by Mari Hannah
‘Looking into that too,’ Kate said.
‘Is that a euphemism for “wind your neck in”?’
Hank Gormley made a face, stifling the urge to laugh out loud. Bright was no fool. He’d hand-picked them both years ago, was single-handedly responsible for their collective wisdom when it came to the detection of major incidents. Unfortunately, having achieved his ambition to take charge of the CID, like Naylor and other senior detectives, he was missing the cut-and-thrust of running enquiries himself. As a result, he couldn’t resist the temptation to stick his nose in occasionally.
A phone rang loudly in the background.
Kate willed him to answer it. ‘You want to get that, guv?’
‘No, I bloody don’t. That’s what they pay Ellen for!’ He yelled without covering the speaker. ‘Ellen? ELLEN? Jesus Christ!’
The phone rang twice more and then stopped.
Bright lowered his voice again. ‘Sorry, Wonder Woman has disappeared. I was about to say the Crime Intelligence Unit have done some checking. I can tell you for a fact there are no incidents nationally where two girls went missing together, not since the Grantham enquiry.’
He was referring to a case that had dominated TV screens for months a few years ago: two lovely young girls wearing their favourite outfits, arms linked as they posed for the camera after a gathering to celebrate a family birthday. After tea they had gone to the park. They were never seen alive again. The bodies of Caroline Johnson and Amy Prentice had been dumped in Whatton – eleven miles east along the A52 from where they went missing. An offender named Stobbart was later apprehended.
Daniels swore under her breath.
Bright hadn’t been given vital information.
Falling short of his expectations made her angry. Over the years she’d learned to be prepared. Whether it was a face-to-face meeting, a full-blown press conference or a telephone conversation she always, always went in sure of her facts and took nothing for granted. It paid not to piss off the head of CID. And yet she was suddenly on the back foot, steeling herself for an ear-bashing from the man himself.
‘Sorry, guv. I thought you knew—’
‘Knew?’
‘About the timeline . . .’ She rolled her eyes at Hank. As SIO, it was her responsibility to keep their former guv’nor informed of all major developments in a case as high profile as this, and she would have done had Naylor not indicated that he’d take care of it. She chose her words carefully so as not to sound like she was trying to shift the blame. ‘Your conference call with Detective Superintendent Naylor—’
‘Didn’t happen.’ Bright paused. ‘Why? Something I don’t know?’
‘Our victims were buried years apart, guv. Chances are, they didn’t go missing together unless the ten-year-old was abducted, killed and preserved for at least five years. Can’t see it, can you?’
Bright said nothing.
Kate looked out of the window and quickly changed the subject. ‘What’s the weather like your way, guv? It’s a complete white out here, otherwise I’d head back to town. I need stuff urgently for the MIR. Alnwick isn’t well equipped to deal with major incidents, something I hope you’ll put right now you know about it.’
‘Say the word, it’s yours.’
‘Appreciate that, guv.’
‘Don’t mention it. Email your request in the morning. I’ll see you get what you want. In the meantime you stay put, you hear me? The weather is atrocious. The A1 is already down to one lane. Not a gritter in sight. I don’t want you driving round the county in this. And if you have to go out, take Hank along.’
Kate glanced at Gormley.
Their old guv’nor was worried about her driving in the snow. Hardly surprising: he’d lost his wife in a horrific car crash on the M25 in a spate of heavy rain. The articulated lorry they were following jack-knifed during an overtaking manoeuvre, practically wiping out the passenger side of his car. Stella Bright hadn’t died right away. She’d spent several months in hospital and several more in a wheelchair before fading away completely. Bright remained tormented by the experience and still struggled with survivor guilt.
‘Don’t concern yourself, guv. The crime scene is as far as I’ll be going tonight. We’ll take my car, not his. That means it’s entirely legal, full of diesel and running like a dream. I have a blanket, a medical kit and a shovel in the boot in case of emergencies, plus Hank. We’ll be as safe as houses.’
Bright told her to keep him posted and rang off abruptly.
It was a dig certainly, one she didn’t deserve, but she wasn’t complaining. Hank made a joke about her falling from grace. But in her head she was at the crime scene with two skeletons lying side by side. And then it hit her, the thing that had been playing at the back of her mind since the briefing.
‘Pearls . . .’ she said. ‘The victims were both wearing pearls.’
19
OFFICER KENT EYED the inmates on free association, unhappy that his SO had rostered him for another night shift, punishment for his outburst against Fearon.
On one side of the cavernous room, laughter drifting through an open door – the television room. Nearby, a group of four inmates were playing cards, generally having a laugh, egged on by a gaggle of supporters. To their left, other inmates sat writing letters home or reading books. The rest were banged up in their cells by choice, keeping their heads low and their hopes high for early release, a privilege afforded for good behaviour and a clean prison record.
It was a different story on the other side of the room.
Wing bullies Saunders and Jones weren’t going anywhere fast. Both were serving twelve for the attempted murder of a drugs rival, neither making any attempt to mend their ways. They had collared the pool table and were clearly in cahoots over something. Odds on, it wasn’t about turning the other cheek during their long stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure.
Saunders wasn’t your stereotypical bully: no shaved head, battle scars or visible tats. A Mancunian just turned twenty, he had boy-band looks and pulling power too, if his mailbag and cell wall were anything to go by. He had no less than four different women on the go, two of whom had spawned the next generation of gangsters, none of whom had an inkling of the others’ existence.
Yet.
Kent could feel an anonymous letter coming on.
Saunders looked innocent enough. But beneath his pretty-boy image an evil bastard lurked. He took great pleasure in hurting people – including his harem, if he felt so inclined. Jones on the other hand fit the profile of an inner-city thug perfectly. He was hated and feared throughout the establishment by staff and cons alike. He had bad skin, a mean mouth, stood no taller than five three. What he lacked in height, the vicious little shit made up for in immorality. Like Saunders, he enjoyed inflicting pain. Simply put, he was a very nasty piece of work.
Kent’s fellow officer nodded towards the pool table. ‘What’s their sketch?’
‘Something unsavoury, by the looks.’ Kent scratched his crotch. ‘Any intel from security?’
‘Kiddin’, aren’t ya? The snouts wouldn’t dare.’
‘Search team find anything?’
‘Not a damn thing. Dogs never even got a whiff.’
‘Figures.’
Both officers fell silent.
Saunders and Jones had a foolproof operation running on the inside just like they did on the out. Prison or not, it was business as usual for them. They carried out their evil deeds secure in the knowledge that they wouldn’t be grassed up, stashing their drugs and weapons in other mugs’ cells, absolving themselves of blame should the screws get lucky. Consequently, any associated punishment doled out by the governor didn’t touch them. Instead it passed down to the weaklings whose sentences kept getting longer and longer.
For Saunders and Jones, cooperation was key.
Not many refused this pair.
None did so a second time.
They grinned at one another, aware that they were under scrutiny. Neither gave a fat rat’s arse. They
would make their move when they were good and ready. Not before. They had all the time in the world.
Taking his shot cleanly, Saunders made the pocket and high-fived Jones.
Game over.
Two prisoners waiting to take their turn moved forward. Then stepped away again when Saunders blanked them out, setting up the triangle for another game like he owned the place.
‘I need a crap.’ Kent’s colleague tapped his radio. ‘Yell if you need me.’
Kent nodded, his eyes continually scanning the association room.
No sooner had his fellow officer disappeared than the atmosphere in the room changed. Tension was building. A shifty look passed here and there – mostly in Jones’ and Saunders’ direction. Inmates were fine-tuned to recognize trouble. A few were packing up their stuff in readiness to retire; odd behaviour, given the fact that their free association period had another half-hour to run.
It had been a quiet week so far: not many fights, no riots, no security alerts. Other than Fearon’s shenanigans that morning, it was boringly normal considering the scum contained therein. A situation too good to be true, Kent figured.
It wouldn’t last.
Jones was lying across the pool table, one leg outstretched behind him, his tongue touching his upper lip in concentration as he eyed the balls on the table. Alerted by the sound of keys jangling in the corridor beyond, he abandoned his shot and stood up, shifting his gaze from the green baize towards the wing gate.
A nod to Saunders was almost imperceptible.
Kent had seen it.
The radio pinned to his chest announced that an inmate was being escorted on to the wing. Kent glanced at the gated entrance, receiving a nod of acknowledgement from the escort as he came into view.
A shove in the back helped Fearon on his way.
The escort gave the thumbs-up sign: transfer of prisoner complete.
Relocking the gate, he turned away, his boots echoing in the corridor as he disappeared from sight. Exposed and alone, Fearon remained at the gate for a while. Looking pale but otherwise unscathed from his antics in the shower block, he stood there taking in the scene, checking out the territory. He was a lot of things: stupid wasn’t one of them. Like the duty officer, he sensed trouble the moment Saunders reached for his pool cue.
Kent didn’t move. Just sat back in his chair, keeping one eye on the toilet door, one on the situation. This could all turn nasty in a heartbeat. He was a lone member of staff on the wing now.
He looked at Saunders . . .
The toilet door . . .
Saunders . . .
The toilet door . . .
Still no sign of his fellow officer.
How long can one crap take?
Any minute now that door would open and his colleague would reappear.
But it didn’t.
He didn’t.
Then, suddenly, it all kicked off.
Saunders smashed his cue into Fearon’s gut as he walked past the pool table: payback for having been locked in his cell for most of the afternoon. Doubled up in pain, Fearon hit the deck. Saunders dragged him violently to his feet, kneeing him in the groin, gobbing in his face.
Kent glanced at the toilet door.
No joy.
A glob of spittle slid off Fearon’s broken specs and down one cheek as he tried to remain upright, his steel-grey eyes burning into his attacker, a clear warning that this wasn’t over. Saunders hit him with the cue again, this time full in the face, blood spurting from a cut lip. Winded and bloodied, Fearon made no attempt to fight back. Glaring at the screw being paid to protect him, he sloped off to spend another night alone in his cell.
Kent smiled.
No more than the cunt deserved.
20
THE SMELL OF fried bacon hit the DCI as she left her room and headed down two flights of creaky stairs. It was still dark outside. And cold. So bloody cold. The B & B’s ancient central heating system was struggling to cope. It had limped into life before six, the pipes gurgling and banging beneath her windowsill. The shower was inadequate too. The water ran hot one minute, cold the next, dribbling from the shower head. Thank Christ she hadn’t washed her hair.
Kate had just come off the phone with forensic scientist Matt West. What he’d had to say had thrown up more problems than it solved, leading to a drain on precious and finite resources, financial as well as physical. His words echoed in her head as she entered the breakfast room.
It was an oblong room with a deep bay window at one end. Surprisingly, three of her team had beaten her down. Hank was busy eating his bodyweight in saturated fats. Robson was texting, Brown reading last night’s Evening Chronicle, both still waiting to be served. They were obviously hung-over and seated at the largest of three tables in the room. No sign of Maxwell or Carmichael yet, but so far no civvies. The detectives had the room to themselves.
It had been past eleven-thirty when Kate turned in the night before. The rest had stayed on, a chance to spend some down time together, something they rarely did outside of the odd retirement bash. Lengthy shifts were hardly conducive to socializing beyond their working day. So they milked it for all it was worth when it did happen.
Wondering what time they’d eventually got to bed, Daniels was delighted to think that the owner of the B & B might also have been awake half the night.
If her guests couldn’t rest, then why should she?
Hank looked up from his food. ‘Sleep well, boss?’
‘Like a baby,’ she said.
‘Really?’
‘No! My bed had lumps in it. It squeaked every time I turned over. The duvet kept slipping off and when I ran to the’ – she made inverted commas with her fingers – ‘shower, I could see my own breath it was so damned cold in my bathroom. You?’
‘He did. I never.’ Robson stopped texting, pocketing his phone. ‘Forget what I said about the bairn yesterday. I’ll take Callum as a room-mate over Hank any day of the week. The missus sent a text. Can you believe it? Little bugger didn’t wake ’til six. The very first time he’s slept all night in nearly two years and I’m playing house with a snoring pig.’
Gormley laughed and yawned at the same time.
He handed Kate a menu as she sat down beside him, directly opposite the other two. The stench of second-hand beer across the table almost took her breath away. That too was par for the course. CID officers away from home tended to work hard and play even harder. Thankfully their powers of recovery matched their appetite for alcohol. With a good breakfast inside them it would be game on, as usual.
The door opened and Carmichael appeared. ‘Wish I’d brought some warmer kit.’ Her voice had dropped an octave. ‘Whose idea was it to stay in the B & B from hell?’
‘Er, that would be yours!’ Hank grinned. ‘Looking a little shabby this morning, Lisa. Sit down before you fall down.’
Shivering as she approached, arms wrapped around herself, Carmichael slumped down in a chair, chucking her room key on the table, knocking over the salt. Not bothering to pick it up, she scowled at the others, her sunny personality nowhere in sight.
‘What a dump!’ she said.
‘Morning!’ a cheery female voice behind them said.
Carmichael held her tongue as a woman of indeterminate age arrived in the breakfast room: grey-blonde hair cut short, very little slap, a red pinny over boyfriend jeans. She had an order pad in her hand and a big smile on her face, a hint that she was happy to have her premises full in mid-winter with paying guests who wouldn’t argue the toss when it came to settle up at the end of the day – ones unlikely to give her any grief during their stay.
Kate didn’t imagine that was a given.
There were some glum faces round the table.
Robson requested kippers, Brown a full English, Kate poached eggs on toast, Carmichael a bacon sandwich on white bread with brown sauce to go with it. Gormley ordered more coffee, adding the words ‘fresh this time’.
Putting down his knife and fork,
he pushed his plate away.
‘So what’s up?’ He was looking at the SIO.
‘Up?’ Kate was aware of all eyes turned towards her. ‘Other than this place, you mean?’
‘I’ve seen that look before. It usually means business. I’m guessing you got hold of Matt.’ Gormley glanced at his watch. ‘What pearls of wisdom did our eminent scientist have to impart at this ungodly hour?’
Daniels raised an eyebrow. ‘If this case wasn’t so sad, that might’ve been funny, Hank.’
‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘That bed was lumpy.’
A chuckle went round the table.
Two fresh pots of coffee arrived along with a shamefaced DC Maxwell. The DCI asked the waitress if there were any other guests staying. She wasn’t astounded to hear that there weren’t. Returning guests in this B & B was a stretch, even for her imagination. Requesting some privacy, she waited until the woman had taken Maxwell’s order and cleared the room before speaking.
‘It won’t surprise you to hear that the pearls found on our victims were not real. They were plastic fakes. Cheap imitations, like poppers kids play with. You know the ones I mean: male and female on either end, the type that snap together to make a chain?’
There was a nod of heads around the table.
‘Not lesbian chains then?’ Maxwell quipped.
Hank Gormley nearly spat out his coffee.
Too tired to respond, Carmichael focused her attention on her boss. She may have been feeling down in the mouth but her mind was still very much on the job. ‘Any identifying marks on the pearls?’ she asked.
Kate shook her head. ‘Unfortunately not. But I can say they aren’t identical. According to Matt, one set are well made but contain a high level of toxic additives that would never be allowed in present-day manufacture. The others are contemporary; chatty imitations of the first, but with no obvious health-and-safety risks. I’ve asked him to fax a photo to the incident room and provide a section of both for comparison. We need to identify the manufacturers and distributors ASAP.’
The comment drew a collective groan around the table.
‘Sorry, guys, but that’s just how it is.’ Her eyes fell on DS Robson, the team’s statement reader. ‘Robbo, you’re on missing persons today.’ Kate turned to Maxwell. ‘I’m sorry to change your brief, Neil. I want you on the train to the forensic science lab as soon as you’ve eaten.’ She thumbed out the window where snow was beginning to fall again. ‘You’re not driving down in this and we can’t risk the post. Hank will run you to Alnmouth station after breakfast. There’s a train at 7.47 that will get you into York at half nine. You can either hop on a train to Harrogate and take a taxi the rest of the way or get a taxi from York direct. It’s up to you.’
