Cuthbert's Way (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #17)(74)

“Chatterley actually believes this?” Morrison wondered.

“He’s unhinged,” Phillips pointed out. “He’d believe anything, if he thought it was going to bring about a miracle.”

MacKenzie had been listening carefully to all of their theorizing, and had to admit it made good sense, seen from Chatterley’s warped perspective.

The problem was knowing how to deal with someone who’d left reality behind.

Clearly, they couldn’t rely on him seeing reason, any time soon.

“I think we should take a double-pronged approach,” she said, decisively. “I think Ryan should at least be seen to be following these clues to Cuthbert’s Code, if nothing else, because time’s ticking away and this guy means business. Separately, I would suggest a short, sharp raid on his home address—if there’s even the remotest possibility of Anna being there, we have to explore it.”

Ryan nodded and, for the first time in his career, was glad somebody else was taking charge.

“The approach to his house must be flawless,” he said. “We need a good cover story, so he doesn’t get wind of a police presence until the very last moment.”

“Done,” Morrison said. “I’ll expect an update within the hour. Oh, and Ryan?”

“Ma’am?”

“I’m sorry about all of it, truly sorry. Stay strong—we’ll be beside you every step of the way, in spirit if not in person.”





CHAPTER 39


The village of Shincliffe was an ancient, picturesque place, ten minutes south of Durham city centre. Originally built upon the site of a Mediaeval bridge spanning the River Wear, it was a farming community throughout the Middle Ages, its lands owned by the Prior of Durham Cathedral, and had developed into an affluent community for the well-heeled of Durham society.

At precisely half past one, three teams of police staff assembled at their designated checkpoints in a triangular formation on the outskirts of the sleepy little village, each supported by members of the specialist firearms unit. Their target address was Houghall Hall, a spectacular, seventeenth-century moated manor house on the other side of the river from Shincliffe, belonging to the elusive William Chatterley.

“Who says art doesn’t pay, eh?” Lowerson remarked, from the back of an unmarked police van parked on the other side of the river, with clear views across to the Hall.

“I guess it depends if it’s your own art, or knocked-off copies of somebody else’s,” Yates replied. “Either way, you can’t take any of it with you.”

“A sentiment that’s particularly relevant to our friend, Chatterley,” Lowerson agreed.

“Five minutes till the drop,” Yates said, picking up her field glasses. “Any minute now, a delivery van will rock up to the front gates. Meanwhile, Team B will move in from the west, and we’ll remain here to monitor activity from the north, and move in, if necessary.”

“House looks pretty dead, to me,” Lowerson said, running his glasses over the windows of the Hall. “No sign of life.”

“A’s a go,” came a crackling voice, which Yates acknowledged.

Seconds later, a van bearing the recognisable logo of a well-known delivery firm trundled up to the front gates. A driver, who happened to be one of the newer members of the Firearms Unit, rang the buzzer at the gate and waited.

Nothing.

He tried again, and even smiled for the security camera.

Still nothing.

With a shrug, he climbed back into his van and drove away, remaining in character for the benefit of anybody within.

“B’s a go,” came another crackling voice, which Yates acknowledged.

They kept their glasses trained on the moat that wrapped around the old limestone Hall, until they spotted the shadowy figures of their colleagues advancing around the perimeter wall, where they forced entry through a side gate.

Lowerson and Yates listened through their earpieces as the team moved through an inner courtyard and into the Hall, shouting warnings as they went. They moved from room to room, until eventually the team leader spoke to them on his radio.

“The place is clear, over.”

Lowerson and Yates couldn’t prevent the wave of disappointment because, if Anna wasn’t being held there, it meant they were right back to square one, and the responsibility now rested with Ryan to procure the bones of a saint from an unknown location, which had been a closely guarded secret for hundreds of years.

Less than eight hours until the deadline.

The clock was ticking.

*

Anna lay perfectly still in the boot of the car, just as she’d been told to.

Not that she could have moved very far; her ankles and wrists were bound together with hard wire cord, the uncomfortable position forcing her spine to curve, pulling the skin on her stomach painfully taut across the Caesarean scar.

How long had she been here?

It was impossible to say. Three, maybe four hours?

Inside, the air was cold but stifling, heavy with the stench of dried mud and something worse; something like dried blood, and faeces. She didn’t think about what it could be.

She would not break.

She would not break.

She closed her eyes against the oppressive darkness of her surroundings and retreated to a place of safety, where men in black masks could not hurt her. Shivering uncontrollably, she listened to the crashing of the sea outside and wondered if she had been left there to die, never to watch her daughter grow into a woman.