The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(19)

He felt guilty thinking it, but death was a price too high to pay, even for Queen and country. When his father died on a routine drugs bust, murdered by a knife-wielding heroin dealer, his mother’s life was effectively over. Ryan was pleased he had no wife. No kids. Adrenalin streamed through his veins, his body’s automatic response to danger.

He listened at the door.

Nothing.

‘Mr Fraser? Police! We’re concerned for your welfare. Coming in.’

Ryan put his foot through the door, ducking as it smashed against the bedroom wall. Fortunately, he met neither threat nor attack. The similarity to the North Shields crime scene ended there. This time, what they had viewed onscreen wasn’t the same as what they got in reality.

A male lay on the floor, green eyes permanently fixed to the ceiling. Gunshot wounds Ryan could cope with. Stabbings were his Achilles’ heel. In his head, the victim suddenly morphed into his father, three deep puncture wounds to his chest, no chance of survival at the hands of a madman. Twenty-five years after the event, Ryan could almost hear a flick-knife leave its casing, plunged into his own flesh and blood with fatal consequences.

As the image continued to scroll through his head, he turned away before O’Neil noticed his reaction. Taking a pen from his pocket, he lifted the lanyard off the chair’s backrest. He held it up, the better to see the organization it belonged to: Northumbria Healthcare NHS Foundation Trust.

He checked the image against the dead man.

‘Hospital ID, guv. Meet James Fraser. Emergency Care Matron. Doesn’t say which hospital.’

‘He’s the tenant,’ O’Neil said.

Ryan crouched down beside the body, sickened by the death of this relatively young man. ‘He put up quite a fight. There are defence wounds to the fingers and palms of both hands.’

He stood up.

O’Neil was more alive than Ryan had ever seen her. On autopilot, she put on gloves, retraced her steps, dropped the latch on the front door and got on the phone to Forensics while he went off to search the flat. Within a minute or two, he found what he was looking for: a 2mm steel cabinet fixed to the wall inside a large cupboard in the spare bedroom. Suitable for both shotguns and firearms, it was undamaged and open.

No weapons inside . . .

Ammunition either.

O’Neil wandered in, pocketing her mobile phone. ‘Find anything?’

‘And some.’ He pointed at the cabinet. ‘This is the biz, guv. Police approved and jemmy-proof, same as mine at home.’

‘And mine.’

‘You’re firearms trained?’

Her eyes were blank. ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

‘How come I’ve never seen you on the firing range?’

‘You’re looking at a champion.’ The statement was a deflection.

Ryan let it go. ‘Why does that make me feel all warm and fuzzy?’

O’Neil laughed, the tension melting away, their angry exchange forgotten.





9


Ryan woke wondering what possible link there might be between a high-ranking Scottish judge and a Geordie nurse. Despite a long and taxing day yesterday, he slept badly, only falling into a deep sleep an hour before his alarm went off at six. It was odd, crashing at their office, sharing living quarters with a woman where the only agenda could ever be a professional one.

In the shower, his mind switched once again to the investigation, specifically the crime scenes. Spielberg had suddenly changed tack: using three derelict premises, removing the body; then a residential address, leaving the victim in situ, complete with ID?

Mind games.

O’Neil was up and at it. Cradling a cup of coffee, she scrutinized a map, stills of a crime scene they had yet to visit and other documentation lying on her desk. Leaning against the door jamb, Ryan watched her for a while, her face set in concentration.

He could tell there had been a development.

‘Morning, Ryan.’ She spoke without lifting her head, eyes pinned to a map. ‘James Fraser works – or should I say worked – at Rake Lane Hospital. Beyond that, it’s the usual story: highly regarded, brilliant member of staff, lovely lad, no enemies. No one I talked to has seen or heard of him since he left his department at the end of his last shift.’

‘Which was?’ Ryan crossed the threshold, closing his bedroom door quietly behind him.

‘Sunday. He finished work at 6 a.m.’ Saddened by the next task on their agenda, O’Neil checked her watch. ‘We’ll give his mother a bit more sleep, then she’s our number one priority.’

Ryan nodded soberly. ‘And then?’

‘A lengthy drive, a long day ahead of us.’ She tapped the map. ‘What do you reckon: A1 or A68?’

‘To Kenmore?’

‘The post-mortem, the crime scene, the whole shebang.’

Ryan took his iPhone from his pocket, accessed his contacts, specifically the Kenmore Hotel where he’d stayed several years ago. Tapping the address placed a pin on a map and offered an ETA and alternative routes. ‘It’s six and two threes. Three hours fifty-eight minutes on the A1, four hours five on the A68.’

‘You have a preference?’

‘We’ll get a whiff and a glimpse of the sea from the A1.’ Ryan was happiest by water, as she seemed to be when they’d worked their last case. They had more than policing in common.