Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(16)

Ryan’s spirits lifted, along with the general mood in the room.

Hope renewed.

“This is just the breakthrough we needed,” he said, and began making plans to contact one of his former colleagues at the Met to set up a private meeting with the elusive Mr Lareuse. “Phillips, cancel whatever you’ve got planned this afternoon—”

There came a peremptory knock on the door.

When it opened to admit Chief Constable Morrison, Ryan took one look at the resolute expression on her face and knew immediately that their time had run out.

She’d come to shut them down.





CHAPTER 7


“Ryan? A word, please.”

She didn’t wait for him, and merely nodded to the rest of the team before stepping back outside and walking directly to her office at the end of the corridor. There might have been words to say, but Sandra Morrison was no fool; she’d wait until they were safely ensconced behind another closed door before speaking freely.

Ryan followed at a distance, his footsteps a fraction slower than his usual pace while he thought of what he would say to try to persuade the Chief Constable to change her mind and give them just a little more time.

In the meantime, he kept his counsel, and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

“You wanted to speak to me, ma’am?”

Morrison gave him a long, level look that was entirely devoid of emotion. He knew that look, because he’d employed it numerous times himself when imparting bad news, especially to grieving families.

“Yes. Have a seat, Ryan.”

“Thank you, but I’d rather stand.”

Morrison gritted her teeth, and changed her mind about sitting down herself. Ryan was one of her best detectives and, despite all his foibles, she happened to like his style and his results were second to none. However, he was not built to be managed; he was built to lead. Usually, they rubbed along well, having developed an understanding over the years, which made moments like these all the harder. His focus was always on the victims of crime and their families, his energy always reserved to avenge the dead and seek justice, whatever that might be. Her focus was the same, or would have been, if she were not also responsible for managing the precarious balance between those who operated on the front line and those who sat behind desks, lunching with politicians. Appearances mattered as much as substance, which was something Ryan found abhorrent. Still, despite their differences, they shared something in common.

Ryan did not suffer fools gladly and, as it happened, neither did she.

“How long have you been working on Operation Bertie, Ryan?”

Morrison’s approach threw him, momentarily, until he realised that she was doing exactly what he would have done, were the situation reversed: encouraging him to come to the same conclusion she had, despite his better judgment.

Clever.

“Around nine months,” he supplied, without a flicker.

“And what progress has been made during that time?” she asked.

Rhetorical questioning, he noted.

“We’ve determined how the original pectoral cross was switched for the fake,” he said, keeping his tone as professional as hers. “The only possible time it could have been achieved without drawing unwanted attention was three years ago, when the exhibition space at the cathedral was being completely remodelled. Large teams of builders, scaffolders, architects, cathedral staff, security staff and other specialists were on-site at one time or another, giving scope for any number of people to have been party to it.”

“Mm,” she said, and cocked her head to one side. “What proof do you have to support that theory?”

Ryan swallowed. “We’ve compiled a list of all known persons who had access to the renovation works during that time, and have been investigating each of them in turn—”

“What proof, Ryan?” she repeated.

He fell silent, for she was absolutely right. There was no hard evidence, no smoking gun, only deductive reasoning which didn’t stand up in court. As for the list of possible suspects, it was as long as his arm and almost impossible to investigate with any kind of rigour without raising suspicions and alerting the perpetrator.

“The CCTV systems weren’t as robust as they are now,” he said. “Part of the renovation project involved replacing the old security system with a new one. In any event, footage from three years ago wouldn’t have been kept, and it would raise suspicions if we were to go rooting around for it.”

Being a fair-minded woman, Morrison gave him the benefit of the doubt.

“Even if you’re right in your assumptions about when the cross was switched, you’re still no closer to finding a definite lead, or even a suspect,” she said. “What about DC Justine Winter? Have you found out why she was involved in Tebbutt’s murder?”

A muscle ticked in Ryan’s jaw, which was the only outward sign that he was irritated.

“As you know, ma’am, when Winter committed suicide, she left a note written in runes that was later translated to read, ‘SACRIFICE’. The only other thing Winter left was a copy of the life insurance policy she’d taken out, which guaranteed cover even if she died by her own hand. The beneficiary of the policy is her brother, who suffers from a particularly degenerative form of motor neurone disease. We believe she highlighted this policy to be sure that he’d be taken care of, following her death.”