The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(6)
‘This is about that text you took at the lock-up, isn’t it?’ She didn’t answer but Ryan wasn’t giving up. ‘Guv, Jack kept his cards close and look where it got him.’
Jack Fenwick was Ryan’s ex-boss. He’d gone it alone on an off-book investigation and it had got him killed. Ryan had sensed he was preoccupied about something but hadn’t wanted to pry.
If he had, Jack might still be alive.
Now O’Neil looked at him.
Ryan held her gaze. She wasn’t easy to read. Without a trace of makeup, her physical attractiveness was evident. A natural redhead, she needed no chemicals to enhance what was already there. It was her personality that interested him the most, her keen intellect and ability to punch above her weight.
‘You’re staring, DS Ryan.’ She always called him that when she was taking the piss.
‘Am I? Sorry.’
‘You have something on your mind?’
‘As a matter of fact, I do. If you knew something I didn’t, you’d tell me, right?’
Nicholas Ford waved away his aide, reiterating the fact that he was incommunicado and therefore offline to anyone, especially Eloise O’Neil. He’d already spent the best part of yesterday afternoon in godforsaken Newcastle upon Tyne – the arse-end of the Empire he had no intention of visiting again – in order to inspect unit premises and properly brief her on Brighton. What a monumental pain in the neck that turned out to be. So much so, he couldn’t face the prospect of round two.
This morning, he’d changed his plans to stay longer, made an excuse and left the area, telling her that he had more pressing business to attend to in the capital, returning to Heathrow on the first available flight. On arrival at the Home Office, he’d left strict instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed, for any reason, and yet O’Neil had already called twice – imperative, apparently. Then, having done some detective work of his own to establish why she was so demanding of his attention, all hell had broken loose.
The last thing he’d bargained for was that her own force would receive a similar DVD relating to a crime scene in North Shields, which he hadn’t got wind of because he was in the air when it came in, too late for him to turn around. Now he was regretting a hasty decision to come south. Had he stayed on in Northumbria, he’d have been able to exert some control over the investigation and O’Neil, whatever way she jumped. And she’d have been in the dark – exactly where he wanted her.
Except that didn’t work out either. Things really took a turn for the worse when O’Neil found out about a linked incident in Scotland on the banks of the River Tay in Kenmore. An urgent call intended for him had gone to her, some idiot in the Northumbria Control Room having texted her the details when he didn’t answer his phone, knowing she’d been involved in the DVD investigation on her patch. Now the bitch was baying for blood.
The conference call had been ongoing for half an hour. Now he’d had time to bone Northumbria Control for passing O’Neil information he didn’t yet want her to have – a minor glitch in the scheme of things – Ford was feeling pretty smug. So what if she knew about the DVD received by Police Scotland and the body they had dragged from the river yesterday? He was the boss. She’d just have to suck it up and move on, much as it frustrated her. And it did frustrate her: she was practically apoplectic, fighting hard to keep her temper in check.
Too bad.
‘Well,’ Ford said. ‘What are your thoughts, Superintendent?’
‘On what, sir?’
He forced himself to suppress a grin. Addressing him as ‘sir’ was hard for her to swallow but protocol demanded that she extend the courtesy in her dealings with him. Operationally she was in command but the absence of rank didn’t mean she could ignore him.
‘The shoe!’ he barked. ‘Are you even listening to me.’
‘I am indeed,’ O’Neil said. ‘The item is being forensically examined as we speak. I hope to have more on it later.’
‘Won’t the blood give us gender?’
‘The victim is female, sir.’
After being her own boss for years, O’Neil was exasperated at having to give Ford houseroom. In all honesty, she begrudged any civilian involvement in a police investigation, especially at managerial level. This was serious shit, not Marks and fucking Spencer.
She’d commandeered the office made available to him at HQ. When he’d told her he was returning to London, she was pleased to see the back of him, but then things had kicked off when the DVD landed in her lap. She’d not given him a second thought until that text arrived. Now she wanted to punch his lights out for briefing her on half a case. That was probably why he’d retreated to the safety of his own workplace; another poor decision.
It was bad enough having Spielberg’s cat-and-mouse games to contend with. Eloise could do without an officious prick like Ford breathing down her neck and making decisions – the wrong ones – on operational matters. A beat of time passed as he digested new developments, his self-satisfied composure beginning to disintegrate. Information was power and she was now firmly in the driving seat. Or so she thought . . . with a face like thunder, no notice or apology, he muted the call and swivelled his chair so that he was facing the other way.
Ford cared less that O’Neil would now have a view of the back of his head as he conferred with his aide. Women who chose career over family were to be avoided at all costs. WPCs, policewomen or whatever they were called nowadays were a particular bête noire of his. He’d come across her type before. At the initial briefing in October she’d shown him little respect. In fact, her attitude at times bordered on hostility. He was in charge of this new shadow squad and she’d do well to remember it.