The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(66)
In his head, Ryan pictured CSIs in white suits documenting every drop of blood. There would have been little need for the application of Bluestar, the luminol-based chemical agent British forensic scientists used to irradiate traces of the liquid that kept us all alive, pure or diluted. No attempt had been made to wash it away here.
Because the crime scene had been linked to others elsewhere, Sussex Police had been exceptionally thorough. No expense had been spared. Bloodstain pattern analysis experts had reconstructed the crime scene to determine from what angle the victim was attacked, with what type of weapon – a narrow blade in this case. The injuries matched the screwdriver left at the scene. Forensic scientists had concluded that Tierney had been standing when the first blow was struck. An arc of blood on the floor led investigators to conclude that he’d turned and moved away from his attacker in an effort to escape, whereupon he’d been struck again, presumably in the back. A grid had been drawn, tagged and numbered, to enable scientists to establish, as close as they were able, how many blows had hit their target. The number was in double figures.
38
They left Sussex HQ in the pool car they had been loaned. Keying Tierney’s home address into the satnav gave them a journey time of half an hour, an ETA of approximately five o’clock. O’Neil insisted on driving. On the way, Ryan updated her on the latest information fed into HOLMES, including the detail that Tierney’s head had become detached from his body – unsurprising, given the time it had been in the sea – saving his partner the distress of identification at the morgue.
‘Every cloud,’ O’Neil said.
Ryan opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again when his phone rang. He checked the display. ‘I’d better take this. It’s Cath Masters, the SIO who interviewed Watson last night.’
Ryan could see O’Neil’s frustration. Their job was about shifting priorities. No sooner were they making headway with one line of enquiry than they were forced to veer off in a different direction entirely. The ability to keep all the balls in the air was the difference between a good copper and a bad one, especially when conducting a multiple murder investigation. Information was gold. It didn’t come in neat packages, delivered when most convenient to detectives. It came in thick and fast, at all times of the day and night, interrupting trains of thought – but that was also what made the job exciting: the constant challenge.
‘Put it on speaker,’ O’Neil said.
Ryan did as she asked, letting Masters know that O’Neil would be party to the conversation. While the two women greeted one another, Ryan wondered if their professional acquaintance extended to friendship, if Masters had knowledge of O’Neil’s disastrous relationship with a moronic QC. There was no time for niceties, let alone sympathies, during a case this big.
‘You have something for us?’ O’Neil asked.
‘Remember Watson said he owned a nightclub? It was a complete fabrication. He manages the joint. Nevertheless, the job is such that he’s able to slip away for extra-marital activity with a string of hookers whenever he chooses and still keep it from his missus.’
Ryan tried not to look at O’Neil. He was struggling to understand how her ex could have left her at the altar on Christmas Eve, preferring the company of working girls. Forsythe was obviously the type who lived by the old saying: why buy a book when you can join the library? There were many of those in the job; dickheads, every one of them. Wouldn’t know a good thing if it was presented to them gift-wrapped.
Masters was still talking: ‘His story about being spooked in the lock-up checks out. Gloria made a formal statement to that effect. He can’t have been in there more than twenty seconds, just enough time to get his zip down – or not, in his case. The shoe is definitely his. We have the other one now to prove it.’
‘Good job, Cath.’ O’Neil took a breath. ‘Can you call the National Footwear Database for me and let them know to cancel the action.’
‘Already taken care of. There’s no flies on your girl, Grace Ellis. Life in the old dog yet, eh?’
‘Careful.’ Ryan reminded her that walls had ears.
Masters chuckled. ‘I’ll deny I ever said it.’
O’Neil almost cracked a smile. ‘You and Grace obviously know each other.’
‘We’ve met once or twice. She’s a formidable woman.’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ O’Neil said.
‘Quite a reputation too.’
‘In a good way,’ Ryan chipped in.
Masters agreed. ‘There’s no one better at running a Murder Incident Room. You chose well.’
O’Neil changed the subject. ‘We were fairly certain Watson was telling the truth. Sounds like he’s cooperating—’
‘After Ryan put the frighteners on.’ Masters laughed. ‘You’ve got yourself a player there, Eloise. If you get sick of him, sling him over, there’s always a vacancy on my team for someone like him.’
That could happen sooner than you know, Ryan thought. Unable to face O’Neil, his eyes found the footwell. He spoke without raising them. ‘How did Watson get on with the sketch?’
‘He drew it well. Pretty accurate representation too, I reckon, bearing in mind that it would’ve been dark in there. He pinpointed exactly where he saw the body. Coincides with blood found at the scene. According to him, the lass was on her front, face down. I pressed him on age but he wasn’t sure. Youngish, he said. Didn’t think she was that old anyway. Adult female, certainly, somewhere between late teens and mid thirties. That’s a guesstimate, based on what she was wearing. Arrogant shit reckons he knows women. Nearly stuck my fingers down my throat when he came out with that one.’