by LJ Ross
“A couple of names on here I recognise from Operation Watchman,” he said. “Did Joan mention receiving any personal threats?”
Carter shook his head.
“When I saw her last Friday, things were on the up. Violent crime has dipped for the first time in a while,” Carter said. “We were celebrating that fact, and looking forward to recruiting some new members of staff. But now—”
“Now, there’ll be a job opening,” Phillips said, softly.
Carter turned a deep, angry red, which caused his freckles to pop against his pale skin.
“I don’t make a habit of jumping into people’s graves,” he said, and Ryan was intrigued to see another side to the mild-mannered young sergeant.
Interesting.
“Did Joan mention anything to do with the cathedral?” Ryan asked.
Carter appeared to have calmed himself down.
“No, the first she heard about there being anything amiss was when I rang her—”
“You rang her?” Ryan said softly, and leaned forward slightly. “When did you ring her, Ben?
Carter looked between the pair of them like a startled fawn.
“I—well, it was just after I heard the news come through from the Control Room about the Durham incident.”
“When would that have been?” Phillips asked.
Carter seemed to grow hot, the skin on his forehead turning clammy.
“Around twelve-fifteen,” Carter said.
Ryan pinned him with a stare.
“And, tell me, Ben—what time have we established that Joan was killed?”
Carter looked visibly unwell.
“At around twelve-fifteen,” he said. “I must have been one of the last people to talk to her. God, I’m sorry, sir—I thought I’d mentioned it already.”
Ryan retrieved his file and, with slow and deliberate movements, pulled out the statement Carter had previously provided to Lowerson and Yates.
Time ticked by slowly as Ryan skim-read the document again, then looked up with hard, uncompromising eyes.
“There is no mention of a telephone call in your statement,” he said flatly, tapping the document in his hand.
“Would you care to amend it now?” Phillips asked.
Carter nodded.
“Yes, yes of course.”
* * *
Later, after Carter left the room on shaking legs, Ryan turned to his sergeant.
“Frank? I don’t think we’ll wait to see if the key to that drawer is at Tebbutt’s house, after all. I want it opened now.”
Phillips flexed his fingers
“Piece of cake,” he said.
CHAPTER 22
At precisely the same moment Phillips was jimmying the lock on Tebbutt’s desk drawer, Lowerson took a call from Melanie Yates.
“I’ve got an ID on that face you sent through,” she said.
“That was quick,” he replied, and excitement began to stir at the prospect of their first real suspect. “Who is it?”
“Full name, Edward Martin Faber—goes by the street name ‘Fabergé’.”
“As in, the eggs?”
“I guess so,” she said. “Faber used to be a police consultant for the Fraud Team down in Durham, and sometimes in Newcastle. He used to advise on forgery and counterfeiting—that’s how we made him so quickly. I’ve got all the information we need, right here in his file.”
“Right now, we only need his address,” Lowerson said.
Yates rattled off an address in the village of Burnhope, located halfway between Durham and Consett, and only a short drive away.
“Thanks, Mel, you’re a star. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Try not to have too much fun,” she complained. “Some of us are stuck in the office trawling through CCTV footage and statements.”
“I’ll make it up to you later,” he promised.
Then, catching sight of a carved monk who seemed to look down upon him with disapproval, he hastily ended the call. He hurried off in search of MacKenzie, who was in the process of familiarising herself with the cathedral, and found her beside St Cuthbert’s shrine. It was resplendent with silk hangings and offerings to the sainted monk.
“They say he’s buried underneath here,” MacKenzie said, as she heard him approach. “Legend has it, Cuthbert’s body remained uncorrupted for an abnormal amount of time after he died, and that helped to fuel all the talk of miracles and healing properties associated with Cuthbert’s relics. Everything he owned was considered to have magical healing properties. I can’t say I believe in any of that, myself, but at least the robbers only took a golden cross and not the poor man’s bones or his coffin.”
“I’ve just had Mel on the phone,” he said, no longer able to contain himself. “She’s managed to ID our Person of Interest—he’s one Edward Faber, street name Fabergé.”
The name rang a bell for MacKenzie.
“A few years ago, I was seconded to the Fraud Team for a while,” she said. “I think he used to be an informant for them.”
“That ties in with what Mel told me,” he said. “She says that Faber started out as an informant, and eventually became more of a consultant on counterfeiting investigations.”
“It sounds like he may have fallen off the wagon again,” MacKenzie said grimly. “I wonder if he had an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“Only one way to find out,” Lowerson said. “He’s living at an address in Burnhope.”
“Well, then, let’s pay him a friendly visit.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
* * *
Tebbutt’s desk drawer sprang open with a loud metallic twang.
Her colleagues in the Durham Major Crimes Team may have been unhappy at this turn of events, but nobody tried to stop them.
“Right, we’re in,” Philips said.
Ryan handed over his phone, which he’d been using to record their actions for the case file, and began to rifle through the contents of the drawer.
Tebbutt had been a meticulous woman, even down to the contents of her bottom drawer, which consisted of: a small number of active case files, each clearly marked with a reference number; a small make-up bag containing a selection of personal items, for use in the event that a meeting with the Chief Constable was unexpectedly called; and, a well-worn, leather address book.
That was all.
Ryan bypassed the case files and grasped the book, which contained dozens of entries, each written in a neat curling script with a black pen.
They’d received a message from the Digital Forensics Team to tell them that they’d been able to unlock Tebbutt’s mobile phone with the kind help of her daughter, who happened to know the password since it was also her birthday digits. That had enabled the team to access Joan’s messages, incoming and outgoing calls, as well as her online searches, which could often be the most illuminating of all.
In this case, she’d received a telephone call the evening before she died, from a number not known to her contacts list. However, the call had lasted almost forty minutes, so there was a strong chance the caller may have been known to her, even if she chose not to keep the number on her list.
Ryan looked down at the address book he held in his hand, and then looked up the mystery number.
It took a few minutes, but eventually he found a match.
“Gotcha,” he muttered.
“Got who?” Phillips asked, looking up from his inspection of Joan’s active case files.
“You know that mystery caller of Joan’s, the night before she died? I’ve found a match. The entry reads, ‘Fabergé’, and gives a mobile number and an address in Burnhope.”
Phillips rubbed a thoughtful hand over his chin, and cast his mind back.
“Fabergé…that’s a name you don’t easily forget,” he said.
“There were the eggs…”
“I know, but I’m thinking of something else,” Phillips said. “I’ve got a picture in my mind of a weedy-looking bloke with a cleft chin. Used
to be an informant, back in the day.”
“For Major Crimes?” Ryan asked
“Not in any regular capacity,” Phillips said. “I’m positive his line was more to do with fraud.”
“We know that Tebbutt started her career on the Fraud Team,” Ryan said. “But I don’t know why she’d be in contact with this man still, unless she had a case where the need arose for her to reach out to him.”
“Maybe we should pay this Fabergé a visit and ask him to explain it to us?” Phillips said. “Burnhope isn’t far from here, and it’s on the way back to Durham.”
Ryan slotted the drawer back into place and stretched a line of police tape across the top, to seal the entrance.
“Come on, Frank. The game’s afoot.”
* * *
Ryan and Phillips raced along the country lanes from Durham Constabulary Headquarters towards the village of Burnhope with what some might have said was a blatant disregard for the highway code.
“Here, man, go canny!” Phillips cried, bracing his knee against the dashboard.
“Anna tells me to speed up, you tell me to slow down—there’s no pleasing some people,” Ryan said, as they barrelled around another sharp corner.
“You’ve perked up, haven’t you?” Phillips said. “Yesterday, you were as flat as a fart, but now you’re as happy as Larry.”
Ryan grinned at his sergeant’s inimitable turn of phrase.
“Must be the pleasure of your company,” he said, and realised it was true. Frank Phillips was always a tonic, in every scenario. “Thanks for your support, these past couple of days.”
Phillips waved that away.
“Don’t mention it,” he said. “Besides, I like the stotties in the hospital canteen.”
“Ah, well, that explains it.”
Soon, they turned off the main road and passed by a large iron pit-wheel sculpture marking the entrance to the village, which was a nod to the area’s rich mining history. Like much of the county and, indeed, the country, Burnhope was a place of contrast. Large new-builds overlooked old rows of pit cottages which had once housed coal miners and their families, and where community pride was still a living, breathing thing.
Faber had one of the new-build properties, which spoke of his moderate success in the field of counterfeiting, before a midlife crisis of integrity had coincided with an unfortunate bust-up with the local police, forcing him to re-examine his life choices.
The house was a linear, two-storey affair, with a small front garden and a slightly larger one to the rear. There was a single car on the driveway—a classic 1970s Mini, which Anna would have loved, being a fan of the little cars herself.
Ryan followed a neat flagstone pathway and knocked loudly at the front door.
When there was no answer, he cocked his ear to the wood and listened for any sound of movement within.
Phillips peered through the downstairs bay window, but could see no signs of life.
Ryan tried again, knocking more loudly this time.
“Are you looking for Eddie?”
They turned to find one of his neighbours hovering at the bottom of the paved driveway, dressed in her nurse’s uniform, which told them she’d either just finished or was about to begin her shift.
“Yes,” Ryan said. “Any idea where he might be?”
“Haven’t seen him for a few days,” the neighbour said, shushing the dog which tugged impatiently at its lead.
Ryan and Phillips exchanged a worried glance. After all, the man’s car was still sitting on the driveway.
It didn’t add up.
“If you happen to see him, tell him Angie’s asking after him,” the woman said.
As she wandered off, Ryan thought that, no matter how shady a life Edward Faber had led, he had still been able to find friendship.
It was a heartening thought.
“What do you reckon?” Phillips said.
Ryan squinted through the porthole window in the front door, and heaved a gusty sigh.
“I reckon we better put some shoe coverings on, Frank.”
“I was worried you might say that,” Phillips grumbled.
* * *
They tried the front door a couple more times, before deciding to make their way to the back of the house, where they found the white UPVC back door hanging limply from its hinges.
Both men went on high alert.
“On my signal,” Ryan said, positioning himself beside the broken door.
“Mr Faber!” he called out. “This is the police! We have reason to believe your life is in danger! Please be advised we intend to enter the property!”
He waited a beat, but when there were still no signs of life, Ryan held up three fingers of his left hand to signal a countdown.
“Three…two…one!”
Ryan planted his boot against the kitchen door and thrust into the house, with Phillips hard at his heels.
“Police! Police!” Ryan called out the standard alert, but he knew almost immediately that there would be no reply.
The air was saturated with something ripe and rancid, mingled with the tinny scent of blood. It clung to their nostrils and caused them to retch as the two men searched the downstairs rooms, watchful for any signs of life. There was a curious stillness to the house that Ryan would always associate with death; a kind of netherworld, where a soul had departed, but the body remained.
The smell grew stronger as they reached the hallway, and Phillips cast his eyes towards the ceiling.
“Upstairs,” he said, and pulled an expressive face.
“After you,” Ryan agreed, gesturing for Phillips to precede him.
“No, no, after you,” Phillips said.
Shaking his head, Ryan led the way up a narrow flight of carpeted stairs, with Phillips following at a more stately pace behind.
The air grew even more stagnant as they emerged onto the landing, and Ryan raised his hand to signal caution. Blood spatter had reached the carpet directly outside the bathroom, where the light had been left to burn.
No prizes for guessing where they’d find Faber.
Still, they checked the bedrooms first, and only when they were sure nobody else was inside the house did they eventually turn their minds to the one room they hadn’t explored.
When they did, they wished they hadn’t.
Both men said nothing while their bodies adjusted to the horror, struggling to control the strong urge to reject what their eyes could see, all too clearly.
“Good God,” Phillips whispered, holding his sleeve against his mouth to mask the fetid odour of human waste.
Ryan said nothing at all, his face shuttered. Calm grey eyes swept over the bathroom, noting the tiny details that would later torment him.
“Whoever did this washed themselves in the shower, afterwards,” he said, nodding towards a separate, freestanding cubicle which was the only thing in the room without any blood spatter. “The carpet out here is relatively clean, so they must have brought spare clothing, or covered their shoes.”
Phillips was breathing hard through his teeth.
“Is it definitely Faber?” he asked.
It was by no means obvious.
“Yes, I think so,” Ryan replied, and forced himself to look again at the remains inside the bathtub.
Whoever killed Edward Faber had really gone to town.
CHAPTER 23
MacKenzie and Lowerson parked at the opposite end of the street and made their way towards Edward Faber’s front door, drawing a very curious expression from a passing dog walker, who paused at the end of the driveway.
“My, Eddie’s getting popular,” she called out. “You’re the second lot I’ve seen today.”
“Isn’t Eddie home?” MacKenzie called back.
“No, I was just telling those other two men, I haven’t seen Eddie in a few days.”
MacKenzie and Lowerson felt a trickle of alarm.
“What did these other two men look like?” MacKenzie asked.
&nb
sp; “Oh, quite hard and serious,” the neighbour said. “My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, but I’d say one of them was tall and athletic, and the other a bit shorter and, you know, stocky. Built like a fighter. Why? Is Eddie in some kind of bother? This is the third visit he’s had in the space of a week, and that’s more than he usually has in a whole year.”
“Did you see Eddie leaving with these two men?” Lowerson asked, imagining Faber being hauled off by a couple of hired thugs.
“No, I was off walking Mutley, and I’ve only just come back. I don’t know what happened to them, but they were polite enough.”
“Thanks for your help,” MacKenzie said.
Once the neighbour had moved off again, she turned to Jack.
“I have a mind to call in some backup,” she said. “Something smells off, especially since there have been others sniffing around.”
“Can’t see anything through the window,” Lowerson said, pressing his nose to the glass as Phillips had done so recently. “Why don’t we try around the back?”
MacKenzie thought about it, then nodded.
“Probably best not to alert anyone by ringing the bell,” she said. “If Faber is home, he can come to the back door and, if he’s in trouble, we can enter without causing too much alarm.”
Lowerson caught a quick flash of pain crossing her face as her foot caught on the edge of a flagstone, and reached out to help her.
“Careful,” he said. “Here, take my hand—”
“No,” she said, sharply. “No, I’m fine, Jack. I’ll be fine.”
* * *
Edward Faber had not died well. His body had been dumped unceremoniously into his bathtub, which Phillips happened to notice was one of those fancy affairs with the jet stream bubbles. This had been neither quick nor easy, judging by the fingers missing from his right hand, which was—like the rest of his body—in the throes of decomposition.
“Looks like the poor bastard’s been tortured,” Phillips said.
“They water-boarded him first,” Ryan said. “They left the bucket and towel over there.”
Phillips followed his gaze to where a bright-red bucket stood incongruously in the corner of the room, with a sodden towel hanging out of it. Elsewhere, blood was spattered over much of the tiles and walls, which probably reflected the heavy injuries sustained to the man’s head and torso.
