by Mari Hannah
Eventually, he stopped to draw breath.
‘Have you any idea who you are talking to?’ Daniels asked.
‘Well, no, I assume . . .’
‘Then piss off and stop wasting my valuable time!’ She slammed the phone down to a spontaneous round of applause from her two colleagues. ‘Officious little prick!’
They got up and followed Brown back into the incident room. As Gormley peeled off, heading for the gents, Daniels eyed the photographs attached to the murder wall: Stephens, Monica, James . . . Jo.
Where the hell are you?
Daniels looked at her watch. She wanted an update from Ron Naylor, but it was too early to call him. His victim would have to be examined, first in situ, then transported to the morgue for a full post-mortem. Only then would Forensics get their hands on the card that had niggled her subconscious since she’d learned of its existence.
Two scenarios loomed large in her thoughts, neither of which appealed. Either way, Daniels knew she had a problem. If Naylor’s case and the killing of Sarah Short and Father Simon weren’t linked then there were two dangerous offenders on the run in bordering counties, a problem that definitely needed sorting. But if the opposite was true, then a serial killer who had eluded capture for almost a year was lurking out there somewhere – a situation that was so much worse.
28
He was in complete control. His weapons had opened many doors, allowing him to go wherever he chose – invited or not. He knew what he wanted and how to get it, though he had to admit he’d learned the hard way.
He’d left too many clues on the first tart he’d wasted, ended up captured within days. Twenty years on, every detail of his trial was etched on his brain like the tattoo on his head. That courtroom – hot and overcrowded – his fate resting in the hands of twelve strangers, none of whom dared meet his gaze. Each glance quickly whisked away when he looked at them, unfazed by the seriousness of his position, as exhibit after exhibit pointed an accusing finger in his direction.
The jury’s discomfort was laid bare for all to see. When shown photographs of his victim, battered to a pulp like the whore she was, one woman in the jury box was even moved to tears.
Silly tart . . .
Nobody had asked how he felt.
And what about the two of them? He had watched them, huddled together in the public gallery, pretending to give a shit, like the day they put him in care for no reason he could think of – lied to keep him there – and went through the motions of supporting him. They disgusted him.
But he’d be leaving his parents till last.
Just why they’d spent that day snivelling and holding hands, he couldn’t imagine. Her especially. She’d spent more time teaching Sunday school than taking care of him.
Fucking goody two-shoes.
She was only alive now because he’d decided not to kill her . . . yet. In any case, she was already dying of shame – the slow kind of living death people like her deserved. By the time he’d finished messing with her head, books would be written about his life, a film perhaps, with some A-list celebrity playing him, maybe even a sequel or a series on the box . . .
Sweet.
He could see it now – his name, their name – up in lights or plastered across every billboard in the country. She’d find that difficult to ignore. That’s why he felt so angry. Any profiler worth her salt should have given the filth a lead by now, flagged up his record, his obsession with the God squad.
What the fuck did they think they were doing?
Why hadn’t they joined up the dots?
29
Daniels looked around the room. Maxwell appeared to be working away quietly for once, his warrant card sticking out of his computer. She wandered over, taking in the soft-porn magazine he was doing his best to hide.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when she spoke to him:
‘Neil, the Tactical Support Group are whining for some PDFs. Nip down to Admin and get some, will you?’
She didn’t need any personal descriptive forms. It was just a ploy to get rid of him.
A smirk appeared on his face as he moved off probably thinking he’d got one over on her. What he didn’t know was, she was about to do the same to him. As soon as he was out of sight, she took his seat and began searching the vehicle index. She had to work fast, scrolling down quickly, keeping one eye on the door for him coming back.
Her mobile rang again. She pulled it out of her pocket and gave her name, placing her elbows on the desk, supporting her chin with one hand, holding the phone to her ear with the other. Her eyes fixed on the screen – flitting here, there and everywhere – as she listened intently to the caller.
Shit!
She hung up and left the building without a word to anyone.
She decided to skirt the city rather than risk getting stuck in traffic, approaching the West End from the south side of the river. It took her a few miles out of her way but it was the right move. On the Gateshead side of the Tyne, she picked up speed, eventually turning right, crossing back over the river on the Redheugh Bridge.
On the north side of the river, Daniels turned left, headed up the West Road for a mile and a half, passing a sign for NEWCASTLE GENERAL HOSPITAL. A block further on, she turned right into the hospital grounds, screeching to a halt in a spot marked: AMBULANCES ONLY. She got out of the car and raced to the main entrance, quickly searching the information board before approaching the lifts. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two digital displays, but the lifts were taking too long, both stuck on the floor above.
Entering the stairwell, she took the stairs two at a time with her heart thumping out of her chest, the smell of disinfectant hitting her subconscious like a brick, transporting her back in time. Two floors up, she lost herself in the narrow hospital corridors, blindly running this way and that with no apparent goal in mind – even less direction. Then suddenly she was still.
The sign directly above her head pointed to the chaplaincy.
Disorientated, she walked on to a ward . . .
A priest was standing over a bed, administering the last rites. The person in the bed was a sick, pale version of Daniels herself.
‘Mum?’
The priest spoke softly: ‘Cleanse in thine own blood the sinners of the whole world who are now in their agony, and are to die this day.’
Daniels let out a scream, ‘NO!’
But all she could hear was silence.
The priest didn’t lift his head or stop praying. Her mother appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Daniels didn’t want him there, neither of them did. They weren’t ready for the end. Never would be. She grabbed the priest by the lapels, physically ejecting him from the room. His God allowed the innocent to die . . .
‘Detective Chief Inspector Daniels?’ When she got no response, Nurse Baker repeated herself. ‘DCI Daniels?’
Daniels was staring at an empty bed, faintly aware of a woman’s voice. She turned towards it as echoes of the past slowly began to subside. She could breathe again, pulled herself together and held out a trembling hand.
‘That was quick!’ the nurse said, shaking hands. ‘I hardly had time to put the phone down. Come this way.’
They entered a room no bigger than a police cell. As they walked in, Daniels eyed a pile of case notes on the desk, got out her notebook and wafted it in front of her face.
‘Do you think I could have a glass of water?’ she said. ‘It’s really hot in here.’
‘Tell you what,’ the nurse said, ‘how about a nice refreshing cup of tea instead?’
Daniels nodded. ‘That would be great, thanks.’
‘I’ll let Mr Thorburn know you’ve arrived.’ Nurse Baker left the room.
The moment the door closed behind her, Daniels was on her feet searching the case notes, but the file she wanted wasn’t there. Cursing, she sat back down and waited impatiently for the nurse to return, her eyes eventually coming to rest on a tray of case notes stacked neatly on a shelf by th
e door, the name of the consultant pinned to the wall above it. Daniels leapt to her feet. Jo Soulsby’s file was on top. Reaching for it, she stepped away again when suddenly the door opened and the nurse backed into the room with a tray of tea and digestive biscuits.
‘Sorry it took so long,’ she said. ‘No milk, as usual. Had to borrow some from the canteen. Mr Thorburn is with a patient. He’ll be along shortly.’ She handed Daniels a mug of steaming tea. ‘Can I help in the meantime?’
Daniels sat back down. ‘How badly injured is Jo Soulsby?’
‘Hard to say. She sustained a nasty bang to the head.’
‘Can I see her?’
‘If it was up to me, you could . . .’ Baker looked unsure. ‘I think you’d better speak to her consultant first.’
Daniels cleared her throat. ‘She will survive?’
‘Oh, she’ll live, all right.’ The nurse teased her hair round her index finger, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘CT scan shows no permanent damage. She has a convenient loss of memory, if you know what I mean.’
Daniels was irritated. The woman was acting like a newspaper hack protecting an exclusive. She half expected her to wink and tap the side of her nose.
‘What makes you say that?’
The nurse was off again, leaning forward, dropping her voice a touch, hyping up the intrigue. ‘They all do it.’
Daniels brow creased. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Drunk drivers,’ Baker said curtly. ‘Want my opinion, you should lock her up and throw away the key.’
Now Daniels was really rattled. ‘So, you’re not only a nurse but judge and jury too – very impressive. Well, for your information, Jo Soulsby is a colleague and a friend, so maybe you’d like to keep your opinions to yourself.’
Before the nurse had time to back-pedal, Daniels’ mobile began to vibrate. She took it from her pocket, flipped it open and stood up.
Baker bristled. ‘You’re not really supposed to—’
Daniels held her hand up to silence her. ‘What is it, Andy?’
Brown sounded excited on the other end of the line. ‘I found her,’ he said.
‘Hang on a minute . . .’ Daniels left the office and shut the door behind her. ‘OK, go ahead. But hurry up, I’m busy.’
‘Jo’s vehicle was involved in an accident yesterday afternoon. She’s in the General. I’m on my way over there now.’
Daniels stopped dead in her tracks. ‘No! Stay put, I’m in the area. Anyway, it might be more appropriate for a female to respond.’
Brown sounded deflated. ‘You sure?’
‘Yeah, I’m on it.’
Silence.
Daniels could almost hear him sulking on the other end. Before he had a chance to start whining, she ended the call and walked back to the nurse’s station. Baker still had a face like a smacked arse. There was no time for small talk.
‘I need to speak with Jo Soulsby’s consultant now,’ Daniels said. ‘Can you get him for me please?’
Baker was just reaching for the phone when the door opened and a doctor in a white coat entered. Thorburn was an unattractive man, at least a foot shorter than Daniels, arrogant and with an unfriendly attitude. He was standing ever so slightly on his toes to gain a little height.
‘Mark Thorburn, neurologist. You wanted to see me?’
‘DCI Daniels.’ Thorburn’s palm was cold and clammy. ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. I know you must be busy.’
‘How can I be of assistance?’
Daniels wiped her hand on the side of her jacket, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
‘I need your assessment of Josephine Soulsby’s condition,’ she said.
‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge that.’ Thorburn folded his arms across his chest. ‘I have to respect patient confidentiality, Detective Chief Inspector. And not just because of the compensation culture in this country – though clearly patients feel justified in suing doctors if they so much as breathe on them these days – but because it’s written clearly in black and white in hospital regulations. Much like the rules that bind you, I imagine.’
Here we go. Daniels fought the temptation to grab the pompous arsehole by the lapels and do him for wasting police time. ‘So you’ve no objection to me telling Ms Soulsby that her ex-husband and father of her children is now a murder statistic.’
Thorburn raised his bushy eyebrows a notch, pushing his specs a little further up the bridge of his nose. He glanced sideways at Baker, who looked as though she was having more fun than she’d had in years. Daniels wondered how long it would take her to spread the word.
‘That doesn’t change things,’ Thorburn said.
‘I beg to differ. It changes things considerably. Nurse Baker here tells me Ms Soulsby has suffered memory loss.’
Thorburn’s reaction was predictable. He scowled at Baker, who immediately went scarlet and began examining the floor tiles. Daniels didn’t give a damn that she’d dropped the nurse right in it. She had her own job to do.
‘Will she get it back?’ she asked.
‘She regained consciousness within hours, so that’s always a good sign.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘The prognosis is favourable,’ he intoned, adding that he could never guarantee a full recovery. He spoke in terms Daniels didn’t fully understand. It was like hearing a medical science lecture. As her eyes glazed over, he took the hint and stopped talking.
‘Thank you. Now, is your patient fit to be informed of the death or not?’
The neurologist wound his neck in. ‘I assume you’ve spoken to her sons?’
‘We’re still trying to locate them. I understand that neither is in the area just now.’
‘Then your intelligence is flawed.’ A smug, almost triumphant, expression flashed across Thorburn’s face as he spewed out the last word: ‘They just left.’
30
There was a slight lull in proceedings in the incident room. The majority of MIT were out tracing potential witnesses, a few others were assisting with the house-to-house. All were engaged one way or another in finding new pieces of the jigsaw that was Stephens’ murder.
As statement reader, Robson remained anchored to the office. It was his job to ensure continuity as information came in. He was taking a well-earned break by the coffee machine when he noticed DC Brown sulking at his desk.
‘What’s up? Robson asked. ‘You look like you’re about to spit the dummy.’
‘I just traced Jo to the General Hospital,’ Brown said. ‘Car crash, according to Traffic.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘Dunno, do I?’
Robson dunked a biscuit in his coffee and lost the end of it in the cup. ‘Bugger!’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t you be out there, following it up?’
Brown looked at him. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? Only, when I rang to tell the boss I was on my way over there, she told me to stay put, said she was in the area and would deal with it herself.’
‘So? She’s got a lot riding on this one.’
‘Yeah, well, Eddie just came on duty. He saw her screaming into the General like a bloody tornado over fifteen minutes ago.’
At a nearby desk, Gormley’s ears pricked up. ‘And your point is?’
‘My point is, she was obviously already there when I rang, though she never said so.’ Brown flicked a paperclip off his desk. ‘Instead she made some poxy excuse about it being preferable for a woman to attend.’
Robson spooned a sodden biscuit from his mug, dumping it in the bin. ‘Like I said, she wants to get it right. This case could mean a crown on her shoulder.’
‘Bollocks!’ Brown said. ‘She never pulls the sex card, ever!’
Gormley dropped his head, sifted the papers on his desk, acting as if it was business as usual when really his mind was elsewhere. He could smell a rat from a mile away and was deeply troubled by what he’d heard.
31
At six twenty-five on the dot, two young men
re-entered Newcastle General Hospital and joined the queue for the lift that would take them back to their mother’s private room. If anyone cared to notice, Tom Stephens was the more troubled of the two. He was staring intently at the floor indicator as the lift made its descent, anxiety and impatience getting the better of him.
James nudged him in the ribs. ‘You know her?’
Following his brother’s gaze, Tom turned his head to the left where a woman standing a short distance away, someone James said he felt sure he’d seen before but right at that moment couldn’t place.
The woman ignored their interest.
‘She doesn’t seem to know you,’ Tom said.
James gave a little shrug – but still he continued to wrack his brains.
They entered the same lift, travelled up in silence and got out on the same floor, the familiar woman heading for the nurse’s station, the two brothers peeling off towards the female surgical ward, never suspecting what catastrophe lay ahead. Mark Thorburn intercepted them before they had a chance to reach their destination and they were now eyeing him suspiciously in a quiet relatives’ room.
The neurologist hadn’t even got started when James noticed the woman from the lift approaching. She stopped short of the door and hung around in the corridor outside. Then, suddenly, his brain made the connection and his imagination went into overdrive.
‘She’s a copper!’ James announced suddenly. ‘She works with Mum.’ He looked accusingly at Thorburn, putting two and two together, making five. ‘Shit! Mum isn’t . . .’ He couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.
Thorburn rushed to reassure him. ‘No, no, nothing like that. Your mother is making steady progress. In fact, we’ve moved her from high-dependency.’
‘What then?’ Tom asked. ‘Why can’t we see her?’
There was definitely something Thorburn wasn’t telling them. He shifted in his seat as if he had something awful to say but didn’t quite know how to start.
‘She is a police officer and she is here to see you,’ he said, eventually.
