Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(21)
“Morrison thinks I’m overreacting,” Ryan said. “She thinks I’m in the throes of sleep deprivation, and that new fatherhood has addled my brain.”
“Whereas, we both know, you’ve never been quite reet in the heed, as my old Da’ would say.”
Ryan laughed. “Probably true,” he admitted, feeling a little better than before.
Phillips looked out across the misty, snow-flecked meadows and then back at his friend.
“Anyway, all I want to tell you is that you’ll never be alone, lad. You’ve got all of us here, ready and willing to help.”
“Thanks, Frank. I might hold you to that.”
CHAPTER 10
It was a little after one-thirty when Ryan and Phillips drove through a set of impressive pillared stone gates, where they were met by a police constable from the North Yorkshire constabulary bearing a clipboard and the eager, stony-faced look of one who’d recently left the training academy.
“Sorry, there’s no entry to the College, today, unless you’re a parent—”
Ryan held out his warrant card for inspection. “DCI Ryan and DS Phillips, from Northumbria CID. Your SIO is expecting us.”
He wasn’t sure whether to feel gratified or concerned when the young man’s eyebrows shot into his gelled hairline.
“Right—sorry, chief inspector, I didn’t recognise you. Carry straight on, and I’ll radio DCI Patel to let her know you’re on your way.”
“You’re infamous,” Phillips whispered, from the corner of his mouth. “Maybe he’ll ask for your autograph.”
“Shut your pie ho—damn it, I can’t even insult you in the same way, since you’re not eating pies anymore,” Ryan grumbled.
“Salad hole doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Phillips agreed, smugly.
They followed a winding driveway towards the main entrance of Crayke College, which formed part of a much larger estate belonging to the adjoining monastery that extended to farms, orchards, playing fields and equestrian facilities, in addition to the main school buildings and boarding houses, which were large enough to resemble a small village. The school catered to children from the age of seven and, having attended a similar establishment from around that age, Ryan was struck forcibly by the strength of his own animosity—towards establishments of that kind, and, sadly, towards his own parents for having left him there.
“Bringing back a few memories?” Phillips asked, with his usual insight.
Ryan nodded, but said nothing more as they crawled along the driveway, his eyes scanning either side to gauge the terrain.
“Must be hundreds of acres, here,” he said eventually. “Plenty of ways for somebody to gain access without anybody noticing.”
Phillips made a rumbling sound of agreement.
“There’s a security lodge, back there, but there’s miles of perimeter wall with a place like this,” he said. “Easy enough to hop over it, if you know how to avoid the cameras.”
“Exactly. Not counting the river and any other gated entry points.”
They rounded a bend in the driveway and had their first glimpse of Crayke College. It was a majestic sight, by any standards: the gilded edges of it its clocktower shimmered in the early afternoon sunlight, while its patrician architecture sprawled in symmetrical columns made of warm, finely-honed sandstone.
“What a dump!” Phillips joked. “Wonder what the upkeep is, on a place like this.”
Ryan was lost for words. As it happened, he had a very good idea of what the running costs were for a stately home the size of Crayke College. Whilst he’d never made any secret of his upbringing, which had been very privileged, neither was he in the habit of broadcasting it. He’d always preferred to be judged on his own merits as a person rather than on the trappings of his family’s wealth, but he was no hypocrite. Thanks to an accident of birth, he’d enjoyed advantages other children hadn’t. Others might have mentioned that personal qualities of integrity and dedication might also have played their part, but Ryan knew there had been inequality of opportunity, even if he hadn’t asked for it.
His decision to lead a different kind of life than the one his father had mapped out for him was one of many contentious issues that divided the two men, and it was only in recent times that they had begun to rebuild their fractured relationship. Charles Ryan could not understand why his son would wish to reject his birthright, while Ryan could not begin to imagine a life spent within the echoing walls of his childhood home, playing Lord of the Manor whilst others survived on the bare minimum. He’d used a generous inheritance from his grandmother to fund several charitable ventures, which were managed by others to redistribute money he plainly didn’t need. Aside from Anna, Phillips was one of only a handful of people who’d ever visited Ryan’s family home in Devon—even then, only to attend his sister’s funeral at the chapel on the Finley-Ryan estate. However, Phillips knew nothing about Ryan’s other philanthropic ventures, and he would have been embarrassed to speak of it.
“It takes hundreds of thousands a year,” Ryan said simply, and left it at that.
Phillips gave a long whistle.
“Think I’ll stick to my campervan,” he said. “Low overheads, for one thing, and you can go wherever the wind takes you.”