by Mari Hannah
‘Is that confirmed?’ he asked. ‘The victim is female?’
‘I wouldn’t have told you if it wasn’t.’
‘Then the shoe must belong to the perpetrator. Maybe he was disturbed and made a run for it, thinking he’d get caught—’
‘Not necessarily,’ O’Neil said.
His face was a deep shade of red. ‘How so?’
‘There’s no evidence to support that view.’
‘Then find some!’
Ryan tuned out the grey man to concentrate on O’Neil. After visiting the North Shields lock-up, she’d used the female locker room to freshen up at HQ, keen to get in touch with Ford at the earliest opportunity and give him a piece of her mind. Minutes later she emerged looking remarkably well-groomed, all things considered, and buzzing with energy. Ryan could see two tiny computer screens reflected in the lenses of her rimless specs. Her eyes were like pools of calm water. Such composure. She was seething underneath.
‘Maybe the woman witnessed the offence and knows who is responsible but doesn’t want to turn them in,’ Ford said. ‘Has it occurred to you that she might be an unwilling participant – a mother, sister, girlfriend – now in grave danger or dead? It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that she was forced to record that message, is it?’
‘You can’t believe that. The subtext of her message was clear. Surely you picked up on it?’ He clearly hadn’t but O’Neil stuck to her line of reasoning and didn’t wait for a response. ‘Not only was she justifying her actions, she was enjoying the drama. If not the main player, my gut feeling is she’s an equal partner, someone with an axe to grind.’
‘This is no laughing matter, O’Neil.’
‘I agree. My apologies. An unfortunate choice of words. My point is this. If the woman were being coerced, we’d have heard it in her voice. If I may be so bold, women are just as capable of serious assault and homicide as men, given the right stimulus.’
‘Which is?’
‘Yet to be determined. There’s every possibility that she may be working in tandem with someone else—’
‘Finally, we’re making headway.’
He had no bloody idea. ‘No, sir, we’re not. The possibilities so early in the enquiry are vast. I deal in facts, not speculation.’
Ford pushed his chair away from his desk, his piercing eyes looking right through her. O’Neil was suddenly wary. One minute he was on the back foot, the next he’d returned to his arrogant self.
There was a long pause. Unsure whether or not Ford had cut the call, Ryan remained silent in the background. O’Neil took a sip of water from the bottle she’d grabbed on the way in, cleared her throat and waited. A ghostly white reflection from the computer screen lit up her face, highlighting every contour, every blemish, every wisp of hair. But it was her grim expression that worried him. Whatever game Ford was playing, it was giving her cause for concern.
O’Neil ended the impasse. ‘In my opinion, there was an undertone of arrogance in the woman’s voice, an ego in play. She’s not acting on impulse or under the thumb of her accomplice. She was cold and calculating. A person I suspect may be a tad unhinged.’ She took a breather, toying with a stray hair that had escaped the pin holding it up.
A sigh . . .
She’d come to the end of her patience. ‘Why was I not told that a DVD had been received by Police Scotland on the eighth of October?’
‘Aah, you’ve been talking to Detective Superintendent Munro—’
‘Never mind who I’ve been talking to. That DVD was filmed on a Sunday and reached Munro on a Tuesday, identical scenario to Brighton and now North Shields. You had victim DNA and yet you thought it was a good idea not to tell me about it? I demand an explanation.’
‘At that point we had no body.’
‘And yesterday you did!’ O’Neil was glaring at him. ‘When I accepted this job I made it quite clear that I would do so only if I was given free rein. If you want to run the enquiry yourself, be my guest. Alternatively, if you’ll allow me to get on, I will feed developments to you as and when I have anything of significance to report. I want full disclosure, on all three incidents, and it had better be waiting for me when I get back to base. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’
Cutting the call, she blew out her cheeks.
Ryan gave her a round of applause.
‘I knew you had balls,’ he said. ‘Not that you were suicidal.’
‘That’s not remotely funny.’ O’Neil was expressionless.
Ryan was taken aback. He’d touched a nerve, stepped in something he didn’t understand. He hoped he hadn’t upset her. That was never his intention. ‘Isn’t it time you told me what’s going on? Who is Munro, and what the hell was in that text?’
‘A body was found floating in the Tay yesterday. Police Scotland, Superintendent Munro, was on the blower to Control trying to contact Ford. When they couldn’t get hold of him they gave me the heads up, unaware that I (we) weren’t in the loop.’ Taking her phone from her pocket, O’Neil tapped on the text and held the device out to him. It had come from a name he recognized immediately, a senior staff member in the Control Room. If nothing else, it was succinct: HQ, quick as you can. ID confirmed on Kenmore victim – Operation Shadow. Ryan needed no further explanation. It was the code name assigned to their case.
4
Their top-floor office was accessed via a private lift and secured with a heavy iron door. As protected as Fort Knox, it was far enough from HQ to operate without interference, close enough to call in favours without undue delay. Ryan punched in the code and stood aside as O’Neil entered, his mind still troubled by the revelation of a Scottish connection.
She went straight to her computer. Using her ID, she logged on. Now the cat was out of the bag, Ford had no choice but to cooperate. He’d emailed documents via secure download. She pressed for two copies, passing one printout to Ryan, and sat down to read the other.
His eyes seized on the classification:
OFFICIAL-SENSITIVE
MEMORANDUM FOR: Secretary of State for Scotland
FROM: Lord President of the Court of Session, Judiciary of Scotland
DATE: Monday, 14 October 2013
Dear Sir
It is with great sadness that I report to you the disappearance of The Lord Justice Clerk, my deputy, Leonard Maxwell, Lord Trevathan. He was listed to preside over a high-profile trial, due to start this morning. He failed to appear and all attempts to raise him have failed.
In late summer, His Lordship organized a prolonged period of leave in the West Country. His housekeeper confirms that he arrived in Cornwall on 20 August, as planned, and was due to depart 12 October. However, he cut short his leave in order to retrieve a briefcase that he had inadvertently left behind; apparently it contained important papers that he needed in order to prepare for the trial. He returned to Scotland on Sunday, 6 October. Sadly, he never arrived at his residence.
Having discussed this matter with the Chief Constable of Police Scotland, I have been apprised of certain details that lead me to fear the worst. It seems that on Tuesday, 8 October 2013, Divisional Command in Tayside received a video recording of a possible crime scene. A subsequent telephone call led officers to Maxwell’s Temple (Kenmore) on the banks of the River Tay. Scene of Crime Officers attended. Blood was found. No body recovered. Utilizing all resources at their disposal, in the absence of a missing persons report or DNA match, detectives were unable to progress the matter further. The video lasted only two minutes. According to the digital time-stamp, it was recorded 6:05–6:07 p.m. on Sunday, 6 October 2013.
I pray that I am wrong to link the sudden disappearance of Lord Trevathan to the crime scene at Maxwell’s Temple, but the timing and the coincidence of the temple bearing his family’s name are of grave concern. I firmly believe that His Lordship has come to harm.
In light of this, I request a special operations unit to examine any further messages, intercept those responsible and facilitate the
recovery of the victim, dead or alive. Press blackout and Level 1 vetting of such personnel is essential.
Your loyal servant,
Gordon McEwan
OFFICIAL-SENSITIVE
‘Jesus!’ Ryan didn’t get beyond the first page. He ran a hand through his hair, scratched his head, eyes on O’Neil. ‘I’d love to think Trevathan either flipped or pissed off with a call girl, but somehow I don’t think that’s the case.’ He whistled. ‘It don’t come any more high-profile than this.’
‘The victim or the content?’
‘Both.’ He tapped the letter. ‘So McEwan requests a special ops unit on the fourteenth of October. Wasn’t that about the time you got the call offering you this job?’
‘It was indeed.’ She looked like she was ready to blow a gasket.
‘So the unit is set up, they take us on, but then someone decides to withhold intelligence from the very people they appoint to investigate? Why? It makes no sense—’
‘Unless there’s another unit like ours operating in Scotland. They’re a separate entity altogether.’
‘Yeah, but they’re exceptionally cooperative. I can’t see them refusing to hand it over. If that were the case, wouldn’t Ford have said so, if only to pass the buck? It doesn’t hold true anyway, not if they’re sharing this with us now. No, the grey man is the sticking point, not them, Eloise.’ Ryan stuck his tongue in his cheek, mentally joining the dots. ‘The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that this has MI5 or even 6 written all over it. With such a high-profile victim they would get the call initially. They go in, get nowhere. Then the Brighton DVD arrives and they still can’t make any headway. By this time the case is getting too hot to handle, so they dump it on you and me. If we succeed where they failed, Ford will be stuck with us. If we screw up because we only have part of the picture, it’s curtains for us and he gets to pick himself a new team. Job done.’
‘That’s not an ending I can live with, Ryan.’
‘Nor me. Let’s show the bastard what for.’
O’Neil got up and walked away. He watched her go into the kitchen and fill the kettle, then turned his attention back to the letter. There was a clatter as a heavy mug dropped out of her hand, smashed off the kitchen bench and onto the floor.
She swore under her breath.
When Ryan looked up she was on all fours picking up the fragments. ‘You OK?’
She nodded, her back to him, shoulders tense. Ryan went back to the letter. She had two mugs of steaming liquid in her hands when she returned. He took one from her, failing to mention that he needed something stronger than a coffee hit. If he was reading her right, so did she.
‘What do we know about the trial Trevathan was working on?’
‘Nothing.’ She sat down. ‘Munro said his hands were tied in that respect.’
‘Let me guess. It’s not relevant to our enquiry.’
‘Right on the money.’
‘So we’re supposed to investigate blindfold?’
‘Drop it, Ryan.’
He couldn’t. ‘Whatever happened to transparency? We’re going to need that information—’
‘And we’ll get it . . . somehow.’
He climbed down, mulling over the problem. This was big – this was very big – and he was beginning to understand why O’Neil was under so much pressure. His silence didn’t last. ‘We need to get hold of that information. I can’t work in the dark, Eloise.’
‘It’s never stopped you before.’
She was right, it hadn’t, and it wouldn’t now. Ryan had pulled a few strokes in the past. Stuff he wasn’t proud of. Things he’d go to his grave without sharing. Accessing the force’s HOLMES database via the back door was one example. It would end his career if it ever got out. O’Neil had discovered his use of an old warrant card to gain unauthorized entry while he was officially suspended. Working in Professional Standards at the time, she could have – should have – busted him. She’d made an exception. That was all the motivation he needed to repay her with a positive result.
One thing was clear. If they put a foot wrong, this investigation could see them both back in uniform. Ryan took a sip of coffee, meeting her gaze over the rim of his cup. She pointed to the papers in his hand, inviting him to read on. He picked up the next sheet: same classification, different author – equally prominent.
OFFICIAL-SENSITIVE
MEMORANDUM FOR: Secretary of State for Scotland
FROM: Chief Constable – Police Scotland
DATE: Friday, 18 October 2013
Dear Sir
Acting on information received from the Lord President of the Court of Session, detectives entered the home of his deputy, The Lord Justice Clerk, Leonard Maxwell, Lord Trevathan. The property was locked and secure. There were no signs of a break-in and no evidence to suggest that a struggle had taken place inside.
The Judge’s residence had been made ready for His Lordship’s return by his housekeeper, Mrs Margaret Forbes, who lives on his estate in a cottage in the grounds. She was out when officers arrived, but returned soon after.
Mrs Forbes was away on holiday from 4–11 October. She was therefore unaware that His Lordship had left Cornwall early. She was expecting him to return on the evening of the twelfth and had prepared a light supper for him as instructed. When he failed to materialize she assumed that either he’d decided to break his journey at some point along the way, or that his upcoming trial had been delayed and he’d simply extended his leave for a few days without telling her. This had happened before. She thought nothing of it and didn’t raise the alarm.
Scene of crime officers collected DNA for comparison with blood taken from Maxwell’s Temple. The samples were processed in an expeditious manner and Forensic Services have confirmed that the blood was His Lordship’s.
House-to-house enquiries were immediately initiated and POLSA search teams scoured the area. Search parameters included parts of the Mains of Taymouth country estate and all areas bordering the river. Lord Trevathan’s Volvo estate was recovered from The Courtyard Brasserie & Bar car park on the A827 road leading into Kenmore, proof that he made it back to Scotland.
His Lordship is well known in the area. I am led to believe that he often parked at The Courtyard for convenience when taking his dog for a walk. This is a busy car park at any time of year, but no one noticed the vehicle tucked away at the rear.
Extensive enquiries have so far failed to locate His Lordship or his dog. According to the clerk at his chambers, the two are inseparable, information that has been corroborated by the Lord President himself.
I will keep you updated as and when there are further developments. Please be assured that our investigations are ongoing.
Yours sincerely,
James Price
Chief Constable
OFFICIAL-SENSITIVE
Attached to the back of the report were stills of the Kenmore crime scene and a comprehensive account of the Police Scotland investigation. From what Ryan could see, they had followed protocol and, on the face on it, done a thorough job.
Ryan asked: ‘Did Ford send the DVD footage?’ O’Neil shook her head, a black look Ryan knew wasn’t meant for him. ‘Take no notice, Eloise. He’s making us sweat.’
‘He’s making me puke.’
‘Either way, he’s picked the wrong fight.’
O’Neil shot him her best smile.
Ryan returned to the crime scene photos. The amount of blood at the scene brought to mind the North Shields lock-up. Lifting his head, he said, ‘I wonder what kind of shoes His Lordship wears.’
5
They spent the rest of the afternoon poring over the Kenmore report, drawing up a list of actions, familiarizing themselves with the first offence chronologically, trying not to dwell on, or even admit, that they had been blindsided by a Whitehall bureaucrat hell-bent on derailing their investigation. O’Neil quizzed Munro. Voice-recognition experts had already confirmed a link between the Kenmore and Brighton DVDs. Th
ey bore the same woman’s voice. It was only a matter of time before North Shields was added to that list.
They could bet on it.
They had one body to examine: Lord Trevathan. On top of that, they had three crime scenes and no clue as to the identity of other victims, but now they were in possession of the whole picture, rather than a partial, and as lead investigators for a series of offences, five hundred miles apart, the Northumbria detectives were hoping to make progress. The only downside was not knowing the nature of the trial the Scottish judge was due to hear in Edinburgh – a priority for them now.
Ryan glanced at O’Neil. The increasing gravity of the case appeared to be getting to her. She was nowhere near as cool as the mint green shirt she was wearing. A contrasting sweater lay draped across her lap.
Drawing his eyes away, Ryan scanned the top-floor apartment. It was brand spanking new, a residential conversion, rather than a traditional office. Unusual because, for all intents and purposes, it was someone’s home, not an elite unit’s place of work. The first time they walked in there to try it for size he knew that his career move was a good one. It had been hard to go back to the open-plan office at HQ occupied by Special Branch and work his notice.
‘What’s up?’ Eloise was staring at him intently.
He waved a hand, indicating their surroundings.
‘This don’t come cheap,’ he said.
‘We got lucky.’
‘That’s crap and you know it.’ His eyes were smiling. ‘You got friends in high places I don’t know about?’
‘Hardly!’ She frowned. ‘Were you dozing off when I spoke to Ford?’
He threw down a challenge. ‘I was just wondering . . . why you? Why here?’
‘Why me?’ She bristled. ‘You don’t think I’m up to the job? Join the queue. The grey man obviously agrees with you.’
