83
It was almost eight-thirty when Daniels woke. Fielding was still asleep, so she slipped out of bed, picked up her clothes and tiptoed from the room in search of the shower. A text had come through on her mobile, the third from Jo during the night, according to the display. The first two said: Call me. She deleted them. The third read: Call your voicemail, please! Daniels was about to delete that too, but the frantic ‘please’ made her change her mind. Instead she dialled her voicemail service, put the phone to her ear and listened . . .
‘Hi, it’s me. I’ve been calling you all night . . .’ Jo sounded stressed to death. ‘Look, I’m not sure what’s going on, I just know I don’t like it. I wanted to tell you yesterday, but you seemed mad at me for some reason. I’ve had second thoughts about . . . well, a lot of things really: the job, you, us. Is there still an us?’ If a pause could be described as a feeling, this one was desperately sad. ‘I suppose what I’m saying is, I’m game to give it another try if you are. I don’t care about the other stuff, Kate. Please call me when you get this. We really need to talk.’
Fuck! What’s she playing at? And why now?
Daniels caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. For a moment, guilt stared back at her. Then she thought of Fielding lying in the next room and quickly forgave herself. She’d done nothing wrong, nothing to reproach herself for. She and Jo had been history for a long time and she’d had every opportunity to make things right between them. In fact, Daniels had almost begged her to. How was she to know that Jo would have a last-minute change of heart? And why did she suddenly feel the urge to get out of Fielding’s apartment as quick as her legs would carry her?
She was about to switch the phone off when it rang in her hand: Jo again. Daniels panicked, fumbling with the phone in order to switch it off, hell-bent on killing the sound before Fielding woke up. She couldn’t speak to Jo until she was clear of the apartment.
Some things were plain wrong.
Taking a long, deep breath to calm herself, she opened the bathroom cabinet, looking for a spare toothbrush. There wasn’t one, so she put toothpaste on her index finger and cleaned her teeth with that instead, then took a quick shower. She was nearly dressed when Fielding walked up behind her, slid her arms around her waist and kissed her gently on the neck.
‘Morning . . .’ It was a mumble rather than proper speech. Her voice was more gravelly than normal – if that were possible. ‘I made breakfast, such as it is.’
‘You didn’t need to do that.’ Daniels didn’t dare turn around. Fielding was a perceptive, intelligent woman who’d know something was up as soon as their eyes met. Instead, she tipped her head back so that their cheeks came together, sweeping Fielding’s hair away from her face. ‘But I’m glad you did, I’m really hungry.’
‘Again?’
‘I meant for food!’ Now Daniels turned around.
Despite their late night, Fielding’s tangled hair and sleepy eyes made her look even more attractive than she had the night before. She was wearing a black, silk, kimono-style wrap with a dragon embroidered in gold down one side. It looked authentic and expensive, something Daniels presumed the artist had picked up on her travels in Japan. Fielding was stroking her lip, a wicked smile on her face as she tried to coax her guest back to bed.
‘I can’t!’ Daniels said emphatically. ‘I’ve got work today, even if you don’t.’
‘Spoilsport.’ Fielding feigned a sulk. ‘You want tea or coffee? I’ve made both.’
‘Coffee. Strong and black, please, no sugar.’
By the time she reached the living room, Fielding was already tucking into her breakfast at one end of an eight-seater dining table positioned in front of a huge window with views over the city. The sun was out and in the streets below people were going about their business: walking, talking, driving in cars that looked like toys from this high up. Daniels ate yoghurt and a little fruit and then asked if Fielding minded if she checked her emails, turning her phone back on when her host yawned and shook her head. She’d missed two further calls from Jo, one from Gormley and three from forensic scientist, Matt West, all of which had arrived in the past fifteen minutes. A typical morning for her, clearly not so for Fielding . . .
Fiona yawned again and said, ‘You always this dynamic when you first wake up?’
Daniels smiled. ‘That’s me, a real dynamo. Why don’t you go back to bed?’
‘Only if you join me.’
‘I’m sorry, Fiona. I need to make an urgent call.’ Picking up her phone, she scrolled through her contacts, accessing Matt West’s work number. He answered on the fourth ring in his usual optimistic voice. ‘Morning, Matt. What you got for me?’
‘Quite a lot, actually. The first of the two jobs you gave me . . .’ There was a shuffling of papers at the other end. ‘Reference KD1 is the cigarette stub found in the wall opposite your arson scene. HG1 is the hair lifted from Susan Armstrong’s flat. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve got results on both, finally. I’m so sorry for the delay.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Hold on a sec.’ Daniels excused herself and got up from the table. She found her bag on the living-room floor where she’d dumped it the night before. Removing a pen and pad, she took it to the table, switching the phone into her left hand as she sat, poised to scribble down his findings. ‘OK, shoot.’
‘The cigarette stub is definitely Chantelle Fox—’
‘That’s no surprise. She admitted having watched the house burn and a whole lot more besides.’ Her pen hovered over blank paper. ‘And the hair?’
‘Might belong to Chantelle Fox, but doesn’t . . .’ West paused, giving her time to digest the snippet of information he’d divulged. He was a man who dealt in hard facts, not speculation. ‘There are many similarities, but I’m confident that these two samples are from closely related females rather than the same person. And, before you ask, yes, you can quote me on that.’
Daniels was stunned into silence.
‘You still there?’ West said after a while.
‘Yes, sorry, I got that . . .’ Feeling a change in Daniels’ mood, Fielding looked up from her toast. But the DCI was now in police mode and didn’t seem to notice. She was staring into space through the window, trying to make sense of what she’d heard – a mixture of horror and puzzlement on her face. ‘Matt, Chantelle hasn’t got any sisters and her mother’s dead.’
‘No,’ he countered. ‘She thinks she hasn’t got any sisters!’
Daniels thanked him and hung up.
‘Something wrong?’ Fielding asked.
‘Not wrong, just very surprising,’ Daniels said vaguely. ‘I can’t tell you about it, obviously. Look, I’m sorry, Fiona. I’ve got to go.’