by LJ Ross
Unfortunately, the top was not within sight, unless he happened to carry a long-handled periscope.
He made a quick cost-benefit analysis, and determined that the benefits outweighed the potential risks. Ryan needed his help, and there was no way he was leaving empty-handed.
To the Dean’s horror, Lowerson made a grab for the top of the throne and found a toehold against one of its carved columns which allowed him to keep one foot on the ladder whilst leaning across to inspect the top. Yates checked again that the caretaker was still holding the ladder steady, and moved across to hold one side of it, not because he needed the help, but because it made her feel better knowing there were two people supporting him, rather than one.
“Can you see anything?” she called out.
Lowerson tried to push away thoughts of falling and concentrated on inspecting the wooden top of the throne. It was layered with hundreds of years of accumulated dust and grime, and he wrinkled his nose before brushing it off with his sleeve.
With one foot still on the ladder and another holding firm on the throne, he reached carefully for his mobile phone, which was in the back pocket of his trousers. With a slow, steady hand, he held it up high above the top of the throne and took a few pictures. A quick check told him he had captured the shot, and he slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Yates’ breath caught somewhere in her chest when Jack’s shoe seemed to get caught on the wooden carving of the throne, and he found himself straddled between that and the ladder. Thankfully, it came loose after some nifty footwork, and soon he had both feet back on the ladder.
There was a hushed silence as Lowerson made his way back to terra firma, and only then did he allow his knees to shake.
“What did you find?” Yates asked, while the Dean and Pettigrew waited expectantly, their faces revealing nothing of what they might have felt in that moment.
Lowerson brought up the images and scrolled through the few he’d taken to find the clearest shot. There, carved onto the top of the throne, was a message which read:
“Seek out the sanctuary of sandstone, held aloft by a single pillar, and find within a tribute to God’s most faithful and true servant.”
When they looked up, they found the others had disappeared, and all that remained was the hollow echo of their receding footsteps through the cloisters of the cathedral.
* * *
Back in Elsdon, Ryan’s phone buzzed and he opened an email from Lowerson with an attached image of the message he’d discovered on top of the Bishop’s Throne. He read the message twice, and was overcome with a sense of helplessness and anger.
“Highest thrones and sandstone sanctuaries…why are we wasting time, chasing after these riddles? It won’t bring my wife back,” he snarled, and thrust his phone away to pace around the kitchen like a caged tiger. “What about other leads, Frank? Have we heard anything—”
They were interrupted by the jingle of an incoming call on Ryan’s phone, and he snatched it up again.
“Ryan.”
There came the sound of soft laughter at the other end of the line. “I believe you’ve been looking for me, chief inspector.”
Ryan put the call on speakerphone and gestured for Phillips to try to run a trace on the call, which he did using software downloaded to Ryan’s laptop.
“Where’s my wife?”
“Now, now, there’s no need to worry. Mrs Ryan is perfectly well.”
“Please, let me speak to her.”
“No, I don’t think so,” the caller said. “Now, I imagine you’d like to know why I have her with me?”
“What do you want?”
“Such an important question,” the caller agreed. “I’m glad you come straight to the point. I will be equally straightforward in setting out my terms, which are as follows.”
Ryan made a grab for a pen and some paper. “Go on.”
“I would like you to deliver Cuthbert’s remains to me by nine o’clock this evening, at a meeting place of my choosing, which I will inform you of closer to the time.”
Ryan was confused. “Cuthbert’s remains? I don’t have them to give you. They’re buried beneath his shrine, at the cathedral—”
“Lies! All lies!” the caller shrieked. “You’ve been to the Bishop’s Throne, so you must know what the code will reveal.”
Code? Ryan thought.
“I don’t understand,” he said, quite honestly. “I’m not a historian, or a devoted follower of Cuthbert—I’m just a regular guy. I don’t know anything about a Code of St. Cuthbert.”
“You had better learn, then, hadn’t you?”
“There’s not enough time—”
“For an intelligent man such as yourself, nine hours should be ample time for you to recover the bones. One last thing, Ryan. There must be no other police involvement. If I spot a single police officer, your wife will die. If you fail to deliver on time, your wife will die.”
Pure, white hot rage coursed through Ryan’s body, but he held it in check and told himself to be careful, and tread softly.
“How do I know she isn’t already dead?” he forced himself to ask.
“You don’t,” the caller said. “I suppose we’ll have to trust each another to deliver the goods. Nine o’clock, Ryan. Don’t be late.”
The line went dead.
CHAPTER 38
Ryan, Phillips and MacKenzie were seated around the table in the kitchen at Elsdon, with Chief Constable Morrison connected via speakerphone.
“We can be discreet,” she was saying. “Lowerson and Yates expect a call, imminently, from the Clinical Director of the Northern Cancer Centre with the name of the perp’s oncologist. Once we speak to them, we’ll have his name and address and, as soon as we do, we can execute a raid—”
Ryan considered the options as objectively as he was able. It had been a longstanding maxim of his never to negotiate with terrorists. Unfortunately, when his wife was involved, principles tended to fly out of the window.
“No,” he said, clearly. “He said no police, and I won’t risk it. He’s dangerous, and sees people as a means to an end. He wouldn’t think twice about killing her.” Ryan tried not to let emotion cloud his judgment, but it was an impossible task.
“If you want my tuppenceworth, I say the lad’s right,” Phillips put in. “It’s one thing sending in a couple of plain-clothed officers, keeping them well back. It’s another thing to raid the man’s house. His mentality is geared towards sacrifice and the idea of an afterlife—he won’t mind offing himself, if his number is up, and there’s a chance he’d take others down with him.”
Morrison thought for a moment. “Mac? What’s your take on this?”
MacKenzie handed the baby back to Ryan, who rubbed slow circles across his daughter’s back and was hardly able to believe that he could feel instant joy in response to the sound of her gurgles, whilst also feeling such intense pain.
Before MacKenzie could give her opinion, Ryan’s phone beeped to indicate another incoming call from Yates. He pressed a button to enable her to join their conversation.
“Mel, what have you got for me?”
“We heard back from the Clinical Director, who gave us the name of an oncologist who thinks he treated the man we’ve described. We spoke with Doctor Welsh just now, and he told us about a patient called Bill Chatterley he first treated back in 2017, whose prognosis was terminal. He had an enormous tumour growing on his brain but, to everyone’s surprise, a few weeks later, they did a scan and found it had stopped growing—or even reduced in size.”
“Which Bill attributed to a miracle,” Ryan said.
“Yes, and the same thing happened a second time, two years later, in 2019. He was referred to Doctor Welsh again, who reiterated his prognosis based on what appeared to be irrefutable evidence—another large tumour had grown, this time in a different part of his brain, and it should have been enough to kill him. Instead, he recovered a second time, and Doctor Welsh thinks it reaffirmed Chatterley�
��s belief that the reason for his recovery was the miraculous healing of St. Cuthbert and the fact he’d been praying at his shrine, religiously.”
“This was back in early 2019 but, apparently, when the oncology team approached Chatterley to offer him a routine follow-up appointment, he presented with what Doctor Welsh described as ‘very erratic behaviour’. He thought it might have been symptomatic of further tumour growth, but Chatterley refused to have any further treatment and Doctor Welsh hasn’t seen him since.”
“What do we know about Chatterley?” Ryan asked, urgently. “Do we have an address?”
“He’s already known to us, in a manner of speaking. William—or Bill—Chatterley was on our list to visit, as a matter of fact. He’s a specialist art restorer who runs his own firm, Finest Restorations, and was one of the key contractors in charge of uncovering the fifteenth-century frescoes in the Deanery at the cathedral, as well as restoring the murals of St. Cuthbert and King Oswald, in the Galilee Chapel, during the renovation works three years ago. He’s a big deal in the world of art restoration.”
Ryan wondered if that’s how Chatterley came to know Mathieu Lareuse, who had worked in art galleries selling forged pieces of art until business allowed him to drop the pretence of a legitimate profession. If Lareuse had been an expert in mouldings and metalwork, Chatterley could have been a useful contact if you were looking to make a quick buck from forged paintings.
And it would explain the level of private income needed to fund thugs for hire. There was a busy trade in forged masterpieces, and a King’s ransom to be made, if you knew the right people.
If any of that turned out to be true, the fact Lareuse wound up brutally murdered in his prison cell only went to prove that there was little honour amongst thieves.
“Where is he based?” Morrison asked.
“The medical records give an address in Shincliffe,” Yates replied. “We could organise a raid within the hour.”
“We were just discussing that possibility,” Ryan said, keeping half an eye on Emma, who played happily with her jungle gym mat, which he’d spread on the floor nearby. “Mac, you were about to give us your thoughts.”
MacKenzie ran through their options in her mind, trying valiantly not to think of what could be happening to her friend, with every passing minute they delayed.
“Chatterley says he wants Cuthbert’s remains in exchange for Anna,” she began. “Let’s think about his motivations, for a moment, before we make any hasty decisions. Let’s say this man really believes he recovered from two brain tumours thanks to a miracle, and the cult of St. Cuthbert. The fact of this happening twice, whilst he was praying to Cuthbert, reinforced his beliefs and played into his own false narrative.”
“I can see that happening,” Phillips said. “Only too easily.”
“Let’s also say his tumour returned but, this time, it doesn’t go away, and he doesn’t need a scan to tell him things are looking bad,” MacKenzie said, imagining the disappointment. “He’s getting the same old headaches, the same strange visual auras and all kinds of other side effects; maybe it’s affecting his eyesight and therefore his ability to work, and above all else, it’s affecting his thought patterns, making him unpredictable.”
“So, Chatterley tells himself he needs to gather Cuthbert’s relics close, because it’s the only way to ensure he gets the full force of the healing powers—that’s why he stole the pectoral cross, but it still isn’t enough to stop the cancer spreading,” Ryan said, following the logic.
“I think he truly, deeply believes in Cuthbert’s powers to heal,” MacKenzie said, after considering the trajectory of Chatterley’s actions and behaviour. “When he thought a miracle had cured him, perhaps he had a genuine desire to share the news and help others, which is why he went around bashing his Bible and recruiting followers—like Winter. Later, when he realises that he’s unwell again, and all that praying at Cuthbert’s shrine wasn’t working any more, he started to do some research further afield, and his motivations turned selfish. He’s got a ticking time bomb, and a very real sense of desperation and urgency to gather up all the relics he possibly can, to save himself. The only problem is, he needs help. He has some contacts, but he needs more. That’s where the power of indoctrination comes in. Just look at Charles Manson, and what he was able to achieve.”
“Power corrupts,” Yates agreed, and thought of Bishop Hatfield and his enormous golden throne.
“Indeed, it does,” MacKenzie said. “Then, there’s the problem of Cuthbert’s remains. Durham Cathedral are adamant his remains are buried in the Shrine, yet we know his coffin was opened numerous times over the centuries and the bones of other well-known people wound up being chucked inside. Researchers tested them and found a mixed bag, shall we say.”
“Chatterley wouldn’t be happy about that, would he?” Phillips remarked.
MacKenzie shook her head.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I think he’d feel cheated.”
“He became very irate on the phone, when I suggested Cuthbert’s remains were in the shrine at the cathedral,” Ryan put in, from where he was seated beside his daughter, who played happily with a squidgy teething toy in the shape of a giraffe.
“He obviously believes the real remains are buried elsewhere,” Morrison chimed in, and they all jumped slightly, having forgotten she was still on the line until her disembodied voice rang out into the kitchen. “Why would he think that?”
Ryan remembered the notes Anna had prepared about Cuthbert and tried to recall something she’d jotted down about a ‘Code’.
“On the telephone earlier, Chatterley mentioned there being some kind of ‘code’. He thought the message we found in the gospel book and the one we found on top of the Bishop’s Throne are all a part of it,” he said. “Before she was—before Anna was taken, she left me a dossier of notes she’d found about St. Cuthbert, alongside some of the myths and legends that have sprung up around him, over the centuries. I seem to remember there being one about ‘Cuthbert’s Code’.”
“Here we are,” Phillips said, a moment later, having done a quick internet search. “Says here, St. Cuthbert’s Code protects the secret of Cuthbert’s true burial site, and the secret is only known to a band of three—or twelve—monks at any one time, depending on who you believe. When one monk dies, the secret is passed to another, and the Code carries on through time. Legend has it, around the time of the Reformation, when Henry VIII was dissolving all the monasteries, Cuthbert’s remains were swapped with those of a recently deceased monk, and that Cuthbert’s body was taken somewhere else, for safekeeping.”
“Chatterley actually believes this?” Morrison wondered.
“He’s unhinged,” Phillips pointed out. “He’d believe anything, if he thought it was going to bring about a miracle.”
MacKenzie had been listening carefully to all of their theorizing, and had to admit it made good sense, seen from Chatterley’s warped perspective.
The problem was knowing how to deal with someone who’d left reality behind.
Clearly, they couldn’t rely on him seeing reason, any time soon.
“I think we should take a double-pronged approach,” she said, decisively. “I think Ryan should at least be seen to be following these clues to Cuthbert’s Code, if nothing else, because time’s ticking away and this guy means business. Separately, I would suggest a short, sharp raid on his home address—if there’s even the remotest possibility of Anna being there, we have to explore it.”
Ryan nodded and, for the first time in his career, was glad somebody else was taking charge.
“The approach to his house must be flawless,” he said. “We need a good cover story, so he doesn’t get wind of a police presence until the very last moment.”
“Done,” Morrison said. “I’ll expect an update within the hour. Oh, and Ryan?”
“Ma’am?”
“I’m sorry about all of it, truly sorry. Stay strong—we’ll be beside you every
step of the way, in spirit if not in person.”
CHAPTER 39
The village of Shincliffe was an ancient, picturesque place, ten minutes south of Durham city centre. Originally built upon the site of a Mediaeval bridge spanning the River Wear, it was a farming community throughout the Middle Ages, its lands owned by the Prior of Durham Cathedral, and had developed into an affluent community for the well-heeled of Durham society.
At precisely half past one, three teams of police staff assembled at their designated checkpoints in a triangular formation on the outskirts of the sleepy little village, each supported by members of the specialist firearms unit. Their target address was Houghall Hall, a spectacular, seventeenth-century moated manor house on the other side of the river from Shincliffe, belonging to the elusive William Chatterley.
“Who says art doesn’t pay, eh?” Lowerson remarked, from the back of an unmarked police van parked on the other side of the river, with clear views across to the Hall.
“I guess it depends if it’s your own art, or knocked-off copies of somebody else’s,” Yates replied. “Either way, you can’t take any of it with you.”
“A sentiment that’s particularly relevant to our friend, Chatterley,” Lowerson agreed.
“Five minutes till the drop,” Yates said, picking up her field glasses. “Any minute now, a delivery van will rock up to the front gates. Meanwhile, Team B will move in from the west, and we’ll remain here to monitor activity from the north, and move in, if necessary.”
“House looks pretty dead, to me,” Lowerson said, running his glasses over the windows of the Hall. “No sign of life.”
“A’s a go,” came a crackling voice, which Yates acknowledged.
Seconds later, a van bearing the recognisable logo of a well-known delivery firm trundled up to the front gates. A driver, who happened to be one of the newer members of the Firearms Unit, rang the buzzer at the gate and waited.
Nothing.
He tried again, and even smiled for the security camera.
