The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(15)

‘The location is a listed building,’ she said. ‘A derelict coastguard lookout Spielberg probably found on the net. The DVD was sent to Sussex Police HQ in Lewes. Hours later, they received a call with instructions where to look, same as ours. Forensics went in to do their thing. Blood was found to be human; so much of it had been spilled, there was little chance the victim could have survived.’

‘What do we know about the screwdriver?’

‘Heavy duty. Square shank. Flat head. Brand new. Could’ve been purchased specially. You don’t want to hear this, but it’s the kind you can buy in any DIY store. Problem is, these offences are so far apart geographically, it could have been bought anywhere in the UK and taken to the scene. The blood was tested, but there’s no DNA to match with it, no unidentified bodies in the morgue with stab wounds, no hits on the PNC.’

‘You’re depressing me.’

‘While I was there, I examined Sussex Police incident logs. A fairly prominent gay man had been reported missing by his partner the day after the video was recorded. Tierney, his name was. It was treated as low priority – grown man walks out, no hint of foul play – an everyday occurrence in Brighton, or anywhere else, I should imagine. As far as I know, he’s not yet surfaced. Officers locally are following it up. The timing fits. The DVD came in the very next day.’ She pointed at the screen. ‘Let’s take a look at Kenmore.’

Ryan took the Kenmore disk from its plastic casing, the original having been retained in evidence and dusted for prints by Police Scotland. It slid effortlessly into a slot in his computer, opened up and began to play. They watched in silence, the sound muted, neither detective making any comment. Like North Shields and Brighton, the scene was bloody with no body visible. It was hard to see what they were looking at. A small space with a curved stone staircase disappearing off to the right, exactly as described in the diagrams and sketches they had already had sight of.

‘The lighting is poor on this one,’ O’Neil said.

‘That’s the first thing that struck me too.’ Ryan placed his hands together, the tips of his fingers resting on his lips, his thinking pose. ‘At five past six on an October evening there’d be what, half an hour of light left?’

‘If that.’

‘The dimensions given suggest that it would be harder to illuminate such a tight space. Risky too. In the Scottish countryside it would be like a beacon in the darkness, drawing unwanted attention. The temple is situated on a country walk, a dog-walker’s route, a favourite spot for anglers, poachers and foragers.’

O’Neil fixed on him. ‘You’ve been there?’

‘Years ago.’

‘You never said.’

‘You never asked. It’s not important until we head up there. I remember that walk. Not the folly, funnily enough. It’s distinctive in the photos, not something I’d have forgotten if I’d seen it.’

‘Maybe you were on a different stretch of river.’

‘No. I parked in Kenmore and walked from there.’ Ryan paused, trying to remember, but he couldn’t. Dragging his laptop towards him, he typed in www.geograph.org.uk. He entered ‘Maxwell’s Temple’ and hit search. A photo of the temple popped up on screen. It had a grid reference attached: NN7746. He clicked on it. ‘That’s one mystery solved,’ he said. ‘The folly is on the north bank. I was on the south. I know that because I stumbled upon Taymouth Castle by accident.’

He searched for the castle and turned the laptop to face her.

‘Oh God!’ O’Neil said.

‘Enchanting, isn’t it? Queen Victoria’s honeymoon choice. It was used as a hospital for Polish troops during the Second World War. By the time I got there it was being turned into a golf complex with luxury apartments you can actually own. They’ll sell too. I met a group of enthusiastic, well-heeled Yanks, all wanting their slice of Scottish history – and why not? Wish I could afford one. I’ll show you when we go up.’

‘Maybe we can stay there,’ O’Neil said.

‘Bring your best PJs – it’s posh.’

‘I can do posh!’

They grinned at each other.

Her mobile rang, killing the moment.

She took the call.

After a few seconds, she said: ‘I’m going to have to call you back.’ Dropping her head, avoiding eye contact, she listened for what seemed like a very long time. ‘Yes, yes, understood . . . OK, call you soon.’ She ended the call in a very different mood, her mind firmly on the job. ‘Sorry, Ryan. Any thoughts on how Spielberg managed to get the judge to the folly or the other victims to locations of her choosing?’

‘None, but I just had a thought. There’s a pattern developing here. These crime scenes are all waterside locations: River Tay at Kenmore; the Brighton lookout, North Shields Fish Quay. At the very least, we should alert the Port of Tyne authority and River Police to be on their guard. Presumably Brighton coastguard have already been briefed, given the close proximity to the coast?’

‘Yes, that was in place before I left.’

‘Shall we?’ Ryan held up the remaining DVD, the most recent offence, a location as yet unidentified – and still no call to point them in the right direction. They were shocked by what came next. Unlike the others, the scene was recognizable – a residential property this time – a slight pause in viewpoint forcing them to dwell on the weapon of choice, a long-bladed knife glinting beneath the overhead light. Again, there was no victim in sight.