by Mari Hannah
‘Why should it? You surely can’t think she had something to do with this?’
He didn’t answer and she seized the opportunity to change the subject.
‘Guv, what is Stephens’ connection with headquarters exactly?’ There was no point holding back. Bright had taught her always to question authority, including his own. ‘Someone been caught with their pants down again?’
He sat back, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. ‘Let it go, Kate.’
She could tell she’d hit the nail right on the head. The question was: whose pants? Moreover, what did that have to do with Alan Stephens? When Bright got to his feet, she knew their conversation was over. Whoever was calling the tune must be pretty high up. But that didn’t explain why he was keeping her in the dark. If someone was leaning on him, why didn’t he just say so?
He always had before.
She felt guilty as she rushed back down the stairs. Withholding the truth from Gormley earlier had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. On the contrary, she just didn’t want to implicate him in her deception. But there had been nothing impetuous about not telling Bright she had prior knowledge of a murder victim. That was bordering on stupidity, and now there was definitely no going back . . .
11
Five miles from the windswept Northumbrian coast, a grey and forbidding building rose like a giant blot on an otherwise beautiful landscape, surrounded by barbed wire to prevent escape. Like most of Her Majesty’s prisons, Acklington had been sited well away from the nearest residential area – and for good reason.
It was beginning to rain as Jo Soulsby drove her BMW into the staff car park, trying hard to focus her mind on her job. She was exhausted, would have been back at home in bed had she not promised the Home Office an urgent assessment on a disruptive lifer – but she’d managed somehow to struggle through. At least this was to be her last professional visit of the day.
Jo checked her briefcase. Her mobile showed several missed calls and the battery icon had turned red, indicating a critically low charge. She switched the damn thing off and threw it on the seat in frustration. She got out of the car and locked it. The wind howling through the perimeter fence was loud enough to wake the dead, the rain almost horizontal now. Pulling her coat close, she ran towards the gatehouse. Senior Officer Young was waiting there to greet her.
‘Rough night?’ he asked.
Embarrassed by the comment, Jo averted her eyes. ‘I could think of better ways of spending my time than being locked up in here,’ she said. ‘Especially with him.’
Young checked the professional visitor log. He grimaced when he saw who she’d come to see. ‘Think yourself lucky,’ he said. ‘Some of us are stuck with him twenty-four-seven.’
Pushing a button underneath his desk, he activated the electronically controlled reinforced-steel door. It clunked loudly and slowly began to slide open. Jo moved forward into position and the outer door closed behind her. Despite many years of working in prisons with some of Britain’s most disturbed criminals, she still hated the feeling of being trapped between the two sets of doors.
The inner door clunked, faltered, and at last she was inside. Only then did she remove a numbered tally from the end of the chain hanging from her belt. She placed the tally in a security chute. Young took charge of it and, in return, handed her a large bunch of keys allowing her unrestricted access to the prison. As she attached the keys to the empty chain, he smiled at her through the thick security glass, his fake American accent sounding muffled through the barrier:
‘Y’all have a good day, now. Y’hear?’
Managing a thin smile, Jo moved on into the grim building and hurried along a secure corridor to the vulnerable prisoner unit. She was dreading her interview with Prisoner 7634 Woodgate, serving life for his part in the gang rape of a woman half his age. Although she was duty-bound to go through the motions of a life sentence review, the very idea that he might get out any time soon was abhorrent. In the interests of public protection, she would not recommend his release to the Secretary of State and intended to make that quite clear.
But first she needed to find a phone.
12
Daniels was stationary at the traffic lights at the north end of the Tyne Bridge, waiting to gain access to the Swan House roundabout. In the centre of the island, looming high above the city, was a former government block converted to apartments and renamed 55° North. She stared up at it, wondering why on earth anyone would want to live above a traffic nightmare. Like the engine of her Toyota, her mind idled until she realized that the lights were stuck on red. She rang the control room asking what was going on. Nobody seemed to know. She thanked them for nothing and rang off. There was only one way she was getting out of here – though technically it was against the rules.
Sod that, she thought. I’m on police business.
Engaging her blue light, she felt like a bully pushing to the front of the queue, but, like magic, her actions had the desired effect. Traffic parted and at last she was on her way home . . .
The leafy suburb of Jesmond was a cosmopolitan area with good shops, hotels, restaurants and trendy bars. Although it was very different from the rural area where Daniels had spent her childhood, she liked the fact that it still retained a villagey feel. No mean feat, considering the massive change in population in the past fifteen to twenty years. During that time, professionals had been squeezed out by landlords buying up larger properties to let to students from local universities. The more they could cram in, the better they liked it. Some houses, including hers, were still in private hands, but it had to be said they were few and far between – and not everyone was happy.
Turning into Holly Avenue, Daniels glanced at her watch cursing the time it had taken her to get there. Fortuitously, there was a parking space just yards from her front door. She managed to squeeze – but only just – between two abandoned cars belonging to college lecturers who lived next door. By the time she’d reached her own front door, the neighbour’s cat had caught up with her and crouched down waiting to run in too.
Shooing it away, Daniels opened the door. Stepping over mail lying on the hall floor she had to squeeze past her motorcycle just to get in. The post would have to wait. She needed to get a move on if she was to meet Stanton on time. Quickly she made her way to the back of the house, entering a modern kitchen with clean lines and no clutter. It was decked out with all the latest labour-saving gadgetry in keeping with her busy lifestyle. Shards of light filtered through natural wooden blinds.
It was her favourite space in the whole house.
There was some milk in the refrigerator. She checked it was in date and drank straight from the carton. It bothered her that Jo Soulsby might hear from the press that the father of her children was dead. Picking one of two mobiles from the front pocket of her bag, she checked the display.
No joy.
Discarding the first, Daniels picked out the second. She dialled Jo’s number and was met with the same voice message she’d heard ten times already that morning:
‘The mobile you are calling may be switched off. Please try again later.’
Putting the mobiles back in her bag, she grabbed fruit from a bowl and stuffed that in too. A flashing LED on her BT answerphone caught her eye. She pushed the playback button and listened to the automated message: To listen to your messages, press one, to save . . .’ Daniels hit one, cutting off the voice. She heard a beep but the caller had rung off without speaking. She stared at the phone as if it would somehow reveal the identity of the caller. The automated voice again: You have no more messages . . . She hung up. The calls button didn’t enlighten her: it showed three calls in quick succession. On each occasion the number was withheld. Then suddenly one of the mobiles rang loudly in her bag.
She pulled it out. ‘Hello?’
The line was open but no one spoke.
A weak mobile signal? A payphone perhaps? Bugger! Only one person had acce
ss to that particular line. Either someone had the wrong number or the caller was desperate for help . . .
Within half an hour, Daniels was showered and on her way again. Driving back to the city, she made a mental list of all the things she needed to do to get the enquiry underway. In the foyer of Court Mews, she shook hands with Tim Stanton. A tall, good-looking fifty-year-old, he had worked for the northern region for only seven years, during which time he’d built up an excellent reputation in his field of expertise. His impressive qualifications included Bachelor of Medicine, Fellow of the Royal College of Pathologists and Honorary Lecturer in Pathology at the University of Edinburgh. He was held in high regard by the police and well liked by Daniels herself.
Though they shared the ability to function with very little sleep, quite how he managed to look so fresh remained a mystery to her. Despite a shower and change of clothes, she still felt jaded from being up all night.
Outside Stephens’ fourth-floor apartment a male officer was on sentry duty.
Daniels held up her warrant card. ‘This is Mr Stanton, Home Office Pathologist, and I am DCI Daniels.’ She checked her watch. ‘I make it five past one. Time our entry and don’t let anyone else in here while the body is being examined. Understood?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The officer stood aside to let them through.
At the door to the victim’s apartment, Daniels bent down and opened up a large box containing forensic clothing. Reaching inside it, she withdrew two packets and handed one over to Stanton just as the lift arrived on their floor. Waiting for the door to open, she was rattled when Bright emerged from the lift and fought hard not to let it show – Super or no Super, she’d have given him a piece of her mind if Stanton hadn’t been there. What the hell did he think he was playing at?
Bright exchanged pleasantries with Stanton as they all got kitted up. Zipping up her forensic suit, Daniels slipped blue plastic overshoes over her own, reminded of a house-hunting expedition she’d undertaken with her mother years before. It had been a gloomy Sunday afternoon. Following their usual visit to church and a pub lunch, she’d driven her mother to a new housing development. Her father declined to join them with the usual lame excuse that he was too busy.
Fingering the plastic material in her hands, Daniels could almost hear her mother’s laughter, see her moving around the show home looking the picture of health in a new red dress – unaware of the cancer eating its way into her lung. They’d clomped around with blue plastic feet in a house they could ill afford, giggling like a couple of teenagers.
The powerful nostalgic image made Daniels smile. Then suddenly her smile disappeared and was replaced by a dark sadness she found hard to bear and even harder to hide. Looking up, she was relieved to see that neither Stanton nor Bright had been paying her any attention. They had moved along the hallway and were having a discussion at the living-room door.
Stanton was making a small sketch of the apartment with his gold Cross pen that rolled effortlessly across the paper like water over a weir. Daniels didn’t need to see the sketch to know that it would be meticulous in every detail. It was the way he did things and she was delighted that he was going to be working with her on her first case as Senior Investigating Officer.
In the living room, she walked carefully round the corpse and drew back the window blinds, allowing them some natural light. When she turned around, Stanton was already gloved up and on his knees inspecting the body, careful not to handle or move it as he began his initial observations with Bright looking on.
‘The victim’s wife formally identified the body in situ,’ Bright loosened his tie, his well-trained eyes scanning the room. ‘Said she found him like this when she returned to the flat at approximately twelve forty-five this morning.’ His comment floated in the air as he wandered off into the hallway, opening and closing doors on either side. A brief check and he was back. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay. I have another appointment at two.’
‘I’m surprised you have any time at all to spare guv,’ Daniels said pointedly. ‘With your latest case at such a critical stage, I mean.’
Stanton didn’t look up. His tone was sombre. ‘Awful business, I heard it on the news.’
Bright agreed and carried on, ignoring Daniels’ snide remark. ‘Mind if Kate fills you in, Tim? She’s SIO on this one.’
Stanton sat back on his heels, looking genuinely pleased. ‘Is that right? Well, congratulations, it’s about time too!’
Forcing an uncomfortable smile, Bright gave Daniels a friendly tap her on the shoulder. There was something not right about his demeanour, a definite unease she’d never seen before. He couldn’t look her in the eye and there could be only one explanation for him being there.
He wanted into her crime scene.
He knew that until the body was moved all visits were logged in and out.
He could hardly just breeze in there unnoticed, could he?
By now the two men were arranging to play golf, settling on a date the following week with an agreement to cancel if the exigencies of the job prevented either of them turning up. Not being part of the conversation, she turned her back on them and tried focusing on the chain of events that might have led to Alan Stephens’ death, but found she couldn’t concentrate with her guv’nor hanging around.
His presence still baffled her.
He could so easily have spoken with Stanton at the door. And yet he’d chosen to go through the palaver of getting kitted up in case of forensic contamination – one murder scene to another – but why in hell’s name had he bothered to attend at all? In the normal course of events, his case would take precedence over a shooting. Any bloody shooting. Daniels knew only too well how busy he’d be. Did he think she’d miss some vital clue? Cock it up, whatever it was? What exactly was he expecting to find?
She was sure of one thing: her guv’nor definitely knew something she didn’t.
‘You go ahead,’ Stanton said. ‘We can manage here, can’t we, Kate?’
Daniels wasn’t paying attention. She was staring out of the window at the familiar arch of the Tyne Bridge. It was jammed with traffic as usual. The sun glinting off waiting vehicles looked like a long string of diamonds suspended in mid-air. Beneath the bridge, seagulls bobbed on the surface of a cold grey river flowing gently eastward to the North Sea beyond. She turned round just in time to see Bright disappearing from the room.
‘Kate?’
‘Sorry, did you say something?’ Daniels was miles away.
‘Only that we should get on with it,’ Stanton replied.
He smiled self-consciously, most probably embarrassed by the frosty atmosphere he’d witnessed between the two detectives. Momentarily, Daniels thought he was about to question her about it, but then he chose not to interfere. Instead, he took a small dictating device from his breast pocket, ready to start work. He began by describing the apartment, referring to the sketches he’d drawn on the way in. He spoke softly and clearly into the digital recorder, emphasizing the fact that there were no obvious signs of blood outside of the room in which the body had been found. So deep was his concentration he was oblivious to her presence.
Daniels’ eyes travelled over Stephens’ body as Stanton spoke, his voice coming and going as he continued his running commentary – occasionally stopping to peer more closely at specific areas. Stephens lay face up, several feet to the right of a white marble fireplace that was heavily splashed with blood, his torso at a slight angle and jammed against the legs of a coffee table, his head nearest to the door that adjoined the dining room. His left arm was by his side, touching the ground, palm down. His right arm lay across his body, his hand resting on his chest.
‘He was shot through the front of the head,’ Stanton said. ‘The entry wound being smaller than the exit wound at the back . . .’
Daniels had a wry smile to herself. She bore Stanton no resentment. He was not the type to teach his granny how to suck eggs, just a meticulous scientist who took nothing whatsoever for grant
ed.
‘The deceased wouldn’t have been able to move very much at all after being shot.’ Stanton continued taking careful measurements as he spoke. ‘There are no drag marks indicating an attempt to pull himself along, no marks I can see on surrounding furniture.’
Daniels nodded. ‘No indication of a scuffle at all, do you agree?’
The pathologist glanced around, considering. ‘I would think it highly unlikely that the killer met any resistance or attempt at self-protection by the victim. I think this poor chap was completely taken by surprise. Mercifully it would have been over in a flash.’ Moving round the corpse, he looked curiously at the bow tie that was spotted with blood and lying on a glass coffee table. Carefully lifting it up with a pair of small tweezers, he pointed at the table top. ‘See here . . . I’d get your photographer to take a shot of this.’
‘I will . . .’ Daniels came closer. There was a perfect image of a bow tie on the blood-splashed glass. ‘If he’d had time and been relaxed enough to take off his tie before the killer struck, that would suggest he wasn’t followed into the apartment and shot immediately, d’you agree?’
Stanton nodded. He was about done. Dictating the last details of environmental temperature and discoloration present in the body, he ended his recording and began to remove his rubber gloves.
‘Someone from the forensic science laboratory will be along soon,’ he concluded. ‘Then we can bag him up and get him to the mortuary.’
13
On reaching the VPU, Jo Soulsby was escorted to an interview room by a prison officer named Adams. She knew that Woodgate would be waiting and had made up her mind that the interview would be brief. With any luck, the Governor would transfer the prisoner away from Acklington and she’d never have to set eyes on the despicable individual again.
