The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(86)
‘Of course I’m worried about the press!’ Ford barked. ‘And so should you be. Very soon the British tabloids will be all over this, interviewing anyone they can lay their hands on. You’d better make sure they don’t—’
‘Can I stop you there? The press isn’t a priority. I’m chasing a very dangerous individual while you’re standing idle with your thumb up your arse. Deal with them yourself. Overriding that call wasn’t only bad judgement, it may very well have cost lives.’
‘I’m not pandering to the whim of a serial killer—’
‘And you’re happy with that decision, are you? We’re wise to you, Mister Ford. We know you’d happily shaft us in order to step onto the next rung of the ladder. Well, it’s not happening. And I’ll tell you why, shall I? All calls into the Control Room are recorded for action and/or further investigation. When my guv’nor gets her hands on a copy of the incident log, it’s you who’ll be heading for the door.’
‘You can’t talk to me like that. I’ll have your warrant card!’
‘Have a nice day, sir.’ Ryan cut the call, eyes on his boss. ‘Can you believe that moron?’
O’Neil dropped her head in her hands.
Grace was giving Ryan a round of applause.
Newman caught his eye. ‘You think she’ll ring back?’
Ryan shrugged. He hadn’t the faintest idea.
48
Three days had passed without a peep out of her. Ryan checked the time on the menu bar of his computer screen: 8:05 p.m., Friday, 20 December – day eleven of the enquiry for them, the last working day of the year for many. In less than an hour’s time, they would have yet another briefing. He eyed O’Neil across his desk. She had the phone wedged in the crook of her neck and was scribbling furiously on a notepad, trying her best to remain positive, deflecting press enquiries and Ford’s continued interference. She’d told Forsythe that if he didn’t get him off her back, she was out. Ryan knew she didn’t mean it. All the same, it was painful to listen to.
An email pinged into his inbox, forwarded from Technical Support in-house. It had originated at Ne46 Technology, a third-party analysis firm with premises in the Tyne Valley, a company specializing in video production technologies and sector trends, historical and contemporary.
Nice to see that someone was still working.
Ryan’s mood plummeted as he read the opening line of the document:
It is not possible to establish the brand of camera used from the sample DVD beyond stating that, whilst it is not the most up-to-date, the videos received were definitely shot on an HDCAM recorder capable of digital cinematography. This is available to both keen amateurs and seasoned professionals.
Beyond that, the written report stated the obvious: the camera was handheld, an aesthetic choice; a technique often chosen by film-makers for time-saving purposes, the device being quicker to set up. The writer pointed out an alternative scenario, that it was a method used by some cinematographers to add realism. Well, it had certainly done that, Ryan thought as he continued reading, becoming more and more impressed with the content the further down the page he got.
‘This is fascinating,’ he said.
Grace looked up. ‘What is?’
He read out the parts of significance. ‘If we ever find Spielberg, I’ll let you know how accurate it is. How are you faring with Tierney’s boarding school?’
‘You want the truth?’ She downed tools, picking up a mug of cold coffee. ‘I’m getting ready to shoot myself.’
‘The school is refusing to cooperate?’
‘On the contrary, the headmaster handed over everything. But we’ve not found a single shred of evidence pointing to abuse, despite extensive and wide-ranging interviews with current and ex-teachers. Ditto pupils. Local officers found nothing on Tierney – not a whisper of anything untoward – and there are no links to either Dean or Trevathan. No one involved with that boarding school, either when Tierney taught or was a pupil there, has a bad word to say about it or him. It was a happy school. By all accounts, it still is. I just got off the phone with an ex-detective superintendent from West Yorkshire. He speaks so highly of it, I’m inclined to believe we have it wrong.’
‘That doesn’t fill me with pride,’ Ryan said. ‘Given that the abuse angle was largely my idea.’
‘Largely?’ Grace peered at him over the top of her specs, flicking her eyes in the direction of Newman. ‘Even he looks glum. That doesn’t happen often. See what you’ve done. I reckon it’s time to dump this line of enquiry and move on.’
‘Yes!’ O’Neil punched the air, her outburst taking them by surprise. She put down the phone. ‘Guys, we have a major breakthrough. A yellow satchel has been found at the Tide Wrack, exactly as Watson described it, even down to the bloody make. Sorry, Grace, whatever you might think of him personally, he nailed this for us.’
‘Is the Tide Wrack a boozer?’ Newman asked.
‘No,’ Grace said. ‘It’s the point on the shore at Whitley Bay where only the highest tides reach, where all the loose material is washed up: dead fish, sea creatures, driftwood, items lost at sea. Ecologically, it’s an important source of food for migrating birds and other species.’