The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(43)

Except there was.

In his younger days, he might have tapped her for a light, started up a conversation, turned on the charm. That wouldn’t be smart. Simpler to follow one of the young geeks, most of them employed in cyber-security, leaving on pushbikes; easy enough to scare one half to death and take what he wanted. But Newman didn’t intend to do that either.

Agents of his generation never retired. It was important to keep spooks of his calibre in the loop, ready to be reactivated at a moment’s notice. Consequently, he still had clearance. He could come and go as he pleased. That didn’t help. He didn’t want to be scanned in and out of MI5 or pass through the many security devices. He wanted no one to know he was sniffing around. Time to call in favours.

‘Did you ever contact Ford for disclosure?’ Ryan asked. ‘We need information on Trevathan’s trial.’

O’Neil stopped shuffling papers. ‘I did. He told me it was a matter for the Secretary of State for Scotland.’

‘And what did the Secretary say?’

‘Well his underling, another junior minister who wouldn’t tell me his name, passed me back to the Home Office. I eventually got to speak to a human, for what good it did. Come to think of it, human might be stretching it a bit.’ Lifting her mobile from her desk, she accessed a voice recording and pressed play.

‘This is Detective Superintendent Eloise O’Neil. Could I ask who I’m speaking to?’

‘Lawson.’

‘Mr Lawson, I’m investigating the death of the Lord Justice Clerk, Leonard Maxwell, Lord Trevathan.’

Silence.

Ryan rolled his eyes at O’Neil. Her rank and status within the police was meaningless to some Home Office employees. As far as they were concerned, she was a pleb in uniform, shit on their shoes. The ‘Plebgate’ scandal – an altercation between Government Chief Whip, Conservative MP Andrew Mitchell, and police – came as no surprise to officers who, day in day out risked their lives, whether on general patrol or within the Diplomatic Protection Unit guarding Downing Street. Evidence had been called into question on both sides. Whatever the truth of it, Mitchell resigned, his position untenable. A year later, the dispute raged on. There had been several arrests, including five police officers, the lengthy investigation criticized by the Director of Public Prosecutions. Ryan had no doubt that the axe would fall on those accused of misconduct in public office. The recording of O’Neil’s prompt to Lawson cut into his thoughts.

‘Are you still there, Mr Lawson?’

‘Yes, ma’am, how can I help you with that?’

‘I’d like some information on the trial His Lordship was set to conduct on Monday the fourteenth of October.’

‘I have no information to give in that regard.’

‘Did you recover a briefcase from His Lordship’s residence on Tuesday the fifteenth of October?’

O’Neil paused. When he failed to respond, she pushed harder.

‘I have a statement to that effect from his housekeeper, Mrs Forbes. She claims that two unidentified people – one male, one female – collected the briefcase. She assumed, or was led to believe, that they were from his Edinburgh chambers. My enquiries have drawn a blank there.’

‘We have no information to give you on that subject, ma’am.’

‘You will appreciate the difficulty that presents.’

Ryan had to admire O’Neil’s style. She had no qualms about challenging Lawson’s authority.

‘Sir, if you do have the briefcase then there will be no police time wasted trying to find it. If you don’t, that leaves only two scenarios: either you know who has it, or you are as clueless as I am. Perhaps you could indicate which it is?’

‘I have no information to give you at this time.’

‘Then am I to assume that the briefcase is still missing and has been collected by person or persons unknown for unlawful means?’

‘I have no information to give you at this time.’

‘I wonder if it’s just me you’re not talking to, Mr Lawson.’

Silence.

Grace stopped what she was doing, swivelled her chair to face Ryan and O’Neil. If Lawson had been in the room, she’d have stuck the nut on him. O’Neil was showing impatience, on and off the recording.

‘Mr Lawson?’

‘Are you asking a question, ma’am? My apologies, I thought you were making a statement.’

O’Neil’s frustration was almost palpable.

‘Can you tell me perhaps how you’d like me to proceed? In case you’re in any doubt, that is a question, sir. Shall I do so on the assumption that the briefcase has been taken by unauthorized persons, or as though you or some other person in authority has it?’

‘I’m sorry, ma’am, we have no information to give you at this time.’

O’Neil stopped the recording. ‘The royal “we” was a mistake,’ she said. ‘He tripped up there.’

Ryan was nodding. Someone else had been listening in.

‘Dodgy bastard . . .’ Grace mumbled. ‘That briefcase will be sitting on his desk in Whitehall. If he doesn’t have it, I’ll run naked across the Swing Bridge.’

‘Please don’t.’ Ryan looked like he’d just sucked a lemon.

Suppressing a grin, O’Neil restarted the recording.