The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  He looked innocent enough.

  Ryan took no chances.

  ‘Sir, I’m Detective Sergeant Ryan, Northumbria Police.’ Surreptitiously, he put the torch down. ‘Could you come inside please?’

  The man stood up, scooping a bag of weed and a wrap of loose tobacco from the table beside his chair. Arrogantly, he tore off the roach end, flicking the live bit into the water. Satisfied that the rest was out, he slipped what remained of the flattened cigarette into his pocket, seemingly unconcerned that he was in possession of illegal drugs or that Ryan was a copper.

  ‘Before you start, it’s medicinal.’ He offered no further explanation.

  ‘You want to give it up,’ Ryan said. ‘It’s doing you no good.’

  The man’s eyes were vacant. He made no comment as he pushed past, descending the steps as he’d been asked to. He took off his coat and scarf as he entered the warm cabin below, revealing the leanest frame Ryan had ever seen on a living man. Clark waited until they were all seated before taking care of the introductions.

  ‘This is Mo Mitchell.’ She smiled at her guest. ‘He knows about Laura’s disappearance.’

  ‘We’re very concerned for her safety,’ O’Neil said.

  ‘So I understand,’ Mitchell said.

  Ryan was studying him closely. He was around five ten, gaunt, much like the bloke their Danish witness had described. Ryan was trying not to get too excited. It was important not to jump to conclusions this early in proceedings. Still . . . his eyes were drawn to tobacco-stained fingers.

  A heavy smoker, Pedersen had said.

  ‘We’re interested in Laura Stone’s documentary.’ Ryan was facing Clark now. ‘We understand that it was extremely successful and shortlisted for a prestigious award. It would help us if we had some idea of content.’

  ‘You could have called. I’d have saved you a long journey.’

  ‘It’s no bother,’ Ryan said. ‘We wanted to meet you in person.’

  Clark put down her cup, a flash of irritation. ‘It was an amazing biopic, albeit ill-timed.’

  ‘Ill-timed?’ O’Neil asked. ‘In what way?’

  ‘She was up against a film exploring the right to die, Superintendent. Laura’s film was about the right not to live. Put in context, the two are very different—’

  O’Neil narrowed her eyes. ‘The right not to live?’

  ‘On her travels, Laura struck up a relationship with a woman with a progressive and life-limiting genetic disease knowingly passed on by her mother. Rebecca Swift, was her name. Rebecca has strong views . . . no, that’s an understatement, she felt fervently that it was selfish of parents to put their own desire to bear children above the fact that such offspring would be born with a death sentence hanging over their heads. She was an amazing subject. It was a great documentary, controversial in the way they have to be to get shortlisted.’

  ‘Our BBC contact told us the film was viewed the world over.’

  ‘To critical acclaim,’ Clark said. ‘The reviews were astonishing. Any other year, Laura would’ve won the accolade hands down.’

  ‘Is she dead?’ The question was blunt, but not unexpected. It had come from Mitchell. ‘We’re not children.’

  ‘We don’t know is the honest answer,’ Ryan said.

  ‘But you suspect it?’

  ‘Let’s not jump the gun, eh?’ Ryan was keen to keep them talking. ‘We have many lines of enquiry. For starters, we’d like the names of everyone who took part in the making of that film, from the chief exec right down to the tea lady.’

  ‘There weren’t that many,’ Clark said.

  ‘Then it shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Apart from Rebecca, three other sufferers took part – Josephine Nichol, Sandie Knox, Martin Schofield – each one fascinating in their own right.’

  ‘Is Sandie male or female?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Female. And, if you are looking for suspects, you can strike her off your list. She’s since passed away. I have contact details for Jo, Martin and Rebecca on my laptop if you’d like me to print them off.’

  ‘That would be helpful,’ O’Neil said. ‘What about crew?’

  ‘I was the exec producer,’ Clark said. ‘The producer was a very dear friend, Art Malik. Not the actor, just named after him. A guy called Tony Gillespie produced the music—’

  ‘Who took care of cinematography?’ Ryan couldn’t help himself.

  ‘Dan Spencer. We call him Frank, after the BBC sitcom character.’ Clark grinned. ‘People usually laugh at that one.’

  ‘Do they?’ O’Neil wasn’t in a laughing mood. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Adam Jang edited for us.’

  ‘Chinese descent?’

  ‘African.’

  ‘Black?’ Ryan put up a hand in apology. ‘It matters in this instance.’

  ‘Yes, black.’

  Mitchell’s eyelids were heavy. He was almost gone.

  Ryan invited Clark to carry on. ‘Mo was our sound mixer and we had a sound recordist – Monty. Sorry, I mean Sophia Montgomery.’

  ‘Is that a complete list?’

  ‘Apart from our in-house technical production team.’ Clark reached for her laptop. Accessing a file with the full list of cast and crew, she tapped the keyboard and a small printer began spewing out the document. She handed it to Ryan. ‘I hope you find Laura.’ It was the first show of concern from her.

  Mitchell’s eyes were shut. Apparently a man less troubled and lacking a guilty conscience.

  Ignoring him, Ryan scanned the page. The listed technical production personnel added four names to those Clark had already given. He looked up. ‘Your in-house team—’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They’re all male?’

  Clark grimaced. ‘I work in television, DS Ryan. You will find a disproportionate number of white males across the board. Women are still struggling for equality in my profession. Diversity and cultural identity are aims and objectives yet to be realized. It’s no different from the legal profession, publishing or politics. I’m sure the same could be said in your own organization. I take it you’re after a female?’

  ‘With a distinctive voice.’

  ‘Irish?’

  Good question. ‘Accents can be changed.’

  ‘Well, there’s another one off your list. You can rule out Monty. She doesn’t talk.’

  ‘What do you mean, she doesn’t talk?’

  ‘She’s mute.’

  ‘From birth?’ O’Neil enquired.

  Ryan could tell his guv’nor didn’t like what she was asking, let alone what they were both thinking.

  Clark seemed to have drifted away.

  O’Neil was forced to give her a verbal nudge. ‘Ms Clark? Sophia Montgomery . . . has she been mute since birth?’

  ‘Since she was a kid, I think.’ She almost shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. She’s freelance. We come across each other from time to time. Not that often. Mo recommended her when we were putting the documentary team together. To be honest, I never thought to ask. I’m not one to pry. You’ll have to ask her yourself. I was under the impression that it was caused by some traumatic event in her past—’

  ‘It was.’ Mitchell had woken up. ‘She lost her mother at a young age – eleven or twelve, I think, maybe earlier. The trauma triggered her condition. She doesn’t talk about it. No pun intended.’

  ‘You know her well?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘As well as anyone, I suppose. She’s an amazing talent. A great colleague, an award winner in her own right.’ He leaned forward, propping his head up with his right hand, elbow on his knee. ‘I’m sorry, it’s been a long day. I can hardly keep my eyes open.’

  Ryan ignored the sob story. ‘Did she get along with Laura?’

  ‘We all get on,’ Clark said. ‘You have to in our profession, otherwise the magic doesn’t work. You’re not seriously suggesting that she might be responsible?’

  Ryan sidestepped the question. ‘And you two . . . you seem very clos
e.’

  Maybe too close . . .

  Formidable woman . . .

  Skinny guy living in her shadow.

  Clark’s hackles were up and it showed. ‘You came here to get information, which I have supplied. I didn’t have to talk to you and neither did he but, given your curiosity, Mo is my best friend. We’re spending Christmas together, not that it’s any business of yours.’

  ‘You’ve worked together often?’

  ‘Hundreds of times. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘I think we’ll leave it there.’ O’Neil stood up. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  Following her lead, Ryan got up too. This pair worried him and not only because they bore a marked likeness to the couple seen outside the British Embassy in Copenhagen.

  He must talk to Pedersen.

  Ending the exchange, leaving Clark and Mitchell wrong-footed was a shrewd move. At the very least, they required further investigation. Receiving O’Neil’s nod to move off, Ryan pulled his mobile from his pocket as he followed her to the car. He was busting to get started.

  50

  When Grace came on the line, Ryan asked her to put on her Gold Command hat and delegate. ‘The guv’nor wants round-the-clock surveillance on the houseboat, starting now, including covert images if the observation team can get them.’ He explained the reasoning behind his request. ‘Clark had company, a man called Mitchell. There are enough similarities between the two of them and the description given by Pedersen to make us nervous: IC1 male, IC1 female. Height and build is accurate. They’re close too. Friends, allegedly. All circumstantial, of course, but the best fit so far.’

  ‘Sounds promising.’

  ‘It’s more than that. The guv’nor thinks so too. If they move from that narrowboat, put a tail on them. We can’t afford to lose them.’ He rattled off the names of everyone Clark had given him. ‘Pass the information out to satellite rooms. Eloise wants everyone traced and interviewed. Today, Grace. Make sure they understand the urgency. We want personal descriptive forms on everyone by morning. If you have to drag these people out of their beds in order to get them, do it. To interview everyone properly and verify stories could take weeks. This way we can probably eliminate many of them on sight. You’ll be dealing with the Met in most cases. The film industry is London-centric. Its workforce won’t stray much further than the commuter belt. Tap your contacts at Broadcasting House. They should be able to supply images of any crew who’ve worked for them in recent years, freelancers included. They’re security conscious. No one gets in without a pass.’

  ‘You can say that again. Easier to access the Bank of England vault than get in there.’

  ‘We can probably rule out Malik as a suspect straight away,’ Ryan said. ‘He’s Pakistani. Adam Jang too – he’s black. Oh, and Sophia Montgomery is mute.’

  ‘How convenient—’

  ‘We’ve already been there, Grace.’

  ‘And we’ll return to it,’ she said.

  ‘Of course. Make it clear to the Met that they still need to interview everyone, regardless of colour or disability for what they know about Laura. We want to know who saw her last and in what capacity.’

  ‘Tell the boss I’m on it.’

  ‘I heard that,’ O’Neil said.

  Grace dropped her voice. ‘She has ears like Dumbo.’

  ‘I heard that too,’ she said.

  Ryan stifled a grin as O’Neil pulled her ears away from her head, making him laugh. He pressed a button on the phone. ‘Careful what you say from now on, Dumbo is now on speaker.’

  Grace chuckled. ‘Thanks for the tip-off.’

  Even though he couldn’t see her, Ryan could tell that she was grinning, already on the starting blocks for the next leg of the enquiry. He could hear keys tapping at the other end. She was a multi-tasker in the true sense of the word. It came as no surprise that retirement hadn’t fired her jets. Grateful for the opportunity O’Neil had offered her, she’d slipped seamlessly into her former role as a murder detective. Ryan had no doubt that she was cross-checking the HOLMES database to see if it contained any of the names he’d given her.

  Second nature.

  ‘I have one pair of hands,’ she said. ‘Two, if you count Frank. Eloise, what’s the order of play for me?’

  ‘I want a copy of the documentary broadcast or digital link to it as soon as you can get hold of it. It’s not on the iPlayer, I already checked. I also want a TIE action on Clark and Mitchell and an address for Rebecca Swift. I’ll tackle her myself. She was the focus of the documentary. That would suggest she was probably the closest to Laura. I want to know as much about her disease as she does by morning and confirmation of when and how Sandie Knox died. A death certificate would be perfect.’

  ‘You really think Clark is a candidate for Spielberg?’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Ryan said. ‘If she is our target, she’ll either attempt a run for it or sit tight and hope to ride out the storm.’

  ‘You don’t like her.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  ‘She’s shifty.’

  ‘Are you two heading home for Christmas?’

  Ryan checked in with O’Neil for confirmation.

  She shook her head. ‘I want to see the whites of Monty’s eyes. Put her down to me too, Grace. I have an address. I’ll stick Ryan on the train.’

  ‘No chance!’ he said. ‘I’m stopping.’

  ‘I don’t need a minder.’

  ‘Never said you did.’

  O’Neil let it go.

  Sophia Montgomery’s home was north of the capital, close to the M1 corridor, a two-hour commute to the City of London. It took Ryan and O’Neil twice as long as it should have to reach the outskirts of Bletchley where she lived, partly due to rush hour traffic, the annual migration of people wanting to get home for the holidays, but mostly because the weather was doing its best to curtail their journey. Severe storms had disrupted the rail network, taking down trees, causing minor structural damage. Huge floods had knocked out the power to thousands of homes causing chaos for the emergency services.

  ‘Pull over,’ O’Neil said suddenly.

  ‘Guv? We’re not there yet.’

  ‘This’ll do.’ She was pointing to a pub off the main road, not the most salubrious Ryan had ever seen. He didn’t argue, just turned into the busy car park and coasted to a stop. The navigation system showed the road they had left as the A421, a few miles short of their mark. The pub reminded Ryan of one in Gateshead, a bit rough and ready, not the type of establishment he expected to see around here. O’Neil must be desperate.

  ‘In need of a comfort break?’ He thumbed out the rain-lashed window and pulled a face. ‘Don’t think you’ll find one in there somehow.’

  ‘I need a pee, a drink and a moment to think through how I’m going to approach a woman who allegedly can’t speak.’ She opened the door, soaking herself instantly. ‘C’mon, shift yourself.’ Pulling her coat over her head, she ran towards the pub’s entrance.

  The bar was noisy, heaving with people in party mood and other weary travellers sheltering from the horizontal rain. Leaving Ryan to buy the drinks, O’Neil sloped off in the direction of the ladies’ room. By the time he’d paid, she’d taken a seat near the door, away from the crowded bar and other customers. She wanted a lot of things. Company wasn’t one of them.

  He joined her, a glass in each hand. ‘If you were hoping for a decent gin, you’ll be sadly disappointed.’

  ‘What is it?’ She sniffed the clear liquid.

  ‘Gordon’s,’ he said.

  ‘Classy.’

  ‘Show some gratitude. It’s the only type they stock. After our long drive, I was hoping you’d take the wheel and swap it for my Coke.’ She didn’t bite. ‘Fair enough. How is the ankle holding up?’

  ‘A bit stiff on occasions – worse when I don’t move it.’

  ‘Well, now you have, are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?’

  ‘I
t’s nothing!’ She sipped her gin, screwed up her face. ‘This is horrible.’

  ‘Didn’t sound like nothing in the car.’

  ‘It’s everything. The time of year . . . the fact that I’ve been cross-examined by my team . . . you and me. But mostly what’s bugging me is this bloody enquiry. I’m beginning to wish we were investigating terrorism after all. This case is about a voice, Ryan. A fucking voice, and it’s getting to me.’

  ‘Can you be more specific?’ He laughed.

  O’Neil’s face was blank. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit nervous of approaching Sophia Montgomery. She’s probably every bit as lovely as Mitchell said she was, but when Clark said she was mute, something exploded in my head. I couldn’t shake the idea that if you never spoke – except on a DVD – you’d never get caught. There would be no voice comparison, nothing to implicate you—’

  ‘Sounds logical.’

  ‘Yeah, but now I’m wondering if I jumped too quickly.’ O’Neil pulled so hard on her drink only ice cubes were left in the tumbler. ‘Look, I can handle this on my own. You should go home and spend the holidays with Caroline. You’ve been amazing, all of you. You’ve worked round the clock on this case and I’m truly grateful.’

  ‘It’s what we get paid for.’

  Eloise was pushing him away. Ryan hated the idea that, for her, Christmas had been marred by an unfortunate past. A loss, any loss, at this time of year would bring sadness rather than joy. From now on, while everyone around her was celebrating, O’Neil would probably be contemplating how different life could have been, had she chosen the right partner rather than the wrong one.

  ‘What’s really eating you?’ Ryan said.

  ‘I’m worried that my copper’s instinct may be wrong on this occasion.’

  ‘In what respect?’

  O’Neil didn’t answer.

  ‘C’mon, there must be a reason. You’re not usually this—’

  ‘This what?’ It was almost a snarl.

  ‘I was going to say in two minds, ambivalent, indecisive. Feel free to pick your own adjective—’