The Silent Room Read online

  ‘Heard you arrive, pal. Figured you’d gone to make tea.’ The lean man turned to Grace. ‘You never told me you had a new toy boy.’

  Ryan exhaled. ‘Who the hell—?’

  ‘An old friend.’ Grace realized instantly why he was so spooked. ‘It’s okay, Ryan. Put the weapon down. I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was here, I swear.’

  Feeling stupid, Ryan did as she asked, eyes on the man he’d believed to be an intruder. ‘You have a name, pal?’

  ‘Frank … Newman.’ He stuck a hand out. ‘I hear you have a problem. I’m here to help.’

  Newman was around fifty-five years old, give or take, in good shape, with ice-blue eyes that gave nothing away. He wore jeans and a black polo shirt. Good shoes. No wedding ring. He had straight shoulders and, despite the lack of bulk, an air of confidence that would scare those who got on the wrong side of him. Ryan took a punt at ex-military.

  ‘Thanks …’ He accepted the proffered hand. ‘But no thanks. We don’t need your help.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Newman said. ‘Wouldn’t want to butt in—’

  ‘Guys, give it up.’

  The two men conformed.

  Grace moved through to the living room, giving Newman a black look as he stepped aside to let her pass. Ryan followed her in. She slung her bag on the sofa, picked up her cigarettes and lit one.

  ‘I have a few house rules,’ she said. ‘One: this is a testosterone-free environment. Two: this is a testosterone-free environment. There’s no room for egos here. Ryan, you want to find Jack? Frank is how we do it. Trust me. We need his help. There’s no one better.’

  15

  O’Neil was as mad as hell. Her efforts to get a handle on the hijackers had come to nothing. She’d looked at CCTV along the route, checked house-to-house forms until her eyes bled, tried to find Clio Man without success. Organized Crime Command hadn’t fared any better. And, to add to her woes, Maguire was getting on her tits.

  He was a useless bagman.

  Senior officers of her rank on the Serious Incident Squad or the Murder Investigation Team got to choose their own staff. She didn’t have that luxury. Maguire had come to her under a cloud, forced upon her almost, a case of take it or leave it. She’d long since made up her mind that she’d be better off without him. Practically horizontal, with his size tens on her desk, he was bleating on about the case, bemoaning the fact that Fenwick had nothing to lose and everything to gain in making good his escape.

  She sighed. ‘You don’t say.’

  Taking in her glare, Maguire sat up straight. ‘C’mon, guv! He was looking at a long stretch he couldn’t face. Once bail was refused, he saw the writing on the wall, if you ask me. I’m not convinced Ryan isn’t in on it either. He thinks he’s so cool. We should get him in here. Pile on the pressure. Give the cocky git something more than a suspension to worry about. I don’t buy his alibi—’

  ‘Will you shut up and let me think!’ O’Neil rubbed at her temples. Her head was bursting with competing actions. On top of that, Fenwick’s solicitor had called. He’d told her that following an unsuccessful bail hearing his client had specifically asked him to make urgent contact with DS Ryan, news she shared with Maguire. ‘Which begs the question of why he’d do that if he was involved in his own escape—’

  ‘Don’t doubt yourself, guv. That’s what Fenwick wants you to do. I said he was dodgy. I never said he wasn’t clever. Ryan’s no slouch either when it comes to covering his back. Slimy bastard.’

  ‘We have no evidence whatsoever on Ryan. We know it and so does he.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean there isn’t any.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean there is.’ Her second-in-command’s tunnel vision was more than O’Neil could stomach most days. She was about to rein him in again when her phone rang. Picking up, she covered the speaker with her free hand, ordering Maguire to chase up Nicholas Wardle, the Audi owner.

  ‘You’re having a laugh,’ he said. ‘It’s no easy task finding someone in Nigeria.’

  ‘If you can’t find someone when you have a copy of their passport, I can’t see you being much use to me in detecting this offence, can you?’ She glared at him. ‘Shut the door on your way out.’

  For once, Maguire did as he was asked without argument. He stomped off in a strop, rattling paper-thin walls as he shut the door behind him. O’Neil went back to the phone. A BBC newsroom editor was returning her call – and not before time. He sounded defensive when she said she wanted to see him. He had a ‘window’ in approximately half an hour, he told her. Well, bully for him. Hanging up, she set off to meet him alone. Maguire could bore someone else while she was out.

  Broadcasting Centre was on Barrack Road in Fenham – an area west of Newcastle – a twenty-minute ride from headquarters. O’Neil pulled up at the secure car park ahead of schedule. Pressing a button on the control panel, she identified herself, giving the purpose of her visit. The barrier lifted slowly, allowing her entry. She turned right, finding a spot close to the revolving front door.

  Inside the building, BBC Radio Newcastle was playing gently in the background, the Simon Logan Show. O’Neil knew the presenter through a mutual acquaintance. She signed in at reception, was given a visitor pass and invited to make herself comfortable on the sofa provided for studio guests.

  A few moments later, a young woman approached. Smart and smiley, she asked O’Neil to follow her to the second floor. She was shown into the staff refectory, a light and airy room where she could get something to drink. It was a far cry from the one at HQ, or any other police canteen the Superintendent had ever seen. Before she’d even sat down, she was collected and shown into the news editor’s office.

  Nick Barratt rose from his chair, stuck out a hand. ‘How nice to see you again, Eloise.’

  ‘I very much doubt that.’ Ignoring his greeting, O’Neil took off her coat, slung it on a chair and sat down. The coffee he offered was refused. She hadn’t come to get cosy. She wanted answers, not caffeine. ‘I’m investigating a very serious matter, Nick. It would have been nice to have seen your footage before it went live. We usually cooperate with one another. I fail to understand why you didn’t think it necessary on this occasion.’

  ‘It was a question of timing.’ The editor cleared his throat. ‘It’s a serious case. I took the view that it was in the public interest to show it. I had a tough call to make: run with it or hand it over and wait for permission to broadcast. Somehow, I don’t think you’d have been too happy with that.’

  ‘I hope you’re not suggesting I’d veto it because it involves a Northumbria detective, because I can assure you that is not the case.’ O’Neil didn’t try to hide her contempt. ‘You know fine well it’s not how things are done. It’s important to control information in the public arena. I need the name of the person who brought it to you. That’s not too hard a call to make, is it? I hope you paid them well.’

  ‘I didn’t pay them at all,’ Barratt bit back.

  O’Neil’s expression was clear: Do I look stupid to you?

  The editor’s attention strayed to one of three desktops. News feed was continually being added. Like O’Neil, Nick Barratt was a very busy man. After a moment, he opened his drawer. Removing packaging that bore the label of Express Quest Courier Services, he pushed it across his desk and threw her a low-baller. ‘The details of the sender are dodgy. I had them checked out.’

  ‘You weren’t in that much of a hurry to broadcast then?’

  He held her gaze. ‘I thought it was important.’

  ‘And when you found the address was fictitious, you ran with it anyway. Like I said, I thought we had an agreement, you and I.’

  Barratt sidestepped the dig with a question. ‘What’s going on, Eloise?’

  O’Neil looked at him. She could understand those wanting to benefit financially by selling a vital piece of evidence to the press, young kids wanting cash, their names in print or an opportunity to appear on television, although, in her considered opinion, it would be
very unwise in this instance. The hijackers were seriously dangerous men. But the absence of a request for payment worried her. An anonymous package was altogether more sinister. Who sent it and why were questions for which she had no answer … yet.

  Taking an evidence bag from her handbag, she put the package inside and sealed it.

  Barratt was asking if she’d be able to lift prints or DNA.

  ‘That’s the plan,’ she told him. ‘It’ll take a few days. In the meantime, it would help if I knew who in your post room has handled it.’

  ‘Of course. I’ve watched the footage several times. Have you?’

  ‘Naturally.’ O’Neil pulled at the neck of her sweater. ‘How the hell do you work in this heat?’

  ‘I could ask you the same question.’ Master of the double entendre, he studied her closely. ‘Someone wants Fenwick’s head on a plate, in my opinion – unless it’s your head they’re after. I’ve always loved conspiracy theories. They’re so … newsworthy.’

  ‘Don’t read too much into it. In my experience, things are rarely what they seem.’

  ‘If you are in charge of the investigation I’d say they’ve achieved their objective. This could be a disaster for you if you get it wrong.’

  ‘The same could be said of Fenwick if I get it right.’

  ‘You be careful, Eloise.’ Barratt crossed his arms, relaxing back in his chair. ‘Did I mention that I’d met him once or twice? He seemed like a really good bloke. Trustworthy. Wouldn’t you say so?’ He paused for effect, enjoying himself at her expense. ‘Ah, I see you haven’t had the pleasure.’

  They both fell silent.

  Barratt’s warning rattled around in O’Neil’s head. Someone was trying very hard to make Fenwick look bad. It was the obvious conclusion to be drawn. One she might have made herself if the evidence against him hadn’t been so compelling. Until she had the footage analysed, she wouldn’t commit herself. Getting to her feet, she held up the evidence bag with two fingers.

  ‘Thanks for your time.’ She tapped the bag. ‘Any more like this and I’d appreciate the heads up.’

  Barratt stood up too, walked round his desk and said he’d shout her dinner – a peace offering.

  After compromising her investigation? It would be a cold day in hell.

  16

  Late afternoon. Ryan drove slowly past the crime scene, Grace in the front passenger seat, Newman in the rear. The stretch of road was busy and more remote than any of them expected; three houses on one side, a parking lay-by for several cars, a set of traffic lights whose sole function was to aid safe journey into public woodland opposite.

  ‘Two cars in the lay-by,’ Newman said. ‘No one inside. Go round again.’

  Keeping tabs on all vehicles, stationary or otherwise, Ryan did as he asked, checking the route for Professional Standards. ‘The road wasn’t blocked off for long,’ he said. ‘O’Neil must be confident she has all the evidence she needs. We might just be in luck.’ For now, he thought, but didn’t say.

  There was always the chance she might revisit.

  They rode in silence, the atmosphere charged with electricity, their minds on the job they had gone there to do. They needed to be in and out, in sync with one another. Ryan hoped they could pull it off. On the fourth drive through, when he was fairly certain they weren’t going to bump into anyone official, he stopped the car and checked his watch.

  ‘Three forty-four – bang on time.’ Ryan glanced to his left. ‘You ready, Grace?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be.’

  ‘We have a two-hour window and one chance to get it right,’ Ryan said. ‘Only one.’

  ‘Let’s do it,’ Newman said.

  They all got out, separating like an army detail. Sunset today was 5.58 p.m. In just over two hours it would be dark. With a camera each, Ryan and Newman moved to opposite sides of the street. From a fixed point – the traffic lights – they paced out the road, taking shot after shot from different angles while Grace covered the few properties along the highway, a quick house-to-house, asking a series of pre-planned questions she’d collate at her place later. An hour on, way ahead of schedule, they were out of there. It was a clean operation.

  It was gone six when they arrived back at Grace’s house, an accident on the northbound carriageway of the A1 delaying their journey. Within minutes, they were down to business, Grace and Ryan on notes harvested from her mini house-to-house, Newman uploading images on to her new computer, the latest iMac she’d bought with her commutation. Not much for thirty years’ service, but perfect for what he had in mind.

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Ryan said, watching Newman.

  Grace winked at him. ‘Frank has his uses.’

  Newman glanced up. ‘Will you two naff off and give me some space. I prefer to work without an audience, if it’s all the same to you.’

  ‘C’mon,’ Grace said. ‘Leave the grumpy bugger to do his stuff.’

  They retired to the kitchen to make a meal. Nothing fancy, just comfort food: a modest spaghetti bolognese with olive bread, a side salad to go with it. They needed it – they hadn’t eaten all day.

  Ryan slumped down at the kitchen table, his mind in overdrive. On the return journey from Durham they had discussed their findings, including the jemmied signal box at the traffic lights. With Irwin abroad, Ryan had called Storey the second they got in, asking if he’d noticed anyone standing at the lights as they changed to amber before turning red. He didn’t think so, although he’d seen a motorcycle pull away, something Irwin had failed to mention when questioned.

  ‘Perfect.’ Ryan mumbled under his breath.

  Grace lit the gas and placed a frying pan on the heat. ‘What is?’

  ‘Everything: the execution, the isolated location, the way they stopped the traffic to make it look like a sloppy job carried out by amateurs. Well, I don’t buy it. The bastards thought of everything, pretty much. They were pros, not the type to leave anything to chance.’

  Something was niggling at the back of his thoughts. Why hadn’t they killed his DI? Whatever their reasoning, Jack’s daring flight from custody added weight to the phoney firearms bust, deflecting attention from whatever it was he’d been investigating under the radar.

  It had worked, too.

  ‘What’s up, Ryan?’ Grace had picked up on his concern.

  ‘I was just thinking …’

  ‘I can see that.’ She was stirring mince. ‘What about?’

  ‘O’Neil has taken the easiest course of action. Convinced that Jack is on the run, she and her team will be checking ports and airports, assuming he’ll make a run for it. I would too, in her position, but my compass is pointing in a different direction altogether. I don’t know why, but I don’t think Jack is far away, geographically speaking.’

  ‘Yeah, but where?’

  ‘That I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Whatever is happening to him won’t be good.’

  ‘No. The guys who took him mean business. They’ve gone to a lot of trouble to grab him. Hitting prison transport in broad daylight is a high-risk strategy in anyone’s book. If they didn’t kill him, chances are they need something from him. This is pure guesswork, but I think the hijackers are under the impression that he passed on information to someone else and they need to discover that person’s identity.’

  ‘Let’s hope they don’t know about you, then.’

  Ryan was thinking the very same thing, but his own safety wasn’t a priority. ‘You know Jack better than anyone, Grace. Assuming he’s still alive, he won’t roll over and cooperate; he’ll be fighting, no matter how futile his efforts against armed men determined to get him to open up.’

  She stopped what she was doing and sat down at the kitchen table. Dragging a whisky bottle towards her, she poured them each a shot and slid one across to him. Ryan stared at the amber liquid for a long time, trying hard not to let his head go down.

  He failed miserably.

  ‘What else?’ Grace said. ‘There’s something you�
��re not telling me.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s been almost twenty-seven hours. I’m worried.’

  Grace didn’t deny she felt the same. ‘Listen, I know you can’t talk openly about what you were working on. I understand that. I also know that you’ll have been over and over it in your head, but are you absolutely sure Jack wasn’t nervous about anything currently involving foreign nationals or issues of that nature?’

  Ryan shook his head, eyes on the whisky glass. ‘There were no covert ops going on, certainly nothing that posed a threat to the wider public. We were intelligence gathering as always. We weren’t involved in any extremist shit.’

  ‘Close protection? Anything involving the CTU?’

  Another shake. The Counter Terrorism Unit had been quiet for a while.

  ‘So what were you doing,’ Grace asked, ‘generally?’

  ‘Trying out a new ID system at the airport. Mundane stuff.’

  ‘You sure it’s not relevant?’

  Ryan shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Well, is it working or not?’ Grace climbed down. ‘Sorry for being arsey. I didn’t mean to jump down your throat. What I meant was, are there no problems that haven’t been sorted, anything that might threaten national security and let terrorists in? Does the new system do what it says on the tin?’

  Her eyes were like lasers, looking for a reaction. Ryan didn’t need to tell her that the e-Borders system wasn’t happening. With more than two hundred million passengers crossing into the country every year, the idea was to check them before they began their journey, allowing the UK Border Agency to target those who shouldn’t be allowed in. When he didn’t answer, she let it go.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what Frank comes up with.’

  ‘You seem to have a lot of faith in him.’ Necking his drink in one go, Ryan set the glass on the table for a refill and chanced his arm. ‘You guys have history?’

  ‘Makes you say that?’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Way back.’ Grace looked away. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘Doesn’t seem that way to me.’