by Mari Hannah
Daniels felt like a fraud. She’d taken the path of least resistance, hidden her sexuality in order to further her ambition in her chosen career. The more she thought about it, the more she realized that Fielding was about as far away from her as it was possible to be. And that intrigued her.
‘You’re with someone.’ Fielding looked disappointed. ‘Of course you are, why wouldn’t you be? That’s a real shame, Kate Daniels.’
A smile crept over Daniels’ face. Bloody woman already knew her name.
Fielding said, ‘You didn’t mind me asking?’
Daniels shook her head. She hadn’t felt romantically inclined towards anyone in ages and was about to say something that sounded ridiculous, even in her own head, when a gentle tap on the door stopped her.
The door opened and Jo walked in.
‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize—’
Jo’s voice caught in her throat. It was obvious she’d walked in on something sensitive. A deafening silence descended in the room. For a beat she just stood there, eventually telling Daniels she’d catch up with her later. It was a tricky moment. Fielding’s piercing blue eyes shifted from Jo to Daniels and back again.
‘You are one lucky lady,’ she said.
45
Ending the interview, Daniels returned to the MIR hoping to find Jo and explain, but she was nowhere in sight. On the murder wall, a new event had been flagged up for her attention: Mystery couple found. DC Maxwell on way with further info – ETA 11.30. Some good news for once. Daniels looked at her watch. Maxwell would be arriving very soon. She pulled out her mobile phone, dialled Jo’s number and waited.
Gormley mimicked Bugs Bunny as he arrived by her side. ‘What’s up, Doc?’
The phone continued to ring out in Daniels’ ear. ‘Looking for Jo, you seen her?’
‘She was here earlier. Looking for you, as it happens.’
‘Yeah, I know, but that’s not a lot of help, is it?’
Carmichael raised her head from a nearby desk. ‘I saw her a minute ago, heading out en route to HMP Acklington, I think she said. I got the impression she’d been called in.’
Their attention shifted as a civilian entered the MIR wearing overalls and a worn leather tool belt round his waist. He was whistling a happy tune, seemingly without a care in the world as he made off across the room. Daniels felt a pang of regret as she watched him unscrew Bright’s nameplate, throw it in the bin and replace it with one bearing Naylor’s name and rank.
The end of an era . . . but the beginning of a new one.
Gormley had read her mind. ‘The king is dead, long live the king,’ he said.
The ringing tone stopped. Jo’s phone switched to voice-mail. Daniels ended the call without leaving a message. But through the window she could see Jo’s car where she’d parked it earlier.
She turned her attention back to Carmichael. ‘You OK for tonight, Lisa?’
Carmichael nodded in the direction of Naylor’s office. ‘I’ve had my pep talk, including the third degree about what will happen to me if I screw up. I know what to do. To be honest, I can’t wait to be a student again.’
‘You might end up a hooker,’ Gormley reminded her. ‘Can you handle that?’
Carmichael feigned an edgy look. ‘I’ll give it a go, Sarge.’
Gormley said something nice about not taking unnecessary risks. Daniels saw his smile dissolve as Carmichael laughed off his concerns. He wasn’t being melodramatic. Like many police officers, he was hard on the outside, soft on the inside, fiercely protective of his colleagues who, from the moment they donned a uniform and signed on the dotted line, became part of a second family almost. That was particularly true of his relationship with Carmichael, who had actually been a student not so very long ago. As her direct supervisor, it was his job to look out for her, teach her the ropes, encourage her ambition and give her room to grow. But that also meant he cared about her safety and the danger she’d undoubtedly face by going undercover.
He covered his concern by pulling her leg. ‘Well, if you’re working tonight, you knock off early, you hear me? Get your glad rags organized, then get some kip before you go out on the game.’
‘He’s right, Lisa,’ Daniels said. ‘But before you go, have a dig around in that computer of yours and see if you can pull an old accident report on Beth Finch.’
‘Jessica’s mum? Don’t suppose you’ve got an FWIN?’
Daniels shook her head ruefully. A Force-Wide Incident Number was the case identifier that would allow Carmichael to call up the relevant file from the database in a matter of seconds. ‘No, Lisa – but that’s never stopped you before. I can’t even tell you where it happened, only that it happened about seventeen years ago. Just do what you can, OK? There might be archived newspaper reports, given that it was a fatal crash. If you find anything, leave it on my desk.’
Gormley raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘Problem?’
‘Dunno yet,’ Daniels said, walking away.
Feeling a sudden urge to find Jo before she left the building, Daniels quickly left the MIR and went in search of her. Racing down the corridor, she took the stairs to the floor below and headed for the rear exit. Turning the corner, she spotted Jo signing herself out on the professional visitors’ log by the back door. It was a new fad, a health and safety initiative introduced by some nameless, faceless civilian at headquarters who hadn’t grasped the concept that police officers had to get a shift on when they were called out. They didn’t have time to put their clothes on properly, let alone stand in line to write their names down before leaving the station to attend mayhem on the streets.
Jo pocketed her pen, picked her briefcase up off the floor and slung a Burberry raincoat over her arm, glancing over her shoulder as she heard footsteps approaching.
‘Hi!’ she said. ‘You want me?’
Daniels grinned. Of course she wanted her. ‘Got time for a chat?’
‘Unfortunately not, sorry.’
‘I thought you wanted to speak to me.’
‘I did, but it’ll keep.’ Jo glanced sideways. ‘Who’s your new friend?’
Daniels blushed. ‘She isn’t a friend, she’s a witness.’
‘Really?’ Jo started walking. ‘I’m not blind, Kate. Something was going on in there. But, hey, it’s none of my business!’
‘Damn right,’ Daniels said, regretting her words immediately. Why in hell’s name did they always end up arguing? They stopped walking as a group of uniformed officers entered the station via the back door. Stepping aside, they faced each other in stony silence from either side of the corridor as the group walked by, a chorus of Morning ma’am ringing out as they passed. Daniels waited until the group were out of earshot and then pointed to the exit. ‘I’ll walk you to your car. Nice set of wheels, by the way. Unusual choice for you, isn’t it? Thought you hated gas guzzlers.’
‘Times and circumstances change.’ Jo took her keys from her pocket. ‘You’re not the only one with a new friend. I also have someone new in my life, someone energetic, outdoorsy; someone with no hang-ups, no rules or bloody regulations to consider; someone I can have fun with, like we used to, remember?’
A lump forming in Daniels’ throat. ‘Kirsten?’
‘NO!’ Jo reacted as if the suggestion was somehow ridiculous. ‘Definitely not Kirsten. You are crazy sometimes, Kate. You really are.’
‘Then who? If I’m allowed to ask.’
‘C’mon, I’ll introduce you. I’d like it if you were mates.’
Whoever it was, Daniels certainly didn’t want to meet her. She hated her guts already and didn’t want to be mates. She followed Jo across the car park towards something she did like: the profiler’s new Land Rover, the biggest, newest and shiniest vehicle there.
It looked great with the sun glinting off its metallic paintwork.
It reminded Daniels of the search team lined up in their Land Rover Defenders in the pouring rain. There was still no word from Weldon, or the geologist come to think of i
t, but the improving weather was good news. She prayed that it would hold. A horn peeped, interrupting her thoughts, as a jam sandwich swept by. The Traffic car was going too fast for her to identify who was at the wheel, but she waved back anyway. And when she turned back in the direction of the Land Rover, Jo was at the rear of the four-by-four with the tailgate open.
‘Meet Nelson,’ she said.
Intrigued, Daniels peered inside. Jo’s new best friend was a puppy, a brown Labrador of dubious pedigree.
‘I named him in honour of Mandela,’ Jo grinned. ‘Isn’t he cute?’
‘God, he’s absolutely adorable!’
‘He was found scavenging for food in the city centre and handed in to the shelter on the twentieth anniversary of Mandela’s release from prison. I’ve been on their waiting list for ages, so they rang me.’ Jo’s happy expression faded a little. ‘I wanted him, of course, but the timing was all wrong. He needed a lot of veterinary attention and I wasn’t able to cope with him off the back of my accident, the remand, et cetera. So they found him a home elsewhere.’
‘Then how did you end up with him?’
‘His new owner died suddenly and they got back in touch.’
‘Must’ve been fate.’ Daniels wanted to add, like us, but refrained. She reached across to pat the dog’s head. Nelson began to wag his tail then peed on the newspaper he was standing on. ‘Great way to say hello!’
Jo laughed out loud. ‘He’s an embarrassment. I can’t take him anywhere. Think yourself lucky he’s not on the floor by your feet. I’ve got so many wet shoes I’m considering permanent flip-flops!’
‘Am I allowed visiting rights?’ Daniels asked.
Jo nodded, a hint of sadness in her eyes. ‘I’ve got to get going.’
Daniels held the door open while Jo climbed in, then watched her drive away. She returned to the MIR, happy they were still friends. When they were more than that, they’d often talked of getting a dog. They had argued over what breed, Jo insisting on a Lab of any colour and description, while Daniels favoured a Border terrier like her nan used to own.
In the end they got neither.
The MIR was buzzing when Daniels entered. Following a leaflet drop, the couple seen acting suspiciously near the crime scene had come forward voluntarily. Ronnie Raine had been a good witness and DC Maxwell was looking pleased with himself as he took off his coat and hung it on the back of the chair.
‘Let me guess,’ Robson feigned concentration. ‘Bet it was a courting couple getting their leg over in the fresh air. There’s nowt like a good ol’ shag on top of a cowpat or two.’
‘Have you been out there at the crack of dawn?’ Maxwell asked, rubbing his hands together. ‘It’s bloody parky, I can tell you.’ He sat down at his computer and logged on. ‘Not an extra-marital either.’
‘Roman soldiers?’ Brown suggested, humouring him.
‘Border Reivers?’ someone at the back shouted.
‘Do we look psychic?’ Gormley chipped in. ‘Stop pissing about and tell us.’
‘Hank’s right, Neil,’ Daniels said. ‘Are they in the frame, or out?’
‘Out,’ Maxwell said decisively, swivelling his chair round to face her. ‘Beverley and Alec Wilkinson are father and daughter, an entrepreneurial couple looking to make a buck by digging up Roman coins using metal detectors. He was keen but she wasn’t. They hadn’t asked the landowner’s permission, hence the row Raine talked about.’
‘Didn’t he say she was injured in some way?’
‘Fell down a foxhole and twisted her ankle.’
‘Proof?’ Daniels wanted to be absolutely sure.
Maxwell wafted an admission slip in the air. ‘Obtained from A&E at Hexham General Hospital, no less.’
‘Good work!’ Daniels thought for a moment. Something was missing. ‘I don’t remember any mention of equipment though, do you?’
‘That’s because they stashed it in a disused byre so as not to draw too much attention to themselves. When Amy’s body was found and we turned up in droves, they didn’t dare go back for it.’
‘Did you check it out?’ Daniels again.
‘Not personally. I sent the community beat officer who was first at the crime scene – he knows the area like the back of his hand.’
‘I remember him. And?’
‘It’s still there. End of, I’d say.’
‘Brick wall more like,’ Brown added.
Daniels agreed.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Maxwell asked. ‘We could charge them with trespass, but that’s about all.’
‘Not worth the paperwork,’ Daniels said. ‘Write it up and log it in the system as an NFA.’
Maxwell nodded. A No Further Action from the DCI was what he’d hoped for.
‘Boss?’ Carmichael put her hand up. ‘That stuff you wanted is on your desk.’
‘Stuff?’
‘Beth Finch accident report,’ Carmichael reminded her. ‘It was one of ours.’
Daniels thanked her and told her to go home. Then she went straight to her office, made herself a cup of coffee and rang Weldon. The search was now well underway, but so far there was nothing to report. No sightings. Not a whiff of any activity in the mineshafts they’d entered so far.
They agreed to keep in touch.
Daniels put down the phone, took a sip of her coffee, put her feet up on her desk and turned her attention to the report Carmichael had left for her. It was a flimsy document, just two pages long, beginning with Finch’s account of the accident as taken by the attending officer at the scene:
Mr Adam Finch, the driver, claims that his vehicle – a Mercedes-Benz 300-Class – left the A696 near Belsay when an unknown vehicle, described as a small hatchback, shot out of the B6544 junction without warning, causing him to swerve violently to avoid a collision. The hatchback drove off without stopping.
Daniels’ eyes travelled down the page to a diagram showing the exact location where the accident happened, including the direction it had been travelling in and the position and orientation of the Mercedes when it came to a sudden and disastrous halt embedded in a tree. She knew the road well; an unlit, dangerous stretch with a sharp right-hander that was difficult to negotiate at the best of times.
She read on, noting that a call had come in to the control room at 01.26 on 8 November 1993 with a report of two casualties and an indication of a woman unconscious at the scene in need of urgent assistance. The dispatcher immediately sent one Traffic car, an ambulance and two fire service vehicles. The Traffic car was first on the scene, the officer finding Beth Finch in a bad way and still trapped in the Mercedes-Benz. Paramedics followed soon after. They managed to cut her free and transport her by ambulance to A&E, Newcastle General Hospital.
She was pronounced dead on arrival.
It was an unremarkable RTA report, like many others Daniels had read over the years. She turned the page and found a note: Driver breathalysed negative. As her eyes slid over the attending officer’s identity – name, rank and number – she felt physically sick.
46
Jessica was drifting . . .
Her father’s voice, stern and unfriendly, seemed near and yet very far away. She hadn’t meant to disobey him. Not really. But he didn’t have the right to tell her what to do any more. She was a grown-up with a mind of her own. Robert popped into her head. She wondered if he was searching for her. Of course he was, they adored each other. They had a future together, no matter what her father said. In her mind’s eye, she pictured Robert as he was when she’d last seen him, happy and smiling when she told him of her plans to cut loose from her father and find work abroad.
How long ago was that?
A day?
A week?
Jessica held this image.
She felt good and warm and . . .
She began to cry.
No! She couldn’t afford to cry. Tears were no longer an expression of how unhappy she was but precious drops of liquid she needed to stay alive.
‘Stop snivelling!’ Her father’s voice again.
Did the man have no compassion?
‘Dad?’ she called out into the darkness. ‘Dad? Dad? Dad? Dad?’
Please, Dad, find me before it’s too late.
Jessica looked down at the rising water, wondering how long it took for a person to drown. She’d read somewhere that drowning was once used to determine if women were witches or not, the suggestion being that the guilty would stay afloat while the innocent would not.
Well, she was innocent and she didn’t want to drown.
Not here . . .
And suddenly, all she could think of was water rushing into her body, both her stomach and her airways, pushing out the oxygen and causing untold panic as she tried, at first, to hold her breath . . .
And then?
She would try to draw breath even when fully submerged, setting off a catastrophic chain of events leading to . . .
Asphyxia . . .
Cerebral hypoxia . . .
Myocardial infarction . . .
Death.
Please, Robert, find me.
47
‘T893!’ Daniels yelled. ‘Ring any bells?’
The Toyota was stationary, parked in a place they always used when they wanted to have a rant without fear of being overheard. It was a busy underpass close to Newcastle’s central bypass. Rush hour. Cars and lorries flashing past in both directions. Exhaust fumes. Irate drivers. The usual city mayhem. A throwback from her days in the drugs squad. A place to meet her snouts.
The graffiti on Gormley’s side of the car was the best he’d ever seen, a flamboyant piece of street art with a tag he didn’t recognize. New kid on the block, perhaps? As soon as Daniels pulled in, he could see that something was troubling her. And now he knew why.
‘Tango, fucking, eight, nine, three!’ she said again, so enraged her face had gone white.
Gormley stopped admiring the wall and turned to face her, curiosity getting the better of him. ‘That’s Bright’s old number from when he was in Traffic, isn’t—’