by Mari Hannah
She turned back to face her accuser. ‘That’s a lowballer, Superintendent. Pity your lot weren’t a bit interested when it happened. I could have done with your support.’
Bright pushed a little harder, unconcerned with her distress. He was enjoying himself, playing to the audience, an audience of one. From the look of her, Carmichael sensed their suspect was near to breaking point.
‘You hated him, didn’t you?’ Bright waited. ‘DIDN’T YOU?’
In the observation room, Daniels flinched, urging Jo not to let him wind her up, wondering when Oliver was going to start earning his big fat fee.
As if he’d read her thoughts, Oliver suddenly spoke up. ‘That is quite enough! You’re now being hostile, Superintendent. My client needs a break.’
Jo was seething, struggling to keep a lid on her temper. Daniels noticed that her face had lost its colour and her lips had gone pale. They always did when she was angry.
Then she began to fight back. ‘You’re a bully, Bright – just like he was,’ she said. ‘Yes, I hated him. I hated him with a passion, if you must know. But there’s no law against that.’
She locked eyes with him across the table, holding his stare until he looked away. Bright placed the framed photograph back inside the envelope it had arrived in, smiling to himself as he did so.
‘This alleged rape sounds like—’
‘HE DID RAPE ME!’ Jo yelled.
‘Of that I have no doubt,’ Bright said, his tone more sympathetic. ‘That’s why you killed him – for revenge. Isn’t that the truth of it?’
Jo’s jaw hardened. She didn’t answer.
‘You were seen on the Quayside at the relevant time in a dishevelled state.’
‘Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know. I told you, I can’t remember.’
‘The murder weapon was found near your office.’
Oliver insisted they take a break.
Bright ignored him and rounded on Jo. ‘The victim is your ex-husband, a man you claim raped you and readily admit you hated. You deny being in his apartment, yet we discovered your fingerprints inside. I think you killed him and you’re pretending to suffer from a loss of memory because you have no other option. Josephine Soulsby, I will be formally charging you with the offence of murdering Alan Stephens, contrary to common law . . .’
Jo’s admission of hatred resonated in Daniels’ mind long after she’d left the observation room. She made off quickly down the corridor to avoid bumping into her boss. It didn’t surprise her that Jo hadn’t completely broken down. She’d vowed never again to allow herself to be bullied and had risen from the ashes of domestic violence a much stronger person. Today she’d proved that, giving as good as she’d received under extreme pressure.
The murder investigation team had their heads down as Daniels re-entered the incident room. Seconds later, she felt a light jab in the back. Turning round, she came face to face with Bright. He didn’t look best pleased.
‘You’d better have a good excuse, Kate. Going AWOL in the middle of a major incident is not to be recommended. You and I need to talk . . .’ He sighed, searching her eyes for a moment. ‘We’re going for a drink, if you’d like to join us.’
‘Think I’ll pass, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Suit yourself.’
As he stormed off with Carmichael in tow, Daniels picked up her bag and followed suit, slamming the door behind her, drawing the stares of the majority of those in the MIR.
Gormley approached Maxwell’s desk. ‘What was that all about?’
Maxwell shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you ask me, she’s losing it.’
Through the window, Gormley saw the Toyota racing away.
65
Being first to tell Jo’s sons what had happened to their mother seemed the very least Daniels could do. Thomas and James sat motionless in Jo’s living room, unable to take it all in. There were tears, expressions of disbelief, outpourings of anger.
And sarcasm from James. ‘This is a wind up, right?’
There was an awful silence as Daniels shook her head, not quite knowing what to say. A million questions followed: Is she all right? Where is she now? Can we see her? How often can we visit if she’s remanded? How do you go about it? Can we take her stuff? What’s Oliver doing? What the fuck is going on?
Daniels leaned forward and spoke gently. ‘I’m going to stick my neck out here. But I must warn you, I’ll deny ever having said anything if what I’m about to tell you is repeated. Understood?’
Responding to the gravity in her voice, Tom and James both nodded.
‘I do not believe that your mother killed your father . . .’ Daniels wondered if she was digging her own grave. ‘And I will do everything in my power to prove it. You have my absolute word on that.’
‘Then why?’ It was almost a wail from Tom.
Daniels sighed heavily. ‘Most of the evidence against her is circumstantial and I’m not at liberty to discuss it with you. You’ll have to speak to her solicitor about that. All I can say is that it amounts to enough to sustain a charge of unlawful killing. She’ll appear at the magistrates’ court later today.’
When she got home, Daniels had a shower, put on a robe and went back downstairs to the living room. She poured herself a large gin and decided to put on some music. Her index finger trailed along her CD collection, each disc a reminder of a specific point in her life: Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, Jackson Browne, her mother’s favourites she’d listened to from an early age. James Morrison, James Blunt and David Gray, whose lyrics and voice had moved her to tears the first time she’d heard him sing. And, last but not least, the Dixie Chicks Jo loved so much.
A little grin appeared on Daniels’ lips, reminded of Jo’s reaction to her music collection the first time she’d visited the house. ‘All your taste is in your mouth,’ she’d said, making them both laugh out loud. She glanced around at her books, her art, much of it influenced by Jo. In pride of place were three limited-edition prints; deeply atmospheric images captured by French photographer, Marc Riboud, Jo had bought as a birthday surprise – misty mountain landscapes she would treasure for the rest of her days. They were beautiful, sensual, much like the woman who’d bought them.
Daniels felt a pang in her chest.
They’d met at a mutual friend’s party, a casual introduction like any other. Except right from the off it was obvious they might become close friends. Always the detective, she’d spent the evening keeping her ear to the ground, listening in to other people’s exchanges, picking up snippets of gossip here and there, while giving little away of herself. In her experience, people – partygoers in particular – were often fascinated to find that she was a DCI on a murder investigation team. And so it proved when some of the guys began pulling her leg, begging to have their collars felt should they misbehave under the influence. She’d taken it on the chin and smiled politely, even though she’d heard it all before. And afterwards, when she’d turned around to speak to Jo, she’d disappeared without a trace – like Cinderella before the clock struck midnight. Daniels supposed that she’d returned to the bosom of a family living close by because, during the evening, there’d been talk of sons, an ex-husband, baggage.
With no way of knowing if they’d ever meet again, a curious disappointment had gnawed away at her subconscious for weeks afterwards. And then she’d arrived at work one morning to find Bright in a foul mood, spouting off about the police service moving in the wrong direction, specifically about the drift from methodical, intelligence-led detection to more modern methods of catching criminals. He’d promptly put her on standby to meet a new recruit, some academic being forced upon the department by top brass, who, he said, didn’t know their arses from their elbows.
When Jo Soulsby walked through the door of the crime unit and introduced herself as Northumbria’s new criminal profiler, Daniels’ heart had inexplicably leapt. For a few tense moments, she’d been unable to formulate speech. They were an item within weeks, working togeth
er, living separately, but soul mates all the same.
And since they had split up . . .?
The truth was, Jo’s departure from her life meant she’d had lost something very precious. And now she wanted it back. The moment the door had closed on their relationship, her whole future had vanished into thin air. She hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since, never went to parties – hardly ever ate out. What would be the point? Without Jo to share in that special intimacy there was, well, nothing. And so she’d thrown herself into work and resigned herself to life as a single person.
Maybe that was to be her destiny.
Daniels finished her gin. Deciding that music would only make her weepy, she turned off the lights, went back upstairs and curled up on her bed with the TV on. The next few hours were a blur. She must’ve dozed off, because she woke with a start when she heard a man’s voice. It turned out to be a BBC News 24 presenter outlining government plans for yet another wind farm development for the Northumberland countryside – an environmental protection initiative that had drawn a raft of objections across the county. Ordinarily she would have paid attention, but at three twenty-five in the morning, she had no energy to care.
She was about to kill the set when the piece ended and Jo’s picture appeared on screen. Her arrest and remand in custody had made the national news. Daniels listened intently to the voice-over as the studio cut away to an outside broadcast showing Tom and James Stephens emerging from Newcastle Magistrates’ Court with William Oliver, straight into the path of the waiting media. Riveted to the TV, salty tears welled up in Daniels’ eyes as her personal nightmare was transmitted to the nation. In all her life, she’d never known such loneliness.
On the screen, Oliver held up a hand to quieten a jost ling crowd of photographers and journalists, then gave a brief statement: ‘Ms Soulsby has been remanded in custody pending her trial at the Crown Court on a date to be fixed. She will be contesting this matter and we have no further comment to make at this stage.’
Blinded by flashbulbs, the three men then fought their way to a waiting car.
As they were driven away at speed, the anchor man reappeared in the studio. Daniels turned off the set and threw the remote across the room. It smashed against the bedroom wall disintegrating as it hit the floor, the shattered pieces symbolizing her life and her career. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be back walking the streets quicker than she could say ‘uniform’.
66
‘It’s a long way down . . .’ He forced the kid’s head closer to the railing, making him look over the edge at the people below – so small they looked like ants. The kid couldn’t struggle with the gun sticking in his ribs, loaded and ready to blow him away; the same weapon the little runt had nicked to order and brought back hoping for some monetary gain.
Big mistake.
His last?
Probably . . .
Do these street kids never learn?
Passing motorists continued to ignore them, whizzing by in both directions just a few feet behind with no interest in what they were up to. Probably thought they were tourists taking advantage of the river view, the famous bridges, the heart of a city locals called The Toon. By the time anyone stopped and got out of their car, the little twat would be toast and he’d be long gone.
He’d never offed one in public before and thought it’d be a blast.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ he said.
Silence.
‘It’s Friday the thirteenth today,’ he said. ‘Unlucky for some, eh?’
‘Kiddin’, aren’t ya?’ the kid said, suddenly full of bravado.
His eyes glazed over with sheer joy. ‘Do I look like I am?’ he chuckled.
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
The kid was really spooked now, his face set in a scowl, a dribble of sweat running down his cheek. Or was it a tear? He glanced nervously along the pavement, then at the twenty-five-metre drop to the road below. Even if he broke free, there was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. And he’d be as good as dead if he jumped from the point where the river ran beneath them.
He kissed the little shit, laughing as a driver hooted his horn.
‘You queer or sommat, mate?’ The kid flinched, expecting some kind of retribution, but when he didn’t get slapped or hoyed over the railings for his cheek, he seized upon the opportunity to worm himself a deal: ‘Money’s not the only currency, know what I’m saying? Let us go and I’ll give ya a blow job for free. Best you’ll get round here by a long chalk. Two, if you want, but that’ll cost extra . . . prob’ly.’
This one had a bit of spunk, at least, he thought. Sad to think he was about to have a tragic accident, or decide to take his life, like the rest of the sad bastards who’d leapt from the Tyne bridge over the years. One of his mates was talked down once after a concerned member of the public saw him teetering on the edge. Swaying back and forth, back and forth, in two minds whether or not to end it all. Fuckwit chose life that night, before rocking himself off on a line of coke.
Shame.
Not.
He took a deep breath of fresh night air, excitement growing inside him. He shut his eyes for a moment, visualizing throwing the little scrote from the parapet. Watching him free-fall past the northern pier before crashing to earth, his body twisted and contorted by the impact, taking out some of the ants below. Passers-by would hear a solid thump, or maybe a splat, as the kid hit the ground like a squashed tomato, exploding in a spray of red. To his knowledge, no one had ever survived the fall before. He looked at the lad again, imagining his skinny frame twisted on the ground, distorted and grotesque, lifeless eyes staring back at him, blood oozing from every orifice.
‘Time to say goodbye!’
‘Gan on then,’ the kid said bravely. ‘Get it over with, if you’re gunna.’
‘Tcht, tcht. That’s no way to talk to your elders, now, is it?’
‘Sorry.’
He was, too. He could tell that just by looking at him. Was it really necessary to kill him? Not strictly. The lad had no idea of his identity – what possible threat did he pose?
‘Thing is, son. I just don’t like loose ends,’ he said. ‘Nothin’ personal.’
‘I got no problem with that,’ the kid said, sniffing snot up his nose, wiping tears on his sleeve. ‘Wanted by the buzzies meself, arn I? Don’t take risks ’less I have to, neither. Won’t tell no one, promise.’
‘Really?’
The kid nodded. ‘Really.’
He relaxed the gun a little and the vice-like grip on the kid’s shoulder. ‘How do I know I can trust you? Think carefully on it, mind. You need to give me the right answer if you’re gonna save your skin.’
‘You can trust me, honest. I swear on my mother’s life.’
Silly boy.
A lull in the traffic and he was gone.
67
Her mood mirrored a depression in the weather. It had been over three weeks since Jo’s arrest and her reputation was in shreds following local and national coverage of the case. Daniels had made it her business to read every press article. Some portrayed Jo as a cold-blooded killer who’d planned and carried out an execution. It was a cracking good story from a press point of view, one they resurrected time and again, whenever there was a lull in more newsworthy stories.
It was all bollocks.
And still she hadn’t heard from Jo.
For the first time in her career, Daniels had withdrawn into herself; she’d begun maintaining her distance from the squad, working to an agenda of her own. It had to stop. Keeping her own company had never been her style. The murder investigation team were getting restless – she could see it in their eyes. Half of them were busy putting the file together for the CPS, the rest already working another case, assisting Detective Inspector Fowler’s team on the unsolved murder of a well-known prostitute.
Daniels stood alone, isolated and unsure, observing the squad from her office door. Willing herself to enter, she wondered when – if – she would
recapture the same level of enthusiasm for her job she’d enjoyed prior to Jo’s arrest. Where the hell was that dedication to duty on which she’d built her reputation, that passion for policework she just couldn’t live without?
On the far side of the incident room, a telephone rang out loudly and Robson picked it up. With the receiver held between cheek and shoulder, he made like he was rocking a baby in his arms. Gormley, who was standing nearby, nodded his understanding and left him to it, crossing the room to the coffee machine, deep in thought. Sensing Daniels’ eyes upon him, he looked over in her direction, his glum expression lifting when he saw her standing there.
He smiled, held up a polystyrene coffee cup, inviting her to join him. Daniels shook her head and went back into her office, unable to summon up the emotional energy to face him just yet. It was results she needed, not small talk. As she reached her desk, her mobile beeped. She pulled it out of her pocket and sat down to read the text message that had just come in from Bright. It contained only two words:
She’s gone.
Stella’s death at a relatively young age brought Daniels abruptly to her senses. She left the office immediately, telling no one, not even Gormley, where she was off to. She drove straight to Bright’s home and rang the bell. There was no answer at the door and she couldn’t see inside, front or back, because the curtains were drawn. At first, she thought Bright was hiding away. But then she noticed his car wasn’t on the drive.
She pulled out her phone and rang his bag-man.
‘I’m looking for Bright,’ she said. ‘Any ideas?’
‘None. I thought he was with you.’
Daniels knew the young DC very well. It was obvious he hadn’t yet learned of Stella’s passing. If he had, he didn’t mention it, and neither did she.
