The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(115)

The brief glanced at his client.

Sophia ignored him.

‘Or maybe you were sitting in front of that expensive computer of yours.’ Ryan’s eyes were on Montgomery now. ‘You love gadgetry and technology, don’t you, Sophia? I bet you watch Click on the BBC. Great show. I’ve got a good one for you, if you’re into that.’ He flicked through the file in front of him, removed another sheet of paper and then looked up. ‘Ever heard of egocentric video analysis?’

She didn’t answer.

‘No? I’m not surprised. It was a new one on me too. Well, let me tell you that video technology has moved on apace in recent years, enabling us to ID certain characteristics of filmmakers from biometric signatures. Imagine my surprise when I was told that it’s possible to extrapolate the height of the camera from the ground, even the gait of a person who might wish to hide their identity in criminal cases. Isn’t that brilliant? Data can pinpoint with high accuracy the optical flow associated with such a person, each individual producing a unique pattern, much like a fingerprint. I reckon it’s fairly accurate in your case. What do you think?’

‘Five eight?’ Sophia’s brief almost scoffed. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, Detective. If my googling skills are up to scratch, although that height represents less than five per cent of British women, may I remind you that there are thirty-plus million of them. Can we move on?’

‘Certainly. We found the video you made in Spencer’s house, Sophia? The one you coerced him into making in exchange for drugs. He said you tried to upload it to YouTube and got knocked back on grounds of hateful content and threats. Shame. All that wasted effort. Nice that you got to star in your own movie though – a speaking part too!’

The suspect was done for – they both knew it.

There was a game of poker going on between accuser and accused. ‘You should’ve got rid of your camcorder, Sophia. The counter on it is running fast by seven minutes and thirty-six seconds. Remember when you were filming in James Fraser’s house? The discrepancy between the timing on your camcorder and his digital alarm clock is precisely that. What do you think the odds are of two pieces of equipment being that distance apart, down to the nanosecond?’

The solicitor lifted his pen, fixing Ryan with a stare. ‘That doesn’t amount to proof that she was there.’

‘Her camcorder was, so was her DNA and James Fraser’s firearms were found in the boot of the vehicle she was arrested in, along with Ambassador Dean’s wallet. Spencer is a thief as well as an addict.’

There was anger in Montgomery’s eyes.

‘In my book, that is deeply incriminating evidence,’ Ryan said. ‘We’ll let a judge decide, shall we? Oh, I forgot. I’m told that the tread pattern on a pair of her shoes matches the footprints we found in James Fraser’s flat. She did her best to clean them up, but I’m certain we’ll be able to prove conclusively that his blood is on them. Then there’s the small matter of your photograph album. It’s not looking good, Sophia.’

Montgomery was losing it.

‘I don’t suppose you care much, do you?’ Ryan said. ‘You’re dying anyway. Forgive me if that sounds callous. The disease you inherited is nasty. Ordinarily, you’d have my sympathy. It must have been tough for you and your brother as kids, having a rare genetic disorder. Your mother knew about Sauer’s, didn’t she, and yet she put her needs above yours – and you hated her for it. You decided to play judge and jury. You killed her, just as you killed all the others. Granted, that’s not what the coroner said – and now she’s been cremated we’ll never be able to prove it. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.’

‘Did anyone ever tell you how much you resemble your mum?’ Ryan opened the file and took out a blown-up copy of the photograph O’Neil had found in Sophia’s house. The likeness was astonishing. ‘You must’ve liked her once.’

Sophia wiped a tear away.

‘Your mother didn’t agree with genetic testing, did she? She thought it labelled people. Oh yes, I know all about that. You go with what you’re given, wasn’t that her philosophy? She didn’t care about you or your quality of life. All she wanted was to give birth. I’m not sure about my guv’nor . . .’ Ryan glanced at O’Neil. ‘But I understand where you’re coming from. I’ve seen a few life sentences handed down in my time. Your mother may as well have worn a black cap.’

‘She was evil!’ Montgomery said.

‘No, Sophia. You are evil. She was, at worst, misguided.’





64


It was rare for Ryan to feel sorry for a killer. A small part of him had done so during the latter part of a murder investigation that had led him in several directions before the truth was finally revealed. From a young age, Sophia Montgomery had lived with a death sentence, her vicious crimes motivated by hatred of a mother who’d put her own needs above all else. Faced with the same dilemma, Ryan knew he’d suppress his wish to father children.

But that was easy for him to say.

Still, a child’s well-being must come first. No one asked to be born. Not Rebecca Swift, certainly not Sophia Montgomery. She’d suffered twice over: from the emotional fallout of being told she had Sauer’s; from having to watch her younger brother go through a living hell. Whether her mother had told them that terrible truth high above the Filey shoreline, detectives would never know. Ryan would like to think that Sophia hadn’t meant her mother to go over the edge. That her fall from the cliffs had been a tragic accident brought about by a kid’s outrage, but deep down he didn’t believe it.