by Mari Hannah
‘S’pose not,’ Robson said. ‘You sure it was Tuesday?’
‘Aye, it’s market day in Hexham. I was sellin’ stock at the mart later.’ Raine seemed in no doubt. ‘Like I said, it might be nothing. But Billy said I should let you know about it just in case. He said people should come forward and help in any way they can.’
‘He was right. I’ll need your address and a contact number.’
Robson picked up his pen. As Raine reeled off his details, he began writing them down, hoping he hadn’t sounded as hacked off as he felt. Being left alone at High Shaw when there was very little going on was not his idea of fun. One local smelling of horse shit was the only person he’d seen all day, apart from PC Hook, who was manning the caravan next door.
And he was an irritating prick!
Robson was a team player, not a one-man band. He’d been stewing all morning, aware that he alone was to blame for his predicament, for slipping spectacularly to the bottom of the pecking order in the murder investigation team. He’d made mistakes on their last enquiry. And when Daniels had given him a second chance, then a third, what had he done? Fucked her over good and proper, that’s what!
A one-time loyal member of her team, he’d disgraced himself by passing insider information to Assistant Chief Constable Martin, a hate figure within the Northumbria force. In return for very little – or so it seemed at the time – Martin had promised him the recognition he deserved both within the squad and beyond. Robson had only agreed to talk because his wife and new baby son deserved a bigger house, a new car, a holiday, none of which he could possibly provide having got into debt playing online poker. So when Martin offered ‘fast-track promotion’ he’d grabbed it with both hands.
Doddle.
End of problem.
Except Martin was now history, leaving Robson out on a limb, having to explain his behaviour, distrusted by his mates and the one boss he had any time for. His colleagues were good people. They didn’t deserve a grass in their midst, making their difficult job even more so. No matter how he dressed it up, he had to admit he’d made a complete mess of things. Borrowing heavily against his house in order to keep his wife from finding out had been the worst decision he’d ever made. And now it was payback time.
Daniels had every reason to be pissed off, but she’d taken it really well.
Jesus! She’d even offered to help.
‘When you’re on the bottom,’ she’d said, ‘the only way is up.’
Wasn’t that the truth?
Checking the statement over, Robson pushed it across his desk, asking Raine to read it through and sign the caption at the bottom certifying its accuracy. But the lad hadn’t heard him, or if he had he was too preoccupied with goings on outside the cottage to respond. Robson looked out of the window too. He could see nothing of interest, just miles and miles of boring bloody countryside and an angry grey sky to the south.
‘Mr Raine?’
Raine gave his attention.
Robson pointed at the statement. The big lad leaned over the desk. After a moment of scanning the document, he scribbled his name on a line marked with a blue cross. Then he stood up and asked if he could go; the beast in the field beyond required his attention.
‘We might need to talk to you again, sir.’ Robson thanked the lad for coming forward and smiled at him for the first time since he’d entered the room. ‘You’re not planning on going away on a holiday anytime soon, are you?’
The lad seemed baffled by the question.
Robson tapped the statement. ‘This could be very important or entirely innocent, but we’ll definitely check it out. You did right coming in.’
Raine put on his cap and turned to go.
‘Just one more thing,’ Robson said before the witness reached the door. ‘The man you saw? He was definitely helping the girl, not dragging her?’
‘Could’ve been doing either.’ Raine thought for a moment. ‘It was hard to tell. I was a good way off, wouldn’t like to say for sure.’
22
Dr Matthew West swivelled his chair round so he was facing the window, his phone held between cheek and shoulder as he waited for Daniels to pick up. His office was on the second floor of the forensic science laboratory where he’d worked as a Civil Servant for the past twenty-three years. He’d never had any other job since leaving university with a first-class Honours in Chemistry. Hadn’t wanted one either. He was happy doing exactly what he was good at: crime-scene examination and analysis. Trace evidence cases, to be more precise. He’d already worked his way up to department head and was now so respected in his field of expertise he’d even published articles and books on the subject.
He had ambitions to go further.
Matt looked round his laboratory. Colleagues in white coats, some with masks on, some not, sat pensively at their stations poring over microscopic particles of glass, paint and explosives, pausing occasionally to detail physical and chemical properties, or to consult one of several databases when identification proved difficult. The report on Matt’s computer screen was but one page long, a detailed analysis of trace evidence taken from the heel of a shoe worn by Amy Grainger on the day she died. Analysis he fully expected to present at court at a later date, to defend orally under cross-examination no doubt.
He was proud to be an expert witness.
The ringing tone ceased in Matt’s ear.
‘Daniels.’
Matt smiled. She was out of breath. ‘Someone’s busy,’ he said.
‘Sorry, Matt. It’s crazy here. Tell me you have good news.’
‘Put it this way, you owe me one.’
‘Really? I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
Was it any wonder she sounded over the moon? Matt’s work usually began after the event, usually in cases involving sudden or violent death at the hands of another. So far as Amy Grainger was concerned, the only use for his microscopes and scientific knowledge would be in assisting the police to compile evidence that might lead to the apprehension of an offender. In other words, bring him or her to justice with good old-fashioned proof. But this current case was different: it involved a second missing girl. His identification of the sample could pinpoint a search area with accuracy. It might help Daniels find her before it was too late.
A living victim not a dead one.
He willed it to be true.
‘The mineral deposit I found on Amy Grainger’s shoe is definitely green fluorspar,’ he said. ‘There’s absolutely no doubt about it.’
‘In layman’s terms, what does that mean exactly?’
‘It means you just got lucky.’
There was an intake of breath at the other end of the line. Daniels stayed silent, waiting for him to tell her more. Despite their physical distance, he could feel her excitement down the line.
‘Green fluorspar is unique to the North Pennines area. It isn’t found anywhere else.’
23
‘Guv, I need a word.’
Bright was looking out of his office window, deep in thought.
He looked at his watch. ‘I’m late for an appointment, Kate. Can it wait?’
‘It could, but there have been developments I think you should know about.’
‘Concerning . . .?’
‘Several things. First, I need your authorization for a press release to trace a couple of potential witnesses seen around Housesteads in the past few days and weeks.’
‘Knock yourself out.You’re the SIO. As far as I’m concerned, until they find my replacement you can do what the hell you want, within reason.’
‘Good. Then that solves my next problem.’
‘Which is?’
‘I meant to tell you this last night. I’ve decided to leave Robbo up at High Shaw and move the rest of the squad back to town first thing in the morning. As soon as enquiries dry up at Housesteads, we’ll pull out altogether and haul him back here too.’
‘This got anything to do with him serving a penance?’
‘Why
d’you ask?’
‘He seems to have drawn the short straw, that’s all.’
‘Better than no straw at all.’ Daniels meant it.
‘You pulled him?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And he coughed?’
Daniels nodded soberly, remembering how angry she’d been with Robson for letting the team down. But since having it out with him she’d mellowed. The man clearly had his problems and, as his direct supervisor, she saw it as her duty to help him solve them.
Bright was waiting. ‘Well! What did the bastard say?’
‘It’s complicated, guv.’ She didn’t want to get into it with Bright. They were bound to end up arguing. He’d tell her she was an SIO, not a bloody social worker. Then he’d have words with Robson himself. And he wouldn’t hold back. ‘Let’s just say I’m handling it, shall we? We came to an understanding. Robbo has renewed his commitment to the team and, as far as I’m concerned, that’s the end of it. I’ve got more important things on my mind.’
‘Such as?’
‘Matt West called to say—’ She stopped talking as Bright lost his balance momentarily, the blood draining from his face, sweat pouring from him. She went to his aid but he fended her off using his desk to steady himself. She got him a beaker of water and made him sit down. ‘Guv, what’s wrong?’
‘Bit of a migraine that’s all.’
Daniels wondered what kind of a migraine had him plaiting his legs. He’d been drinking heavily since Stella’s death but last night, up at High Shaw, she’d noticed he’d refrained from alcohol, apart from a half-glass of bubbly to toast her birthday. Unheard of. The door opened and Ellen walked in. Odd that she too was working on a Sunday. Now Daniels knew something was up.
‘Your car’s on its way, Phil.’ Ellen set a printed note down on his desk. ‘And your appointment at the Conrad Clinic has been confirmed.’
Bright glared at her.
Daniels eyeballed their boss. Ellen had dropped him in it on purpose and now he had some explaining to do. A weekend appointment at the prestigious private clinic, especially in the evening, would not only cost a bomb but it would suggest something really quite serious. That assumption was confirmed by the worried look on Ellen’s face. She made a quick exit, leaving them alone to talk. A few minutes later, the DCI walked Bright to his car, telling him off for having kept her in the dark.
‘Sure you don’t want me to come with you? I’m happy to?’
He shook his head, got in the car and gave instructions to his driver before turning back to face her. ‘You mentioned Matt West,’ he said.
‘It’ll keep, guv. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. You take care.’ He opened his mouth to speak but before he could say anything she shut the door. As the car moved off, she called Gormley. ‘Hank, any chance you can meet me at my place in half an hour?’
24
About four miles away, Gormley was dining with his wife and son. They’d been back for less than a week and already he was thinking that their last-ditch attempt to repair their broken relationship wasn’t going to work. Julie was irritated with the interruption to their evening meal, but an urgency in Daniels’ voice prevented him from putting down the phone.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ll tell you when you get here.’
Daniels hung up, unaware he had company, which suited Gormley perfectly. Julie’s decision to give their marriage another go had been sudden, almost as sudden as her decision to leave in the first place. He wasn’t about to queer his pitch at work by letting Kate know that his domestic circumstances might get in the way of a murder enquiry.
He looked at Julie across the table. ‘Sorry, love. I have to go out again.’
‘For God’s sake, Hank. You only just got in!’
Julie clashed down her cutlery and glanced at their son. Fearing a row brewing, Ryan kept his head down and went back to his dinner. For the next five minutes he was the referee in his parent’s points-scoring routine, each of them too pigheaded to back down.
‘. . . and while we’re at it,’ Julie said, ‘maybe you could tell me where the hell you were last night?’
Gormley chose silence. It had been Julie’s idea to try again. She’d promised him she could handle the demands of his job, not just the professional but the social too. And already she was going back on her word. Ryan had had enough. He murmured something sarcastic about true love and left the table, taking his dinner with him. They waited in silence until he’d cleared the room, his father wincing as the door slammed shut.
‘You happy now?’ Gormley said, shoving his plate away.
He got up from the table, put on his coat and left.
A presenter on TV warned of flooding due to heavy rain in Cumbria. It was the third year running this had happened. Residents right across the county – some of whom had barely moved back into their homes since the devastation caused the year before – were experiencing major disruption again. Hundreds of people were in temporary accommodation, their homes, schools and businesses under almost three feet of water.
Gormley shook his head, saddened by the tragic death of PC Bill Barker, a heroic Cumbrian officer who’d lost his life when the Northside bridge collapsed in Workington in 2009. He’d been trying to save others by directing motorists away from the bridge when chunks of masonry fell into the swollen river, taking him with it. Many had lived because of his bravery.
The man was a hero.
‘They must wonder if it’s ever going to end,’ Gormley said.
‘It’s dreadful, isn’t it?’ Daniels appeared in the living room with a glass of wine in each hand. She glanced at the set just as Gormley turned it off with the remote. ‘Julie let you out to play then?’ she said, without looking at him.
‘How the fuck did—’
Daniels grinned. ‘Jungle telegraph. Pete saw her in Waitrose yesterday. I’m pleased for you. How are things?’
‘Tell you the truth, I was dying for an excuse to get out of the house.’ He practically threw back his drink. ‘She was spoiling for a row.’
‘Can’t say I blame her, the week we’ve had.’ Daniels met his eyes over the top of her glass. ‘My birthday bash have anything to do with it?’
Gormley blushed. ‘As good a reason as any to give me earache.’
Daniels grimaced. ‘Things are no better then?’
‘It’s over for us, Kate.’
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Gormley knew where he’d rather be right now. ‘It was a mistake to think we could make it work. It’s not fair on Ryan to drag it out any longer. Anyway, I didn’t come here for marriage guidance. What’s going on?’
‘The guv’nor’s not too well. When I left him tonight he was on his way to see a neurosurgeon at the Conrad Clinic. Apparently he’s been having violent headaches and intermittent double vision.’
‘He gets that every night in the Bridge.’ Gormley grinned.
The Bridge was a public house close to the station that neither of them liked very much. It had recently become popular among police personnel following a major refurb. And not before time.
‘Not funny, Hank. They want him to have a brain scan.’
Gormley’s grin disappeared.
25
Jessica Finch was in a state of semi-consciousness, blood dripping from her wrists where the shackles dug into her skin. Moving her head to the right, she stared at the black hole at the end of the hollow chamber. There was no doubt in her mind that she was below ground. She wondered how he – or was it they? – had managed to get her down here, why they’d taken her and how long they planned to leave her there alone.
Jessica shivered as a ghost walked over her skin. In these extremely cold conditions she knew she could only survive for a few days without liquid. She moistened her lips, driven crazy by the sight of water running down the opposite wall.
Dehydration: the silent killer.
As a med student,
she’d seen both sides of the medical debate: those that thought that death by dehydration was serene, that it could, and should be, used in a voluntary capacity to end a life; others who thought the process unimaginably painful and cruel. The awareness of what would happen to her body if she were to remain in captivity without sustenance made Jessica cry tears she could ill afford to waste. In a fight for survival she would suffer extreme thirst, dizziness, severe stomach cramps, hallucinations, shut-down of the circulatory system as the body pushed blood to vital organs in order to keep her alive.
Coma.
Death.
Serene?
She didn’t feel serene.
Her mouth was parched, her saliva thick, her head pounding. How long before she couldn’t speak? Couldn’t cry because her tears had dried up? She urged her captors to return and yet feared what they might do to her. The sound in the chamber was torturous. Constant and hollow, enough to drive a sane person mad.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Quicker now?
Water rising?
It was raining outside – SHIT!
The bulb in the miner’s lamp flickered . . .
And went out.
26
Ellen Crawford showed Daniels into the room, then retreated to her own office, closing the door behind her. Bright was sitting at his desk engrossed in his work, highlighting text in a report.
‘Take a seat, Kate.’ He didn’t look up. ‘I’ll be with you in one second.’
Daniels couldn’t figure what mood he was in. He seemed relaxed and she assumed his appointment with the consultant had gone well. She sat down, crossed her legs and glanced around the room, wondering if she’d ever occupy the rank and post that came with it.
Force Crime Manager.
She liked the sound of that.
Signing off on his document, a modest signature that didn’t quite fit with his colourful personality, Bright put down his pen and sat back in his chair. ‘What’s up?’
