Settled Blood (8 page)

‘Ryan?’

‘What is this, Twenty Questions?’

When Gormley’s sense of humour went walkabout that usually meant he didn’t want to talk. Daniels wondered what was going on. It wasn’t like him to be secretive and she hoped
his silence wasn’t an indication that things had gone from bad to worse at home. She shouldn’t have mentioned his wife and son. Any minute now her DS would cross his arms, shut his
eyes, and hang like a bat from his seat belt so she couldn’t quiz him any more.

‘I’ll take that as a no then, shall I?’ She accelerated round a bend in the road.

‘Why don’t we talk about Jo instead?’

Daniels clammed up. He was referring to criminal profiler, Jo Soulsby. The last thing she wanted to do was talk about her. When last they’d spoken, it had felt more like a therapy session
with a professional counsellor than a conversation between mates, let alone ex-lovers still attracted to one another. She missed Jo more than she cared to admit, even to herself. She missed her
smell, her laughter, her touch – just breathing the same air.

She wanted to stop loving her and make the pain go away.

A sign pointed off to the left. Daniels took the slip road on to the A1 heading north, hoping Gormley would change the subject.

He didn’t disappoint. ‘Finch is an arrogant bastard. I’m not surprised he has enemies.’

‘Don’t be too hard on him, Hank. He’s under so much stress he probably doesn’t know what he’s saying half the time.’

‘Sympathy sits between shit and syphilis in the dictionary.’

She grinned. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting he’s someone I’ve warmed to a whole lot, but I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt, don’t
you?’

‘The man’s a prick, Kate.’

Gormley took off his bifocals, put them in his breast pocket and shut his eyes. Conversation over: at least for now. Within seconds, he was sending the zeds up. He didn’t wake until she
stopped to refuel at Washington Services. They grabbed a quick bite to eat, the atmosphere between them thawing a little, and then got back in the car. Traffic was unusually light and they made
good time. At Corbridge, Daniels turned north on the A68 and cut up on to the Military Road, reaching High Shaw at three forty-five.

P
C Kevin Hook walked towards the Toyota as Daniels parked in the only space available. As they got out of the car, he handed her a message from the forensic science laboratory
and stood by waiting for further instructions.

‘Matt West said it wasn’t urgent, but he’d appreciate a call back.’

Daniels thanked him and made a mental note to return the call. ‘Any news from the house-to-house while we were gone?’

Hook shook his head. ‘Nothing so far.’

Gormley spoke over his shoulder as they walked away. ‘Keep us posted.’

The murder investigation team were ready and waiting as they entered High Shaw. It was standing-room only with the whole squad crammed into the tiny cottage. They were on starter’s orders,
the buzz of a new enquiry filling the air. Robson had been busy. Photographs of Jessica Finch and Amy Grainger were pinned to the whiteboard, alongside their details: height, build and eye colour.
These photographs were the focus of everyone’s attention, the similarity between the two glaringly obvious.

‘OK, listen up!’ Daniels sat down surrounded by her squad. ‘It won’t have escaped your notice that Amy Grainger is a dead ringer for Jessica Finch, which means that our
priorities have now changed. I’m not suggesting for one minute that we forget about Amy. This
is
a murder enquiry. But our main concern must be on finding Jessica Finch while
there’s a chance she’s still alive.’

‘Did they know each other?’ Robson asked.

‘Not according to either of their parents,’ Gormley said.

‘Yeah, but what do parents ever know?’ Daniels said. ‘Mine were on a different planet, hadn’t a clue what I was up to. It’s like that for most kids, surely.’
Her eyes found Carmichael. ‘Lisa, when we’re done here, get over to the university and find out what you can. I need an address for Jessica and I need it now. Her father was under the
impression she was living at halls, but she’s moved out. Someone must know where she lives. Be careful what you say though. We don’t want to spook the students.’

Daniels had worked on many high-profile cases but this MO somehow seemed more macabre than all the rest. It was an exceptionally cold method of sending anyone to an early grave and calculated in
its intent. It brought to mind Jonathan Forster, a serial killer who’d recently terrorized northern Britain – payback for an abusive mother. A deranged psychopath, he’d killed
many times, once by placing a gun into a toddler’s hand, pointing it at the child’s grandfather and pulling the trigger.

Equally gross.

Daniels’ left hand stroked her right shoulder, injured by the same bullet that had glanced off her clavicle before imbedding itself in Forster’s heart – killing him
instantaneously. Her memory of his killing spree was drowned out by Carmichael’s voice.

‘So what are we looking at, a kidnapping?’

‘Yes, but as I’ve said, it may not be motivated by money. The necklace I showed you earlier was worth a small fortune, enough to keep your average arsehole going for months. This
offence is personal – someone
really
wants Adam Finch to suffer.’

‘So what happens now?’ Carmichael asked. ‘We run the two cases as one?’

‘Theoretically, yes, but under no circumstances does that fact leave this room. I don’t want the press finding out we have yet another linked incident on our patch. They’ll
have a field day.’

‘So we’re the lead force again?’ Robson was referring to the case the DCI had just been thinking about. Three forces had been involved but Northumbria Police had taken control
of the investigation. ‘There’s going to be no involvement from Durham?’

‘For the time being, at least,’Gormley said. ‘We had a conversation with Ron Naylor on the way back here. He agrees that’s the best course of action. So keep up the good
work, boys and girls. You know what to do.’

The team scattered.

Daniels pulled out her phone to call Matt West. As the number rang out she imagined him eighty-five miles south, puzzling over some sample or other, his eyes permanently fixed to the lenses of
his microscope. After several rings he picked up.

‘Matt, it’s Kate Daniels returning your call.’

‘How you doing?’ He sounded preoccupied.

‘You got something for me?’

‘Maybe . . . that sample I took from your victim’s shoe—’

‘Hold on . . .’ Daniels nodded as Gormley walked in from the kitchen holding up a china mug. Then she switched the phone to loudspeaker so he could listen in on her call. ‘OK,
shoot. I want Hank to hear this too.’

‘I’ve found a slight mineral deposit. I thought it was glass at first, but it isn’t. I’m not going to commit myself until I’ve completed my research, but I’m
fairly sure I’ve never come across it before.’

‘Can you be more specific?’ The DCI had detected excitement in his voice. But Matt being Matt he was always cagey until he was sure of his facts. All the same, she had every reason
to think that he might be on to something. ‘Those test results are vital now. Another girl’s gone missing. It looks like the same guy has taken her.’

‘The only thing I can say for certain is that it didn’t come from the area where the body was found. Not a chance. In fact, I’m looking at it now . . .’ There was a
slight pause in the conversation. ‘I’ve been testing it for a good few hours. It’s so unusual it might determine
exactly
where your victim was held before she met her
death. You find that, chances are you’ll find your missing girl.’

Daniels locked eyes with Gormley.

It didn’t get much better than that.

S
omewhere deep within the North Pennines, Jessica Finch opened her eyes wondering if she was still asleep, her terror and confusion part of a bad dream. She tried to focus,
tried to make out where she was. She could hear a noise she couldn’t immediately identify, the same sound that had woken her. The drip, drip, drip of liquid as it plopped heavily into the
moving body of black water she was standing in.

Jessica moved her head to the left, her eyes following the dim pool of light reflected on the wet wall opposite. Her only source of light was coming from the cap lamp attached to the hard hat on
her head, the chin strap of which was hanging loose around her neck.

Something slithered past her right calf.

She was sure it was nibbling at her skin.

A rat?

Something worse than a rat?

Jessica struggled but the shackles held firm. She screamed at the top of her voice, trying to look down without knocking off the hat, her terrified eyes searching the water below. Whatever it
was, it slithered past again and she screamed even louder, her voice echoing in the chamber beyond . . .

HELP!

And then she noticed something else. Something even more terrifying than whatever was swimming around her in the water below. It was the colour that caught her eye, one she’d hated all her
life. To some it signified triumph, courage and determination. To others, danger, rage, malevolence . . . blood. To her it was the colour of nightmares since the night her mother passed away. At
first she thought she was seeing things. Fear did that to people, didn’t it? Surely her mind was playing tricks. But as she strained her eyes to look again, she realized she was right. Her
dress. No . . . not
her
dress. Someone else’s.

Why?

And why hadn’t her abductors gagged her?

There could be only one possible explanation.

She was in a place too remote to be heard.

D
aniels glanced through the open door hoping to catch a few minutes with her former boss. Detective Chief Superintendent Bright hung up as she entered the room, tapping on the
door on her way in.

Ellen Crawford smiled as she walked in.

‘Am I interrupting?’ Daniels asked.

‘No, I was just leaving.’ Ellen made a show of looking at her watch. ‘As soon as Phil signs his mail, which has been sitting on his desk for hours.’

Bright smiled at her. ‘Don’t suppose you could organize a cup of tea for DCI Daniels before you go? One for me too, if you’re boiling the kettle; I know how you love to save
the planet.’

‘I’m your PA, not your tea lady.’ Ellen’s eyes flashed, warning him not to push his luck. But she was smiling when she turned to Daniels. ‘What’s he like? How
on earth you’ve put up with him all these years is beyond me, it really is!’

Bright scribbled his name on various documents. As he handed them to Ellen, Daniels’ eyes slid over her. She was a woman of indeterminate age; mid to late forties, Daniels guessed. She had
the body of someone half her age, good skin and perfect teeth, her own, not manufactured in some laboratory. She had great hair too, red to match her fiery personality.

‘How about that tea?’ Bright made a begging gesture. ‘Just this once?’

‘It’s fine, Ellen,’ Daniels said. ‘I can make my own tea and so can he.’

Ellen relented. ‘Milk, no sugar?’

‘You sure?’

The PA smiled.

Daniels took a seat as she left the room.

Bright spoke up as she shut the door. ‘What have
you
got that I haven’t?

‘Appreciation might do it.’ She grinned. ‘It usually works a treat, guv.’

‘You any further forward? Adam must be desperate for news.’

‘Well, he’s going to be disappointed.’

‘How’s he holding up?’

Daniels shrugged. ‘As well as can be expected, I suppose.’

‘House-to-house come up with anything?’

‘Have you seen his place? It’s miles from the nearest village, not a neighbour in sight – thousands of acres of land accessible from all points on the compass. It’s a
bloody nightmare.’

‘I meant around the crime scene.’

‘That’s even worse! Open countryside. Big sky. Sheep. And not a lot else. There’s hardly any CCTV from Greenhead in the west all the way to Heddon-on-the-Wall in the east.
I’ve got officers with local knowledge helping us, but it isn’t going to be easy. There are only forty or so buildings within a four-mile radius. Some of those are derelict. I’m
having them all checked out, but my guts are telling me we’re wasting our time up there. You
do
know it’s also a military training area?’ She didn’t wait for an
answer. ‘That means low-flying exercises at all times of the day and night. Aircraft noise – fixed wing or helicopter – isn’t something the locals would notice a whole
lot.’

Daniels’ eyes fell on his new desk, in particular on his most prized possession: a photograph of his late wife Stella posing in the foyer of the city’s Malmaison Hotel. She had her
glad rags on and high-heeled shoes, her shapely dancer’s legs on show for all to see. Next to her photograph sat a card with Daniels’ name on it.

Damn! He’d remembered it was her birthday.

She hoped he wasn’t planning anything. She was supposed to be having dinner with her father, who was trying his best to make things right between them. He’d booked a table at
Bouchon, a French restaurant in Hexham she’d heard good reports of. Friends had been there and had raved about the food. She looked at her watch. It was far too late to cancel.
But what
choice did she have?
It would cause a row, she knew that much. Her father, a stickler for protocol and good manners, would take it as a personal affront if she allowed her job to come first
again. The irony was not lost on her. The fact of the matter was, her chosen career had driven a wedge between them from the moment she had signed on the dotted line all those years ago.

It hadn’t always been like that.

Ed Daniels was an affectionate, hard-working man with a great sense of humour. At least, he used to be, until the miners’ strike put him out of work and closed his pit. They had been close
back then. But years later, when she left school with above-average grades and a burning ambition to join the police force, he saw her career choice as a personal betrayal and from there on things
began to slide downhill.