Daniels had been a police officer for the best part of fifteen years. She’d seen the effects of violent crime on a daily basis but prided herself on the fact that she never allowed the job to affect her sensitivity to the bereaved. There was no right or wrong way for families of homicide victims to behave. Every individual coped differently: some became overwhelmed, some were too shocked to take it in, others went into denial and some – the most severe cases – went into total meltdown.
Still raw from her own experience of losing a parent prematurely, Daniels could easily identify with the emotional side of loss. The numbness, the anger, the guilt. The awful depression she’d always thought of as a modern disease, like stress. The image of a small sign hanging on her office wall suddenly popped into her mind. Stress: the confusion created when one’s mind overrides the body’s basic desire to kick the living shit out of some arsehole that desperately needs it!
Daniels wondered if the woman in front of her now felt the need to kick the living shit out of anyone. For a woman whose husband had just been brutally murdered, Monica Stephens was showing little emotion. And yet, she’d been taken to hospital in shock less than twenty-four hours before. The hand holding the cup and saucer was steady, the make-up immaculate, not a hair out of place or hint of recent tears.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss . . .’ Daniels said, gently.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
Monica spoke in a marked foreign accent, but with an excellent command of the English language. Her voice was unbroken, her conversation relaxed and coherent. And a copy of The Lady was lying open on the table between them. Daniels found that very curious. It was this week’s issue, had only come on sale that morning. No depression there then. Here was a woman who’d not only declined the offer of a family liaison officer, but she’d also found time to read her favourite magazine while half the force were out looking for the thug with a firearm who’d blown her husband away.
It was weird.
‘Take it,’ Monica said, picking up on Daniels’ interest in the magazine. ‘I didn’t sleep well and I’ve read it, how do you say, back to front?’
Daniels studied the woman until she felt compelled to fill the silence.
‘I can’t believe this has happened, Detective. My husband was a good man. Everyone liked him. Why would anyone do such a thing?’
Why indeed?
‘Did Mr Stephens have any problems recently, at work or at home?’
‘No!’ Monica’s tone was scathing, as if the question had been ridiculous. ‘We were very comfortable with money, Alan and I. Our business is hugely successful. He was an entrepreneur, a good one. He built his operation up from nothing, as you can see. He hated this house. Said growing up here was a nightmare. It is what motivated him, I think.’
Glancing around the room, Daniels saw no trappings of wealth. In fact, quite the opposite was true. They were sitting in a small living room in a house belonging to Alan Stephens’ mother, a former council property that hadn’t been updated in years. The furniture was frayed and unfashionable, the carpets worn and in need of replacement. Stephens may have been successful but he certainly didn’t spread his money around, at least not in his poor mother’s direction.
A meeting with Mrs Stephens senior a little earlier hadn’t been an interview as such, more a welfare visit to the mother of a homicide victim. She was eighty-one years old, a fit, straight-talking lady with steely blue eyes. Her reaction to the tragedy had been painful to watch. When Daniels found out why, her heart sank. To survive one son was bad luck; to survive two was more than a mother could possibly bear. But Daniels had no such feelings of sympathy or warmth for the woman sitting in front of her now.
She moved on. ‘He was well liked?’
Monica raised her teacup to her lips. ‘As much as any successful businessman is.’
Exchanging a brief look with Gormley, Daniels wondered if the act of covering her mouth was significant. Was the woman hiding something, or merely taking a drink? Had Daniels been a gambler, she’d have opted for the former, but for now at least she was prepared to give the widow the benefit of the doubt.
‘Can you tell me when you last saw your husband?’ she asked.
‘Around seven o’clock.’ Monica replaced her cup in its saucer. ‘No, shortly after – his taxi was late. He commented on it. Alan was an Englishman through and through, a little eccentric even. Punctuality was important to him. He believed it was a measure of a man, like manners. He hated sloppiness in any form.’
‘Was he going straight to the Weston Hotel?’
Monica nodded. ‘That’s what he said.’
Daniels registered the doubt. ‘And you left home when?’
‘Very soon after.’
‘To go where?’ Gormley asked casually.
‘To have dinner with a friend, then I drove her to Newcastle airport, returning here around midnight—’
Daniels wanted more. ‘Which flight?’
‘Does it matter?’
The detectives just looked at her.
Monica spread her hands, acknowledging her mistake. ‘Sorry, of course it matters. I suppose I must account for my movements like everyone else. She was catching a flight to London, she has family down there.’
‘Do you remember the check-in desk, which airline she was using?’
Monica shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I didn’t really take much notice. We had a drink in the bar and she left me, I don’t know . . . at around eleven thirty, I guess.’
Daniels felt a ripple of excitement building. To her knowledge, there was no flight out of Newcastle to any London airport that late at night. ‘Do you have any idea where she might be staying in London?’
Monica sighed, bored with the questioning. ‘Do you always tell people where you are going, Detective? Surely the whole point of taking a break is that you can’t be found?’
‘Did you buy anything while you were at the airport?’
‘Only drinks.’
Gormley looked at her. ‘Don’t suppose you have any receipts?’
‘Who keeps receipts? I paid cash. It was a few pounds only.’
‘Of course,’ Daniels nodded. ‘And your friend’s name?’
‘Teresa.’
‘Surname?’
‘Branson, Teresa Branson.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Stephens . . .’ Daniels smiled and got to her feet. ‘I think that’s all for now. Be sure to get in touch if you think of anything else. And if you change your mind, feel free to ring me at any time. And do speak with your family liaison officer if there’s anything you need, anything at all. That’s what they’re there for.’
They said their goodbyes at the front door and made their way to the Toyota. Daniels waited until they were inside the car and Monica had gone back inside before speaking.
‘If she’s grieving for her husband, she’s doing a bloody good job of hiding it . . .’ She fastened her seat belt, turned on the engine and drove away. ‘Give Lisa a bell, Hank. Tell her to get hold of a copy of the airport CCTV footage. And while you’re at it, get her to check last night’s passenger lists for Teresa Branson.’