Glancing around the room, Daniels saw no trappings of wealth. In fact, quite the opposite was true. They were sitting in a small living room in a house belonging to Alan Stephens’ mother,
a former council property that hadn’t been updated in years. The furniture was frayed and unfashionable, the carpets worn and in need of replacement. Stephens may have been successful but he
certainly didn’t spread his money around, at least not in his poor mother’s direction.
A meeting with Mrs Stephens senior a little earlier hadn’t been an interview as such, more a welfare visit to the mother of a homicide victim. She was eighty-one years old, a fit,
straight-talking lady with steely blue eyes. Her reaction to the tragedy had been painful to watch. When Daniels found out why, her heart sank. To survive one son was bad luck; to survive two was
more than a mother could possibly bear. But Daniels had no such feelings of sympathy or warmth for the woman sitting in front of her now.
She moved on. ‘He was well liked?’
Monica raised her teacup to her lips. ‘As much as any successful businessman is.’
Exchanging a brief look with Gormley, Daniels wondered if the act of covering her mouth was significant. Was the woman hiding something, or merely taking a drink? Had Daniels been a gambler,
she’d have opted for the former, but for now at least she was prepared to give the widow the benefit of the doubt.
‘Can you tell me when you last saw your husband?’ she asked.
‘Around seven o’clock.’ Monica replaced her cup in its saucer. ‘No, shortly after – his taxi was late. He commented on it. Alan was an Englishman through and
through, a little eccentric even. Punctuality was important to him. He believed it was a measure of a man, like manners. He hated sloppiness in any form.’
‘Was he going straight to the Weston Hotel?’
Monica nodded. ‘That’s what he said.’
Daniels registered the doubt. ‘And you left home when?’
‘Very soon after.’
‘To go where?’ Gormley asked casually.
‘To have dinner with a friend, then I drove her to Newcastle airport, returning here around midnight—’
Daniels wanted more. ‘Which flight?’
‘Does it matter?’
The detectives just looked at her.
Monica spread her hands, acknowledging her mistake. ‘Sorry, of course it matters. I suppose I must account for my movements like everyone else. She was catching a flight to London, she has
family down there.’
‘Do you remember the check-in desk, which airline she was using?’
Monica shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I didn’t really take much notice. We had a drink in the bar and she left me, I don’t know . . . at around eleven thirty, I guess.’
Daniels felt a ripple of excitement building. To her knowledge, there was no flight out of Newcastle to any London airport that late at night. ‘Do you have any idea where she might be
staying in London?’
Monica sighed, bored with the questioning. ‘Do you always tell people where you are going, Detective? Surely the whole point of taking a break is that you
can’t
be
found?’
‘Did you buy anything while you were at the airport?’
‘Only drinks.’
Gormley looked at her. ‘Don’t suppose you have any receipts?’
‘Who keeps receipts? I paid cash. It was a few pounds only.’
‘Of course,’ Daniels nodded. ‘And your friend’s name?’
‘Teresa.’
‘Surname?’
‘Branson, Teresa Branson.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Stephens . . .’ Daniels smiled and got to her feet. ‘I think that’s all for now. Be sure to get in touch if you think of anything else. And if you change
your mind, feel free to ring me at any time. And do speak with your family liaison officer if there’s anything you need, anything at all. That’s what they’re there for.’
They said their goodbyes at the front door and made their way to the Toyota. Daniels waited until they were inside the car and Monica had gone back inside before speaking.
‘If she’s grieving for her husband, she’s doing a bloody good job of hiding it . . .’ She fastened her seat belt, turned on the engine and drove away. ‘Give Lisa a
bell, Hank. Tell her to get hold of a copy of the airport CCTV footage. And while you’re at it, get her to check last night’s passenger lists for Teresa Branson.’
A
storm was brewing as Jo walked back through the gates of Acklington Prison. This close to the Northumberland coast, there was little protection from the biting chill on a
gloomy November afternoon. She hunched her shoulders, pulled up her collar and rushed to her waiting car, checking underneath and inside the vehicle before getting in. It was a routine she followed
no matter what security level was operational at the time. Turning on the ignition, she sat for a while, dwelling on the incident in the VPU. The Governor’s attitude to the incident had
bordered on the bizarre; he’d questioned whether she’d done anything to precipitate such a violent reaction, today or in the past. Whose side was he on? Men like Woodgate were scum. A
bullet was too good for them.
Engaging first gear, she moved off . . .
The narrow country lane wound its way across country, passing an occasional farmhouse along the way, smoke drifting from chimney pots as people stoked their fires in readiness for the inevitable
drop in temperature that nightfall would bring. It was a road she could have driven blindfold, but water was streaming down the windscreen and her headlights weren’t picking out much more
than the white line in the centre of the road, making things more difficult.
The car was buffeted from side to side as the wind reached gale force. As hedgerows flashed by, the rain became torrential. Jo had to concentrate hard just to keep the car on the road. Her only
crumb of comfort was that she was now on her way home. She imagined putting on some music and sinking her body into a steaming hot bath, shutting out the world and putting an awful day behind
her.
And after that?
After that she would speak with Kate Daniels – someone she had every faith in – someone who’d know
exactly
what to do. But, unfortunately for her, that wasn’t
quite what fate had in mind for her . . .
Her world stopped turning as the tree fell, caught in the BMW’s headlights. She reacted immediately but it was still too late. The car swerved violently from side to side – rolled
over once, twice, and then – in what seemed like slow motion – flew through the air before coming to a sudden halt on its roof in a ditch.
Within seconds Jo had lost consciousness.
T
here is no worse place on earth than a mortuary at dusk. The examination room stank of chemicals. Stephens’ naked body was laid out on a slab surrounded by people
dressed in forensic suits. Tim Stanton was in green scrubs, a face mask hooked to either ear and hanging loose around his neck. A coroner’s officer was taking notes as samples of tissue and
blood-soaked hair were removed from the surface of the body, labelled and dated. A Scenes of Crime Officer was taking photographs.
On a nearby bench, a forensic scientist was searching through Stephens’ formal dress trousers. Daniels watched him remove a pair of solid-gold cufflinks from the pocket on the left, and in
the right he found thirty-five pence in change and a gold cigarette lighter. He bagged the items ready to be sent off for forensic examination then entered them in his log.
Turning her attention back to the body, Daniels’ eyes homed in on the gold Rolex watch Stanton was removing from Stephens’ left wrist, the receipt for which she had held in her hand
not three months ago while sifting through an old box of papers. The image was so strong, she was barely aware of the pathologist’s voice as he dictated his findings into an overhead
microphone.
‘There are massive cranial injuries caused by the gunshot wound,’ he said. ‘The facial features are distorted due to extensive fracturing of the facial skeleton on bullet
impact. There appears to be no other external evidence visible other than slight fresh bruising attributed to the victim having fallen . . .’
Daniels’ eyes shifted to the plain gold wedding band on the ring finger of Stephens’ left hand, her mind contemplating the sequence of events that might have led to his death.
‘What is left of the brain shows no evidence of natural disease on dissection,’ Stanton continued to elaborate, the tone of his voice completely detached from the subject matter.
‘Left bony orbit is disrupted, nasal bone dislodged and there is extensive haemorrhaging to the left side of the skull.’
Picking up his scalpel, Stanton began to make the Y incision. Daniels didn’t flinch as he cut into the flesh. Difficult though it had been to stomach in the early years of her career,
she’d learned to remain detached when observing post-mortems. In fact she found the process of body dissection fascinating, something other people didn’t seem to understand. Autopsies
could tell her things she could never find out by any other means, providing precise evidence that often proved crucial in a court of law.
She wondered if anyone back at the station had heard from Jo Soulsby yet. Before the post-mortem, she’d asked DC Andy Brown to visit Jo’s home and left instructions for him to let
her know the outcome. She took out her mobile and saw that he’d sent a text.
Still no joy. Jo hasn’t yet been in touch.
Slipping the phone back into her pocket, Daniels thought
about the last investigation they had worked on together. Jo’s support had proved invaluable to the case, although Bright had insisted he’d have found the perpetrator without it.
Daniels sighed.
She’d walk over hot coals for her boss, but he was an argumentative prick when he wanted to be. Did he not think that she’d seen him sneaking into the observation gallery above her
head? His presence irritated her, but she knew he wouldn’t undermine her authority in front of everyone there.
At least, she hoped he wouldn’t.
‘I can tell you conclusively that the victim was a healthy man with no evidence of any natural disease to accelerate his death or cause him to collapse . . .’ Stanton was about to
sum up. He took off his bloody gloves, went to a stainless-steel sink, turned on a tap and scrubbed up before helping himself to a glass of water. On his way back, he winked at her, letting her
know she was still in charge but also that he was aware Bright was listening via an audio link upstairs, a gesture she appreciated. ‘Death was simply and unequivocally due to multiple head
injuries caused by a single gunshot wound. One shot through the left frontal lobe. Good shot too, I should say. My guess is that he was standing. The weapon, a small but effective firearm, calibre
unknown ’til the labs do their stuff.’
‘You’re still of the opinion that he had little or no chance to defend himself?’
Stanton nodded. ‘And certainly no chance of survival once hit with such accuracy. Shall we adjourn for tea?’
‘No can do, Tim,’ Daniels said apologetically. ‘I’ve got to get going.’
Stanton was disappointed. ‘Some other time perhaps?’
‘Sure.’ Daniels thanked him and quickly made her way out of the building, practically breaking into a run down a flight of stairs. She caught up with Bright as he hurried to leave
the morgue via the back door. ‘Guv? A quick word, if I may.’
Bright stopped walking and turned to face her. ‘The PM gave us nothing we didn’t know already?’
‘That about sums it up,’ Daniels said.
‘Professional hit?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Time of death?’
‘Between eleven and midnight, maybe a little after, just as we thought . . .’ Daniels paused. ‘Oh, and he’d recently had sex.’
‘Lucky bastard.’
Daniels didn’t react to his retort. She knew the poor bugger hadn’t shared intimacy with Stella since the crash. Their relationship would never again resemble married life. He was
now Stella’s carer, not her husband, an insufferable situation for them both. Stepping to one side, they watched an undertaker’s van arriving at a speed in the car park with less
respect for its occupant than seemed proper. It parked near the back door of the morgue. Two men got out, unloaded a body, then disappeared inside with it.
Bright’s car was nowhere to be seen.
‘Can I drop you anywhere, guv? We can talk on the way.’
Bright shook his head, pointing at a second car approaching. He acknowledged his driver with a wave as he pulled into a vacant space beside the undertaker’s van.
‘Anything on the house-to-house?’ he asked.
Daniels shook her head. ‘Don’t fret, guv. I have everything under control.’
‘As I knew you would,’ he said, a look of pride spreading over his face.
She wanted to ask him outright why he was shadowing her and tell him how his interference made her feel. Then a better question entered her head. ‘You going to tell me why the ACC wants me
on this case when he can’t stand the sight of me?’
Bright moved towards his car, an avoidance tactic if ever there was one. Daniels followed him, hell-bent on getting an answer. As she arrived at the side of the car, he got in and wound down the
window. She glanced at his driver, knowing she couldn’t backchat in front of him.
‘Then at least let me work both incidents, guv. Sarah’s killer is still out there. We both know he’ll kill again . . .’
H
e stared at the scissors he’d used to cut out the faces of the dead ones and thought about how easy it had been.
His mother had told him never to answer the door to strangers. If her mother had done the same, she clearly hadn’t listened. Jenny’s expression had turned from mild curiosity to
terror when he produced the gun. Though why she was so surprised, he couldn’t quite imagine. Hadn’t she known it was coming? Hadn’t he made her feel it? Watching her. Following
her. Scaring her half to death.
He liked it best when they were women.
Liked it even better when she began to beg . . .
Like a dog.
Eyes like saucers as she inched away from him, screaming at first, then begging for mercy, pleading with him – tears running down her cheeks. She’d aged considerably from the image
he’d been staring at for as long as he could remember; brown hair faded to washed-out grey, lines around her mouth like a cat’s bum, ugly thin lips no longer smiling at him as they had
done for so very long.