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

by LJ Ross

  THE SHRINE

  – A DCI RYAN MYSTERY

  LJ Ross

  Copyright © LJ Ross 2020

  The right of LJ Ross to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or transmitted into any retrieval system, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design copyright © LJ Ross

  OTHER BOOKS BY LJ ROSS

  The Alexander Gregory Thrillers in order:

  1. Impostor

  2. Hysteria

  3. Bedlam

  The DCI Ryan Mysteries in order:

  1. Holy Island

  2. Sycamore Gap

  3. Heavenfield

  4. Angel

  5. High Force

  6. Cragside

  7. Dark Skies

  8. Seven Bridges

  9. The Hermitage

  10. Longstone

  11. The Infirmary (prequel)

  12. The Moor

  13. Penshaw

  14. Borderlands

  15. Ryan’s Christmas

  16. The Shrine

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  “Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise.”

  —Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

  CHAPTER 1

  Palace Green, Durham

  Monday 16th March

  It was a perfect spring day.

  Sunshine bathed the city of Durham in golden light, warming the ancient stone walls of the castle and neighbouring university, where students spilled out of its panelled hallways to sprawl over the grassy quadrangle known as Palace Green. They wore carefully mismatched, overpriced garments designed to resemble working class attire from a bygone era, and the lawn became a patchwork of muted beige and stone-washed denim. Far above, the cathedral loomed, its Gothic walls rising up over two hundred feet to dominate the landscape for as far as the eye could see, casting long shadows over the people who scurried like ants far below.

  Doctor Anna Taylor-Ryan joined their number and settled herself upon one of the shady wooden benches overlooking the Green. She was in the process of unwrapping a sandwich when a tiny foot connected sharply with her bladder.

  “Hey!” she said, tapping her swollen belly. “What d’you think you’re doing in there—playing football?”

  There came another swift jab in reply.

  “You definitely get this from your father’s side,” she muttered.

  Abandoning all thoughts of picnicking in the sunshine, she grabbed her bag and cast an urgent glance around the vicinity for the nearest bathroom. To her left, the north door to the cathedral was open to the public, beckoning them inside to discover a thousand years of history.

  And, more importantly, its cloakroom facilities.

  “C’mon,” she said, choosing to include her unborn baby in the conversation she carried on with herself. “Let’s make a run for it.”

  She made a hasty beeline across the grass, half-walking, half-waddling towards an enormous, carved wooden door featuring a bronze replica of the infamous ‘Sanctuary Knocker’, which had once admitted twelfth-century fugitives into the cathedral’s protective fold.

  Though she was no fugitive, Anna hurried inside with all speed, barely noticing the ornamental columns and circular arches of the nave, nor the spectacular stained-glass window at its eastern end, designed in the shape of a rose.

  “Excuse me,” she puffed at one of the volunteers. “Can you tell me where the nearest ladies’ room is?”

  The young man wore a blue t-shirt bearing an embroidered logo in the shape of Saint Cuthbert’s pectoral cross, a priceless artefact kept on display in one of the exhibition rooms.

  “There are some in the Open Treasure Galleries,” he said, pointing towards the entrance to the exhibition rooms. “You go through there and follow the signs—it’s a one-way system.”

  Anna thanked him, but her spirits fell when she saw the line of tourists queueing to enter.

  “Bugger,” she said, drawing a disapproving glance from an elderly couple passing by.

  And balls, she added silently. If she didn’t find a bathroom soon, a lot more than bad language was going to sully the House of God, and then they’d really have something to worry about.

  With a sudden flash of inspiration, she remembered there was a cloakroom near the exhibition exit, which was located through the cloister a short way off.

  With single-minded determination, Anna bypassed the queue, hustling past tour groups, students she half-recognised and bemused members of the public until she reached the back entrance to the Open Treasure Galleries.

  “Excuse me, miss—excuse me! You can’t come in this way…you’re supposed to go around the other way!”

  “This is an emergency!”

  Anna barged past the steward on the door, who made a half-hearted attempt to follow her until the nature of her emergency became clear.

  “That was a close call,” she told the baby, when they re-emerged a few minutes later into an area of the cathedral called the Great Kitchen. It had been repurposed since the days when it was used to feed hungry clerics, and was now a state-of-the-art exhibition space, featuring several priceless artefacts belonging to the region’s most famous saint, Cuthbert.

  She had viewed the collection many times before, but Anna never grew tired of studying clues to the past and soon found herself mesmerised by the gleaming golden lines of Cuthbert’s cross, displayed behind a thick wall of glass.

  A sudden movement in her peripheral vision broke the spell and she started to turn.

  Danger, a voice whispered. There’s danger, here.

  But she was not quick enough.

  Seconds later, there came a series of deafening explosions and she fell to her knees, throwing her arms around her belly to protect the baby.

  Smoke filled the room quickly—thick and pungent—and she struggled to her feet, coughing and clutching her stomach as she stumbled towards the exit. Wailing cries of terror filtered through the ringing in her ears and, beneath it, there came the sound of a heavy thud followed by a crash somewhere over her left shoulder.

  Terrified now, Anna reached out a hand to feel her way forward,
blinking rapidly, eyes streaming while her chest heaved and her mind raced.

  Which way?

  Which way out?

  The blow came from behind, hard and fast, and she tumbled to the floor.

  Before darkness fell, her last thoughts were of the man she loved and the baby she carried.

  * * *

  As fire engines and other emergency services raced through winding, cobbled streets towards Durham Cathedral, Detective Chief Inspector Joan Tebbutt made herself a cup of builder’s tea in the small galley kitchen of her home in the town of Seaham, a short drive to the east. Rod Stewart crooned on the radio and dappled sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating a half-completed crossword and plate of custard creams still waiting to be dunked.

  When the phone began to shrill, she sighed.

  It was her day off and, barring major emergencies, every man and woman in her team knew that she was not to be disturbed on her day off.

  She’d already spoken to her daughter and so, aside from a salesman trying to flog insurance she didn’t need, that left only one possibility.

  Major emergency.

  She answered on the third ring.

  “Tebbutt.”

  “Sorry to disturb you at home, ma’am—”

  She cut across her sergeant, who sounded nervous. “What’s happened?”

  “We’ve had several reports of an incident in progress at Durham Cathedral.”

  A second’s pause, while her heart fell. “What kind of incident?”

  “Terror-related. Less than five minutes ago, we received reports of a major explosion. The Fire Service are responding, and Control Room have dispatched first responders to the scene—”

  Tebbutt thought quickly.

  “Contact Counter-Terrorism,” she ordered. “Get on to the bomb squad—it’ll be quickest to put a direct call in to the Explosives Ordnance Disposal Unit based out of Otterburn.”

  She warred with herself, then came to a decision.

  “And, Carter? Get on the blower to Ryan, over at Northumbria. Tell him…look, just ask him to get in touch. It’s important.”

  She ended the call and hurried into the hallway, pausing only to grab a jacket and scoop up her keys and warrant card.

  She’d need her protective vest, but that was in the boot of her car.

  “Right,” she muttered, and flung open the front door.

  She heard the motorbike before she saw it and, when she did, there was no time to react. The first shot penetrated the side of her neck and, as the pathologist would later remark, she might have survived that.

  But the second…

  The second hit its mark and she died where she fell, her body kept warm by the early afternoon sunshine.

  CHAPTER 2

  Northumbria Police Headquarters

  Newcastle upon Tyne

  Detective Chief Inspector Maxwell Finley-Ryan paused outside the main entrance to Northumbria Police Headquarters and tipped his face up to the sky. He closed his eyes for a moment and smiled—a rare thing, for a man in his line of work. It transformed the angles of his face, so that he was no longer a tall, distant man who’d seen more death than he’d like to remember, but somebody else—somebody younger, who still saw beauty in the world.

  And, why not? he thought.

  For the first time in years, the number of violent deaths had reduced in their region, thanks to the efforts of Operation Watchman, a cross-constabulary initiative designed to combat a new wave of organised crime in the North East, which he’d been tasked to lead. The trade in illegal drugs had moved along ‘County Lines’, spreading its poison beyond city limits and established supply chains, trailing violence in its wake. Only by working together and sharing resources had they been able to root out systemic corruption in Northumbria, Durham and Cleveland—and disband one of the worst crime syndicates in living memory. There was still more work to do and, wherever weeds were pulled, more would surely grow, but it was progress worth smiling about.

  If things were on an even keel at work, life at home was positively blissful.

  For all the tragedies he’d known, Ryan considered himself a lucky man and never more so than the day he’d found Anna—the other, better half of himself. To his unending surprise, she continued to love him despite all the long hours at work, the inherent risks involved in fulfilling his duty to the public and the shadows which followed him, long after he’d clocked out of the office. In light of that, he’d taken it upon himself to make some adjustments, especially now that there would soon be another face to fall in love with.

  Ryan’s smile widened, and he wondered again whether the baby was a boy or a girl.

  It didn’t matter, so long as mother and baby were both healthy and happy.

  His eyes snapped open as a cloud passed over the sun, shivering when the air turned suddenly cold. All the new parenting books he’d read over the past few months had told him it was normal for expectant fathers to worry, and he was no exception. He worried about the kind of father he would make, about whether he would become a carbon copy of his own—distant, emotionally absent but ultimately well-meaning—or something else? Something better, and of his own creation?

  Ryan hoped it would be the latter.

  Most of all, he worried about Anna, and wished he could do something more to ease the burden she carried. Foot rubs, scented baths and cuddles were in unlimited supply, but he could not bring their baby into the world, much as he wished he could. He could only marvel at the miracle of it all and wonder how women had ever come to be known as the ‘weaker’ sex.

  He shook his head in disbelief.

  Just then, the mobile phone he kept in the back pocket of his jeans began to ring, and he balanced a tray of takeaway coffee carefully in the palm of one hand so he could make a grab for it with the other. He’d barely grasped it when he spotted Detective Constable Melanie Yates running across the entrance foyer, waving her hand wildly to signal him over.

  “Morrison wants to see you in her office—she said it was urgent!”

  Ryan looked down at the phone he still held in his hand, which had stopped ringing. The caller had been a number he didn’t recognise, and he gave a light shrug.

  If it was important, they’d leave a message.

  “I’m on my way,” he said.

  * * *

  Ryan passed the coffee tray into Yates’ capable hands, then took the stairs two at a time until he reached the Executive Suite, where he was ushered into the Chief Constable’s office without delay. He found Sandra Morrison seated at her desk, a telephone receiver in one hand and a biro in the other, which she used to scrawl rapid notes. She looked up briefly as he entered the room and Ryan stood to attention, unconsciously adopting the straight-backed, military posture he’d learned from his father.

  Morrison ended the call and ran agitated hands through her short blonde hair, tucking it behind her ears. That, more than anything else, gave him cause for concern; she was not a woman given to overtly feminine gestures, except in moments of disquiet.

  “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

  “You said it was urgent, ma’am.”

  “It is.”

  She gestured towards one of the visitors’ chairs arranged in front of her desk.

  “I won’t beat around the bush,” she said. “There’s been a major incident in Durham.”

  Durham…where Anna worked.

  Ryan glanced at the clock on the wall, which read half-past-twelve. He’d checked the news before heading out to buy coffee for his team, and there’d been nothing unusual to report.

  But, as he knew only too well, things could change in the blink of an eye.

  “There’s been a terror explosion at the cathedral,” Morrison continued.

  “How bad?”

  “Too early to say. They’re evacuating the immediate area, but they can’t go inside the cathedral to assess the damage before the bomb squad have cleared it—”

  “What about the university?” Ryan
interrupted her, while his mouth ran dry and his palms began to sweat. His wife worked in the History Faculty, which was only a stone’s throw from the cathedral.

  Morrison cleared her throat.

  “I’ve received no reports of any related incidents at the university,” she said. “My understanding is that the explosion was isolated, but nearby buildings are being evacuated as a precaution.”

  Good, Ryan thought. That was good.

  But his fingers itched to call Anna, to be sure.

  “The situation is an evolving one, but the terror explosion isn’t my main concern at present.”

  He wondered what could possibly be worse than the desecration of a UNESCO World Heritage Site, not to mention the human cost, as yet untold.

  “You remember Joan Tebbutt?”

  He nodded slowly.

  DCI Tebbutt was a colleague in the neighbouring constabulary at Durham CID—a fair-minded woman in her late fifties, who’d been drafted in to investigate the death of their former superintendent a couple of years prior. She’d done a thorough, unbiased job, and he’d respected her enormously for it.

  Ryan braced himself.

  “She was killed, less than fifteen minutes ago,” Morrison said quietly.

  There was a moment’s silence before training kicked in.

  “How did it happen?”

  “On her doorstep, at home,” she said, grateful for the shop talk. “Neighbours reported shots fired, and first responders attended the scene. There was a squad car nearby—probably on its way to the city centre—and they recognised Joan immediately.”

  Ryan thought of the timing.

  “It can’t be coincidence that this happened within minutes of the cathedral going up.”

  “Possibly not…on the other hand, Joan was responsible for cleaning up Durham CID after Operation Watchman, not counting all the other cases she’s closed over the years. She was an outstanding detective with a proven track record, which made her a target.”

  Ryan felt an odd, rippling sensation in his belly, as though someone had stepped on his own grave. If Tebbutt had been a target despite keeping a low profile, he knew the same could equally be said of himself.