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  His phone went to voicemail.

  She sighed. ‘It’s Eloise. Call me when you can. I’m heading to Newcastle. When you’re done there, get the train. I hope all’s well your end.’

  Ryan took the phone from his ear, pissed that he was being left to travel back alone and worried on two counts: that O’Neil’s ankle wasn’t up to such a long drive home and that she sounded so forlorn. The emphasis on the words ‘your end’ implied she was having a hard time at hers. That was tough. He’d tried saving her the misery of a post-mortem. She’d refused.

  Her call.

  Ryan hit speed-dial and got her message service: ‘Eloise, it’s me. Pick up if you’re there.’

  Nothing.

  Hanging up, he ordered a pint and sunk half of it in one go. The boozer was the type of nondescript establishment he preferred, catering for a fairly lively crowd he was certain were coppers, on their feet, drinking and chatting at the bar. He was tuning in to their conversation when O’Neil returned his call, his phone vibrating in his trouser pocket.

  ‘Sorry I missed you, I was on another call,’ she said. ‘I can hear background noise. Where are you?’

  ‘Having a pint in the Oxford Bar. What can I say? I’m a Rebus fan.’

  ‘You’re not on your jollies, Ryan.’ She spied a sign up ahead and slowed down. Indecision, indecision. She could drive home alone or head for Edinburgh.

  ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of culture, guv.’

  ‘How can you read that crap when you see it every day?’

  ‘You must have a social life. I don’t.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  Fuck’s sake! O’Neil cursed herself. What was wrong with her today? She wasn’t usually this flighty. She left the road at the next turn-off.

  ‘What’s up?’ Ryan said. ‘You sound down in the mouth.’

  ‘I am. I hate to use the words “collateral damage” – no victim should be considered less important than another – but it looks like James Fraser was just that. I managed to get a number for his best mate, Wendy Rogers. She’s also a nurse at Rake Lane Hospital.’ A blue light appeared behind her. It was shifting too. O’Neil indicated left to let the driver know she’d seen him. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘They’re playing our song.’

  None of the coppers at the bar looked up. The scream of a police siren was coming down the line, not from close by. ‘You’re getting pulled over?’

  O’Neil laughed. ‘No, Dad, I’m fine. Sticking to the speed limit and everything. Sorry for the distraction. Where was I?’

  ‘Wendy Rogers.’

  ‘Right. A helpful contact. She told me that Fraser was in the habit of running to and from the hospital. He worked a lot of night shifts. On a Sunday morning, he tended to run to his mum’s where, depending on what he was planning to do later, he either had a kip and stayed for lunch before heading home, or ate breakfast with his mum, made an excuse and left.’ She paused. ‘If you think about it long enough, it’ll come to you.’

  Ryan made the connection almost immediately. Mrs Fraser lived in a flat behind Collingwood’s Monument at Tynemouth, the town sandwiched between the victim’s home in Whitley Bay and North Shields. ‘Don’t tell me, his favourite route was the North Shields Fish Quay?’

  ‘Correct. He talked Wendy into a run after work one time, sharing the Sunday roast and pretending to be his girlfriend to shut his mother up. You saw how distraught Mrs Fraser was. She’s a lonely woman, unable to cope as an empty nester. Since her husband died, she’d been banging on about James going home so she could take care of him. Taking Wendy along seemed to do the trick.’

  ‘Did she describe the route they took?’

  ‘She did. I can’t yet confirm if it’s the course they followed last Sunday but I don’t believe in fairies, do you? If Fraser kept to his routine – I know I do – he almost certainly ran right past our crime scene.’

  ‘So what, they’re killing randomly now?’

  ‘Maybe not.’ O’Neil swore under her breath. ‘Where the hell am I?’

  ‘You’re talking to yourself, guv. That’s not a good sign. Are you lost?’

  ‘Took a wrong turn. On track now.’

  ‘You’re suggesting Fraser saw something?’

  ‘That’s my best guess. His jogging gear and the time of day were a dead giveaway. Whoever killed him would realize that he was a local, not a tourist. They would figure out that he’d come forward when the case hit the press.’ The implication was clear. ‘They have other work to do, Ryan.’

  ‘You know, you could be right. His mother saw him on Sunday—’

  ‘For the last time,’ O’Neil interrupted. ‘If I remember rightly, she said he arrived early and left at around eleven a.m.’

  ‘But I asked her if he seemed worried about anything. She said no.’

  ‘Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe their presence didn’t register. His killers weren’t to know that, were they? Or maybe Fraser didn’t mention it to his mum for altruistic reasons. You saw her. She’s a bundle of nerves. He might not have wanted to worry her. We need to speak to her again. That’s best done face to face. The poor woman has been through enough.’

  ‘I suppose they could have followed him to her house, seen her open the door and waited until he left again.’

  ‘Yup. They follow him home to Whitley Bay three miles away and make sure he can’t shop them to the law. On the information we have, it’s the most likely scenario – unless you have other ideas?’

  ‘None.’ Ryan took a moment to get his thoughts in order. ‘An unplanned murder makes sense of the tremor in Spielberg’s voice. The fact that the body was left at the scene instead of being removed like Trevathan or the Brighton and North Shields victims.’

  ‘Exactly. Talking of Brighton, there’s no update there. Sussex police are on the lookout for a victim and will call me as and when there are developments. No news yet from the coastguard. We need to get a handle on this investigation before it spirals out of control.’

  Ryan put his phone in his pocket, O’Neil’s words ringing in his ears. Resigned to spending the evening alone, he glanced at a discarded newspaper on the bar, a report into the deaths of four mountaineers in an avalanche in Glencoe, the total number who’d lost their lives in one season reaching fourteen; unprecedented high winds, sub-zero temperatures and extreme snowfall creating the perfect conditions for tragedy.

  Depressing.

  He turned the page.

  O’Neil was dealing with a different kind of avalanche, one Ryan knew she’d struggle to cope with in a unit consisting of two. They needed help but it was far too early to tackle her on the subject. With the Lord Advocate, Scotland’s Solicitor General and the Crown Agent baying for justice on Trevathan’s behalf, she’d want to be seen to be keeping all the balls in the air, demonstrating progress before utilizing her authority to take on more staff. Her reputation was at stake. His too, now he came to think of it.

  ‘You going to buy me a pint or ignore me?’ The voice took him by surprise.

  Ryan swung round.

  O’Neil was standing right behind him, a glum expression on her face. ‘My ankle’s killing me, I’m dog-tired, starving and could use a drink. Couldn’t be arsed to drive home. Are you happy to keep me company? I’m wearing a new scent. It’s called Mortuary. I’m surprised they let me in here.’

  Ryan couldn’t tell her how pleased he was to see her. ‘My shout, guv, what can I get you?’

  O’Neil glanced at the optics behind the bar. ‘Seeing as we’re in Scotland, I’ll have a wee dram of Jura Air.’ She smiled at him. ‘Second thoughts, let’s live dangerously and make it a double. I need a good kip and we’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow.’

  18

  They arrived at Parliament Square before nine, splitting up once inside the High Court so they could cover the building quickly and rendezvous in the car park at eleven, ready to return to Newcastle in good time. Ryan got there first. While he waited for O’Neil to surface, he tried Caroline aga
in. They still hadn’t made contact and he was starting to get worried.

  This time he got through.

  Ryan was hanging up as O’Neil walked out into the sunshine at a fast pace, head down, unaware that he was watching her. He’d enjoyed hanging out with her last night – more than he cared to admit – and when they parted for separate rooms he felt dismayed. She drove him mad and he strongly suspected that she knew it.

  She came to a sudden stop.

  Dropping her head on one side, she narrowed her eyes. ‘You have good news?’

  ‘Makes you say that?’

  ‘You’re grinning like a cat.’

  ‘My mind had drifted elsewhere.’ He couldn’t tell her where. ‘There is good news, but sadly nothing to do with our case. The jury in Caroline’s trial returned guilty verdicts on all but one offender late yesterday afternoon. The judge adjourned, sending them back to Durham prison in no doubt that they were facing jail, with sentencing scheduled for ten this morning.’

  ‘So that’s where she was, out celebrating.’

  ‘And she will be again. The trial judge just doled out eighty-one years between nine offenders. The public gallery was in uproar. Crown Prosecutors were commended for a job well done, as was the undercover drugs team – it’ll be all over the papers tonight. Caroline is thrilled.’

  ‘Result! I’m relieved, actually.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You checked your phone several times last night, I was beginning to think I was boring you.’

  ‘You’re a lot of things, Eloise. Boring isn’t one of them.’

  O’Neil flushed slightly and changed the subject. ‘Do you have any news for us?’

  Ryan shook his head. ‘I tapped a few court officials: two clerks, a stenographer and an usher who had a lot more nous than I initially gave him credit for. They’re under threat of prosecution if they breathe a word.’

  ‘They told you that?’

  ‘I overheard them talking, didn’t I?’ O’Neil fixed him with a stare; she wasn’t buying it. Ryan grinned. ‘OK, if you must know I left my phone on someone’s desk. How was I to know the recorder was switched on? The clerks should’ve waited until I cleared the room before reacting to my visit. It’s not nice to talk about people behind their backs. Besides, you asked me to use my initiative.’

  ‘You bugged their office?’

  ‘Inadvertently!’ Ryan lifted his hand, inviting a high five.

  O’Neil gave him one.

  ‘I wasn’t half as lucky,’ she said. ‘The police and press stonewalled me. They’re being gagged too. The administration team were worse. They were so nervous they asked me to leave. Cheeky sods escorted me to the door. Do you see any point in hanging around?’

  ‘None. It’s a brick wall, guv.’

  ‘Then we drop one ball and pick up another.’ She threw him the car keys. ‘It’s your turn to drive.’

  They arrived at their Newcastle base shortly after two p.m. The journey south had flown by, the conversation flowing, mainly about the case, in particular the silence surrounding Trevathan’s trial. They had concluded, jointly and separately, that it probably involved the prosecution of suspected terrorists, the accused anonymized by false names or merely referred to by letters of the alphabet. Cloaked in such secrecy, a legal action involving national security would be difficult, if not impossible, to penetrate. Anyone caught leaking information would be liable to prosecution for contempt of court, punishable by imprisonment.

  O’Neil told Ryan she’d give the matter more thought before coming to a decision as to their next move. Then she steered the conversation to the North Shields crime scene and James Fraser’s death. His post-mortem was scheduled for later.

  This time, she agreed, he could go in her place.

  ‘I want you to contact the Family Liaison Officer,’ O’Neil said. ‘Tell her what we suspect might have happened to Fraser. Be very clear: we need more information from his mother without alarming her. We don’t tip her off that he may have seen something suspicious in North Shields or might’ve been followed. Ram that message home, Ryan.’

  O’Neil handed him a list of questions she wanted answers to: Did James have a key? Did he let himself into the house on Sunday or did Mrs Fraser open the door? Was anyone waiting for him when he left the house? Anyone in the street that she can recall? Beneath the list, O’Neil had scrawled a further instruction: On no account must Mrs Fraser be made aware that there’s a possible link to an incident a couple of miles down the road.

  Ryan looked up from the note. ‘I think this last one is a must. The poor soul has been through enough. Mind you, if she thinks about it hard enough, asking her if anyone was waiting outside when Fraser left will be like telling her he was being followed.’

  ‘We can’t help that, Ryan. We need to be clear on what happened. On second thoughts, meet with the liaison officer personally. I’d like you to see the whites of her eyes. If you don’t think she’s up to getting the information we require without compromising our investigation, do it yourself.’

  ‘You think she’s safe?’

  ‘Mrs Fraser?’

  Ryan nodded.

  ‘I’m not sure. If there is any suggestion that she met James at the door, we must assume that those who killed him saw and can ID her. We can supply a panic alarm—’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘We don’t need to give the real reason. We could tell her it’s basic procedure following a sudden and violent death, to ensure a quick response if she needs help, or just to put her mind at rest. Pass that on to the liaison officer. Depending what comes back, we’ll return to it later.’

  Ryan made the call, asking the liaison officer to meet him at a pub known to locals as The Corner House. Situated on the Coast Road, it was less than ten minutes from the city centre. He was there and back in under half an hour. ‘Job done,’ he said, chucking his car keys on his desk.

  O’Neil raised her head. ‘How was she?’

  ‘Good as gold,’ he reassured her. ‘So what’s next?’

  ‘We need help and we need it now, so I’m bringing in someone we both know,’ O’Neil said.

  Her plan threw Ryan. ‘Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about—’

  ‘Too late. I’ve made my play. There are several scenes and limitless issues that need to be dealt with urgently. We can’t do it alone.’

  Ryan’s stomach took a dive. He was angling for Grace and Newman and felt a little pissed off that O’Neil had settled on someone without consulting him. ‘We’re not doing it alone,’ he said. ‘We have incident rooms here at HQ, in Scotland and Sussex, dozens of detectives inputting data and waiting on actions. We delegate, surely.’

  ‘Don’t question me, Ryan.’ O’Neil took off her specs and studied him. ‘You haven’t been to Brighton yet. We need to get down there and I want someone here on the ground to coordinate. This is, potentially, a quadruple murder case now. When the press get wind of the fact that the body found in the Tay is the second most senior judge in Scotland, they’re going to join the Home Office in demanding answers. Unless you have a crystal ball, we have none to give them.’

  The truth stung.

  I’m bringing in someone we both know.

  Ryan could think of only one male and one female serving officer they were both acquainted with. He was prepared to work with neither. The idea of operating alongside his ex-girlfriend, DC Roz Cornell, was enough to bring on a migraine. The alternative – DS Maguire, O’Neil’s former bagman – was even worse.

  The intercom buzzed, cutting off his objection before he had a chance to voice it. O’Neil glanced at the visual display on her desk, buzzing their visitor in at street level. She nodded towards the front door.

  ‘That’ll be her now.’

  Her. Roz. Oh God!

  Ryan wanted to work with her like he wanted a hole in the head.

  ‘Are you going to let her in or sit there with your mouth open?’

  Reluctantly, he got to his feet, ey
es still on O’Neil. Her expression was steadfast, her mind made up. She was strong-willed and he admired that – just not today. He had no chance of influencing her decision. He had to try . . .

  ‘Guv, this is a mistake I think we’ll both regret.’

  ‘If she’s no good, I’ll fire her.’

  ‘I can’t work with her.’

  ‘Rubbish – you’ve done it before.’

  ‘Guv—’

  ‘May I remind you who’s the boss around here?’

  ‘I though you didn’t pull rank.’

  She made a face. ‘I changed my mind.’

  She was taking the piss. She hadn’t and never would claim superiority. Like all work colleagues, they’d had their moments but, in the main, they rubbed along nicely.

  ‘I thought we were a partnership – consulting on everything.’

  ‘Get. The. Door.’

  Ryan walked away, practising a welcome his heart didn’t share as he moved towards the entrance, a black cloud over his head. As he buzzed to open the heavy iron door, he took a deep breath, determined to be nice.

  The pair of sharp, expressive eyes on the other side didn’t belong to the person he was expecting.

  19

  ‘You look like you’ve chewed a wasp.’ Grace Ellis handed Ryan her coat and holdall as she exited the lift. ‘I heard you needed an office manager. I’m relying on you to give me the low-down on this secret squirrel unit. Sounds like my kind of gig. Whose crazy-arsed scheme is it anyhow?’ She looked happier than he’d ever seen her. Positively glowing. Unable to keep the grin off his face, Ryan gave her a big hug, holding on for longer than he meant to. ‘Hey, mister!’ She pushed him away. ‘I’m spoken for.’

  ‘Newman is one lucky bastard,’ Ryan said. ‘And you are a sight for sore eyes. What did you do with him?’