The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(28)

‘Nor mine to pull rank,’ she said. ‘We all need to face our demons at some time or another. You faced yours last night. Now it’s my turn.’

Bullshit!

Ryan knew she wasn’t playing with a straight bat. Whatever she was hiding, whatever she had in mind to do, she wanted him out of her way while she did it.





15


The Perth teashop was tucked away in a side street off the beaten track. A doorbell signalled O’Neil’s arrival as she entered. Grace Ellis and a male companion were waiting, the only customers on one side of the room. The man stood up as she approached.

Old school.

O’Neil liked that.

Used coffee mugs were on the table in front of them. O’Neil offered them a top-up. They declined, so she ordered tea for herself, pulled up a chair and sat down. There was a moment when no one spoke, a moment of uncertainty. The Detective Superintendent wasn’t altogether sure she was doing the right thing. Now she was there, it was shit or bust.

‘Thanks for coming,’ she said. ‘Retirement suits you, Grace.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Grace said. ‘You look rough, Eloise. You’re working too hard.’

O’Neil grinned. Grace had always been a straight talker.

But much as she liked the woman, O’Neil had good reason to be cautious around Grace Ellis. When his old boss went missing, Ryan had defied O’Neil’s warning to leave the investigation to Professional Standards. Despite being suspended from duty, he had managed to infiltrate her enquiry. Even now, she had no idea how he had pulled it off, only that he had. And she had a hunch that Grace, with her wealth of experience from a career in the Serious Incident Squad, had been heavily involved, if not the linchpin of the unofficial investigation. Not that she could prove anything, with Ryan refusing to rat on his co-conspirators.

‘I was expecting to meet you alone,’ O’Neil said. Grace had recently married an old flame Ryan referred to simply as Newman. O’Neil assumed this must be the bloke now sitting by her side. She shifted her gaze in his direction. ‘We’ve not been formally introduced.’ She stuck out a hand. ‘Eloise O’Neil.’

‘Frank Newman.’ The handshake was solid. Dependable.

The tea arrived and they stopped talking.

O’Neil held Grace’s gaze across the table. She was an amazing detective but belligerent at times, confrontational. And so it proved. At Jack’s funeral, having had a bit too much to drink, she’d said some hurtful things about O’Neil’s failure to listen to Ryan, suspending him when he could have assisted her investigation legitimately. Ryan had intervened, telling Grace in no uncertain terms to back off.

She was right though.

In her heart, O’Neil knew it. She should have listened to him, except she hadn’t know him well enough to trust him. Only once he was exonerated had she been willing to pool intelligence, and the dynamics between them had gone from open hostility to a degree of trust that was rare in her experience.

That didn’t mean he’d told her everything.

The waitress left them.

O’Neil fixed on the male. ‘Mr Newman, no offence, but I’d like some privacy. Would you mind?’

Grace cracked up. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘No, I’m deadly serious. I need help and you fit the bill.’

‘So talk,’ Grace said. ‘Frank and I come as a pair these days.’

‘Then we have nothing to say to one another.’

‘I’m afraid it’s non-negotiable.’ Grace placed her hand over her husband’s, giving him hard eyes as he pulled it away. She sighed, her focus on O’Neil. ‘See what you’ve done now? Have a heart, will you? We’re on honeymoon.’ A dark cloud passed between the two women. Grace’s radiance and sarcastic attitude fell away. ‘Eloise, I’m so sorry. That was tactless.’

Newman had no clue what was going on, only that his wife had, metaphorically speaking, ripped a plaster from a raw wound leaving her ex-colleague in pain and was mortified by it. O’Neil could hardly breathe. She’d tried so hard to put the past behind her. Not normally vindictive, right now she wanted to leap over the table and rip off Grace’s head. Instead, she threw in a verbal grenade.

‘I know you were helping Ryan by monitoring HOLMES when Jack Fenwick went missing, Grace. In case you’re in any doubt, that’s enough to send you away for a very long time.’

The retired detective never flinched.

The best defence was always attack.

‘Are you on something?’ Grace pointed at O’Neil’s now empty cup. ‘That herbal tea must be hallucinogenic.’

The bravado didn’t wash. O’Neil had charged enough coppers, retired and serving, to know when one was floundering. ‘Just so you know, Ryan never said a word. I’m a detective too, Grace – a bloody good one – I worked it out all by myself. And you . . .’ She switched her attention to Newman. ‘Mysteriously, I can’t seem to find any information at all about you, Mr Newman. I wonder why that is.’

Not a flicker.

‘I know you’ve been digging,’ he said.

‘Of course you do.’ O’Neil crossed her arms, leaned into her chair, a bell tinkling as the only other customers got up and left the premises. ‘I’m curious by nature. I dug and I dug, and yet I couldn’t penetrate your backstory. I’m guessing I got a little too close.’