The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  ‘When I pick him up, I’ll be sure to ask him.’

  ‘Too late,’ Grace said. ‘That’s your other present. Someone we know just registered his death.’

  ‘On Christmas Day?’

  ‘Yesterday. Sophia Montgomery rang the GP late last night to let him know, hours after she spoke to you. You’re such a hard bastard, Ryan. She was very upset. You obviously didn’t give her enough sympathy. The GP rang me just now. I tell you, he’s got it bad – any excuse to get in touch.’

  ‘Would that I was in such demand,’ O’Neil said.

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled, Eloise. You might spot a fan.’

  Ryan avoided O’Neil’s eyes.

  ‘That’s one less problem for us to deal with.’ O’Neil moved quickly on. ‘Except we now have to prove his guilt without being able to interview him. Grace, we need time and date of death, where the body is now and samples. We’re at his sister’s house, available if you need us. Keep in touch if there are any further developments.’

  ‘Don’t work too hard.’

  They ended the call.

  Sophia’s house was cold inside – in more ways than one – a chill cutting through them as they entered the premises. This was not a happy house. O’Neil began her search upstairs. Ryan did the same on the ground floor. As he’d seen through the window a few days ago, the kitchen was pristine, obsessively clean, not a thing out of place.

  Montgomery was a woman who liked electric gadgetry. Cupboards were crammed with kitchen aids. On the counter, an espresso machine and a multi-purpose charge point for her devices. The home was marginally more interesting than Mark’s. As Ryan moved through the living room, methodical and organized in his task, something he couldn’t quite get a handle on began to bother him. It niggled at the edges of his consciousness for a good half hour as he continued to search, refusing to rise to the surface.

  Pushing it away, he went into the hallway as O’Neil arrived at the bottom of the stairs. She was holding a sealed evidence bag in her hand and was deeply troubled as she showed it to him. The bag contained an image of a woman and a girl he assumed was Montgomery and her mother. O’Neil thought so too.

  ‘There’s something disturbing about her,’ she said.

  Ryan looked at her. ‘Sophia or her mother?’

  ‘Sophia. What a creepy kid.’

  ‘You suspect she nudged her mother over a cliff accidentally on purpose. Your thoughts are coloured by that.’ He glanced at the photo. ‘I think she’s kinda cute.’

  ‘She might have been once. Not any more.’

  Ryan didn’t disagree. ‘Anything else upstairs?’

  ‘There’s a camcorder in her closet. I left it for CSIs to recover. There’s a new team on its way.’ They didn’t want cross-contamination from Mark’s flat. ‘The camcorder is on charge.’ The implication that Spielberg might be getting ready to use it again was worrying. Though how she’d manage without her brother’s help was unclear, unless she was the killer, he the accomplice. ‘If she sticks to her routine, next Sunday is the twenty-ninth, just four days away.’ O’Neil pointed at the door facing them. ‘What’s in here?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ryan gestured for her to enter. ‘Why don’t we find out?’

  O’Neil opened the door. On the other side of it was a small office with a view of the front garden, an uncluttered desk, a chair and two filing cabinets. The surface of the highly polished desk was dust free. On it stood an Apple iMac, wireless keyboard, mouse and magic trackpad, a digital clock radio, a desk lamp. Four pens and a notepad placed with such care it might’ve been measured to ensure that it was truly plumb with the edge of the desk.

  ‘Blimey!’ O’Neil said. ‘She must value order.’

  ‘Above all else,’ Ryan agreed. ‘Check out the cupboard under the stairs. It’s like a shoe shop. Several pairs all lined up in a row. Either she has a problem or nothing better to do than to tidy up. The whole house is like it.’

  ‘Size?’

  ‘Sixes and sevens.’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Thought that might please you.’

  Ryan turned his attention back to the office. Bookshelves above the desk were similarly organized, filing cabinets too, their contents perfectly labelled, not a thing out of place. As he sat down to examine the computer, Caroline popped into his head and stayed there. Some of what he’d seen had seemed very familiar. The front door was a blurry image in his peripheral vision. It came into sharp focus as he turned to look at it.

  ‘That’s it,’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘That’s what?’ O’Neil stared at him.

  ‘This obsession with tidiness reminds me of Caroline. She’s well ordered out of necessity, to protect her from harm—’

  ‘Too right! Did you see the massive bruise on her arm where she’d tripped over the chair Newman hadn’t replaced?’

  ‘One more injury to add to her collection.’

  ‘So what’s your point?’

  ‘Her blindness means she has no need for certain items at home, guv – mirrors, lights, that type of thing. Montgomery is supposedly mute and yet there are things here that are only useful to those who use speech to communicate: telephones, for a start. See that?’ He pointed in the direction of the front door, to the thing he’d seen on the way in but not registered, the elusive thought he’d been trying hard to get a handle on.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘That’s an audio entry system, perfect for a woman living alone, superfluous if you can’t or won’t talk. And the pièce de résistance . . .’ He clicked on the Applications folder in the iMac’s menu bar, then double-clicked an application icon. ‘See for yourself.’

  ‘Speech recognition software?’ O’Neil spelled it out, as if she couldn’t believe her luck. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

  ‘I happen to know it doesn’t come as standard on this machine.’

  ‘This is a great find, Ryan. Well done.’

  Ryan clicked the Documents icon. ‘We’re going to have trouble with this lot. Every one of these files is password protected. We’ll need help to unlock them.’ As Ryan pulled open the left-hand drawer O’Neil saw his face change. She looked at him quizzically. He pointed at the Simpsons mouse pad inside.

  61

  Christmas had come and gone. Despite the euphoria of finding items that Sophia Montgomery didn’t or shouldn’t require if she didn’t speak, the next few days were a pain in the ass with no sign of the woman herself and nothing to do but wait for others to carry out their tasks. Ryan wasn’t feeling positive – and tomorrow was Sunday, an ominous thought if she was getting ready to kill again.

  ‘Why so down in the mouth?’ O’Neil asked.

  ‘Technical support lucked out,’ he said. ‘I was hoping they would find incriminating evidence on Montgomery’s computer, but it’s clean. They say there’s nothing in her locked files to tie her to these offences. Not a damned thing. She’s as devious as we feared. I reckon she did her research on her brother’s computer, removing it after his death.’

  ‘Maybe the speech recognition software will give us something.’ O’Neil was trying to give him a boost.

  ‘Don’t hold your breath. There are no active files on the application. Technicians aren’t hopeful it was ever used. It wouldn’t surprise me if she bought it to piss us off.’ Ryan sat on the edge of her desk, trying not to look quite as glum as he felt. ‘Any news on the camcorder?’

  ‘It’s old, which fits with the report we commissioned. Experts say it could be the one Montgomery used. Equally, it might not be. We’ll probably never be able to prove it either way. It’s another piece of circumstantial evidence to add to all the rest.’ She reached into her drawer, handed him a report from Ne46 Technology.

  He took it from her.

  ‘Before you read that, and before the others return from lunch, I want to say how much I appreciated your support over Christmas. There hasn’t been the opportunity to thank you properly. You were an absolute s
tar.’

  ‘What I get paid for.’

  ‘So you keep saying, but I meant personally, not professionally.’ Her eyes held a special thank you. ‘The latter goes without saying or you wouldn’t be here. I’m not sure I’d have got through it without you.’

  Ryan didn’t quite know how to respond. He wasn’t used to such overt gratitude and was at a loss what to do with it. She’d helped him when Jack died and he was more than happy to reciprocate. He’d do anything for her. Anything. Right now, he dealt with her praise in the only way he knew how.

  ‘You’re staring,’ he said.

  ‘Go!’ She pointed at his desk. ‘You know I hate a slacker.’

  Ryan got up and wandered away, a smile developing. When the enquiry was over, he’d ask her over to his place for dinner. He missed his seaside home and wondered when he might return to it. Still, the view through their office window was fast becoming one of his favourites. On the road below, there was no sign of Newman and Caroline. Grace was approaching from a distance, a tiny red ant making her way towards him at breakneck speed, unaware that he was watching from above. She checked her watch, quickened her step even more.

  Why the hurry?

  As always, when Ryan allowed his mind to wander from the subject of a murder investigation, ideas began to flow. Something Grace had said on Christmas Day intrigued him. Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he dialled the number for Jo Nichol. The telephone didn’t ring out long. Ryan was surprised when it wasn’t her who came on the line.

  ‘Jo Nichol’s phone.’

  Male voice.

  ‘Mr Spencer?’

  ‘No, it’s Doctor Blake, her GP. Who is this?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Matthew Ryan – Northumbria Police.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Detective?’

  ‘My enquiry will only take a second, sir. Can you put Jo on?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Detective. Ms Nichol died an hour ago. I’m here to certify death.’

  Shit! ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yes, it’s very sad.’ His response was clinical. ‘Better here than in an anonymous hospital room surrounded by busy nursing staff. She would have hated that. Jo wanted to die at home with dignity and she got her wish. She was a brave young woman.’

  ‘She was. I spoke with her recently. She didn’t mention it to you?’

  ‘Why should she. I’m a doctor, not a priest.’

  ‘She wasn’t in trouble,’ Ryan said. ‘She looked weak, but not particularly close to death—’

  ‘The terminally ill often don’t,’ Blake explained. ‘They’re on high levels of medication. There’s no need for anyone to die in pain these days. The medical profession aims to make patients as comfortable and peaceful as possible, within the law, of course.’

  ‘Were you with her when she passed away?’ O’Neil was studying Ryan, intrigued by the conversation he was having and no doubt wondering where he was taking it. ‘Doctor Blake?’

  ‘No, Mr Spencer called me.’

  ‘He’s there with you? Could I have a word?’

  ‘He left. He’s rather upset. I gather they worked together. I said I’d wait for the undertaker.’

  ‘In that case, do you have a moment to talk to me? I’d like some insight into Sauer’s.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of multiple victims. It’s a complicated case involving the disease. It would take too long to explain. Jo Nichol developed symptoms at around the same time as one of our main suspects.’ Ryan failed to mention that his suspect was also dead. ‘In no way am I suggesting that she was involved – she was ruled out of our enquiry some time ago – but it would help me to know how plausible it is in the latter stages of Sauer’s to beat a man to death. We have reason to believe that our suspect, a male, was quite poorly.’

  ‘He would be. These patients deteriorate quickly.’

  ‘Which is why I’m asking.’

  ‘I’m not qualified to answer that, Detective. I’m a general practitioner. You need to talk to a consultant.’

  ‘I’m after your opinion, sir, nothing more. There are so few specialists, we’ve not yet managed to find one who is available to talk to us. You’ve had very close and recent contact with a sufferer. In my book, that counts; you have an expert opinion to give and I’d like to hear it.’

  The GP hesitated.

  Ryan pressed on. ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. If our main suspect didn’t have the capacity to kill, we may be looking in the wrong direction. Sir, we have reason to believe that another death might be imminent . . . possibly before the day is out. The perpetrator must be stopped. Not to put too fine a point on it, your advice, expert or not, may save a life.’

  ‘I see your dilemma.’ The medic paused. ‘I won’t give evidence on a witness stand.’

  ‘Off the record is fine.’

  ‘Then, in my humble opinion, and don’t quote me on it, it’s highly unlikely that a person in the latter stages of Sauer’s would be capable of extreme violence such as you’re describing. The disease is brutal, Detective. It saps strength and drains energy. Don’t get me started on the physical deterioration.’

  It wasn’t what Ryan wanted to hear.

  He thanked Blake and hung up.

  He was about to redial when Grace let herself in.

  ‘It’s turning cold.’ She took off her coat and sat down, a rueful expression on her face. ‘Guv, sorry to be the bearer of bad news – Danish Police say Pedersen failed to identify Mark Montgomery as a suspect. He’s not the man she saw.’

  O’Neil eyeballed Ryan. ‘Can this day get any worse?’

  He felt her frustration and saw her head go down. His conversation with Blake had brought him to the same conclusion. Mark Montgomery was not the killer. Suddenly, the case they had built together began to crumble, every building block falling down around them, creating a cloud of confusion.

  Ryan was every bit as deflated as the rest of them. A chill ran down his spine as Grace’s words taunted him. ‘I need to make a call,’ he said.

  ‘This is not a good time,’ O’Neil said. ‘We need to regroup.’

  ‘Later, I need to do this – Jo Nichol is dead.’

  Grace and O’Neil were nonplussed. They watched him dial out, lost interest as he waited for the call to be answered, and went back to work. The ringing tone stopped, Dan Spencer answering with his full name. He was in a car. Ryan heard road noise in the background. He tried to lift himself out of the gloom and put on a professional front.

  ‘Mr Spencer, it’s DS Ryan. I just spoke to Doctor Blake and wanted to offer my condolences. I’m so sorry to hear about Jo. I know how close you two were. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Nothing, thanks.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Do you need company? I could send someone round.’

  ‘I said I’m fine. I’m heading north to see my mum. Thank you for taking the trouble to call.’

  ‘No problem, as long as you’re OK. You take care.’

  I’m heading north . . .

  Those three words were like a punch in the gut to Ryan. He swore under his breath as he put down the phone, causing O’Neil to raise her head. His eyes found hers. ‘Pedersen was correct. Mark Montgomery wasn’t the man she saw in Copenhagen. We fingered the wrong guy.’

  62

  ‘What a monumental cock-up.’ Ryan was pacing up and down, angry for not having seen what was right in front of him, more so for allowing Sophia to get one over on him. ‘Mark Montgomery was Shdwman. Dan Spencer was dude1980. Why the hell didn’t I spot that? Sophia must have been laughing her socks off when I tried to implicate her brother.’ He took a long, deep breath. ‘Well, she won’t be doing it for long.’

  It took Newman less than twenty-three minutes to find out where Spencer’s parents lived – an address in the village of Yarm, North Yorkshire – twenty more to find the identity of the caller th
e cinematographer was most in contact with. The DVLA were useful, British Telecom too, everyone keen to cooperate in finding the country’s Most Wanted.

  An hour later, police moved in and picked them up, a hard stop with a firearms team on the northbound carriageway of the A1. While they were waiting for the suspects to arrive under a police escort, in separate vehicles, Grace called the path lab. DNA comparison was complete. Scientists had identified familial DNA to that of Mark Montgomery at two crime scenes, proving an indisputable link to Sophia. The team had no doubt that a third, as yet unidentified sample, belonged to Dan Spencer.

  Ryan stopped pacing and sat down.

  The Ne46 Technology report O’Neil had given him was lying on his desk, waiting to be read. The company had already proved themselves invaluable. He couldn’t wait to put their findings to Sophia Montgomery in interview. Even though he knew the gist of the updated document, he picked it up, his eyes skimming the words on the page.

  As stated previously in our report dated Friday, 20 December, it was not possible to establish the exact type and brand of camera used from the sample DVD you asked us to examine. The camcorder now under analysis could be the equipment used. We are unable to say with absolute certainty that this is the case. What we can say is that the timer on the equipment is running seven minutes and thirty-six seconds fast . . .

  Ryan shut his eyes, hoping for inspiration. He found it too. Throwing the report down on his desk, he got up suddenly. Feeling O’Neil’s eyes on him, he punched a code into the safe and took out the DVD from the Whitley Bay crime scene, then shifted across to his desk under his boss’s watchful gaze. Grace and Newman were observing too. The disk slid effortlessly into the computer slot as they gathered round.

  ‘What are you after?’ O’Neil wanted to know.

  ‘I’ll show you in a minute.’ Footage of Fraser’s flat uploaded on screen. Ryan could feel the tension in his chest as he fast-forwarded to the point he was interested in. O’Neil was standing directly behind him, so close he could almost feel the warmth of her body. When he got to the relevant section, he restarted the DVD to run in real time. On screen, the camera paused dramatically to dwell on the long-bladed knife glinting from the overhead light, before running on slowly and deliberately across the old tea chest the nurse used as a bedside table, Fraser’s uniform shirt, his ID lanyard. Ryan paused the disk, rewound slightly, freezing the screen on the digital radio-alarm clock.