by Mari Hannah
In the privacy of the Mobile Incident Unit, Hook stood to attention. He was far less cocky than he had been a minute ago as he waited for a dressing down.
Daniels was far from happy. ‘Your supervisor tells me you have your sights on a transfer to the murder investigation team. Problem is, we only have vacancies for people who can be discreet.’
‘Pardon, ma’am?’
‘Don’t come the innocent with me, Kevin. I saw that little display in there. Carmichael is a bloody good operator. She doesn’t need distractions. Know what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Well, if you do want a permanent posting with us, I suggest you think long and hard before notching up any more of my team on your bedpost. Last night didn’t happen, got me?’
Hook nodded, his face going red.
Daniels walked out.
After agreeing to meet up with Gormley later in the morning, she got in her car and took the road to Newcastle. Traffic was light and she made good time until she reached Jesmond. At the top of Osborne Road, a diversion had sprung up, re-routing vehicles along St Georges Terrace and then left on to Acorn Road – a nightmare at the best of times.
In a long line of vehicles, she sat tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, concerned that she might be late for her appointment with Jo. Bored waiting, her eyes scanned the parade of shops: a mini-market, a newsagent, a couple of bakeries, a hardware store and Boilerhouse, her favourite hair salon. And soon she was out on to Osborne Road again, an area transformed in recent years. Hotel bars had terraces fronting on to the tree-lined street and, even at this early hour, the café culture was thriving. A few minutes later she arrived at Jo’s front door.
She took a deep breath and knocked . . .
20
They kissed gently, a peck on each cheek. Jo Soulsby looked relaxed. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a deep pink shirt, a hint of cleavage on show. Daniels followed her into the house and through into the kitchen where she made coffee and left it to percolate. Daniels went to use the bathroom. She found Jo in the living room a few minutes later, curled up on the sofa cradling a cup of coffee in both hands. The Dixie Chicks were singing about a Travelin’ Soldier in the background.
Daniels sat down, watching Jo.
It was difficult not to.
She couldn’t help wondering if Jo and her friend Kirsten Edwards were intimate and, if so, how serious the relationship between them was. They had known each other since university. Kirsten was Irish, stunning and a successful businesswoman – former North East Woman Entrepreneur of the Year. Daniels had Googled her more than once in the past few weeks.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jo asked. ‘Something happening on planet Kate?’
Daniels blushed. Her ex had always been able to read her.
Jo waited patiently for an answer.
‘How’s Kirsten?’ Daniels asked, regretting the words the second they were out of her mouth. Asking such a personal question made her sound like a jealous teenager, unable to cope with the thought that another girl had taken her place. She’d met Kirsten during her last case, could smell the woman’s distinctive perfume as soon as she’d entered Jo’s bathroom.
‘Kate?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, I’m not going there again.’ Jo held up the briefing notes Daniels had sent her before leaving the MIR. ‘I thought you were here to discuss this? I also thought we were past all that.’
‘We are! Hey, I’m cool with it. Doesn’t mean I’m not interested in how you’re doing.’ Quit digging. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just, well, you and Kirsten seem to be spending a lot of time together lately.’
‘Depends how you define a lot—’
‘She was here last night!’
‘That makes once.’
Daniels grinned. ‘Last Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday.’
Jo’s eyes blazed. ‘You’re keeping obs on me now? D’you know how insecure and weak that makes you seem?’
‘God, you make it sound like I’m stalking!’
‘Are you?’
Daniels looked away. The room temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees. Jo felt it too. She silenced her iPod, then leaned across and lit a flame-effect gas fire to take the chill off the room. The sun would flood in later in the day, but Daniels would be long gone by then. Jo sat up straight and quickly changed the subject.
‘How’s the shoulder?’ she asked.
‘Good.’ That was a lie. Daniels pointed at the briefing notes. ‘You’ve read those?’
‘Yes, poor Amy . . . Any news on Jessica?’
Daniels shook her head.
Jo pushed a pile of Sunday newspapers on to the floor, placed a cushion behind her back and made herself more comfortable, crossing one long leg over the other. She was wearing Havaianas. Her toenails were painted to match the exact colour of her shirt. She was good at that: outfit and nail polish carefully chosen and worn with style, making it look like she hadn’t tried too hard – hadn’t tried full stop.
Daniels pushed on. ‘First impressions?’
‘Not good, I’m afraid,’ Jo warned. ‘As you well know, staging a crime scene is usually done to suggest a false motive. In this case, it seems to me that your offender has done the exact opposite.’
‘I agree. He’s trying to draw attention, not deflect it. And he’s doing it to scare the hell out of Adam Finch . . .’ Daniels went over what she knew so far, telling Jo she too had a nasty feeling about the case. The offender had gone to a lot of bother. He’d been very thorough, selected a perfect body double in Amy, dressed her in Jess’s clothes and dumped her in a remote spot, miles from home. ‘Mission accomplished, once that happened: Finch is forced into the worst corner possible, viewing a dead body at the morgue. It might not have been his daughter on the slab, but it was the knife going in. His agony goes on . . .’
‘What’s your opinion on motive?’ Jo asked.
‘Well it isn’t about extortion, which was our starting point when we thought the dead girl was Jessica Finch. Bright floated the idea that her abductors might’ve been spooked into getting rid of her, hoping to cop a ransom before she was found. But that doesn’t make sense in light of what we now know to be true. No, whoever took Jess and killed Amy is callous and loathsome. They want to make Finch suffer in the worst possible way.’
‘I think you’re right.
‘I think so too. Question is, am I looking at the case arse first?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Amy was discovered in the middle of nowhere, right? What if our man, assuming it is a man, manipulated discovery by a third party? I mean, dumped Amy’s body near Hadrian’s Wall not so she wouldn’t be found, but so she would? Doesn’t this smack of some macabre game to you?’
‘Yes, it does. One the killer wants to win.’
‘He’s taken huge risks to show absolute contempt for Finch; as a punishment, I suspect. How am I doing so far?’
Jo smiled. ‘Can you hear me arguing?’
‘But why, Jo? What would drive someone to such lengths? What God-awful thing did Finch ever do to elicit such hatred from his tormentor?’ Daniels hardly stopped for breath. ‘And another thing. What self-respecting offender would leave a very valuable piece of jewellery at a crime scene?’
‘You think that was deliberate? Some sort of message?’
Daniels shrugged. ‘It was a one-off piece, easy for us to identify.’
They sat for a long time deep in thought. They had worked many cases together over the years but this one sank to a new low. Allowing Jo time to process her theories, Daniels’ eyes travelled round a room she felt entirely at home in. She’d spent many happy moments there.
Many intimate moments.
She looked back at Jo. ‘There’s something else; something not quite gelling with me. If Amy’s parents had come forward to report their daughter missing before Finch did, then the killer’s efforts would’ve all been in vain. Unless—’
‘Unless he’s manipulating you too,’ Jo said, interrupting.
‘How d’you mean?’
‘The way I see it, he made sure that wouldn’t happen. He waited until the eleventh hour to take Amy Grainger. In your report, you said Finch was under surveillance. There are only two certainties here, Kate. One –’ Jo held up a thumb – ‘this is a highly organized offender you’re up against. And two –’ she added a forefinger – ‘there’s absolutely nothing haphazard about this abduction.’
Daniels had been afraid Jo was going to say that. She rubbed her right temple, trying to ease the pressure in her aching head. ‘Recidivist, d’you reckon?’
‘That’s impossible to say.’
‘But he’s been in risky situations before?’
‘Yes, and he’s not afraid. He’s in control and he’s really fucked up. But . . .’ Jo glanced at the papers in her hand. ‘Not a sexual predator, I see—’
‘Apparently not. Amy’s underwear was intact. There were no signs of sexual assault and no defence or restraint marks. I’m assuming she was drugged very early on. At least, I’m hoping she was.’
‘I was making an observation,’ Jo said. ‘Not asking a question.’
‘I’m sorry?’
Jo held Daniels’ gaze for a beat, making sure she had her full attention. ‘The underwear issue could be hugely significant. Or, and this is vitally important, it could have no relevance at all.’
‘That’s helpful.’ Daniels’ frustration was beginning to show. ‘And your point is . . .?’
‘It wasn’t part of the killer’s master plan. Think about it. Swapping the outer clothing alone has put the fear of God into Finch. In my humble opinion, we have two scenarios here. Either the offender was simply running short of time, or leaving the underwear intact actually mattered to him. In my view, it’s the latter. He’s letting us know he’s no pervert.’
Daniels almost laughed out loud, but Jo’s grim expression stopped her. ‘You’re seriously suggesting that he’s so fucked up he’s prepared to kill Amy but not to take away her dignity by making her strip?’
‘And in doing so he’s made a big mistake.’
Daniels frowned. ‘I’m not with you.’
‘He’s given away more than he planned to. He didn’t want to degrade her, Kate. Just use her to hurt someone else.’
‘You’re not telling me he cares! He threw her out of an aircraft at approximately two hundred feet!’
‘I get that. Make no mistake, this man is unhinged. He’s playing to his own set of rules. Even the most dangerous offenders have a line over which they will not cross.’
‘He’s way past that, surely?’
‘Not necessarily.’ Jo was quiet for a while. ‘Some prostitutes will shag anyone for money, right? Give their clients a hand job, a blow job, whatever turns them on. What won’t they do?’
‘Allow their clients to kiss them on the lips.’
Jo nodded. ‘Because?’
‘It’s too personal. That’s their bottom line and it keeps them in control.’
‘Exactly. So what does that tell you?’
Daniels was silent for a moment. And then she suddenly realized where Jo was heading. Her next question was one she felt compelled to ask: ‘You’re telling me he’s a father?’
‘I’d bet my job on it.’
Jo’s words hung in the air between them.
Daniels’ mobile rang, startling them both: Hank calling.
Ignoring it, Daniels said, ‘Hank doesn’t like Finch.’
‘That’ll make him guilty then!’ Jo was being ironic.
They both laughed, not because it was all that funny, but as a way of releasing the tension. Jo had grown to like Gormley during the time they had spent together at a safe house when it was thought that she’d unwittingly become the target of one of her clients, a man who’d killed several times. It wasn’t until later that the murder investigation team found evidence that it was actually Daniels he’d been watching. And she certainly didn’t need reminding of his name.
Joining Jo on the sofa, Daniels opened the murder file. Inside there were crime-scene photographs, statements and criminal records checks on Adam Finch and key members of his staff: Pearce, Townsend and Mrs Partridge. ‘There’s nothing recorded against any of them,’ she said. ‘Apart from a spent conviction of urinating in a public place when Pearce was eighteen years old.’
‘And the Graingers?’
‘Bloody snow white . . .’ Flipping pages, Daniels reached her notes on the bereaved family. ‘Not so much as an unpaid bill or a row with the neighbours. They come across as a lovely couple on paper and in person. They’re totally devastated by this.’
‘Adam Finch is the only pilot among them?’
Daniels nodded. ‘Claims he hasn’t flown for years, hasn’t even got a licence any more. It lapsed a long time ago.’
‘Doesn’t mean he can’t still fly.’
‘That’s very true.’
‘May I?’ Jo pointed at the file.
As she leaned over to take it, her hand brushed Daniels’ lap. They hadn’t been this close in months and it made Kate’s heart race.
‘It can’t be Finch,’ she said, trying hard to focus. ‘I’m certain Amy was killed to punish him.’
‘I am too, unless . . .’ Jo didn’t finish.
Daniels looked at her. ‘Unless what?’
Jo didn’t answer.
‘Go on, what were you going to say?’
‘If it is Finch, then he’s lost the plot completely and the whole thing is even more elaborate and contrived than I first thought. However, if you’re right and it’s someone else, someone who’s prepared to kill to get back at him, then this goes way beyond anger. This is hateful rage. The suffering is all part of it, Kate. And I’m betting it’s someone he knows personally.’
This close to Jo, Daniels felt both uncomfortable and stimulated at the same time. She valued her opinion and, what’s more, Jo had a point. Most murders were domestics, offences carried out on the spur of the moment: people losing their rag or getting pissed. There were some notable exceptions: one or two cases Daniels had been involved with that had been underworld or gangster-related, where an element of planning was involved; another where a serial killer had tracked down a long list of victims in order to get back at his mother. But as far as the modus operandi was concerned, the case she was now dealing with was definitely out there on its own.
21
At High Shaw, spring sunshine flooded the room and fresh country air wafted in through the open front door. But the ambience of the place wasn’t lifting DS Robson’s foul mood. Daniels had left him alone there with a huge pile of statements to read – meaningless statements at that. He looked up as a dark shadow crossed his face. PC Hook was on the threshold with a farm labourer in tow.
‘This is Ronnie Raine, Sarge. Says he has something important to tell you. Is it OK if I leave him with you?’
Robson nodded.
Hook set off for the mobile unit, leaving Raine alone in the doorway. Casting his eye over the lad, Robson beckoned him inside. He was a giant, six four at least, with sandy-coloured hair, a ruddy complexion and bright eyes. At a guess, the DS figured he was around twenty years old and yet he looked as though he’d worked on the land for years. Unlike the detective, who was longing to get back to the city, he seemed entirely comfortable in his surroundings.
Raine stepped forward, stooping to get through the door. Robson offered him a seat but he declined, pointing down at mucky boots that smelled markedly of horse manure.
‘Suit yourself,’ Robson said. ‘What was it you thought I should know?’
‘It might not mean anything, sir.’
‘True. But I won’t know ’til you tell me, right?’
‘My cousin Billy is the local constable.’ Raine waited for some recognition from the detective but none was forthcoming. ‘He asked me and some other young farmers if we’d seen anything, anything out of the ordinary in the l
ast few weeks.’
‘And have you?’
‘Maybe.’ Remembering his manners, Raine took off his cap. Crushing it in huge, dirty hands he continued. ‘Very early one morning – I mean really early – before the tourists usually arrive, I seen this car parked up at Housesteads with nobody in it.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘’Bout three weeks.’
‘What were you doing up there?’
‘Going for the sheep, like I do every day. When I came down from the pasture I saw a man and a young blonde lass arguing. When they saw me, they hurried back to the car. This was very close to where Billy said you found the young girl’s body.’
‘Who’s Billy?’
‘My cousin, the polis!’ Raine frowned. ‘You listening to me?’
‘Last name?’
‘Raine! Same as me. Cousins, aren’t we?’
‘Of course, how stupid of me.’
‘You taking the piss? Cos if you are, I’ve got better things to do.’
Robson felt guilty and dropped the attitude. It wasn’t Raine’s fault that his police career was on a downward spiral, and he certainly couldn’t afford a complaint against him – especially now. Already mired in the kind of trouble that could cost him his job, the odds of him rescuing his good reputation were slim to say the least.
‘Sorry, it’s been a long day. No offence meant.’
Raine accepted the half-hearted apology and carried on. ‘I seen them again on Tuesday. Same pair. I think she must’ve hurt herself because he was helping her across the field. I was going to give them a hand, but the man waved me away so I left them to it. Didn’t want to stick my nose in. Wasn’t my business, was it?’
