Settled Blood (20 page)

Gormley, the only one who truly knew Kate Daniels, gave her a wry smile.

She ignored him in favour of Maxwell. ‘Ron Naylor is a mate, Neil. Sorry to disappoint your overactive imagination.’

But Maxwell was off again. ‘Nice of you to put that one to bed,’ he quipped.

A giggle went round the room.

Keen to get off the subject, Daniels turned her attention to the murder wall. Using a remote, she brought up images of Amy Grainger and Jessica Finch. Looking at them gave her an idea. She
turned back to the squad and focused on Carmichael. Her physical similarity to the victims was difficult to miss.

‘Fancy a spell undercover, Lisa?’ Daniels asked.

As she explained what she had in mind, Carmichael’s face lit up. This would be her first time undercover, and it was obvious she couldn’t wait to get started. Daniels was transported
back a decade or more to her own undercover debut. She had been part of a drug squad team selected to infiltrate a gay club on the beach at South Shields. When she walked up to the bar to order a
drink, she was immediately approached by a girl of her own age. ‘Watch out if you’re looking to score,’ she’d said under her breath. ‘The place is full of cops.’
Later, when the bust went down and she realized her mistake, she’d simply blown Daniels a kiss as she was led away in cuffs.

Wonder where she is now?

Safe from harm, Daniels hoped.

Carmichael was still grinning.

With everyone clear about what they had to do, the DCI sent them on their way, turning her thoughts to Adam Finch. Despite her guv’nor’s assertion that she was wrong about him, she
planned to put pressure on him first thing in the morning, along with the Mansion House staff.

Leaving the MIR, she went downstairs to the female shower block, putting her hair up as she walked through the door. She took a quick shower, changed her clothes and applied fresh make-up, then
stood back to check her appearance in the mirror. Not perfect, but Naylor wouldn’t care. It was ten o’clock in the evening and she was coming off a sixteen-hour shift.

A black Mercedes S-Class was waiting outside the station. The driver held the door open while Daniels climbed in. She was absolutely starving when she arrived at Café 21 a few minutes
later, her Dene’s Deli take-out a distant memory now. The driver got out and did the door thing again, insisting that Naylor had already settled his bill.

Daniels tipped him generously as she stepped from the cab.

Terry Laybourne’s stylish restaurant was elegant without being ostentatious, the clientele well-groomed but relaxed as they chatted over background music without having to shout. The aroma
of food, cooked to perfection with local ingredients, was to die for, a blend of flavours that whetted Daniels’ appetite and let her taste buds know they were in for a rare treat. She’d
eaten there only once before – a surprise organized by Jo when they were still together.

Light years ago . . .

High heels clicking on the wooden floor to her left made Daniels turn her head. She was half expecting to see Jo. Instead, a much younger but equally attractive woman was standing there,
offering to take her coat and show her to her table. Daniels followed her across the room. Naylor was nowhere in sight but a bottle of champagne was already on ice: Champagne Perrier-Jouët
‘La Belle Epoque’.

Wow!
Daniels stared at the label. ‘Are you sure this is the right table?’

‘Yes, madam.’ The young woman pulled out a chair. ‘Enjoy your meal.’

Daniels sat down, wondering what Naylor was up to. Then he materialized in the centre of the room, shaking hands vigorously with someone they both knew, a retired Divisional Commander whose name
was on the tip of her tongue. Sensing her gaze, Naylor turned his head and gave her a winning smile.

Seconds later he arrived by her side. He bent down, gave her a gentle peck on the cheek and whispered something wonderful in her ear, something totally unexpected that filled her with joy. Over
his shoulder, the retired commander’s interest grew. Daniels almost welled up as Naylor sat down and handed her a menu across a pristine white tablecloth.

‘Well, say something! It wasn’t that much of a bloody shock, surely?’

Daniels felt choked. For a moment she was speechless. She watched him pour two glasses of champagne. He picked one up and held his glass out, waiting for her to do likewise.

‘Ron, you’ve made me one happy bunny,’ she said.

T
he list of potential candidates for the top job in the murder investigation team had been circulating among the rank and file for weeks. And no amount of fishing for
information from Human Resources had given Daniels a clue. It was obviously a closely guarded secret. Even her spy in the control room, Pete Brooks, aka ‘The Font’ (of all knowledge),
hadn’t been able to enlighten her on that score. And if anyone could wheedle a name from HR, he could.

Bright was always going to be a hard act to follow, but never in her wildest dreams had Ron Naylor’s name entered Daniels’ thoughts. Why? Because he was highly respected within his
own force and there was every reason to believe he’d make chief constable one day. But now she’d had time to think about it, it made perfect sense. All chief constables were required to
work in at least one other force at some time during their career. No, Naylor’s sideways move was no happy accident. It was part of a calculated, strategic long-term plan to take the top job
in Durham Constabulary further down the line. As far as she was concerned, it would be a just reward for a lifetime of service to his community.

It really couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

In all the years Kate had known Naylor, he’d made the most of his life, in and out of work. At training school he’d taken the place by storm, instigating all sorts of shenanigans
that rookies with less of a personality would never have got away with. On one occasion, drunk as a skunk, he’d found himself locked out of the accommodation block at three a.m. Undeterred by
the final warning he’d received from their senior instructor, he’d scaled a ledge in order to knock on her bedroom window and beg her to let him – only to realize in the sober
light of day that he was looking down at a forty-foot drop on to a concrete garage floor.

Mr Invincible, that was Ron – the star of that year’s intake.

A broad grin spread across Daniels’ face. She’d arrived at the office first thing hoping to break the news, but it seemed the team had already heard. When Naylor followed her in a
few minutes later, he was mobbed by detectives offering congratulations, queuing up to shake his hand. Despite their late-night celebration, his eyes were bright and alert, not even the slightest
hint that he’d hung one on in spectacular fashion at Café 21. He’d insisted they make a night of it, inviting half the restaurant to join them, including the retired Divisional
Commander, his third wife and their guests.

And still Daniels couldn’t remember the man’s bloody name.

Eventually, the muddle of bodies around Naylor dispersed and Daniels led him away to the privacy of her office. She made coffee, strong and black, before giving him the rundown on the enquiry so
far. He listened without interrupting her and seemed satisfied that she was doing all she could to resolve the case. But he was as disturbed as she was by the depressing news that Jessica Finch
might be incarcerated underground in some hellhole in the middle of nowhere with little chance of being found.

They were a week into the enquiry and time was running out.

Daniels pushed away that sombre thought. ‘Hank floated the idea that our victims were somehow caught up in your prostitution ring.’

‘Negative. I ran their names.’

‘Figures. You don’t miss much, do you?’

‘Can’t afford to. It’s a bloody nightmare and a political hot potato. Councillors from all parties are up in arms demanding we stamp it out. The city doesn’t want that
kind of slur on its good name. But the operation hasn’t produced any arrests yet. Whoever’s running those girls is very good at covering their tracks.’

Looking out of the window, Daniels noticed a brand-new Land Rover Discovery passing under the security barrier in the car park below. The 2010 Car of the Year: one she
definitely
would
have chosen if she were ready to part with her beloved Toyota. She was shocked to see Jo Soulsby get out the driver’s side. The vehicle wasn’t her style but was probably a replacement
for the BMW she’d written off in an accident that very nearly cost her her life.

Jo opened the back door and reached inside. She looked happy and relaxed as she re-emerged, briefcase in hand. Shutting the door, she peered back through the window and spoke to someone still
inside.

Kirsten.

‘She’s looking good,’ Naylor said. ‘All things considered.’

‘Isn’t she?’ Daniels changed the subject. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of this but one of my DCs, Lisa Carmichael, is a dead ringer for Jess and Amy.
Amy’s mother even thought so, poor woman. Is there any mileage in putting her undercover for a while, see what she can find out? She might pick up some useful information for Durham and for
us. She’s a clean face, not known in the area. And the scumbag we’re after may still be a threat to innocent students, may even attempt to take other girls . . .’

Naylor looked at her, a solid gaze. ‘You know, that’s not a bad idea.’

Taking a sip of his coffee, his eyes shifted past her, a little to her left. From the wry smile on his lips, she guessed he was looking at a framed poster on the wall behind her. It was a
reproduction of Beryl Cook’s painting
The Staircase –
used for a national theft campaign with the kind permission of the artist. It depicted two rather voluptuous ladies walking
up the stairs of a pub, wine in hand, knickers on show. To the right of the picture was a caption:
Who’s giving your bag the eye? Don’t let a thief get away with it.
It was an
old poster Daniels had found in an unused office. She’d taken a shine to it and kept it for posterity.

Naylor’s smile disappeared. ‘You’re not suggesting we use Carmichael as bait?’

‘I’m suggesting she has attributes we could use in the apprehension of a serious offender or offenders. That’s what she joined for, a privilege she gets well paid for on the
penultimate day of every month, same as we do.’

It was a brutally honest statement. Daniels’ new guv’nor was too experienced to have the wool pulled over his eyes. Besides, she had too much respect for the man to lie to him. When
they
had joined the job, all those years ago, there was an expectation that you’d risk life and limb to get the right result. Lisa Carmichael felt the same. Daniels knew it. Now all
she had to do was to convince their new boss.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Naylor said. ‘I’m not discounting it. It’s just, I don’t know Carmichael very well. And from what I remember of her service
record, she hasn’t got a lot of time in. I have to admit that concerns me a little. You think she’d be ready for that kind of exposure?’

‘Ready and raring to go.’ Daniels picked up the internal phone and dialled Carmichael’s extension. ‘Got a minute, Lisa? Detective Superintendent Naylor would like a
word.’

‘No problem. Do I need to bring anything?’

‘Just yourself.’ Daniels was about to hang up. ‘Wait! On second thoughts, bring the photographs of Amy and Jessica.’

There was a short pause. Someone else was trying to get Carmichael’s attention. Daniels looked over Naylor’s shoulder through the pane of glass in her office door. Robson was having
a word with Carmichael and Daniels caught a fleeting glimpse of Jo Soulsby entering the MIR.

‘Boss?’ Carmichael was back on the line. ‘Robbo wants you to know that Fiona Fielding is in reception waiting to speak with you. She hasn’t got long apparently.
She’s got another plane to catch.’

‘Tell her I’ll be straight down.’ Daniels put down the phone. ‘Can you carry on without me, Ron? I’m needed downstairs.’

D
aniels peered through the glass pane in the double doors leading to reception. She was excited at the prospect of working with Ron Naylor again, convinced that his timely
arrival might trigger a new impetus within the murder investigation team. Morale had been starting to flag a little and she couldn’t afford that.

Fiona Fielding was sitting on a hard wooden bench near the entrance to the station with her head buried in a paperback. More attractive than pretty, her outfit was smart but casual, consisting
of tight-fitting jeans, high heels and a brown leather jacket over a cream-coloured shirt. A handbag worth more than your average copper’s monthly income lay at her feet.

Apologizing for keeping her waiting, Daniels introduced herself. ‘I appreciate you taking time out to see me. I’ll try not to keep you long.’ She led Fielding back through the
double doors and along a dreary corridor to IR2, the only interview room presently unoccupied. It wasn’t until she opened the door that she realized why – it had recently been
redecorated and still reeked of chemicals. ‘I’m sorry.’ She stepped back out. ‘We’ll go somewhere else.’

‘Paint doesn’t bother me, Chief Inspector. And you apologize too much.’ Fielding’s voice was low and sexy, like Mariella Frostrup with a sore throat. She swept past
Daniels, placed her bag on the floor and promptly sat down, crossing one shapely leg over the other. ‘I understand Jess Finch has gone missing. I take it she hasn’t yet
materialized?’

Daniels shook her head and shut the door. ‘Her father is beside himself.’

‘Really? Insufferable man. I’m not surprised she went AWOL.’

Daniels usually warmed to people who spoke their minds but wasn’t sure if she liked the artist or not. Brutal honesty was all well and good, but, given the circumstances, her comment
bordered on insensitive. Then again, Fielding didn’t know what
she
knew. She reminded Daniels of another creative type she once knew, a soul singer who used to play in the clubs around
town. A woman with real presence who never took anything too seriously, a quality she would have found attractive had she not been in the throes of a murder investigation.