The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  She gave Parker a moment to compose himself before diving in again: ‘We have forensic evidence that Michael was abducted, taken to a place not far from here and stabbed to death, his body disposed of at sea some time afterwards. The person or persons responsible were forensically aware. Nothing we have found matches any information on our database.’

  Ryan expected Parker to get upset, but he remained in control in the face of such distressing facts. O’Neil was handling him gently, drip-feeding information, not wanting to rush him, sensitive to the fact that he could crumble at any moment, terminate the interview and ask them to leave.

  ‘I understand that Robert went out alone the night he disappeared.’

  ‘Yes. We’d been invited to dinner at a friend’s house, but I didn’t feel up to it. I had a dreadful cold.’

  ‘What time did he leave here?’

  ‘Around eight, maybe a few minutes after. When he didn’t return home, I assumed he’d stayed over. We often do if it’s a late night. When I called him next morning, he didn’t pick up. I tried the house and was told he’d left in the early hours.’

  ‘Would he have walked or taken a taxi?’

  ‘Walked, it’s not that far.’

  ‘Could you write down the route?’

  ‘I have done. Detectives locally are tracking his movements.’

  ‘Good.’ O’Neil continued with her plan. ‘I’m going to give you a few names. I’d like you to tell me whether you’ve ever heard them before or if, to your knowledge, they meant anything to Michael.’ She began with Lord Trevathan’s given name: ‘Leonard Maxwell . . .’ Parker shook his head. ‘OK, does the name Trevathan mean anything to you?’ Same response. ‘Paul Dean?’

  ‘Are they all dead?’ He looked horrified.

  ‘Those are the names of two of the victims.’

  ‘Three names, two victims?’ Even in his present mental state, Parker had spotted the anomaly. ‘I assume one is an alias?’

  ‘Of sorts,’ she said. ‘You’ve heard of neither?’

  Parker’s jaw tightened as he shook his head. ‘Are they gay men?’

  It was an obvious deduction.

  O’Neil was unable to give a definitive answer. Grace had checked the incidents of hate crimes on grounds of sexual orientation in the Brighton area. They were on the rise. Sussex Police were proactively encouraging victims to come forward and report such matters. It was the only way to get a clear picture of the problem and formulate an appropriate response.

  ‘Not to our knowledge,’ Ryan said. ‘You’ve had problems?’

  A glare almost from Parker. ‘Not all people who live in Brighton tolerate queers.’

  ‘Anything specific?’ O’Neil asked.

  ‘No.’ A tear emerged from Parker’s left eye and ran down his cheek. He brushed it away. ‘It’s the first thing I thought of when Michael went missing. He never mentioned any of those names to me. Believe me, I’d have remembered.’ He hesitated. A guilty look. ‘I used to get insanely jealous if he talked about other men. Stupid I know, given the length of time we’ve been together. I very much regret that now. Michael used to get so angry with me over it.’

  Ryan thought about his own twinge of jealousy on Friday night. Seeing O’Neil get into that Porsche had brought on a sudden ache to be the person driving her away. She’d fled the apartment so hastily that he’d assumed – wrongly, as it turned out – that the owner of the car was a lover. The emotion was irrational. He shook it off, his eyes locking on to a computer on a nearby desk.

  ‘Robert, is that your laptop or Michael’s?’

  ‘It’s Michael’s.’

  ‘Do you happen to know the password?’

  ‘Yes.’ Parker got up, wandered over to the desk to retrieve it. He opened it up and logged on, handing it to Ryan. ‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘I’ll write the password down.’

  Ryan waited for him to do that before asking: ‘Did Michael have a mobile on him, do you know?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It wasn’t recovered with his body.’

  ‘He was a busy man,’ Parker said. ‘He never went anywhere without it.’

  ‘I assumed that would be the case.’ If it was in the sea, Ryan had little hope that it would be found. Shame. It would contain a lot of personal stuff. ‘Was Michael in the habit of backing up his information?’

  Parker pointed at the laptop. ‘It’ll all be there.’

  O’Neil was relieved to hear it. ‘You may not be aware of everything in Michael’s life,’ she said, ‘but I’d like to talk to you about the school where he taught in Yorkshire. Were you together then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I believe he went there as a child when his father was working overseas.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘A happy experience?’

  ‘I can’t imagine he’d have returned to work there otherwise.’

  It was fair comment.

  Ryan was in to the contacts on Michael’s laptop, business and personal, and was scanning the names. Unable to find references to any of the victims, he searched for Denmark, Kenmore, Newcastle and Tyneside generally. There were three hits in Copenhagen: a female banker, Agnete Møller; someone listed only as Rolv Jakobsen; and Pål Friis, whose contact details included landline, mobile and a private address. The latter two were male, the Danish versions of Rolf and Paul.

  ‘Excuse me for interrupting, guv.’ Ryan shifted his gaze to Parker. ‘I see that Michael had business contacts in Copenhagen but did he have any friends there? There’s a name and address here: Pål Friis?’

  ‘We met while on holiday in Greece several years ago and kept in touch. He pops down here when he’s in London. He’s a cultural historian – straight, in case you were wondering.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Ryan said.

  ‘Any idea who Graham Hunter is? His address is listed as South Tyneside.’

  Parker frowned, shook his head. ‘A business acquaintance, I assume.’

  Writing names in his notebook to pass on to Grace, Ryan got on with his search. Parker was asking what Tierney’s former school had to do with anything. O’Neil told him the truth: in investigating Michael’s death, it was important to understand his life . . .

  ‘We need to build on what we already know about him. That includes his past: the school where he taught, previous jobs, clubs he was involved with as a younger man. An antecedent history will help us to work out what, if anything, connects him to the other victims. Anything you can think of, however trivial it may seem, we’d like to know about.’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought.’ Parker added: ‘We’ve been together since university.’

  ‘That’s a very long time.’ Her sad tone of voice made Ryan look up.

  Parker was losing it. ‘We were to have been married on March twenty-ninth. Michael and I campaigned for legislation to make that possible. He chose the first available date. Said he’d waited long enough. He was so excited . . .’ Parker struggled to finish what he’d started. ‘He had such plans. Can you believe it? After three decades of soliciting votes for equality, we nearly made it.’ He dropped his head in his hands and wept. Ryan fucking hated his job sometimes.

  40

  Heathrow was packed as always, travellers anxious to get away on time, last call for the 08.55 British Airways flight to Copenhagen just announced. Ryan and O’Neil made it with seconds to spare before the gates closed, an accident on the airport approach road having delayed their arrival. In the end they’d had to abandon their taxi and run the rest of the way.

  Prior to that mad dash, Ryan had called Grace and asked her to look into the names he’d found on Michael Tierney’s laptop, and if possible arrange for them to meet with the three Copenhagen-based individuals. The response had just arrived in his inbox.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ O’Neil was trying to read over his shoulder.

  ‘Agnete Møller is presently in London, Rolv Jakobsen in Switzerland. They’re business acquaintances, not close associ
ates or friends. Neither has seen or heard from Tierney recently. Both are out of the frame for his death. They were in the US at the time – on Wall Street, to be precise. Nice work if you can get it.’

  ‘They’re alibiing each other? How convenient.’

  ‘That was my first thought. Grace has been on to the FBI and confirmed they were in the country. The good news is Pål Friis is available to talk to us this afternoon.’

  ‘Time?’

  ‘Three o’clock.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Graham Hunter has been located, an address in Westoe Village—’

  ‘Near South Shields?’

  Ryan pulled a face, a roll of the eyes almost. ‘Yeah, I know – a ferry ride away from North Shields. Could we be that lucky?’ O’Neil didn’t give a reply and Ryan didn’t wait for one. ‘Newman is on it as we speak. If I know Frank, he’ll turn up unannounced—’

  ‘Without ID?’

  ‘He’ll think of something.’

  Her stare could penetrate metal. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No, Grace has been busy. The CCTV cross-reference you ordered has come back positive. One vehicle – a VW Golf GTi – seen on North Shields Fish Quay in the early hours of Sunday and in Whitley Bay around midday. Spot on for James Fraser’s time of death—’

  ‘Trashed?’

  He nodded. ‘Burnt-out and abandoned on an industrial estate in Byker. It was there on Monday when staff opened up and reported to the local nick. No bloody use to us whatsoever. It had been half-inched from someone’s drive a few streets away.’

  ‘Might be a coincidence. Thieving kids—’

  ‘Either way, there’s zero likelihood of IDing the offenders. Both occupants in the car were wearing headgear.’

  As the plane began to pull off its stand, O’Neil’s mood was as leaden as the sky overhead. She remained like that for much of the journey, freezing Ryan out to the point that he didn’t feel he could converse with her. He knew she’d come round eventually but suspected he might have a long wait. He couldn’t help thinking of their last plane trip together. The investigation into Jack’s death had taken them to Norway, and despite the fact they’d started out on opposite sides, with Ryan suspended and O’Neil heading an investigation into Jack’s alleged misconduct, they’d established a camaraderie that was sadly missing now.

  Ryan put his head back and shut his eyes. That last outing hadn’t been all work. As he drifted off to sleep he could almost smell the sea. Her red hair wafted in the breeze as they shared a drink on the brygge in Tønsberg, yacht rigging slapping against masts as crafts bobbed up and down in choppy water, seabirds swooping in search of food, pecking at the boardwalk where hours before fishing vessels had tied up. O’Neil was happy then . . . and so was he.

  They touched down in Denmark’s capital just after eleven, a traffic detail picking them up, transporting them to the city’s headquarters swiftly with the aid of blues and twos. With a plan to stay over for one night only, they had a full schedule ahead of them: a briefing with Danish detectives; visits to the embassy and crime scene; an interview with a key witness – the only witness as far as they could tell – and a meeting with Pål Friis.

  With a reputation for excellent international cooperation through Interpol – and with Europol in the Hague – Danish police had been quick to respond to O’Neil’s request for information, first through their liaison officer in London and later with the Efterforskningsenheden, the Danish equivalent of British CID. The branch responsible for murder investigation, the Drabsafdelingen, had put her in touch with the senior investigating officer dealing with Ambassador Paul Dean’s murder, Politikommisær Liisa Ølgaard.

  It was agreed that they would meet at Copenhagen Police HQ located on Polititorvet, southwest of the city centre. It was unlike any headquarters either Northumbria detective had ever visited, a piece of architecture to behold: neoclassical, triangular in shape, four storeys high with a circular central courtyard close to Copenhagen’s Havn.

  Ølgaard was no Sarah Lund, the fictional detective who’d shot to fame in the internationally successful and incomparable Danish TV crime series, The Killing. In place of the Faroese jumper and jeans the screen character was known for, Ølgaard wore a no-nonsense pair of strides and a crisp pink shirt, sleeves rolled up ready for business. She was very approachable, if a little reserved – and tiny. Ryan had the feeling that their joint case was every bit as complex as the storylines and plot-twists Lund had to cope with.

  ‘Because of Dean’s diplomatic status, our Security and Intelligence Service were brought in as soon as the DVD arrived at the embassy.’ Ølgaard uploaded photographs onto a smart screen on the wall. ‘As you can see, the scene was an abandoned building, not that far from the Ambassador’s residence, but an unlikely spot for him to visit willingly. There must have been some coercion going on.’

  ‘I understand you reported it as a robbery,’ O’Neil said.

  ‘At the request of your government, yes. Our investigators knew it wasn’t a straightforward robbery case, though the ambassador’s wallet was not on the body. His secretary is adamant that he had it with him when he left. She saw him pick it up along with his telephone before he left the embassy that day. We found his phone but not the wallet. Either the offender took it or someone else picked it up.’

  ‘No attempt to use his credit cards since?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘None.’ Ølgaard paused. ‘They probably took the cash and dumped the rest. Our Security and Intelligence Service were recalled to the case when British Intelligence informed us of a possible link with a second death in the UK.’

  The Brits exchanged a look.

  ‘You’re very well informed,’ O’Neil said.

  ‘They have reason to keep me sweet.’ Before Ryan could query that odd comment, Ølgaard picked up the baton. ‘I’ve been told that a senior member of your judiciary was the second victim. That he was due to try members of a terror cell operating across European borders and planning an attack on your country. This is of great concern to us. We must all be vigilant.’

  ‘Indeed we must,’ O’Neil said. ‘May we go to the embassy before we visit the crime scene?’

  ‘Of course, not that it will take you anywhere,’ Ølgaard said. ‘I have a car waiting.’

  Ryan and O’Neil sat in the back, wondering what Ølgaard meant by the British government keeping her sweet. Sounded like an information exchange. She sat up front next to a female traffic officer whose driving style reminded Ryan of Grace. One speed. No dawdling. They left HQ heading south-east on Polititorvet until they reached a crossroads, then right into Bernstoffsgade, right again into Vester Farimagsgade, passing two large parks in quick succession.

  It took less than fifteen minutes to reach the embassy.

  The red stucco building was surrounded by iron railings and flanked by smart apartment blocks; a trio of flags – British, Danish and European – flapping in the breeze outside. The main gate opened as the traffic car approached. It was obvious that they were expected.

  Ølgaard was very efficient.

  A keen sense of direction – confirmed by a quick Google search – confirmed Ryan’s belief that they had merely skirted the harbour and were now a lot closer to the open sea. He could smell it in the air as he got out of the car. It made him instantly homesick.

  Dean’s replacement greeted the group in person as they entered the building. For a diplomat, she was relatively young, around Ryan’s age. She examined them with sharp, intelligent eyes, a half-smile all she could summon due to the solemnity of the occasion.

  ‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘I’m Ambassador Dean’s replacement, Ruth Calvert. I’m only sorry your visit here is under such tragic circumstances. Please, Nora will take your coats, then we can adjourn to the library.’

  Formalities dispensed with, they moved through an adjoining door and all sat down. Ryan and O’Neil went through the motions, paying their respects to the Ambassador’s predecessor. Half an hour later, they le
ft on foot, following the path he’d taken on that fateful day, their driver agreeing to go by road and meet them at the crime scene.

  ‘We checked the hospitals as soon as Ambassador Dean was reported missing,’ Ølgaard said as they walked. ‘At first we thought he’d been involved in some kind of accident. Naturally, because of his diplomatic status, we reported the matter to the Foreign Office immediately.’

  ‘You knew him well?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Not well, but we’d met a couple of times. I’m so sorry we didn’t take better care of him.’

  ‘Not your fault.’ O’Neil didn’t dwell on it. ‘The judge you mentioned – his body was removed from the crime scene. This is pure speculation but we think the offenders left the Ambassador in situ because they were unfamiliar with their surroundings and therefore loath to dispose of his body elsewhere – though the harbour is nearby.’

  The comment confused Ølgaard.

  ‘Most of our crime scenes are close to water: sea, river, loch,’ O’Neil explained. ‘Perhaps a lack of transport hampered them here.’

  ‘Or they were disturbed and left in a hurry.’

  ‘That’s probably the case.’

  ‘I find it curious that they changed their modus operandi after the first killing.’ Ølgaard’s eyes scanned the warehouse and came to rest on her British counterparts. ‘Your countryman, Mr Dean, was a gentle man, very popular among Danish people. His disappearance was scandalous, his death in our country shameful. It shocked us all, not just the police here in Copenhagen but the wider community of Denmark.’ She flicked her eyes to the stinking warehouse. ‘This is no place to find the end.’

  41

  O’Neil thanked Ølgaard for her cooperation, asking to see the witness Anja Pedersen next. The car took them back to HQ. Anja was brought to the interview room within minutes of their arrival, a skinny figure, thirty-five years old with bright blue eyes and hair to match. She was casually dressed, a canvas satchel slung over her shoulder, reminding Ryan of the yellow one he hoped Northumbria underwater search units were currently trying to find in the waters of the Fish Quay.