The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  ‘Of course I’m worried about the press!’ Ford barked. ‘And so should you be. Very soon the British tabloids will be all over this, interviewing anyone they can lay their hands on. You’d better make sure they don’t—’

  ‘Can I stop you there? The press isn’t a priority. I’m chasing a very dangerous individual while you’re standing idle with your thumb up your arse. Deal with them yourself. Overriding that call wasn’t only bad judgement, it may very well have cost lives.’

  ‘I’m not pandering to the whim of a serial killer—’

  ‘And you’re happy with that decision, are you? We’re wise to you, Mister Ford. We know you’d happily shaft us in order to step onto the next rung of the ladder. Well, it’s not happening. And I’ll tell you why, shall I? All calls into the Control Room are recorded for action and/or further investigation. When my guv’nor gets her hands on a copy of the incident log, it’s you who’ll be heading for the door.’

  ‘You can’t talk to me like that. I’ll have your warrant card!’

  ‘Have a nice day, sir.’ Ryan cut the call, eyes on his boss. ‘Can you believe that moron?’

  O’Neil dropped her head in her hands.

  Grace was giving Ryan a round of applause.

  Newman caught his eye. ‘You think she’ll ring back?’

  Ryan shrugged. He hadn’t the faintest idea.

  48

  Three days had passed without a peep out of her. Ryan checked the time on the menu bar of his computer screen: 8:05 p.m., Friday, 20 December – day eleven of the enquiry for them, the last working day of the year for many. In less than an hour’s time, they would have yet another briefing. He eyed O’Neil across his desk. She had the phone wedged in the crook of her neck and was scribbling furiously on a notepad, trying her best to remain positive, deflecting press enquiries and Ford’s continued interference. She’d told Forsythe that if he didn’t get him off her back, she was out. Ryan knew she didn’t mean it. All the same, it was painful to listen to.

  An email pinged into his inbox, forwarded from Technical Support in-house. It had originated at Ne46 Technology, a third-party analysis firm with premises in the Tyne Valley, a company specializing in video production technologies and sector trends, historical and contemporary.

  Nice to see that someone was still working.

  Ryan’s mood plummeted as he read the opening line of the document:

  It is not possible to establish the brand of camera used from the sample DVD beyond stating that, whilst it is not the most up-to-date, the videos received were definitely shot on an HDCAM recorder capable of digital cinematography. This is available to both keen amateurs and seasoned professionals.

  Beyond that, the written report stated the obvious: the camera was handheld, an aesthetic choice; a technique often chosen by film-makers for time-saving purposes, the device being quicker to set up. The writer pointed out an alternative scenario, that it was a method used by some cinematographers to add realism. Well, it had certainly done that, Ryan thought as he continued reading, becoming more and more impressed with the content the further down the page he got.

  ‘This is fascinating,’ he said.

  Grace looked up. ‘What is?’

  He read out the parts of significance. ‘If we ever find Spielberg, I’ll let you know how accurate it is. How are you faring with Tierney’s boarding school?’

  ‘You want the truth?’ She downed tools, picking up a mug of cold coffee. ‘I’m getting ready to shoot myself.’

  ‘The school is refusing to cooperate?’

  ‘On the contrary, the headmaster handed over everything. But we’ve not found a single shred of evidence pointing to abuse, despite extensive and wide-ranging interviews with current and ex-teachers. Ditto pupils. Local officers found nothing on Tierney – not a whisper of anything untoward – and there are no links to either Dean or Trevathan. No one involved with that boarding school, either when Tierney taught or was a pupil there, has a bad word to say about it or him. It was a happy school. By all accounts, it still is. I just got off the phone with an ex-detective superintendent from West Yorkshire. He speaks so highly of it, I’m inclined to believe we have it wrong.’

  ‘That doesn’t fill me with pride,’ Ryan said. ‘Given that the abuse angle was largely my idea.’

  ‘Largely?’ Grace peered at him over the top of her specs, flicking her eyes in the direction of Newman. ‘Even he looks glum. That doesn’t happen often. See what you’ve done. I reckon it’s time to dump this line of enquiry and move on.’

  ‘Yes!’ O’Neil punched the air, her outburst taking them by surprise. She put down the phone. ‘Guys, we have a major breakthrough. A yellow satchel has been found at the Tide Wrack, exactly as Watson described it, even down to the bloody make. Sorry, Grace, whatever you might think of him personally, he nailed this for us.’

  ‘Is the Tide Wrack a boozer?’ Newman asked.

  ‘No,’ Grace said. ‘It’s the point on the shore at Whitley Bay where only the highest tides reach, where all the loose material is washed up: dead fish, sea creatures, driftwood, items lost at sea. Ecologically, it’s an important source of food for migrating birds and other species.’

  ‘Hold the science lesson,’ O’Neil said. ‘If the victim is the owner of that bag, we have ID: Laura Stone – an award-winning TV documentary maker.’

  Ryan’s reaction was instantaneous. Did Laura know Spielberg?

  O’Neil was still talking. ‘Laura is another high-flier, a recognizable figure in her field of expertise, a budding Lucy Walker, if you will.’

  A deep furrow appeared on Grace’s forehead. ‘Who’s she when she’s at home?’

  ‘She directed Waste Land,’ Ryan said. ‘You know the one. About the garbage pickers in Rio.’

  ‘Bet it was rubbish,’ Grace said, making him laugh.

  O’Neil was too stoked to join in with the hilarity and keen to give them more. ‘Laura was nominated for the British Academy Television Award for Best Single Documentary in 2012. I’m making enquiries regarding content. In the meantime, our priority is finding her body. Tidal experts are calculating where she might be, assuming she’s also in the sea. Underwater search teams will take their lead from them.’

  ‘Is she local?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘She was. Her parents now live in the Ardèche, which might explain why she’s not been reported missing. When her body is found – if it’s found – French police will deal on our behalf. That’s one less problem for us to worry about.’ O’Neil paused. ‘Save the black looks, Ryan. I know it’s not ideal but we have no choice. We’re spread too thinly as it is.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he said.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I was wondering if Laura knew Spielberg, or if Spielberg had a hand in the making of that documentary?’ Four pairs of eyes met across the room. ‘Worth checking out?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Newman turned to face O’Neil. ‘You said Laura was a nominee. Did she win?’

  ‘You’re thinking bad loser?’ Ryan said.

  ‘Just a thought.’ Newman pressed O’Neil. ‘Did she win?’

  ‘No, and I’ll bear that theory in mind. Laura was up against the big guns. A BBC Panorama documentary took the award: Terry Pratchett, Choosing To Die.’

  ‘I listened to that,’ Caroline said. ‘It was sensitively done.’

  ‘Yeah well, Dignitas or no Dignitas, I don’t fancy ending my days on a Swiss Industrial Estate with people I’ve never met before,’ Grace said. ‘When I’ve had enough, I want to die at home drinking gin and smoking Gauloises. You listening, Frank? I’m relying on you to make that happen.’

  ‘Done,’ Newman said.

  Ryan wasn’t interested in their opinions on assisted dying. His mind was buzzing. ‘How old was Laura?’

  O’Neil said: ‘Thirty-two.’

  ‘Then you have my apologies for the drama class,’ Grace said. ‘I still think Watson is a dickhead. I take it Laura now has priority status?’


  O’Neil was nodding. ‘If any of you have outstanding actions that relate directly or indirectly to the abuse angle and Tierney’s school – unless there’s some other link in addition – put them in for referral. Grace, filter that down to incident rooms so they’re not wasting their time. Not only does Laura Stone stand out from other victims in terms of gender and age, she has links with film-making. From day one, we’ve had reason to believe that our killer does too. That means an entirely new direction, starting now.’ There were no arguments.

  49

  O’Neil put her phone on the dash as the countryside flashed by. They were travelling so fast it was merely a smudge of green on either side of their vehicle. ‘I thought you’d like to know that you are no longer answerable, in any way, shape or form, to the grey man,’ she said, a glint of mischief in her eye. ‘The term Hilary used was “surplus to requirements”.’

  ‘Because he got in the way of us talking to our suspect?’

  ‘That didn’t help his case. Forsythe knew he was making life difficult for us and had a quiet word with Newman. I gather emails were intercepted. In Ford’s opinion, we are a couple of mug punters unfit for our current posts. He was currying favour with other junior ministers to back his point of view and have us removed from the unit with immediate effect. It backfired.’

  ‘That is good news.’

  She glanced sideways. ‘I want to thank you, Ryan. Frank is as good as you said he was. I don’t know how long he intends making himself available to us, but he’s an asset I’d hate to lose. Grace too, even though her methods are somewhat unconventional.’ The grin slid off her face. ‘When Ford realizes he’s out, he’ll make a song and dance of it. He’s not a happy man.’

  ‘If he was caught red-handed, he has no grounds for complaint.’

  ‘That won’t stop him. But with Hilary out in the open, there’s no need for a middleman. Still, watch your back.’

  At 14.32, the satnav indicated that they should leave the main road. Following instructions, Ryan brought the vehicle to a halt three miles further on. He got out of the car, happy to stretch his legs, smiling at O’Neil across the roof of their vehicle as she climbed out too. Her focus was the ‘home’ of the person they had come to see, a seventy-foot narrowboat moored close to Shifford Lock on the River Thames in Oxfordshire – a quintessentially English sight if ever they had seen one.

  ‘What I wouldn’t give for life in the slow lane,’ she said.

  ‘Nah . . . you’d be bored in no time.’

  ‘I’d cope . . . it’s a beautiful spot.’

  ‘Yeah. I’ve passed by this way before.’ He thumbed in a northwesterly direction. ‘Fifteen miles that way.’

  ‘Careful, Ryan – that statement links you to a crime scene in Scotland and one here.’

  ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.’ Ryan walked round the car to join her. Balling his hands into fists, he turned them over and held them out ready to be cuffed. ‘Guilty, ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me. An arrest would make me look good. I could do with some positive strokes. It feels like forever since any came my way. We only just got started and already I need time off.’ She scanned the river. ‘This place would fit the bill.’

  ‘There’s a lovely village not far away: Bourton-on the-Water. It was the name that attracted me. If we have time—’

  ‘We don’t,’ she said.

  ‘You’re no fun.’ Ryan pressed his key fob, locking the doors.

  It was misty and even colder on the Thames Path than it had been in King’s Garden, Copenhagen, a climate that penetrated your clothing and pierced your bones. This time he’d come dressed for it: thick socks; sturdy shoes; a Shetland sweater he’d picked up in Lerwick last time he was there, an overcoat for added warmth.

  The vessel in the water was painted British racing green, edged in gold. It floated in perfect harmony with its surroundings, smoke drifting from a stainless steel chimney above the cabin roof. On board, evergreen plants adorned the forward deck. Next to them, two sit-up-and-beg bicycles with worn leather seats leaned against the cabin, shopping baskets front and rear, the only way to transport provisions from the nearest town without a vehicle. There were no cars parked close to the riverside. Londoner, Ryan assumed.

  Stood to reason . . .

  Pointless having a car in the capital.

  His eyes drifted over the craft. They came to rest on bold script across the aft where a professional signwriter had picked out the name LAURE in engravers’ typeface. The French spelling of Laura – like Captain Berthaud, the main character of the TV series Spiral – hit him like a brick. It made him wonder if the producer who owned the vessel had a penchant for a documentary maker of the same name and/or crime – not necessarily fiction.

  He looked at O’Neil.

  ‘I noticed,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s get in there.’

  An attractive woman appeared on the stern deck through a wooden door, a concerned expression on her face. This was, without doubt, Gemma Clark, Laura Stone’s producer. Having googled her before he left, Ryan confirmed her identification to O’Neil with a nod.

  Clark beckoned them aboard.

  Stepping onto the navigation deck, Ryan extended a hand to O’Neil. She ignored it, boarding without his help, disappearing with their host down steep steps into her living quarters. Ducking his head, Ryan followed them into what was essentially a contemporary studio, more generous than he expected, equipped with every modern convenience to facilitate comfortable living.

  Clark turned to face them.

  Ryan’s wish to hear her voice outweighed the pull of the vessel’s stunning interior, but he was unable to engage with her because O’Neil had already begun the introductions.

  ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Eloise O’Neil, Northumbria Police,’ she said. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Matthew Ryan. I understand that you and Laura Stone were very close.’

  Clark nodded.

  Ryan wondered how close.

  The producer had already been informed that personal items belonging to Laura had been found – her bag and ID – and yet she seemed unmoved by the gravity of the situation, not a flicker of upset now or in the recent past. He found that odd. Unsettling.

  Clark swept a hand out, offering the detectives a seat. And still she hadn’t spoken. O’Neil sat down, Ryan likewise, eyes fixed on their host. She was slight in build, around five eight, soft-featured – pretty rather than attractive. Made up, she’d be stunning.

  Film-star looks?

  Ryan shook himself. He wasn’t thinking straight. They now knew that Mrs Forbes had been describing the MI5 agent who’d collected the briefcase. He had to draw a line under that and concentrate on the evidence from the one and only eyewitness currently in the pot, Anja Pedersen. Responding to Ryan’s stare, Clark turned away, put the kettle on the stove and then swung round to face them, resting against the counter while she waited for it to boil.

  ‘Sorry, you must think me very rude,’ she said. ‘Would you like tea or something stronger? You’ve had a long drive.’

  Her accent was Irish.

  What the fuck?

  Lines were blurring again.

  Ryan fought to separate them.

  ‘Was she Irish?’ was a question he’d asked Mrs Forbes. He’d got a negative response but was now beginning to question Newman’s source. Could the couple who took the briefcase be their suspects after all? MI5 had lied to them before, if not directly, then by keeping them in the dark.

  Images of hot women and skinny men scrolled through Ryan’s head, along with Yorkshire and Irish accents, causing him to doubt himself. Complex enquiries made you question everything. For all he knew, Clark could be a failed actress turned producer – skilled in the art of subterfuge – able to pull off any number of personas and dialects without difficulty. Alarm bells were ringing loudly. She didn’t sound like Spielberg. He was taking no chances. She sure as hell possessed some of her attributes.

  With that disturbing ide
a running through his head, he was uneasy sitting with his back to the door. He’d been trained never to allow that to happen. In the confines of the narrow cabin, there was little alternative. The door behind O’Neil was as much of a threat. Ryan felt his heartbeat quicken, senses on alert, survival techniques forming in his mind. It paid to be ready should things kick off. Heavy clothes and the heat from the wood-burning stove weren’t the only things making him sweat. A creak on deck was like a stab between the shoulder blades.

  They had company.

  O’Neil didn’t react. Either she hadn’t heard the noise or she was hiding the fact that she had. Ryan hadn’t seen the need to be tooled up. Now he wasn’t so sure. Their secure mobile firearms box was in the car, yards away, bolted to the chassis. A lot of good it would do them there.

  As Clark moved towards the whistling kettle, he got there first. ‘Let me do that for you.’ Allowing her near boiling water was not going to happen. Now on his feet, he’d taken charge of the situation, regained the upper hand. ‘Superintendent O’Neil would like to ask you some questions. We don’t wish to spoil your evening or take up too much of your time.’

  Clark held his gaze, her face flushed from standing so close to the stove.

  Or was it something else?

  Another creak on deck.

  This time O’Neil heard it.

  ‘Is there someone else on board?’ she asked.

  ‘I have a friend staying over.’ The producer sounded genuine. ‘I thought you’d like some space. I didn’t think you’d want an audience while you were asking your questions.’

  ‘Ryan, will you ask the lady or gentleman to join us while I make tea? Ms Clark, would you like to sit down?’

  Satisfied that O’Neil had the measure of their host, Ryan mounted the stairs, lifting a heavy-duty torch from the deck as he exited the hatch should he need a weapon with which to beat off an attacker. The smell of cannabis was strong. A man around thirty years of age was sitting quietly on a basket chair, wrapped up against the cold, feet resting on an upturned box. He was scanning the horizon.