The powerful nostalgic image made Daniels smile. Then suddenly her smile disappeared and was replaced by a dark sadness she found hard to bear and even harder to hide. Looking up, she was
relieved to see that neither Stanton nor Bright had been paying her any attention. They had moved along the hallway and were having a discussion at the living-room door.
Stanton was making a small sketch of the apartment with his gold Cross pen that rolled effortlessly across the paper like water over a weir. Daniels didn’t need to see the sketch to know
that it would be meticulous in every detail. It was the way he did things and she was delighted that he was going to be working with her on her first case as Senior Investigating Officer.
In the living room, she walked carefully round the corpse and drew back the window blinds, allowing them some natural light. When she turned around, Stanton was already gloved up and on his
knees inspecting the body, careful not to handle or move it as he began his initial observations with Bright looking on.
‘The victim’s wife formally identified the body in situ,’ Bright loosened his tie, his well-trained eyes scanning the room. ‘Said she found him like this when she
returned to the flat at approximately twelve forty-five this morning.’ His comment floated in the air as he wandered off into the hallway, opening and closing doors on either side. A brief
check and he was back. ‘I’m sorry I can’t stay. I have another appointment at two.’
‘I’m surprised you have any time at all to spare guv,’ Daniels said pointedly. ‘With your latest case at such a critical stage, I mean.’
Stanton didn’t look up. His tone was sombre. ‘Awful business, I heard it on the news.’
Bright agreed and carried on, ignoring Daniels’ snide remark. ‘Mind if Kate fills you in, Tim? She’s SIO on this one.’
Stanton sat back on his heels, looking genuinely pleased. ‘Is that right? Well, congratulations, it’s about time too!’
Forcing an uncomfortable smile, Bright gave Daniels a friendly tap her on the shoulder. There was something not right about his demeanour, a definite unease she’d never seen before. He
couldn’t look her in the eye and there could be only one explanation for him being there.
He wanted into her crime scene.
He knew that until the body was moved all visits were logged in and out.
He could hardly just breeze in there unnoticed, could he?
By now the two men were arranging to play golf, settling on a date the following week with an agreement to cancel if the exigencies of the job prevented either of them turning up. Not being part
of the conversation, she turned her back on them and tried focusing on the chain of events that might have led to Alan Stephens’ death, but found she couldn’t concentrate with her
guv’nor hanging around.
His presence still baffled her.
He could so easily have spoken with Stanton at the door. And yet he’d chosen to go through the palaver of getting kitted up in case of forensic contamination – one murder scene to
another – but why in hell’s name had he bothered to attend at all? In the normal course of events, his case would take precedence over a shooting.
Any bloody shooting.
Daniels
knew only too well how busy he’d be. Did he think she’d miss some vital clue? Cock it up, whatever
it
was? What exactly was he expecting to find?
She was sure of one thing: her guv’nor definitely knew something she didn’t.
‘You go ahead,’ Stanton said. ‘We can manage here, can’t we, Kate?’
Daniels wasn’t paying attention. She was staring out of the window at the familiar arch of the Tyne Bridge. It was jammed with traffic as usual. The sun glinting off waiting vehicles
looked like a long string of diamonds suspended in mid-air. Beneath the bridge, seagulls bobbed on the surface of a cold grey river flowing gently eastward to the North Sea beyond. She turned round
just in time to see Bright disappearing from the room.
‘Kate?’
‘Sorry, did you say something?’ Daniels was miles away.
‘Only that we should get on with it,’ Stanton replied.
He smiled self-consciously, most probably embarrassed by the frosty atmosphere he’d witnessed between the two detectives. Momentarily, Daniels thought he was about to question her about
it, but then he chose not to interfere. Instead, he took a small dictating device from his breast pocket, ready to start work. He began by describing the apartment, referring to the sketches
he’d drawn on the way in. He spoke softly and clearly into the digital recorder, emphasizing the fact that there were no obvious signs of blood outside of the room in which the body had been
found. So deep was his concentration he was oblivious to her presence.
Daniels’ eyes travelled over Stephens’ body as Stanton spoke, his voice coming and going as he continued his running commentary – occasionally stopping to peer more closely at
specific areas. Stephens lay face up, several feet to the right of a white marble fireplace that was heavily splashed with blood, his torso at a slight angle and jammed against the legs of a coffee
table, his head nearest to the door that adjoined the dining room. His left arm was by his side, touching the ground, palm down. His right arm lay across his body, his hand resting on his
chest.
‘He was shot through the front of the head,’ Stanton said. ‘The entry wound being smaller than the exit wound at the back . . .’
Daniels had a wry smile to herself. She bore Stanton no resentment. He was not the type to teach his granny how to suck eggs, just a meticulous scientist who took nothing whatsoever for
granted.
‘The deceased wouldn’t have been able to move very much at all after being shot.’ Stanton continued taking careful measurements as he spoke. ‘There are no drag marks
indicating an attempt to pull himself along, no marks I can see on surrounding furniture.’
Daniels nodded. ‘No indication of a scuffle at all, do you agree?’
The pathologist glanced around, considering. ‘I would think it highly unlikely that the killer met any resistance or attempt at self-protection by the victim. I think this poor chap was
completely taken by surprise. Mercifully it would have been over in a flash.’ Moving round the corpse, he looked curiously at the bow tie that was spotted with blood and lying on a glass
coffee table. Carefully lifting it up with a pair of small tweezers, he pointed at the table top. ‘See here . . . I’d get your photographer to take a shot of this.’
‘I will . . .’ Daniels came closer. There was a perfect image of a bow tie on the blood-splashed glass. ‘If he’d had time and been relaxed enough to take off his tie
before the killer struck, that would suggest he wasn’t followed into the apartment and shot immediately, d’you agree?’
Stanton nodded. He was about done. Dictating the last details of environmental temperature and discoloration present in the body, he ended his recording and began to remove his rubber
gloves.
‘Someone from the forensic science laboratory will be along soon,’ he concluded. ‘Then we can bag him up and get him to the mortuary.’
O
n reaching the VPU, Jo Soulsby was escorted to an interview room by a prison officer named Adams. She knew that Woodgate would be waiting and had made up her mind that the
interview would be brief. With any luck, the Governor would transfer the prisoner away from Acklington and she’d never have to set eyes on the despicable individual again.
Adams grasped the door handle. ‘Ready?’ he asked.
Jo took a deep breath and nodded.
Adams opened the door. Jo was shocked by the physical deterioration in Woodgate since she’d last seen him. Under the harsh tube lighting there was no hiding the fact that he’d been
in a fight. More likely he’d been bullied. He looked washed out, had a split lip, a scuff mark on his forehead and an enormous black eye. Now she understood why he was in ‘the
block’. Prisoners were only put here for one of two reasons: either they were being disciplined, or else they had requested solitary confinement for their own protection under Rule 43 of the
prison regulations.
Woodgate kept his head down, refusing to look her in the eye. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him like this. Most sex offenders she’d ever worked with were in denial. This
one was practically squirming in his seat; obviously not ready to talk about his offence – not to a woman, and certainly not to her. He’d already told his personal officer that only a
bloke would understand. He didn’t want to see Soulsby because she made him feel uncomfortable.
Damn right too! Why should he be allowed to forget? His victim never would.
Jo pulled up a chair and sat down opposite the prisoner at the only table in the room. She wasn’t ready for what happened next. Without warning, Woodgate overturned the table and
everything on it, sending her crashing to the floor.
He began yelling like a man possessed.
Fearing a hostage situation, Jo was quick to act. She slammed her fist against a red button on the wall. Suddenly, all hell broke loose. The alarm bell was deafening. Several prison officers
charged into the room as if World War Three had broken out. Two held Woodgate down, using their knees in the small of his back as leverage. Adams positioned his forearm across the back of
Woodgate’s neck, jamming his face hard against the tiled floor so they could get the cuffs on him.
Jo scrambled across the floor to the far wall, shaken by the suddenness and ferocity of Woodgate’s temper. Even though she’d read reports of it, experiencing it first-hand was
something else entirely. He was hauled out into the corridor, kicking and screaming obscenities, his voice remaining in the room long after he’d disappeared from sight.
‘Want the Medical Officer?’ Adams offered.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Jo was anything but.
For a moment or two she scrabbled around on all fours trying to retrieve her notes. But her hands were trembling so much that her case papers point-blank refused to go back in their file so she
stopped trying to make them. Sitting back on her heels, she looked on as Adams righted the table and overturned chair so she could sit down.
‘You sure you don’t want the MO?’ he said. ‘Cup of tea, slug of brandy?’
‘Probably the latter . . .’ Jo stood up. ‘But I want to get out of here more.’
What she really wanted was to talk to Daniels and sort out her life. But that would have to wait until she reached the privacy of her own home. Using a payphone in a prison only drew the
attention of passers-by. One aborted attempt to speak to the DCI was one too many.
Adams’ voice pulled her back into the room. ‘He might just have done you a favour.’
‘Oh yeah, how do you work that out?’
Adams grinned. ‘Well, there’s no need for an assessment now, is there?’
‘Good point.’ Jo appreciated his attempt to cheer her up, could feel her heart rate returning to normal, the adrenalin rushing through her body slowly beginning to ebb away.
‘I’ve always thought Woody too dangerous for release,’ Adams said.
Jo nodded. ‘Well, he just proved you right. As far as I’m concerned, you can ship him back to Dartmoor. I’ll have a word with the Governor on my way out.’
D
aniels had been a police officer for the best part of fifteen years. She’d seen the effects of violent crime on a daily basis but prided herself on the fact that she
never allowed the job to affect her sensitivity to the bereaved. There was no right or wrong way for families of homicide victims to behave. Every individual coped differently: some became
overwhelmed, some were too shocked to take it in, others went into denial and some – the most severe cases – went into total meltdown.
Still raw from her own experience of losing a parent prematurely, Daniels could easily identify with the emotional side of loss. The numbness, the anger, the guilt. The awful depression
she’d always thought of as a modern disease, like stress. The image of a small sign hanging on her office wall suddenly popped into her mind.
Stress: the confusion created when one’s
mind overrides the body’s basic desire to kick the living shit out of some arsehole that desperately needs it!
Daniels wondered if the woman in front of her now felt the need to kick the living shit out of anyone. For a woman whose husband had just been brutally murdered, Monica Stephens was showing
little emotion
.
And yet, she’d been taken to hospital in shock less than twenty-four hours before. The hand holding the cup and saucer was steady, the make-up immaculate, not a hair
out of place or hint of recent tears.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss . . .’ Daniels said, gently.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
Monica spoke in a marked foreign accent, but with an excellent command of the English language. Her voice was unbroken, her conversation relaxed and coherent. And a copy of
The Lady
was
lying open on the table between them. Daniels found that very curious. It was this week’s issue, had only come on sale that morning.
No depression there then
. Here was a woman
who’d not only declined the offer of a family liaison officer, but she’d also found time to read her favourite magazine while half the force were out looking for the thug with a firearm
who’d blown her husband away.
It was weird.
‘Take it,’ Monica said, picking up on Daniels’ interest in the magazine. ‘I didn’t sleep well and I’ve read it, how do you say, back to front?’
Daniels studied the woman until she felt compelled to fill the silence.
‘I can’t believe this has happened, Detective. My husband was a good man. Everyone liked him. Why would anyone do such a thing?’
Why indeed?
‘Did Mr Stephens have any problems recently, at work or at home?’
‘No!’ Monica’s tone was scathing, as if the question had been ridiculous. ‘We were very comfortable with money, Alan and I. Our business is hugely successful. He was an
entrepreneur, a good one. He built his operation up from nothing, as you can see. He hated this house. Said growing up here was a nightmare. It is what motivated him, I think.’