by LJ Ross
Morrison nodded, and MacKenzie took that as a signal to continue.
“As for the robbery, the only damage was to the display case itself, which was made of reinforced, high-density polymer. It was designed to be unbreakable without specialist equipment, and we understand from the Cathedral’s Chief Operating Officer that all of the display cases in the area were re-fitted following major renovation works three years ago.”
“I’ve seen YouTube videos about this,” Lowerson said. “Those things really are unbreakable—how the hell did they manage to get into it?”
“With something as simple as an axe,” McKenzie replied. “If they’d used a battering ram or a bullet, they would hardly have made a dent in the polymer, but with the right kind of finely-honed edge, a few good whacks are all it takes to weaken and eventually splinter the facing.”
“Where have I heard about this happening before?” Yates wondered aloud.
“There was a similar incident last year in Germany,” Ryan said. “Robbers made off with jewels worth hundreds of millions of pounds from a museum in Dresden after smashing a similar security case using an axe.”
This was news to McKenzie, who made a hasty note to look it up.
“What was the outcome in that case?” she asked him.
“Nothing was ever recovered,” he replied, ominously. “The robbers and the jewels are still at large.”
“This throws up a whole new line of enquiry,” Morrison said. “What if it was the same gang operating in Durham as in Dresden?”
“It’s possible,” Ryan mused. “But, in the case of Dresden, they hit a museum and stole several items in bulk. Here, you have one very specific artefact.”
“Which is made of pure gold, and garnet,” Morrison reminded him.
There was a short silence, until McKenzie broke it.
“If it is the same gang, they’ve just bitten off a lot more than they can chew,” she said, with quiet determination. “I’ll contact the German police first thing tomorrow morning to see if there’s anything more they can tell us but, on the face of it, we have to generate our own leads. So far, no equipment has been recovered, nor the implement used to attack Doctor Taylor-Ryan. Interviews with the staff and volunteers of the cathedral are ongoing, but I have a feeling that whatever we are looking for will be like finding a needle in a haystack.”
“What can we do?” Ryan asked.
MacKenzie looked him in the eye.
“Ryan, I know you’ll be focusing most of your attention on the Tebbutt case,” she said, by way of friendly reminder. “If you find any crossover between the two incidents, I know you’ll inform us straight away. As far as possible, and for obvious reasons, I will be seeking to keep the two investigations separate. That includes my working relationship with the staff at Durham CID, who have so far been very accommodating—but we don’t know how long that will last, once things started to heat up in Tebbutt’s murder. In the meantime, if Anna is able to remember any pertinent facts following her attack, we’d like to know. Otherwise, if she’s in a position to advise us of any reason why Cuthbert’s cross would be of particular value to a certain type of criminal than any of the other artefacts, then her professional expertise would be extremely valuable.”
Ryan had to agree that Anna would be perfectly placed to consult on the historic background to the artefact that had been stolen. In their world, they often looked to the victim for clues about their attacker, and there was no reason why it should be any different in the case of a violent robbery—in other words, they should look to Cuthbert’s cross to understand its importance in the eyes of the person who took it.
“Lowerson,” McKenzie was saying. “I’d like you to accompany me tomorrow when I make a visit to the cathedral, and then to our colleagues in Durham CID. Yates, if you could act as reader-receiver over the course of the investigation, that would be greatly appreciated given the volume of statements and other data we’ll need to manage.”
“Consider it done,” Yates said.
“Separately, I’d like all of us to consider known gangs or individuals with previous form for this type of aggravated high-end robbery. We’ll contact national, European, and other international enforcement agencies to compile a list.”
While MacKenzie continued to set out her instructions for the running of the investigation, the sky outside turned a fiery shade of red as day turned into night.
“Tomorrow is a new day,” McKenzie told them. “Go home now and get plenty of rest—tomorrow, the battle begins again.”
But, as the others began to file out, Ryan lingered for a moment to speak with his friend.
“You’re a natural leader,” he said. “You inspired confidence back there, which is no easy task when your audience is a room full of cynical murder detectives.”
She chuckled.
“Tough crowd,” she agreed.
“Well, you made it look easy,” he said. “Look, we’ve talked about this before, but I’ll say it again: are you sure you don’t want to make this promotion a more permanent fixture?”
McKenzie sighed, wondering how to answer.
“I’d love nothing more than to take you up on that offer,” she said. “If I’d been the same woman I was three years ago, I’d be biting your hand off…but, I’m not the same woman, Ryan. I’ve changed, and I can’t go back to being the person I was before. Even now, I struggle to stand on this bloody leg for longer than a few minutes at a time, so how could I cope with more travel, more responsibilities?”
Ryan had seen her go pale at the start of the meeting and had put it down to nerves. Now he knew the real reason, he wished he’d been right.
“Mac, you never really talk about it—”
“Pride, I suppose,” she said. “Silly, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not silly,” he replied. “What about a physiotherapist?”
She smiled, grateful to have a friend who wanted to help her, however he could. But Ryan was no Superman, nor did he have a magic wand.
“I see a physio twice a week, as I have for the past three years, but it’s the scar tissue. It’s tightened around my muscle and keeps getting worse.”
“Can’t you have an operation to remove it?” he asked. “Why not get a second opinion?”
And a third and a fourth, she thought, with a smile.
“I’m a very lucky woman,” she said. “I have my life, I have Frank and a lovely little girl, and a job that makes me happy. It would be greedy to wish for more.”
Ryan simply shook his head.
“We can find a way,” he said, stubbornly. “You shouldn’t be held back by anything.”
There it was, McKenzie thought. His unshakeable belief that he could make the world better, and that there was always something worth fighting for, was the reason he was so admired, even by those who feared him.
She leaned in to kiss his cheek.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
The conversation was closed as far as she was concerned, but as she walked slowly and carefully from the room, Ryan was left with the germ of an idea.
It would keep.
CHAPTER 17
Ryan and Anna had chosen to build their home in an idyllic corner of the world, resting at the top of a gentle hillside overlooking the ancient village of Elsdon. It held panoramic views of the Northumbrian countryside and, on a clear day, they could see for miles in any direction.
It was a place of big skies, and big dreams.
But, as he drove back from the city, Ryan couldn’t muster any of the joy he usually felt at the prospect of going home; not when every passing mile took him further away from the woman he loved. Only now that she had come through the worst of it did his mind allow him to truly comprehend what it would have meant to lose her, and the beauty of a starry night sky was not enough to salve the pain of what might have been.
Consumed by thoughts of how to find the person responsible, Ryan almost forgot about the visitors wh
o awaited his return. A shiny Land Rover was parked on the gravel driveway, its tinted windows and nondescript licence plate both subtle reminders of its owner’s pedigree. Charles Ryan was an important man, who’d given everything to Queen and Country for all of his sixty-seven years, leaving little for the family who’d lovingly waited for him at home—and, my, what a home it had been. Ryan had been born in a stately pile in Devonshire, which his father had inherited from his father, who’d inherited it from his father before him.
Lovely bricks and mortar, like the cathedral, Ryan thought. And just as cold.
Ryan turned off the engine of his own car and sat there until the cool night air began to seep inside, chilling the hands he rested limply in his lap.
He hardly noticed the cold, lingering there in the silent car, his mind awash with swirling memories of the past.
Daddy? Will you play with me?
I’m busy, Maxwell. Go and find a useful occupation, for heaven’s sake.
Angry with himself, angry with the child he had been, Ryan slammed out of the car and crunched across the gravel towards the front door. He was no longer a child, eager and desperate to please a man too important to find the time to play games. It hadn’t mattered then, and it didn’t matter now.
He schooled his features into a neutral mask before opening the door.
Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t the warm, exotic scent of mixed spices wafting down the hallway from the kitchen, nor the sound of mellow jazz from the radio. Ryan’s stomach gave a loud rumble, reminding him that it had been a considerable time since he’d last eaten.
Still, he took his time hanging up his jacket and toeing off his boots, setting them beside Anna’s trainers, which stood neatly on the rack.
He couldn’t say why the sight of them was enough to bring tears to his eyes.
“There you are! I was beginning to worry.”
His mother’s quick footsteps sounded along the flagstone hallway and he found himself enveloped in his second maternal hug of the day. He worried that he’d grow used to them, and it would be all the harder to say goodbye when she inevitably left.
Just like before.
“I had a briefing,” he said, gently peeling her away. “Something smells good.”
Eve swallowed the immediate sense of rejection, and pinned a smile on her face.
“It’s homemade Thai curry,” she said. “It used to be your favourite, when you were little.”
Ryan barely stopped himself making a caustic remark about her not knowing what his likes and dislikes were, considering he’d spent the majority of his time at an expensive boarding school from the age of seven. The strength of his own resentment surprised him, and he put it down to being over-tired and stressed.
“How was Anna, when you left her?” he asked instead.
“Oh, looking so much better,” Eve said. “They say she should be able to come home in the morning. We can collect her, if you like?”
“No, thank you,” he said, with rigid politeness. “I want to be there, myself.”
Eve nodded, and led the way into the kitchen.
“You’ve made a lovely home here,” she said, gesturing to the pictures on the walls, and the pretty keepsakes they’d collected on their travels.
“That’s mostly Anna,” he said. “She has an eye for things like that.”
“It takes two, to build a home,” his mother replied.
Ryan said nothing, but his eyes slid over to the conservatory area, where his father had installed himself in an armchair with a book about local history—probably one of Anna’s.
“Have you eaten?” his mother asked. “We thought we’d wait for you.”
He was surprised.
“There was no need to wait,” he said. “You must be exhausted from your drive.”
Eve said nothing, but thought privately that she didn’t feel half as exhausted as her son looked.
“It’s been a very worrying time for you,” she said softly, reaching out again to take his hand. “Please, let me help.”
There was a pleading in her voice, a yearning he couldn’t ignore, and Ryan simply nodded.
“When Anna comes home from the hospital—”
“Of course, we’ll be here for her,” Eve said. “She’s a wonderful girl, and you know I’ve always thought very highly of her. But I’m worried about you, too. You seem…”
Ryan raised an eyebrow.
“How do I seem?”
“Angry,” she said, and let her hand fall away.
Ryan moved away to pace around the kitchen, which felt stifling and small, all of a sudden. Now was not the time to tell her that thoughts of impending fatherhood had caused him to rake over his own childhood, and to wish that they’d been poor, or less ‘important’ so that he could have grown up without ever doubting his parents’ love. Now was not the time to tell her of the long nights he’d cried in his dormitory bunk as a small boy, wondering why his mother and father had left him, wondering why they didn’t want to be with him. She wouldn’t want to know how much it had affected him—would she ever want to know how hard it had been for him to trust people, or to learn how to form lasting relationships, until he’d met Anna?
Yes, he was angry.
It was decades-old and unresolved; a wound that continued to weep, no matter how he tried to plaster over it, or find remedies for the pain. Now, they’d come to help him, and he wanted to be grateful; but he’d needed the help thirty years before, as the child he’d been, and it was a little late now.
But it was not the time to say any of that.
“I’ll set the table,” was all he said.
* * *
Dinner was a quiet affair, and everybody retired to bed soon afterwards.
Ryan was restless without Anna by his side, his body tossing and turning as disjointed half-dreams of nightmarish explosions drove him from sleep. Eventually, he gave up on the prospect altogether, and padded back downstairs shortly before dawn.
But he was not the only one who had been unable to sleep.
He found his father standing by the window in the kitchen-diner, already fully dressed for the day. It was a position Ryan often occupied, and he experienced a funny jolt of recognition because, just for a moment, it was as though he was looking upon his future self.
Charles turned, breaking the odd little daydream.
“You’re up early,” he said. “There’s coffee in the pot.”
It was one of the few things they had in common, Ryan thought. Aside from their physical attributes, both men had a weakness for strong coffee.
“Lovely view from the window here,” his father continued, while Ryan poured them each a fresh cup. “Your mother tells me you chose the spot yourself?”
Ryan was disoriented by his father’s easy, conversational manner; he had very little experience of it.
“Yes,” he said. “The land was a wedding present to Anna. We designed the house ourselves, and had it built so we could look out across the hills.”
“You always did like to be outdoors,” his father said, taking a sip of the coffee Ryan offered him. “I never thought you’d stay in London.”
“I enjoyed it for a time,” Ryan said, casting his mind back to when he’d first moved to the capital as a young man. He’d done his time at Police College and taken up his first post at the Met—which had been an education, in more ways than one.
But his father was right.
A yearning for rugged landscapes and unpredictable weather had lured him north, where he’d found his true place in the world.
“Are you happy in Devon?”
It was a beautiful county, Ryan thought, and there was much to admire. But that wasn’t necessarily the same thing as feeling at home, and he wondered if his father had ever found his ‘place’ in the world.
Charles seemed baffled by the question.
“Happy?” He gave a negligent shrug. “I—well, it’s where I grew up. Summerley Park has been in the family for g
enerations, so there was never really any choice in the matter.”
There was always a choice, Ryan thought, and looked down at the mug he held in his hand. It happened to display a faded motif of himself and Phillips, their faces superimposed onto the cartoon bodies of Batman and Robin. He smiled, and another question entered his mind—one he hadn’t really considered before.
“Do you have friends there?” Ryan asked. “I don’t mean people you have to socialise with. I mean people you can laugh with, and be yourself with.”
Charles stared out at the undulating landscape, watching it slowly come alive in the first rays of morning.
“I have your mother,” he said. “She’s been my best friend for over forty years. She understands me, as Anna understands you. That’s more than many could boast.”
In that simple, powerful statement, Ryan realised that he and his father had another thing in common: they each had been blessed with the love of a better person than themselves.
They stood in companionable silence until Ryan set his mug back down on the counter.
“I should get on with some work,” he said. “There’s a lot to do, today.”
Charles nodded, understanding only too well. Then, his eye fell upon a small chess set made from carved marble. It belonged to Anna, who had brought it back from a holiday in Egypt, but now it sat on a bookshelf gathering dust.
Ryan turned to leave, but his father’s voice stopped him.
“I wonder…that is, I wondered if you’d like to play? Do you have the time?”
He pointed to the chess set.
Ryan stared at it, and then him, for long seconds.
How many times had he wished to hear those words?
How often had he uttered them himself?
But here was an olive branch, and Ryan could choose whether to grasp it or not.
Dawn sunlight burned brightly through the polished windowpanes, illuminating the two men who faced one another in the silent morning.
“Yes,” Ryan said, hoarsely. “I’d like that very much.”
