The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(7)

‘Did you find out who put O’Neil in charge?’ he demanded to know. His aide, a young man with a bad complexion and floppy hair, sat up, straightening his tie. He was being fast-tracked through the Civil Service and was shadowing Ford, himself a junior minister. It was clear the idiot didn’t have a clue.

‘Well?’ Ford barked. ‘You’ve had weeks to look into this. What the hell are we paying you for?’

‘I’ll find out.’ The aide shot off his chair. ‘Was there anything else?’

‘Yes,’ Ford crowed. ‘When you track him or her down, you can tell them from me that Detective Superintendent O’Neil is totally unsuitable. If they argue, tell them she’s chosen a second-rate DS just back from suspension as her professional partner. It beggars belief, it really does.’

It galled him to think that O’Neil had been in post before him. Someone should have done him the courtesy of allowing him to sit in on the selection board. Whoever it was, they had made a big mistake and he wasn’t paying for it if the wheel came off.

O’Neil rubbed at her forehead. What Ford knew about policing she could write on the back of a postage stamp. She ran a tight ship and didn’t see why she had to answer to a man who’d never so much as seen an angry dog. On that subject, whatever was going down at the other end, it was obvious to her that his aide was coming off worse.

Her poker eyes met Ryan’s. He really was the doppelg?nger of Henry Cavill, a little older perhaps, deep brown eyes, dark hair with flecks of grey. At her request, he was sitting out of sight. The initial briefing hadn’t gone well. Ryan had only met Ford for the first time yesterday, but he’d taken an instant dislike to him, a feeling that was mutual.

Her attention flashed back to the screen before the agitated aide now facing her realized she had company. The last thing she needed was another slanging match with Ford with a third crime scene to deal with across the Scottish border. So far he hadn’t mentioned it. If he thought that she wouldn’t, he could think again.

She was just waiting for an in.

As if he’d sensed something untoward going on behind his back, he swung his chair round to face her. His mouth was moving but he’d forgotten to switch on his microphone. O’Neil pointed at her right ear and shook her head. The gesture caused his aide to step forward and advise him of the fact that she couldn’t hear a word he was saying. Ford’s jaw bunched. He looked like he might explode. Then he was back online . . . his shouty mouth in full working order.

‘Is that confirmed?’ he asked. ‘The victim is female?’

‘I wouldn’t have told you if it wasn’t.’

‘Then the shoe must belong to the perpetrator. Maybe he was disturbed and made a run for it, thinking he’d get caught—’

‘Not necessarily,’ O’Neil said.

His face was a deep shade of red. ‘How so?’

‘There’s no evidence to support that view.’

‘Then find some!’

Ryan tuned out the grey man to concentrate on O’Neil. After visiting the North Shields lock-up, she’d used the female locker room to freshen up at HQ, keen to get in touch with Ford at the earliest opportunity and give him a piece of her mind. Minutes later she emerged looking remarkably well-groomed, all things considered, and buzzing with energy. Ryan could see two tiny computer screens reflected in the lenses of her rimless specs. Her eyes were like pools of calm water. Such composure. She was seething underneath.

‘Maybe the woman witnessed the offence and knows who is responsible but doesn’t want to turn them in,’ Ford said. ‘Has it occurred to you that she might be an unwilling participant – a mother, sister, girlfriend – now in grave danger or dead? It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that she was forced to record that message, is it?’

‘You can’t believe that. The subtext of her message was clear. Surely you picked up on it?’ He clearly hadn’t but O’Neil stuck to her line of reasoning and didn’t wait for a response. ‘Not only was she justifying her actions, she was enjoying the drama. If not the main player, my gut feeling is she’s an equal partner, someone with an axe to grind.’

‘This is no laughing matter, O’Neil.’

‘I agree. My apologies. An unfortunate choice of words. My point is this. If the woman were being coerced, we’d have heard it in her voice. If I may be so bold, women are just as capable of serious assault and homicide as men, given the right stimulus.’

‘Which is?’

‘Yet to be determined. There’s every possibility that she may be working in tandem with someone else—’

‘Finally, we’re making headway.’

He had no bloody idea. ‘No, sir, we’re not. The possibilities so early in the enquiry are vast. I deal in facts, not speculation.’

Ford pushed his chair away from his desk, his piercing eyes looking right through her. O’Neil was suddenly wary. One minute he was on the back foot, the next he’d returned to his arrogant self.

There was a long pause. Unsure whether or not Ford had cut the call, Ryan remained silent in the background. O’Neil took a sip of water from the bottle she’d grabbed on the way in, cleared her throat and waited. A ghostly white reflection from the computer screen lit up her face, highlighting every contour, every blemish, every wisp of hair. But it was her grim expression that worried him. Whatever game Ford was playing, it was giving her cause for concern.