They parked right outside Jo’s house. As they did so, the curtains of the house next door inched open and an elderly lady peeped out from within. Daniels noticed a Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the window.
They got out of the car and made their way to Jo’s front door. Gormley pressed the bell and stepped back. They waited . . . and when there was no reply Daniels pointed to the adjoining property.
‘Let’s try next door,’ she said.
The elderly lady they’d seen at the window opened the door with the chain still secured. She was a fine-looking woman, around eighty years old: extremely alert with steely eyes and curly, cotton wool hair.
‘Mrs Collins?’ Daniels held up ID. ‘May we have a word?’
The chain came off. ‘Yes, yes. You people did that already. I’m old, not stupid. I know who you are.’
Daniels smiled.
The woman showed them into her living room and sat down in a high-backed chair. Daniels asked how well she knew her neighbour, Jo Soulsby. Mrs Collins told her not very well at all. The last time she’d seen Jo, she was getting out of a taxi in the small hours of Friday the sixth of November.
A matter of hours after the fatal shooting.
The fact that nobody had seen her since had Daniels wondering why.
‘Can you be more precise on time?’
Mrs Collins thought about this before answering. ‘Around one forty-five in the morning . . . I’d been listening to the Night Shift programme on radio, you see. Then I read for a while – an old P.D. James novel, Death of an Expert Witness; I’d bought it the day before at a jumble sale – so I do know how late it was.’
Gormley and Daniels smiled at one another, tickled by the programme title. Neither had heard of it – they were too busy with the real thing – but both had read the book.
‘A fan of our colleague Commander Adam Dalgliesh, are you?’ Gormley asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Mrs Collins said. ‘A real gentleman, just like my late husband.’
Daniels pushed on. ‘Was Ms Soulsby alone?’
Mrs Collins nodded. ‘I don’t sleep well since my Jack died. I heard a car pull up and saw her getting out of a taxi. That’s the last time I saw her. Is everything all right next door?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about,’ Gormley said.
They thanked Mrs Collins for the information and headed back to the murder incident room, stopping at Dene’s Deli on Jesmond Road to collect something decent to eat – the best sandwiches around, as far as Daniels was concerned.
Back at the office, they grabbed a coffee and got stuck into their lunch: Daniels’ Italian salami and organic sundried tomato and the ‘special’ Gormley had chosen, ‘Last Mango in Paris’: creamy crab, tuna and mango chutney. They’d just finished eating when Brown stuck his head round the door. Gormley had asked him to trace Jo through her employers, but his efforts had so far drawn a blank. The Home Office official he’d spoken to point-blank refused to give out any details without first speaking to someone in authority.
‘Understandable, I suppose,’ Daniels said. ‘Given the nature of her work, they’re entitled to be cagey. She has to deal with some evil bastards. No doubt one or two might pay handsomely for her details.’
‘Doesn’t give him the right to treat me like a prat.’
‘Did he?’ Daniels took in Brown’s nod. ‘Well, we’ll see about that.’
Just then, her phone rang.
‘This’ll be him now, I bet,’ Brown said. ‘I gave him your extension number.’
Daniels picked up. ‘Murder Investigation Team.’
The Home Office official didn’t ask who she was or bother to introduce himself, just demanded to know why the police were sniffing round one of their own. What was it Jo Soulsby had done? Did Daniels know she was a professional of high standing in her field? There were issues of Data Protection to consider . . . blah, blah. Daniels shook her head and raised her eyes to the ceiling, letting Brown and Gormley know that it was indeed the Home Office, holding the receiver half a yard from her ear as the man continued his tirade. He was speaking so loudly, they could hear every word.
Eventually, he stopped to draw breath.
‘Have you any idea who you are talking to?’ Daniels asked.
‘Well, no, I assume . . .’
‘Then piss off and stop wasting my valuable time!’ She slammed the phone down to a spontaneous round of applause from her two colleagues. ‘Officious little prick!’
They got up and followed Brown back into the incident room. As Gormley peeled off, heading for the gents, Daniels eyed the photographs attached to the murder wall: Stephens, Monica, James . . . Jo.
Where the hell are you?
Daniels looked at her watch. She wanted an update from Ron Naylor, but it was too early to call him. His victim would have to be examined, first in situ, then transported to the morgue for a full post-mortem. Only then would Forensics get their hands on the card that had niggled her subconscious since she’d learned of its existence.
Two scenarios loomed large in her thoughts, neither of which appealed. Either way, Daniels knew she had a problem. If Naylor’s case and the killing of Sarah Short and Father Simon weren’t linked then there were two dangerous offenders on the run in bordering counties, a problem that definitely needed sorting. But if the opposite was true, then a serial killer who had eluded capture for almost a year was lurking out there somewhere – a situation that was so much worse.