by Mari Hannah
Carmichael just stood, waiting for Daniels to make a move.
‘Sit down, Lisa.’ The DCI’s tone was a little softer now. She wasn’t angry with Carmichael. Her outburst had been more akin to that of a caring mother scolding a child and hugging it at the same time for running out in the road, a mother overcome with relief that she had come to no harm. ‘I want to find the man who drugged you, and to do that I’d like to take you through a cognitive interview. It’s vital we find the bastard.’
‘Will that work? Given the drugs, I mean?’
‘You still have a memory. All we have to do is access it.’
‘S’pose.’ Carmichael sounded unconvinced even though she had been among the first batch of detectives Daniels had trained in cognitive interviewing, a technique proven to enhance eyewitness recall by up to forty-five per cent.
‘OK, you ready?’ Daniels asked.
Carmichael nodded. She knew the drill. Taking off her jacket, she sat down and made herself comfortable. Daniels did likewise and spent the next hour mentally walking the young DC through her encounter the previous evening, going over and over it until they were both exhausted. Carmichael’s recollection was understandably patchy. But she remembered that the man she’d met was a lecturer called Steve and vaguely recalled a girl named Bryony somewhere along the line.
She wasn’t sure where.
Or even how.
‘No good?’ Daniels sat back.
Carmichael shook her head, visibly disappointed with the results of their efforts.
‘OK, let’s knock it on the head.’ Daniels yawned. The heat in the room was getting to her. If she didn’t make a move soon, she was sure to nod off. ‘It’s a good start, Lisa. You did really well.’
Daniels yawned again and stood up.
Carmichael did likewise. ‘Boss?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I have a question. I know what you’re going to say—’
‘Oh really? Then why ask?’
‘I can get him. Just give me another chance and I won’t let you down this time, I promise. You said yourself, people didn’t bat an eyelid when Andy pulled me out of there. Let them think I can’t hold my drink. Let me at least try.’
‘No,’ Daniels said doggedly. ‘You talk a good job, Lisa. But you just proved you’re not ready to go it alone. My fault for believing you were.’
Carmichael looked as if she’d been slapped. She swallowed hard, her eyes filling up. She tried to get Daniels to change her mind but she was having none of it.
‘Boss?’ Carmichael was almost begging. ‘Will you at least hear me out?’
‘I said no! So don’t be an even bigger pain in the arse.’
Pulling on her leather jacket, Daniels stuffed Brown’s mobile phone into her pocket and made a move to leave the house. Carmichael followed her, reaching the front door first when she paused to pick her car keys off the hall table where she’d stashed them the night before. But Carmichael’s attempt to block her exit was futile. The DCI stood firm, waiting for her to move out of the way, a steely expression on her face.
‘You’re wasting your breath, Lisa. I won’t let you do it, it’s too risky. Besides, you need time to recover from your ordeal, physically as well as mentally. You’re in no condition to go back in there.’
‘That creep was coming on to me, I do know that much. If he’s involved in either the prostitution racket or the murder of Amy Grainger, I’m still your best shot at catching him. Nothing’s changed since yesterday. At least think about it.’ Daniels took a step forward but Carmichael didn’t move. She was frantic. As a parting shot she added, ‘You know it makes sense. You can do background checks on him, but we both know that takes up a whole lot of time. Meanwhile he could be back there, preying on another girl tonight. If not for me, then do it for Jessica.’
Even Daniels found that one hard to argue with.
By now Jessica Finch would be in a very bad way.
52
Jessica was in a very bad way.
Still alive.
But deteriorating rapidly.
He knew she would be.
A lesser person would have copped it by now.
She hung there, zombie-like, her lips blue, her cheeks striped where black mascara had run down her face. Blood from her wrists had travelled in tiny red rivers down her forearms, staining the sleeves of Amy Grainger’s skimpy mini-dress. Her eyes didn’t respond to the torch-light. But he was taking no chances. With gloved hands, he blindfolded her before forcing a bottle of water into her mouth. She gasped suddenly, nearly choking as the liquid gushed into her gullet, her mouth chasing the neck of the bottle like a baby trying to find a nipple.
He let her drink, knowing that she’d be doubled up with stomach cramps if she took too much at once. They’d never find her. He’d watched them trying, but they didn’t have a clue. Give Daniels her due though, she’d made the connection to his hiding place and that was impressive. Smart cookie, she was. Less than an hour ago, she’d faced the local media in order to find the girl alive. He’d watched her striding confidently to the podium, blinded by flashbulbs as she made her appeal.
She was wasting her breath.
‘Please let me go,’ Jessica whimpered.
He slapped her hard.
His voice was low pitched and venomous.
‘Blame your father,’ was all he said.
53
Daniels rapped on the door and waited. Two hours ago she’d left Carmichael to get some rest and gone home. She’d taken a quick shower and changed her clothes before driving to the station in no condition to face a press conference scheduled for ten o’clock. Press conference? Media scrum, more like. The nationals were using bully-boy tactics, muscling in on the action due to a lull in newsworthy stories to report. Television and newspaper journalists were like vultures picking over the bones of the dead, sensationalizing her murder case and trading on people’s misery in the name of public interest.
The flash of cameras had hurt her eyes. She had been seated at a table next to Naylor, the force logo carefully positioned on the wall behind them for the world to see. Such blatant self-publicity made her blood boil and she had decided there and then not to play ball. She kept the conference short deliberately, feeling Naylor’s concern as she sidestepped questions from the floor.
And afterwards he’d come right out with it. ‘Kate, what’s wrong?’
Not wanting to dob Carmichael in it, she’d sidestepped that too.
Still thinking about her ordeal, Daniels rapped on the door again. The music coming from Bryony Sharp’s flat was loud enough to wake the whole neighbourhood. Gormley raised his eyes to the ceiling and tried the door handle. It didn’t budge, so he knocked as hard as he could, then got down on his honkers and shouted through the letterbox:
‘POLICE! OPEN UP!’
But there was no reply.
Gormley stood up again. ‘I’m still uncomfortable with your decision,’ he said.
Forced to concede that she too had reservations about using Carmichael undercover again, Daniels locked eyes with him. ‘What choice do we have, Hank? I know you’re worried about her. So am I. But you’ve got to admit, she has a point. If Stevie-boy is our man, we don’t have time to fuck around. And this girl may be able to tell us more, if she ever answers the bloody door.’
‘Use someone else undercover. Someone more experienced—’
‘And what would that do for Lisa?’ Daniels said. ‘I don’t want to pull rank here—’
‘But you’re going to anyway.’
‘Hank! I’ve made my decision.’
Gormley was sulking now, but before he had time to argue, a girl opened the door. She was dressed in frayed denim hotpants over black leggings, and a skimpy purple ribbed T-shirt that hadn’t seen a washing machine in weeks – let alone an iron.
Daniels held up ID. ‘Bryony Sharp?’
The girl studied Daniels’ warrant card, a look of panic on her face.
‘She’s g
one home for the weekend.’
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels. And you are?’
‘Vanessa . . . Bry’s flatmate.’
‘Vanessa?’ Gormley waited.
‘Wilson, Vanessa Wilson.’
Daniels said,‘Well, Vanessa Wilson, I need to contact Bryony right away.’
‘What for?’
‘None of your business.’ Daniels looked past her into the flat as a young man poked his head around a doorway. Their eyes met and he made a hasty retreat. ‘Just as it’s none of my business what you and your mates are doing in there. I could make it my business, if you insist.’
‘You could try her mobile,’ Vanessa suggested.
Daniels waited for her to reel off a number, confident that Bryony Sharp was the girl she was looking for. In a rare stroke of luck, a member of the university admin staff had confirmed that there was only one student presently on campus with that name. But Vanessa just stood there, leaning against the door stanchion, too spaced out to realize what further assistance she could possibly be.
‘Er . . .’ Gormley pulled a face showing his irritation ‘. . . a number might help!’
His words took a moment to register. Then, realizing what he was getting at, Vanessa wandered off, leaving them standing on the threshold. There were sounds of whispering from inside the flat. Then she reappeared with Bryony’s number scrawled on a scrappy piece of lined paper.
Daniels took it from her, thanked her and turned away.
‘Chief Inspector?’
Daniels swung round.
Vanessa paused. ‘Look, she’ll kill me if I tell you this, but Bry had a bad experience last night – like creepy, y’know. I told her to ring you guys, but she wouldn’t. She should though, because she’s in a really bad place right now and she needs help.’
Daniels wanted more. ‘What do you mean, creepy?’
‘She thinks she was drugged by a bloke she met at Fuse last night.’
‘Thinks?’
‘She was pissed, we all were.’
‘This bloke wasn’t called Steve by any chance?’
Vanessa’s reaction was her answer.
‘That’s why we’re here,’ Gormley said. ‘Did you meet him?’
‘Briefly. I went home early.’ Vanessa paused again, pointing over her shoulder. ‘My boyfriend, Nick, stayed over. Bry seemed to be having such a good time when we left. Anyway, she didn’t come home until mid-morning. Says she woke up in some park in Newcastle in the early hours, freezing and on her own. Doesn’t remember getting there, doesn’t think, y’know, he did anything to her. She was scared to death. Just showered, grabbed her stuff and went home to be with her folks, get her head round it.’
Gormley followed the DCI back down a concrete stairwell and out on to the pavement of a busy street. As they walked, Daniels keyed in Bryony Sharp’s number, but there was no answer and the phone switched to voicemail:
‘The mobile you are calling may be switched off. Please try again later.’
Daniels left a message and rang off. She checked her watch – twelve fifteen - then guided Gormley along a narrow street, eventually turning left into the cobbled courtyard of an office block housing the university HR department. They’d rung ahead for an appointment and were already ten minutes late.
Daniels’ phone rang: Carmichael calling.
She took the call. ‘Thought I told you to go back to bed and sleep it off.’
‘I did.’ Carmichael sounded upbeat. Switched on. Back in business. ‘The creep is a lecturer of anthropology. It jumped into my head as I woke up thinking about him. It just came out of nowhere. His name’s Curtis, Steve Curtis.’
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely! Want me to chase him up?’
‘No, stay put, Lisa. Hank and I have it covered.’
There was a brief pause.
‘Is he pissed at me?’ Carmichael sounded anxious.
Daniels glanced at Gormley. He was smiling, preoccupied with something off to their left, not remotely interested in their conversation. Daniels followed his gaze, a broad grin developing as she saw what he was looking at. A no turning notice fixed to the wall in the yard had been cleverly altered to read: no turn on.
‘He’s fine,’ Daniels said. ‘Concerned about you, obviously, but otherwise fine.’ A door squealed as Gormley held it open. Daniels walked through. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, I’ll catch you later.’
She pocketed her phone.
They had reached an unmanned reception window. Gormley stuck his thumb on a bell-push to call for assistance and then stood back, waiting for someone to appear.
‘If I get my hands on that weirdo—’
So he had been listening. ‘You’ll treat him with professional composure, right? For Christ’s sake, let it drop, Hank. Just be thankful she’s all right. It won’t happen again, I can assure you. Lisa won’t make that mistake twice. You should’ve seen the clip of her this morning. I’ve seen better-looking dead people.’
A wry smile spread across Daniels’ face.
Gormley stared at her. ‘What?’
‘She stirred during the night and called me a legend.’
Gormley grinned. ‘She was pissed – she meant lesbian.’
Punching his arm, Daniels laughed out loud.
A middle-aged woman arrived at reception, a curious look on her face. She was obviously wondering what they were finding so funny. As wide as she was tall, she was wearing what could only be described as a tent over leggings and saggy flat pumps on her feet that weren’t quite coping under the strain of her bodyweight. Daniels had to work hard to keep a straight face, concerned that she might think they were laughing at her.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels.’ She pointed at Gormley. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Hank Gormley. We have an appointment with Patricia Conway.’
‘That’s me.’
She indicated a door to her left and buzzed them through. On the other side of it, a dreary, well-used corridor stretched off into the distance for quite a long way. It had green doors on either side that reminded Daniels of the police station.
‘Please follow me,’ Patricia Conway said.
As she waddled off in front of them, Gormley stifled a grin. ‘I know I’m a bit on the beefy side, boss. But aren’t her legs on upside down?’
Daniels stifled the urge to burst out laughing, telling him to behave. About halfway along the corridor, the woman stopped in front of a door bearing her name, black lettering on a white sign, the sliding sort, easily replaceable. She invited them inside, offered them tea, which they both declined, then took a seat behind her desk.
‘So,’ she said, ‘how might I be of assistance?’
‘I’m trying to find a man called Steve Curtis who works at the university. I have reason to believe that he may be a lecturer or professor of anthropology here.’
‘I don’t think so.’ The woman frowned. ‘Unless he’s very new to us. I’m not long back from the Far East – unpaid leave. My sister lives in Singapore.’
‘Nice.’ Gormley smiled. ‘Could you check your records, just in case?’
Ms Conway nodded, put on a pair of specs and logged on to her computer. After a few keystrokes she leaned forward, peering at the monitor, two tiny white screens reflected in the lenses of her glasses, before looking up, shaking her head.
‘There’s no one named Steve Curtis in that faculty.’
Daniels wondered if Carmichael had got her wires crossed. And who could blame her, after what she’d been through? But she seemed so clear on the phone. So certain of her facts. Daniels dug deep into her pocket. Earlier in the day she’d asked Brown to send his photographs of their mystery man to her phone. She called up the best one and passed the phone to Conway.
‘Do you know this man?’
Recognition flashed across the woman’s face. ‘This is a wind-up, right?’
54
It felt good to be back in the MIR among friends.
Robson knew they wouldn’t forget what he’d done, but drew some comfort from the fact that they’d forgiven him. Daniels had been especially supportive. She’d gone out, leaving him in charge of the incident room; her way of telling the others to let bygones be bygones and drop the cold-shoulder treatment. Robson took a deep breath and wiped his eye as DC Maxwell lifted his head and glanced inquisitively in his direction. Thankfully, his prying didn’t last long. He went back to his work as the internal phone rang on Robson’s desk.
Robson lifted the receiver. ‘Incident room.’
‘Yo, Robbo. How goes it?’
‘Living the dream, mate.’ Robson lied. ‘And you?’
It was Sergeant Eddie Veitch. He worked downstairs in the front office. They’d been friends for many years, played poker occasionally with other guys at the station. A few quid once a month. A laugh. A few beers. No big deal. Until now. Their wives had gone to school together and had remained friends ever since. But lately they’d drifted apart, another reason for Robson to feel guilty.
He took a deep breath, hoping Veitch wasn’t going to ask them round.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘Package for you. Hand delivery. Urgent report for the attention of the SIO.’
Robson relaxed. In Daniels’ absence, that meant him. ‘Be right down,’ he said.
He hung up. Seconds later, the phone rang again, before he’d even risen to his feet. Probably Veitch again. He hesitated before answering, raising his voice to regain Maxwell’s attention. ‘Neil, nip down to the front office while I take this, will you? Eddie’s got something for the boss. And don’t hang around down there. Whatever it is, it’s urgent.’