The Death Messenger Read online

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do, because it was entirely inappropriate. We need to maintain a professional approach. Anything offered in evidence needs to reflect that. We don’t want you sounding like some gobshite on the phone. It’s not cool. And don’t you dare touch my phone again, EVER!’

  Ryan held up his hands as if she were holding a gun. ‘Guv, you weren’t here.’

  ‘I was in the next room—’

  ‘On the phone to someone else!’

  ‘You could’ve knocked. I’d have hung up.’

  ‘I’ll ask her to wait next time, shall I?’

  O’Neil glared at him then walked away.

  ‘Guv, I’m sorry!’

  She rounded on him. ‘Too bloody late!’

  ‘So now I’ve had my hands slapped maybe you could tell me how you’d have handled it?’

  ‘I’d have tried to engage with her, not put her back up—’

  ‘Yeah, like that was going to get us anywhere—’

  ‘It gets her talking to us! I have expertise as a hostage negotiator, Ryan. I’d have used those skills. She doesn’t have a hostage – at least we hope not – but information is her hostage. She’s holding the biggest hand. I would’ve talked to her in a way that would gain her trust. As long as we have dialogue, we have something.’

  ‘Fine!’

  ‘No, not fine! If Professional Standards got hold of that tape you’d be on a hiding to nothing. I know how their minds work, Ryan. They’d see it as entirely unacceptable – and it was. If you can’t see that then perhaps we shouldn’t be working together. Think on it. This conversation is over.’

  8

  Whitley Bay was around ten miles east of the city centre. Another coastal location. It took less than twenty minutes to reach their destination, a local authority flat in dire need of a paint job and a crew to fix the garden. At O’Neil’s insistence, they were both wearing body armour. With a violent offender and possible accomplice on the rampage, she was taking no chances.

  They could be walking into a trap.

  She was quiet in the car, still pissed with him for mouthing off. Ryan wanted to apologize; tell her that, of course, he understood that he was out of line, that his judgement was under par, that he should have handled the call differently. Except, deep down, he didn’t believe it. He was damned if he’d give Spielberg the power she craved. He decided to wait. He’d have to pick his moment to explain his actions. Now was not the time to wind her up.

  O’Neil cut the ignition and was out of their new wheels before Ryan had undone his seat belt. She moved towards the front door like an athlete, her Kevlar vest making her hips appear even more petite than they were in reality. She inspected the front door. It was locked. No sign of a forced entry. Her nod was a sign that he should check the rear of the premises. He did a quick recce, investigating alternative access points, and returned shaking his head.

  Wary of going in gung-ho, O’Neil took a moment to consider her options. She didn’t ask his opinion and he didn’t offer one. Having been put in his box, Ryan intended staying there until it was safe to come out – the sooner the better as far as he was concerned. They had argued before and it always left a bad taste in his mouth.

  She banged on the front door.

  No answer.

  She hit it again.

  No response.

  She glanced in Ryan’s direction. ‘If I thought there was a body inside, a life to save, I’d have no hesitation.’

  ‘We won’t know until we get in there,’ he said.

  ‘True.’ Another glance at the door. ‘Kick it in.’

  Ryan carried out her instructions with ease and went in first. ‘Police! Is there anyone here? Hello? Anyone home?’

  Silence.

  Avoiding bloody footprints in the hallway, Ryan ventured further in, senses on alert. He checked out two rooms on either side of the hall and gave O’Neil the all clear on both. The interior of the flat was in much better condition than what they had seen on the way in. The place was tidy, a high level of cleanliness. If he were to hazard a guess, Ryan would’ve said it belonged to a woman. He was proved wrong when he opened a closet in the hallway and found what appeared to be a young man’s clothing.

  If not young, then someone very much down with the kids.

  Halfway along the hallway O’Neil’s mobile rang. She silenced it quickly, beckoning Ryan to retreat to the open front door while she took the call. ‘Go ahead, Control.’

  Her voice was almost a whisper.

  ‘The property is registered to James Fraser,’ the controller said. ‘On the electoral roll at the same address for five years, give or take. Thirty-seven years old. No form. He holds a current shotgun certificate as well as a firearms licence. He’s a member of the shooting club at Roker. Also listed on organ and blood donor registers. Occupation: nurse. That’s it for now.’

  ‘Find out where he works and if he’s been in lately,’ she said quietly. ‘Silent response if you get any more intelligence, understood?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am . . . you need backup?’

  ‘No, I’m double-crewed. We’ll handle it.’

  She hung up and turned to Ryan, keeping her voice low. ‘That puts a different spin on things. James Fraser, the guy who owns the flat, is into guns. We should wait for a firearms team.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you ask for one.’

  ‘That’s very observant of you.’

  Ryan allowed himself a half-smile even though his guts were churning. O’Neil was a hands-on investigator. He could see she was in two minds: worried for their safety but wanting to burst through the door at the end of the hallway and save a life – if it wasn’t already too late.

  ‘Unarmed, you’re an obvious target,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you mean we?’ He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the bedroom door. It seemed to move towards him the more he stared at it. A picture of his father, fatally wounded, flashed through his mind, dissolving as his focus shifted to the floor. ‘Those footprints are heading out, not in, guv.’

  ‘She’s devious. This has to be your call.’

  ‘Understood.’ He was about to set off.

  She blocked his way. ‘Kevlar can only go so far, Ryan. If they aim for the head, you know the rest. If someone starts firing, get the hell out of there.’ He tried to move. She had hold of his arm with a grip he’d have been proud of. Their eyes met briefly, a potent message passing from one to the other: stay safe. ‘You saved my life. Don’t you dare do anything reckless, I need you on my team.’

  ‘I need me on your team too, guv. Does this mean I’m back in your good books?’

  ‘Of course, you idiot, now concentrate.’

  Ryan checked his arm. White fingernails were digging into his skin, so strong was O’Neil’s desire to hold on to him. Finally, she loosened them and let go. He left her then, approaching the bedroom, heart pumping harder with every step, her warning echoing in his head. It was prudent to remind him that his flak jacket offered only so much protection. It would lessen the impact of a strike to the chest, not stop a headshot.

  He felt guilty thinking it, but death was a price too high to pay, even for Queen and country. When his father died on a routine drugs bust, murdered by a knife-wielding heroin dealer, his mother’s life was effectively over. Ryan was pleased he had no wife. No kids. Adrenalin streamed through his veins, his body’s automatic response to danger.

  He listened at the door.

  Nothing.

  ‘Mr Fraser? Police! We’re concerned for your welfare. Coming in.’

  Ryan put his foot through the door, ducking as it smashed against the bedroom wall. Fortunately, he met neither threat nor attack. The similarity to the North Shields crime scene ended there. This time, what they had viewed onscreen wasn’t the same as what they got in reality.

  A male lay on the floor, green eyes permanently fixed to the ceiling. Gunshot wounds Ryan could cope with. Stabbings were his Achilles’ heel. In his head, the victim
suddenly morphed into his father, three deep puncture wounds to his chest, no chance of survival at the hands of a madman. Twenty-five years after the event, Ryan could almost hear a flick-knife leave its casing, plunged into his own flesh and blood with fatal consequences.

  As the image continued to scroll through his head, he turned away before O’Neil noticed his reaction. Taking a pen from his pocket, he lifted the lanyard off the chair’s backrest. He held it up, the better to see the organization it belonged to: Northumbria Healthcare NHS Foundation Trust.

  He checked the image against the dead man.

  ‘Hospital ID, guv. Meet James Fraser. Emergency Care Matron. Doesn’t say which hospital.’

  ‘He’s the tenant,’ O’Neil said.

  Ryan crouched down beside the body, sickened by the death of this relatively young man. ‘He put up quite a fight. There are defence wounds to the fingers and palms of both hands.’

  He stood up.

  O’Neil was more alive than Ryan had ever seen her. On autopilot, she put on gloves, retraced her steps, dropped the latch on the front door and got on the phone to Forensics while he went off to search the flat. Within a minute or two, he found what he was looking for: a 2mm steel cabinet fixed to the wall inside a large cupboard in the spare bedroom. Suitable for both shotguns and firearms, it was undamaged and open.

  No weapons inside . . .

  Ammunition either.

  O’Neil wandered in, pocketing her mobile phone. ‘Find anything?’

  ‘And some.’ He pointed at the cabinet. ‘This is the biz, guv. Police approved and jemmy-proof, same as mine at home.’

  ‘And mine.’

  ‘You’re firearms trained?’

  Her eyes were blank. ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘How come I’ve never seen you on the firing range?’

  ‘You’re looking at a champion.’ The statement was a deflection.

  Ryan let it go. ‘Why does that make me feel all warm and fuzzy?’

  O’Neil laughed, the tension melting away, their angry exchange forgotten.

  9

  Ryan woke wondering what possible link there might be between a high-ranking Scottish judge and a Geordie nurse. Despite a long and taxing day yesterday, he slept badly, only falling into a deep sleep an hour before his alarm went off at six. It was odd, crashing at their office, sharing living quarters with a woman where the only agenda could ever be a professional one.

  In the shower, his mind switched once again to the investigation, specifically the crime scenes. Spielberg had suddenly changed tack: using three derelict premises, removing the body; then a residential address, leaving the victim in situ, complete with ID?

  Mind games.

  O’Neil was up and at it. Cradling a cup of coffee, she scrutinized a map, stills of a crime scene they had yet to visit and other documentation lying on her desk. Leaning against the door jamb, Ryan watched her for a while, her face set in concentration.

  He could tell there had been a development.

  ‘Morning, Ryan.’ She spoke without lifting her head, eyes pinned to a map. ‘James Fraser works – or should I say worked – at Rake Lane Hospital. Beyond that, it’s the usual story: highly regarded, brilliant member of staff, lovely lad, no enemies. No one I talked to has seen or heard of him since he left his department at the end of his last shift.’

  ‘Which was?’ Ryan crossed the threshold, closing his bedroom door quietly behind him.

  ‘Sunday. He finished work at 6 a.m.’ Saddened by the next task on their agenda, O’Neil checked her watch. ‘We’ll give his mother a bit more sleep, then she’s our number one priority.’

  Ryan nodded soberly. ‘And then?’

  ‘A lengthy drive, a long day ahead of us.’ She tapped the map. ‘What do you reckon: A1 or A68?’

  ‘To Kenmore?’

  ‘The post-mortem, the crime scene, the whole shebang.’

  Ryan took his iPhone from his pocket, accessed his contacts, specifically the Kenmore Hotel where he’d stayed several years ago. Tapping the address placed a pin on a map and offered an ETA and alternative routes. ‘It’s six and two threes. Three hours fifty-eight minutes on the A1, four hours five on the A68.’

  ‘You have a preference?’

  ‘We’ll get a whiff and a glimpse of the sea from the A1.’ Ryan was happiest by water, as she seemed to be when they’d worked their last case. They had more than policing in common.

  ‘That’s the decision made then.’ O’Neil pointed over his shoulder to the kitchen beyond. ‘Coffee should still be warm.’

  ‘Thanks. You want more?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask.’ She held up her empty cup.

  Ryan took it to the kitchen bench, poured a refill for her and one for him. Seconds later he returned, keen to know more about their drive north and what she had in mind to do when they got there. He dragged his chair closer to hers and sat down. Trying his level best to ignore the effect her perfume was having on his senses, he asked if the documentation for all four incidents was already on HOLMES.

  ‘Yup, all here on the system. I want to do this right, Ryan. We are the lead team on this investigation now. So it’s ears open and mouths shut when talking to detectives who’ve been involved thus far. If that changes down the line, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘We might miss local knowledge that way.’

  ‘It’s a chance I’m prepared to take. Many a case has failed on misinformation. We’re not investigating colleagues here. Working in complaints has taught me that if you show your hand, they’ll be queuing up to put their own spin on things. You know the score. Coppers can’t stop themselves. Even the crap ones like to think they’re Columbo. If you listen to their theories, it’ll influence your thinking. What I need from you is a fresh pair of eyes. That way we start with a blank canvas, no preconceived ideas. We make our own minds up whether to accept or reject information that comes our way.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  ‘Good. Any questions?’

  ‘Yeah, what did Price have to say last night?’ The call had come in from the Chief Constable as they were about to retire. She’d waved him off to bed and he was curious to know if she had any update on Kenmore.

  ‘Not much. There was enough blood at the scene to suggest a severed artery. I expect we’ll have that confirmed this afternoon. First responders found the scene disturbed: paw prints in the blood, trace evidence of dog hair investigators matched with that found at the judge’s home. The dog was found weeks later, spotted by a tenant on a neighbouring estate. The animal was hungry, a nervous wreck, but otherwise healthy. It’s with Mrs Forbes until the family decide what to do with it.’

  Ryan was relieved to hear it. ‘They got nothing from house-to-house?’

  O’Neil shook her head. ‘The investigating team also spoke to anyone and everyone who happened upon the scene when it was being examined. It generated a lot of enquiries that took them nowhere. As you pointed out yesterday, Kenmore is a popular area at any time of year. Asking locals if they’d seen strangers hanging about was hopeless. Detectives working the case did everything they possibly could to find Trevathan. They combed the area, checked hospitals in a fifty-mile radius, dragged the river and sent divers down with zero results. His body found its way to the surface all by itself.’

  ‘That’s not a lot to show for two months’ work,’ Ryan said.

  ‘Yeah, well, Police Scotland were in the driving seat then,’ O’Neil said. ‘Now it’s our turn.’

  10

  Having broken a woman’s heart, Ryan and O’Neil were on the road before nine. They didn’t discuss Mrs Fraser’s reaction to the death of her son: the frail body wracked with sobs, the sheer disbelief that she’d seen him for the last time beyond a clinical viewing room at the morgue. Shattered didn’t come close to describing it. The woman was utterly devastated, her life in ruins, the damage irreparable.

  Most coppers knew what it felt like to knock on the door and deliver a death me
ssage. Few knew what went on when the door closed again. Ryan did. He caught Mrs Fraser before she hit the deck, sat with her until the Family Liaison Officer arrived, tried to comfort her. Like all families bereaved by homicide, the woman was inconsolable. He couldn’t tell her that he’d been there too. What possible good would it have done?

  Losing a loved one to murder united no one.

  Sensitive to his personal situation, O’Neil had offered to tell Mrs Fraser herself. He argued but she insisted, and when it was done they skirted a subject too painful for both of them. That didn’t mean that fallen colleagues – Jack Fenwick and Ryan’s father – weren’t uppermost in their minds.

  Avoidance strategies weren’t always negative.

  O’Neil had her foot to the floor, hell-bent on distancing herself from the trauma of the past hour in the shortest time possible. As they left the city behind, her mobile rang, the call buying Ryan time to process what had gone on in the house.

  ‘O’Neil.’

  ‘Police Scotland, ma’am – DC Turner. My guv’nor asked me to call and let you know that Maxwell’s Temple is bolted, secured and closed to visitors. The key is with police in Aberfeldy – the station that covers Perth and Kinross Highland.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Twenty-seven Kenmore Street, ma’am. PH15 2BL.’

  ‘Hold on.’ O’Neil repeated the address for Ryan’s benefit. ‘Can you let them know to expect me?’

  ‘Will do, ma’am.’

  ‘Appreciate it.’ O’Neil gave an ETA and hung up.

  She glanced at Ryan.

  He punched the postcode into the satnav and saved it as a destination, keeping them on track for the morgue. ‘I hope the scene provides some answers.’

  ‘I can’t see it, given the time lapse. There’s no real urgency, but I’d like to get there before dark or we’ll be kicking our heels until morning. Let’s hope the post-mortem is quick.’