by LJ Ross
“Hello, darling,” she said. “How was your day?”
Ryan settled himself on the sofa beside Anna, who rested her head on his shoulder, and thought of how to describe his day.
“Busy,” he decided. “Productive.”
“Oh?” Anna said, lifting her head again. “What can you tell us about it?”
He appreciated her being mindful of the confidential nature of his job and, for his part, were it not for the threat posed to his family, he wouldn’t have liked to bring any of the darkness home with him. Here was happiness and light, love and family, and it was his mission to keep it that way.
But there was a threat, so long as the situation remained unresolved, and they had a right to know the full extent.
His father came into the room and set down a small tray of soup and buttered bread, which he placed on a side table beside his son before joining Eve on the opposite sofa.
“Thanks,” Ryan said, and left it to cool. “I haven’t talked too much about this, over the past few months, because I haven’t wanted to worry anybody, unduly. You know what happened to DCI Tebbutt, from Durham Area Command?”
There were sober nods around the room.
“She was killed because of what she came to know about Cuthbert’s cross, as was the man who spotted the forgery—Edward Faber. We kept things quiet to give us some time to investigate, a bit of breathing room, if you like. But now, that time is up.”
They waited for him to explain.
“Until now, there’s always been the potential that somebody out there would find out that we knew about the forgery, that we were investigating them, and would seek to silence me or perhaps other members of my team…maybe my family, too. Today, that threat became more of a reality, because I saw his face, and he saw mine.”
There was not a sound in the room other than the crackling of the fire, until Anna spoke again.
“What does that mean?” she asked, quietly.
“It means that our cover is blown,” he replied, and took her hand between his own. “If this person we’re looking for harboured even a shadow of a doubt about whether we knew about the forgery, seeing me today was enough to confirm it. More so, since they ran, and I gave chase.”
“You were chasing a thief,” Eve argued. “Any police officer would have done the same.”
“A local officer, yes, but a murder detective from the North East? It raises questions, such as what I was doing down there, and why; the only answer can be that I was investigating other relics belonging to Cuthbert, which I wouldn’t bother to do, if the real cross had been returned to Durham Cathedral.”
“Ah, yes, I see,” Eve whispered. “Now, you don’t have the benefit of their doubt.”
“Exactly, but the good news is that I have some useful leads to follow now, which is more than we had this time a couple of days ago.”
“Where did you see this man?” Charles asked.
Ryan suddenly realised that they hadn’t heard, because it wouldn’t have been reported, yet.
“At the British Library,” he said. “I went there with Frank to see the St. Cuthbert Gospel, which is usually on display. By an odd quirk of fate, we came across a robbery in progress—a man dressed as the monk who died at Crayke College on Sunday night gained access to the gospel book using the dead man’s access pass, then attacked a young woman before making off with it.”
“Was she all right?” Eve asked, not caring so much about the book as the person. Anna smiled privately, understanding where Ryan had learned compassion and his unwavering belief in people over things.
“She’ll be all right,” Ryan assured her. “She took a nasty blow around the head, but she’ll recover.”
Physically, at least.
“So, you intercepted him?” Charles guessed.
“Not quite,” Ryan said, with some disappointment. “By the time we discovered what had happened, he’d reached the main doors. I chased him as far as King’s Cross, where he boarded a train. We managed to stop the train and search it, but he seemed to have vanished.”
Charles made a murmuring sound in his throat.
“I’ve asked for the footage on the train, so I can track the man’s movements and find out how he did it, but that will take a day or so, possibly, which is time we don’t have when a perp is clearly escalating their behaviour. That makes two incidents in two days, if we’re right.”
“I have some old notes on the St. Cuthbert Gospel,” Anna said. “I could look them out for you, if that would help?”
Ryan thought of how lucky he was.
“That would be enormously helpful,” he said. “The extent of my knowledge is a potted summary from Lowerson and what I read on the display placard—something about it having been made locally by monks in Jarrow and Monkwearmouth as an offering to Cuthbert, who was already dead by that time. It was always intended to be placed inside his coffin, as a kind of amulet.”
Anna nodded. “Not a bad start,” she smiled. “I’ll tidy up my notes tomorrow, when Madam isn’t demanding my attention.”
Ryan grinned at the thought.
“It’s a pity we can’t look at the book, now,” he said. “I think there has to be something in it that would explain why the monk died; I only wish I knew what it was.”
“Well, you know, the British Library scans all its pieces into a digital archive,” Anna said. “The images are very high quality, so you can actually scroll through the pages of the gospel as if you had the real thing in front of you.”
Ryan framed her face in both of his hands and delivered a smacking kiss.
“Let me know if you’re ever looking for a job,” he said, with renewed optimism. “I’d hire you on the spot.”
“You couldn’t afford me,” she joked. “But, since I like you so much, I’ll have a scroll through the digital copy tomorrow and let you know if anything stands out.”
“We’ll help with the baby,” Eve volunteered, happily. There was nothing she loved more than spending time with the newest member of the Ryan family. “Won’t we, Charles?”
“Try and stop us,” he said.
Talk turned to other things and, as the fire began to die and his parents excused themselves for the night, Ryan was left alone for a few precious minutes with his wife.
“I missed you, today,” he said.
“I missed you, too,” she said, softly, and brushed her lips against his. “I could tell there was more you wanted to say, just now, but didn’t. If you need to talk about it, I’m here to listen; it cuts both ways, you know.”
Ryan pulled her close and rubbed his cheek against her hair.
“The closer we get, the more dangerous it becomes,” he said, as they watched flames lick at the remains of a log, its light casting flickering shadows against the wall. “I don’t want to but, if it comes to it, you may have to take Emma somewhere safe, maybe down to Devon with my parents.”
Anna’s arms tightened around his chest, and she breathed in the scent of him, hardly able to imagine being parted when they’d so recently become new parents.
However much it hurt her to think of it, it must have hurt him even more to suggest it.
She told herself not to make things even harder.
“We’ll do whatever’s necessary to keep our family safe,” she said, and hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
* * *
Finally, the key rested in their hands.
It had been overwhelming, seeing it there in the reading room of the library. Such a little book, its pages faded and worn, but they could feel the power radiating from it in waves.
Cuthbert’s power.
Now, their power.
They brought the book to their face, sniffing the goatskin binding, touching the tip of their tongue to the glue, rubbing it against their skin in a manner that might have been sexual, for some. But they were not concerned with pleasures of the flesh. Like Cuthbert, they were far above that now, however their thoughts might have strayed in the past.
/> Indeed, impotence was a blessing.
They chanted old rites and prayers as the book skimmed their naked body, and the sound of crashing North Sea waves surrounded them, pumped through hidden speakers in the wall. They’d have liked to have been on Inner Farne, Cuthbert’s sanctuary and the place where he’d passed on to a higher realm, but that was not possible.
Not everyone understood such greatness, but there was a chosen few who did. They were the true believers…the true guardians of Cuthbert’s way of life, and only they, through him, could benefit from his miraculous power.
From time immemorial, Cuthbert had rested with his relics; items destined to be buried with him for all eternity, invested with fragments of his strength. Through the ages they had been separated, scattered around the country to sit in glass boxes, until their power began to wane. Only when made whole again, could Cuthbert’s strength be restored.
They’d made the mistake of thinking the cross and other trinkets were sufficient, but that was before they’d found out the disgusting, demoralising, deceitful truth that the ‘new’ church—one of Henry’s creation—had flogged to the masses.
The very thought was enough to bring on an attack, and their body began to shake, convulsing and sweating as they rolled around the stone floor.
Through it all, they laughed, and felt no pain.
CHAPTER 23
Wednesday 9th December
Ryan awoke the next morning with renewed purpose, thanks in large part to the fact his daughter had slept soundly through the night, not uttering so much as a peep before six-thirty. Naturally, he and Anna took full credit for this wonderful development, as all new parents did on the occasion of their child doing something perfectly normal, no matter how infrequent.
Fuelled by an extra couple of hours’ shut-eye, he strode through the doors of Northumbria Police Headquarters with the air of a man who was ready to face the world again—a state of affairs that was immediately called into question, when the Chief Constable’s personal assistant cornered him as soon as he entered the building.
“Sorry to piss on your bonfire, but Morrison wants to see you, straight away,” she said, with her usual refinement. “And she says to tell you, she can’t be bought by posh coffee, either.”
The woman looked pointedly at the cardboard cups he held in his hands.
“I guess I’ll have to drink them both,” he said, with a bland smile. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
She stalked off, in a manner vaguely reminiscent of Nosferatu.
In the minute it took him to walk from one end of the corridor to the other, Ryan considered all the different excuses he could make for having overridden her orders, as well as all the justifications.
But he discarded them all, in favour of one simple message.
“I’m sorry,” he said, without reservation.
Morrison eyed the coffee he held in his hand, and told herself to stay strong.
“I’ve heard that before, Ryan. Every time you flout my orders, you’re sorry.”
“It’s true, I’m always sorry to have to do it.”
She stared at him. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“No, ma’am. It’s supposed to be honest.”
“Ryan, do you respect my authority?”
“Always,” he said, without pause. “But, on occasion, I disagree with your application of it.”
“You had the chance to be superintendent.” She reminded him about the position that was still vacant despite an extensive recruitment exercise. “That would give you more clout, if that’s what you’re after—”
Ryan frowned. “Do you think that matters to me, at this point in my career? We’ve known each other a long time.”
She sighed, and shook her head.
“No, I don’t think you’re led by ego—or, at least, no more than the next person—and I don’t think you’d thank me for giving you another promotion,” she said, quite accurately. “You could handle a more senior position with your eyes closed, but the day-to-day wouldn’t suit you because you like working on the front line, don’t you?”
He inclined his head.
“Cards on the table, Ryan,” she said, indicating that he should sit. “I spent most of last night being angry at you, but then I had a kind of revelation, this morning. I realised something, which is that I’ve been away from front line work for too long. It makes it harder for me to make judgment calls on risk, which you’re better placed to be doing, because you’ve got a proven track record. That’s your forte, and it’s an asset to the constabulary.”
Ryan was taken aback by the turn of the conversation.
“Thank you,” he said, cautiously. “I apologise, again, if my actions were insubordinate.”
She laughed. “You’ve always been insubordinate. It’s a defining characteristic—”
“That much is true,” he said. “You can ask my mother.”
“A very tolerant woman, no doubt,” she said, with a smile. “The thing is, I applied for this job because I’m good at juggling police and politics; that’s my strength.”
“You’re an excellent chief constable,” Ryan said, and meant it.
“Thank you,” she replied. “All the same, I feel I’ve been looking at things from the wrong perspective, and that’s because your reporting to me was only ever supposed to be an interim procedure, until a new DCS could be appointed. Not that it hasn’t worked, or that you’re all that difficult to manage—”
“I’m obviously not trying hard enough.”
There was a half-second pause, then she laughed, relaxing back in her chair.
“This is why you’ve got the longevity,” she said. “You’ve never lost your humour, despite all the sadness surrounding the work we do.”
“It’s easy to stay upbeat, when you’re surrounded by a great team of people, and you’ve got someone who loves you.”
Morrison nodded.
“You can say that again. Not one of them cracked, while you were moonlighting in London—that’s a mark of loyalty.”
“I hope it’s not misplaced,” Ryan said. “I accept full responsibility for the decision-making in Operation Bertie—”
She waved a hand.
“Ryan, if I was going to dish out reprimands, I would have done it by now. I know it’s you leading that team, but I also know you’re not surrounded by a herd of sheep; if they didn’t believe you had good cause to act in the way that you did, they wouldn’t have gone along with it. That’s the reason I’m not suspending you, today.”
“Thank you,” he said, as meekly as he could.
Morrison jutted her chin in the direction of the coffee cups he’d placed on the desktop.
“Are they just for show?”
He shook his head, and gestured for her to help herself.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the first life-affirming sip. “The thing is, Ryan, for the vast majority of cases, you just keep your head down and get on with it, racking up closed case after closed case and generally doing exactly what you’re supposed to do, which is to make us all look good.”
Ryan smiled.
“But, every now and then, an unusual case comes along, such as the one we’re dealing with now—Operation Bertie. It’s less straightforward and carries much more risk to the department, including demands on its budget, as you know. From my side of the desk, I want it done with, finished, forgotten. In fact, I wanted that six months ago.”
“Me too,” he reminded her. “But for slightly different reasons.”
“I want to see justice done,” she said, with a tone to her voice. “But there are times when I have to make hard decisions; ones my heart may not agree with—but my head must have the final ruling.”
“I understand that,” Ryan said.
“Which brings me back around to my point, earlier. Really, we need to appoint a new superintendent to oversee the department, so I don’t have to start taking blood pressure tablets.”
“Still no suitable c
andidates?” he enquired.
“You know bloody well that you’re our first choice for DCS,” she muttered. “But you won’t do it.”
Ryan nodded, then he remembered an idea he’d had a while ago.
“I have a suggestion, if I may.”
“I’m all ears.”
CHAPTER 24
At ten o’clock, Ryan called a departmental briefing in the largest conference room at Police Headquarters with a full complement of CID staff, including Morrison, who had been persuaded to re-open Operation Bertie.
“All right, settle down,” he said, once they were all assembled. “There’s coffee and croissants at the back—don’t get used to it.”
There was a ripple of laughter and a scrape of chairs as people made a last-minute grab.
“I know some of you will be wondering why you’re here,” he continued, once the chatter died down and he had their full attention. “Jack? Hit the lights, would you?”
When Lowerson turned the lights off, Ryan fired up the projector screen.
“You’re here to mark the formal re-opening of Operation Bertie, which, for the past nine months, has been a covert investigation into the theft of St. Cuthbert’s pectoral cross and the murders of DCI Joan Tebbutt and Edward Faber. He was a well-known forger and informant to our colleagues in the Durham constabulary, with whom we’ll be co-operating and sharing information, as necessary. This is now a cross-constabulary exercise, and I expect the highest standards of cooperation, going forwards.”
One of the younger members of his team stuck their hand in the air.
“Sir? I don’t understand—I thought the cross had been recovered?”
There were murmurs of assent around the room.
“A cross was indeed recovered, but it wasn’t the original.”
He proceeded to set out their theory surrounding the replica cross, and the role it played in the deaths of Tebbutt and Faber.
“The key word here is discovery,” Ryan said, and leaned back against a desk at the front of the room, hands braced on either side. “Whoever perpetrated these crimes did so to prevent discovery of the replica and, I believe, more importantly, discovery of the reasons why the original was taken in the first place.”