by Mari Hannah
70
Daniels drove away from Corbridge with a heavy heart, pained by David and Elsie’s loss. She envied those who were looking forward to spending Christmas with their families, exchanging gifts, partying, making the most of precious time off. Without any of those distractions, she planned to throw herself into her work. But first she had to see Bright – and she wasn’t looking forward to it.
She found him in the pub where they’d agreed to meet. He was too consumed in his own darkness to notice that she was also grieving: for Sarah, for David and Elsie Short – for a lost relationship of her own. Although he hadn’t said as much, she was sure he suspected she was in some kind of trouble.
They talked about Stella in terms they never had before. Daniels thought it curious how death seemed to bring out the little anecdotes, the secrets, the joys, the pain, the closeness – or lack of it – people had shared with the recently departed. On the outside, at least, his suffering was over. He seemed to be holding up well, maintaining a stoical veneer, but deep down she knew he was hurting and blaming himself all over again. When he abruptly changed the subject, it was obvious he’d said all he could bear to on the subject of his late wife.
‘How did it go with David and Elsie?’ he said.
‘Not good,’ she told him, adding that she planned to revisit their daughter’s case.
She was taken aback by the flare of anger this aroused in him. It was, after all, still a ‘live’ case, with a dangerous killer still at large.
‘You’ve got to stop obsessing about it, Kate,’ he said, slamming his empty glass down on the table. ‘I told you before, that case is so cold it’s practically frozen. And if that offends you, well, I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. You have absolutely no evidence that the card in Father Simon’s hand is in any way connected to the other two murders, and until you—’
‘I accept that, I do. But David and Elsie are barely coping. How do you expect them to rest while their daughter’s killer remains on the loose? All I’m asking is a chance to look through the evidence again, for my own sanity as much as theirs. What possible harm—’
‘I appreciate your concern, really I do. But we threw every resource – human and financial – into that incident for months. So, unless new evidence has come to light—’
‘How dare you!’
Kate’s raised voice had most of the other customers turning round to see what was happening.
Bright moved closer and dropped his voice. ‘I’m sorry, Kate. You have to understand that it’s not personal, it’s just the hard reality of being an SIO. Something you’ll have to get used to, sooner rather than later.’
Daniels knew he was right, but less than an hour ago she’d been listening to the Shorts describing how, at times when they least expected it, their grief kept smashing over them like some giant wave that swept everything in its wake, leaving them feeling battered and raw and alone – just as she was feeling now. Bright too, if only he’d acknowledge it.
Why was he always so bloody stubborn?
Why was she?
‘They practically begged me, guv. I’d have thought that you, of all people, would understand their loss, today of all days.’
Bright held his hands up, too drained to argue with her.
‘I’m sorry, guv. I shouldn’t have said that. My apologies.’
‘OK, OK! I know when to quit. Rework the damn case, if you must. But I warn you, there’s no more money, understood? And you take your proper leave first, you hear me? You’re not yourself.’
‘I intend to,’ she lied. ‘And thanks, guv. You’ve no idea what it means to—’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Bright got to his feet. ‘Same again?’
Without waiting for an answer, he set off for the bar. She wished now she’d never agreed to come for a drink with him; wished she’d called time on what had been a ghastly year for both of them. When he looked over his shoulder, she took out her mobile phone and lifted it to her ear, even though there was nobody on the other end. As he turned his back on her, she pocketed the phone, gathered her bag and coat from the back of her chair, and made a beeline for the bar.
‘Don’t bother with mine, guv.’ She put twenty quid on the counter and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll catch you later. I’ve got to go.’
He looked crestfallen. ‘Will I see you . . .’
But she was already halfway through the door.
71
Two exhausting days later, with her meticulous attention to detail driving her mad, Daniels closed the Corbridge file with Bright’s words ringing in her ears. He was right. The case was dead in the water. She’d found not a shred of evidence that might have been overlooked, nothing at all that would take her any further. But still the card in Father Simon’s hand nagged at her subconscious.
She just couldn’t get it out of her mind.
Removing her warrant card from her computer, she sat back in her chair, rubbing her aching neck and wondering how she would tell David and Elsie Short. As she recalled her last visit to their house, Jo entered her thoughts. There had been no further contact between them and she was desperate for news.
Daniels looked out of the window. While she remained stuck in this limbo of utter despondency, outside her window, life was somehow continuing as normal. A couple passed by, their arms around each other, laughing and carrying on without a care in the world. Walking behind them was a teenager wearing just skinny jeans and T-shirt. She must be frozen without a coat on.
Daniels sat bolt upright in her chair.
Breathe. Breathe.
The girl in the street had brought to mind an inconsistency, something she hadn’t thought of before. Daniels’ hands fumbled with her warrant card as she tried to slot it back into her computer. She typed a command and waited until the investigation into Alan Stephens’ death popped up on screen. Drumming her fingers on the desktop, she dared not let herself believe that what she’d seized upon had any significance at all.
C’mon, c’mon.
It seemed to take forever for the relevant page to load, then finally it appeared on screen. Daniels was right. Despite Stephens’ murder having taken place in November, items taken from Monica Stephens did not include any outdoor garments. And, if this was the case, it was tantamount to a major cock-up for the murder team, and for statement reader DS Robson in particular. It might even prove to be the breakthrough she’d been hoping for. It was all there in black and white – right before her eyes.
How could they all have missed it?
Daniels keyed Gormley’s number into her mobile.
He answered right away.
‘Hank, we have a problem: Monica Stephens’ coat was never retrieved for forensic testing. I need to re-interview her right away.’
‘You’re kidding!’ He sounded half asleep. ‘Have you tried to reach her?’
‘I’m about to, but I want to check CCTV footage from the airport first. You going to be in later?’
‘Yeah, I’ll be here. Me, Santa and a crate of beer. Let me know what gives.’
She hung up.
Using the internal phone, she rang the exhibits officer and asked him to pull the relevant evidence box, then immediately set off downstairs to collect them. The box was waiting for her when she got there and she signed it out and carried it straight to the new murder suite. Selecting a disk marked – Interior: Newcastle Airport – she settled down to watch. Within seconds, Monica Stephens and Teresa Branson walked into shot in an airport lounge – and both were wearing coats.
Daniels fast-forwarded the tape to the end, until Monica disappeared off screen through a large revolving door. Then, inserting the second disk, Daniels picked up Monica leaving through the same door, still wearing her coat, stopping briefly at a pay booth before making her way to the short-stay car park. Moments later, her car drove away.
Daniels was a firm advocate of the cognitive interviewing technique; a verbal probing method allowing the interviewee to think aloud. She�
�d used it to unlock witnesses’ memories many times before and was hoping that it would do the same for Monica in the comfort of her own home.
Stephens’ widow was at home when Daniels rang. She agreed to be interviewed even though it was Boxing Day. What else was there to do that mattered any more, she’d said, adding that Bank Holidays were for families and hers was now gone. Alan might not have been a saint, by any stretch of the imagination, but he was all she had and she missed him dreadfully. She’d only remained in the country on account of his elderly mother, delaying her plans to move back to Holland until the New Year. Daniels drove straight there.
Stephens’ mother seemed to know why she was there and disappeared into the kitchen leaving the two women alone to talk. Taking a digital recorder from her pocket, Daniels turned it on, mindful that she was collecting evidence for use at a later date. She urged Monica to close her eyes, relax, and try to recall every detail of that evening, from the moment she left Court Mews to take Teresa Branson out for dinner to her return home and the discovery of her husband’s body. Listening intently to every word, every hesitation, Daniels watched as the colour drained from Monica’s face when she revisited the horrific memory.
Although she’d already established that Monica had been wearing a coat, Daniels still needed to hear her confirm it and was careful not to put words into her mouth.
‘What were you wearing that night, Monica?’
‘Brown pants, boots . . . a camel coat and scarf.’
‘You definitely had a coat on when you returned home?’
Monica nodded.
‘Keep concentrating,’ Daniels said gently. ‘You’re doing really well. Now, tell me what you’re seeing.’
Monica’s bottom lip quivered. ‘The door . . . the front door.’
‘Is it open, or closed?’
‘Slightly ajar.’
‘Push it open . . . see what’s inside.’
Monica opened her eyes wide and stared intently at the floor. ‘I found something . . . in the hallway. I’m not sure what it was.’
‘Take your time.’
‘I remember bending down . . . no, I’m sorry, it’s no good.’
‘Try to picture it.’
‘A letter? Writing on a card . . . a business card, perhaps?’
Oh my God! Daniels felt the colour drain from her own face. ‘Did you pick it up?’
‘No, yes . . . I thought Alan . . . I thought he must have dropped it on his way in.’
Images of prayer cards flashed before Daniels’ eyes in quick succession: in Father Simon’s hands, in Jenny Tait’s mouth, next to Jamil Malik’s twisted body and in Ron Naylor’s hands in full view of a Crimewatch audience.
‘Monica, this is very important: what did you do with it?’
The Dutch woman’s hand instinctively touched her pocket.
Daniels felt herself getting hotter, wished she could crack open a window, get some fresh air. But this was no time to interrupt such an important interview. In her mind’s eye, Monica walked further into the flat, found her husband dead on the floor and fled the scene to Salieri’s restaurant next door. Staff called for an ambulance and, finding her in a state of shock, the paramedics whisked her off to hospital before the police arrived. Her coat was left behind – returned to her after the event – since given away to charity.
Now the race was on to find that coat . . .
72
It was getting dark as Daniels pulled on to the driveway and parked the Toyota behind Gormley’s car. With a bottle of whisky in one hand and a thick folder in the other, she got out and walked to the front door, using her elbow to ring the doorbell. When no one answered, she assumed it wasn’t working and hammered on the door with the side of her fist. It was yanked open by Gormley, his face poised to remonstrate with his noisy visitor, his anger lifting the second he saw who it was.
‘Sorry, must’ve fallen asleep,’ he said, opening the door wider.
Daniels’ mind was doing somersaults as she tried to make sense of what she now knew. ‘Careful what you wish for, Hank. Naylor’s case and ours are definitely one and the same. And I’m not talking about Sarah Short or Father Simon here, either. I’m talking about Alan Stephens!’
Gormley was puzzled.
Daniels pushed right past him into the house. Even in her preoccupied state of mind she couldn’t miss the distinct lack of Christmas in the living room. One present, beautifully wrapped, sat alone on the sideboard, unopened, the gift tag made out: To Julie, with love. Daniels was curious to know where Gormley’s wife was at such a pivotal moment in the calendar, but was too afraid to ask. She turned to face him as he arrived by her side.
‘I just took Monica through a cognitive interview,’ she said. ‘She did have a coat on that night. And what’s more, she remembered seeing a business card on the floor as she entered the flat.’
Gormley shook his head. ‘Not true. I was there when SOCO did a sweep of the crime scene. I’m telling you, there was no card.’
‘Not in the flat, no. Monica told me she found it in the hallway and picked it up, thinking Stephens had dropped it on his way in. Seconds later, she found his body and legged it. She thinks she put it in her coat pocket—’
‘Thinks? That sounds like a definite-maybe to me.’
‘What if the killer put it there deliberately, Hank?’
‘Whoa, slow down. I’m half-cut here and you’re making my head hurt.’
‘Be serious!’ Daniels said. ‘What if it wasn’t a business card at all, but a Catholic prayer card?’ They both sat down. She waited for a response but, for once, Gormley didn’t have a slick one-liner. He sobered up right there and then. ‘There’s an evil bastard on the patch, Hank. Some God squad freak, by the sound of it. And serial killers don’t just stop – it’s not in their pathology.’
Silence.
Then laughter through the window. An explosion outside. Someone was letting off fireworks, a poignant reminder of the night Alan Stephens died. Not that Daniels needed one. That date was not one she’d forget in a hurry. It was likely to remain imprinted on her brain for evermore. From start to finish, her first case as SIO had been one bloody nightmare. And still was.
‘Oh, do me a favour,’ Gormley scoffed, reacting to her glum expression. ‘Monica hasn’t got the coat any more, has she?’
Daniels shook her head. ‘Gave it to Kidney Research. Couldn’t bring herself to wear it again. I’m recalling the squad and I’ll get Lisa on the coat first thing tomorrow morning.’
Even as she said it, she knew it was a long shot.
‘On a Sunday, in the Christmas holidays!’ Gormley’s shoulders dropped. ‘Don’t fancy your chances.’
Daniels couldn’t allow his misgivings to derail her. They weren’t home and dry yet but her recent discovery had filled her with hope and expectation. She was sure he felt it too. And soon Jo would be home.
73
Carmichael pulled slowly to the kerb outside a large grey warehouse guarded by a chain-link fence. Beside the gate was a large sign: KIDNEY RESEARCH – Please Give Generously.
As the crow flies, it was less than a mile and a half from the incident room in a rundown area on the south side of the Tyne. Carmichael didn’t think it would be long before the land, once a thriving industrial estate, was snapped up for redevelopment as much of Gateshead Quayside had already been. The adjacent building, demolished long ago, had only the footprint remaining; the ground it once stood on was over-run with weeds, with long tufts of brown grass poking through where the concrete had cracked. The only reminder of its existence was an old bench that lay abandoned on its side: wood rotting, planks missing, but a tiny brass plate still attached.
She got out of her car, craning her neck to read the inscription: DONATED BY ALUN ARMSTRONG.
‘A former worker,’ a voice behind her said.
Carmichael turned to see a stout man in his late fifties with wavy grey hair, gentle eyes and a ready smile.
‘Ken Carruthers
. . .’ He held out his hand. ‘I hate to admit it, but I’ve been here longer than the bench. I’ve worked for the charity for twenty years, been warehouse supervisor for ten.’
‘DC Carmichael. Thanks for seeing me. Sorry to drag you out.’
‘No problem. Tell you the truth, I hate Christmas. Just don’t let on to the wife.’ Carruthers smiled. He made a meal of looking over his shoulder, where a woman was waiting in the car. ‘I have to warn you, mind, it’s a tall order. The words needle and haystack spring to mind.’
Carmichael forced a smile. It was not what she wanted to hear. A month had gone by since Monica Stephens had donated her coat to the charity. In all honesty, she didn’t hold out much hope of ever finding it.
‘You’re lucky in one way: we’re closed for two weeks over the Christmas period.’ Carruthers nodded towards the building. ‘You’d better come inside.’
They crossed a yard lined with recycling containers. As they walked, Carruthers explained how heavily the charity relied upon the local community to supply them with items for resale. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much people chuck away,’ he said, taking a remote-control device from his pocket and pushing a green button.
In front of them, a galvanized steel curtain began to move slowly upwards. As it passed eye level, a mountain of plastic bags came into view.
Carmichael’s face dropped. ‘Jesus!’
‘See what I mean?’
‘And there’s no way of knowing where each bag came from?’
The curtain came to a halt with a heavy thud.
‘Or how long they’ve been here, I’m afraid,’ Carruthers said. ‘You’ll have to search each and every one.’
74
Bright had risen early, determined to kick off his first day back at work with a more positive outlook – albeit without Stella. But a lot can happen in just two hours. A dressing-down from the ACC had put paid to that. And the atmosphere between the two officers was as bad as it had ever been.
