by Mari Hannah
Trying to calculate the length of time it would take to fall that distance, Ryan concluded that it would be long enough to know what was coming. Ample time to ask the question: why? Had Sophia witnessed the fall, seen her mother lying motionless below or being washed out to sea? They would probably never know, but the image would stay with Ryan for days.
More than one of the victims had ended up in water.
55
The troubled expression on O’Neil’s face brought Ryan up short. He assumed her thoughts were also on Montgomery. That she too was mulling over Newman’s intelligence, keen to hang up the phone and move on with matters hot off the press. He was wrong. She muted the call and held out to him.
‘It’s Spielberg . . . for you.’
Crunch time.
Ryan glanced at the iPad on the desk in front of him. For a split second, Grace stared at him before grabbing her phone off the desk at their Newcastle base. He knew exactly what she was about to do.
Grace was on to the surveillance team at lightning speed. ‘This is Gold Command. Do you have the eyeball on the targets?’
‘Affirmative.’
‘What are they doing now?’ There was a short pause. Grace could see Ryan staring at her through the screen as he pressed a button on O’Neil’s mobile. He seemed hesitant to take the call. She glanced at Newman. ‘What the hell is he waiting for?’
Frank ignored her. He had earphones in, effectively muting the iPad so they couldn’t be heard, while taking the opportunity to listen in to events happening in St Albans.
‘This is DS Matthew Ryan. Welcome back.’
‘Finally.’ Spielberg sounded pissed off. ‘I was beginning to think that you weren’t speaking to me.’
‘Funny lady,’ Ryan said. ‘Shame you’re not as patient. I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you last time. Someone important was on the line. You could have waited, instead you hung up on me.’
The team had decided he should use the same acerbic tone with her, exactly as before. Clearly, he’d made a connection. Why else would she call? Ryan was finding it hard to shake the image that played out in his head a moment ago. He was conversing with a killer – that was a given – but was it the voice of Sophia Montgomery? A child murderer was hard to get your head round . . . even for a cop.
‘Foxtrot 3 has the eyeball – both targets fishing off the narrowboat. They’re chatting, Gold. Photographic evidence on way to you.’
‘Keep filming,’ Grace said. ‘I want continuous timed evidence until I say otherwise. Is either target near a mobile or landline?’
‘Negative on the landline.’ He paused. ‘It’s hard to tell from here whether either of them has a mobile.’
‘Make an approach. I want both targets in conversation with a Foxtrot ASAP.’
‘Stand by.’
The surveillance leader spoke into his radio, a shutter repeatedly going off over his left shoulder. ‘Foxtrot 3, break cover. Engage targets overtly. I repeat, engage targets overtly. I want confirmation that neither Clark nor Mitchell is on the phone. Keep talking until I ask you to disengage.’
‘Affirmative.’
Within seconds, Foxtrot 3 appeared on the tow path in a drenched waterproof and muddy boots, trundling along as if he’d been walking for miles. The surveillance commander grinned. ‘Gold, Foxtrot 3 now in position. Target 1 giving him a light. Target 2 appears to be participating in friendly banter. Camera still rolling. Over.’
Spielberg had made no comment. Ryan was still baiting her. ‘I’d have rung if you’d left your number. Are you going to give me a name this time? You know mine. It’s common courtesy to reciprocate.’
‘Nice try, Ryan.’
‘I didn’t mean your own, silly. Make one up. Everyone needs a handle. Even you.’
There was a pause. ‘You can call me Marge.’
‘As in Simpson?’ Ryan forced a laugh. ‘C’mon! You can do better than that. She has a beehive hairstyle. I hear yours is much more glamorous. What colour is it this week?’ She made no reply.
‘Caught much?’ Foxtrot 3 was leaning against the houseboat talking to Clark.
She smiled. ‘Just a tiddler. My guest has done rather better.’
Foxtrot 3 took a long drag of his cigarette. ‘I used to fish.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Mitchell was obviously bored stiff.
‘You’d rather be in the Big Smoke, eh?’ The surveillance officer smiled. ‘Don’t blame you. There’s not a lot else to do but fish around here.’
Ryan forced himself on. ‘Not playing? OK. Maybe Marge does suit you. She’s from a dysfunctional family, a gambler too, you have that in common, I suppose.’
‘Call me what the fuck you like.’
Aggressive. ‘How about Spielberg?’
The line was cut.
‘Gold to surveillance commander. Your team can stand down. Targets no longer relevant. I repeat, targets no longer relevant. Good job!’
‘That’s received, Gold. We’ll send you the evidence when we return to base.’
Having seen Ryan put down the phone, Newman gave him a round of applause and high-fived Grace. ‘Result!’ he said.
O’Neil glowered at the screen. ‘This is not a game show, Frank.’
Newman turned to face her. ‘You can’t have it both ways, Eloise. We all agreed that Ryan should deal with her as he saw fit. What he did was well worth a punt. It’s the first time we’ve had the opportunity and angle with which to provoke a response, and we got it. He handled it perfectly because now she knows we’re on to her.’
‘That’s exactly my point. She might leg it.’
‘Oh, c’mon!’ Grace said. ‘She’s shown her hand and lost control.’
‘Except we don’t know for sure who she is,’ O’Neil was saying.
‘We have a pretty good idea, thanks to Ryan. Cutting that call validates our belief that the case is somehow connected to cinematography. What’s more, Spielberg knows we know and she won’t like it.’ Grace eyeballed her former DS. ‘You did good, Ryan. We had sod all before. Now we’re coasting. I’m proud of you, even if Eloise isn’t. Clark and Mitchell are in the clear. They were under close observation throughout your call.’
That information alone was cause for celebration.
56
In the past few hours, suspicion had shifted seismically from Clark and Mitchell to Nichol and A.N. Other. The big money was now firmly on the Montgomery pair. Knowing how close he was to Caroline had Ryan wondering about the existence of criminally minded siblings. It was rare to find such a combination prepared to collaborate in the ultimate crime.
Not unprecedented though . . .
Ryan recalled a book by John Pearson – The Cult of Violence: The Untold Story of the Krays – in which they were described as having worked together, almost telepathically, as if they were one. A shocking thought. If it turned out that Spielberg was Montgomery, her brother Mark under her control, might they be the exception that proved the rule?
‘Ryan?’ O’Neil was staring at him.
‘Sorry, I was in London’s East End in the fifties.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Thinking about the Kray twins.’
‘I see the parallel.’ O’Neil said. ‘Rather more troubling is the fact that there is an alternative pair we must eliminate from our enquiries: female Sauer’s patient Jo Nichol and male cinematographer Dan Spencer – who we still haven’t traced. You’ve been quietly concerned about him, I know you have. I have too. I think it’s time to check them out.’
‘No point trying Spencer,’ Grace said. ‘Met police spoke to his neighbours. He’s gone for Christmas. They have no idea where or for how long.’
‘Bugger,’ O’Neil said. ‘Do me a favour, will you? Ask Caroline to compare Nichol’s voice to Spielberg’s. They don’t sound remotely the same to me, but I’d like her opinion on it.’ She glanced at her watch, then at Ryan. ‘Fancy getting wet?’
They left Hertfordshire’s thunderous skies en route to Middlesex
. Nichol’s house – an ex-local authority semi-detached – was less than half an hour away. A fifteen-mile journey to Enfield, the right side of the city of London as far as Ryan was concerned. Anywhere north of Soho would do. They arrived in time to see Jo Nichol run down her garden path in the pouring rain, straight into a waiting taxi. Immediately, it pulled out of its spot and sped off into heavy traffic.
‘What do you reckon?’ Ryan set off after them. ‘Want me to pull it over?’
‘No, She’s in a helluva hurry. I’d like to see why.’
They followed at a safe distance, giving two-car cover so as not to draw unwanted attention, a skill Ryan had down to a fine art from his training in Special Branch. A while later, the taxi indicated left, turning off onto a road called The Ridgeway into the main entrance of Chase Farm Hospital. The cab observed the 15 mph limit through the one-way system. Ryan cruised by as it pulled into a car park close to the Oncology and Haematology Department, an external building away from the Highlands Wing, a sign for which proclaimed: ALL WARDS.
Once out of site, Ryan brought the car to an abrupt halt.
‘Go!’ he said.
O’Neil jumped out, continuing her journey on foot.
Ryan drove on a bit further, pulling up on double yellow lines. With no police sign to put in the window, he abandoned the car and sprinted along the road after her. If he copped a parking ticket, he’d send it to Ford just to take the piss. O’Neil had come to a stop. She was facing away from him, sheltering from the rain under a tree, taking pictures. He was at the wrong angle to see what was so interesting. And then he saw that Nichol had company. An IC1 male was giving her a hug.
‘The skinny guy,’ he said. ‘Isn’t he one of the staffers we saw on the BBC website?’
‘Meet Dan (Frank) Spencer.’ O’Neil turned to face him. ‘I’m no slacker when it comes to identifying suspects. I didn’t get to my rank for making the tea.’ She grinned widely, exhilarated by her find. ‘Wait until he pays the driver and do your stuff, Ryan. I’ll take care of Ms Nichol.’
‘You want me to tackle him alone?’ Ryan laughed.
She laughed too. He could blow the suspect over. ‘Feel free to shout for help if he gives you any trouble. I’m a black belt, remember.’
Ryan held up ID as they approached the couple. ‘Sir, DS Ryan, Northumbria Police. Would you come with me please?’
Spencer hadn’t seen them coming. Consequently, he’d not been ready with a plan of any kind. It was as plain as day that he was the cinematographer they had been looking for. He didn’t deny it.
Ryan took him to the car, O’Neil staying with Nichol while she kept her outpatients appointment. The hospital was part of the NHS, affiliated to the Royal Free London NHS Foundation Trust. She’d received all her treatment there. When she removed her cloche hat, the effects of chemotherapy were all too obvious. O’Neil wondered why there was no mention of it on her personal descriptive form. The only explanation could be that she was wearing a good wig.
Independently, the couple stressed that they had nothing to hide. They were friends, nothing more, neither one had been hiding from the police intentionally. O’Neil felt better about them when Grace emailed to say that Caroline had compared the voices of Nichol and Spielberg. In her opinion, they were not one and the same. Calling in a favour from an independent analyst confirmed that view unequivocally.
Fairly sure that Nichol and Spencer wouldn’t take them any further, Ryan drove on to Bletchley. Sophia Montgomery didn’t answer the door. There were no lights on inside the ground-floor flat. O’Neil pointed to the side gate. He walked through it, using his police-issue torch to illuminate the kitchen. No sign of life. No dishes in the sink. Nothing to suggest anyone would be cooking there anytime soon.
A noise from behind startled him.
He tensed.
Swung round.
The garden was in darkness. The shed door stood open, shifting one way, then the other, in the wind. Within seconds, Ryan was in the North Shields lock-up, the floor covered in human blood, an axe glinting on the floor, then in James Fraser’s flat staring into a firearms cabinet with no weapons inside.
He killed the torch.
Turning his body side on, making himself less of an obvious target, his right hand found the grip of his Glock. Easing it from its shoulder holster, he released the safety catch. The use of firearms was strictly controlled. Ryan was trained and authorized to use his weapon but felt no less vulnerable.
Another noise.
Again behind him . . .
Fear crept over his shoulder and up his neck, making his hair stand on end. Turning slowly, he peered into the darkness. A hooded figure stood metres away, backlit by a streetlight. Driving rain in Ryan’s face made it difficult to see the person advancing towards him . . .
Someone bigger than him.
The Glock felt heavy in his hand. Images of his father’s coffin draped in a Union Jack flashed through his mind. His ten-year-old self was scared, unable to imagine life from that point on. That feeling multiplied as the figure took a step forward, ever closer. A rustle in the hedge startled him. Right now, being a live coward seemed preferable to a dead hero. Flanked front and rear, he made the call: he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot.
‘Damn it! I’m covered in muck.’ O’Neil switched on her phone torch, aiming it at him. She was holding a coat over her head, making her look enormous. ‘What are you doing? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
Ryan relaxed his grip on his firearm. ‘Give us a moment, guv.’
He swore under his breath, one eye still on that swinging shed door. Having made his weapon safe, he re-holstered it before switching his flashlight on. He checked the outbuilding, kicking the door shut, angry with himself for having cowered in the face of a perceived danger, letting his imagination run riot. Quickly, he forgave himself. Fronting up to an early death did things to people. O’Neil was a copper. She’d understand.
‘Nothing there,’ he said.
‘Who were you expecting, the Bogey Man?’
Ryan relaxed. She hadn’t seen him draw his weapon.
‘C’mon, we’re wasting our time here. I’ll get the Met lads to check again later. My fault. I should’ve taken your advice yesterday. We may as well head home.’ O’Neil had a point. If Montgomery had gone for Christmas, they could be there for days.
They escaped widespread flooding by the skin of their teeth. Vast swathes of southern England were affected by it. Dorset, Hampshire, Surrey and Kent were practically under water, many homeowners facing the prospect of Christmas without power. It was a nightmare journey in the dark; three hundred miles that should have taken nearly five hours turning into seven and half.
For much of the way, Ryan was quiet in the car, concentrating on the road, livid at having missed Montgomery. Newman’s report on her had shaken him. For the second time that day, his ten-year-old self appeared. It was hard to conceive of someone that age being capable of murder, let alone Montgomery having the capacity to remain silent for twenty-plus years afterwards. That was dedication of the worst kind, an ominous notion that he found unnerving. O’Neil felt a heavy burden to build a solid case. She wanted hard facts before they showed their hand. Supposition simply wouldn’t do.
It was almost midnight when they finally limped over the Swing Bridge across the Tyne into Newcastle. Fortunately, the city had fared better than most weather-wise. Escaping the worst of a predicted storm, the Quayside was wet but definitely open for business, a festive atmosphere the order of the day in the run-up to Christmas, like any Saturday night in the Toon.
Geordies rarely needed an excuse to party.
O’Neil was asleep when Ryan parked the car, so peaceful he didn’t want to wake her. In the end, he had to. A kind word, a gentle touch. She opened sleepy eyes, yawned, stretching her arms above her head, seemingly unconcerned with where she was or even how she’d got there. Clearly, nothing had registered. Resting against the headrest, her eyes closed again, her lips pa
rting as she fell into a deep sleep.
Grace, Newman and Caroline were long gone when they let themselves in. There was supper on a tray, an open bottle of Scotch and a note that had come via the Coroner’s Office:
Gwenda Jane Montgomery – mother of Sophia and Mark – also had Sauer’s.
Grace x
Right this moment Ryan couldn’t care less. Exhausted, he fell into bed.
57
Shortly after 6 a.m. No Sunday lie in. No mission today. She wasn’t ready for the Boy Wonder. She turned over in bed, snuggled down, pulling the duvet around her. Even if she had been organized, she’d slept badly and was physically exhausted. Unusual. A restless night had been filled with nightmarish landscapes. She’d been lost in a strange city, a recurring theme lately. Then she’d found herself padlocked inside a creepy red building, rats chewing at her feet. She’d woken gasping for air, hair plastered to her face with sweat. The rats she assumed were the pigs.
She wondered what rat number two was up to.
Ryan was a clever bastard. She figured that his desire for justice matched hers to kill and to keep on killing. Her mind flashed back to their phone conversation, his derisory tone. Somehow, he hadn’t seemed to grasp the seriousness of the situation. He wasn’t thick and yet the first time they had spoken he’d failed to mention Copenhagen, even though there had been press coverage – online and in print – in the UK and in Denmark.
Not good.
She turned over onto her back, placing her hands behind her head, eyes fixed on a hairline crack in the ceiling she hadn’t noticed before. Fractures were appearing in her plans too. She craved headline status but journalists had been bought, initially making out that Dean was robbed with no mention of her video in the press. No speculation over the diplomat’s actual demise; the judge either for that matter. A blanket ban, she supposed, sanctioned by someone in authority. O’Neil probably. That really wouldn’t do for someone coveting exposure.