The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(92)

Sophia Montgomery’s home was north of the capital, close to the M1 corridor, a two-hour commute to the City of London. It took Ryan and O’Neil twice as long as it should have to reach the outskirts of Bletchley where she lived, partly due to rush hour traffic, the annual migration of people wanting to get home for the holidays, but mostly because the weather was doing its best to curtail their journey. Severe storms had disrupted the rail network, taking down trees, causing minor structural damage. Huge floods had knocked out the power to thousands of homes causing chaos for the emergency services.

‘Pull over,’ O’Neil said suddenly.

‘Guv? We’re not there yet.’

‘This’ll do.’ She was pointing to a pub off the main road, not the most salubrious Ryan had ever seen. He didn’t argue, just turned into the busy car park and coasted to a stop. The navigation system showed the road they had left as the A421, a few miles short of their mark. The pub reminded Ryan of one in Gateshead, a bit rough and ready, not the type of establishment he expected to see around here. O’Neil must be desperate.

‘In need of a comfort break?’ He thumbed out the rain-lashed window and pulled a face. ‘Don’t think you’ll find one in there somehow.’

‘I need a pee, a drink and a moment to think through how I’m going to approach a woman who allegedly can’t speak.’ She opened the door, soaking herself instantly. ‘C’mon, shift yourself.’ Pulling her coat over her head, she ran towards the pub’s entrance.

The bar was noisy, heaving with people in party mood and other weary travellers sheltering from the horizontal rain. Leaving Ryan to buy the drinks, O’Neil sloped off in the direction of the ladies’ room. By the time he’d paid, she’d taken a seat near the door, away from the crowded bar and other customers. She wanted a lot of things. Company wasn’t one of them.

He joined her, a glass in each hand. ‘If you were hoping for a decent gin, you’ll be sadly disappointed.’

‘What is it?’ She sniffed the clear liquid.

‘Gordon’s,’ he said.

‘Classy.’

‘Show some gratitude. It’s the only type they stock. After our long drive, I was hoping you’d take the wheel and swap it for my Coke.’ She didn’t bite. ‘Fair enough. How is the ankle holding up?’

‘A bit stiff on occasions – worse when I don’t move it.’

‘Well, now you have, are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?’

‘It’s nothing!’ She sipped her gin, screwed up her face. ‘This is horrible.’

‘Didn’t sound like nothing in the car.’

‘It’s everything. The time of year . . . the fact that I’ve been cross-examined by my team . . . you and me. But mostly what’s bugging me is this bloody enquiry. I’m beginning to wish we were investigating terrorism after all. This case is about a voice, Ryan. A fucking voice, and it’s getting to me.’

‘Can you be more specific?’ He laughed.

O’Neil’s face was blank. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit nervous of approaching Sophia Montgomery. She’s probably every bit as lovely as Mitchell said she was, but when Clark said she was mute, something exploded in my head. I couldn’t shake the idea that if you never spoke – except on a DVD – you’d never get caught. There would be no voice comparison, nothing to implicate you—’

‘Sounds logical.’

‘Yeah, but now I’m wondering if I jumped too quickly.’ O’Neil pulled so hard on her drink only ice cubes were left in the tumbler. ‘Look, I can handle this on my own. You should go home and spend the holidays with Caroline. You’ve been amazing, all of you. You’ve worked round the clock on this case and I’m truly grateful.’

‘It’s what we get paid for.’

Eloise was pushing him away. Ryan hated the idea that, for her, Christmas had been marred by an unfortunate past. A loss, any loss, at this time of year would bring sadness rather than joy. From now on, while everyone around her was celebrating, O’Neil would probably be contemplating how different life could have been, had she chosen the right partner rather than the wrong one.

‘What’s really eating you?’ Ryan said.

‘I’m worried that my copper’s instinct may be wrong on this occasion.’

‘In what respect?’

O’Neil didn’t answer.

‘C’mon, there must be a reason. You’re not usually this—’

‘This what?’ It was almost a snarl.

‘I was going to say in two minds, ambivalent, indecisive. Feel free to pick your own adjective—’

She bristled. ‘So now I’m unsure of myself as well as unfit to lead?’

‘I never said that—’

‘It’s what you meant.’ She met his gaze defiantly.

‘Is it personal? If not, talk to me. Eloise, I’m not a fucking mind reader.’

O’Neil stared at him for a second, in two minds. ‘My goddaughter has selective mutism. Taken out of context, the word “selective” is misleading. The condition is often seen as a choice. Please believe me when I tell you that it’s not. The girl I’m talking about was perfectly fine at home until she started school. The minute she walked into a classroom, bang! She closed down, became anxious. It got worse. Now she’s the same in a shop or in any other social situation. She knows how to talk but blocks communication because it’s simply too stressful.’