The Silent Room (16 page)

Totally spent, he walked back along the beach, the remains of Dunstanburgh Castle in the distance. Crossing the golf course, he trundled up the road to his cottage, drank half a bottle of Scotch, then lay down on top of his bed fully clothed and fell into a deep and disturbed sleep.

Sad faces invaded his dreams: Hilary, Robbie, Jess and Lucy holding hands beside an open casket, tears rolling down their cheeks and his. Jack looked so peaceful lying there. No bruises or bandages visible. Just the fit bloke he was, toned and strong, proud of the physique he worked so hard to maintain. Family onlookers faded from view as Ryan approached the coffin.

Jack opened his eyes and sat bolt upright, extending his hand. No hard feelings. As Ryan reached for it, the skin fell away like molten candle wax, exposing raw flesh. Jacks lips were moving. Ryan strained to hear what he was saying. Unable to make it out, he leaned forward, poised to receive a secret, so close their cheeks almost touched, but still he didn’t understand.

Something touched his face, causing him to look up.

Pages and pages of handwritten text floated down from above. He grabbed a few but on contact with his hands the sheets melted away like snowflakes, rendering the words useless, the secrets unattainable.

The notebooks were gone . . .

‘Ryan . . . can you hear me?’

The voice sounded odd and far away. Ryan fought for control, an overwhelming sense of panic rising in his chest, cutting off his air supply. The neckline of his jumper felt like a ligature. He tried pulling it away, blood vessels popping beneath his skin as he strained to take in vital oxygen. He was choking, the rattle in his throat growing louder and more desperate with every passing second.

Breathe . . .

Breathe.

Try as he might to force his eyelids open, they were stuck fast. Jack’s bloody hand touched his shoulder. He pushed it away, his body jerking and thrashing, as if he was fighting several people at once: Grace, Newman, Caroline and a long line of others, shadowy figures he failed to recognize.

The hand was back, shaking him.

The voice too . . .

‘Ryan, wake up. It’s OK. It’s me, O’Neil.’

The name alone was enough to jolt him awake. Groggy with sleep, Ryan sat up. Swinging his legs over the side of his bed, he stood up, drenched in sweat, hair wringing wet and stuck to his forehead. His mouth was dry. He reeked of booze. When he spoke, he was almost hoarse.

‘What the hell do you want?’

‘The door was wide open,’ she said, stepping back on to the threshold of the tiny room. ‘I was worried about you.’

‘It’s a bit late for that, wouldn’t you say?’ He pointed at her, something he’d never have done in his right mind. It was offensive and confrontational, but he was hurting . . . and way beyond caring. ‘This is
your
fault. Jack’s dead because
you
wouldn’t listen, because
you
came to the enquiry from the wrong standpoint. You screwed up and never gave him a chance.’

She looked wounded. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘Isn’t it? Maguire isn’t exactly into finding the truth, is he? He’s too busy scoring points against me. Well, I’ll tell you something, shall I? My DI was a top bloke. His wife and kids deserve much more than his pension. You were wrong, guv. And I’m on a mission to ensure you pay for it.’

O’Neil just stood there looking at him, a pained expression on her face, visibly shaken by an accusation she didn’t think she deserved. ‘I do understand—’

‘No, you fucking don’t!’

She flinched when he yelled at her. Ryan raised an index finger, then withdrew it, clenching his fist so hard his nails dug into his palms. He stuck both hands in his pockets to stop himself from scaring her. He apologized. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. Just don’t tell me you understand!’

‘I don’t scare easily. I follow the evidence. What more can I say?’

‘You can tell me how you’re treating his death. You know now that he wasn’t a fugitive. Did you see the state of him, what they did to him? He took quite a beating—’

‘He was hit by a car.’

‘What?’ The revelation stunned him.

‘Whether it was accidental or deliberate is under investigation . . .’ O’Neil paused, giving him time to digest information she knew he didn’t have. As unpleasant as it was, he took it better than she expected. ‘There are, however, some things that give me cause for concern—’

‘Like what?’ he asked. ‘He was innocent!’

She thumbed over her shoulder. ‘Could we sit down?’

Ryan brushed past her, moving through the hallway and into the living room. As always it was tidy, apart from an empty bottle of Scotch that lay abandoned on the tartan sofa, along with his leather jacket, his wallet sticking out of the side pocket. Picking it up so she could sit down, he wondered if she’d looked at it while he was sleeping. If she had she’d have seen his old warrant card, his passport into a covert murder room.

Maybe Graces idea wasn’t as crazy as he’d first thought.

O’Neil sat down where the jacket had been, her eyes drawn first to the sea view through the recessed window, then across the room to the patio door that overlooked his outside space, a sheltered yard where, in other circumstances and a different season, he might have invited her to sit and share a bottle of wine. Her focus switched to the wood-burning stove laid ready in the hearth.

‘You cold?’ he asked. ‘I’ll light the fire.’

‘No, it’s cosy.’

He could see she loved the room. Bizarrely, that pleased him. He’d taken such care to make it his own. He adored it: the sea-grass rug, an old chest for a coffee table, especially the sea urchin footrest Caroline had bought him as a housewarming gift – and books – lots and lots of reading material, his secret passion. This cottage was his sanctuary, the only place he felt at peace.

Roz hated everything about it.

‘You were saying,’ Ryan asked.

O’Neil drew in a breath. ‘Jack wasn’t wearing anything on his feet when they found him.’

‘And that’s not suspicious?’

‘It needs investigating, yes.’ She almost looked embarrassed. ‘Initially I thought he’d lost his shoes as a result of the impact. But we’ve combed the scene and didn’t find any. The search is ongoing. His shoes are still missing. He wasn’t wearing any socks either and his feet were filthy. It would appear he was barefoot when struck.’

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the wind howling in the chimney echoing the waves crashing on to the beach a few hundred metres away.

‘Why are you finding it so difficult to accept that Jack was held against his will?’ Ryan asked.

‘I’m not ruling it out—’

‘For Christ’s sake, listen to yourself! If he’d gone dark he’d have been living the high life in the Mediterranean, wouldn’t he? Running about the countryside unshod is hardly the action of someone in cahoots with gunrunners, is it?’

‘No, it isn’t. . .’

There was more. Ryan sensed it.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘The only information I have at the moment is that he was run over.’

‘Mown down, more like.’

O’Neil didn’t react.

‘Eyewitnesses?’ he asked.

A nod. ‘One female travelling in the opposite direction . . . she called it in—’

‘And?’

‘Evidently the driver had no chance to take avoiding action. Jack ran into the middle of the road and was struck. The car that hit him stopped, so our witness didn’t. She was very shaken up. We’re trying to trace other witnesses. It’s possible that Jack was trying to flag a vehicle down.’

‘Because he needed help.’ It was a statement, not a question.

‘Maybe.’

Ryan searched her face. ‘What is it you’re not telling me?’

O’Neil hesitated. ‘The collision vehicle didn’t hang around.’

‘You’re not suggesting he was the victim of a hit-and-run?’

‘The post-mortem will tell us more.’

‘His death is being treated as murder, though? Please tell me it is.’

‘Not at this stage.’

Ryan felt his temper rise. He didn’t even try keeping it in check. ‘Why not wash over the whole bloody business? Maybe Jack just came into some bad luck while he was escaping the police. Hey anything’s possible. No murder equals no expense to HQ, physical or financial. That’ll be a win-win – a tick in the target box. Give yourself a pat on the back, why don’t you?’

‘Ryan, you’re not helping.’

‘No, you’re the one not helping.’ Ryan paused, white noise filling his head. ‘Jack was out of it when he reached the hospital. He flatlined before Hilary got a chance to speak to him . . . did he say
anything
to paramedics at the scene?’

O’Neil recoiled as if he’d hit her.

‘What?’ he barked.

A shadow crossed her face. ‘He asked for you.’

Ryan stood up and turned his back on her. He was fighting for breath, only this time for real. Resisting the urge to bawl in front of her made his sore throat worse. He stood stock-still, memories of Jack occupying all conscious thought.

Back in control, he swung round to face her. ‘Mind telling me where it happened?’

She gave him a pointed look. ‘You know how this works.’

He stared her down until she answered.

‘Remote,’ she said. ‘Durham – I can’t say where.’ He was about to interrupt but she got in first. ‘Before you bite my head off, I want you to know that the scene is being forensically examined as we speak.’ She glanced at the wooden floor, avoiding his gaze. When she raised her head, he knew she had something to say he wouldn’t want to hear –
but first the preamble.
‘I know you don’t think so, but I’ve been straight with you all along—’

‘Your point being?’

‘Before I came here, I had a word with the duty SIO on the Murder Investigation Team. Although no murder enquiry has been launched yet, I’m treating Jack’s death as suspicious. I managed to persuade them to link it with my abduction and uploaded the case on to HOLMES.’ That was a big deal. The acronym referred to the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, a computerized tool for dealing with only the most serious incidents. ‘You know as well as I do, mowing someone down, as you put, it is an easy kill. You also know how difficult it is to prove intent.’

‘And where do I stand in all this?’

‘In what respect?’

‘Am I on board? Can I work with you on it?’

She seemed to be considering his request. But then something happened to change her mind. She was preoccupied all of a sudden, looking anywhere but at him, her colour rising. Maybe she’d seen his warrant card after all.

‘Guv? What’s up?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Well, it’s gone cold in here and it’s not coming through the double-glazing.’

O’Neil pointed at a pile of stuff in the corner of his tiny living room. On top was Express Quest packaging. ‘What was in the parcel, Ryan?’

‘Nowt.’ Ryan felt hot. He knew his explanation would be met with a level of scepticism. ‘I know you’ll find it hard to believe – and I’m in no position to prove otherwise – but apart from a load of shredded paper, it was empty. Why? Has someone sent you one?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, guv. It must be relevant for you to ask.’

‘The same courier was used to send a video of the hijack to Nick Barratt at the BBC.’

‘Take it,’ he said. ‘Search the house. It’ll only take you ten minutes. It came yesterday. Delivered to a neighbour in my absence. I have no idea who sent it. The shredded stuff is in the recycling bin if you want it for Forensics. Now, are you lifting my suspension or not?’

‘No. I’ll review the position when the PM results are in.’

‘You’re making a mistake.’

‘I’m sorry,’ O’Neil said. ‘I’ve made my decision. That’s the way it is.’

‘Did I say anything?’

‘You didn’t have to.’

Ryan shook his head. ‘If you had no news for me, why the hell come here?’

‘Because Jack Fenwick was a police officer and so am I.’ Her eyes misted ever so slightly. She recovered quickly. ‘And because you worked with him and I know you two were very close. I’ve been upfront with you, now it’s your turn. If there is any information you’re withholding, you need to hand it over. There’s no longer any reason to hold back.’

‘Jesus! How many more times?’

‘OK.’ She raised her hands in defence. ‘Don’t say I didn’t give you every opportunity.’

‘I don’t believe this.’ Ryan’s frustration was mounting. ‘I know nothing that can help you. Ask your mates in the Organized Crime Unit, why don’t you?’

A flash of incredulity crossed her face before she could hide it. She was genuinely staggered by the allegation that the unit had taken an interest in her case. He said nothing as she stood up to leave. It was time to go to work, for both of them. Frozen out of the enquiry, Ryan made up his mind to go along with Grace’s suggestion.

Covert murder room coming right up.

32

‘Are you in or out?’ Newman asked.

Ryan hesitated. He knew the risk he was taking but was full of hell after his showdown with O’Neil. Although Grace’s plan to resurrect an incident room from old wires under the floor didn’t inspire him with confidence, Newman assured him it could be done. He nodded his consent. ‘I can’t see any other way. O’Neil’s not listening. She’s suspicious of me and she’s holding the best hand. She has the law on her side: manpower, equipment and HOLMES at her disposal. It’s hardly a level playing field, is it?’

‘Yet,’ Newman said.

‘You sure, Ryan?’ Grace was staring at him. In bits, having spent her morning with Jack’s widow and children, she’d returned home so drained she’d gone straight to her room, preferring her own company, a situation that was as worrying as it was out of character. She’d always been a team player. Retreating into her own world and blocking them out wasn’t her style. She’d only just emerged and even Newman looked troubled.

‘Positive,’ Ryan said.

As they discussed the way forward, he lost all concentration. The news on the radio was almost as depressing as the task of hunting Jack’s killers. A case in Greece had made the headlines after DNA testing proved that a little girl was not the biological daughter of a Roma couple. In similar circumstances, a second child had since been taken into care by child-trafficking officers in Ireland, reminding Ryan that he wasn’t the only one searching for the truth.