The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  At the morning parade, local police had been briefed to stay clear – unless an emergency situation developed – giving the unit free reign to conduct enquiries in the vicinity in unmarked vehicles. The last thing they needed was a panda car arriving on the scene.

  Despite the pouring rain, Ryan was willing Gloria’s punter to attempt a pick-up. They had been waiting since nine p.m. It was almost eleven now. Prepared to sit it out till dawn if necessary, he was expecting a long wait. Assured by the Crime Scene Manager that he was finished with the lock-up, Ryan and Grace were hiding in there, waiting to pounce. They were on one side of Gloria, Newman on the other, O’Neil in a vehicle on higher ground in case Stevie made a run for it. Ryan pictured her alone in her car: alert, binoculars trained on the approach road, patience running out. Or maybe she was calling Hilary Forsythe, the woman who’d bought the apartment they were using as a base. Maybe the two of them were laughing at the thought of him freezing his balls off in a draughty lock-up, unconcerned with the operation he’d helped set up.

  Grace shifted her position beside him, trying to get comfortable. She hadn’t questioned him further on the subject. There could be only one explanation for that – she’d been told not to – Newman wanted to check his facts before they tackled him again. That was good news. Ryan was hoping he’d been given a bum steer, passed on uncorroborated information as truth, worrying them unnecessarily.

  Hope was a far cry from belief.

  Hanging on to that thought, Ryan felt his tension rise, eyes on Gloria. The rain was relentless, almost horizontal off the North Sea, no let-up in sight. The girl had no umbrella, a short-cropped leather jacket her only protection against the cold and wet. Half a dozen cars had stopped in the time she’d been there. They had each pulled to the kerb, windows wound down, leaving without completing a transaction, potential customers swearing at her before setting off again, getting the one-finger salute in return. She’d been told to act normal, as if she wasn’t under surveillance, a role she was fulfilling beautifully.

  O’Neil’s voice came over the radio: ‘What’s your status, Unit One? Are you getting registration numbers from there?’

  Ryan glanced at the CCTV rigged above his head, installed by the Technical Support Unit earlier that afternoon, a small hole punched in the glass to enable unrestricted line of sight, the camera lens trained on Gloria. ‘Affirmative. I hope this punter shows.’

  ‘Patience, Ryan . . .’ Radio reception was poor. It crackled as O’Neil spoke again. ‘Unit One, dark vehicle approaching from the east.’

  Wiping condensation from the window to get a better view, Ryan pushed the transmit button on his radio, adrenalin surging through his veins. ‘We have the eyeball, guv. Different make and model. It’s not our target vehicle.’ The car cruised by . . . and on past Gloria. ‘Damn!’ Ryan whispered under his breath. He was beginning to lose hope. ‘That’s a negative, guv.’

  ‘Hold your position and stay alert. He may come on foot.’

  Ryan relaxed again.

  Grace shivered uncontrollably.

  ‘You cold?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d be a damned sight finer sat in O’Neil’s warm car.’

  ‘Want my jacket? I’m toasty.’

  ‘You can’t be.’

  He made a funny face. ‘I have my thermals on.’

  ‘You’re such a wuss.’

  ‘No, just practical.’

  ‘Give them your coat then.’ Grace pointed through the window. ‘They’ll catch their death out there in this rain. Can you believe the risks they take in order to make ends meet?’ She was angry and didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Few make enough to get by, let alone have a decent life. Every one of them will have been attacked at some point or another. Fuck knows how many unreported rapes there are among them.’ She shook her head, her focus on the road. ‘Look at the girl on the left. She’s barely a teenager.’

  Ryan followed her gaze to a skinny waif-like figure shivering on the pavement. Years ago, she’d have been working in a vibrant fishing industry, engaged in the manufacture of traditional crafts or engineering locally, much of it long gone. Despite regeneration of the area, leisure and tourism had failed to fill the gap. With youth unemployment up and wages down, kids were struggling to survive.

  At ten past midnight, Grace checked her watch, mumbling under her breath, shifted her weight from one foot to the other. ‘I’m busting for a pee,’ she said.

  ‘Find a dark corner. I won’t peek, I promise. And try not to break your neck.’

  ‘Sorry, Ryan, needs must.’

  Her pants were hardly down when Newman’s voice cut in: ‘Vehicle heading west.’

  Grace swore. ‘Tell the bastard I can’t stop mid-stream—’

  Newman’s voice hit the airwaves. ‘Repeat, Unit One. I didn’t get that.’

  Ryan grinned. ‘That’s received, Unit Two. Stand by.’

  A vehicle pulled up as Grace joined Ryan at the window, adjusting her strides where she’d pulled them up quickly.

  ‘Better?’ he asked.

  ‘Much.’

  The two detectives held their collective breath as the guy inside the car wound his window down and spoke to Gloria through it, her hesitancy raising their antennae. Anticipating that Stevie might show up in a different vehicle, Ryan had primed the girl to light up and throw her cigarette towards her punter should the right one arrive. She was already smoking, the fag presently in her hand. When she didn’t approach the car, the driver got out, walked round the vehicle and moved towards her in a threatening manner.

  They had words.

  When the conversation didn’t go his way, the man grabbed Gloria by the arm, pulling her towards his car by her hair. She timed it perfectly, sparks flying off the end of her cigarette as it glanced off his vehicle.

  ‘That’s a Go, Go, Go!’ Ryan said into his radio.

  Nearest the door, Grace was out of the building first, sprinting like a gazelle across the road, as fit as someone half her age. Gloria glanced left as Newman ran towards her from the opposite direction. Spotting him, her punter made a run for it, hitting Grace so hard she fell and hit the wet tarmac, where she lay motionless in a puddle as Gloria’s soggy cigarette floated by.

  As Newman went to her aid, the running man glanced over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. It was a mistake. Ryan took him out, a rugby tackle that sent them both crashing to the ground. Ryan managed to grab hold of him, dragging him to his feet, cuffing him before he could make good his escape.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Matthew Ryan, Northumbria Police. What’s your name?’

  ‘Why? I’ve done nowt wrong.’

  ‘Name!’

  ‘Steven Francis Watson.’

  Ryan cautioned the suspect. ‘Stand still! You’re going nowhere; I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder and assault. Consider yourself nicked.’

  The impact of that statement made Watson stagger slightly. His eyes fled to the lock-up as if he understood why they were there. He was shitting himself as he raised his hands.

  ‘No, look, I had nothing to do with what went on in there, I swear.’

  O’Neil screamed to a halt in her vehicle. She got out, leaving the door wide open, her focus on Grace, who was being helped to her feet by Newman. ‘Grace, are you OK? Do you need a medic?’

  ‘No!’ Grace rubbed her head, still dazed.

  O’Neil nodded to Ryan. ‘Get him in the car, I’ll meet you at base.’

  ‘No, wait!’ the prisoner protested. ‘I’ll tell you everything.’

  ‘You’ll have ample opportunity to do that at the station,’ Ryan said.

  The man struggled to reach O’Neil as she turned away from him, elbowing Ryan in the process. ‘Get the fuck off me!’

  ‘Don’t make this difficult,’ Ryan gave a tug on the cuffs, incapacitating his prisoner.

  ‘Ow!’ he yelled. ‘I’m sorry, I was scared.’ His eyes shot to Grace. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push you over.’

 
‘Tell it to the judge, Mr Watson.’ Grace was shivering violently and soaking wet. ‘Get in the car! We’re going for a drive.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ Newman said.

  Grace gave him hard eyes, warning him to back off.

  ‘Let Frank drive. You’ve had a bang on the head.’ O’Neil threw the keys at Newman.

  Grace caught them mid-air and climbed in the driver’s seat, a face-off with her husband and O’Neil through the window. ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘I’ve had worse cleaning my teeth.’

  ‘Are you lot listening?’ Watson yelled. ‘I done nowt wrong.’

  Ryan put a hand on his head, shoving him through the car door and into the rear seat. Content that Grace was OK to drive, Ryan conveyed a silent message to Newman – I’ll look after her – and got in beside his prisoner, who continued to spill his guts on the short journey to the station.

  ‘Hey!’ he said. ‘I assaulted Gloria. I admit it. I had nowt to do with the dead girl. You’ve got it all wrong, I swear.’

  Grace floored the accelerator, heading for the local nick. Either she was keen to transfer their suspect into the custody of the Murder Investigation Team to be detained until formally interviewed, for as long as it took to check out his story, or she was trying to scare him to death. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your point of view, the bottleless lowlife would cough all he knew before he even reached the cells.

  Ryan winked at Grace through the rear-view mirror while using reverse psychology on the man sitting next to him, something Ryan remembered her teaching him: ‘Ask a prisoner questions, they’ll blank you; tell them to shut the fuck up, they’ll do the exact opposite. Works every time.’

  They shot along Union Quay, left onto Brewhouse Bank, another left onto Bird Street, Charlotte Street and right at the roundabout onto Stephenson Road. Grace didn’t do slow. The speedo was climbing rapidly as they headed away from the coast. She wasn’t saving the horses. She was screaming along, keen to dump the prisoner and then put Newman’s mind at rest.

  ‘I’m holding my hands up,’ Watson whined. ‘I was having fun with Gloria—’

  ‘Save your breath,’ Ryan said.

  ‘There’s no law against screwing prostitutes. It’s what she does. She’s a fucking tart. She’ll shag anyone for money.’

  ‘At the station!’ Ryan said. ‘Do us all a favour and keep it shut till we get there. The Murder Investigation Team will give you plenty of time to get it off your chest. They’ve got all night.’ He considered a forearm smash. He wanted to tell the scumbag that Gloria had a name, that she was a vulnerable kid, that he was old enough to be her father. He’d assaulted her multiple times. He saw her as someone to be picked up and discarded at will, a hooker who deserved whatever he had in mind to dish out. What she deserved, in Ryan’s opinion, was as much police protection as the next person.

  He’d make sure she got it.

  The prisoner was still snivelling as they arrived at the station, his bottle gone completely. ‘Fuck’s sake! I kicked her out where I picked her up. I needed a piss. I went into the lock-up, saw the girl lying there covered in blood and legged it. I didn’t come forward for obvious reasons. I knew you bastards would try and pin it on me. You always do. It wasn’t me, I swear!’

  ‘Shut it!’ Ryan repeated, tuning him out. No urine had been found in the lock-up. Thanks to Grace, there was now.

  33

  Ryan was invited to play second string on the interview. He agreed on the proviso that he could leave if called back to base. The Senior Investigating Officer from the Murder Investigation Team – a dynamic young woman of similar age to him – agreed that he could sit in and bail out if it became necessary. Despite the gravity of the offence for which he’d been arrested, Watson declined legal representation.

  ‘You really ought to have a solicitor present,’ Ryan warned.

  ‘At this time of night? Do me a favour. I can’t be doing with hanging in the cells until one rolls off his lass and tips up here. I told you, I’ve got a good job. There’ll be no Legal Aid bollocks coming my way. Don’t see why I should pay either, considering I’ve done nowt beyond slapping a hooker and drink driving. I’ll put my hands up to that, no sweat. Just get on with it.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  The caution had hardly been administered, the digital recorder switched on, when the prisoner coughed to assaults on Gloria and Grace, as well as driving under the influence while disqualified, much to the surprise of the SIO. It was almost one a.m. She was tired. If her prisoner was intent on admissions that might end up on a charge sheet, who was she to complain? When he’d got the small matters out of the way, the idiot turned his attention to the substantive matter for which he’d been arrested: murder of a person unknown. He blurted out a plausible explanation for being at the scene and for the lack of urine on the floor.

  ‘It was dark in there’, he said. ‘You’ve got to believe me. Don’t tell me you’ve never been caught short. We’ve all done it, yeah?’ He pleaded with Ryan. ‘Tell her, man.’ Met with silence, he switched his attention to the SIO. ‘It’s different for us, pet; full of beer, we can’t hold on to it, know what I mean? I was busting for a slash and snagged my zip undoing my flies. I put my phone torch in my mouth while I tried to get it free. The fucking thing was stuck fast. It wouldn’t budge. That’s the God’s honest truth. I was hopping around in there, trying not to piss myself, when I spotted the girl. Piss or no piss, I legged it. Ask Gloria. She’ll alibi me.’

  ‘Do you need an alibi?’ The SIO let him stew a second. ‘Mr Watson, if you weren’t responsible for the state of that lock-up, who was? We know the victim was female. How do we know you didn’t have her tied up in there, bound and gagged, waiting for you to give her what for?’ She looked down at his antecedent history. ‘You have previous for violence and for perverting the course of justice.’ She raised her eyes. ‘Whoever killed the woman you allege was lying dead on the floor removed the body afterwards. Was it you?’

  ‘No! I swear – on my mother’s life.’

  ‘You have a mother?’ Ryan scoffed.

  He wanted to put Watson in his place, frighten him the way he’d terrified Gloria. He wanted to make out that even though he may not have seen the killers’ faces, they sure as hell would have seen his and might be coming after him. Gloria had said he could have his fancy watch for the price of a nose job. Shouldn’t cost him more than a few grand.

  ‘Start talking,’ Ryan said.

  ‘I’ve not stopped talking. If I tell you what I know, can I go home?’

  ‘And climb into bed with your missus?’ the SIO said. ‘You do have a wife, don’t you?’

  ‘And kids,’ he admitted, eyes flitting between the two detectives, eventually landing on Ryan.

  ‘It had better be good.’ Ryan’s expression was deadpan. ‘You’ve been arrested on suspicion of murder.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Ryan has a point,’ the SIO said. ‘What else happened in the lock-up, Mr Watson?’

  ‘Nothing, I swear.’

  ‘Did you leave anything behind?’

  He nodded. ‘A shoe.’

  ‘Left or right?’

  ‘Left.’ No hesitation.

  ‘Can you describe it?’

  ‘It was brown, a brogue.’

  The SIO bent down to retrieve a plastic evidence bag she had concealed in a box on the floor. The brogue was clearly visible to the prisoner. ‘Is this the one?’ The suspect confirmed it was his. The SIO eyeballed him. ‘I bet that took some explaining to the missus.’

  ‘I know this looks bad for me. The girl was in there when I left. I swear, I had nothing to do with her death.’ Watson began to weep. He was scared stiff, which was exactly where the detectives wanted him.

  Time to close the gap.

  Right on cue, the SIO put the suspect at ease. ‘Assuming for one moment that you didn’t murder anyone, it stands to reason someone else did—’

  ‘Hallelujah! That’s what I’ve been saying all long.
’

  Having put his mind at rest, the SIO unbalanced him, timing the killer blow perfectly. ‘Unless your friends like knocking women around as much as you do. How do we know you weren’t working in tandem with someone else, using Gloria as an alibi? I gather your assault on her was nasty. Not something she’ll forget in a hurry. You made sure of that.’

  Ryan liked her style.

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’ Watson said, sweat pouring off him.

  ‘What was it like? Who was in the lock-up with you?’

  ‘No one! I saw no one!’ He thumbed in Ryan’s direction. ‘That’s what I was telling him on the way over here. He wouldn’t fucking listen, would he? You can question me all night and you’ll get the same answers. I promise you, I have nowt to hide.’

  ‘Did you check if the girl was breathing?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘And leave my DNA on her? Yeah right, you think I’m a dummy?’

  The SIO turned to Ryan, one eyebrow raised. ‘Forensically aware . . . I like that.’

  ‘Exactly what we’re looking for.’ Ryan cut off the prisoner’s objections with another question. ‘How near were you to her?’

  ‘I dunno. Five, six feet, tops.’

  ‘So you didn’t touch the body in any way?’

  ‘No, I told you.’

  ‘Did you touch her clothing?’

  ‘No! Why would I? You’d have to be some perv to do that. She was covered in blood. What do you take me for?’

  ‘How about the walls of the lock-up . . . did you touch them?’

  Watson palmed his brow, a slight shake of the head. ‘Not that I recall. I definitely didn’t touch her, or her clothing, only the corrugated iron sheet when I first went in . . . or maybe on the way out. I wasn’t thinking, was I?’

  ‘Well you’d better be now.’ Ryan pushed a sheet of A4 towards him. ‘I want you to draw a picture of the inside of that lock-up, the location of the corrugated sheeting, how you got in, where you stood and exactly what position the body was in . . . and, if you can remember, where you left your shoe. Can you do that, Stevie? That would be really helpful.’