The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(94)

‘You think a life-limiting disease was the trigger?’

‘I think so.’

‘But Laura was raising awareness on an important issue. Why would they kill her for it?’

‘I never said I had all the answers. We won’t know until we view the footage. I suppose it depends on how balanced the piece was. Whether or not Laura showed both sides of the argument to the satisfaction of everyone in the same way Terry Pratchett did in his. We know nothing about her beyond the fact that she’s probably floating in the North Sea. Maybe she had a moral conscience. Maybe she was pro-life, no matter the circumstances, and someone took exception to her interpretation of the information she’d been entrusted with. What if she came down on one side of the argument—’

‘The wrong side?’

‘Precisely.’

O’Neil picked up her wine, taking a moment to consider the premise. ‘You know, that’s not as daft as it sounds.’

‘It would also explain why she didn’t win the award,’ Ryan said. ‘As the subject of her documentary, Rebecca Swift is the person we need to talk to urgently, not Sophia Montgomery. Clark said the film was well reviewed. You know as well as I do that everyone is a critic these days. I’ll bet not all of them came down in Laura’s favour.’

They had homework to do, starting with the documentary.





52


Aware that they would be up half the night, they took the rest of their wine up to O’Neil’s room on the fourth floor, put a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, and set her computer on the desk. Wasting no time, Eloise logged on, opening up the digital link Grace had forwarded from the production company who held the rights to the documentary.

As they settled down to watch the film, the atmosphere was both grim and hopeful: grim on account of the film’s hard-hitting and deeply distressing content; hopeful because, the more they watched, the more convinced they became that they were making headway. O’Neil reckoned they could wrap the case up. She’d said as much.

Ryan reckoned it was the wine talking.

‘I hope that wishful thinking rubs off,’ he said.

‘You think I’m being unrealistic?’

‘No, but we’re not even close to Spielberg’s identity.’

‘So prove me right, Ryan. Make me look good.’

She did look good.

He studied her for a moment. She was sitting on her bed, wine glass in her left hand, pen in the other, a notepad on her knee. Her eyes were fixed to the screen, long legs and bare feet tucked up beneath her. Despite the pressure she was under to solve Operation Shadow, she was more relaxed than she’d been in a long while. Ryan was feet away, sitting on the only available chair, closer to the desk. He couldn’t deny it: the intimacy of a darkened hotel bedroom was a big turn-on.

If only she’d been over Forsythe.

‘DS Ryan, may I remind you that you’re supposed to be watching.’ She’d spoken without making eye contact, a smile playing round her lips. She was teasing him for acting like a teenager. Ryan shifted his eyes back to the screen. It was great to have her back.

They dissected every moment of the footage and, on second viewing, took notes, as they had with Spielberg’s own efforts at film-making. Rebecca Swift was, without doubt, the star of the show, a compelling character with the courage of her convictions, an honest, gutsy woman with strong views she was determined to put across. Undaunted by the camera, she made a fascinating subject. Not quite as beguiling as the redhead on the bed, but Ryan couldn’t have everything.

‘Laura must’ve been immensely grateful for Rebecca’s poise,’ he said. ‘Without it, this documentary wouldn’t have worked, on any level. I warmed to Knox and Schofield. Didn’t care much for Jo Nichol though, did you? Not a particularly likeable character. Bit of a chip on her shoulder, if you ask me.’

‘Understandable, I suppose.’

‘Why? Her condition is less severe than the others. You wouldn’t think so, for all the whining she did—’

‘That’s harsh, Ryan. She’s probably scared witless. People cope with illness differently. Imagine if that was you. In fact, it’s so depressing, I could do with another drink. Want one?’

‘Thought you’d never ask.’

As the credits rolled, O’Neil removed her specs, scrambling across the bed to grab the wine bottle, tutting when she found it empty. She got up, pulled open the mini-bar and peered inside. ‘There’s not much choice. You want a beer or something stronger?’

Ryan checked his watch: quarter to one. ‘Scotch if you have it. Neat.’

‘Think I’ll join you.’ She poured them both one, threw the empty miniatures in the trash and climbed back on the bed. ‘I’ll be honest, Ryan. I’ve never heard of this disease, have you?’

‘Genetic genealogy was never my strong point, especially at this time in the morning.’

They were grateful that medical experts had explained the complexities of the disease – otherwise it would have been lost on them. Named after the German professor who’d identified it, Sauer’s Syndrome involved DNA inherited from the autosomal chromosomes, a dominant genetic condition predisposing those affected to aggressive and multiple cancers, affecting all parts of the body from an early age. In layman’s terms, it was a complicated gene mutation, causing catastrophic knock-on effects in those unfortunate enough to receive it from a parent. Dodgy DNA in capital letters.