by Mari Hannah
‘Anything else?’
‘Someone hightailed it out of here in a hurry. Take a look near the door.’
Ryan glanced in the general direction. Pete was no slouch. There were uneven marks in the dust near the entrance, evidence that would suggest someone moving at speed, scuffing their feet as they fled.
The killer, he supposed.
O’Neil’s mobile beeped an incoming text. She turned away to access it. Seconds later, she pocketed the device, eyes trained on the shoe, an avoidance tactic if ever Ryan had seen one.
‘I wonder if she left the shoe there on purpose,’ she said.
Pete looked up, a question in his eyes: she?
O’Neil looked away.
Ryan managed not to react. The content of that message was serious, enough for her to take her eye off the ball. Quick as a flash, he covered for her, his focus back on the CSI. ‘That goes no further, Big Ears. It’s information way above your pay grade.’
‘Understood.’ The eyes behind the mask were smiling. ‘Discretion is my middle name.’
Ryan could see that O’Neil was cursing herself for letting her guard down. He’d spent years in Special Branch, working undercover, living with the knowledge that the smallest slip of the tongue had the potential to cost lives, so a high level of secrecy came as second nature. That wasn’t something she’d had to contend with in Professional Standards.
It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her floundering and he hated to see her that way. From a shaky start – their first encounter had found them on opposing sides of a disciplinary action – she’d grown on him. No, more than that. A strong bond had developed between them, a chemistry that wasn’t easy to define. It intrigued and excited him.
He dropped his voice to a whisper, reassuring her that the crime scene investigator was a man who could be trusted.
Her expression remained troubled.
‘Guv, is there something you’re not telling me?’
‘I’ll explain later.’ O’Neil put her hand on his forearm, preventing him from moving off. ‘Thanks, Ryan.’
He threw her a smile. ‘Don’t mention it.’
‘This scene is much the same as Brighton: bloody but clean. Looks like our offender is forensically aware.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. She doesn’t seem the type to compromise her safety by leaving physical evidence for us to find. On the tape, she was clinical. Flat calm. Not an agitated killer looking over her shoulder. She sounds like a woman on a mission to me.’
‘On the phone too,’ O’Neil said. ‘I can’t get that voice out of my head.’
Ryan could still hear the voice in his own head, but it was vying for attention with thoughts of his new role and responsibilities, the information O’Neil had given him on the way over, her uncharacteristic lapse in concentration a moment ago, and all the while he was trying to process details of the crime scene in front of him and identify any that didn’t match the DVD footage. O’Neil’s voice took him in another direction . . .
‘The time and date on the DVD can’t be relied upon.’ Her observation was spot on; the perpetrator could have tampered with the camera to throw them off the scent. ‘Then again, most of this blood is dry, so it’s possible whatever happened in here did take place on Sunday as the counter suggests.’
Ryan nodded his agreement.
Time and forensics would tell.
Being at the crime scene was like watching the DVD all over again. Blinking as a camera flash went off in the entrance to the lock-up, he surveyed the ceiling, visualizing the footage he’d seen at HQ, forcing the stream of thoughts racing through his mind to slow down so he could focus. There was something odd, something missing. He scanned the lock-up. ‘She must’ve been standing right here when she was filming,’ he said. ‘Give or take a few feet.’
O’Neil agreed. ‘The angle is consistent with the video.’
Fortunately, they were standing on tread plates to preserve evidence and avoid contamination. Ryan locked eyes with her. ‘I’ll say one thing, she’s a dab hand with a camera. There was no discernible wobble on that recording.’
‘She could have used a tripod.’
‘She could.’ He crouched down again to examine the dusty floor. ‘There’s no evidence to suggest that here though.’ He stood up. ‘She must have an accomplice, guv. Even if the victim is female, wouldn’t a woman struggle to shift a dead weight on her own?’
‘Not necessarily. Most coppers, firefighters, and half the nurses I’ve ever met could do it.’ O’Neil swept a strand of red fringe from tired eyes. Under that tough exterior, Ryan sensed anxiety, not that he’d ever tell her that. She looked at him, perplexed. ‘Why move the victim? It would have been a damned sight easier and a lot less risky to leave her here.’
Ryan frowned. ‘The woman in the video said, “They both deserved to die.” Maybe more than one victim’s been moved.’
O’Neil corrected him. ‘What she actually said was, “They both deserved it,” which means we can’t be sure we’re dealing with murder, serious assault or torture.’
‘Either way, we could be looking at two victims.’
‘Not from this scene.’ The voice had come from behind them.
Ryan and O’Neil swung round.
Pete tore away his mask as he moved closer. The man had war wounds, pain and suffering etched permanently on his brow. He’d seen more blood and guts than any individual could reasonably be expected to stomach in one lifetime. He held a hand up in apology.
‘I know nothing,’ he said.
O’Neil relaxed. ‘One blood type is all you have?’
He nodded. ‘If you have reason to believe there’s a second victim, you need to be searching for another crime scene.’ Hoisting his kit bag over his shoulder, he told them he was done, said goodbye and made for the door, his words echoing in their heads as he reached the plastic sheeting placed over the entrance.
‘Hey!’ O’Neil called after him.
He swung round to face her.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Curtis, ma’am. Pete to my friends.’
‘Thanks for the heads-up, Pete.’
Nice touch.
It was one of the traits that had drawn Ryan to Eloise. She made it her business to get to know those whose expert opinions would be delivered in court. It was everyone’s responsibility to preserve the chain of evidence, from crime scenes to the lab, reporting and storage. She didn’t want to end up with a dismissal.
‘You’re very welcome,’ Pete said. ‘Someone will be back for the mobile lighting. We have all the photographs we need.’
Ryan’s eyes flew to the ceiling. There was no overhead light. Rusty wires hung loose where a light had once been fitted. O’Neil locked eyes with him. She knew what he was thinking. This was the missing part of the puzzle he’d been struggling with earlier, quite literally a light-bulb moment.
‘Ma’am?’ Pete pointed to the mobile lights on tripods. ‘You want them left?’
‘There’s no electricity in the building?’
‘Not this century,’ Pete said.
O’Neil didn’t speak until he was out of sight. Her focus shifted from the loose wiring to the battery pack on the floor and then to Ryan. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘The killer must have brought her own.’
‘Or, as you said, she had an accomplice standing by with a very large torch. We need to look at that video again.’ She glanced at the exit. ‘You sure you can vouch for Pete?’
‘Relax, guv. He’s a man of his word. He worked with Special Branch a lot. He’s specialist-trained and vetted.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Trust me.’ Ryan paused, considering. ‘That’s not what’s bothering you though, is it? Are you going to tell me what is?’
‘You want a list?’
‘The woman who sent the DVD is really getting to you, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, you think so? Whatever gave you that idea? W
hoever she is, her game plan is to confuse us, keep us guessing – why else would the victims be removed? She’s calling the shots like some wannabe Spielberg, lining up her fancy camerawork and delivering her lines while we hang around like spare parts, waiting for her next masterpiece. Well, she might just have met her match.’
She’d been smouldering like a lit fuse ever since the North Shields DVD was delivered. Now, watching her fury ignite, Ryan had to suppress a grin. If the woman taunting them thought Eloise O’Neil was going to stand back and play second fiddle while someone else ran the show, she’d seriously miscalculated. His guv’nor had a blueprint of her own.
Game on.
3
‘Drive me to HQ, Ryan. I need to make some calls.’ O’Neil pulled her mobile from her pocket, tapped the Home key, then a number, and lifted the device to her ear. ‘This is Detective Superintendent O’Neil, Northumbria Police. Put me through to Detective Superintendent Munro . . . yes, he’ll know what it’s about.’ She sighed. ‘Please do, the minute he hangs up. Thanks.’
She rang off.
Ryan didn’t recognize the name and she was in no mood to share. As he negotiated the slip road onto the Coast Road, heading for Newcastle, he began to speculate as to whether or not there had been another DVD. Whatever her call was about, it was serious if a Detective Super from another force was involved. He was itching to ask about the text she’d received at the lock-up, but she was making call after call, asking for information that made little sense to him.
This was the fourth in a row . . .
‘Nicholas Ford, yes. I must speak with him.’ She was getting nowhere fast. ‘Yes, you already said that. Has he or has he not viewed the file I sent him this morning? Then go back and tell him it’s urgent. I require his feedback immediately.’
Following her rant about Spielberg, Ryan could feel her frustration at the time suck of having to wait on the line or, as she put it, ‘hang around like a spare part’ yet again – this time for her immediate boss, who Ryan had dubbed the grey man. The Home Office official seemed in no rush to talk to her. The more Ryan thought about that, the more he formed the impression that she was being fobbed off.
‘Time to fess up, Eloise.’
‘About what?’ She didn’t look at him.
‘This is about that text you took at the lock-up, isn’t it?’ She didn’t answer but Ryan wasn’t giving up. ‘Guv, Jack kept his cards close and look where it got him.’
Jack Fenwick was Ryan’s ex-boss. He’d gone it alone on an off-book investigation and it had got him killed. Ryan had sensed he was preoccupied about something but hadn’t wanted to pry.
If he had, Jack might still be alive.
Now O’Neil looked at him.
Ryan held her gaze. She wasn’t easy to read. Without a trace of makeup, her physical attractiveness was evident. A natural redhead, she needed no chemicals to enhance what was already there. It was her personality that interested him the most, her keen intellect and ability to punch above her weight.
‘You’re staring, DS Ryan.’ She always called him that when she was taking the piss.
‘Am I? Sorry.’
‘You have something on your mind?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do. If you knew something I didn’t, you’d tell me, right?’
Nicholas Ford waved away his aide, reiterating the fact that he was incommunicado and therefore offline to anyone, especially Eloise O’Neil. He’d already spent the best part of yesterday afternoon in godforsaken Newcastle upon Tyne – the arse-end of the Empire he had no intention of visiting again – in order to inspect unit premises and properly brief her on Brighton. What a monumental pain in the neck that turned out to be. So much so, he couldn’t face the prospect of round two.
This morning, he’d changed his plans to stay longer, made an excuse and left the area, telling her that he had more pressing business to attend to in the capital, returning to Heathrow on the first available flight. On arrival at the Home Office, he’d left strict instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed, for any reason, and yet O’Neil had already called twice – imperative, apparently. Then, having done some detective work of his own to establish why she was so demanding of his attention, all hell had broken loose.
The last thing he’d bargained for was that her own force would receive a similar DVD relating to a crime scene in North Shields, which he hadn’t got wind of because he was in the air when it came in, too late for him to turn around. Now he was regretting a hasty decision to come south. Had he stayed on in Northumbria, he’d have been able to exert some control over the investigation and O’Neil, whatever way she jumped. And she’d have been in the dark – exactly where he wanted her.
Except that didn’t work out either. Things really took a turn for the worse when O’Neil found out about a linked incident in Scotland on the banks of the River Tay in Kenmore. An urgent call intended for him had gone to her, some idiot in the Northumbria Control Room having texted her the details when he didn’t answer his phone, knowing she’d been involved in the DVD investigation on her patch. Now the bitch was baying for blood.
The conference call had been ongoing for half an hour. Now he’d had time to bone Northumbria Control for passing O’Neil information he didn’t yet want her to have – a minor glitch in the scheme of things – Ford was feeling pretty smug. So what if she knew about the DVD received by Police Scotland and the body they had dragged from the river yesterday? He was the boss. She’d just have to suck it up and move on, much as it frustrated her. And it did frustrate her: she was practically apoplectic, fighting hard to keep her temper in check.
Too bad.
‘Well,’ Ford said. ‘What are your thoughts, Superintendent?’
‘On what, sir?’
He forced himself to suppress a grin. Addressing him as ‘sir’ was hard for her to swallow but protocol demanded that she extend the courtesy in her dealings with him. Operationally she was in command but the absence of rank didn’t mean she could ignore him.
‘The shoe!’ he barked. ‘Are you even listening to me.’
‘I am indeed,’ O’Neil said. ‘The item is being forensically examined as we speak. I hope to have more on it later.’
‘Won’t the blood give us gender?’
‘The victim is female, sir.’
After being her own boss for years, O’Neil was exasperated at having to give Ford houseroom. In all honesty, she begrudged any civilian involvement in a police investigation, especially at managerial level. This was serious shit, not Marks and fucking Spencer.
She’d commandeered the office made available to him at HQ. When he’d told her he was returning to London, she was pleased to see the back of him, but then things had kicked off when the DVD landed in her lap. She’d not given him a second thought until that text arrived. Now she wanted to punch his lights out for briefing her on half a case. That was probably why he’d retreated to the safety of his own workplace; another poor decision.
It was bad enough having Spielberg’s cat-and-mouse games to contend with. Eloise could do without an officious prick like Ford breathing down her neck and making decisions – the wrong ones – on operational matters. A beat of time passed as he digested new developments, his self-satisfied composure beginning to disintegrate. Information was power and she was now firmly in the driving seat. Or so she thought . . . with a face like thunder, no notice or apology, he muted the call and swivelled his chair so that he was facing the other way.
Ford cared less that O’Neil would now have a view of the back of his head as he conferred with his aide. Women who chose career over family were to be avoided at all costs. WPCs, policewomen or whatever they were called nowadays were a particular bête noire of his. He’d come across her type before. At the initial briefing in October she’d shown him little respect. In fact, her attitude at times bordered on hostility. He was in charge of this new shadow squad and she’d do well to remember it.
‘Did you find out who put O’Neil in
charge?’ he demanded to know. His aide, a young man with a bad complexion and floppy hair, sat up, straightening his tie. He was being fast-tracked through the Civil Service and was shadowing Ford, himself a junior minister. It was clear the idiot didn’t have a clue.
‘Well?’ Ford barked. ‘You’ve had weeks to look into this. What the hell are we paying you for?’
‘I’ll find out.’ The aide shot off his chair. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Yes,’ Ford crowed. ‘When you track him or her down, you can tell them from me that Detective Superintendent O’Neil is totally unsuitable. If they argue, tell them she’s chosen a second-rate DS just back from suspension as her professional partner. It beggars belief, it really does.’
It galled him to think that O’Neil had been in post before him. Someone should have done him the courtesy of allowing him to sit in on the selection board. Whoever it was, they had made a big mistake and he wasn’t paying for it if the wheel came off.
O’Neil rubbed at her forehead. What Ford knew about policing she could write on the back of a postage stamp. She ran a tight ship and didn’t see why she had to answer to a man who’d never so much as seen an angry dog. On that subject, whatever was going down at the other end, it was obvious to her that his aide was coming off worse.
Her poker eyes met Ryan’s. He really was the doppelgänger of Henry Cavill, a little older perhaps, deep brown eyes, dark hair with flecks of grey. At her request, he was sitting out of sight. The initial briefing hadn’t gone well. Ryan had only met Ford for the first time yesterday, but he’d taken an instant dislike to him, a feeling that was mutual.
Her attention flashed back to the screen before the agitated aide now facing her realized she had company. The last thing she needed was another slanging match with Ford with a third crime scene to deal with across the Scottish border. So far he hadn’t mentioned it. If he thought that she wouldn’t, he could think again.
She was just waiting for an in.
As if he’d sensed something untoward going on behind his back, he swung his chair round to face her. His mouth was moving but he’d forgotten to switch on his microphone. O’Neil pointed at her right ear and shook her head. The gesture caused his aide to step forward and advise him of the fact that she couldn’t hear a word he was saying. Ford’s jaw bunched. He looked like he might explode. Then he was back online . . . his shouty mouth in full working order.
