The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(103)

Fuck her . . .

Fuck ’em all.

But then things took a positive turn: a leak by someone at the British Embassy had raised her profile. She thought the truth was finally going to break – the press were all over it for days – and yet now all they could talk about was the fucking weather.

It was a mistake speaking to O’Neil’s bagman. From the get-go Ryan had been trying to get the upper hand. She’d enjoyed his banter at first but then he’d failed to take her seriously, left her hanging on the line, shown her no respect whatsoever. He’d trampled all over her right to be heard, just like the fuckers she was killing. Like a metaphor for her life falling apart, the crack above her head seemed to grow wider the more she stared at it.

She should’ve stayed on the line yesterday and fronted up to Ryan. He might think she’d fallen into his trap, but she’d cut the call for good reason. Losing her rag with someone who thought she was dumb was risky. She might say something she’d regret, exposing herself to identification, handing him exactly what he was after, and she wasn’t having that. Instead, she’d taken her anger out on the one person she knew hadn’t the guts to stand up to her, let alone fight back. So what if Ryan had tricked her into showing her hand? She’d just have to try that bit harder to impress him.

Introducing him to the grunt would do it.

She grinned, a plan forming in her head. Ryan needed a lesson in who was boss. She was the game changer, not DS-fucking-Ryan. By the time she was done, he’d regret taking the moral high ground. She’d make sure he understood the rules as well as her motivation.

Who was the victim here anyway?

Not the dead ones. Those losers were in the wrong, not her. But if Ryan wanted confrontation, he’d come to the right person. She’d keep going until chaos reigned. Then maybe he’d understand who was really in charge and why her personal safety was less important than her assignments. She was going to hell anyway. What did she care how she got there?





58


‘I have news!’ Grace said as she walked through the door and took off her sodden overcoat, Newman following close behind. There were no special greetings to Ryan and O’Neil in spite of their marathon journey north and late arrival, no let-up for unit staff, no allowances. ‘I just spoke to Art Malik,’ Grace said. ‘He knows why Laura didn’t take the fourth respondent to the newspaper ad. And what’s more . . .’ A grin spread across her face as she let the sentence hang.

‘He has ID?’ Ryan asked.

‘He does indeed. It was Mark Montgomery.’

They high-fived.

No wonder she was buzzing.

‘Laura told Malik that Montgomery was an agitating bastard she couldn’t afford to have on set. In short, she denied him a platform, ignored him because he was unpleasant and aggressive.’ Grace bowed graciously, like a ballerina. ‘You lot can thank me later.’

‘Wait a minute!’ Ryan said. ‘Laura worked with Sophia. Did she not know that Mark was her brother?’

Grace was shaking her head. ‘That was the first question I asked. As a relation of film crew, he’d most probably be ineligible to apply. He’d hardly disclose it, would he?’

‘I want him picked up,’ O’Neil said. ‘Get hold of his medical records, soon as you can – his sister’s too.’ She beamed at Ryan. ‘This is great news.’ By process of elimination, they could rule out Nichol and Spencer, leaving themselves with just one pair to concentrate on.

The rest of the day was long and drawn out with no news of Mark Montgomery’s arrest and no sign of Sophia at her Bletchley home. O’Neil ordered satellite teams to carry out house-to-house, the result of all enquiries for immediate input into HOLMES. Minutes turned to hours, the afternoon dragging itself slowly and laboriously into early evening.

After the high of identifying the prime suspects, morale had plummeted to a low point. Not so their work rate; everyone, including O’Neil, was focused on the chat room. There was undoubtedly reasonable cause to bring the Montgomery siblings in for questioning. Evidence was mounting, unit staff could all feel it, but first it was vital to establish connections between victims and perpetrators. And thus far they’d drawn a blank on that score.

Thames Valley Police excelled at keeping in touch. They would continue a watching brief in Buckinghamshire but, with sixty-five millimetres of rainfall resulting in local flooding, they had their hands full. There’d been no sign of Mark or Sophia Montgomery.

Ryan suspected they had gone to ground.

Grace Ellis took off her reading specs, rubbing at tired eyes, unhappy with the way things were going. ‘Support networks usually offer comfort,’ she said. ‘Not this one. The members are nothing more than a bunch of morbid weirdos. Some of these posts are hateful. They may all be living with the nightmare of Sauer’s, but this type of remote contact is a breeding ground for trouble.’

Ryan was thinking the very same thing as he trawled the site for clues. The interruption was a good excuse to take a break. He got up, made them all a drink, delivering it to their desks. There was no break for Grace. Her eyes never left her desk. He lingered a moment, his focus on the rain-lashed window beyond her. It was still tanking down.

He wandered away and sat down beside Caroline and Bob.

‘You OK, Matt?’ His twin sensed his presence.