The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(67)

O’Neil kept her focus on the road, avoiding Ryan’s sideways glance. He wanted to stand up for his gender; tell her that not all men were as obnoxious as Watson or her philandering QC. Instead, he let her mope, concentrating his efforts on Masters.

‘Did he mention any features, facial or otherwise?’ he asked.

‘No, we lucked out there. Her hair was covering her face. Blonde, he thinks. Hard to tell in the poor lighting and with all the blood. Clothing pretty nondescript but intact: dark knee-length coat and a bag he described as bright yellow. Fluorescent, like an old-fashioned satchel, a distinctive black tag on the strap with a foreign name. I passed it to Grace. Like all good MIR managers she passed it back, asked my team to source bags of that kind. They came up with one manufactured by Proenza Schouler.’

‘Never heard of it,’ O’Neil said.

‘Or me,’ Masters said. ‘Turns out it’s high-end designer kit, a cool twelve hundred – sterling, not euros – which would suggest your female victim is loaded. Put it this way, we’re talking Harvey Nicks, not TK Maxx. There are cheaper imitations on the market . . .’

Ryan heard a tapping sound, fingers striking a keyboard.

Masters was checking her computer.

‘The Cambridge Satchel Company is one,’ she said. ‘Retails at a couple of hundred pounds, but it’s neither fluorescent or foreign . . .’

That may be so but O’Neil and Ryan exchanged a glance. Two mentions of the county town of Cambridge may or may not be significant. A snippet of information they would file away for later.

‘Did you show the bags to Watson?’ Ryan asked.

‘Yeah, well, images of them. He seems to think the one your victim was wearing was identical to the more expensive brand. He may be an arse, a lying cheating arse, but he’s a cracking witness. He swears the Schouler label is the one he saw. My team haven’t found any others that fit the bill.’

‘It might not be hers,’ Ryan said. ‘Could’ve been stolen and chucked in the lock-up by anyone.’

‘No,’ Masters said. ‘It wasn’t by the girl, it was on the girl. I’ll email the drawing to Eloise. The sketch is pretty impressive. The strap was across her body, left shoulder to right thigh.’

‘So probably right-handed.’

‘That would be my guess.’

An email pinged into O’Neil’s phone. She nodded to Ryan to pick it up. He accessed the sketch and turned it round to show her.

‘Got it, thanks.’ O’Neil pulled into a parking spot and cut the engine. ‘Listen, we’ve got to go. Ryan and I are up against it here. Am I right in thinking that Watson just chose the wrong toilet spot?’

‘I’d put money on it,’ Master said.

‘You may as well charge him with assault – assuming Gloria wants to press ahead – and bail him.’

‘What about Grace?’

O’Neil looked at Ryan: his call.

‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘She’s old school. First, she hates filling out forms. Second, she’ll find a way to bust his balls that doesn’t involve a courtroom. We might even use the gobshite to our advantage further down the line. He squeals like a snout. May as well treat him like one.’

Masters laughed.

‘I agree,’ O’Neil said. ‘Do me a favour, Cath. Let the bastard sweat a while before you let him go.’

‘My diary is full,’ she said. ‘I’ll be tied up for the rest of the day. Sadly, Watson will have to wait.’

O’Neil thanked her.

Echoing that sentiment, Ryan hung up.

They sat for a moment, mulling over the call. The body was there at around six thirty on the morning of Sunday, 8 December, removed sometime afterwards. Sunrise was seven fifty-three. Such a small window, but Ryan figured that while Spielberg kept an eye on the jogger, James Fraser, her partner in crime nipped back to dispose of the girl they had left in the lock-up. If Grace hadn’t already come to the same conclusion, she soon would. He pictured frantic activity at base. She’d be organizing search teams, advising divers that there may be a distinctive bag, either on the riverbank or floating out to sea. Though they hadn’t yet recovered a body, the unit at least had something to aim for now.

In the meantime, O’Neil and Ryan had an appointment with Robert Parker.





39


‘Michael Tierney’s civil partner could be key to this case.’ O’Neil pulled her collar up and quickened her step as they walked a short way along Brighton seafront. It was bitterly cold. ‘If, as Vikki suggests, Robert Parker is a professional man, articulate and discreet, maybe we need to take a chance here. Shoot me down if you think I’m wrong but, if he’s been with Michael for thirty-plus years, he probably knows him better than his mother, had she been alive.’ She stopped walking as they reached the building, five storeys of Regency splendour.

‘This is it,’ she said.

Ryan whistled. ‘Very nice.’

‘Yeah. Until we get in there.’

He knew what she meant. When it came to the families of homicide victims, there was no such thing as a typical reaction to the death of a loved one. Right now, his guv’nor was weighing up the pros and cons, making judgements based on what they had gleaned from the FLO. Could Parker be trusted with sensitive material relating to their case?