The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(88)

‘What I wouldn’t give for life in the slow lane,’ she said.

‘Nah . . . you’d be bored in no time.’

‘I’d cope . . . it’s a beautiful spot.’

‘Yeah. I’ve passed by this way before.’ He thumbed in a northwesterly direction. ‘Fifteen miles that way.’

‘Careful, Ryan – that statement links you to a crime scene in Scotland and one here.’

‘I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.’ Ryan walked round the car to join her. Balling his hands into fists, he turned them over and held them out ready to be cuffed. ‘Guilty, ma’am.’

‘Don’t tempt me. An arrest would make me look good. I could do with some positive strokes. It feels like forever since any came my way. We only just got started and already I need time off.’ She scanned the river. ‘This place would fit the bill.’

‘There’s a lovely village not far away: Bourton-on the-Water. It was the name that attracted me. If we have time—’

‘We don’t,’ she said.

‘You’re no fun.’ Ryan pressed his key fob, locking the doors.

It was misty and even colder on the Thames Path than it had been in King’s Garden, Copenhagen, a climate that penetrated your clothing and pierced your bones. This time he’d come dressed for it: thick socks; sturdy shoes; a Shetland sweater he’d picked up in Lerwick last time he was there, an overcoat for added warmth.

The vessel in the water was painted British racing green, edged in gold. It floated in perfect harmony with its surroundings, smoke drifting from a stainless steel chimney above the cabin roof. On board, evergreen plants adorned the forward deck. Next to them, two sit-up-and-beg bicycles with worn leather seats leaned against the cabin, shopping baskets front and rear, the only way to transport provisions from the nearest town without a vehicle. There were no cars parked close to the riverside. Londoner, Ryan assumed.

Stood to reason . . .

Pointless having a car in the capital.

His eyes drifted over the craft. They came to rest on bold script across the aft where a professional signwriter had picked out the name LAURE in engravers’ typeface. The French spelling of Laura – like Captain Berthaud, the main character of the TV series Spiral – hit him like a brick. It made him wonder if the producer who owned the vessel had a penchant for a documentary maker of the same name and/or crime – not necessarily fiction.

He looked at O’Neil.

‘I noticed,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s get in there.’

An attractive woman appeared on the stern deck through a wooden door, a concerned expression on her face. This was, without doubt, Gemma Clark, Laura Stone’s producer. Having googled her before he left, Ryan confirmed her identification to O’Neil with a nod.

Clark beckoned them aboard.

Stepping onto the navigation deck, Ryan extended a hand to O’Neil. She ignored it, boarding without his help, disappearing with their host down steep steps into her living quarters. Ducking his head, Ryan followed them into what was essentially a contemporary studio, more generous than he expected, equipped with every modern convenience to facilitate comfortable living.

Clark turned to face them.

Ryan’s wish to hear her voice outweighed the pull of the vessel’s stunning interior, but he was unable to engage with her because O’Neil had already begun the introductions.

‘I’m Detective Superintendent Eloise O’Neil, Northumbria Police,’ she said. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Matthew Ryan. I understand that you and Laura Stone were very close.’

Clark nodded.

Ryan wondered how close.

The producer had already been informed that personal items belonging to Laura had been found – her bag and ID – and yet she seemed unmoved by the gravity of the situation, not a flicker of upset now or in the recent past. He found that odd. Unsettling.

Clark swept a hand out, offering the detectives a seat. And still she hadn’t spoken. O’Neil sat down, Ryan likewise, eyes fixed on their host. She was slight in build, around five eight, soft-featured – pretty rather than attractive. Made up, she’d be stunning.

Film-star looks?

Ryan shook himself. He wasn’t thinking straight. They now knew that Mrs Forbes had been describing the MI5 agent who’d collected the briefcase. He had to draw a line under that and concentrate on the evidence from the one and only eyewitness currently in the pot, Anja Pedersen. Responding to Ryan’s stare, Clark turned away, put the kettle on the stove and then swung round to face them, resting against the counter while she waited for it to boil.

‘Sorry, you must think me very rude,’ she said. ‘Would you like tea or something stronger? You’ve had a long drive.’

Her accent was Irish.

What the fuck?

Lines were blurring again.

Ryan fought to separate them.

‘Was she Irish?’ was a question he’d asked Mrs Forbes. He’d got a negative response but was now beginning to question Newman’s source. Could the couple who took the briefcase be their suspects after all? MI5 had lied to them before, if not directly, then by keeping them in the dark.

Images of hot women and skinny men scrolled through Ryan’s head, along with Yorkshire and Irish accents, causing him to doubt himself. Complex enquiries made you question everything. For all he knew, Clark could be a failed actress turned producer – skilled in the art of subterfuge – able to pull off any number of personas and dialects without difficulty. Alarm bells were ringing loudly. She didn’t sound like Spielberg. He was taking no chances. She sure as hell possessed some of her attributes.