The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(18)

Whitley Bay was around ten miles east of the city centre. Another coastal location. It took less than twenty minutes to reach their destination, a local authority flat in dire need of a paint job and a crew to fix the garden. At O’Neil’s insistence, they were both wearing body armour. With a violent offender and possible accomplice on the rampage, she was taking no chances.

They could be walking into a trap.

She was quiet in the car, still pissed with him for mouthing off. Ryan wanted to apologize; tell her that, of course, he understood that he was out of line, that his judgement was under par, that he should have handled the call differently. Except, deep down, he didn’t believe it. He was damned if he’d give Spielberg the power she craved. He decided to wait. He’d have to pick his moment to explain his actions. Now was not the time to wind her up.

O’Neil cut the ignition and was out of their new wheels before Ryan had undone his seat belt. She moved towards the front door like an athlete, her Kevlar vest making her hips appear even more petite than they were in reality. She inspected the front door. It was locked. No sign of a forced entry. Her nod was a sign that he should check the rear of the premises. He did a quick recce, investigating alternative access points, and returned shaking his head.

Wary of going in gung-ho, O’Neil took a moment to consider her options. She didn’t ask his opinion and he didn’t offer one. Having been put in his box, Ryan intended staying there until it was safe to come out – the sooner the better as far as he was concerned. They had argued before and it always left a bad taste in his mouth.

She banged on the front door.

No answer.

She hit it again.

No response.

She glanced in Ryan’s direction. ‘If I thought there was a body inside, a life to save, I’d have no hesitation.’

‘We won’t know until we get in there,’ he said.

‘True.’ Another glance at the door. ‘Kick it in.’

Ryan carried out her instructions with ease and went in first. ‘Police! Is there anyone here? Hello? Anyone home?’

Silence.

Avoiding bloody footprints in the hallway, Ryan ventured further in, senses on alert. He checked out two rooms on either side of the hall and gave O’Neil the all clear on both. The interior of the flat was in much better condition than what they had seen on the way in. The place was tidy, a high level of cleanliness. If he were to hazard a guess, Ryan would’ve said it belonged to a woman. He was proved wrong when he opened a closet in the hallway and found what appeared to be a young man’s clothing.

If not young, then someone very much down with the kids.

Halfway along the hallway O’Neil’s mobile rang. She silenced it quickly, beckoning Ryan to retreat to the open front door while she took the call. ‘Go ahead, Control.’

Her voice was almost a whisper.

‘The property is registered to James Fraser,’ the controller said. ‘On the electoral roll at the same address for five years, give or take. Thirty-seven years old. No form. He holds a current shotgun certificate as well as a firearms licence. He’s a member of the shooting club at Roker. Also listed on organ and blood donor registers. Occupation: nurse. That’s it for now.’

‘Find out where he works and if he’s been in lately,’ she said quietly. ‘Silent response if you get any more intelligence, understood?’

‘Yes, ma’am . . . you need backup?’

‘No, I’m double-crewed. We’ll handle it.’

She hung up and turned to Ryan, keeping her voice low. ‘That puts a different spin on things. James Fraser, the guy who owns the flat, is into guns. We should wait for a firearms team.’

‘I didn’t hear you ask for one.’

‘That’s very observant of you.’

Ryan allowed himself a half-smile even though his guts were churning. O’Neil was a hands-on investigator. He could see she was in two minds: worried for their safety but wanting to burst through the door at the end of the hallway and save a life – if it wasn’t already too late.

‘Unarmed, you’re an obvious target,’ she said.

‘Don’t you mean we?’ He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the bedroom door. It seemed to move towards him the more he stared at it. A picture of his father, fatally wounded, flashed through his mind, dissolving as his focus shifted to the floor. ‘Those footprints are heading out, not in, guv.’

‘She’s devious. This has to be your call.’

‘Understood.’ He was about to set off.

She blocked his way. ‘Kevlar can only go so far, Ryan. If they aim for the head, you know the rest. If someone starts firing, get the hell out of there.’ He tried to move. She had hold of his arm with a grip he’d have been proud of. Their eyes met briefly, a potent message passing from one to the other: stay safe. ‘You saved my life. Don’t you dare do anything reckless, I need you on my team.’

‘I need me on your team too, guv. Does this mean I’m back in your good books?’

‘Of course, you idiot, now concentrate.’

Ryan checked his arm. White fingernails were digging into his skin, so strong was O’Neil’s desire to hold on to him. Finally, she loosened them and let go. He left her then, approaching the bedroom, heart pumping harder with every step, her warning echoing in his head. It was prudent to remind him that his flak jacket offered only so much protection. It would lessen the impact of a strike to the chest, not stop a headshot.