Daniels got to her feet. ‘I’ve got to go.’
David and Elsie stood up too, taking it in turns to give her a hug.
‘You’re welcome in our home anytime, Kate,’ Elsie said, grabbing Daniels’ forearm as she turned away. ‘You promise the case will remain open?’
‘It was never closed, Elsie . . .’
Daniels dared not share her suspicions with the Shorts, tell them that their daughter might have been murdered by a serial killer being hunted down by two other forces. What if she were wrong?
She couldn’t risk raising their expectations on a doubtful outcome. No – that would be totally wrong.
‘I’ll see if I can organize a reconstruction, televised appeal, something that might jog someone’s memory.’
David and Elsie appeared to accept this and followed her to the door to say goodbye, their fingers moving closer together and joining as they watched her walk away.
On the way back to the Toyota, Daniels sensed eyes on her. Raising a hand, she turned, expecting to see David and Elsie on the doorstep. But they were nowhere to be seen. Her eyes swept the
market square . . .
Nothing.
The narrow streets were deserted.
The graveyard too.
B
ack in the comfort of a new set of wheels, he slid a little further down in his seat and continued to watch her. Why was she staring at the tree? Was she thinking about Number
Two – or the good Catholic girl he’d taken just for fun? He smiled. Daniels looked exactly like she did on the telly, only taller and more beautiful.
He’d known she would be here tonight. Couldn’t say why, he just did.
She swung round, as if sensing his presence. Even as a silhouette against the moonlight, he could tell she was uneasy. Her eyes were all over the place, chasing down shadows in the snow.
He’d already started without her, his dick hard and massive in his hand, thoughts of getting under her skin fuelling his fantasy. Unzipping the fly of his jeans to ease the pressure, he came
looking straight into her big brown eyes, ejaculating a warm pool of hot semen on to the passenger seat.
D
aniels drove away from Corbridge with a heavy heart, pained by David and Elsie’s loss. She envied those who were looking forward to spending Christmas with their
families, exchanging gifts, partying, making the most of precious time off. Without any of those distractions, she planned to throw herself into her work. But first she had to see Bright –
and she wasn’t looking forward to it.
She found him in the pub where they’d agreed to meet. He was too consumed in his own darkness to notice that she was also grieving: for Sarah, for David and Elsie Short – for a lost
relationship of her own. Although he hadn’t said as much, she was sure he suspected she was in some kind of trouble.
They talked about Stella in terms they never had before. Daniels thought it curious how death seemed to bring out the little anecdotes, the secrets, the joys, the pain, the closeness – or
lack of it – people had shared with the recently departed. On the outside, at least, his suffering was over. He seemed to be holding up well, maintaining a stoical veneer, but deep down she
knew he was hurting and blaming himself all over again. When he abruptly changed the subject, it was obvious he’d said all he could bear to on the subject of his late wife.
‘How did it go with David and Elsie?’ he said.
‘Not good,’ she told him, adding that she planned to revisit their daughter’s case.
She was taken aback by the flare of anger this aroused in him. It was, after all, still a ‘live’ case, with a dangerous killer still at large.
‘You’ve got to stop obsessing about it, Kate,’ he said, slamming his empty glass down on the table. ‘I told you before, that case is so cold it’s practically
frozen. And if that offends you, well, I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is. You have absolutely no evidence that the card in Father Simon’s hand is in any way connected to
the other two murders, and until you—’
‘I accept that, I do. But David and Elsie are barely coping. How do you expect them to rest while their daughter’s killer remains on the loose? All I’m asking is a chance to
look through the evidence again, for my own sanity as much as theirs. What possible harm—’
‘I appreciate your concern, really I do. But we threw every resource – human and financial – into that incident for months. So, unless new evidence has come to
light—’
‘How dare you!’
Kate’s raised voice had most of the other customers turning round to see what was happening.
Bright moved closer and dropped his voice. ‘I’m sorry, Kate. You have to understand that it’s not personal, it’s just the hard reality of being an SIO. Something
you’ll have to get used to, sooner rather than later.’
Daniels knew he was right, but less than an hour ago she’d been listening to the Shorts describing how, at times when they least expected it, their grief kept smashing over them like some
giant wave that swept everything in its wake, leaving them feeling battered and raw and alone – just as
she
was feeling now. Bright too, if only he’d acknowledge it.
Why was he always so bloody stubborn?
Why was she?
‘They practically begged me, guv. I’d have thought that you, of all people, would understand their loss, today of all days.’
Bright held his hands up, too drained to argue with her.
‘I’m sorry, guv. I shouldn’t have said that. My apologies.’
‘OK, OK! I know when to quit. Rework the damn case, if you must. But I warn you, there’s no more money, understood? And you take your proper leave first, you hear me? You’re
not yourself.’
‘I intend to,’ she lied. ‘And thanks, guv. You’ve no idea what it means to—’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Bright got to his feet. ‘Same again?’
Without waiting for an answer, he set off for the bar. She wished now she’d never agreed to come for a drink with him; wished she’d called time on what had been a ghastly year for
both of them. When he looked over his shoulder, she took out her mobile phone and lifted it to her ear, even though there was nobody on the other end. As he turned his back on her, she pocketed the
phone, gathered her bag and coat from the back of her chair, and made a beeline for the bar.
‘Don’t bother with mine, guv.’ She put twenty quid on the counter and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll catch you later. I’ve got to go.’
He looked crestfallen. ‘Will I see you . . .’
But she was already halfway through the door.
T
wo exhausting days later, with her meticulous attention to detail driving her mad, Daniels closed the Corbridge file with Bright’s words ringing in her ears. He was
right. The case
was
dead in the water. She’d found not a shred of evidence that might have been overlooked, nothing at all that would take her any further. But still the card in Father
Simon’s hand nagged at her subconscious.
She just couldn’t get it out of her mind.
Removing her warrant card from her computer, she sat back in her chair, rubbing her aching neck and wondering how she would tell David and Elsie Short. As she recalled her last visit to their
house, Jo entered her thoughts. There had been no further contact between them and she was desperate for news.
Daniels looked out of the window. While she remained stuck in this limbo of utter despondency, outside her window, life was somehow continuing as normal. A couple passed by, their arms around
each other, laughing and carrying on without a care in the world. Walking behind them was a teenager wearing just skinny jeans and T-shirt. She must be frozen without a coat on.
Daniels sat bolt upright in her chair.
Breathe. Breathe.
The girl in the street had brought to mind an inconsistency, something she hadn’t thought of before. Daniels’ hands fumbled with her warrant card as she tried to slot it back into
her computer. She typed a command and waited until the investigation into Alan Stephens’ death popped up on screen. Drumming her fingers on the desktop, she dared not let herself believe that
what she’d seized upon had any significance at all.
C’mon, c’mon.
It seemed to take forever for the relevant page to load, then finally it appeared on screen. Daniels was right. Despite Stephens’ murder having taken place in November, items taken from
Monica Stephens did not include any outdoor garments. And, if this was the case, it was tantamount to a major cock-up for the murder team, and for statement reader DS Robson in particular. It might
even prove to be the breakthrough she’d been hoping for. It was all there in black and white – right before her eyes.
How could they all have missed it?
Daniels keyed Gormley’s number into her mobile.
He answered right away.
‘Hank, we have a problem: Monica Stephens’ coat was never retrieved for forensic testing. I need to re-interview her right away.’
‘You’re kidding!’ He sounded half asleep. ‘Have you tried to reach her?’
‘I’m about to, but I want to check CCTV footage from the airport first. You going to be in later?’
‘Yeah, I’ll be here. Me, Santa and a crate of beer. Let me know what gives.’
She hung up.
Using the internal phone, she rang the exhibits officer and asked him to pull the relevant evidence box, then immediately set off downstairs to collect them. The box was waiting for her when she
got there and she signed it out and carried it straight to the new murder suite. Selecting a disk marked –
Interior: Newcastle Airport –
she settled down to watch. Within
seconds, Monica Stephens and Teresa Branson walked into shot in an airport lounge – and both were wearing coats.
Daniels fast-forwarded the tape to the end, until Monica disappeared off screen through a large revolving door. Then, inserting the second disk, Daniels picked up Monica leaving through the same
door, still wearing her coat, stopping briefly at a pay booth before making her way to the short-stay car park. Moments later, her car drove away.
D
aniels was a firm advocate of the cognitive interviewing technique; a verbal probing method allowing the interviewee to think aloud. She’d used it to unlock
witnesses’ memories many times before and was hoping that it would do the same for Monica in the comfort of her own home.
Stephens’ widow was at home when Daniels rang. She agreed to be interviewed even though it was Boxing Day. What else was there to do that mattered any more, she’d said, adding that
Bank Holidays were for families and hers was now gone. Alan might not have been a saint, by any stretch of the imagination, but he was all she had and she missed him dreadfully. She’d only
remained in the country on account of his elderly mother, delaying her plans to move back to Holland until the New Year. Daniels drove straight there.
Stephens’ mother seemed to know why she was there and disappeared into the kitchen leaving the two women alone to talk. Taking a digital recorder from her pocket, Daniels turned it on,
mindful that she was collecting evidence for use at a later date. She urged Monica to close her eyes, relax, and try to recall every detail of that evening, from the moment she left Court Mews to
take Teresa Branson out for dinner to her return home and the discovery of her husband’s body. Listening intently to every word, every hesitation, Daniels watched as the colour drained from
Monica’s face when she revisited the horrific memory.
Although she’d already established that Monica had been wearing a coat, Daniels still needed to hear her confirm it and was careful not to put words into her mouth.
‘What were you wearing that night, Monica?’
‘Brown pants, boots . . . a camel coat and scarf.’
‘You definitely had a coat on when you returned home?’
Monica nodded.
‘Keep concentrating,’ Daniels said gently. ‘You’re doing
really
well. Now, tell me what you’re seeing.’
Monica’s bottom lip quivered. ‘The door . . . the front door.’
‘Is it open, or closed?’
‘Slightly ajar.’
‘Push it open . . . see what’s inside.’
Monica opened her eyes wide and stared intently at the floor. ‘I found something . . . in the hallway. I’m not sure what it was.’
‘Take your time.’
‘I remember bending down . . . no, I’m sorry, it’s no good.’
‘Try to picture it.’
‘A letter? Writing on a card . . . a business card, perhaps?’
Oh my God!
Daniels felt the colour drain from her own face. ‘Did you pick it up?’
‘No, yes . . . I thought Alan . . . I thought he must have dropped it on his way in.’
Images of prayer cards flashed before Daniels’ eyes in quick succession: in Father Simon’s hands, in Jenny Tait’s mouth, next to Jamil Malik’s twisted body and in Ron
Naylor’s hands in full view of a
Crimewatch
audience.
‘Monica, this is
very
important: what did you do with it?’
The Dutch woman’s hand instinctively touched her pocket.
Daniels felt herself getting hotter, wished she could crack open a window, get some fresh air. But this was no time to interrupt such an important interview. In her mind’s eye, Monica
walked further into the flat, found her husband dead on the floor and fled the scene to Salieri’s restaurant next door. Staff called for an ambulance and, finding her in a state of shock, the
paramedics whisked her off to hospital before the police arrived. Her coat was left behind – returned to her after the event – since given away to charity.
Now the race was on to find that coat . . .
I
t was getting dark as Daniels pulled on to the driveway and parked the Toyota behind Gormley’s car. With a bottle of whisky in one hand and a thick folder in the other,
she got out and walked to the front door, using her elbow to ring the doorbell. When no one answered, she assumed it wasn’t working and hammered on the door with the side of her fist. It was
yanked open by Gormley, his face poised to remonstrate with his noisy visitor, his anger lifting the second he saw who it was.