Settled Blood by Mari Hannah Page A

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.
    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