Settled Blood (12 page)

‘Sure you don’t want me to come with you? I’m happy to?’

He shook his head, got in the car and gave instructions to his driver before turning back to face her. ‘You mentioned Matt West,’ he said.

‘It’ll keep, guv. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. You take care.’ He opened his mouth to speak but before he could say anything she shut the door. As the car moved off, she
called Gormley. ‘Hank, any chance you can meet me at my place in half an hour?’

A
bout four miles away, Gormley was dining with his wife and son. They’d been back for less than a week and already he was thinking that their last-ditch attempt to repair
their broken relationship wasn’t going to work. Julie was irritated with the interruption to their evening meal, but an urgency in Daniels’ voice prevented him from putting down the
phone.

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’ll tell you when you get here.’

Daniels hung up, unaware he had company, which suited Gormley perfectly. Julie’s decision to give their marriage another go had been sudden, almost as sudden as her decision to leave in
the first place. He wasn’t about to queer his pitch at work by letting Kate know that his domestic circumstances might get in the way of a murder enquiry.

He looked at Julie across the table. ‘Sorry, love. I have to go out again.’

‘For God’s sake, Hank. You only just got in!’

Julie clashed down her cutlery and glanced at their son. Fearing a row brewing, Ryan kept his head down and went back to his dinner. For the next five minutes he was the referee in his
parent’s points-scoring routine, each of them too pigheaded to back down.

‘. . . and while we’re at it,’ Julie said, ‘maybe you could tell me where the hell you
were
last night?’

Gormley chose silence. It had been Julie’s idea to try again. She’d promised him she could handle the demands of his job, not just the professional but the social too. And already
she was going back on her word. Ryan had had enough. He murmured something sarcastic about true love and left the table, taking his dinner with him. They waited in silence until he’d cleared
the room, his father wincing as the door slammed shut.

‘You happy now?’ Gormley said, shoving his plate away.

He got up from the table, put on his coat and left.

A
presenter on TV warned of flooding due to heavy rain in Cumbria. It was the third year running this had happened. Residents right across the county – some of whom had
barely moved back into their homes since the devastation caused the year before – were experiencing major disruption again. Hundreds of people were in temporary accommodation, their homes,
schools and businesses under almost three feet of water.

Gormley shook his head, saddened by the tragic death of PC Bill Barker, a heroic Cumbrian officer who’d lost his life when the Northside bridge collapsed in Workington in 2009. He’d
been trying to save others by directing motorists away from the bridge when chunks of masonry fell into the swollen river, taking him with it. Many had lived because of his bravery.

The man was a hero.

‘They must wonder if it’s ever going to end,’ Gormley said.

‘It’s dreadful, isn’t it?’ Daniels appeared in the living room with a glass of wine in each hand. She glanced at the set just as Gormley turned it off with the remote.
‘Julie let you out to play then?’ she said, without looking at him.

‘How the fuck did—’

Daniels grinned. ‘Jungle telegraph. Pete saw her in Waitrose yesterday. I’m pleased for you. How are things?’

‘Tell you the truth, I was dying for an excuse to get out of the house.’ He practically threw back his drink. ‘She was spoiling for a row.’

‘Can’t say I blame her, the week we’ve had.’ Daniels met his eyes over the top of her glass. ‘My birthday bash have anything to do with it?’

Gormley blushed. ‘As good a reason as any to give me earache.’

Daniels grimaced. ‘Things are no better then?’

‘It’s over for us, Kate.’

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called you.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Gormley knew where he’d rather be right now. ‘It was a mistake to think we could make it work. It’s not fair on Ryan to drag it out any
longer. Anyway, I didn’t come here for marriage guidance. What’s going on?’

‘The guv’nor’s not too well. When I left him tonight he was on his way to see a neurosurgeon at the Conrad Clinic. Apparently he’s been having violent headaches and
intermittent double vision.’

‘He gets that every night in the Bridge.’ Gormley grinned.

The Bridge was a public house close to the station that neither of them liked very much. It had recently become popular among police personnel following a major refurb. And not before time.

‘Not funny, Hank. They want him to have a brain scan.’

Gormley’s grin disappeared.

J
essica Finch was in a state of semi-consciousness, blood dripping from her wrists where the shackles dug into her skin. Moving her head to the right, she stared at the black
hole at the end of the hollow chamber. There was no doubt in her mind that she was below ground. She wondered how he – or was it they? – had managed to get her down here, why
they’d taken her and how long they planned to leave her there alone.

Jessica shivered as a ghost walked over her skin. In these extremely cold conditions she knew she could only survive for a few days without liquid. She moistened her lips, driven crazy by the
sight of water running down the opposite wall.

Dehydration: the silent killer.

As a med student, she’d seen both sides of the medical debate: those that thought that death by dehydration was serene, that it could, and should be, used in a voluntary capacity to end a
life; others who thought the process unimaginably painful and cruel. The awareness of what would happen to her body if she were to remain in captivity without sustenance made Jessica cry tears she
could ill afford to waste. In a fight for survival she would suffer extreme thirst, dizziness, severe stomach cramps, hallucinations, shut-down of the circulatory system as the body pushed blood to
vital organs in order to keep her alive.

Coma.

Death.

Serene?

She didn’t feel serene.

Her mouth was parched, her saliva thick, her head pounding. How long before she couldn’t speak? Couldn’t cry because her tears had dried up? She urged her captors to return and yet
feared what they might do to her. The sound in the chamber was torturous. Constant and hollow, enough to drive a sane person mad.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Quicker now?

Water rising?

It was raining outside – SHIT!

The bulb in the miner’s lamp flickered . . .

And went out.

E
llen Crawford showed Daniels into the room, then retreated to her own office, closing the door behind her. Bright was sitting at his desk engrossed in his work, highlighting
text in a report.

‘Take a seat, Kate.’ He didn’t look up. ‘I’ll be with you in one second.’

Daniels couldn’t figure what mood he was in. He seemed relaxed and she assumed his appointment with the consultant had gone well. She sat down, crossed her legs and glanced around the
room, wondering if she’d ever occupy the rank and post that came with it.

Force Crime Manager.

She liked the sound of that.

Signing off on his document, a modest signature that didn’t quite fit with his colourful personality, Bright put down his pen and sat back in his chair. ‘What’s up?’

‘I was just passing, wondered how you went on last night.’

‘Since when does a ten-mile detour qualify as“just passing”?’ he asked, appreciating her concern. ‘The scan was clear. I’ll live, apparently.’

‘That’s great news, guv! I can’t tell you how relieved I am.’

‘I’m touched.’

‘You should be ecstatic!’

‘Except the consultant hasn’t got a bloody clue what’s causing the headaches. Not yet, anyway.’ A frown formed on his brow. ‘You know what the cheeky git asked
me?’

Daniels waited.

Bright made a crazed face. ‘Was I under any stress?’

Daniels searched his face. He looked very tired and she was concerned he was doing too much. Stress was cumulative. Dangerous even. It crept up on people when they least expected it to, silent
symptoms, like a charged bomb waiting to explode.

‘What?’ Bright said. ‘You’re making me nervous.’

Daniels drew her chair a little closer to his desk. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m going to say it anyway, guv. You’ve had a hell of a time the last six
months, one way or another. Stella’s death . . .’ She could see he didn’t want a lecture. ‘Well, let’s face it, you feel responsible, even though you’re not.
That’s bound to have an effect on your general health. Your headaches are probably the result of that and of carrying this department under difficult circumstances for far too long. Trouble
with you is you’re too stubborn to seek professional help. If you want my honest opinion, the consultant you saw is probably spot on.’

‘You quite finished?’

Daniels spread her hands. ‘It needed to be said.’

‘And if you repeat it outside of these four walls, you and I will fall out big time!’

‘C’mon, guv. You know me better than that. You’re doing two jobs at a time when you should be—’

‘What? What
should
I be doing, Kate?’ Bright was angry now and it showed. He was like a coiled spring, tapping his fingers on the desk. ‘Relaxing with my feet up? Going
out of my mind with boredom in an empty house I can no longer bear to live in?’

‘I was talking about the job, guv. Delegate some of your stuff to me. Let me take the weight off you for a bit, at least until they’ve found your replacement. And if the headaches
continue, then at least you’ll know it isn’t work-related.’

‘No. You’ve got enough on your plate already.’

‘Then I’ll give Hank more responsibility. He’s up for it. What harm can it do?’

‘No. This stays between me and you, understood?’

‘He’s your mate, for Christ’s sake!’

‘You already told him, didn’t you?’

Daniels looked out of the window.

T
he door was marked Major Incident Suite. Kate Daniels swiped her warrant card to gain access. She entered the room to find the briefing already underway with Gormley holding
the fort. He was standing beside a state-of-the-art digital screen. It was in pause mode, showing a crime-scene photograph on one side and details of the deceased, Amy Grainger, on the other.

He raised a questioning eyebrow as she approached. Turning away from the others, he dropped his voice and asked, ‘How is he?’

‘Just as awkward as ever,’ she whispered.

Gormley grinned. ‘I’ll get worried when he starts being civil.’

Andy Brown arrived in a panic, his face matching his strawberry blond hair when he realized they’d started without him. There’d been an accident on the southbound carriageway near
the Angel of the North, forcing him to make a five-mile detour to get into town. He apologized, asking Daniels if there was any chance he could swap with Robson. Grinning, he peeled off his
coat.

‘I much preferred it at High Shaw,’ he said as he sat down.

Someone made a vulgar joke about sheep-shaggers and everyone laughed.

Daniels was keen to move on. She looked at Gormley. ‘You told them yet?’

He shook his head and sat down too, signalling for the squad to pay attention.

‘I have some very good news.’ Daniels informed the squad that Matt West in Forensics had come up trumps again. ‘Trace evidence on the shoe Amy Grainger was wearing is unique to
the North Pennines. We find out exactly where and there’s a good chance we find Jessica Finch.’There was a ripple of excitement in the room, everyone conscious of how significant a lead
that was. ‘Dave Weldon, one of Hank’s many mates, actually heads up the Fell Rescue Team. He knows the area like the back of his hand and we think he’ll be able to act as an
advisor.’

‘I tried his mobile,’ Gormley said. ‘No joy. Coverage up there is pants.’

‘Send a car right away. We need him down here.’

‘Quicker if I go myself,’ Gormley said. ‘I know exactly where he hangs out and you need a bloody compass to find it. It’ll only take me an hour to get there and I can
brief him and pick up any detailed maps we might need.’

Daniels hesitated, telling him she’d planned for him to accompany her to the Mansion House to interview Adam Finch’s staff. Carmichael sprang up, volunteering to go instead, a
pleading look in her eyes.

It made sense.

‘OK, you’re on.’ Daniels turned back to Gormley: ‘Meet back here at two?’

T
he old Methodist Chapel looked frozen in time, unchanged since it was built in the 1800s. There was a sign on the door: BACK AT 10.30 but there was no one around. Gormley took
a seat on the stone steps out front, checking his watch as a Land Rover Defender 110 drove round the side of the building. It had a long wheelbase, perfect for driving over rough terrain, and
lettering on the side: North Pennines Fell Rescue. Dave Weldon, a man in his mid-fifties, turned off the engine and jumped down, pointing at Gormley’s dusty car. On the offside door, someone
had drawn the bumbling cartoon character, Mr Magoo.

Weldon smiled broadly. ‘Someone’s trying to tell you something, old man.’

The two friends embraced with a hearty slap on the back.

‘You’re looking good, mate,’ Gormley said. ‘Fit as ever, I see.’

‘Better than you, anyhow,’Weldon’s eyes fixed on Gormley’s expanding waistline.

The DS inhaled, grinning. ‘I need your help, not your diet plan.’

‘Thought as much. Howay in.’

Weldon led the way towards the chapel. Inside, Gormley explained the reason behind his visit and the urgency of getting his friend on board. Ten minutes later, armed with detailed maps of the
area, they got in the car and drove off down a narrow track and out on to the main road again.