Settled Blood (16 page)

D
aniels got home late, had something to eat and went straight to bed, a guaranteed recipe for a sleepless night. When her alarm went off at six, she turned on the radio and
stumbled into the shower, trying to energize herself for the day ahead. Similarly sleep-deprived, Gormley rang at six thirty. When he offered to pick her up and act as chauffeur for the day, she
jumped at the chance.

They made good time. Conrad Couriers was situated close to the A63 Selby bypass. Neither of them could wait to get there and Gormley had committed a number of moving traffic offences along the
way. As he began to slow down, Daniels reached into his glove compartment and pulled out a map book.

‘Hey, put that away!’ Gormley said. ‘You’ll upset my new friend.’

Daniels smiled as a woman’s voice instructed him to turn left. Gormley’s new toy was the latest satellite navigation device.

‘You know, we’re not that far away from the Mansion House.’ Daniels found the page she was looking for, her eyes homing in on the exact location. ‘We’re also close
to several major routes: A1, M62 and A19.’

‘You still think the guy Archer described could be Townsend?’

‘I don’t know, Hank. Gardening pays peanuts. He could be moonlighting in his spare time. He’s strong enough to have carried out an abduction, that’s for sure. And he
doesn’t like Finch a whole lot either—’

‘I’m sensing a “but” coming.’

‘He just doesn’t strike me as the type. If there is a type.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Journey time was often thinking time. Daniels had spent the majority of the last six days on the road, driving back and forth across three counties:
Northumberland, Durham and Yorkshire. That’s the way it was sometimes. Every lead had to be followed up, every detail checked, no matter how long it took or what cost to the incident budget
– which in this case was a joke. She’d have to tell Bright they needed more cash.

‘You think Rachel’s heading for the same fate as Amy?’

Daniels didn’t answer. She bloody hoped not. The woman’s voice was back, instructing Gormley to turn left. He completed the manoeuvre. Seconds later they arrived at their
destination, the secure car park of a modern industrial unit on a new-build business park, the company name emblazoned on the gable end in italic writing. There was a large service yard out front
and a loading bay surrounded by a chain-link fence at the side. A sign directed heavy goods vehicles to an entry point further down the road.

Gormley drove up to the main gate, pushed a button on the entry console. He ID’d himself. A barrier lifted and he moved forward, parking as close to the front door as he could. They got
out of the car and made their way inside.

The integrated office space was contemporary. Advertisements for the company adorned the walls, along with an impressive number of plaques: business awards for excellence in the service sector.
The Rottweiler turned out to be the firm’s managing director, Cynthia Beecham, a smartly dressed, petite, thirty-year-old. She ushered them into the boardroom and closed the door, offering
them privacy from the corridor beyond. She waited until they’d taken their seats before following suit, a consignment schedule already open at the appropriate page on the table in front of
her.

‘His name is Mark Harris,’ Cynthia Beecham said.

Daniels was impressed. Alistair had kept his word.

Cynthia Beecham slid a driver’s log across the table towards the detectives. ‘He’s been with us since we formed the company and he’s never put a foot wrong.’

‘Is he a full-time employee?’ Gormley asked.

‘No, he’s sessional only. He turfs up if and when we’re particularly busy. He has other work, I believe.’

‘Doing what exactly?’ Daniels asked.

‘Is that relevant?’

Daniels ignored the question. ‘He was your only driver in that area on Friday?’

‘No. Several of our fleet cover the north east. It’s a large area and many of our big clients are sited there.’

‘I see . . .’ Daniels thought for a moment. ‘Is there any chance that Mark Harris was not driving the vehicle with the registration number I gave you on the phone? People swap
shifts occasionally, don’t they?’

‘Not a chance. Our transport manager, Allen Amos, installed a fingerprint-recognition entrance controller that links directly to his office, so he no longer has to stand at the gate and
personally check drivers in and out of the depot. It’s foolproof. We also have CCTV. You can check it, if you like.’

This was getting better and better. Daniels could see a point in the future where such technology was commonplace and thought how much easier it would make her job. Looking at her watch, she
couldn’t help but feel excited that they were closing in on a prime suspect.

Cynthia Beecham was far less happy. ‘Can I ask why you want to know?’

Gormley answered. ‘We believe he may be able to help us with our enquiries.’

‘Into what exactly? I need to know . . .’ Cynthia Beecham wasn’t about to be fobbed off by the vague answer she’d received. ‘Given you’re both detectives, I
take it this is not a speeding offence. If it’s a serious matter, our company has a repu—’

‘It is a serious matter, Ms Beecham,’ Daniels cut in. ‘One that requires us to get a move on, so please answer our questions. There’s no need for you to concern yourself
with the detail, not at this stage anyway. Is Harris here now?’

Cynthia Beecham looked at her watch. ‘He should be in the loading dock.’

‘You need to delay his departure without telling him why,’ Daniels said. ‘I have to speak to him now.’

Cynthia Beecham made the call. Then they made their way from the boardroom to the loading shed, a huge hangar-like structure sectioned off into areas marked alphabetically. In one corner, an
elderly man was allocating work to three drivers, one of whom – according to Cynthia Beecham – was the man they had come to see.

None of them was Townsend.

Cynthia Beecham stopped short of the group. ‘Do you mind if I get him? He’s an excellent employee and I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt until you tell me
otherwise.’

‘We’ll wait here,’ Daniels said.

‘Mark?’ The MD walked on, high heels clicking on the concrete floor. ‘Can I have a word?’

Harris turned round, his expression changing when he saw she was not alone. As she led him away from the others, Daniels couldn’t help notice his obvious discomfort. Cynthia Beecham took
them across the yard to a side office: a small, window-less box. Mark Harris couldn’t look Daniels in the eye as his boss left the room, closing the door behind her, having given him the bad
news.

Daniels came right to the point. ‘Do you know why we’re here?’

Harris shrugged. ‘I’ve got a bloody good idea.’

‘Tell us then.’ Gormley’s tone was harsh.

‘I didn’t mean to hurt her—’

His words hung in the air. Daniels felt sick and elated at the same time. The man had guilt written all over his face and she couldn’t wait to hear more.

‘Who?’ she asked. ‘Who didn’t you mean to hurt?’

Harris looked at the floor.

Gormley was getting impatient. ‘Mr Harris?’

Harris lifted his head. ‘Rachel, Rachel Somers.’

‘Where is she?’ Daniels fought hard to keep her temper in check. ‘What have you done with her?’

‘Nothing!’ Harris looked
really
worried. ‘Nothing, I promise you!’

‘We have a witness who saw her in your cab.’ Daniels eyeballed the man, letting him know he was in big trouble. ‘Nobody has seen or heard from her since. We think we know
why.’

‘Then you’re a mile wrong,’ Harris snapped back. ‘I don’t know what she’s told you, but all I did was talk to her. That’s all, I swear. Then I dropped
her in Durham on my way to Northallerton.’

‘Course you did.’ Gormley glared at him. ‘And we’re supposed to believe that?’

‘Believe what you like, it’s the truth!’ Harris suddenly became defensive, puffing out his chest like he was ready for a fight. ‘Hey, I don’t know what it is you
think I’ve done, but I’m telling you nowt ’til I see a solicitor.’

‘Fine.’ Daniels cuffed him. ‘Hank, lock him up and get him in the car.’

T
he journey back to Newcastle was uncomfortable. It seemed to take for ever, but thankfully it was nearly over. Riley Archer’s information had been spot on. As far as
Daniels was concerned he deserved a commendation and would get one from a judge eventually if she had anything to do with it, assuming the case ever reached a court of law. But that was still a
long way off.

Glancing over her shoulder, she wondered if the man in the back seat was responsible for Amy Grainger’s death and Jessica’s disappearance. Not to mention Rachel. Her suspect had made
absolutely no comment whatsoever since his arrest. Harris glared back at her from under the peak of his red cap. Not one word had passed his lips in over two hours and she was relieved when they
finally turned into the station car park.

Gormley parked as close to the back door as he could. They got out and took their prisoner straight to the custody suite, booked him in and handed him over to the custody sergeant, who put him
in a cell to await his solicitor.

Back in MIR, Daniels went directly to her office, picked up the phone and made arrangements for Harris’s fingerprint image to be entered into PNC database for comparison. Cynthia Beecham
hadn’t argued about handing it over.
Protected data could prove innocence as well as guilt,
was how she’d put it. Daniels couldn’t argue with that. In the end, it drew a
blank. Harris had no criminal record, not as much as a speeding ticket. With no time to dwell on that, the DCI lifted the telephone receiver to call Laura Somers. Rachel’s mother was anxious
for news, understandable given the recent death of Amy Grainger. Updating her on developments, Daniels arranged for a family liaison officer to visit, hesitating when she heard a knock at the
door.

She covered the speaker with her free hand.

Carmichael poked her head in. ‘Harris’s brief has arrived,’ she whispered.

Miming a thank you, Daniels went back to her call, apologizing to Mrs Somers for the interruption. ‘Has Rachel ever mentioned someone called Mark to you, now or in the past?’

‘I don’t think so.’ There was a short delay, some noise at the other end of the line, then Laura Somers was back. ‘Sorry, Inspector, I dropped something. Who is
he?’

‘We have reason to believe that a man called Mark met with Rachel on Friday morning. I’ll be speaking to him shortly. I thought I’d run it by you first in case you knew
anything about him. I’ll keep you informed if my enquiries come to anything.’

Daniels rang off.

Mark Harris and his brief were waiting in the interview room when she and Gormley walked in. The solicitor wasn’t known to them. He was relatively young, around thirty years old, very
good-looking but with a deep red scar which ran from his hairline down his forehead and through his left eyebrow as if he’d recently had an argument with a car windscreen. Unless, Daniels
thought, one of his clients had taken umbrage at his instructions. Either way, it looked painful.

Harris was sitting back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. A little smug, Daniels observed, but nervous too, if the perspiration on his brow was anything to go by. He looked right
through her as if she wasn’t there. Noticing the exchange between accused and accuser, the brief quickly got to his feet and handed over his business card. He smiled broadly, trying his best
to take the heat out of the situation.

‘I’m Alec Walton, Bradley, Walton and Associates. I’ll be acting for Mr Harris. I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘DCI Daniels.’ She pointed to her left. ‘My colleague, DS Gormley.’

They all sat down. Gormley turned on a recording device housed in a recess in the wall, reintroduced all four for the benefit of the tape, adding the time and date, reminding Harris he was still
under caution and had been arrested on suspicion of the abduction of Rachel Somers.

‘Do you understand?’ he said.

The suspect sighed. ‘Yes.’

Daniels leaned her elbows on the table. ‘Would you please tell us where you were between eight a.m. and ten a.m. on the morning of Friday the seventh, and what exactly you were
doing?’

Harris looked at his brief and received a nod in return. ‘I was at work.’

‘In what capacity?’ Gormley picked up his pen.

‘I work as an HGV driver for Conrad Couriers.’

‘Their head office being where exactly?’ Daniels asked.

‘On the Access 63 business park. It’s near Selby. You should know, you’ve already been there. Thanks to you, I’ll probably lose my job.’

Daniels moved on. ‘What time did your shift begin?’

‘Four a.m. I had an early delivery to South Shields. Got there around six, dropped my load and grabbed some breakfast—’

‘Where?’ Gormley stopped making notes.

Harris’s brow creased. ‘Excuse me?’

‘It’s a simple enough question.’ Daniels met his gaze across the table. ‘Where did you eat?’

‘In my cab.’

‘Packed it yourself, did you?’ Gormley asked.

‘No. I bought it from a mobile breakfast van.’

Daniels wanted more. ‘Which one?’

‘Lindisfarne roundabout. It’s one I use regularly. Lass called Sheila runs it, does an excellent fry-up, if you guys are ever interested.’ Harris grinned. ‘Ask her if you
don’t believe me.’

‘Oh, we intend to,’ Gormley said. ‘First chance we get.

‘Did you meet anyone else while you were having breakfast?’ Daniels asked.

She watched for a reaction and got one. Harris’s grin had disappeared. She looked across the table at Alec Walton, wondering what advice he’d given his client, suspecting that she
was about to encounter a stone wall. A ‘no comment’ interview was not what she needed right now. But Mark Harris surprised her.

‘I told you, I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just . . . I wanted to talk to her.’

‘Rachel Somers?’

‘Yes.’

‘She met you at Sheila’s breakfast bar?’