magazine. ‘I didn’t sleep well and I’ve read it, how do you say, back to front?’
Daniels studied the woman until she felt compelled to fill the silence.
‘I can’t believe this has happened, Detective. My husband was a good man. Everyone liked him. Why would anyone do such a thing?’
Why indeed?
‘Did Mr Stephens have any problems recently, at work or at home?’
‘No!’ Monica’s tone was scathing, as if the question had been ridiculous. ‘We were very comfortable with money, Alan and I. Our business is hugely successful. He was an
entrepreneur, a good one. He built his operation up from nothing, as you can see. He hated this house. Said growing up here was a nightmare. It is what motivated him, I think.’
Glancing around the room, Daniels saw no trappings of wealth. In fact, quite the opposite was true. They were sitting in a small living room in a house belonging to Alan Stephens’ mother,
a former council property that hadn’t been updated in years. The furniture was frayed and unfashionable, the carpets worn and in need of replacement. Stephens may have been successful but he
certainly didn’t spread his money around, at least not in his poor mother’s direction.
A meeting with Mrs Stephens senior a little earlier hadn’t been an interview as such, more a welfare visit to the mother of a homicide victim. She was eighty-one years old, a fit,
straight-talking lady with steely blue eyes. Her reaction to the tragedy had been painful to watch. When Daniels found out why, her heart sank. To survive one son was bad luck; to survive two was
more than a mother could possibly bear. But Daniels had no such feelings of sympathy or warmth for the woman sitting in front of her now.
She moved on. ‘He was well liked?’
Monica raised her teacup to her lips. ‘As much as any successful businessman is.’
Exchanging a brief look with Gormley, Daniels wondered if the act of covering her mouth was significant. Was the woman hiding something, or merely taking a drink? Had Daniels been a gambler,
she’d have opted for the former, but for now at least she was prepared to give the widow the benefit of the doubt.
‘Can you tell me when you last saw your husband?’ she asked.
‘Around seven o’clock.’ Monica replaced her cup in its saucer. ‘No, shortly after – his taxi was late. He commented on it. Alan was an Englishman through and
through, a little eccentric even. Punctuality was important to him. He believed it was a measure of a man, like manners. He hated sloppiness in any form.’
‘Was he going straight to the Weston Hotel?’
Monica nodded. ‘That’s what he said.’
Daniels registered the doubt. ‘And you left home when?’
‘Very soon after.’
‘To go where?’ Gormley asked casually.
‘To have dinner with a friend, then I drove her to Newcastle airport, returning here around midnight—’
Daniels wanted more. ‘Which flight?’
‘Does it matter?’
The detectives just looked at her.
Monica spread her hands, acknowledging her mistake. ‘Sorry, of course it matters. I suppose I must account for my movements like everyone else. She was catching a flight to London, she has
family down there.’
‘Do you remember the check-in desk, which airline she was using?’
Monica shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I didn’t really take much notice. We had a drink in the bar and she left me, I don’t know . . . at around eleven thirty, I guess.’
Daniels felt a ripple of excitement building. To her knowledge, there was no flight out of Newcastle to any London airport that late at night. ‘Do you have any idea where she might be
staying in London?’
Monica sighed, bored with the questioning. ‘Do you always tell people where you are going, Detective? Surely the whole point of taking a break is that you can’t be
found?’
‘Did you buy anything while you were at the airport?’
‘Only drinks.’
Gormley looked at her. ‘Don’t suppose you have any
Daniels studied the woman until she felt compelled to fill the silence.
‘I can’t believe this has happened, Detective. My husband was a good man. Everyone liked him. Why would anyone do such a thing?’
Why indeed?
‘Did Mr Stephens have any problems recently, at work or at home?’
‘No!’ Monica’s tone was scathing, as if the question had been ridiculous. ‘We were very comfortable with money, Alan and I. Our business is hugely successful. He was an
entrepreneur, a good one. He built his operation up from nothing, as you can see. He hated this house. Said growing up here was a nightmare. It is what motivated him, I think.’
Glancing around the room, Daniels saw no trappings of wealth. In fact, quite the opposite was true. They were sitting in a small living room in a house belonging to Alan Stephens’ mother,
a former council property that hadn’t been updated in years. The furniture was frayed and unfashionable, the carpets worn and in need of replacement. Stephens may have been successful but he
certainly didn’t spread his money around, at least not in his poor mother’s direction.
A meeting with Mrs Stephens senior a little earlier hadn’t been an interview as such, more a welfare visit to the mother of a homicide victim. She was eighty-one years old, a fit,
straight-talking lady with steely blue eyes. Her reaction to the tragedy had been painful to watch. When Daniels found out why, her heart sank. To survive one son was bad luck; to survive two was
more than a mother could possibly bear. But Daniels had no such feelings of sympathy or warmth for the woman sitting in front of her now.
She moved on. ‘He was well liked?’
Monica raised her teacup to her lips. ‘As much as any successful businessman is.’
Exchanging a brief look with Gormley, Daniels wondered if the act of covering her mouth was significant. Was the woman hiding something, or merely taking a drink? Had Daniels been a gambler,
she’d have opted for the former, but for now at least she was prepared to give the widow the benefit of the doubt.
‘Can you tell me when you last saw your husband?’ she asked.
‘Around seven o’clock.’ Monica replaced her cup in its saucer. ‘No, shortly after – his taxi was late. He commented on it. Alan was an Englishman through and
through, a little eccentric even. Punctuality was important to him. He believed it was a measure of a man, like manners. He hated sloppiness in any form.’
‘Was he going straight to the Weston Hotel?’
Monica nodded. ‘That’s what he said.’
Daniels registered the doubt. ‘And you left home when?’
‘Very soon after.’
‘To go where?’ Gormley asked casually.
‘To have dinner with a friend, then I drove her to Newcastle airport, returning here around midnight—’
Daniels wanted more. ‘Which flight?’
‘Does it matter?’
The detectives just looked at her.
Monica spread her hands, acknowledging her mistake. ‘Sorry, of course it matters. I suppose I must account for my movements like everyone else. She was catching a flight to London, she has
family down there.’
‘Do you remember the check-in desk, which airline she was using?’
Monica shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I didn’t really take much notice. We had a drink in the bar and she left me, I don’t know . . . at around eleven thirty, I guess.’
Daniels felt a ripple of excitement building. To her knowledge, there was no flight out of Newcastle to any London airport that late at night. ‘Do you have any idea where she might be
staying in London?’
Monica sighed, bored with the questioning. ‘Do you always tell people where you are going, Detective? Surely the whole point of taking a break is that you can’t be
found?’
‘Did you buy anything while you were at the airport?’
‘Only drinks.’
Gormley looked at her. ‘Don’t suppose you have any
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