The Senior Investigating Officer failed to notice the sun as it crept over Sewingshields Crags, or the stunning aerial view as the police helicopter descended on Housesteads Roman Fort. Her attention was firmly focused on a handful of hikers crossing Hadrian’s Wall in both directions, each one a potential witness or suspect to a serious crime.
A little to the west, a police constable in a yellow fluorescent jacket stood guard outside a crime-scene tent. He held on to his hat as the chopper made its descent, its rotor blades whipping assorted debris high into the air. Jumping out, Daniels felt a stab of pain in her right shoulder as she hit the ground and ran clear. The pilot returned her thumbs-up gesture and lifted off again, banking steeply before turning back towards Northumbria Police HQ.
As curious hikers began heading her way, Daniels turned to the waiting officer. ‘I’m DCI Kate Daniels, murder investigation team. Where the hell are the lads from Area Command?’
The PC shrugged. ‘I was just told to wait here.’
He was tall, fresh-faced and built like a tank, someone she’d want on her side in a sticky situation. But he was no more than a kid. He looked really uncertain – really spooked.
‘This your first one?’
He nodded his reply.
‘Then do exactly as I say and you’ll be fine. CSI are on their way. Until then, it’s just you and me . . .’ Daniels gave a reassuring smile. They were two strangers, miles from anywhere. In remote areas, it had always been necessary for police officers to carry equipment their urban counterparts wouldn’t know what to do with. The young PC had done well. She pointed at the tent. ‘You erect this all by yourself?’
‘Me and my shift sergeant, ma’am.’
‘Good job.’ She nodded at the advancing crowd. ‘Now get on the radio. I want these people shifted.’ She waited for him to move. ‘Er, today would be good.’
‘Can we do that, ma’am? I mean, the fort is a world heritage site.’
‘I couldn’t care less if it was the birthplace of Julius Caesar!’ She glared at him. ‘I want them out of here. Now move it!’
Lifting the flap of the tent, she went inside. A young woman lay face up on the ground, her body splayed out awkwardly like a discarded rag doll. She had long blonde hair and perfect skin. A green scarf round her neck matched the colour of her eyes exactly. There were signs of blood loss from her left ear, a pool of which had dripped down and settled on the grass directly beneath her. One shoe was missing but she was otherwise fully clothed.
Daniels could hear the PC on his radio urging the control room to hurry things along. As she crouched down beside the body he arrived at her side, being careful to use the tread plates so as to preserve forensic evidence.
‘Anything strike you as odd?’ she asked.
‘Ma’am?’
‘She looks more quayside than hillside, don’t you think?’
The PC stifled a grin. Newcastle Quayside was the pulse of a party city some thirty miles away. He watched the DCI take a pen from her pocket. Carefully, she hooked one end under the ankle strap of a high-heeled patent leather shoe which was lying on the grass a few feet from the body.
‘With these on, I doubt she walked very far . . .’ Daniels studied the five-inch stiletto, holding it up in front of her face, swivelling it round so she could examine the state of the heel. ‘In fact, it’s a wonder she could walk at all!’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, what are you looking for?’
‘Any damage that might tell us whether it was ripped off or fell off.’
‘And which is it?’ he queried.
‘My guess would be the latter, but don’t quote me on that.’ Daniels tried to figure out how the girl had got there. They were a fair way from a main road. It had rained the night before and there was no mud on the high heel. Curiously, there were no drag marks on the ground surface either and no tyre tracks outside. The crime scene wasn’t telling her anything and that unsettled her. ‘Get me a pool car, would you? And while you’re at it, have someone check Housesteads car park for any abandoned vehicles. I can’t imagine—’
But the young constable had already left to carry out her instructions. Daniels smiled. The lad was keen, might even make a detective one day. Checking her watch, she stood up, hoping the pathologist wouldn’t be long. She followed the PC outside, lifting her hand to the glare of early morning sun. There was activity on the horizon. A bunch of uniforms were up at the fort rounding up her growing audience, their deadpan faces turned in her direction, all desperate to know what was going on. Figures wearing white hooded overalls were leaving the car park. Behind them, right on cue, a familiar Range Rover appeared. Tim Stanton, Home Office pathologist, got out carrying a black forensic evidence case and trundled across rough ground heading straight for her.
Daniels looked sideways as the PC spoke.
‘I noticed boot prints over there, ma’am.’ He pointed to a thin mound of grass a few metres away. ‘They’re definitely not mine, but they could belong to the guy who found her. He’s in the gift shop café waiting to talk to you.’
Stanton had reached them. He was already suited in white forensic clothing, his trousers tucked into a sturdy pair of green wellington boots. He acknowledged them both with a cheerful good morning then turned his attention to the SIO.
‘When was she found?’
‘An hour ago . . .’ Daniels pointed towards his car. ‘Spotted from the ridge by a guy out walking the Wall—’
‘Did he touch the body at all?’
‘No, we got lucky. He’s ex-job and had the good sense not to. He’s my next port of call.’
Stanton looked tired this morning and Daniels knew why. This was his third call-out in as many hours, according to Pete Brooks in the control room. She stood aside, allowing him to enter the tent alone, comforted in the knowledge that he’d take as much care with his subject as any regular doctor would had the girl still been alive. She’d known him for several years and they had worked together often. His scientific background complemented her intuitive approach perfectly. She never got in his way – or he hers.
The breeze was picking up. Sweeping hair away from her face, Daniels lifted binoculars to her eyes, panning around three hundred and sixty degrees. Other than the tent and hilltop fort, as far as the eye could see there was only the most spectacular countryside, dotted here and there with tiny slate-grey cottages. She wasn’t a religious woman – not any more – but the sight was almost spiritual, as if a higher authority had been at work. It wasn’t hard to imagine what life was like here when legions of soldiers toiled in all weathers to build the Roman Empire’s most northerly defences and a garrison to house eight hundred of their number just metres from where she was standing.
She sighed, taken in by a dramatic wilderness she’d seen many times before.
‘Unreal,’ she said.
The PC looked at her. ‘Ma’am?’
Daniels nodded towards the tent. ‘Such an ugly scene in such a stunning location.’
‘S’pose. I’m from round here . . .’ He pointed off into the distance. ‘Just over that ridge, to be precise. Guess you never see what’s been on your doorstep your whole life.’
Daniels looked around her. She couldn’t imagine taking this place for granted. Moving away from him, she made a call. Newcastle city centre was too far from the crime scene to run a murder enquiry, at least for the critical first few days. Her second in command, Detective Sergeant Hank Gormley, was out searching for a suitable place for a temporary incident room and she was relieved to hear he’d found one.
She wrote down a place name – High Shaw – then hung up.
Stanton emerged from the tent, bagging his latex gloves, nodding to the binoculars hanging round her neck. ‘You can put those away, Kate. If I’m right, you’re going to need some divine inspiration to solve this one.’
Daniels eyed him warily. He was not a man given to riddles.
‘Meaning?’ she asked.
‘That young woman in there was dropped from a great height.’
She looked up at a cloudless sky . . .