‘How’s Frances?’ Gormley asked.
‘You didn’t hear?’
Gormley kept his eyes on the road. ‘Hear what?’
‘She left me for one of them IT types, a dot.com millionaire in fact. Some guy she met on a business trip to Hong Kong.’
‘Shit, man. I’m sorry.’Gormley wondered if anyone he knew was capable of holding down a relationship these days. ‘Is she still working for HSBC?’
‘Yep.’
‘She still with him?’
‘Nope. He promised her the world and the silly bitch fell for it. Six months later, he dumped her right on her tight little arse.’
Weldon laughed; a little too loudly, Gormley thought. Turning right, he followed a sign for Allenheads, picking up speed on a straight stretch of an otherwise winding road. ‘Do you still
see her?’
‘Nope. I’ve got plans and she isn’t part of them.’
Weldon waved at the driver of an identical Fell Rescue vehicle travelling in the opposite direction. The driver stuck a thumb in the air as he drove by. In his rear-view mirror, Gormley saw
brake lights. The Land Rover slowed but he drove on. There wasn’t time to stop and chew the fat with one of Weldon’s team. He needed to make it to the MIR by two. Besides, Weldon had
left a message on the chapel door explaining where he’d gone, letting his own team know he’d be off the radar for a good few hours and what action he wanted them to take.
‘I’m emigrating,’ Weldon said after a long period of silence.
‘Yeah, pull the other one.’
‘I’m serious! Soon as the paperwork comes through I’m taking my bike, my boat and my pension and I’m out of here.’
‘Where the hell to? Thought Durham was the centre of your universe?’
‘The States. I’m setting up a business running motorcycle tours over there: bikes, route maps, the whole nine yards. It’s time I lived a little.’
‘Sounds like the dog’s bollocks,’ Gormley said wistfully. ‘I hope it works out.’
‘To be honest, I need a bit more cash and a partner to set it up properly.’ Weldon glanced sideways. ‘You don’t fancy putting in some of your hard-earned and riding off
into the sunset? I assume you’re still riding?’
‘Not for years,’ Gormley said, with some regret. ‘Julie insisted I give it up in case Ryan got interested. I felt I had no choice.’
‘You are joking!’ Weldon went quiet again.
The image of Kate Daniels’ Yamaha Fazer popped into Gormley’s head. The last time he’d seen a motorcycle, it was hers. It was parked on its own at Hartside Pass in the depths
of winter, a trip she’d taken during a particularly difficult case. He glanced at Weldon, trying to shake the image from his thoughts.
Gormley felt that an explanation was warranted. ‘I’d never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to Ryan. Maybe Julie had a point.’
Weldon disagreed. ‘Bloody women! I tell you, if I had to make a choice between my bike and a lass, any lass . . .’ He twisted an imaginary throttle. ‘No contest, mate. The bike
wins, hands down.’
‘My boss rides.’ Gormley’s thoughts were back at Hartside.
‘Maybe I should ask him to join me,’ Weldon said. ‘Is he close to retirement?’
Gormley shook his head and kept on driving.
D
aniels heard the distinct sound of a lawn mower as she wandered through patio doors and out into the sunshine. The view from the impressive terrace was spectacular, with
gardens designed to perfection: geometric lawns bordered with clipped hedges; paths leading the eye through a variety of plant-rich shrubberies; sculptures, water features including a perfectly
symmetrical manmade lake with a fountain in the middle, the tip of its spout just touching the horizon.
It was timeless.
A middle-aged gardener glanced up in her direction as she sat down next to Adam Finch at a table in the shade. He was staring off into the distance, seemingly unaware of her presence. Or so she
thought.
‘You want him to stop?’ Finch didn’t look at her.
‘No, that’s not necessary. I’ll speak to Mr Townsend shortly, along with the rest of your staff. First I’d like to talk to you about Jessica.’
‘What about her?’
‘Were you close?
‘For God’s sake!’ Finch turned, his eyes boring into her. He rubbed at his temple, apologized for his quick temper. ‘What the
hell
are they waiting for? Why
don’t they make further contact?’
‘You think there’s more than one person involved?’
‘He, they, what difference does it make?’
‘Can we concentrate on what we
do
know for a second.’ The DCI tried to sound sympathetic even though deep down she didn’t trust him. ‘All crime investigations
begin with a study of the victim, sir. It’s important that I get to know Jess, and I can only do that through you.’
‘Her name is Jessica!’ he barked. ‘And with all due respect, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Shouldn’t you be out there searching instead of asking me bloody silly
questions?’
‘Well, therein lies the problem. It’s a question of where we start looking.’
Daniels wondered if the trace evidence Matt West had identified as green fluorspar would give them a clue as to Jessica’s whereabouts. The North Pennines was a massive area and searching
it would be a nightmare. Surreptitiously, she glanced at her watch, hoping Gormley had made contact with Dave Weldon. Adam Finch got up and wandered away from the table. He spoke with his back to
her.
‘There are no skeletons in my cupboard, DCI Daniels. Ask your boss.’
Daniels intended to do just that. She was convinced Finch wasn’t being honest. Then again, what father would admit to a rift with their only child under the circumstances he was facing?
For all his faults, she knew hers wouldn’t.
Carmichael appeared in the doorway. Daniels held up a hand, spreading her fingers, indicating five more minutes. She needn’t have bothered. Adam Finch couldn’t think of anyone
he’d made an enemy of, anyone at all who’d wish him or Jessica any harm. In fact, nothing he said took her any further forward.
Leaving him on the patio, she wandered down into the garden to speak to Townsend. She was halfway along the path when Carmichael caught up with her.
‘Any luck?’ she said.
‘None . . .’ Daniels spotted movement in a semi-shaded area off to their left. She steered Carmichael towards it, their feet crunching across the gravel as they walked.
‘He’s either deliberately being evasive or he’s simply too preoccupied with the threats to answer a straight question. For the moment, I wouldn’t like to say
which.’
The estate gardener had stopped mowing and was now busy cutting back tree peonies that stood either side of a gated entrance to a walled garden, so a wooden sign proclaimed.
‘Brian Townsend?’
‘Who wants to know?’ The man didn’t look up.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Daniels and Detective Constable Carmichael. Can we have a word?’
Townsend stood upright, running his eyes over the detectives. He was a well-built man with chiselled features and deep-set eyes. He was wearing a tool belt around his waist and a red peaked cap
with a faded
Coke Is It
motif on the front.
‘You’re here about young Miss Jessica, I take it.’
Daniels nodded.
‘Terrible business.’
It surprised Daniels to learn that Adam Finch had warned his staff she was coming, much less confided in them the details of his daughter’s disappearance. Maybe she’d misjudged him.
Maybe he wasn’t such a frosty man with people he knew well.
‘How long have you worked here, Mr Townsend?’
‘Far
too
long, ma’am.’
Daniels registered the man’s cynicism. ‘Mr Finch is an exacting boss, is he?’
‘None of us minds hard work, ma’am.’ His eye strayed to a rogue branch above their heads. He raised a pair of secateurs and clipped it off. ‘A little kindness and respect
now and then wouldn’t go amiss. We ask no more than that.’
‘Are you telling me—’
‘I’m telling you nowt, ma’am. And that’s all I know – nowt! Now, I must get on.’
They detained Townsend from his work for a while longer, establishing that he hadn’t seen Jessica Finch since early January, when her term began. They told him they might want to speak to
him again and then went up to the big house. They found Mrs Partridge ready and waiting in the kitchen. It was a massive room with a cast-iron cooking range in the centre of a wall covered in white
brick-shaped tiles. Above the range a collection of brass cooking pots hung on hooks in order of size, tapering off with the smallest on the left. To the right of them, steam rose from a double
Belfast sink where Mrs Partridge had just finished washing up. She hadn’t been wearing gloves and her hands were red raw when she lifted them out of the water, her engagement ring glistening
through the suds.
Mrs Partridge dried her hands on a dishcloth and hung it above the range to dry, telling them she’d been housekeeper there for several years since her predecessor finally hung up her apron
and moved on. Daniels’ eyes were drawn to an old-fashioned tapestry hanging on one wall with the words
Home Sweet Home
written on it. When she turned back, the housekeeper was pouring
tea from a large aluminium pot and Carmichael was eyeing a plate of sultana scones that were fresh from the oven.
‘Help yourself,’ the housekeeper said.
Carmichael took one, inhaling as she lifted it to her nose. ‘Mmm, haven’t smelled grub like this since I lived with my aunt.’
The housekeeper pushed a pot of home-made raspberry jam in her direction. She handed Carmichael a solid silver teaspoon.
Daniels pointed at a photograph of a young girl on the opposite wall to the tapestry.
‘Granddaughter?’ she said.
‘Daughter,’ Mrs Partridge smiled. ‘I have no grandchildren.’
‘Bet she appreciates your cooking . . .’ Carmichael didn’t look up. She was too busy biting her scone and washing it down with a gulp of tea. ‘You should try one, boss.
They’re excellent.’
Daniels gave her a look: they were there to work, not chat.
Taking her cue, Carmichael wiped crumbs from her lips and asked, ‘How long has Tom Pearce been the chauffeur?’
‘About four years, give or take.’ Mrs Partridge thought for a moment. ‘It could even be five, come to think of it. He knew Mr Finch from when they were in the army
together.’
‘And how long ago was that?’ Daniels wanted more. Finch’s association with Bright still bothered her. She couldn’t understand why her former guv’nor had chosen not
to disclose their regiment the minute he’d found out about the MO in the Amy Grainger case. Mrs Partridge’s answer interrupted her chain of thought.
‘Must be a good ten years since Mr Finch resigned his commission.’
‘And he’d kept in touch with Pearce all that time?’ Carmichael asked.
Mrs Partridge giggled as if the question had been daft. ‘Oh no, dear. Mr Finch is an important man, the landed gentry if you will.’ She looked around, making sure she couldn’t
be overheard. ‘Dear me, no. If I remember correctly, Tom saw an article about Mr Finch in the local paper and wrote to him asking for work. He was down on his luck, you see. Yes, I’m
sure that was it. Mr Finch had just lost his driver and, well, it was fortuitous for them both as it turned out.’
Daniels asked, ‘Have you seen or heard of Jessica since she left for university?’
The housekeeper looked at the floor.
‘Mrs Partridge?’
‘I’ve had a text or two.’
Daniels’ interest grew. ‘Can you recall when you last heard from her?’
‘It was a few weeks ago. But that’s not unusual . . .’ Mrs Partridge began to fidget, wringing her hands in her lap. ‘Mr Finch doesn’t need to know, does he?
I’m not sure he would approve, you see. In fact, he definitely would not. He spends a lot of time away on business and I’ve been like a mother to Jess over the years. We get on well and
she always remembers birthdays, sends me Christmas cards, that sort of thing. She’s a very thoughtful girl. I do hope she hasn’t come to any harm.’
An image of Amy Grainger lying on wet ground in the middle of nowhere popped into Daniels’ head, every detail etched on her brain: her green sightless eyes, a pool of settled blood beneath
her left ear, one shoe missing. Daniels knew it was a long shot, but she was hoping that the discovery of an unusual mineral in the heel of that shoe was the key that would eventually unlock the
door on the enquiry. A definite clue. Something she could work with.
Half a chance at least of saving Jessica’s life.
Mrs Partridge had picked up on her anxiety. The woman was staring at her now, no doubt fearing the worst. Daniels forced a smile, wondering how close the housekeeper really was to Jessica and
whether she might know things others were keeping quiet about.
‘Does Jessica have a boyfriend?’ she asked.
Mrs Partridge glanced again at the open kitchen door. ‘Rob, his name’s Rob.’
‘Surname?’
‘Lester. But please keep me out of this. I need this job. I can’t afford to lose it.’
‘Do you know where Jess is currently living?’
Another guilty look. ‘I’m aware she moved out of halls, but no more than that.’
‘Is Rob Lester with her?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘She didn’t want her father finding out? Is that it?’
Mrs Partridge made no comment.
‘Am I at least getting warm?’ Daniels pushed.
A resigned nod followed.
They thanked the housekeeper and left via the servants’ entrance. Outside, the sun was shining and it was really warm for the time of year. Summer was on its way. They passed through a
pretty gateway, its uprights covered with budding clematis, then out of the rear courtyard and along a path Mrs Partridge had told them would lead them back to their car. Daniels looked at her
watch. There was enough time to find Rob Lester before meeting Gormley at two.
D
urham University School of Medicine and Health was located at the Queen’s Campus in Stockton, around twenty miles south-east of Durham City itself. Daniels parked the
Toyota right outside on double yellow lines and asked Lisa Carmichael to wait in the car.