The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(89)

With that disturbing idea running through his head, he was uneasy sitting with his back to the door. He’d been trained never to allow that to happen. In the confines of the narrow cabin, there was little alternative. The door behind O’Neil was as much of a threat. Ryan felt his heartbeat quicken, senses on alert, survival techniques forming in his mind. It paid to be ready should things kick off. Heavy clothes and the heat from the wood-burning stove weren’t the only things making him sweat. A creak on deck was like a stab between the shoulder blades.

They had company.

O’Neil didn’t react. Either she hadn’t heard the noise or she was hiding the fact that she had. Ryan hadn’t seen the need to be tooled up. Now he wasn’t so sure. Their secure mobile firearms box was in the car, yards away, bolted to the chassis. A lot of good it would do them there.

As Clark moved towards the whistling kettle, he got there first. ‘Let me do that for you.’ Allowing her near boiling water was not going to happen. Now on his feet, he’d taken charge of the situation, regained the upper hand. ‘Superintendent O’Neil would like to ask you some questions. We don’t wish to spoil your evening or take up too much of your time.’

Clark held his gaze, her face flushed from standing so close to the stove.

Or was it something else?

Another creak on deck.

This time O’Neil heard it.

‘Is there someone else on board?’ she asked.

‘I have a friend staying over.’ The producer sounded genuine. ‘I thought you’d like some space. I didn’t think you’d want an audience while you were asking your questions.’

‘Ryan, will you ask the lady or gentleman to join us while I make tea? Ms Clark, would you like to sit down?’

Satisfied that O’Neil had the measure of their host, Ryan mounted the stairs, lifting a heavy-duty torch from the deck as he exited the hatch should he need a weapon with which to beat off an attacker. The smell of cannabis was strong. A man around thirty years of age was sitting quietly on a basket chair, wrapped up against the cold, feet resting on an upturned box. He was scanning the horizon.

He looked innocent enough.

Ryan took no chances.

‘Sir, I’m Detective Sergeant Ryan, Northumbria Police.’ Surreptitiously, he put the torch down. ‘Could you come inside please?’

The man stood up, scooping a bag of weed and a wrap of loose tobacco from the table beside his chair. Arrogantly, he tore off the roach end, flicking the live bit into the water. Satisfied that the rest was out, he slipped what remained of the flattened cigarette into his pocket, seemingly unconcerned that he was in possession of illegal drugs or that Ryan was a copper.

‘Before you start, it’s medicinal.’ He offered no further explanation.

‘You want to give it up,’ Ryan said. ‘It’s doing you no good.’

The man’s eyes were vacant. He made no comment as he pushed past, descending the steps as he’d been asked to. He took off his coat and scarf as he entered the warm cabin below, revealing the leanest frame Ryan had ever seen on a living man. Clark waited until they were all seated before taking care of the introductions.

‘This is Mo Mitchell.’ She smiled at her guest. ‘He knows about Laura’s disappearance.’

‘We’re very concerned for her safety,’ O’Neil said.

‘So I understand,’ Mitchell said.

Ryan was studying him closely. He was around five ten, gaunt, much like the bloke their Danish witness had described. Ryan was trying not to get too excited. It was important not to jump to conclusions this early in proceedings. Still . . . his eyes were drawn to tobacco-stained fingers.

A heavy smoker, Pedersen had said.

‘We’re interested in Laura Stone’s documentary.’ Ryan was facing Clark now. ‘We understand that it was extremely successful and shortlisted for a prestigious award. It would help us if we had some idea of content.’

‘You could have called. I’d have saved you a long journey.’

‘It’s no bother,’ Ryan said. ‘We wanted to meet you in person.’

Clark put down her cup, a flash of irritation. ‘It was an amazing biopic, albeit ill-timed.’

‘Ill-timed?’ O’Neil asked. ‘In what way?’

‘She was up against a film exploring the right to die, Superintendent. Laura’s film was about the right not to live. Put in context, the two are very different—’

O’Neil narrowed her eyes. ‘The right not to live?’

‘On her travels, Laura struck up a relationship with a woman with a progressive and life-limiting genetic disease knowingly passed on by her mother. Rebecca Swift, was her name. Rebecca has strong views . . . no, that’s an understatement, she felt fervently that it was selfish of parents to put their own desire to bear children above the fact that such offspring would be born with a death sentence hanging over their heads. She was an amazing subject. It was a great documentary, controversial in the way they have to be to get shortlisted.’

‘Our BBC contact told us the film was viewed the world over.’

‘To critical acclaim,’ Clark said. ‘The reviews were astonishing. Any other year, Laura would’ve won the accolade hands down.’

‘Is she dead?’ The question was blunt, but not unexpected. It had come from Mitchell. ‘We’re not children.’