The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(3)
‘Me? I know nothing . . . yet. But I agree with you, there’s something odd going on here.’ Eloise swivelled in her seat to face him, excited as he was by the mystery surrounding their first investigation. ‘While you were working your notice in Special Branch, I was down in Brighton, checking out a DVD that had been sent to Sussex Police. Like the one you’ve just seen, it showed a crime scene – blood all over the place, weapon on display, no victim in sight. Within hours of the DVD arriving at the Sussex Police HQ, a call came in giving directions to the crime scene. Forensics confirmed the blood was human. I’m no voice-recognition expert but I’m as sure as I can be that the narrator was the same woman who featured on this morning’s DVD. Trust me – this is no hoax.’
The crime scene was an unremarkable lock-up on North Shields Fish Quay, eight miles east of Newcastle, not far from the mouth of the River Tyne. The building next door had been completely demolished leaving rough brickwork on the western gable end. A rusted mesh panel secured the window, its weatherbeaten frame showing through the few remaining flecks of blue paint. White corrugated sheeting covering the space that was once the door. It had been prised open to reveal an eerie dark hole beyond.
An empty Coke can lay abandoned near a much larger entrance, this one secured by a grey, concertinaed metal shutter. A sign to the left said: ALL DELIVERIES TO MAIN FACTORY. Underneath the wording, an arrow pointed west. Crime scene investigators were all over it, inside and out, the perimeter guarded by uniformed personnel, a roadblock in place to deter passers-by from wandering in off the street. No body had been found.
Ryan peered inside. What he saw was no surprise: it matched the video he’d viewed at HQ. The men in white suits were packing up their gear, preparing to leave. Now the real detective work could begin.
As he followed O’Neil inside, the Crime Scene Manager approached, her bright green eyes scanning the scene with forensic attention to detail, her expression inscrutable. She turned to face them, unaffected by the awfulness, professionally detached.
‘I have work elsewhere. Any questions before I leave?’
‘Is the blood human?’ Ryan asked.
‘Affirmative. You want type?’
His eyebrows almost met in the middle. ‘You have it already?’
The CSI tipped her head at O’Neil. ‘Cages have been rattled.’
‘What can I say?’ O’Neil said. ‘There’s no job more pressing than ours.’
She was right. They were in a different league now. Fast-tracking samples at the lab was not a favour they had to beg for. They were briefed and bound by the Official Secrets Act but with a lot more clout than your average copper. If they wanted to hire in specialist help, they only had to ask. Still, their newfound status would take a bit of getting used to. The thought alone made Ryan’s heart beat faster. He was about to ask a question when O’Neil cut him off, indicating with a tilt of the head for him to follow.
Once they were out of earshot, she told him, ‘The blood is female, Ryan. AB negative, same as yours.’
Ryan looked at her. ‘And you know that, how?’
‘Have you forgotten who was standing over your hospital bed like Florence Nightingale not so long ago, hoping you’d pull through? That would be me, Ryan. I want to be ready next time you need a pint or two of the red stuff.’
He gave a wry smile. ‘Medical records are confidential, guv.’
‘Unless you work for me. I’m in charge of this unit and I’ve done my homework. When you’re special ops it’s basic procedure to know blood types and allergies in case of emergency. Mine is engraved on the underside of my watch, in case you need it.’ She narrowed her eyes, a playful look on her face. ‘There’s nothing I don’t know about you.’
There was a good deal she didn’t know. Ryan had the distinct feeling that the same could be said of her. He rather liked it that way.
2
Despite the amount of blood spilt and the likelihood that the axe found at the scene was the murder weapon, without a corpse the detectives had to assume that the victim might still be alive. An outside chance, undoubtedly, but they couldn’t rule it out. Left in situ, the poor sod may have survived, though the rare blood type wouldn’t have helped her chances. Transported and deprived of medical attention, she most certainly would have bled out.
‘I’d better give Libby a ring,’ Ryan said. Libby French was the Home Office pathologist, new to Northumbria, highly experienced. Everything he’d heard about her was encouraging. Like most in her profession, she was meticulous in her approach to her work.
‘I have it covered,’ O’Neil said. ‘She’s standing by.’
Ryan bent down for a closer look at the shoe that had featured in the video. It was a man’s, grubby, recently scuffed, a brown leather wingtip brogue, hand-stitched round the upper. ‘Left foot,’ he observed. ‘Expensive. More than I can afford on my salary.’
‘Same here.’ The last remaining crime scene investigator looked up from his evidence collection kit. Though most of his face was concealed, Ryan recognized the bloodshot eyes peering through the narrow strip between hood and mask as belonging to Pete Curtis, a CSI who’d been around since the days they were still called SOCOs. ‘Won’t be many in North Shields who can pay those prices,’ he added. ‘None who work for Northumbria Police anyway.’