Settled Blood (23 page)

She unclipped her seat belt. ‘Get a bit of shut-eye. You look like you need it.’

Feeling his eyes on her back, she got out of the car, opened the gate and walked up the garden path. She rang the front door bell. A few seconds later, Bright appeared. He was obviously
surprised to see her there.

‘Problem?’ he asked.

‘You tell me,’ she said, pushing past into his hallway.

‘What the—’Gobsmacked by her rudeness, Bright just stood there, holding the door ajar, breathing alcohol fumes all over her. ‘Well, come in why don’t
you?’

As he began to shut the door, he glanced at the Toyota. Gormley stared back at him, a grim expression on his face. Acknowledging the DS with a nod, Bright shut the door and followed Daniels into
his living room, his face flushing up with embarrassment as she scanned the untidy room. The TV was on, the volume turned up loud. A number of empty beer cans lay on the floor, along with a pizza
box and the remains of last night’s evening meal.

‘So this is how you spend your half-days.’ Daniels sounded more like a whingeing ex-wife than a subordinate colleague. She picked up the remote and killed the TV, a disappointed
expression on her face. ‘So tell me about Beth Finch.’

‘What about her? She’s been dead for years.’ Bright held up a can of beer.

Daniels shook her head. ‘Water, bottled if you have it – tap water if not.’

Bright left her and went into the kitchen. She waited for a moment, her eyes finding a photograph of Bright and Stella in happier times, his arm round her waist outside a stunning lodge in New
Zealand at the world-famous Treetops resort where they’d spent their silver wedding anniversary.

The sound of glass breaking made her start.

She walked into the kitchen to find Bright on his hands and knees, sweeping away the remains of a glass tumbler with a dustpan and brush. The last time she’d been in the room, Stella was
still alive.
But only just
. He wasn’t coping and had asked for her help. The place was an absolute mess then, as it was now: cluttered and disorganized, dishes piled high in the sink;
empty bottles for recycling left on benches waiting to be put out; unpaid – in some cases unopened – bills on the work surface; a fridge it seemed with little in it.

God help us. This is the head of CID!

Bright stood up. He emptied the broken glass into the bin, then took another tumbler from a cupboard and turned on the tap. He ran the water until it was cold, then filled the glass and handed
it to her. Daniels had the distinct impression he was going to ask for her help again, only this time it wasn’t to clean the house or advise on the best way to care for a sick wife.

‘I know you were at the scene, guv.’ She never took her eyes off him as she sat down at the kitchen table. Placing her glass on the crumby surface, she pushed a pile of last
week’s newspapers aside. ‘There’s no point in denying it, I’ve seen the report.’

Bright’s right eye began to twitch. He took a swig of his beer and then sat down too. Supporting his head in his hands, elbows on the table, he began massaging his temples, clearly a man
under great pressure. Whether it was self-imposed or not, Daniels wasn’t qualified to say. But he didn’t get the sympathy vote. Not this time.

‘And don’t come over all poorly with me, because it won’t wash!’

‘You wouldn’t understand if I told you,’ he said defiantly.

‘Damn right I won’t. You blew in the bag for him, didn’t you?’

I
t wasn’t Daniels’ finest hour, watching her boss cry. The floodgates had finally opened, his grief and pain pouring out, as she knew it would have to sooner or
later – and not before time – triggered by the memory of another man’s wife bleeding to death on a cold winter’s night. Trapped by her legs under the bonnet of a Mercedes,
Beth Finch had suffered a ruptured spleen due the impact of hitting the tree. An unfortunate twist of fate, Daniels thought, to die from an injury to a non-essential organ when urgent medical
treatment would almost certainly have saved her life.

The luck of the draw didn’t quite cover it.

Daniels had left Bright in a bad way, neither admitting nor denying that he’d taken the breathalyser for Adam Finch. He wasn’t so stupid as to compromise her professionally, but she
knew in her heart that offences
had
been committed. An offence of perverting the course of justice for him, one of death by dangerous driving for Adam Finch, who would almost certainly have
gone to prison had he been found drunk at the wheel of his car, irrespective of third-party involvement.

Gormley knew it too.

He wasn’t asleep – just pretending to be – when she got back in the car. He opened one eye for a millisecond and then closed it again when he saw her glum face. He was good at
that, knew instinctively when to talk, when not to. And he’d learned a long time ago not to ask a question when he didn’t want to hear the answer. Would that she had also learned that
lesson and kept her big mouth shut instead of storming in there, all guns blazing, looking for a fight and finding one too.

And now?

Now she had knowledge she should disclose, and that made her feel very uncomfortable. Bright had done the wrong thing for all the right reasons, acted out of loyalty to a man who’d once
saved his life when they were in the military together. He’d made a split-second decision that night, a mistake that was catching up with him nearly two decades later, threatening to bite him
on the arse when he was at the very pinnacle of his career.

Daniels asked herself what purpose would be served if she were to drag up past indiscretions seventeen years after the event. Bright was already on the floor; losing his job would crush him
totally. The revelation would sully that impeccable reputation Adam Finch was so keen to hold on to. Two men would be destroyed. Good men, on the whole, who’d already lost so much. And then
there was Jessica. Poor, dear, Jessica. What would such exposure to do to her if she was ever found?

IF was such a big word.

It was dark already. The road was busy with people heading into the city for a night out. A taxi shot by in the outside lane, a couple of scantily clad women in the rear, already half-cut, by
the looks of them. Daniels could do with a stiff drink herself. She nudged Gormley’s arm as they pulled into the station; he grunted, looking around him as she waited for the barrier to
lift.

Stretching his arms above his head, he yawned. ‘You got time for a quickie or you heading straight home?’ he asked.

‘You want to rephrase that?’ Daniels managed a grin, unclipped her seat belt and opened the car door. ‘I’m checking in first and then I’m out of here. I want a long
soak in a hot bath and three fingers of whisky. And that’s just for starters, the day I’ve had. What about you?’

They got out of the car and walked towards the station’s rear entrance.

‘I’m going to ring Carmichael. Then Julie wants me home.’

‘Good plan.’

It sounded as though things were improving for him at home. Gormley was giving it his best shot and his wife could ask for no more. Daniels swiped her warrant card at the back door. They made
their way upstairs and along the corridor to the MIR. She was about to go inside when Gormley hesitated, forcing her to turn back.

Looking deep into her eyes like a concerned friend would, he said: ‘You want to talk, you know where I am. But don’t do anything hasty, yeah?’

She knew what he was getting at but made no comment. Once inside, Gormley peeled off in the direction of his desk while she checked the murder wall. There were no new events listed, so she went
straight to Naylor’s office, knocked gently on his door and waited. She heard his voice calling her in and caught Gormley’s uneasiness loud and clear from across the room.

He didn’t want her in there.

She let go of the handle and turned away.

F
use was the club of choice: the place to be if you happened to be a Durham university student. A supporting group were up on stage playing to an appreciative crowd, three guys
on their feet and a young Asian girl on the drums. DC Lisa Carmichael’s head was thumping as the music kicked its way around the room. She couldn’t hear her own voice as she ordered a
vodka and tonic, let alone the barmaid’s response as she leaned across the bar towards her.

Superintendent Naylor’s instructions had been quite clear. ‘Blend in. Make friends quickly. Stick close to the girls without much cash. Eyes and ears open. Don’t get waylaid or
involved in anything other than what you’re there to do. And keep talking to your backup. You’re there primarily for the prostitution racket, but if you happen across
our
man, no
heroics.
Capiche
?’

Capiche.

Carmichael smiled.

Naylor was nice,
really
attractive, sexy even – in the way that all powerful men were sexy. Or was that rich men? No rich men were ever ugly, wasn’t that the way the saying
went? Not that she believed it. Besides, there were more ways of being ugly than in the mug department. Celebs nowadays had big egos. When they ponced around the world with lookers half their age,
did they seriously think these women were in love with their personalities? And what about the women themselves? Waking up with some wrinkly old git lying by their side, then spending hour after
long hour hanging on their every word. It was prostitution, plain and simple, as far as Carmichael was concerned.

As she climbed down from her high horse in the form of a bar stool, Carmichael accidentally spilled the drink of the middle-aged man sitting to her left – an altogether more pleasant man
than the wankers she’d just been thinking about.

‘Oh, bugger! I’m so sorry. Let me get you another.’

He told her not to worry about it, ordered another drink and asked her to join him. She held up a full glass and shook her head.

‘You a mature student then?’ Carmichael said.

‘Lecturer, actually.’

‘Letch. . .urer?’ Carmichael felt decidedly odd. ‘Of what?’

‘Anthropology.’ The guy held out his hand. ‘Steve Curtis, pleased to meet you.’

‘That’s humans, yeah?’

‘Sort of.’ The man grinned. ‘You new here? Don’t think I recognize you—’

‘Opted for Bristol. Couldn’t hack it . . .’ Carmichael stopped talking, urging him to fuck off and let her have her hand back. Her lips felt rubbery. There was so little saliva
in her mouth, her tongue stuck to the roof of it and her words came out all wrong. There were now two Steves sitting next to her and she couldn’t remember her script. ‘Missed my mates .
. . family’n stuff . . . sooo, I rang up . . . binned my course . . . here now.’

‘What are you studying?’

‘Same ol’ bollocks.’

Carmichael felt clammy. Dizzy. She mumbled some ridiculous convoluted excuse and left her new friend at the bar, affronted and in mid-conversation. Wending her way through the gyrating crowd to
the ladies’ she found several other students there and caught snippets of gossip about someone called Steve. Her ears pricked up as she realized this could be the same man she’d been
talking to. One of the gossiping girls was in a worse condition than she was. Very,
very
drunk. Bryony, they called her, a skinny blonde who was trying unsuccessfully to reapply bright red
lippy while asking the others what she should do.

Carmichael tried hard to focus on the girl, but the more she stared at her the fuzzier she became. Pushing to get nearer, she accidentally bumped the arm of the big bugger standing to
Bryony’s left and received a mouthful of abuse in return.

‘Hey! Watch what you’re doing, ya minger. I was here first.’

Momentarily, Carmichael thought about taking her on, but didn’t think she stood a cat in hell’s chance in her condition. Then Naylor’s words popped into her head.
‘Don’t get involved in anything other than what you’re there to do. And keep talking to your backup.’

Andy! Shit!

Carmichael backed off, apologized and went to the wash basin. Dumping the vodka, she replaced it with water and took a long drink. She set down the glass, turned on the tap and lifted a pool of
cold water to her face. The person facing her in the mirror didn’t look at all familiar. She had gaunt features, dilated pupils and her hair stuck to her head as if she’d been outside
in the rain.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ a dark shadow said. ‘You using?’

Carmichael waved it – her – away. She glanced again in the mirror. Despite having washed them off, beads of sweat had reappeared on her brow.

The shadow doubled in size.

A muffled voice.

‘Jesus! You got aids or sommat?’

Another voice. ‘Leave the skanky tramp alone, Bry. She’s so wasted she can’t even see you, let alone hear you. C’mon, let’s go.’

The dark shadow moved away, taking the strange voices with it. Carmichael had to get out of there too and made a heroic effort to follow it out of the door. It was nearly midnight as she
staggered on to the dance floor. The main act were giving it their all on stage, a tune that sounded like recordings of whales and dolphins she’d heard on wildlife programmes on TV –
strange elongated calls from somewhere deep under the sea.

Carmichael fought her way to a particular table. Her backup was no longer sat there. Was it that table? Or that one?
Jesus!
She forced her eyes to open wider and looked around her, unable
to focus properly. The whole room began to revolve around her, slowly at first, then faster and faster, the coloured clothing of the dancers merging into a psychedelic vortex which then stopped
abruptly, sending her reeling off to one side.

A man’s hand caught her elbow and pulled her to one side. She struggled to get free but it was no use. Suddenly the floor came up to meet her.

Then everything went black.

T
he chirp-chirp tone and the vibrating buzz of a mobile got louder and louder as it rang out. Daniels slowly opened her eyes, trying to drag herself from sleep. She lay
motionless in the darkness, trying to make sense of what she was listening to.