Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(52)

But he said none of that.

“I suppose, if you really buy into the dogma, you genuinely believe you’re doing God’s work,” he said. “From their perspective, they probably think they’re two of God’s most loyal servants.”

“Just like the person we’re looking for,” Yates said, and then laughed. “I’m actually quite glad my parents are in another country—at least we can eliminate them from the suspect list.”

“Yeah, there’s only room for one of us to have a murdering parent, in this relationship,” he said.

“There’s a sentence you don’t hear every day.”

Laughing, they turned and made their way up a steep hill leading from the river to the cathedral, emerging onto a pretty grass quadrangle known as ‘Palace Green’. There was a Christmas Market set up to run throughout December, its stalls selling everything from toffee apples to eggnog, hot toddies, mulled wine and more. The atmosphere was festive, and the scent of caramel and roasted nuts carried on the air.

“D’you think we’ve got time to stop?” Lowerson wondered, as they wandered past a stall advertising pulled pork sandwiches.

“Maybe on the way back,” Yates said. “We need to try to get through this list, and there’s no time to waste.”

He knew she was right. They’d spent more than an hour after the briefing earlier that morning ringing around the people on their list but, when it came to contractors who might have helped with the scaffolding, plasterwork, display casing or any other element of the renovation works at Durham Cathedral, it seemed the numbers just grew and grew. Partly, because some of those workers were transient, part-timers or sub-contractors, and, partly, because the company hiring them hadn’t kept adequate records about their staff—presumably, because they didn’t imagine they’d ever be called upon to provide information pertaining to the theft of a priceless national treasure.

Following Ryan’s instructions, they’d been able to eliminate a good portion of the list over the telephone, merely by making enquiries about their whereabouts on Sunday evening, and the previous day. Taking that into account, the list became much more manageable, and they decided to begin speaking to the most ‘high-profile’ people who could not account for their movements, or provide a sufficient alibi.

“Cathedral or university?” Yates asked.

“Ladies’ choice,” Lowerson said.

“In that case, let’s go for the cathedral first,” she replied. “I might not like organised religion, but I can appreciate a solid bit of architecture, when I see it.”

“Amen to that,” he said, and followed her towards the north door of the cathedral.

*

Inside, they saw that very little had changed since the last time they had stepped inside the cathedral’s hallowed walls.

The atmosphere inside was reverent, evoking an instant feeling of peace and serenity, for even the most disordered of minds. Its high columns and arches were a triumph of stonemasonry, the likes of which was unlikely to be replicated in any modern building in their lifetime.

“I heard a story about there being a deliberate mistake on one of these columns,” Lowerson whispered. “Apparently, an apprentice was let loose with a chisel, one day, and chiselled the wrong design.”

“Maybe it was their equivalent of graffiti,” Yates said. “They wanted to leave their personal mark and be remembered.”

“People get funny ideas about legacy, don’t they?” Jack mused. “Personally, I’m not bothered about making a mark on the world; I’ll be happy if my friends and family remember me as being a decent person.”

She curved an arm around his waist.

“I promise, if you ever get rid of that Playstation, I’ll remember you that way,” she said, with a wicked laugh.

“Can I help you, detectives?”

They were interrupted by the stealthy arrival of the cathedral’s chief operating officer, a man by the name of Derek Pettigrew, who was tasked with the day-to-day running of the site. He was somewhere in his mid-forties, with a well-tended beard and a rapidly receding hairline he was evidently trying to disguise. They had met him during their investigation of the robbery, back in March, and he remembered them on sight.

“Mr Pettigrew,” Lowerson said, slipping his professional mask back into place. “Thank you for the call, earlier today, and for agreeing to meet us.”

“I hardly have a choice, in the circumstances,” he said, without any social niceties. “As you may imagine, all of us here at the cathedral, including the Dean, were shocked and disappointed to learn from your Chief Constable this morning that the cross recovered last March is not, in fact, the original. What I don’t understand is how such an oversight could have occurred.”

“Is there somewhere we could discuss this in private?”

The cathedral was thronged with people, some who were there to worship, others who were there to admire the architecture, and none of whom needed to overhear their conversation.

“Of course,” Pettigrew said, and lowered his voice instantly. “Let’s use my office.”

He led them to a panelled side door marked, ‘PRIVATE’, and, beyond it, through another panelled corridor to a door at the very end. Inside, the room itself was unremarkable, with its whitewashed walls and bog-standard desk furniture, but the view was something else.