Settled Blood (3 page)

‘No time for tea,’ he said. ‘Did you hear or see anything unusual last night?’

A look of disapproval crossed Mary’s face. The policeman suddenly felt like a little boy about to get a scolding for his cheek. No doubt Mary would have a word or two in his mother’s
ear next time they met.

‘You’d best ask your Ronnie,’ she said. ‘He’s in the bottom field with the horses.’

She was referring to his cousin who worked on her farm, a strapping lad who looked a lot like him. Rumour had it they might even be brothers.

The officer touched his police helmet. It was almost a salute. ‘Thanks for your help, Mary. You’ll be locking your door, just in case?’

The old woman gave him an odd look. ‘I would, if I could find my key.’

He knew she meant it. Her door was never locked.

‘Can’t you come in and tell me all about it?’ she pushed. ‘Your mam’ll have my guts for garters if I don’t offer you something to eat. Big lad like you needs
plenty bait inside him, working all hours on them funny shifts.’

‘I’ve been told I can’t discuss the case with anyone.’ He found himself apologizing, a frequent occurrence whenever he was in her presence. ‘I’ll get myself
away now and report back to the SIO. That’s the Senior Investigating Officer, in case you didn’t know. A lady detective chief inspector! She’s a bit of all right, too.’

Mary Fenwick giggled.

Turning to leave, the young constable regretting having no time to sample her famous scones, kept warming in the range in case of a visitor. He knew fine well they’d be thrown out for the
birds, if unused. Remembering a question he should’ve asked, he glanced over his shoulder. Mary was gone but the door was ajar. Then suddenly she reappeared with a lumpy bundle in a Christmas
napkin, nearly five months after the event.

She held it out to him, smiling through smoker’s teeth.

He thanked her, stuffing the scones in his pocket for later.

‘Any campers on your land I need to know about?’ he asked. ‘Any family staying up at the old farmhouse?’

Mary fiddled with her ear again.

‘Campers, Mary? Do you have any strangers staying just now?’

‘Aye, there’s no need to shout, son. I heard you the first time.’ She pointed away from the house. ‘We have one or two in the cow pasture. I’ll get my stick and
walk with you.’

T
he XJ Portfolio had dark privacy glass in the windows and sumptuous cashew leather seats. In the rear of the vehicle, Adam Finch folded his
Financial Times
neatly and
used a touch-screen remote control mounted in the centre armrest to select BBC News 24 on his digital TV. He checked his watch and smiled. He’d catch the headlines at the top of the hour.

Ten minutes later, the Jaguar turned left off the main road and passed sedately through cast-iron gates with a name inscribed upon them in bold gold lettering:
The Mansion House.
The
familiar sound of tyres on gravel caused Adam Finch to look out of the window in time to see his gardener extinguish a cigarette, pocketing what was left of it.

Adam Finch hated filthy habits. He had banned smoking on his estate and made a mental note to hit Townsend where it would hurt the most – in his next pay packet. Warmed by this thought, he
relaxed back in his seat for a further hundred metres along a narrow driveway bordered on either side by willow trees planted by his great-great-grandfather. The Jaguar glided gently to a halt
directly opposite the front door of his Georgian country house. Finch waited for the rear door to open.

‘Will I be required later, sir?’ the chauffeur asked him as he emerged from the car.

‘No, Pearce. That’ll be all for today.’

Finch’s housekeeper arrived to greet him, a little out of breath. ‘Welcome home, Mr Finch,’ she said, taking his coat and umbrella.

‘Thank you, Mrs P.’ He didn’t make eye contact with the woman, just strode off into the house, scooping his mail from a silver tray on the hall table on his way in. Pausing a
second, he moved a blue flower vase a centimetre to the left before proceeding along the hallway, shouting over his shoulder as he walked. ‘I’ll take my tea in my office.’

‘Very good, sir,’ came the reply.

Finch’s leather-soled shoes squeaked as he moved swiftly across the highly polished parquet flooring, through a set of double doors and into his study. He sat down at his desk, scanning
the surface carefully, making minor adjustments to favoured items: repositioning a photograph of his late wife, Beth, and daughter, Jessica, a little further away; an inkwell a tad nearer; his
fountain pens more evenly spread. His eyes slid over each item. Then he turned the pen clips until all four were exactly in line with one another. Only when he was perfectly satisfied did he log on
to his computer.

Finch spent half an hour reading and replying to emails and then turned his attention to the post he’d collected on his way in. Using an antique paper knife Beth had bought him on their
fifth wedding anniversary he slit open the first envelope and took out the letter contained inside. The news wasn’t good. His investments had tumbled to an all-time low. An annual statement
from his stockbroker confirmed his worst fears.

The recession was still not over.

Finch didn’t look up as Mrs Partridge arrived with his tea. She set the cup and saucer down on a coaster, turning the handle to a precise angle so that he could easily pick it up. As she
left the room again, he sat back in his chair, a man with all the troubles of the world on his shoulders. In his entire life, he couldn’t remember a year quite like this one.

A small brown envelope caught his eye. It looked conspicuous among the rest of his mail, the address rudely handwritten in thick green pen. Finch set his cup back down and lifted the envelope
off the desk, turning it over and over in his hands, disgusted by the childlike writing, by the sheer audacity of whoever had sent it. Probably a local from Kirby Ayden; most definitely nobody he
knew.

Finch bristled. He’d received several ill-considered pleas for employment on his estate in recent months. Nothing short of begging letters he tore up the moment they arrived. He was about
to disregard this one too when Beth’s voice jumped into his head: ‘Adam! Don’t be so mean . . . we must embrace the locals, not push them away.’ Her face beamed out from the
photograph on his desk, her eyes teasing him. ‘Your ancestors have employed people from the village for hundreds of years on the estate. What harm would it do to show a little
humanity?’

Poppycock!

But Beth’s smile seemed broader than ever.

Finch sighed. He still missed his wife terribly, had remained celibate and sober since her death many years before. Even from her grave, she could twist him round her little finger, persuade him
to do the
right
thing. And, as always, he relented. Slicing through the envelope flap, he shook out the contents. A frown formed on his brow as a jagged piece of paper fluttered out, landing
face down on his desk. He flipped it over with the knife. What he saw made him reach for the phone.

D
etective Chief Superintendent Phillip Bright was on his knees searching his waste-paper basket when the phone rang. He hauled himself off the floor and fumbled with the
receiver, cursing his new civilian clerk. Ellen was a spirited woman who took no shit from anyone – especially not him. They hadn’t quite gelled as a team and he was wondering if they
ever would.

‘Didn’t I tell you to hold all calls?’ he barked.

‘So you did, but this is urgent apparently. One of your golfing pals?’

‘Which one?’ Bright took a deep breath. No reply was forthcoming. ‘Ellen? Who is it,
please
?’

‘A
gentleman
called Adam Finch.’ Ellen had made her point. ‘He sounds rather anxious. Said he’s sorry to interrupt you, but it really can’t wait.’

The line clicked and she put him through.

Bright listened for a long time, his stomach in knots as he heard the news. After a short conversation he ended the call. He was about to contact DCI Kate Daniels when he saw her through his
office window, fifty metres away and charging towards him. He hung up the receiver and waited.

‘We have a problem,’ he said, as she entered the room.

‘So you said, guv. That’s why I’m here.’

‘No, I mean another one.’

‘Guv, I’m up to my neck in it.’ Daniels was parched. Her eyes scanned his new office and found the water cooler. As she walked towards it she heard yelling from the office next
door. It reminded her of the last time she’d been in that room, before Assistant Chief Constable Billings took over. His predecessor, ACC Martin, had completely lost his temper and shown her
the door. She smiled at the memory, feeling Bright’s eyes upon her. ‘I’m sorry, guv . . .’ She still had her back to him. ‘But our only witness wants to leave the
area. I’ve told the poor sod his holiday’s on hold and I’m about to take his statement so he can get on his way. He’s ex-job? Can it wait?’

‘No, it can’t. The daughter of one of my closest friends is missing and I’d like you to handle it personally.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ The water was taking its time to dribble into the white plastic cup. ‘Can’t you send a uniform?’

‘She’s a Durham University student, Kate.’

Daniels turned towards him, all ears.

‘Five ten. Blonde hair. Green eyes. Ring any bells?’

‘Shit!’

‘Her name is Jessica Finch. Her father, Adam, owns half of North Yorkshire. You may have heard of him.’

‘Can’t say I have.’

‘I’ve known him for many years. He’s not a guy to panic easily. Before he called me, he called the university and found out that Jess has missed lectures. She hasn’t
slept at her halls for the past two nights. Nobody he spoke to has seen or heard from her. He was told she may have moved out, but he doesn’t know where. University staff don’t know
either. He’s frantic, Kate. Look at this—’

Bright turned his laptop round to face her. On the screen was an email message from Adam Finch with a scanned document attached. Daniels leaned forward, opened the attachment and found a hastily
scrawled note mounted on a shaded background to make it stand out. The paper was unlined and had been torn from a much larger sheet. She read the message twice. It was brief and to the point:
STAY BY THE PHONE – CONTACT THE LAW AND I’LL SEND YOUR DAUGHTER HOME IN BITS
.

‘When did he receive this?’ Daniels asked.

‘It came in this morning’s post. It was waiting for him when he got home shortly after ten. He’s been away on business and only got back today.’

Daniels studied the note.

For the second time that day, the circumstances of a crime didn’t seem to fit. ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ she said.

Bright just looked at her.

‘Assuming our dead girl and Jessica Finch are one and the same, why would her kidnapper risk the pay-off by killing her?’

‘Maybe they panicked—’

‘
Before
making a demand?’

Bright hesitated. ‘Maybe she tried to escape? Or they roughed her up and—’

‘No.’ Daniels shook her head. ‘Stanton told me her injuries are all consistent with the fall. There are no restraint marks and nothing to indicate a struggle.’

‘Perhaps they gave her too many drugs and she died. They lost control and dumped her, hoping to score financially before her body was discovered. That’s probably why they chose such
a remote spot. It could just be Sod’s Law that she landed where she did. Otherwise it might’ve been months, years even, until someone stumbled across her remains. If they ever
did.’ He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, meeting her eyes across his desk. ‘You know how these things pan out, Kate. Abductions often go horribly wrong. The snatch was
planned, I agree, but her death could’ve been accidental.’

Bollocks!
Bright was clutching at straws. ‘She was alive when she hit the ground, guv. There was
no
mistake, believe me.’

Her words hung in the air between them.

‘Is Finch aware we found a body?’ Daniels asked finally.

Bright’s expression was grim. ‘He soon will be.’

D
aniels was troubled by thoughts of yet another linked incident coming straight off the back of the most gruelling murder investigation of her police career. But somehow it
didn’t surprise her that her new case was more complex than first it appeared. She didn’t know why, but her guts had been telling her that right from the start, from the moment
she’d stepped inside the crime-scene tent with a rookie PC breathing down her neck.

Her victim had died at Housesteads, but the question Daniels was asking herself was this: was the disposal site accidental or deliberate? She needed to find the answer at the earliest
opportunity. The why of the case appeared to be a little clearer now. Monetary gain had been a motive for many a mindless and futile murder since the beginning of time. So why did she still feel as
if her detective nose was out of joint, pointing in the wrong direction?

Three uniforms she knew vaguely passed her in the corridor. Acknowledging them with a smile and a nod, Daniels made her way through a set of double doors and out into the sunshine towards the
car park where she’d left her car. She was pleased to be getting her Toyota back. The pool car she’d been driving was a piece of shit: smelly on the inside, uncared for on the out, in
dire need of a service if the noise of the engine was anything to go by.

Pulling her phone out of her pocket, she keyed in the number for the mortuary. The call was picked up almost immediately by a young woman with a pleasant but distinctive Welsh accent.

‘Mortuary, Sam speaking.’

Daniels didn’t recognize the voice at all. ‘Sam, this is Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels. I’m the SIO for the murder up at Housesteads Fort. I’d like to arrange a
viewing of the victim for identification purposes.’

‘No problem. What time would suit?’

Daniels looked at her watch. She’d offered to drive down to Yorkshire to collect Adam Finch, accompany him on his painful journey north. But he’d saved her the trouble, insisting
that he’d get there under his own steam. She estimated that it would take him an hour and a half at least. She didn’t want to rush him, but neither did she want him hanging around
waiting when he arrived.