The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(76)

The hands on his watch clicked on, minute after painful minute, each one seeming to take an hour to move. He considered ringing Caroline, but didn’t want to tie up the phone in case O’Neil changed her mind about that drink. When she didn’t get in touch, he became increasingly restless. Twice he picked up his phone to call and have it out with her, but each time he bottled it.

He would . . .

Just not now.

Flicking TV channels bored him rigid. He switched off the set in favour of his iPad. The act of keying the name into Google made his guts heave. The YouTube clip was a close-up. Stephen Forsythe was a handsome man. Impeccably dressed. Classy – on the outside at least – steely eyes, velvet voice, the kind it would be hard to argue with, in or out of a courtroom.

Ryan wasn’t fooled.

During his career he’d been cross-examined by a succession of guys like Forsythe. Beneath a self-assured delivery on legal precedent, an arrogant shit lurked, hamming it up in front of a captive audience. He’d go down well with Spielberg. Ending the clip, Ryan threw the device on the bed, put on his running kit and made his way downstairs to hit the gym.

Ignoring the free weights, he took to a running machine. His efforts were rewarded. Within minutes, his negativity faded away, the release of endorphins producing a feeling of euphoria. He felt cleansed, regenerated, pumped up and prepared for anything. He was about to terminate his run when he recognized a face through the mirrored wall in front of him.

O’Neil looked around, didn’t see him, or pretended not to.

Dumping her bag on the floor, she completed a few stretches and fired up a treadmill of her own. Her warm-up routine graduated to a gentle jog, red hair turning dark at the base of her neck as it became soaked in sweat.

Ryan stayed put, hoping to catch her when she’d finished, maybe chance a second invitation to the bar; 10k later he was still waiting, still running . . . bloody exhausted. With no more energy left, he slowed, cut the power and stepped from the machine. Throwing a towel round his neck, he ambled in her direction, trying to make out that his legs weren’t ready to collapse. This time she acknowledged him. She had no other choice.

‘Blimey!’ She whipped her safety cord out of the machine’s console, ending her workout. ‘You really went for it.’

She didn’t know the half.

Ryan had been running for a full hour, beating his personal best by miles. He could feel muscles he didn’t even know he had. Before he could answer – he had no energy left for speech – O’Neil was in work mode, banging on about the case, not a bit out of breath.

‘I was thinking about Pedersen. She might have one foot on Fantasy Island, but her powers of observation seemed pretty impressive to me – she’d registered our suspects’ clothes, their body language, their attempt to conceal the fact they were together. I’m inclined to believe her, aren’t you?’ Ryan could only manage a nod in response. ‘If we ever nick anyone, she’ll make an excellent witness. There’s no doubt in her mind that the couple she observed were not Danes. You can ID foreigners from what they’re wearing. The unfamiliar rucksack, the odd behaviour, the fact that the two turned away when they saw the security guards, it all fits. These are the offenders we’re hunting, Ryan. This is our big breakthrough.’

‘Guv, I hear you. Can we celebrate in the bar? I’m choking for a drink.’

‘Sure. I’ll grab a shower and see you in there.’

Fifteen minutes later, O’Neil walked into the Pier 5 bar in a tracksuit, hair still wet, skin glowing, eyes alert as she walked towards Ryan. She was smiling, but nonetheless he felt slightly nervous of her renewed sociability. He summoned a waiter and they ordered a light supper: pink grapefruit and Caesar salad for her, Jacobsen Weissbier and club sandwich for him.

As they finished eating, her mobile rang. Checking the display, she got up and left the table without telling him who it was. She was away so long, he wondered if she was ever going to return and was relieved when she reappeared and sat down, picking up her drink.

‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

‘I thought you said no more secrets.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’ She levelled with him. ‘Hilary was contacted by the Home Office and asked to explain himself. Ford’s been whingeing that I haven’t fed back on progress, picked up his messages or returned his calls.’

‘Like you’ve had the time.’

‘That’s what I told Hilary.’ She caught Ryan’s eye over the top of her glass. ‘I owe you one, Ryan. Using Newman was a good call. He’s our secret weapon.’

‘Yeah, but for how long?’

‘We’re cool. The power play between MI5 and MI6 doesn’t bother me. The counter-terrorism unit are understandably nervous about details of the trial getting out. I can see their point of view – none of us want terrorists loose on our streets. That was their only interest in Trevathan’s murder and our investigation—’

‘They seem pretty interested in where we’re getting our information. What did Hilary tell Ford?’

‘Not to underestimate me. He’s my number one fan.’ O’Neil didn’t smile. ‘No names, no pack-drill – that’s how we were set up and how we’ll continue to operate if Hilary gets his way. Believe me, he’s no pushover.’