DS Jessica Daniel series: Locked In/Vigilante/The Woman in Black - Books 1-3 (7 page)

‘All right but not that pub at the end of the road.’

Jessica nodded. ‘Okay, fine. We should probably clean this place up a bit before we go out.’

‘Is that your way of asking me to do it?’

‘Maybe . . . I’ll clean my room though.’

Caroline laughed. ‘You sound as if you’re eight years old.’

When the two of them had first moved in, Caroline had gone for the bedroom with the more girly colours while Jessica was happy with the one that had a light blue tone to it. Caroline’s had
lilac walls and she had bought herself a matching duvet cover, while Jessica was using the same bedding she’d had for as long as she could remember. The walls may have been a pale blue but
her sheets were dark brown. Her room was consistently the messier of the two as well, with most of her clothes left on the floor.

‘So we’re agreed,’ Jessica said. ‘You tidy the hallway, kitchen and living room and I’ll pick up the clothes from my floor.’

‘Whatever – as long as you buy the wine later.’

‘I did say I didn’t want to come here . . .’

Jessica knew her friend didn’t really like the pub closest to their flat but she didn’t fancy going into the city centre; there would be too much temptation to turn a relaxing night
into something not really appropriate considering how much she would have to deal with the next day. This way she could sneak in something from one of the takeaways on the way home too, although
she hadn’t mentioned that part when she and Caroline had made plans to go out.

‘I know but it’s close and it’s not
that
bad,’ Jessica replied.

‘Maybe not that bad for someone as cheap as you,’ Caroline said with a huge grin.

‘Right and whose top are you wearing?’

‘I wouldn’t dare wear something of mine in a place like this.’

The two women giggled to each other as the bottle-and-a-half of cheap wine they had gone through was beginning to take its toll.

‘I think you should give me the top anyway,’ Caroline continued.

‘Why would I do that?’

‘I distinctly remember lending you fifteen quid for a taxi a few years ago when you were going out with that Graham fella and I’m pretty sure I never got it back.’

That was possibly true, although money had never been an issue between them. Jessica hadn’t had much of a pay increase until very recently. Meanwhile, Caroline was enjoying a successful
advertising career with one of the local agencies. She had been earning good money for a few years, certainly enough to move out of their flat if she so chose.

They laughed again. ‘Eew, Graham.’

Caroline and Jessica came from roughly the same place not far from Carlisle, a hundred miles or so to the north of Manchester. They hadn’t really had any contact with each other until they
started sixth-form college when they were both sixteen. On the very first day, they had ended up sitting together in a history class.

Jessica often thought it was funny how one small, seemingly inconsequential, decision could have such a bearing on the rest of your life.

They were both only children and, since bonding through that, they had been more or less inseparable. They had spent a year travelling through parts of south-east Asia when they turned eighteen.
Caroline had applied to go to university in Manchester and, although Jessica wasn’t interested in further education, the pair had both moved to the city upon their return. They didn’t
live together at first. Caroline stayed in university accommodation for her first year, while Jessica found a flat close to where they currently lived. By the time Caroline had finished the first
year of her course, the two of them moved into the same flat they still lived in.

Caroline had spent three years studying, while Jessica tried to find something she was interested in doing. She applied to the police on a bit of a whim. While a lot of people joined the force
because they had a family member who also worked in the emergency or security services somewhere, this was far from the case for Jessica. Her parents managed a post office in their home town, which
was certainly something that did run in the family. Her father’s father had bought the building and started the business almost sixty years ago. There was never really any chance of Jessica
hanging around to take over the reins and both of her parents knew it. They never pressured her though and still ran the place, happily looking ahead to retirement in a few years. Jessica usually
found time to visit her parents once every couple of months but spoke to them regularly on the phone.

Perhaps the reason the two had remained so close was that Caroline’s parents had both died within a few months of each other not long after she graduated. It hadn’t been much of a
surprise; her mother and father were quite a bit older than Jessica’s parents and her dad had been ill for a while. Not long after he died, her mother did too. Caroline had been devastated
but took heart from the fact they had both seen her graduate, the first in her family to do so.

‘So, new boyfriend then?’ Jessica said.

‘Yep.’

‘Let’s hear it then.’

‘Do you remember a few months ago when I went over in those heels?’

‘Of course,’ Jessica laughed. ‘It was really funny.’

‘Thanks for the sympathy; I could have broken my neck.’

‘Honestly, if there was any neck-breaking involved, I would have definitely laughed a little less.’

‘Anyway, I really like that pair, so I took them to that place on Gorton Market where they mend shoes. There was this lad who worked on the stall . . .’

‘You dirty tart.’

They giggled again. ‘We had a few drinks and have been seeing each other since then. We’re going out again some time this week.’

Jessica understood that meant her friend had been spending time with him when she claimed she was at the gym or somewhere else inconsequential but didn’t mind. ‘As long as you
don’t dump me to move in with this obvious weirdo, then I hope you have a good time.’

‘Weirdo?’

‘He went out with you.’

‘Oi.’

They both laughed some more. ‘What’s his name then?’ Jessica asked.

‘Randall. Randall Anderson.’

‘Randall? What sort of name is that?’

‘I dunno. I kind of like it. It’s a bit different.’

‘Hmm . . . Caroline Morrison-Anderson. I guess it does have a ring to it.’

‘Don’t start . . .’

The fact neither of them had really had time for a serious relationship was perhaps the biggest reason neither Caroline nor Jessica had decided to move into their own place. Of course they
actually liked living together but, with neither of them having a heavy commitment, there had never been too much need to hunt for a new place to live.

Jessica felt the wine taking hold and, as the final orders bell rang, she pulled her phone out from her bag. ‘I’m just going to check the Internet to see what’s in
tomorrow’s paper.’

She thumbed away at the screen, flicking through her bookmarks before finding the
Herald
’s news site. The front page loaded and she pinched the screen to zoom in, before slamming
her free hand down on the table.

‘What’s up?’ Caroline asked.

Jessica just about kept her temper intact. ‘Garry Ashford. Whoever he is, I am going to string him up.’

Sunday night hadn’t ended in the way Jessica thought it would. The top headline on the
Herald
’s website had read: ‘MURDERED IN HER OWN HOME’.
Underneath that was: ‘LOCKED DOOR MYSTERY’ and the byline: ‘EXCLUSIVE by Garry Ashford’.

Pretty much all the details were there: the victim’s name, the fact the house was locked and that the police had taken two days to respond to Stephanie Wilson’s concerns. That
sounded bad straight away. The journalist had also spoken to Mrs Wilson, who had blabbed pretty much everything she had already told them.

Worse than that, he had quoted her: ‘Detective Sergeant Jessica Daniel insisted she had no extra comment to make.’ There was even a complimentary line about her being ‘trusted
to head up the inquiry’. That write-up almost certainly meant her bosses were going to think she was the leak. They were going to hit the roof and, seeing as the journalist had phoned her the
day before, if Internal Investigations were involved, they would see his phone number on her records.

Jessica still had Garry’s details in her mobile’s previous callers list and, figuring she could be in enough trouble already, phoned him back as she left the pub to walk home. She
wasn’t sure whether to go straight in with the full barrage of swear words or to build up in a particularly obscene crescendo. Afterwards, she couldn’t quite recall the full details of
the one-sided conversation but definitely remembered promising to do something not at all pleasant with his lower intestines and quite possibly inventing a host of new curses.

She had arrived at the station earlier than usual on the Monday to be greeted by a hard copy of the paper sitting on the reception desk in front of that morning’s desk sergeant. The
headline was the same on the print version as it was online, except the article itself was even more terrible than she thought. Jessica saw that, in the absence of any photos of the victim, they
had used a picture of her. Worse still, it was a horrible passport-type photo the press office had taken to use on the force’s website.

Under a big banner headline about a murder, she was there grinning like an idiot. Just as she thought her morning couldn’t get much worse, Jessica saw Detective Chief Inspector William
Aylesbury bounding through the big double doors into reception.

Most people called William would have the good grace to let you call them ‘Will’ or ‘Bill’. A huge majority would even prefer it but not the DCI. She called him
‘Sir’ of course but, when he introduced himself to anyone, he would pronounce every last syllable of Will. I. Am. Ay. Les. Bury. He would roll the letter ‘r’ as if he were
royalty.

He was certainly one of those types who followed the family trade into the police force. His father and grandfather had been senior officers in the Met, while his son had recently joined Greater
Manchester Police’s uniformed ranks based at a different station. She had no doubt he would be superintendent in no time with the current one, DSI Dominic Davies, well-known to be retiring in
under twelve months.

He was in his early fifties with short grey hair but could have passed for someone ten years younger given the way he looked after himself. He was tall and imposing when he wanted to be and
almost always perfectly turned out with expensive-looking suits.

‘Been making friends with the press, have we?’ Aylesbury said, indicating the paper in Jessica’s hand that she hadn’t been quick enough to put down.

He beckoned her into a meeting along with Cole and the woman in charge of press relations. Jessica told them she had spoken to Garry Ashford on Saturday afternoon but only because he had called
her. She explained she had not given away any details and didn’t know how the information had appeared in that morning’s paper, although pointed out there were plenty of people who had
been at the crime scene.

She was pretty sure Cole believed her but Aylesbury was far too hard to read and the press officer definitely didn’t buy it. The woman stared daggers throughout the meeting but, given she
was outranked by everyone present, that was about as much dissatisfaction as she could get away with. Jessica’s opinion of the DCI improved a tiny amount when he dismissed the press officer
and told her and Cole he would inform Internal Investigations there was no need to be involved.

They had the powers to start an inquiry regardless of what the chief inspector thought but seeing as nothing had been leaked that was likely to compromise the inquiry – and that he was
backing her for now – it seemed probable they would listen to his advice.

That meeting led straight into a second one with the three of them, which was how her morning would have started if it wasn’t for the newspaper story. The next discussion was about how the
case would run. Aylesbury confirmed Cole would work from the station with Jessica reporting directly to the inspector, who would keep him up to date.

After that the three of them went downstairs for the main team briefing. They were standing at the front of the station’s large meeting room, with no natural sunlight in the basement hall
– the only illumination being provided by bright white strip lighting. Sometimes on the night shift, officers would come to sit in this room just to be kept awake. The whole of the
station’s force had been called in to be told what was happening, including most of the uniformed officers. A couple of detectives from neighbouring districts had been loaned to the station,
as often happened with murder cases. In all, there were between twenty and thirty people sitting on uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs, or standing near the doors at the back, sipping on cups of
coffee, waiting to be filled in.

Behind the three of them were two huge whiteboards pinned to the wall. At the top in the middle of the left-hand one was an enlarged photo of Yvonne Christensen’s neck wounds, next to a
recent photo to show how she had usually looked. Her name was written underneath in marker pen, along with the husband and son’s in smaller writing under that.

Jessica thought Aylesbury sounded quite impressive as he spoke, despite his over-pronunciation. He started by reminding everyone of their responsibilities in not talking to the media without
prior permission, then thanked everyone for being there and said he had every faith they would catch the person responsible. He told them Cole would be their link person at the station and then
handed the floor over to Jessica.

He gave her a full introduction for the benefit of the visiting officers but they would have known exactly who she was because of the ridiculous photo of her gurning on the front of that
morning’s paper. Jessica thanked her boss, ignoring the murmurings of amusement from the officers standing in front of her, and then explained how the house had been found locked up.

After that, she moved on to the morning’s developments. ‘We’ve got the initial results back from the labs but there’s not an awful lot to go on,’ she said.
‘We know Yvonne Christensen was killed some time late on Tuesday night or in the early hours of Wednesday which all fits in with Stephanie Wilson’s timings. She was strangled with some
type of steel rope or wire but we don’t have anything more specific on that. They have been running tests on the bed sheets and the body but haven’t yet found any samples that
don’t belong to the victim.’