by Mari Hannah
Dedication
This book is for Mo
She knows why
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Chapter Seventy-eight
Chapter Seventy-nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-one
Chapter Eighty-two
Chapter Eighty-three
Chapter Eighty-four
Chapter Eighty-five
Chapter Eighty-six
An Excerpt from Deadly Deceit
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
About the Author
Also by Mari Hannah
Copyright
About the Publisher
Acknowledgements
I’m immensely proud that this book won the Northern Writers’ Award 2010 before it was even sold in the UK. It’s a real pleasure to acknowledge the support of New Writing North, Arts Council England and the Leighton group who sponsored the awards.
Many people have contributed to the book since then . . .
Sincere thanks go to my dream team: the entire staff at Pan Macmillan, in particular to my inimitable publishing director, Wayne Brookes; everyone at Blake Friedmann, Literary, TV & Film Agency, especially my fabulous agent, Oli Munson; and my wonderful copy-editor, Anne O’Brien, who kept me right throughout the process.
Huge thanks also to a big mate and all round good guy – ex-army helicopter instructor, now commercial pilot – Dave Willis, for taking this flight with me in more ways than one. His lemon drizzle cake was once legendary in these parts. My loss is Milan’s gain, Dave.
And to those even closer: Paul and Chris, Kate and Caroline, who show their support in so many ways; not forgetting special little helpers Max and Frances, for keeping me sane and grounded. And, of course, Mo – partner, mentor and first editor – without whom none of this would’ve been possible.
Prologue
A slight vibration passed through her body. It took a moment to register that she was no longer on her feet, no longer waiting for her instructor to show. It was dark now. And then she remembered . . . one minute she had been tweeting about her day, the next she was hitting the deck. He hadn’t made a sound as he approached. A sharp pain in her shoulder and he was helping her gently to the ground, acting the hero.
What was it he said as she lost control?
‘You’ll be OK, relax.’
How long ago was that?
He was close: she could smell aftershave.
Her eyes searched the darkness but her sight was blurred, extending a few metres in front of her but not to the sides. It was like looking down a tunnel through greasy binoculars. She could just make out a figure, a growth of hair sprouting over the collar of a combat jacket. She tried calling out to him, panic setting in when no words left her mouth.
Her mind was willing but she was otherwise impotent.
Was she having a stroke?
Again she tried speech. But her tongue refused to move, let alone accept instructions or formulate words. With enormous effort she banged one foot on the floor, trying to attract his attention.
He didn’t turn round.
Did he even exist?
It took all her strength to lift her leg a second time and bring it crashing to the floor.
Metal?
It sounded like a drum . . .
And it was in transit . . .
A lift?
A shipping container?
Christ! Where am I?
A numb sensation began in her chest and crept outward over every part of her. She was neither hot nor cold and her body was shutting down: arms next to go, legs soon after. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead. Then everything went black.
She was totally paralysed when she opened her eyes, terror ripping through her as she noticed the straps hanging from the ceiling directly above her head. Were they there before? She must have lost consciousness, but for how long?
A split second?
A minute?
An hour?
A day?
She would have sobbed had she been able.
It was impossible to see if her clothes were intact. And she couldn’t decide if she was tied down or just pinned to the floor by her own dead weight. She couldn’t feel a draught on her skin but she could see its effect as her blonde hair whipped round her face. And still she couldn’t move . . . Except she was moving. Her world tilted, ever so slightly at first, then more acutely, tipping her body to the right. And now she was sliding sideways, like a side of beef being dragged across the ground in an abattoir, staring at her fate: a bloody black hole.
Oh God! NO!
1
The Senior Investigating Officer failed to notice the sun as it crept over Sewingshields Crags, or the stunning aerial view as the police helicopter descended on Housesteads Roman Fort. Her attention was firmly focused on a handful of hikers crossing Hadrian’s Wall in both directions, each one a potential witness or suspect to a serious crime.
A little to the west, a police constable in a yellow fluorescent jacket stood guard outside a crime-scene tent. He held on to his hat as the chopper made its descen
t, its rotor blades whipping assorted debris high into the air. Jumping out, Daniels felt a stab of pain in her right shoulder as she hit the ground and ran clear. The pilot returned her thumbs-up gesture and lifted off again, banking steeply before turning back towards Northumbria Police HQ.
As curious hikers began heading her way, Daniels turned to the waiting officer. ‘I’m DCI Kate Daniels, murder investigation team. Where the hell are the lads from Area Command?’
The PC shrugged. ‘I was just told to wait here.’
He was tall, fresh-faced and built like a tank, someone she’d want on her side in a sticky situation. But he was no more than a kid. He looked really uncertain – really spooked.
‘This your first one?’
He nodded his reply.
‘Then do exactly as I say and you’ll be fine. CSI are on their way. Until then, it’s just you and me . . .’ Daniels gave a reassuring smile. They were two strangers, miles from anywhere. In remote areas, it had always been necessary for police officers to carry equipment their urban counterparts wouldn’t know what to do with. The young PC had done well. She pointed at the tent. ‘You erect this all by yourself?’
‘Me and my shift sergeant, ma’am.’
‘Good job.’ She nodded at the advancing crowd. ‘Now get on the radio. I want these people shifted.’ She waited for him to move. ‘Er, today would be good.’
‘Can we do that, ma’am? I mean, the fort is a world heritage site.’
‘I couldn’t care less if it was the birthplace of Julius Caesar!’ She glared at him. ‘I want them out of here. Now move it!’
Lifting the flap of the tent, she went inside. A young woman lay face up on the ground, her body splayed out awkwardly like a discarded rag doll. She had long blonde hair and perfect skin. A green scarf round her neck matched the colour of her eyes exactly. There were signs of blood loss from her left ear, a pool of which had dripped down and settled on the grass directly beneath her. One shoe was missing but she was otherwise fully clothed.
Daniels could hear the PC on his radio urging the control room to hurry things along. As she crouched down beside the body he arrived at her side, being careful to use the tread plates so as to preserve forensic evidence.
‘Anything strike you as odd?’ she asked.
‘Ma’am?’
‘She looks more quayside than hillside, don’t you think?’
The PC stifled a grin. Newcastle Quayside was the pulse of a party city some thirty miles away. He watched the DCI take a pen from her pocket. Carefully, she hooked one end under the ankle strap of a high-heeled patent leather shoe which was lying on the grass a few feet from the body.
‘With these on, I doubt she walked very far . . .’ Daniels studied the five-inch stiletto, holding it up in front of her face, swivelling it round so she could examine the state of the heel. ‘In fact, it’s a wonder she could walk at all!’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, what are you looking for?’
‘Any damage that might tell us whether it was ripped off or fell off.’
‘And which is it?’ he queried.
‘My guess would be the latter, but don’t quote me on that.’ Daniels tried to figure out how the girl had got there. They were a fair way from a main road. It had rained the night before and there was no mud on the high heel. Curiously, there were no drag marks on the ground surface either and no tyre tracks outside. The crime scene wasn’t telling her anything and that unsettled her. ‘Get me a pool car, would you? And while you’re at it, have someone check Housesteads car park for any abandoned vehicles. I can’t imagine—’
But the young constable had already left to carry out her instructions. Daniels smiled. The lad was keen, might even make a detective one day. Checking her watch, she stood up, hoping the pathologist wouldn’t be long. She followed the PC outside, lifting her hand to the glare of early morning sun. There was activity on the horizon. A bunch of uniforms were up at the fort rounding up her growing audience, their deadpan faces turned in her direction, all desperate to know what was going on. Figures wearing white hooded overalls were leaving the car park. Behind them, right on cue, a familiar Range Rover appeared. Tim Stanton, Home Office pathologist, got out carrying a black forensic evidence case and trundled across rough ground heading straight for her.
Daniels looked sideways as the PC spoke.
‘I noticed boot prints over there, ma’am.’ He pointed to a thin mound of grass a few metres away. ‘They’re definitely not mine, but they could belong to the guy who found her. He’s in the gift shop café waiting to talk to you.’
Stanton had reached them. He was already suited in white forensic clothing, his trousers tucked into a sturdy pair of green wellington boots. He acknowledged them both with a cheerful good morning then turned his attention to the SIO.
‘When was she found?’
‘An hour ago . . .’ Daniels pointed towards his car. ‘Spotted from the ridge by a guy out walking the Wall—’
‘Did he touch the body at all?’
‘No, we got lucky. He’s ex-job and had the good sense not to. He’s my next port of call.’
Stanton looked tired this morning and Daniels knew why. This was his third call-out in as many hours, according to Pete Brooks in the control room. She stood aside, allowing him to enter the tent alone, comforted in the knowledge that he’d take as much care with his subject as any regular doctor would had the girl still been alive. She’d known him for several years and they had worked together often. His scientific background complemented her intuitive approach perfectly. She never got in his way – or he hers.
The breeze was picking up. Sweeping hair away from her face, Daniels lifted binoculars to her eyes, panning around three hundred and sixty degrees. Other than the tent and hilltop fort, as far as the eye could see there was only the most spectacular countryside, dotted here and there with tiny slate-grey cottages. She wasn’t a religious woman – not any more – but the sight was almost spiritual, as if a higher authority had been at work. It wasn’t hard to imagine what life was like here when legions of soldiers toiled in all weathers to build the Roman Empire’s most northerly defences and a garrison to house eight hundred of their number just metres from where she was standing.
She sighed, taken in by a dramatic wilderness she’d seen many times before.
‘Unreal,’ she said.
The PC looked at her. ‘Ma’am?’
Daniels nodded towards the tent. ‘Such an ugly scene in such a stunning location.’
‘S’pose. I’m from round here . . .’ He pointed off into the distance. ‘Just over that ridge, to be precise. Guess you never see what’s been on your doorstep your whole life.’
Daniels looked around her. She couldn’t imagine taking this place for granted. Moving away from him, she made a call. Newcastle city centre was too far from the crime scene to run a murder enquiry, at least for the critical first few days. Her second in command, Detective Sergeant Hank Gormley, was out searching for a suitable place for a temporary incident room and she was relieved to hear he’d found one.
She wrote down a place name – High Shaw – then hung up.
Stanton emerged from the tent, bagging his latex gloves, nodding to the binoculars hanging round her neck. ‘You can put those away, Kate. If I’m right, you’re going to need some divine inspiration to solve this one.’
Daniels eyed him warily. He was not a man given to riddles.
‘Meaning?’ she asked.
‘That young woman in there was dropped from a great height.’
She looked up at a cloudless sky . . .
2
The Mobile Police Incident Unit was visible from half a mile away. It looked out of place in its surroundings, almost dwarfing High Shaw, a single-storey farm cottage bordered by a dry-stone wall. Daniels drove towards it along a narrow country lane and managed to squeeze her pool car alongside.
She got out, removing a TO LET sign tied loosely to the gatepost. Laying it flat on the
ground, she placed a heavy stone on top of it to prevent it blowing away. In this part of the world, particularly on high ground, gale-force winds were commonplace; what wasn’t securely nailed down often went walkabout.
The pretty front garden was awash with spring bulbs in pots made out of spent tyres. There was a child’s swing in the garden and a gravel path leading up to the front door.
Daniels pushed it open.
‘Don’t shoot!’ Detective Sergeant Hank Gormley yelled, holding his hands in the air.
The DCI grinned as members of her team fell to the floor clutching their chests, writhing around in agony as if they’d been mortally wounded the minute she’d walked through the door.
‘Get up, you idiots. We’ve got work to do,’ she said.
Setting her briefcase on the floor, Daniels found herself surrounded by officers keen to welcome her back to duty. Although touched by their enthusiasm and good wishes, she didn’t want a fuss. Taking a man’s life, albeit in self-defence, still gave her nightmares. It wasn’t something she’d ever be proud of – even when the man in question was a dangerous psychopath.
Turning her attention to her current case, she instructed her team on how she’d like the place arranged. DCs Maxwell and Brown began clearing the floor space for computer desks, moving a heavy sofa out into the wooden garage at the rear of the cottage. DS Robson fetched a drywipe whiteboard from his car and positioned it at the far end of the room. It would act as a makeshift murder wall during their stay. DC Carmichael brought in her laptop, and was logging on within seconds.
It was an incident room – of sorts.
DS Gormley’s face lit up as Daniels walked towards him.
‘We’re dealing with another mean bastard then.’ His tone was grim.
Daniels nodded, handing him a set of Polaroids taken at the crime scene.
He sifted through them, sickened by what he saw. ‘Suppose we should look on the bright side . . . if the body hadn’t been found when it was, the scene could’ve been crawling with bloody tourists, all with souvenir snaps of their own to take home. It would’ve been a nightmare. What piece of shit would lob a young lass out of a plane?’
‘We don’t know that for sure,’ Daniels warned. ‘Not until Stanton confirms it. If and when he does, we keep it to ourselves. We don’t go public – not yet, anyway. This is God’s country, Hank. Folks round here don’t even lock their doors at night. They won’t know what’s hit them.’