The Death Messenger

by Mari Hannah

She bristled. ‘So now I’m unsure of myself as well as unfit to lead?’

  ‘I never said that—’

  ‘It’s what you meant.’ She met his gaze defiantly.

  ‘Is it personal? If not, talk to me. Eloise, I’m not a fucking mind reader.’

  O’Neil stared at him for a second, in two minds. ‘My goddaughter has selective mutism. Taken out of context, the word “selective” is misleading. The condition is often seen as a choice. Please believe me when I tell you that it’s not. The girl I’m talking about was perfectly fine at home until she started school. The minute she walked into a classroom, bang! She closed down, became anxious. It got worse. Now she’s the same in a shop or in any other social situation. She knows how to talk but blocks communication because it’s simply too stressful.’

  ‘That must be very difficult for her family.’

  ‘They’re tearing their hair out.’

  ‘Not easy for you either.’

  ‘No. I’ve witnessed her go from a happy, smiley kid to an isolated teenager in a world of silence. She has no job, no relationships and no prospect of any. Kids like that are not shy any more than their mutism is deliberate.’ O’Neil was on edge, trying her best to give the opposite impression. ‘It’s an anxiety disorder like no other. I’d hate to add to it if Montgomery turns out to be a sufferer. I should talk to some of her colleagues before I go piling in upsetting her.’

  ‘It would be a missed opportunity not to see her when we’re this close.’

  ‘Would you mind if I sleep on it?’

  ‘Here?’ Ryan glanced at the shabby interior of the bar, shoulders dropping, facial expression glum. Much as he’d like a night in with O’Neil, he’d rather eat worms than spend it in such squalid surroundings.

  O’Neil laughed. ‘You should see your face.’

  ‘What can I say? You’re choosy about your gin. I’m a hotel snob.’

  ‘Drink up. We’ll find somewhere nicer.’

  51

  They found a half-decent hotel on the outskirts of Bletchley. At check-in, they booked a table for dinner at eight o’clock and went to their rooms to freshen up. Ryan took a quick shower, calling Caroline and Frank before he went downstairs. O’Neil was already at the bar, another gin in front of her, this one more palatable ‘and in a clean glass’, she told him.

  When they had finished eating, O’Neil pushed her plate away and topped up their wine. ‘I’ve come to a decision. I want you to raise an action with Grace. Before we tackle Sophia Montgomery, I’d like her neighbours spoken to, friends, associates, anyone who might have come into contact with her.’

  ‘Already taken care of. I called Frank earlier, asked him to fast-track it for me.’

  O’Neil put down her wine. ‘You didn’t think to run it by me first?’

  ‘You’ve got enough on your plate. I figured you were right to be cautious. Tackling Montgomery without all the facts to hand was a bad idea. I could see how bothered you were by her condition. I thought it might put your mind at rest if you had some additional background before you made an approach. Armed with that you can make an informed decision whether or not to see her. Newman is lightning fast. He has contacts we don’t. You OK with that?’

  O’Neil dabbed her mouth with a serviette. ‘Of course, thank you. John Maguire never looked after me the way you do.’ She smiled at him. ‘I warn you, I could get used to it.’

  Ryan was too busy soaking up the compliment to respond.

  ‘Something else on your mind?’ she asked.

  ‘As it happens . . .’ He lifted the empty wine bottle, catching the eye of a passing waiter. He was stalling, undaunted by the fact that she knew it. What was really on his mind had no place in professional dialogue. Fortunately he had something else to feed her that would cover his growing infatuation. He ordered more wine and turned to face her. ‘Did I ever tell you I do my best thinking in the shower?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Her eyes sparkled when she grinned.

  ‘It’s true. Ordinarily, I keep my showering habits to myself but—’

  ‘You came up with something?’

  ‘I hope it’s relevant.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Between shampoos, I went back to basics. A prior association between victim and offender has to exist. It’s not in your face, I grant you, but it will be there – we just haven’t found it yet. I kept coming back to the fact that we have three middle-aged men and one youngish female—’

  ‘You mentioned that already.’ O’Neil was disappointed to be going over old ground. ‘We agreed as a team to concentrate on Laura, her being, in all probability, the most recent contact with Spielberg and/or her accomplice.’

  ‘Yes, and that still holds true. To some extent, Laura was high profile too. That wasn’t always the case, for any of them. Directly or indirectly they must’ve encountered their killer prior to their deaths. Whilst it’s not glaringly obvious, it occurred to me that they all had similar-ish backgrounds.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  Ryan leaned forward, elbows on the table, hands cradled under his chin. ‘Consider the evidence we’ve gathered so far. Satellite teams have given us nothing tangible. On the face of it, that sounds grim, but then it occurred to me that during their journey to the top all four victims held positions that, at a stretch, you could lump together in one category.’

  ‘“At a stretch” doesn’t fill me with confidence, Ryan.’

  ‘Hear me out. In each of the DVDs, Spielberg made it absolutely clear that her victims deserved what she was dishing out. We’ve known from the outset that the motive was revenge, but not what for. We’ve ruled out international terrorism and discounted child abuse, but that’s the way things turn out sometimes. I’m now suggesting an alternative. The only thing I’ve come up with that is common to all four is that they are, or should I say were, people you tell things to. Dean used to be a youth worker; Trevathan a solicitor; Tierney a teacher; Laura Stone a journalist. I think Spielberg and her accomplice are killing people who either refused to listen or failed to take action on a matter close to their hearts. I have no idea how, but the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Laura’s documentary is the key that will open doors for us.’

  ‘You think a life-limiting disease was the trigger?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘But Laura was raising awareness on an important issue. Why would they kill her for it?’

  ‘I never said I had all the answers. We won’t know until we view the footage. I suppose it depends on how balanced the piece was. Whether or not Laura showed both sides of the argument to the satisfaction of everyone in the same way Terry Pratchett did in his. We know nothing about her beyond the fact that she’s probably floating in the North Sea. Maybe she had a moral conscience. Maybe she was pro-life, no matter the circumstances, and someone took exception to her interpretation of the information she’d been entrusted with. What if she came down on one side of the argument—’

  ‘The wrong side?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  O’Neil picked up her wine, taking a moment to consider the premise. ‘You know, that’s not as daft as it sounds.’

  ‘It would also explain why she didn’t win the award,’ Ryan said. ‘As the subject of her documentary, Rebecca Swift is the person we need to talk to urgently, not Sophia Montgomery. Clark said the film was well reviewed. You know as well as I do that everyone is a critic these days. I’ll bet not all of them came down in Laura’s favour.’

  They had homework to do, starting with the documentary.

  52

  Aware that they would be up half the night, they took the rest of their wine up to O’Neil’s room on the fourth floor, put a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and set her computer on the desk. Wasting no time, Eloise logged on, opening up the digital link Grace had forwarded from the production company who held the rights to the documentary.

  As they settled down to watch the film, the atmosphere was both grim and
hopeful: grim on account of the film’s hard-hitting and deeply distressing content; hopeful because, the more they watched, the more convinced they became that they were making headway. O’Neil reckoned they could wrap the case up. She’d said as much.

  Ryan reckoned it was the wine talking.

  ‘I hope that wishful thinking rubs off,’ he said.

  ‘You think I’m being unrealistic?’

  ‘No, but we’re not even close to Spielberg’s identity.’

  ‘So prove me right, Ryan. Make me look good.’

  She did look good.

  He studied her for a moment. She was sitting on her bed, wine glass in her left hand, pen in the other, a notepad on her knee. Her eyes were fixed to the screen, long legs and bare feet tucked up beneath her. Despite the pressure she was under to solve Operation Shadow, she was more relaxed than she’d been in a long while. Ryan was feet away, sitting on the only available chair, closer to the desk. He couldn’t deny it: the intimacy of a darkened hotel bedroom was a big turn-on.

  If only she’d been over Forsythe.

  ‘DS Ryan, may I remind you that you’re supposed to be watching.’ She’d spoken without making eye contact, a smile playing round her lips. She was teasing him for acting like a teenager. Ryan shifted his eyes back to the screen. It was great to have her back.

  They dissected every moment of the footage and, on second viewing, took notes, as they had with Spielberg’s own efforts at film-making. Rebecca Swift was, without doubt, the star of the show, a compelling character with the courage of her convictions, an honest, gutsy woman with strong views she was determined to put across. Undaunted by the camera, she made a fascinating subject. Not quite as beguiling as the redhead on the bed, but Ryan couldn’t have everything.

  ‘Laura must’ve been immensely grateful for Rebecca’s poise,’ he said. ‘Without it, this documentary wouldn’t have worked, on any level. I warmed to Knox and Schofield. Didn’t care much for Jo Nichol though, did you? Not a particularly likeable character. Bit of a chip on her shoulder, if you ask me.’

  ‘Understandable, I suppose.’

  ‘Why? Her condition is less severe than the others. You wouldn’t think so, for all the whining she did—’

  ‘That’s harsh, Ryan. She’s probably scared witless. People cope with illness differently. Imagine if that was you. In fact, it’s so depressing, I could do with another drink. Want one?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask.’

  As the credits rolled, O’Neil removed her specs, scrambling across the bed to grab the wine bottle, tutting when she found it empty. She got up, pulled open the mini-bar and peered inside. ‘There’s not much choice. You want a beer or something stronger?’

  Ryan checked his watch: quarter to one. ‘Scotch if you have it. Neat.’

  ‘Think I’ll join you.’ She poured them both one, threw the empty miniatures in the trash and climbed back on the bed. ‘I’ll be honest, Ryan. I’ve never heard of this disease, have you?’

  ‘Genetic genealogy was never my strong point, especially at this time in the morning.’

  They were grateful that medical experts had explained the complexities of the disease – otherwise it would have been lost on them. Named after the German professor who’d identified it, Sauer’s Syndrome involved DNA inherited from the autosomal chromosomes, a dominant genetic condition predisposing those affected to aggressive and multiple cancers, affecting all parts of the body from an early age. In layman’s terms, it was a complicated gene mutation, causing catastrophic knock-on effects in those unfortunate enough to receive it from a parent. Dodgy DNA in capital letters.

  Ryan took his shot glass from O’Neil. ‘Clark was spot on in her opinion of the documentary. It was unsettling and somewhat bleak, but thought-provoking nevertheless. It’s a credit to Laura, a quality production. Perfectly balanced too, didn’t you think?’

  ‘Which rules out the idea that she was killed for taking sides.’

  ‘I wonder if, faced with similar circumstances, I’d hate my parents as much as Rebecca Swift does hers.’

  ‘It’s hard to be objective when you’re healthy.’

  ‘Healthy might be pushing it.’ Ryan yawned, eyes watering as he covered a gaping mouth. ‘Rebecca was amazing though, wasn’t she? Such composure. No tears or tantrums, anger or melodrama, just plain hard facts. My kind of woman.’

  ‘But not the one Pedersen saw in Copenhagen.’

  ‘No. She’s too small – too old.’

  ‘Not old,’ O’Neil countered. ‘Laura referred to her as mid thirties.’

  Ryan bristled. ‘I thought she said mid forties.’

  ‘Then you should’ve been paying more attention.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Positive. You heard what your eyes were telling you.’

  ‘I stand corrected,’ Ryan said. ‘She looks much older, not particularly ill, but those vacant eyes . . .’

  ‘Haunting, weren’t they?’ O’Neil met his gaze. ‘What was it she said? “I’m dying from the inside out and my mother made it happen.” I’m with her on that score. Why anyone who knew they had a high chance of passing on such a devastating disease would have a child beats me.’

  Ryan didn’t answer. Didn’t argue either.

  53

  A call came in to Ryan’s mobile as he was finishing his breakfast. In spite of his best efforts, Newman hadn’t completed his background check on Montgomery. People were proving difficult to track down, many of them disappearing for Christmas. Grace was similarly stumped, liaison with the Met proving more troublesome than she’d anticipated.

  ‘Bad timing,’ Ryan said. ‘Don’t worry about it. You think you’ll be done by noon?’

  ‘Hope so,’ Newman said.

  ‘And Grace?’

  ‘If all goes to plan.’

  ‘Perfect. Rather than sit around and wait, Eloise and I will pay Rebecca Swift a visit. We had a long chat last night – I won’t go into it now, but suffice to say, we need to do that as a matter of urgency. She’s in St Albans, less than an hour from here. When we’re done, we’ll commandeer an office at the nearest nick and call you at midday.’

  ‘Works for us.’

  ‘Any problems, give me a shout. By the way, can you and Grace try to watch the documentary before we speak?’

  ‘Consider it done.’ Newman rang off.

  Ryan and O’Neil encountered biblical rain on the journey south. It was close to ten thirty before they reached their destination, a studio flat in Upper Marlborough Road, not far from the city centre; one of five contained within a recent conversion. Rebecca Swift lived on the second floor at the front of the house.

  Before mounting communal stairs, O’Neil paused to admire black-and-white Victorian tiles in the hallway, retained by a savvy builder. ‘I’d love these in my house,’ she said. ‘So many original features are ripped out these days. Why do people do that?’

  ‘No taste, I guess. What’s the plan when we get in there?’

  ‘I’ll take the lead. You take notes. Rebecca trusted Laura with her innermost secrets, a medical and ethical dilemma she cares deeply about, enough to want to share it with the world. I want to gauge the strength of their relationship. I’m sure she’s not our girl, but keep your eyes open for anything odd.’

  On the floor above, O’Neil knocked on the door.

  It was opened almost immediately, surprising them both, not because of the tenant’s apparent fleetness of foot, but because of the acute change in Rebecca’s appearance. Health-wise, she was in a worse condition than she had been when she appeared in the documentary. She’d lost a lot of weight and had a pasty complexion and hollow cheeks. Logical, Ryan supposed. The film had gone on general release in July 2011 – almost two and a half years ago – which was a very long time in the life of a patient riddled with a disease that had no cure.

  Rebecca’s cold and bony hand shook when she offered it to each of them. She stepped aside to let them pass into the studio and closed the door
quietly behind them. The space was cramped but tidy with hardwood flooring, a large south-facing sash window overlooking the main road. There were no seasonal decorations. The absence of even one Christmas card made Ryan’s heart ache. There would be no celebration here this year, or ever, he suspected.

  Rebecca gestured towards a compact dining table positioned in the bay, an empty coffee cup on the surface. She’d been watching from the window, reading while she waited for them to arrive. A copy of the Guardian lay abandoned on the tabletop with a picture of a distraught Nigella Lawson on the front page. To the left of the photograph, a headline shouted: GCHQ spied on charities and EU allies – a story about British and US intelligence agencies having a comprehensive list of surveillance targets.

  Nothing new.

  Ryan’s eyes drifted to a minute kitchen area, more especially to the open cupboard door above the bench. On the shelves were boxes of prescription drugs and pill bottles of every shape and size, enough morphine to fell an army. He wondered how often Rebecca Swift had contemplated suicide. She caught his eye, an accusing look that made him feel like a spy of the very worst kind.

  ‘Shocking, isn’t it?’ She shut the cupboard door, pointing at the dining table with her walking stick. ‘Please, if you’ve seen enough, take a seat.’ There were only two chairs at the table and no sign of any more in the room.

  ‘You two sit,’ Ryan said. ‘I’d rather stand.’

  ‘How very gallant,’ Rebecca said. ‘Would you like something to drink? You’ve come a long way.’

  Both detectives declined.

  O’Neil sat down, introducing herself. Ryan had already called ahead to make sure it was a convenient time to visit. Rebecca knew only that they were Northumbria Police officers, not the reason for their visit, or why it was vitally important that they speak to her on this, the first day of the Christmas holidays.

  O’Neil cut to the chase. ‘Rebecca, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m investigating the disappearance of Laura Stone.’ Swift showed no emotion, so O’Neil carried on. ‘We wanted to tell you in person rather than give you distressing news over the phone. From our attendance here you’ll have worked out that we have grave concerns for her safety. Have you had any contact with her recently?’