by Mari Hannah
A few more deep breaths and her brain began to function once more:
Water runs out of a mine, not in.
She peered down the tunnel the way she’d come. Turning back was a temptation but not a serious option. She’d gone there to find Jessica Finch, dead or alive, and she wasn’t about to give up. She’d come too far to abandon her now. With her bearings once again intact, but with no idea how far the mine extended, she set off with renewed determination, the backpack getting ever heavier with the weight inside.
‘Jessica!’
She stopped to listen once more. But it was no use. Up ahead, a huge black hole beckoned. Whatever it contained, the sight of it alone raised the hairs on the back of her neck. Like an enormous mouth threatening to swallow her whole, it appeared to be some kind of chamber cut into the rock. Thinking she’d heard someone behind her, Daniels swung round, hoping to see Cole wading towards her. She was mistaken. There was nothing except pitch darkness.
Jessica was in there though, Daniels could sense it, just as she had that morning when she’d sat astride her bike, scanning the landscape from the main road. All she wanted now was to find her and get the fuck out of there as fast as she could. Scrambling forward, straining to see, her eyes scanned the wet walls for evidence of recent activity, anything at all that might lead her to believe she was on the right track. But the place looked as though no human had passed through in decades.
Hanging on to the straps of her backpack, she set off again, wondering how Cole was doing, hoping he was having more luck than she was. Her heart was thumping with sheer exhaustion by the time she reached the chamber. It was now or never. Dipping her head low, she went in.
On the far side, she was able to stand upright for the first time since entering the mine. It took all her resolve just to haul her wet, aching body off the floor. But as she raised her head and lifted the torch, her blood ran cold.
She let out a gasp.
No!
Taking a small step backwards, she sank to her knees, effectively blocking off the entrance. A whimper echoed in the chamber. This was not Jessica calling for help but the sound of her own voice.
Two rats paddled by, their beady eyes glowing in the darkness. This time Daniels didn’t flinch, flail around, or scream. She was too traumatized by the sight facing her to pay them any mind.
‘Kate!’
A faraway voice called out to her.
It was calm, not unduly alarmed, a man’s voice, she thought. Cole maybe? The TSG? Whether it was real or imagined, Daniels couldn’t tell. She didn’t care anymore. Caring for people hadn’t turned out well up to now: Mum, Dad, Jo, Jessica . . . all the victims who’d gone before. In different ways, she’d cared for them all, some personally, others in the course of a so-called dream job.
Being a murder detective occasionally gave her an adrenalin rush but most times not. If she was being honest, the majority of the time it was gross – pitiless, vicious, repulsive – and totally unbearable. Right now she ached to turn in her warrant card and walk away.
‘Kate?’
She turned and looked over her shoulder.
In the tunnel, Cole stopped dead in his tracks when he saw her, tears unashamedly running down her face, the torch shaking in her bloodstained hand.
‘You don’t want to go in there,’ she said gently.
85
‘She’s breathing, just.’ Daniels wiped her nose on her sodden sleeve and stopped snivelling. ‘We need to get her out of here now!’
‘You want me to go back and radio in?’
‘No time. Get the axe out. Quickly!’
Turning her back on him, Daniels hung on to the mouth of the chamber, obscuring its interior from Cole, wondering if she ought to let him in there. It was a crime scene after all. A major one. She dismissed that thought. Keeping Jessica alive was her only priority and she needed his help. She’d preserve life over a crime scene any day of the week and worry about recovering forensics later.
Refastening her backpack, Cole blew on his hands.
Daniels turned round. ‘You ready?’ she said.
He didn’t look ready, but he nodded anyway.
They crawled into the chamber, the DCI going first.
She shone the torch against the wall as they stood up straight.
Cole’s reaction was predictable for a civilian who’d never before witnessed a scene this horrific. Sadly, Daniels had. For a moment he stood there, unable to draw his eyes away from what was, to all intents and purposes, a macabre crucifixion. Shaking both from cold and shock, his purple lips looked black in the darkened chamber. They turned down at the edges as he fought to stay in control of his emotions. Observing at first hand the level of cruelty one human being could inflict on another was always the hardest part to endure.
Averting his eyes, he focused his torch and his attention on Daniels.
It took a moment for him to verbalize thought . . .
‘I saw some shit in the military, but I have to tell you . . .’
His voice trailed off.
An eerie silence prevailed, save for the drip, drip of water from the roof above. Sickened by what he’d seen, Cole hung his head a second, then looked up and let out a tirade of swear words, enraged that the man responsible for Jessica’s incarceration had taken the coward’s way out and would not face justice. Daniels agreed with him, but didn’t comment, merely pointed at the axe in the crook of his arm.
‘I’ll protect her hands, you get her down.’
‘No wait! I need to do something first.’
Cole swung into action then, dispelling all thoughts of Makepeace from his mind. They had a job to do and there was no time to waste. Handing her his torch, he slipped his arms out of the straps of his own rucksack. Daniels didn’t argue, just trained the torch on him and moved towards the girl.
Jessica’s emaciated body hung from the chains that bound her, head lolling to one side, a tortured expression on her face. She looked as though she was dead. Putting two fingers gently on her neck, Daniels felt a weak pulse and spoke a few words of encouragement, hoping she heard them. Coma patients had reported hearing the voices of loved ones. If Jessica knew she hadn’t been abandoned it might make the difference between life and death.
‘I hope he burns in Hell.’ Cole had the bag open now. ‘Can you hold this?’
Daniels left Jessica’s side to help. With enormous difficulty, she took the bag from him, her injured hand almost collapsing under its weight. It must have weighed in excess of twenty-five pounds. How he’d managed to lug it all the way from the entrance was anyone’s guess.
Removing what looked like a sturdy waterproof bag, Cole opened it up. Inside was a folded block of heavy duty plastic material – orange, yellow and black – and some strange looking bellows. He began working hard, inflating what Daniels now realized was a floating stretcher, complete with zip-up survival cover, insulated to keep their casualty warm.
A lump formed in her throat. ‘You steal that piece of kit from your employer?’
Cole pretended he hadn’t noticed she was close to breaking down.
‘Nah, picked it up at Waitrose on my way to meet you. Wanna see the receipt?’
Blinking back tears of relief, the bedraggled SIO managed a weak smile. Cole had been her very last hope of finding Jessica in time to save her life. He’d stepped into the breach when others would have hidden behind excuses. She could never repay him for that.
Cole took a much-needed breather. Soaked through and shivering uncontrollably, the effort required to work the bellows had taken its toll on him. He looked into her eyes and then started pumping his arms again.
‘How the hell do you do it, Kate?’
Daniels’ tone was hard. ‘Someone has to.’
She knew then why she did it. Because no one else wanted to, was the short answer. Now back in command of her emotions, she pushed her doubts away. This was no time to wallow in self-pity or make decisions on her future career. The police force was her life, the only l
ife worth living, as far as she was concerned. She was bruised by it often. But bruises heal . . . eventually.
She hoped Jessica would too.
Cole was now done.
In silence they released Jessica from her restraints. Cole lifted her up and laid her gently in the stretcher, wrapping her up securely, like he was putting a child to bed. A few last words of encouragement from Daniels and they began the journey back down the tunnel. It was touch and go whether Jess would make it. But at least they were taking her home.
86
Daniels parked her bike at Hartside Pass, switched off the ignition and lifted her visor. From here she could see right across the Solway Firth to Scotland as well as Helvellyn, Great Gable and Skiddaw in The Lakes. Taking off her leather gloves, she studied the scarring on her right hand and recalled the terrifying, rat-infested tunnel where she’d gashed it.
Any shred of sympathy she might have felt for Jimmy Makepeace had quickly turned to rage that day. He had, as Cole said, taken the coward’s way out, leaving Jessica to die a horrible death in a chamber of unspeakable horrors, shackled to the wall without a hope in hell of escape and little chance of being found. A suicide note found at his house suggested he’d acted alone and offered a muted apology to the parents of Amy Grainger. Detectives treated it with the contempt it deserved. The irony of leaving another couple childless had obviously passed him by.
Even though it hadn’t always felt like it, in their search for Jessica the murder investigation team had never lost sight of the fact that they were simultaneously investigating the death of another young girl. Amy Grainger had been a happy and vibrant young woman with everything to live for; a young woman who loved the countryside and who, it seemed, had paid with her life for bearing a likeness to someone else. Her parents had since returned to the place where she died, comforted by the beauty and solitude of the Roman Wall and its surroundings, a wondrous place Amy would’ve loved to explore, had she lived long enough to see it for herself.
The investigation into her death had lasted eleven days. But it had touched so many people’s lives on the way. Mark Harris and his daughter, Rachel Somers, were now reunited. Durham Constabulary had smashed the prostitution ring that had preyed on impoverished students from the city’s university and had charged two men with living off immoral earnings. Stephen Freek had also been charged, with aiding and abetting, along with offences against Data Protection. Daniels had made it her business to instigate charges of her own: a count of administering a noxious substance and one of abduction in the case of Bryony Sharp, which would undoubtedly lead to a consecutive term of imprisonment. And that was good enough for his other victim, DC Lisa Carmichael, who’d learned a valuable lesson in the course of her dealings with Freek.
Even with the weight of the law behind her, there were some cases where Daniels had no choice but to accept that she might never know the whole truth. Susan Makepeace was one of those cases. She had lied to police about her involvement in her ex-husband’s wicked revenge; it was likely she supplied him with information about Jessica. But the former housekeeper would not stand trial because, in their wisdom, the Crown Prosecution Service had decided there was insufficient evidence to obtain a conviction. In Daniels’ mind, no questions remained: why else had the woman cut Jimmy out of the photograph of her daughter, if not to conceal it from her employer? Susan Makepeace was guilty, all right, of that she had no doubt.
The investigation had thrown up many issues for Daniels: the innocent had been under suspicion, the guilty had escaped justice and along the way she had learned that sometimes rehabilitation was possible. It certainly was in the case of Stewart Cole, who received a commendation for the assistance he’d given the murder investigation team. He was indeed one of the good guys, and Daniels would remain forever in his debt.
A few weeks after the case was finally closed, she began receiving curious postcards from abroad, all unsigned, all bearing the same simple message: Are you hungry yet? Each time one dropped into her in-tray, Daniels thought about Fiona Fielding and wondered what might have been. Who knows? Maybe they would meet again . . . someday.
Maybe not.
The complexities of the human psyche are many. Some people are for ever stuck in the past. Jo Soulsby was Daniels’ past, just as Mark Harris was Laura Somers’, Makepeace was Cole’s, Finch was Bright’s. But critical to the case was the relationship between Jimmy Makepeace and Adam Finch. And, because of that final connection – a decision made many years ago that had nothing whatsoever to do with her – Jessica Finch had very nearly died in that chamber. And would have done so, had Cole not floated her out of the mine and airlifted her to hospital.
Another hour and they’d have been too late.
Her captor, Jimmy Makepeace, had taken his secret to the grave. So in the end it was down to one minute piece of forensics and Jessica’s own resilience that she survived at all. When Daniels found her – unconscious, head bowed and chained to the wall, an emaciated, torn soul – she’d wept tears of anger that a person could treat another so cruelly. But later there were tears of joy when word came through from the hospital that she was sitting up in bed with her father by her side. Her injuries were more psychological than physical. She’d managed to suck water from strands of wet hair in order to survive. The rain that Daniels had been so desperate about had, in a twist of fate, saved her from certain death.
Within a few days, she was out of the high-dependency unit. Doctors were confident that, in time, she would make a full recovery. Now, more than ever, Jessica was determined to complete her studies and enter the medical profession. Whether or not her father would relent and accept Robert Lester as part of her life . . . who could say? But even Adam Finch had shown his good side, bankrolling the MAC Flying Club out of gratitude to Stewart Cole.
Daniels took a long deep breath and flexed her hand. Thankfully her scars were only superficial. Today, tomorrow, next week, there would be another case to solve, other families looking for justice, revenge, closure.
Her phone rang. The display read: Hank.
‘Where you at?’ Gormley said.
Daniels grimaced, hesitating a little too long.
Gormley didn’t wait for a reply. ‘How’s the view up there?’
Smiling, she looked over the stunning countryside. The Amy Grainger case had pushed her and her team to the limit. But Jessica Finch had survived, and so had they. Today was a day without a cloud in the sky.
A happy day.
‘Perfect, Hank . . .’ she said. ‘The view’s just perfect.’
If you enjoyed Settled Blood,
then take a sneak peek at
Deadly Deceit,
another exhilarating thrill ride from Mari Hannah
Available December 2013 from Witness Impulse
1
Twelve forty-five a.m., Thursday, 24 June 2010. Another hot and sticky night. Standing in the shadows, the girl peered into the darkness. Not a soul about. Several streetlights were out thanks to a couple of local yobs who possessed an air rifle each and no more sense than they were born with. She had to admit, the conditions were perfect for someone with murder in mind.
Just metres away, in scenes reminiscent of the end of World War Two, the scruffy back lanes of Newcastle’s West End had been transformed. Red-and-white bunting blew in the breeze, criss-crossing Victorian terraces. Beneath it, trestle tables laid end to end stretched the full length of the lane where she lived.
If anyone could actually call it living.
With the eyes of the world on South Africa, the Brits were behaving like wankers celebrating a one–nil win over Slovenia after a piss-poor start to their World Cup. The party had begun at noon, a knocked-off flat screen rigged up outside so everyone could watch the match and get smashed in the sunshine. Paper plates were piled high with enough sandwiches and crisps to feed a small nation, crates of cheap booze stacked against one wall, a barbeque as big as Texas built just for the occasion, a karaoke system laid ready and w
aiting for the really sad fuckers.
One of the guys had organized a mini football tournament, clearing wheelie bins away and drawing makeshift goalposts on the gable end of the next terrace down. Before coverage of the big game began, he’d exhibited his ball skills with an impressive number of keepy-ups to the delight of the kids. As they ran towards him cheering, he’d dribbled the ball past one, past two, and scored a goal before running off celebrating through a rotting wooden gate that was hanging from its hinges, returning minutes later with prizes: water pistols and catapults. Perfect choice for the next generation of fuckwits unlucky enough to grow up round here.
But that was nearly twelve hours ago.
Leftover food, gone stale in the heat of the day, littered the ground, blown there by the wind. Kids were tired and fractious, many of their parents drunk and incapable – none of them remotely interested in putting their bairns to bed. They’d spent the last few hours with beer goggles on, bigging up the game: Terry was awesome, Upson too, Milner outstanding – we can go on and win the tournament now. Bring on Germany!
Yeah right: only yesterday they were accusing the England team of bottling it, choking under pressure – their manager, Fabio Capello, of ill-considered tactics. In the pre-match build up, TV commentators had talked of the courage required to play for your country. Bollocks. Her brother was in Afghanistan fighting for his. That took courage. Not kicking a ball round on a patch of grass for an hour and a half, a group hug at the end to show their solidarity. Footballers were only good for two things: shagging or fleecing – and not necessarily in that order.
The smell of barbequed food reached her. That would be the kid three doors down – twenty-two years old and thirty stones in weight – never more than three metres from a burger, two if there were chips and curry sauce on the go. It seemed like everyone was involved in the street party.
Except one.