The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(42)

Grace was on it immediately, accessing her computer, tapping buttons furiously, trying to establish whether there had been any mention of the county across the HOLMES database within Gold Command – Operation Shadow. She shook her head, a scowl almost. ‘There’s nothing on the system.’

‘She’s trying hard to disguise it,’ Caroline said. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s taken elocution lessons – it’s definitely there.’

‘You should see the faces on these three,’ Ryan said. ‘They’re standing here with their mouths open.’ He switched his attention to the others. ‘She used to play Guess the Accent when she attended the School for the Blind as a kid. She even won prizes.’

Caroline blushed.

‘That’s some party trick,’ Newman said.

‘A qualified voice-recognition expert will narrow it down further,’ O’Neil said. ‘No offence to you, Caroline.’

‘None taken. Identifying exactly where in Yorkshire won’t be easy, even for an expert. There are many dialects within the county; pronunciation and sentence construction is beyond me, I’m afraid.’

‘You’re doing fine,’ Grace said in her defence.

‘Better than fine,’ O’Neil added.

Ryan was grateful for the show of appreciation.

Newman threw in a question. ‘Who took the call when Spielberg gave scene locations locally?’

‘For the North Shields scene, or Fraser’s house in Whitley Bay?’ O’Neil asked.

‘The latter.’

Ryan pointed at his chest, answering ‘Me,’ for Caroline’s benefit.

‘Did you tape it?’ Newman asked.

‘I did.’ His eyes found O’Neil’s.

She didn’t flinch.

‘Ryan?’ Newman was waiting. ‘Caroline needs to hear that too.’

‘I’m sorry.’ The lie came easy. ‘For some reason it didn’t record.’

‘What reason?’ Grace blurted out. ‘I taught you better than that, mister.’

‘You did, and I can only apologize. I must’ve pressed the wrong button.’

Caroline detected the misrepresentation and kept it to herself.

Ryan could’ve kissed her. ‘It’s late.’ He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. ‘I’ll walk you out, Caroline.’

‘No need, I’d better get going too,’ Newman said. ‘The sooner I get away, the sooner I’ll return. I’ll drop Caroline at the station.’

He kissed Grace goodbye and left the apartment holding Caroline’s hand. Ryan hung his jacket back on the chair. O’Neil flashed him a thank you for covering for her ass. They had been rumbled but not, it seemed, by Grace and Newman. Saved from embarrassing questions, O’Neil’s residual doubts over Ryan’s twin faded away.





24


Trying to keep herself cheerful, Grace arrived at work at the crack of dawn, complete with a Christmas tree and fairy lights. After putting it in the window, she got stuck into her computer where she remained for the next four hours monitoring HOLMES. With Newman away, Ryan and O’Neil decided to hold off on their planned trip to Brighton. They had photographic and recorded evidence from Sussex Police, CSI and progress reports, enough to go on until the victim was found. When he was – if he was – they would visit the town and then fly from London direct to Copenhagen. It seemed the best way forward when they were spread so thinly.

There was no obvious connection between Ambassador Dean and Lord Trevathan, apart from the fact that they had high-end jobs, worked in the public eye and had both died from stab wounds close to water. In the Ambassador’s case, one blow to the stomach, one to the heart, the second proving fatal. He would have died, if not instantly, then within a few minutes. Ryan was confident that if a link existed between the two men, Newman would find it in London.

Like most undercover work, spying on individuals was often mind-numbingly boring, long hours spent immobile, unable to take a piss or eat. It was a world away from any Bond movie Newman had ever seen.

Despite choosing to live on the east coast of Scotland, he loved London. He walked unhurriedly from King’s Cross railway station, heading in a southerly direction towards the Houses of Parliament. As he passed the building, vehicles were being checked for explosives with an under-car device he knew was the best and most effective product currently on the market. Only then was the black-and-orange hydraulic barrier lifted.

Not far away, Thames House, the home of MI5, was similarly well protected: a security code trackpad and secure lift into the building, plate-glass anti-climb devices on all windowsills. No chances being taken. Four police bikes sped out of the building, double red lines marking the side street. The Doubletree Hotel was situated here. If Newman had time to stay over, he’d book in and ask for a room with a view of the Thorney Street entrance to Thames House where he could observe the comings and goings of those employed there. If he took a southeast corner room, he could hitch up a slow-drip camera, monitoring the building twenty-four hours a day. Even better, the building next door was going through major refurbishment.

It paid to have a plan B.

The Thorney Street entrance was open. Someone walked out as Newman was watching it, which meant anyone could walk in. However, if they tried, they would meet with tough opposition. The rear entrance was secure, even if it didn’t seem so. A female was standing outside smoking, coat flapping in the wind. He noticed the familiar lanyard around her neck, turned inward to hide her identity. She was one of millions of workers in the city wearing them. Nothing unusual about her . . .