Settled Blood (7 page)

The DCI searched for confirmation from Mr Grainger and found it.

‘Jen’s right. It’s not hers.’

‘Are you absolutely sure?’

The man nodded, putting an arm around his wife.

‘Perhaps she borrowed it . . .’ Daniels said. ‘Young women often—’

‘It’s possible I suppose, but not likely. She was—’

Mrs Grainger rounded on her husband. ‘No!’

His eyes found Daniels, an apologetic expression, she thought.

‘Our Amy is very fussy about what she wears, obsessive almost. She would never swap clothes. Never!’ Mrs Grainger pulled away from her husband. ‘You should know that, Terry.
She’s your daughter too!’

It wasn’t difficult to see how this tragedy might blow this couple apart. Daniels had seen it happen over the years to a number of parents of murdered children, even those she regarded as
particularly close. Blame, guilt, past indiscretions were often raked up at the point of crisis, used like bullets to fire at one another until there was nothing left. Divorce was high among
parents of homicide victims. Just the thought of it made her sad.

Returning to the box, the DCI lifted other items free: a pair of size-ten skinny Giorgio Armani jeans, a blue shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves, a pair of high-heeled shoes. On each
occasion, Mrs Grainger’s lips bunched tight shut and she shook her head vehemently. Daniels expected the same response when she removed a bag containing underwear, but, much to her surprise,
the woman nodded this time.

Registering this development as significant, Daniels’ eyes found Gormley. With Amy’s parents present, it was inappropriate to indulge in speculation. So she filed away the troubling
thought and showed them the final exhibit, a bag containing the last item: a delicate necklace.

Daniels missed the couple’s response to it. She was too busy coping with a reaction of her own. As her eyes fixed on the necklace, the hairs on her neck stood up.

Something was very wrong.

Picking up on her preoccupation with the item of jewellery, Gormley looked on curiously as she pulled the exhibits log towards her and scrolled down the list with her index finger, dwelling on
the last entry:
Item of jewellery removed from the neck of Nominal One – unidentified female found near Housesteads Roman Fort.

‘Why would she be dressed in someone else’s clothes?’ Mrs Grainger asked.

Daniels hadn’t heard her.

Gormley answered for her. ‘We don’t know, is the honest answer. But we
will
find out. There are things we can’t tell you at the moment, but as soon as we can, we
will.’

Daniels was back. ‘You have our absolute word on that. In the meantime, I must ask you not to talk about Amy’s death to anyone, in particular the fact that she was wearing another
girl’s clothes. Reporters will use every trick in the book to get you to talk. But I urge you not to. It might help the perpetrator escape justice if you do. And I know you wouldn’t
want that.’

‘But whose clothes are they?’ Mr Grainger asked. ‘Why would—’

‘You think another girl’s been taken, don’t you?’ Mrs Grainger was talking now. A good sign, Daniels thought. ‘You do! I can see it in your eyes. What are you not
telling us? Oh my God! Terry, what’s happening? I can’t bear the thought of another family going through . . .’ Her voice trailed off as something caught her eye.

Carmichael had arrived in the nick of time.

Gormley opened the door, inviting her to step inside. ‘This is Lisa,’ he said.

Daniels’ stomach was leaden as a flicker of life appeared on Mrs Grainger’s face. It was almost, but not quite, recognition. Lisa Carmichael was not unlike Amy Grainger to look at:
she was fairly tall with long blonde hair and a youthful, cheery face. Not the most appropriate officer to be around right now. From the looks on their faces, Gormley and Carmichael had spotted her
reaction too.

‘Lisa will see to it that you get an escort home,’ Gormley hurried on.

‘Or if not home, somewhere else . . .’ Carmichael smiled. ‘A relative perhaps?’

Mrs Grainger managed a weak smile. ‘It’s OK, Lisa.’

She’d said it in a way they all understood.

Daniels repeated her condolences, advising the couple that a Family Liaison Officer would be in touch, a person designated to answer any questions they might have about the case, and whose job
it was to keep them informed of developments as and when they occurred.

Carmichael eased the couple out into the corridor. As she closed the door behind them, Daniels blew out her cheeks and breathed a hefty sigh of relief.

‘What?’ Gormley pulled a face. ‘What did I miss?’

‘Get the exhibits officer on the phone, right away.’ Daniels held the necklace up to the light. ‘I’ve seen this before, Hank. Jessica Finch was wearing it in a portrait
hanging in her father’s library. We need to get over there, first thing in the morning.’

‘I
t’s a one-off Cartier piece which belonged to her mother,’ Adam Finch said. ‘I don’t like Jessica wearing it because of its monetary value. But
you can’t tell them, can you? My daughter thinks of it in purely sentimental terms. Her mother died when she was four years old. It’s the only thing she remembers her
wearing.’

They were in the Mansion House library standing in front of the cavernous fireplace, Adam Finch with his back to it, Gormley and Daniels facing him. He was dressed more casually than when
she’d seen him the day before yesterday: brown corduroy slacks, a fawn cashmere sweater and a pair of brogues on his feet. Under the circumstances, she thought he looked far too rested.
She’d expected more of a reaction when she showed him the necklace. But the man didn’t flinch. If he was nervous or even curious as to how she came by it, he certainly wasn’t
letting on.

Gormley scanned Jessica’s portrait. ‘She wears it all the time?’

‘Never takes it off,’ Finch said. ‘May I ask where you found it?’

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, but it was taken from the young woman you were asked to identify at the morgue.’ Daniels watched for a reaction but there was none. ‘Her
name is Amy Grainger. She was also a Durham University student.’

Finch swallowed hard and didn’t speak for a few seconds. ‘I told Jessica time and again that someone would lift the damn thing one day. But, as always, I was wasting my breath. This
girl,
this . . . Amy, did you say her name was? She was obviously up to no good. She’s probably in cahoots with whoever sent me those dreadful threats. Perhaps now one of them has come
to a sticky end, they’ll stop tormenting me. Even if they don’t, I will not be blackmailed!’

‘Has your daughter ever talked about Amy Grainger?’ Gormley asked.

Finch shook his head.

‘She was studying Environmental Management,’ Daniels said. ‘Same intake year as Jessica. If they were mates, perhaps she loaned the necklace to Amy.’

‘No.’ Finch fixed on Daniels. ‘My daughter may take financial risks, but she’s got her head screwed on properly when she chooses her friends. She would never associate
with a bad crowd. She’s got too much to lose. She stands to inherit a substantial fortune one day. Anyway, I hardly think this girl would be her type. She’s a medical student, not some
tree-hugger.’

Daniels’ jaw went rigid.

Finch was acting like a prat with no thought for anyone but himself. She could already imagine the tirade that would follow from Gormley on the way home. Eyeballing Jessica’s father, she
didn’t bother to hide her disgust. ‘A young girl is dead, Mr Finch. A girl you saw with your own eyes lying on a slab in the mortuary. Her parents are beside themselves too, so perhaps
you’d care to show a little respect.’

Finch made no comment.

‘There’s something else I need you to look at.’ Putting a hand in her pocket, Daniels pulled out her car keys and gave them to Gormley. ‘Will you get the box from my
car?’

Gormley’s expression conveyed a clear message:
It’ll be my pleasure.
He left the room, passing Mrs Partridge who was on her way in with a tea tray. She poured Finch some tea
and handed it to him. He sat down at a partner’s desk near the window, saucer in his left hand, cup in his right. Then Gormley was back, carrying the same evidence box they had shown the
Graingers the day before. He set it down on a chair, took out six bags and placed them in a line on Finch’s desk, the items clearly visible through cellophane windows: a pair of jeans, a blue
top, a green scarf, underwear and a pair of shoes – left and right in separate bags.

‘Are you able to identify any of these?’ Gormley asked. ‘You can pick them up, but I can’t allow you to break the seal.’

Finch looked at him as if
allow
was not a word in his vocabulary.

Daniels gave him a nudge. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir. It’s very important.’

Finch shifted his gaze to the bags. ‘I recognize the shoes. Jessica has a pair just like them, though I couldn’t say for sure they’re hers. Jeans are jeans, aren’t they?
Frankly, I wouldn’t know one pair from another. I hate the things. My daughter’s underwear is not something I’m privy to.’

‘And the scarf?’ Gormley asked.

‘Is identical to one I bought for her last Christmas when we were in Milan.’

Finch sat back in his chair avoiding eye contact with them both. Daniels detected a chink in his armour. He didn’t say anything, but his hand shook as he put down his tea. She gave him a
moment, assured that he’d already worked out what was coming next.

She hated saying it. ‘These are the clothes we took from Amy Grainger’s body.’

‘Then she must’ve stolen them!’ Finch snapped.

The man was in denial, a normal reaction under the circumstances. He didn’t want to believe that his daughter was in danger.
Or worse
. Why should he? It was unimaginable for any
parent to contemplate.

The DCI chose her words carefully. ‘We know nothing of Amy that would suggest she’s anything other than a lovely girl who tragically met her death wearing Jessica’s clothes.
I’m so sorry.’

Finch broke down.

Picking up the evidence bag containing the scarf, he held it to his chest and wept.

‘Sir, we’d be lying if we told you that we’re not worried. Of course we are. We all are. But we’ll do everything we can to find her.’

The man’s bluntness was shocking. ‘Dead or alive?’ he asked.

‘My officers are the very best, sir.’ Their eyes locked as Daniels tried to reassure him. ‘They’ll work day and night to find Jessica and I’ll personally keep you
updated on all new developments. I assume you’ve had no further contact, from anyone?’

Finch glared at her. ‘Don’t you think I’d have said?’

Gormley had had enough. ‘We will, of course, need to search the house and grounds.’

Finch rounded on him. ‘Why?’

‘It’s routine in cases like these . . .’ Daniels said. ‘We must be absolutely sure we’ve covered every possibility. I’d also like a word with the artist who
painted Jessica’s portrait. I imagine they’ll have talked a lot during the time they spent together. I’d be grateful if you would point me in the right direction.’

‘No stone unturned, is that it?’

‘Something like that.’ Daniels didn’t want to row with him. In fact she just wanted out of there, the sooner the better. ‘I’ll also need to interview your staff. If
we could have a list by morning, that would be helpful.’

‘You’ll have it within the hour,’ Finch said.

Opening the desk drawer, he removed a business card and handed it over with the name and studio of the artist in question, a woman named Fiona Fielding. They thanked him and went off to look
around the house for clues. Their search was unproductive. Two hours later, Mrs Partridge showed them out. Daniels felt the woman’s eyes on her back as she walked to her car, keying in
Robson’s number before she reached it. The Toyota’s lights flashed and the door locks clunked open.

Robson picked up. ‘What’s up, boss?’

‘What’s not? I want you to arrange an emergency meeting of the squad for four o’clock sharp. Also, give Bright a bell and tell him it’s confirmed: Amy Grainger
was
wearing Jessica Finch’s clothes and jewellery. I want the Major Incident Suite made ready. This is now a linked incident and we can’t run it from a cottage in the wilds of
Northumberland. We’re going to have to make other arrangements. I’ll let the guv’nor know we’re moving back to town as soon as possible. Except you. I’d like to leave
you up there for a few days to coordinate things that end.’

There was a short pause.

‘Robbo? You OK with that?’

‘No problem. You want everyone at the briefing?’

‘If humanly possible, yes . . .’ She started the engine and moved off with Finch watching from his library window. ‘And just for your information, the motive wasn’t
financial. That necklace was worth a mint.’

Daniels hung up. If robbery wasn’t the motive, then what was? Someone was threatening Finch, but for what purpose? No demands had yet been made.

‘You’re thinking again,’ Gormley said. ‘I can hear the cogs turning from here.’

‘The lack of contact from Jessica’s abductors worries me.’ Daniels slowed as the gates to the Mansion House opened, allowing them to move off the estate. ‘There’s
only one reason I can think of for that. Amy Grainger was chosen in order to send a graphic warning to Finch.’

‘Some warning!’ Gormley said.

‘Someone must really hate him. We find out why and we’ll find our man.’

Gormley settled down in his seat, making himself comfortable for the drive to Newcastle. They hadn’t yet spoken about Daniels’ absence from work, the unease she felt at being back,
the confidence she’d lost. In fact they’d seen little of each other at all in the past few days, which was unheard of in the normal course of a week’s work.

For her part, Daniels was aware Hank had his own problems to sort and she didn’t want to add to them.

She glanced at him. ‘How’s Julie?’

‘Why d’you ask?’ It was almost a grunt.

‘Just making conversation. You heard from her?’

‘Nothing civil.’