with the butt of the robbers’ axe. She hoped it was footage Ryan never watched, because it made for traumatic viewing.

  She drew in a long breath, and began again.

  “The first robber, having now completed his task, re-joined the rest of the crowd and made his way back outside into the afternoon sunshine, while his friend did the same less than a minute later. To understand where they went next, DC Yates sought the assistance of Durham County Council, who’ve provided us with extensive access to their CCTV and ANPR network.”

  She referred to the traffic monitoring system used by the council to monitor all vehicles entering and leaving the city via the main roads.

  “Mike Nevis, who is the Head of Security at the cathedral has been especially helpful, and has provided us with extensive footage from their own security network. Thanks to the efforts of all these people, we were able to trace the robbers’ movements as far as Prebends Bridge, and then we believe either or both of them made off in a stolen Citroen Picasso, which was reported missing on Monday morning before the robbery took place, and was recovered later in the day from a dump site near the motorway.”

  She waited to see if there were any questions, before continuing.

  “That’s where the trail runs cold—”

  Just then, Yates burst into the room, breathing heavily.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said, in a rush of words. “I’ve been following a new lead.”

  Heads turned in Mel’s direction, her tardiness immediately forgiven.

  “What lead?” MacKenzie asked. “I don’t know if Jack managed to tell you, but Edward Faber was found dead—”

  “I heard,” Yates said, with less sympathy than she might usually feel, considering the urgency of the moment. “It isn’t about Faber, ma’am.”

  She swallowed nerves.

  “I know where the robbers are, ma’am.”

  * * *

  Ryan was the first to react.

  “How?” he said, urgently. “How can you be sure, Mel?”

  If he was to put together a task force, with firearms support, then he needed to be certain.

  Several pairs of eyes turned to where Yates hovered in the doorway, and she battled a rising tide of nerves that threatened to take a stranglehold.

  “Well, sir, when I was looking into tracing the robbers’ vehicle earlier today, I had an idea…”

  “Go on,” he urged.

  “The Citroen Picasso was stolen from a quiet residential street to the west of the city,” she said. “Whichever robber was responsible for stealing the car, it’s likely he or she would have had a mobile phone in their possession. Mobile phones use the nearest mast to transmit from, and they do this automatically, scanning the vicinity for the nearest signal as we move about. So, it occurred to me that, if we could only get a list of all the mobile phone numbers that were transmitting from the mast nearest the location where the car was stolen, we could compare it with the list of phone numbers that were also transmitting later that day, from the mast nearest the location where the car was dumped.”

  “Surely there would be thousands of mobile phones transmitting to a data mast at any one time,” MacKenzie said.

  Yates nodded.

  “That’s right, and there were over 200,000 numbers transmitting to the data mast nearest the address where the Citroen Picasso was stolen. There were even more numbers transmitting to the data mast nearest the site where the car was dumped. However, after receiving the data, the Digital Forensics Team were able to input the data into a specialist program to compare the two lists to find a match. There was only one mobile phone number which appeared on both lists for the relevant timeframes, and we found it.”

  Lowerson’s face broke into a broad grin.

  “You’re a genius, Mel!” he said. “It sounds so simple when you say it like that, because you’re right. The robber is the only one whose phone would be transmitting from both locations on the same day, around the times we think the car was stolen and later dumped.”

  Yates nodded.

  “Exactly. I worked on the basis that the Citroen was stolen sometime between six and eight in the morning on Monday, according to its owner. That gave us a useful window to work with. Likewise, to drive from Durham to the dump site would have taken no more than fifteen minutes. That being the case, we can estimate the Citroen was abandoned at around twelve-thirty, or thereabouts.”

  “You said you know where these people are,” MacKenzie reminded her. “How did you manage to get an address?”

  “Once I had the unique mobile phone number, I was able to contact the phone service provider, who told me which mast is currently being used for transmission. Actually, they used the nearest three masts to triangulate the position as accurately as possible. That’s how I know they’re at a farmhouse just south of Hamsterley Forest, off Windy Bank Road—or, at least, their mobile phone is there.”

  Ryan couldn’t have felt prouder of her, and of his team, than in that single defining moment.

  “This kind of dedication and resourcefulness deserves a commendation,” he told her. “I’ll speak to the Chief Constable first thing tomorrow.”

  “And I’ll second it,” McKenzie said.

  “Until then, what are we waiting for?” Ryan asked the room at large. “Let’s move!”

  CHAPTER 26

  Windy Side Farm was located on the southern edge of Hamsterley Forest, the largest woodland area in the county and home to more than two thousand hectares of trees and wildlife. It lay to the west of the A1 motorway, which sliced through the county and divided it into two parts; the heritage coast to the east, and the forests and open moorland to the west.

  Windy Bank Road ran parallel to the southernmost edge of the forest, in an elevated position from which its name was derived. The neighbouring forest attracted hordes of visitors during busy times but, at other times, it could be a lonely, barren place, providing seclusion to anybody seeking to lose themselves within the protective fold of the valley.

  Having sought and been given immediate approval to execute a raid on the farmhouse, Ryan and MacKenzie had mustered a small taskforce, consisting of their immediate team, with the support of specialist firearms officers who would take up strategic positions around the perimeter. It was true that Ryan, Phillips and MacKenzie had each received firearms training, but they were firmly of the opinion that discharging a weapon was a matter best left to the specialists and, even then, only as a last resort.

  In the present circumstances, considering the scale and aggravated nature of the robbery at the cathedral, the associated risk that firearms might be used against them was considerably higher than usual. Though every member of Ryan’s team was kitted out in protective gear, it would be foolish to pretend that there was not a greater element of risk involved in the raid, especially in conditions of low visibility. More so than ever before, Ryan was reminded of how the decisions he took now might affect the future.

  His marriage to Anna was based on the tenets of truth and honesty at all times, including his being open about moments when he was required to put himself in danger in the line of duty.

  Before going any further, he called his wife.

  “Ryan residence,” his father answered.

  Did people still answer the phone like that?

  Apparently so.

  “It’s me,” he said. “Is Anna there? I’d like to speak to her, if she’s awake, and up to it.”

  Charles went off to check, but soon returned to say that she’d been exhausted that day, and was already fast asleep.

  “In that case, don’t wake her,” Ryan said. “If she asks for me later, tell her I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

  As a career diplomat, Charles Ryan was supremely adept at reading between the lines of what people said and didn’t say. It was easier to judge non-verbal signals when talking face-to-face, but
it was equally possible to hear the change in vocal tone and speech pattern when using the phone.

  In this case, he heard a measure of fear in his son’s voice, no matter how Ryan tried to hide it.

  “Good luck,” he said. “Don’t worry about Anna, she’s safe here with us. Focus on yourself, and on getting the job done.”

  Ryan didn’t stop to wonder how his father knew of his internal conflict; some things were just instinct, he supposed.

  “I will,” he said. “Thanks.”

  * * *

  The scenery passed by in a blur as Ryan, Lowerson and Yates made the bumpy journey from CID Headquarters to their rendezvous point near Windy Side Farm. It was agreed that MacKenzie would remain back at base, directing operations via radio and acting as a point of contact with the Chief Constable. Though she understood the sense of it, there was a time not so long ago when she would have been the first to volunteer for a field operation, and she felt the loss of liberty very keenly.

  The farm was accessible over the fields on foot, or via two roads on either side of the property running along the eastern and western edges of the farmland. Firearms support officers were stationed on either side, and it was agreed that Lowerson and Yates would station themselves with Team A to the west, while Ryan would station himself with Team B, to the east.

  “ETA three minutes,” MacKenzie said, her soft Irish burr sounding out over the radio. “Take your positions.”

  They reached the edge of the farm shortly before seven o’clock, as the sun went down on the people of County Durham and made way for a harvest moon. It lit up the valley, spotlighting the old, ramshackle farmhouse and its small collection of outhouses. A single car was parked on the grassy track—they could not call it a driveway—leading up to the main farmhouse, which was in darkness aside from a single light which burned in one of the downstairs rooms.

  Once they were in position, Ryan took out his night-vision glasses and tried to get a better view, seeking out the heat sources to better plan their approach.

  But there were no heat sources.

  Ryan frowned, then tried again, with no better result.

  He reached for his radio.

  “No clear view of any heat source from the east,” he said. “What about from the west?”

  Lowerson had been experiencing the same momentary confusion, having expected to find at least two detectable heat sources inside the farmhouse.

  “No heat sources from this vantage point, either,” he said.

  Back at Headquarters, MacKenzie advised caution.

  “Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they aren’t there,” she said. “Approach with care.”

  Ryan agreed.

  “Advance with extreme caution,” he said. “On my mark.”

  They moved like dark spectres across the fields, keeping to the hedgerows and out of the path of the wind, which circled the valley basin and rushed upward to howl through the forest, sending the trees swaying back and forth against the inky-blue skyline.

  Soon enough, they neared the house and Ryan took out his field goggles again.

  There was still no discernible heat source, apart from the approaching cluster of bodies from the west, who were already accounted for.

  A slow feeling of dread began to creep its way through Ryan’s system, warning him clearly of what was to come.

  Death.

  But not his own.

  * * *

  They approached the farmhouse from all sides, fanning out as they drew near, keeping themselves low to the ground. The darkness was all-encompassing and, had it not been for the moonlight, they might have tripped over the body lying face down in the grass directly outside the front door, which stood open to the night and creaked loudly on its rusted hinges.

  The man who had, albeit briefly, held Cuthbert’s cross in his avaricious hands—the same hands that had dealt Anna a blow that had almost robbed her of life—had died following a single penetrating gunshot wound to the head, fired at close range. Though they didn’t yet fully understand how Tebbutt’s murder related to the cathedral robbery, if this man who now lay before them had taken any part in her demise, then there was certainly a dark irony to the manner of his own death. He had, most likely, died instantaneously, but where they could find pity in their hearts and take comfort from such knowledge in the case of their friend and colleague, it was considerably harder to apply the same logic to a man who had been responsible for such suffering and for whom they’d envisaged a very different outcome.

  Firearms officers swept the farmhouse and, after pronouncing it safe to enter, Ryan, Lowerson and Yates stepped over the threshold.

  Inside, it was clear that the place had already been searched and, unlike Faber’s home, there had been no effort made to disguise the fact. The furnishings were expensive but dated, suggesting that it must have been some time since the house was in regular use. But now, the cushions were torn, their fillings laid bare and hanging like cotton entrails across the floor. Drawers had been displaced, their meagre contents lying scattered over a threadbare rug. In the kitchen, once the heart of the home, what few utensils there were now lay on the dusty floor beside the rubbish, which had been tipped out of the bin and scattered over the floor.

  They walked through the empty house, remaining cautious as they moved from room to room, stepping over shards of broken glass and torn cloth.

  “They were looking for something, but couldn’t find it,” Ryan said. “It must have been the cross.”

  “They’ve turned the whole place upside down,” Lowerson agreed. “Perhaps the guy outside tried to hide the loot and keep it all for himself, so the other one turned on him.”

  “They do say there’s no honour among thieves,” Yates said.

  Ryan continued to prowl around the courtyard outside, peering inside the car before opening one of the doors and shining his torch light around the interior.

  “I need more light over here,” he said, and the other two hurried over.

  “They searched in here, too,” Ryan said, taking in the torn seats and ripped carpet in the footwells.

  “They searched everywhere,” Lowerson said. “They must have found whatever they were looking for. There’s nowhere left to look.”

  Ryan walked around the outside of the car, lifting the boot to peer inside, then dropping down to peer beneath the undercarriage.

  He was about to agree with Jack’s statement and suggest they call in reinforcements to deal with the body, when his eye fell on one part of the car which did not appear to have been tampered with.

  Fuel cap.

  Ryan pressed a hand to the cover and it popped open, sending something wrapped in cloth tumbling to the floor at his feet with a light thud.

  “Light!” Ryan said. “Shine a light over here!”

  There, glowing in the darkness, was Cuthbert’s cross.

  CHAPTER 27

  It was after eleven by the time Ryan made it home to Elsdon.

  He’d overseen the transfer of the cross into the hands of an expert at Durham University, who would authenticate it and return it to the cathedral as soon as possible. Meanwhile, Lowerson and Yates had supervised the crime scene and the CSIs, whose good humour at being called out so late in the day was testament to their civic pride and willingness to do their part in bringing an end to what had been an extraordinary turn of events.

  When Ryan tiptoed upstairs, he expected to find his wife fast asleep. Sleep was the best medicine to speed her recovery but, apparently, it was easier said than done, judging by the small avalanche of books spread out on the bed beside her.

  The one she happened to be reading was propped up against her bump, so she could read more easily, and her profile was silhouetted by the warm glow of the bedside lamp. She could often be found reading in bed with a cup of tea by her side and he was glad that, despite all the bandages and bruises, she was still his Anna.

  When she spotted him in the doorway, her face broke into a smile.
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  “Ryan,” she said.

  He crossed the room in a few strides and sank onto the bed beside her. He brushed his lips over hers with infinite care, and then leaned down to press another kiss to her stomach.

  “I thought you’d be asleep by now,” he said.

  “I couldn’t,” she said. “I had a nightmare, earlier today, and my subconscious hasn’t quite recovered from it yet.”

  “What nightmare?” he asked, full of concern. As somebody who suffered from night terrors himself, he didn’t try to downplay their effect.

  “A variation on the usual,” she said. “Except, this time, there was a man dressed in a monk’s robes, not black ceremonial ones, like the Circle used to wear.”

  She referred to the cult which had spread its poison far and wide, corrupting men and women from the highest to the lowest echelons, her own father included.

  “Perhaps the robed figure represented Cuthbert?”

  “That’s what I thought at first,” Anna said. “But then the face changed and became something hideous. Then, it told me it was the Master and, Ryan, it…that thing was holding our baby—”

  Her voice quivered on the last word, and he touched his forehead very gently to hers, holding her close.

  “It sounds awful,” he said. “I wish you’d called me.”

  “I didn’t want you to be interrupted today,” she said. “I heard about the other body, in Burnhope, and I knew you’d have a lot to do.”

  “I didn’t think it would take long for the media to catch up.”

  “Nobody seems to know why he died,” Anna said.

  Ryan had a few theories of his own, but he was not about to share them just before bed. Besides, he was glad to be the bearer of good tidings, for once.

  Anna gave a huge, jaw-cracking yawn.

  “How did your raid go?” she asked.

  “We were hoping to take the robbers unawares, and then bring them in to squeeze them a bit, under caution,” he said. “Unfortunately, when we arrived at the farm where they’d been hiding out, one was dead and the other missing.”