The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  ‘Our place?’ Her eyes sparkled in the moonlight, but not enough to hide her melancholy.

  ‘You OK?’ He found himself staring.

  ‘Never better.’ She was lying.

  He’d touched a nerve.

  They agreed that she’d walk up to Forth Banks, collect the package and rendezvous at ‘their place’ in half an hour. Ryan watched her go, then turned the other way, wondering what on earth had brought about her sadness.

  An hour later, he put the phone down as she entered the flat. Nothing appeared to be bothering her now, though she didn’t say why she’d taken so long and he didn’t pry. She was the one with the questions.

  ‘Any joy with the shoe?’

  ‘It belongs to someone other than the judge,’ Ryan said. ‘Both housekeepers are in agreement that he only ever wore black.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘His Cornish housekeeper, Morwenna Evans, sounded a bit sheepish on the phone. It turns out she gave investigators a description of a coat she thought Trevathan was wearing when he left the area—’

  ‘She was mistaken?’

  He nodded. ‘She found it hanging in the boot room and was frightened to say. Doesn’t matter now he’s been found. I made a note of the discrepancy for future reference.’

  Opening her handbag, O’Neil removed a carton of milk and a small evidence bag containing coffee grounds. She held them up, her expression a combination of guilt and playfulness. ‘I rifled someone’s tea fund. Don’t suppose they’ll miss it. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

  ‘Bit risky for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, I’ve done it before.’

  ‘I meant nicking their stuff.’

  They were both grinning, and then Ryan feigned disapproval. ‘Theft is something I should report to the police, guv. It would be a dereliction of duty not to do so.’

  ‘I’d much rather you helped me drink the evidence.’

  ‘My duplicity will cost you.’

  ‘Will this do?’ She handed over a package containing two individually wrapped DVDs, the ones Ford had been banging on about. She opened her desk drawer and took out the one from Brighton, stacking them one on top of the other. ‘That’s tonight’s entertainment sorted.’ Her eyes fixed on Ryan’s computer screen – frozen on the North Shields crime scene – then shifted to the notepad lying open on his desk. ‘Nice to see you haven’t been wasting your time while I was out. Love the doodles. Very artistic! If that’s supposed to be me, the hair’s all wrong.’

  Ryan checked the pad.

  Next to a load of scribbled questions relating to the case – Voyeur? Photographer? Lured? Motive? – was a sketch of a devil woman complete with tail and trident. Chuckling under his breath, he turned to speak to her. O’Neil had already moved away.

  While she was busy making coffee he marked the DVDs in chronological order and gave the theory she’d put forward in the pub the once-over, even though he was convinced that Spielberg was part of the problem and not someone who’d stumbled upon a crazed killer while stalking him. His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of cupboard doors opening and closing behind him as O’Neil searched for crockery and placed it on the marble counter top.

  A few minutes later, she appeared by his side. ‘You’re washing up,’ she said, handing him a mug. ‘Despite a begging request, our controllers haven’t stretched to a dishwasher.’

  ‘There’s always carry-out, guv.’

  ‘Fine. You’re buying.’

  O’Neil opened the second drawer down, took out a folder and sat down, her boots immediately landing on his desk. Leaning back in her seat, she rested the file on her knee and put her specs on ready for viewing. Ryan suggested they start with Brighton, given that she’d already been there.

  She agreed. ‘Take a look at these first.’

  She passed over the reports relating to that crime scene. It made sense to begin with one that had already been processed and that she’d had sight of physically. She waited while he skimmed through the various documents: some stills of the scene, information on forensic samples – blood, hair, fibres – it was all there. When he’d seen enough, he switched on the tape and let it run, pausing now and then so she could talk him through it.

  ‘The location is a listed building,’ she said. ‘A derelict coastguard lookout Spielberg probably found on the net. The DVD was sent to Sussex Police HQ in Lewes. Hours later, they received a call with instructions where to look, same as ours. Forensics went in to do their thing. Blood was found to be human; so much of it had been spilled, there was little chance the victim could have survived.’

  ‘What do we know about the screwdriver?’

  ‘Heavy duty. Square shank. Flat head. Brand new. Could’ve been purchased specially. You don’t want to hear this, but it’s the kind you can buy in any DIY store. Problem is, these offences are so far apart geographically, it could have been bought anywhere in the UK and taken to the scene. The blood was tested, but there’s no DNA to match with it, no unidentified bodies in the morgue with stab wounds, no hits on the PNC.’

  ‘You’re depressing me.’

  ‘While I was there, I examined Sussex Police incident logs. A fairly prominent gay man had been reported missing by his partner the day after the video was recorded. Tierney, his name was. It was treated as low priority – grown man walks out, no hint of foul play – an everyday occurrence in Brighton, or anywhere else, I should imagine. As far as I know, he’s not yet surfaced. Officers locally are following it up. The timing fits. The DVD came in the very next day.’ She pointed at the screen. ‘Let’s take a look at Kenmore.’

  Ryan took the Kenmore disk from its plastic casing, the original having been retained in evidence and dusted for prints by Police Scotland. It slid effortlessly into a slot in his computer, opened up and began to play. They watched in silence, the sound muted, neither detective making any comment. Like North Shields and Brighton, the scene was bloody with no body visible. It was hard to see what they were looking at. A small space with a curved stone staircase disappearing off to the right, exactly as described in the diagrams and sketches they had already had sight of.

  ‘The lighting is poor on this one,’ O’Neil said.

  ‘That’s the first thing that struck me too.’ Ryan placed his hands together, the tips of his fingers resting on his lips, his thinking pose. ‘At five past six on an October evening there’d be what, half an hour of light left?’

  ‘If that.’

  ‘The dimensions given suggest that it would be harder to illuminate such a tight space. Risky too. In the Scottish countryside it would be like a beacon in the darkness, drawing unwanted attention. The temple is situated on a country walk, a dog-walker’s route, a favourite spot for anglers, poachers and foragers.’

  O’Neil fixed on him. ‘You’ve been there?’

  ‘Years ago.’

  ‘You never said.’

  ‘You never asked. It’s not important until we head up there. I remember that walk. Not the folly, funnily enough. It’s distinctive in the photos, not something I’d have forgotten if I’d seen it.’

  ‘Maybe you were on a different stretch of river.’

  ‘No. I parked in Kenmore and walked from there.’ Ryan paused, trying to remember, but he couldn’t. Dragging his laptop towards him, he typed in www.geograph.org.uk. He entered ‘Maxwell’s Temple’ and hit search. A photo of the temple popped up on screen. It had a grid reference attached: NN7746. He clicked on it. ‘That’s one mystery solved,’ he said. ‘The folly is on the north bank. I was on the south. I know that because I stumbled upon Taymouth Castle by accident.’

  He searched for the castle and turned the laptop to face her.

  ‘Oh God!’ O’Neil said.

  ‘Enchanting, isn’t it? Queen Victoria’s honeymoon choice. It was used as a hospital for Polish troops during the Second World War. By the time I got there it was being turned into a golf complex with luxury apartments you can actually own. They’ll
sell too. I met a group of enthusiastic, well-heeled Yanks, all wanting their slice of Scottish history – and why not? Wish I could afford one. I’ll show you when we go up.’

  ‘Maybe we can stay there,’ O’Neil said.

  ‘Bring your best PJs – it’s posh.’

  ‘I can do posh!’

  They grinned at each other.

  Her mobile rang, killing the moment.

  She took the call.

  After a few seconds, she said: ‘I’m going to have to call you back.’ Dropping her head, avoiding eye contact, she listened for what seemed like a very long time. ‘Yes, yes, understood . . . OK, call you soon.’ She ended the call in a very different mood, her mind firmly on the job. ‘Sorry, Ryan. Any thoughts on how Spielberg managed to get the judge to the folly or the other victims to locations of her choosing?’

  ‘None, but I just had a thought. There’s a pattern developing here. These crime scenes are all waterside locations: River Tay at Kenmore; the Brighton lookout, North Shields Fish Quay. At the very least, we should alert the Port of Tyne authority and River Police to be on their guard. Presumably Brighton coastguard have already been briefed, given the close proximity to the coast?’

  ‘Yes, that was in place before I left.’

  ‘Shall we?’ Ryan held up the remaining DVD, the most recent offence, a location as yet unidentified – and still no call to point them in the right direction. They were shocked by what came next. Unlike the others, the scene was recognizable – a residential property this time – a slight pause in viewpoint forcing them to dwell on the weapon of choice, a long-bladed knife glinting beneath the overhead light. Again, there was no victim in sight.

  ‘She’s been watching too many movies,’ Ryan said.

  ‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’

  Something Ryan had seen prompted him to freeze the image.

  Where there was detail, there was evidence.

  He took his time scanning the screen. An old tea chest doubled as a bedside table, various items on top: a digital radio-alarm clock, a notepad and pen, a landline telephone. Next to the unmade bed was a dining room chair. A dark shirt lay over the back of it. Ryan’s eyes seized on the blue-and-white lanyard that hung beside it, a white, plastic credit-card-sized ID or access key attached.

  ‘Could we be that lucky?’ He zoomed in. ‘Can you make out the writing?’

  Pushing her specs up onto the bridge of her nose, O’Neil sat forward, peering closely at the screen. Because of the angle of the thing and the light reflecting off it, it was impossible to read.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Can you go in further?’

  Ryan’s efforts only served to blur the image. Zooming out again, he moved on, hair pricking the back of his neck and arms. What was on camera was bad enough. It was what he couldn’t see that scared him the most.

  They replayed each disk, made notes independently on each run-through, then played them again, this time with the narrator’s voiceover audible. When they’d finished, O’Neil put down her pen, took off her glasses and threw them on Ryan’s desk.

  ‘Are we any the wiser?’ she asked.

  ‘I think we are.’ He turned to face her. ‘She’s staging the scenes, particularly the last one. She placed that knife where it would catch maximum light, no doubt about it. She certainly knows what buttons to press.’

  ‘Yes, but why?’ O’Neil looked at him. ‘Staging usually occurs when an offender is trying to throw us off or redirect the investigation. She’s doing the opposite. She’s drawing our attention to it.’

  Ryan agreed. ‘It’s like she has a compulsion to record the scene, not as it is, but how she wants it to be, rearranging things with artistic merit in mind. It might not be logical to us. We’re dealing with a fruitcake. It probably makes perfect sense to her. Seriously, her view of the world is through a lens. If she doesn’t like what she sees, she changes it.’

  ‘Isn’t that what we all do?’

  ‘To a lesser extent, yes, but most of us aren’t permitting some scumbag to get away with murder or conspiring with one. I appreciate that my observation doesn’t take us anywhere, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she was an art graduate or professional photographer with a sideline in snuff moviemaking.’

  ‘You think this is sexual?’

  ‘I have no clue what it is yet. It’s odd that they should choose a different setting altogether – and a lot more risky.’

  ‘You think she’s getting more confident?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s a slight tremor in her voice on this one. That could be because her target didn’t come to her – she went to them. She walks up, knocks at the door. Bang. The victim is a goner.’ Ryan angled his head one way and then the other, trying to ease the tension in his neck. Ford wanted answers – in relation to one victim in particular – more than that, he wanted them yesterday. That was unrealistic. There would be no quick fix here. Whoever was taunting them was on a mission and they weren’t about to stop.

  7

  O’Neil disappeared into her bedroom. Seconds later, Ryan heard her muffled voice through the door. She was talking to someone on the landline. He wondered why the secrecy, what had brought about her sudden change of mood. They had agreed to share all intelligence and yet there were obviously things he wasn’t party to, unless of course it was personal, in which case, why didn’t she say so?

  Along with her specs, her mobile was still lying on his desk. His eyes seized on it, his brain toying with the notion of checking the ID of the person who’d interrupted their conversation.

  He glanced at the device again.

  He couldn’t do it.

  Well, maybe a peek.

  Keeping an eye on the door, he snatched it up. Accessing the calls list, he scrutinized the name at the top. Hilary. The display indicated that she’d rung from home.

  Ryan felt terribly guilty.

  Maybe O’Neil had got closer to Jack’s widow than he was aware of. Perhaps taken over from him as the go-to person for advice and friendship. Who could blame her? Ryan had been crap as Jack’s protector. The two women probably shared the same interests. That was a good thing. Something he should be grateful for. Still, O’Neil appeared on edge in the short time she was on the phone.

  Why had she asked him how Hilary was if they were in touch?

  Puzzling over it, he was about to put the mobile down when it rang in his hand. The caller was the controller who’d sent her the text when they were at the crime scene. In O’Neil’s absence, Ryan took the call, a good way to explain, should he ever need to, why his paw prints were all over it.

  ‘Stan, my guv’nor is tied up on the other line. Can I help?’

  ‘You need to take this.’ He kept it brief. ‘It’s her. I’m tracing the call.’

  Ryan was already reaching for his digital recorder. Acting quickly, he switched it on and put the phone on speaker. The line clicked before the call went live. ‘O’Neil’s phone.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ The male voice took her completely by surprise. She’d specifically asked for O’Neil, the Senior Investigating Officer, the one in charge. It angered her to think that she wasn’t being taken seriously. If only he knew that’s what all this was about.

  Why didn’t they listen?

  ‘More to the point,’ Ryan said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Never mind that,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to O’Neil.’

  ‘Tough,’ he said. ‘She has staff to take messages. That’ll be me. Shall we start over? I’d hate to get off on the wrong foot. My name is DS Matthew Ryan, Ryan to my friends. I’m one of the good guys. Somehow I don’t think we’d get along. Now it’s your turn to be nice and share.’

  Having heard her voice on four separate DVDs, Ryan would have known it anywhere. It had been in his head constantly, like a favourite music CD on repeat play, except her song wasn’t one he fancied listening to. It was hard to place her age. Possibly mid thirties. She was educated though. He was sure of it.

&
nbsp; ‘I don’t think you heard me,’ she said.

  Ryan forced a laugh. ‘You don’t get to call the shots here, pet.’

  ‘Listen, arsehole! I’m nobody’s pet, least of all yours. O’Neil is obviously your boss. She’s the one I speak to. Now put her on.’

  ‘Not possible—’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘You’ve been demoted. She has more important cases. And here’s the thing: we’re not interested in crime scenes without bodies. My guv’nor and I like our scenes meaty – literally and figuratively speaking – cases we can get our teeth into. So why don’t you tell me where we can find the other victims and we’ll call it quits.’

  This Ryan character cracked her up. She was torn. Either he was thick or he had guts. He reminded her of her father – of her – a person with strong opinions and no fear in voicing them.

  ‘I’ll do better than that,’ she said.

  ‘Go for it.’

  A beat of time as she left him dangling. She was in control and well he knew it. She sensed the dipstick holding his breath, wondering if she’d abandon the call or stay on the line. Her stopwatch was registering less than three minutes. Perfect timing. ‘I believe you need some sea air, Matthew: 21 High Spencer Street, Whitley Bay.’

  The dialling tone seemed to draw a menacing line under the address. O’Neil emerged from her room just as Ryan was writing it down.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘That, guv, was our new best friend.’

  ‘Did you get it on tape?’

  Ryan held up his recorder, a big grin on his face.

  ‘Great!’ Flexing the fingers of her right hand, O’Neil gestured that he should hand it over. She took the device from him and turned away, listening carefully to the conversation.

  Without sight of her face, Ryan sensed her fury.

  She turned slowly, face set in a scowl, eyes wide.

  She threw the recorder on his desk.

  ‘Delete it!’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  Ryan wavered, confused by her strop. ‘It’s evidence, guv.’

  She waited for him to do it. ‘Don’t you look at me like I’m the one in the wrong here, Ryan. That “evidence” will end up in a courtroom one day. You might have talked to suspects like that in Special Branch. You never do it under my command. Is that clear?’