As they neared the city, she engaged the blue flashing light on her unmarked police car and took a short cut, driving the wrong way up a one-way street. The strategy backfired as traffic ground
to halt in a haphazard line in front of St Mary’s Cathedral. Drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, Daniels stared blankly through the window at the building. Its impressive architecture
was lost on her. She was somewhere else entirely, suffocating in thoughts of death, priests, and one church in particular.
Gormley followed her gaze. ‘You’ve probably got time for three Hail Marys . . .’ His joke went down like a lead balloon. ‘What’s up? You’re a good Catholic
girl, aren’t you?’
‘
Was
, Hank . . . not any more,’ Daniels said, jabbing her horn at the driver in front, who refused to shift out of her way.
Realizing he’d said the wrong thing, Gormley tried to make amends. ‘Listen, what happened at St Camillus would shake anybody’s faith.’
‘Don’t even go there, Hank; it has
nothing
to do with that!’
‘If you say so.’
‘I know so . . .’ She edged forward, nudging the bumper of the car in front. ‘Let’s just say, I haven’t been to church since my mother died and leave it at that,
shall we?’
‘But you
did
go back . . . after that.’
‘To St Camillus?’ An image of two dead bodies flashed across Daniels’ mind. Their discovery had affected her deeply, occupying every working day since, keeping her awake at
night. ‘Yeah, and look where it got me.’
Gormley said nothing as she moved forward in the line, troubled, but in no mood to elaborate. She blasted her horn again, keeping it depressed until the car in front mounted the pavement. She
was angry . . . though not necessarily with the driver. That didn’t stop her glowering in his direction as she drove by.
The Quayside was buzzing with energy. On the south side of the river, the Sage music centre sat like a giant silver bubble gleaming in the moonlight. To the left of it, the Gateshead Millennium
Bridge offered the best view of the celebrations. On the north quay, there were scores of people milling about, more than usual for the time of night: a few drunks, the odd worker off the late
shift making their way home, but mostly just people having a good time.
‘They got no homes to go to?’ Gormley asked.
‘Stragglers from Guy Fawkes, I suppose,’ Daniels offered vaguely.
‘Well, I wish they’d move. We’ve a gunpowder plot of our own to attend to.’
Daniels inched forward, frustrated with the lack of progress she was making. Tail lights up ahead were another reminder of the previous Christmas Eve – though on that night it was winter
weather, not crowds, obstructing her journey.
Five minutes later, she glanced sideways. Gormley was hanging like a bat from his seat belt, catching up on lost sleep. She could see the steady rise and fall of his chest, hear his breathing
changing gear as he sank deeper and deeper into unconsciousness. He snorted loudly. Sensing her interest, he opened his eyes, then shut them again when he realized they were stationary with still a
way to go.
Daniels tried in vain to drag her thoughts away from St Camillus. But the memory was so vivid she brushed the side of her face expecting to feel wet tears streaming silently down her cheeks, hot
and salty as they crept into her mouth. She flinched as a firework exploded on the bonnet of the car. It ricocheted off into the night, transporting her back to the church, to a lit candle on a
stone-flagged floor.
‘I’ll make the bastard pay.’
‘What did you just say?’
She didn’t know he’d woken, was too busy trying to shake off the image of Sarah Short’s funeral. The poor girl had been buried at St Camillus less than three weeks from taking
her last agonizing breath. The church was packed. Hundreds of mourners had come to pay their respects, outraged and saddened by the senseless act of violence that had brought about her death. The
case had touched the nation from the outset, was reported widely in the press, repeated on every news bulletin, discussed by young and old, in every home, workplace, school and university. The
worst of it was, the killer was still out there. And Daniels found that impossible to live with.
‘Nothing,’ she said finally. ‘Just thinking out loud.’
They were approaching a block of executive apartments in a renovated seventeenth-century warehouse. A young officer in the street saw her coming and sprang into action, lifting cones, directing
her into a parking space. He seemed to be having difficulty controlling a group of drunken females at the main entrance, a well-dressed crowd wearing little but smiles and goose pimples –
including a much older woman trying her best to keep up appearances.
Daniels got out of the car, telling him to get rid of rent-a-crowd.
He flushed up. ‘Yes. Ma’am.’
The older woman grinned. ‘Who does she think she is, fucking Juliet Bravo?’
One of her mates pulled a face. ‘Juliet who?’
Daniels and Gormley stifled a laugh as the young officer tried to prevent the older woman from giving him something, finally managing to penetrate his trouser pocket.
‘My mobile number,’ she said. ‘Call me when your
marm’s
not around.’
T
he foyer of Court Mews was a little pretentious for Daniels’ liking. She took a cursory look around, finding nothing out of the ordinary. As the lift doors slid open,
she moved forward with Gormley hot on her heels. She turned, lifted her hand to his chest and pointed to the stairwell door. Gormley headed off . . .
Moments later, Daniels left the lift on the fourth floor. A female officer standing guard outside number 24 greeted her. The scene was secured with thick tape:
Police Crime Scene Do Not
Enter.
Before Daniels had a chance to introduce herself, Gormley arrived through a set of double doors. He bent double with his hands on his knees, taking a moment to get his breath back.
‘I’ve got to get back in the gym,’ he said.
Daniels smiled at the policewoman. ‘He’s being ironic. It makes our grim task a bit more bearable. He hasn’t seen the inside of a gymnasium since leaving junior school.’
Then, to Gormley: ‘Find anything?’
‘Negative . . . but it
was
different, I’ll give you that.’
‘In what way?’
‘No hypodermics, no used condoms . . . no stink of piss. Hardly our usual murder scene, is it?’ He looked at his watch and then at the WPC. ‘Time our visit please. This is DCI
Daniels and I’m DS Gormley. Where’s the body?’
‘Second door on the right as you go in, Sarge.’
‘Who found him?’ Daniels asked.
‘His wife, Monica Stephens.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Hospital, ma’am.’
Daniels thanked her and led Gormley by the arm into the apartment, checking the door frame for signs of a forced entry. It was clean. They walked on along a wide hallway, peering into the rooms
on either side. Each one appeared to be immaculate; a place for everything and everything in its place, as far as they could tell – until they reached the lounge.
The room was cold and uninviting. Daniels didn’t care much for the decor: barring the blood on the walls, everything in the room was white. Surreal was the word that sprang to mind. It was
more like a chilling art exhibit than someone’s private living space. It was as if an artist had deliberately splashed red paint across a white canvas for others to appreciate, placing the
corpse of a white male carefully at its centre for effect.
In a London gallery it would probably win a prize.
‘I think we can safely assume he’s dead,’ Daniels said. ‘Call out the troops and contact Area Command. Tell them to start the house-to-house immediately. I want a mobile
incident caravan too. The whole nine yards, if you can get it.’
Gormley made the call, then crouched down beside the body to get a closer look. The dead man was dressed in a dinner suit; his clothing intact, apart from a missing bow tie. A bullet wound had
caused enormous trauma to one side of his skull.
‘Bet that smarted a bit . . .’ he said. ‘He must really have upset someone, given that it’s not a robbery.’
‘What makes you say that?’
Gormley looked up. ‘His wallet’s on the table by the door.’
Daniels knelt down beside him. But she didn’t stay there long. Although she’d seen death in all its grisly forms, for the second time in under a year she suddenly recoiled from a
body. It was like this with Sarah Short and now – almost twelve months later – it was happening all over again.
Her actions telegraphed alarm to Gormley, who couldn’t fathom what he’d missed. His eyes shifted to a photograph she was staring at. He gave her a moment to compose herself,
curiosity getting the better of him.
With her DS breathing down her neck, Daniels moved to the table near the door. She took out a pen and used it to open up the wallet. Inside was a driver’s licence and money – lots of
it.
Gormley read over her shoulder. ‘Alan James Stephens. D’you know him?’
‘Trick of the light.’ She held up her glasses. ‘If I wore these more often, maybe I’d see a whole lot better.’
Gormley eyed her warily and chose to leave it alone.
J
o Soulsby looked down at her feet, hoping the two young women hurrying towards the northern exit of Exhibition Park hadn’t noticed her. Her tearful eyes lifted as they
continued on their way, whispering conspiratorially as young women do. Then suddenly, their pace slowed. One of the women glanced back over her shoulder. Jo turned her back, hoping they’d
take the hint. The sound of footsteps approaching made her realize they hadn’t. She felt a hand touching her arm gently.
‘Do you need help?’
Jo shook her head. The comment had come from the taller of the two women who then looked at her friend for inspiration. The shorter woman shrugged, nodding towards the exit gate, a heavy hint
that she wanted to leave. Jo wished they would do just that.
The tall woman persisted. ‘Shall I call the police?’
‘No!’
‘A doctor then?’
Jo didn’t answer.
‘Well, you can’t stay here. It’s not safe!’
Jo felt a twinge of guilt. Both women were now searching the darkness apprehensively, peering at shadows that didn’t exist. She could see from their eyes that they were terrified.
‘Look, it’s not your problem . . .’ she said. ‘Just go!’
‘We’re not leaving you,’ one of them said bravely.
Jo had been sitting in the park, alone and exhausted, for the best part of an hour. Numb. Unable to think, let alone make a decision. Now she had these two to worry about as well. As bad as she
undoubtedly felt, she couldn’t justify putting them at risk. Hauling herself from the bench, she moved unsteadily toward the perimeter fence, followed by her knights in shining armour.
Almost immediately, a taxi pulled to the kerb.
‘You first . . .’ Jo opened the cab door. It was an order, not a request. ‘And thanks.’
The women hesitated before getting in. Jo then slammed the door shut before they could change their minds. As she waved them off, two pairs of eyes stared back at her through the rear
window.
As the cab vanished into the night, a second taxi pulled up. Jo gave her address and got in. It sped off too, merging with other traffic, taking a slip road on to the motorway. She relaxed back
in her seat and shut her eyes, relieved to be going home. Her attempt to snatch a little peace and quiet was short-lived, as the driver – reacting too slowly to a changing traffic light
– accelerated sharply, then hit the brakes.
‘Sorry!’ he said. ‘You OK in the back?’
Jo ignored his apology and his question. Her attention was on two marked police cars, travelling at high speed in the opposite direction with sirens blaring. As she watched them disappear, the
driver studied her through his rear-view mirror. She shifted her position to avoid his prying eyes.
Five minutes later, the cab turned left into a smart Victorian terrace and stopped. The driver remained in his cab as Jo got out and slammed the door. She opened the gate to number 45 and was
halfway up the path when a voice suddenly boomed out from behind her.
‘Oiy!’
When Jo looked back, the driver was on the pavement advancing towards her – his engine still ticking. As he reached out his hand, she stepped away from him.
‘That’ll be a tenner,’ he said, rubbing together forefinger and thumb.
Jo fumbled in her coat pocket for the fare as the driver looked her up and down. His smug expression disappeared when he didn’t receive a tip. He grabbed her ten-pound note, shoving it
deep into his pocket as he walked away.
‘You’re welcome,’ he mumbled sarcastically, got in his cab and drove off.
The house was cold and still inside. Jo stood a moment with her back to the door before setting off down the hall, stopping dead in her tracks on seeing her reflection in a full-length mirror at
the far end. She looked a sorry state: her tights badly ripped and splashed with mud, her eyes bloodshot and puffy, her cheeks stained where her mascara had run.
She walked on into her drawing room, slipped off her coat and threw it over the back of a sofa. If anyone cared to look, they couldn’t fail to notice her keen eye for detail and for colour
in this room: each piece of furniture hand-picked to complement the rest. In another life, she’d often thought, she might have been an artist.
Another life? If only that were possible . . .
Jo picked up a treasured photograph from the mantelpiece, longing to hear the voice of either of her sons. Glancing at her watch, she buried that thought and put the photograph back. Instead of
reaching for the telephone, she reached for the next best thing. It wasn’t the first time she’d sought comfort from a bottle; she doubted it would be the last. She poured herself a
whisky, downed the shot in one and thought of the girls in the park with their offers to call the authorities. The last thing she needed was the police poking their noses in.
They were next to useless last time . . .