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

He pulled a face: What do you think?

‘We won’t get caught if we’re careful and patient.’

‘It’s too risky. What if his Lab goes for us?’

‘Then you’ll kill that too.’ She glared at him. ‘What? You can waste a judge but you’re squeamish about offing a man’s best friend? Come on, when have you ever seen a Labrador go for anyone? They’re more likely to lick you to death.’ She walked on, her feet squelching in the mud, his complaints not far behind . . .

‘Why bring all the gear if we’re just having a look?’

‘Because I want to sort out the lighting, maybe shoot some test footage.’ Her gaze shifted to the river. ‘It’s handy having the river close by for disposal purposes, but the noise of rushing water is going to play havoc with the audio. I need to check sound levels, figure out a work-around so it doesn’t cause a problem when we’re filming. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.’

She pulled up sharp, in awe of the building that emerged through the treeline. It was so much more romantic than the images she’d viewed online: an ornate hexagonal tower, raised up from the ground on a stepped plinth, surrounded by mature beech trees, the branches of which almost met in the middle above a stone cross; a magnificent sight.

The graffiti-covered door stood slightly ajar, inviting her in. Her eyes travelled up to the viewing platform at the top – a tailor-made lookout post. Perfect for her needs. She winked at her cohort, went inside and climbed the winding staircase to take a look, brushing cobwebs and creepy-crawlies from her hair as she emerged at the top, her eyes scanning the scene.

Movement . . .

No shit!

She stepped back from the edge as a ghostly figure appeared through the fading light. The hair on the back of her neck was rising, not in panic but exhilaration. This was no apparition. The judge was moving towards the folly at a pace, his trusty gundog trotting to heel. It wasn’t planned but luck was on her side. She alerted her accomplice. Seconds later, he seized his chance.

No one heard her quarry scream.





1


Control patched the call through to Detective Superintendent Eloise O’Neil as soon as it came in. The woman’s voice was devoid of emotion as she delivered precise directions to the location. She was savvy too, refusing to be drawn into conversation, seeing through O’Neil’s strategy of keeping her on the line long enough to trace her location. The moment she hung up, Eloise was on her feet and heading for the door.

As he followed her to the car, Detective Sergeant Ryan was conscious of O’Neil’s concern, but also her excitement. There was nothing more stimulating than taking on a fresh investigation. They had spent the morning viewing a DVD sent to Northumbria Police HQ anonymously. As footage of a crime scene filled the screen, an unidentified female described, in graphic detail, just how she’d managed to achieve such a staggering spectacle of blood spatter on the ceiling and walls, using the eye of the camera to draw their attention to the spot where the victim bled out. She was calm and controlled. No discernible accent. No waver in her voice. She didn’t mess up or stutter. Having listened to her on the phone to O’Neil, there was no doubt in Ryan’s mind that the caller and narrator were one and the same. He noticed that the time-stamp at the bottom of the screen read Sunday, 8 December: 1545 hrs.

Two days ago.

He blipped the doors open and got in, a list of questions already forming. He held back, hoping O’Neil would offer an opinion first, but she said nothing as he turned the engine over, put the car in gear and pulled away.

O’Neil took out her phone and began typing.

Ryan drove in silence, replaying the DVD in his mind. From the first viewing he’d been struck by the way it had been shot: no shaky, amateurish camerawork, no lens flare from direct light sources, just a long smooth shot panning slowly and steadily across the bloody scene. It seemed to him that the person shooting it was deliberately trying to eke out the suspense, building up to the moment when the lens zoomed in dramatically on a man’s shoe, a bloody axe abandoned next to it, the butt-end of its blade illuminated by the overhead light.

Joining O’Neil in a newly formed unit – one that could potentially cross international borders, working on-or off-book on assignments deemed too hot to handle – was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Given the unit’s remit, there was no telling where in the world a case might take them. It had therefore come as a surprise and something of a disappointment when his first crime scene in the new job turned out to be a stone’s throw from HQ.

‘Any thoughts?’ he said, dying to get her take on it.

‘Plenty.’ She kept her eyes on the road.

‘Bizarre, wasn’t it? The way the camera paused for effect. It felt staged to me. I’m wondering if it’s all fake, some kind of sick joke. If it’s a hoax—’

‘It’s not. The woman on that tape means business.’

‘So why us and not the Murder Investigation Team?’

‘You have one guess.’

‘One? Will I be sacked if I get it wrong?

‘That’s the deal.’

Ryan put on his best thinking pose. ‘This isn’t the first DVD?’

‘Bravo! You get to keep your warrant card.’

‘Thanks, but it’s still a case for MIT – unless you know something I don’t.’