The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(26)

Mrs Forbes shut her eyes, the better to picture her visitors.

Ryan slipped into the room behind her, an imperceptible shake of his head as he approached. He’d drawn a blank at the chambers.

The housekeeper opened her eyes at the sound of him entering, then switched her focus to O’Neil. ‘The gentleman was a tall chap, thinner and taller than my husband, six two or thereabouts, the woman not much shorter, maybe five ten, eleven . . . Actually, a bit shorter, she was wearing high heels.’ Mrs Forbes used her forefinger and thumb to indicate three inches. ‘The man was dressed in a smart but ill-fitting suit. A dark suit, plain, I think. He was wearing glasses, steel-rimmed. His hair was neatly trimmed, almost black. Hers was too, come to think of it – and tied up. They were like peas in a pod. Irish-looking, if you know what I mean: dark hair, fair skin, blue eyes I think, or maybe green.’

Wow! Ryan thought. That was more description than he or O’Neil had anticipated or hoped for. ‘Can you take a stab at age?’

‘She was mid thirties, the man slightly younger.’

‘Who did the talking?’ he asked.

‘She did.’

O’Neil backtracked. ‘Was she Irish?’

‘English.’ The woman was on a roll. It didn’t last.

‘Northern, southern?’ O’Neil prompted her. ‘It might help us.’

‘I’m not good on accents. They weren’t Scots, that’s all I can tell you.’

‘You said the man wore a suit,’ Ryan said. ‘Was the woman also smart?’

‘Very. Her lipstick matched her coat. Cherry red. Film-star looks.’ Ryan’s eyes sent a message to O’Neil, the movie reference exciting them both. ‘What exactly do you mean by “film-star looks?”’

‘Glamorous, you know, like Lauren Bacall.’ She apologised, acknowledging that the detectives were probably too young to remember her. ‘Attractive and knows how to use it,’ she added. ‘Self-assured. Acted like she’d just walked off set.’

O’Neil didn’t dwell on it. ‘Handbag?’

‘Not that I remember.’

‘You said you followed their vehicle from the gatehouse. Can you describe it?’

‘It was a Mercedes. Grey, I think.’

‘Local registration?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Who drove?’

‘She did.’

‘Would you recognize these people again?’

‘Her, for certain. It would be hard not to. I’m not so sure about him.’

‘That’s all for now.’ O’Neil stood. ‘Thank you for talking to us and for giving such a detailed description. We may ask you to help us with an artist’s impression after we’ve made some more enquiries.’

‘Of course. I’m so sorry about the briefcase.’

O’Neil said nothing on the way out. She let Ryan take the wheel again. Next stop, Aberfeldy to pick up a key. She was impatient to move on to Maxwell’s Temple. They would debrief on the way.





14


The air was so cold it caused Ryan and O’Neil’s breath to condense as they exhaled, sending puffs of white clouds into the air as they walked along the riverside path heading for the folly. In crime scene photographs taken on Tuesday 8 October, the branches covering it were losing their leaves, the magnificent hexagonal structure covered by an autumnal umbrella, in shades of brown and gold. The door to the structure stood ajar. Now it was bolted shut with a heavy-duty padlock.

Ryan opened it up.

Taking a torch from his pocket, he shone it inside before entering. At ground level, the scene was preserved exactly as it had been found. So concerned were local police that something serious had taken place there, no attempt had been made to clean up the blood, now brown where it once was red.

The smell of urine hit Ryan’s senses as he stepped through the door, the result of years of misuse, not from the attack that had taken place a couple of months ago. People had used the folly as a toilet stop even though there were the proper facilities not far away in Kenmore. If you needed a piss around here it seemed that even a temple would do.

Steps wound themselves round a central column, disappearing into a black hole. It was a tight climb. Ryan was pleased to emerge at the top where he could again breathe uncontaminated air. The viewing platform offered a great vantage point from which to view the fast-flowing water, the village and a stunning riverside walk in both directions.

They would have seen Trevathan coming a mile away.

Ryan called down to O’Neil. She was standing twenty metres away, her back to him, talking on her mobile in low whispers. By the time he reached ground level she was hanging up.

‘Everything all right, guv?’

She swung round. ‘Jesus, Ryan! You scared me.’

‘Who were you expecting, Spielberg?’

‘Don’t joke.’

‘Sorry if I spooked you.’

‘You didn’t. I’m perfectly OK,’ she snapped. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘No reason.’ Again, Ryan got the distinct impression she was hiding something. He didn’t share that thought. Instead, he pointed up at the viewing platform. ‘No wonder they used a cherry picker to take their pictures. Like the report said, access is tight. It’s impossible to move around in there without disturbing evidence.’