by Mari Hannah
Tom and James exchanged glances.
James felt in his pocket. Brown’s police calling card was still there.
‘Concerning what?’ he said.
‘She’d better tell you herself . . .’
Thorburn went to the door and invited Daniels in. As she entered the room, both brothers stood up. Thorburn fluffed the introductions, but it mattered not. Neither lad was remotely interested in a word he had to say. They were both too busy searching Daniels’ face for answers.
James tackled her head on: ‘Is my mother in trouble?’
‘I hope not.’
‘What the fuck does that mean?’ he said.
‘I have some bad news,’ Daniels said softly. ‘I’m afraid your father is dead.’
Tom’s reaction was immediate. He began to sob uncontrollably. The sound of a tea trolley passing the room was an incongruous intrusion on his grief. As it moved off, clattering along the corridor, Thorburn caught Daniels’ angry expression. He got up, closed the internal window blinds and slipped quietly from the room, shutting the door behind him.
Daniels gave them a moment, then said, ‘I’d like to tell your mother now—’
‘No! I’ll do it,’ James cut in.
‘I’m sorry, James. But, under the circumstances, I can’t allow that.’
‘Why not?’
‘What circumstances?’ Tom asked. ‘And what’s it got to do with the police?’
‘Your father didn’t die of natural causes . . .’ Daniels paused, making absolutely sure the two men understood. ‘Nor was it an accident. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but we’ve launched a murder enquiry.’
As Tom’s hand went to his mouth, James’ expression hardened. He bit his lip, fighting to keep his emotions in check. The DCI’s words had stunned both brothers into silence. They sat down.
‘There must be some mistake,’ Tom said.
Daniels shook her head. ‘There’s no mistake.’
She’d seen the same reaction countless times. Denial was often the first response in situations like these. In the coming days he would process the information – eventually come to accept it.
Tom looked up. ‘Does Monica know?’
The mention of their stepmother’s name made Daniels’ ears prick up.
James looked at his brother with disgust, his eyes cold and disbelieving. He rounded on him. ‘Who gives a shit about Monica? It’s Mum I’m concerned about.’ Then, to Daniels: ‘She’ll be devastated. There was a lot of unfinished business when our parents split up. I don’t think she ever really got over it.’
‘That’s private family stuff!’ Tom blurted out.
‘Why are you really here?’ James fixed the DCI with a penetrating stare. ‘Mum’s not his next of kin.’
32
Rain thundered against the window pane of the private hospital room, but the patient lay in peaceful oblivion, hooked up to all manner of drips and monitors. Years of experience had taught Daniels that injuries, particularly ones from road-traffic accidents, often looked worse than they actually were. Even so, she hadn’t expected to see quite as much swelling or bruising on her colleague’s face.
Daniels stood for a while, contemplating the part of the job that every officer loathes, the part where the truth had to be told and told now – irrespective of the circumstances; a task made doubly difficult by knowing the woman personally. How could she justify heaping yet more suffering on Jo?
Did she have the right to hold back?
The report on the accident made scary reading. The attending Traffic officer had found black parallel skid marks snaking across the tarmac, a deep gouge in the embankment where Jo’s BMW had taken off as she swerved to avoid a falling tree. Fortunately for her there was a gap in the drystone wall where it came to land on its roof. Otherwise, according to the experts, the crash would certainly have been fatal.
Daniels sighed.
Bending down, she unhooked a medical chart from the foot of the bed and tried to decipher Thorburn’s scribbles: unconscious when found, confusion on admittance, query cranium bleed, cardiac arrest.
Shaken to the core, but trying to keep a lid on it, Daniels went to the window and looked out over a forbidding sky. She wondered if Jo Soulsby would ever make a full recovery.
‘Took you long enough,’ a croaky voice said.
Daniels spun round and rushed to the bedside, taking Jo’s hand in hers. ‘You scared the hell out of me,’ she said.
Jo attempted a smile. ‘I’m touched you still care.’
‘I’m not sure I should,’ Daniels was in bits, the lump in her throat almost choking her. A single warm tear fell heavily from her right eye and landed on her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.
‘Don’t start blubbing, Kate. It really doesn’t suit you,’ Jo moaned. ‘My head feels like shit. Would you . . .?’
As Daniels helped her to sit up in bed, the two women came very close physically, locked eyes briefly, a real sexual tension between them – so close and yet miles apart. It was an intense moment, interrupted by Nurse Baker, who looked in briefly. She checked a drip and then disappeared again, smiling at Jo as she left the room.
‘See, it’s not all bad,’ Jo said. ‘You know I’m a sucker for a uniform.’
Daniels didn’t respond.
Jo forced a grin. ‘Then again, you never could handle the competition.’
‘Your sick sense of humour’s still intact, I see . . .’ Daniels pulled herself together, got serious: ‘Your lads are waiting to see you.’
‘Tell them I’ve no cash on me. That’ll send them packing.’
Seeing that Jo was still uncomfortable, Daniels moved to support her body with one arm, while plumping up her pillows with the other. No sooner had she eased her back down than the combined effects of the medication and the effort required just to sit up took their toll. Jo was fast asleep . . .
33
A clap of thunder rumbled overhead as Carmichael drove out of the city, turning her wipers up a notch so as not to miss the turning.
Three miles further on, she reached the residential heart of upmarket Gosforth and the Victorian splendour of the Weston Hotel, set back off the A1. Though she’d never been inside, Carmichael knew it catered for the discerning business and tourist traveller alike – as long as they had deep pockets, from the look of the cars outside. Beneath a covered portico, a smart limousine was dropping someone off. There were no free parking spaces close to the entrance, so she drove round the back, pulling between some recycling bins and a stack of empty crates.
In the hotel’s plush foyer, five businessmen were huddled together at a table near the window. Talking in low whispers, they looked more like a gang of thieves plotting their next big job than a group of corporate lawyers holding a business meeting. They looked up as an elegant woman swept in like a summer breeze, gliding to reception leaving the scent of her perfume drifting subtly in her wake. She was exquisitely dressed, might just have stepped off the cover of Vogue. The concierge jumped to attention, handed her a key, and accompanied her to an elevator that only went to the penthouse suite.
As the lift doors closed in front of her, she smiled briefly at the lawyers and then at the young woman who had just walked through the door. Carmichael was soaked to the skin, water dripping off her clothes and on to the floor, strands of bedraggled hair clinging to her red face. The contrast between the two women could not have been more obvious. Embarrassed by her appearance, Carmichael hurried to the desk where a member of staff checked her ID and took her in the service lift to a less salubrious part of the hotel, a small room in the warm basement far away from the eyes of paying guests. She was offered a towel to dry her hair and advised that the security guards she’d come to see would be along very shortly.
By the time they arrived, Carmichael looked a bit more like a detective and a little less like a drowned rat. She spent the next hour poring over Fitzgerald’s list, checking the seating plan against invitations handed i
n at the door. One of the guards told her that security had been a major consideration at the prestigious event.
‘No invitation meant strictly no admittance,’ he said. ‘Company policy, on account of the high-profile guests.’
Unconvinced, Carmichael threw a spanner in to test them out. ‘But if someone turned up without an invitation – for argument’s sake, someone really important – for a few quid you’d let them in, right?’
A fleeting look from one guard to another provided a truthful answer.
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ Carmichael said.
34
Lightning suddenly lit up Jo’s room. Counting the seconds between the flash and the next crack of thunder, Daniels calculated that the eye of the storm was around five miles away – somewhere south of the river.
Jo stirred in the bed.
Daniels looked on, a deep sadness gnawing at her heart. They’d once shared so much more than a passion for solving cases. She wished things were different between them and thought of all the reasons why they were not. Nobody – not her father, not even Jo – had ever come before her ambition to reach the very top.
She had to speak to her now – she still had a job to do.
‘Why didn’t you tell me Alan was back?’ she said gently.
It was a good question; one that had niggled Daniels from the very second she’d come across Stephens’ body. Jo was many things, but it wasn’t in her nature to be secretive. When push came to shove, she always told the truth. Like the day she ended their relationship because Daniels refused to ‘come out’.
The worst day of her life.
Jo chose not to answer.
‘You knew he was in the country?’ Daniels pushed.
She waited for a response. Jo might have come up with any number of excuses, but clearly she didn’t want to talk. Well, she’d have to sometime, whether she liked it or not. Better to Daniels than to one of her colleagues.
‘Talk to me, Jo . . . We found his body two nights ago.’
Jo shut her eyes and turned away, her emotions spilling over. Daniels had known it was coming. She got up from the bed and walked to the window, unsure of where to go next.
She spoke without turning around. ‘Do you want me to get the kids?’
‘No, I need to be on my own. I want you to go now.’
Daniels turned back to face her. ‘Things are not that simple. I’m looking into Alan’s death. You know I can’t do that if anyone finds out about us.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting – there is no us!’ Jo stopped talking as a second flash of lightning lit up the room, quickly followed by a rumble of thunder. The lights flickered on and off. The storm was getting closer. ‘Oh my God! How did he . . .? Kate?’
Daniels looked at the floor.
‘He was murdered!?’ It seemed to take for ever for the news to hit home. ‘You don’t think I—’
‘Don’t be stupid!’
‘You’re not sure, are you?’ Jo laughed, then filled up. ‘You seriously think I might have put a bullet in his head?’
An unfortunate choice of words.
Being suspicious was in Daniels’ nature, an integral part of who she was and why she was good at her job. But then again, so was a sense of fair play. Everyone deserved the benefit of the doubt. Once. Innocent until proven guilty, there was nothing wrong with that.
Daniels had no idea just how she’d managed to reach this particular hard place, even less idea of how she could find her way back from it. She moved towards Jo, touching her arm gently.
Jo pulled away. ‘Don’t touch me! What’s in it for you, Kate? Offer you a promotion, did they?’
Silence.
Jo smirked. ‘Oh, that is priceless. They really know how to push your buttons.’
Daniels tried to stay calm, tried to think of the right thing to say – and got it wrong all over again. ‘Look, taking this case has landed me right in it. Please, Jo. Listen to me—’
‘No. You listen to me. Whatever you’re up to—’
‘I’m trying to protect you!’
‘You sure that’s why you’re here?’
‘Don’t, Jo.’
‘Why not? Your job comes first, doesn’t it?’
‘That’s unfair!’
‘What is it with you and the police force? It’s just a job, Kate. It isn’t real. We were real, you and me! We had something good, something other people would give their right arm for. But it wasn’t enough for you, was it? Why d’you think I—’
Daniels cut her off. ‘It’ll be different this time, I promise.’
Jo wanted to believe her. ‘Yeah, well it’s a bit late now.’
Daniels failed to notice her press the buzzer for assistance until it was too late. Thorburn was first through the door, followed closely by Nurse Baker, Tom and James. She slipped quietly from the room – there was nothing more to be said.
35
The lights dimmed as the Metro train rattled into the tunnel. The woman seemed terrified, but he was just marvelling at human nature. She couldn’t help herself watching his reflection in the black window, checking on the intensity of his gaze. He looked down at the Evening Chronicle someone had left on the seat and reread the article, his temper boiling in his gut.
A murder enquiry continues following the discovery of a body at a prestigious Quayside apartment in the early hours of Friday morning. A police press official said that, until the results of a post-mortem are known, they are unable to confirm how the man died. We are led to believe that he has been identified. The Senior Investigating Officer, Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels, today appealed for witnesses to contact the Murder Investigation Team.
His agitation grew. He’d expected a visit by now and yet the silly cow was still pussyfooting around asking the public for help. How much bloody help did she need? What kind of SIO was she anyhow?
‘She’s not even a fucking superintendent!’ he muttered under his breath.
The woman’s heart raced. What did he say? Was he talking to her? He was probably one of them psychopaths she’d read about. He’d probably escaped from some mental institution, mistaken her for someone else.
God, help me!
Tightening her grip on her bag, she pulled her skirt down over her knees and looked around her. The carriage was busy. All young people. Heading out? Heading home? Laughing. Texting. Paying her no attention. Trains unnerved her. They always had. The Metro especially. She wished she’d left earlier and paid extra for a cab. The creep had been staring at her since the last stop, his eyes sliding over her, taking in every detail of her face, each button on her jacket, the cut of her skirt, her legs, her shoes. She didn’t want to think about why he was examining her so closely, sizing her up, or what his intentions were. He was filthy and unshaven. Probably drunk or high on drugs, she thought. And yet, he had a presence, an awareness about him that suggested otherwise.
Avoiding his gaze, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. But looking out of the window didn’t help. For the second time in as many weeks, a power failure had plunged the north of the city into total darkness, creating chaos and cutting off twenty thousand homes. As the train sped along there were no references outside, no familiar landmarks, no moon, just the odd candle flickering in houses that backed on to the track.
Otherwise, only pitch darkness.
And those eyes . . .
The Metro slowed. He looked at her, a sneer almost. Should she move while she had the chance? Get off? Stay put? What if he followed her? Her body was frozen to the spot, refusing to obey her instructions. Too late. A buzzer sounded. The doors were closing.
Sighing, he glanced at the paper again, an idea forming in his head. Taking a pen from his pocket, he wrote her name on the back of his hand: Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels. Maybe they needed to get better acquainted . . .
Maybe . . .
He’d like that.
But for now he had only one thing on his mind. Shoving the newspaper on the floor,
he slid his hand inside his pocket and grinned at the woman sitting opposite. Her face paled as he withdrew the scissors, toying with them, teasing her for a while, unchecked by anyone in the carriage.
Where was a guard when you wanted one, eh?
It had taken a while, but he’d traced his next victim. He’d trace them all eventually. Shows what an education can do. Classroom dunce to computer wizard in one stretch. Sweet. Didn’t they realize he was a genius? He cut around Malik’s smiling face. Still alive, but not for long. He held the picture up to his new friend and travelling companion. Fuck her! Tomorrow morning he’d be on his way. Crack of dawn. All the more special because it was a Sunday.
He winked at the woman.
Lucky for her he’d looked at it today.
36
Gormley was noshing a fry-up enthusiastically when Daniels caught up with him in the station canteen. There were no home comforts here. It was a no-frills refreshment area designed to get the punters in and out in the shortest possible time. Standards had dropped since the force had contracted out the catering. Daniels hadn’t eaten a hot meal there for weeks. Opting for a cup of tea and a sandwich, she thanked the woman behind the counter and headed for Gormley’s table.
He spoke with his mouth full. ‘Any update on Jo?’
Daniels lifted the top off her sandwich and found that the filling was non-existent. As she shoved it away in disgust, Gormley leaned across the table and helped himself to the bread. He began piling beans on top of it, scooping up escapees with a fork.
She grimaced. ‘Christ, Hank, how can you eat that?’
Gormley clearly had no idea what she was on about. Wiping a piece of bread around his plate, he continued with his meal as if it had been lovingly prepared by a gourmet chef. ‘I hear she’s in a hell of a mess,’ he said. ‘Someone on D Rota told me she flat-lined in the ambulance. That right?’
Daniels nodded soberly.
‘Mind if I stick my oar in?’ Gormley stopped chewing, pushed his plate away and wiped his hands on a serviette. Daniels got the feeling that she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. But she was too preoccupied with Jo to give it serious thought. Things were already just as bad as they could be. ‘You need to watch your back,’ he said. ‘Andy’s noticed you’re on a mission, not delegating as an SIO should.’
