Settled Blood

by Mari Hannah

  ‘’Fraid so.’ Weldon handed her the map. ‘I’m happy to help for as long as it takes.’

  ‘Has he filled you in?’

  Weldon nodded.

  ‘Everything?’

  Looking up from his call, Gormley put a thumb in the air. Daniels used her hands as winders, urging him to get off the phone. Ignoring her request, he got up from his desk and wandered away in the direction of her office. The call was obviously important, so she decided to begin without him.

  ‘OK everybody, switch off your mobiles and pay attention.’ She raised her voice above the din in the room and waited for the chatter to die down. ‘I’d like to introduce you all to Dave Weldon from Fell Rescue, an expert in his field. Hank tells me he’s worked the search area for almost a decade since he took his bit and packed in a proper job as a police officer.’

  There were grins all round.

  Someone shouted out: ‘Silly bugger.’

  Someone else followed with: ‘Any vacancies?’

  Weldon smiled, enjoying the banter.

  Unrolling the map, Daniels attached it to the murder wall so everyone in the room could see it. ‘This –’ she pointed to a specific place on the map – ‘is the area we’re most interested in based on information received from Matt West.’ She turned to face Weldon. ‘Assuming we have no other choice but to carry out an intensive search, can you estimate how long it’ll take?’

  ‘That’s a hard one. This whole area is a honeycomb of tunnels extending to around a hundred or so square miles. Some of the mines are a mile in length and many are flooded. Given the obvious danger of rockfalls it’s bound to be a slow process. If the IP is being hidden below ground it could take weeks or even months to find her.’

  His reference to the injured party made Daniels’ heart ache for a young girl she’d never even met. The atmosphere in the room plummeted as the grim reality of a search in the North Pennines hit home. Through the glass window of her office door, she could see Gormley was now sitting on her desk, still on the phone, deep in conversation.

  ‘How d’you want to play this?’ Weldon asked.

  ‘I’m proposing your volunteers work in conjunction with the Tactical Support Group. Your guys have the expertise, after all. We’ll take our lead from you.’

  ‘Suits me,’ Weldon said. ‘I’ve already left instructions at our base. My team will take note of temporary shelters, signs of life in odd locations, that sort of thing. They’re awaiting further instructions.’

  Daniels liked his proactive style. Dave Weldon was a man after her own heart, not content to sit back and wait to be told when and how to act. He was a doer, as well as a thinker. It sounded like he was on top of things already and she appreciated that.

  ‘Assuming Jessica is still alive, what are her chances?’ Carmichael asked.

  Weldon’s expression was grave. ‘Hard to say. Those mines are wet and pitch-black. If she’s far enough in, she could scream until her lungs burst and never be heard. It’s a desolate place at the best of times. Temperature below ground, even in summer, is bloody cold. If it continues to rain . . . well, I’m sure I don’t need to draw you guys any pictures—’

  ‘Assuming a worst-case scenario,’ Daniels interrupted, ‘and by that I mean that she’s not receiving any form of nourishment at all, how long might she survive?’

  Weldon outlined cases where people had somehow managed to hold on for much longer than expected and gave a few examples, the recent Haiti earthquake victims being just one. His comments lifted her spirits and reminded her of the payment reference to an extreme sports organization found in Jessica’s room. Privately she began to speculate as to how fit the girl might be. Adam Finch had told her that his daughter was ‘a wonderful free spirit, wilful to the point of being downright obstinate.’ Hoping that those characteristics would enhance her chances of survival, Daniels turned to face Weldon again, thinking more positively now.

  ‘You know about the trace evidence found at the scene, the mineral deposit on the dead girl’s shoe?’

  Weldon nodded, but his eyes were on Gormley, who had wandered back into the room with his mobile phone still stuck to his ear.

  ‘Will that help you at all?’ Daniels pushed.

  ‘That’s beyond my expertise. You’ll need a geologist’s opinion for that.’

  And no bullshitter either.

  Daniels knew she and Weldon were destined to get along. Carmichael was already logging on to her computer, her fingers flying over the keys accessing the Crime Faculty database looking for an expert geologist – hopefully one who could narrow down the search area. Maybe it wasn’t all doom and gloom. Maybe things were looking up.

  Gormley hung up, a sober expression on his face.

  ‘What?’ Daniels held her breath.

  ‘He’s got another one, boss. Rachel Somers, twenty years old.’

  33

  The witness was quite clear . . .

  ‘I could tell they didn’t know each other by the way he was looking at her.’

  Daniels knew exactly what he meant by that.

  Gormley did too.

  ‘And you’re sure it was Rachel Somers?’ Daniels repeated.

  Riley Archer nodded, a heavy fringe flopping over slate-grey eyes. He was a pleasant-looking lad: good skin, intelligent eyes, quite small in stature. Not someone who could easily overpower a taller individual, Daniels thought, particularly if that person happened to put up a good fight. Archer seemed relaxed surrounded by officers from the murder investigation team.

  Any further laid back and he’d end up horizontal.

  He had given detectives a very detailed description, claiming to have known Rachel Somers since junior school. He described her as tall, blonde, a Durham University student. In other words, a dead ringer for Jessica Finch and Amy Grainger. For that reason, and that reason only, Daniels had taken the unprecedented step of allowing her team to hear his evidence first-hand. Time was of the essence and she needed to be sure it was a positive ID. She brought the squad to attention, inviting Archer to tell them all exactly what he’d seen.

  ‘I was sitting in my car waiting for a mate at our usual pickup point close to the Testo’s roundabout,’ he began. ‘Three of us, including Rachel, car share. Saves a shitload of money we haven’t got.’

  ‘And this was Friday – the seventh?’

  Archer nodded. ‘Rachel rang me earlier, said she wasn’t feeling too good, asked if I’d let our course tutor know. Anyway, there was a line of traffic waiting to get on to the A19 and the lorry pulled up right in front of me. I did a double take when I saw her sitting in the cab. I didn’t like the way he was looking at her. She seemed kind of shy in his company—’

  ‘Shy, not nervous?’ Daniels interrupted. ‘There’s a distinct difference, Riley. It’s critical to be precise.’

  ‘Bit of both, I reckon. But nice nervous rather than unhappy, if you know what I mean. Not like she was agitated and didn’t want to be there or anything. Timid is probably a better word to describe her. Y’know, like he was someone she just met.’ Riley swept his fringe back off his face. He sighed. ‘I’m not explaining myself very well, am I?’

  ‘You’re doing great,’ Daniels said. ‘Did you get a good look at him?’

  Riley nodded. ‘He was middle-aged. Baseball cap, chiselled face, light V-neck T-shirt . . . stocky, I would’ve said. Thick neck, y’know what I mean. I only saw head and shoulders, it was difficult to tell.’

  Carmichael exchanged a knowing look with Daniels whose mind raced back to the Mansion House, to a gardener’s peaked cap and a powerful physique. She logged that thought.

  ‘What colour was the cap?’ she asked.

  ‘Red.’

  ‘Was it a plain cap?’ Carmichael could hardly contain herself.

  ‘No, it was a New York Yankees cap with white lettering. Y’know, the ones with N and Y printed one on top of the other.’

  Two red caps and two American motifs. Daniels was getting interested.


  ‘Go on,’ she pushed.

  But Archer’s attention had drifted off. His face drained of all colour and he closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted by all the questions. When he opened them again, he seemed not to have heard a word she’d said.

  ‘Do you need a break, Riley?’ Daniels asked.

  Archer shook his head. ‘His eyes were all over her. I don’t know what possessed me, but I sent her a text as he drove away. I got nothing back, so I rang her mobile and it went straight to voicemail. I tried her home number but there was no answer. Her mum works, so I must’ve missed her. I was about to try Rachel’s mobile again when Calum arrived—’

  ‘Calum being the third student?’ Gormley queried.

  Archer gave a nod. ‘He convinced me there was probably an innocent explanation. We drove to Durham as usual, but it bugged me all day. Rachel isn’t the type to pull a sickie. I got home around six. At seven, her mother called me asking what time I dropped her off. Rachel had a guitar lesson booked and hadn’t come home by the time her music teacher arrived. That’s when I knew.’ Riley Archer shifted his gaze from Daniels to Gormley and back, a real sadness in his eyes. ‘Look, it’s all over the campus about the other two girls. I just want to help in any way I can.’

  Gormley leaned forwards in his seat, elbows on knees, hands clasped together.

  ‘Tell me about the HGV.’

  ‘It was a dark blue flat-back lorry, a Selby firm according to the blurb on the side. Conrad Couriers Limited—’

  ‘You seem quite certain about that.’

  ‘I am. Conrad is my brother’s name.’

  ‘And you are absolutely certain it was Rachel?’

  Archer nodded. ‘And no one’s seen or heard from her since.’

  You could hear a pin drop in the Major Incident Suite. Daniels nodded to Carmichael, who got up and wandered over to her work station to begin making enquiries. Not one member of MIT could believe their luck. Witnesses like Riley Archer were few and far between; a godsend to any murder investigation team. The focus of several pairs of eyes, his expression darkened as he took in the excitement building around him.

  Daniels’ pulse was racing. ‘Do you recall what time you called her on Friday morning?’

  ‘Exactly eight forty-seven.’ Archer dug his mobile out of his pocket and offered it to her. ‘You can check the sent message details on the phone, if you like. You want the vehicle registration number too?’

  Riley Archer was almost bundled out of the MIR. Before the door closed behind him, Carmichael hit the keyboard, typing in Conrad Couriers in an effort to identify the man last seen with Rachel Somers. Carmichael studied the company profile closely as the rest of the team gathered round, the DCI included. They ran a heavy goods delivery service and their head office was in Selby. Daniels could see from the website what type of fleet they used: ordinary lorries with open backs.

  ‘Get them on the phone, Lisa. I’ll be in my office.’

  Daniels walked away, Gormley following close behind. He was like a coiled spring, desperate to jump in the car and lock the fucker up. But he was nervous too. Painfully aware that another girl’s life might be at stake. The phone rang before either of them sat down.

  Daniels snatched up the phone.

  ‘This is them,’ Carmichael said. ‘Guy on the other end is called Alistair.’

  The line clicked.

  Daniels sighed. It was time to make up the truth again.

  ‘Alistair, thanks for your time.’ Her tone was casual, friendly. ‘This is Gateshead traffic department, Northumbria Police. We’ve had a complaint that a metal drum fell off the back of one of your lorries on Friday and hit a car. There wasn’t much damage and no personal injury, so it’s not too serious. But I’d like to know who the driver was, the route taken, et cetera, see if we can clear the matter up.’

  She gave the registration number.

  The member of staff apologized, went off to check and then named the employee as Mark Harris. That was the good news. The bad news was, Harris was away down south on another job and not expected back at the depot until next morning. Then he had another job up in Stockton.

  ‘Tomorrow, you say?’ Daniels winced. She’d repeated it back for Gormley’s benefit. ‘Any particular time?’

  ‘He’s due to leave here at nine. Look, I can’t give out Harris’s address or anything, not without authorization from my boss. I’d get my head in my hands to play with. You should meet her. She’s like a Rottweiler. Always banging on about data protection, but I’m sure you know all about that, doing your job. And I must point out that supplying information in no way constitutes an admission of guilt. What did you say your name was again?’

  ‘I didn’t. Listen, you’ve been a great help. Don’t concern yourself over it. I’ll give Mr Harris a bell, probably tomorrow night because I’m on shifts. There’s no hurry. These things happen sometimes. Whenever he’s free is fine. And Alistair . . . I’d like you to keep this between the two of us for now, unless you think I should speak to the Rottweiler.’

  The clerk hesitated. ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘You gonna mention this phone call?’

  ‘What phone call is that?’

  ‘That was the right answer.’ Daniels hung up.

  Gormley was sulking.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she told him. ‘We’ll get the jump on him first thing tomorrow. Harris has no idea he was clocked by Riley in his truck with Rachel. He’s hardly going to make a run for it, is he?’

  34

  Daniels got home late, had something to eat and went straight to bed, a guaranteed recipe for a sleepless night. When her alarm went off at six, she turned on the radio and stumbled into the shower, trying to energize herself for the day ahead. Similarly sleep-deprived, Gormley rang at six thirty. When he offered to pick her up and act as chauffeur for the day, she jumped at the chance.

  They made good time. Conrad Couriers was situated close to the A63 Selby bypass. Neither of them could wait to get there and Gormley had committed a number of moving traffic offences along the way. As he began to slow down, Daniels reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a map book.

  ‘Hey, put that away!’ Gormley said. ‘You’ll upset my new friend.’

  Daniels smiled as a woman’s voice instructed him to turn left. Gormley’s new toy was the latest satellite navigation device.

  ‘You know, we’re not that far away from the Mansion House.’ Daniels found the page she was looking for, her eyes homing in on the exact location. ‘We’re also close to several major routes: A1, M62 and A19.’

  ‘You still think the guy Archer described could be Townsend?’

  ‘I don’t know, Hank. Gardening pays peanuts. He could be moonlighting in his spare time. He’s strong enough to have carried out an abduction, that’s for sure. And he doesn’t like Finch a whole lot either—’

  ‘I’m sensing a “but” coming.’

  ‘He just doesn’t strike me as the type. If there is a type.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes. Journey time was often thinking time. Daniels had spent the majority of the last six days on the road, driving back and forth across three counties: Northumberland, Durham and Yorkshire. That’s the way it was sometimes. Every lead had to be followed up, every detail checked, no matter how long it took or what cost to the incident budget – which in this case was a joke. She’d have to tell Bright they needed more cash.

  ‘You think Rachel’s heading for the same fate as Amy?’

  Daniels didn’t answer. She bloody hoped not. The woman’s voice was back, instructing Gormley to turn left. He completed the manoeuvre. Seconds later they arrived at their destination, the secure car park of a modern industrial unit on a new-build business park, the company name emblazoned on the gable end in italic writing. There was a large service yard out front and a loading bay surrounded by a chain-link fence at the side. A sign directed heavy goods vehicles to an entry point further down the road.

  Gormley drove up
to the main gate, pushed a button on the entry console. He ID’d himself. A barrier lifted and he moved forward, parking as close to the front door as he could. They got out of the car and made their way inside.

  The integrated office space was contemporary. Advertisements for the company adorned the walls, along with an impressive number of plaques: business awards for excellence in the service sector. The Rottweiler turned out to be the firm’s managing director, Cynthia Beecham, a smartly dressed, petite, thirty-year-old. She ushered them into the boardroom and closed the door, offering them privacy from the corridor beyond. She waited until they’d taken their seats before following suit, a consignment schedule already open at the appropriate page on the table in front of her.

  ‘His name is Mark Harris,’ Cynthia Beecham said.

  Daniels was impressed. Alistair had kept his word.

  Cynthia Beecham slid a driver’s log across the table towards the detectives. ‘He’s been with us since we formed the company and he’s never put a foot wrong.’

  ‘Is he a full-time employee?’ Gormley asked.

  ‘No, he’s sessional only. He turfs up if and when we’re particularly busy. He has other work, I believe.’

  ‘Doing what exactly?’ Daniels asked.

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  Daniels ignored the question. ‘He was your only driver in that area on Friday?’

  ‘No. Several of our fleet cover the north east. It’s a large area and many of our big clients are sited there.’

  ‘I see . . .’ Daniels thought for a moment. ‘Is there any chance that Mark Harris was not driving the vehicle with the registration number I gave you on the phone? People swap shifts occasionally, don’t they?’

  ‘Not a chance. Our transport manager, Allen Amos, installed a fingerprint-recognition entrance controller that links directly to his office, so he no longer has to stand at the gate and personally check drivers in and out of the depot. It’s foolproof. We also have CCTV. You can check it, if you like.’

  This was getting better and better. Daniels could see a point in the future where such technology was commonplace and thought how much easier it would make her job. Looking at her watch, she couldn’t help but feel excited that they were closing in on a prime suspect.