Mist hung like a veil over the grass. Detective Chief Superintendent Bright was standing outside High Shaw looking out at the scenery wishing Stella could’ve seen the place. She’d have loved it. Last night had been the first time since her untimely death he’d truly enjoyed himself surrounded by his former team, his other family. Stella couldn’t have kids.
Hank Gormley joined him, mug in each hand, muttering a husky greeting. He needed a shave and was clearly hung-over. Handing Bright a coffee, he leaned back against the metre-thick stone wall of the cottage.
Bright took a slurp. ‘Shit, that’s hot!’
‘It’s made with boiling water, guv.’
A grunt was all Bright managed in reply.
Gormley yawned. ‘Suppose I should clear out the troops before the world and his wife get up. What the hell happened to Lisa? She didn’t hang around long.’
‘Try the caravan.’
Gormley’s gaze shifted to the Mobile Incident Unit.
When he looked back, his former guv’nor was grinning.
‘Nah.’ Hank shook his head. ‘Fiver says you’re wrong.’
Bright stuck a hand out. ‘Fifty quid says I’m right.’
Gormley didn’t shake on it. They stood for a while, taking in the view, enjoying the silence. Then the door to the Mobile Incident Unit opened and DC Lisa Carmichael emerged. She was clearly half-asleep and didn’t notice their eyes upon her.
‘Bad choice, Lisa.’ Bright didn’t even try to hide his amusement. ‘Did nobody tell you he’s got more patter than Gandhi’s flip-flop?’
Gormley stifled a laugh as Carmichael hurried into the cottage.
Within half an hour Bright had returned to headquarters and High Shaw was back to normal with no evidence of the previous night’s impromptu celebration. Daniels was sitting in the centre of her squad, stressing that the party was over and from here on in she wanted their minds on the job. Kevin Hook smirked at Carmichael, who looked at her boss with an expression of regret. Daniels felt sorry for her. Most young detectives she’d ever known had been in that particular place. Drink in, wits out – a drunken fuck with an inappropriate other whose name they couldn’t and didn’t want to recall the next day.
She moved quickly on. ‘Adam Finch is our starting point. He was once in the Army Air Corps . . .’ She paused to let the information sink in. ‘And yes, he was a pilot, although according to the guv’nor he currently has no licence. Later today, Hank and I will re-interview him, but I want to run this scenario past Jo Soulsby first, see if she can give us a handle on the person or persons we’re looking for. Andy, put in a request to Durham Uni: I want all CCTV footage seized. Tell them we’ll be along later in the day – get us an office up there, if you can. If you come up with any leads, feed them back through Robbo, who’ll coordinate things this end. Robbo, I want you to get in touch with this artist woman, make arrangements for her to come in and see me.’ She handed over the business card for Fiona Fielding that Finch had supplied. ‘Kevin, caravan, now! The rest of you can go.’
In the privacy of the Mobile Incident Unit, Hook stood to attention. He was far less cocky than he had been a minute ago as he waited for a dressing down.
Daniels was far from happy. ‘Your supervisor tells me you have your sights on a transfer to the murder investigation team. Problem is, we only have vacancies for people who can be discreet.’
‘Pardon, ma’am?’
‘Don’t come the innocent with me, Kevin. I saw that little display in there. Carmichael is a bloody good operator. She doesn’t need distractions. Know what I’m saying?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Well, if you do want a permanent posting with us, I suggest you think long and hard before notching up any more of my team on your bedpost. Last night didn’t happen, got me?’
Hook nodded, his face going red.
Daniels walked out.
After agreeing to meet up with Gormley later in the morning, she got in her car and took the road to Newcastle. Traffic was light and she made good time until she reached Jesmond. At the top of Osborne Road, a diversion had sprung up, re-routing vehicles along St Georges Terrace and then left on to Acorn Road – a nightmare at the best of times.
In a long line of vehicles, she sat tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, concerned that she might be late for her appointment with Jo. Bored waiting, her eyes scanned the parade of shops: a mini-market, a newsagent, a couple of bakeries, a hardware store and Boilerhouse, her favourite hair salon. And soon she was out on to Osborne Road again, an area transformed in recent years. Hotel bars had terraces fronting on to the tree-lined street and, even at this early hour, the café culture was thriving. A few minutes later she arrived at Jo’s front door.
She took a deep breath and knocked . . .