The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  None of her victims had been that hard to overcome. The chosen rarely looked over their shoulder, even though they had every reason to. Take this one across the road, talking to the big fella with the dodgy moustache. He looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Well, think again, Mr Robin Charlton. Your worst nightmares are about to come true.

  It was such a thrill, watching him. She liked this part. In fact she enjoyed the anticipation almost as much as the kill.

  She was becoming quite the voyeur.

  Meticulous research. That’s what she was about. Since her mission began, she’d learned much and with each step she’d grown in confidence. More relaxed now than ever before, she’d established that most busy professionals went about their business blinkered to the world around them, preoccupied, eyes on mobiles, attention focused on other things.

  The initial execution had been challenging, of course, but not because she was new to it. She’d ended a life once before – a very long time ago – an event she could never have predicted. It was of no consequence now. She was wiser and therefore better equipped to meet new challenges. The only downside had been that the executions weren’t being reported in the press. That wouldn’t do. She’d have to think of a way to make them sit up and take notice.

  Ooh! Boy Wonder was on the move.

  She was facing the other way, watching his reflection in the window of a bookshop, the perfect place to linger and browse. She turned, nodding to her accomplice to follow, while she kept her distance on her side of the road. It was important to get to know the area before they made their move – Copenhagen had taught her that. Foreign landscape. Identifiable victim. Unfamiliar logistics. Escape routes were complicated, high on her priority list, nothing she couldn’t handle, once she’d done a little homework.

  Then as now, a quick stroll around Google sorted her out. In the end, the Ambassador had been dispensed with swiftly and efficiently. Still, a foray abroad and out of her comfort zone had acted as a stark reminder to take it slow.

  As she kept pace with her target she remembered the heart-stopping moment when the wheel almost came off. The date was etched on her memory: Friday, 26 July. She’d been watching the embassy when a security detail appeared, heading in her direction – a situation she found as exhilarating as it was alarming. Not so her accomplice. His bottle went completely. Daft sod had actually looked at her, a terrified expression under his peaked cap. How many times had she drilled it into him: No eye contact. Act like a tourist. Take photos. Pretend you’re on the phone. Whatever you do, keep your distance. If he did it again, she’d have a decision to make. It would leave her short-handed, but she could ill afford to carry someone who wasn’t pulling their weight. She wouldn’t think twice about ending their association. Period.

  As things turned out, the threat failed to materialize. The security patrol moved away, apparently unconcerned about two strangers lurking in the vicinity. From then on she was more careful. With patience came a lucky break, a change of security staff alleviating her problem, lessening the chances of being clocked in close proximity to the perimeter fence.

  Some things were just meant to be.

  Two days later, her target walked out of the building into bright sunshine, not a care in the world. The diminutive figure was instantly recognizable from images she’d found online. The Internet really was an offender’s best friend. He was a handsome man with greying hair, a touch overweight, gait on the sluggish side, his attire more casual than she’d expected, given his lofty title and status within the Danish community. With the confidence of a statesman, he nodded to the officer on the gate, donning a pair of sunglasses, a relaxed pose. Swiping his access card, he stepped out onto the pavement, leaving behind the safety of the embassy.

  No bodyguard.

  No shit!

  A tingle of excitement ran down her back. Boy Wonder had stopped at a pedestrian crossing. She raised her camera to her face, loving the sound of the shutter as she captured his image. Like the diplomat, this target didn’t have a fucking clue that his demise was imminent.

  She grinned at the irony.

  As an ambassador, Dean had enjoyed the protection of the Vienna Convention. Even if his wrongdoing was brought to light, he’d have been exempt from capital punishment. Well, she’d got around that. But then, she never had been a slave to convention.

  She’d waited until they’d left the crowds behind before giving the nod. The grunt had taken out his weapon and pressed it against the diplomat’s ribs. He’d thrown an arm round Dean’s shoulder, making out they were old friends larking around, as he guided him up a side street to the kill site. Dean’s gob had been going the whole time, trying to talk his way out of trouble.

  Didn’t do him any good, mind. The street was empty, only her and her cohort around to hear him.

  Dean had fallen silent when they stopped walking, a look of terror on his face as she gestured to the abandoned building.

  Inside, the stench of piss was nauseating.

  He’d backed away from her, pleading with the two of them to let him go. Stumbling in the dark interior, he’d fallen on the concrete floor, the breath forced from his lungs as he hit the deck hard. When he’d scrambled to his feet, she’d been expecting him to turn and run, a futile attempt to get away, but instead he stood his ground. He was scared, not stupid. There was only one exit and it was behind her.

  After a split-second’s hesitation, the grunt moved in, an upward thrust finding its target with devastating effect, causing a deep puncture wound to the gut. Looking on from her ringside seat, she felt neither pity nor remorse.

  The diplomat’s knees buckled. He fell to the filthy floor clutching his stomach, thick dark liquid oozing through his fingers as he tried to stem the blood, blind panic on his face.

  A feeling of euphoria swept through her, then as now. This was how she’d imagined Dean would end his days, a world away from the privileged life he’d led. After twenty years of being indulged at the British taxpayers’ expense, wined and dined by royalty, earning the kind of salary she could only dream of, he’d finally got what was coming to him.

  With his left hand pressed against the stab wound, he’d reached back with his right hand and tugged his wallet from his pocket, offering it to her, a final plea to let him live.

  She’d kicked it away.

  ‘No amount of money will save you,’ she’d told him. ‘You’re going to have to pay with your life for the wrong you have done. You took it upon yourself to condemn someone else to an early grave. Now it’s your turn.’

  She’d never forget his expression. He’d looked incredulous, as if to say: if not robbery, then what? Why me? A moment later, the light left his eyes, massive blood loss causing him to fade in and out of consciousness. He was fighting hypovolemic shock, his condition already life-threatening. She asked him what it felt like. A sick joke – literal and metaphorical – seemed appropriate, a hint of why he’d been selected.

  When she explained her reasoning, he made out that he didn’t know what she was talking about. Liar. His breath was ragged by then, his voice almost inaudible. A cough squeezed more blood through slimy fingers.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘Well, understand this. Every action has a reaction. It’s like a game of consequences.’

  A nod was all it took. The grunt went in hard, delivering a fatal blow to the heart.

  She smiled now at the memory. Dean was her first and therefore most special achievement, with many more planned, which made 28 July a date to cherish and to celebrate. Her premiere had gone like clockwork. A wrap. No retakes required. Red carpet coming right up.

  She’d left him lying there, secure in the knowledge that no one was likely to find him until they had made good their escape. Just to make sure that he was found, she’d popped the DVD into the post before boarding the flight to London.

  Oh yes, Sundays were special. And by next Sunday she’d be ready to rain down retribution on Boy Wonder.


  37

  O’Neil made coffee as usual, showing no signs of lingering bad feeling, making no mention of the events of last night. Ryan, on the other hand, felt utterly drained by the altercation. Unable to trust himself to bring the matter up without upsetting her, he remained silent.

  Grace and Newman arrived early, sheepish both of them. It was a show of solidarity that Ryan appreciated wholeheartedly.

  O’Neil invited them to sit.

  ‘I want to clear the air,’ she said. ‘In future, I expect openness and transparency from all of you. If you have anything to say about this unit, the way it is run and by whom, you come to me. You do not discuss it with each other. Is that clear?’

  ‘Crystal,’ Ryan said.

  Grace and Newman nodded agreement.

  ‘Good. The other thing we talked about in the early hours concerning me is over. I won’t discuss it again with anyone.’ She stressed the word anyone, leaving Ryan in no doubt that the subject was closed even to him – especially to him. ‘I trust you to keep it to yourselves. Now, has anyone got anything to say vis-à-vis their future in this unit?’

  She scanned Grace, Newman and Ryan in turn.

  Ryan spoke first: ‘I’m in if you are, guv.’

  ‘Me too,’ Grace said. ‘If you’re thinking of resigning, forget it.’

  Newman said nothing, though it was clear he was going nowhere.

  O’Neil dropped her gaze, a mixture of sorrow and joy almost moving her to tears. The rest of them waited with bated breath. It had shocked Ryan when she’d told Forsythe that she planned to quit. He guessed she’d lain awake all night, tossing and turning, maybe even having a quiet weep. He’d not heard her, just sensed tension through the walls. She wasn’t the only one unable to sleep.

  ‘For now, you’re stuck with me,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘Grace, Frank, do what you do best. Ryan, you and I need to get going.’ She stood, pulled on her coat, collected a small suitcase from beside her bedroom door and made for the exit.

  Sunday trains were notoriously unreliable. Fortunately, theirs was on time. Overnight, Ryan had prayed that there would be no delays. There was only so much small talk a person could stomach after a cards-on-the-table type conversation, more so if it was personal. O’Neil had hardly said a word as they walked to the railway station and he’d decided to let her be.

  She bought three newspapers and read them for the majority of the journey south. Unless shutting her eyes was an avoidance tactic, she’d slept the rest of the way.

  Sussex Murder Investigation Team gave Ryan and O’Neil every assistance from the minute they arrived at their HQ in Lewes: organizing a car, a room in which to work, complete with a HOLMES computer so they could access information as and when it arrived. The victim had been formally identified as Michael Tierney, the gay man who’d gone missing the day before the DVD arrived.

  ‘DS Vikki Carter, ma’am. I’ve been appointed as your liaison officer.’

  ‘Nice to see you again, Vikki.’ O’Neil flashed her best smile. ‘Recently promoted?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Thought so. Well done.’ O’Neil thumbed left. ‘This is DS Matthew Ryan.’

  Smiling, her wing-man stuck out a hand out. ‘Ryan.’

  Vikki gave a firm handshake. ‘Good to meet you, Ryan.’ She was beaming because a big cheese from another force had remembered her name and the fact that she was a DC when last they met.

  ‘OK to use your locker room?’ O’Neil asked. ‘I need to freshen up.’

  ‘Of course. It’s that way . . .’ Vikki pointed over O’Neil’s shoulder. ‘First door on your left.’

  ‘I remember. Are we in the same office as before?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Get Ryan settled. I’ll check in with your SIO and catch up with you.’

  Vikki walked Ryan to his temporary Sussex base. She was covering for someone on maternity leave, hoping to prove herself and earn a permanent position on the Murder Investigation Team. She confided all this to Ryan on the way down the corridor, joking that the last time she’d spoken to anyone of O’Neil’s rank it had been a technical superintendent who worked for a shipping company in London.

  O’Neil glanced at the clock on the wall as she entered five minutes later. It was getting on for 2.30 p.m. No pub lunch for her, or anyone else. ‘Thanks for staying on to talk to us, Vikki. Your guv’nor has been called out to another incident, unrelated thankfully, so you’re in the chair. What do we know about Michael Tierney?’

  ‘He’s a hotshot stockbroker. Forty-seven. Works in the capital from an office in Canary Wharf. Commutes daily. Shares a frontline penthouse here in Brighton with his civil partner, Robert Parker, a cosmetic dentist. Tierney’s not local, ma’am. He hails from Norwich, went to school all over the place – his father was in the military. The victim ended up in Cambridge where he gained a first-class honours in maths.’

  Ryan smiled at O’Neil. She’d asked for and been fed updates by her opposite number since Tierney was reported missing, putting him in the frame as the Brighton victim. Much of this information she knew already. Still, she allowed Vikki to trot it out. Encouraging junior staff, rather than stamping all over their big moment, was testament to her leadership.

  Vikki stopped talking.

  ‘You’ve done your homework,’ O’Neil said. ‘And before Tierney shot up in the world?’

  ‘He taught at a posh boarding school.’

  ‘This school . . .’ O’Neil sat up straight. ‘It’s not in Yorkshire by any chance?’

  Vikki’s right eyebrow arched as she gave a nod. ‘He taught mathematics there. Actually, he was a pupil there too. Sent there as a kid when his father was posted overseas. How did you know, ma’am, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘It wasn’t a guess.’

  Attagirl!

  Ryan was delighted to see O’Neil in control, last night’s conversation consigned to the back of her mind for now – but not his. He’d decided on the train to carry on working as if nothing had happened. What else could he do? Problem was, a gulf had opened up between them, a gap he found impossible to bridge. Off the agenda for now, O’Neil’s exposé would return, if not today, then next week, next month when – if – she decided to take him into her confidence.

  ‘I emailed Gold Command to let them know that everything has been uploaded to HOLMES,’ Vikki said.

  ‘Excellent. Anything else?’

  ‘No, I think that’s it.’

  ‘OK, find out exactly how much Robert Parker has been told about his partner’s death and report back before you go off duty.’

  ‘Will do.’ Vikki turned to go. As she reached the door, she glanced back at O’Neil. ‘Would there be anything else, ma’am?’

  ‘Any chance of a coffee? I’ve got a splitting head.’

  ‘You need a painkiller?’

  ‘So long as it’s laced with caffeine and comes in a cup.’

  ‘Gotcha.’ The detective pulled a face. ‘Can’t vouch for how good it’ll be. I’ll organize some and have it brought in.’ Vikki left the room.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ O’Neil said.

  ‘The coffee?’

  ‘The boarding school. Anywhere that houses children worries me.’

  Ryan’s joke had been ignored. Ordinarily, O’Neil would’ve laughed. Still in the doghouse, he turned his attention to the case. If, as Vikki suggested, details of the school had been uploaded to HOLMES, Grace would already have begun the process of checking whether Ambassador Dean and Lord Trevathan had attended the same school as Michael Tierney, tracking down any connections between the three.

  He half expected the phone to ring.

  O’Neil had read his mind. ‘You need to call Grace. Trevathan was sixty, Ambassador Dean fifty-six, Tierney forty-seven. Maybe this boarding school in Yorkshire is something they have in common. Churning out the next generation of highfliers is what public schools do, isn’t it? I want information on any police
investigations at that school going back sixty years, involving full-time boarders and day pupils, computerized or hard copy records. If there’s any suggestion of abuse or neglect, I want it found.’

  Ryan checked his mobile phone. ‘She’s already on it, guv.’

  ‘Call her. I want full details on any local authority or church involvement: doctors, social workers and other professional visitors. Tell her to check out social media, online communities for former pupils, reunion websites – any bloody thing that might be relevant.’

  ‘That’s a hard ask.’

  ‘Frank can help. He’s good at digging the dirt.’

  Before Ryan could respond – he ached for the opportunity to apologize properly for last night – someone knocked on the door.

  Seeing his wounded expression, O’Neil backpedalled quickly. ‘Ryan, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Don’t you worry about Grace, she can delegate most of it to satellite rooms.’

  Another knock.

  O’Neil raised her voice. ‘Come!’

  A civilian entered with coffee on a tray. As he went to set it down, a plate of chocolate digestives slid towards O’Neil, tipped over the edge onto the table in front of her. She didn’t make a fuss, just swept the broken biscuits back onto the plate. Blushing, the lad made himself scarce. He shut the door behind him and they settled down to work.

  While O’Neil made some calls, Ryan logged on to HOLMES. The digital file on Tierney was quite thin but being updated by indexers in real time. It was important to understand how the initial information had come in to Sussex Police, who to, and the exact timing. He’d been over this with O’Neil but wanted to reacquaint himself with it in case anything had been missed in the telling.

  The DVD had arrived at HQ, addressed to Chief Constable Martin Richards, on Tuesday, 12 October. The time-stamp showed the video as having been recorded in the early hours of Sunday, 10 October. There were statements to be read, reports from the Crime Scene Manager and the Underwater Search Unit to digest. The fact that Tierney’s body had been found in the water off the Brighton coast made life difficult for everyone. Fire and water were the elements that best destroyed evidence, seawater more so than freshwater, as had been the case in Scotland.