engine of her Toyota, her mind idled until she realized that the lights were stuck on red. She rang the control room asking what was going on. Nobody seemed to know. She thanked them for
nothing and rang off. There was only one way she was getting out of here – though technically it was against the rules.
Sod that, she thought. I’m on police business.
Engaging her blue light, she felt like a bully pushing to the front of the queue, but, like magic, her actions had the desired effect. Traffic parted and at last she was on her way home . .
.
The leafy suburb of Jesmond was a cosmopolitan area with good shops, hotels, restaurants and trendy bars. Although it was very different from the rural area where Daniels had spent her
childhood, she liked the fact that it still retained a villagey feel. No mean feat, considering the massive change in population in the past fifteen to twenty years. During that time, professionals
had been squeezed out by landlords buying up larger properties to let to students from local universities. The more they could cram in, the better they liked it. Some houses, including hers, were
still in private hands, but it had to be said they were few and far between – and not everyone was happy.
Turning into Holly Avenue, Daniels glanced at her watch cursing the time it had taken her to get there. Fortuitously, there was a parking space just yards from her front door. She managed to
squeeze – but only just – between two abandoned cars belonging to college lecturers who lived next door. By the time she’d reached her own front door, the neighbour’s cat
had caught up with her and crouched down waiting to run in too.
Shooing it away, Daniels opened the door. Stepping over mail lying on the hall floor she had to squeeze past her motorcycle just to get in. The post would have to wait. She needed to get a move
on if she was to meet Stanton on time. Quickly she made her way to the back of the house, entering a modern kitchen with clean lines and no clutter. It was decked out with all the latest
labour-saving gadgetry in keeping with her busy lifestyle. Shards of light filtered through natural wooden blinds.
It was her favourite space in the whole house.
There was some milk in the refrigerator. She checked it was in date and drank straight from the carton. It bothered her that Jo Soulsby might hear from the press that the father of her children
was dead. Picking one of two mobiles from the front pocket of her bag, she checked the display .
No joy.
Discarding the first, Daniels picked out the second. She dialled Jo’s number and was met with the same voice message she’d heard ten times already that morning:
‘The mobile you are calling may be switched off. Please try again later.’
Putting the mobiles back in her bag, she grabbed fruit from a bowl and stuffed that in too. A flashing LED on her BT answerphone caught her eye. She pushed the playback button and listened to
the automated message: To listen to your messages, press one, to save . . .’ Daniels hit one, cutting off the voice. She heard a beep but the caller had rung off without speaking. She
stared at the phone as if it would somehow reveal the identity of the caller. The automated voice again: You have no more messages . . . She hung up. The calls button didn’t enlighten
her: it showed three calls in quick succession. On each occasion the number was withheld. Then suddenly one of the mobiles rang loudly in her bag.
She pulled it out. ‘Hello?’
The line was open but no one spoke.
A weak mobile signal? A payphone perhaps? Bugger! Only one person had access to that particular line. Either someone had the wrong number or the caller was desperate for help . . .
W ithin half an hour, Daniels was showered and on her way again. Driving back to the city, she made a mental list of all the things she needed to do to get the enquiry underway.
In the foyer of Court Mews, she shook hands with Tim Stanton. A tall,
nothing and rang off. There was only one way she was getting out of here – though technically it was against the rules.
Sod that, she thought. I’m on police business.
Engaging her blue light, she felt like a bully pushing to the front of the queue, but, like magic, her actions had the desired effect. Traffic parted and at last she was on her way home . .
.
The leafy suburb of Jesmond was a cosmopolitan area with good shops, hotels, restaurants and trendy bars. Although it was very different from the rural area where Daniels had spent her
childhood, she liked the fact that it still retained a villagey feel. No mean feat, considering the massive change in population in the past fifteen to twenty years. During that time, professionals
had been squeezed out by landlords buying up larger properties to let to students from local universities. The more they could cram in, the better they liked it. Some houses, including hers, were
still in private hands, but it had to be said they were few and far between – and not everyone was happy.
Turning into Holly Avenue, Daniels glanced at her watch cursing the time it had taken her to get there. Fortuitously, there was a parking space just yards from her front door. She managed to
squeeze – but only just – between two abandoned cars belonging to college lecturers who lived next door. By the time she’d reached her own front door, the neighbour’s cat
had caught up with her and crouched down waiting to run in too.
Shooing it away, Daniels opened the door. Stepping over mail lying on the hall floor she had to squeeze past her motorcycle just to get in. The post would have to wait. She needed to get a move
on if she was to meet Stanton on time. Quickly she made her way to the back of the house, entering a modern kitchen with clean lines and no clutter. It was decked out with all the latest
labour-saving gadgetry in keeping with her busy lifestyle. Shards of light filtered through natural wooden blinds.
It was her favourite space in the whole house.
There was some milk in the refrigerator. She checked it was in date and drank straight from the carton. It bothered her that Jo Soulsby might hear from the press that the father of her children
was dead. Picking one of two mobiles from the front pocket of her bag, she checked the display .
No joy.
Discarding the first, Daniels picked out the second. She dialled Jo’s number and was met with the same voice message she’d heard ten times already that morning:
‘The mobile you are calling may be switched off. Please try again later.’
Putting the mobiles back in her bag, she grabbed fruit from a bowl and stuffed that in too. A flashing LED on her BT answerphone caught her eye. She pushed the playback button and listened to
the automated message: To listen to your messages, press one, to save . . .’ Daniels hit one, cutting off the voice. She heard a beep but the caller had rung off without speaking. She
stared at the phone as if it would somehow reveal the identity of the caller. The automated voice again: You have no more messages . . . She hung up. The calls button didn’t enlighten
her: it showed three calls in quick succession. On each occasion the number was withheld. Then suddenly one of the mobiles rang loudly in her bag.
She pulled it out. ‘Hello?’
The line was open but no one spoke.
A weak mobile signal? A payphone perhaps? Bugger! Only one person had access to that particular line. Either someone had the wrong number or the caller was desperate for help . . .
W ithin half an hour, Daniels was showered and on her way again. Driving back to the city, she made a mental list of all the things she needed to do to get the enquiry underway.
In the foyer of Court Mews, she shook hands with Tim Stanton. A tall,
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