by Mari Hannah
High Shaw cottage was shrouded in early morning mist. Without knocking, she opened the door to the Mobile Incident Unit and came face to face with Police Constable Kevin Hook. He was around thirty years old with a great body, much of which was on display. He’d cut himself shaving in two places, was only half dressed and was holding a steaming mug of coffee.
‘Too early for you is it, Constable?’
‘A little . . .’ Hook stuck out his hand. ‘Name’s Kevin, ma’am.’
Daniels accepted the greeting. ‘I won’t shake it too hard, Kevin. I’m worried about that towel. Is anyone else here?’
‘Only DS Gormley . . .’ Hook grinned. ‘I thought you were staying on here last night, ma’am? Or that’s what I was led to believe, anyhow.’
‘I was late back from Yorkshire.’
They both turned to the sound of a vehicle approaching. Seconds later, a rusty old Ford Fiesta limped up the lane. The car was full to bursting, its suspension unable to cope, DS Robson and DC Lisa Carmichael in the front, DCs Brown and Maxwell in the back. They all got out and trooped inside the cottage, Daniels following them in.
The team set about unpacking what they’d brought with them, all the usual paraphernalia they needed to run a murder enquiry efficiently. Documentation included: action forms, forensic submission forms, overtime requests, house-to-house questionnaires, various maps of the area. And there were other essentials too: coffee, cartons of fresh milk, Fudges Belgian Dark Chocolate Florentines and, most important of all, lemon drizzle cake supplied by Carmichael’s aunt.
Someone quickly made tea. They all gathered round for their morning briefing, listening intently as Daniels updated them on developments: Adam Finch’s failure to identify the body, the threatening message received from his daughter’s mobile, the fact that the enquiry was back to square one.
‘Poor sod!’ Gormley said. ‘Finch must be demented.’
‘He is, and the guv’nor’s not too thrilled either.’ Daniels glanced at the murder wall, her eyes finding the photograph of the unidentified girl. ‘He and Finch go back a long way, apparently.’
‘It could’ve been worse . . .’ Carmichael logged on to her computer, keying in ‘MISSING PERSONS’ as she spoke. ‘The dead girl might have been his daughter. All the same, it’s a horrible experience for anyone to go through.’
‘Bright wants us to run a parallel enquiry with this one.’ Daniels’ comment drew sceptical faces and expressions of concern all round. ‘I know it’s going to be tough, but we have no choice. The guv’nor wants our very best team on it and that happens to be you guys.’
She caught Robson’s eye. Aware that his future hung in the balance, he dropped his head. During their last murder enquiry, his loyalty to Daniels and the team had been questionable. He’d admitted passing information to Assistant Chief Constable Martin, a senior officer who had himself withheld information relating to the murder of an innocent man.
Martin had since resigned from his post.
Thank God!
As far as Daniels was concerned, there was only one downside to his departure and that was the subsequent reshuffle that had taken place in its wake: promotions for Chief Superintendent Billings to Assistant Chief Constable; Detective Superintendent Bright to Detective Chief Superintendent – Force Crime Manager – a role he’d coveted for years.
Losing her guv’nor was a big blow. His replacement had not yet been approved and the uncertainty over the appointment was worrying, to say the least. She wondered who it might be, concerned that the dynamics in the team might change if the wrong person arrived to take charge. Bright could sometimes be a bully, but she’d walk over hot coals for him. He’d taught her everything she knew and they understood each other perfectly.
Better the devil you know.
A vibrating mobile interrupted her thoughts.
‘DCI Daniels.’
‘Kate, how’s it going?’ It was Detective Superintendent Ronald Naylor of neighbouring Durham Constabulary, a colleague for many years, a friend for nearly as long.
‘Run off our feet. And you?’
‘Word is you have an unidentified body of a young woman on your patch.’
‘Bad news travels fast.’
‘Care to share a description?’
‘Care to tell me what it’s got to do with you?’ Daniels’ eyes scanned her depleted team. They were waiting patiently for her to get off the phone. But curiosity took over. Naylor’s call obviously wasn’t a social one. ‘Hold on, Ron. I’m going to take this outside.’ She covered the speaker with her free hand. ‘Carry on, Hank. I’ll be back in a second.’
She got up and walked away from the others, brilliant sunshine blinding her as she opened the front door.
‘Kate?’
‘Yep, still here. What’s your interest?’
‘I’ve just interviewed a couple whose daughter hasn’t come home.’
Daniels wondered why a Detective Superintendent had involved himself in a misper case. Ninety-five per cent of missing persons turned up safe and well eventually. As Naylor talked, she wandered down the garden, amazed at how quickly the early mist had cleared. She parked her bum on a drystone wall, on the other side of which a newly dug veggie patch was losing its war to keep weeds at bay from the adjacent unploughed field. A low-flying military aircraft – the vibration of which she could feel through her feet – screamed across the sky above her, drowning out Naylor’s voice.
‘Can you repeat that, Ron? I’m being bombarded by UFOs.’
‘Yeah, I heard.’ Naylor shuffled papers at the other end. ‘I said she was a student. Twenty-one years old.’
‘Studying at Durham?’
‘As it happens.’
The portrait of Jessica Finch flew into Daniels’ head, a young woman at the prime of her life with everything to live for. ‘Pretty blonde girl? Very tall?’
‘You psychic now?’
A second wave of military aircraft passed overhead.
‘We need to meet,’ she said.
9
Detective Superintendent Ron Naylor turned up at twelve thirty, as planned, at a pub not far from the Northumbria/ Durham force border. Daniels had been there ten minutes already, having fought her way through a myriad of smokers at the front door, and used the dead time to scan the morning’s papers and order a coffee at the bar.
The room was busy when she arrived, with people spilling in from offices on the high street looking for a quick bite to eat before heading back to work. The music was too loud for the time of day, many of the tables set for dining. The aroma of food from the kitchen made her hungry. A banana for breakfast hadn’t been sufficient to carry her through to lunch.
Ron Naylor tapped her on the shoulder. He was around six feet tall with bright eyes and a winning smile, going a bit thin on top. He looked really smart in a dark suit, pinstriped shirt and striped tie, a combination that suited his switched-on personality.
‘Got an appointment with your bank manager?’ Daniels grinned. ‘Good to see you, Ron.’
She leaned forward and gave him a friendly peck on the cheek. They’d known each other since training school and had worked together often, mostly on joint training initiatives, but occasionally on enquiries that straddled the two forces. They ordered more coffee and had a quick chat before setting off. The missing girl’s house was just a few minutes away.
Daniels was still curious to know why someone of his rank had involved himself in the case of a missing girl. Different if he knew she was dead. Naylor explained that a rumour circulating at his station had become fact. Some nasty individuals were encouraging students into prostitution, preying on their financial hardship in order to get them on the game. A group of worried parents, one of whom he knew personally, had begged him to nip it in the bud.
‘You made any arrests?’
‘I’m working on it.’
They had reached the house: a part brick, part pebble-dashed 1960s mid-terraced, situated on a quiet tree-lined stree
t on the outskirts of Durham City. Amy Grainger’s mother let them in, showed them into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Her husband stood nervously by her side, his right hand on her shoulder. The man was unshaven and unwashed, having been up all night at his wife’s request, searching every place he could think of where their daughter might have gone.
‘As I’ve already explained to Superintendent Naylor, Amy hasn’t been home the last couple of nights. Mind you, she’s done this before. But she usually sends a text saying she’s on her way home and we’re not to worry.’ Mr Grainger looked down at his other half. Mrs Grainger sat rigid and upright, her arms folded across her chest. They had obviously had words. ‘I told my wife we should’ve waited, not wasted your precious time.’
Daniels could see that the couple were beside themselves with worry.
‘You’re not wasting anyone’s time,’ she said. ‘Do you have a recent photograph of Amy I can look at?
‘Will that one do?’ Mrs Grainger pointed at a photograph on the mantelpiece.
Daniels twisted in her seat. As soon as she clapped eyes on the girl, a fist closed around her throat, keeping tight hold until she could hardly breathe. She stood up, went over to the fireplace to examine the photograph more closely, hoping she was wrong, knowing she wasn’t. As she handed it to Naylor, a message passed between them, leaving him in no doubt whatsoever that it was her unidentified victim.
Daniels sat back down. ‘Mr and Mrs Grainger—’
‘My husband is right, Detective. We’re – I’m probably jumping the gun. You watch, our Amy will come breezing through that door any minute now, large as life, wondering what all the fuss is about.’ Mrs Grainger forced a smile. Her eyes darted from Daniels to Naylor and back again, picking up on their concern and fighting hard to disregard it. ‘That was taken on her first day at university. We were ever so proud, weren’t we, Terry? She’s doing really well, according to her tutors.’
She stopped talking then and fixed the officers with a cold, hard stare.
Daniels’ mouth was dry, her heart racing a little, as it did every time she had to tell a murder victim’s loved ones the worst possible news. There was no way round it; they had to be told.
‘I’m so sorry. The body of a young woman fitting Amy’s description was found in Northumberland yesterday.’
Mr Grainger collapsed on to the arm of the sofa, his legs unable to hold his weight. Daniels expected his wife to break down. Instead she smiled broadly, completely ignoring what she’d just been told.
‘Who’d like a nice cup of tea? I was forgetting my manners. I know you’ve come a long way.’
It took another half an hour before Mrs Grainger would accept the possibility that her daughter may be dead, another to persuade her husband that identification was necessary, even though Daniels was in no doubt. Then they put on their coats and followed the detectives from the house.
Only Amy’s head was visible above the sheet. She was very beautiful with bow lips, perfect skin and extremely long eyelashes. Apart from broken veins on her face due to the impact of hitting the ground, she could almost have been in a deep and peaceful sleep. Daniels shut her eyes as a strangulated wail filled the air, the sound of a mother’s pain that seemed to go on and on for ever. Then it stopped as suddenly as it had begun and the room was plunged into an icy silence that was almost as difficult to bear.
‘She was the first one in our family ever to make it to university . . .’ Mr Grainger was crying now, unable to hold on to his sorrow any longer. ‘She worked so hard to get there, never missed a day off school. She was top of her class every year.’
Mrs Grainger bent over her daughter. Cradling her head in her arms, she began to sob, her whole body wracked with grief. Mr Grainger looked on, not knowing what to do, how to act. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his eyes, then passed it to his distraught wife, apologizing to Daniels.
‘We’d like to see the place, the place where Amy—’
‘Of course,’ Daniels said gently. ‘But first I need to ask you some questions, if I may. There’s no hurry. You take your time and let me know when you’re ready.’
Daniels stepped back to the door, not wanting to intrude, wishing she could leave them alone with their daughter, knowing it wasn’t the done thing. They left the viewing room a few minutes later and walked along the corridor to a quiet area set aside for grieving relatives. Daniels gave them time to compose themselves, offering them a cup of tea, some water.
She sat down beside them. ‘When did you last have contact with Amy?’
‘When she left the house the night before last,’ Mr Grainger said.
‘On Wednesday?’ Daniels wanted to be sure.
‘Yes.’
‘What time was that?’
‘Seven thirty,’ Amy’s mother said.
‘Do you know where she was going?’ Daniels probed. ‘Who with?’
Mrs Grainger glanced at her husband. Daniels caught a look of guilt cross her face. Something was troubling her. Something she didn’t wish to share with her husband in the room. He’d noticed it too.
‘What, Jen? What is it?’
Daniels took Mrs Grainger’s hand in hers. ‘I know how very difficult this is for you both, but it’s vital you answer my questions as best you can. If I’m to have any chance of catching those responsible for taking Amy from you, you must understand that I need to establish her whereabouts in the hours leading up to her death.’
Mrs Grainger gave a little nod. ‘She was catching the bus to Durham City, I think. Some friends were celebrating something or other. It may have been a birthday, I’m not sure.’ Mrs Grainger made eye contact with Daniels, her voice faltering. Another guilty look? ‘To be honest with you I, I wasn’t really listening. Isn’t that awful? What kind of a mum am I? The last time my daughter speaks to me and I . . . was too busy . . . I was too busy because Coronation Street was coming on. She said she wouldn’t be late though, I do remember that much. I think she said she had a seminar early the next morning.’
‘That’s right,’ Mr Grainger nodded in agreement.
‘And she never made it home?’
Mrs Grainger was struggling to go on.
Mr Grainger answered for her. ‘No. We didn’t worry at first, but then we found out Amy never made it to her seminar either. A friend called yesterday to see if she was all right. Emma, I think her name was.’
‘And she’s not been in touch since, by phone, text, email?’
They both shook their heads.
10
It was tanking down when they parked at Housesteads car park and made the short, grim journey across fields to where Amy Grainger met her death. The crime-scene tent was now gone. In its place, officers from MIT had left a discreet bunch of flowers to mark the spot. Under a large umbrella, Mr and Mrs Grainger held hands for a few moments of solidarity and quiet contemplation before returning with Daniels to her car.
The Toyota sped south as the rain began to ease. Daniels was worried about her passengers. Amy’s mother was in a severe state of shock, eyes fixed straight ahead, hearing and seeing nothing. Almost catatonic. Mr Grainger had his arm around her. He was staring blankly out of the window at countryside so beautiful it took your breath away, even on such a dull, damp day. Unmoved by the stunning landscape, he was a broken man, a torn soul. He may as well have been peering into hell, or so Daniels thought as she glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.
‘Amy would have loved it here . . .’ He returned her gaze. ‘Did you know she was studying the countryside?’
‘No, I didn’t know that.’
Daniels fell silent, taking in this new information. If Amy was not a med student, why then had she bought a medical textbook? Principles of Anatomy and Physiology, according to the receipt Stanton had found in her jeans pocket, retailing at around forty-five quid.
‘Environmental something or other.’ Mr Grainger was really losing it now.
Eyes back on the road, Daniels spotted
a lay-by up ahead. She signalled her intention to pull over and steered towards it, parking the Toyota as far off the road as she could get. She cut the ignition and turned to face her passengers. Mr Grainger took his wife’s limp hand in his and again looked out of the window. It was brighter now. The rain had stopped, the sky was less threatening and there was a hint of blue appearing in between empty clouds.
‘Amy loved the outdoors,’ Mr Grainger said wistfully. ‘Even as a kid we could never get her to come inside. She loved plants, animals. Life was one big adventure for her from the day she was born. What I don’t understand is why she was here, so far from home. Like I said, she never missed a day at school. She wouldn’t wag off, I know she wouldn’t.’
‘I’ll need to speak to her pals.’ Daniels was grateful that one of her passengers felt able to talk. She’d known times when neither parent of a murder victim could find words. Others raged against the injustice of having lost a loved one; unable to keep it together, unable to assist investigators in the vital hours following the discovery of a body. She needed to piece together Amy’s last movements, find out who the last person was to have seen her alive – and where. ‘Was Amy close to anyone in particular at university?’
‘Nobody special.’ Mr Grainger rubbed at the stubble on his chin. ‘She had lots of girlfriends, though. She was a typical student . . . liked to party, but was otherwise a hard worker.’
Daniels nodded her understanding. ‘Did she work – outside of her studies, I mean?’
‘A part-time job at the students’ union bar. Said she didn’t want a loan, didn’t want to get into the debt trap, or freeload off Jen and me.’
Mrs Grainger broke down again and buried her head in his shoulder.
‘She sounds like a lovely girl,’ Daniels said.
‘She is, was . . .’ Mr Grainger bit his lip. ‘The best.’
He patted his wife’s hand and forced a smile. Daniels asked if he was up to continuing with the journey. He said not. He asked to sit for a while longer, said he felt closer to his daughter here. He would visit this place in years to come. Daniels knew he meant it. She turned her back on the couple, trying to make herself invisible, allowing them a few quiet moments of reflection.
