by Mari Hannah
Adams grasped the door handle. ‘Ready?’ he asked.
Jo took a deep breath and nodded.
Adams opened the door. Jo was shocked by the physical deterioration in Woodgate since she’d last seen him. Under the harsh tube lighting there was no hiding the fact that he’d been in a fight. More likely he’d been bullied. He looked washed out, had a split lip, a scuff mark on his forehead and an enormous black eye. Now she understood why he was in ‘the block’. Prisoners were only put here for one of two reasons: either they were being disciplined, or else they had requested solitary confinement for their own protection under Rule 43 of the prison regulations.
Woodgate kept his head down, refusing to look her in the eye. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him like this. Most sex offenders she’d ever worked with were in denial. This one was practically squirming in his seat; obviously not ready to talk about his offence – not to a woman, and certainly not to her. He’d already told his personal officer that only a bloke would understand. He didn’t want to see Soulsby because she made him feel uncomfortable.
Damn right too! Why should he be allowed to forget? His victim never would.
Jo pulled up a chair and sat down opposite the prisoner at the only table in the room. She wasn’t ready for what happened next. Without warning, Woodgate overturned the table and everything on it, sending her crashing to the floor.
He began yelling like a man possessed.
Fearing a hostage situation, Jo was quick to act. She slammed her fist against a red button on the wall. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. The alarm bell was deafening. Several prison officers charged into the room as if World War Three had broken out. Two held Woodgate down, using their knees in the small of his back as leverage. Adams positioned his forearm across the back of Woodgate’s neck, jamming his face hard against the tiled floor so they could get the cuffs on him.
Jo scrambled across the floor to the far wall, shaken by the suddenness and ferocity of Woodgate’s temper. Even though she’d read reports of it, experiencing it first-hand was something else entirely. He was hauled out into the corridor, kicking and screaming obscenities, his voice remaining in the room long after he’d disappeared from sight.
‘Want the Medical Officer?’ Adams offered.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Jo was anything but.
For a moment or two she scrabbled around on all fours trying to retrieve her notes. But her hands were trembling so much that her case papers point-blank refused to go back in their file so she stopped trying to make them. Sitting back on her heels, she looked on as Adams righted the table and overturned chair so she could sit down.
‘You sure you don’t want the MO?’ he said. ‘Cup of tea, slug of brandy?’
‘Probably the latter . . .’ Jo stood up. ‘But I want to get out of here more.’
What she really wanted was to talk to Daniels and sort out her life. But that would have to wait until she reached the privacy of her own home. Using a payphone in a prison only drew the attention of passers-by. One aborted attempt to speak to the DCI was one too many.
Adams’ voice pulled her back into the room. ‘He might just have done you a favour.’
‘Oh yeah, how do you work that out?’
Adams grinned. ‘Well, there’s no need for an assessment now, is there?’
‘Good point.’ Jo appreciated his attempt to cheer her up, could feel her heart rate returning to normal, the adrenalin rushing through her body slowly beginning to ebb away.
‘I’ve always thought Woody too dangerous for release,’ Adams said.
Jo nodded. ‘Well, he just proved you right. As far as I’m concerned, you can ship him back to Dartmoor. I’ll have a word with the Governor on my way out.’
14
Daniels had been a police officer for the best part of fifteen years. She’d seen the effects of violent crime on a daily basis but prided herself on the fact that she never allowed the job to affect her sensitivity to the bereaved. There was no right or wrong way for families of homicide victims to behave. Every individual coped differently: some became overwhelmed, some were too shocked to take it in, others went into denial and some – the most severe cases – went into total meltdown.
Still raw from her own experience of losing a parent prematurely, Daniels could easily identify with the emotional side of loss. The numbness, the anger, the guilt. The awful depression she’d always thought of as a modern disease, like stress. The image of a small sign hanging on her office wall suddenly popped into her mind. Stress: the confusion created when one’s mind overrides the body’s basic desire to kick the living shit out of some arsehole that desperately needs it!
Daniels wondered if the woman in front of her now felt the need to kick the living shit out of anyone. For a woman whose husband had just been brutally murdered, Monica Stephens was showing little emotion. And yet, she’d been taken to hospital in shock less than twenty-four hours before. The hand holding the cup and saucer was steady, the make-up immaculate, not a hair out of place or hint of recent tears.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss . . .’ Daniels said, gently.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
Monica spoke in a marked foreign accent, but with an excellent command of the English language. Her voice was unbroken, her conversation relaxed and coherent. And a copy of The Lady was lying open on the table between them. Daniels found that very curious. It was this week’s issue, had only come on sale that morning. No depression there then. Here was a woman who’d not only declined the offer of a family liaison officer, but she’d also found time to read her favourite magazine while half the force were out looking for the thug with a firearm who’d blown her husband away.
It was weird.
‘Take it,’ Monica said, picking up on Daniels’ interest in the magazine. ‘I didn’t sleep well and I’ve read it, how do you say, back to front?’
Daniels studied the woman until she felt compelled to fill the silence.
‘I can’t believe this has happened, Detective. My husband was a good man. Everyone liked him. Why would anyone do such a thing?’
Why indeed?
‘Did Mr Stephens have any problems recently, at work or at home?’
‘No!’ Monica’s tone was scathing, as if the question had been ridiculous. ‘We were very comfortable with money, Alan and I. Our business is hugely successful. He was an entrepreneur, a good one. He built his operation up from nothing, as you can see. He hated this house. Said growing up here was a nightmare. It is what motivated him, I think.’
Glancing around the room, Daniels saw no trappings of wealth. In fact, quite the opposite was true. They were sitting in a small living room in a house belonging to Alan Stephens’ mother, a former council property that hadn’t been updated in years. The furniture was frayed and unfashionable, the carpets worn and in need of replacement. Stephens may have been successful but he certainly didn’t spread his money around, at least not in his poor mother’s direction.
A meeting with Mrs Stephens senior a little earlier hadn’t been an interview as such, more a welfare visit to the mother of a homicide victim. She was eighty-one years old, a fit, straight-talking lady with steely blue eyes. Her reaction to the tragedy had been painful to watch. When Daniels found out why, her heart sank. To survive one son was bad luck; to survive two was more than a mother could possibly bear. But Daniels had no such feelings of sympathy or warmth for the woman sitting in front of her now.
She moved on. ‘He was well liked?’
Monica raised her teacup to her lips. ‘As much as any successful businessman is.’
Exchanging a brief look with Gormley, Daniels wondered if the act of covering her mouth was significant. Was the woman hiding something, or merely taking a drink? Had Daniels been a gambler, she’d have opted for the former, but for now at least she was prepared to give the widow the benefit of the doubt.
‘Can you tell me when you last saw your husband?’ she asked.
‘Ar
ound seven o’clock.’ Monica replaced her cup in its saucer. ‘No, shortly after – his taxi was late. He commented on it. Alan was an Englishman through and through, a little eccentric even. Punctuality was important to him. He believed it was a measure of a man, like manners. He hated sloppiness in any form.’
‘Was he going straight to the Weston Hotel?’
Monica nodded. ‘That’s what he said.’
Daniels registered the doubt. ‘And you left home when?’
‘Very soon after.’
‘To go where?’ Gormley asked casually.
‘To have dinner with a friend, then I drove her to Newcastle airport, returning here around midnight—’
Daniels wanted more. ‘Which flight?’
‘Does it matter?’
The detectives just looked at her.
Monica spread her hands, acknowledging her mistake. ‘Sorry, of course it matters. I suppose I must account for my movements like everyone else. She was catching a flight to London, she has family down there.’
‘Do you remember the check-in desk, which airline she was using?’
Monica shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I didn’t really take much notice. We had a drink in the bar and she left me, I don’t know . . . at around eleven thirty, I guess.’
Daniels felt a ripple of excitement building. To her knowledge, there was no flight out of Newcastle to any London airport that late at night. ‘Do you have any idea where she might be staying in London?’
Monica sighed, bored with the questioning. ‘Do you always tell people where you are going, Detective? Surely the whole point of taking a break is that you can’t be found?’
‘Did you buy anything while you were at the airport?’
‘Only drinks.’
Gormley looked at her. ‘Don’t suppose you have any receipts?’
‘Who keeps receipts? I paid cash. It was a few pounds only.’
‘Of course,’ Daniels nodded. ‘And your friend’s name?’
‘Teresa.’
‘Surname?’
‘Branson, Teresa Branson.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Stephens . . .’ Daniels smiled and got to her feet. ‘I think that’s all for now. Be sure to get in touch if you think of anything else. And if you change your mind, feel free to ring me at any time. And do speak with your family liaison officer if there’s anything you need, anything at all. That’s what they’re there for.’
They said their goodbyes at the front door and made their way to the Toyota. Daniels waited until they were inside the car and Monica had gone back inside before speaking.
‘If she’s grieving for her husband, she’s doing a bloody good job of hiding it . . .’ She fastened her seat belt, turned on the engine and drove away. ‘Give Lisa a bell, Hank. Tell her to get hold of a copy of the airport CCTV footage. And while you’re at it, get her to check last night’s passenger lists for Teresa Branson.’
15
A storm was brewing as Jo walked back through the gates of Acklington Prison. This close to the Northumberland coast, there was little protection from the biting chill on a gloomy November afternoon. She hunched her shoulders, pulled up her collar and rushed to her waiting car, checking underneath and inside the vehicle before getting in. It was a routine she followed no matter what security level was operational at the time. Turning on the ignition, she sat for a while, dwelling on the incident in the VPU. The Governor’s attitude to the incident had bordered on the bizarre; he’d questioned whether she’d done anything to precipitate such a violent reaction, today or in the past. Whose side was he on? Men like Woodgate were scum. A bullet was too good for them.
Engaging first gear, she moved off . . .
The narrow country lane wound its way across country, passing an occasional farmhouse along the way, smoke drifting from chimney pots as people stoked their fires in readiness for the inevitable drop in temperature that nightfall would bring. It was a road she could have driven blindfold, but water was streaming down the windscreen and her headlights weren’t picking out much more than the white line in the centre of the road, making things more difficult.
The car was buffeted from side to side as the wind reached gale force. As hedgerows flashed by, the rain became torrential. Jo had to concentrate hard just to keep the car on the road. Her only crumb of comfort was that she was now on her way home. She imagined putting on some music and sinking her body into a steaming hot bath, shutting out the world and putting an awful day behind her.
And after that?
After that she would speak with Kate Daniels – someone she had every faith in – someone who’d know exactly what to do. But, unfortunately for her, that wasn’t quite what fate had in mind for her . . .
Her world stopped turning as the tree fell, caught in the BMW’s headlights. She reacted immediately but it was still too late. The car swerved violently from side to side – rolled over once, twice, and then – in what seemed like slow motion – flew through the air before coming to a sudden halt on its roof in a ditch.
Within seconds Jo had lost consciousness.
16
There is no worse place on earth than a mortuary at dusk. The examination room stank of chemicals. Stephens’ naked body was laid out on a slab surrounded by people dressed in forensic suits. Tim Stanton was in green scrubs, a face mask hooked to either ear and hanging loose around his neck. A coroner’s officer was taking notes as samples of tissue and blood-soaked hair were removed from the surface of the body, labelled and dated. A Scenes of Crime Officer was taking photographs.
On a nearby bench, a forensic scientist was searching through Stephens’ formal dress trousers. Daniels watched him remove a pair of solid-gold cufflinks from the pocket on the left, and in the right he found thirty-five pence in change and a gold cigarette lighter. He bagged the items ready to be sent off for forensic examination then entered them in his log.
Turning her attention back to the body, Daniels’ eyes homed in on the gold Rolex watch Stanton was removing from Stephens’ left wrist, the receipt for which she had held in her hand not three months ago while sifting through an old box of papers. The image was so strong, she was barely aware of the pathologist’s voice as he dictated his findings into an overhead microphone.
‘There are massive cranial injuries caused by the gunshot wound,’ he said. ‘The facial features are distorted due to extensive fracturing of the facial skeleton on bullet impact. There appears to be no other external evidence visible other than slight fresh bruising attributed to the victim having fallen . . .’
Daniels’ eyes shifted to the plain gold wedding band on the ring finger of Stephens’ left hand, her mind contemplating the sequence of events that might have led to his death.
‘What is left of the brain shows no evidence of natural disease on dissection,’ Stanton continued to elaborate, the tone of his voice completely detached from the subject matter. ‘Left bony orbit is disrupted, nasal bone dislodged and there is extensive haemorrhaging to the left side of the skull.’
Picking up his scalpel, Stanton began to make the Y incision. Daniels didn’t flinch as he cut into the flesh. Difficult though it had been to stomach in the early years of her career, she’d learned to remain detached when observing post-mortems. In fact she found the process of body dissection fascinating, something other people didn’t seem to understand. Autopsies could tell her things she could never find out by any other means, providing precise evidence that often proved crucial in a court of law.
She wondered if anyone back at the station had heard from Jo Soulsby yet. Before the post-mortem, she’d asked DC Andy Brown to visit Jo’s home and left instructions for him to let her know the outcome. She took out her mobile and saw that he’d sent a text. Still no joy. Jo hasn’t yet been in touch. Slipping the phone back into her pocket, Daniels thought about the last investigation they had worked on together. Jo’s support had proved invaluable to the case, although Bright had insisted he’d have found the perpetrator without it.
Daniels sighed.
She’d walk over hot coals for her boss, but he was an argumentative prick when he wanted to be. Did he not think that she’d seen him sneaking into the observation gallery above her head? His presence irritated her, but she knew he wouldn’t undermine her authority in front of everyone there.
At least, she hoped he wouldn’t.
‘I can tell you conclusively that the victim was a healthy man with no evidence of any natural disease to accelerate his death or cause him to collapse . . .’ Stanton was about to sum up. He took off his bloody gloves, went to a stainless-steel sink, turned on a tap and scrubbed up before helping himself to a glass of water. On his way back, he winked at her, letting her know she was still in charge but also that he was aware Bright was listening via an audio link upstairs, a gesture she appreciated. ‘Death was simply and unequivocally due to multiple head injuries caused by a single gunshot wound. One shot through the left frontal lobe. Good shot too, I should say. My guess is that he was standing. The weapon, a small but effective firearm, calibre unknown ’til the labs do their stuff.’
‘You’re still of the opinion that he had little or no chance to defend himself?’
Stanton nodded. ‘And certainly no chance of survival once hit with such accuracy. Shall we adjourn for tea?’
‘No can do, Tim,’ Daniels said apologetically. ‘I’ve got to get going.’
Stanton was disappointed. ‘Some other time perhaps?’
‘Sure.’ Daniels thanked him and quickly made her way out of the building, practically breaking into a run down a flight of stairs. She caught up with Bright as he hurried to leave the morgue via the back door. ‘Guv? A quick word, if I may.’
Bright stopped walking and turned to face her. ‘The PM gave us nothing we didn’t know already?’
‘That about sums it up,’ Daniels said.
‘Professional hit?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Between eleven and midnight, maybe a little after, just as we thought . . .’ Daniels paused. ‘Oh, and he’d recently had sex.’