Settled Blood (22 page)

‘Meet Nelson,’ she said.

Intrigued, Daniels peered inside. Jo’s new best friend was a puppy, a brown Labrador of dubious pedigree.

‘I named him in honour of Mandela,’ Jo grinned. ‘Isn’t he cute?’

‘God, he’s absolutely adorable!’

‘He was found scavenging for food in the city centre and handed in to the shelter on the twentieth anniversary of Mandela’s release from prison. I’ve been on their waiting list
for ages, so they rang me.’ Jo’s happy expression faded a little. ‘I wanted him, of course, but the timing was all wrong. He needed a lot of veterinary attention and I
wasn’t able to cope with him off the back of my accident, the remand, et cetera. So they found him a home elsewhere.’

‘Then how did you end up with him?’

‘His new owner died suddenly and they got back in touch.’

‘Must’ve been fate.’ Daniels wanted to add,
like us
, but refrained. She reached across to pat the dog’s head. Nelson began to wag his tail then peed on the
newspaper he was standing on. ‘Great way to say hello!’

Jo laughed out loud. ‘He’s an embarrassment. I can’t take him anywhere. Think yourself lucky he’s not on the floor by your feet. I’ve got so many wet shoes
I’m considering permanent flip-flops!’

‘Am I allowed visiting rights?’ Daniels asked.

Jo nodded, a hint of sadness in her eyes. ‘I’ve got to get going.’

Daniels held the door open while Jo climbed in, then watched her drive away. She returned to the MIR, happy they were still friends. When they were more than that, they’d often talked of
getting a dog. They had argued over what breed, Jo insisting on a Lab of any colour and description, while Daniels favoured a Border terrier like her nan used to own.

In the end they got neither.

The MIR was buzzing when Daniels entered. Following a leaflet drop, the couple seen acting suspiciously near the crime scene had come forward voluntarily. Ronnie Raine had been a good witness
and DC Maxwell was looking pleased with himself as he took off his coat and hung it on the back of the chair.

‘Let me guess,’ Robson feigned concentration. ‘Bet it was a courting couple getting their leg over in the fresh air. There’s nowt like a good ol’ shag on top of a
cowpat or two.’

‘Have you been out there at the crack of dawn?’ Maxwell asked, rubbing his hands together. ‘It’s bloody parky, I can tell you.’ He sat down at his computer and
logged on. ‘Not an extra-marital either.’

‘Roman soldiers?’ Brown suggested, humouring him.

‘Border Reivers?’ someone at the back shouted.

‘Do we look psychic?’ Gormley chipped in. ‘Stop pissing about and tell us.’

‘Hank’s right, Neil,’ Daniels said. ‘Are they in the frame, or out?’

‘Out,’ Maxwell said decisively, swivelling his chair round to face her. ‘Beverley and Alec Wilkinson are father and daughter, an entrepreneurial couple looking to make a buck
by digging up Roman coins using metal detectors. He was keen but she wasn’t. They hadn’t asked the landowner’s permission, hence the row Raine talked about.’

‘Didn’t he say she was injured in some way?’

‘Fell down a foxhole and twisted her ankle.’

‘Proof?’ Daniels wanted to be absolutely sure.

Maxwell wafted an admission slip in the air. ‘Obtained from A&E at Hexham General Hospital, no less.’

‘Good work!’ Daniels thought for a moment. Something was missing. ‘I don’t remember any mention of equipment though, do you?’

‘That’s because they stashed it in a disused byre so as not to draw too much attention to themselves. When Amy’s body was found and we turned up in droves, they didn’t
dare go back for it.’

‘Did you check it out?’ Daniels again.

‘Not personally. I sent the community beat officer who was first at the crime scene – he knows the area like the back of his hand.’

‘I remember him. And?’

‘It’s still there. End of, I’d say.’

‘Brick wall more like,’ Brown added.

Daniels agreed.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Maxwell asked. ‘We could charge them with trespass, but that’s about all.’

‘Not worth the paperwork,’ Daniels said. ‘Write it up and log it in the system as an NFA.’

Maxwell nodded. A No Further Action from the DCI was what he’d hoped for.

‘Boss?’ Carmichael put her hand up. ‘That stuff you wanted is on your desk.’

‘Stuff?’

‘Beth Finch accident report,’ Carmichael reminded her. ‘It was one of ours.’

Daniels thanked her and told her to go home. Then she went straight to her office, made herself a cup of coffee and rang Weldon. The search was now well underway, but so far there was nothing to
report. No sightings. Not a whiff of any activity in the mineshafts they’d entered so far.

They agreed to keep in touch.

Daniels put down the phone, took a sip of her coffee, put her feet up on her desk and turned her attention to the report Carmichael had left for her. It was a flimsy document, just two pages long, beginning with Finch’s account of the accident as taken by the attending officer at the scene:

Daniels’ eyes travelled down the page to a diagram showing the exact location where the accident happened, including the direction it had been travelling in and the
position and orientation of the Mercedes when it came to a sudden and disastrous halt embedded in a tree. She knew the road well; an unlit, dangerous stretch with a sharp right-hander that was
difficult to negotiate at the best of times.

She read on, noting that a call had come in to the control room at 01.26 on 8 November 1993 with a report of two casualties and an indication of a woman unconscious at the scene in need of
urgent assistance. The dispatcher immediately sent one Traffic car, an ambulance and two fire service vehicles. The Traffic car was first on the scene, the officer finding Beth Finch in a bad way
and still trapped in the Mercedes-Benz. Paramedics followed soon after. They managed to cut her free and transport her by ambulance to A&E, Newcastle General Hospital.

She was pronounced dead on arrival.

It was an unremarkable RTA report, like many others Daniels had read over the years. She turned the page and found a note:
Driver breathalysed negative
. As her eyes slid over the
attending officer’s identity – name, rank and number – she felt physically sick.

J
essica was drifting . . .

Her father’s voice, stern and unfriendly, seemed near and yet very far away. She hadn’t meant to disobey him. Not really. But he didn’t have the right to tell her what to do
any more. She was a grown-up with a mind of her own. Robert popped into her head. She wondered if he was searching for her. Of course he was, they adored each other. They had a future together, no
matter what her father said. In her mind’s eye, she pictured Robert as he was when she’d last seen him, happy and smiling when she told him of her plans to cut loose from her father and
find work abroad.

How long ago was that?

A day?

A week?

Jessica held this image.

She felt good and warm and . . .

She began to cry.

No!
She couldn’t afford to cry. Tears were no longer an expression of how unhappy she was but precious drops of liquid she needed to stay alive.

‘Stop snivelling!’ Her father’s voice again.

Did the man have no compassion?

‘Dad?’ she called out into the darkness. ‘Dad? Dad? Dad? Dad?’

Please, Dad, find me before it’s too late.

Jessica looked down at the rising water, wondering how long it took for a person to drown. She’d read somewhere that drowning was once used to determine if women were witches or not, the
suggestion being that the guilty would stay afloat while the innocent would not.

Well, she was innocent and she didn’t want to drown.

Not here . . .

And suddenly, all she could think of was water rushing into her body, both her stomach and her airways, pushing out the oxygen and causing untold panic as she tried, at first, to hold her breath
. . .

And then?

She would try to draw breath even when fully submerged, setting off a catastrophic chain of events leading to . . .

Asphyxia . . .

Cerebral hypoxia . . .

Myocardial infarction . . .

Death.

Please, Robert, find me.

‘T
893!’ Daniels yelled. ‘Ring any bells?’

The Toyota was stationary, parked in a place they always used when they wanted to have a rant without fear of being overheard. It was a busy underpass close to Newcastle’s central bypass.
Rush hour. Cars and lorries flashing past in both directions. Exhaust fumes. Irate drivers. The usual city mayhem. A throwback from her days in the drugs squad. A place to meet her snouts.

The graffiti on Gormley’s side of the car was the best he’d ever seen, a flamboyant piece of street art with a tag he didn’t recognize. New kid on the block, perhaps? As soon
as Daniels pulled in, he could see that something was troubling her. And now he knew why.

‘Tango, fucking, eight, nine, three!’ she said again, so enraged her face had gone white.

Gormley stopped admiring the wall and turned to face her, curiosity getting the better of him. ‘That’s Bright’s old number from when he was in Traffic,
isn’t—’

‘Precisely!’ Daniels said. ‘The RTA report on Beth Finch? Guess who the attending officer was? Only he was a sergeant then and not the head of fucking CID!’

Gormley flinched as she continued to rant. In all the years they had worked together, he’d never seen her so angry. She looked as if she was about to blow a gasket. ‘It was a long
time ago. Maybe he didn’t think it was relevant now, forgot to mention it. Who knows? You said yourself he’s had a tough time of it lately.’

His attempt to calm Daniels down by making light of what he knew was a very serious situation only made matters worse. ‘That’s bollocks! You know it and so do I!’ Daniels
rounded on him. ‘He deliberately kept it from us, Hank. He’s been protecting Finch all along. And the only way I get to find out why is by asking him outright.’

Gormley settled back in his seat, defeated. ‘Headquarters it is then.’

‘He’s gone home,’ Daniels grumbled. ‘Or so he told Ellen.’

‘Another one of his headaches?’

‘Not yet,’ she said caustically. ‘Ask me later!’

She started the engine and pulled out into fast-moving traffic, receiving a blast from the horn of the Vauxhall behind. Its driver was red in the face, a man carrying too much weight and far too
much attitude for Daniels’ liking. He remained glued to her bumper as they sped along the dual carriageway, flashing his lights and yelling like a man possessed.

Daniels was seething. ‘You seen this wanker behind?’

Gormley glanced in his wing mirror and caught the whites of a man’s eyes. Each time Daniels changed lanes he was right on her tail, weaving in and out of traffic like he owned the bloody
road, causing alarm and distress to other motorists forced to take avoiding action.

‘He’s going to kill someone unless you show him a clean pair of radials.’

‘I’ll do more than that.’

Daniels floored the accelerator. As her advanced police driving skills automatically kicked in, Gormley relaxed back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest, a huge grin on his face. Up
ahead, traffic lights were about to change. Daniels checked her rear-view mirror again and timed her move just right. Depressing her brake pedal, she slowed the Toyota right down – long
before it was necessary – forcing the irate driver into the fast lane. He squealed to a halt parallel with the Toyota, wound down his nearside window and began haranguing her, revving his
engine all the while, a hateful look in his eyes.

‘You got a road-rage problem, mate?’ Daniels said calmly. The man’s face paled as she held up her warrant card. The lights changed and she drove off burning rubber as the
Vauxhall’s engine stalled. She grinned at Gormley, her mood a little better now. ‘Maybe he’ll wind his neck in next time.’

They drove on, heading east towards Tynemouth, both remaining silent as the miles rolled quickly by. At the end of the coast road, Daniels took the second exit left, passing a school and a
swimming pool as the road narrowed, then on to a wide avenue once dubbed ‘Millionaires’ Row’. She’d never fully understood why. The houses on either side were big,
certainly, each one different from the next, and in their heyday they were probably the dog’s bollocks. But now they looked sad and dated, certainly not somewhere
she’d
choose to
live.

In what seemed like no time at all they arrived at their destination. Daniels killed the engine but made no attempt to get out of the car. There were no signs of life in Bright’s house. No
light on in the living room to suggest that he was home. The curtains were drawn back carelessly with no regard for aesthetics, one side more open than the other, a bunch of dead flowers in a vase
on the window ledge.

It was a dark, lifeless, shell of a house now.

Daniels swallowed hard, wondering what on earth Stella Bright would have made of it. No doubt she would have clipped Bright’s ear and told him to get a grip. Told him to have more
self-respect and stop dwelling on the past. But the man was still grieving, unable to accept she’d gone. And Daniels couldn’t help him with that.

Gormley’s voice filtered through her sadness.

‘Want me to come in?’ he said. ‘I’m thinking you might need a referee.’

He already knew the answer before he asked the question. She shook her head, appreciating his concern.
Everyone deserved a Gormley.
He was more like a cuddly big brother than her DS. Her
go-to person in times of crisis, one who would never, ever, let her down. But on this occasion, she considered it unwise to involve him in her fight. And there was a good reason for that. A reason
she was unwilling to share with him right now.