He winked at the woman.
Lucky for her he’d looked at it today.
G
ormley was noshing a fry-up enthusiastically when Daniels caught up with him in the station canteen. There were no home comforts here. It was a no-frills refreshment area
designed to get the punters in and out in the shortest possible time. Standards had dropped since the force had contracted out the catering. Daniels hadn’t eaten a hot meal there for weeks.
Opting for a cup of tea and a sandwich, she thanked the woman behind the counter and headed for Gormley’s table.
He spoke with his mouth full. ‘Any update on Jo?’
Daniels lifted the top off her sandwich and found that the filling was non-existent. As she shoved it away in disgust, Gormley leaned across the table and helped himself to the bread. He began
piling beans on top of it, scooping up escapees with a fork.
She grimaced. ‘Christ, Hank, how can you eat that?’
Gormley clearly had no idea what she was on about. Wiping a piece of bread around his plate, he continued with his meal as if it had been lovingly prepared by a gourmet chef. ‘I hear
she’s in a hell of a mess,’ he said. ‘Someone on D Rota told me she flat-lined in the ambulance. That right?’
Daniels nodded soberly.
‘Mind if I stick my oar in?’ Gormley stopped chewing, pushed his plate away and wiped his hands on a serviette. Daniels got the feeling that she wasn’t going to like what he
had to say. But she was too preoccupied with Jo to give it serious thought. Things were already just as bad as they could be. ‘You need to watch your back,’ he said. ‘Andy’s
noticed you’re on a mission, not delegating as an SIO should.’
‘Well, Andy should mind his own business.’
He looked at her like a concerned friend would.
‘What?’ she said, biting his head off.
‘This is your big chance, Kate. I’d hate to see you blow it.’
She met his gaze defiantly, checked her watch and swallowed the last dregs of her tea. ‘Eat up. You can walk me back to the office. I’ve got an interview to conduct.’
M
inutes later, Daniels entered an interview room with no windows, four chairs and a table with peeled-back Formica edges. Robson was hovering near the door and James Stephens
was sitting at the table. Daniels smiled at the lad as she sat down too and relaxed back in her chair, trying to reinforce the fact that the interview was informal. It clearly wasn’t working.
James’ customary bravado had deserted him: he was sweating profusely, tapping his fingers on his knees, eyeing a tape machine housed in a recess in the wall.
Sensing his anxiety, she pointed at the tape. ‘Relax, James, it isn’t switched on. You’re not under caution. I just want to find out as much as possible about your father, then
you can go. I imagine it’s been a long day for you. You’ll be keen to get home . . .’
James wasn’t reassured. His eyes darted from Daniels to Robson and back again, before settling on a tiny camera mounted in the corner of the room.
‘Can you please tell us when you last saw your father?’ Daniels asked.
‘About five years ago, give or take. Don’t remember exactly.’
‘That’s a long time.’
‘Not if you knew him. He was over here on business, condescended to see us for an hour, then he did what he did best and took off again – forgot we ever existed.’
‘You didn’t see him three years ago when Tom did?’
James instantly became defensive. ‘So what?’
‘Why was that?’ Daniels pushed gently.
‘I was busy.’
‘Tom made time.’
‘Tom’s easily pleased!’
Daniels watched him like a hawk. The lad was so like his mother, she could almost feel Jo’s presence in the room. And that unnerved her.
Robson sat down next to her. ‘Don’t piss about, James. We’re just trying to find out who killed your father.’
‘Biological father!’
‘Whatever,’ Robson said.
‘Just making a point. Takes more than flesh and blood – know what I’m saying?’
‘Fair enough.’ Daniels registered the unhealthy family dynamics. Tom Stephens had been cagey about his brother’s ambivalent relationship with the deceased. She wondered how
deep that went. She smiled at James, trying to reassure him. ‘Right now, I’m not too keen on my old man either.’
Sensing that she knew exactly where he was coming from, James calmed down a little, dropped his shoulders and some of his attitude. ‘Look, my father was a prat. He treated my mother like
shit and probably reaped what he sowed, OK?’
Daniels liked his style. In her experience of murder detection she’d learned that honesty was by far the best policy. Most killers she’d ever dealt with tripped themselves up by
telling lies. Unless James Stephens had mastered the art of the double bluff, she thought it unlikely that he would speak about his father in such negative terms – if he had actually killed
him.
She changed tack: ‘And how is your relationship with Monica?’
‘She’s just another one of my father’s tarts.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She wasn’t the first. Probably wouldn’t have been the last, either. Surprised you didn’t know that already.’ James looked at his watch. ‘How long are you
keeping me here?’
‘I’ve told you, you’re free to go at any time.’
‘Right! I’m out of here. My brother’s waiting.’
James’ chair scraped the hard wooden floor as he got to his feet. Daniels and DS Robson followed suit. They didn’t try to stop him from leaving but, just as he reached the door,
Robson asked one final question.
‘Just one more thing, James . . .’ He waited for the lad to turn round. ‘Where were you
exactly
on the night of November fifth, early hours of the sixth?’
‘In Sheffield at Uni – you can check.’
Daniels nodded. ‘We will.’
James walked out into the corridor, shoulders hunched, head down. Daniels switched her attention to the window, watching as he left the building by a side door. From where she was standing, she
could see Tom Stephens waiting near the perimeter fence. He was leaning against an old VW, smoking a cigarette. When he caught sight of his brother, Tom took one last hit of nicotine and flicked
the butt high into the air. It landed on top of a panda car, sending red sparks flying. They got in the VW and drove off.
Daniels turned to Robson. ‘Walk me to my car, tell me what you think.’
They left the station via the same door as James, arriving in the car park just in time to see the VW disappearing down a side street.
‘No love lost there, then,’ Robson said. ‘Between father and son, I mean. The younger one’s particularly bitter.’
‘That’s families for you. Complete pain in the arse, if you ask me,’ Daniels said, her thoughts turning briefly to her own father, whose respect she coveted and thought she
deserved. These days, it was hard to imagine that there had ever been a father–daughter bond between them. As far as she was concerned, that was
his
loss.
Robson clammed up, unsure how to handle her sarcasm. They had arrived at her car. She reached into her pocket, took out her key and pushed the button on the fob. The locks clunked open and she
climbed in, leaving the door ajar. Robson stooped down, ducking his head, his hands on the roof of the vehicle.
‘You think James realized he just gave Jo a motive?’
Daniels looked past him, brooding.
Robson back-pedalled a little. ‘I know we don’t think she’s involved, but it’s
possible
she had something to do with it. We all have the capacity, given the right
set of circumstances. She could have hired someone to do her dirty work for her. Let’s face it, she has access to some pretty heavy criminals. Some who’d cut a person’s throat for
the price of a heroin deal.’
‘Or else we are barking up the wrong tree entirely and it’s not family related at all. Which is what I have been saying from the very beginning.’
‘You’re right. Don’t know what I was thinking.’ Robson blushed. ‘On the subject of families, though, I’ve been meaning to ask, boss: How would you feel about
being a godparent to Callum? Irene and I would love it if you would.’
There was a definite shift in Daniels’ mood. There was a time she’d have been delighted – honoured even – but not any more. She didn’t want to cause offence, but
she wanted to be a godparent even less.
‘Sorry, Robbo.’ She started the car. ‘I don’t do religion these days. Not even for you.’
N
ext morning, Daniels arranged for some food to be sent in. It wasn’t exactly Sunday roast, but it would see them through a busy day. Murder enquiries didn’t stop
just because it was the weekend.
Drawing her eyes away from the gruesome pictures on the murder wall, still feeling bad about turning Robson down so abruptly the previous night, she was about to have a conciliatory word with
him when DC Carmichael called her over to have a look at something on the incident-room TV.
‘Yes, Lisa. What is it?’
‘Boss, take a look at this.’
Eyes fixed like glue to the screen, Carmichael stood poised, her thumb hovering over the remote control’s pause button, waiting to freeze a precise image. Daniels joined her and the two
stood shoulder to shoulder, observing CCTV footage as it followed a cycle from floor to floor, location to location, within the Weston Hotel.
‘There!’ Carmichael cried.
The screen was now still, frozen on a clear image of Felicity Wood and Alan Stephens exiting a hotel room, his hand planted firmly on her bum. Carmichael ran the tape on and picked up the couple
as they made their way down the corridor to the lift. A sign above it clearly showed FLOOR 4. Carmichael rewound the tape at double speed, then moved the cursor, zooming in on a door number:
429.
She looked to her left.
Daniels was beaming. ‘Gotcha!’ she said.
Just then the door to the incident room burst open and Bright walked through it, flicking his eyes backwards over his shoulder. Looking beyond him, Daniels saw Maxwell in hot pursuit, a film of
sweat clearly visible on his brow, his face all red and blotchy.
‘Guv, a word, if I may?’ Maxwell was out of breath.
‘Make it quick,’ Bright said, ‘the DCI is about to start her briefing.’
Maxwell hesitated before letting them have it with both barrels: ‘The squad have been helping themselves to my biscuits and stolen coffee from my drawer. I want it back.’
Bright feigned serious concern. ‘Is that right?’
‘Theft is a very serious allegation, Neil,’ Daniels was smiling. ‘You should call a detective.’
‘I am!’ Maxwell snapped at them. ‘I’m calling them all thieving bastards!’
As he stomped off in disgust, mumbling about their casual attitude to a criminal offence, Bright turned to Daniels.
‘Interesting management strategy,’ he said, struggling to contain his laughter.
She made a face. ‘He asked for it.’
‘And he certainly got it!’ Bright grinned at Carmichael. ‘Watch and learn, Lisa. Your new SIO clearly has what it takes. And you do, too, I reckon. In fact, you’re both
looking pleased with yourselves. Has there been an update on Soulsby?’
Daniels held back her annoyance. ‘Her name is Jo, guv. And I think the term is, “as well as can be expected”.’
‘I stand corrected.’ Bright stifled a grin. ‘Shall we get on?’
With Carmichael there, Daniels couldn’t challenge him. ‘You’re staying?’
‘Thought I might sit in, if that’s OK with you?’
‘I’m surprised you have time.’ Daniels hoped he’d take the hint and stop looking over her shoulder, but it seemed he just couldn’t help himself. ‘I heard you
had someone in.’
‘You heard right, but the sick bastard’s not going to cough. First the brief screams for a medical review because our suspect’s just been discharged from St George’s
– which, incidentally, came out in our favour – and then he insists on eight hours’ sleep following six of interrogation.’ Bright gave a little shrug. ‘Suits me fine.
The search team are doing a number on his client’s house. I’m letting both buggers stew. ’ He glanced at the murder wall. ‘You going to fill me in or not?’
‘Jo’s movements remain unclear in the hours leading up to the murder.’
Still rattled by his interference, Daniels didn’t offer more. She was pleased her guv’nor had made an arrest. Of course she was. If his suspect was charged, the whole community would
rest easier in their beds. He’d get good press too: chance to be the local hero, the main man. Chance to remind everyone that he was the most successful detective the force had ever seen. He
needed that. The only downside was that, if he didn’t back off of her own investigation, she’d end up in the same psychiatric hospital to which he’d just referred.
‘And her sons?’ Bright pushed.
‘The eldest, Tom, has been eliminated. We have unequivocal proof that he was on a flight from Tenerife at the time of his father’s death—’
‘Word is, Robbo found two bags in her hallway,’ Bright cut in.
‘Don’t you start! I’d hazard a guess at Tom’s dirty washing, wouldn’t you?’ Daniels looked him right in the eye. ‘Guv, you can’t think Jo had
anything to do with this.’
Bright raised an anything-is-possible eyebrow.
‘Then you’re a mile wrong.’ Daniels smiled at Carmichael. ‘Lisa just clocked Stephens leaving a room at the Weston Hotel with a woman from his apartment block.’
‘Is that right?’ Bright said. ‘Well, things
are
looking up.’
‘And Monica Stephens gave an account of her movements that doesn’t quite add up,’ Daniels added. ‘There was no flight from Newcastle airport to London at the time of
night she allegedly saw off Teresa Branson – who, incidentally, has gone AWOL. Repeated calls to her mobile phone have gone unanswered. Oh, and you might like to take a look at this . .
.’ She led Bright to a chart positioned a few feet away. Turning over the front cover, she revealed a circular seating plan resembling a huge green squash ball with a red dot at its centre.
‘I’ll let Lisa explain this. It’s all
her
good work.’
Carmichael pushed her shoulders back, pleased to have made a good impression.
‘The red dot indicates Stephens’ position at the charity dinner,’ she said. ‘The surrounding green area represents the tables nearest to him. I’ve managed to
identify every guest within this circle.’