by LJ Ross
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Phillips said, coming to stand beside him.
“Depends on your point of view.”
“Apparently, the architect who designed it was famous for working on the Houses of Parliament.”
Ryan’s face grew even more ominous.
“What leads people to hand over their last few quid for this, Frank?” He flicked a wrist in the direction of the cathedral. “Building this great edifice, this architectural triumph, came at a cost. I have to wonder whether the poor of inner city Newcastle would have preferred food in their mouths than a great big show house where they were expected to go and confess their sins.”
Phillips looked up at the sky, watching an aeroplane blazing a trail through the thick grey clouds. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, which settled in a moist blanket on his face.
“You don’t set much stock by religion,” he said. “As it happens, I don’t worry much about Heaven or Hell myself. But for some people these stones represent a community,” Phillips nodded his head towards the cathedral, “God or no God, the people who come here know one another. They watch out for one another, through the generations. It isn’t for us to put a price on that.”
Religion and politics, Ryan thought and swiftly changed the subject.
“Speaking of watching out for one another, I’ve set up the surveillance we talked about. I’ve got eyes on MacKenzie’s house right now and throughout the night. If somebody tries to make another poisoned pen delivery, we’ll intercept them.”
A flash of violence passed across Phillips’ face but was quickly suppressed.
“I appreciate it. Truth is, I don’t know what to make of it all. If it isn’t The Graveyard Killer, it’s some copycat or somebody with a grudge who managed to find her address. It’s not good, whichever way you look at it. We’re dealing with somebody who’s a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic and that gives me the heebie-jeebies, so I can only imagine what it’s doing to her. Where do I start looking to find this creep?”
Ryan gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and pointed towards the open cathedral doors.
“Let’s start in there.”
* * *
The atmosphere inside the cathedral was hushed. The strains of a mighty organ reverberated around its vast, vaulted walls and lone individuals were scattered among the rows of wooden pews with their heads bent in prayer. Ryan watched as an old woman stopped and did a funny sort of curtsy before stepping into a pew to join them. Candles flickered along the wall beside a statue of Saint Mary, her gentle face coming to life in the candlelight. Cataloguing the marble, the woodwork, Ryan was reminded of the last church he had visited on a windy hilltop near Hadrian’s Wall. It had been tiny and unpretentious, completely lacking in artifice. Now, he looked up at an enormous golden crucifix which hung front and centre beside the altar, demanding his attention.
Deliberately, Ryan turned away and studied the layout. It might represent the seat of the Bishop of Hexham and Newcastle, but day to day management fell under the remit of its Dean; a priest by the name of Father Conor O’Byrne. He spotted a side door marked ‘CLERICAL OFFICE’.
“This way,” he threw over his shoulder, before striding down the long central alley, his footsteps clicking against the chequered tiles as he went.
The door to the Clerical Office opened and a middle-aged woman with thick-lensed glasses raised her eyebrows at the sight of the tall, good-looking detective and his shorter associate. She led them through to an anteroom, where they found Father O’Byrne seated behind a chic mahogany writing desk. A pretty mullioned window provided some light and the sound of rainfall pattered melodically against the glass. In the corner of the room, a long cream robe hung neatly from a wooden clothes horse with a silk amice draped beside it.
“Thank you, Jean,” the Dean rose fluidly and moved around the desk with a friendly, open-armed gesture. “Good morning, gentlemen, how may I help you?”
His voice betrayed the gentlest Irish burr and he was dressed down in plain black slacks and shirt, the collar at his neck the only indication of his vocation.
“May we speak with the Bishop?”
“I’m sorry, Bishop McNally is attending a conference in Italy. You’re welcome to make an appointment for when he returns?”
“We’re here on official business,” Ryan held open his warrant card for inspection. “DCI Ryan and DS Phillips, Northumbria CID.”
“Of course, I should have recognised you straight away.” He looked between them. “I’m Father O’Byrne. I act as proxy in the Bishop’s absence so perhaps I can assist? I presume this relates to the deaths of those poor women. I’ve seen their murders reported several times in the press, not to mention the persistent use of The Priest or The Graveyard Killer as a catchphrase for their killer.”
He indicated a couple of visitors’ chairs.
“Yes, we are investigating,” Ryan chose not to apologise on behalf of the press.
“I am saddened by the news. However, I’m not sure how I can be of any great use, chief inspector. I didn’t know either woman personally, nor anything about how they came to die. I’ve already taken the liberty of asking my colleagues and they concur; neither woman was a regular member of our congregation here at St Mary’s and I can’t find their names listed on any of our registers. Of course, they are in my prayers.” He paused for a moment in a mark of respect for the dead, then clasped his hands together lightly as if he considered the matter closed.
Ryan made himself more comfortable in one of the sagging visitors’ chairs and smiled.
“We don’t expect you to have any knowledge of the individual circumstances of either victim but evidence found at the crime scenes indicates that their killer has an affiliation with Roman Catholicism, in one form or another.”
O’Byrne leaned forward slightly, linking his long fingers loosely atop his desk. He fixed Ryan with a direct blue stare.
“The news reports mentioned notes found beside each body. I presume their message contained a religious sentiment. Last rites?”
Ryan nodded.
“Absolution, written in Latin.”
The priest sighed.
“There have been cases where individuals have taken their own lives and, fearful that they would not be received into God’s merciful care, they have written a suicide note with hopes of absolving themselves.”
Ryan forgot the reason they were there and asked a question to satisfy his own curiosity.
“And would it? Would it absolve them?”
O’Byrne looked across the desk into Ryan’s silver-grey eyes and saw a simmering pot, one that could easily boil over. He chose his words carefully.
“As in other religious denominations, the taking of one’s own life is considered a sin in the eyes of God. However,” he inclined his head, “God is compassionate and we must try to be as well. It is a question for each priest to determine on an individual basis. He is best placed to understand the members of his congregation.”
Ryan looked away and listened briefly to the constant pitter-patter of rain against the glass panes, then his eyes swung back again.
“The fact is, Father, we’re not dealing with suicide in either case. Everything points to murder.”
“I see. That puts a different complexion on matters, at least from your perspective. From mine, I’m sad to say there is a long and colourful history of disturbed individuals using church doctrine to justify their own ends. Many books have been written and films have been made on the subject.”
“I appreciate that,” Ryan said quietly. “We have no intention of fuelling religious antipathy or misplacing blame, if we can help it.”
“And yet, our groundskeepers spent this morning scrubbing fresh graffiti from the walls of this house,” the priest returned.
“Bricks and mortar,” Ryan shot back, “I’m talking about saving lives.”
Phillips cleared his throat and decided it was an opportune moment to step in.
“We�
��re trying to get inside the mind of the person we’re looking for. We believe it’s a man perpetrating these crimes—it’s the most likely probability—and these notes of absolution are his signature, you might say.”
Father O’Byrne turned his attention to the sergeant.
“You said they were written in Latin? Nowadays, very little is spoken in Latin. The Church recognised that it needed to be more accessible to ordinary people, so that the words of God could be more readily understood and there’s been a big shift towards the standard use of English.”
“Even the Creed?”
O’Byrne raised an eyebrow.
“Are you one of the ones we lost, sergeant?”
Phillips pursed his lips.
“Never mind,” the priest flashed a grin. “You’re by no means the only one. We’ll have to do better.”
Ryan interjected, determined to keep the conversation firmly on track.
“You’re saying that the use of Latin in these notes could reflect an older, more traditional approach? Somebody who knows the old ways?”
“It’s just an observation,” he replied, but Ryan could see the sense in it and made a mental note regarding the potential age range of their perp.
“What’s the procedure on funerals?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, say your granny was Catholic and you need to arrange her burial. What do you do?”
If O’Byrne was surprised at Ryan’s lack of knowledge about Catholic practices, he didn’t show it.
“The family would need to arrange burial space at their chosen cemetery by instructing a funeral director or by contacting their local council directly, but in the first instance they would probably speak to their priest. If it was already known that a loved one was likely to pass, their priest should have been on hand to administer to the deceased and support the grieving family well ahead of a funeral.”
“Is there some sort of list or accessible database within the diocese to show who is going to be where and when?”
O’Byrne seemed surprised.
“You mean like an online calendar? Well, yes, there is,” he frowned. “Like any large organisation, we have an ‘intranet’ system which is accessible across the diocese. It contains the diaries of each priest and it helps us to organise our activities.”
Ryan gave him a level look.
“Do you employ an IT manager?”
“I don’t like where this is going, chief inspector.”
“I don’t like it either, Father, but the families of those dead women take precedence over our own sensibilities, don’t you think?”
The Dean inclined his head.
“Point taken.”
He reached for a scrap of paper and wrote down the details for the remote IT management company with oversight of their intranet system. “Here are the contact details. I feel I must warn you, it’s unlikely that the Bishop will sanction the release of internal information without the appropriate paperwork.”
“Thank you, Father, I’ll take steps to secure it.”
“I’m happy to help wherever I can, chief inspector. I believe you will be able to exonerate the priests of this diocese very quickly. In return, perhaps you would have the goodness to exercise caution when dealing with the press? Unfounded gossip can greatly damage the good work we do in this city.”
Ryan’s eyes flashed.
“We are not in the habit of spouting nonsense to the media. On the contrary, we share information we deem to be pertinent on a case by case basis, always with the hope that it will encourage people to assist our investigations.” He paused, leaning forward a fraction in his chair. “Interaction with the press has always been and will continue to be a matter solely at the discretion of CID.”
“And you, in particular.”
Ryan smiled charmingly and rose from his chair.
“Thank you again, Father O’Byrne. You’ve been very helpful.”
* * *
Outside, Ryan paused beside an iron statue of Cardinal Hume while Phillips took a call from the office. He rolled his shoulders to loosen his muscles and breathed deeply in an effort to clear his mind. By the time Phillips ended the call, he was calm once again.
“That was Control,” the older man explained, a shadow of worry flickering in his button brown eyes. “A Missing Persons report has come through and it’s looking high risk. Some bloke called Oliver Robertson rang the emergency line this morning to report his wife missing.”
Ryan searched his sergeant’s face.
“What are you telling me, Frank?”
“I’m telling you that Tanya Robertson has been missing since around nine-thirty last night. She’s thirty-six and a natural redhead.”
Ryan felt his stomach roll.
“It could be nothing,” Phillips tagged on, but concern was written all over his face.
“And it could be something,” Ryan murmured. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 13
They found Oliver Robertson pacing around the family waiting room back at CID Headquarters. A cup of cold tea sat on one of the tables and had obviously been there for some time, judging by the milk skin which floated on top. Robertson didn’t seem to have noticed; he continued to pace the floor, running trembling fingers through his dishevelled hair. His eyes were ringed by dark circles and he wore the look of a man who hadn’t slept. An older woman perched on one of the chairs beside him, folding and re-folding the material of her blouse in the kind of nervous gesture Ryan had seen a hundred times before.
Both of them turned as he entered the room with Phillips, who came bearing fresh cups of steaming hot tea.
“Have you found her?”
Robertson surged forwards, searching their faces for answers.
“Mr Robertson? I’m DCI Ry—”
“I know who you are!” Robertson almost shouted, before he visibly drew himself in. “I’m sorry, chief inspector. It’s just—please, don’t give me any pleasantries. I need to know where my wife is.”
Ryan stood a couple of feet in front of him and looked him square in the eye.
“We don’t know where she is, Oliver. We’re going to do all we can to find out.”
Robertson’s eyes watered.
“She—Tanya has red hair. I read in the papers that…that…”
He couldn’t go on. Belatedly, he registered the simple fact that CID would not have become involved if they didn’t strongly suspect that Tanya was already dead. The blood drained from his face and he swayed on his feet.
“Let’s sit down for a moment,” Ryan took Robertson’s arm and led him towards the older woman. Robertson all but melted into a chair and she reached across to take one of his limp hands.
“I’m Oliver’s mother,” she explained softly. “Tanya’s parents are looking after the children.”
“Thank you for coming,” Ryan told himself to remain detached but he already knew the truth, just as he had known that the killer would not miss an opportunity to strike again on Easter Sunday. He had hoped that an uneventful night would pass and they would have more time.
But there was no more time.
“Mr Robertson, I’ve read the Missing Persons report you gave this morning,” he began. “I’m sorry but I need to go over some of the details with you again.”
Robertson held a hand over his eyes for long moments, as if to shield himself for a little while longer, then let it drop back into his lap.
“I’ll tell you everything I can.”
Ryan reached for a chair and turned it around so that his arms rested along the back of it. He faced the man head on, compelling him to focus.
“Talk me through what happened last night.”
Robertson took a shaky breath and accepted the cup of tea that Phillips pressed into his hands, heavily laden with sugar.
“Tanya went to the cinema with a couple of her friends. She goes every week, or every other week. It’s her way of taking a bit of time out. The kids can be a handful, sometimes,”
he tried to smile but failed abysmally. “The showing was at seven-thirty at the Tyneside Cinema. They were due to come out of the cinema at around nine-thirty.”
“But you reported her missing this morning?”
Robertson nodded.
“I know how it sounds. It’s just that…”
He looked across at his mother for support and she gave his hand a squeeze.
“Just tell them, it’s alright.”
“It feels disloyal, but… I should tell you that Tanya suffers from postnatal depression. She’s only recently started on a course of medication after she went missing for several hours a few weeks ago. The doctor said it would take a couple of weeks for her hormones to even out. Last night, I thought that it had happened again and that she would come back when she was ready. I worried all night and I rang the hospitals, just in case, but when she still didn’t come home by three a.m., I rang the police.”
Robertson’s lips quivered and he clamped them together so hard that the skin turned white around the edges of his mouth.
“I understand,” Ryan said quietly. “Tell me, when was the last time you had contact with her?”
“I kissed her goodbye at about six-thirty last night and she drove into town. I had a text from her just before seven-thirty to say she was about to go into the cinema and that was the last I heard from her. I tried calling at ten o’clock but her phone had a dead tone.”
“What happened then?”
“I thought maybe her battery had died, but then it would still go to voicemail, wouldn’t it? It didn’t make sense, so I rang her friends,” he gave their names again. “They were in a bar so it was hard to hear but they said that they’d all left the cinema on time. They went for a cocktail and Tanya headed off to the multi-storey to get her car. That was it.”
“Which multi-storey?”
