by Mari Hannah
‘Now we have Trevathan’s body, do we get to find out what case he was about to try?’
‘In a word, no.’
‘Why not?’
‘Delicate material. Price referred me on and I can’t seem to get through to the Lord President—’
‘He must have a clerk—’
‘I meant emotionally, not physically. Transparency is crucial to our investigation but not if it undermines a case of greater magnitude. It’s their default position, Ryan. You know how this works. As ridiculous as it sounds, they’re not sharing. I tried telling them we’re not the enemy. It made no difference. Don’t concern yourself. I’m not about to let their lack of openness defeat us.’
They lapsed into funereal silence, caught up in thoughts of terrorism and a well-established tradition of secrecy from above. Working for Special Branch, Ryan was used to the Home Office putting the shutters up, remaining tight-lipped on matters to do with national security. This governmental conspiracy to keep them in the dark was ludicrous and unnecessary when they were on the same side.
Although he loved working with O’Neil, he wished his retired ex-colleague Grace Ellis was along for the ride. He’d like her take on the case; Newman’s too, for that matter. Frank Newman was her husband, formerly MI5. If anyone could find out what the judge’s trial was about, it would be him. They would both be green with envy if they knew what Ryan was working on.
O’Neil’s hand covered a wide yawn. As she changed pedals to apply the brake she appeared to wince a little. Ryan suspected that her leg was playing her up. She’d been caught up in an explosion at the end of their last case and been lucky to get away with nothing worse than a broken ankle.
‘You want me to drive?’ he offered.
‘Please. I’ll pull over.’
‘You missing Svendsen?’
She roared with laughter.
Their last outing had taken them to Norway, where they’d been chauffeured around by a detective called Knut Svendsen. He’d taken a shine to O’Neil, acting like a lovesick teenager whenever he was around her. Ryan had ribbed him mercilessly over it. Svendsen wasn’t put off – quite the opposite – the more Ryan made fun of him, the more O’Neil refused to play ball, the better he liked it. After the morning they’d put in, it was great to see her laugh.
‘Do you ever hear from him?’
She glanced sideways. ‘No! Why would I? I’m not in the habit of giving out my number to strange men.’
‘Lack of information has never stopped any detective I’ve ever known . . . except maybe Maguire. That waste of space couldn’t find a hooker in a brothel.’ He was referring to her former bagman. ‘Not that I should, y’know, mention you in the same sentence as a hooker.’
O’Neil chuckled. ‘Stop digging that hole, Ryan. Now I’ve got you, Maguire doesn’t seem so bad.’
Ryan put a hand over his heart. ‘I’m crushed, guv.’ And he was.
11
A couple of miles past Berwick-upon-Tweed, O’Neil indicated left and pulled into a lay-by. They got out to stretch their legs, the North Sea shimmering in the distance, the sun drawing a sparkly line across the surface. Ryan leaned against the car, feet and arms crossed, staring out to sea. Living within sight of water along the north Northumberland coast, he did his best thinking by the shoreline.
O’Neil turned to face him. ‘I can see your mind working overtime,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’
‘I was wondering about victim association.’
‘Between Trevathan and Fraser?’
‘If there is any, it’s passed me by. You?’
‘Same. We’d better hope there is. If these are random killings, we’re in trouble.’
‘There are no obvious connections I can see—’
‘Yeah, well I’m a firm believer in three degrees of separation, Ryan. You never know what we’ll turn up when we cross-reference their backgrounds. Or, better still, when we find another victim.’ With that depressing state of affairs occupying their thoughts, they got in the car and drove on.
As they crossed the Forth Road Bridge, Ryan glanced at his watch. ‘Mind if I check in with Caroline? She has a big case on today: Teesside-based drugs ring – some heavy players too, not some Mickey Mouse firm. They’re international and sophisticated, ten of them in the dock.’
O’Neil was impressed. ‘Sounds like they’re going down.’
‘If my twin has anything to do with it, they definitely are. Open and shut, she said. Caught in possession of cocaine and amphetamine with a street value of three million. Drugs squad have been carrying out surveillance for the best part of a year. Impossible to assess the true value of the drugs sold. At a rough estimate, they’re responsible for smuggling in the region of thirty-eight million pounds’ worth into the UK over the past few years.’
‘You must be so proud of her.’
‘To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t keen on her going into criminal law – any more than she wanted me to join the police.’
‘Why? Nothing seems to faze her.’
Ryan shrugged. ‘Over-protective, I guess.’
‘She’s making a real name for herself with the CPS. You should be celebrating.’
‘I am.’ Ryan checked his watch, keen to make that call. ‘I wasn’t early enough to wish her luck this morning. The court will have adjourned for lunch now. Do you mind?’
‘Not at all. It’s sweet of you to consider her.’
‘She wants me to drop the daily calls. Keeps telling me she’s a grown-up.’ Ryan pressed 1 on speed-dial: his twin’s personal number went straight to voicemail.
‘Hi, it’s Caroline. Leave a message. I’ll call you back.’
Exasperated, Ryan glanced at O’Neil. ‘I’ll try her work number.’
‘She’ll be fine, Ryan. It’s natural for you to feel responsible for her.’
‘Even though she’d rather I didn’t?’
‘Even then.’
Caroline had been the centre of Ryan’s universe since they were kids, even more so since their mother’s death. He’d called her daily when he could steal away from work, if only for a brief conversation. If he didn’t care for her, who would?
‘Does it scare you, her working a case like that?’ O’Neil asked.
‘Not today.’ Nerves tugged at Ryan’s gut when his sister failed to pick up. ‘She’s surrounded by a firearms team. They’re taking no chances.’
Ryan didn’t tell O’Neil that he’d almost declined his new job because it would take him away from home, removing a level of support for his twin, or that Caroline had insisted that he grab the opportunity and run with it. O’Neil admired his sister. She was impressed by her ability to study, to work, to have a normal life in spite of her blindness, if a little fearful that her disability left her exposed and vulnerable. Although he’d never voice it publicly, Ryan shared that concern.
If she were under attack, she’d never see it coming.
The ringing tone terminated, a chirpy message kicking in. ‘You’ve reached the voicemail of Caroline Ryan. Sorry, I can’t get to the phone right now. If you leave a number I’ll call you.’
A beep signalled the arrival of an incoming call.
Ryan delivered his message in an upbeat tone to mask his anxiety. Caroline wanted him to concentrate on his job, not hers. ‘Hi, it’s me checking in. I have a call waiting. Hope it’s going well. Ring you later.’ He rang off, accepting the other call. By bizarre coincidence, it was Grace Ellis who came on the line. He was immediately suspicious. And so, it seemed, was O’Neil.
‘Grace! I was just thinking about you. How’s married life?’
‘Oh y’know, we’re aiming for a year minimum,’ she said. ‘Two if we’re really lucky. Thought I’d ring and see what my protégé is up to.’
What had she heard?
‘Oh, y’know,’ Ryan mimicked her. ‘Moseying along as usual.’
‘You back with Roz yet?’
‘No, I’m done with Roz, as well you know.’ Ryan fel
t his cheeks warm up. With the phone on speaker, O’Neil was all ears. That said, his past love life was no one’s business but his own. He tried to laugh it off before Grace got going. ‘Actually, I’m done with women. Period. I’m now a confirmed bachelor, destined to live alone – unless you decide to give Newman the elbow, then I’m all yours.’
O’Neil was smiling.
‘I should be so lucky,’ Grace said. ‘How’s O’Neil?’
Ryan’s heart nearly stopped. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Shootin’ the breeze is all.’
The Americanism jarred with Ryan. Then he remembered where she’d been. ‘Are you still Stateside?’
‘Got back last week.’
‘How was it?’
‘The best, I love New York Siddy.’
‘That is the most pathetic US accent I ever heard.’
She giggled. ‘My talents lie elsewhere. Where are you?’
‘Heading north.’
‘Over the border? Got time to pop in?’
‘Not this trip – much as I’d love to. Soon though, I promise.’
‘So how is O’Neil?’
Ryan could feel his boss’s interest in the conversation growing. ‘As it happens, she’s sitting next to me.’ That was code for Grace to get off the line.
She didn’t. ‘How come?’
‘We’re working on something.’
‘In Professional Standards?’ she huffed. ‘Have you lost your mind?’
‘I’ve moved on,’ O’Neil interrupted.
‘Still listening at keyholes, eh?’
‘Always.’ O’Neil played it cool. ‘Especially yours, Grace. Retirement doesn’t mean you’re immune from a knock on the door from my old team. It can happen day or night, without warning, when you’re least expecting it. You be sure to watch your back, won’t you?’
‘I can sleep nights,’ Grace said. ‘Shame the same can’t be—’
‘How’s Newman?’ Ryan cut her off before she said something they might both regret. He still had a mind to use her, to use them both, just as soon as he had a chance to discuss staffing with O’Neil. It was obvious to him that this case required more than a core team of two.
‘Frank is fine,’ Grace said. ‘We’ve been sailing and your name came up – both your names, as a matter of fact. You should join us, next trip. We’re always looking for crew so we can sit back and enjoy the retirement view. Heading home now to put our feet up. You two keep up the good work. Your contribution to our pension pot is very much appreciated.’ She cut the line, sending Ryan and O’Neil into fits of laughter. Grace Ellis was like a breath of sea air.
12
In view of the likelihood of criminal proceedings, the Procurator Fiscal had been notified of Lord Trevathan’s death the minute his body was found floating in the Tay. He’d authorized the immediate attendance of a forensic pathologist. The corpse had since been transported to a morgue in Perth. Not far short of their destination, O’Neil instructed him to ignore the satnav and stay on the M90/A9. Cancelling his indicator, he pulled out to overtake the car in front, the occupants of which were having a heated domestic.
‘That guy has a serious case of road rage,’ she said. ‘He’s going to kill them both.’
‘Guv?’ Ryan pointed at the slip road.
‘No,’ she said.
The A93 intersection sailed by.
‘Where are we going?’ Ryan asked.
‘We’re bypassing the morgue. I know Trevathan’s home is forty miles further on, but I’m more interested in his missing briefcase than watching him suffer the final indignity of being dissected and gawped at by all and sundry after his death. Pathologists will be in possession of forensics. They’ll have been made aware that they’re dealing with a murder case before they even open him up. We’ll get their deliberations soon enough.’
‘You sure? Given Trevathan’s status, I hardly think they’ll hang around.’
‘Even so, it’ll take hours to process him. We’ll be there and back before they’re done.’
Ryan was also dying to get his hands on that briefcase. Dropping a gear, he took a bend at speed, accelerating out of it. O’Neil went quiet all of a sudden, seemingly no longer in a mood to talk. When he glanced at her, her whole body seemed to shudder involuntarily.
‘You OK, guv?’
‘I hate post-mortems at the best of times – more so when a victim has been immersed in water for months. There’s nothing quite like the putrid stench of decomposing flesh to put you off your lunch. Let’s stop and eat before our noses get a whiff, eh? I’m starving.’
‘Yeah, let’s,’ Ryan said. ‘No point spoiling a whole day.’
She glanced at him and then looked away, concentrating on the twisty road, the fields of green flashing by as they sped towards their destination. The drama of the landscape increased the further north they got. ‘I’m sorry to be such a wimp. I bet this never happened when you were working with Jack.’
‘Don’t be daft. We’re all affected by that stuff.’
Ryan wasn’t keen on medical examinations either, but they came with the territory, the police force demanding more than officers were capable of sometimes. The last twenty-four hours had been particularly taxing: listening to Spielberg’s chilling narration; attending that bloody lock-up; witnessing the puncture wounds on James Fraser’s body; telling his mother that he’d been murdered by persons unknown without being able to offer an explanation as to why. A normal day at the office, but Ryan was beginning to feel punchy.
‘I should’ve thanked you,’ he said.
O’Neil glanced at him. ‘For what?’
‘Delivering the bad news to Mrs Fraser.’
‘Now you’re being daft. It was the least I could do. I know . . .’ She paused, trying to find the words. ‘I just know.’
Ryan was kicking himself. His reaction in Fraser’s bedroom hadn’t passed her by. He felt guilty now. It was rare that he let his guard down. But there were times when emotion took over, occasions when his professional and personal lives clashed in the worst way possible, when he was powerless to prevent a collision, even when he saw it coming.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ O’Neil said. ‘You have personal reasons to be affected by that stuff, Ryan. You need—’
‘I need to get a grip, is what I need. I can’t afford to show my bleeding heart every time I face a stabbing.’ He was about to thank her, to tell her he’d get over it and that it wouldn’t happen again, when she beat him to the draw.
‘If I doubted your ability you wouldn’t be on my team.’ She saw his reservation. ‘Ryan, you’re not Superman. For crying out loud, give yourself a break.’
He dropped the subject.
Feeling his angst slipping away, he drove on without further comment, ignoring several opportunities to pull over. She didn’t point out possible places to eat and neither did he. He’d lost his appetite. Trevathan’s briefcase had taken precedence over everything else.
13
Lord Trevathan’s home was approached by a private driveway, protected by a gate lodge and lined by magnificent Douglas firs. This was prime Scottish real estate – fifty acres of privacy bordering the banks of Loch Tay – an enchanting mansion house hidden away in a tranquil clearing, forested hills providing a dramatic backdrop.
Dating from the sixteenth century, it was a property steeped in history, owned by one family for generations. Such was the wow factor, O’Neil asked Ryan to stop the car halfway along the gravelled driveway so she could jump out to drink in the view. He remained in the vehicle, staring through the windscreen at the red sandstone house, exquisitely proportioned with mullioned windows and a rounded tower at either end. It was nice to see a piece of Scottish heritage still in private hands.
‘Enchanting.’ O’Neil pocketed her phone as she climbed in, not bothering to strap herself in on the private road. ‘You like?’
‘If it was on a beach, it would be perfect.’ Ryan glanced at the mansion again. ‘I’d rather
have the remains of Dunstanburgh Castle.’ He could see that historical monument from the tiny front garden of his coastal home. It sat on a remote Northumberland headland with an unparalleled view over the North Sea. Derelict or not, that was one property he wouldn’t mind owning. The image faded from his mind, the mansion in full focus now. ‘I wonder what will happen to this place. Trevathan is unmarried. There are no children to inherit his wealth.’
‘He’s a lawyer, Ryan. I’m sure he’ll have made a will.’
‘Yeah, but in whose favour?’
‘That’s an action waiting for attention right there. I’m pleased I’m not responsible for the death duty.’
‘Maybe we should be looking at the taxman.’ Ryan started the car and pulled away, heading for the house.
It was a relief to stretch their legs after four hours in the car. The air was cold and crisp, the sky clear and blue. Ryan would much rather have taken O’Neil for a walk down to the Loch or a wander through the woods, but he could feel her haste as she mounted the steps to the impressive front door, hobbling ever so slightly. She was keen to get inside and find that briefcase.
Catching up with her, he pressed the bell and heard it ring inside the house. Almost before he’d taken his hand away, Mrs Forbes, Trevathan’s petite and smartly dressed housekeeper, opened the door. Her eyelids were red, her face haggard and lined beyond her forty-nine years.
‘Mrs Forbes?’ Ryan offered up ID. ‘We spoke on the phone earlier. I’m DS Matthew Ryan.’ He gestured towards his guv’nor. ‘This is Detective Superintendent O’Neil. May we come in?’
The housekeeper ushered them inside as if they were under surveillance.
The entrance hall was extraordinary, with centuries-old stone flags on the floor, chocolate-coloured wood panelling adorning the walls, designed to impress visitors. At the same time, it was exceptionally warm and welcoming. At the top of an imposing staircase, life-sized portraits of three judges in ceremonial dress were displayed proudly, testament to the judge’s formidable ancestry and legal credentials.
Pointing out which one was her former employer, Mrs Forbes lapsed into uncontrollable weeping.
