The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(31)

What was left of his fingernails had long since turned black. He had knife wounds to his chest, a deep gash to his neck that explained the severed artery, as well as slippage of skin and other post-mortem injuries associated with having been in the water for a prolonged period. Barring a handkerchief, there was nothing in his pockets, according to the lab technician who’d stripped the body and bagged the clothing.

The body was being examined with such care and respect by the pathologist and yet, in O’Neil’s head, the remains on the table had ceased to be a person, let alone the brilliant advocate she knew they represented in life. Only Trevathan’s spirit remained. Not in a biblical sense. She didn’t believe in the afterlife. It was something intangible that tugged at her subconscious. Maybe just that he was in her thoughts. Respect for the siblings he’d left behind was enough to drive her on. Through her efforts, justice would prevail.

Another glance at the corpse.

Hideous disfigurement. The feeling of suffocation was strong now. She should have left it a little longer or, better still, sent Ryan in her place. Arguably, he may have succeeded where she’d failed to get Grace Ellis on board. Eloise was kicking herself. Why in hell’s name did she always take the rocky road? As if her job wasn’t hard enough.

The walls were closing in. She was struggling now, slating herself for a physical reaction she had no control over, clawing at the neck of her shirt, trying to get some air. Fortunately, her distress went unnoticed and didn’t last long. Once over the nausea, she left the morgue. The pathology report would follow in due course. These things took time.

Having sat outside in the car for half an hour recovering, O’Neil realized she’d had nothing to eat all day. She considered and then immediately discounted the hospital canteen, regretting her decision to keep driving earlier in the day, passing up the opportunity for lunch with Ryan. The fact that she’d sent him to Edinburgh sat heavily with her now, as did her decision to leave him out of her negotiations, if she could call them that. She missed his company, his camaraderie. Worse than facing your demons was facing them alone.

His phone went to voicemail.

She sighed. ‘It’s Eloise. Call me when you can. I’m heading to Newcastle. When you’re done there, get the train. I hope all’s well your end.’

Ryan took the phone from his ear, pissed that he was being left to travel back alone and worried on two counts: that O’Neil’s ankle wasn’t up to such a long drive home and that she sounded so forlorn. The emphasis on the words ‘your end’ implied she was having a hard time at hers. That was tough. He’d tried saving her the misery of a post-mortem. She’d refused.

Her call.

Ryan hit speed-dial and got her message service: ‘Eloise, it’s me. Pick up if you’re there.’

Nothing.

Hanging up, he ordered a pint and sunk half of it in one go. The boozer was the type of nondescript establishment he preferred, catering for a fairly lively crowd he was certain were coppers, on their feet, drinking and chatting at the bar. He was tuning in to their conversation when O’Neil returned his call, his phone vibrating in his trouser pocket.

‘Sorry I missed you, I was on another call,’ she said. ‘I can hear background noise. Where are you?’

‘Having a pint in the Oxford Bar. What can I say? I’m a Rebus fan.’

‘You’re not on your jollies, Ryan.’ She spied a sign up ahead and slowed down. Indecision, indecision. She could drive home alone or head for Edinburgh.

‘Nothing wrong with a bit of culture, guv.’

‘How can you read that crap when you see it every day?’

‘You must have a social life. I don’t.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Fuck’s sake! O’Neil cursed herself. What was wrong with her today? She wasn’t usually this flighty. She left the road at the next turn-off.

‘What’s up?’ Ryan said. ‘You sound down in the mouth.’

‘I am. I hate to use the words “collateral damage” – no victim should be considered less important than another – but it looks like James Fraser was just that. I managed to get a number for his best mate, Wendy Rogers. She’s also a nurse at Rake Lane Hospital.’ A blue light appeared behind her. It was shifting too. O’Neil indicated left to let the driver know she’d seen him. ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘They’re playing our song.’

None of the coppers at the bar looked up. The scream of a police siren was coming down the line, not from close by. ‘You’re getting pulled over?’

O’Neil laughed. ‘No, Dad, I’m fine. Sticking to the speed limit and everything. Sorry for the distraction. Where was I?’

‘Wendy Rogers.’

‘Right. A helpful contact. She told me that Fraser was in the habit of running to and from the hospital. He worked a lot of night shifts. On a Sunday morning, he tended to run to his mum’s where, depending on what he was planning to do later, he either had a kip and stayed for lunch before heading home, or ate breakfast with his mum, made an excuse and left.’ She paused. ‘If you think about it long enough, it’ll come to you.’

Ryan made the connection almost immediately. Mrs Fraser lived in a flat behind Collingwood’s Monument at Tynemouth, the town sandwiched between the victim’s home in Whitley Bay and North Shields. ‘Don’t tell me, his favourite route was the North Shields Fish Quay?’