The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(23)

‘Frank is fine,’ Grace said. ‘We’ve been sailing and your name came up – both your names, as a matter of fact. You should join us, next trip. We’re always looking for crew so we can sit back and enjoy the retirement view. Heading home now to put our feet up. You two keep up the good work. Your contribution to our pension pot is very much appreciated.’ She cut the line, sending Ryan and O’Neil into fits of laughter. Grace Ellis was like a breath of sea air.





12


In view of the likelihood of criminal proceedings, the Procurator Fiscal had been notified of Lord Trevathan’s death the minute his body was found floating in the Tay. He’d authorized the immediate attendance of a forensic pathologist. The corpse had since been transported to a morgue in Perth. Not far short of their destination, O’Neil instructed him to ignore the satnav and stay on the M90/A9. Cancelling his indicator, he pulled out to overtake the car in front, the occupants of which were having a heated domestic.

‘That guy has a serious case of road rage,’ she said. ‘He’s going to kill them both.’

‘Guv?’ Ryan pointed at the slip road.

‘No,’ she said.

The A93 intersection sailed by.

‘Where are we going?’ Ryan asked.

‘We’re bypassing the morgue. I know Trevathan’s home is forty miles further on, but I’m more interested in his missing briefcase than watching him suffer the final indignity of being dissected and gawped at by all and sundry after his death. Pathologists will be in possession of forensics. They’ll have been made aware that they’re dealing with a murder case before they even open him up. We’ll get their deliberations soon enough.’

‘You sure? Given Trevathan’s status, I hardly think they’ll hang around.’

‘Even so, it’ll take hours to process him. We’ll be there and back before they’re done.’

Ryan was also dying to get his hands on that briefcase. Dropping a gear, he took a bend at speed, accelerating out of it. O’Neil went quiet all of a sudden, seemingly no longer in a mood to talk. When he glanced at her, her whole body seemed to shudder involuntarily.

‘You OK, guv?’

‘I hate post-mortems at the best of times – more so when a victim has been immersed in water for months. There’s nothing quite like the putrid stench of decomposing flesh to put you off your lunch. Let’s stop and eat before our noses get a whiff, eh? I’m starving.’

‘Yeah, let’s,’ Ryan said. ‘No point spoiling a whole day.’

She glanced at him and then looked away, concentrating on the twisty road, the fields of green flashing by as they sped towards their destination. The drama of the landscape increased the further north they got. ‘I’m sorry to be such a wimp. I bet this never happened when you were working with Jack.’

‘Don’t be daft. We’re all affected by that stuff.’

Ryan wasn’t keen on medical examinations either, but they came with the territory, the police force demanding more than officers were capable of sometimes. The last twenty-four hours had been particularly taxing: listening to Spielberg’s chilling narration; attending that bloody lock-up; witnessing the puncture wounds on James Fraser’s body; telling his mother that he’d been murdered by persons unknown without being able to offer an explanation as to why. A normal day at the office, but Ryan was beginning to feel punchy.

‘I should’ve thanked you,’ he said.

O’Neil glanced at him. ‘For what?’

‘Delivering the bad news to Mrs Fraser.’

‘Now you’re being daft. It was the least I could do. I know . . .’ She paused, trying to find the words. ‘I just know.’

Ryan was kicking himself. His reaction in Fraser’s bedroom hadn’t passed her by. He felt guilty now. It was rare that he let his guard down. But there were times when emotion took over, occasions when his professional and personal lives clashed in the worst way possible, when he was powerless to prevent a collision, even when he saw it coming.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ O’Neil said. ‘You have personal reasons to be affected by that stuff, Ryan. You need—’

‘I need to get a grip, is what I need. I can’t afford to show my bleeding heart every time I face a stabbing.’ He was about to thank her, to tell her he’d get over it and that it wouldn’t happen again, when she beat him to the draw.

‘If I doubted your ability you wouldn’t be on my team.’ She saw his reservation. ‘Ryan, you’re not Superman. For crying out loud, give yourself a break.’

He dropped the subject.

Feeling his angst slipping away, he drove on without further comment, ignoring several opportunities to pull over. She didn’t point out possible places to eat and neither did he. He’d lost his appetite. Trevathan’s briefcase had taken precedence over everything else.





13


Lord Trevathan’s home was approached by a private driveway, protected by a gate lodge and lined by magnificent Douglas firs. This was prime Scottish real estate – fifty acres of privacy bordering the banks of Loch Tay – an enchanting mansion house hidden away in a tranquil clearing, forested hills providing a dramatic backdrop.

Dating from the sixteenth century, it was a property steeped in history, owned by one family for generations. Such was the wow factor, O’Neil asked Ryan to stop the car halfway along the gravelled driveway so she could jump out to drink in the view. He remained in the vehicle, staring through the windscreen at the red sandstone house, exquisitely proportioned with mullioned windows and a rounded tower at either end. It was nice to see a piece of Scottish heritage still in private hands.