by Mari Hannah
‘I was just passing, wondered how you went on last night.’
‘Since when does a ten-mile detour qualify as“just passing”?’ he asked, appreciating her concern. ‘The scan was clear. I’ll live, apparently.’
‘That’s great news, guv! I can’t tell you how relieved I am.’
‘I’m touched.’
‘You should be ecstatic!’
‘Except the consultant hasn’t got a bloody clue what’s causing the headaches. Not yet, anyway.’ A frown formed on his brow. ‘You know what the cheeky git asked me?’
Daniels waited.
Bright made a crazed face. ‘Was I under any stress?’
Daniels searched his face. He looked very tired and she was concerned he was doing too much. Stress was cumulative. Dangerous even. It crept up on people when they least expected it to, silent symptoms, like a charged bomb waiting to explode.
‘What?’ Bright said. ‘You’re making me nervous.’
Daniels drew her chair a little closer to his desk. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway, guv. You’ve had a hell of a time the last six months, one way or another. Stella’s death . . .’ She could see he didn’t want a lecture. ‘Well, let’s face it, you feel responsible, even though you’re not. That’s bound to have an effect on your general health. Your headaches are probably the result of that and of carrying this department under difficult circumstances for far too long. Trouble with you is you’re too stubborn to seek professional help. If you want my honest opinion, the consultant you saw is probably spot on.’
‘You quite finished?’
Daniels spread her hands. ‘It needed to be said.’
‘And if you repeat it outside of these four walls, you and I will fall out big time!’
‘C’mon, guv. You know me better than that. You’re doing two jobs at a time when you should be—’
‘What? What should I be doing, Kate?’ Bright was angry now and it showed. He was like a coiled spring, tapping his fingers on the desk. ‘Relaxing with my feet up? Going out of my mind with boredom in an empty house I can no longer bear to live in?’
‘I was talking about the job, guv. Delegate some of your stuff to me. Let me take the weight off you for a bit, at least until they’ve found your replacement. And if the headaches continue, then at least you’ll know it isn’t work-related.’
‘No. You’ve got enough on your plate already.’
‘Then I’ll give Hank more responsibility. He’s up for it. What harm can it do?’
‘No. This stays between me and you, understood?’
‘He’s your mate, for Christ’s sake!’
‘You already told him, didn’t you?’
Daniels looked out of the window.
27
The door was marked Major Incident Suite. Kate Daniels swiped her warrant card to gain access. She entered the room to find the briefing already underway with Gormley holding the fort. He was standing beside a state-of-the-art digital screen. It was in pause mode, showing a crime-scene photograph on one side and details of the deceased, Amy Grainger, on the other.
He raised a questioning eyebrow as she approached. Turning away from the others, he dropped his voice and asked, ‘How is he?’
‘Just as awkward as ever,’ she whispered.
Gormley grinned. ‘I’ll get worried when he starts being civil.’
Andy Brown arrived in a panic, his face matching his strawberry blond hair when he realized they’d started without him. There’d been an accident on the southbound carriageway near the Angel of the North, forcing him to make a five-mile detour to get into town. He apologized, asking Daniels if there was any chance he could swap with Robson. Grinning, he peeled off his coat.
‘I much preferred it at High Shaw,’ he said as he sat down.
Someone made a vulgar joke about sheep-shaggers and everyone laughed.
Daniels was keen to move on. She looked at Gormley. ‘You told them yet?’
He shook his head and sat down too, signalling for the squad to pay attention.
‘I have some very good news.’ Daniels informed the squad that Matt West in Forensics had come up trumps again. ‘Trace evidence on the shoe Amy Grainger was wearing is unique to the North Pennines. We find out exactly where and there’s a good chance we find Jessica Finch.’There was a ripple of excitement in the room, everyone conscious of how significant a lead that was. ‘Dave Weldon, one of Hank’s many mates, actually heads up the Fell Rescue Team. He knows the area like the back of his hand and we think he’ll be able to act as an advisor.’
‘I tried his mobile,’ Gormley said. ‘No joy. Coverage up there is pants.’
‘Send a car right away. We need him down here.’
‘Quicker if I go myself,’ Gormley said. ‘I know exactly where he hangs out and you need a bloody compass to find it. It’ll only take me an hour to get there and I can brief him and pick up any detailed maps we might need.’
Daniels hesitated, telling him she’d planned for him to accompany her to the Mansion House to interview Adam Finch’s staff. Carmichael sprang up, volunteering to go instead, a pleading look in her eyes.
It made sense.
‘OK, you’re on.’ Daniels turned back to Gormley: ‘Meet back here at two?’
28
The old Methodist Chapel looked frozen in time, unchanged since it was built in the 1800s. There was a sign on the door: BACK AT 10.30 but there was no one around. Gormley took a seat on the stone steps out front, checking his watch as a Land Rover Defender 110 drove round the side of the building. It had a long wheelbase, perfect for driving over rough terrain, and lettering on the side: North Pennines Fell Rescue. Dave Weldon, a man in his mid-fifties, turned off the engine and jumped down, pointing at Gormley’s dusty car. On the offside door, someone had drawn the bumbling cartoon character, Mr Magoo.
Weldon smiled broadly. ‘Someone’s trying to tell you something, old man.’
The two friends embraced with a hearty slap on the back.
‘You’re looking good, mate,’ Gormley said. ‘Fit as ever, I see.’
‘Better than you, anyhow,’Weldon’s eyes fixed on Gormley’s expanding waistline.
The DS inhaled, grinning. ‘I need your help, not your diet plan.’
‘Thought as much. Howay in.’
Weldon led the way towards the chapel. Inside, Gormley explained the reason behind his visit and the urgency of getting his friend on board. Ten minutes later, armed with detailed maps of the area, they got in the car and drove off down a narrow track and out on to the main road again.
‘How’s Frances?’ Gormley asked.
‘You didn’t hear?’
Gormley kept his eyes on the road. ‘Hear what?’
‘She left me for one of them IT types, a dot.com millionaire in fact. Some guy she met on a business trip to Hong Kong.’
‘Shit, man. I’m sorry.’Gormley wondered if anyone he knew was capable of holding down a relationship these days. ‘Is she still working for HSBC?’
‘Yep.’
‘She still with him?’
‘Nope. He promised her the world and the silly bitch fell for it. Six months later, he dumped her right on her tight little arse.’
Weldon laughed; a little too loudly, Gormley thought. Turning right, he followed a sign for Allenheads, picking up speed on a straight stretch of an otherwise winding road. ‘Do you still see her?’
‘Nope. I’ve got plans and she isn’t part of them.’
Weldon waved at the driver of an identical Fell Rescue vehicle travelling in the opposite direction. The driver stuck a thumb in the air as he drove by. In his rear-view mirror, Gormley saw brake lights. The Land Rover slowed but he drove on. There wasn’t time to stop and chew the fat with one of Weldon’s team. He needed to make it to the MIR by two. Besides, Weldon had left a message on the chapel door explaining where he’d gone, letting his own team know he’d be off the radar for a good few hours and what action he wa
nted them to take.
‘I’m emigrating,’ Weldon said after a long period of silence.
‘Yeah, pull the other one.’
‘I’m serious! Soon as the paperwork comes through I’m taking my bike, my boat and my pension and I’m out of here.’
‘Where the hell to? Thought Durham was the centre of your universe?’
‘The States. I’m setting up a business running motorcycle tours over there: bikes, route maps, the whole nine yards. It’s time I lived a little.’
‘Sounds like the dog’s bollocks,’ Gormley said wistfully. ‘I hope it works out.’
‘To be honest, I need a bit more cash and a partner to set it up properly.’ Weldon glanced sideways. ‘You don’t fancy putting in some of your hard-earned and riding off into the sunset? I assume you’re still riding?’
‘Not for years,’ Gormley said, with some regret. ‘Julie insisted I give it up in case Ryan got interested. I felt I had no choice.’
‘You are joking!’ Weldon went quiet again.
The image of Kate Daniels’ Yamaha Fazer popped into Gormley’s head. The last time he’d seen a motorcycle, it was hers. It was parked on its own at Hartside Pass in the depths of winter, a trip she’d taken during a particularly difficult case. He glanced at Weldon, trying to shake the image from his thoughts.
Gormley felt that an explanation was warranted. ‘I’d never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to Ryan. Maybe Julie had a point.’
Weldon disagreed. ‘Bloody women! I tell you, if I had to make a choice between my bike and a lass, any lass . . .’ He twisted an imaginary throttle. ‘No contest, mate. The bike wins, hands down.’
‘My boss rides.’ Gormley’s thoughts were back at Hartside.
‘Maybe I should ask him to join me,’ Weldon said. ‘Is he close to retirement?’
Gormley shook his head and kept on driving.
29
Daniels heard the distinct sound of a lawn mower as she wandered through patio doors and out into the sunshine. The view from the impressive terrace was spectacular, with gardens designed to perfection: geometric lawns bordered with clipped hedges; paths leading the eye through a variety of plant-rich shrubberies; sculptures, water features including a perfectly symmetrical manmade lake with a fountain in the middle, the tip of its spout just touching the horizon.
It was timeless.
A middle-aged gardener glanced up in her direction as she sat down next to Adam Finch at a table in the shade. He was staring off into the distance, seemingly unaware of her presence. Or so she thought.
‘You want him to stop?’ Finch didn’t look at her.
‘No, that’s not necessary. I’ll speak to Mr Townsend shortly, along with the rest of your staff. First I’d like to talk to you about Jessica.’
‘What about her?’
‘Were you close?
‘For God’s sake!’ Finch turned, his eyes boring into her. He rubbed at his temple, apologized for his quick temper. ‘What the hell are they waiting for? Why don’t they make further contact?’
‘You think there’s more than one person involved?’
‘He, they, what difference does it make?’
‘Can we concentrate on what we do know for a second.’ The DCI tried to sound sympathetic even though deep down she didn’t trust him. ‘All crime investigations begin with a study of the victim, sir. It’s important that I get to know Jess, and I can only do that through you.’
‘Her name is Jessica!’ he barked. ‘And with all due respect, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Shouldn’t you be out there searching instead of asking me bloody silly questions?’
‘Well, therein lies the problem. It’s a question of where we start looking.’
Daniels wondered if the trace evidence Matt West had identified as green fluorspar would give them a clue as to Jessica’s whereabouts. The North Pennines was a massive area and searching it would be a nightmare. Surreptitiously, she glanced at her watch, hoping Gormley had made contact with Dave Weldon. Adam Finch got up and wandered away from the table. He spoke with his back to her.
‘There are no skeletons in my cupboard, DCI Daniels. Ask your boss.’
Daniels intended to do just that. She was convinced Finch wasn’t being honest. Then again, what father would admit to a rift with their only child under the circumstances he was facing? For all his faults, she knew hers wouldn’t.
Carmichael appeared in the doorway. Daniels held up a hand, spreading her fingers, indicating five more minutes. She needn’t have bothered. Adam Finch couldn’t think of anyone he’d made an enemy of, anyone at all who’d wish him or Jessica any harm. In fact, nothing he said took her any further forward.
Leaving him on the patio, she wandered down into the garden to speak to Townsend. She was halfway along the path when Carmichael caught up with her.
‘Any luck?’ she said.
‘None . . .’ Daniels spotted movement in a semi-shaded area off to their left. She steered Carmichael towards it, their feet crunching across the gravel as they walked. ‘He’s either deliberately being evasive or he’s simply too preoccupied with the threats to answer a straight question. For the moment, I wouldn’t like to say which.’
The estate gardener had stopped mowing and was now busy cutting back tree peonies that stood either side of a gated entrance to a walled garden, so a wooden sign proclaimed.
‘Brian Townsend?’
‘Who wants to know?’ The man didn’t look up.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Daniels and Detective Constable Carmichael. Can we have a word?’
Townsend stood upright, running his eyes over the detectives. He was a well-built man with chiselled features and deep-set eyes. He was wearing a tool belt around his waist and a red peaked cap with a faded Coke Is It motif on the front.
‘You’re here about young Miss Jessica, I take it.’
Daniels nodded.
‘Terrible business.’
It surprised Daniels to learn that Adam Finch had warned his staff she was coming, much less confided in them the details of his daughter’s disappearance. Maybe she’d misjudged him. Maybe he wasn’t such a frosty man with people he knew well.
‘How long have you worked here, Mr Townsend?’
‘Far too long, ma’am.’
Daniels registered the man’s cynicism. ‘Mr Finch is an exacting boss, is he?’
‘None of us minds hard work, ma’am.’ His eye strayed to a rogue branch above their heads. He raised a pair of secateurs and clipped it off. ‘A little kindness and respect now and then wouldn’t go amiss. We ask no more than that.’
‘Are you telling me—’
‘I’m telling you nowt, ma’am. And that’s all I know – nowt! Now, I must get on.’
They detained Townsend from his work for a while longer, establishing that he hadn’t seen Jessica Finch since early January, when her term began. They told him they might want to speak to him again and then went up to the big house. They found Mrs Partridge ready and waiting in the kitchen. It was a massive room with a cast-iron cooking range in the centre of a wall covered in white brick-shaped tiles. Above the range a collection of brass cooking pots hung on hooks in order of size, tapering off with the smallest on the left. To the right of them, steam rose from a double Belfast sink where Mrs Partridge had just finished washing up. She hadn’t been wearing gloves and her hands were red raw when she lifted them out of the water, her engagement ring glistening through the suds.
Mrs Partridge dried her hands on a dishcloth and hung it above the range to dry, telling them she’d been housekeeper there for several years since her predecessor finally hung up her apron and moved on. Daniels’ eyes were drawn to an old-fashioned tapestry hanging on one wall with the words Home Sweet Home written on it. When she turned back, the housekeeper was pouring tea from a large aluminium pot and Carmichael was eyeing a plate of sultana scones that were fresh from the oven.
‘Help yourself,’ the housekeeper said.
&
nbsp; Carmichael took one, inhaling as she lifted it to her nose. ‘Mmm, haven’t smelled grub like this since I lived with my aunt.’
The housekeeper pushed a pot of home-made raspberry jam in her direction. She handed Carmichael a solid silver teaspoon.
Daniels pointed at a photograph of a young girl on the opposite wall to the tapestry.
‘Granddaughter?’ she said.
‘Daughter,’ Mrs Partridge smiled. ‘I have no grandchildren.’
‘Bet she appreciates your cooking . . .’ Carmichael didn’t look up. She was too busy biting her scone and washing it down with a gulp of tea. ‘You should try one, boss. They’re excellent.’
Daniels gave her a look: they were there to work, not chat.
Taking her cue, Carmichael wiped crumbs from her lips and asked, ‘How long has Tom Pearce been the chauffeur?’
‘About four years, give or take.’ Mrs Partridge thought for a moment. ‘It could even be five, come to think of it. He knew Mr Finch from when they were in the army together.’
‘And how long ago was that?’ Daniels wanted more. Finch’s association with Bright still bothered her. She couldn’t understand why her former guv’nor had chosen not to disclose their regiment the minute he’d found out about the MO in the Amy Grainger case. Mrs Partridge’s answer interrupted her chain of thought.
‘Must be a good ten years since Mr Finch resigned his commission.’
‘And he’d kept in touch with Pearce all that time?’ Carmichael asked.
Mrs Partridge giggled as if the question had been daft. ‘Oh no, dear. Mr Finch is an important man, the landed gentry if you will.’ She looked around, making sure she couldn’t be overheard. ‘Dear me, no. If I remember correctly, Tom saw an article about Mr Finch in the local paper and wrote to him asking for work. He was down on his luck, you see. Yes, I’m sure that was it. Mr Finch had just lost his driver and, well, it was fortuitous for them both as it turned out.’
Daniels asked, ‘Have you seen or heard of Jessica since she left for university?’
