The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(75)
Nothing he was able to tell them was of any interest. He could only confirm the circumstances in which he’d met and kept in touch with Michael Tierney and Robert Parker. Ryan tuned him out, unable to shake free of the revolving image in his head, the light fading from O’Neil’s eyes the night before last as she explained that she’d been jilted by Stephen Forsythe QC, a man she’d loved and wanted to share her life with. Ryan couldn’t conceive of the anger and embarrassment she must’ve felt as she fled the church – her plans shattered like broken glass, leaving her exposed and alone with nowhere to hide . . . Assuming she’d made it over the threshold.
The temperature in the park seemed to plummet as the sun fell behind the trees. Ryan pulled his collar up, a futile attempt to keep warm. He chanced a glance in O’Neil’s direction, watching her mouth move as she talked, every single word delivered with clarity in the most sensitive way possible. Her expression was grave but sympathetic.
Friis was dumbstruck, unable to take it in.
Wiping his face with his hand, he stood up, eyes scanning the surrounding shrubbery. Minutes ago, he’d proudly shown them off. Suddenly, they had lost their appeal. It would be dark soon. There might be danger lurking in the shadows here.
He swung round.
‘Murdered?’ His voice broke as he tried to express his disbelief. ‘Surely not! Michael was the most peaceful man I ever met. He wouldn’t hurt a soul. Ohmigod! Poor Robert. Have you spoken to him?’
O’Neil nodded. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
Ryan would like a quid for every time he’d heard that phrase.
‘Was it a fight?’ Friis asked.
‘No, not a fight.’
O’Neil remained seated, an invitation for the historian to retake his seat while he processed the awful news. Words of comfort to the bereaved Dane faded from Ryan’s hearing. His mind swung wildly from the past to the present and back again. He pictured Eloise, not as she was now, wrapped up against the cold, but in a flowing wedding dress, the delicate contours of a happy face hidden by a simple veil, exhilarated by the occasion, surrounded by friends and family. He wondered if she’d been prevented from entering the church while enquiries were made of the bridegroom. Or had she realized that something was wrong and gone inside, her professional persona taking over, fearing an accident of some kind?
It had happened before in the rush to get to church.
A million scenarios passed through Ryan’s head. It was driving him mad, not knowing. He intended to find out more as soon as he was able through discreet enquiries. It wasn’t a matter of idle curiosity; his relationship with O’Neil was at stake. It would remain in limbo until he understood what had happened. Only then could he devise a way to get through to her and repair the damage.
He’d quizzed Grace on the phone. She’d hadn’t been able to help much. She had retired in 2010, a full two years before O’Neil was due to marry. She was in Hong Kong working as a Foreign Office courier when she’d heard via text, a bit of salacious gossip passed on by an ex-colleague in a moment of boredom – and only that the wedding was off. It was a whirlwind romance apparently.
Ryan could hear Grace’s voice in his head . . .
‘I assumed she’d come to her senses and bailed at the last minute.’
‘You knew who the groom was—’
‘Ryan, get real! I can’t remember the names of the men I slept with last Tuesday.’
He’d laughed. ‘I know you like to live in the moment but you’re a newlywed.’
‘Hey! Married or single, I intend to live till I die.’ She stopped pulling his leg. ‘You know what these things are like, Ryan. By the time I returned to the UK, Eloise’s lucky escape was old news. I heard she was happy and back at work.’
Only one of those statements was true. Ryan knew that now. How much effort must it have taken to keep up the pretence of normality? Then again, what other choice did O’Neil have? If she’d folded, not only would Stephen Forsythe have won, he’d have stripped her naked, taking away the one thing of value she had left: her career.
Devastating as it must have been, O’Neil wasn’t the type to wallow in self-pity. It took a woman with real strength of character to pick herself up and carry on as if nothing had happened. Ryan had heard nothing on the grapevine. Not a whisper. If there had been any police guests at her wedding, they loved her enough not to breathe a word. In an organization riddled with rumour and speculation, that spoke volumes. It was then that Ryan made his decision to offer her a shoulder, should she want one, and to hell with the consequences. Not to make that play was unthinkable. He would do it as soon as the opportunity presented itself. He couldn’t bear not to. He’d rather ship out.
43
Grace had booked them into the Marriott on Kalvebod Brygge, a fifteen-minute taxi ride from the airport. Ryan wondered if the waterside location was deliberate or coincidental, whether O’Neil had chosen it herself. Probably not, he decided. He couldn’t see her cosying up for a nightcap this trip, forgiving him anytime soon for questioning her over Hilary Forsythe, or reneging on her decision to keep her private life a closely guarded secret from those who didn’t already know – those that didn’t need to.
The drink Ryan offered was declined, so he said goodnight and took the elevator to his fourth-floor room. With nothing better to do than mope around, and no dinner on the cards, he raided the mini-bar. Opening a beer and a packet of nuts, he sat down near the window. The view of the city’s picturesque harbour was even better in the dark than he imagined it might be in the daytime.