Settled Blood (6 page)

‘Amy would have loved it here . . .’ He returned her gaze. ‘Did you know she was studying the countryside?’

‘No, I didn’t know that.’

Daniels fell silent, taking in this new information. If Amy was not a med student, why then had she bought a medical textbook?
Principles of Anatomy and Physiology
, according to the
receipt Stanton had found in her jeans pocket, retailing at around forty-five quid.

‘Environmental something or other.’ Mr Grainger was really losing it now.

Eyes back on the road, Daniels spotted a lay-by up ahead. She signalled her intention to pull over and steered towards it, parking the Toyota as far off the road as she could get. She cut the
ignition and turned to face her passengers. Mr Grainger took his wife’s limp hand in his and again looked out of the window. It was brighter now. The rain had stopped, the sky was less
threatening and there was a hint of blue appearing in between empty clouds.

‘Amy loved the outdoors,’ Mr Grainger said wistfully. ‘Even as a kid we could never get her to come inside. She loved plants, animals. Life was one big adventure for her from
the day she was born. What I don’t understand is why she was here, so far from home. Like I said, she never missed a day at school. She wouldn’t wag off, I know she
wouldn’t.’

‘I’ll need to speak to her pals.’ Daniels was grateful that one of her passengers felt able to talk. She’d known times when neither parent of a murder victim could find
words. Others raged against the injustice of having lost a loved one; unable to keep it together, unable to assist investigators in the vital hours following the discovery of a body. She needed to
piece together Amy’s last movements, find out who the last person was to have seen her alive – and where. ‘Was Amy close to anyone in particular at university?’

‘Nobody special.’ Mr Grainger rubbed at the stubble on his chin. ‘She had lots of girlfriends, though. She was a typical student . . . liked to party, but was otherwise a hard
worker.’

Daniels nodded her understanding. ‘Did she work – outside of her studies, I mean?’

‘A part-time job at the students’ union bar. Said she didn’t want a loan, didn’t want to get into the debt trap, or freeload off Jen and me.’

Mrs Grainger broke down again and buried her head in his shoulder.

‘She sounds like a lovely girl,’ Daniels said.

‘She is, was . . .’ Mr Grainger bit his lip. ‘The best.’

He patted his wife’s hand and forced a smile. Daniels asked if he was up to continuing with the journey. He said not. He asked to sit for a while longer, said he felt closer to his
daughter here. He would visit this place in years to come. Daniels knew he meant it. She turned her back on the couple, trying to make herself invisible, allowing them a few quiet moments of
reflection.

‘Did you find Amy’s mobile phone?’ The words stuck in Mr Grainger’s throat as they came out. ‘She was never off it, was she, Jen? You’ll find details of her
mates in there, no doubt.’

His comment hung in the air.

Daniels turned back to face him, forced to explain that no mobile phone had been found on Amy’s body. No bag either. Mr Grainger suddenly got angry, began raging over the fact that the
person responsible for her death still had his daughter’s private things. They had no right. What kind of animals were these people?

A good question.

‘Did Amy ever mention a student friend studying medicine?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Why d’you ask?’

‘We found a till receipt for a medical textbook in the back pocket of her jeans.’

‘She wasn’t wearing jeans,’ Mrs Grainger said softly. ‘She never wore jeans.’

A
man in a blue uniform waved the Fiesta through an air-side security gate of Newcastle International Airport. Passing asign –
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL
ONLY
– DS Robson parked at the gable end of a single-storey building on the right. As he took his key from the ignition, another man in plain clothes approached the car, holding up
ID.

Robson got out and did likewise.

‘DS Robson,’ he said. ‘Thanks for seeing me at short notice.’

‘John Hobbs. Pleased to meet you. Come this way.’

Hobbs’ office was basic, cube-shaped with windows: a desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet, the top drawer of which was hanging open. He sat in silence as Robson explained the reason for
his visit and the need to keep their discussion strictly confidential. ‘Specifically, we’re investigating an incident that occurred the night before last.’

As Robson carried on, Hobbs’ face paled. From the look of him, he heard only bits of sentences. It wasn’t the first time Robson had seen this happen when people were given shocking
information. It was as if their brains weren’t wired properly. Not quite connecting as they should. Unable to cope with the morbid data that police officers dealt with on a daily basis. The
result? They took in snippets of facts they couldn’t altogether grasp: young woman . . . fallen or pushed . . . aircraft . . . odds of finding those responsible . . .

‘Mr Hobbs?’

Hobbs emerged from his trance. ‘Sorry, what were you saying?’

‘I was asking what the odds were of finding those responsible.’

‘That really depends whether the pilot is licensed or not. Are you absolutely sure of your facts?’

Robson cocked an eyebrow.
Like I’d be asking if I wasn’t!

Hobbs blushed. ‘Yes, sorry, I can’t get that shocking image out of my head.’

Robson tried to move him on. ‘What about radar?’

Jet engines revved outside, drowning out Hobbs’ voice. He looked out of his window as a 747 began taxiing for take-off along the nearest runway. Robson hated flying and the noise alone
made him cringe. Just driving into the airport had set his heart palpitating. Thankfully, the man opposite hadn’t noticed his discomfort.

The noise subsided.

‘Radar?’ Robson repeated. ‘Is there likely to be a record?’

‘’Fraid not. There’d be no audit trail if he didn’t use his radio during flight. All we’d see this end is a blip on the screen.’

‘That’s what our Air Support Unit told me. What about if we found the plane?’

‘You know for sure it was a fixed wing?’

Robson shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t it be more difficult to control a helicopter and push a body out at the same time?’

‘More difficult, yes. But not impossible with a bit of know-how.’

‘Even without an accomplice?’

‘It’s feasible, provided the victim was unconscious. She was, wasn’t she?’ Hobbs waited for Robson to confirm or deny this was so. When the detective did neither, he
continued, ‘A skilled pilot could do it easily from a few hundred feet. It would simply be a case of slowing it down below, say, thirty knots over the drop zone, reaching across and
unlatching the door. A little shove and roll the helicopter at the same time and—’

‘Gravity takes care of the rest?’

Hobbs nodded. ‘Quick roll the other way to pull the door back in and back to blighty for tea and medals in the mess. It’d take about twenty seconds.’

‘You’re ex-military?’

Hobbs gave a friendly salute. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘What would an aircraft tachometer tell us?’Robson stopped talking mid-sentence as the windows began to rattle. He almost ducked as a budget aircraft with a distinctive orange tail
took off a hundred or so metres away. ‘Assuming that’s what they call them in your industry?’

‘Only the number of hours flown,’Hobbs offered,‘not where it was flown, direction, altitude and so on, which is what I suspect you’re after. Most helicopter flights going
from A to B would probably fly at no more than two thousand feet, dictated by the fact that helos are unpressurized. Give them oxygen and they’d be able to fly much higher.’

‘You fly yourself?’ Robson asked, his nausea returning.

‘You must be joking!’ Hobbs leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I just work here, mate. I get vertigo from my seat at the match. But I’ve spent
a lot of time with and around pilots.’

Robson felt less of a wimp but still couldn’t get out of there quick enough.

O
n the way back from the crime scene Amy’s parents were utterly lost. They sat in silence, unable to communicate with each other; a scene all too familiar to Daniels. She
called ahead, instructing the exhibits officer to meet her in the quiet interview room next door to the Major Incident Suite and to bring along the evidence box relating to the case.

It was unnecessary to tell him which one.

He was already there when they arrived, as was Gormley. They stood quietly to one side as Daniels ushered the bereaved parents in, offering to fetch refreshments at the end of their distressing
journey. They both declined. Identification of their daughter’s belongings would be equally harrowing and they were keen to get it over with, an action made imperative now there was doubt
over what she’d been wearing when last seen.

According to Mrs Grainger, Amy had left home in a red mini-dress, leggings and ballet pumps and carrying a large canvas shoulder bag.

Daniels wondered if the latter was to hold a change of clothes.

The exhibits officer was getting impatient. It was unusual, though not unheard of, to remove evidence from the security of his exhibits room. But he was nervous about it and insisted on
Daniels’ signature in the log he was holding out to her. She led him out of earshot, explaining why she wanted Amy’s clothing brought to the family rather than the other way round. His
office on the floor below was a sterile, window-less room, wedged between two noisy offices on either side, constantly disturbed by the sound of foot traffic – not to mention laughter and
chatter from the busy corridor beyond. It had sickly green paintwork and burns on the lino where staff had extinguished cigarettes before the ban on smoking was introduced.

‘. . . hardly conducive to the solemn occasion facing them now, is it?’

‘I agree.’ He pointed at the log, indicating where she should sign it. ‘But it’s my neck on the line if any or part of this evidence goes missing.’

‘It won’t, I promise you. I don’t blame you for covering your back. In your position, I’d have done the same. Only difference is, I would have done it with more
sensitivity.’Daniels scribbled her name, timing and dating her entry. She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Now piss off and let me do my job!’

Shutting the log, the exhibits officer quickly left the room. The DCI waited for him to shut the door. She nodded in Gormley’s direction, indicating her readiness to begin. He in turn had
a quiet word with Mr Grainger, who seemed reluctant to leave his wife, even for a second. Daniels stepped forward, reassuring him that the procedure wouldn’t take long. Eventually, he let go
of his wife’s hand and moved gingerly towards the evidence box.

Before opening it, Daniels suggested quietly that he take his wife to see her GP.

Mr Grainger nodded. ‘Just as soon as we get Amy home. There are arrangements to be taken care of, lots of people to contact, her grandparents of course . . .’ He hesitated, pained by
thoughts of what he might say to them. ‘Then there’s her godparents, her friends . . .’ He looked at Daniels. ‘Do you think Bardgett are the best funeral directors? I need
to choose a suitable casket. And flowers . . . white lilies . . . Amy loved lilies.’

Daniels and Gormley exchanged a look.

They both knew it might be a long time before the poor man could have his daughter back. An inquest would have to be opened and most probably adjourned. There could even be a further
post-mortem. Any defence lawyer worth his salt would ask for one. Daniels tried to find the words to convey that information without distressing Mr Grainger too much. He was fast picking up on her
reticence.

At moments like these she wanted to run away and hide.

‘It isn’t possible for you to take Amy home yet, I’m afraid.’ She scanned his face, making sure that what she had said was sinking in. ‘I know how difficult this is
for you to accept, but we can’t release her for burial until the coroner—’

‘She’s my daughter!’

‘I’m so sorry—’

‘You can’t keep her! Why would you want to?’ Mr Grainger choked back a sob and looked at his wife. She was staring blankly at the floor, too traumatized to react to the
discussion taking place just feet away. He gave a resigned nod. ‘My apologies, Detective Inspector, I wasn’t thinking.’

‘I promise I’ll keep you informed of developments as and when I can. And as soon as we’re done here, I’ll get someone to take you home.’

Mr Grainger seemed to be ageing with every passing second. But he wasn’t done yet, Daniels could see. She braced herself for the question he almost couldn’t bring himself to ask.

‘How did she . . .?’ He didn’t finish.

‘We’ve carried out a post-mortem. We know exactly how Amy died . . .’ Daniels chose her words carefully. ‘I can tell you with certainty that she didn’t suffer.
There was evidence of a large amount of drugs in her system—’

‘No, I don’t accept that!’ He shook his head vigorously and lowered his voice so his wife wouldn’t hear him. ‘Amy would never take drugs. She was dead against them,
always has been.’

Daniels nodded. ‘It’s my belief and that of the pathologist that these drugs were administered by a third party. Obviously, we can’t be one hundred per cent certain, but that
is the assumption we are working on.’

‘I see . . .’ Amy’s father seemed to draw some comfort from that. He looked down with dread at the evidence box on the counter, then back at Daniels. ‘Please continue.
You’ve been very kind to us. My wife and I appreciate that more than you will ever know.’

Daniels reached into the evidence box. She took out a cellophane bag containing the first item of clothing: a green scarf, according to the label. She laid it down flat on the counter, allowing
Mr Grainger a closer look.

‘That’s
not
Amy’s!’ Mrs Grainger almost spat out the words. Her husband turned towards her. Daniels did too. Supported by Hank Gormley, the woman rose to her feet
and walked over to them, pointing at the evidence bag. ‘That’s
not
our Amy’s!’ she repeated.