by Mari Hannah
Gormley handed the photographs back. They helped themselves to a mug of tea being offered on a plastic tray by a community support officer drafted in at short notice. Daniels thanked him, her eyes scanning the room, her mind drifting back to her childhood when she lived in a former gamekeeper’s cottage much like this one. She felt at home at High Shaw, decided right there and then that she’d stay over for as long as they needed to use the property. There was no point driving backwards and forwards to the city every day. There was no one at home waiting for her – hadn’t been for months.
The ache in Daniels’ heart subsided as Detective Constable Carmichael walked towards her, a requisition sheet in her hands, a smile on her young face. Lisa had impressed everyone since joining the murder investigation team and she was fast emerging as their in-house technical expert.
‘Sorry to interrupt, boss. The BT lads are here to fix up the comms.’
‘OK, Lisa, you better let them in.’
As Carmichael wandered away in the direction of the front door, Daniels took another sip of tea and turned to face Gormley. ‘This has got to be the prettiest incident room I ever worked in, Hank. How come you found it so quickly?’
Gormley tapped the side of his nose. ‘I know people who know people. Mate of mine’s brother-in-law is an estate agent in Hexham. This place is a holiday let normally. Cancelled at short notice, so the owner tells me.’
‘I want to know why and by whom, soon as you can.’
‘Already taken care of . . .’ Gormley gave her a disparaging look. ‘Place was booked by a Norwegian guy for a fortnight. Poor bugger had a heart attack and couldn’t travel. And before you ask, he’s in hospital in Stavanger. I checked.’
Daniels grinned. She should have known better than to ask. Hank Gormley was a skilled detective who knew the risks of taking things at face value. He always had his wits about him, had never let her down.
‘You OK?’ He eyed her over the top of his bifocals as she massaged her right shoulder. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back so soon.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘How did the hearing go?’
Daniels knew he was worried about her. She also knew she wasn’t looking her best following a close encounter with a serial killer. But it was time to put all that behind her and concentrate on her job. She’d never been the type to sit around and mope. As far as she was concerned, you just had to get on with it. She’d done that when her mother died and she’d do it again now.
‘Piece of cake . . .’ she said finally. ‘No case to answer.’
‘What time’s the briefing?’
‘It’ll have to wait. Finish setting up and get things rolling. I’ve got to nip back to HQ and pick up my car.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘The guv’nor wants to see me. I hope to God he doesn’t want chapter and verse on the Professional Standards enquiry. It was a complete waste of time and money. There’s nothing to tell.’
Gormley led her to a quiet corner and dropped his voice a little. ‘It’s none of my business, but shouldn’t you still be on leave? You look like shit!’
She made a face. ‘So what’s your excuse?’
‘You need to take it easy, Kate. You’ve had a tough time of it lately.’
‘Back off, Hank. And stop acting like my minder; I’m a big girl now.’
‘Nice to see your brush with death hasn’t softened you up any.’
‘I told you, I’m fine . . .’ She patted his upper arm. ‘Don’t fuss!’
She left him to it, heading outside with his words ringing in her ears. He wasn’t alone in thinking she’d returned to work too early: her doctor, her father, her ex-boss – Detective Chief Superintendent Bright – all thought the same. Then again, Bright was master of the art of do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do. He’d recently lost his wife and had point-blank refused to take compassionate leave. So why should she? She was still thinking about him as she turned left on to the Military Road and put her foot down.
Her phone rang as the pool car picked up speed. Tim Stanton had completed the post-mortem and his preliminary findings were not what she wanted to hear.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked.
‘There’s absolutely no doubt. Just about every bone in her body was broken. Estimated time of death around three a.m., give or take . . .’ He sighed heavily, his tone of voice harder than before. ‘And there’s something else . . .’
Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good news.
‘Tim, what is it?’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but she was alive when she hit the ground.’
His words made Daniels’ whole body shudder. She’d seen death in all its grisly forms in her years at the sharp end, but this MO was a first; a despicable act of cruelty and inconceivable even for the most hardened of professionals to take on board. Stanton’s voice faded in and out, partly due to a weak satellite signal, mostly because she was imagining the horror of a young girl falling through the air and landing on open ground with a dull thud.
Organs rupturing on impact.
Bones splintering.
Death.
Daniels swallowed hard. ‘Is it possible to calculate the height she was thrown from? I assume crime scene investigators took a cast of the ground?’
‘They did indeed. They’re doing the maths and will give you a call.’
A horse rider up ahead required Daniels’ full attention. She depressed her brake, slowed to a crawl and gave the rider a wide berth. The young woman turned her head slowly, acknowledging her courtesy with a wave. As their eyes locked, Daniels’ car nearly left the road as the dead girl’s face stared back at her.
‘Kate? You still there?’
‘Yeah, sorry. Any evidence of sexual assault?’
‘None.’
‘News on her ID?’
‘Yes and no. Hang on a second . . .’ The phone went down on a hard surface. Daniels could hear the rustling of papers. She assumed Stanton was looking for something. Then he picked up again. ‘I found a receipt in the pocket of her jeans. It’s from Durham University Bookshop. If her reading material is anything to go by, I’d say she was a med student.’
3
The PC knocked hard. The door to the farmhouse was in need of a lick of paint and the cast-iron knocker was falling off. An elderly lady in a floral patterned dress and a deep blue cardigan opened the door. On her feet she was wearing one blue wellie, one green one. She had a round, liver-spotted face and piercing blue eyes, permanent rosy cheeks and a mop of cotton-wool hair in dire need of a trim.
Mary Fenwick was a fixture in this part of the world.
‘Fine day, Billy.’
‘For some it is, aye.’
‘How’s your mother?’ The old lady didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Haven’t seen her since our Florence’s wedding up at High Barns. What a do that was! I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Me mam’s fine, Mary.’ The PC puffed out his chest, suddenly remembering he was an officer of the law. ‘This isn’t a social call today. I’m here on police business.’
‘Oh, it’s like that, is it?’ Mary was too long in the tooth to be impressed. She looked past him, checking he was alone. ‘Too busy to chew the fat with an old woman who damn near brought you into this world, are you? Well, maybe I’ll be minding my neb next time your mam needs my help. You best be off then, if you’re about the Queen’s business.’
The young policeman blushed. He felt guilty now. He’d heard the story of his birth many times before. How an ambulance had slid off the road in deep snow on the steep incline leading to his mother’s cottage. How Mary had run half a mile across the top field to fetch her tractor, then driven back and pulled the ambulance and their shaky crew out of the dyke on Hagg Bank. Blue he was by the time they reached the War Memorial Hospital in Haltwhistle, and lucky to survive – or so he was told.
As she began to shut him out, he tucked his foot in the door, thinking it best to placate her before things got out of hand. Salt of the earth she may be, bu
t Mary Fenwick was prone to go off on one if riled.
‘It’s the Queen that needs your help this time, Mary,’ was all he could think of to say. ‘There’s been a bit of bother up at Housesteads through the night.’
‘What kind of bother? If them young uns have pulled my fence down again—’
‘A girl’s been found dead. Suspicious circumstances, too.’
‘Never!’ Shaken by the news, Mary adjusted her hearing aid as if she’d heard him wrong, the skin around her eyes and on her forehead forming into deep creases as she looked up at him in disbelief. She stepped back inside the hallway. ‘Come in, lad. I’ll put on the kettle. A local girl, was it?’
He ignored the question, a trick his sergeant had taught him when he was a probationary constable. ‘If someone asks you a question you don’t want to answer, ask one back, lad,’ he’d said. ‘It works every time.’
‘No time for tea,’ he said. ‘Did you hear or see anything unusual last night?’
A look of disapproval crossed Mary’s face. The policeman suddenly felt like a little boy about to get a scolding for his cheek. No doubt Mary would have a word or two in his mother’s ear next time they met.
‘You’d best ask your Ronnie,’ she said. ‘He’s in the bottom field with the horses.’
She was referring to his cousin who worked on her farm, a strapping lad who looked a lot like him. Rumour had it they might even be brothers.
The officer touched his police helmet. It was almost a salute. ‘Thanks for your help, Mary. You’ll be locking your door, just in case?’
The old woman gave him an odd look. ‘I would, if I could find my key.’
He knew she meant it. Her door was never locked.
‘Can’t you come in and tell me all about it?’ she pushed. ‘Your mam’ll have my guts for garters if I don’t offer you something to eat. Big lad like you needs plenty bait inside him, working all hours on them funny shifts.’
‘I’ve been told I can’t discuss the case with anyone.’ He found himself apologizing, a frequent occurrence whenever he was in her presence. ‘I’ll get myself away now and report back to the SIO. That’s the Senior Investigating Officer, in case you didn’t know. A lady detective chief inspector! She’s a bit of all right, too.’
Mary Fenwick giggled.
Turning to leave, the young constable regretting having no time to sample her famous scones, kept warming in the range in case of a visitor. He knew fine well they’d be thrown out for the birds, if unused. Remembering a question he should’ve asked, he glanced over his shoulder. Mary was gone but the door was ajar. Then suddenly she reappeared with a lumpy bundle in a Christmas napkin, nearly five months after the event.
She held it out to him, smiling through smoker’s teeth.
He thanked her, stuffing the scones in his pocket for later.
‘Any campers on your land I need to know about?’ he asked. ‘Any family staying up at the old farmhouse?’
Mary fiddled with her ear again.
‘Campers, Mary? Do you have any strangers staying just now?’
‘Aye, there’s no need to shout, son. I heard you the first time.’ She pointed away from the house. ‘We have one or two in the cow pasture. I’ll get my stick and walk with you.’
4
The XJ Portfolio had dark privacy glass in the windows and sumptuous cashew leather seats. In the rear of the vehicle, Adam Finch folded his Financial Times neatly and used a touch-screen remote control mounted in the centre armrest to select BBC News 24 on his digital TV. He checked his watch and smiled. He’d catch the headlines at the top of the hour.
Ten minutes later, the Jaguar turned left off the main road and passed sedately through cast-iron gates with a name inscribed upon them in bold gold lettering: The Mansion House. The familiar sound of tyres on gravel caused Adam Finch to look out of the window in time to see his gardener extinguish a cigarette, pocketing what was left of it.
Adam Finch hated filthy habits. He had banned smoking on his estate and made a mental note to hit Townsend where it would hurt the most – in his next pay packet. Warmed by this thought, he relaxed back in his seat for a further hundred metres along a narrow driveway bordered on either side by willow trees planted by his great-great-grandfather. The Jaguar glided gently to a halt directly opposite the front door of his Georgian country house. Finch waited for the rear door to open.
‘Will I be required later, sir?’ the chauffeur asked him as he emerged from the car.
‘No, Pearce. That’ll be all for today.’
Finch’s housekeeper arrived to greet him, a little out of breath. ‘Welcome home, Mr Finch,’ she said, taking his coat and umbrella.
‘Thank you, Mrs P.’ He didn’t make eye contact with the woman, just strode off into the house, scooping his mail from a silver tray on the hall table on his way in. Pausing a second, he moved a blue flower vase a centimetre to the left before proceeding along the hallway, shouting over his shoulder as he walked. ‘I’ll take my tea in my office.’
‘Very good, sir,’ came the reply.
Finch’s leather-soled shoes squeaked as he moved swiftly across the highly polished parquet flooring, through a set of double doors and into his study. He sat down at his desk, scanning the surface carefully, making minor adjustments to favoured items: repositioning a photograph of his late wife, Beth, and daughter, Jessica, a little further away; an inkwell a tad nearer; his fountain pens more evenly spread. His eyes slid over each item. Then he turned the pen clips until all four were exactly in line with one another. Only when he was perfectly satisfied did he log on to his computer.
Finch spent half an hour reading and replying to emails and then turned his attention to the post he’d collected on his way in. Using an antique paper knife Beth had bought him on their fifth wedding anniversary he slit open the first envelope and took out the letter contained inside. The news wasn’t good. His investments had tumbled to an all-time low. An annual statement from his stockbroker confirmed his worst fears.
The recession was still not over.
Finch didn’t look up as Mrs Partridge arrived with his tea. She set the cup and saucer down on a coaster, turning the handle to a precise angle so that he could easily pick it up. As she left the room again, he sat back in his chair, a man with all the troubles of the world on his shoulders. In his entire life, he couldn’t remember a year quite like this one.
A small brown envelope caught his eye. It looked conspicuous among the rest of his mail, the address rudely handwritten in thick green pen. Finch set his cup back down and lifted the envelope off the desk, turning it over and over in his hands, disgusted by the childlike writing, by the sheer audacity of whoever had sent it. Probably a local from Kirby Ayden; most definitely nobody he knew.
Finch bristled. He’d received several ill-considered pleas for employment on his estate in recent months. Nothing short of begging letters he tore up the moment they arrived. He was about to disregard this one too when Beth’s voice jumped into his head: ‘Adam! Don’t be so mean . . . we must embrace the locals, not push them away.’ Her face beamed out from the photograph on his desk, her eyes teasing him. ‘Your ancestors have employed people from the village for hundreds of years on the estate. What harm would it do to show a little humanity?’
Poppycock!
But Beth’s smile seemed broader than ever.
Finch sighed. He still missed his wife terribly, had remained celibate and sober since her death many years before. Even from her grave, she could twist him round her little finger, persuade him to do the right thing. And, as always, he relented. Slicing through the envelope flap, he shook out the contents. A frown formed on his brow as a jagged piece of paper fluttered out, landing face down on his desk. He flipped it over with the knife. What he saw made him reach for the phone.
5
Detective Chief Superintendent Phillip Bright was on his knees searching his waste-paper basket when the phone rang. He hauled himself off the floor and fumbled wit
h the receiver, cursing his new civilian clerk. Ellen was a spirited woman who took no shit from anyone – especially not him. They hadn’t quite gelled as a team and he was wondering if they ever would.
‘Didn’t I tell you to hold all calls?’ he barked.
‘So you did, but this is urgent apparently. One of your golfing pals?’
‘Which one?’ Bright took a deep breath. No reply was forthcoming. ‘Ellen? Who is it, please?’
‘A gentleman called Adam Finch.’ Ellen had made her point. ‘He sounds rather anxious. Said he’s sorry to interrupt you, but it really can’t wait.’
The line clicked and she put him through.
Bright listened for a long time, his stomach in knots as he heard the news. After a short conversation he ended the call. He was about to contact DCI Kate Daniels when he saw her through his office window, fifty metres away and charging towards him. He hung up the receiver and waited.
‘We have a problem,’ he said, as she entered the room.
‘So you said, guv. That’s why I’m here.’
‘No, I mean another one.’
‘Guv, I’m up to my neck in it.’ Daniels was parched. Her eyes scanned his new office and found the water cooler. As she walked towards it she heard yelling from the office next door. It reminded her of the last time she’d been in that room, before Assistant Chief Constable Billings took over. His predecessor, ACC Martin, had completely lost his temper and shown her the door. She smiled at the memory, feeling Bright’s eyes upon her. ‘I’m sorry, guv . . .’ She still had her back to him. ‘But our only witness wants to leave the area. I’ve told the poor sod his holiday’s on hold and I’m about to take his statement so he can get on his way. He’s ex-job? Can it wait?’
‘No, it can’t. The daughter of one of my closest friends is missing and I’d like you to handle it personally.’
