Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(69)

She could see nothing at all, and could barely move, but she could hear and she could smell, so she used those faculties to make extensive notes in her mind. She counted ‘elephants’ between one road turning and the next, taking an educated guess at the average travelling speed of the vehicle and noting whenever the van turned left or right. Knowing the county as she did, Anna was fairly certain they’d travelled cross-country towards the Northumberland National Park, but even one misjudged turn could have completely skewed her sense of direction.

She smelled engine oil and sweat.

In the darkness of the van, a man’s hand travelled up her thigh, and she kicked out, scuttling away to another corner, only to be thrown against the edge of the metal casing.

Male laughter echoed around the interior, and she thought of Ryan.

She would do whatever it took, to stay alive and return to her family.

Whatever it took.





CHAPTER 36


Yates and Lowerson indulged in a private, five-minute break at Police Headquarters, during which time they poured out the grief they felt for their friend, his wife and all their family. They cursed themselves for being slow-witted and lazy; for not working hard enough to prevent this from happening; for not seeing this action as the next logical step, even though it seemed to be entirely at odds with the perpetrator’s previous modus operandi.

But it was too late for personal recriminations and regrets; all they could do now was act.

They re-emerged stronger, an emotional state that was sorely tested when they returned to the open-plan offices of CID to find every single available officer in the building crammed into the room.

“They want to help,” Morrison said, from a desk she’d commandeered at the front of the room. “Without my asking them, they began to gather, asking how they could be of service. I’ve set them to work.”

Another testament to the loyalty Ryan inspired in his staff, Morrison thought, and hoped the goodwill and added manpower would be enough.

“MacKenzie and Phillips picked up a new lead, yesterday,” Yates told her. “An account of a man trying to peddle miracles to a vulnerable woman whose husband had recently been diagnosed with a degenerative disease. She described him as being at least thirty, well-spoken, well-dressed, wearing a toupee. This man told a story of how he’d beaten a brain tumour, twice, and credited that to St. Cuthbert having worked one of his miracles.”

“Ring the oncology department,” Morrison suggested.

“Already done,” Lowerson was pleased to tell her. “They say the senior oncologist will be back in his office at nine.”

Morrison checked the time on the big, plastic wall clock and nodded.

“Ten minutes,” she said. “What else?”

“When we speak to the oncologist, we’re hoping she’ll be able to give us a name for this guy,” Yates said. “It will make our work much easier, if she can. If she can’t, which is also possible, we plan to visit more of the people on our list. If we have to flush him out by more old-fashioned methods, so be it.”

Morrison nodded.

“There’s an APW out for a white van matching the description Charles Ryan gave us but, without a plate, it’s not going to help much. Word has gone out to highway patrol, and officers in all neighbouring command divisions are searching, as we speak. I’m assured they will leave no stone unturned.”

None of them spoke of the fact this seemed to have been a professional job, which meant it was more likely the owners of the van in question would drive it straight to a lock-up and re-spray it or change the plates, which would make it almost impossible to find them.

“Anna doesn’t have any communication devices on her, which means she was probably stripped of her mobile phone before she was taken.”

Again, a professional detail.

“What do they want with her?” Yates wondered.

Morrison tapped the mobile phone which sat on the desktop beside her.

“We’re waiting to hear,” she replied. “I’ve ordered a media ban, until we know their demands. The last thing we want to do is antagonise whoever’s holding our friend.”

When they said nothing, she looked up and nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s personal for me, too. Get to work.”

*

Ryan side-stepped the CSIs who were sweeping through the first floor of his home, and made directly for his wife’s study at the end of the hall. There wasn’t much to it; just a wall of bookshelves, the window, a desk and chair, and another wall of cupboards. His eye was drawn to the corner cupboard, where the door was still open, and he moved across to look inside at the makeshift bed his wife had cobbled together for their daughter, under extreme stress and in fear for their lives.

If she could do that, then he could do this.

Reaching down, he picked up Anna’s coat and held it to his face, closing his eyes to inhale the lingering scent of her that clung to the seams.

“Anything?” Phillips asked, from the doorway.

Ryan let the coat fall away, and scanned the surfaces of the room until his eye fell on one of her textbooks which was lying open on top of the desk. The page had a bookmark she must have bought from Durham Cathedral, sometime.

“Maybe,” he replied, moving to the desk to get a better look.

The page showed a black and white image of the ‘Bishop’s Throne’ in Durham Cathedral, the cathedra, or seat, of the bishop. Knowing his wife, there must be some reason why she’d highlighted this image, and he slid into her chair to scan the text beside it: