The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  O’Neil began the briefing at six o’clock sharp, keen to show leadership and not dwell on the past. ‘The British Embassy in Copenhagen have supplied CCTV footage from the Friday before Ambassador Dean was murdered. Anja Pedersen’s two suspicious characters are on it. She was spot on in her description, although the images aren’t great. They match none we have on the database. Politikommisær Liisa Ølgaard acted quickly, questioning the security detail Pedersen claims walked off without challenging the suspects. I’m afraid she drew a blank. Unwilling to incriminate themselves, they aren’t coughing.’ She turned to Ryan. ‘Talking of cameras, is there any update on the model Spielberg is using?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said.

  ‘Nothing on her accent either?’ Grace volunteered without a prompt. ‘The voice-recognition bods are taking their time. It’s as well we have Caroline here for when Spielberg rings.’

  O’Neil glanced across the room. Caroline had her earphones in, listening to the audiotape of Ryan’s last conversation with Spielberg. She was paying them no attention. ‘Chase these enquiries when we’re done, Grace. Frank, what about the local contact we found in Tierney’s address book?’

  ‘Graham Hunter is a businessman, or should I say was—’

  ‘Dead?’ she asked.

  ‘As good as. He still owns a home in South Tyneside but no longer lives there, nor is he working in the field of corporate finance any longer. His employer let him go last year when he became too ill to continue – it was a generous handshake, by all accounts. Hunter and his missus won’t ever have to worry about money again. Which is just as well because Mrs H has her own medical problems that made it impossible for her to care for him at home. Hunter moved into St Oswald’s six months ago.’

  ‘There’s no place better,’ O’Neil said.

  Ryan wondered how she knew. St Oswald’s was a hospice for palliative care.

  Newman’s voice pulled him in another direction. ‘Mrs H showed me photographs. Hunter is hanging on by his fingernails.’

  ‘I take it you checked his admission record?’ The question had come from Grace.

  Newman gave her a pointed look. His reluctance to dignify her question with an answer was proof in itself that Hunter wasn’t their guy.

  ‘Sussex Police are investigating the rest of Tierney’s friends and associates,’ O’Neil said. ‘Most of his contacts are London-based or living abroad, many of them in Asia. Hunter was the exception, which raises the question: why? Is he different in some way?’

  ‘Are you kidding?’ Grace said. ‘When do we northerners get a look in where high finance is concerned? We’re much too busy collecting coal off the beach and wearing flat caps.’ At every opportunity she was vocal on the subject of the north–south divide.

  O’Neil cut her off before she could climb on her soapbox. ‘Will HOLMES automatically throw out any direct hits, Grace?’

  ‘No.’ There was nothing she didn’t know about the major incident computer system she’d helped set up. ‘But all indexers are trained to cross-reference names as a matter of course. They’ll do that at the input stage. Every person has a unique reference number in case two people have the same name. It happens more often than you might think.’

  ‘Have there been any duplicates?’

  ‘No merged records so far.’

  ‘Let’s move on then.’ O’Neil shifted her attention. ‘Ryan? You wanted to talk about victims?’

  ‘Yes. Discounting James Fraser, the three victims whose bodies we have recovered are high-achievers: all male, influential, middle-aged. A definite cluster.’ Heads were nodding. ‘The missing victim from North Shields is different – and not because she’s female. It’s her age. She’s a lot younger than the men, in Watson’s opinion—’

  ‘Ah, the Word, according to Stevie Watson. We all know what a tosser he is.’ Grace hadn’t forgiven Gloria’s punter for knocking her to the ground and was waiting to make his life difficult. Ridiculing him verbally would do for now. In time, she’d show him up in other ways. He could count on it.

  Ryan ignored the interruption. ‘If she’s a lot younger than the men, it stands to reason that the killers’ link to her is more recent. She could be the key to unlock this investigation. For what it’s worth, I think we should concentrate our efforts on her.’

  ‘When we have an ID, we’ll do that,’ O’Neil said. ‘In the meantime, unless you know something I don’t, may I remind you that we’ve not established a geographical link between any of the victims, nor have we identified a school or university as the common denominator—’

  ‘That’s precisely my point,’ Ryan said. ‘The fact that the victims aren’t of the same age means we’re not searching for a class of ’88 or anything like that. Maybe these are hate crimes.’

  ‘Go on.’ O’Neil was interested.

  ‘Tierney is in a close relationship now. Trevathan never married. We’ve almost certainly ruled James Fraser out, but he lived alone. He’s a young trendy male. Am I making links where there are none?’

  ‘You’re a straight man making gay men look bad,’ Grace said.

  ‘That’s unfair,’ O’Neil said.

  ‘I agree,’ Newman said. ‘You’re well out of order.’

  ‘OK. You’re right . . .’ Grace climbed down. ‘For once.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ Ryan said.

  ‘I didn’t . . . oh, funny guy.’ Grace pulled a face. ‘I’m splitting my sides here.’

  ‘Children, can we please get on?’ O’Neil said. ‘Look, we’re all feeling frustrated, but I need your heads up and your minds on the job. There’s been enough in-fighting and time-wasting. We need to stand together now. There will be a link. We just need to find it. Please, one of you, give me something to go on. Ryan?’

  ‘The fact that our male victims didn’t attend the same school or university doesn’t mean that they aren’t connected by an experience they might have shared at separate boarding schools. Maybe an interschool sports club or study group, some other extracurricular activity—’

  ‘Is that a euphemism for something more sinister?’ Grace asked, his words having piqued her interest. ‘Are you suggesting a paedophile ring?’

  ‘I’m just putting it on the table. What does everyone else think?’ He turned to face O’Neil. ‘Guv, you said yourself that anywhere that houses children worries you. Let’s examine that in more detail.’

  ‘I know what I said, but if there was abuse at the boarding school where Tierney was a pupil, it’s not been reported. He’d hardly go there to teach if he’d been abused—’

  ‘Unless he’s a victim turned abuser,’ Grace said. ‘There are plenty around. Where better to find your prey than in a job that brings you face to face with vulnerable youngsters? I’m with Ryan on this. It’s worthy of further investigation. The victim-to-victimizer cycle is too big of an issue to ignore.’

  ‘Whether or not it’s proven?’ Newman said.

  Grace challenged him. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘I’m just making a point. That theory has been open to interpretation for years.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting that all abused children turn into abusers, just that Tierney might have. In light of Operation Yewtree, we can’t ignore it.’ Grace was alluding to a Metropolitan Police initiative to investigate a string of historical sex abuse allegations against high-profile figures, many of whom had continued their activities for decades. Some offences had been reported and not properly investigated, regardless of credible complaints based on reliable evidence. Historical abuse was the hottest issue around. It had dominated headlines for months.

  ‘I have to agree,’ Ryan said.

  ‘I do too,’ O’Neil said. ‘But let’s debate the victim-turned-abuser issue on our own time and stick to the facts. All we currently have is confirmation that Tierney once worked at a boarding school he attended as a child. Of itself, it means nothing, but Trevathan and Dean were also schooled away from home. All three men held high-end jobs – all w
ith connections to the capital – which may or may not have put them in touch with one another. Given that they are all now dead, and their killer is telling us they all deserved to be so, we have to be open-minded to the possibility that they were sex offenders with no form.’

  ‘We’re going round in circles,’ Grace said. ‘You said there were no reports of abuse at the school.’

  ‘With respect,’ Ryan corrected her, ‘she actually said we can’t find any. Doesn’t mean there are none. Allegations of this nature might not have reached local authorities or the police. They could easily have been suppressed, or worse, destroyed to protect the school’s reputation. You know as well as I do that it’s happened before. If there was abuse and Spielberg knows about it . . .’ He let the implication hang in the air for a second. ‘She’s on a short fuse. We all know how long justice takes in this country. Maybe she and her accomplice aren’t prepared to wait that long—’

  ‘You’re suggesting she’s twatting them before they ever get to court?’ Grace palmed her brow. ‘Great! All we need is an avenging angel who’s off her trolley.’

  ‘No,’ Ryan said. ‘The woman I spoke to is perfectly sane. She knows exactly what she’s doing and why she’s doing it.’

  Newman had been quiet for ages. ‘I agree with Ryan. She might not be an abuse victim herself. Perhaps she knows people who are. If she sees herself as some kind of protector, she could be doling out vigilante justice without the victims’ knowledge or consent – or even with it.’

  ‘I would too, if I could get away with it,’ Grace said. ‘Some of the sexual predators on the Yewtree list have the fucking OBE!’ Her eyes found Newman’s. ‘You and I gave the best part of our lives in the service of our country taking shite like that off the street. Our names were never on any New Year’s honours list. These people make me puke. I hope they rot in hell!’

  Ryan cut in. ‘Trevathan was the Lord President of the Court of Sessions. His birth name was Leonard Maxwell. He changed it when he was appointed to the post. I wonder if any of the other victims did the same.’

  ‘No, I already checked,’ Grace said. ‘There are no aliases and no name changes.’

  ‘What’s bugging you, Ryan?’ O’Neil was the one asking.

  ‘This hypothesis works only to a point. Where does our missing female with the yellow satchel fit in?’

  ‘You think women can’t abuse?’ Grace scoffed. ‘Think again.’

  ‘Of course not. Watson called her a “lass” though, didn’t he? If these are historical abuse cases, our theory doesn’t stack up.’

  ‘We only have Watson’s word for it,’ Grace said. ‘What? I’m just saying!’

  Ryan grinned at O’Neil. ‘My new bestie says he’s a bloody good witness.’

  ‘He’s talking about Cath Masters,’ O’Neil explained. ‘Cheeky bugger’s already tried to poach him.’

  ‘I hope you told her “hands off”,’ Grace said.

  ‘I didn’t, but I’m hoping to convince him to stay.’

  Grace looked at Ryan. ‘I wasn’t aware you knew Cath.’

  ‘I didn’t, until she interviewed Watson for us. If she’s inclined to believe him, then so am I. I don’t see her as a pushover.’ He laughed. ‘No pun intended.’ When Grace got up and walked away with no explanation, his jaw dropped. ‘What the hell did I say?’

  Seconds later she re-entered from the hallway with her coat on.

  O’Neil was astounded. ‘Grace? Where on earth do you think you’re going? We’re in the middle of a briefing.’

  ‘Nowhere. And I shouldn’t have to do this to a team so experienced—’

  ‘Do what?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Age is relative to the person giving the description. I don’t deny that the yellow satchel is significant. Of course it is. Designer kit might indicate wealth. It might even point to a woman of prominence or, on the other end of the spectrum, a shoplifter. It certainly doesn’t mean she’s young. In fact, I’ll stick my neck out here and say Watson knows shit! Bear with me . . .’ Slinging her shoulder bag over her head – left shoulder to right thigh – Grace laid face down on the floor. She was wearing jeans, high-heeled boots and a three-quarter-length red coat. She covered her face with her hair. Unit members had already worked out what she was doing. It was quite a demonstration. Caroline’s guide dog laid down beside her, snuggled into her body and licked her face as he’d been trained to do.

  Ryan and O’Neil roared with laughter.

  Even Newman was amused. ‘Suddenly I’m married to a thirty-year-old,’ he said.

  ‘Lucky you!’ Ryan’s focus was still on the floor. ‘You’re such a drama queen, Grace. Get up!’

  O’Neil tried unsuccessfully to keep her face straight and call the team to order. She couldn’t do it. Two phones rang, one after the other, ending the joviality. As Grace scrambled to her feet to answer the landline, O’Neil went for her pocket, her smile melting away as she checked the display. She held the device out to Ryan. ‘Operation Shadow,’ she said. And then for Caroline’s benefit. ‘That’s the code for Spielberg I gave to Control.’

  Ryan pressed to answer. He was all ears.

  47

  The senior controller came on the line. It threw Ryan off balance to the point that he didn’t catch the first sentence. ‘. . . a priority greater than the call you were expecting,’ he explained. ‘He ordered me to abandon the call and put him through immediately.’

  ‘Rewind, Stan. Who did?’

  ‘Ford. He came through on the priority line. Our mapping technology doesn’t extend beyond the force area, so I couldn’t instantly verify his ID. I had to call the number we have for the Home Office and be put through. He’s legit and wouldn’t take no for an answer. When I argued, he threatened me with blue forms.’

  Ryan raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Blue forms’ was a term used for disciplinary action within the force. ‘He conned you, mate. He hasn’t got the balls, never mind the authority, with or without an SW1 address.’

  All heads turned in Ryan’s direction, including Grace’s. She could see something was going down and couldn’t wait to get off the phone and find out what it was. O’Neil was already second-guessing that Ford had something to do with it.

  Seeing her interest, Ryan muted the mobile and filled her in.

  ‘Put the phone on speaker.’ She waited for him to do so and then spoke. ‘This is O’Neil. Are you out of your mind? Explain yourself.’

  ‘I had a call to make, ma’am. With respect, my job was on the line, not yours. “A matter of life and death” – those were Ford’s exact words.’

  ‘Is our caller holding?’

  ‘No, when I asked her to wait, she rang off.’

  ‘Damn it, Stan!’ O’Neil locked eyes with Ryan, worried that Spielberg might have been frightened off – for good. ‘Could you not have diverted her to another line?’

  ‘The trace was set up on your phone, guv.’

  ‘Then why the hell didn’t you put Ford through on the other phone?’

  ‘I tried, it’s engaged.’

  O’Neil’s attention shot across the room. Grace was just hanging up. O’Neil swore under her breath and counted to ten. Stan was still trying to justify his actions . . .

  ‘I was about to try Ryan’s mobile. That’s when I lost your caller. The delay must’ve spooked her.’

  ‘OK . . . put Ford through . . . on the landline. DS Ryan will take over. We’re just going to have to hope she rings back.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I did try.’

  The line clicked.

  ‘Finally!’ Ford said. ‘Have you seen the news, Superintendent? The shit has well and truly hit the fan.’

  ‘It has now.’ Ryan was livid.

  ‘Where’s O’Neil?’ Ford barked.

  O’Neil was shaking her head. She didn’t want to speak to him under any circumstances. The moron had probably thwarted the most important call of the case to date. The success of enquiries hinged on establishing connections with
key witnesses and prime suspects. He’d blown their best chance.

  Ryan lied: ‘My guv’nor is incommunicado at present.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  ‘Switch on your TV then.’

  Ryan did as he was asked. The BBC newscaster Huw Edwards appeared on screen, a breaking news story: ‘It would appear that Ambassador Dean’s murder in Copenhagen is linked to three in England and one in Scotland. This disturbing and highly confidential information we believe was leaked by someone operating within the British Embassy in Denmark . . .’

  ‘And we all know who it was, don’t we?’ Grace said.

  Ryan held a finger to his lips.

  Too late.

  Ford had overheard. ‘I thought you said O’Neil wasn’t there—’

  ‘That was Grace Ellis. Don’t pretend you don’t know who she is, because I know for a fact you do.’

  Ford hesitated for a split second.

  O’Neil seemed torn between snatching the phone up and giving the jobsworth what he deserved and allowing Ryan to handle the grey man without her assistance.

  ‘We know who’ll be responsible for the breach,’ Ryan said. ‘It’ll be one of two security guards—’

  ‘Yes,’ Ford interrupted. ‘Ølgaard told me. They’re being spoken to. That means sacked, in case you’re in any doubt. The fact that they failed us is inconsequential. There’s a media frenzy going on and you need to stamp on it or, believe me, heads will roll here too.’

  ‘Maybe if you’d been upfront with us from the outset we wouldn’t be in this mess. If anyone is joining the dole queue, it won’t be one of us. I’ve pulled some strokes in my time, but you, Mr Ford, have taken it to another level. The lack of communication from your lot in London is staggering. You’ve demonstrated nothing but incompetence. You’re worried about the press? You should be more concerned with saving your own neck.’