by Mari Hannah
‘Did you find Amy’s mobile phone?’ The words stuck in Mr Grainger’s throat as they came out. ‘She was never off it, was she, Jen? You’ll find details of her mates in there, no doubt.’
His comment hung in the air.
Daniels turned back to face him, forced to explain that no mobile phone had been found on Amy’s body. No bag either. Mr Grainger suddenly got angry, began raging over the fact that the person responsible for her death still had his daughter’s private things. They had no right. What kind of animals were these people?
A good question.
‘Did Amy ever mention a student friend studying medicine?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Why d’you ask?’
‘We found a till receipt for a medical textbook in the back pocket of her jeans.’
‘She wasn’t wearing jeans,’ Mrs Grainger said softly. ‘She never wore jeans.’
11
A man in a blue uniform waved the Fiesta through an air-side security gate of Newcastle International Airport. Passing asign – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY – DS Robson parked at the gable end of a single-storey building on the right. As he took his key from the ignition, another man in plain clothes approached the car, holding up ID.
Robson got out and did likewise.
‘DS Robson,’ he said. ‘Thanks for seeing me at short notice.’
‘John Hobbs. Pleased to meet you. Come this way.’
Hobbs’ office was basic, cube-shaped with windows: a desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet, the top drawer of which was hanging open. He sat in silence as Robson explained the reason for his visit and the need to keep their discussion strictly confidential. ‘Specifically, we’re investigating an incident that occurred the night before last.’
As Robson carried on, Hobbs’ face paled. From the look of him, he heard only bits of sentences. It wasn’t the first time Robson had seen this happen when people were given shocking information. It was as if their brains weren’t wired properly. Not quite connecting as they should. Unable to cope with the morbid data that police officers dealt with on a daily basis. The result? They took in snippets of facts they couldn’t altogether grasp: young woman . . . fallen or pushed . . . aircraft . . . odds of finding those responsible . . .
‘Mr Hobbs?’
Hobbs emerged from his trance. ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’
‘I was asking what the odds were of finding those responsible.’
‘That really depends whether the pilot is licensed or not. Are you absolutely sure of your facts?’
Robson cocked an eyebrow. Like I’d be asking if I wasn’t!
Hobbs blushed. ‘Yes, sorry, I can’t get that shocking image out of my head.’
Robson tried to move him on. ‘What about radar?’
Jet engines revved outside, drowning out Hobbs’ voice. He looked out of his window as a 747 began taxiing for take-off along the nearest runway. Robson hated flying and the noise alone made him cringe. Just driving into the airport had set his heart palpitating. Thankfully, the man opposite hadn’t noticed his discomfort.
The noise subsided.
‘Radar?’ Robson repeated. ‘Is there likely to be a record?’
‘’Fraid not. There’d be no audit trail if he didn’t use his radio during flight. All we’d see this end is a blip on the screen.’
‘That’s what our Air Support Unit told me. What about if we found the plane?’
‘You know for sure it was a fixed wing?’
Robson shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t it be more difficult to control a helicopter and push a body out at the same time?’
‘More difficult, yes. But not impossible with a bit of know-how.’
‘Even without an accomplice?’
‘It’s feasible, provided the victim was unconscious. She was, wasn’t she?’ Hobbs waited for Robson to confirm or deny this was so. When the detective did neither, he continued, ‘A skilled pilot could do it easily from a few hundred feet. It would simply be a case of slowing it down below, say, thirty knots over the drop zone, reaching across and unlatching the door. A little shove and roll the helicopter at the same time and—’
‘Gravity takes care of the rest?’
Hobbs nodded. ‘Quick roll the other way to pull the door back in and back to blighty for tea and medals in the mess. It’d take about twenty seconds.’
‘You’re ex-military?’
Hobbs gave a friendly salute. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘What would an aircraft tachometer tell us?’Robson stopped talking mid-sentence as the windows began to rattle. He almost ducked as a budget aircraft with a distinctive orange tail took off a hundred or so metres away. ‘Assuming that’s what they call them in your industry?’
‘Only the number of hours flown,’Hobbs offered,‘not where it was flown, direction, altitude and so on, which is what I suspect you’re after. Most helicopter flights going from A to B would probably fly at no more than two thousand feet, dictated by the fact that helos are unpressurized. Give them oxygen and they’d be able to fly much higher.’
‘You fly yourself?’ Robson asked, his nausea returning.
‘You must be joking!’ Hobbs leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I just work here, mate. I get vertigo from my seat at the match. But I’ve spent a lot of time with and around pilots.’
Robson felt less of a wimp but still couldn’t get out of there quick enough.
12
On the way back from the crime scene Amy’s parents were utterly lost. They sat in silence, unable to communicate with each other; a scene all too familiar to Daniels. She called ahead, instructing the exhibits officer to meet her in the quiet interview room next door to the Major Incident Suite and to bring along the evidence box relating to the case.
It was unnecessary to tell him which one.
He was already there when they arrived, as was Gormley. They stood quietly to one side as Daniels ushered the bereaved parents in, offering to fetch refreshments at the end of their distressing journey. They both declined. Identification of their daughter’s belongings would be equally harrowing and they were keen to get it over with, an action made imperative now there was doubt over what she’d been wearing when last seen.
According to Mrs Grainger, Amy had left home in a red mini-dress, leggings and ballet pumps and carrying a large canvas shoulder bag.
Daniels wondered if the latter was to hold a change of clothes.
The exhibits officer was getting impatient. It was unusual, though not unheard of, to remove evidence from the security of his exhibits room. But he was nervous about it and insisted on Daniels’ signature in the log he was holding out to her. She led him out of earshot, explaining why she wanted Amy’s clothing brought to the family rather than the other way round. His office on the floor below was a sterile, window-less room, wedged between two noisy offices on either side, constantly disturbed by the sound of foot traffic – not to mention laughter and chatter from the busy corridor beyond. It had sickly green paintwork and burns on the lino where staff had extinguished cigarettes before the ban on smoking was introduced.
‘. . . hardly conducive to the solemn occasion facing them now, is it?’
‘I agree.’ He pointed at the log, indicating where she should sign it. ‘But it’s my neck on the line if any or part of this evidence goes missing.’
‘It won’t, I promise you. I don’t blame you for covering your back. In your position, I’d have done the same. Only difference is, I would have done it with more sensitivity.’Daniels scribbled her name, timing and dating her entry. She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Now piss off and let me do my job!’
Shutting the log, the exhibits officer quickly left the room. The DCI waited for him to shut the door. She nodded in Gormley’s direction, indicating her readiness to begin. He in turn had a quiet word with Mr Grainger, who seemed reluctant to leave his wife, even for a second. Daniels stepped forward, reassuring him that the procedure wouldn’t take long. Eventuall
y, he let go of his wife’s hand and moved gingerly towards the evidence box.
Before opening it, Daniels suggested quietly that he take his wife to see her GP.
Mr Grainger nodded. ‘Just as soon as we get Amy home. There are arrangements to be taken care of, lots of people to contact, her grandparents of course . . .’ He hesitated, pained by thoughts of what he might say to them. ‘Then there’s her godparents, her friends . . .’ He looked at Daniels. ‘Do you think Bardgett are the best funeral directors? I need to choose a suitable casket. And flowers . . . white lilies . . . Amy loved lilies.’
Daniels and Gormley exchanged a look.
They both knew it might be a long time before the poor man could have his daughter back. An inquest would have to be opened and most probably adjourned. There could even be a further post-mortem. Any defence lawyer worth his salt would ask for one. Daniels tried to find the words to convey that information without distressing Mr Grainger too much. He was fast picking up on her reticence.
At moments like these she wanted to run away and hide.
‘It isn’t possible for you to take Amy home yet, I’m afraid.’ She scanned his face, making sure that what she had said was sinking in. ‘I know how difficult this is for you to accept, but we can’t release her for burial until the coroner—’
‘She’s my daughter!’
‘I’m so sorry—’
‘You can’t keep her! Why would you want to?’ Mr Grainger choked back a sob and looked at his wife. She was staring blankly at the floor, too traumatized to react to the discussion taking place just feet away. He gave a resigned nod. ‘My apologies, Detective Inspector, I wasn’t thinking.’
‘I promise I’ll keep you informed of developments as and when I can. And as soon as we’re done here, I’ll get someone to take you home.’
Mr Grainger seemed to be ageing with every passing second. But he wasn’t done yet, Daniels could see. She braced herself for the question he almost couldn’t bring himself to ask.
‘How did she . . .?’ He didn’t finish.
‘We’ve carried out a post-mortem. We know exactly how Amy died . . .’ Daniels chose her words carefully. ‘I can tell you with certainty that she didn’t suffer. There was evidence of a large amount of drugs in her system—’
‘No, I don’t accept that!’ He shook his head vigorously and lowered his voice so his wife wouldn’t hear him. ‘Amy would never take drugs. She was dead against them, always has been.’
Daniels nodded. ‘It’s my belief and that of the pathologist that these drugs were administered by a third party. Obviously, we can’t be one hundred per cent certain, but that is the assumption we are working on.’
‘I see . . .’ Amy’s father seemed to draw some comfort from that. He looked down with dread at the evidence box on the counter, then back at Daniels. ‘Please continue. You’ve been very kind to us. My wife and I appreciate that more than you will ever know.’
Daniels reached into the evidence box. She took out a cellophane bag containing the first item of clothing: a green scarf, according to the label. She laid it down flat on the counter, allowing Mr Grainger a closer look.
‘That’s not Amy’s!’ Mrs Grainger almost spat out the words. Her husband turned towards her. Daniels did too. Supported by Hank Gormley, the woman rose to her feet and walked over to them, pointing at the evidence bag. ‘That’s not our Amy’s!’ she repeated.
The DCI searched for confirmation from Mr Grainger and found it.
‘Jen’s right. It’s not hers.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’
The man nodded, putting an arm around his wife.
‘Perhaps she borrowed it . . .’ Daniels said. ‘Young women often—’
‘It’s possible I suppose, but not likely. She was—’
Mrs Grainger rounded on her husband. ‘No!’
His eyes found Daniels, an apologetic expression, she thought.
‘Our Amy is very fussy about what she wears, obsessive almost. She would never swap clothes. Never!’ Mrs Grainger pulled away from her husband. ‘You should know that, Terry. She’s your daughter too!’
It wasn’t difficult to see how this tragedy might blow this couple apart. Daniels had seen it happen over the years to a number of parents of murdered children, even those she regarded as particularly close. Blame, guilt, past indiscretions were often raked up at the point of crisis, used like bullets to fire at one another until there was nothing left. Divorce was high among parents of homicide victims. Just the thought of it made her sad.
Returning to the box, the DCI lifted other items free: a pair of size-ten skinny Giorgio Armani jeans, a blue shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves, a pair of high-heeled shoes. On each occasion, Mrs Grainger’s lips bunched tight shut and she shook her head vehemently. Daniels expected the same response when she removed a bag containing underwear, but, much to her surprise, the woman nodded this time.
Registering this development as significant, Daniels’ eyes found Gormley. With Amy’s parents present, it was inappropriate to indulge in speculation. So she filed away the troubling thought and showed them the final exhibit, a bag containing the last item: a delicate necklace.
Daniels missed the couple’s response to it. She was too busy coping with a reaction of her own. As her eyes fixed on the necklace, the hairs on her neck stood up.
Something was very wrong.
Picking up on her preoccupation with the item of jewellery, Gormley looked on curiously as she pulled the exhibits log towards her and scrolled down the list with her index finger, dwelling on the last entry: Item of jewellery removed from the neck of Nominal One – unidentified female found near Housesteads Roman Fort.
‘Why would she be dressed in someone else’s clothes?’ Mrs Grainger asked.
Daniels hadn’t heard her.
Gormley answered for her. ‘We don’t know, is the honest answer. But we will find out. There are things we can’t tell you at the moment, but as soon as we can, we will.’
Daniels was back. ‘You have our absolute word on that. In the meantime, I must ask you not to talk about Amy’s death to anyone, in particular the fact that she was wearing another girl’s clothes. Reporters will use every trick in the book to get you to talk. But I urge you not to. It might help the perpetrator escape justice if you do. And I know you wouldn’t want that.’
‘But whose clothes are they?’ Mr Grainger asked. ‘Why would—’
‘You think another girl’s been taken, don’t you?’ Mrs Grainger was talking now. A good sign, Daniels thought. ‘You do! I can see it in your eyes. What are you not telling us? Oh my God! Terry, what’s happening? I can’t bear the thought of another family going through . . .’ Her voice trailed off as something caught her eye.
Carmichael had arrived in the nick of time.
Gormley opened the door, inviting her to step inside. ‘This is Lisa,’ he said.
Daniels’ stomach was leaden as a flicker of life appeared on Mrs Grainger’s face. It was almost, but not quite, recognition. Lisa Carmichael was not unlike Amy Grainger to look at: she was fairly tall with long blonde hair and a youthful, cheery face. Not the most appropriate officer to be around right now. From the looks on their faces, Gormley and Carmichael had spotted her reaction too.
‘Lisa will see to it that you get an escort home,’ Gormley hurried on.
‘Or if not home, somewhere else . . .’ Carmichael smiled. ‘A relative perhaps?’
Mrs Grainger managed a weak smile. ‘It’s OK, Lisa.’
She’d said it in a way they all understood.
Daniels repeated her condolences, advising the couple that a Family Liaison Officer would be in touch, a person designated to answer any questions they might have about the case, and whose job it was to keep them informed of developments as and when they occurred.
Carmichael eased the couple out into the corridor. As she closed the door behind them, Daniels blew out her cheeks and breathed a hefty sigh of relief.
/> ‘What?’ Gormley pulled a face. ‘What did I miss?’
‘Get the exhibits officer on the phone, right away.’ Daniels held the necklace up to the light. ‘I’ve seen this before, Hank. Jessica Finch was wearing it in a portrait hanging in her father’s library. We need to get over there, first thing in the morning.’
13
‘It’s a one-off Cartier piece which belonged to her mother,’ Adam Finch said. ‘I don’t like Jessica wearing it because of its monetary value. But you can’t tell them, can you? My daughter thinks of it in purely sentimental terms. Her mother died when she was four years old. It’s the only thing she remembers her wearing.’
They were in the Mansion House library standing in front of the cavernous fireplace, Adam Finch with his back to it, Gormley and Daniels facing him. He was dressed more casually than when she’d seen him the day before yesterday: brown corduroy slacks, a fawn cashmere sweater and a pair of brogues on his feet. Under the circumstances, she thought he looked far too rested. She’d expected more of a reaction when she showed him the necklace. But the man didn’t flinch. If he was nervous or even curious as to how she came by it, he certainly wasn’t letting on.
Gormley scanned Jessica’s portrait. ‘She wears it all the time?’
‘Never takes it off,’ Finch said. ‘May I ask where you found it?’
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, but it was taken from the young woman you were asked to identify at the morgue.’ Daniels watched for a reaction but there was none. ‘Her name is Amy Grainger. She was also a Durham University student.’
Finch swallowed hard and didn’t speak for a few seconds. ‘I told Jessica time and again that someone would lift the damn thing one day. But, as always, I was wasting my breath. This girl, this . . . Amy, did you say her name was? She was obviously up to no good. She’s probably in cahoots with whoever sent me those dreadful threats. Perhaps now one of them has come to a sticky end, they’ll stop tormenting me. Even if they don’t, I will not be blackmailed!’
