The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  Ryan levelled with her. ‘We all thought she was less confident here. There’s a fundamental variation in her speech.’

  Caroline agreed. ‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was another woman entirely. A killer – she’s admitted as much – but it’s as if this situation was a mistake, accidental even, never meant to happen.’

  ‘Don’t you mean incidental?’ Grace’s tone was hard. ‘There is a difference.’

  Caroline ignored the dig. ‘All I’m saying is there’s real malice in the first three, not so much with this one.’

  ‘Spontaneous or scripted?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘She doesn’t sound like she’s reading on any of the tapes.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like she has a conscience either.’ Grace said. ‘Have you noticed how she reinforces the fact that they deserved what they got. It’s a disclaimer.’

  ‘Extrovert or introvert?’ O’Neil asked.

  Caroline waggled her hand from side to side. ‘That’s a tricky one. It’s like asking if she’s a leader or follower. It’s important to understand who might be the dominant partner. Without a second voice, I can’t help you. What I will say is, she sounds socially persuasive, like she’s someone who’s listened to in life. A teacher, perhaps.’

  ‘Or film director,’ Ryan suggested.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘The scenes were staged.’

  ‘Right,’ Caroline said. ‘Did anyone detect a hint of Yorkshire?’

  Grace was on it immediately, accessing her computer, tapping buttons furiously, trying to establish whether there had been any mention of the county across the HOLMES database within Gold Command – Operation Shadow. She shook her head, a scowl almost. ‘There’s nothing on the system.’

  ‘She’s trying hard to disguise it,’ Caroline said. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s taken elocution lessons – it’s definitely there.’

  ‘You should see the faces on these three,’ Ryan said. ‘They’re standing here with their mouths open.’ He switched his attention to the others. ‘She used to play Guess the Accent when she attended the School for the Blind as a kid. She even won prizes.’

  Caroline blushed.

  ‘That’s some party trick,’ Newman said.

  ‘A qualified voice-recognition expert will narrow it down further,’ O’Neil said. ‘No offence to you, Caroline.’

  ‘None taken. Identifying exactly where in Yorkshire won’t be easy, even for an expert. There are many dialects within the county; pronunciation and sentence construction is beyond me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re doing fine,’ Grace said in her defence.

  ‘Better than fine,’ O’Neil added.

  Ryan was grateful for the show of appreciation.

  Newman threw in a question. ‘Who took the call when Spielberg gave scene locations locally?’

  ‘For the North Shields scene, or Fraser’s house in Whitley Bay?’ O’Neil asked.

  ‘The latter.’

  Ryan pointed at his chest, answering ‘Me,’ for Caroline’s benefit.

  ‘Did you tape it?’ Newman asked.

  ‘I did.’ His eyes found O’Neil’s.

  She didn’t flinch.

  ‘Ryan?’ Newman was waiting. ‘Caroline needs to hear that too.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The lie came easy. ‘For some reason it didn’t record.’

  ‘What reason?’ Grace blurted out. ‘I taught you better than that, mister.’

  ‘You did, and I can only apologize. I must’ve pressed the wrong button.’

  Caroline detected the misrepresentation and kept it to herself.

  Ryan could’ve kissed her. ‘It’s late.’ He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. ‘I’ll walk you out, Caroline.’

  ‘No need, I’d better get going too,’ Newman said. ‘The sooner I get away, the sooner I’ll return. I’ll drop Caroline at the station.’

  He kissed Grace goodbye and left the apartment holding Caroline’s hand. Ryan hung his jacket back on the chair. O’Neil flashed him a thank you for covering for her ass. They had been rumbled but not, it seemed, by Grace and Newman. Saved from embarrassing questions, O’Neil’s residual doubts over Ryan’s twin faded away.

  24

  Trying to keep herself cheerful, Grace arrived at work at the crack of dawn, complete with a Christmas tree and fairy lights. After putting it in the window, she got stuck into her computer where she remained for the next four hours monitoring HOLMES. With Newman away, Ryan and O’Neil decided to hold off on their planned trip to Brighton. They had photographic and recorded evidence from Sussex Police, CSI and progress reports, enough to go on until the victim was found. When he was – if he was – they would visit the town and then fly from London direct to Copenhagen. It seemed the best way forward when they were spread so thinly.

  There was no obvious connection between Ambassador Dean and Lord Trevathan, apart from the fact that they had high-end jobs, worked in the public eye and had both died from stab wounds close to water. In the Ambassador’s case, one blow to the stomach, one to the heart, the second proving fatal. He would have died, if not instantly, then within a few minutes. Ryan was confident that if a link existed between the two men, Newman would find it in London.

  Like most undercover work, spying on individuals was often mind-numbingly boring, long hours spent immobile, unable to take a piss or eat. It was a world away from any Bond movie Newman had ever seen.

  Despite choosing to live on the east coast of Scotland, he loved London. He walked unhurriedly from King’s Cross railway station, heading in a southerly direction towards the Houses of Parliament. As he passed the building, vehicles were being checked for explosives with an under-car device he knew was the best and most effective product currently on the market. Only then was the black-and-orange hydraulic barrier lifted.

  Not far away, Thames House, the home of MI5, was similarly well protected: a security code trackpad and secure lift into the building, plate-glass anti-climb devices on all windowsills. No chances being taken. Four police bikes sped out of the building, double red lines marking the side street. The Doubletree Hotel was situated here. If Newman had time to stay over, he’d book in and ask for a room with a view of the Thorney Street entrance to Thames House where he could observe the comings and goings of those employed there. If he took a southeast corner room, he could hitch up a slow-drip camera, monitoring the building twenty-four hours a day. Even better, the building next door was going through major refurbishment.

  It paid to have a plan B.

  The Thorney Street entrance was open. Someone walked out as Newman was watching it, which meant anyone could walk in. However, if they tried, they would meet with tough opposition. The rear entrance was secure, even if it didn’t seem so. A female was standing outside smoking, coat flapping in the wind. He noticed the familiar lanyard around her neck, turned inward to hide her identity. She was one of millions of workers in the city wearing them. Nothing unusual about her . . .

  Except there was.

  In his younger days, he might have tapped her for a light, started up a conversation, turned on the charm. That wouldn’t be smart. Simpler to follow one of the young geeks, most of them employed in cyber-security, leaving on pushbikes; easy enough to scare one half to death and take what he wanted. But Newman didn’t intend to do that either.

  Agents of his generation never retired. It was important to keep spooks of his calibre in the loop, ready to be reactivated at a moment’s notice. Consequently, he still had clearance. He could come and go as he pleased. That didn’t help. He didn’t want to be scanned in and out of MI5 or pass through the many security devices. He wanted no one to know he was sniffing around. Time to call in favours.

  ‘Did you ever contact Ford for disclosure?’ Ryan asked. ‘We need information on Trevathan’s trial.’

  O’Neil stopped shuffling papers. ‘I did. He told me it was a matter for the Secretary of State for Scotland.’

  ‘And
what did the Secretary say?’

  ‘Well his underling, another junior minister who wouldn’t tell me his name, passed me back to the Home Office. I eventually got to speak to a human, for what good it did. Come to think of it, human might be stretching it a bit.’ Lifting her mobile from her desk, she accessed a voice recording and pressed play.

  ‘This is Detective Superintendent Eloise O’Neil. Could I ask who I’m speaking to?’

  ‘Lawson.’

  ‘Mr Lawson, I’m investigating the death of the Lord Justice Clerk, Leonard Maxwell, Lord Trevathan.’

  Silence.

  Ryan rolled his eyes at O’Neil. Her rank and status within the police was meaningless to some Home Office employees. As far as they were concerned, she was a pleb in uniform, shit on their shoes. The ‘Plebgate’ scandal – an altercation between Government Chief Whip, Conservative MP Andrew Mitchell, and police – came as no surprise to officers who, day in day out risked their lives, whether on general patrol or within the Diplomatic Protection Unit guarding Downing Street. Evidence had been called into question on both sides. Whatever the truth of it, Mitchell resigned, his position untenable. A year later, the dispute raged on. There had been several arrests, including five police officers, the lengthy investigation criticized by the Director of Public Prosecutions. Ryan had no doubt that the axe would fall on those accused of misconduct in public office. The recording of O’Neil’s prompt to Lawson cut into his thoughts.

  ‘Are you still there, Mr Lawson?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, how can I help you with that?’

  ‘I’d like some information on the trial His Lordship was set to conduct on Monday the fourteenth of October.’

  ‘I have no information to give in that regard.’

  ‘Did you recover a briefcase from His Lordship’s residence on Tuesday the fifteenth of October?’

  O’Neil paused. When he failed to respond, she pushed harder.

  ‘I have a statement to that effect from his housekeeper, Mrs Forbes. She claims that two unidentified people – one male, one female – collected the briefcase. She assumed, or was led to believe, that they were from his Edinburgh chambers. My enquiries have drawn a blank there.’

  ‘We have no information to give you on that subject, ma’am.’

  ‘You will appreciate the difficulty that presents.’

  Ryan had to admire O’Neil’s style. She had no qualms about challenging Lawson’s authority.

  ‘Sir, if you do have the briefcase then there will be no police time wasted trying to find it. If you don’t, that leaves only two scenarios: either you know who has it, or you are as clueless as I am. Perhaps you could indicate which it is?’

  ‘I have no information to give you at this time.’

  ‘Then am I to assume that the briefcase is still missing and has been collected by person or persons unknown for unlawful means?’

  ‘I have no information to give you at this time.’

  ‘I wonder if it’s just me you’re not talking to, Mr Lawson.’

  Silence.

  Grace stopped what she was doing, swivelled her chair to face Ryan and O’Neil. If Lawson had been in the room, she’d have stuck the nut on him. O’Neil was showing impatience, on and off the recording.

  ‘Mr Lawson?’

  ‘Are you asking a question, ma’am? My apologies, I thought you were making a statement.’

  O’Neil’s frustration was almost palpable.

  ‘Can you tell me perhaps how you’d like me to proceed? In case you’re in any doubt, that is a question, sir. Shall I do so on the assumption that the briefcase has been taken by unauthorized persons, or as though you or some other person in authority has it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, we have no information to give you at this time.’

  O’Neil stopped the recording. ‘The royal “we” was a mistake,’ she said. ‘He tripped up there.’

  Ryan was nodding. Someone else had been listening in.

  ‘Dodgy bastard . . .’ Grace mumbled. ‘That briefcase will be sitting on his desk in Whitehall. If he doesn’t have it, I’ll run naked across the Swing Bridge.’

  ‘Please don’t.’ Ryan looked like he’d just sucked a lemon.

  Suppressing a grin, O’Neil restarted the recording.

  ‘Perhaps Mr Ford could answer for himself.’

  ‘Nice one, guv,’ said Ryan, while Grace signalled her approval with a fist pump.

  There was a moment’s silence on the tape, then Eloise continued:

  ‘You have said repeatedly that you have no information to give me at this time. Does that mean that the matter is under review, that you may be able to release such information at a later date?’

  ‘I have no information to give you at this time.’

  ‘I’d like to thank you for being helpful, Mr Lawson. For your information, I’m going to proceed as if the briefcase is unlawfully missing and most probably in the hands of criminals. And, because you know how my unit is funded, sir, if you have information now that you are failing to disclose, please tell Mr Ford that I will recoup any wasted police time, energy, effort and money from your own department. Thank you very much.’

  O’Neil stopped the recording. ‘He thought he was home and dry. He could not have been more wrong.’ She grinned at the others, pressed the play arrow on her mobile phone.

  ‘Before I go, I’d like some information about a British expatriate. Can you tell me if Ambassador Dean had received threats of any nature before he was murdered in Copenhagen?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  It was Ford’s voice, loud and clear.

  ‘Sorry, sir. I’m losing you. Hello? Sir? Are you there?’

  The dialling tone arrived when O’Neil cut him off.

  ‘Ha!’ Grace was out of her seat, hands pressed together, head bowed, no eye contact, as if paying homage to His Holiness the Dalai Lama. She raised her head. ‘Oh, Special One, I am truly impressed.’

  Ryan laughed.

  O’Neil did too.

  Such an evasive response and downright lack of cooperation from the powers that be was no more or less than they’d expected. For all that, it was no easier to take. O’Neil’s nous and leadership had cemented a unit forced to plough on regardless. Her retired and serving detectives might well be in a temporary state of desperation, but she was confident that they were up to it. No conspiracy of silence would blow them off course.

  25

  The afternoon was a long hard slog, the hands of the clock winding themselves round to six before Ryan took a breather for anything more than a bathroom break. O’Neil was still head down in her work; the axe from the North Shields scene was clean and prints on the Coke can were useless – it had probably just been lobbed from a passing car. She took it in her stride, resigned to the fact that no one was going to hand her evidence on a plate. Grace was so swamped she’d had to insist that any requests to Gold Command must come in via email from here on. She simply didn’t have time to field calls and do all O’Neil had asked of her.

  Ryan was missing his former role: preventing terrorism, monitoring subversive organizations and disrupting organized crime. Back then he knew who the enemy was. From the dejected look on her face, O’Neil was probably feeling the same way. Her old job – investigating police wrongdoing – was preferable to fighting those who were supposed to be facilitating their enquiries.

  What they wouldn’t give for a level playing field.

  Fountain Lake, Battersea Park, London. Newman was sat on a bench reading a newspaper. A figure approached, grey woollen coat, striped scarf, a nondescript man in his forties, earphones in place. He was holding the volume control, occasionally nodding as if talking to someone. In fact he was doing nothing of the kind.

  He took a seat, making no attempt to greet Newman. ‘What do you want, Frank?’ he said.

  Newman kept his eyes on the news. ‘To locate a briefcase,’ he said. ‘It’s in the hands of a Mercedes driver. Young. Attractive. Female. Male accomp
lice. One of yours, I suspect. She’s getting in the way of an operation—’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Special unit operating out of Newcastle.’

  ‘Nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Shame. I need the lowdown on that too. You have work to do.’

  ‘Like I said—’

  ‘I’m in credit, Tom. Find out. There’s a time and rendezvous point written on the page I’m reading. Memorize it.’

  Tomkinson’s eyes scanned left and right as if he was taking in the park’s lake view. He stood up, took off slowly, heading back towards Chelsea Bridge.

  Ryan’s tired eyes met O’Neil’s across their desks. They were exhausted, making negligible progress. At every turn, a brick wall presented itself, wrecking their theories, ruining their plans. There was no one to interrogate, no leads to follow up. They had nothing tangible to go on and little prospect of that state of affairs changing anytime soon. All they had were scores of unanswered questions. Their work base, nice though it was, was driving them nuts.

  ‘Crime pattern analysis isn’t going to help us,’ O’Neil said. ‘There are no signposts, just the bloody woman’s voice baiting us. I know we haven’t seen them all yet, but the crime scenes we’ve visited so far are clean. I’m beginning to think Ford wasn’t so stupid after all in thinking that Spielberg robbed a blood bank and staged the killings to piss us off.’

  ‘Except we have three bodies now,’ Ryan reminded her.

  ‘And nowt else.’

  They lapsed into morose silence, hoping that Newman’s informant activity might pay off. He hadn’t yet called to update them.

  Grace was getting restless.

  O’Neil lifted her head. ‘Did you contact the Family Liaison Officer?’

  Ryan nodded. ‘Mrs Fraser said James let himself in with a key.’

  ‘So why didn’t they kill him at his mother’s place?’

  ‘Good question.’ Grace didn’t turn around. ‘His killers couldn’t know he didn’t live there.’

  ‘I asked the very same question of the FLO,’ Ryan said. ‘She questioned Mrs Fraser again. Apparently she was in the kitchen when James arrived. She joined him in the living room for a hug almost immediately. You know what mums are like. There were no blinds or curtains up in that room. People living alone like to see foot traffic, don’t they? In that respect, Mrs Fraser is no different. She didn’t notice anyone hanging around outside but my guess is they saw her and decided to wait it out.’