He raised his head.
On the horizon, he could see a line of cars parked on the top road, cameras and binoculars trained on police and civilian search teams as they went about their business. The operation to find
the girl had turned what was normally a desolate and beautiful landscape into a day trip for some, attracting a level of interest he personally found repugnant. Morbid curiosity of that kind was
something he could not comprehend.
Nor did he wish to.
Pushing his anger away, Weldon studied the footprints again and got straight on the radio: ‘Weldon to TSG. Harry, get over here with the cutting gear.’
Within seconds, a stocky guy arrived by his side with a couple of tactical support officers in tow. They were wearing reflective jackets and one was carrying a large set of bolt cutters. Weldon
pointed out the footprints, then stood back and waited somewhat impatiently while they called for tread plates in order to preserve them. It was a dull, windy day. Dusk would arrive in only five
hours and he was keen to get going.
The bolt cutters sliced through the padlock with ease. Weldon switched on his cap lamp and led the way as he had done countless times for the past few days, this time hoping for a more fruitful
result. The roof of the mine was less than the height of an average man. With water sloshing around his feet, he guided the others by torchlight into the pitch darkness.
Light bounced off wet walls casting shadows in the eerie space as they moved, one slow step at a time, being careful where they placed their feet as they picked their way in. After about fifteen
minutes, the tunnel widened and it was possible to stand up straight. Directing torchlight around the dank walls, one officer’s sudden intake of breath made Weldon turn around.
What he saw was gut-wrenching, even for the most hardened of professionals. Rooted to the spot, he had only one focus: a set of shackles hanging loose from the wall. Nobody moved or spoke as he
examined them more closely, careful not to touch anything, his former police training kicking in. He turned to the others, frustrated with their gruesome find.
‘Keep searching,’ he said.
Nobody moved.
‘Well, go on! What are you waiting for? I’m heading back. The radio’s fuck-all use down here and we need a forensics team to examine this lot.’
Leaving them to it – with instructions to stay together should they come to a fork in the tunnel – Weldon made his way back to the entrance. As soon as he reached the surface, he
called in the CSIs, then pulled out his mobile and dialled Daniels’ number. She answered almost immediately – from a vehicle, by the sound of it.
‘What is it, Dave?’
‘We have ourselves a crime scene,’ was all Weldon said.
‘And Jessica?’
‘The bastard’s moved her. We’ve got fresh blood here. Your forensics guys are on it. TSG are searching the remainder of the mine in case she’s still down there . .
.’ He paused but Daniels was silent. ‘I’m sorry, Kate. I know it’s not the news you wanted.’
‘No.’ The DCI sounded more upbeat than Weldon had expected. ‘This is a positive development. If Jess were dead, why move her body at great risk of being seen? Whoever’s
got her is methodical, make no mistake about that. He’ll have thought this through and left nothing to chance. In my book, that means two sites to hide her – in case we got close. With
you lot crawling all over the place I don’t think the second will be too far from the first. You’ve got to keep searching. You can find her in time, I know you can.’
J
essica had heard a voice, her father’s – clear and strong – telling her not to give up. And now she had a plan . . . of sorts. But would it work?
One chance.
Only one.
Fight, Jess!
Dig deep.
Deeper than ever before.
Manoeuvring her skinny left leg as far downstream as it would reach, she tucked her chin into her chest until the strap of the hard hat she was wearing worked free. Then, tilting her head to one
side, she pressed it up against the wet wall with a view to dislodging the hat. Then, at the very last moment, she pulled back. She just couldn’t do it, just couldn’t bear the thought
of the lights going out completely, ending her days in a cold wet chamber, alone in the dark. She wailed, terror overtaking her for a moment.
You must.
It’s the only way.
She tried again and this time went through with it. The hat slid sideways and fell – in what seemed like hours of slow motion – glancing off her bony right shoulder, landing in the
murky water beneath. Instantly taken by the current, it sailed off and Jess jerked her leg towards it, flailing around in the water, catching the chin strap just right. Hooking it on to her foot,
she was amazed to see that the bulb was still illuminated. Sobbing with relief, she rested a while. She said a little prayer, in case there
was
a God.
Maybe He was calling her?
Well, I’m not fucking listening!
It took all the effort she could summon to lift her leg, let alone swing it back and forth using the hard hat to tap out an SOS. It was a pathetic attempt, a stupid idea that had little chance
of success. Stealing herself, she took a break and tried again: three sharp knocks . . . three longer ones . . . three sharp knocks.
L
ess than a couple of hundred metres away, a chill wind whipped across the open moorland. Discovering the crime scene had shaken Weldon. But hearing Daniels’ take on
things had given him hope. To the right of his search area, another casualty of the operation was being stretchered away to a waiting ambulance, having dislocated a shoulder in a fall below ground.
A fractured leg had already claimed one of his team that day, no doubt keeping the voyeuristic day-trippers satisfied on the road above.
He looked on as the ambulance drove away, taking the noise of its siren with it. As it disappeared over the brow of a hill, the area fell silent again. Weldon went rigid. He could’ve sworn
he’d heard something, although he couldn’t quite place exactly what it was or where it had come from.
Tilting his head, he listened . . .
Silence.
Only the wind howling through the brush and the distinctive sound of the wing beats of red grouse rocketing up from the heather, their habitat disturbed by a member of the search team. The
creature was the bane of every motorcyclist this side of the Isle of Man; one Weldon had come across far too frequently while riding round the countryside.
Then the sound was back.
Weldon held up a hand and blew his whistle.
Those of the search team within hearing distance froze.
I
nside the mine, Jessica’s heart leapt as she heard the whistle. But her throat was so dry she wasn’t able to call for help. The hat was still strapped to her ankle
but it was now full of water, dragging her leg downstream like a lead weight. She couldn’t find a way to empty it and repeat her SOS.
O
utside, police and civilian teams had stopped what they were doing and were maintaining search protocol, their ears pinned firmly to the ground, a call on the radio eventually
breaking the silence.
‘TSG Leader to Weldon. Was that a
definite
shout, over?’
Weldon looked up, two dozen pairs of eyes turned towards him.
‘Not sure,’ Weldon radioed back. ‘Could’ve sworn I heard tapping.’
‘TSG Leader to all units. Anyone else hear anything?’
Several calls of
negative
came back. One smart arse said the only call he’d heard was one of nature and was told, in no uncertain terms, to fuck right off.
They listened for a few seconds longer.
Weldon shook his head. ‘Must’ve been the wind.’
D
aniels drove back to the flying school with a sense of urgency, hoping Stewart Cole might know, or at least know of, Jimmy Makepeace. Brian Townsend had told her they were
from the same unit and had left the forces at about the same time. Army regiments tended to be close-knit communities, so chances were high.
Besides, she was due a lucky break.
Right now, however, something more tangible than luck was forming in her brain. Last night, when Carmichael had shown them the flying club’s website, Daniels had noticed that there were
four flying instructors. So far she’d only met two. Gormley had also picked up on this and they couldn’t wait to check it out. Pushing the button on her hands-free, leaving it on
loudspeaker, Daniels called the incident room.
The phone rang out several times before DS Robson picked up.
‘Robbo, you’ve got work to do. Contact Jo Soulsby and ask her to get to the MIR – within the hour, if that’s possible. I also want a full background check on a man called
Jimmy Makepeace. Tell Lisa he’s ex-army, last known address Newton Aycliffe area. Tell her to drop everything else, I’ll explain later. And let Naylor know we’re definitely on to
something. Tell him we’ll be back soon and ask him to stick around if he can.’
‘Consider it done. Anything else?’
‘I’ll let you know later. You any further forward with the tapes from Traffic?’
‘Yes we are . . .’ He sounded chuffed to be imparting good news for once. ‘A stolen Ford Escort was tailing Finch when he made the journey from his home to the mortuary.
Problem is, we can’t make the driver. I’ve put a stop and search on it, but we’re probably wasting our time. Most likely it’ll be in the river or else burnt out
somewhere.’
Daniels thanked him and rang off. She made another call. This time, it was taken straight away, before it had even had a chance to ring out.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Bright’s office.’
‘Ellen, it’s Kate. Is he in?’
‘Am I glad
you
called. He’s been like a bear with a sore head since you two last spoke. Sorry, no pun intended. What the hell did you say to him?’
Daniels felt guilty for not calling Ellen before now to check on Bright, his medical status at least. It was true she’d been busy. But that wasn’t the reason.
‘Long story, Ellen. Is he there?’
‘I’ll put you through.’
There was a short pause and a click on the line.
Then Bright picked up. ‘Yes, Kate? Something I can do for you?’
Daniels bypassed small talk and got right to the point. ‘Guv, when you were in Northern Ireland did you ever come across a soldier called Jimmy Makepeace?’
‘Doesn’t ring any bells.’
‘Townsend told us that he and Makepeace were in the same unit over there and that Finch was their CO. Knowing he was yours, I was hoping you might’ve known the name.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I’m a bit pushed for time, guv. Can you meet me at the MIR in about an hour? It’ll save me explaining myself twice over.’
‘You think it’s him?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘You have a bad feeling about him. I can hear it in your voice.’
‘Let’s put it this way, guv, if he has any connection with the flying club then you can bet he also had access to the school register, the lot. He could easily have tampered with the
flyer.’
‘Have you spoken to Finch about him?’
‘Not yet. He’s incommunicado.’
‘Speak to his driver. Ask him to come in.’
Daniels turned off the main A1 at a sign pointing to Sunderland. Gormley suggested that Bright should be there when Adam Finch eventually came in and Daniels put that to him.
‘I’d appreciate that,’ Bright said.
There was an awkward moment of silence on the phone and in the car. Gormley glanced at Daniels, probably wondering which of his superiors would blink first. Daniels seemed lost for words and
Bright wasn’t helping her out. It was the first time they had spoken since their confrontation at his home.
‘Give him a break,’ Gormley whispered.
Daniels scowled at him.
‘Catch you later, guv.’ She rang off abruptly. ‘What are
you
looking at?’
‘Someone with a bit of common sense, I guess.’ Fixing his eyes on the potholed road ahead, Gormley ignored her stare. ‘Is that the end of it then?’
‘The end of what?’
‘You know what.’
‘I’m still pissed with him, if that’s what you mean.’
‘So, he’s no saint! Who the hell is?’
Daniels didn’t answer. Slowing down, she turned left. As luck would have it, the barrier to the MAC Flying School was up and she didn’t have to stop. Cole’s Audi TT was still
parked in the same spot. She pulled up alongside and cut the engine, staring straight ahead.
‘Wanna talk about it?’ Gormley said.
‘No, I bloody don’t.’
‘That’s what I love about you. You’re such a great communicator.’
C
ole was not at the ground school so they went to the office instead. A young receptionist informed them that he wasn’t at the hangar either. She’d just come from
there and had no idea where he was. Asking them to wait in Cole’s office, she offered to locate him.
‘He’s probably done a runner,’ Gormley said drily.
Daniels glared at him. ‘You don’t like him?’
‘Not over much.’
‘Why?’
‘Dunno. Maybe for the same reason you do. Could it have something to do with his exceptional good looks? His toned physique? His thrill-seeking, shit-kicking lifestyle? His fuck-off
job?’
Daniels turned away smiling. Through the window she could see the receptionist walking briskly towards a small plane parked on the tarmac, a helicopter with the registration number G-1TWA
standing next to it. Wondering if there were other flying schools affiliated to this one but working from the same premises, she sent Gormley out to investigate.
When he’d gone, she glanced idly around Cole’s tidy office. There were no personal pictures on his desk but there were lots of souvenirs, including a paperweight bearing the emblem
of the Canadian Air Force, a maple leaf in the sky with a vapour trail encircling it. Next to it sat a miniature Sopwith Camel biplane, the fuselage of which was actually a small box containing a
pile of Cole’s business cards.