such a critical stage, I mean.’
Stanton didn’t look up. His tone was sombre. ‘Awful business, I heard it on the news.’
Bright agreed and carried on, ignoring Daniels’ snide remark. ‘Mind if Kate fills you in, Tim? She’s SIO on this one.’
Stanton sat back on his heels, looking genuinely pleased. ‘Is that right? Well, congratulations, it’s about time too!’
Forcing an uncomfortable smile, Bright gave Daniels a friendly tap her on the shoulder. There was something not right about his demeanour, a definite unease she’d never seen before. He
couldn’t look her in the eye and there could be only one explanation for him being there.
He wanted into her crime scene.
He knew that until the body was moved all visits were logged in and out.
He could hardly just breeze in there unnoticed, could he?
By now the two men were arranging to play golf, settling on a date the following week with an agreement to cancel if the exigencies of the job prevented either of them turning up. Not being part
of the conversation, she turned her back on them and tried focusing on the chain of events that might have led to Alan Stephens’ death, but found she couldn’t concentrate with her
guv’nor hanging around.
His presence still baffled her.
He could so easily have spoken with Stanton at the door. And yet he’d chosen to go through the palaver of getting kitted up in case of forensic contamination – one murder scene to
another – but why in hell’s name had he bothered to attend at all? In the normal course of events, his case would take precedence over a shooting. Any bloody shooting. Daniels
knew only too well how busy he’d be. Did he think she’d miss some vital clue? Cock it up, whatever it was? What exactly was he expecting to find?
She was sure of one thing: her guv’nor definitely knew something she didn’t.
‘You go ahead,’ Stanton said. ‘We can manage here, can’t we, Kate?’
Daniels wasn’t paying attention. She was staring out of the window at the familiar arch of the Tyne Bridge. It was jammed with traffic as usual. The sun glinting off waiting vehicles
looked like a long string of diamonds suspended in mid-air. Beneath the bridge, seagulls bobbed on the surface of a cold grey river flowing gently eastward to the North Sea beyond. She turned round
just in time to see Bright disappearing from the room.
‘Kate?’
‘Sorry, did you say something?’ Daniels was miles away.
‘Only that we should get on with it,’ Stanton replied.
He smiled self-consciously, most probably embarrassed by the frosty atmosphere he’d witnessed between the two detectives. Momentarily, Daniels thought he was about to question her about
it, but then he chose not to interfere. Instead, he took a small dictating device from his breast pocket, ready to start work. He began by describing the apartment, referring to the sketches
he’d drawn on the way in. He spoke softly and clearly into the digital recorder, emphasizing the fact that there were no obvious signs of blood outside of the room in which the body had been
found. So deep was his concentration he was oblivious to her presence.
Daniels’ eyes travelled over Stephens’ body as Stanton spoke, his voice coming and going as he continued his running commentary – occasionally stopping to peer more closely at
specific areas. Stephens lay face up, several feet to the right of a white marble fireplace that was heavily splashed with blood, his torso at a slight angle and jammed against the legs of a coffee
table, his head nearest to the door that adjoined the dining room. His left arm was by his side, touching the ground, palm down. His right arm lay across his body, his hand resting on his
chest.
‘He was shot through the front of the head,’ Stanton said. ‘The entry wound being smaller than the exit wound at the back . . .’
Daniels had a wry smile to herself. She bore Stanton no resentment. He was not the type to teach his granny how
Stanton didn’t look up. His tone was sombre. ‘Awful business, I heard it on the news.’
Bright agreed and carried on, ignoring Daniels’ snide remark. ‘Mind if Kate fills you in, Tim? She’s SIO on this one.’
Stanton sat back on his heels, looking genuinely pleased. ‘Is that right? Well, congratulations, it’s about time too!’
Forcing an uncomfortable smile, Bright gave Daniels a friendly tap her on the shoulder. There was something not right about his demeanour, a definite unease she’d never seen before. He
couldn’t look her in the eye and there could be only one explanation for him being there.
He wanted into her crime scene.
He knew that until the body was moved all visits were logged in and out.
He could hardly just breeze in there unnoticed, could he?
By now the two men were arranging to play golf, settling on a date the following week with an agreement to cancel if the exigencies of the job prevented either of them turning up. Not being part
of the conversation, she turned her back on them and tried focusing on the chain of events that might have led to Alan Stephens’ death, but found she couldn’t concentrate with her
guv’nor hanging around.
His presence still baffled her.
He could so easily have spoken with Stanton at the door. And yet he’d chosen to go through the palaver of getting kitted up in case of forensic contamination – one murder scene to
another – but why in hell’s name had he bothered to attend at all? In the normal course of events, his case would take precedence over a shooting. Any bloody shooting. Daniels
knew only too well how busy he’d be. Did he think she’d miss some vital clue? Cock it up, whatever it was? What exactly was he expecting to find?
She was sure of one thing: her guv’nor definitely knew something she didn’t.
‘You go ahead,’ Stanton said. ‘We can manage here, can’t we, Kate?’
Daniels wasn’t paying attention. She was staring out of the window at the familiar arch of the Tyne Bridge. It was jammed with traffic as usual. The sun glinting off waiting vehicles
looked like a long string of diamonds suspended in mid-air. Beneath the bridge, seagulls bobbed on the surface of a cold grey river flowing gently eastward to the North Sea beyond. She turned round
just in time to see Bright disappearing from the room.
‘Kate?’
‘Sorry, did you say something?’ Daniels was miles away.
‘Only that we should get on with it,’ Stanton replied.
He smiled self-consciously, most probably embarrassed by the frosty atmosphere he’d witnessed between the two detectives. Momentarily, Daniels thought he was about to question her about
it, but then he chose not to interfere. Instead, he took a small dictating device from his breast pocket, ready to start work. He began by describing the apartment, referring to the sketches
he’d drawn on the way in. He spoke softly and clearly into the digital recorder, emphasizing the fact that there were no obvious signs of blood outside of the room in which the body had been
found. So deep was his concentration he was oblivious to her presence.
Daniels’ eyes travelled over Stephens’ body as Stanton spoke, his voice coming and going as he continued his running commentary – occasionally stopping to peer more closely at
specific areas. Stephens lay face up, several feet to the right of a white marble fireplace that was heavily splashed with blood, his torso at a slight angle and jammed against the legs of a coffee
table, his head nearest to the door that adjoined the dining room. His left arm was by his side, touching the ground, palm down. His right arm lay across his body, his hand resting on his
chest.
‘He was shot through the front of the head,’ Stanton said. ‘The entry wound being smaller than the exit wound at the back . . .’
Daniels had a wry smile to herself. She bore Stanton no resentment. He was not the type to teach his granny how
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