‘No. You have my word,’ Daniels said softly. ‘But whoever murdered Sarah is still not in the system. Eventually he’ll make a mistake and when he does—’
‘He’ll have killed someone else!’ Elsie wept.
I
t was never this easy before he went inside, but one look at the colour of his money and the kid took off, thinking he’d scored big-time. Until he brought back the
goods, expecting his bit in return. Silly boy. It was like taking candy from a baby. He could hardly go running to the filth now, could he?
Besides, the dead can’t talk.
They’d agreed to meet at Big Waters, a remote nature reserve on the outskirts of Brunswick where the exchange would take place without fear of detection, or so he’d told the little
scrote. But as the kid stood there, his sweaty palm outstretched waiting for the dosh, it was clear he hadn’t quite thought through the implications of handing a gun and ammo to a killer
– someone on a mission with serious work to do.
Until
that
moment – the one that made his heart sing.
That awesome moment when the smile left the kid’s face and fear heightened his senses, causing a brief but unmistakable flicker of understanding in his eyes as he found himself staring
down the barrel of his own destiny. Struck dumb, he backed away into the swamp, tripping in the weeds that fringed the open water, more terrified of the gun than the fact that he hadn’t
learned to swim.
He fell backwards and came up gasping for breath, panic taking over.
Watching from the water’s edge as the kid slipped beneath the surface, once . . . twice . . . three times . . . he felt pure joy when the bubbles erupted, proof that liquid had entered the
kid’s lungs, pushing out his last excruciating breath. Contentment washed over him as he sat down, clasped his hands together and pulled his knees up to his chest, gazing out over the
shimmering surface of the lake, his face warmed by the sun, birdsong all around him. It was almost poetic; just another tragic accident – a daft sod messing around and coming to grief, unable
to summon help in such a remote location.
Life sucks.
Reaching into his pocket, he unfolded Jenny’s picture and laid it on the grass beside him. And still she smiled up at him as she had done for all those years. But was she ready to pay for
his mother’s brutality, he wondered? Were any of them ready? Pity if they weren’t. If he had to, he’d spend the rest of his life hunting them down.
And then he’d find her too and get better acquainted.
He fondled the gun in his hand. Its provenance didn’t concern him. The kid had chosen well.
Shame he couldn’t stick around.
The balance and weight felt good as he lifted his
right arm, lining Jenny up in the sights.
Fingering the trigger, he squeezed gently.
CLICK.
He replaced the empty cartridge with a full one.
It glided effortlessly into the magazine.
Yes . . . it’d do nicely for her.
J
ennifer Tait entered her house laden with shopping bags, a worried look on her face. She activated the deadlock, put down her parcels, took out her tissue and wiped her sweaty
brow. Heart pounding, she stood on her tiptoes and peered back through the spyhole of her front door. The image was distorted; apart from children riding round and round in circles on their
bicycles the lane outside was deserted. She watched the youngsters for a moment or two, comforted by their laughter, and then sank back on to her heels, relieved.
Lifting her shopping from the floor, Jenny went through to her back kitchen where she set it down on the bench and put on the kettle. But still she couldn’t help dwelling on the past few
uneasy weeks. She’d had the distinct impression she was being watched: walking to and from the local shops, on the bus, even while travelling in her friend’s car. At all times of the
day and night in fact, though she’d not yet told anyone for fear of being labelled paranoid.
But wasn’t that in itself paranoid?
Jenny had to admit it. She’d been of a nervous disposition for most of her life, since being followed home from an NHS placement at Hartlepool General when she was a student nurse. She
sighed. That was over thirty years ago!
Wasn’t it time to stop all that nonsense?
As she had done many times before, Jenny dismissed her feelings as an overactive imagination and vowed to stop being suspicious of folks. She made herself a promise: from now on she would stop
looking over her shoulder and enjoy her old age. Today was going to be the first day of the rest of her life.
Pouring water on to a teabag, Jenny cheered herself up with a chocolate digestive. She was clearing away crumbs when the phone rang. Dorothy was an old friend, a former neighbour, a woman
she’d kept in touch with for fifteen years since they had both decided to move home and spend their retirement near their kids.
‘It’s about time you came to see me . . .’ Dorothy repeated her invitation as she did almost every time she rang. ‘You really must come, Jen – if only for a few
days. The Lake District is wonderful and it’s been too long.’
‘I will,’ Jenny lied, not wanting to tell her friend that times were hard, finances harder. ‘Or you could come here! We could visit all our old haunts. You wouldn’t
recognize Newcastle these days. It’s absolutely stunning on the Quayside.’
‘We could go to a show at the Sage,’ Dorothy suggested. ‘I hear it’s marvellous.’
Jenny began to get worried. How would she possibly finance such a treat? She changed the subject quickly, began chatting about the old days, failing to notice the hooded figure dart quickly past
her window.
Lucky for her, he wasn’t ready to kill her . . . yet.
J
o Soulsby approached the Regional Psychology Service, already late for her first appointment. The building was on a sink estate. Many properties were boarded up, awaiting
demolition. Hers was heavily protected by electronic security alarms linked to the local nick, iron bars at the windows and closed-circuit television. In the central panel of the front door,
someone had carved WANKER. Jo was so used to it being there, it hardly even registered.
She took a deep breath and let herself in.
A number of clients in the waiting area glowered at her as she passed through. First in the queue was Gary Henderson. He didn’t look best pleased. Almost as wide as he was tall, he was an
ugly man with a scar down his right cheek and a nose partially disintegrated from chasing the dragon.
Feeling his eyes on her back, Jo made her way to the general office and quickly checked her appointments diary. How bad could things possibly get? The worst two clients back to back when she
least felt able to cope with them. In no fit state to interview anyone, she walked back to the reception area and spread her hands in apology.
‘I’m so sorry, but I’m going to have to reschedule.’
The first client in the queue, Jonathan Forster, stood up. He straightened his baseball cap, rolled up his magazine and stuffed it in the back pocket of his jeans. He moved off without saying a
word, followed by everyone else, bar one. Henderson wasn’t going anywhere. He barged right past her, heading for her office. By the time she caught up with him he’d thrown himself down
in a chair and was chewing the skin round his nails, projecting the pieces he’d bitten off across the room with ease. For a normal person, such objectionable behaviour would have been
shocking. From Henderson and many clients like him, sadly it was the norm. Jo knew she was in for some stick.
‘I’ve told you I won’t accept that behaviour in my office.’ She held out a tissue. ‘I thought we had an agreement.’
‘We did . . .’ Henderson smirked, ignoring her outstretched hand. ‘I turned up on time. You were late.’
‘Yes, it was unavoidable.’
She lied so as not to give him an excuse to kick off. He had a tendency to do that from time to time, not for any particular reason, just because he could. Henderson cleared phlegm from the back
of his throat and made a meal of swallowing it. If that was his way of winding her up, it had the desired effect. Feeling physically sick, Jo left her seat and crossed the room to get a drink. The
cooler was running low; the water took forever to dribble into a plastic beaker, adding to her client’s restlessness. She hoped he’d just walk out. But when she turned around and made
her way back to her desk he was making himself comfortable.
‘Just because I have to see you as part of my licence doesn’t mean you can treat me like shit,’ he grinned. ‘I want my pound of flesh, miss.’
Jo took in the clock on the wall.
Ten o’clock.
As if sensing her antipathy, Henderson pulled his chair a little closer, placed his elbows on her desk and cracked his knuckles. Close up, his physique appeared much larger and more powerful
than it was in reality. He cracked his knuckles again in a show of intimidation. She could see from his dilated pupils that he was high on something. With no energy to argue, she sat down and wrote
his name at the top of a fresh page in her notebook.
The interview started badly.
Why didn’t that surprise her?
Henderson had been difficult all his life; his impertinence and bad behaviour witnessed in every dole office,
doctors’ surgery and police station within a radius of thirty miles. She’d supervised him since his release on life licence four years earlier. He’d spent the majority of his
adult life inside for the rape and murder of a university student. He’d put his hands up to having had sex with her, his defence team arguing that it was consensual and that some other person
had assaulted her afterwards. Jo thought it more likely that the student had spurned his advances, that he’d flown into a violent rage, killing her with unimaginable brutality. The jury
obviously agreed with her. It took them less than an hour to reach a guilty verdict.
Henderson might have been an accomplished liar, but his denial of the killing didn’t wash with the parole board. It was only in the latter stages of his sentence that he realized he
wouldn’t get out unless and until he admitted culpability. Now here he was, sitting in her office with about as much remorse as if he’d stolen a pint of milk from a neighbour’s
doorstep.
At that very moment, Jo hated her job, hated everything connected with criminal law. But most of all, she hated manipulative clients like Henderson who managed to dupe the authorities into
releasing them when they deserved to spend the rest of their depraved life behind bars. He came from a long list of offenders she didn’t like, didn’t want to supervise – most
certainly didn’t empathize with. His lips were moving but she didn’t hear him. On and on he went, with plenty to say for himself. But Jo had shut down and didn’t come to until he
made a sudden movement with his hand.
Jo’s eyes automatically shifted to the alarm button located on the inside of her desk drawer. If she hit it now, her colleagues would come running. But Henderson was close enough to grab
her, to do her real harm. Everything she knew about him leapt to the forefront of her mind. She flinched as he repeated the action, relaxing his clenched fist as it reached his brow, combing his
right hand through his hair, grinning all the while, making out she’d misinterpreted the movement and was spooked over nothing.
Was he trying to intimidate her?
Jo wasn’t sure.
Maybe she was seeing things that just weren’t there.
It was crazy seeing him in the state she was in.
Glancing surreptitiously at her watch, she was relieved to see that their half-hour session was nearly over. Somehow, she’d managed to get through it.
She looked down at the notebook on her desk.
Apart from Henderson’s name, the page was empty.
D
aniels was about to go home and freshen up when Maxwell approached, seemingly in a panic. She didn’t try hiding her irritation. He was thick-skinned. Any attempt on her
part to spare his feelings would’ve been a total waste of time.
‘Not now, Neil, I’m busy.’
‘Super wants to see you in his office right away.’
‘Again?’ She sighed. ‘He say why?’
Maxwell shook his head.
Daniels vaulted the stairs two at a time. Beneath her, Maxwell took the opportunity to get an eyeful. She didn’t need eyes in the back of her head to know what he was up to.
‘By the way,’ he shouted up after her, ‘the pathologist’s on his way.’
Daniels turned. ‘Who’ve we got?’
‘Stanton.’
She smiled. Of all the Home Office Forensic Pathologists available, Tim Stanton would’ve been her personal choice. ‘Neil, do me a favour. Call and tell him I’ll meet him at the
crime scene. And while you’re at it, contact Monica Stephens. She’s expecting me shortly. Give her my apologies and let her know I’ll be along to see her later in the day. But
don’t be pinned down to a specific time if you can help it. I don’t know how long I’ll be.’
Entering the murder suite on the floor above, Daniels headed straight for ‘Mission Control’ on the far side of the room. Reaching the door, she noticed a shiny new sign that
hadn’t been there two hours earlier: DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT PHILLIP REGINALD BRIGHT.
Reginald, eh?
Daniels smiled, reminded of her paternal grandfather. She could hear Bright’s muffled voice through the door as he talked on the phone. His angry tone made her thank her lucky stars she
was not on the other end of the line.
She knocked gently . . .
For a full ten minutes, Daniels waited patiently for Bright to finish his conversation. Eventually she got bored and stuck her head round the door, only to be waved away. Irritated, she’d
gone back to work, returning half an hour later. During that time, she’d had a change of heart. She knew she had to level with him. To do anything else would be professional suicide.
She knocked on his door for a second time.
‘Come!’
Daniels braced herself, wondering how she would tell him. More importantly, how would he react? She expected to get her head in her hands and bloody well deserved to. She’d been stupid and
resolved to take whatever punishment was coming her way. Slowly she turned the handle.