Settled Blood
This book is for Mo
She knows why
Acknowledgements
I
’m immensely proud that this book won the Northern Writers’ Award 2010 before it was even sold in the UK. It’s a real pleasure to acknowledge the support of
New Writing North, Arts Council England and the Leighton group who sponsored the awards.
Many people have contributed to the book since then . . .
Sincere thanks go to my dream team: the entire staff at Pan Macmillan, in particular to my inimitable publishing director, Wayne Brookes; everyone at Blake Friedmann, Literary, TV & Film
Agency, especially my fabulous agent, Oli Munson; and my wonderful copy-editor, Anne O’Brien, who kept me right throughout the process.
Huge thanks also to a big mate and all round good guy – ex-army helicopter instructor, now commercial pilot – Dave Willis, for taking this flight with me in more ways than one. His
lemon drizzle cake was once legendary in these parts. My loss is Milan’s gain, Dave.
And to those even closer: Paul and Chris, Kate and Caroline, who show their support in so many ways; not forgetting special little helpers Max and Frances, for keeping me sane and grounded. And,
of course, Mo – partner, mentor and first editor – without whom none of this would’ve been possible.
A
slight vibration passed through her body. It took a moment to register that she was no longer on her feet, no longer waiting for her instructor to show. It was dark now. And
then she remembered . . . one minute she had been tweeting about her day, the next she was hitting the deck. He hadn’t made a sound as he approached. A sharp pain in her shoulder and he was
helping her gently to the ground, acting the hero.
What was it he said as she lost control?
‘You’ll be OK, relax.’
How long ago
was
that?
He was close: she could smell aftershave.
Her eyes searched the darkness but her sight was blurred, extending a few metres in front of her but not to the sides. It was like looking down a tunnel through greasy binoculars. She could just
make out a figure, a growth of hair sprouting over the collar of a combat jacket. She tried calling out to him, panic setting in when no words left her mouth.
Her mind was willing but she was otherwise impotent.
Was she having a stroke?
Again she tried speech. But her tongue refused to move, let alone accept instructions or formulate words. With enormous effort she banged one foot on the floor, trying to attract his
attention.
He didn’t turn round.
Did he even exist?
It took all her strength to lift her leg a second time and bring it crashing to the floor.
Metal?
It sounded like a drum . . .
And it was in transit . . .
A lift?
A shipping container?
Christ! Where am I?
A numb sensation began in her chest and crept outward over every part of her. She was neither hot nor cold and her body was shutting down: arms next to go, legs soon after. Her eyelids
fluttered, heavy as lead. Then everything went black.
S
he was totally paralysed when she opened her eyes, terror ripping through her as she noticed the straps hanging from the ceiling directly above her head. Were they there
before? She must have lost consciousness, but for how long?
A split second?
A minute?
An hour?
A day?
She would have sobbed had she been able.
It was impossible to see if her clothes were intact. And she couldn’t decide if she was tied down or just pinned to the floor by her own dead weight. She couldn’t feel a draught on
her skin but she could see its effect as her blonde hair whipped round her face. And still she couldn’t move . . . Except she
was
moving. Her world tilted, ever so slightly at first,
then more acutely, tipping her body to the right. And now she was sliding sideways, like a side of beef being dragged across the ground in an abattoir, staring at her fate: a bloody black hole.
Oh God! NO!
T
he Senior Investigating Officer failed to notice the sun as it crept over Sewingshields Crags, or the stunning aerial view as the police helicopter descended on Housesteads
Roman Fort. Her attention was firmly focused on a handful of hikers crossing Hadrian’s Wall in both directions, each one a potential witness or suspect to a serious crime.
A little to the west, a police constable in a yellow fluorescent jacket stood guard outside a crime-scene tent. He held on to his hat as the chopper made its descent, its rotor blades whipping
assorted debris high into the air. Jumping out, Daniels felt a stab of pain in her right shoulder as she hit the ground and ran clear. The pilot returned her thumbs-up gesture and lifted off again,
banking steeply before turning back towards Northumbria Police HQ.
As curious hikers began heading her way, Daniels turned to the waiting officer. ‘I’m DCI Kate Daniels, murder investigation team. Where the hell are the lads from Area
Command?’
The PC shrugged. ‘I was just told to wait here.’
He was tall, fresh-faced and built like a tank, someone she’d want on her side in a sticky situation. But he was no more than a kid. He looked really uncertain – really spooked.
‘This your first one?’
He nodded his reply.
‘Then do exactly as I say and you’ll be fine. CSI are on their way. Until then, it’s just you and me . . .’ Daniels gave a reassuring smile. They were two strangers,
miles from anywhere. In remote areas, it had always been necessary for police officers to carry equipment their urban counterparts wouldn’t know what to do with. The young PC had done well.
She pointed at the tent. ‘You erect this all by yourself?’
‘Me and my shift sergeant, ma’am.’
‘Good job.’ She nodded at the advancing crowd. ‘Now get on the radio. I want these people shifted.’ She waited for him to move. ‘Er, today would be good.’
‘Can we do that, ma’am? I mean, the fort
is
a world heritage site.’
‘I couldn’t care less if it was the birthplace of Julius Caesar!’ She glared at him. ‘I want them out of here. Now move it!’
Lifting the flap of the tent, she went inside. A young woman lay face up on the ground, her body splayed out awkwardly like a discarded rag doll. She had long blonde hair and perfect skin. A
green scarf round her neck matched the colour of her eyes exactly. There were signs of blood loss from her left ear, a pool of which had dripped down and settled on the grass directly beneath her.
One shoe was missing but she was otherwise fully clothed.
Daniels could hear the PC on his radio urging the control room to hurry things along. As she crouched down beside the body he arrived at her side, being careful to use the tread plates so as to
preserve forensic evidence.
‘Anything strike you as odd?’ she asked.
‘Ma’am?’
‘She looks more quayside than hillside, don’t you think?’
The PC stifled a grin. Newcastle Quayside was the pulse of a party city some thirty miles away. He watched the DCI take a pen from her pocket. Carefully, she hooked one end under the ankle strap
of a high-heeled patent leather shoe which was lying on the grass a few feet from the body.
‘With these on, I doubt she walked very far . . .’ Daniels studied the five-inch stiletto, holding it up in front of her face, swivelling it round so she could examine the state of
the heel. ‘In fact, it’s a wonder she could walk at all!’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, what are you looking for?’
‘Any damage that might tell us whether it was ripped off or fell off.’
‘And which is it?’ he queried.
‘My guess would be the latter, but don’t quote me on that.’ Daniels tried to figure out how the girl had got there. They were a fair way from a main road. It had rained the
night before and there was no mud on the high heel. Curiously, there were no drag marks on the ground surface either and no tyre tracks outside. The crime scene wasn’t telling her anything
and that unsettled her. ‘Get me a pool car, would you? And while you’re at it, have someone check Housesteads car park for any abandoned vehicles. I can’t
imagine—’
But the young constable had already left to carry out her instructions. Daniels smiled. The lad was keen, might even make a detective one day. Checking her watch, she stood up, hoping the
pathologist wouldn’t be long. She followed the PC outside, lifting her hand to the glare of early morning sun. There was activity on the horizon. A bunch of uniforms were up at the fort
rounding up her growing audience, their deadpan faces turned in her direction, all desperate to know what was going on. Figures wearing white hooded overalls were leaving the car park. Behind them,
right on cue, a familiar Range Rover appeared. Tim Stanton, Home Office pathologist, got out carrying a black forensic evidence case and trundled across rough ground heading straight for her.
Daniels looked sideways as the PC spoke.
‘I noticed boot prints over there, ma’am.’ He pointed to a thin mound of grass a few metres away. ‘They’re definitely not mine, but they could belong to the guy who
found her. He’s in the gift shop café waiting to talk to you.’
Stanton had reached them. He was already suited in white forensic clothing, his trousers tucked into a sturdy pair of green wellington boots. He acknowledged them both with a cheerful good
morning then turned his attention to the SIO.
‘When was she found?’
‘An hour ago . . .’ Daniels pointed towards his car. ‘Spotted from the ridge by a guy out walking the Wall—’
‘Did he touch the body at all?’