Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(15)
Beneath the table, Yates squeezed Lowerson’s knee in solidarity. Not so long ago, he’d found himself in a compromising situation but, rather than bow to the pressure, he’d come through for his team and had been instrumental in toppling one of the most powerful organised crime gangs in the country.
“Anyway, their methods might be similar, but their approaches are different because one carries more authenticity than the other, and has history on its side,” Ryan continued. “The Catholic Church is a powerful force and, although its following might be diminished on a world scale, it still carries plenty of weight, particularly at a local level. If you have a group of people who really believe in God, miracles, afterlives, eternal damnation and the idea of utopia, the bonds that tie are infinitely stronger than a bunch of self-interested quacks.”
As somebody who was of no faith, but was a great believer in individual liberty, Ryan respected the rights of others to have faith in whatever they chose, so long as they did no harm to others. As a logical man, it didn’t mean that he understood the enduring quality of religious belief systems; merely, that he acknowledged the right of every individual to have one, if they chose to. He could readily admit that, at times like these, when religious dogma might prove to be the reason why people had been murdered and others injured, his level of tolerance fell, along with his patience.
But he knew that both Phillips and MacKenzie had been raised in the Catholic faith, and he was nonetheless a thoughtful man, so he spoke with care.
“Why would people believe that Saint Cuthbert’s body was still whole?” he asked, of nobody in particular. “I know there were early reports that the body was intact, repeated over the years, but those could easily have been fabrication, given what the Church stood to gain. Life experience has taught us that not all ‘Godly’ men act in ‘Godly’ ways—surely, people must have had their suspicions. Why would anybody suspend disbelief?”
MacKenzie smiled. “Why believe anything?” she said. “For comfort, or to feel that there’s meaning and order in the world; or, perhaps because it makes living that little bit easier—as well as dying. If you truly believe in an afterlife, in Heaven and Hell, then it makes dying a little less frightening, doesn’t it?”
“Because then, it isn’t the end?”
“Exactly,” she murmured.
Ryan leaned back in his chair, thinking over what she had said. If MacKenzie was right and their theories were correct, the person or group they sought answered to a much higher master than one who dressed in fake animal pelts and danced beneath a full moon. They would be prepared to die for a cause and had no respect for secular justice.
They would never stop, for fear of eternal damnation.
A dull ache began to throb at his temples and Ryan ordered himself to remain focused. Fear of the unknown, of coming home to find his family dead before being shot on his own front doorstep, like Joan Tebbutt, could be overwhelming. It clutched at his heart like a vice, squeezing its icy fingers until he could hardly breathe…
He looked up to find his team watching him closely, and bore down against rising panic.
“I believe in people,” he said, pushing back from his chair to pace about a bit, working off the cortisol running through his body. “People fed the cult back when Cuthbert died, and it’s people who are murdering to acquire his relics, today.”
Ryan spun around, eyes blazing.
“We’re not hunting for some spectre from the past,” he said. “Whoever is behind this is made of flesh and blood, just like us. No matter how hard this gets, we need to remember that.”
He turned to Yates.
“Mel, you were right when you said that whoever stole the fake cross was worried about us finding it and using it to trace them,” he said, decisively. “But I don’t think they’re worried we’ll trace them, as much as we’d trace the weak link that separates us from them.”
“What weak link?” she asked.
“Whoever made the forgery,” Ryan explained. “Whoever did this must have known we’d use the forged cross to try to uncover its maker and, from there, find the person who’d commissioned it.”
“We’ve already looked into the forgers with that level of skill,” Lowerson put in. “It’s been tough to keep the investigation quiet and ask questions without raising suspicions but, from what we can gather, it comes down to two names: Edward Faber, street name ‘Fabergé’—”
“Who’s dead as a dodo,” Phillips pointed out, in his inimitable way.
“Exactly, and then there’s Mathieu Lareuse, street name ‘Rodin’. The two of them were old rivals, apparently.”
“In that case, when Faber saw the cross on display at the Cathedral and noticed it was a forgery, perhaps he had a good idea of the person responsible for making it,” Ryan said. “Do you have any further update on Rodin’s whereabouts?”
When months had gone by without turning up any leads, they’d been forced to assume Mathieu Lareuse had gone the same way as Faber—or. indeed, the dodo.
“Actually, there’s been some good news on that score,” Lowerson was delighted to say. “Rodin was picked up and brought into custody last night, down in London. He’s been charged with various dishonesty offences and is being held on remand until he goes in front of the magistrates later this afternoon.”