by Mari Hannah
37
Jessica Finch was turning into her own medical emergency. If dehydration didn’t kill her, then hypothermia eventually would. Shivering uncontrollably, her core body temperature dropped like a stone as the water rose around her, inch by painful inch. No longer still, its swirling currents lapped about her legs with such ferocity it would have swept her away had it not been for the shackles securing her to the wall.
Move!
Jessica began walking on the spot, trying to stimulate circulation. She had little sense of time: minutes seemed like hours, hours like days and she was beginning to feel disorientated. The pool of light was back on the wall opposite and she couldn’t work out why. Had her captors replaced the bulb? Or had she simply imagined the light going out as she slipped into semi-consciousness?
Jessica turned her head to one side but it was difficult to make out what she was looking at. Shadows played tricks on the shiny black wall. One minute she saw a man’s figure, still as a statue, the next she wasn’t so sure. Whatever it was, it seemed to be moving in and out of focus the more she looked at it.
She tried swallowing but her throat was dry and swollen.
Then she began to hyperventilate.
‘Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?’ she called out breathlessly, her weak voice bouncing around in the chamber. ‘Who’s there? Who’s there? Who’s there? Who’s there?’
Nothing.
‘Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?’
The nibbling at her ankles no longer bothered Jessica. The potential for infection from whatever was swimming around in the water below could never be as bad as the sheer terror she was experiencing right now. She shouted again, her voice echoing down the tunnel. She began to count the drips of liquid that had been driving her slowly insane since waking up in hell. They seemed strangely reassuring now – like the rhythm of a pulse.
Her pulse.
She was alive!
And determined to survive her ordeal.
But as her heart-rate slowed to normal, the air in the chamber suddenly deteriorated and Jessica gagged as the smell of decomposing flesh crept up her nose and into her mouth and the image of half-eaten corpses – mouths frozen open in permanent screams – rushed into her head.
This isn’t really happening.
It’s delirium.
Hallucinatory.
She tried pushing away those macabre thoughts, but they persisted. She shut her eyes and went back to her counting: one . . . two . . . three . . . louder now . . . seven . . . get a grip! . . . until exhaustion took over and she was but four years old with a favourite storybook on her knee. She drifted off to sleep to the sound of her mother’s voice.
38
‘Jesus Christ!’ Daniels lowered the binoculars and looked at the two men. ‘Where the hell do we start the search?’
‘Did Lisa locate a geologist?’ Weldon asked.
Gormley nodded. ‘He has your number. Expect a call.’
‘It was never going to be easy . . .’ Weldon’s voice trailed off as he looked out of the window at the bleak landscape facing them. ‘But now the weather’s turned, if we can’t narrow the field down a bit we’re going to be too late.’
The comment irritated Gormley. ‘Don’t be so bloody negative. You’re the fucking expert. We’re expecting you to find her – at least give it your best shot. You heard what I said yesterday. There could be two of them now.’
‘I’m not a magician!’
‘Hey, you two!’ Daniels turned to Weldon. ‘Hank’s right, though, Dave. That kind of thinking isn’t going to get us very far. We need your guys to be up for this one hundred per cent or we haven’t got a hope in hell of finding Jessica Finch alive. We know she’s here somewhere. I can’t bear to think that Rachel Somers is too.’
‘Don’t you worry about that.’ Weldon gestured to his team, waiting in their vehicles. ‘That lot will work ’til they drop, no question, and so will I. You just say the word and we’re out of here.’
Daniels noticed the rain was getting worse. ‘Any ideas on how to proceed?’
Weldon thought for a moment. ‘Bearing in mind your suspect would’ve had to carry Jessica – either struggling or dead weight if she was drugged – I’d recommend we start with the mines most accessible to this road.’
‘Good idea,’ Daniels said.
‘I disagree,’ Gormley cut in. ‘If I were hiding her, I’d probably do the exact opposite. He might have flown here, don’t forget.’
‘He’s got a point.’ Over their shoulders, Daniels spotted a caravan of vehicles making their way slowly up the hill. Through the binoculars she saw that they were specialist 4WDs, each one carrying the Northumbria police insignia. Headlights were on full-beam, illuminating a strip of tarmac that looked more like a fast-moving river than a road. She glanced at Weldon. ‘The cavalry are here. I suggest the TSG search for potential landing sites off-road and your lot cover the areas closer to the main drag.’
Weldon nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan to me.’
Daniels mobile rang: Alec Walton again.
Please God he’ll have talked some sense into Harris.
39
The custody suite was bedlam when they arrived back at the station. Walking through the door, Daniels almost felt like she was tripping. The air was thick with the unmistakable smell of skunk cannabis. Word on the grapevine was that there’d been a big drugs bust that morning with a hundred grand’s worth of the stuff seized. What she hadn’t quite figured on was sampling the goods herself.
There was a queue at the booking-in desk. The cells were overflowing. Prisoners were yelling for this and that, banging on cell doors, shouting abuse at the custody officer. The noise was deafening. As she made her way through the room, a scuffle broke out and she was forced to step sideways round a well-known local hooker struggling with a rookie policewoman. A feeling of déjà vu hit Daniels as she witnessed the comical scene. Her first encounter with a prostitute had begun in much the same way and had ended in the Royal Victoria Infirmary with two stitches in a head wound.
It bloody hurt too.
‘Take my advice and cuff her,’ Daniels said as she walked by.
The PC blushed, grabbing her charge and shoving her up against the wall.
‘Ow, that hurt!’ the girl yelled. ‘You broke my nail.’
Entering the interview room, Daniels sat next to Gormley and directly opposite Mark Harris and Alec Walton. Detecting the lingering scent of drugs on her clothing, Gormley glanced sideways, raised an amused eyebrow. Mildly embarrassed, she ignored his smug expression and concentrated on the suspect. Harris looked confident with his arm slung over the back of his chair. Although it was cold in the room, his Conrad Couriers boiler suit was unbuttoned to the waist, revealing a crisp white T-shirt and a fit body beneath.
Daniels let him know she wasn’t about to waste any more of her precious time, then nodded to Gormley, who immediately restarted the tape, giving the time and date, identifying everyone in the room. With all the preliminaries complete, the DCI placed her elbows on the table and eyeballed Harris. She didn’t need notes to remind her where she was in the proceedings when he clammed up. Where interviews were concerned, she had a brilliant memory. Every ‘no comment’ answer was lodged in her brain, every question she’d put to him waiting to be asked again.
‘OK, Mr Harris. I’m here. You’re still under caution. What have you got to tell me?’
‘I think Rachel Somers is my daughter,’ Harris said quietly. ‘I had an affair with her mother when we were both very young. I only found out she existed a few months ago when I bumped into an old friend I’d lost touch with.’
Of all the answers he could have given, this one threw the DCI. She held his gaze until he suddenly became interested in his chewed-off fingernails. ‘Earlier you told me that you hadn’t meant to hurt Rachel, is that correct?’
His answer came in the form of a nod.
‘For the benefit of the tape, the suspect is nodding.’
; The brief reminded Harris to answer the question verbally.
‘Yes, I did say that but—’
‘What exactly did you mean by it?’
‘Not what you’re implying,’ Harris said calmly. ‘I wasn’t honest with her, not at first – at least, not when I made contact with her on Facebook. I wanted to tell her the truth, but I knew if I didn’t handle it right I’d scare her away. It all got a bit complicated. In the end I think Rachel got the wrong idea. She had a different agenda, if you know what I mean.’
Gormley shook his head. Clearly he didn’t believe a word Harris was saying. ‘And what agenda would that be? You’re not telling us she fancied you, a young girl like that. I mean, you’re hardly Brad Pitt, are you?’
Harris was smirking now.
‘You think this is funny, sir?’ Daniels asked. ‘I assure you it’s not. You see, right now I’m not sure if you’re telling me the truth, or if your story is a complete fabrication, a pack of lies designed to mislead us. I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that or I’m ending this interview right now!’
‘I lied to her, I admit it. But I’m not lying now. I’m not proud of myself. I may have given her the impression I was a younger man, but—’
‘Impression?’ Gormley didn’t try to hide his contempt for Harris. ‘What exactly did you tell her? No, let me guess: fun guy, mid-twenties, fit, seeking friendship and possibly more . . .’
‘Take the piss all you like, mate. I know it sounds bad, but I thought if she knew my age she wouldn’t agree to meet with me and I’d never get to see her.’
Daniels looked at Harris’s hands. Jewellery was automatically removed by the custody officer when suspects were brought in, but there was no telltale indentation on his ring finger to suggest he ever wore a wedding ring. She couldn’t remember seeing one when she’d made the arrest.
‘Are you married, Mr Harris?’ she asked.
‘Fuck’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Are you?’ Daniels waited.
‘No! And I’m no pervert either.’
The conversation with Jo Soulsby replayed in Daniels’ mind: He’s letting us know he’s no pervert . . . he’s prepared to kill Amy but not to take away her dignity by making her strip . . . He didn’t want to degrade her . . . just use her to hurt someone else.
And Harris was a father too, or so he’d have them believe.
Daniels sifted fact from fiction. The man she was facing had, by his own admission, met with Rachel Somers. But he had no criminal history and at no time had he attempted to deny having had contact with the girl. In fact, Daniels had no way of knowing if Rachel was alive, dead, or lying low, licking her wounds having been told by a complete stranger that the father she’d known all her life wasn’t even a relation. In fact, although Rachel’s description was broadly similar to the other students who’d gone missing, Daniels had no proof her disappearance was a linked incident at all.
Yet.
She changed tack. ‘If you are telling us the truth then I’m sure you’d want us to find Rachel at the earliest opportunity. Tell me when and where you last saw her so I can make further enquiries and we’ll see where that takes us, shall we?’
‘I told you. I dropped her off at Durham on my way to Northallerton. That is the God’s honest truth, I swear to you.’
Daniels knew the Durham area well, having spent a lot of time at the police headquarters there as part of the collaborative learning programme for detectives of both forces. Cognitive interviewing was her particular specialism, a skill she was keen to share. She asked Harris to describe exactly where he’d dropped Rachel off.
‘At the A1M/Durham junction,’ he said.
‘Which one? There are several,’ Gormley demanded.
‘The first one. Get us a map and I’ll show you.’
Daniels nodded to Gormley.
He immediately stood up and made a move. She waited for the door to close behind him and then spoke for the benefit of the tape, indicating that Gormley had left the room. Seconds later he arrived back. Daniels announced him to the recorder while he placed a map on the table between the suspect and his solicitor. They both leaned forward, scanning the document. After a few seconds, Harris pointed to Junction 62 of the A1, a road that led on to the A690.
‘She said she’d catch a bus the rest of the way.’ Harris relaxed back in his seat. ‘I was running late by then and didn’t have time to take her all the way into the city centre. Anyway, she was upset. Said she wanted to get out. She was yelling at me, freaking out, threatening to open the door while I was still driving. I’d read the papers. What was I supposed to do?’
‘Why was she so upset?’ Gormley asked.
‘Why d’you think!’ Harris checked himself, dropping his voice and his attitude. ‘I’d just told her I might be her father. So she flew off on one. She went ape-shit in the cab, screaming and kicking. I’d never seen anything like it. She obviously didn’t believe me.’ He paused. ‘And from the look on your faces, she isn’t the only one.’
The CCTV camera mounted on the ceiling blinked. Daniels wondered if she should have asked Jo Soulsby to observe the interview. Harris was either innocent or he was an accomplished liar the like of which she’d rarely come across. Daniels had met her fair share of liars and, contrary to popular opinion, had found that most were not very good at it. Most tripped themselves up trying to be too clever. Harris had been careful to say only that he thought he might be Rachel’s father, not that he actually was. If Laura Somers denied having had a relationship with him, it was her word against his. Only a DNA test could prove or disprove paternity.
Alec Walton sat passively on the other side of the table. The solicitor hadn’t said a word during the interview. He’d let his client speak for himself and answer Daniels’ questions without interference. She appreciated that. Her eyes shifted from the brief to Mark Harris. He wasn’t showing any signs of stress now, and that surprised her. Even if he were entirely innocent she would have expected some anxiety on his part, given the nature of the charge he was facing. Then again, it wasn’t against the law to lie about your age. Until she could prove otherwise, that was all he’d admitted so far.
‘Did you touch Rachel at all during this journey?’ Gormley said.
It was a good question; one the DCI would have asked herself in due course. Harris remained silent. He seemed thrown off guard, unsure of what to say. Daniels wondered if he was playing for time or merely trying to work out what Gormley was implying by the word ‘touch’.
‘Mr Harris?’ Daniels waited.
The suspect just looked at her, his eyes flitting briefly to his solicitor.
The sound of Gormley’s pen tapping on the tabletop was evidence of his growing impatience. Daniels understood his frustration. She willed him to exercise some self-control. Slow down. Take his time. This line of questioning was vitally important. If Harris lied now, his answer might prove crucial; especially if, God forbid, Rachel was subsequently found dead with his DNA all over her. A provable lie would cast doubt on the rest of his evidence in a court of law when the time came, even though his defence team would argue that his DNA would be all over the cab of his lorry.
With no time to dwell on that, Daniels moved. ‘Answer the question, Mr Harris. Did you or did you not touch Rachel at any time when the two of you were together?’
Harris shook his head.
‘You’re absolutely sure about that?’ Gormley piled on the pressure. ‘You didn’t shake her hand when you met at the roadside cafe? Help her up into the cab or anything like that?’
‘No! I swear! I never touched her, not once!’
‘One last question, Mr Harris . . .’ Daniels paused, making him sweat. ‘What was Rachel wearing when you last saw her?’
‘Jeans and a grey jacket – that’s all I remember.’
Daniels had a call to make. And now was the time to make it.
‘Thank you. You’re free to go.’
All three men
looked stunned.
40
Before they left the interview room, Harris damned near begged them to keep him in custody. Now Daniels was charging down the corridor with Gormley in pursuit and the suspect’s words ringing in her ears:
‘I’m not going anywhere, not until you clear this matter up. There’s no way I’m letting the police come knocking at my mother’s door. She’s a frail seventy-year-old with dementia. The confusion will probably kill her. I should know – I’m her carer!’
So, that was his other job.
Daniels swiped her warrant card to gain access to the MIR. She’d told Harris in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t authorize his further detention but, if he insisted, he could wait in the reception area while they checked out his version of events. She assumed that’s where he was now.
‘You know what you just did?’ Gormley was out of breath when he caught up with her. ‘Or did I nod off during the interview? We’ve got him bang to rights, boss.’
He nearly ran into her as she did an about turn.
‘We’ve got sod all, Hank. Think about it!’
‘We’ve got enough to hold him, surely!’
‘For what? Having a conversation with a student who met him voluntarily?’
Without waiting for an answer, she walked off, leaving her affronted DS standing in the middle of the incident room. Raised voices had drawn the interest of the rest of the squad and Gormley was now the focus of several pairs of eyes.
Daniels busied herself checking the murder wall for any significant progress. It was always her first task on returning to the office. On the right-hand side of the digital screen, the box for flagging up new events stood empty. Frustrated, she wandered into her office and sat down. Gormley followed her in and threw himself down on the chair opposite. On the desk, someone had deposited their dinner in the form of two paper bags from Dene’s Deli, a great out-of-town delicatessen the police used a lot. Gormley opened one bag and found a Greek salad box. He grimaced at the sight of feta cheese and olives.