The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(70)

‘Excuse me for interrupting, guv.’ Ryan shifted his gaze to Parker. ‘I see that Michael had business contacts in Copenhagen but did he have any friends there? There’s a name and address here: P?l Friis?’

‘We met while on holiday in Greece several years ago and kept in touch. He pops down here when he’s in London. He’s a cultural historian – straight, in case you were wondering.’

‘I wasn’t,’ Ryan said.

‘Any idea who Graham Hunter is? His address is listed as South Tyneside.’

Parker frowned, shook his head. ‘A business acquaintance, I assume.’

Writing names in his notebook to pass on to Grace, Ryan got on with his search. Parker was asking what Tierney’s former school had to do with anything. O’Neil told him the truth: in investigating Michael’s death, it was important to understand his life . . .

‘We need to build on what we already know about him. That includes his past: the school where he taught, previous jobs, clubs he was involved with as a younger man. An antecedent history will help us to work out what, if anything, connects him to the other victims. Anything you can think of, however trivial it may seem, we’d like to know about.’

‘I’ll give it some thought.’ Parker added: ‘We’ve been together since university.’

‘That’s a very long time.’ Her sad tone of voice made Ryan look up.

Parker was losing it. ‘We were to have been married on March twenty-ninth. Michael and I campaigned for legislation to make that possible. He chose the first available date. Said he’d waited long enough. He was so excited . . .’ Parker struggled to finish what he’d started. ‘He had such plans. Can you believe it? After three decades of soliciting votes for equality, we nearly made it.’ He dropped his head in his hands and wept. Ryan fucking hated his job sometimes.





40


Heathrow was packed as always, travellers anxious to get away on time, last call for the 08.55 British Airways flight to Copenhagen just announced. Ryan and O’Neil made it with seconds to spare before the gates closed, an accident on the airport approach road having delayed their arrival. In the end they’d had to abandon their taxi and run the rest of the way.

Prior to that mad dash, Ryan had called Grace and asked her to look into the names he’d found on Michael Tierney’s laptop, and if possible arrange for them to meet with the three Copenhagen-based individuals. The response had just arrived in his inbox.

‘Anything interesting?’ O’Neil was trying to read over his shoulder.

‘Agnete M?ller is presently in London, Rolv Jakobsen in Switzerland. They’re business acquaintances, not close associates or friends. Neither has seen or heard from Tierney recently. Both are out of the frame for his death. They were in the US at the time – on Wall Street, to be precise. Nice work if you can get it.’

‘They’re alibiing each other? How convenient.’

‘That was my first thought. Grace has been on to the FBI and confirmed they were in the country. The good news is P?l Friis is available to talk to us this afternoon.’

‘Time?’

‘Three o’clock.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Graham Hunter has been located, an address in Westoe Village—’

‘Near South Shields?’

Ryan pulled a face, a roll of the eyes almost. ‘Yeah, I know – a ferry ride away from North Shields. Could we be that lucky?’ O’Neil didn’t give a reply and Ryan didn’t wait for one. ‘Newman is on it as we speak. If I know Frank, he’ll turn up unannounced—’

‘Without ID?’

‘He’ll think of something.’

Her stare could penetrate metal. ‘Is that it?’

‘No, Grace has been busy. The CCTV cross-reference you ordered has come back positive. One vehicle – a VW Golf GTi – seen on North Shields Fish Quay in the early hours of Sunday and in Whitley Bay around midday. Spot on for James Fraser’s time of death—’

‘Trashed?’

He nodded. ‘Burnt-out and abandoned on an industrial estate in Byker. It was there on Monday when staff opened up and reported to the local nick. No bloody use to us whatsoever. It had been half-inched from someone’s drive a few streets away.’

‘Might be a coincidence. Thieving kids—’

‘Either way, there’s zero likelihood of IDing the offenders. Both occupants in the car were wearing headgear.’

As the plane began to pull off its stand, O’Neil’s mood was as leaden as the sky overhead. She remained like that for much of the journey, freezing Ryan out to the point that he didn’t feel he could converse with her. He knew she’d come round eventually but suspected he might have a long wait. He couldn’t help thinking of their last plane trip together. The investigation into Jack’s death had taken them to Norway, and despite the fact they’d started out on opposite sides, with Ryan suspended and O’Neil heading an investigation into Jack’s alleged misconduct, they’d established a camaraderie that was sadly missing now.

Ryan put his head back and shut his eyes. That last outing hadn’t been all work. As he drifted off to sleep he could almost smell the sea. Her red hair wafted in the breeze as they shared a drink on the brygge in T?nsberg, yacht rigging slapping against masts as crafts bobbed up and down in choppy water, seabirds swooping in search of food, pecking at the boardwalk where hours before fishing vessels had tied up. O’Neil was happy then . . . and so was he.