‘Sorry, must’ve fallen asleep,’ he said, opening the door wider.
Daniels’ mind was doing somersaults as she tried to make sense of what she now knew. ‘Careful what you wish for, Hank. Naylor’s case and ours are definitely one and the same.
And I’m not talking about Sarah Short or Father Simon here, either. I’m talking about Alan Stephens!’
Gormley was puzzled.
Daniels pushed right past him into the house. Even in her preoccupied state of mind she couldn’t miss the distinct lack of Christmas in the living room. One present, beautifully wrapped,
sat alone on the sideboard, unopened, the gift tag made out:
To Julie, with love
. Daniels was curious to know where Gormley’s wife was at such a pivotal moment in the calendar, but was
too afraid to ask. She turned to face him as he arrived by her side.
‘I just took Monica through a cognitive interview,’ she said. ‘She
did
have a coat on that night. And what’s more, she remembered seeing a business card on the
floor as she entered the flat.’
Gormley shook his head. ‘Not true. I was there when SOCO did a sweep of the crime scene. I’m telling you, there was no card.’
‘Not in the flat, no. Monica told me she found it in the hallway and picked it up, thinking Stephens had dropped it on his way in. Seconds later, she found his body and legged it. She
thinks she put it in her coat pocket—’
‘
Thinks?
That sounds like a definite-maybe to me.’
‘What if the killer put it there deliberately, Hank?’
‘Whoa, slow down. I’m half-cut here and you’re making my head hurt.’
‘Be serious!’ Daniels said. ‘What if it wasn’t a business card at all, but a Catholic prayer card?’ They both sat down. She waited for a response but, for once,
Gormley didn’t have a slick one-liner. He sobered up right there and then. ‘There’s an evil bastard on the patch, Hank. Some God squad freak, by the sound of it. And serial
killers don’t just stop – it’s not in their pathology.’
Silence.
Then laughter through the window. An explosion outside. Someone was letting off fireworks, a poignant reminder of the night Alan Stephens died. Not that Daniels needed one. That date was not one
she’d forget in a hurry. It was likely to remain imprinted on her brain for evermore. From start to finish, her first case as SIO had been one bloody nightmare. And still was.
‘Oh, do me a favour,’ Gormley scoffed, reacting to her glum expression. ‘Monica hasn’t got the coat any more, has she?’
Daniels shook her head. ‘Gave it to Kidney Research. Couldn’t bring herself to wear it again. I’m recalling the squad and I’ll get Lisa on the coat first thing tomorrow
morning.’
Even as she said it, she knew it was a long shot.
‘On a Sunday, in the Christmas holidays!’ Gormley’s shoulders dropped. ‘Don’t fancy your chances.’
Daniels couldn’t allow his misgivings to derail her. They weren’t home and dry yet but her recent discovery had filled her with hope and expectation. She was sure he felt it too. And
soon Jo would be home.
C
armichael pulled slowly to the kerb outside a large grey warehouse guarded by a chain-link fence. Beside the gate was a large sign:
KIDNEY RESEARCH – Please Give
Generously
.
As the crow flies, it was less than a mile and a half from the incident room in a rundown area on the south side of the Tyne. Carmichael didn’t think it would be long before the land, once
a thriving industrial estate, was snapped up for redevelopment as much of Gateshead Quayside had already been. The adjacent building, demolished long ago, had only the footprint remaining; the
ground it once stood on was over-run with weeds, with long tufts of brown grass poking through where the concrete had cracked. The only reminder of its existence was an old bench that lay abandoned
on its side: wood rotting, planks missing, but a tiny brass plate still attached.
She got out of her car, craning her neck to read the inscription:
DONATED BY ALUN ARMSTRONG.
‘A former worker,’ a voice behind her said.
Carmichael turned to see a stout man in his late fifties with wavy grey hair, gentle eyes and a ready smile.
‘Ken Carruthers . . .’ He held out his hand. ‘I hate to admit it, but I’ve been here longer than the bench. I’ve worked for the charity for twenty years, been
warehouse supervisor for ten.’
‘DC Carmichael. Thanks for seeing me. Sorry to drag you out.’
‘No problem. Tell you the truth, I hate Christmas. Just don’t let on to the wife.’ Carruthers smiled. He made a meal of looking over his shoulder, where a woman was waiting in
the car. ‘I have to warn you, mind, it’s a tall order. The words
needle
and
haystack
spring to mind.’
Carmichael forced a smile. It was not what she wanted to hear. A month had gone by since Monica Stephens had donated her coat to the charity. In all honesty, she didn’t hold out much hope
of ever finding it.
‘You’re lucky in one way: we’re closed for two weeks over the Christmas period.’ Carruthers nodded towards the building. ‘You’d better come inside.’
They crossed a yard lined with recycling containers. As they walked, Carruthers explained how heavily the charity relied upon the local community to supply them with items for resale. ‘You
wouldn’t believe how much people chuck away,’ he said, taking a remote-control device from his pocket and pushing a green button.
In front of them, a galvanized steel curtain began to move slowly upwards. As it passed eye level, a mountain of plastic bags came into view.
Carmichael’s face dropped. ‘Jesus!’
‘See what I mean?’
‘And there’s no way of knowing where each bag came from?’
The curtain came to a halt with a heavy thud.
‘Or how long they’ve been here, I’m afraid,’ Carruthers said. ‘You’ll have to search each and every one.’
B
right had risen early, determined to kick off his first day back at work with a more positive outlook – albeit without Stella. But a lot can happen in just two hours. A
dressing-down from the ACC had put paid to that. And the atmosphere between the two officers was as bad as it had ever been.
‘Tell me you’re not serious!’ Martin yelled.
‘DCI Daniels is certain, sir . . .’ Weary of standing, Bright shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced at an empty chair, hoping his boss would take the hint and
invite him to sit.
He was out of luck. Martin just glared at him.
‘I’ve contacted Soulsby’s brief and he is trying to arrange an application for bail.’ Bright’s eyes scanned Martin’s face. It looked as though he must have
shaved in a hurry that morning: his face had more nicks than a butcher’s block, and a tiny piece of bloodstained tissue was stuck to his neck, giving the impression that his pristine shirt
collar was torn. ‘It was the very least I could do, given the doubt over her guilt.’
‘Jesus Christ! That woman’s reputation hangs in shreds and we –
you,
are wholly responsible. This is a public relations nightmare.’ The ACC looked past him towards
the closed door. ‘Where the hell
is
Daniels, anyway?’
Bright had to stop himself from answering with:
How the hell should I know?
Daniels had been a law unto herself in recent weeks, distracted by work and whatever else was going on in that
head of hers. Even after Stella’s funeral, when he’d invited his colleagues back to the house, she’d made her excuses and rushed off early, having stayed just long enough not to
appear insensitive. It wasn’t like her. He felt like a pig, hitting on her when Stella was alive, and wondered if his behaviour that day had changed the dynamics between them for good. It
hadn’t been his finest hour.
He sighed – he should’ve waited to make his play.
‘Well?’ Martin yelled.
‘The DCI is busy making further enquiries and mobilizing the squad. I believe the Tactical Support Group are gearing up to help in the search for the coat as we speak.’
His words made Martin even more irate. ‘Get out!’
‘Sir.’
‘Oh and, Bright . . .’
With his back turned, Bright winced. He knew what was coming and steeled himself for another tirade. Letting go of the door handle, he turned to face his boss.
‘You make bloody sure the press don’t get wind of this until I’m good and ready to speak with them,’ Martin said.
‘It’s too late for that.’
‘What d’you mean, too late?’
Martin looked as if he was about to explode. Bright wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole but decided, after a moment’s hesitation, that honesty was the only way to go.
‘They’re already camped outside, baying for blood,’ he said. ‘The nationals are wetting their knickers for the story and they’re prepared to pay handsomely to get
it.’
‘What? They’ll crucify us! Who the hell tipped them off?’
‘Who do you think?’ Martin knew as well as he did that William Oliver was a solicitor who liked his name in the papers and his face on Sky News. ‘I assure you it wasn’t
one of ours, sir.’
‘Oh really!’ The ACC bit back. ‘Well, I’ll give them a bloody exclusive, Bright! And believe me, heads
will
roll. And yours will be one of them, just in case
you’re in any doubt.’
I
n the MIR, the atmosphere was a little less tense. Some of the murder investigation team were nursing hangovers when they arrived at work, regretting the excesses of the
Christmas break. Others were happy to be there: rest days cancelled at short notice meant an opportunity to work overtime. With double pay and time off in lieu on offer, even Maxwell was glad of
the opportunity to work.
‘You come to give me grief too?’ Robson said as Gormley approached.
Gormley walked straight by, took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. He sat down at his desk, in no mood for small talk, particularly with Robson. But his colleague failed to
take the hint.
‘The boss’ll be chuffed,’ Robson said, the trouble he was in momentarily outweighed by his enthusiasm for Jo’s imminent release. Only then did he take in Gormley’s
scowl and realize he was in for the high jump. ‘Where is she?’
Gormley glanced in the direction of Daniels’ empty office. He shrugged. ‘Maybe she’s gone to make sure that the CPS don’t oppose her release. Although I’d like to
see them try! She’s got a lot of time for Jo. So did we all, until your ridiculous cock-up.’
Robson’s grin slid off his face. ‘Hank, about the coat business—’
‘Save your excuses, man.’ Gormley pulled his chair closer to his desk and logged on to his computer. ‘What’s done is done. You weren’t the only one to
blame.’
Robson knew he was referring to Bright, who, for some reason, hadn’t yet made an appearance. ‘Has anyone contacted Jo’s sons?’ he asked timidly.
‘Oliver’s taking care of it.’
Feeling for his pocket, Robson pulled out his mobile, which had already switched to voicemail. He collected the message, then asked: ‘Is your mobile switched on?’
‘Why?’
‘That was the guv’nor.’ He pocketed the phone.
‘And?’
‘He sounds frantic. He’s been trying to reach you.’
Gormley shrugged. He had ignored a number of calls that day. Since the news got out, his pocket hadn’t stopped vibrating. ‘Yeah, well, he can wait. It was
him
got us into this
mess.’ He wondered whether Bright felt guilty at all. ‘If he’d listened to the boss, Jo might not have spent the past six weeks inside. Can you imagine what that would do to
someone like her?’
‘He wasn’t firing on all cylinders, what with Stella—’
‘Yeah, well, we’ve all got problems. But we still have a job to do. And
some
of us manage to do it properly.’
Robson looked at the floor. ‘He’s on his way in, wants all hands on deck and a debrief from the boss as soon as possible.’
‘He’ll be lucky,’ Gormley moved off. ‘I’ll see if I can track her down.’
‘I
am grateful to Your Lordship for hearing this bail application . . .’ William Oliver glanced at the man seated in a high-backed leather chair. The judge looked
splendid in his red robe and black sash, which was tight around his chest on account of a long-standing weight problem; sweating profusely from the heat in the courtroom, he took off his wig and
wiped his brow. Oliver cleared his throat before continuing: ‘M’lord, as you are aware, my client, Josephine Soulsby, has been incarcerated at Low Newton Remand Centre on a very serious
indictment of murdering her ex-husband Alan Stephens, pending a hearing at this Crown Court.’
‘Yes, Mr Oliver. I am familiar with the case.’
Daniels was sitting on the police bench, willing the two men to get on with it. She’d already lost time – twenty-four hours, to be precise – because no judge was available to
hear a bail application yesterday. But, all things considered, she counted herself lucky that she’d found a court – any court – sitting at this time of the year. Fortunately for
her, a big case due to finish before the holidays had run on and the sitting judge had insisted that those involved proceed with closing arguments without further delay.
Who said the wheels of justice were slow to turn?
She looked across the courtroom to the dock, where Jo was on her feet, eyes front, flanked by two prison officers. She looked pale and gaunt, a fresh bruise beneath her left eye. Directly
opposite her, a young female stenographer sat with her hands paused over keys in readiness to resume typing. The woman looked sideways as the courtroom door opened. Four barristers entered,
acknowledged the judge with a nod and quickly took their seats, glaring at Oliver because he’d somehow managed to nip in and gain His Lordship’s attention during the short adjournment
of another important case.
Finally, Oliver decided to get a move on. ‘M’lord, new evidence has come to light of which the police had no prior knowledge. This leads them to believe that the death of Stephens
was the work of a serial offender and not my client. If Your Lordship so wishes, Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels is in the courtroom and will verify this under oath.’