The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(55)

The spook fed them what he’d already told Ryan about the terrorist trial, including the fact that he didn’t think it was related to their case. During his delivery there was no sign of distrust of O’Neil. Frank was the consummate professional: psychologically sound, even-tempered, able to think on his feet. In short, he had reverted to type, his doubts about the unit and O’Neil safely filed away until he was ready to investigate further.

‘Anything else?’ O’Neil asked.

‘Five have the briefcase.’ It was a test O’Neil passed with flying colours. She didn’t flinch, not a flicker. Newman hit her again, so quick she didn’t even feel it. ‘To be on the safe side, I’ve swept the apartment and checked all the comms. We’re clean. All that remains is to examine mobile phones and we’re good to go. I want to make sure that there are no tracking devices attached.’

‘Good plan,’ she said.

Ryan couldn’t look at either of them. He felt like a shit, knowing what Newman was planning. When he chanced a cursory glance at O’Neil, she showed no concern, acting like she had nothing to hide. She had all the attributes of a spook. Ryan couldn’t deny it.





32


Gloria was standing in her usual spot, pretending to ply her trade at the Borough Road–Clive Street junction, under strict instructions not to accept any work. O’Neil had taken care of her financially; so generously, in fact, the girl reckoned she could take a week off if she wanted.

Ryan wished she would.

He hated using Gloria as bait, even to catch the punter who’d beaten her up, wandering into a crime scene, leaving a shoe behind. That was the unit’s thinking until they could prove otherwise. O’Neil hadn’t been able to trace the punter by any other means. Officers were still checking the PNC for make of car. Likewise, they were trying to locate the jeweller who’d engraved his watch with the initials SFW.

So far: no bites.

Because of that, O’Neil had decided to lie in wait for him, nicking him the old-fashioned way. Her new recruits thought it was a good call. It was one she couldn’t take credit for. Ryan had suggested it from the outset. There were times when there was no alternative to boots on the ground.

At the morning parade, local police had been briefed to stay clear – unless an emergency situation developed – giving the unit free reign to conduct enquiries in the vicinity in unmarked vehicles. The last thing they needed was a panda car arriving on the scene.

Despite the pouring rain, Ryan was willing Gloria’s punter to attempt a pick-up. They had been waiting since nine p.m. It was almost eleven now. Prepared to sit it out till dawn if necessary, he was expecting a long wait. Assured by the Crime Scene Manager that he was finished with the lock-up, Ryan and Grace were hiding in there, waiting to pounce. They were on one side of Gloria, Newman on the other, O’Neil in a vehicle on higher ground in case Stevie made a run for it. Ryan pictured her alone in her car: alert, binoculars trained on the approach road, patience running out. Or maybe she was calling Hilary Forsythe, the woman who’d bought the apartment they were using as a base. Maybe the two of them were laughing at the thought of him freezing his balls off in a draughty lock-up, unconcerned with the operation he’d helped set up.

Grace shifted her position beside him, trying to get comfortable. She hadn’t questioned him further on the subject. There could be only one explanation for that – she’d been told not to – Newman wanted to check his facts before they tackled him again. That was good news. Ryan was hoping he’d been given a bum steer, passed on uncorroborated information as truth, worrying them unnecessarily.

Hope was a far cry from belief.

Hanging on to that thought, Ryan felt his tension rise, eyes on Gloria. The rain was relentless, almost horizontal off the North Sea, no let-up in sight. The girl had no umbrella, a short-cropped leather jacket her only protection against the cold and wet. Half a dozen cars had stopped in the time she’d been there. They had each pulled to the kerb, windows wound down, leaving without completing a transaction, potential customers swearing at her before setting off again, getting the one-finger salute in return. She’d been told to act normal, as if she wasn’t under surveillance, a role she was fulfilling beautifully.

O’Neil’s voice came over the radio: ‘What’s your status, Unit One? Are you getting registration numbers from there?’

Ryan glanced at the CCTV rigged above his head, installed by the Technical Support Unit earlier that afternoon, a small hole punched in the glass to enable unrestricted line of sight, the camera lens trained on Gloria. ‘Affirmative. I hope this punter shows.’

‘Patience, Ryan . . .’ Radio reception was poor. It crackled as O’Neil spoke again. ‘Unit One, dark vehicle approaching from the east.’

Wiping condensation from the window to get a better view, Ryan pushed the transmit button on his radio, adrenalin surging through his veins. ‘We have the eyeball, guv. Different make and model. It’s not our target vehicle.’ The car cruised by . . . and on past Gloria. ‘Damn!’ Ryan whispered under his breath. He was beginning to lose hope. ‘That’s a negative, guv.’

‘Hold your position and stay alert. He may come on foot.’

Ryan relaxed again.

Grace shivered uncontrollably.

‘You cold?’ he asked.