by LJ Ross
“Oh,” she said, full of sympathy. “I’m sorry it was a wasted trip. Do you think one killed the other?”
“Mmm,” he said, and rose from the bed to strip off his clothes. “We think one planned to double-cross the other, and, when the other found out about that, he cut his friend out of the deal permanently and then tried to find where he’d hidden the cross.”
“The other robber must be miles away by now,” she said. “Off to hand over the cross to his client, or whoever put them up to this in the first place, in exchange for a big wad of cash.”
“I doubt that,” he said. “I doubt that very much, considering I found the cross hidden inside the fuel cap of the dead man’s car. It’s already in the hands of one of your colleagues from the university, who’ll authenticate it as quickly as possible and return it to its rightful place at the cathedral.”
In her excitement, Anna tried to sit up too quickly.
“That’s wonderful,” she exclaimed. “You don’t know what this will mean to people—”
“I know what it means to you,” he said softly.
“It isn’t about a bit of old gold,” she said. “It is about people’s heritage, and their shared history. If that’s broken apart for parts, like scrap metal, that’s when everything else starts to crumble, too.”
Ryan pressed a kiss to her forehead and began to stack the books neatly on her bedside table, pausing to look at one she’d already opened. It showed a full colour image of Cuthbert’s cross, down to the finest, tarnished detail.
“I wonder how it was cracked,” he murmured, referring to the hairline fissure that ran along one side.
“People say it was cracked and repaired while Cuthbert was alive, and that the underside of the cross was worn down because that’s where he used to hold it when he prayed. Maybe he felt it was too perfect, otherwise.”
Ryan set the book down and smiled at the woman he loved.
“You’re perfect to me.”
“Even with my shaved head and all these bumps and bruises?” she said, trying to laugh about it.
“You’ve never been more beautiful to me than you are right now.”
He moved around the bed to lie beside her until she slept—and this time, it was a long and dreamless rest.
* * *
Ryan lay awake for a while longer, wondering why it was that, despite having recovered one of the nation’s most prized artefacts, he felt so little satisfaction.
It was true that one of the men responsible for hurting his wife and for stealing the cross still might not be brought to justice through the courts. There were some who would say he’d face a higher justice, but Ryan preferred to believe in more tangible examples, in the here and now.
Then there was the problem of Edward Faber. What part had he played in all this, and what transgression had he made, to warrant such a vicious death?
And he still was yet to find the person who killed Joan Tebbutt.
These unanswered questions kept him awake until the early hours, when finally he fell into an exhausted sleep.
Ryan never heard his mother’s quiet tread along the landing, or the twist of the door handle as she came to check he was all right. She watched them both for a moment, then shut the door quietly once more.
Only then could Eve sleep too.
* * *
It came to Ryan shortly before dawn.
He sat bolt upright and then, careful not to wake his wife, skirted around the bed to find the book he’d been looking at the previous evening, the one which had a close-up image of Cuthbert’s cross as its centrefold.
Wishing he was wrong, but fearing he would be right, Ryan flipped open the page.
There it was again, he thought. The long, hairline crack, where the cross had been broken at some earlier time.
Except, the cross he’d held in his hand the previous evening, which he’d recovered from the fuel cap of a dead man’s car, had boasted a shorter crack—he was sure of it.
A tiny detail, he thought. Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it was his fevered, sleep-starved brain playing tricks on him.
On the other hand, maybe he was right.
They’d know, soon enough.
CHAPTER 28
Thursday, 19th March
The mood at Northumbria Police Headquarters could only be described as jubilant.
Phillips greeted him with a cheery wave, and then pointed at a tray of pastries and fruit, sent down by Chief Constable Morrison as a small token of thanks. Ryan looked at it, and them, and didn’t have the heart to voice his private concerns about the cross they’d found the night before; he was no expert, after all, and he might yet be wrong.
“Briefing in ten minutes,” he told them, and went off in search of coffee.
Phillips caught up with him in the queue for the Pie Van, which had diversified to become a purveyor of fine coffee in brown cardboard cups, its owner having taken to wearing a glossy beard and a tweed waistcoat to complete the look.
“Ten americanos, please,” Ryan said.
“You look as if you need all of them, today,” Phillips quipped. “Bad night?”
“You could say that,” Ryan muttered, and fished out a crisp twenty from his wallet.
“Howay, you can tell Uncle Frank,” Phillips said, taking the tray of coffee from the server with a smile of thanks. “I know we’ve still got a few unanswered questions, but it’s good news about the cross, at least. I thought you’d be made up about it.”
“I was,” Ryan said. “I am.”
“You’ve got a face like a slapped arse,” Phillips said, roundly. “Are you disappointed we couldn’t bring the bloke in and sweat him a bit? I know I am.”
That brought a weak smile to Ryan’s face, and he reached for one of the coffees in the tray, knocking back a healthy gulp before answering.
“Yes, I’m disappointed he won’t feel the weight of my boot up his arse,” Ryan admitted. “But, it’s not that, Frank. I have a feeling about that cross…I keep asking myself, why was Faber involved in any of this? Why did he contact Tebbutt?”
“Faber was one of those weasels who had his fingers in all kinds of pies,” Phillips said. “He could have been involved in any number of ways; we just haven’t worked that part out yet. There’s still time to trace the other robber, and find out who wanted the cross in the first place. It’ll all come together—you’ll see.”
Ryan wanted to believe him.
“Besides, it’s put Morrison in a fine fettle,” Phillips continued. “She’s even talking about springing for an ‘away day’ for the lot of us.”
“That’s all we need,” Ryan said. “A long weekend at some old army barracks, so we can bond over climbing walls and canoeing.”
Phillips laughed.
“Aye, we get plenty of that in the day job. I’ll tell her that a slap-up meal down at that new deli will do us just fine.”
* * *
The celebratory atmosphere continued into Conference Room B, where there was almost a full house, word having no doubt spread that there were free pastries to be had.
Ryan’s sense of foreboding did not pass, and he approached the front of the room with the air of a man expecting to receive bad news at any moment.
“Ah, thank you all for turning out this morning,” he said.
He reached for his mobile phone and was about to set it to ‘silent’ mode, as he normally would ahead of a briefing with his team, but decided to keep the ringer on, this time.
“I’m sure you’re all aware of the developments last night, and that we were able to recover a cross from the farmhouse, where one of the men responsible for the robbery was found dead.”
Ryan hitched a hip onto the side of the desk, and placed his phone on the top, within easy reach.
“Prior to that, we established a connection between a man called Edward Faber—street name, Fabergé—and the robbery, as well as a connection with the late DCI Joan Tebbutt. For that reason, we’ll be treating
the two investigations as linked, with myself and DCI MacKenzie continuing to lead on each strand, whilst managing the overall strategy together.”
MacKenzie nodded her agreement.
“As regards the robbery, our working theory is that these two robbers—both of whose movements were captured on the cathedral’s CCTV footage—were in league with Fabergé. Unbeknownst to them, Fabergé, possibly owing to his longstanding relationship with Durham Constabulary, decided at the last minute to turn them in. He rang DCI Tebbutt last Sunday night, and they spoke for around forty minutes. Tebbutt began her career working in the Fraud Team before more recently moving into Major Crimes, so it’s a safe bet that she and Fabergé were already well acquainted, and indeed, his number is detailed in a private address book she kept of the informants and other useful contacts she knew. Somehow, the robbers got wind of this development and killed Edward Faber either on the same night, or the following day—when they also killed Joan Tebbutt, to prevent her from investigating further or interfering with their plans.”
Ryan paused, wondering whether now was the time to set out his own, alternative theory about what happened, but decided to wait until the results of the authentication came back.
“After the robbery, the two men made a safe getaway in a Citroen Picasso—”
“Glamorous,” Lowerson quipped, and there were a few laughs around the room.
“—which they dumped at the side of the A1, around fifteen minutes later, and transferred into what we now believe to have been two separate vehicles. The robbers travelled to the same place, which, thanks to DC Yates’ outstanding work yesterday, we now know to have been Windy Side Farm, near Hamsterley Forest.”
Ryan glanced down at his mobile phone, then up at the clock on the wall.
“We, ah, believe there was an argument, resulting in one robber killing the other at point blank range. The remaining robber tried to find the cross, which had been hidden by the deceased for safekeeping, without success. Fearing discovery, the surviving robber was forced to abandon their search and escape in their own vehicle, which has yet to be traced.”
Morrison chose that moment to step into the conference room, looking supremely pleased.
“Forgive the interruption, but I wanted to stop in to thank you all for your remarkable efforts in recovering the cross,” she said. “And, DC Yates? I’ve received four separate recommendations that your work, in particular, is to be commended, and I want to let you know I’m in full agreement. You’re all a credit to this constabulary, and to the force.”
It was true, Ryan thought, and was also the reason he didn’t have the heart to burst their bubble.
Not just yet.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, instead.
“Well, I don’t want to keep you. Ryan, MacKenzie, if there’s anything you need in the way of resources, you know where to find me. Keep up the good work, everyone.”
Yates looked fit to burst with pride, Ryan thought, and was happy to see it. Melanie Yates was a dedicated, hardworking woman with an eye for detail and a stomach made of iron; in a job like theirs, she had the recipe for success, and he saw no reason why she couldn’t go all the way to the top, one day.
If she wanted to, of course.
“Turning to the murder of DCI Tebbutt—”
His mobile phone began to ring, interrupting his train of thought. Looking down, he saw that the caller was Tom Faulkner.
“Excuse me, everyone, I’m afraid I need to answer this,” he said, and appealed to MacKenzie to take over the briefing while he stepped outside.
“Tom, what have you got for me?”
At the other end of the line, Faulkner barely knew where to start.
“It’s bad news, Ryan.”
He knew it.
“Tell me.”
“I—I can hardly believe I’m saying this, but—”
“The cross is a replica?”
“How did you know?” Faulkner asked, in a shocked tone. “I’ve only just had the news from Doctor Ahern, over at the university.”
Ryan didn’t bother to go into it.
“What did she find?”
“She tested the metal, first thing this morning,” Faulkner said. “The results are conclusive; there’s absolutely no way that cross can be more than thirty years old. The same applies to the garnets. She tested those, too, and they’re copies—just semi-precious gemstones. Then, there’s the crack on the underside—”
“It wouldn’t be too short, would it?”
Faulkner was stumped again.
“Have you been speaking to her?”
“No, just reading my wife’s textbooks,” Ryan replied.
“Well, you’re absolutely right,” Faulkner said. “The crack is four millimetres shorter than the original.”
“So, it’s a fake,” Ryan confirmed. “The question is, what’s happened to the real one?”
Faulkner sighed.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” he said. “I wish—”
But Ryan was struck with an idea.
“Tom, get in touch with Doctor Ahern and ask her if she’d agree to sign a non-disclosure agreement, or give us her solemn word as to keeping this confidential. That goes for you, too. Have you told anybody else about this?”
“Me? No, not yet—”
“Then, don’t,” Ryan said firmly. “This thing is much bigger than any of us thought, and it may help us to play the fools for a while longer. Can you get on board with that?”
“If it helps to recover the real thing, count me in.”
* * *
Ryan stepped back into the room and surveyed the staff who were presently seated, listening with apparent interest to what MacKenzie had to tell them. He studied each of their faces, watching every flicker, every sigh, and wondered who among them could be trusted.
“Something’s come up,” he said, injecting a bit of levity into his voice, so as not to cause alarm. “I’m afraid we’ll have to pick up the briefing later.”
Ryan stood by the door, smiling at the staff who filed out, pastries in hand.
And, when Phillips would have joined them, he put a hand on his arm and spoke in an undertone.
“Frank, round up the other three—we’ve got a situation.”
Phillips’ face betrayed nothing of what had just been said, and he popped a half-eaten pain au chocolat between his teeth before ambling over to have a quiet word in the ears of the other three members of their close-knit team.
But after the others had left, he became serious once more.
“What is it? Is it Anna?”
Ryan shook his head.
“No, I’m pleased to say she’s getting better every day,” he said. “This concerns the cross we recovered last night.”
“Don’t tell me it’s been lifted again?” Phillips cried.
“It’s a fake.”
Phillips’ mouth formed a comical ‘o’ of surprise.
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve just had it from Faulkner, who had it from Dr Ahern, at the university. There’s no doubt.”
“But—how?”
“There are two options, here,” Ryan said, moving to stand by the window, further away from prying ears at the door. “The first is that the robbers stole the real cross, which is still missing, and had this fake cross made up. But why? If they had gone to all that trouble, they would have surely used the fake cross as a substitute when they lifted the real thing.”
MacKenzie nodded, following his line of thought.
“They wouldn’t have needed to smash into the display case, either. If you’re planning to make a quiet substitution, the idea is for nobody to find out about it. It would be a completely different kind of robbery, and more likely an inside job.”
“Exactly,” Ryan said. “Which brings me on to the second option, which opens up a whole new can of worms. What if—just what if—these robbers stole a cross which was already a fake? That would put a completely different compl
exion on matters.”
“It changes everything,” Lowerson said. “We thought Faber’s repeat visits were a sign that he’d been casing the joint, ahead of a planned robbery. But we forgot where his interest lies. He’s a professional forger, and was for years. He’s also Durham, born and bred, with a love of local history. You could see that from the books on his shelves and the pictures on the walls of his house.”
Ryan nodded.
“Sometimes, the simplest answer is the right one,” he said. “What if, for the sake of argument, Faber went along to the cathedral to look at the exhibitions for the first time in a while. While he’s there, he notices something unusual in the cut of the cross, its composition, or the length of the crack. He isn’t your ordinary visitor, let’s not forget. All the same, he doesn’t believe his own eyes, at first, and he goes home to think it over. Maybe he does some research and goes back the next day, and the day after that, to study the cross before he does anything rash. Problem is, somebody sees him going back and forth, showing too much interest. Maybe they recognise him too, so they keep an eye on him. Maybe Faber starts asking around, he gets in touch with some old friends to get the word on the street, to see who might have done it. Unfortunately for him, word gets back to the person responsible, and the decision is taken to silence him—but not before he’s spoken to his old friend, Joan, from CID.”
Ryan glanced out of the window at the city skyline, then back at his friends.
“He was trying to do the right thing, by calling Joan,” he said. “But by bringing her into it, he signed her death warrant. They must have tortured him until he revealed that he had told her of his suspicions, then ransacked his house to make sure he hadn’t left any notes.”
“Why would they go to such extreme lengths?” Yates wondered aloud. “Why go to all that trouble?”
“To conceal the original theft, which was much more important,” Ryan answered. “The real cross might have been stolen a month ago, six months ago, or several years ago; we have no way of knowing, yet. But, if I were planning to make a quiet switch, I’d think about doing it at a time when there was already going to be some upheaval.”
