Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(58)
“So, how long did you spend on site, during the renovation period?” Yates asked him.
“Ooh, must’ve been around two months—but not every day, of course. I had written permission from the Dean to access the site with some notice to the contractors and conservationists, so I could observe their work uncovering the frescoes and see what they unearthed. My subject is all about interpreting the meaning behind works of art, and the use of frescoes at the cathedral is so interesting.”
Despite himself, Lowerson was interested.
“What were your conclusions?” he wondered.
“Oh, mostly what you’d expect,” he said, with an artistic wave of his wrist. “Art representing life, and as a visual reminder to visitors of the power of the Prince Bishops in Durham…”
He seemed to come out of himself, remembering his audience.
“I’m sorry, it’s easy to fall down a rabbit hole when you get onto your favourite subject,” he said. “Was there anything else you needed to know?”
“Do you happen to remember anything unusual, during your time on site? Anyone who showed an unusual interest in St. Cuthbert, or his cross, for example?”
Andrew’s eyes shone, and he leaned forward.
“Is this to do with the theft of the cross, earlier this year? It was all so…dramatic.”
“I’m afraid we can’t discuss active lines of enquiry, at the moment,” Lowerson said.
“Of course, of course…well, I’m sorry to say, I didn’t notice anything unusual…nobody trying to break into the display cases with a swag bag, or anything like that!”
He paused for a laugh and, when none was forthcoming, carried on.
“Almost all the people working on the project were already big fans of Cuthbert, and considered it an honour to be working on restoring the cathedral to its best—I was just happy to be a visitor during the process, and to have seen how some of the work is done. The restoration of those wall frescoes was meticulous.”
“Yes, we heard some of the conservation work was undertaken by a company called Finest Restorations. Is that correct?”
“That’s right.” He nodded. “It’s run by a chap called Will Chatterley, but he’s really a one-man band. He’s an absolute master when it comes to restoring fine art; really, he could have been an artist, himself.”
“Do you know him well?”
“No, but he let me shadow him for a few days while he was working on the frescoes, which was very decent of him.”
“Just a couple more questions, if I may,” Yates said, with a smile. “Have you been rehearsing all week?”
He let out a gusty sigh.
“Yes, the play opens on Friday, so we’ve been refining things little by little.”
“Well, thank you very much for your time.” She passed him a card with the incident room details listed on the reverse. “If you think of anything else—here’s the number to call.”
Andrew bade them a cheery farewell and, as he sauntered off, Lowerson passed one final critic’s comment for the day.
“Now, that was a performance.”
CHAPTER 30
After a friendly but, ultimately, unfruitful discussion with Danny Winter’s neurologist at University Hospital, MacKenzie and Phillips decided to make one last stop on their way back to Newcastle, where they were due to collect Samantha from an after-school club at five o’clock.
Vennel’s Café was a hidden gem of a place, tucked in beside other shops in the centre of the city—its historic walls spread over three floors packed with fireplaces draped in garlands and old sewing tables decked out in festive tablecloths, which gave an overall impression of stepping back in time when you crossed the threshold.
It was a test of willpower for Phillips, whose eyes slid towards the displays of scones and cakes with helpless longing.
“Stay strong,” MacKenzie said, patting his arm. “You can do it.”
He might have made a small whimpering sound—he couldn’t be sure—but before he could embarrass himself by leaping across the counter to attack a tray of freshly baked rolls, they hurried upstairs to the first floor where, they were told, the general carer’s support group was now being run by volunteers on a Wednesday afternoon.
They spotted a group of around eight or nine people seated on the far side of the room beside a small Christmas tree, sipping mugs of coffee and hot chocolate. Tables had been pushed together to form one large one, and men and women of differing ages were gathered around it, nodding and sometimes laughing at something another person had said.
They felt bad interrupting their meeting, especially as it was a vital lifeline to those carers who might otherwise feel isolated during the rest of the week, but it was imperative that they tried to learn who had managed to compromise Justine Winter.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” MacKenzie said, and the conversation stopped immediately. “I’m DI MacKenzie, and this is DS Phillips. We’re from Northumbria CID.”
“Oh, my God, it must be about Robbie!” one woman cried, leaping up from her chair as if to run from the room. “What’s happened to him?”
MacKenzie held up both of her hands.
“We’re not here regarding any of your loved ones,” she said quietly. “We’re here because we were hoping you might be able to help us get to the bottom of an investigation we’re running into the death of Justine Winter who, we understand, was a former member of your support group.”