The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(74)

‘She had red hair?’ ?lgaard asked. ‘Are you sure?’

The librarian nodded. ‘From a bottle.’

It didn’t surprise anyone that the woman they were discussing might change her appearance to hide her identity. Whilst thin men could bulk up and make themselves fat, it didn’t work the other way round. The male they were seeking was thin, emaciated. Such knowledge was gold. A heated argument in the corridor interrupted the conversation. ?lgaard’s doing, if her smug expression was anything to go by. Pedersen became anxious. Ryan had to raise his voice above the din, telling her not to concern herself. They ended the discussion there. They were short of time and keen to get to P?l Friis.





42


When Grace had set up the meeting with Friis, the historian requested an outside rendezvous. Working at the Danish and International Art Museum, he said he spent too much time inside. Having experienced several hours in a tin tube at thirty thousand feet, Ryan knew the feeling and was more than happy to accommodate him.

The Renaissance-style King’s Garden was truly special, one of the world’s oldest parks dating from the 1600s. Ryan and O’Neil entered the grounds through the main gate, walking in silence towards the meeting point, bare trees offering no refuge from a biting wind. O’Neil seemed not to notice the chill. She was gloved up, a thick scarf wrapped around her neck, a long grey padded coat and knee-length boots, perfect for December.

Ryan’s short leather jacket offered less protection. Despite the fact that they were shoved deep down in his pockets, he could feel his hands slowly turning blue. He checked his watch. They were early, so he took out his phone and called Caroline. It was a mistake to do so in O’Neil’s presence. His twin knew instantly that he was unhappy and jumped in, ignoring his enquiry about her own state of health.

‘Matt? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ Ryan dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘That I can talk about now anyway.’

‘Doesn’t sound like nothing.’

‘It’s been a long couple of days. You know how much I love flying. I’m knackered, that’s all.’

‘You’ve been knackered, before . . . and I’m not stupid.’

Ryan didn’t respond. He pulled up sharply, allowing his guv’nor to walk on alone. She’d clocked his unease and was getting curious. Caroline’s voice hit his ear again. ‘Is O’Neil with you?’

‘Affirmative.’

‘Tell me you haven’t fallen out with her.’ A lengthy silence was all the answer she needed. ‘Oh, Matt, what have you done? She likes you!’

‘And I like her. Stuff happens.’

‘When will you be home? We’ll talk about it then.’

‘Not sure,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow, maybe Wednesday, depends how much we have on. I need to get home for some clothes. The ones I have on will walk to the laundry of their own free will if I don’t change them soon. I packed light, as usual. I’ll call by if I can get away. Assuming you’ll be there?’

Caroline confirmed that she would. She worked from home three days a week. The Crown Prosecution Service was good like that. It mattered not where she worked, so long as she put the hours in. Ryan ached to share O’Neil’s tragic past with his twin. To ask her advice as to how, or even if, he should attempt to raise the subject when his guv’nor was adamant that it was off limits. He decided to keep it to himself. He couldn’t bring himself to betray her trust a second time.

Ordinarily blessed with good judgement, particularly where women were concerned, he’d attempted to talk to O’Neil umpteen times, only to bottle out at the last minute. No matter how hard he tried, he hadn’t been able to conjure up words that were good enough. No opener he practised seemed suitable . . . no direct apology adequate.

Up ahead, O’Neil’s step faltered. Over her shoulder, she caught Ryan’s eye. She tilted her head, indicating the Rosenborg Palace, the agreed meeting place with P?l Friis, unable to hide her delight at the sight of the building before them, even though she was still pissed off with him. Her smile was an act. Ryan decided he’d had enough. Friis was running late. Now was the time to tackle her. He could wait no longer.

‘Gotta go,’ he said into the phone.

‘Whatever it is, don’t do anything rash.’

‘It’s a bit late for that. Take care, I’ll call you as soon as I can.’ He hung up, pocketing the phone as he caught up with O’Neil.

‘You done?’ she asked.

He nodded.

‘Everything OK?’

‘Depends on whether you mean at home or here.’ He held her gaze. ‘Guv, are we cool, you and I?’

There was a moment when neither of them spoke, a split second during which Ryan felt her armour crack, a brief spark of reconciliation. Then, as quickly as it arrived, it was gone, her attention taken by someone behind him calling out her name.

‘Detective Superintendent O’Neil?’ P?l Friis proffered a hand as he approached, moving like a cheetah across a manicured lawn on long, thin legs. O’Neil shook hands with him, her colour rising ever so slightly. She glanced apologetically at Ryan as the historian introduced himself, their unfinished business on hold . . . for now.

‘Please,’ Friis swept a hand towards a park bench. ‘Shall we sit in this magnificent park?’