Settled Blood (37 page)

She sat back as he approached her chair, lifting her feet from the floor as he wheeled it away from the desk so he could better access her computer. After a few keystrokes, data she hadn’t
seen before suddenly popped up on screen. Her eyes followed his index finger as he pointed to a section relating to the deceased child, Sally Makepeace. Shuffling closer, Daniels stared wide-eyed
at the screen.

The revelation hit home immediately.

The date Sally died.

May fifteenth.

Tomorrow.

Daniels checked her watch to be sure. If Makepeace was their man – and they both thought he was – it was Sally’s death that drove him. He’d not miss the anniversary.

And if he so much as breathed near that cemetery, they’d be ready for him.

R
ain hammered on the roof of the Toyota. A landslide overnight had dominated local news all day. A sloping parcel of Northumberland had become destabilized and had dumped
itself with some force on to a railway line below it. This weather-related event did not bode well for Jessica Finch or Daniels’ team, who had been waiting all day to make an arrest.

It was already eight p.m.

Staring through the misted-up windscreen of her Toyota, Daniels felt thoroughly depressed. But she wasn’t finished yet. If she had to sit there until midnight, then so be it. She was sure
Makepeace would show.

He just had to.

Naylor’s voice broke the silence: ‘7824, what’s your status?’

‘No change, guv.’

‘Is the surveillance team still in position?’

‘Affirmative. Target area secure.’

‘On way,’ Naylor said. ‘Happy to do my bit, over.’

‘Unit One,’ Robson’s voice responded. ‘Make it quick, guv. I’m bloody soaked.’

‘Dickhead! He wants to think himself bloody lucky,’ Gormley said. ‘Jessica will be feeling a whole lot worse. That’s assuming she is still feeling, poor
bugger.’

Daniels stared straight ahead. The rain was relentless, no let-up in sight. The few people daft enough to be outside on such an awful night were either running or shivering under umbrellas.
Heavy snow in March. April showers in May. Typical British weather. She leaned forward and grabbed her radio from the dash.

‘7824 to Unit One. Maintain radio silence unless you have news to report, over.’

A good ten minutes passed before Robson contacted them again. And this time he wasn’t whingeing.

‘Unit One. One person in sight, approaching the west gate, over.’

Daniels sat up straight, pushing her transmit button. ‘Is it the target?’

There was a long, tense silence.

‘I’m too far away to see . . . He’s wearing a jacket with the hood up, I think. He’s just a silhouette, backlit by a street lamp. Can’t make him out,
boss.’

Daniels took a deep breath. ‘All units, hold your positions.’

I
n the churchyard, Robson crouched down as the figure walking straight towards him stopped, looked around furtively, and then moved off again.

Robson spoke quietly into his radio. ‘Subject acting suspiciously.’

‘All units stand by,’ Daniels’ voice came back.

Up ahead, the figure took a diversion from the main path. Robson could feel his excitement growing, the adrenalin pumping through his veins. A bird flew up out of a bush, startling him.

Robson took a deep breath. ‘Boss, he’s approaching target area.’

‘Hold your position,’ Daniels and Naylor both said at the same time.

I
n the Toyota, Daniels and Gormley could hardly contain themselves. Naylor came on the radio and gave an ETA of a few minutes.

‘7824 . . . that’s received, guv. Unit One, what’s he doing now?’

‘It’s not him!’ Robson’s disappointment was obvious. ‘This idiot’s just taking a piss.’

Daniels smacked her hand against the steering wheel in frustration.

‘Taking
the
piss more like,’ she said.

T
he radio intercept device was working perfectly. Just as he knew it would.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ the DCI said. ‘Unit One, get him out of there. If the target arrives, he’ll scare him off.’

Makepeace smiled to himself, started the ignition of his VW Golf and pulled out from the kerb, narrowly missing Naylor’s car coming the other way.

S
werving to avoid a collision, Naylor got a good look at the whites of the driver’s eyes. It
was
Makepeace. The guv’nor did a sudden U-turn, his brakes
screeching on the wet road, and sped off again burning rubber.

‘Naylor to all units. I have the eyeball. Suspect identified as James Makepeace on Coldstream Road heading south in excess of sixty miles an hour. Black VW Golf:
November-Lima-Five-Nine-Mike-Oscar-Delta. He’s turning a left-left on to Kelso Gardens. Any traffic in the area please respond.’

‘Y
ahoo!’ Gormley yelled, rubbing his hands together. ‘What do you reckon, boss? Dangerous or reckless?’

Daniels ignored the question. She was too busy turning round to give chase. ‘7824 to Naylor. He’s probably heading for the old sports fields, guv.’

A Traffic car responded, letting them know his position: ‘Tango 3856, heading south-east on Whickham View.’

‘Naylor to all units. He’s turned right on to Gretna Road, travelling south.’

Gormley was forced to hang on to the grab strap as Daniels shot round a corner in an area they knew well. ‘Can’t remember the last time I did this, but it’s about now my fish
and chips used to slide off the dashboard!’

Daniels picked up speed passing a row of old semi-detached houses. In pursuit mode, she floored the accelerator, looking at the vanishing point in the road trying to get the eyeball herself but
also watching for unexpected hazards appearing in the foreground. She could see the VW now, weaving from side to side to prevent Naylor from overtaking, clipping wing mirrors of cars parked along
the road.

‘7824: I’m travelling south on Gretna Road. Right behind you, guv.’

‘Tango 3856: I’m going to wait at the junction of Whickham View/Ferguson’s Lane.’

‘Good move!’ Gormley said as they closed in.

‘Target vehicle turning left-left into . . .’ Naylor hesitated for a second.

‘St Cuthbert’s playing fields, guv,’ Gormley said, helping him out, not bothering with a call sign.

‘Jesus!’ Naylor said. ‘Pedestrians look frightened. They’re jumping out of the way. I need to pull off him.’

Another Traffic car joined the hunt: ‘Tango 3275: Fox and Hounds Lane.’

Daniels kept her foot on the accelerator. ‘7824 to Tango 3275. Wait-wait on Fox and Hounds Lane. He could exit the playing fields.’

‘Tango 3275. I’m aware of that location. Standing by.’

‘Tango 3856, now on route to Pendower way.’

‘He’s doing a reciprocal, doing a reciprocal,’ Naylor said.

‘7824: blocking his exit with my vehicle.’

Arriving at the entrance to the playing fields, Daniels pulled up sharp as the Golf suddenly altered direction. He was now driving straight at her.

‘Brace! Brace!’ she yelled.

Raising their arms in front of their faces, Daniels and Gormley braced themselves for the impact. A split second later, there was an almighty bang and the sound of debris hitting the front of
the Toyota. Then . . . deathly silence.

An alarm went off.

Gormley spread his fingers and peered through them.

‘We’re still alive then.’ He sounded more shaken than he was letting on.

‘Oh shit!’ Daniels was staring straight ahead. Steam was coming from the bonnet of the VW and Naylor’s car door had been flung open on impact. ‘All units, he’s
crashed into the guv’nor. Possible casualties. Ambulance required. We’ve got a runner! You OK, boss?’

No response.

In the darkness, Daniels’ eyes fixed on Naylor. He was out of his car and running after Makepeace. She and Gormley jumped out of the Toyota in hot pursuit. They needn’t have
bothered. In a move that an England full-back would’ve been proud of, Naylor tackled Makepeace to the ground. He sounded out of breath as his voice came over the radio.

‘O
ne arrest . . .’ Naylor cuffed the suspect. ‘All units stand down.’

Moments later, Daniels and Gormley arrived at his side. They were both grinning at the state he was in. He’d rolled in dog shit and reeked of the stuff.

‘Yeah, OK, I’m too bloody old for this.’ Naylor turned his nose up at the appalling stench. ‘All I could see was you two covering your eyes. It didn’t exactly fill
me with confidence.’

‘We didn’t want to be witnesses, guv,’ Gormley said. ‘Too many forms to fill in.’

Daniels helped him to his feet. ‘Nice to see you haven’t lost the edge.’

B
ooking someone in at the charge room is normally a doddle: justify detention to a custody officer, create a custody record, offer representation, search your suspect, lift any
forensic samples, seize clothing if necessary and bang them up to await a formal interview.

Job done.

Only today wasn’t normal. The suspect was having none of it.

Following his arrest, they had taken Makepeace to the nearest police station, which happened to be the West End nick. But he declined to confirm his identity – refused to accept or reject
a solicitor – in fact refused to speak at all. He didn’t fight, kick, scream, do or say anything, simply stared straight ahead like they weren’t even there, his non-cooperation
slowing the whole process down.

Frustrated with his antics, Naylor had gone off to take a shower, leaving Daniels to it. But watching the clock was complete torture for her, so she called Jo Soulsby asking for help.

‘Is there any way you can join us, give an opinion on the best way to handle him?’

‘Give me half an hour.’ Jo’s voice sounded thick, as if she’d just woken up.

As they talked on the phone, Daniels made notes, her eyes straying occasionally to the awful weather outside. Questioning Makepeace was going to be a painstaking process, and one she had little
enthusiasm for. ‘No comment’ interviews always left her feeling impotent, the letter of the law tying her hands very firmly behind her back, tipping the scales in favour of the
offender. At times like these she wished she could ‘fire up the Quattro’, drive Makepeace to a remote location and kick the living shit out of him like her 1980s politically incorrect
television hero, Gene Hunt, might do. He was a DCI with no such restraints. And those he did have, he chose to ignore.

Would that she could do the same.

But this wasn’t life on Mars.

Putting down the phone, she picked it up again and made another call asking the police surgeon to examine Makepeace to ensure he was fit to be interviewed. Bearing in mind he’d been
involved in an accident, albeit of his own making, it was best to cover every angle to avoid problems later on. Daniels then contacted the duty solicitor who agreed to offer her services on the off
chance Makepeace would accept them. But after only a few minutes she left the cell shaking her head.

Same silent treatment: there was nothing she could do.

At five past eleven, Daniels received a call to say that Jo was in the building. This made her feel really emotional. She didn’t know why, it just did. Probably the result of tiredness.
Fatigue often did that to her. It was a wonder she didn’t spend her whole life in tears.

‘Tell her I’ll be right down,’ she said.

Planning an interviewing strategy for a wilful suspect was a nightmare. Daniels was glad that Jo was going to be involved. She’d assisted them before and her insights were spot on. But as
she hurried to reception, Daniels couldn’t help feeling that Makepeace was in a league of his own.

A case too far, even for Jo?

She smiled at Jo as she walked through the door, then took her straight to the observation suite, a brand-new, purpose-built facility with viewing rooms where they could observe suspects
covertly via CCTV. No sooner had they sat down together than Jo delved into her bag and produced a flask of homemade soup.

‘It’ll keep you going through the next few hours,’ she said.

Daniels took it from her. ‘Since when did you turn into a domestic goddess?’

‘Hey!’ Jo made a face. ‘There’s more to me than meets the eye.’

Daniels unscrewed the top of the flask. The lentil soup smelled good. She poured some out and took a sip, feeling it warm her from the inside out. Eyeing Jo over the top of her cup, she felt
sad. They had once made such a great team and still maintained a strong bond, invisible to others, but there all the same. She’d almost forgotten how considerate a person she was.

‘You look exhausted,’ Jo said.

Daniels stifled a yawn. ‘I am a bit.’

‘How long since you’ve been home? Twelve, fourteen hours?’

Daniels glanced at her watch. It was actually nearer seventeen. She’d left the house before dawn, had been on duty ever since – as had the rest of her team. Even at this late hour
they would still be hard at it, waiting back at the incident room for news, keen to see Makepeace charged. But even keener to find Jessica Finch alive.

‘You can’t keep this pace up indefinitely, Kate. You’ve seen what it’s done to Bright. Believe me, you’ll go the same way. When did you last have a decent
meal?’

‘Bright doesn’t take care of himself.’

‘And you do?’

‘Maybe not this week,’ Daniels conceded. ‘But generally, yes. You know I do!’

‘But the job comes first.’

It was a definite dig. Daniels looked away. It was the job –
her job
– that had come between them. Always had. Probably always would. No matter how hard she tried, she was
incapable of putting anything before it. Even her personal happiness had taken a back seat.

Feeling the intensity of Jo’s stare, she turned back to face her.

‘What?’ Daniels said, defensively. ‘Let’s not go there, eh? My job isn’t nine to five and it certainly isn’t easy. But this isn’t just another murder
enquiry, Jo. A young girl’s out there somewhere, waiting to be rescued. Every minute away from the office is a minute wasted as far as I’m concerned.’