by Mari Hannah
‘Tell me you’re not serious!’ Martin yelled.
‘DCI Daniels is certain, sir . . .’ Weary of standing, Bright shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced at an empty chair, hoping his boss would take the hint and invite him to sit.
He was out of luck. Martin just glared at him.
‘I’ve contacted Soulsby’s brief and he is trying to arrange an application for bail.’ Bright’s eyes scanned Martin’s face. It looked as though he must have shaved in a hurry that morning: his face had more nicks than a butcher’s block, and a tiny piece of bloodstained tissue was stuck to his neck, giving the impression that his pristine shirt collar was torn. ‘It was the very least I could do, given the doubt over her guilt.’
‘Jesus Christ! That woman’s reputation hangs in shreds and we – you, are wholly responsible. This is a public relations nightmare.’ The ACC looked past him towards the closed door. ‘Where the hell is Daniels, anyway?’
Bright had to stop himself from answering with: How the hell should I know? Daniels had been a law unto herself in recent weeks, distracted by work and whatever else was going on in that head of hers. Even after Stella’s funeral, when he’d invited his colleagues back to the house, she’d made her excuses and rushed off early, having stayed just long enough not to appear insensitive. It wasn’t like her. He felt like a pig, hitting on her when Stella was alive, and wondered if his behaviour that day had changed the dynamics between them for good. It hadn’t been his finest hour.
He sighed – he should’ve waited to make his play.
‘Well?’ Martin yelled.
‘The DCI is busy making further enquiries and mobilizing the squad. I believe the Tactical Support Group are gearing up to help in the search for the coat as we speak.’
His words made Martin even more irate. ‘Get out!’
‘Sir.’
‘Oh and, Bright . . .’
With his back turned, Bright winced. He knew what was coming and steeled himself for another tirade. Letting go of the door handle, he turned to face his boss.
‘You make bloody sure the press don’t get wind of this until I’m good and ready to speak with them,’ Martin said.
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘What d’you mean, too late?’
Martin looked as if he was about to explode. Bright wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole but decided, after a moment’s hesitation, that honesty was the only way to go.
‘They’re already camped outside, baying for blood,’ he said. ‘The nationals are wetting their knickers for the story and they’re prepared to pay handsomely to get it.’
‘What? They’ll crucify us! Who the hell tipped them off?’
‘Who do you think?’ Martin knew as well as he did that William Oliver was a solicitor who liked his name in the papers and his face on Sky News. ‘I assure you it wasn’t one of ours, sir.’
‘Oh really!’ The ACC bit back. ‘Well, I’ll give them a bloody exclusive, Bright! And believe me, heads will roll. And yours will be one of them, just in case you’re in any doubt.’
In the MIR, the atmosphere was a little less tense. Some of the murder investigation team were nursing hangovers when they arrived at work, regretting the excesses of the Christmas break. Others were happy to be there: rest days cancelled at short notice meant an opportunity to work overtime. With double pay and time off in lieu on offer, even Maxwell was glad of the opportunity to work.
‘You come to give me grief too?’ Robson said as Gormley approached.
Gormley walked straight by, took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. He sat down at his desk, in no mood for small talk, particularly with Robson. But his colleague failed to take the hint.
‘The boss’ll be chuffed,’ Robson said, the trouble he was in momentarily outweighed by his enthusiasm for Jo’s imminent release. Only then did he take in Gormley’s scowl and realize he was in for the high jump. ‘Where is she?’
Gormley glanced in the direction of Daniels’ empty office. He shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s gone to make sure that the CPS don’t oppose her release. Although I’d like to see them try! She’s got a lot of time for Jo. So did we all, until your ridiculous cock-up.’
Robson’s grin slid off his face. ‘Hank, about the coat business—’
‘Save your excuses, man.’ Gormley pulled his chair closer to his desk and logged on to his computer. ‘What’s done is done. You weren’t the only one to blame.’
Robson knew he was referring to Bright, who, for some reason, hadn’t yet made an appearance. ‘Has anyone contacted Jo’s sons?’ he asked timidly.
‘Oliver’s taking care of it.’
Feeling for his pocket, Robson pulled out his mobile, which had already switched to voicemail. He collected the message, then asked: ‘Is your mobile switched on?’
‘Why?’
‘That was the guv’nor.’ He pocketed the phone.
‘And?’
‘He sounds frantic. He’s been trying to reach you.’
Gormley shrugged. He had ignored a number of calls that day. Since the news got out, his pocket hadn’t stopped vibrating. ‘Yeah, well, he can wait. It was him got us into this mess.’ He wondered whether Bright felt guilty at all. ‘If he’d listened to the boss, Jo might not have spent the past six weeks inside. Can you imagine what that would do to someone like her?’
‘He wasn’t firing on all cylinders, what with Stella—’
‘Yeah, well, we’ve all got problems. But we still have a job to do. And some of us manage to do it properly.’
Robson looked at the floor. ‘He’s on his way in, wants all hands on deck and a debrief from the boss as soon as possible.’
‘He’ll be lucky,’ Gormley moved off. ‘I’ll see if I can track her down.’
75
‘I am grateful to Your Lordship for hearing this bail application . . .’ William Oliver glanced at the man seated in a high-backed leather chair. The judge looked splendid in his red robe and black sash, which was tight around his chest on account of a long-standing weight problem; sweating profusely from the heat in the courtroom, he took off his wig and wiped his brow. Oliver cleared his throat before continuing: ‘M’lord, as you are aware, my client, Josephine Soulsby, has been incarcerated at Low Newton Remand Centre on a very serious indictment of murdering her ex-husband Alan Stephens, pending a hearing at this Crown Court.’
‘Yes, Mr Oliver. I am familiar with the case.’
Daniels was sitting on the police bench, willing the two men to get on with it. She’d already lost time – twenty-four hours, to be precise – because no judge was available to hear a bail application yesterday. But, all things considered, she counted herself lucky that she’d found a court – any court – sitting at this time of the year. Fortunately for her, a big case due to finish before the holidays had run on and the sitting judge had insisted that those involved proceed with closing arguments without further delay.
Who said the wheels of justice were slow to turn?
She looked across the courtroom to the dock, where Jo was on her feet, eyes front, flanked by two prison officers. She looked pale and gaunt, a fresh bruise beneath her left eye. Directly opposite her, a young female stenographer sat with her hands paused over keys in readiness to resume typing. The woman looked sideways as the courtroom door opened. Four barristers entered, acknowledged the judge with a nod and quickly took their seats, glaring at Oliver because he’d somehow managed to nip in and gain His Lordship’s attention during the short adjournment of another important case.
Finally, Oliver decided to get a move on. ‘M’lord, new evidence has come to light of which the police had no prior knowledge. This leads them to believe that the death of Stephens was the work of a serial offender and not my client. If Your Lordship so wishes, Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels is in the courtroom and will verify this under oath.’
The judge smiled at Daniels, considering.
She got to h
er feet, identified who she was and indicated her willingness to give evidence should he wish to hear it. In her peripheral vision, she was aware of Jo’s gaze shifting in her direction. The judge took his time deciding whether or not to call her to the witness box, then he made a downward movement of his hand: a ‘sit’ command, like a handler signalling to a dog.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll take your word for it, Mr Oliver.’
Daniels sat.
The judge put down his pen, his stern voice booming out over the heads of those assembled in Court 8. ‘As I recall, however, there is the small matter of a partial fingerprint found at the scene. Of itself, such a discovery does not prove guilt beyond any reasonable doubt. But it was presented as “irrefutable evidence” before the magistrates’ court, was it not?’
Daniels had been expecting him to pick up on that point. She looked across at Jo, who still had no explanation to offer the court as to how it got there. Daniels’ stomach was in knots. Bail wasn’t a foregone conclusion, even with the corroboration of the statement she had recently obtained from Monica Stephens.
‘It was indeed, Your Lordship,’ Oliver said confidently, ‘but I urge you to release Ms Soulsby while further enquiries are undertaken. The Crown Prosecution Service do not intend to oppose this bail application. They are, shall we say, keen to avoid any further miscarriage of justice.’
‘I am pleased to hear it,’ the Judge said. ‘Do you have anything further to add?’
‘Only that my client is a professional woman of previous good character, willing to surrender her passport and submit to any bail conditions you may feel obliged to impose. She poses no obvious risk to herself and others. A pity the same cannot be said for the man who charged her in the first place.’
‘Detective Superintendent Bright is not often wrong, Mr Oliver,’ the judge warned.
‘Yes, well, might I respectfully suggest that on this occasion he was, shall we say, wide of the mark. His overzealousness resulted in Ms Soulsby losing her liberty unnecessarily – a traumatic event, I’m sure Your Lordship will agree, for both herself and her family. I have it on good authority – from Assistant Chief Constable Martin, no less – that an urgent enquiry into this matter is now underway.’
Oh God!
On the press bench, a junior reporter Daniels knew was scribbling furiously. He worked for a local newspaper, the Journal. She wondered if he’d agree to leave Bright’s name out of his article if she gave him something else in return. Suggesting that the buck should stop with Martin might do the trick. After all, the more senior the officer, the more papers it would sell. It wouldn’t be the first time a journalist had mixed up two names – an easy mistake to make in the heat of the moment, she thought. Especially if she promised to make it worth his while. She made a mental note to have a word on the way out.
‘Quite so, Mr Oliver,’ the judge said. Looking over his steel-rimmed spectacles, he addressed the barrister acting for the Crown. ‘Anything to add, Mr Cartright?’
Cartright got to his feet. ‘No, M’lord.’
‘Very well. Bail is granted on three conditions . . .’
Oliver’s chest rose. He let out a sigh of relief, so loud it was audible at the front of the courtroom. Waiting counsel turned round and smiled insincerely at him, keen to get back to their case.
As the judge continued to read out the conditions, Daniels smiled to herself and scribbled down the result.
Jo Soulsby was free.
He remained seated as the judge left the court and prison officers escorted Soulsby below to the cells. Daniels had an expression on her face he didn’t quite understand. Given her spectacular mistake, he’d have thought she’d have been crapping herself now.
So how come she was smiling?
With no progress on Dotty’s whereabouts, he’d been filling his time by watching, waiting, getting better acquainted with the DCI. Following her here had been a stroke of genius. He’d slipped into the public gallery behind all the other sad bastards with nothing better to do than stick their noses into other people’s business. During the delay while the female usher cleared the court of all interested parties from the bail hearing, the woman to his left stopped making notes and went back to her crossword, the one to his right got stuck into a crime novel. It tickled him. He wanted to lean across and tell her she was sat next to the real deal, just to see the look on her face.
Daniels left her seat and came within a few feet of him as she crossed the room. Inhaling her perfume as she walked by, he could’ve reached out and touched her, they were so close. The thought of touching her was enough to give him a hard on.
She was having a quiet word with a young guy on the press bench now. They were so obviously in cahoots: definitely a you-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours type deal going down.
The police made him sick sometimes. He was the one that was newsworthy, not Soulsby, not Bright – and certainly not Daniels. She was fucking hopeless, when he came to think about it. He hoped she’d be a better screw than she was a detective.
The reporter was nodding, a wry smile on his face as he reached into his top pocket, pulled out a business card and gave it to her. She did likewise, then walked away.
Well, he had cards too. Only his said goodbye and not hello.
He chuckled.
‘All rise!’ the usher said loudly.
The door at the back of the court opened and the judge re-entered.
The woman on his left hastily substituted her puzzle with a notebook; the one on the right shut her novel; a John Grisham bestseller, he noticed. The front cover depicted a man in silhouette, backlit by a street lamp, a shadow on the wall behind him, the title emblazoned across the bottom of the cover in white lettering: The Partner.
And then it hit him like a brick.
Was this why Daniels looked so relieved?
Jesus, it was!
Fuck – they were partners.
This was so bizarre you couldn’t make it up. First he offs a guy that turns out to be his psych’s ex – another controlling female who thought she could push him around. Then, in a cruel twist of fate, she goes down for it, leaving him free to carry on as before. When her name got splashed over all the newspapers and he realized she was once married to Stephens, he just about pissed himself laughing. Which fuckwit said there’s no such thing as a coincidence?
And now it turns out that the woman who should be hunting him down is shagging the bitch! What would ACC Martin and Superintendent Not-so-Bright make of that?
76
They looked like a bored married couple, breathing the same air, occupying the same hard wooden bench, sitting side by side with a big space between them, facing forwards, not speaking – each acting as if the other wasn’t there. An hour earlier, Bright had summoned her to his office, having received an anonymous tip-off – a letter, hand-delivered to the gatehouse at HQ – alleging an inappropriate relationship between her and Jo Soulsby.
By all accounts, the ACC had received an identical copy.
Daniels was gutted. Was this a disgruntled colleague out to make trouble? God knows it had happened before as she’d risen through the ranks. But how and when had they found out about her relationship with Jo? She knew Gormley wouldn’t have said anything. And Jo certainly wouldn’t. Then again, she’d been to hell and back lately. In a moment of madness, maybe she’d confided in someone with a grudge against the police. A bloody parking ticket was enough to set some people off on a crusade.
After all she’d lost, the news was out.
It had all been for nothing.
She could’ve lied to Bright. But her recent weird behaviour had given her away. The guv’nor was no fool and – figuring that she was about to meet her end – she decided to do so with dignity and front up there and then. She owed him that much. He’d taken it well, under the circumstances, accepting that the relationship was over and had been for some time, accepting too that Daniels had tried to tell him on more than one occasion since the en
quiry began. But as she replayed their conversation in her head, she still felt like a traitor with her head on the block.
‘I feel like such a tit,’ Bright said, out of the blue, without looking at her. ‘Asking you to stay the night.’
‘Forget it, guv. I have.’
‘You could’ve said—’
‘You didn’t ask.’
‘You didn’t offer.’
Daniels rolled her eyes. ‘And why would I do that?’
Bright let out a sigh. ‘My gaydar never was any good.’
‘That’s just the sort of comment—’ Daniels stopped talking as a pretty secretary let herself out of the Assistant Chief Constable’s office. She held up her hand, indicating five, and walked off down the corridor.
‘He wants someone’s head,’ Bright said. ‘For the cock-up mainly, but this other stuff too. Seems to think yours and mine will do nicely.’
Daniels just stared at the wall opposite, unsure how she would handle it. She decided to play it by ear, wait and see what Martin had in mind for her, and take it from there.
‘The personal stuff is down to you,’ Bright continued. ‘But don’t worry, I’ll take full responsibility for the rest.’
Now Daniels looked at him. ‘I’m not worried,’ she said.
The secretary was back and showed them into Martin’s office. He was sitting at his desk with an open file in front of him. Daniels recognized it as a personnel file – most probably hers – and braced herself for what was coming. Bright walked round one side of the desk, leaving her exposed, standing to attention directly in front of the ACC, shoulders straight, hands behind her back, feet slightly apart.
Martin sat forward, interlocking his fingers, resting his chin on his hands, his elbows on the desk. He observed her for what seemed like an age, enjoying his moment, playing up to his nickname: the smiling assassin.
Daniels met his gaze defiantly.
‘This is very impressive . . .’ He tapped the file in front of him. ‘Seven Chief Constable’s commendations. Two compliments. Exemplary conduct all round. Not a mark or a blemish to be found. Until now . . .’ He paused for effect. ‘You seem to have shot yourself in the foot, Daniels.’
