by Mari Hannah
‘Promise you won’t shoot the messenger?’
‘Promise.’
‘She said she’d come to return this.’ Withdrawing a key from her pocket, Fiona handed it over. ‘She was about to push it though your door. She saw me drive up and asked me to pass it on.’ She watched Kate carefully, trying to judge her reaction.
There was none.
‘I wasn’t going to tell you in case you sent me packing,’ Fiona said. ‘She is too, by the way.’
Kate was thrown. ‘She is what?’
‘Packing. I gather she’s booked on the four o’clock Heathrow to JFK tomorrow afternoon. There’s time to catch her if you hurry. She’ll probably take the midday flight out of Newcastle tomorrow, the one I take. It’s fine if you need to go. We can do dinner some other time.’
‘No . . . we’ll do it now.’
Kate made a mental note to call Jo about her raised action before she left the country. She needed to know for certain if Collins was the same offender she’d told Carmichael about.
Fiona misread her silence ‘Go after her,’ she said.
‘Unnecessary.’ Kate knew when she was beaten. Jo could so easily have dropped the key through the letterbox. In giving it to Fiona she was repeating the message: I can’t do this any more. I think we’re done. Kate would always love her, but timing had never been kind to them. They would stay friends, of course. Close colleagues, definitely. Beyond that there was nothing more to be said. Jo was complicated. The reverse of the woman Kate was looking at.
She fumbled the key in the lock.
Fiona guessed that she might be wavering. ‘Kate, promise me you won’t do anything you’ll live to regret on my account.’
Kate turned to face her.
‘I’m serious,’ Fiona said. ‘Has something happened between you two?’
Kate hesitated, decided to level with her. ‘She’s given me the brush-off. We were supposed to go on holiday together. The day came and went. We didn’t make it, mainly though not exclusively because work got in the way . . . again.’
‘Bummer. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather give me a rain check? We’ve been here before, remember?’
‘How could I forget?’ Their eyes met and Kate’s indecision melted away. ‘Jo decided to cut and run. I’m a free agent, Fiona. And I’m hungry.’ She let the sexual innuendo fill the space between them, picked up the package and pushed open the door.
63
Kate showered quickly, allowing the water to wash away all thoughts of Jo, another round of indifference from her father, Beth’s suicide threat and the hideous argument with Atkins. If there had been any doubt in her mind how to handle him, it had now gone. He couldn’t blame anyone but himself for his predicament – any more than she could hers.
Forcing the day’s drama from her mind, she stepped from the shower, slipped into a robe and towel-dried her hair. As she threw her head back, she caught Fiona’s blurred reflection in the steamed-up mirror. She’d arrived in the room without a stitch on, music wafting in with her, Alex Parks: ‘Maybe That’s What It Takes’.
Kate’s desire to explore every inch of her guest arrived instantaneously.
Flushed with the need for sex, Fiona moved in, not a hint of self-consciousness or hesitation as she untied the belt of Kate’s robe and watched it fall open, eyes travelling the length of Kate’s body, still damp in places from the shower, damper still where it couldn’t be seen. ‘I’m ravenous,’ she said. ‘How about you?’
‘I see no need to go out.’ Kate grinned. ‘You’re beginning to resemble my favourite takeaway.’
‘Get stuck in.’ Fiona slid her arms inside the robe, hands drifting down Kate’s spine to the cheeks of her ass, her right leg parting Kate’s. She hesitated then, her smile dissolving. ‘You are sure about this?’
As Kate leaned in, Fiona held a hand against her breast.
‘Kate, I mean it. There’s still time to say no.’
They kissed, their bodies coming together, skin on skin.
Set alight by Fiona’s touch, Kate lost herself in the evocative lyrics of Parks’ haunting voice, her pulse keeping time with the rhythm of the music. Driven by lust, she felt an urgent need to get this enigmatic woman into bed. They were in for an incredible night. Good sex. No strings or complications. There would be other women in Fiona’s life. That was fine. It made her all the more attractive – and Kate thrived on the mystery.
Fiona had got under her skin from the moment she set eyes on her. Since the last time they had slept together, Kate had thought of her often. On each occasion it had produced a desire to see her one more time. Right now, that urge was as strong as it had ever been.
When was the last time she’d had any fun?
Kate kissed her again. No guilt. No wish to hold back, her tongue searching for its mate. Teasing Fiona. Tempting her. She smelt divine. Tasted good. She’d taste better later.
‘What would you like to eat?’ Kate whispered.
Fiona chuckled. ‘I was thinking spicy.’
Taking her hand, Kate led her from the shower room.
64
Kate rolled over as the landline rang. Turning on her side, she hooked a leg over Fiona’s, ran a hand over her warm, flat stomach. Propped up on her elbow, Kate ignored the phone and leaned in for a kiss, not wanting the night to end.
Fiona responded in kind. ‘Am I always going to have to share you with the boys in blue?’
‘That’s the deal,’ Kate said.
‘I’ll take it.’ Fiona smiled as the ringing stopped, pushed Kate onto her back and climbed on top. ‘Now, where were we?’
‘We were asleep.’
‘Such an overrated pastime.’
‘I agree.’ Another kiss. Kate lifted a finger. ‘Wait for it: one, two—’
On cue, her mobile rang.
Cursing and laughing at the same time, Fiona lay down again, pouting her lips in a sulk, cheeks flushed with having been under the duvet for the past half-hour, wiped out and dead to the world. Kate scooped up her mobile and turned on the light.
‘Daniels.’
‘Excuse the late call, Inspector.’ It was the custody sergeant. ‘One of your prisoners is refusing to settle. He wants to see you before he goes to court in the morning. I’m shipping him out at eight o’clock.’
‘That’s almost six hours from now,’ Fiona said.
‘I appreciate the time, ma’am.’ He’d overheard, assumed that it was Kate who’d made the comment.
Supressing a giggle, Kate placed a pillow over Fiona’s face to silence her and turned her attention to the phone. ‘I can’t see him,’ she said. ‘He’s already been charged.’
She pointed at Fiona as she wriggled free, warning her to behave. The artist sat up, kissing Kate’s neck, biting her free ear. Across the room, Kate caught a glimpse of herself in the portrait Fiona had painted, an amazing likeness inspired by, not copied from, photographs she’d taken at her apartment in the middle of a night not dissimilar to this one.
‘He’s waiving his right not to be re-interviewed,’ the custody sergeant said.
‘Which prisoner is it?’
‘Pearce. He has something to say you’ll want to hear, ma’am.’
Kate was suddenly interested. Beth had told her that Pearce was the weak link, the youngest of Gardner’s mates, the kid least involved in the assault on Elliott, the only one who’d looked away when Gardner was kicking the shit out of the lad on the ground. He’d even tried, if not to intervene, then to persuade the others to leave the scene.
‘Did Pearce give you a clue?’
‘He did. You need to get over here.’
Telling him she was on her way, Kate swung her legs over the bed and called a taxi. She showered and dressed quickly and shut the door quietly behind her so as not to wake Fiona. From the rear of the cab, Kate called the custody sergeant asking for details of Pearce’s solicitor. Armed with her notes, she dialled the number and waited.
The voice that greeted her was
thick with sleep and incomprehensible, little more than a groan.
‘Mr Carrick?’
‘Who is this?’
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels. SIO: Major Incident Team. Your client Robert Pearce is in custody awaiting a remand appearance tomorrow morning for Section 18.’
‘You’re not going to tell me he’s topped himself, are you?’ Carrick yawned.
‘No, sir.’ Given the time of night, it wasn’t too far-fetched. ‘He’s asked to see me urgently and wishes to waive his right not to talk to me again in relation to the matter. I’m told he’s agitated, desperate to share something that can’t wait ’til morning. He’s happy to do so with or without you present. However, he’s facing a serious charge. I’d rather you were there.’
Carrick groaned. ‘Inspector, it’s two a.m.’
Kate thought of Fiona asleep in bed, having succumbed to exhaustion. She was out of it when Kate left, a tangled mess of hair against a white pillow, as attractive asleep as when awake.
‘I’m well aware of that, Mr Carrick.’
‘Is this really necessary?’
‘My custody sergeant seems to think so. Pearce is insisting on being heard. I gather the information he wants to pass on is crucial to our case. That rather suggests his testimony may be to your advantage too, something a judge will take into consideration when the case comes to trial.’
‘You’ve sold it to me, Inspector. I live locally. I’ll be there shortly.’
65
Kate could hardly believe her luck. The evidence against Gardner was undeniable, but she’d been trained to be sceptical. If something seemed too good to be true, it usually was. She stared at Robert Pearce, wondering if the prisoner was taking her for a ride. Had one of the others in the adjoining cells put him up to it, she wondered? Somehow, she didn’t think so. He was snivelling, feeling sorry for himself. His disturbed emotional state seemed genuine, not put on for her benefit alone.
‘So let me get this straight,’ Kate said. ‘You seriously expect me to believe that Liam Gardner brags that he’s the descendant of a hangman?’
‘He does!’
‘That’s quite a claim.’
Carrick hid another yawn behind his hand. ‘One my client wouldn’t be making unless it was true—’
‘It is true,’ Pearce said. ‘Ask the others.’
‘Forgive me for doubting you.’ Kate wasn’t ruling it out altogether. Collins had already fingered Gardner for being a fantasist. Maybe there was some truth in it after all. ‘I’m wondering why you didn’t tell us this before, given that you were questioned about a hanging.’
‘Why d’ya think?’
‘I’m not a mind reader, Robert.’
‘Liam can be weird, really weird. I’m scared of him.’
Kate locked eyes with him. ‘You’re not from around here, are you?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘Couple of years.’
‘I can see you’re not keen.’ Kate allowed the comment to fill the space between them. ‘So why hang out with him? No pun intended.’
‘Eh?’ The lad blushed. ‘Oh, I get you. Very funny.’
‘Do you see me laughing?’ Kate gave him hard eyes. ‘Answer the question.’
‘I dunno, he’s good crack sometimes.’
‘Is he?’ Kate said. ‘Where did you meet?’
‘Quad Squad.’
The DCI exchanged a look with Carrick.
The brief shook his head. He had no clue.
‘It’s a quad-biking safari,’ Pearce said.
Kate didn’t react. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘Otterburn. We’d both been given vouchers as Christmas presents. It was awesome. Y’know, riding through rugged terrain, up streams and through puddles and stuff, getting plastered with mud—’
‘I know what a safari is, Robert.’ This was way too easy. Too convenient. Kate didn’t like this kid any more than she liked Gardner. He was playing games. Even so, she’d raise an action to establish if any quad bikes had been stolen from the safari business. ‘Do either of you own a bike?’
‘Kiddin’ aren’t ya?’ he scoffed. ‘You know how much those things cost?’
She had to ask.
She threw in a lowballer to gauge his reaction. ‘Have you ever met my colleague, DCI James Atkins?’
Carrick looked up from his note-taking. ‘Is that relevant, Inspector?’
‘I’m not sure. How about you, Robert? Is it relevant?’
Pearce didn’t know where to put himself. He hadn’t anticipated the change in direction. He looked away, a shrug of the shoulders, a shake of the head.
Kate wasn’t fooled. She made a mental note to research in what context they might have come across one another. She couldn’t work out what was going on there but she didn’t like it. ‘Maybe it’s not Gardner you’re scared of,’ she said. ‘Even if it is, I wouldn’t worry. He’s going away for a very long time.’
‘Yeah,’ Pearce said. ‘And because of you I’m going with him. I already told the DS who interviewed me that I had nowt to do with the fight. Gardner thinks I’ll grass him up. How long do you think it’ll take him to have me done in?’ He dropped his head. ‘I need protection.’
‘If you’re so scared of him, why are you grassing him up, feeding me this cock-and-bull story about him coming from a long line of hangmen? Did he put you up to it to wind us up? Or did someone else?’
‘What? No!’
‘You’re having a laugh, aren’t you, Robert? You got everyone out of bed under false pretences—’
‘I swear it’s the truth!’
‘So why didn’t you tell us earlier?’
‘Telling ya now, aren’t I? I’ve done nowt wrong. I shouldn’t be charged for just being there. I’m not guilty.’
‘With respect, that’s what they’ll all say tomorrow at court.’
‘Yeah, well I’m telling the truth. I should get credit for that.’
‘You may well do, but I hope you haven’t been watching too much TV, Robert. This is not America. There’s no plea-bargaining here.’
Kate rushed upstairs to her office and switched on the light. In her tiredness she couldn’t remember where she’d put the book Carmichael had given her. She searched frantically, lifting papers, opening drawers, all the time visualizing the volume in her mind: black cover, white script.
Come on, think!
She hated working in a space that was unfamiliar. Morpeth was a gentle town. There wasn’t much crime at all, let alone murder. Major investigations that had taken place in this part of the county had been run from Ashington or Bedlington, stations with designated incident rooms. Kate was beginning to think that she’d taken the book home in her briefcase when her eyes happened upon it on the small shelf near the door.
Fetching it to her desk, she turned to the index. The Gs were listed on page 155. She ran her index finger down the page. Nearly halfway down she stopped on the name: Gardner, William. A page number was written next to it.
Quickly, she selected page 58 and began to read . . .
The text concerned the trial of William Winter and his accomplices, Jane and Eleanor Clarke, three violent tinkers and members of a group known as the Faw Gang. Found guilty of burglary and of murdering Margaret Crozier, in keeping with eighteenth-century law, they were sentenced to be hung, their bodies to be dissected and anatomized by surgeons.
Kate read on, discovering that the following day, the sitting judge (Baron Thompson) cancelled the arrangement in relation to Winter, ordering instead that he be gibbeted at a place near the scene of his crime, to be hung in chains on some conspicuous part of Whiskershiels Common at a distance of one hundred metres from the Turnpike Road, near Elsdon.
Kate shivered as she read the last paragraph, an entry taken from the Public Record Office. It referred to another execution to be carried out on the county gallows outside the Westgate in Newcastle, a m
an called William Gardner, a convicted sheep rustler whose sentence was reprieved after he agreed to be the executioner of William Winter and the Clarke sisters. For taking that office, his death sentence was substituted for transportation to New South Wales for seven years.
66
On less than three hours’ sleep, Kate wasn’t feeling her best as she entered the briefing at precisely eight a.m. On the way in, she’d thought long and hard about her meeting with Pearce. On the surface, the information he’d supplied was a breakthrough, a eureka moment for her to savour and the team to celebrate. It seemed to seal the fate of Liam Gardner.
She wasn’t sold on it.
Gardner was shite. There was no disputing that – but was he guilty of killing Elliott Foster? If not, it would be a terrible injustice to finger him for the crime, no matter how much circumstantial evidence she had in her possession.
If not him, then who?
Whoever it was, they were still out there and Kate couldn’t live with that. ‘Can I have some hush, everyone?’ She was standing in front of the murder wall, facing the assembled squad. ‘I want to tell you a story.’
Hank raised his voice above the din. ‘You heard the boss. Are you sitting comfortably?’
The noise level died . . .
‘I’m going to share a compelling narrative and I want you to listen carefully.’ Kate waited for absolute silence. The team were restless, inattentive. Not like them. Some were finishing the remains of their breakfast, drinking coffee, glancing at mobile phones. She needed a way in. ‘It’s a matter of fact that there have been shady characters or criminals, call them what you will, with the family name of Gardner going back in history. I’m sure the same could be said of Daniels, Gormley and definitely Robson, a good old Reivers’ name. We all know what they were like.’
She grinned at Robbo.
He took it in good spirit and the team were finally onside.
‘OK, so we’ve had our laugh. I’ll start again now that you’re all listening, shall I? This time I want your undivided attention. I have serious points to make. As you know, Liam Gardner and his mates are at court. The man himself has been a wrong ’un since he was eleven years old. He has a long criminal record, including periods in custody for a variety of offences that have escalated in seriousness in the last five years. He’s known to every criminal justice agency and social services office you can name in a fifty-mile radius of here – for all the wrong reasons. More recently, he committed an offence that you’ll not find listed in any public or police record.’