The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(101)
‘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.