The Death Messenger (Matthew Ryan Book 2)(95)



Ryan took his shot glass from O’Neil. ‘Clark was spot on in her opinion of the documentary. It was unsettling and somewhat bleak, but thought-provoking nevertheless. It’s a credit to Laura, a quality production. Perfectly balanced too, didn’t you think?’

‘Which rules out the idea that she was killed for taking sides.’

‘I wonder if, faced with similar circumstances, I’d hate my parents as much as Rebecca Swift does hers.’

‘It’s hard to be objective when you’re healthy.’

‘Healthy might be pushing it.’ Ryan yawned, eyes watering as he covered a gaping mouth. ‘Rebecca was amazing though, wasn’t she? Such composure. No tears or tantrums, anger or melodrama, just plain hard facts. My kind of woman.’

‘But not the one Pedersen saw in Copenhagen.’

‘No. She’s too small – too old.’

‘Not old,’ O’Neil countered. ‘Laura referred to her as mid thirties.’

Ryan bristled. ‘I thought she said mid forties.’

‘Then you should’ve been paying more attention.’

‘You sure?’

‘Positive. You heard what your eyes were telling you.’

‘I stand corrected,’ Ryan said. ‘She looks much older, not particularly ill, but those vacant eyes . . .’

‘Haunting, weren’t they?’ O’Neil met his gaze. ‘What was it she said? “I’m dying from the inside out and my mother made it happen.” I’m with her on that score. Why anyone who knew they had a high chance of passing on such a devastating disease would have a child beats me.’

Ryan didn’t answer. Didn’t argue either.





53


A call came in to Ryan’s mobile as he was finishing his breakfast. In spite of his best efforts, Newman hadn’t completed his background check on Montgomery. People were proving difficult to track down, many of them disappearing for Christmas. Grace was similarly stumped, liaison with the Met proving more troublesome than she’d anticipated.

‘Bad timing,’ Ryan said. ‘Don’t worry about it. You think you’ll be done by noon?’

‘Hope so,’ Newman said.

‘And Grace?’

‘If all goes to plan.’

‘Perfect. Rather than sit around and wait, Eloise and I will pay Rebecca Swift a visit. We had a long chat last night – I won’t go into it now, but suffice to say, we need to do that as a matter of urgency. She’s in St Albans, less than an hour from here. When we’re done, we’ll commandeer an office at the nearest nick and call you at midday.’

‘Works for us.’

‘Any problems, give me a shout. By the way, can you and Grace try to watch the documentary before we speak?’

‘Consider it done.’ Newman rang off.

Ryan and O’Neil encountered biblical rain on the journey south. It was close to ten thirty before they reached their destination, a studio flat in Upper Marlborough Road, not far from the city centre; one of five contained within a recent conversion. Rebecca Swift lived on the second floor at the front of the house.

Before mounting communal stairs, O’Neil paused to admire black-and-white Victorian tiles in the hallway, retained by a savvy builder. ‘I’d love these in my house,’ she said. ‘So many original features are ripped out these days. Why do people do that?’

‘No taste, I guess. What’s the plan when we get in there?’

‘I’ll take the lead. You take notes. Rebecca trusted Laura with her innermost secrets, a medical and ethical dilemma she cares deeply about, enough to want to share it with the world. I want to gauge the strength of their relationship. I’m sure she’s not our girl, but keep your eyes open for anything odd.’

On the floor above, O’Neil knocked on the door.

It was opened almost immediately, surprising them both, not because of the tenant’s apparent fleetness of foot, but because of the acute change in Rebecca’s appearance. Health-wise, she was in a worse condition than she had been when she appeared in the documentary. She’d lost a lot of weight and had a pasty complexion and hollow cheeks. Logical, Ryan supposed. The film had gone on general release in July 2011 – almost two and a half years ago – which was a very long time in the life of a patient riddled with a disease that had no cure.

Rebecca’s cold and bony hand shook when she offered it to each of them. She stepped aside to let them pass into the studio and closed the door quietly behind them. The space was cramped but tidy with hardwood flooring, a large south-facing sash window overlooking the main road. There were no seasonal decorations. The absence of even one Christmas card made Ryan’s heart ache. There would be no celebration here this year, or ever, he suspected.

Rebecca gestured towards a compact dining table positioned in the bay, an empty coffee cup on the surface. She’d been watching from the window, reading while she waited for them to arrive. A copy of the Guardian lay abandoned on the tabletop with a picture of a distraught Nigella Lawson on the front page. To the left of the photograph, a headline shouted: GCHQ spied on charities and EU allies – a story about British and US intelligence agencies having a comprehensive list of surveillance targets.

Nothing new.

Ryan’s eyes drifted to a minute kitchen area, more especially to the open cupboard door above the bench. On the shelves were boxes of prescription drugs and pill bottles of every shape and size, enough morphine to fell an army. He wondered how often Rebecca Swift had contemplated suicide. She caught his eye, an accusing look that made him feel like a spy of the very worst kind.

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