shaken by the suddenness and ferocity of Woodgate’s temper. Even though she’d read reports of it, experiencing it first-hand was
something else entirely. He was hauled out into the corridor, kicking and screaming obscenities, his voice remaining in the room long after he’d disappeared from sight.
‘Want the Medical Officer?’ Adams offered.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Jo was anything but.
For a moment or two she scrabbled around on all fours trying to retrieve her notes. But her hands were trembling so much that her case papers point-blank refused to go back in their file so she
stopped trying to make them. Sitting back on her heels, she looked on as Adams righted the table and overturned chair so she could sit down.
‘You sure you don’t want the MO?’ he said. ‘Cup of tea, slug of brandy?’
‘Probably the latter . . .’ Jo stood up. ‘But I want to get out of here more.’
What she really wanted was to talk to Daniels and sort out her life. But that would have to wait until she reached the privacy of her own home. Using a payphone in a prison only drew the
attention of passers-by. One aborted attempt to speak to the DCI was one too many.
Adams’ voice pulled her back into the room. ‘He might just have done you a favour.’
‘Oh yeah, how do you work that out?’
Adams grinned. ‘Well, there’s no need for an assessment now, is there?’
‘Good point.’ Jo appreciated his attempt to cheer her up, could feel her heart rate returning to normal, the adrenalin rushing through her body slowly beginning to ebb away.
‘I’ve always thought Woody too dangerous for release,’ Adams said.
Jo nodded. ‘Well, he just proved you right. As far as I’m concerned, you can ship him back to Dartmoor. I’ll have a word with the Governor on my way out.’
14
D aniels had been a police officer for the best part of fifteen years. She’d seen the effects of violent crime on a daily basis but prided herself on the fact that she
never allowed the job to affect her sensitivity to the bereaved. There was no right or wrong way for families of homicide victims to behave. Every individual coped differently: some became
overwhelmed, some were too shocked to take it in, others went into denial and some – the most severe cases – went into total meltdown.
Still raw from her own experience of losing a parent prematurely, Daniels could easily identify with the emotional side of loss. The numbness, the anger, the guilt. The awful depression
she’d always thought of as a modern disease, like stress. The image of a small sign hanging on her office wall suddenly popped into her mind. Stress: the confusion created when one’s
mind overrides the body’s basic desire to kick the living shit out of some arsehole that desperately needs it!
Daniels wondered if the woman in front of her now felt the need to kick the living shit out of anyone. For a woman whose husband had just been brutally murdered, Monica Stephens was showing
little emotion . And yet, she’d been taken to hospital in shock less than twenty-four hours before. The hand holding the cup and saucer was steady, the make-up immaculate, not a hair
out of place or hint of recent tears.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss . . .’ Daniels said, gently.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
Monica spoke in a marked foreign accent, but with an excellent command of the English language. Her voice was unbroken, her conversation relaxed and coherent. And a copy of The Lady was
lying open on the table between them. Daniels found that very curious. It was this week’s issue, had only come on sale that morning. No depression there then . Here was a woman
who’d not only declined the offer of a family liaison officer, but she’d also found time to read her favourite magazine while half the force were out looking for the thug with a firearm
who’d blown her husband away.
It was weird.
‘Take it,’ Monica said, picking up on Daniels’ interest in the
something else entirely. He was hauled out into the corridor, kicking and screaming obscenities, his voice remaining in the room long after he’d disappeared from sight.
‘Want the Medical Officer?’ Adams offered.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’ Jo was anything but.
For a moment or two she scrabbled around on all fours trying to retrieve her notes. But her hands were trembling so much that her case papers point-blank refused to go back in their file so she
stopped trying to make them. Sitting back on her heels, she looked on as Adams righted the table and overturned chair so she could sit down.
‘You sure you don’t want the MO?’ he said. ‘Cup of tea, slug of brandy?’
‘Probably the latter . . .’ Jo stood up. ‘But I want to get out of here more.’
What she really wanted was to talk to Daniels and sort out her life. But that would have to wait until she reached the privacy of her own home. Using a payphone in a prison only drew the
attention of passers-by. One aborted attempt to speak to the DCI was one too many.
Adams’ voice pulled her back into the room. ‘He might just have done you a favour.’
‘Oh yeah, how do you work that out?’
Adams grinned. ‘Well, there’s no need for an assessment now, is there?’
‘Good point.’ Jo appreciated his attempt to cheer her up, could feel her heart rate returning to normal, the adrenalin rushing through her body slowly beginning to ebb away.
‘I’ve always thought Woody too dangerous for release,’ Adams said.
Jo nodded. ‘Well, he just proved you right. As far as I’m concerned, you can ship him back to Dartmoor. I’ll have a word with the Governor on my way out.’
14
D aniels had been a police officer for the best part of fifteen years. She’d seen the effects of violent crime on a daily basis but prided herself on the fact that she
never allowed the job to affect her sensitivity to the bereaved. There was no right or wrong way for families of homicide victims to behave. Every individual coped differently: some became
overwhelmed, some were too shocked to take it in, others went into denial and some – the most severe cases – went into total meltdown.
Still raw from her own experience of losing a parent prematurely, Daniels could easily identify with the emotional side of loss. The numbness, the anger, the guilt. The awful depression
she’d always thought of as a modern disease, like stress. The image of a small sign hanging on her office wall suddenly popped into her mind. Stress: the confusion created when one’s
mind overrides the body’s basic desire to kick the living shit out of some arsehole that desperately needs it!
Daniels wondered if the woman in front of her now felt the need to kick the living shit out of anyone. For a woman whose husband had just been brutally murdered, Monica Stephens was showing
little emotion . And yet, she’d been taken to hospital in shock less than twenty-four hours before. The hand holding the cup and saucer was steady, the make-up immaculate, not a hair
out of place or hint of recent tears.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss . . .’ Daniels said, gently.
‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’
Monica spoke in a marked foreign accent, but with an excellent command of the English language. Her voice was unbroken, her conversation relaxed and coherent. And a copy of The Lady was
lying open on the table between them. Daniels found that very curious. It was this week’s issue, had only come on sale that morning. No depression there then . Here was a woman
who’d not only declined the offer of a family liaison officer, but she’d also found time to read her favourite magazine while half the force were out looking for the thug with a firearm
who’d blown her husband away.
It was weird.
‘Take it,’ Monica said, picking up on Daniels’ interest in the
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