by Mari Hannah
‘Except there’s been no demand for a ransom and no further contact from Jess’s abductors since the very first day—’
‘According to Finch!’ Naylor reminded her. ‘Bright tells me he’s a bit of a maverick. Always was. Maybe he’s going it alone.’
‘Don’t think so.’ Daniels went quiet, reminded of her conversation with Finch in the early stages of the case. Even if they continue, I will not be blackmailed! He refused to be intimidated, didn’t strike her as the sort who’d submit to the demands of others, under any circumstances. No. He’d see that as a weakness, something to resist at all costs. ‘The note he received was never about money, guv. It was designed to torment him. Think about it: he didn’t have the best relationship with Jessica and I gather she was pretty headstrong. So when she disappeared he wouldn’t have known whether she’d gone off of her own free will or not.’
‘So if it weren’t for the note, he’d never have known that someone had taken her?’
‘Precisely! Receiving that note – and the text sent from her mobile – guarantees ongoing pain and suffering. Mental torture, if you will. His imagination will be working overtime for as long as she remains missing. Is she alive? Suffering a horrible lingering death? What do these people want from him? You get what I’m saying?’
‘Seeing as you put it so eloquently.’
Daniels dropped the subject. ‘Is there any other news?’
‘The Durham lads interviewed Freek.’
‘Did they get anything from him?’
‘Maybe. They’ve gone back to Aykley Heads to mount an operation of their own. He’s still in custody, but he’s their problem, not ours.’
Daniels shook her head in frustration as Gormley was forced to slow to a crawl in a long line of cars stuck in roadwork hell. The mention of Durham HQ reminded her of the last time she was there, at a Bike Wise event run by the constabulary’s motorcycle section. A great day out, one of few she’d had in the past twelve months. If she was on her bike now, the roadworks she was staring at through the window would melt away.
Sensing her irritation, Gormley pulled on to the hard shoulder and shot past the line of cars. Unadulterated road rage contorted the faces of the other drivers as they sped away.
Daniels liked his style.
‘Did Andy manage to get hold of Finch’s army records?’ Daniels asked.
‘He did, but only after a monumental battle with the MOD.’
‘Pearce and Townsend’s too, I hope! Did Lisa tell him I wanted Cole’s too?’
‘I believe so. How’s it going your end?’
‘We’ve interviewed Cole and Fairley, guv.’ Daniels felt awkward calling him guv. Somehow it sounded wrong. Bright would always be her guv’nor, despite his bad temper, his bad manners and latterly, she’d learned, his spectacular bad judgement in relation to Adam bloody Finch. She was still really angry with him. ‘I have to say, the business looked to be thriving to me. I’m on my way to see Finch right now.’
‘Because?’
‘I wanted to run their names by him and see the whites of his eyes when I do.’
‘Interesting.’ Naylor’s voice was drowned out by an internal phone ringing somewhere close by. ‘Kate, I’ve got to—’
‘Damn!’ Gormley swore under his breath. ‘We missed him.’
Putting his foot on the brake pedal, Gormley glanced in the rear-view mirror. Daniels asked Naylor to hang on. She swivelled round in her seat, just in time to see a Jaguar XJ Portfolio disappearing round the bend.
‘Want me to turn around?’ Gormley asked.
‘Sure it was him?’
‘Positive.’ Gormley smacked his hand on the dash in anger. ‘What a bloody waste of time! Told you we should’ve phoned ahead!’
‘Push on, Hank.’ Daniels was calm. ‘There’s method in my madness. It’s Brian Townsend I’d really like a word with.’
Gormley’s brow creased. ‘Why?’
‘Let’s just say he’s a bit more truthful and lot more pliable than the rest.’
‘Kate?’ Naylor was back in Daniels’ ear. ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine, guv. I’ll catch you later.’
Naylor told her to take care and she hung up.
69
Mrs Partridge opened the panelled front door before they had a chance to ring the bell. From the look on the woman’s face as she peered out from within it was clear she was expecting someone else. ‘Oh, it’s you, Inspector!’ She smiled. ‘I heard a car. I thought Mr Finch had forgotten something. I’m afraid you just—’
‘Missed him. I know.’ Daniels pointed into the house. ‘Could we ask you one or two questions while we’re here?’
‘Of course, come in.’
The housekeeper stepped aside, inviting Daniels and Gormley to go through to the library and make themselves comfortable. Daniels felt anything but as she walked into the room with Jessica’s eyes looking down from the portrait, her confidence so powerfully portrayed by the equally scary lady, Fiona Fielding. Scary, in a nice way, Daniels thought guiltily, those enigmatic eyes still following her as she took a seat by the cavernous fireplace.
‘Do the names Donald Fairley and Stewart Cole mean anything to you, Mrs Partridge?’ Daniels said. ‘Either recently or in the past.’
The housekeeper shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Mr Pearce is out with Mr Finch, I take it? I couldn’t tell who was driving the car when it passed us on the road.’
Mrs Partridge nodded. ‘Can I get either of you something to drink?’
‘No, thank you,’ Daniels said.
Gormley just shook his head. ‘You told my colleagues that Mr Pearce wrote to Mr Finch begging for work, is that right?’
‘I never used the word “begging”, Sergeant. But yes, that’s about the gist of it. It’s not easy, starting out in Civvy Street when you leave the forces. I think it’s terrible how the government expects servicemen and women to fight for our country and then won’t support them afterwards, don’t you? At least Mr Finch is doing his bit. He employs ex-service personnel because he knows he can trust them.’
Daniels remembered the coldness of Finch towards his housekeeper on the first occasion they’d met and thought it odd that she was so loyal to a man who not only delighted in putting people’s backs up, but was downright bloody rude if the mood so took him.
‘Are you happy here, Mrs Partridge?’ she asked.
‘Confidentially?’ The woman took in Daniels’ nod. ‘I wouldn’t stay if I didn’t need a roof over my head—’
‘You live in?’ Gormley interrupted.
‘A condition of the job, I’m afraid. Ensures I’m at his beck and call round the clock in case he needs anything. The work isn’t a problem, but sometimes Mr Finch and I don’t see eye to eye.’
‘I’m not hearing The Sound of Music!’ Gormley joked.
Mrs Partridge giggled. ‘He can be a little difficult on occasions.’
‘Tell me about it!’ Gormley flicked his eyes in Daniels’ direction, teasing them both and putting the housekeeper at her ease. ‘Do you see Mr Townsend up at the house often?’
‘Not really. He’s been keeping himself to himself lately.’
‘Any particular reason?’ Daniels asked.
‘His wife’s very poorly – malignant brain tumour. Inoperable, sadly. It’s unlikely she’ll last out the summer.’ The woman looked upset. ‘Forgive me, but I have work to do.You’ll find Brian in the garden.’
They left the house via the front door and wandered round the back. Skirting the gable end of the mansion, they spotted Townsend about forty metres away. He was edging the lawn with a sod cutter, the like of which they’d never seen before. About halfway across the lawn, one of Daniels’ high heels stuck fast in the turf and she almost toppled over. The gardener stopped what he was doing and stood up straight.
‘Steady on, lass, you’ll do yourself an injury.’ Retrieving the shoe, he smiled as he handed it back. ‘My missu
s is always doing that. I’ve told her, lawns aren’t made for fancy footwear.’
Lifting her foot, Daniels slipped the shoe back on. ‘I was sorry to hear from Mrs Partridge that your wife’s not at all well.’
Townsend went quiet.
‘Cancer is a terrible thing . . .’ Daniels felt a wave of grief crashing over her.
Townsend picked up on her heartache. ‘Someone close to you?’
Daniels nodded. ‘My mother.’
‘Then you have my sympathies, ma’am. I just can’t come to terms with the prospect of life without Joyce.’ Upset now, he bit down on his lip, his eyes darkening. ‘My employer lost his good lady a long time ago, but I haven’t had an ounce of sympathy from him. A compassionate man, he is not. But he’s paying for it now, isn’t he? Reaping what he sows.’
‘I’d be careful what you say, if I were you.’ Gormley’s tone was sharp, warning Townsend that he’d overstepped the mark. ‘People might get the wrong impression. Nobody deserves what your boss is going through. Jessica’s his only child—’
‘He stood by and—’ Townsend stopped himself going any further.
Daniels said, ‘Stood by and did what exactly?’
The gardener looked at the wet grass, then took a tobacco tin from a torn jacket pocket and opened it up. Inside were several pre-prepared rollies. He took one out and lit it, inhaling the nicotine deep into his lungs. He was angry and Daniels wanted to know why.
‘Brian?’She used his first name, hoping to prompt an answer from him. ‘Please, finish what you were going to say.’
Townsend stared at her. ‘He stood by and let it happen to a mate of mine and didn’t bat an eyelid. Is it any wonder nobody gives a shit what happens to him? It’s the young lass I feel sorry for.’
‘How do you mean, “stood by and let it happen”?’
‘I’ve said too much already.’ Townsend looked away.
‘On the contrary,’ Gormley said. ‘If you know something, tell us. Only a callous man would refuse to cooperate. You might be the only hope we have of finding Jessica alive, Brian. Please help us.’
Townsend carried on smoking.
Sick of waiting, Gormley told him to stop dicking around. The gardener spat a rogue piece of tobacco on to the lawn at Daniels’ feet. It was a gesture she considered deliberate, designed to tell her exactly how disgusted he was with his employer. Then, suddenly, he relented.
‘A bunch of us were on special ops in Northern Ireland – V Regiment. Finch was our Commanding Officer. An urgent message came through for a guy in my unit whose daughter was critically ill in hospital with meningitis. She was his only child and Finch ignored the request for repatriation on grounds that it could jeopardize our mission.’
‘Maybe it would have. I’ve had to make tough decisions for the greater good—’
‘Nah . . .’ Townsend shook his head. ‘Jimmy was good, but he wasn’t that good. There were other guys in our unit who could’ve stepped in.’
‘She died?’ Gormley asked.
Daniels held her breath.
Townsend nodded.
70
Weldon stared at the muddy footprints at the entrance to the mine. The gate was secure enough, a hefty chain wrapped several times around both uprights. But on further inspection he noticed that the padlock was relatively new.
He raised his head.
On the horizon, he could see a line of cars parked on the top road, cameras and binoculars trained on police and civilian search teams as they went about their business. The operation to find the girl had turned what was normally a desolate and beautiful landscape into a day trip for some, attracting a level of interest he personally found repugnant. Morbid curiosity of that kind was something he could not comprehend.
Nor did he wish to.
Pushing his anger away, Weldon studied the footprints again and got straight on the radio: ‘Weldon to TSG. Harry, get over here with the cutting gear.’
Within seconds, a stocky guy arrived by his side with a couple of tactical support officers in tow. They were wearing reflective jackets and one was carrying a large set of bolt cutters. Weldon pointed out the footprints, then stood back and waited somewhat impatiently while they called for tread plates in order to preserve them. It was a dull, windy day. Dusk would arrive in only five hours and he was keen to get going.
The bolt cutters sliced through the padlock with ease. Weldon switched on his cap lamp and led the way as he had done countless times for the past few days, this time hoping for a more fruitful result. The roof of the mine was less than the height of an average man. With water sloshing around his feet, he guided the others by torchlight into the pitch darkness.
Light bounced off wet walls casting shadows in the eerie space as they moved, one slow step at a time, being careful where they placed their feet as they picked their way in. After about fifteen minutes, the tunnel widened and it was possible to stand up straight. Directing torchlight around the dank walls, one officer’s sudden intake of breath made Weldon turn around.
What he saw was gut-wrenching, even for the most hardened of professionals. Rooted to the spot, he had only one focus: a set of shackles hanging loose from the wall. Nobody moved or spoke as he examined them more closely, careful not to touch anything, his former police training kicking in. He turned to the others, frustrated with their gruesome find.
‘Keep searching,’ he said.
Nobody moved.
‘Well, go on! What are you waiting for? I’m heading back. The radio’s fuck-all use down here and we need a forensics team to examine this lot.’
Leaving them to it – with instructions to stay together should they come to a fork in the tunnel – Weldon made his way back to the entrance. As soon as he reached the surface, he called in the CSIs, then pulled out his mobile and dialled Daniels’ number. She answered almost immediately – from a vehicle, by the sound of it.
‘What is it, Dave?’
‘We have ourselves a crime scene,’ was all Weldon said.
‘And Jessica?’
‘The bastard’s moved her. We’ve got fresh blood here. Your forensics guys are on it. TSG are searching the remainder of the mine in case she’s still down there . . .’ He paused but Daniels was silent. ‘I’m sorry, Kate. I know it’s not the news you wanted.’
‘No.’ The DCI sounded more upbeat than Weldon had expected. ‘This is a positive development. If Jess were dead, why move her body at great risk of being seen? Whoever’s got her is methodical, make no mistake about that. He’ll have thought this through and left nothing to chance. In my book, that means two sites to hide her – in case we got close. With you lot crawling all over the place I don’t think the second will be too far from the first. You’ve got to keep searching. You can find her in time, I know you can.’
Jessica had heard a voice, her father’s – clear and strong – telling her not to give up. And now she had a plan . . . of sorts. But would it work?
One chance.
Only one.
Fight, Jess!
Dig deep.
Deeper than ever before.
Manoeuvring her skinny left leg as far downstream as it would reach, she tucked her chin into her chest until the strap of the hard hat she was wearing worked free. Then, tilting her head to one side, she pressed it up against the wet wall with a view to dislodging the hat. Then, at the very last moment, she pulled back. She just couldn’t do it, just couldn’t bear the thought of the lights going out completely, ending her days in a cold wet chamber, alone in the dark. She wailed, terror overtaking her for a moment.
You must.
It’s the only way.
She tried again and this time went through with it. The hat slid sideways and fell – in what seemed like hours of slow motion – glancing off her bony right shoulder, landing in the murky water beneath. Instantly taken by the current, it sailed off and Jess jerked her leg towards it, flailing around in the water, catching the chin strap just right. Hooking it on to her foot, s
he was amazed to see that the bulb was still illuminated. Sobbing with relief, she rested a while. She said a little prayer, in case there was a God.
Maybe He was calling her?
Well, I’m not fucking listening!
It took all the effort she could summon to lift her leg, let alone swing it back and forth using the hard hat to tap out an SOS. It was a pathetic attempt, a stupid idea that had little chance of success. Stealing herself, she took a break and tried again: three sharp knocks . . . three longer ones . . . three sharp knocks.
Less than a couple of hundred metres away, a chill wind whipped across the open moorland. Discovering the crime scene had shaken Weldon. But hearing Daniels’ take on things had given him hope. To the right of his search area, another casualty of the operation was being stretchered away to a waiting ambulance, having dislocated a shoulder in a fall below ground. A fractured leg had already claimed one of his team that day, no doubt keeping the voyeuristic day-trippers satisfied on the road above.
He looked on as the ambulance drove away, taking the noise of its siren with it. As it disappeared over the brow of a hill, the area fell silent again. Weldon went rigid. He could’ve sworn he’d heard something, although he couldn’t quite place exactly what it was or where it had come from.
Tilting his head, he listened . . .
Silence.
Only the wind howling through the brush and the distinctive sound of the wing beats of red grouse rocketing up from the heather, their habitat disturbed by a member of the search team. The creature was the bane of every motorcyclist this side of the Isle of Man; one Weldon had come across far too frequently while riding round the countryside.
Then the sound was back.
Weldon held up a hand and blew his whistle.
Those of the search team within hearing distance froze.
Inside the mine, Jessica’s heart leapt as she heard the whistle. But her throat was so dry she wasn’t able to call for help. The hat was still strapped to her ankle but it was now full of water, dragging her leg downstream like a lead weight. She couldn’t find a way to empty it and repeat her SOS.
