The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  Only one of those statements was true. Ryan knew that now. How much effort must it have taken to keep up the pretence of normality? Then again, what other choice did O’Neil have? If she’d folded, not only would Stephen Forsythe have won, he’d have stripped her naked, taking away the one thing of value she had left: her career.

  Devastating as it must have been, O’Neil wasn’t the type to wallow in self-pity. It took a woman with real strength of character to pick herself up and carry on as if nothing had happened. Ryan had heard nothing on the grapevine. Not a whisper. If there had been any police guests at her wedding, they loved her enough not to breathe a word. In an organization riddled with rumour and speculation, that spoke volumes. It was then that Ryan made his decision to offer her a shoulder, should she want one, and to hell with the consequences. Not to make that play was unthinkable. He would do it as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He couldn’t bear not to. He’d rather ship out.

  43

  Grace had booked them into the Marriott on Kalvebod Brygge, a fifteen-minute taxi ride from the airport. Ryan wondered if the waterside location was deliberate or coincidental, whether O’Neil had chosen it herself. Probably not, he decided. He couldn’t see her cosying up for a nightcap this trip, forgiving him anytime soon for questioning her over Hilary Forsythe, or reneging on her decision to keep her private life a closely guarded secret from those who didn’t already know – those that didn’t need to.

  The drink Ryan offered was declined, so he said goodnight and took the elevator to his fourth-floor room. With nothing better to do than mope around, and no dinner on the cards, he raided the mini-bar. Opening a beer and a packet of nuts, he sat down near the window. The view of the city’s picturesque harbour was even better in the dark than he imagined it might be in the daytime.

  The hands on his watch clicked on, minute after painful minute, each one seeming to take an hour to move. He considered ringing Caroline, but didn’t want to tie up the phone in case O’Neil changed her mind about that drink. When she didn’t get in touch, he became increasingly restless. Twice he picked up his phone to call and have it out with her, but each time he bottled it.

  He would . . .

  Just not now.

  Flicking TV channels bored him rigid. He switched off the set in favour of his iPad. The act of keying the name into Google made his guts heave. The YouTube clip was a close-up. Stephen Forsythe was a handsome man. Impeccably dressed. Classy – on the outside at least – steely eyes, velvet voice, the kind it would be hard to argue with, in or out of a courtroom.

  Ryan wasn’t fooled.

  During his career he’d been cross-examined by a succession of guys like Forsythe. Beneath a self-assured delivery on legal precedent, an arrogant shit lurked, hamming it up in front of a captive audience. He’d go down well with Spielberg. Ending the clip, Ryan threw the device on the bed, put on his running kit and made his way downstairs to hit the gym.

  Ignoring the free weights, he took to a running machine. His efforts were rewarded. Within minutes, his negativity faded away, the release of endorphins producing a feeling of euphoria. He felt cleansed, regenerated, pumped up and prepared for anything. He was about to terminate his run when he recognized a face through the mirrored wall in front of him.

  O’Neil looked around, didn’t see him, or pretended not to.

  Dumping her bag on the floor, she completed a few stretches and fired up a treadmill of her own. Her warm-up routine graduated to a gentle jog, red hair turning dark at the base of her neck as it became soaked in sweat.

  Ryan stayed put, hoping to catch her when she’d finished, maybe chance a second invitation to the bar; 10k later he was still waiting, still running . . . bloody exhausted. With no more energy left, he slowed, cut the power and stepped from the machine. Throwing a towel round his neck, he ambled in her direction, trying to make out that his legs weren’t ready to collapse. This time she acknowledged him. She had no other choice.

  ‘Blimey!’ She whipped her safety cord out of the machine’s console, ending her workout. ‘You really went for it.’

  She didn’t know the half.

  Ryan had been running for a full hour, beating his personal best by miles. He could feel muscles he didn’t even know he had. Before he could answer – he had no energy left for speech – O’Neil was in work mode, banging on about the case, not a bit out of breath.

  ‘I was thinking about Pedersen. She might have one foot on Fantasy Island, but her powers of observation seemed pretty impressive to me – she’d registered our suspects’ clothes, their body language, their attempt to conceal the fact they were together. I’m inclined to believe her, aren’t you?’ Ryan could only manage a nod in response. ‘If we ever nick anyone, she’ll make an excellent witness. There’s no doubt in her mind that the couple she observed were not Danes. You can ID foreigners from what they’re wearing. The unfamiliar rucksack, the odd behaviour, the fact that the two turned away when they saw the security guards, it all fits. These are the offenders we’re hunting, Ryan. This is our big breakthrough.’

  ‘Guv, I hear you. Can we celebrate in the bar? I’m choking for a drink.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll grab a shower and see you in there.’

  Fifteen minutes later, O’Neil walked into the Pier 5 bar in a tracksuit, hair still wet, skin glowing, eyes alert as she walked towards Ryan. She was smiling, but nonetheless he felt slightly nervous of her renewed sociability. He summoned a waiter and they ordered a light supper: pink grapefruit and Caesar salad for her, Jacobsen Weissbier and club sandwich for him.

  As they finished eating, her mobile rang. Checking the display, she got up and left the table without telling him who it was. She was away so long, he wondered if she was ever going to return and was relieved when she reappeared and sat down, picking up her drink.

  ‘Problem?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

  ‘I thought you said no more secrets.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’ She levelled with him. ‘Hilary was contacted by the Home Office and asked to explain himself. Ford’s been whingeing that I haven’t fed back on progress, picked up his messages or returned his calls.’

  ‘Like you’ve had the time.’

  ‘That’s what I told Hilary.’ She caught Ryan’s eye over the top of her glass. ‘I owe you one, Ryan. Using Newman was a good call. He’s our secret weapon.’

  ‘Yeah, but for how long?’

  ‘We’re cool. The power play between MI5 and MI6 doesn’t bother me. The counter-terrorism unit are understandably nervous about details of the trial getting out. I can see their point of view – none of us want terrorists loose on our streets. That was their only interest in Trevathan’s murder and our investigation—’

  ‘They seem pretty interested in where we’re getting our information. What did Hilary tell Ford?’

  ‘Not to underestimate me. He’s my number one fan.’ O’Neil didn’t smile. ‘No names, no pack-drill – that’s how we were set up and how we’ll continue to operate if Hilary gets his way. Believe me, he’s no pushover.’

  ‘I like him already.’

  ‘He’s a good man. A decent man.’

  Ryan could see she was on the edge of going further. When she didn’t do so, he made it easy for her. ‘MI5 and/or Hilary must know there’s someone else on our team.’

  ‘But not who it is. I threw Hilary a bone. He doesn’t hold the monopoly on secrets. Officially, our unit consists of three. Two are sitting at this table. The other one is the inimitable Grace Ellis, retired cop and ex-colleague he knows I have a lot of time for.’

  ‘They swallowed it?’

  She waggled her right hand. ‘Ford did ask Hilary to think again.’

  ‘The grey man’s not altogether stupid then.’

  ‘Hilary can’t disclose what he doesn’t know.’ O’Neil ran a hand through her hair and let it fall into place, a victorious expression on her face. ‘There are some things I like to keep from him. I
’m not talking about his son’s sexual proclivities either.’

  ‘So, no need to warn Frank?’

  O’Neil shook her head. ‘Newman, I’m not worried about. As he’s demonstrated already, he’s more than capable of watching his own back.’

  ‘And ours.’ Ryan pointed at her empty glass. ‘You ready for something stronger?’

  ‘You think I need it?’

  ‘I think I might.’ Ryan hoped she wasn’t going to turn weird again. He couldn’t handle that. They lapsed into silence. For the first time since he’d entered the bar, he became aware of music playing gently in the background. A P!nk track: ‘Just Give Me a Reason’. O’Neil was staring at him. Maybe she was going to flip. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

  ‘You didn’t say anything.’ She hesitated. ‘Ryan, you have something unrelated to the case on your mind. It’s getting in the way and I don’t like it.’

  Was she hinting that he should now bring up her split from Forsythe Jnr? Ryan was confused. She’d made it clear that she didn’t want to talk about being dumped on her arse. He bought himself time by attracting the attention of a passing waiter. He ordered a pint, she chose gin and tonic with ice and cucumber.

  O’Neil waited until the drinks arrived before continuing. ‘Well? Are you going to spit it out?’

  ‘The beer? No, it’s good.’ The joke fell flat.

  Ryan put his glass down on the table, not knowing where to begin. She could never have married in secret. Regulations demanded that serving officers disclose a change in circumstances, so there would have been those in the know and those in the dark. Ryan was now somewhere in between: aware of what had happened, forbidden to discuss it. He was done with her avoidance tactics and felt compelled to say something.

  Shit or bust, mate . . .

  ‘Guv, what’s been said can never be unsaid. I’ll take a hike if you want, but sooner or later you’ll have to talk to me. Although none of it is strictly my business, I can’t walk around like nothing’s happened. It’s unfair of you to ask me to. I don’t have a problem with knowing. Clearly you do.’ He never took his eyes off her. ‘It’s like you said – “something is getting in the way” – but not from my side. You’re the one who closed the door.’

  Her glare could have knocked him over.

  ‘You want to know how I feel, is that what you’re saying?’

  He gave it to her straight. ‘I don’t want you to talk about what happened if it upsets you. I just need to understand where your head is if we’re going to work together. More than that, I want the real you, not the one preoccupied with what Grace, Frank and I know about your personal life. Personally, I’d like to punch Forsythe’s lights out for what he did to you. But in the long run I reckon he did you a favour: you’re better off without him, Eloise.’

  O’Neil held his gaze. ‘It’s hard for me to talk about.’

  ‘I know. What I don’t understand is what you ever saw in him. He’s a sleazebag.’

  O’Neil panicked. ‘You’ve talked to him?’

  ‘No, of course not. I didn’t need to. For those who care to look, the preening arse is all over YouTube.’ He held out his mobile. ‘Check it out if you don’t believe me.’ She didn’t take it. ‘You know what else? Forsythe was everything I suspected he might be. It beggars belief how you could be taken in by such a nob.’

  O’Neil laughed, but despite her efforts to shrug it off, she obviously wasn’t anywhere close to being over it. The subject was as raw today as last Christmas Eve. He should’ve spotted it long before now.

  ‘Do you still love him?’

  ‘No!’

  That was all Ryan wanted to hear.

  A stab of pain pierced his chest. Finding out that she’d been jilted had affected him more than he cared to admit. Statements as well as questions spilled out of his mouth in quick succession. He simply couldn’t help himself. ‘Callous bastard. Why didn’t the selfish prick have the guts to tell you sooner? What was it he found so threatening – your intellect, your independence?’

  ‘Who knows? He spars with women like me across a courtroom every day. Maybe he required a more subservient female to bolster his ego and open her legs at his command.’

  ‘He never explained why?’

  ‘I never gave him the opportunity.’

  ‘Did he even try?’

  ‘Not so much as a whisper.’

  ‘You had no inkling?’

  ‘None . . .’ O’Neil choked on her words but her eyes were dry. ‘Over dinner the night before he said I was the best thing that ever happened to him. He gave me a Cartier necklace to wear on our wedding day and we toasted our life together. “Just the two of us,” he said. He wanted my exclusive attention before he had to share me with friends and family. I was well and truly conned.’

  ‘Stop, Eloise—’

  ‘No, I want to tell you.’ There was the hint of a wry smile forming. ‘One lucky Oxfam shopper may be wearing a Cartier without even realizing. Stephen would be a bit cross if he knew.’

  ‘He’s a fool.’

  ‘Makes two of us. I was heading for a car crash and didn’t see it coming . . . can you imagine how that made me feel?’ Her mobile rang a second time. It was an unwelcome intrusion, cutting their conversation dead, breaking the connection they were so close to making.

  Ryan hated being contactable 24/7.

  ‘It’s Grace, I’d better take it.’ O’Neil pressed to receive the call and listened for a full half-minute, a frown developing. ‘OK . . . yes, there’s a reason for that.’ There was a long pause during which her eyes found his, her intense expression implying news of some sort. Not the good kind, if Ryan was reading her correctly. ‘I’ll explain when we return to base . . . yes, he’s with me now. I’ll tell him, thanks for letting me know.’ A flash of temper. ‘I said so, didn’t I? Don’t question my authority, Grace. We’ll discuss it when I get there.’ Another pause. Eloise climbed down. ‘Yes, I will. You too.’ She hung up. ‘We’ve had contact from Spielberg.’

  ‘Another scene?’

  ‘I don’t know. She won’t talk to anyone but you.’

  44

  Despite a severe weather warning set to cause travel disruption, their flight left Copenhagen on schedule, touching down at Newcastle International at five minutes to two, local time. Newman was waiting in the short-stay car park, leaning against his car. He’d driven out to collect them, leaving Grace holding the fort. Concerned that she’d been working too hard, he’d begged her to ease up. She’d refused. Marriage or no marriage, there was no taming the pit bull.

  Ryan promised to have a word.

  ‘Good luck with that,’ was all Newman said in reply. He seemed preoccupied.

  Ryan glanced in the rear-view, catching O’Neil’s eye. ‘Working too hard’ was a euphemism for something far more serious. They both knew what it was and had discussed it on the flight. O’Neil would deal with it during their debrief later. She expected fireworks and had voiced the unsettling notion that another DVD was about to drop in their laps.

  With a feeling of foreboding, Ryan waited for the right moment to approach Grace. After her words with O’Neil on the phone the night before, the retired detective was keen to clear the air and brief them on developments, hinting that there was much to discuss. Ryan could tell she was itching to get started. He wished he felt the same but the atmosphere in the room gave him a sense of foreboding.

  ‘Miss me?’ he whispered.

  Grace shot him a dirty look. ‘No.’

  ‘Not even a smidge?’

  ‘You missed your chance, mate. I’m taken.’ Grace always hid behind humour when she was mad about something. Avoiding eye contact, she glanced across the room, her focus on Newman. He’d just sat down at a computer terminal and was logging on. Notwithstanding her present tetchy mood, Ryan could tell that she was smitten, impossibly in love with the spook and upset that they had argued.

  ‘How’s it working out with Frank?’

  ‘What’s with the sma
ll talk?’ Grace turned, a scowl on her face. ‘If you must know, it was nice to have him to myself for a day or two. We stayed over last night and I screwed his brains out on your bed. Hope you don’t mind.’ The smile on her lips never made it to her eyes. ‘Thought I’d better tell you before the boss asks how your laundry made it to the washer on its own.’

  The comment reminded Ryan of his conversation with Caroline. When he’d called to tell her he wouldn’t be able to pay her a visit, she’d volunteered to drop by with a change of clothes for him. He glanced at his watch, hoping she’d arrive before Spielberg made contact. He needed her take on the call.

  Grace was daydreaming again, her focus back on Newman. Ryan envied their relationship. Solid as a rock, it had stood the test of time, despite long periods of heartbreak and separation.

  ‘Feel free to use the bed anytime,’ he said. ‘How could I object? You’re practically on honeymoon.’

  ‘We’ll always be on honeymoon.’ She softened, her words laced with regret. ‘We have years to make up for. I only wish we hadn’t wasted so much time.’

  ‘Be grateful, Grace. It might never have happened.’

  ‘I’m still pinching myself that it has.’ She flicked hard eyes towards O’Neil, who was standing on the far side of the room, engaged on the phone, uptight and on edge. Whoever she was talking to, it wasn’t going well. Grace was almost tapping her foot in frustration. ‘Is the boss still giving you the cold shoulder?’

  ‘No. We’re cool.’

  She raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Chilly is how I’d describe your relationship when you left for Brighton. She’s hardly said a word to me since you flew in, Newman either for that matter. Any idea what that might be about?’ Grace twisted the knife. ‘Anyone would think you two had something to hide. Are there any guilty secrets you’re dying to share?’

  ‘Quit fishing,’ Ryan said. ‘And stop talking in riddles. If you have something to say, say it. Eloise and I are good.’

  ‘Have it your own way,’ she whispered through gritted teeth.

  ‘Well, she was fine before you two talked last night.’