by Mari Hannah
He knew her so well.
Arriving home ten minutes later, Daniels let herself in with the intention of a quick turnaround: shower, change of clothes, ice pack on that lip, then business as usual. She’d slip in under the radar and be back at her desk within the hour. If she kept her head down, Naylor would be none the wiser. That was the plan, anyway.
Setting her helmet down on the bottom stair, leaving her keys inside as always, she made her way along the hallway to a kitchen she’d hardly seen in three days. Picking up the phone, she rang Weldon. But the news wasn’t good: the search team were flagging and there’d been no sign at all of Jessica, or anyone else for that matter. She hung up and slumped down on a chair. It was then that she spotted the business card on the kitchen bench where she’d left it, a little helicopter motif in the left-hand corner.
She called the number on it and waited.
The phone rang out only twice before he picked up and gave his name.
If a voice had a feel, his was like velvet: warm, soft, no edge to it.
‘It’s DCI Daniels here, Mr Cole.’ Her hand went to her mouth as she caught sight of her reflection in the polished steel toaster on the kitchen bench: an ugly bruise and dried blood visible on her upper lip. She wasn’t sure what possessed her to say what came out next, but from the moment she’d met Cole, she’d had the feeling he was one of the good guys. ‘I need your help,’ she said.
‘You can have all the help you want, Inspector.’ He sounded intrigued. ‘It’ll cost you, mind. You call me Stew, I call you Kate. How’s that?’
She took no offence, surprised that he’d even remembered her name. Dropping the formalities, she explained about the frantic search to find Jessica Finch. Then, without going into detail, she broke the news that his former friend, Jimmy Makepeace, was dead. There was a pause at the other end; a long, awkward pause while Cole digested the information he’d been given. Then he was back with her again, asking what it was she wanted him to do.
She told him about the search area. ‘Don’t know if you’re familiar with the North Pennines, but it’s really rough ground up there: shaft mounds, spoil heaps, old mine workings and not a lot else. The place is riddled with hidden rocks and streams. When I first saw it, I have to tell you, my morale took a dive. I can’t imagine why he chose it. There’d be easier places to hide someone.’
‘Sounds like Jimmy,’ Cole said. ‘Told you he was a nutter! If there was a hard way, he’d find it. That’s the kind of guy he was. He was a good pilot, though. The best. I know it’s a bit of a cliché, but flying, or should I say, landing a helicopter really isn’t rocket science. It’s just a question of doing your homework.’
‘Homework?’
‘We call it the five S’s: size, shape, surface, surrounds, slope. In other words, is it big enough? Is it long, wide, or flat enough? Are there tree stumps, rocks, any kind of bogland? Anything at all that might affect our ability to land? In your case, there obviously is.’
‘Pylons, obstacles, that sort of thing?’
‘Exactly. Slopes are tricky. You need at least twelve degrees nose up, nine from side to side, otherwise you’re in trouble. We’re trained to pick natural markers in the landscape: trees, rocks, any sort of visual that might aid an approach – one forward, one lateral – but even in the most difficult territory you can usually find somewhere to land. That’s why we complete two orbits before we give it a go.’
Give it a go?
Daniels didn’t like the sound of that.
‘In my time in the military, I saw guys do amazing things in conditions you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy.’
‘Like Jimmy?’
‘Yeah, like Jimmy.’ A hint of sadness crept into his voice. ‘It’s hard to believe he’s done something like this.’
‘You said he was a good pilot.’ Daniels cut him off, trying to keep him focused. She didn’t want him to dwell on the whys and wherefores of the case, just help her to solve it. ‘Better than you?’
‘Maybe,’ Cole said honestly. ‘Why don’t you show me the site. We can take a look now, if you’re up for it.’
83
Cole was confident but not arrogant, which was just as well because Daniels didn’t fancy a trip in a flimsy bloody flying machine with some egomaniac at the controls. She thanked him, gave him the geographical coordinates for the search site, then hung up, agreeing to meet him there as soon as was humanly possible.
Before she left the house, she rang Weldon, letting him know they were on their way, asking him to keep quiet about her unofficial help if Naylor happened to make contact in the meantime. It was probably best if she was the one to tell him she’d commandeered a private aircraft at God knows what cost – five, six hundred pounds an hour? – while off duty on sick leave.
That would go down well.
‘I’m supposed to be resting,’ she said.
‘Has something happened?’ Weldon sounded concerned.
‘Tell you later.’
Minutes after that conversation, she was back on the Yamaha, speeding to the same coordinates she’d just given Cole. He was waiting for her when she arrived, standing beside what could only be described as a Smart car with rotor blades on top and a couple of insubstantial skis underneath. Two wheels or four Daniels was happy with. Helicopters were something else. But this case had started with a journey in one and she was hoping that’s where it would end.
Cole’s eyes slid over her as she dismounted her motorcycle, took off her helmet and shook her hair free. He grimaced when he saw her lip.
‘That’s quite a pout,’ he said. ‘Where’d you get it?’
‘Long story . . . c’mon let’s go.’
She was nervous as they got into the helicopter. The cockpit was a mass of dials, switches and levers, none of which made sense to her. Cole handed her a Bose headset like the one she’d seen his business partner carrying at the flying club. She put it on as he prepared for take-off, the sound of revving engines reverberating inside her chest.
Cole checked her out. ‘You ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
‘Hey, get your shit together. This is no time for wimps.’
Daniels made a face, an extremely pale one. Cole took hold of the aircraft’s cyclic, a joystick-type instrument for controlling directional movement: pitch and roll; side to side; forwards or back, any which way – or so he was telling her. She wasn’t really interested, so long as he could fly the damn thing.
‘Don’t worry, Kate. I used to fly the Lynx.’
Brilliant, Daniels thought. What’s one of those when it’s about?
Cole smiled; a handsome smile she could’ve fallen for not so very long ago.
‘Everyone in my unit wanted to be a pilot.’ He lifted off, his eyes all over the place, checking various instruments, his main focus being the primary flight display which incorporated an artificial horizon, air speed, vertical speed, altimeter. He pointed at an Army Air Corps badge that was dangling above their heads: an eagle inside a wreath with a crown at the top. He looked sideways at her, grinning. ‘Wanna know what the euphemism is for a pilot’s wings?’
‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’ Daniels felt her stomach turn to mush as he banked steeply before levelling off again.
‘They used to call ’em “the great golden leg spreaders”.’
‘Course they did,’ she scoffed. ‘Because women love to shag pilots, right?’
‘Works for me,’ he said, flirting with her.
‘Only in your case it backfired,’ she reminded him. ‘Spectacularly, as I recall.’
‘You read the file.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘You kidding me? I’m a police officer! Of course I read the bloody file!’
Cole’s expression hardened with the memory of a fracas that had drastically altered his life and robbed him of his career, a fight in a bar over a woman witnesses were clear he was trying to protect. The man he’d wounded was her ex-boyfriend, who
’d just stuck a glass in her face after she dumped him in favour of Cole.
‘I was a mug,’ he said eventually. ‘She went back to him while I was inside.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me.’ Daniels meant it. ‘Some women are their own worst enemy when it comes to domestic violence. They want their heads read.’
Cole’s shrug was an admission that he was better off without her.
They flew around for half an hour or more, hardly speaking. Daniels was bloody exhausted, and tense – not because she liked her feet on the ground, either. The enquiry had taken its toll on her. Not once, but twice, events that had nothing to do with the enquiry had led her in the wrong direction. Blind alley syndrome was not uncommon in her line of work. Mark Harris was merely trying to get to know the daughter he never knew he had. He was an innocent man. Freek, on the other hand, was not. Durham had him bang to rights for passing information to the prostitution ring. He’d get what was coming in due course. But that didn’t help in the search for Jessica.
Cole pointed.
Something had caught his eye.
Daniels couldn’t see what he was looking at.
Her spirits soared as he altered course in order to check it out. It seemed to take forever to get there. Then, as the helicopter hovered in mid-air, blowing grass and debris around beneath it, the focus of Cole’s attention turned out to be nothing more than an abandoned picnic blanket, flapping wildly in the wind.
Again, the aircraft banked sharply.
Holding on tight, Daniels felt her stomach somersault. She waited until the aircraft tipped the other way before letting go, her hopes plummeting as she spotted members of the search team making their way towards their vehicles, parked on the main road off to her left. Dusk was descending fast now; high time they called it a day – a situation not lost on Cole.
‘It’ll be dark soon,’ he said. ‘We don’t have a lot of time.’
Daniels made no comment. She didn’t need telling that it was madness risking life and limb out here in the wilderness on a doubtful outcome. But she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving yet. Neither could she accept that Jessica Finch was dead. She wouldn’t abandon the search until Cole told her it was too dangerous to continue.
He kept flying.
But for how much longer?
And then . . .
Nothing.
Daniels was seeing things that weren’t there.
Seconds ticked by.
Anytime now, Cole would utter the words she didn’t want to hear. Sense would dictate that he put safety first, and he’d insist that they turn back. She watched his concentration, willing him to keep going for a few minutes more.
He did.
She was grateful for that.
Daniels blinked. On the ground beneath her she could’ve sworn she saw torchlight. One minute it was there, the next it was gone. She swung round. Weldon’s rescue vehicles had formed a caravan, a moving chain of lights on the main road. Search teams were on their way back to base. So whose torch had she seen? One of her TSG’s? Or had she just imagined it?
Reacting to her behaviour, Cole said, ‘The light plays tricks sometimes.’
Looking over her left shoulder, Daniels scanned the ground again.
Cole followed her gaze. ‘I can’t see anything. Hang on, I’ll go round.’
The helicopter shot forward and upwards, before banking sharply to the left. Cole put it into a steep descent, but the wind was causing him difficulty. Daniels watched him struggle with the controls and held on nervously as he brought the aircraft back to a hover. Even with the headphones on, the thwacking sound of the rotor blades was deafening.
‘There! See it?’ She pointed to a spot directly ahead. ‘White object, near the sluice gate of the mine. Can’t make out what it is, can you? Can you get us down?’
Cole looked below. The ground was uneven, covered with boulders and streams. There was only one possible area where he could land.
‘I can . . . but in this wind it might not be pleasant. How’s your stomach?’
Daniels blew out her cheeks. ‘Just get us on the deck.’
‘You want me to come with you when we get there?’
‘Not sure?’
‘You need to be sure,’ he said with conviction.
Daniels had lost the white object. ‘What the hell difference does it make?’
‘A shitload.’ Cole looked at her. ‘There are different limitations for landing and shutting down in a confined area. Trust me, I’m a pilot.’
‘OK, yes then.’ Daniels braced herself for a bumpy landing, subconsciously checking her safety harness and making sure it was good and tight. ‘Whoa! What you doing?’
‘Sorry, rapid change in wind direction. I’ve got thirty knots up me chuff. I’m going round again. You want me to radio the tactical support team?’
‘We can’t wait for them. We’ll lose the light. You get us down there. I’ll radio in.’
Cole nodded. ‘Suit yourself.’
‘Daniels to Tango, Sierra, Golf, over . . .’ She waited. But there was no response from the TSG. Cole was struggling to manoeuvre the helicopter, which was bouncing around in the wind. Checking the map on her knee, she tried again. ‘Tango, Sierra, Golf, come in. If you can hear me, I want a team over to search coordinates: Hotel, Alfa, Seven – Golf, Foxtrot, Two asap. And alert the doctor please. Suspicious item on the ground. I’m going to investigate.’
With great skill and much difficulty, Cole managed to move into a relatively clear area. Fixing the helicopter’s tail, he moved the body of the aircraft round, checking if he was safe to land. Aware of the dangers of blade sail, a situation that could technically chop off the tail – a not-so-comforting gem of information her police pilot had imparted on their descent to Housesteads Roman Fort – Daniels shut her eyes, hating every second they remained in the air.
For the first time in a long time, she prayed.
84
Cole shut the chopper down and put the rotor brake on. When the blades stopped turning they jumped out, grabbing a backpack of emergency equipment on the way out the door. At the entrance of a disused mine they knelt down. Reaching in through the sluice gate, Daniels took hold of the white object she’d seen from the air, her hopes fading to nothing as she stared at her find, an unremarkable hard hat – the type a potholer or miner might use.
A tear ran down her face as her frustration spilled out. Sinking back on her heels, she was about to discard the hat when the cap lamp flickered faintly . . . then the battery died.
‘Oh my god! We found her, Stew!’
Time stood still for a second as they stared through the bars of the sluice gate. Then Cole dragged Daniels to her feet and searched her backpack. Locating an axe, he smashed the butt end against the lock on the gate, which flew off, narrowly missing her head. Switching on their torches, they waded into the mine, knee-deep in icy water, forced to bend double by the low ceiling, stopping every few metres or so to take a breather.
Daniels called out to Jessica.
They listened.
No joy.
And pushed on . . .
A hundred metres further in, the worst possible scenario presented itself. There was a fork in the tunnel ahead, each offshoot as ominous and terrifying as the other. This was no time to admit that they weren’t keen on enclosed spaces. Even less keen to separate, but driven on to find Jessica, Cole peeled off to the left, the DCI to the right.
Daniels had been alone in some difficult situations in her time but the walls of the tunnel seemed to close in around her now. Fear gripped her, a claustrophobia so overwhelming she had to fight hard to go on. She’d rather have confronted her nemesis, Jonathan Forster, again than face this unknown threat underground.
Go on, you can do it.
It’s just a tunnel!
How on earth her father, or anyone else for that matter, ever managed to work below ground was beyond her comprehension. She wished he was here now to guide her. He would take her by t
he hand – like he used to when she was a little girl – and tell her some cock-and-bull story about the magical interior world she was entering. It didn’t feel magical. It felt as close to Hell as a person could get. A place of evil and suffering: remote, totally petrifying and spine-chillingly creepy.
As fear wrapped itself around her and tightened its grip, Daniels lost her footing and plunged headlong into the icy water, gashing her right hand on the wall as she went down, dropping her torch in the process. In blind panic, she scrambled around on all fours trying to retrieve it. For once, luck was on her side. Although submerged, the torch was still lit and heavy enough not to have been swept too far away in the current. She managed to get a hold on it but, just as she did so, the light suddenly went out.
The icy water had taken her breath away. Hyperventilating now, she was sitting in water, chest high, in unimaginable darkness. Jessica Finch was dead for sure. It was inconceivable that she could survive captivity down here for more than a few days.
As panic set in, a million spiders crawled over Daniels’ skin. Imaginary they may have been but she brushed them away as if they were real, yelling out in desperation and conscious of the terror in her voice.
‘Stew! Stew!’
Nothing: just the plink, plonk of water falling all around her.
Daniels shook the torch violently.
Suddenly the light came on.
Thank you, God!
She could breathe again.
Cold and disorientated, she shone the light first one way, then the other, again and again. Both looked identical.
Fuck! Was she facing in or out?
‘Stewart!’
Come on, Kate. Think!
‘JESSICA!’
The stress in her voice was bloodcurdling as it echoed back at her.
She shot against the wall as her flashlight caught the eyes of a rat.
Kicking out with her feet, she thrashed around in the water until the bastard thing disappeared. Taking a long, deep breath, she urged herself to keep going. But first she had to calm herself down.