by LJ Ross
“Leave it with me,” MacKenzie said, in her soft Irish burr.
“Phillips? I need the CCTV footage from all of the crime scenes, and a photofit. I want to know who the hell got on that train, yesterday, and how we missed them.”
“Nee bother,” he said, with a smile. “By the way, we’ve had an update through from Hassan, in London. He says they’ve managed to find Lareuse’s lock-up, on the Isle of Dogs. Apparently, he’d hardly used his UK current account in three years, then, all of a sudden, he’s buying lunch and dinner within five hundred yards of some storage place called, Storr-Eez.”
“Muppet,” Lowerson said.
“You can say that again,” Phillips agreed. “Apparently, it’s like a treasure trove inside, because Lareuse used it as his workshop. Left all his tools and everything. Anyhow, given all the stuff around Cuthbert, Hassan got in touch to say he’d found something that might be of interest.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Well, they’ve only had time to do a quick search, so they might come across even more, but they’ve found a stack of pictures of Cuthbert’s Cross. Close-ups, and all that.”
“You mean, the kind a high-class forger might use to produce a copy?”
“Exactly that kind of thing,” Phillips agreed, with a smug smile.
It was circumstantial, but still an important connection. More importantly, it confirmed Ryan’s theory about Lareuse’s involvement, and it was always a relief to know that he wasn’t losing his edge despite the endless rounds of ‘Old MacDonald’.
He looked around their faces, glad to see the energy running high amongst his team, because they’d certainly need it.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s get to work!”
CHAPTER 26
Durham was magical at all times of the year, but especially in winter, when frost clung to the roofs and chimney-tops of the stone cottages that lined its cobbled streets, and the uppermost spires of the cathedral were shrouded in mist so it seemed to be touching the clouds.
“Can you imagine what people must have thought, in the old days?” Lowerson said, as they walked along the pathway beside the river, at the foot of the cathedral. “If you were a lowly peasant, living in a hut somewhere, imagine coming to Durham and seeing that! It’d be easy to believe it was God’s house, wouldn’t it? You’d be in awe of it all.”
“I’m still in awe,” Yates confessed.
They took a moment to enjoy the sight of a swan and her cygnets swimming gracefully downstream, breathing in the damp air with its earthy scent.
“I can see why Anna enjoyed living here,” Lowerson remarked. “It’s peaceful.”
“And beautiful,” Yates added. “But too close to the Cathedral, for my taste.”
“Really?”
She shrugged, a bit self-consciously.
“You already know that my parents struggled when my sister died, and their personalities completely changed. It’s hard for me to describe how they used to be and it’s been so long now, I wonder whether I’m remembering correctly or if it’s just wishful thinking. Anyway, they can be quite antisocial…well, you’ve met them, so you know.”
Lowerson couldn’t disagree. The handful of times he’d met Melanie’s parents had been painfully awkward, and peppered with barbed comments around the fact they were ‘living in sin’. He happened to like their sinful life, with their lovely new home and their feral kitten, Mel’s good taste and his flair for taking out the bins. If that was ‘sin’, then he was most definitely a sinner, and proud of it.
But it was not so easy for Mel to laugh off these things.
“Losing a child is bound to have a terrible impact,” he said, kindly. “People cope with grief in different ways.”
“Well, my parents found a lot of solace in the Bible,” she said, staring out across the river. “Overnight, they went from being agnostic people who never stepped foot inside a church, except to attend weddings or funerals, to becoming missionaries. They’re over in China, now, trying to convert people.”
Personally, Jack could never see the attraction of travelling to distant lands with the express purpose of bashing other people’s belief systems, whilst simultaneously trying to flog your own—all under the banner of ‘do-goodery’, of course. So long as you built a well or something, while you were out there, being condescending towards others didn’t seem to be so frowned upon.
But he said none of that.
“I suppose, if you really buy into the dogma, you genuinely believe you’re doing God’s work,” he said. “From their perspective, they probably think they’re two of God’s most loyal servants.”
“Just like the person we’re looking for,” Yates said, and then laughed. “I’m actually quite glad my parents are in another country—at least we can eliminate them from the suspect list.”
“Yeah, there’s only room for one of us to have a murdering parent, in this relationship,” he said.
“There’s a sentence you don’t hear every day.”
Laughing, they turned and made their way up a steep hill leading from the river to the cathedral, emerging onto a pretty grass quadrangle known as ‘Palace Green’. There was a Christmas Market set up to run throughout December, its stalls selling everything from toffee apples to eggnog, hot toddies, mulled wine and more. The atmosphere was festive, and the scent of caramel and roasted nuts carried on the air.
“D’you think we’ve got time to stop?” Lowerson wondered, as they wandered past a stall advertising pulled pork sandwiches.
“Maybe on the way back,” Yates said. “We need to try to get through this list, and there’s no time to waste.”
He knew she was right. They’d spent more than an hour after the briefing earlier that morning ringing around the people on their list but, when it came to contractors who might have helped with the scaffolding, plasterwork, display casing or any other element of the renovation works at Durham Cathedral, it seemed the numbers just grew and grew. Partly, because some of those workers were transient, part-timers or sub-contractors, and, partly, because the company hiring them hadn’t kept adequate records about their staff—presumably, because they didn’t imagine they’d ever be called upon to provide information pertaining to the theft of a priceless national treasure.
Following Ryan’s instructions, they’d been able to eliminate a good portion of the list over the telephone, merely by making enquiries about their whereabouts on Sunday evening, and the previous day. Taking that into account, the list became much more manageable, and they decided to begin speaking to the most ‘high-profile’ people who could not account for their movements, or provide a sufficient alibi.
“Cathedral or university?” Yates asked.
“Ladies’ choice,” Lowerson said.
“In that case, let’s go for the cathedral first,” she replied. “I might not like organised religion, but I can appreciate a solid bit of architecture, when I see it.”
“Amen to that,” he said, and followed her towards the north door of the cathedral.
* * *
Inside, they saw that very little had changed since the last time they had stepped inside the cathedral’s hallowed walls.
The atmosphere inside was reverent, evoking an instant feeling of peace and serenity, for even the most disordered of minds. Its high columns and arches were a triumph of stonemasonry, the likes of which was unlikely to be replicated in any modern building in their lifetime.
“I heard a story about there being a deliberate mistake on one of these columns,” Lowerson whispered. “Apparently, an apprentice was let loose with a chisel, one day, and chiselled the wrong design.”
“Maybe it was their equivalent of graffiti,” Yates said. “They wanted to leave their personal mark and be remembered.”
“People get funny ideas about legacy, don’t they?” Jack mused. “Personally, I’m not bothered about making a mark on the world; I’ll be happy if my friends and family remember me as being a decent person.”
She curved an arm around his waist.
“I promise, if you ever get rid of that Playstation, I’ll remember you that way,” she said, with a wicked laugh.
“Can I help you, detectives?”
They were interrupted by the stealthy arrival of the cathedral’s chief operating officer, a man by the name of Derek Pettigrew, who was tasked with the day-to-day running of the site. He was somewhere in his mid-forties, with a well-tended beard and a rapidly receding hairline he was evidently trying to disguise. They had met him during their investigation of the robbery, back in March, and he remembered them on sight.
“Mr Pettigrew,” Lowerson said, slipping his professional mask back into place. “Thank you for the call, earlier today, and for agreeing to meet us.”
“I hardly have a choice, in the circumstances,” he said, without any social niceties. “As you may imagine, all of us here at the cathedral, including the Dean, were shocked and disappointed to learn from your Chief Constable this morning that the cross recovered last March is not, in fact, the original. What I don’t understand is how such an oversight could have occurred.”
“Is there somewhere we could discuss this in private?”
The cathedral was thronged with people, some who were there to worship, others who were there to admire the architecture, and none of whom needed to overhear their conversation.
“Of course,” Pettigrew said, and lowered his voice instantly. “Let’s use my office.”
He led them to a panelled side door marked, ‘PRIVATE’, and, beyond it, through another panelled corridor to a door at the very end. Inside, the room itself was unremarkable, with its whitewashed walls and bog-standard desk furniture, but the view was something else.
“I don’t know how you manage to work in here,” Yates said, and walked over to the window to look out at a panoramic view to the west, with the river running far below.
“I am very fortunate,” he agreed, coolly. “Please, do sit down.”
They fell into two under-stuffed chairs that dipped at the base, which meant that their knees were slightly higher than their waists.
“We understand the cathedral undertook some renovation works to the exhibition space, roughly three years ago,” Yates said, edging forward a bit to try to get comfortable. “Is that correct?”
“Yes, indeed,” Pettigrew replied. “Our Monk’s Dormitory and Great Kitchen were renovated to create exhibition space for the treasures of St. Cuthbert, amongst other things. It was a large project, spread over a number of years. May I ask why that’s relevant?”
“We have reason to believe the original cross might have been substituted for a replica during the renovation period,” Yates replied.
“Impossible,” Pettigrew snapped, slicing his hand through the air like a knife. “We had a full security team on site at all times, and the artefacts remained in sealed display cases, under lock and key, before they were transferred to their new display area. I don’t see how it would have been possible.”
“Did you have the pieces authenticated, before the project was signed off?” Lowerson asked.
Pettigrew looked uncomfortable.
“There was no need,” he said. “The pieces had already been authenticated and, to the best of our knowledge, nothing had changed. Besides, we had restoration and conservation experts on site. There’s very little chance that so many people could have made such a drastic oversight.”
He included himself in that number, but wasn’t about to say as much.
“Can we have the names of those individuals, please?” Yates asked, flipping open her notebook to compare them with those already listed.
“I—I’d have to check to be certain, but the restoration firm was called Finest Restorations and the gentleman leading the team was a chap called William Chatterley, I seem to recall. He’s local to the area, because I see him in here from time to time. There was a postdoctoral student cataloguing the project as part of some research he was doing, a young man by the name of Andrew Duggan-West. He still volunteers with us, at weekends, when he isn’t doing a show.”
“A show?”
“He enjoys amateur theatre, I understand.”
“I see,” Yates said, and prepared to bite the bullet. “My next question is a delicate one, Mr Pettigrew, but I’d like to reassure you that it’s an entirely normal part of our investigation.”
He nodded, warily.
“The question I’d like to ask is: could you please tell us your whereabouts on the evening of Sunday 6th December, and again yesterday daytime?”
He didn’t blink.
“I have no secrets,” he said, folding his arms. “On Sunday evening, I was at home, like any other sane person in this country. Yesterday, I was unwell, and had the day off sick.”
Lowerson and Yates displayed twin expressions of sympathy.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lowerson said. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“Not any more, I’m very pleased to say. I’m in remission after undergoing a round of chemotherapy,” he said. “Unfortunately, I still suffer from topical sickness and tiredness, from time to time, which I’m told will improve.”
“We’re very glad to hear it,” Lowerson said. “Are you with the cancer centre at the University Hospital?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
That was easy enough to check, they thought, and the man had been forthcoming with his explanation, so far, which went in his favour.
Set against that, the upshot was that, for the significant time periods, Derek Pettigrew claimed to be at home.
“Do you live alone, Mr Pettigrew?”
His face became shuttered.
“Why is this relevant to the theft of the cross?” he asked. “What does my whereabouts this past week have to do with the cross having gone missing three years ago, if you’re right on that score?”
“We’re not in a position to discuss active lines of enquiry,” Lowerson replied. “We would, however, be extremely grateful for your cooperation.”
Pettigrew lifted his chin.
“Much as I am happy to assist in your investigation, there are elements of my private life that are…” He cast around for the right word. “Ah…private.”
He looked between the pair of them, seeking reassurance.
“The thing is, my partner—Michael—lives separately…ah—”
They thought they understood the problem.
“Michael is married?” Yates asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral.
Pettigrew nodded.
“I would much rather keep his name out of this. He hasn’t told his family…”
“Nonetheless, I’m afraid we will need to verify your whereabouts as part of our wider investigation,” Lowerson said, firmly. “We will not share the information unless it has to become a matter of public record at a later stage.”
It was the best reassurance he could give.
Pettigrew nodded miserably, and reeled off a name.
CHAPTER 27
There were countless support groups, cancer centres, private counselling offices and other services that worked alongside the hospitals and GP surgeries in the North East which, even when narrowing the geographic area to Durham and its surrounds, presented a logistical challenge to Ryan and his team. The objective was to try to uncover the means by which Justine Winter first came into contact with a person or group who managed to convince her that the only way to help her ailing brother was to seek a miracle. An extensive dive into Winter’s personal history elucidated a sad, lonely sort of life; not at all what one might have expected of a woman her age. However, Justine had acted as both mother and father to her younger brother, responsibility having been thrust upon her at an early age following the death of her mother from breast cancer. Her father had, by all accounts, not been much to speak of. Her brother, Danny suffered from early-onset motor neurone disease, extremely rare in children, as well as severe learning difficulties, and Justine had been his carer—as well
as working a stressful, part-time in Durham CID. Outside of work, Danny was her only focus in life, and their regular hospital appointments were one of the few social engagements she attended.
Having built up a picture of Justine’s life, they were able to narrow the list of support groups she attended and other potential meeting points to three possibilities: an MND support group which met on Tuesday evenings; a general support group which met on Wednesdays; and, anyone she might have happened to come across on a Monday, when she accompanied her brother to his weekly appointments with a neurologist and a neurophysiologist. It had been a difficult task to elicit the names of attendees for each group, but armed now with a warrant to compel disclosure, MacKenzie had come to speak with the hospital staff directly. In her long experience, it was often the case that you learned interesting little titbits in conversation that could otherwise be missed.
“I know the circumstances aren’t exactly romantic, but it’s a rare treat being out and about with you, my love.”
Since Ryan was tied up with other tasks back at Police Headquarters, Phillips had decided to accompany his wife for the afternoon, and the two of them pulled into the car park of the University Hospital in Durham like a pair of teenagers on their first date.
“I could say the same,” she said, leaning across to bestow a kiss on his upturned face. “It isn’t Florence, that’s for sure, but I’ll still take a wintry day in Durham, so long as it’s with you.”
Phillips puckered up for another kiss, but she held him off.
“Since you’re in such a good mood, there’s something I need to tell you.”
His heart skipped a beat, as all manner of worst-case scenarios flooded his mind.
Denise was ill.
Samantha was ill.
She’d heard he ate that leftover ham-and-cheese toastie, the day before…
“Samantha told me she has a boyfriend.”
Much worse than he could ever have imagined, Phillips thought, dumbstruck.