The Silent Room (7 page)

O’Neil was holding up ID.

They hadn’t met before.

Half an hour later, she left the house. As soon as she’d driven away, Ryan was out of his car, moving like a bullet towards the door she’d just come out of, the prop of an empty manila folder under his arm. He pressed the doorbell then stood back, examining the peeling white paint on the wicket fence, the weeds in the garden.

No contender for Britain in Bloom.

Expletives reached his ears from the other side of the glass panel facing him. Kids were being yelled at. A woman’s voice, extremely irate by the sounds of it. Ryan took a deep breath, intending to make up the truth as he went along.

The door was yanked open suddenly.

‘Sorry, sir . . .’ Ryan spoke before the occupant had time to. ‘Detective Superintendent O’Neil has one or two further questions she’d like me to put to you. It’ll only take a second. Apologies for the inconvenience – won’t keep you long.’

The man on the threshold was clearly agitated. Three fingers on his left hand were taped together and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. He was quite well built, dressed in chinos, a tight T-shirt. ‘Listen, pal, no offence, but your boss is pushing her luck. I have two weeks off.
Two.
In five hours I’m catching a flight from Manchester. Know what I’m saying? Why my daft cow of a wife couldn’t find one out of Newcastle is beyond me. But my life won’t be worth living if we’re late and they refuse to let us board. So ask your questions, then be nice and piss off, because she’s driving and I’m not keen.’

‘Point taken,’ Ryan said. ‘May I come inside?’

‘Do I have a choice?’

Ryan gave a grin.

‘Nah, didn’t think so.’

As the homeowner stepped inside, Ryan entered the house, his eyes everywhere. The place was a tip, the decor drab, in need of updating. The walls were roughly painted and damp had eaten away at the plaster in places. A security guard’s uniform jacket was hanging on a peg in the hallway. The living room was equally grim, but he was in luck. Suitcases littered the floor. A handbag lay open on the coffee table, passports and a travel wallet sitting beside it. The owner’s ID wasn’t going to be a problem.

Ryan felt his tension drain away. If O’Neil had taken Maguire along, his plan would never have worked. ‘May I take the number on your passport, sir?’

The man spread his hands. ‘What for?’

‘Routine. You’re the star witness in a high-profile case. If you went walkabout we’d look pretty silly, wouldn’t we? You’re lucky I’m only asking to look at it, not keep it. My boss is a stickler for the rules. She likes things tidy.’

‘Help yourself,’ the man said.

Ryan sifted the documents until he found the one he was looking for. He skim-read the man’s passport and put it back, committing his name and date of birth to memory. ‘You’re a lucky man, Mr Irwin. Exactly how long are you away for?’

‘Two weeks, if I ever get there.’

‘I take it you gave the Super your contact details in case we want to get in touch?’

‘Of course . . . don’t you people talk to each other? I told her everything. Everything.’

Ryan relaxed.

A teenager made an appearance and got short shrift from her dad. Then a woman Ryan assumed was Irwin’s wife popped her head round the door looking daggers at her husband. Jabbing her wristwatch with her right forefinger, she told him she was leaving in fifteen minutes, with or without him.

A mismatched pair – there was a lot of it about.

‘Sorry, mate.’ Ryan winced as Irwin’s missus disappeared, slamming the door behind her, chipping another bit of plaster off the wall. ‘You want me to have a word? She doesn’t look too chuffed.’

Irwin waved away the offer. ‘She never looks chuffed. You wouldn’t think I was nearly a goner yesterday would you? All she’s bothered about is humping her own clobber to the car and making my life hell because we’re going to have to spend my hard-earned adding another driver to the insurance in Cyprus. You could fit what I’m taking in a plackie bag. She’s given me earache all morning. Those thugs yesterday didn’t scare me, your boss doesn’t scare me, but my missus does.’

‘It must’ve been a tough shift yesterday.’

‘You could say that. It nearly finished my co-driver—’

‘And you too, I imagine.’

‘Not like Storey – the kid was bricking it.’

Storey?
Ryan wanted to hug him.

‘Want my honest opinion?’ Either way, Irwin was hellbent on giving it. ‘That’ll be his last shift as a security guard. It’ll also teach the little shite not to look down his nose at the likes of me. Educated, know what I mean? So far up his own arse he can nearly see his tonsils. I’ll be pleased to be rid of him.’

‘My boss all over.’ Ryan thumbed over his shoulder to his imaginary colleague. ‘The Super might seem very nice to you, but mess with her . . .’ He drew a hand across his throat. Taking a peek in his empty file, grateful that at six three he had several inches’ height advantage over his witness, Ryan posed a question. ‘Actually do you have a mobile number for Storey? I think she forgot to write it down.’ As Irwin read it out, Ryan scribbled it on the front of the file and then dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Between you and me, my guv’nor has your prisoner pegged for some heavy shit. I know the guy personally. Don’t quote me, whatever you do, it’s just that I happen to believe he’s innocent.’

‘I’m with you, pal.’

‘Really? You have no idea how happy I am to hear it.’

‘Fenwick didn’t have the first idea he was going to be sprung,’ Irwin said. ‘Storey was bad enough, but your man was going ape-shit. He kept pounding on the cab, yelling at me to get the hell out of there. There’s no way he wanted to go with those prigs. No way! And I’ll tell you something else: I think your boss has her doubts too. What did you say your name was?’

‘Maguire,’ Ryan lied. He could see he’d made the wrong choice as soon as the word was out of his mouth. He stuck out a hand. Unflappable. ‘As in Chris, not to be mistaken for DS John Maguire, another idiot with his head up his arse. Like you and Storey, we don’t really see eye to eye.’

‘You got that right!’ Irwin huffed.

Ryan changed the subject. ‘Can I give you a hand with these bags, mate?’

‘Nah, leave ’em. It’ll give her indoors something else to crow about.’

Ryan grinned at his newfound friend. Male bonding was a wonderful thing. Now they understood one another, it was time to ask a few pointed questions. Then he could relax with a fortnight’s grace while Irwin was out of the country with his family. By the time he returned to the UK, one way or the other, it would all be over.

12

Jack woke suddenly as the key turned in the lock. Before he had time to look round, he was hauled on to his back, a flashlight trained on him. The bright light blinded him, forcing his eyelids closed. Pushing away the Swedes arm, he blinked them open. He could smell garlic on the guy’s breath. This was the one who did all the talking, the one who took the most pleasure in inflicting pain.

‘Give it up, Jack?’ The balaclava-clad face looked ominous illuminated behind the torch.

‘Go to hell!’ Jack’s voice was hoarse. He’d been yelling to attract attention, for all the good it had done. He cried out as the man struck him a blow to the side of the head with a fist that felt like a rock. The pain was excruciating. Nauseating. He almost lost consciousness. Wished he had.

The eyes behind the mask were smiling. The bastard was enjoying himself, unconcerned that Jack was a policeman or that the whole of Northumbria force – and possibly forces countrywide – were looking for him. Such blatant disregard was disturbing. It messed with Jack’s head, clear indication of the trouble he was in. Trouble he might never get out of.

‘Come on, Jack. This is so unnecessary. We know you’ve been gathering intelligence. Talking to people. Poking around in business that doesn’t concern you. It really won’t do. It makes people nervous. Angry even—’

‘You know nothing, or I wouldn’t be here.’

‘Save yourself, Jack. Your contact had the chance to talk to us. He didn’t. He’s since been taken care of. But you already know that, don’t you? Despite what you think, I’m a reasonable man, prepared to give you that same chance. Take it.’ He paused. ‘No?’

The Swede struck Jack with a hand as big as a shovel, a blow even harder than the one before.

‘Okay,’ he said, ‘have it your own way. I’m a patient man. But know this: I will keep coming back until you cooperate, until that information is in my possession.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

The Swede glanced over his shoulder, nodding to his cohort who was standing behind him, backlit by a shaft of light filtering in through the open door, midges dancing around his head. The man stepped forward, drew back his leg and gave Jack a good kicking, winding him, breaking more ribs.

The Swede again. ‘Jack, don’t be stubborn. I need to know what information you have, what you plan to do with it and who you’ve told. Was it Ryan or someone else? I know you passed it on, because it’s not in your house.’

Jack tried not to react but his eyes gave him away.

‘Oh, I didn’t tell you I’d been through your house and met the family? My mistake. It must have slipped my mind. Your wife Hilary was
most
amenable, your children too, especially Lucy. Pretty thing, isn’t she?’

Jack was dying inside. If either of these two had touched one hair on Lucy’s head he’d hunt them down and kill them both. The Swede was bluffing. He had to be. Ryan would be looking after Hilary and the kids, keeping them safe from harm. That much he knew. That much he hoped.

13

Ryan showed up half an hour early. Grace Ellis was waiting on a first-floor terrace of the Pitcher & Piano on Newcastle’s Quayside with a pot of coffee and a pile of newspapers spread out on a corner table with headlines guaranteed to sell:
Audacious Hijack in Broad Daylight. Suspended Special Branch Officer Flees Justice. Prison Van Hijacked at Gunpoint.
As soon as she saw him, she started banging on about the press, her face twisted in anger.

‘They love dishing the dirt, don’t they?’ She didn’t stop for a response. ‘Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? It bloody annoys me. You want coffee . . . something else?’

Waving away the offer, Ryan kept his thoughts to himself. Grace was spot on, though. Whenever coppers were involved, the media always had a field day. It bugged him that they could get it so wrong. More often than not they would report that officers had been charged with criminal offences when they weren’t police at all but civilians who’d worked for five minutes on a front desk, in the Control Room or in an admin office at HQ.

Ryan sat down.

Picking up a newspaper, he scanned the print for information that might prove useful, anything she might have missed that they could possibly work with. Names of witnesses they didn’t know about, people who might talk, given the right stimulus – which usually meant money.

And still Grace protested . . .

The copy was full of shit . . .

Jack had been hung out to dry.

Tuning her out, Ryan wondered how Hilary and the kids were coping in the media spotlight. Unscrupulous journalists would do anything to get their names above the fold. As if the family hadn’t already been through enough.

The screech of seagulls made him look up.

Dozens of the birds had taken refuge on the arc of the Millennium Bridge and on the roof of the Baltic, a contemporary art centre on the south side of the Tyne. In the foreground, the river was as grey and choppy as the mood around the table and a dark sky threatened rain.

A mobile bleeped several times in quick succession.

Not his.

Lowering her newspaper, Grace pulled out her phone. ‘Jesus, I’ve got a full house.’ A number of text messages had arrived all at once, she told him. With a face like thunder she scrolled through them, then pocketed the device, dark eyes on Ryan. ‘It seems I have less friends in high places than I thought. The rumour squad have shut up shop. No one’s talking.’

‘Which means they’re nervous.’

‘Yes it does. O’Neil has her enquiry locked down tight.’

‘She’ll be pissed,’ Ryan said. ‘I mean really pissed. Can’t say I blame her. Jack’s case is not going according to plan. One of her witnesses went to the BBC with footage she didn’t know they had. The hijack was on the news at one. I watched it just now in the police club.’ Taking in her surprise, he prodded at the air with his forefinger. ‘I still have the combination to get in. The lasses behind the bar were as good as gold. They not only served me beer, they gave me all the gossip they’d heard across the bar.’

‘Which is . . . ?’ Grace was never one to underestimate the police grapevine.

‘The evidence is hard to argue with. The footage shows Jack climbing out of the van, an Audi A6 taking off at speed. I have to warn you, it’s not good quality. Whoever took it was moving away. It’s very shaky. O’Neil has something similar, she told me. No wonder she thinks Jack is guilty. That video needs a professional eye. Proper enhancement.’

‘Oh yeah? And how do you propose we manage that?’

‘I have my contacts.’

‘Good luck,’ Grace said flatly. ‘A private job will cost thousands.’

‘I’ll cover it. My inheritance has to count for something. My mother liked Jack. Caroline adores him. He was very kind to both of them. Believe me, if they were here, they’d approve. There’d be no argument.’

‘That’s very generous.’ Grace raised her voice above a crocodile of noisy schoolchildren making their way along the quayside, teachers front and back instructing them not to dawdle and to keep holding hands. ‘Was Jack in the front seat of the Audi or the rear?’

‘Can’t tell. Only two figures are visible, the driver and someone in the rear. Assuming they’re the hijackers, Jack was probably lying in the footwell out of sight. O’Neil was on the money. He was walking, not running to the car. No one shoving him around, no gun in his back – we need that analysis.’

‘We need to talk to the witness who sold the video to the BBC,’ Grace said.