The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(48)

What in God’s name had made her act that way?

Ryan knew very little about her, only where she lived, though he’d never been invited round. Fair enough. Lots of coppers defended their personal space. In that respect, they were no different, except she’d turned up uninvited at his tiny cottage on the coast when he went into meltdown after Jack’s death. She adored the sea view almost as much as he did.

He downed his whisky in one slug.

When he turned to face her, she stared at him. Inscrutable. Intense. As if a chasm had opened up between them. A minute ago they were having a perfectly amiable conversation. Now it was as if a switch had been flicked, all the warmth had gone out of her. If he had to put a word to it, he’d have described her as numb. He was tempted to ask her what had changed. They had built a rapport and had some fun. Had she backed off because they were now formally linked whereas before they were not? It was the only plausible explanation. Maybe she couldn’t be his guv’nor and a close friend and confidante.

That must be it . . .

Shame.

‘Am I boring you?’ she said.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You’re someplace else, DS Ryan. I’m not used to being ignored when I’m sharing a bottle of expensive Scotch. I thought we were off duty—’

‘I thought we were on first-name terms.’ He hadn’t meant to sound so pissed off.

‘Only when the others are here and we’re pretending to like each other.’

He couldn’t work out if she was being serious or having a laugh. ‘And when they’re not?’

‘You can call me whatever you like.’ She was teasing him, trying to backpedal on her cutting remark. It had altered the dynamic between them and she knew it. Lifting her glass, she threw him a wide smile. ‘Join me in a top-up?’

‘I’m good, thanks.’

She poured herself another and left the room.

Newman hadn’t been waiting long when Tomkinson arrived – same drill, different park bench. The brief he’d been given hadn’t taken long to process. Both men sat for a while without speaking.

‘Are you concerned with the missing briefcase?’ Newman asked.

‘No.’

‘You have it?’

‘Five have it.’ It was getting late. Tomkinson blew on his hands and rubbed them together, telling Newman that he’d started the alarms on all grey Mercedes at Thames House to see who turned up to switch them off.

‘Good plan.’

‘Works every time. Who wants a flat battery?’

‘Who wants to know they’ve been made by a geriatric?’

‘The simple methods are the best.’

Newman almost chuckled. ‘Name?’

‘Hill, Judith.’ Tomkinson knew the name alone wouldn’t cut it.

Newman clocked a digital stick in the empty sandwich box his ex-colleague would leave behind. ‘What’s your take on Trevathan’s trial?’

‘Never went ahead. His murder is unconnected. It was no assassination.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘What about the special ops unit?’

‘Classified.’

‘That much I know.’

Tomkinson was succinct, as always. He’d done his homework. While he spoke, Newman listened intently and without interruption, making notes on his fresh crossword puzzle. What Tomkinson had to say provided Frank with a challenge he didn’t expect, one he knew would blow up in his face when he returned to base. As debts go, this one had been repaid in full.

O’Neil was back. She drank like Kalinda off The Good Wife although, in her case, the shots were tequila. There were other similarities. The in-house private investigator at Stern, Lockhart, Gardner kept people at a distance. So did O’Neil. How far did the similarity to Kalinda extend? Had O’Neil come out of an abusive relationship too? Ryan chanced his arm. He daren’t enquire directly. He tried another route, hoping she’d open up and tell him the truth.

‘Is that making you feel better?’

‘As it happens, yes.’

‘No one said this job would be easy, guv.’

The comment threw her. ‘It’s not the job.’

Good start. ‘Then why are you so down in the mouth? Having second thoughts?’

‘About this?’ She waved the hand holding the whisky, her forefinger pointing at their swish surroundings. ‘Hell, no!’

Ryan almost choked on his words. ‘Is it me?’

‘No. I needed a colleague I could trust. You fit the bill perfectly. It’s definitely not you, Ryan. Please don’t think that—’

‘What then? These eggshells are killing my feet.’

She wasn’t smiling.

Ryan sighed. ‘When you offered me this job, you said we’d have a lot of fun. I’ve had more fun sparring with that tosser Maguire.’ His jovial reference to his predecessor, her second-in-command, drew no reaction. She was frustrating the hell out of him. He retreated to work once more. ‘It’s unlike you to be so negative. It’s early days, guv. We’ll get there if we push on.’

‘I’m fine, Ryan. Just knackered.’

‘You want to get out of here for a bit?’

‘You trying to cheer me up?’