The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(61)

35


Ryan stood up as O’Neil re-entered the living room minus her wet coat. She’d been gone five minutes, no more. He’d come to view her as a mate and hated to think that he was in any way responsible for her pain. He felt tainted by the accusations levelled at her, ashamed for having done so little to preserve their special relationship. It had been a while since they had been on opposing sides. He’d never imagined they would end up there again. It hurt him deeply that the woman who’d handpicked him as her second-in-command – when she had her pick of detectives countrywide – was probably now regretting that decision.

She was looking directly at him.

‘We’re booked on the 07.55 to King’s Cross. You need to pack for a few days away from base.’ She turned away, reaching for the door handle. His hopes rose as she hesitated. She stood for a moment, ramrod straight, with her back to her so-called team. Slowly she turned to face them. ‘Frank, your informants aren’t entirely wrong. Hilary Forsythe is very well connected and known to me, but not as some shadowy figure covertly running the show. That, if you don’t mind me saying so, is bullshit.’

Newman remained silent.

‘Whether you choose to believe it or not, it’s true,’ O’Neil insisted.

‘You can see why Frank might think it,’ Grace said.

Ryan could see O’Neil was wavering, less certain than she had been a moment ago. He wasn’t sure if that made the situation better or worse. What the hell was going on? She’d admitted owning the apartment, so why not come right out and tell them the truth?

Faced with such opposition, she turned away and walked slowly to the window. Taking her phone from her pocket she punched in a number and lifted the device to her ear. Ryan peered enquiringly at Grace and Frank, then checked his watch: 02:12 – an odd time to make a call. Seconds later, O’Neil began to speak and didn’t waste her breath on a greeting.

‘Hilary, I want the truth,’ she said. ‘Are you heading up my new unit?’ She turned to face the team, her back to the window. She’d been humiliated once and it was obvious to everyone present that it was happening again. Her face was flushed, her eyes wild with fury. ‘Thank you for being honest . . . no, that was a bad call, for everyone concerned . . . yes, well you might have told me, I now have a mutiny on my hands . . . Of course they are!’ She raised her voice. ‘What the hell did you expect? That’s as it may be, but I’m not sure I can carry on under those circumstances.’

Ryan tensed as Eloise turned her eyes on him, still listening to Forsythe.

‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ she said. ‘You’ll have my resignation at the conclusion of this case. Goodnight, Hilary.’ She hung up, took a long, deep breath. ‘You’d better sit down.’

The team did as she asked.

‘Well, where to start?’ She rubbed at her temples, her expression a mixture of vulnerability and despair. ‘It seems that my benefactor is in charge. As you just heard, that is news to me. By the way, Hilary is a man, not a woman, an eminent judge, formerly based in the south, recently retired. He purchased this flat as a wedding present.’ She paused. ‘He was to have been my father-in-law. Let’s say, it didn’t quite work out. Nevertheless, he still thinks the world of me. We’ve kept in touch and see each other frequently. Dinner dates. The theatre. He’s a kind, generous man. I’m not screwing him, in case you’re wondering.’

‘We weren’t,’ Grace said quickly. ‘And we don’t, do we, guys?’

‘The Porsche,’ Ryan mumbled under his breath.

‘What Porsche?’ Grace and Newman said simultaneously.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Ryan said it in a way that they wouldn’t ask again, a raft of feelings competing for his attention. He was sickened by the news that Eloise intended to quit.

‘He means Hilary’s car,’ O’Neil said. ‘He picked me up here yesterday. He sees it as his responsibility to keep an eye on me.’ She dropped her head, then raised it again, pain etched on her face as she confronted her accusers, on the verge of disclosing her innermost secrets. Her voice was hardly a whisper. ‘His son is Stephen Forsythe QC, the bastard who jilted me at the altar last Christmas Eve.’

O’Neil looked away, an attempt to deflect any sympathy coming her way. Ryan’s stomach took a dive. No wonder Grace didn’t want to share information this personal. Right now, she didn’t know where to put herself. She was biting down so hard, trying not to lose control, her jaw was like a blade.

‘I knew the wedding had been called off,’ she said. ‘Nothing more.’

‘I tried to give the apartment back,’ O’Neil added, ‘but Hilary wouldn’t take it. He told me to keep it as an investment if I didn’t want to live in it. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. I never moved in.’

‘And who could blame you?’ Grace was visibly upset now.

Ryan hadn’t seen her so moved since her own wedding day. He didn’t know what to say to O’Neil, what he might do to help her out of this. Her revelation explained everything: her unhappiness, her odd behaviour, the whole damned lot – and he’d done sod all to support her.

‘I’m so very sorry, Eloise.’ Grace took O’Neil’s hand in hers. ‘You don’t need to say any more.’