The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(11)

They ate quickly. Ignoring the buzz of those around them, their conversation taking the form of a mini briefing, several lines of enquiry already obvious for the North Shields scene: the Coke can, the shoe, the axe, the type of video camera used to film the crime scene, whether the same piece of equipment had been used for the previous DVDs.

Ryan stopped chewing, put his sandwich down, wiping his hands on a serviette. ‘If the details of Trevathan’s trial are being withheld, it’s probably safe to assume that it’s terrorism-related, something that might compromise national security. Which makes our case a lot more complex than we first thought.’

O’Neil nodded. ‘And thanks to Ford, we’re well and truly at a disadvantage. It’s hard to believe that all the time I was working the Brighton case, he never said a word about Trevathan or the Kenmore DVD, even though it would have given me something to work with. And now I’m supposed to go through him to get to the Chief of Police Scotland?’

‘Sod that. You’re not going cap in hand—’

‘Don’t fret, Ryan. I went over his head already.’

‘Good. What did he say?’

‘Price? Nothing. He wasn’t available. He’ll call me this evening but it might be late on.’

She took out her iPad to check if she’d missed an email confirming a time.

She hadn’t.

Ryan watched her open the device’s browser. He wasn’t close enough to read upside down as she typed into the search bar. ‘Can’t Ford compel Police Scotland to tell us about Trevathan’s trial?’

She peered over the top of her glasses. ‘That’s a matter for the Lord Chief Justice apparently. Ford said he’d give it a go.’

‘That’s big of him. Bloody hypocrite. He spent two hours yesterday lecturing us about keeping channels of communication open and maintaining reporting lines – all the while keeping the Kenmore files under lock and key – and yet he doesn’t trust us any further than he can throw us. We cannot work this case without full disclosure, Eloise. It’s impossible.’

‘Looks like we’re going to have to for the time being.’ She clicked to open a page.

‘What time are we expecting the other DVDs?’

‘I have a copy of the Brighton footage back at base. Ford said the Kenmore one would arrive shortly. That was over an hour ago.’

The door opened. A crocodile of women wearing high heels and little else spilled in, probably a works night out. A Christmas tree hat stood out among tinsel headbands and reindeer antlers as the group staggered loudly to the bar. The blonde bringing up the rear clocked Ryan on her way in and tugged at the dress of the girl in front.

‘Hey, I’ve scored. Get the mistletoe oot.’

A roar of laughter followed as she held a sprig of plastic mistletoe aloft, pursing her lips, inviting a kiss.

‘Move along,’ said O’Neil, smiling. ‘He’s spoken for.’

Spoken for? Ryan could dream.

He let the girl down gently, a wry smile on his face. ‘Thanks for the offer.’

‘Your loss, handsome.’ She winked at O’Neil. ‘Just pulling his leg, pet. Keep hold of him – he’s lush!’

As the group moved off, the repartee continuing elsewhere, the detectives shared a moment of intense, intoxicating chemistry that caught them both by surprise. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Ryan had felt the connection from the moment they began working together, though it seemed destined to disappear now that he had joined O’Neil officially as part of the new unit. The fact that it was still there stirred him physically.

He looked away.

When he turned back, O’Neil was working on her notes.

He scanned the pub. The last time he was here, it was in the company of Grace Ellis, a retired colleague who’d helped him in his search for Jack Fenwick. Discreet and trustworthy, her special skills would come in handy if O’Neil found it necessary to bring in outside help. Ryan wanted to raise that with her – it was a stretch to think that they would be able to handle an investigation on this scale without it – but he held back. It was too early to throw names into the mix – better to wait it out. He didn’t want her thinking he lacked faith in her ability. He had a lot of time for her. She was now playing with her iPad.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked.

‘Research.’

‘On what?’

‘Maxwell’s Temple.’

‘I could’ve saved you the bother. It’s a nineteenth-century folly, also known as The Cross, built as a tribute to some countess or other—’

‘And when did you discover that?’

‘When you were getting the drinks in.’ He held up his mobile. ‘You’re quick or dead in this game.’

Dusk had brought on the lights of the Millennium Bridge. People wandered across it to visit the Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art, or to stand and take pictures of the iconic Tyne Bridge to the west. Beyond it, on the south side of the Tyne, the Sage Music Centre was also lit up.

‘Damn!’

Ryan checked the date on his watch.

‘Are you bored with my company?’ O’Neil said. ‘Or am I keeping you from something?’

‘You will be on Friday – unless I can have the night off?’