The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(102)

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 parting 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.