by Mari Hannah
Daniels felt herself welling up and bit down hard on her bottom lip. Gormley came to her rescue, made a bad joke and attempted a smile, unaware that a pulsating vein on the side of his forehead was giving him away. He stood back as paramedics lifted the stretcher into the ambulance and then climbed in after her, holding his hand out for Jo to do the same.
‘You scared the hell out of me,’ she said, almost breaking down.
Daniels managed a smile. ‘I’m fine.’
Gormley cleared his throat. ‘As in Fucked up, Insecure—’
‘As in fine, Hank,’ Daniels said. ‘For Christ’s sake, stop fretting or I really will start believing you’re my dad.’
‘What does it feel like to go from hero to zero?’ he said.
‘What d’you mean?’ Jo asked.
‘Well . . .’ Gormley gestured to a second stretcher heading their way, this one carrying a body bag. ‘He’s the victim now. Not that we give a shit, eh? It wouldn’t surprise me if Professional Standards haven’t already launched an investigation.’
Daniels smiled at them both.
‘That’s what I love about this job,’ she said.
100
Kate Daniels made a full recovery. She left the Royal Victoria Infirmary that same night, having discharged herself – against her doctor’s advice. Her injury was not life threatening. She was bruised and sore, but still alive. That didn’t mean she wasn’t hurting like hell for the relatives of Father Simon, Sarah Short, Alan Stephens, Jennifer Tait, Jamil Malik, Dorothy Smith and Frances Cook – victims she would never forget.
There had been times in the past few months when Daniels almost lost the will to live, but her encounter with Forster had concentrated her mind. And now? Now she was able to see that life, no matter how difficult, was so much better than the alternative. Her friend and colleague, Jo Soulsby, arrived in the nick of time, just as she was leaving the hospital. They stayed close in the coming few days, recapturing the wonderful connection they had once enjoyed. For the time being, at least, it remained the camaraderie of fellow professionals. Whether it would ever be anything more was debatable.
But, where there was life, there was always a modicum of hope.
James Stephens had been able to clear up the uncertainty over a torn-up photograph found in his mother’s bin. Had he known that it had formed part of the ‘evidence’ against her, he’d have come forward sooner. As a gesture of goodwill, Monica Stephens had pledged money from her late husband’s estate to both of his sons. James intended to use his to finance a gap year before completing his education at Sheffield University. Thomas had yet to decide.
Four weeks later, Daniels returned to work to great applause from the murder squad. Detective Superintendent Phillip Bright had accepted a commendation from the Chief Constable for his team’s sterling work in apprehending a serial offender who had blighted the lives of so many. ACC Martin was not available for comment. He had resigned his post with immediate effect, following sensational allegations over his personal life which very nearly eclipsed press coverage of a murder investigation involving several forces, the biggest manhunt Northumbria force had ever known. Insiders suspected that the resulting media frenzy into his best-kept secret was being fuelled either by his estranged wife, Muriel, or by someone within his own force.
Jonathan Forster looked set to join the ranks of Britain’s most notorious killers, although he wasn’t alive to enjoy it. Following a post-mortem examination, his body was released for burial and taken to the West Road Crematorium where a short ceremony took place. There were no mourners present.
Within a month or so of Forster’s demise, Detective Sergeant Hank Gormley would apply for an order for the destruction of an item used in connection with a series of crimes; namely a computer containing sensitive information on several victims – not to mention photographic evidence proving that the late Jonathan Forster had been stalking a senior member of Northumbria Police. Inexplicably, no mobile phone or camera belonging to the said offender was ever recovered, despite extensive searches of his flat and the adjoining property. Gormley had this to say: ‘It’s just one of life’s little mysteries. We may never know what happened to them.’
Acknowledgements
This book has been a long time coming. Any mistakes are entirely my own. I would like to acknowledge everyone who has helped make it happen.
Specifically, I owe thanks to my wonderful publishing director, Wayne Brookes, and the team at Pan Macmillan. Also, to the entire staff of Blake Friedmann, Literary, TV & Film Agency. Special thanks go to my agent, Oli Munson, who was the first to take an interest. He got it from day one and has worked tirelessly on my behalf since the day we met. And to my copy-editor, Anne O’Brien, for working so hard on my behalf and doing such a brilliant job on the manuscript.
For helping to promote my work and setting me on the road to publication, I’d also like to mention here Claire Malcolm and Olivia Chapman at regional writing agency New Writing North.
To my sons, Paul and Chris, also Kate and Caroline, four of the coolest kids I know: we got there in the end! To other friends and family I may have ignored during the latter stages of writing this novel, I make no apology.
But most of all to my partner, Mo, for sticking with me on this journey; for her insights, love, patience and help; for believing at times when I did not – I couldn’t have done it without you.
If you enjoyed The Murder Wall,
then take a sneak peek at
Settled Blood,
another exhilarating thrill ride from Mari Hannah
Available December 2013 from Witness Impulse
Prologue
A slight vibration passed through her body. It took a moment to register that she was no longer on her feet, no longer waiting for her instructor to show. It was dark now. And then she remembered . . . one minute she had been tweeting about her day, the next she was hitting the deck. He hadn’t made a sound as he approached. A sharp pain in her shoulder and he was helping her gently to the ground, acting the hero.
What was it he said as she lost control?
‘You’ll be OK, relax.’
How long ago was that?
He was close: she could smell aftershave.
Her eyes searched the darkness but her sight was blurred, extending a few metres in front of her but not to the sides. It was like looking down a tunnel through greasy binoculars. She could just make out a figure, a growth of hair sprouting over the collar of a combat jacket. She tried calling out to him, panic setting in when no words left her mouth.
Her mind was willing but she was otherwise impotent.
Was she having a stroke?
Again she tried speech. But her tongue refused to move, let alone accept instructions or formulate words. With enormous effort she banged one foot on the floor, trying to attract his attention.
He didn’t turn round.
Did he even exist?
It took all her strength to lift her leg a second time and bring it crashing to the floor.
Metal?
It sounded like a drum . . .
And it was in transit . . .
A lift?
A shipping container?
Christ! Where am I?
A numb sensation began in her chest and crept outward over every part of her. She was neither hot nor cold and her body was shutting down: arms next to go, legs soon after. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy as lead. Then everything went black.
She was totally paralysed when she opened her eyes, terror ripping through her as she noticed the straps hanging from the ceiling directly above her head. Were they there before? She must have lost consciousness, but for how long?
A split second?
A minute?
An hour?
A day?
She would have sobbed had she been able.
It was impossible to see if her clothes were intact. And she couldn’t decide if she was tied down or just pinned to the floor by her own dead weight. She couldn’t feel a draught on h
er skin but she could see its effect as her blonde hair whipped round her face. And still she couldn’t move . . . Except she was moving. Her world tilted, ever so slightly at first, then more acutely, tipping her body to the right. And now she was sliding sideways, like a side of beef being dragged across the ground in an abattoir, staring at her fate: a bloody black hole.
Oh God! NO!
1
The Senior Investigating Officer failed to notice the sun as it crept over Sewingshields Crags, or the stunning aerial view as the police helicopter descended on Housesteads Roman Fort. Her attention was firmly focused on a handful of hikers crossing Hadrian’s Wall in both directions, each one a potential witness or suspect to a serious crime.
A little to the west, a police constable in a yellow fluorescent jacket stood guard outside a crime-scene tent. He held on to his hat as the chopper made its descent, its rotor blades whipping assorted debris high into the air. Jumping out, Daniels felt a stab of pain in her right shoulder as she hit the ground and ran clear. The pilot returned her thumbs-up gesture and lifted off again, banking steeply before turning back towards Northumbria Police HQ.
As curious hikers began heading her way, Daniels turned to the waiting officer. ‘I’m DCI Kate Daniels, murder investigation team. Where the hell are the lads from Area Command?’
The PC shrugged. ‘I was just told to wait here.’
He was tall, fresh-faced and built like a tank, someone she’d want on her side in a sticky situation. But he was no more than a kid. He looked really uncertain – really spooked.
‘This your first one?’
He nodded his reply.
‘Then do exactly as I say and you’ll be fine. CSI are on their way. Until then, it’s just you and me . . .’ Daniels gave a reassuring smile. They were two strangers, miles from anywhere. In remote areas, it had always been necessary for police officers to carry equipment their urban counterparts wouldn’t know what to do with. The young PC had done well. She pointed at the tent. ‘You erect this all by yourself?’
‘Me and my shift sergeant, ma’am.’
‘Good job.’ She nodded at the advancing crowd. ‘Now get on the radio. I want these people shifted.’ She waited for him to move. ‘Er, today would be good.’
‘Can we do that, ma’am? I mean, the fort is a world heritage site.’
‘I couldn’t care less if it was the birthplace of Julius Caesar!’ She glared at him. ‘I want them out of here. Now move it!’
Lifting the flap of the tent, she went inside. A young woman lay face up on the ground, her body splayed out awkwardly like a discarded rag doll. She had long blonde hair and perfect skin. A green scarf round her neck matched the colour of her eyes exactly. There were signs of blood loss from her left ear, a pool of which had dripped down and settled on the grass directly beneath her. One shoe was missing but she was otherwise fully clothed.
Daniels could hear the PC on his radio urging the control room to hurry things along. As she crouched down beside the body he arrived at her side, being careful to use the tread plates so as to preserve forensic evidence.
‘Anything strike you as odd?’ she asked.
‘Ma’am?’
‘She looks more quayside than hillside, don’t you think?’
The PC stifled a grin. Newcastle Quayside was the pulse of a party city some thirty miles away. He watched the DCI take a pen from her pocket. Carefully, she hooked one end under the ankle strap of a high-heeled patent leather shoe which was lying on the grass a few feet from the body.
‘With these on, I doubt she walked very far . . .’ Daniels studied the five-inch stiletto, holding it up in front of her face, swivelling it round so she could examine the state of the heel. ‘In fact, it’s a wonder she could walk at all!’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, what are you looking for?’
‘Any damage that might tell us whether it was ripped off or fell off.’
‘And which is it?’ he queried.
‘My guess would be the latter, but don’t quote me on that.’ Daniels tried to figure out how the girl had got there. They were a fair way from a main road. It had rained the night before and there was no mud on the high heel. Curiously, there were no drag marks on the ground surface either and no tyre tracks outside. The crime scene wasn’t telling her anything and that unsettled her. ‘Get me a pool car, would you? And while you’re at it, have someone check Housesteads car park for any abandoned vehicles. I can’t imagine—’
But the young constable had already left to carry out her instructions. Daniels smiled. The lad was keen, might even make a detective one day. Checking her watch, she stood up, hoping the pathologist wouldn’t be long. She followed the PC outside, lifting her hand to the glare of early morning sun. There was activity on the horizon. A bunch of uniforms were up at the fort rounding up her growing audience, their deadpan faces turned in her direction, all desperate to know what was going on. Figures wearing white hooded overalls were leaving the car park. Behind them, right on cue, a familiar Range Rover appeared. Tim Stanton, Home Office pathologist, got out carrying a black forensic evidence case and trundled across rough ground heading straight for her.
Daniels looked sideways as the PC spoke.
‘I noticed boot prints over there, ma’am.’ He pointed to a thin mound of grass a few metres away. ‘They’re definitely not mine, but they could belong to the guy who found her. He’s in the gift shop café waiting to talk to you.’
Stanton had reached them. He was already suited in white forensic clothing, his trousers tucked into a sturdy pair of green wellington boots. He acknowledged them both with a cheerful good morning then turned his attention to the SIO.
‘When was she found?’
‘An hour ago . . .’ Daniels pointed towards his car. ‘Spotted from the ridge by a guy out walking the Wall—’
‘Did he touch the body at all?’
‘No, we got lucky. He’s ex-job and had the good sense not to. He’s my next port of call.’
Stanton looked tired this morning and Daniels knew why. This was his third call-out in as many hours, according to Pete Brooks in the control room. She stood aside, allowing him to enter the tent alone, comforted in the knowledge that he’d take as much care with his subject as any regular doctor would had the girl still been alive. She’d known him for several years and they had worked together often. His scientific background complemented her intuitive approach perfectly. She never got in his way – or he hers.
The breeze was picking up. Sweeping hair away from her face, Daniels lifted binoculars to her eyes, panning around three hundred and sixty degrees. Other than the tent and hilltop fort, as far as the eye could see there was only the most spectacular countryside, dotted here and there with tiny slate-grey cottages. She wasn’t a religious woman – not any more – but the sight was almost spiritual, as if a higher authority had been at work. It wasn’t hard to imagine what life was like here when legions of soldiers toiled in all weathers to build the Roman Empire’s most northerly defences and a garrison to house eight hundred of their number just metres from where she was standing.
She sighed, taken in by a dramatic wilderness she’d seen many times before.
‘Unreal,’ she said.
The PC looked at her. ‘Ma’am?’
Daniels nodded towards the tent. ‘Such an ugly scene in such a stunning location.’
‘S’pose. I’m from round here . . .’ He pointed off into the distance. ‘Just over that ridge, to be precise. Guess you never see what’s been on your doorstep your whole life.’
Daniels looked around her. She couldn’t imagine taking this place for granted. Moving away from him, she made a call. Newcastle city centre was too far from the crime scene to run a murder enquiry, at least for the critical first few days. Her second in command, Detective Sergeant Hank Gormley, was out searching for a suitable place for a temporary incident room and she was relieved to hear he’d found one.
She wrote down a place name – Hi
gh Shaw – then hung up.
Stanton emerged from the tent, bagging his latex gloves, nodding to the binoculars hanging round her neck. ‘You can put those away, Kate. If I’m right, you’re going to need some divine inspiration to solve this one.’
Daniels eyed him warily. He was not a man given to riddles.
‘Meaning?’ she asked.
‘That young woman in there was dropped from a great height.’
She looked up at a cloudless sky . . .
About the Author
MARI HANNAH was born in London and moved north as a child. Her career as a probation officer was cut short when she was injured while on duty, and thereafter she spent several years as a film/television screenwriter. She now lives in Northumberland with her partner, an ex-murder detective. In 2010, she was the winner of the Northern Writers’ Award.
www.marihannah.com
@mariwriter
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SETTLED BLOOD
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
This book was originally published in 2012 in the UK by Pan Books, an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited.
Excerpt from Settled Blood copyright © 2012 by Mari Hannah.
THE MURDER WALL. Copyright © 2012 by Mari Hannah. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
