Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(53)

“I don’t know how you manage to work in here,” Yates said, and walked over to the window to look out at a panoramic view to the west, with the river running far below.

“I am very fortunate,” he agreed, coolly. “Please, do sit down.”

They fell into two under-stuffed chairs that dipped at the base, which meant that their knees were slightly higher than their waists.

“We understand the cathedral undertook some renovation works to the exhibition space, roughly three years ago,” Yates said, edging forward a bit to try to get comfortable. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, indeed,” Pettigrew replied. “Our Monk’s Dormitory and Great Kitchen were renovated to create exhibition space for the treasures of St. Cuthbert, amongst other things. It was a large project, spread over a number of years. May I ask why that’s relevant?”

“We have reason to believe the original cross might have been substituted for a replica during the renovation period,” Yates replied.

“Impossible,” Pettigrew snapped, slicing his hand through the air like a knife. “We had a full security team on site at all times, and the artefacts remained in sealed display cases, under lock and key, before they were transferred to their new display area. I don’t see how it would have been possible.”

“Did you have the pieces authenticated, before the project was signed off?” Lowerson asked.

Pettigrew looked uncomfortable.

“There was no need,” he said. “The pieces had already been authenticated and, to the best of our knowledge, nothing had changed. Besides, we had restoration and conservation experts on site. There’s very little chance that so many people could have made such a drastic oversight.”

He included himself in that number, but wasn’t about to say as much.

“Can we have the names of those individuals, please?” Yates asked, flipping open her notebook to compare them with those already listed.

“I—I’d have to check to be certain, but the restoration firm was called Finest Restorations and the gentleman leading the team was a chap called William Chatterley, I seem to recall. He’s local to the area, because I see him in here from time to time. There was a postdoctoral student cataloguing the project as part of some research he was doing, a young man by the name of Andrew Duggan-West. He still volunteers with us, at weekends, when he isn’t doing a show.”

“A show?”

“He enjoys amateur theatre, I understand.”

“I see,” Yates said, and prepared to bite the bullet. “My next question is a delicate one, Mr Pettigrew, but I’d like to reassure you that it’s an entirely normal part of our investigation.”

He nodded, warily.

“The question I’d like to ask is: could you please tell us your whereabouts on the evening of Sunday 6th December, and again yesterday daytime?”

He didn’t blink.

“I have no secrets,” he said, folding his arms. “On Sunday evening, I was at home, like any other sane person in this country. Yesterday, I was unwell, and had the day off sick.”

Lowerson and Yates displayed twin expressions of sympathy.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lowerson said. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Not any more, I’m very pleased to say. I’m in remission after undergoing a round of chemotherapy,” he said. “Unfortunately, I still suffer from topical sickness and tiredness, from time to time, which I’m told will improve.”

“We’re very glad to hear it,” Lowerson said. “Are you with the cancer centre at the University Hospital?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

That was easy enough to check, they thought, and the man had been forthcoming with his explanation, so far, which went in his favour.

Set against that, the upshot was that, for the significant time periods, Derek Pettigrew claimed to be at home.

“Do you live alone, Mr Pettigrew?”

His face became shuttered.

“Why is this relevant to the theft of the cross?” he asked. “What does my whereabouts this past week have to do with the cross having gone missing three years ago, if you’re right on that score?”

“We’re not in a position to discuss active lines of enquiry,” Lowerson replied. “We would, however, be extremely grateful for your cooperation.”

Pettigrew lifted his chin.

“Much as I am happy to assist in your investigation, there are elements of my private life that are…” He cast around for the right word. “Ah…private.”

He looked between the pair of them, seeking reassurance.

“The thing is, my partner—Michael—lives separately…ah—”

They thought they understood the problem.

“Michael is married?” Yates asked, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

Pettigrew nodded.

“I would much rather keep his name out of this. He hasn’t told his family…”

“Nonetheless, I’m afraid we will need to verify your whereabouts as part of our wider investigation,” Lowerson said, firmly. “We will not share the information unless it has to become a matter of public record at a later stage.”

It was the best reassurance he could give.

Pettigrew nodded miserably, and reeled off a name.