The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(110)

‘Would that I was in such demand,’ O’Neil said.

‘Keep your eyes peeled, Eloise. You might spot a fan.’

Ryan avoided O’Neil’s eyes.

‘That’s one less problem for us to deal with.’ O’Neil moved quickly on. ‘Except we now have to prove his guilt without being able to interview him. Grace, we need time and date of death, where the body is now and samples. We’re at his sister’s house, available if you need us. Keep in touch if there are any further developments.’

‘Don’t work too hard.’

They ended the call.

Sophia’s house was cold inside – in more ways than one – a chill cutting through them as they entered the premises. This was not a happy house. O’Neil began her search upstairs. Ryan did the same on the ground floor. As he’d seen through the window a few days ago, the kitchen was pristine, obsessively clean, not a thing out of place.

Montgomery was a woman who liked electric gadgetry. Cupboards were crammed with kitchen aids. On the counter, an espresso machine and a multi-purpose charge point for her devices. The home was marginally more interesting than Mark’s. As Ryan moved through the living room, methodical and organized in his task, something he couldn’t quite get a handle on began to bother him. It niggled at the edges of his consciousness for a good half hour as he continued to search, refusing to rise to the surface.

Pushing it away, he went into the hallway as O’Neil arrived at the bottom of the stairs. She was holding a sealed evidence bag in her hand and was deeply troubled as she showed it to him. The bag contained an image of a woman and a girl he assumed was Montgomery and her mother. O’Neil thought so too.

‘There’s something disturbing about her,’ she said.

Ryan looked at her. ‘Sophia or her mother?’

‘Sophia. What a creepy kid.’

‘You suspect she nudged her mother over a cliff accidentally on purpose. Your thoughts are coloured by that.’ He glanced at the photo. ‘I think she’s kinda cute.’

‘She might have been once. Not any more.’

Ryan didn’t disagree. ‘Anything else upstairs?’

‘There’s a camcorder in her closet. I left it for CSIs to recover. There’s a new team on its way.’ They didn’t want cross-contamination from Mark’s flat. ‘The camcorder is on charge.’ The implication that Spielberg might be getting ready to use it again was worrying. Though how she’d manage without her brother’s help was unclear, unless she was the killer, he the accomplice. ‘If she sticks to her routine, next Sunday is the twenty-ninth, just four days away.’ O’Neil pointed at the door facing them. ‘What’s in here?’

‘I don’t know.’ Ryan gestured for her to enter. ‘Why don’t we find out?’

O’Neil opened the door. On the other side of it was a small office with a view of the front garden, an uncluttered desk, a chair and two filing cabinets. The surface of the highly polished desk was dust free. On it stood an Apple iMac, wireless keyboard, mouse and magic trackpad, a digital clock radio, a desk lamp. Four pens and a notepad placed with such care it might’ve been measured to ensure that it was truly plumb with the edge of the desk.

‘Blimey!’ O’Neil said. ‘She must value order.’

‘Above all else,’ Ryan agreed. ‘Check out the cupboard under the stairs. It’s like a shoe shop. Several pairs all lined up in a row. Either she has a problem or nothing better to do than to tidy up. The whole house is like it.’

‘Size?’

‘Sixes and sevens.’

‘Yes!’

‘Thought that might please you.’

Ryan turned his attention back to the office. Bookshelves above the desk were similarly organized, filing cabinets too, their contents perfectly labelled, not a thing out of place. As he sat down to examine the computer, Caroline popped into his head and stayed there. Some of what he’d seen had seemed very familiar. The front door was a blurry image in his peripheral vision. It came into sharp focus as he turned to look at it.

‘That’s it,’ he muttered under his breath.

‘That’s what?’ O’Neil stared at him.

‘This obsession with tidiness reminds me of Caroline. She’s well ordered out of necessity, to protect her from harm—’

‘Too right! Did you see the massive bruise on her arm where she’d tripped over the chair Newman hadn’t replaced?’

‘One more injury to add to her collection.’

‘So what’s your point?’

‘Her blindness means she has no need for certain items at home, guv – mirrors, lights, that type of thing. Montgomery is supposedly mute and yet there are things here that are only useful to those who use speech to communicate: telephones, for a start. See that?’ He pointed in the direction of the front door, to the thing he’d seen on the way in but not registered, the elusive thought he’d been trying hard to get a handle on.

‘What am I looking at?’

‘That’s an audio entry system, perfect for a woman living alone, superfluous if you can’t or won’t talk. And the pièce de résistance . . .’ He clicked on the Applications folder in the iMac’s menu bar, then double-clicked an application icon. ‘See for yourself.’