by LJ Ross
“Listen, the reason you called me in yesterday morning was because there isn’t a senior officer with the experience to handle an incident of this scale at Durham CID. That’s compounded by the ongoing investigation into Tebbutt’s death, which may cast some doubt on her wider team. There isn’t anybody who could be wholly independent—more so, because the cathedral means so much to the people around these parts.”
He paused and stuck his hands in his pockets.
“In other words, you’re saying you’re the best I’ve got?” Morrison said.
“Not quite,” he replied. “I’ve asked McKenzie to step in and take over operational control of the cathedral investigation, as acting DCI. We can work together from our base here, but I will defer to her judgment on operational issues at all times. This arrangement will allow me to focus my attention on the Tebbutt investigation, which is progressing well thanks to Lowerson and Yates.”
Morrison regarded him with a thoughtful expression.
“You must be bloody infuriating to live with,” she said, eventually. “You know, I was looking forward to a nice, old-fashioned barney. Then, you waltzed in here and took the wind out of my sails, with your apologies and your perfectly reasonable plans. Don’t let it happen again.”
“I apologise, ma’am,” he said, grinning.
“Oh, bugger off,” she told him.
“Actually, there’s a briefing due to start in a few minutes,” he said. “I’ll cover the Tebbutt case, then hand over to MacKenzie. I wondered if you’d care to join us.”
Morrison let out a long, rich peal of laughter.
“You set up a briefing, knowing full well I’d end up agreeing to all this, didn’t you?”
Wisely, he remained silent.
“Fine. I’ll be down in a minute.”
He inclined his head and was about to leave, when she added, “I meant what I said, before. Give my best to Anna, won’t you?”
“I will. Thanks, Sandra—for everything.”
* * *
Despite Ryan’s personal interest in the cathedral case, it was the Tebbutt investigation that took precedence in the briefing room, a short while later. A police murder would always be their number one priority, and Ryan knew he could have called upon any of the officers in his command to lend their help. However, given the sensitivity of the case and, in particular, Tebbutt’s recent involvement in weeding out internal corruption, he decided to keep the numbers small and select.
He waited until Morrison had settled herself, then moved to the front of the room.
“Joan Tebbutt was an outstanding detective and an upstanding woman,” he said simply. “Her death is an affront—not only to her, and to the family she leaves behind, but to every member of the Force. She was one of ours, and will be afforded every respect as we conduct ourselves throughout this investigation. Is that understood?”
There were nods of agreement around the room.
“Some of you may be wondering why I scheduled a briefing to discuss two separate investigations,” he said. “The reason has to do with timing. Less than fifteen minutes after the explosions at Durham Cathedral, Joan Tebbutt lost her life.”
He paused, letting that sink in.
“If there’s one thing I don’t like, it’s a coincidence, so we aren’t ruling out the possibility that the two incidents may turn out to be linked. However, let’s not put the cart before the horse—we come to each investigation with an open mind, and consider each set of facts on their own merits. From an operational perspective, I will be the Senior Investigating Officer on the Tebbutt case, whilst DI MacKenzie will be temporarily promoted to acting DCI, and will be the Senior Investigating Officer on the cathedral case.”
He noticed a couple of junior officers lean forward in their seats to pat McKenzie’s shoulder, by way of congratulations.
“I’m sure most of you will be aware that my wife was, and is, a material witness to what happened at the cathedral yesterday, as well as being a victim herself. That being the case, I want to assure all of you of my ongoing commitment to proper procedure throughout the running of these investigations.”
He caught Morrison’s eye, and gave the ghost of a smile.
“In my absence, Lowerson and Yates had the running of the crime scene yesterday, so I’ll invite them to give us a summary of what we know so far.”
Ryan leaned back against the desk at the front of the room, and gestured them both forward. It wasn’t enough to solve crimes, or keep murderous degenerates off the streets. On a day-to-day level, it was his responsibility to ensure that the staff under his command were challenged and developed in line with their personal and professional goals. That included giving them a little nudge to practice skills that didn’t come naturally, and, in the case of Jack Lowerson and Melanie Yates, neither particularly enjoyed public speaking.
But it came with the territory.
He watched a silent tussle between them, neither party willing to lead, until Yates eventually capitulated—but not before sending Lowerson a look that might have killed a lesser man.
“Um, well, what we know so far is that Joan Tebbutt had scrambled eggs on toast for breakfast, some tea and biscuits, and was probably looking forward to relaxing on her day off work,” Yates said, with quiet authority. “Unfortunately, that wasn’t meant to be. Four separate calls came in to the Control Room in Durham at around twelve-fifteen yesterday afternoon, each reporting gunshots fired on Albert Street, where Joan lived in Seaham. First responders were dispatched immediately, however no firearms officers were available to attend at that time, as they’d already been deployed to attend the incident in progress at the cathedral.”
Yates paused to collect her thoughts before continuing.
“When first responding officers attended the scene, they found Joan straight away. Paramedics also attended but, as we now understand, Joan died almost immediately after suffering a fatal gunshot wound to the head.”
“Had the body been touched?”
“Not to our knowledge,” Yates replied. “None of her neighbours reported going near the body, because it was quite obvious that Joan had passed away. First responders checked the house for any signs of an intruder and checked Joan’s pulse but, other than that, did not interfere with the scene. Following your instructions, Jack and myself were briefed at the earliest opportunity by the Chief Constable, and we made our way there as quickly as we could, arriving at around one-fifteen yesterday afternoon. CSIs had already been directed to protect the area, and representatives from Durham CID were…”
She paused, wondering how honest she should be.
“Let’s say, they were loosely manning the scene.”
Ryan’s ears pricked up. “What do you mean?” he asked.
“I’ve put it all in my report,” she said. “The fact is, we found the scene wide open, sir. Had it not been for the presence of Faulkner’s team anybody might have been able to wander beneath the police line. I took the opportunity to…ah, remind the officers of their duties as regards crime scene security, and they assure me they won’t make the same mistake again.”
Lowerson sent her a sideways glance, and grinned.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Ryan said. “Anything else?”
“We have informed her next of kin,” Yates replied. “Joan leaves behind a daughter, who’s making her way up from London.”
Ryan nodded, understanding fully how difficult that conversation would have been, whilst acknowledging that it was another kind of skill she had now developed.
“Well done,” he murmured.
“The pathologist has given his preliminary thoughts following post-mortem yesterday evening,” Lowerson chipped in. “He’s confirmed cause of death as a penetrating gunshot wound to the cranium.”
Ryan folded his arms across his chest, the only outward indication of his anger and frustration at the waste of life.
“There were only two shots fired,” Lowerson continued. “One missed the mark and grazed h
er neck, and the bullet was recovered from the front door by Faulkner’s team. The second hit her, and was recovered by the pathologist. Both bullets have been sent to ballistics for testing, but they appear to be from the same firearm.”
“What calibre?”
“Standard 9 mm,” Lowerson replied.
“It takes a confident marksman to hit a target like that, using only two bullets,” Ryan remarked. “What was the trajectory?”
“We completed house-to-house interviews today, and spoke with key witnesses yesterday afternoon,” Yates said. “All four of Joan’s neighbours who called in the incident witnessed a single person, wearing dark leathers and a dark helmet, escaping the scene on a motorbike. A couple more heard the motorbike but didn’t see anything, and those who did see, can’t say for certain whether this person was male or female, or give any other meaningful details about the rider’s appearance. We’ve requested that they work with the police artist to try to build a better picture.”
“Good,” Ryan approved. “Go on.”
“Presuming the motorcyclist is our assailant, it seems safe to assume that the shots were fired from the road. There’s a distance of around twelve metres from where Joan fell in her doorway to some fresh tyre tracks found almost directly in front of Joan’s house.”
“Which suggests the rider paused to take the shots, then fled at speed, leaving rubber marks behind,” Ryan said, visualising the scene. “Factoring in the distance, the weapon, and the limited window of time they had in which to fire a killing shot…we’re looking for a serious marksman. A professional.”
“Army, maybe?” Lowerson wondered.
“Or someone closer to home,” Ryan said, darkly.
CHAPTER 16
As the sun fell lower in the sky and shone its last fiery rays over the city, it became clear to those in the police briefing that, despite Lowerson and Yates’ best efforts, there were no leads in the Tebbutt case.
Faulkner’s team of CSIs had spent the day picking over the minutiae of Joan’s life, dusting every nook and cranny of her home for clues to her killer, without uncovering anything that could be described as suspicious. Work was ongoing, but there had been no smoking gun left conveniently on the pavement, nor any bloodied handprint on the garden gate. The pathologist could shed no further light on the matter, except to confirm the likely trajectory the bullet had taken before entering her skull, and to corroborate the reports from Joan’s neighbours as to likely time of death. CCTV footage had been requested from any local businesses who boasted a camera, but the town of Seaham was a small one and there were a few establishments aside from pubs and clubs who bothered to spring for a sophisticated security system that would provide more than a flash of grainy footage. The Digital Forensics Team were in possession of Joan’s mobile phone which, if they could unlock it, may shed some light on her recent movements and contacts. Likewise, they’d contacted Joan’s landline telephone provider, though they already knew she’d spoken to her daughter on the morning she’d died.
In the meantime, Ryan had given orders that colleagues from Tebbutt’s team at Durham CID should compile a full list of potential suspects who may have held a grudge against the dead woman. Admittedly, it could be a long list given her distinguished career, but the significant factor remained the timing—why kill Joan Tebbutt then, and not on another day?
“Separately, I want you to compile dossiers on each of the remaining members of Tebbutt’s team, as well as all those she helped to remove,” Ryan said. “Recall the files from Operation Watchman.”
He did not relish the prospect of revisiting matters he’d thought were over and done with, but it was their task to shine a light into every dark corner.
“Get a list of recent releases, while you’re at it,” he added, thinking of the alerts they received when a prisoner was released—either on bail or because they’d served their time. It wasn’t unheard of, for a criminal to bide their time before exacting revenge of a personal nature and, as Morrison had already observed, Tebbutt had been a target. “Cross-check against the firearms database, to see who has a licence. I doubt the person we’re looking for will have dutifully registered their weapon, but stranger things have happened.”
He paused to check the clock on the wall.
Seven-twenty.
“I know time’s marching on, so let’s move on to the next item of business. Mac?”
He stepped away and, as a nod to his earlier commitment, took a seat on the front row alongside the rest of his team to allow MacKenzie to lead the second half of the briefing.
* * *
For her part, McKenzie had led too many briefings to count, but never one where her moniker was, ‘Detective Chief Inspector’. Before Samantha had come into their lives, she might have sought a more permanent promotion but, seeing how hard Ryan worked—not only on active cases, but in supervising the running of all the cases in his division, on top of the usual bureaucracy and other tedious administrative tasks he was required to perform—had given her pause for thought. She may never have harboured longstanding dreams of becoming a mother but, to her surprise, it had come very naturally. More importantly, she enjoyed Samantha’s company, and liked having a separation between work and home that afforded her time enough in the day to spend it with her little girl.
Yet, standing at the head of the conference room, her old ambition reared its head again as she realised that this, too, came very naturally. She could easily imagine running her own division, and was undaunted by the prospect of dealing with a greater share of police politics or running a high-profile case, such as the one she had now been tasked to lead.
At that moment, it was as if the universe had heard the voice inside her head, for it chose to remind her of the physical impediment she now suffered and which often prevented her from leading as busy and active life as she once had. A stab of referred pain reverberated through her leg and she might have buckled, had she not been so aware of the eyes that watched and waited expectantly for her to begin her part of the briefing.
Conscious not to let the weakness show, McKenzie leaned back against the desk as Ryan had done a short while before.
“You should see in your packs a summary document I created earlier today, following a handover briefing with DCI Ryan,” she said, and was proud of how normal she managed to sound. “My thanks to him for his detailed records of the case so far, which I’ll summarise for you now.”
She made a show of reaching for her file, to buy herself a few moments’ respite.
“Firstly, let’s recap the facts,” she said. “Shortly after noon yesterday, person or persons unknown detonated what we now know to have been four smoke bombs. Witness accounts tell us that these bombs were detonated simultaneously, causing very loud explosions and emitting a large quantity of smoke into the central areas of the cathedral. Structural engineers have confirmed the cathedral remains fully intact and undamaged, which, taken together with the fact that Saint Cuthbert’s cross was stolen from its display cabinet in the Great Kitchen sometime during the chaos, would suggest that the primary purpose of these bombs was to disrupt and disorientate—thereby facilitating the robbery in progress.”
She paused to allow the team to flip over the next page of their packs, while she rubbed a surreptitious hand over her bad leg.
“We also know that the perpetrators of this crime were not averse to using violence, and we see this from the serious injuries sustained by Dr Anna Taylor-Ryan.”
At the mention of her name, Ryan couldn’t prevent the quick flare of anger and concern, but he reminded himself that she was in the best possible hands and would, all being well, return home the next day.
“There were three others who sustained minor injuries as they scrambled to escape what they believed to be a terror attack,” McKenzie continued. “Each of those individuals has been interviewed by colleagues from Durham CID, but none of them witnessed anything or anyone that would provide us with a useful lead. Doctor Taylor-Ryan remain
s our primary potential witness—however, she sustained a serious head injury during the attack, which has precipitated some short-term memory loss. I know that DCI Ryan will be able to update us with any developments on that score, however our primary concern is that Doctor Taylor-Ryan should continue to recover at her own pace, without undue stress or interference from us.”
Ryan sent her a grateful smile, which she returned.
“Our working hypothesis is that Doctor Taylor-Ryan was attacked by the same person, or persons, who managed to gain entry to the display case which held St Cuthbert’s cross. It is our belief that, unfortunately, she found herself very much in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
It disturbed McKenzie to think of her friend in such peril, but she thrust the thought from her mind. Like Ryan, she knew that it did no good to dwell on the things she couldn’t change; instead, she redirected her emotion towards the things she could.
“The smoke bombs are presently with the bomb squad for further analysis,” she continued. “It’s possible we may be able to trace some of their component parts. However, at the moment what we know for sure is that their primary purpose was to set off the fire alarm and cause widespread panic. That will be our starting point.”
“Do we know how these devices were planted?” Morrison asked. “Durham Cathedral is a major tourist spot, so it seems remarkable that they made it inside the building at all.”
“I’ve been liaising with our colleagues at Durham CID—DS Carter and DC Winter—and I understand there are no restrictions on bags coming into the cathedral itself; only the Exhibition Galleries. That being the case, it would have been easy to plant three of the devices, which were found in the nave of the cathedral, but harder to plant the device that was discovered in the Great Kitchen, which is where the robbery took place.”
She lifted a shoulder.
“At this point, ma’am, we’re still investigating how that device got through the security barriers and into the exhibition space, but we’ve received the first batch of CCTV footage from the cathedral’s head of security, and we’ll be analysing that as a priority in the coming days.”
