by Mari Hannah
‘You look like you mean business,’ her escort said.
A foreign voice.
O’Neil was suddenly wary, eager to get rid of her escort. As he moved away, she ran her eyes over him. He was a big bugger with a dimple in his chin, brown eyes and hair in a style that was close to an American crew cut. A bit of a thug. Not someone she’d care to meet on a dark night. She observed him lean over the desk in order to lift extra chairs from a stack in the corner. As he reached out, his shirtsleeves rode up, revealing a Swedish flag tattoo on his right forearm and bruises to his knuckles.
Claesson.
An attempt to hide her growing anxiety was met with a hostile glare. He looked like he could kill with one punch and she had no backup.
‘I’ll get you that table,’ he grunted.
‘Thanks.’ She tried for cool, urging Ryan to hurry.
O’Neil shut her eyes, exhaling in relief as he disappeared, trying to quell her fears. She needed to warn Ryan that the man who’d just left the room could well be Jack’s killer. Fumbling to find her phone, she had second thoughts. What if he returned and caught her in the act? Ryan and others would be along any second.
Better to wait and stay calm …
Maybe she was imagining what wasn’t there …
Maybe …
The lights dimmed and went out. Fearing the worst, O’Neil began to panic, inching her way to the door as the fire alarm kicked in. The noise was deafening but it would alert Ryan and he’d come looking for her. Using her phone, she lit her way to the door and tried the handle. It wouldn’t budge.
What the fuck?!?
The Swede wouldn’t need to punch her. Her hands shook as she scrolled through her address book for Ryan’s number, using her free hand to cover one ear. Thank God! It was ringing.
The explosion blew out the windows in reception. Along with everyone else, Ryan had been marshalled through the front door to an assembly point at the side of the building. The phone in his hand stopped ringing: O’Neil. He looked around, expecting to see her waving her hand above the walking wounded, hoping she’d been led out another way.
He scanned shocked faces.
She was nowhere in sight.
When he heard another loud bang, he froze, heart banging in his chest. He stepped back, helping a woman in distress. And still he couldn’t see O’Neil. A ceiling inside the building collapsed in a thunderous crash, sending plumes of dust high into the air. From his position in the street, he could feel the intense heat burning his skin. Suddenly, the alarm stopped and there was a deathly hush.
The explosion had thrown O’Neil across the room with such force that it knocked her out cold. When she came to she was groggy and choking, small pockets of fire all around her. More worrying was the fact that one of the server monitors had caught fire and was popping and sparking, ready to blow. The flame from the fires gave her light – the wrong sort – and her mobile was nowhere to be seen in the debris.
‘Ryan!’
She listened, relaxing as she heard the sound of running feet. In her head, she saw him charging at the door, taking it off its hinges, but then realized that the footsteps were moving away and not approaching. Stunned from being blown off her feet, she tried to get up. Pain shot up her right leg and hip. Her ankle was broken. The sight of bone sticking through the skin made her vomit.
Terror gripped Ryan by the throat, sending him into a spin, recurring nightmares jockeying for space in his head: his father lying on a filthy carpet of a drug dealer’s den, bleeding from a knife wound; Jack on his deathbed; the torment on his kids’ faces when they heard he was dead.
What was that?
Had he imagined it?
No, there it was again …
O’Neil’s voice, faint and far away …
She was calling his name.
A male voice pulled Ryan from the abyss. He turned to find the TSG team leader, a horrified look on his face and that of his crew. The building was well alight.
‘Two seats of fire,’ one of them noticed. ‘Top and bottom floors.’
‘Deliberate,’ someone else said. ‘No doubt about it.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Ryan’s voice sounded muffled. His ears hadn’t yet recovered from the blast. ‘We need to get in there!’
The heat was intense. No one could get near the entrance without flameproof clothing for protection. Ryan raced round the side of the building, hoping to find another way in. ‘Eloise!’ he yelled up at the second floor. ‘Guv, can you hear me?’
Nothing.
A fire engine screeched to a halt in the lane running alongside. As firefighters piled out and got to work, their crew manager emerged with his distinctive yellow helmet, advising him to move away.
‘I’m police.’ Ryan held up ID. ‘You have one tender?’
‘Stand back!’ The crew manager yelled. ‘Our lads are stowed off. I sent for reinforcements; ETA five minutes. There’s a massive fire at a paint manufacturer on the Team Valley.’
‘What? You must have contingency plans.’
The fireman’s eyes were hard. ‘Move it and let my lads do their jobs—’
‘My boss is frying in there.’
They both ducked as part of the roof fell in, sending tiles crashing to the floor just metres away.
‘I need a torch,’ Ryan said.
The fireman shook his head. ‘No way.’
‘Hand me a fucking torch or I’m going in without one.’
Stay close to the floor. Deep in the interior, O’Neil could hardly see. Covering her mouth with a fragment of her blouse she found on the floor next to her, she tried calling out but her voice was gone. She’d never be heard. Even if she’d been able to stand, she knew she couldn’t open the door. There was a small gap under it, smoke creeping in and curling up the walls. She could see a fire raging in the corridor beyond. Stay close to the floor. The problem was, the wooden floor beneath her was getting hot. Downstairs must be well alight.
A couple of ambulances arrived. Ryan looked up as the vibration and sound of rotor blades caught his attention. India 99, the police helicopter, had arrived, its downdraught whipping smoke around, sending debris flying everywhere. It hovered for several seconds, surveying the damage before touching down on a playing field a couple of hundred metres upwind of the burning building, a much safer distance with aviation fuel on board. Ryan was scared but knew he couldn’t wait any longer. Despite a natural desire to get the hell out of there before the whole lot went up, he knew he had to run towards the fire and not away from it. He couldn’t leave Eloise.
He won’t leave me. Not Ryan. I’ll be fine. Stay awake and breathe. O’Neil coughed, the smoke searing the back of her throat. She thought she heard him calling out to her, then the sound faded away like in a nightmare. Out of reach. Unattainable. One panel of equipment in the corner of the room was like a giant torch, flames belching out the top, reaching the height of the room. Then she saw it. Smoke drifting through a crack in the ceiling. The plaster was sagging and stretching, the crack elongating until a gaping hole appeared. Her eyes widened as the gap opened up and the beam began to fall, down and down, almost in slow motion. Please, Ryan, don’t leave me. I’m here … right here. And then everything faded to black like a movie screen.
Dousing his clothing with water, Ryan somehow made his way to where he’d left O’Neil at the top of the stairwell. Fortunately for him, water was pouring into the building through a hole in the roof. Wrapping his hand in a wet cardigan he’d pulled from a chair on the ground floor, he opened doors, yelling for O’Neil as he made his way down the corridor. He found one that was locked. On it, a partially melted sign he could just make it out: NOTICE: NO ADMITTANCE TO SERVER ROOM WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION.
Ryan kicked it in. ‘Eloise!’
O’Neil was lying on the ground, not moving. A beam had fallen, missing her by inches. It was smouldering and near enough to set alight her hair and clothing. Her motionless body reminded him of Newman lying in the road a few days
ago outside a grotty pub on the edge of an industrial estate – a near disaster. Difference was, he’d got up. She wasn’t moving.
‘Eloise!’ He pleaded with her to do the same.
No response.
The debris in front of him was too hot to touch. He took a step backwards and vaulted over it, picking his way across the blackened room towards her. He managed, with great difficulty, to lift her off the floor, yanking her up by the arms.
‘Watch out!’ A fireman yelled from behind him.
There was a whooshing sound as a huge piece of the ceiling rushed past Ryan’s ear, smashing into pieces as it hit the ground, right where O’Neil had been lying. She coughed once, her eyes rolling back in her head. He heard himself telling her she’d be fine – he was getting her out of there – his voice cracking as he spoke the words. Tears rolled down his face, partly caused by the smoke, mostly from sorrow. He couldn’t stomach losing another colleague. Not so soon after Jack. Not ever. O’Neil was choking in his arms. She seemed to draw one last breath, a huge gulp of poisonous gas, then she was gone again, her whole body limp and lifeless.
70
Three people lost their lives at Claesson Logistics. Fortunately, Ryan and O’Neil were not among them. The site had been secured and was being treated as a crime scene: murder and arson with intent to endanger life just two more crimes to add to a growing list of offences on the charge sheet.
Ryan sat ashen-faced in the conference room, the Northumbria Police logo at his back, a hastily prepared press release lying on the table before him. Glancing at his watch, he wondered how Eloise was doing. He’d totally lost it yesterday as a paramedic resuscitated her on the ground before she was flown by police helicopter to hospital in a race to save her life. Later, he’d rushed to her side – as she had his a week ago – remaining at the hospital until she was out of surgery and no longer in danger, only leaving when he was sure she was going to make a full recovery. In time, her leg would heal. The rest? Nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t fix, according to the doctor treating her.
Sitting with Ryan was his Chief Constable, in full dress uniform, as well as representatives of the emergency teams: fire, ambulance, air support. Also Northumbria’s HR manager, less switched on than Karin Ullman, the alert member of QiOil staff who’d helped the investigation more than she would ever know.
Her commendation would come later.
Out front, members of the press were squashed like sardines, pens at the ready, in competition to submit their copy before the next deadline. Someone called for order and the conference got underway. Ryan dropped his head as the Chief hailed him a hero, infuriating him by referencing his father’s death on duty, for no other reason than to drive home the risks all policemen and women face every day of their working lives, and make himself look good.
His showboating soundbites were ignored when someone had the effrontery to open the door, interrupting him mid-flow. Heads turned to see who was arriving. Ryan lifted his and smiled as O’Neil was brought in by wheelchair. Behind her, Maguire pushed out his chest, like the real hero of the hour. It was his picture that would appear in every newspaper and on every TV screen for the foreseeable future. Ryan stifled a grin, locking eyes with Eloise, that special something passing between them.
Thank you, she mimed.
Corporate manslaughter charges against AMKL were ongoing. Litigation would run and run, possibly for years yet. A fine of billions was on the cards following huge compensation claims from relatives who’d lost loved ones: Oliver’s wife for sure, as well as the parents, partners and next of kin of the other twenty-five oil workers who’d lost their lives in two avoidable disasters brought about by greed. Thankfully, because of Jack’s obsession with his brother’s death and the bravery and integrity of Norwegian and Russian engineers, a third would be prevented. The very least that would happen was that safety for oil employees would be revisited and tightened up.
Jack’s solicitor, Paul Godfrey, had demanded financial recompense for Hilary and the children, as had lawyers acting for Hilde Freberg in Norway. They were already making progress with claims in the pipeline. Sadly, the situation relating to Vladimir Pirotsky’s wife in Moscow was unclear. The engineer was the subject of a missing-persons file. In Ryan’s mind, there was little doubt that he was dead. Hopefully, one day, his body would be found.
The Norway trip had been so much more than a police investigation. More too than amazing open spaces, pretty houses surrounded by water and lush green forests. It had cemented a relationship between two coppers Ryan felt sure would stand the test of time. Certain that Anders Freberg had been murdered to shut him up, Politioverbetjent Eva Nystrom had vowed to do all she could to prove it. It’s always difficult to establish if someone fell or was pushed, but a close-up CCTV image from Torp airport proved that Hans Claesson was in the country at the time. Besides, Knut Svendsen was still keen to impress Eloise O’Neil.
May the best man win.
Hans Claesson and Michael James Foxton’s Not Guilty pleas were laughable. They had managed to destroy much evidence, but Hilary had picked them out in an ID parade. She’d always said she’d recognize them if she saw them again, and that proved to be the case. Added to the testimony of Brian Platt, Claesson’s DNA from the icehouse and the intelligence-gathering from Russian police who’d raided AMKL-Exploration Inc., there was enough to convict. The life sentences handed down meant little to Ryan; Claesson and Foxton had taken away the best friend he ever had. Nothing could make up for that.
Jack Fenwick was buried with full police honours with a Union Jack draped over his coffin, his old uniform hat on top of a discreet, simple white wreath. Stoical, proud, and close to tears, Hilary held Ryan’s hand at the graveside. Behind them, Grace clasped Newman’s arm, weeping openly. Jack was the son she’d never had, but her life as a spinster was about to come to an end. Newman had finally proposed. On one condition, he told Ryan: that she agreed a move to Scotland’s east coast to live by the sea. Ryan approved. He looked forward to visiting them there.
He glanced along the beach near his home, where a young man was skimming stones on the water. The scene reminded him of the start to that Indian summer. Three days after the fire and explosion at Claesson Logistics, he’d driven O’Neil to his place, her broken ankle still in a cage. As they travelled north, he’d talked about the one unanswered question that had been bothering him: the blanket fibres found in Jack’s car.
He hated loose ends.
Turning into the courtyard behind his tiny cottage, the sight of the vehicle kicked him in the guts, taking his breath away. It was heartbreaking to see it parked there, the tailgate up, Caroline’s guide dog asleep in the rear.
The answer came to him in a flash.
With O’Neil sitting next to him, Ryan tried hard to stem his reaction but it was impossible. His eyes had filled with tears he’d held on to for far too long. It was the moment he finally realized the case was over.
He shut his eyes, feeling the winter sun on his face, O’Neil’s voice pushing its way into his head …
‘So obvious,’ she’d said under her breath. Keeping her eyes fixed on Jack’s car, affording Ryan time to get his shit together, she waited. He got out, walked round the car and opened her door. She wasn’t about to let him get maudlin. ‘So Jack was in the habit of airing his car after taking Caroline and Bob out. Simple really. Anyone passing could’ve deposited those fibres.’ She lifted her good leg out. ‘Call yourself a detective? No wonder Roz went back to Maguire.’
‘Ouch!’ Ryan didn’t dare look at her.
‘Now will you stop going on about how the bloody fibres got there? It’s a compelling explanation. How come you didn’t think of it?’
‘I have no idea.’ Helping her from the car, he narrowed his eyes as he handed over her crutches. ‘Like you’d have believed me if I had.’
‘‘Fess up, DS Ryan.’ She hooked the crutches under her arms. ‘You’re not firing on all cylinders. Admit it. You don�
��t have the know-how.’ She was trying not to laugh. ‘I may have to reconsider that job offer after all.’
‘You giving me the brush-off?’
‘Might be.’
He locked the car. ‘If I’m in the doghouse, don’t bother, I’ll bail.’
‘Don’t you dare!’
She’d stopped hobbling by the time Caroline, Hilary and her two youngest came out of the yard to greet them, Lucy running ahead and leaping into Ryan’s arms. They had tidied up the mess from the burglary and lunch was already in a picnic basket, ready for the off. They walked down the road together.
Opening his eyes, Ryan glanced along the beach, the memory receding. It was time to let go. He’d never forget Jack while he was looking out for his son. They were so alike. As great white waves pounded the shore, Robbie Fenwick looked up and smiled. They continued skimming stones …
Acknowledgements
I’m thrilled to be celebrating my first standalone, The Silent Room. From the outset, my agent Oli Munson (AM Heath) and publisher Wayne Brookes (Pan Macmillan) were passionate about publishing this thriller. Collaborating with them is always a pleasure. Their love of crime fiction is what drives me to raise the bar with every book.
I have many others to thank: an ace editorial team; my wonderful publicist, Philippa McEwan; a talented art department; sales and marketing staff too numerous to mention individually. As always, I’m enormously grateful to my editor, Anne O’Brien, who manages to make it all look so easy.
I’d also like to acknowledge friends and followers on social media and the army of booksellers and readers who have helped and supported me along the way. Your positivity is infectious. It makes the hard yards seem less onerous somehow.
This book is dedicated to two special people. My brother Rob, who shared technical expertise and insight into a world I knew very little about. I can’t tell you what it is. It would be a major spoiler! And Marit, my sister-in-law, whose patience and help with all things Norwegian, linguistically and geographically, brought parts of this book alive for me. Returning to Norway (even in my head) reminded me of why I love the country so much.
