The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  ‘That’s not what I said.’ He eyeballed her. ‘It’s quite a leap from your former role, that’s all.’

  ‘I was headhunted, Ryan, same as you.’

  ‘I’m not getting at you, I just like to know where I stand.’

  Much as the idea of being her wing-man thrilled him, his bullshit detector was working overtime. O’Neil should be buzzing and yet since their return from HQ, she’d seemed out of sorts. He figured she was holding out on him and he didn’t like it. She demanded transparency. Well, so did he. But he could see that she was in no mood for his questions.

  He let it drop.

  ‘Ignore me, I reckon I could slum it here for a while.’ He was kidding. The apartment was equipped with everything they could possibly need, professionally and personally – apart from alcohol – including a link to HOLMES, the computer system on which all major investigations were run.

  He might even get to use it officially this time.

  Ryan was peckish, which was unfortunate because neither he nor O’Neil had had the foresight to stock the fridge with even the basic requirements to satisfy his hunger. He suggested they walk along the Quayside to the Pitcher and Piano. Situated on the banks of the Tyne, the pub was three minutes from their smart new base, an ideal spot in which to review the day’s events, decide on a strategy for their case and grab a bite to eat. With any luck it might snap O’Neil out of the mood she was in.

  They ate quickly. Ignoring the buzz of those around them, their conversation taking the form of a mini briefing, several lines of enquiry already obvious for the North Shields scene: the Coke can, the shoe, the axe, the type of video camera used to film the crime scene, whether the same piece of equipment had been used for the previous DVDs.

  Ryan stopped chewing, put his sandwich down, wiping his hands on a serviette. ‘If the details of Trevathan’s trial are being withheld, it’s probably safe to assume that it’s terrorism-related, something that might compromise national security. Which makes our case a lot more complex than we first thought.’

  O’Neil nodded. ‘And thanks to Ford, we’re well and truly at a disadvantage. It’s hard to believe that all the time I was working the Brighton case, he never said a word about Trevathan or the Kenmore DVD, even though it would have given me something to work with. And now I’m supposed to go through him to get to the Chief of Police Scotland?’

  ‘Sod that. You’re not going cap in hand—’

  ‘Don’t fret, Ryan. I went over his head already.’

  ‘Good. What did he say?’

  ‘Price? Nothing. He wasn’t available. He’ll call me this evening but it might be late on.’

  She took out her iPad to check if she’d missed an email confirming a time.

  She hadn’t.

  Ryan watched her open the device’s browser. He wasn’t close enough to read upside down as she typed into the search bar. ‘Can’t Ford compel Police Scotland to tell us about Trevathan’s trial?’

  She peered over the top of her glasses. ‘That’s a matter for the Lord Chief Justice apparently. Ford said he’d give it a go.’

  ‘That’s big of him. Bloody hypocrite. He spent two hours yesterday lecturing us about keeping channels of communication open and maintaining reporting lines – all the while keeping the Kenmore files under lock and key – and yet he doesn’t trust us any further than he can throw us. We cannot work this case without full disclosure, Eloise. It’s impossible.’

  ‘Looks like we’re going to have to for the time being.’ She clicked to open a page.

  ‘What time are we expecting the other DVDs?’

  ‘I have a copy of the Brighton footage back at base. Ford said the Kenmore one would arrive shortly. That was over an hour ago.’

  The door opened. A crocodile of women wearing high heels and little else spilled in, probably a works night out. A Christmas tree hat stood out among tinsel headbands and reindeer antlers as the group staggered loudly to the bar. The blonde bringing up the rear clocked Ryan on her way in and tugged at the dress of the girl in front.

  ‘Hey, I’ve scored. Get the mistletoe oot.’

  A roar of laughter followed as she held a sprig of plastic mistletoe aloft, pursing her lips, inviting a kiss.

  ‘Move along,’ said O’Neil, smiling. ‘He’s spoken for.’

  Spoken for? Ryan could dream.

  He let the girl down gently, a wry smile on his face. ‘Thanks for the offer.’

  ‘Your loss, handsome.’ She winked at O’Neil. ‘Just pulling his leg, pet. Keep hold of him – he’s lush!’

  As the group moved off, the repartee continuing elsewhere, the detectives shared a moment of intense, intoxicating chemistry that caught them both by surprise. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Ryan had felt the connection from the moment they began working together, though it seemed destined to disappear now that he had joined O’Neil officially as part of the new unit. The fact that it was still there stirred him physically.

  He looked away.

  When he turned back, O’Neil was working on her notes.

  He scanned the pub. The last time he was here, it was in the company of Grace Ellis, a retired colleague who’d helped him in his search for Jack Fenwick. Discreet and trustworthy, her special skills would come in handy if O’Neil found it necessary to bring in outside help. Ryan wanted to raise that with her – it was a stretch to think that they would be able to handle an investigation on this scale without it – but he held back. It was too early to throw names into the mix – better to wait it out. He didn’t want her thinking he lacked faith in her ability. He had a lot of time for her. She was now playing with her iPad.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Research.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Maxwell’s Temple.’

  ‘I could’ve saved you the bother. It’s a nineteenth-century folly, also known as The Cross, built as a tribute to some countess or other—’

  ‘And when did you discover that?’

  ‘When you were getting the drinks in.’ He held up his mobile. ‘You’re quick or dead in this game.’

  Dusk had brought on the lights of the Millennium Bridge. People wandered across it to visit the Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art, or to stand and take pictures of the iconic Tyne Bridge to the west. Beyond it, on the south side of the Tyne, the Sage Music Centre was also lit up.

  ‘Damn!’

  Ryan checked the date on his watch.

  ‘Are you bored with my company?’ O’Neil said. ‘Or am I keeping you from something?’

  ‘You will be on Friday – unless I can have the night off?’

  ‘You are joking!’ She dipped her head on one side, peering curiously at him. ‘We’ll be heading north soon, Ryan. We have scene issues to consider at either end of the country. We’ll be working round the clock, camping out at base for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Ryan said casually. ‘Caroline will understand. Maybe Hilary can go in my place.’ Caroline was his twin sister; Hilary, Jack Fenwick’s widow.

  O’Neil pretended not to notice how distressed he was. Ryan idolized Jack and had done everything possible to find him. Since his murder she’d taken the time to call on and support Hilary and the kids. In Ryan’s book that was an action above and beyond a duty call. He palmed his brow, wiping away a thin film of sweat that had settled there.

  Ryan moved to safer ground. ‘Don’t you find it odd that a senior judge of Trevathan’s standing could go missing for such a long period of time and not be missed?’

  ‘Not really, no. Judges usually head off to their second homes over the summer recess. With a big case to prepare for, he might have shifted his leave period back a little.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he call to say he was on his way home?’

  ‘Call who? His housekeeper was away, remember?’

  ‘Yes, of course she was.’ He rolled his eyes at his mistake, but he still wasn’t happy. ‘I’d love to know why she did
n’t raise the alarm when he failed to surface on the date he was expected. He was a top judge, if he missed even a single day in court it would have major repercussions.’

  ‘She’s the hired help, Ryan! She wouldn’t have a clue what he was working on. Reading between the lines of that letter, it sounds like he had previous for changing his holiday plans at a moment’s notice. That’s the way the other half live, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘Maybe. Wouldn’t you think there would have been contact, however minimal, between the housekeepers in Cornwall and Scotland?’

  ‘Ordinarily, yes. But not if his Scottish housekeeper was on holiday.’

  They both went quiet for a moment.

  O’Neil spoke first. ‘Call Mrs Forbes when we get back and ask her about Trevathan’s footwear, please.’

  ‘It’s on the list.’ Ryan supped his pint and replaced it on the beer mat. ‘What I don’t get is the report on the CCTV.’

  ‘In what respect?’

  ‘Police Scotland clocked Trevathan’s car travelling north, established that he was in it, but claim he wasn’t followed. He got as far as Aberfeldy before he fell off the radar—’

  ‘And never made it home. That threw me too.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant but it’s easily explained.’

  ‘Is it?’ O’Neil was curious.

  ‘I reckon he took his dog for a walk after the long drive north. Caroline always does the same thing when we’ve been a distance. As soon as I park up, she gets out, takes Bob for his constitutional before she ever steps inside the house. A guide dog is still a dog like any other. As soon as he gets a sniff of home, Bob gets excited, starts yelping and barking. Trevathan’s dog would sense the end of the journey too. By all accounts, they were joined at the hip. If you’re a dog-lover, it’s a question of priorities: the animal comes first.’

  ‘Suppose.’ O’Neil had never owned a dog. She’d never been in a position to give one the time it deserved. ‘Why not drive all the way home and walk the dog on his estate? It’s big enough.’

  ‘Do you shit in your own yard?’

  O’Neil grinned. ‘Point taken.’

  ‘Maybe they liked the river, the dog wanted out for a wee or the judge needed to stretch his legs. I checked the map. His estate is north of Kenmore. He’d have to cross the bridge to get there. Easier to park at the Bistro where his car was found.’

  ‘Works for me.’ O’Neil picked up her beer. ‘What were you going to say before?’

  ‘If Trevathan was away and returned early, but wasn’t followed, how did the offenders grab him? You just said, Forbes was not at home. No one in Scotland knew he was coming, which sounds like a random attack, so nothing to do with his trial.’

  ‘OK, we’ll bear that in mind going forward. Anything else?’

  ‘Well, for a start, I reckon you’re right about Spielberg. Watching that DVD this morning, it occurred to me that she was choosing her shots for dramatic effect, cutting away here and there to create suspense in an attempt to increase our anxiety. The lock-up was lit by something and yet it has no power. Photographic lighting would be my guess – a torch would give off too much glare. She could have been shooting a horror movie, the way it was staged. All we’re missing is the spine-chilling music—’

  O’Neil’s brow furrowed. ‘Or someone else was directing and she merely did the voiceover.’

  ‘That’s another thing – why do a voiceover?’ Ryan asked. ‘The woman on the tape had no need to speak, so why did she?’

  ‘Good question, bearing in mind her voice is presently the only thing we have to go on. Once we confirm a link to the other two scenes – and we both know that’s a foregone conclusion – an analyst will give us an idea of where she’s from. It might be our only chance of nailing her.’

  ‘You reckon she’s a God-botherer?’

  O’Neil narrowed her eyes. ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘She used the word “evil”. I always think it’s old-fashioned, almost biblical. Like “sinful”. Chance would be a fine thing. Whatever her motivation, I’m guessing it involves some form of abuse. She’s paying her victims back for something in her past. She said as much on the tape, didn’t she?’

  ‘Or someone is,’ O’Neil corrected him.

  ‘You have a theory?’

  ‘Nothing concrete.’ O’Neil bit her lip. ‘I know Ford is an idiot, but something he said to me struck a chord. I can’t remember his exact words. It was about the woman witnessing the offence, knowing who was responsible, not shopping them—’

  ‘And you shot him down. Rightly so, in my opinion.’

  ‘At the time, yes. However, there is another scenario.’

  Ryan waited.

  O’Neil was still formulating a theory. He was happy to be her sounding board. He might not agree with all or part of it, but it was important to let her finish processing her thoughts. That was his plan at any rate. Seconds later, it fell apart when O’Neil began to hypothesize.

  ‘What if she’s not a relative or girlfriend but a stalker turned voyeur, getting her kicks by looking on?’

  ‘At three crime scenes hundreds of miles apart?’ Ryan was shaking his head incredulously.

  ‘You’re wise to be sceptical,’ she said. ‘I know it sounds a bit far-fetched, but bear with me. On the way over here you asked why she hadn’t gone the whole hog and given us the footage of an offence taking place – assuming her motivation was to shock us. But what if she couldn’t?’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Maybe she saw it happen but couldn’t record it, so she returned to the scene with her camera afterwards.’

  ‘Then why is she telling us after the event instead of warning us beforehand? Why not help us put a stop to it?’

  ‘Because she finds it fascinating.’ O’Neil paused, allowing him time to reflect. ‘Ryan, think about the way she put that tape together. Like a movie scene, you said. Like shooting it was something important to her, something she must get right—’

  ‘She said the victims deserved it. How would she know that if she had nothing to do with it?’

  ‘I don’t have all the answers. I’m putting forward suggestions. Stalkers are obsessive. They monitor their prey. Idolize them. Go to great lengths to track them down. Follow them wherever they go. Wouldn’t a person like that be capable of justifying anything, even murder?’

  ‘I’m not saying that there’s no stalking going on. Just that they’re in it together. If it’s not revenge, it’s a game, a thrill thing—’

  ‘Exactly my point! Remember Wearside Jack, the Ripper hoaxer? He played that game. He was so turned on by murder he wanted to get involved. He taunted the police with letters and an audiotape – “I’m Jack, catch me if you can” – or words to that effect. His message was also sent to an assistant chief, as I recall. He had no connection whatsoever with Sutcliffe, which is what made finding him so very difficult. Twenty-five years it took. Twenty-five! That would see you and I well into retirement.’

  ‘I see where you’re coming from, but I still think she’s up to her neck in a partnership. Gut feeling? It’s a bloke and he’s the killer—’

  O’Neil looked at him. ‘So what does that make her?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ That answer would keep them both awake tonight.

  6

  They left the pub and fought their way through a fog of smokers sitting outside. Girls hung about in ankle-breaking eight-inch killer heels and less clothing than was sensible on a dank December night. They were all tipsy, much like the blonde Ryan and O’Neil had encountered inside. Blokes, well dressed and toned, watched the girls; both genders on the prowl like peacocks on parade.

  Tucking her hair into her coat, O’Neil pulled up her collar. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a night on the razz.’

  The comment surprised Ryan.

  ‘What?’ she said. ‘You think I don’t like to party?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Your face did it for you.’

&n
bsp; Ryan knew nothing of her private life . . . yet. He hoped that might change the longer they worked together. Hoping there would be an opportunity for time off at some point, he was about to offer to take her to dinner when her mobile rang, causing him to hold off.

  O’Neil stopped walking, fumbling her phone from her bag. Ryan glanced at the imposing Crown Court immediately across the road. On the opposite side of the junction, festive lights were hung around the Eye On The Tyne public house. All the bars and restaurants along the waterfront were gearing up for Christmas. When he glanced at his guv’nor, her glum expression gave away the caller’s ID. He half-expected her to hurl the device over her shoulder into the inky river behind them. Instead, she moved closer so he could listen in.

  She smelt good.

  She lifted the phone to her ear. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Ford yelled. ‘I’ve been trying to raise you.’

  ‘I’ve been briefing Detective Sergeant Ryan.’ O’Neil rolled her eyes. ‘There’s a lot to do.’

  ‘There’s even more now!’ he barked. ‘There’s another video at HQ.’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation already.’

  ‘There are two. The first is Kenmore, the second is local to you.’

  O’Neil and Ryan exchanged a worried look.

  ‘Do you people never check the force-wide incident log?’

  ‘Frequently,’ O’Neil said. ‘But it wouldn’t do much good if this is what you’re suggesting: a DVD from our patch we’ve not yet seen, potentially part of Operation Shadow. Whoever received it obviously had the good sense not to share it.’

  ‘Pick it up, view it and let me know what gives.’ The dialling tone signalled the end of the call.

  The grey man was well out of order, although his rudeness hardly registered with O’Neil. She was more relieved than riled, pleased to be rid of him, if the truth were known. In her former job, she’d dealt with dickheads like him every day.

  ‘Did you get all that?’ she asked.

  Ryan nodded. ‘You want to view it at HQ or at our place?’