Cuthbert's Way: A DCI Ryan Mystery (The DCI Ryan Mysteries Book 17)

by LJ Ross

  “Well, I suppose it’s to do with my research about the Deanery,” he said, settling down to an in-depth chat. “I read History of Art at undergraduate level, and I went on to write my postgraduate thesis about the twelfth century frescoes of St. Cuthbert and King Oswald in the cathedral. My postdoctoral research was an extension of that, really; exploring the pomp and pageantry of the Dean’s residence from around the twelfth century, which was much more impressive than was traditionally the case. Originally, the prior would have had a bed in the communal monks’ dormitory, you see. No more and no less than the rest of his brothers, in accordance with the Rule of St. Benedict. But, after the mid-1200s, the Dean must have decided that he preferred his own residence and, judging from some of the fifteenth century frescoes we uncovered beneath years of ordinary emulsion, successive deans had even more lavish notions.”

  “So, how long did you spend on site, during the renovation period?” Yates asked him.

  “Ooh, must’ve been around two months—but not every day, of course. I had written permission from the Dean to access the site with some notice to the contractors and conservationists, so I could observe their work uncovering the frescoes and see what they unearthed. My subject is all about interpreting the meaning behind works of art, and the use of frescoes at the cathedral is so interesting.”

  Despite himself, Lowerson was interested.

  “What were your conclusions?” he wondered.

  “Oh, mostly what you’d expect,” he said, with an artistic wave of his wrist. “Art representing life, and as a visual reminder to visitors of the power of the Prince Bishops in Durham…”

  He seemed to come out of himself, remembering his audience.

  “I’m sorry, it’s easy to fall down a rabbit hole when you get onto your favourite subject,” he said. “Was there anything else you needed to know?”

  “Do you happen to remember anything unusual, during your time on site? Anyone who showed an unusual interest in St. Cuthbert, or his cross, for example?”

  Andrew’s eyes shone, and he leaned forward.

  “Is this to do with the theft of the cross, earlier this year? It was all so…dramatic.”

  “I’m afraid we can’t discuss active lines of enquiry, at the moment,” Lowerson said.

  “Of course, of course…well, I’m sorry to say, I didn’t notice anything unusual…nobody trying to break into the display cases with a swag bag, or anything like that!”

  He paused for a laugh and, when none was forthcoming, carried on.

  “Almost all the people working on the project were already big fans of Cuthbert, and considered it an honour to be working on restoring the cathedral to its best—I was just happy to be a visitor during the process, and to have seen how some of the work is done. The restoration of those wall frescoes was meticulous.”

  “Yes, we heard some of the conservation work was undertaken by a company called Finest Restorations. Is that correct?”

  “That’s right.” He nodded. “It’s run by a chap called Will Chatterley, but he’s really a one-man band. He’s an absolute master when it comes to restoring fine art; really, he could have been an artist, himself.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “No, but he let me shadow him for a few days while he was working on the frescoes, which was very decent of him.”

  “Just a couple more questions, if I may,” Yates said, with a smile. “Have you been rehearsing all week?”

  He let out a gusty sigh.

  “Yes, the play opens on Friday, so we’ve been refining things little by little.”

  “Well, thank you very much for your time.” She passed him a card with the incident room details listed on the reverse. “If you think of anything else—here’s the number to call.”

  Andrew bade them a cheery farewell and, as he sauntered off, Lowerson passed one final critic’s comment for the day.

  “Now, that was a performance.”

  CHAPTER 30

  After a friendly but, ultimately, unfruitful discussion with Danny Winter’s neurologist at University Hospital, MacKenzie and Phillips decided to make one last stop on their way back to Newcastle, where they were due to collect Samantha from an after-school club at five o’clock.

  Vennel’s Café was a hidden gem of a place, tucked in beside other shops in the centre of the city—its historic walls spread over three floors packed with fireplaces draped in garlands and old sewing tables decked out in festive tablecloths, which gave an overall impression of stepping back in time when you crossed the threshold.

  It was a test of willpower for Phillips, whose eyes slid towards the displays of scones and cakes with helpless longing.

  “Stay strong,” MacKenzie said, patting his arm. “You can do it.”

  He might have made a small whimpering sound—he couldn’t be sure—but before he could embarrass himself by leaping across the counter to attack a tray of freshly baked rolls, they hurried upstairs to the first floor where, they were told, the general carer’s support group was now being run by volunteers on a Wednesday afternoon.

  They spotted a group of around eight or nine people seated on the far side of the room beside a small Christmas tree, sipping mugs of coffee and hot chocolate. Tables had been pushed together to form one large one, and men and women of differing ages were gathered around it, nodding and sometimes laughing at something another person had said.

  They felt bad interrupting their meeting, especially as it was a vital lifeline to those carers who might otherwise feel isolated during the rest of the week, but it was imperative that they tried to learn who had managed to compromise Justine Winter.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” MacKenzie said, and the conversation stopped immediately. “I’m DI MacKenzie, and this is DS Phillips. We’re from Northumbria CID.”

  “Oh, my God, it must be about Robbie!” one woman cried, leaping up from her chair as if to run from the room. “What’s happened to him?”

  MacKenzie held up both of her hands.

  “We’re not here regarding any of your loved ones,” she said quietly. “We’re here because we were hoping you might be able to help us get to the bottom of an investigation we’re running into the death of Justine Winter who, we understand, was a former member of your support group.”

  The woman sat down again, obviously relieved.

  “Poor, poor Justine,” she said. “We were all so shocked, when we heard the news that she’d taken her own life…and about…well, what she’d done to that police officer. We could hardly believe it, could we?”

  There were murmured negatives, right on cue.

  “Do you mind if we join you, for a few minutes?” Phillips asked.

  “Please do,” another woman replied, whose name turned out to be Kim. “How can we help you?”

  Phillips pulled up two more chairs for himself and MacKenzie, and they joined them around the table. There seemed to be a mix of carers and their loved ones who were unwell, as well as survivors. The group was run by a man called Fred who volunteered his time on a weekly basis to organise and facilitate the sessions. He was, himself, a cancer survivor and knew what it was to live with that fear hanging over his head.

  “Just clouds every moment of your day,” he said, to nods of agreement around the table. “Hard to think of anything else, but the world keeps turning.”

  “How did Justine find caring for her brother?” MacKenzie asked.

  “I think, mostly, she felt guilty,” Kim remarked. “As most carers do, at some stage or another. It’s hard to be fit and healthy, while you’re caring for someone in the opposite situation. You feel guilty for being in good health, and often wish you could turn the tables.”

  “I wouldn’t want that,” her husband said clearly, although his voice shook with the effort of enunciating his words. “I want you to go on living.”

  “Oh, Mark…”

  She pressed her lips to his temple, and reached over to hold his hand.

  “I think sh
e’d found God, or something of that kind,” the first woman said, and introduced herself as Martha. “She was talking a lot about it, those last few times she came along.”

  “Justine stopped coming around February time,” Fred explained.

  “Was that unusual?” Phillips asked.

  “Not in general,” Fred said. “People do come and go; sometimes, they’ve taken what they need from the group and go away feeling stronger, which is exactly what we’d want for our friends.”

  “In Justine’s case, I wonder whether she dropped out because she was spiralling a bit,” Martha said, and Kim nodded her agreement. “She’d had some bad news about Danny, if I remember correctly.”

  “Oh? Do you remember what it was?” MacKenzie asked.

  “I think he’d been trialling a new drug that was supposed to make a big difference but, as with all these things, so much comes down to chance and, unfortunately, it just didn’t work for Danny,” Martha said, and reached across to wipe her son’s chin with a gentle hand. “I think Justine had placed all her hopes on that drug working and, when it didn’t…”

  MacKenzie knew the rest.

  “I understand,” she said, softly. “Let me ask you another question. Did Justine ever talk about St. Cuthbert, or the idea of miracles?”

  They looked amongst themselves.

  “I’m sure, at some stage or another, all of us have wished for a miracle,” Fred said, with a smile. “Justine was no different, but I can’t say I recall her talking about miracles in any meaningful way.”

  “Actually,” Martha said, and frowned, as if trying to remember. “I seem to remember her asking me whether I believed in miracles.”

  “When was this?” Phillips asked, while he held the hand of the elderly man beside him, who smiled as he rubbed the papery skin gently between his calloused hands, warming the joints to ease the old man’s pain.

  “Must’ve been around the time the drugs failed, this time last year.”

  “Quite a long time ago,” Phillips said, and thought that made sense. If somebody had a mind to indoctrinate a vulnerable young woman, they’d have to lay the groundwork slowly and carefully, especially if she happened to be a police officer.

  “Justine had been to see faith healers, clairvoyants…the lot,” Martha continued. “I think she’d have tried anything, if it might have helped.”

  “I just can’t understand why she killed that poor woman,” Kim said, and her eyes welled up with tears. “I’m sorry if the woman was your friend but, well, for a while, Justine was ours. All I remember about her was a sweet, kind girl who always tried her best. I can’t understand it at all.”

  “We’re tryin’ to get to the bottom of it,” Phillips said, passing her a paper napkin so she could dab at her eyes. “We want to make sure this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.”

  “Maybe we could have done more,” Martha said, half to herself. “She must have been struggling, so badly.”

  “You did all you could,” MacKenzie said. “We are each responsible for the actions we take, although, in this case, we happen to think Justine had a little help along the way.”

  “You mean, somebody might have encouraged her to…to do that?”

  MacKenzie nodded. “Have any of you been approached by anybody who tried to convince you to start praying at St. Cuthbert’s Shrine, or who claimed to have performed miracles?”

  They looked amongst themselves, and shook their heads, but then Kim’s husband, Mark, uttered a single, painful word.

  “Phil.”

  “What’s that, love?”

  “Phil. Bill.”

  Kim looked blank, and then the memory came back to her.

  “Oh, my goodness, yes!” she cried, giving her husband a kiss on the cheek. “Well remembered.”

  She turned to MacKenzie and Phillips, eager to share the information, if it could be helpful.

  “About two years ago, when Mark was first diagnosed, I used to head down to the hospital canteen for half an hour while he was having his physio,” she said. “Now, the physio comes to us but, back then, we drove in, didn’t we?”

  Mark bobbed his head.

  “Anyway, I’d seen this chap a couple of times in the canteen and, this one time, he came over and sat beside me—completely uninvited, I might add,” she said, with a squeeze of her husband’s hand. “He started chatting and, to be honest, he seemed harmless enough, so I didn’t mind humouring him. But then, he said he’d seen me a couple of times with my husband, who looked to have had some bad news. Now, back then, you have to understand, it was all very new, and I was feeling quite raw about everything.”

  “Of course,” MacKenzie said. “Who could blame you?”

  “Well, I think he must have spotted me and thought that I looked like an easy target, because he started on about whether I believed in miracles and, if I didn’t, then I would by the time I’d heard his story.”

  “What was his story?” Phillips asked, very casually. If you showed too much interest, a witness could clam up and forget the juicy bits, he’d often found.

  “Now, let me think,” Kim said, raising a hand to her forehead. “I think he said he’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer sometime before that, and the doctors had no hope for him. He’d turned to God and had got in the habit of praying at Cuthbert’s Shrine over at the Cathedral, because it was a peaceful place to be while he prepared himself for the end. Well, at this point, I felt sorry for him, I really did, especially as he was still wearing a toupee and it was slippin’ right off his head…”

  There was a slight detour in conversation while several other members of the group exchanged their opinions about where to get a good quality wig, if you needed one, and how much better they were than in days gone by.

  “Anyway,” Kim said, returning to her story. “After he’d been prayin’ for a couple of weeks, he went back to his oncologist and they said the tumour had stopped growing. Just like that! Well, I felt pleased for him, but I had my eye on the time and he was goin’ on a bit, so I was only half-listenin’ to the rest of his story, but he might have said something about it lightnin’ having struck twice, and that he knew how to summon a miracle, if I needed one.”

  “What did you make of that?” Phillips asked.

  “Whey, I thought the poor sod had gone barmy,” she said, and the whole table laughed. “I mean, I was happy that his tumour had stopped growing, if it had, and I told him so. But I worked for twenty years as a nurse, and I know there are all kinds of reasons why a tumour might suddenly stop growin’ and we don’t know the half of them. Still, I thought, if he wants to believe it was a miracle, where’s the harm? Then he started talking about secret codes, runes—all sorts! I drew the line when he started trying to convert me, and I said I had to get going.”

  A lucky escape, MacKenzie thought.

  “Do you remember his name? How he looked?”

  “He was definitely over thirty,” she said, but didn’t sound so sure. “Mark thinks he was called Bill or Phil—but it might have been something really ordinary, like Mike, or Kevin, you know? I’m sorry, I just can’t remember, and I’d be pretending, if I did.”

  “It’s all right, you’ve been wonderful, remembering as much as you have.”

  “Here, listen, you don’t think this feller got to Justine, maybe?” Kim asked, having suddenly realised what could—and probably had—happened. “If he was hangin’ round the canteen, she could have seen him when she was in there visitin’ with Danny.”

  MacKenzie took down as many details as she could extract, and Phillips tried a few tactics of his own to try to help the woman remember what the mystery man looked like, but it had been more than two years since she’d seen him.

  They stayed a bit longer for a cup of tea, enjoying the company, and then left the group to their cake and scones.

  Outside, the sun was heading rapidly towards the horizon, and it was time for them to collect their little girl.

  “At least we know wher
e he likes to hunt,” MacKenzie said. “He chooses vulnerable people, especially those who could be useful to him, and tries to convert them.”

  “How was Kim useful to him?”

  MacKenzie turned her phone to face him, and he saw a professional profile of Kim’s husband, Mark, who was evidently a very wealthy man.

  “It might not always be a question of money, but he’s not ignorant to its uses,” MacKenzie surmised. “That’s an interesting insight.”

  “I’ll get in touch with the hospital and see if they have any CCTV coverage down in the canteen, or in the main areas. It’ll be a job for the analysts, but we might hit lucky.”

  “There’s all kinds of power, isn’t there, Frank? There I was, thinking gangs were the problem, but you’ve got people out there suggesting suicide pacts, preying on people’s weaknesses, exploiting them for their own gain…and then, there’s the fanatics.”

  “I ask myself, why can’t people just kill their spouses and bury them in the back garden, like the good old days?”

  “I’m so glad you didn’t say that when the Adoption Panel interviewed us.”

  “So am I, love. I think the humour might have been lost on them.”

  CHAPTER 31

  After two late nights in a row, Ryan was determined to make it home in time for his baby girl’s bath time at six-thirty. Despite there being a hundred more calls to make, reports to write and staff to manage as Operation Bertie restarted, he left the office on the dot of five and stepped through his front door as the clock chimed six.

  “Hi there!”

  Anna’s face lit up as she came down the hall, baby in arms.

  “I thought I heard your car,” she said, and tipped her face up for a kiss before turning the baby towards him, so he could lift Emma high above his head and make her giggle.

  Watching them together, Anna experienced a strange emotion, deep in her belly. It felt peaceful to know that, should anything ever happen to her, Emma would be safe with this lovely man.