The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(5)

‘Either way, we could be looking at two victims.’

‘Not from this scene.’ The voice had come from behind them.

Ryan and O’Neil swung round.

Pete tore away his mask as he moved closer. The man had war wounds, pain and suffering etched permanently on his brow. He’d seen more blood and guts than any individual could reasonably be expected to stomach in one lifetime. He held a hand up in apology.

‘I know nothing,’ he said.

O’Neil relaxed. ‘One blood type is all you have?’

He nodded. ‘If you have reason to believe there’s a second victim, you need to be searching for another crime scene.’ Hoisting his kit bag over his shoulder, he told them he was done, said goodbye and made for the door, his words echoing in their heads as he reached the plastic sheeting placed over the entrance.

‘Hey!’ O’Neil called after him.

He swung round to face her.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Curtis, ma’am. Pete to my friends.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up, Pete.’

Nice touch.

It was one of the traits that had drawn Ryan to Eloise. She made it her business to get to know those whose expert opinions would be delivered in court. It was everyone’s responsibility to preserve the chain of evidence, from crime scenes to the lab, reporting and storage. She didn’t want to end up with a dismissal.

‘You’re very welcome,’ Pete said. ‘Someone will be back for the mobile lighting. We have all the photographs we need.’

Ryan’s eyes flew to the ceiling. There was no overhead light. Rusty wires hung loose where a light had once been fitted. O’Neil locked eyes with him. She knew what he was thinking. This was the missing part of the puzzle he’d been struggling with earlier, quite literally a light-bulb moment.

‘Ma’am?’ Pete pointed to the mobile lights on tripods. ‘You want them left?’

‘There’s no electricity in the building?’

‘Not this century,’ Pete said.

O’Neil didn’t speak until he was out of sight. Her focus shifted from the loose wiring to the battery pack on the floor and then to Ryan. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘The killer must have brought her own.’

‘Or, as you said, she had an accomplice standing by with a very large torch. We need to look at that video again.’ She glanced at the exit. ‘You sure you can vouch for Pete?’

‘Relax, guv. He’s a man of his word. He worked with Special Branch a lot. He’s specialist-trained and vetted.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘Trust me.’ Ryan paused, considering. ‘That’s not what’s bothering you though, is it? Are you going to tell me what is?’

‘You want a list?’

‘The woman who sent the DVD is really getting to you, isn’t she?’

‘Oh, you think so? Whatever gave you that idea? Whoever she is, her game plan is to confuse us, keep us guessing – why else would the victims be removed? She’s calling the shots like some wannabe Spielberg, lining up her fancy camerawork and delivering her lines while we hang around like spare parts, waiting for her next masterpiece. Well, she might just have met her match.’

She’d been smouldering like a lit fuse ever since the North Shields DVD was delivered. Now, watching her fury ignite, Ryan had to suppress a grin. If the woman taunting them thought Eloise O’Neil was going to stand back and play second fiddle while someone else ran the show, she’d seriously miscalculated. His guv’nor had a blueprint of her own.

Game on.





3


‘Drive me to HQ, Ryan. I need to make some calls.’ O’Neil pulled her mobile from her pocket, tapped the Home key, then a number, and lifted the device to her ear. ‘This is Detective Superintendent O’Neil, Northumbria Police. Put me through to Detective Superintendent Munro . . . yes, he’ll know what it’s about.’ She sighed. ‘Please do, the minute he hangs up. Thanks.’

She rang off.

Ryan didn’t recognize the name and she was in no mood to share. As he negotiated the slip road onto the Coast Road, heading for Newcastle, he began to speculate as to whether or not there had been another DVD. Whatever her call was about, it was serious if a Detective Super from another force was involved. He was itching to ask about the text she’d received at the lock-up, but she was making call after call, asking for information that made little sense to him.

This was the fourth in a row . . .

‘Nicholas Ford, yes. I must speak with him.’ She was getting nowhere fast. ‘Yes, you already said that. Has he or has he not viewed the file I sent him this morning? Then go back and tell him it’s urgent. I require his feedback immediately.’

Following her rant about Spielberg, Ryan could feel her frustration at the time suck of having to wait on the line or, as she put it, ‘hang around like a spare part’ yet again – this time for her immediate boss, who Ryan had dubbed the grey man. The Home Office official seemed in no rush to talk to her. The more Ryan thought about that, the more he formed the impression that she was being fobbed off.

‘Time to fess up, Eloise.’

‘About what?’ She didn’t look at him.