Ron Naylor was waiting – as Daniels knew he would be – in The Living Room restaurant on Grey Street, as agreed. He scrubs up well, for a copper, she thought, as a waiter took her coat. Always the policeman, she knew he’d sit facing the door, careful never to turn his back on potential trouble – a useful tip drummed into them at training school that now came as second nature. Subconsciously or otherwise, he’d have clocked everyone in the place, could probably tell her what they had on, what mood they were in, and whether or not they were up to no good.
He smiled and stood up as she approached.
She sat down, couldn’t help noticing that he’d ordered French wine, her favourite Sancerre La Fuzelle from the Loire Valley. ‘You shouldn’t have, Ron.’
‘Thought you could do with a treat . . .’ He poured her half a glass. ‘You looked shagged out when I saw you yesterday.’
‘Tell me about it . . .’ Daniels took a sip of her wine, mulling over the day’s events. After seeing Jo she’d rushed back to the MIR to check on progress; it had come as a relief when she heard that James Stephens had now given an account of his whereabouts on Thursday night, an alibi being checked out by Gormley as a matter of urgency. And the developing situation with Felicity Wood intrigued her; she’d tasked Brown to follow up on it, first thing in the morning. She put down her glass. ‘Sorry I’m late, Ron. I was just about to leave when I got a call from the front office to go down there right away. Asian woman, really agitated, so the desk sergeant said, wanting to give me something. Couldn’t speak a word of English by all accounts, just kept jabbing her finger at an envelope addressed to me. I thought it must be important.’
‘And was it?’
‘Never got chance to find out . . .’ Daniels rummaged in her bag. Retrieving a brown envelope, she passed it over the table. Naylor looked inside and removed a crossed-out photo of a young Asian male. It was on flimsy, shiny paper with newsprint on the reverse; obviously a clipping from a magazine.
‘Who is he?’
‘Search me. I’ve never seen him before.’
Naylor studied the envelope, which was addressed for Daniels’ personal attention in childish handwriting. He looked up. ‘Maybe it’s her son. Maybe she’s seen you on the box and is trying to tell you he’s gone missing.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose.’
‘And there was no accompanying message?’
‘No message, no explanation, just that.’
‘She could be a crank,’ Naylor suggested.
‘Or, as you say, someone desperately in need of help.’
‘She’ll be back, if that’s the case.’
‘You’re right. I’m starving, you ready to order?’
They called the waiter and ordered a fillet steak for him, sea bass for her, then got straight down to business. Naylor had brought along a photocopy of the crumpled card taken from Jenny Tait’s mouth for comparison to the one found in Father Simon’s hands a year ago. They were similar only in as much as they were both prayer cards. Forensic examination had failed to establish any further link between them.
‘I know what you said about coincidence . . .’ Naylor said tentatively. ‘And I know you want to get the bastard that killed the priest and the young lass from your village, that goes without saying. But I can’t see it myself. I mean, if he wasn’t a priest—’
‘If he wasn’t a priest, you’d be jumping up and down!’
‘Exactly my point, Kate. Look, if we found a murder victim with a stethoscope round his neck, it would only be odd if he was a plumber, not a doctor.’
Daniels knew what he was getting at – of course she did – but that didn’t stop her arguing her corner until their waiter arrived with food. They sat in silence for much of the meal, contemplating the significance of the prayer card – at least, that was what Daniels was doing. Now that the card was on her radar, she kept hoping it would somehow lead to a result so that she could finally close the book on the Corbridge case – give David and Elsie Short some peace. But was she just clutching at straws? Naylor noticed her push her plate away, no longer hungry.
‘Penny for them,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry, Ron. This double murder got to me, it’s still getting to me – I know that. And not just because these people are close to home, but . . . well, just because they deserve justice and I’ve got nothing to give them. After all this time, we still don’t know if Sarah was attacked because she witnessed a murder, or if Father Simon was murdered because he stumbled upon her being raped in his bloody church.’
‘Hey, come on . . .’ Naylor reached across the table and put his hand on hers. They’d known each other for years; always platonic, never anything other than good mates. ‘Head down, bum up. You’ll get whoever did this eventually, you know you will—’
She didn’t wait for him to finish. ‘Assuming for one second that Sarah witnessed Father Simon’s murder, and not the other way round, then the card isn’t the only common ground. The MO is exactly the same. Jenny Tait and Father Simon were both shot in the chest, remember.’
‘True. But half the murders we investigate are shootings these days. It’s like the OK Corral out there. Except this isn’t Tombstone, Arizona.’ He paused. She usually appreciated his cowboy references. But not tonight. ‘It’s not just that, though, is it, Kate? I’m sensing something more. C’mon, what is it?’
Daniels sighed heavily, lifted her wine glass to her lips. ‘Maybe I just need a few days off to recharge the batteries, get my focus back . . .’ Naylor was no fool. Daniels could see that he wasn’t buying it. She quickly changed the subject. ‘Why did you never marry, Ron?’
‘No point.’ He wiped his mouth on a serviette. ‘You want a sweet, coffee . . .? The night’s still young.’
Daniels shook her head. ‘I’ve got to—’
‘Dash, I know.’ Taking out his wallet, he caught the eye of a waiter and wrote an imaginary bill on his hand. ‘If you think about it, you just answered your own question. I’ve seen too many relationships go tits-up. Marriage requires two people in them, not just one. I’m too busy most of the time. That’s my excuse – what’s yours?’
Daniels didn’t have one.
At least, not one she could tell him about.