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

He paused, gathering his thoughts.

“Our current thinking is that the genuine cross was taken not for its monetary value, but because of its religious and symbolic significance—specifically, the idea that it may be imbued with healing powers. If that’s the case, we can hypothesise a link to the cult of Saint Cuthbert, and that Winter was involved in some way for the benefit of her brother, over whom she had sole guardianship following their parents’ death.”

Morrison ran a weary hand over the back of her neck.

“Again, I have to ask—what proof do you have that any of this is true? Aside from one of your famous ‘gut feelings’?”

Ryan’s eyes turned flat. It was true that, many times during the course of his career, his intuition had preceded the evidence, but he had always deferred to logic when it mattered and never taken important decisions based on intuition alone.

Perhaps Morrison read some of the outrage on his face, for she relented on that score, at least.

“All right,” she said, and held up her hands. “I retract that last comment, but my question still stands. Are you any further forward in understanding why DC Justine Winter was involved in all this?”

“We know it wasn’t for any monetary gain,” Ryan replied, coolly. “We were able to check Winter’s bank accounts and searches were made of her home as part of the regular investigation. The problem arises when we try to focus on her relationship with her brother.”

“Oh?” Morrison found herself asking. “You think he’s involved?”

“Not in the crimes she perpetrated, but perhaps as an indirect motivator,” Ryan replied. “We suspect Justine bought into the so-called cult of Saint Cuthbert, perhaps because she wanted to procure a miracle on behalf of her ailing brother. He’s in a private care facility now, but, when Justine was alive, he lived with her and had a home-help who came in when Justine was at work. She worked part-time for Durham CID and, on the days when she was caring for him, she and her brother attended regular hospital appointments and carer meetings. Patient confidentiality is a major stumbling block to our being able to find out much in the way of the names of people Justine would have come into contact with.”

Morrison gave up on the pretence and slumped gratefully into her desk chair.

“Let me see if I have this straight,” she said. “Although you suspect Justine believed in the cult properties of Cuthbert’s relics, perhaps because she wanted to procure a miracle, you have absolutely no evidence to support it?”

“Not yet—”

“And, that’s the best theory you can come up with? That the theft, the explosion and Tebbutt’s murder was all perpetrated by a group of religious fanatics?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “It’s the only logical connection, because we’ve exhausted everything else.”

Morrison shook her head.

“Ryan, I can’t allow this to go on,” she said. “You’ve had months, now. If something was going to turn up or if anything else was going to happen, it would have done so, by now.”

“Something has turned up,” he said quickly. “Before you came into the conference room, Lowerson told me the forger most likely responsible for making the replica cross has turned up in London and is being held in police custody for other charges, as we speak.”

Morrison remained unmoved.

“I take it you have some sort of proof to support your belief that this person made the replica cross?”

Ryan kept his frustration firmly in check.

“Not yet, but that’s the point; Mathieu Lareuse has been off-grid. We assumed he’d skipped the country or that he was already dead somewhere. We’ve had no way of questioning him or conducting a search but, now he’s been found, I could easily head down there this afternoon—”

Morrison was incredulous. “You have to be joking, Ryan. I’m not giving you carte blanche to scamper down to the other end of the country without good reason. You say this forger made the replica cross, but you haven’t given me anything concrete to support it. We need a causal link, not baseless theories.”

“When I question him, he might talk,” Ryan tried again. “Now the Met have him in custody, they’ll be going through his personal effects and, with any luck, will have already secured a search and seize warrant. They might find something that links back to this.”

“And they might not,” she snapped.

“If I could speak to him—"

Most of the time, it was true that Ryan could charm the birds from the trees or, in this case, a confession from a criminal. But, Morrison thought, everything had its limits.

“You won’t be questioning him, Ryan, because he’s been charged for an offence outside your jurisdiction,” she said firmly. “Leave it to the Metropolitan Police. If they turn something up, they’ll let us know.”

“Ma’am—”

“That’s final,” she said, and her tone brooked no further debate. “I want Operation Bertie shut down, effective immediately. Finish up the public-facing investigation, for the benefit of the press and for the people of this region and, for God’s sake, put this business to bed.”

When Ryan said nothing, she added a final piece of maternal advice.

“On the subject of beds, you look as though you could use one,” she said, more gently. “I know you had a rough time with Anna in the hospital and that you’ve got a baby at home now, Ryan. You should know how happy we all are for you, but make sure you get a proper night’s sleep sometime soon because, frankly, you look as rough as a badger’s arse.”