The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(52)

‘She’s a lot more than that.’ Customers were crowding the counter, close enough to listen in. Newman pointed to a free table. They made their way to it and sat down. Ryan felt tense. The spook’s expression gave nothing away. ‘We’ve both been trained to look beyond the obvious and cover all the angles. What I have to say isn’t something you’ll want to hear.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘This new unit—’

‘What about it?’

‘It was set up for a specific reason. I wanted to find out what it was, who’d originated it and why, who sanctioned this level of finance from the public purse . . .’ Despite the urge to, Ryan didn’t interrupt. He let Newman have his say. ‘Ordinarily, it takes months to organize a unit like ours, and yet here we are with all the bells and whistles, including firearms. That’s a big deal, as big as it gets. Whoever is behind it moved heaven and earth to make it happen. Not only that, they moved rapidly.’

‘I thought you didn’t want to be linked with us.’

‘I don’t—’

‘So why are you poking your nose into stuff that doesn’t concern you?’

‘Before I delve into any case, be that terrorist plot, a secret trial or the Muslim brotherhood, I like to know what’s behind me, who has my back, as well as who I’m up against.’

‘You just said it wasn’t terrorism.’

‘And I stand by that. I still need the names of those I can approach, those I should avoid, or shall we say those who require handling differently. Targeting the right information is good housekeeping. It’s the safest way for me and my informants.’

‘Smoke and mirrors. Now get to the point.’

Newman stared at him.

Ryan held his gaze. ‘There is a point, I take it?’

‘Listen, I understand your scepticism, but you’re in the big league now. The first killing took place in July on foreign soil, nothing whatsoever to do with us. Danish police were dealing. The DVD was in their possession, so they knew what was going down but, at our request, they reported Ambassador Dean’s death as a stabbing, a random attack by a drug addict. Happens every day in cities the world over.’

‘Then a few months later, another high-profile victim, a second DVD.’

A nod from Newman. ‘Now our lot are worried. In fact, they’re shitting themselves. Trevathan has friends in high places. They’re calling for a special ops unit to investigate. They get their wish: the new unit is created. Money’s no obstacle. This is top-level stuff. The only way to find out why and what’s really going on is to find out who’s pulling the strings.’

Ryan stroked the scar on his chin. ‘Are you telling me Ford isn’t running the show?’

‘It would appear not.’

‘So who is?’

‘No idea.’

‘You expect me to believe that, Frank? We’re having our meeting in a pub.’

Newman stared him down and then levelled with him. ‘I happened on something that you should know.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘The apartment we’re using is O’Neil’s.’

‘What?’ Ryan’s disbelief was fake. Newman’s revelation came as less of a surprise than it otherwise might have. The first time he’d met Eloise at ‘their place’ it occurred to him that she seemed right at home. He’d written the feeling off. She’d been in post a couple of weeks, had overseen the set-up, was more used to being there than he was – a matter he kept from Newman.

‘It gets worse,’ Newman added. ‘It’s not under any mortgage, neither was it bought with her own funds. Someone called Hilary Forsythe signed the cheque for the full amount. One payment of almost three-quarters of a mill.’

Ryan’s mind raced back to the Quayside, specifically to the despondency O’Neil tried hard to conceal when he first coined the phrase ‘our place’. Newman might have solved part of that mystery, but Ryan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘Rewind. You’re telling me that the apartment is owned outright by O’Neil but was bankrolled by someone else?’

‘It’s her name on the deeds.’

The hair stood up like rods on Ryan’s neck. He’d examined O’Neil’s phone while she was mumbling to someone on the landline in her room. The name HILARY was displayed clearly in the viewing window as the last person to call her. He’d assumed it was Jack’s widow; now he wasn’t so sure. He could hear O’Neil yelling at him not to touch her phone ever again; pictured her flight from the apartment last night, getting into a Porsche Carrera. If only he’d seen and taken down the registration.

‘You think she’s on the other bus?’ Newman asked.

‘What? No! How the hell should I know – and what if she is?’ O’Neil was an enigma. She rarely, if ever, talked about herself. It would explain why she was friendly but at the same time nervous in Ryan’s company. She was wise to the vibes of the opposite sex. Maybe she wanted what he could never give her.

‘Ryan, pay attention, we haven’t got all day.’

‘What?’

Newman was staring at him. ‘Maybe Hilary Forsythe is O’Neil’s secret,’ he was saying. ‘You can read people, Ryan. You know as well as I do that she’s hiding something. It’s as plain as day.’