by Mari Hannah
Mari
Hannah
The
Death
Messenger
PAN BOOKS
For Wayne
who gave me my first break in publishing.
Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
Acknowledgements
The Silent Room
The Murder Wall
Prologue
Dusk was the perfect choice, heavy on atmosphere, exactly what she was after. To her it was almost as important as what she had in mind to do. The weather was playing its part. Thunder rumbled overhead as she left the village and crossed the bridge, the loch on one side, the swollen River Tay on the other. The folly she was heading for wasn’t far, but the riverbank was slick and shiny, heavy going for most people, more so for her. The path was deeply rutted by horses’ hooves and the footprints of those daring to venture out. She’d chosen well. It was getting dark. Locals were heading home to eat. The chances of meeting anyone on the way to the kill site were negligible.
She had no qualms. Not one. Her targets deserved to die, in the worst way possible. Allowing them to go unpunished, after what they had done, was out of the question. When she started out on this journey she’d listened to her gut. Surveillance was key. No point in being short on detail. As it turned out, stalking the first one was easier than it should’ve been. Security wasn’t so much lax as non-existent. Diplomat? Ha! Not any more. Killing him made her feel well again. Better than she had in ages.
She thought of her victim now, the surprised look on his face, the horror in his eyes. A couple of months had gone by since his execution, but she’d watched the video so many times that every action, every word was now indelibly etched on her memory. It still gave her a thrill, the way everything had followed her script to the letter. Even though she’d never taken centre stage personally, it was a first-rate job. She could never have imagined such a positive outcome, representing as it did that all-important first step on the road to hell.
It was all mapped out . . .
Her map . . .
Her rules.
Sorted.
She soldiered on, the mud sucking at her boots with every step. Tracking number two had been easy. One slight setback, but nothing she couldn’t handle. Annoying more than anything. She’d climbed the fence surrounding his fuck-off estate. Crawled on her hands and knees through woods to observe his house through binoculars, only to find him loading a suitcase into the boot of his car. The bastard had taken off on holiday before she had time to act.
No matter.
In retrospect, the height of the summer holidays was perhaps not the best time. She could wait. She’d spent the time productively: tracking other targets, scouting locations, never idle. And now, after several weeks of waiting, the judge’s time was drawing near. According to her unwitting source, His Lordship was due back any day now. She smiled to herself. People were so gullible.
The local newsagent had fallen over himself to be accommodating when she’d called the shop. ‘Good morning, I’m from His Lordship’s residence. I’m his new PA, just checking that his newspapers have been cancelled until further notice?’
There was a momentary pause.
‘There must be some mistake.’ The lad on the other end sounded flustered. ‘Let me check the ledger . . .’ The phone went down onto a hard surface. She heard pages rustling, then he was back on the line. ‘Our instructions are to stop them only until October twelfth.’
‘Oh, I must have got that wrong. I’ll consult with the housekeeper and get back to you. If you don’t hear from me just leave it as it is. Sorry to have troubled you.’
‘No problem at all.’
‘I’ll pop in one day. The name’s Jenny.’
‘Alec. That would be cool.’
Would it, really?
Somehow she didn’t think so.
Deception worked every time. It never ceased to amaze her how many folks were willing to take her at face value, to accept every lie, every pleasantry exchanged in person or on the phone. Her mother had once told her that her familiarity would get her into trouble one day. How wrong could one person be? It had opened so many doors they may just as well have been left open.
Yes, it was all shaping up nicely.
Shadows were beginning to form as the sun fell beneath the horizon. If someone did happen along she’d play it cool, take out her equipment and set up a photo shoot. Capturing an ancient monument, a throwback from a bygone era, in the atmospheric light of dusk – nothing suspicious in that. She was simply a conscientious professional, a slave to her art.
If only the same could be said of her co-conspirator. His nonstop whining was getting on her nerves.
‘Quit bitching,’ she said. ‘It’s a bit of rain. And it’s giving us the best chance we’ll ever have to check out the terrain, do a proper walk-through at the temple, with no one around. It can’t be far. Come on!’
He hitched the camera case further onto his shoulder, rain dripping from the hood of the waxed jacket she’d given him so he’d blend in. Sodden, it would weigh as much as he did. ‘This place gives me the creeps.’ He looked around as if some unseen enemy was lurking in the half-light. ‘You sure we’ve picked the right site? What if—’
‘You want out?’
‘I didn’t say that. I was only—’
‘You’re in too deep to be backing out now.’ She saw the resentment in his eyes and decided to change tack. ‘Look, we’ve talked about this. Out here in the sticks we’ll be too conspicuous if we try following him. The house is out, because it’s bound to have a state-of-the-art alarm system as well as live-in staff. At work he’s surrounded by cops and security and CCTV. The only time he’s alone is when he walks his dog – and this is where he likes to walk him, bright and early every Sunday morning, when he’s got the riverside all to himself. Logistically, this is far and away our best bet. So what is your problem?’
He pulled a face: What do you think?
‘We won’t get caught if we’re careful and patient.’
‘It’s too risky. What if his Lab goes for us?’
‘Then you’ll kill that too.’ She glared at him. ‘What? You can waste a judge but you’re squeamish about offing a man’s best friend? Come on, when have you ever seen a Labrador go for anyone? They’re more likely to lick you to death.’ She walked on, her feet squelching in the mud, his complaints not far behind . . .
‘Why bring all the gear if we’re just having a look?’
‘Because I want to sort out the lighting, maybe shoot some test footage.’ Her gaze shifted to the river. ‘It’s handy having the river close by for disposal purposes, but the noise of rushing water is going to play havoc with the audio. I need to check sound levels, figure out a work-around so it doesn’t cause a problem when we’re filming. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.’
She pulled up sharp, in awe of the building that emerged through the treeline. It was so much more romantic than the images she’d viewed online: an ornate hexagonal tower, raised up from the ground on a stepped plinth, surrounded by mature beech trees, the branches of which almost met in the middle above a stone cross; a magnificent sight.
The graffiti-covered door stood slightly ajar, inviting her in. Her eyes travelled up to the viewing platform at the top – a tailor-made lookout post. Perfect for her needs. She winked at her cohort, went inside and climbed the winding staircase to take a look, brushing cobwebs and creepy-crawlies from her hair as she emerged at the top, her eyes scanning the scene.
Movement . . .
No shit!
She stepped back from the edge as a ghostly figure appeared through the fading light. The hair on the back of her neck was rising, not in panic but exhilaration. This was no apparition. The judge was moving towards the folly at a pace, his trusty gundog trotting to heel. It wasn’t planned but luck was on her side. She alerted her accomplice. Seconds later, he seized his chance.
No one heard her quarry scream.
1
Control patched the call through to Detective Superintendent Eloise O’Neil as soon as it came in. The woman’s voice was devoid of emotion as she delivered precise directions to the location. She was savvy too, refusing to be drawn into conversation, seeing through O’Neil’s strategy of keeping her on the line long enough to trace her location. The moment she hung up, Eloise was on her feet and heading for the door.
As he followed her to the car, Detective Sergeant Ryan was conscious of O’Neil’s concern, but also her excitement. There was nothing more stimulating than taking on a fresh investigation. They had spent the morning viewing a DVD sent to Northumbria Police HQ anonymously. As footage of a crime scene filled the screen, an unidentified female described, in graphic detail, just how she’d managed to achieve such a staggering spectacle of blood spatter on the ceiling and walls, using the eye of the camera to draw their attention to the spot where the victim bled out. She was calm and controlled. No discernible accent. No waver in her voice. She didn’t mess up or stutter. Having listened to her on the phone to O’Neil, there was no doubt in Ryan’s mind that the caller and narrator were one and the same. He noticed that the time-stamp at the bottom of the screen read Sunday, 8 December: 1545 hrs.
Two days ago.
He blipped the doors open and got in, a list of questions already forming. He held back, hoping O’Neil would offer an opinion first, but she said nothing as he turned the engine over, put the car in gear and pulled away.
O’Neil took out her phone and began typing.
Ryan drove in silence, replaying the DVD in his mind. From the first viewing he’d been struck by the way it had been shot: no shaky, amateurish camerawork, no lens flare from direct light sources, just a long smooth shot panning slowly and steadily across the bloody scene. It seemed to him that the person shooting it was deliberately trying to eke out the suspense, building up to the moment when the lens zoomed in dramatically on a man’s shoe, a bloody axe abandoned next to it, the butt-end of its blade illuminated by the overhead light.
Joining O’Neil in a newly formed unit – one that could potentially cross international borders, working on- or off-book on assignments deemed too hot to handle – was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Given the unit’s remit, there was no telling where in the world a case might take them. It had therefore come as a surprise and something of a disappointment when his first crime scene in the new job turned out to be a stone’s throw from HQ.
‘Any thoughts?’ he said, dying to get her take on it.
‘Plenty.’ She kept her eyes on the road.
‘Bizarre, wasn’t it? The way the camera paused for effect. It felt staged to me. I’m wondering if it’s all fake, some kind of sick joke. If it’s a hoax—’
‘It’s not. The woman on that tape means business.’
‘So why us and not the Murder Investigation Team?’
‘You have one guess.’
‘One? Will I be sacked if I get it wrong?
‘That’s the deal.’
Ryan put on his best thinking pose. ‘This isn’t the first DVD?’
‘Bravo! You get to keep your warrant card.’
‘Thanks, but it’s still a case for MIT – unless you know something I don’t.’
‘Me? I know nothing . . . yet. But I agree with you, there’s something odd going on here.’ Eloise swivelled in her seat to face him, excited as he was by the mystery surrounding their first investigation. ‘While you were working your notice in Special Branch, I was down in Brighton, checking out a DVD that had been sent to Sussex Police. Like the one you’ve just seen, it showed a crime scene – blood all over the place, weapon on display, no victim in sight. Within hours of the DVD arriving at the Sussex Police HQ, a call came in giving directions to the crime scene. Forensics confirmed the blood was human. I’m no voice-recognition expert but I’m as sure as I can be that the narrator was the same woman who featured on this morning’s DVD. Trust me – this is no hoax.’
The crime scene was an unremarkable lock-up on North Shields Fish Quay, eight miles east of Newcastle, not far from the mouth of the River Tyne. The building next door had been completely demolished leaving rough brickwork on the western gable end. A rusted mesh panel secured the window, its weatherbeaten frame showing through the few remaining flecks of blue paint. White corrugated sheeting covering the space that was once the door. It had been prised open to reveal an eerie dark hole beyond.
An empty Coke can lay abandoned near a much larger entrance, this one secured by a grey, concertinaed metal shutter. A sign to the left said: ALL DELIVERIES TO MAIN FACTORY. Underneath the wording, an arrow pointed west. Crime scene investigators were all over it, inside and out, the perimeter guarded by uniformed personnel, a roadblock in place to deter passers-by from wandering in off the street. No body had been found.
Ryan peered inside. What he saw was no surprise: it matched the video he’d viewed at HQ. The men in white suits were packing up their gear, preparing to leave. Now the real detective work could begin.
As he followed O’Neil inside, the Crime Scene Manager approached, her bright green eyes scanning the scene with forensic attention to detail, her expression inscrutable. She turned to face them, unaffected by the awfulness, professionally detached.
‘I have work elsewhere. Any questions before I leave?’
‘Is the blood human?’ Ryan asked.
‘Affirmative. You want type?’
His eyebrows almost met in the middle. ‘You have it already?’
The CSI tipped her head at O’Neil. ‘Cages have been rattled.’
‘What can I say?’ O’Neil said. ‘There’s no job more pressing than ours.’
She was right. They were in a different league now. Fast-tracking samples at the lab was not a favour they had to beg for. They were briefed and bound by the Official Secrets Act but with a lot more clout than your average copper. If they wanted to hire in specialist help, they only had to ask. Still, their newfound status would take a bit of getting used to. The thought alone made Ryan’s heart beat faster. He was about to ask a question when O’Neil cut him off, indicating with a tilt of the head for him to follow.
Once they were out of earshot, she told him, ‘The blood is female, Ryan. AB negative, same as yours.’
Ryan looked at her. ‘And you know that, how?’
‘Have you forgotten who was standing over your hospital bed like Florence Nightingale not so long ago, hoping you’d pull through? That would be me, Ryan. I want to be ready nex
t time you need a pint or two of the red stuff.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘Medical records are confidential, guv.’
‘Unless you work for me. I’m in charge of this unit and I’ve done my homework. When you’re special ops it’s basic procedure to know blood types and allergies in case of emergency. Mine is engraved on the underside of my watch, in case you need it.’ She narrowed her eyes, a playful look on her face. ‘There’s nothing I don’t know about you.’
There was a good deal she didn’t know. Ryan had the distinct feeling that the same could be said of her. He rather liked it that way.
2
Despite the amount of blood spilt and the likelihood that the axe found at the scene was the murder weapon, without a corpse the detectives had to assume that the victim might still be alive. An outside chance, undoubtedly, but they couldn’t rule it out. Left in situ, the poor sod may have survived, though the rare blood type wouldn’t have helped her chances. Transported and deprived of medical attention, she most certainly would have bled out.
‘I’d better give Libby a ring,’ Ryan said. Libby French was the Home Office pathologist, new to Northumbria, highly experienced. Everything he’d heard about her was encouraging. Like most in her profession, she was meticulous in her approach to her work.
‘I have it covered,’ O’Neil said. ‘She’s standing by.’
Ryan bent down for a closer look at the shoe that had featured in the video. It was a man’s, grubby, recently scuffed, a brown leather wingtip brogue, hand-stitched round the upper. ‘Left foot,’ he observed. ‘Expensive. More than I can afford on my salary.’
‘Same here.’ The last remaining crime scene investigator looked up from his evidence collection kit. Though most of his face was concealed, Ryan recognized the bloodshot eyes peering through the narrow strip between hood and mask as belonging to Pete Curtis, a CSI who’d been around since the days they were still called SOCOs. ‘Won’t be many in North Shields who can pay those prices,’ he added. ‘None who work for Northumbria Police anyway.’
‘Don’t suppose you managed to lift any prints?’ Ryan could hope.
‘Not even a partial.’ Pete’s voice was muffled by the material covering his mouth. ‘It’s not been here long – it’s too clean for that.’