The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  Ryan clicked on photographs taken at the scene. No surprise there because he’d viewed the DVD, except the stills afforded him the time to pause a while and concentrate his mind on this offence instead of lumping it together with the rest. Murder scenes tended to merge that way when the circumstances and MO were similar, especially where there was no body to differentiate one from another.

  The clock on the wall ticked loudly, competing with the silence.

  No contest.

  Guilt settled on Ryan like a heavy weight. He hated conflict within the ranks. To him, the enemy should be outside the unit, not within. It ate away at him that O’Neil hadn’t spoken a word since the coffee was delivered. He glanced across the desk. She was scribbling notes on a pad, only the top of her head visible. This time yesterday they were friends. He hoped they would be again.

  There were a couple of knocks at the door.

  O’Neil allowed Ryan to handle them: a short update from the Family Liaison Officer supporting Tierney’s long-term partner, Robert Parker; more information from Vikki on exactly what Parker had been told: that the victim’s death was not accidental and that a post-mortem would reveal more. Parker told detectives that Tierney had gone out to spend the evening of Saturday, 9 October with friends. Acting on that information, detectives had established that he was last seen walking away from the dinner party at around two in the morning. They were still investigating how he’d got from there to the abandoned coastguard lookout where he’d been stabbed to death – information they had kept from Parker.

  Without lifting her head, O’Neil put a hand out. Picking up her mug, she took a sip of coffee, grimacing when she discovered it was stone cold. Ryan glanced at the clock. It had been almost two hours since refreshments had arrived. He was about to offer to fetch more when she looked up. His eyes flew back to the screen, a wide shot of the room in which Tierney had been killed.

  In his head, Ryan pictured CSIs in white suits documenting every drop of blood. There would have been little need for the application of Bluestar, the luminol-based chemical agent British forensic scientists used to irradiate traces of the liquid that kept us all alive, pure or diluted. No attempt had been made to wash it away here.

  Because the crime scene had been linked to others elsewhere, Sussex Police had been exceptionally thorough. No expense had been spared. Bloodstain pattern analysis experts had reconstructed the crime scene to determine from what angle the victim was attacked, with what type of weapon – a narrow blade in this case. The injuries matched the screwdriver left at the scene. Forensic scientists had concluded that Tierney had been standing when the first blow was struck. An arc of blood on the floor led investigators to conclude that he’d turned and moved away from his attacker in an effort to escape, whereupon he’d been struck again, presumably in the back. A grid had been drawn, tagged and numbered, to enable scientists to establish, as close as they were able, how many blows had hit their target. The number was in double figures.

  38

  They left Sussex HQ in the pool car they had been loaned. Keying Tierney’s home address into the satnav gave them a journey time of half an hour, an ETA of approximately five o’clock. O’Neil insisted on driving. On the way, Ryan updated her on the latest information fed into HOLMES, including the detail that Tierney’s head had become detached from his body – unsurprising, given the time it had been in the sea – saving his partner the distress of identification at the morgue.

  ‘Every cloud,’ O’Neil said.

  Ryan opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again when his phone rang. He checked the display. ‘I’d better take this. It’s Cath Masters, the SIO who interviewed Watson last night.’

  Ryan could see O’Neil’s frustration. Their job was about shifting priorities. No sooner were they making headway with one line of enquiry than they were forced to veer off in a different direction entirely. The ability to keep all the balls in the air was the difference between a good copper and a bad one, especially when conducting a multiple murder investigation. Information was gold. It didn’t come in neat packages, delivered when most convenient to detectives. It came in thick and fast, at all times of the day and night, interrupting trains of thought – but that was also what made the job exciting: the constant challenge.

  ‘Put it on speaker,’ O’Neil said.

  Ryan did as she asked, letting Masters know that O’Neil would be party to the conversation. While the two women greeted one another, Ryan wondered if their professional acquaintance extended to friendship, if Masters had knowledge of O’Neil’s disastrous relationship with a moronic QC. There was no time for niceties, let alone sympathies, during a case this big.

  ‘You have something for us?’ O’Neil asked.

  ‘Remember Watson said he owned a nightclub? It was a complete fabrication. He manages the joint. Nevertheless, the job is such that he’s able to slip away for extra-marital activity with a string of hookers whenever he chooses and still keep it from his missus.’

  Ryan tried not to look at O’Neil. He was struggling to understand how her ex could have left her at the altar on Christmas Eve, preferring the company of working girls. Forsythe was obviously the type who lived by the old saying: why buy a book when you can join the library? There were many of those in the job; dickheads, every one of them. Wouldn’t know a good thing if it was presented to them gift-wrapped.

  Masters was still talking: ‘His story about being spooked in the lock-up checks out. Gloria made a formal statement to that effect. He can’t have been in there more than twenty seconds, just enough time to get his zip down – or not, in his case. The shoe is definitely his. We have the other one now to prove it.’

  ‘Good job, Cath.’ O’Neil took a breath. ‘Can you call the National Footwear Database for me and let them know to cancel the action.’

  ‘Already taken care of. There’s no flies on your girl, Grace Ellis. Life in the old dog yet, eh?’

  ‘Careful.’ Ryan reminded her that walls had ears.

  Masters chuckled. ‘I’ll deny I ever said it.’

  O’Neil almost cracked a smile. ‘You and Grace obviously know each other.’

  ‘We’ve met once or twice. She’s a formidable woman.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it,’ O’Neil said.

  ‘Quite a reputation too.’

  ‘In a good way,’ Ryan chipped in.

  Masters agreed. ‘There’s no one better at running a Murder Incident Room. You chose well.’

  O’Neil changed the subject. ‘We were fairly certain Watson was telling the truth. Sounds like he’s cooperating—’

  ‘After Ryan put the frighteners on.’ Masters laughed. ‘You’ve got yourself a player there, Eloise. If you get sick of him, sling him over, there’s always a vacancy on my team for someone like him.’

  That could happen sooner than you know, Ryan thought. Unable to face O’Neil, his eyes found the footwell. He spoke without raising them. ‘How did Watson get on with the sketch?’

  ‘He drew it well. Pretty accurate representation too, I reckon, bearing in mind that it would’ve been dark in there. He pinpointed exactly where he saw the body. Coincides with blood found at the scene. According to him, the lass was on her front, face down. I pressed him on age but he wasn’t sure. Youngish, he said. Didn’t think she was that old anyway. Adult female, certainly, somewhere between late teens and mid thirties. That’s a guesstimate, based on what she was wearing. Arrogant shit reckons he knows women. Nearly stuck my fingers down my throat when he came out with that one.’

  O’Neil kept her focus on the road, avoiding Ryan’s sideways glance. He wanted to stand up for his gender; tell her that not all men were as obnoxious as Watson or her philandering QC. Instead, he let her mope, concentrating his efforts on Masters.

  ‘Did he mention any features, facial or otherwise?’ he asked.

  ‘No, we lucked out there. Her hair was covering her face. Blonde, he thinks. Hard to tell in the poor lighting and with all the blo
od. Clothing pretty nondescript but intact: dark knee-length coat and a bag he described as bright yellow. Fluorescent, like an old-fashioned satchel, a distinctive black tag on the strap with a foreign name. I passed it to Grace. Like all good MIR managers she passed it back, asked my team to source bags of that kind. They came up with one manufactured by Proenza Schouler.’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ O’Neil said.

  ‘Or me,’ Masters said. ‘Turns out it’s high-end designer kit, a cool twelve hundred – sterling, not euros – which would suggest your female victim is loaded. Put it this way, we’re talking Harvey Nicks, not TK Maxx. There are cheaper imitations on the market . . .’

  Ryan heard a tapping sound, fingers striking a keyboard.

  Masters was checking her computer.

  ‘The Cambridge Satchel Company is one,’ she said. ‘Retails at a couple of hundred pounds, but it’s neither fluorescent or foreign . . .’

  That may be so but O’Neil and Ryan exchanged a glance. Two mentions of the county town of Cambridge may or may not be significant. A snippet of information they would file away for later.

  ‘Did you show the bags to Watson?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Yeah, well, images of them. He seems to think the one your victim was wearing was identical to the more expensive brand. He may be an arse, a lying cheating arse, but he’s a cracking witness. He swears the Schouler label is the one he saw. My team haven’t found any others that fit the bill.’

  ‘It might not be hers,’ Ryan said. ‘Could’ve been stolen and chucked in the lock-up by anyone.’

  ‘No,’ Masters said. ‘It wasn’t by the girl, it was on the girl. I’ll email the drawing to Eloise. The sketch is pretty impressive. The strap was across her body, left shoulder to right thigh.’

  ‘So probably right-handed.’

  ‘That would be my guess.’

  An email pinged into O’Neil’s phone. She nodded to Ryan to pick it up. He accessed the sketch and turned it round to show her.

  ‘Got it, thanks.’ O’Neil pulled into a parking spot and cut the engine. ‘Listen, we’ve got to go. Ryan and I are up against it here. Am I right in thinking that Watson just chose the wrong toilet spot?’

  ‘I’d put money on it,’ Master said.

  ‘You may as well charge him with assault – assuming Gloria wants to press ahead – and bail him.’

  ‘What about Grace?’

  O’Neil looked at Ryan: his call.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘She’s old school. First, she hates filling out forms. Second, she’ll find a way to bust his balls that doesn’t involve a courtroom. We might even use the gobshite to our advantage further down the line. He squeals like a snout. May as well treat him like one.’

  Masters laughed.

  ‘I agree,’ O’Neil said. ‘Do me a favour, Cath. Let the bastard sweat a while before you let him go.’

  ‘My diary is full,’ she said. ‘I’ll be tied up for the rest of the day. Sadly, Watson will have to wait.’

  O’Neil thanked her.

  Echoing that sentiment, Ryan hung up.

  They sat for a moment, mulling over the call. The body was there at around six thirty on the morning of Sunday, 8 December, removed sometime afterwards. Sunrise was seven fifty-three. Such a small window, but Ryan figured that while Spielberg kept an eye on the jogger, James Fraser, her partner in crime nipped back to dispose of the girl they had left in the lock-up. If Grace hadn’t already come to the same conclusion, she soon would. He pictured frantic activity at base. She’d be organizing search teams, advising divers that there may be a distinctive bag, either on the riverbank or floating out to sea. Though they hadn’t yet recovered a body, the unit at least had something to aim for now.

  In the meantime, O’Neil and Ryan had an appointment with Robert Parker.

  39

  ‘Michael Tierney’s civil partner could be key to this case.’ O’Neil pulled her collar up and quickened her step as they walked a short way along Brighton seafront. It was bitterly cold. ‘If, as Vikki suggests, Robert Parker is a professional man, articulate and discreet, maybe we need to take a chance here. Shoot me down if you think I’m wrong but, if he’s been with Michael for thirty-plus years, he probably knows him better than his mother, had she been alive.’ She stopped walking as they reached the building, five storeys of Regency splendour.

  ‘This is it,’ she said.

  Ryan whistled. ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Yeah. Until we get in there.’

  He knew what she meant. When it came to the families of homicide victims, there was no such thing as a typical reaction to the death of a loved one. Right now, his guv’nor was weighing up the pros and cons, making judgements based on what they had gleaned from the FLO. Could Parker be trusted with sensitive material relating to their case?

  O’Neil’s strategy for handling the interview made Ryan nervous.

  Sensing his hesitation, she made no move towards the entrance. It was important to convince him before they went in. ‘Ambassador Dean had no significant other in his life, male or female. Newman said his wife passed away two years ago. Trevathan never married. Neither of them had children. It’s not been possible to interview anyone closer than a hysterical housekeeper to the judge. We need to push on now. Parker is how we do it.’

  Ryan scanned the building, wondering if Tierney’s partner was watching them from above, dreading the intrusion, savouring the last few moments before they shared information he didn’t really want to hear. The words ignorance and bliss loomed large in Ryan’s mind. Parker’s world had already come crashing down. They were about to dump more misery on him.

  ‘Ryan?’

  He turned to face her.

  ‘Do you agree?’

  ‘Sorry, I thought you were telling, not asking, guv. Sharing sensitive information with a man we’ve never met before is risky.’

  ‘It’s a risk we must take if we’re to break through the logjam. For the first time in this enquiry, we’ll be able to get close to someone who knew the victim exceptionally well. Of course we must be sensitive to his feelings. Parker just lost his soulmate, but it’s shit or bust, in my opinion. I believe he may be able to help us.’

  ‘How d’you want to play it?’

  ‘I’ll lead. You follow up. He is, by all accounts, an intelligent man, but an extremely emotional one. I’m hoping that now he’s had time to get over the initial shock, he’ll be able to talk and listen. We’ll know soon enough if we can share information with him. If we aren’t of the same mind when we get in there, give me the nod and I’ll back off.’

  It was a good call, one Ryan was happy with.

  The FLO had given him the access code to the apartment block. They took the lift to the penthouse and rang the bell. Behind gold-rimmed specs, Parker’s eyes were tired and red. He’d made the effort to shave and was dressed in casual but well-tailored clothes. Mentally he was in bad shape, visibly tortured by loss, unable to comprehend how his future might pan out without Michael in it. Ryan had been hoping he’d be able to hold it together in the face of losing his long-term partner. Seeing him in the flesh, he wasn’t so sure. And O’Neil’s tactics wouldn’t stand a chance if he wasn’t up to it.

  They were shown into an apartment much like their own office: under-floor heating, panoramic views out to sea, no chance that the wind whipping off the English Channel could penetrate the triple glazing. Beautifully furnished in muted shades of grey, it had set the couple back a cool two million, according to records Vikki had shared with them. Apparently, Parker was a wealthy man in his own right.

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss,’ O’Neil began. He offered her a seat and she took it, waiting for him to settle on the sofa opposite before continuing. ‘You will have been made aware that DS Ryan and I are from Northumbria Police. Because of this, I’m sure you’ve gathered already that the incident involving your partner is not an isolated one.’

  ‘I did wonder,’ Parker said.

  ‘Do you mind if I
call you Robert?’

  He shook his head, composing himself.

  As O’Neil put the man at ease, Ryan’s attention drifted to an open door: it led to a mini gymnasium, complete with treadmill, exercise bike and weightlifting bench. A Camelbak hydration system was tucked neatly in one corner, some red Nike wrist weights like the ones he had at home lying on the floor beside it. After a few minutes, during a lull in the conversation, O’Neil caught Ryan’s eye. He gave the briefest of nods, a gesture that she should go for it. Parker was holding his own.

  It was time to take that chance.

  O’Neil ran with it. ‘Robert, I need your help. I’m going to divulge details to you that would normally remain confidential. Before I do that, I need an assurance that what I tell you will go no further than this room: not to friends, press – and this might sound very strange to you – but I’d rather you didn’t discuss it with local detectives either.’

  ‘You have my word, Superintendent.’

  ‘We’re investigating a number of incidents, in the UK and abroad, that we believe are linked. You are the only person we are able to talk to who knows one of the victims intimately. Let me be very clear: if this information gets out, it may hamper our investigation. I want to bring those responsible for Michael’s death to justice. I’m sure you do too, before anyone else gets hurt.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said.

  ‘I gather you’ve been told that Michael’s body was recovered from the water and that the circumstances surrounding his death are suspicious, is that correct? Forgive me for asking but it pays not to presume these things.’

  Parker gave a resigned nod. He knew what was coming and was steeling himself for it, just as Ryan was bracing himself for the distress of visiting yet another crime scene, the coastguard lookout where Tierney had been killed. Not that he expected it to take them any further after the first-rate job local police had done on it. O’Neil had been given a tour of the site by the Crime Scene Manager on her first trip to East Sussex. She was confident that they had covered all the bases. That was good enough for him.