Two exhausting days later, with her meticulous attention to detail driving her mad, Daniels closed the Corbridge file with Bright’s words ringing in her ears. He was right. The case was dead in the water. She’d found not a shred of evidence that might have been overlooked, nothing at all that would take her any further. But still the card in Father Simon’s hand nagged at her subconscious.
She just couldn’t get it out of her mind.
Removing her warrant card from her computer, she sat back in her chair, rubbing her aching neck and wondering how she would tell David and Elsie Short. As she recalled her last visit to their house, Jo entered her thoughts. There had been no further contact between them and she was desperate for news.
Daniels looked out of the window. While she remained stuck in this limbo of utter despondency, outside her window, life was somehow continuing as normal. A couple passed by, their arms around each other, laughing and carrying on without a care in the world. Walking behind them was a teenager wearing just skinny jeans and T-shirt. She must be frozen without a coat on.
Daniels sat bolt upright in her chair.
Breathe. Breathe.
The girl in the street had brought to mind an inconsistency, something she hadn’t thought of before. Daniels’ hands fumbled with her warrant card as she tried to slot it back into her computer. She typed a command and waited until the investigation into Alan Stephens’ death popped up on screen. Drumming her fingers on the desktop, she dared not let herself believe that what she’d seized upon had any significance at all.
C’mon, c’mon.
It seemed to take forever for the relevant page to load, then finally it appeared on screen. Daniels was right. Despite Stephens’ murder having taken place in November, items taken from Monica Stephens did not include any outdoor garments. And, if this was the case, it was tantamount to a major cock-up for the murder team, and for statement reader DS Robson in particular. It might even prove to be the breakthrough she’d been hoping for. It was all there in black and white – right before her eyes.
How could they all have missed it?
Daniels keyed Gormley’s number into her mobile.
He answered right away.
‘Hank, we have a problem: Monica Stephens’ coat was never retrieved for forensic testing. I need to re-interview her right away.’
‘You’re kidding!’ He sounded half asleep. ‘Have you tried to reach her?’
‘I’m about to, but I want to check CCTV footage from the airport first. You going to be in later?’
‘Yeah, I’ll be here. Me, Santa and a crate of beer. Let me know what gives.’
She hung up.
Using the internal phone, she rang the exhibits officer and asked him to pull the relevant evidence box, then immediately set off downstairs to collect them. The box was waiting for her when she got there and she signed it out and carried it straight to the new murder suite. Selecting a disk marked – Interior: Newcastle Airport – she settled down to watch. Within seconds, Monica Stephens and Teresa Branson walked into shot in an airport lounge – and both were wearing coats.
Daniels fast-forwarded the tape to the end, until Monica disappeared off screen through a large revolving door. Then, inserting the second disk, Daniels picked up Monica leaving through the same door, still wearing her coat, stopping briefly at a pay booth before making her way to the short-stay car park. Moments later, her car drove away.
Daniels was a firm advocate of the cognitive interviewing technique; a verbal probing method allowing the interviewee to think aloud. She’d used it to unlock witnesses’ memories many times before and was hoping that it would do the same for Monica in the comfort of her own home.
Stephens’ widow was at home when Daniels rang. She agreed to be interviewed even though it was Boxing Day. What else was there to do that mattered any more, she’d said, adding that Bank Holidays were for families and hers was now gone. Alan might not have been a saint, by any stretch of the imagination, but he was all she had and she missed him dreadfully. She’d only remained in the country on account of his elderly mother, delaying her plans to move back to Holland until the New Year. Daniels drove straight there.
Stephens’ mother seemed to know why she was there and disappeared into the kitchen leaving the two women alone to talk. Taking a digital recorder from her pocket, Daniels turned it on, mindful that she was collecting evidence for use at a later date. She urged Monica to close her eyes, relax, and try to recall every detail of that evening, from the moment she left Court Mews to take Teresa Branson out for dinner to her return home and the discovery of her husband’s body. Listening intently to every word, every hesitation, Daniels watched as the colour drained from Monica’s face when she revisited the horrific memory.
Although she’d already established that Monica had been wearing a coat, Daniels still needed to hear her confirm it and was careful not to put words into her mouth.
‘What were you wearing that night, Monica?’
‘Brown pants, boots . . . a camel coat and scarf.’
‘You definitely had a coat on when you returned home?’
Monica nodded.
‘Keep concentrating,’ Daniels said gently. ‘You’re doing really well. Now, tell me what you’re seeing.’
Monica’s bottom lip quivered. ‘The door . . . the front door.’
‘Is it open, or closed?’
‘Slightly ajar.’
‘Push it open . . . see what’s inside.’
Monica opened her eyes wide and stared intently at the floor. ‘I found something . . . in the hallway. I’m not sure what it was.’
‘Take your time.’
‘I remember bending down . . . no, I’m sorry, it’s no good.’
‘Try to picture it.’
‘A letter? Writing on a card . . . a business card, perhaps?’
Oh my God! Daniels felt the colour drain from her own face. ‘Did you pick it up?’
‘No, yes . . . I thought Alan . . . I thought he must have dropped it on his way in.’
Images of prayer cards flashed before Daniels’ eyes in quick succession: in Father Simon’s hands, in Jenny Tait’s mouth, next to Jamil Malik’s twisted body and in Ron Naylor’s hands in full view of a Crimewatch audience.
‘Monica, this is very important: what did you do with it?’
The Dutch woman’s hand instinctively touched her pocket.
Daniels felt herself getting hotter, wished she could crack open a window, get some fresh air. But this was no time to interrupt such an important interview. In her mind’s eye, Monica walked further into the flat, found her husband dead on the floor and fled the scene to Salieri’s restaurant next door. Staff called for an ambulance and, finding her in a state of shock, the paramedics whisked her off to hospital before the police arrived. Her coat was left behind – returned to her after the event – since given away to charity.
Now the race was on to find that coat . . .