The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

  Ølgaard spoke to Pedersen in Danish. ‘De må gerne sidde ned.’

  Pedersen took off her coat to reveal a stripy mauve dress underneath, accepting the seat offered. Having been told by Ølgaard that the witness had been waiting a while, O’Neil thanked her for her patience before the interview got under way. The young woman shrugged, held up a novel by Icelandic author Yrsa Sigurðardóttir, an English edition: I Remember You. She spoke softly, unhurriedly. ‘I’m a librarian by profession, happiest with time on my hands and a book in my lap.’

  O’Neil smiled at the others.

  Conscious of their appointment with Pål Friis, Ryan began: ‘You made a statement to police that you saw a couple in Kastelsvej, near the British Embassy, before Ambassador Dean was murdered.’ He took in her nod. ‘You may be the only person able to describe them for us, so we’d like as detailed a description as you’re able to give. At this stage, we’re anxious to trace and eliminate them. They may or may not be guilty of any crime.’

  ‘Guilty is exactly how I’d describe them.’ Pedersen spoke with conviction.

  Ølgaard said something in her native tongue. ‘Hvorfor virkede de mistænkelige?’ She looked at Ryan. ‘I asked her what stood out about them.’ O’Neil had asked Ryan to lead the interview – she didn’t say why, just that this was one job they wouldn’t share – but she agreed that the Dane should chip in if she could hurry the interview along in any way.

  ‘Anja?’ Ryan prompted. ‘May I call you that?’

  ‘That is my name.’

  He loved the bluntness of Scandi women.

  The librarian relaxed into her chair, in no obvious hurry, eyes fixed on a point over Ryan’s shoulder as if she might find inspiration there. ‘The man was around my age,’ she said. ‘He was wearing a grey shirt with a white stripe, open at the neck. He had dark patches under his arms even though the day was cool, a foreign rucksack on his back. It had a logo I couldn’t read. I was too far away.’ She paused. ‘He wasn’t Danish. Neither of them were. I thought at the time they might be British. Don’t ask me why. Their clothes, I suppose. You can tell a lot from what a person is wearing.’

  ‘Hvid?’ Ølgaard said.

  ‘White, yes.’

  ‘Both of them?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You told Politikommisær Ølgaard that something about the man wasn’t quite right.’

  ‘For sure. He was odd. It was the shifty expression on his face, the fact that he was sweating so much and was the only one in the street with no destination, no focus, if you know what I mean. He smoked a lot. He was . . . how do you say it?’ She paused, looking to Ølgaard for assistance.

  ‘Loitering?’ Ølgaard said.

  ‘Yes, exactly.’

  Ryan moved her along. ‘Please continue . . .’

  ‘It was the way he held his phone, not reading from it, I don’t mean that, but not like a tourist taking pictures either. The more I observed him, the more certain I became that he was a character not to be trusted.’

  ‘Did something happen to make you think that?’

  ‘Two men appeared through the front door of the embassy. Security, I think, smartly dressed, though not in uniform. They took a good look at him and then walked away.’ This was news to Ryan, O’Neil and Ølgaard too. Pedersen was in full flow. ‘When you work in a library you see all kinds. You quickly learn to observe the weird ones. Some are lonely, others disturbed. I’m in charge. I have to know the difference. The nervous ones display strange behaviour like the man I saw in the street. Her too. When they saw the security patrol, they became agitated and turned away. The man dropped his head, using his phone as cover.’

  ‘What time was this?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘Three o’clock or thereabouts, maybe a few minutes after – a Friday afternoon. It occurred to me that embassy guards were being lazy, that questioning the couple might delay an early finish for the weekend. I’m sure you have the same type in your country.’

  ‘Fortalte De mine kollegaer det?’ Ølgaard interrupted. Her words needed no translation. Her tone was enough of a hint that she was royally pissed off. The Dane turned to Ryan and O’Neil. ‘This is the first I’ve heard of the two security guards from the embassy. She never mentioned them before. I would have questioned them earlier, had I known.’

  ‘The detective I spoke to never asked me.’ Anja said in English. She didn’t flinch when Ølgaard got up and left the room, practically taking the door off its hinges as she yanked it open. The librarian rolled her eyes. ‘I guess someone is in serious trouble.’

  Ryan suspected that the security detail – if that’s what it was – had seen the couple from inside the building and were now keeping shtum because they should have investigated. They would want nothing to do with a foreign national going missing on their watch, especially one as important as the British ambassador they were employed to protect. He made a mental note to follow it up. With any luck – they were certainly due some – there would be CCTV to verify Pedersen’s account.

  ‘What made you link the two events?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘The Ambassador’s death was reported on TV and in the newspaper. It reminded me of the suspicious couple I’d seen just days before.’ Her eyes had grown dark. ‘I feel very guilty now. Maybe if I’d challenged them.’

  ‘Given what we suspect, that would’ve been unwise.’

  ‘I could’ve approached the patrol.’

  Ryan reassured her. ‘You weren’t to know what was going to happen.’

  ‘Lisbeth Salander would’ve done something.’

  Reference to the fictitious character of Swedish author Stieg Larsson threw Ryan. He was suddenly on the back foot, wondering if the librarian was herself a bit of a fruitcake, overly influenced by the books she read. It was just as well Ølgaard had left the room.

  O’Neil was getting restless and was, Ryan suspected, similarly astonished by Pedersen’s lapse into a fabricated universe during a police interview. Checking her watch, O’Neil chanced a brief glance at Ryan, a gesture, if one were needed, to push on.

  ‘What was the woman like?’ he asked. ‘More or less anxious than him?’

  ‘Much less.’ There was no hesitation. ‘She was keeping her distance from him, but they were definitely together. There was no doubt in my mind. They were . . .’ She linked hands tightly to demonstrate her point. ‘More than close if you know what I mean. I’m not sure how to describe it.’

  ‘Man and wife?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Pedersen screwed up her face. ‘More like brother and sister.’

  ‘What gave you that impression?’

  Ølgaard was back, her mood no better for her trip outside.

  ‘She was protective of him, not the other way round,’ Anja said. ‘Looking out for him, if you know what I mean. She was acting oddly too, sketching on a notepad when there wasn’t anything interesting in the street to draw.’

  That artistic bent again.

  Photographer or sketch artist, Ryan was certain that the woman Pedersen was describing was half of the couple he was after, the woman O’Neil had nicknamed Spielberg. Her voice echoed in his head now, snippets of their brief telephone conversation and the chilling dialogue from the DVDs she’d sent. If Pedersen’s account could be believed – and that was currently under review – Spielberg was the driving force, not her male accomplice, just as Caroline had suspected when she fed back her thoughts on the DVDs.

  Ryan focused on the witness. ‘Can you give a good description of either of them?’

  ‘Not him,’ She struggled for the right words, lapsing into her mother tongue, her attention on her countrywoman. ‘Han havde en hat på, der skyggede for hans ansigt.’

  Ølgaard responded in the same way. ‘Hvilken slags hat var det?’

  ‘Amerikansk, den slags man har på til baseball.’

  ‘His face was in shade.’ Ølgaard translated. ‘He was wearing a baseball cap.’

  ‘Yeah, we gathered that.’ Ryan turned
to Pedersen. ‘Is there anything about him you haven’t already mentioned to me or Politikommisær Ølgaard?’

  ‘He needed something to eat.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Ryan didn’t understand.

  Ølgaard was about to ask for clarification when Pedersen spoke up. ‘I’m not a doctor, but my sister is painfully thin. She has a disease—’

  ‘Anorexia?’

  ‘Yes, the man with the phone looked like her.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘She was older, more confident – definitely in control – attractive too . . . with hair like your boss.’

  Ryan glanced at O’Neil. Pedersen’s description of this couple was strikingly similar to the one given by Trevathan’s housekeeper – a thin man; a glamorous woman – but the two who took the briefcase had since been ruled out as MI5 operatives. It was important not to confuse the couples. The librarian was their sole eyewitness.

  ‘She had red hair?’ Ølgaard asked. ‘Are you sure?’

  The librarian nodded. ‘From a bottle.’

  It didn’t surprise anyone that the woman they were discussing might change her appearance to hide her identity. Whilst thin men could bulk up and make themselves fat, it didn’t work the other way round. The male they were seeking was thin, emaciated. Such knowledge was gold. A heated argument in the corridor interrupted the conversation. Ølgaard’s doing, if her smug expression was anything to go by. Pedersen became anxious. Ryan had to raise his voice above the din, telling her not to concern herself. They ended the discussion there. They were short of time and keen to get to Pål Friis.

  42

  When Grace had set up the meeting with Friis, the historian requested an outside rendezvous. Working at the Danish and International Art Museum, he said he spent too much time inside. Having experienced several hours in a tin tube at thirty thousand feet, Ryan knew the feeling and was more than happy to accommodate him.

  The Renaissance-style King’s Garden was truly special, one of the world’s oldest parks dating from the 1600s. Ryan and O’Neil entered the grounds through the main gate, walking in silence towards the meeting point, bare trees offering no refuge from a biting wind. O’Neil seemed not to notice the chill. She was gloved up, a thick scarf wrapped around her neck, a long grey padded coat and knee-length boots, perfect for December.

  Ryan’s short leather jacket offered less protection. Despite the fact that they were shoved deep down in his pockets, he could feel his hands slowly turning blue. He checked his watch. They were early, so he took out his phone and called Caroline. It was a mistake to do so in O’Neil’s presence. His twin knew instantly that he was unhappy and jumped in, ignoring his enquiry about her own state of health.

  ‘Matt? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Ryan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘That I can talk about now anyway.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like nothing.’

  ‘It’s been a long couple of days. You know how much I love flying. I’m knackered, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ve been knackered, before . . . and I’m not stupid.’

  Ryan didn’t respond. He pulled up sharply, allowing his guv’nor to walk on alone. She’d clocked his unease and was getting curious. Caroline’s voice hit his ear again. ‘Is O’Neil with you?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  ‘Tell me you haven’t fallen out with her.’ A lengthy silence was all the answer she needed. ‘Oh, Matt, what have you done? She likes you!’

  ‘And I like her. Stuff happens.’

  ‘When will you be home? We’ll talk about it then.’

  ‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, maybe Wednesday, depends how much we have on. I need to get home for some clothes. The ones I have on will walk to the laundry of their own free will if I don’t change them soon. I packed light, as usual. I’ll call by if I can get away. Assuming you’ll be there?’

  Caroline confirmed that she would. She worked from home three days a week. The Crown Prosecution Service was good like that. It mattered not where she worked, so long as she put the hours in. Ryan ached to share O’Neil’s tragic past with his twin. To ask her advice as to how, or even if, he should attempt to raise the subject when his guv’nor was adamant that it was off limits. He decided to keep it to himself. He couldn’t bring himself to betray her trust a second time.

  Ordinarily blessed with good judgement, particularly where women were concerned, he’d attempted to talk to O’Neil umpteen times, only to bottle out at the last minute. No matter how hard he tried, he hadn’t been able to conjure up words that were good enough. No opener he practised seemed suitable . . . no direct apology adequate.

  Up ahead, O’Neil’s step faltered. Over her shoulder, she caught Ryan’s eye. She tilted her head, indicating the Rosenborg Palace, the agreed meeting place with Pål Friis, unable to hide her delight at the sight of the building before them, even though she was still pissed off with him. Her smile was an act. Ryan decided he’d had enough. Friis was running late. Now was the time to tackle her. He could wait no longer.

  ‘Gotta go,’ he said into the phone.

  ‘Whatever it is, don’t do anything rash.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that. Take care, I’ll call you as soon as I can.’ He hung up, pocketing the phone as he caught up with O’Neil.

  ‘You done?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Depends on whether you mean at home or here.’ He held her gaze. ‘Guv, are we cool, you and I?’

  There was a moment when neither of them spoke, a split second during which Ryan felt her armour crack, a brief spark of reconciliation. Then, as quickly as it arrived, it was gone, her attention taken by someone behind him calling out her name.

  ‘Detective Superintendent O’Neil?’ Pål Friis proffered a hand as he approached, moving like a cheetah across a manicured lawn on long, thin legs. O’Neil shook hands with him, her colour rising ever so slightly. She glanced apologetically at Ryan as the historian introduced himself, their unfinished business on hold . . . for now.

  ‘Please,’ Friis swept a hand towards a park bench. ‘Shall we sit in this magnificent park?’

  Nothing he was able to tell them was of any interest. He could only confirm the circumstances in which he’d met and kept in touch with Michael Tierney and Robert Parker. Ryan tuned him out, unable to shake free of the revolving image in his head, the light fading from O’Neil’s eyes the night before last as she explained that she’d been jilted by Stephen Forsythe QC, a man she’d loved and wanted to share her life with. Ryan couldn’t conceive of the anger and embarrassment she must’ve felt as she fled the church – her plans shattered like broken glass, leaving her exposed and alone with nowhere to hide . . . Assuming she’d made it over the threshold.

  The temperature in the park seemed to plummet as the sun fell behind the trees. Ryan pulled his collar up, a futile attempt to keep warm. He chanced a glance in O’Neil’s direction, watching her mouth move as she talked, every single word delivered with clarity in the most sensitive way possible. Her expression was grave but sympathetic.

  Friis was dumbstruck, unable to take it in.

  Wiping his face with his hand, he stood up, eyes scanning the surrounding shrubbery. Minutes ago, he’d proudly shown them off. Suddenly, they had lost their appeal. It would be dark soon. There might be danger lurking in the shadows here.

  He swung round.

  ‘Murdered?’ His voice broke as he tried to express his disbelief. ‘Surely not! Michael was the most peaceful man I ever met. He wouldn’t hurt a soul. Ohmigod! Poor Robert. Have you spoken to him?’

  O’Neil nodded. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

  Ryan would like a quid for every time he’d heard that phrase.

  ‘Was it a fight?’ Friis asked.

  ‘No, not a fight.’

  O’Neil remained seated, an invitation for the historian to retake his seat while he processed the awful news. Words of comfort to the bereaved Dane faded f
rom Ryan’s hearing. His mind swung wildly from the past to the present and back again. He pictured Eloise, not as she was now, wrapped up against the cold, but in a flowing wedding dress, the delicate contours of a happy face hidden by a simple veil, exhilarated by the occasion, surrounded by friends and family. He wondered if she’d been prevented from entering the church while enquiries were made of the bridegroom. Or had she realized that something was wrong and gone inside, her professional persona taking over, fearing an accident of some kind?

  It had happened before in the rush to get to church.

  A million scenarios passed through Ryan’s head. It was driving him mad, not knowing. He intended to find out more as soon as he was able through discreet enquiries. It wasn’t a matter of idle curiosity; his relationship with O’Neil was at stake. It would remain in limbo until he understood what had happened. Only then could he devise a way to get through to her and repair the damage.

  He’d quizzed Grace on the phone. She’d hadn’t been able to help much. She had retired in 2010, a full two years before O’Neil was due to marry. She was in Hong Kong working as a Foreign Office courier when she’d heard via text, a bit of salacious gossip passed on by an ex-colleague in a moment of boredom – and only that the wedding was off. It was a whirlwind romance apparently.

  Ryan could hear Grace’s voice in his head . . .

  ‘I assumed she’d come to her senses and bailed at the last minute.’

  ‘You knew who the groom was—’

  ‘Ryan, get real! I can’t remember the names of the men I slept with last Tuesday.’

  He’d laughed. ‘I know you like to live in the moment but you’re a newlywed.’

  ‘Hey! Married or single, I intend to live till I die.’ She stopped pulling his leg. ‘You know what these things are like, Ryan. By the time I returned to the UK, Eloise’s lucky escape was old news. I heard she was happy and back at work.’