information that came into the incident room, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, with Harry Holt – a DS
pushing fifty with almost three decades of experience under his belt – appointed as receiver, and Paul Robson as statement reader. But with the benefit of hindsight she knew she
should’ve chosen differently where the latter was concerned. Robson’s sudden departure on paternity leave was going to leave her short.
Driving into the city, she was forced to consider drafting in his replacement. Carefully sifting the possibilities in her mind, she eventually settled on a newly promoted ex-squad member, DS
Patrick O’Doughty from Northern Area Command. Not that he had many statements to read as yet; so far the house-to-house had failed to turn up a single witness. Which didn’t surprise
her, given the Bonfire Night celebrations. The killer had been one of many thousands of strangers in the city for the occasion. She wondered if he’d planned it that way or just got lucky.
She entered the incident room with the intention of ringing O’Doughty’s line manager. As with every murder she’d ever worked on, over-crowding was proving to be a problem.
Typists, data-entry clerks and squad members were crammed together, sharing desks, frustrated by the lack of facilities afforded to their work. But they would manage in the end. They always did. In
the wider scheme of things, space was less important than just getting the job done.
In her early years as a police officer, Daniels would gladly have worked for no pay – and often did. She believed that, for a woman, self-sacrifice was an integral part of reaching the top
in any profession. Motherhood was the obvious example of what she’d missed out on in pursuit of her career. It was a decision she’d take again tomorrow if she had to.
As she’d just told Bright, life was too short for regrets.
Daniels’ father suddenly entered her thoughts. A smile crossed her lips as she recalled her childhood, the afternoons spent watching cowboy movies with him. Good times. He’d
nicknamed her Annie Oakley and teased her a lot. When they’d played make-believe, she was never the gunslinger – always the county sheriff. He’d once told her she was ‘born
to uphold the law’.
Little did she know that his comment would later split them apart.
She wondered if he ever had regrets. He was the one who had taught her to take pride in what she did, instilled in her a sense of devotion and commitment – good old-fashioned
qualities that had moulded her into the impressive officer she was. He was the one who’d given her a strong perspective on right and wrong. Daniels swallowed hard. Her father had been an
affectionate, hard-working, proud man with a great sense of humour – until she’d reached the age of ten and everything changed.
Ed Daniels was now a broken man whose emotions – even to this day – were still raw from the miners’ strike. Memories of the bitter and bloody confrontation with the police on
the picket lines, Scargill’s troops versus Thatcher’s, had not diminished. He’d never recovered his status as breadwinner for the family after his pit closed. It nearly killed him
to walk out of the gate on the last day. When Daniels left school at seventeen with above-average grades and a burning ambition to join the police, he’d taken her choice of profession as a
personal betrayal, refusing to give her his blessing. How long would it be until he forgave her for that? She’d always felt that she was born to be a detective, but now Stephens’ death
had changed things and, once again, divided loyalties weighed heavy on her mind.
There was a muddle of bodies around a desk in one corner of the incident room. As it slowly dispersed, Daniels was delighted to see DS Robson emerge from its centre. His wife had given birth
overnight to a boy – Callum, named after a Scottish grandfather on his mother’s side – weighing in at a healthy
pushing fifty with almost three decades of experience under his belt – appointed as receiver, and Paul Robson as statement reader. But with the benefit of hindsight she knew she
should’ve chosen differently where the latter was concerned. Robson’s sudden departure on paternity leave was going to leave her short.
Driving into the city, she was forced to consider drafting in his replacement. Carefully sifting the possibilities in her mind, she eventually settled on a newly promoted ex-squad member, DS
Patrick O’Doughty from Northern Area Command. Not that he had many statements to read as yet; so far the house-to-house had failed to turn up a single witness. Which didn’t surprise
her, given the Bonfire Night celebrations. The killer had been one of many thousands of strangers in the city for the occasion. She wondered if he’d planned it that way or just got lucky.
She entered the incident room with the intention of ringing O’Doughty’s line manager. As with every murder she’d ever worked on, over-crowding was proving to be a problem.
Typists, data-entry clerks and squad members were crammed together, sharing desks, frustrated by the lack of facilities afforded to their work. But they would manage in the end. They always did. In
the wider scheme of things, space was less important than just getting the job done.
In her early years as a police officer, Daniels would gladly have worked for no pay – and often did. She believed that, for a woman, self-sacrifice was an integral part of reaching the top
in any profession. Motherhood was the obvious example of what she’d missed out on in pursuit of her career. It was a decision she’d take again tomorrow if she had to.
As she’d just told Bright, life was too short for regrets.
Daniels’ father suddenly entered her thoughts. A smile crossed her lips as she recalled her childhood, the afternoons spent watching cowboy movies with him. Good times. He’d
nicknamed her Annie Oakley and teased her a lot. When they’d played make-believe, she was never the gunslinger – always the county sheriff. He’d once told her she was ‘born
to uphold the law’.
Little did she know that his comment would later split them apart.
She wondered if he ever had regrets. He was the one who had taught her to take pride in what she did, instilled in her a sense of devotion and commitment – good old-fashioned
qualities that had moulded her into the impressive officer she was. He was the one who’d given her a strong perspective on right and wrong. Daniels swallowed hard. Her father had been an
affectionate, hard-working, proud man with a great sense of humour – until she’d reached the age of ten and everything changed.
Ed Daniels was now a broken man whose emotions – even to this day – were still raw from the miners’ strike. Memories of the bitter and bloody confrontation with the police on
the picket lines, Scargill’s troops versus Thatcher’s, had not diminished. He’d never recovered his status as breadwinner for the family after his pit closed. It nearly killed him
to walk out of the gate on the last day. When Daniels left school at seventeen with above-average grades and a burning ambition to join the police, he’d taken her choice of profession as a
personal betrayal, refusing to give her his blessing. How long would it be until he forgave her for that? She’d always felt that she was born to be a detective, but now Stephens’ death
had changed things and, once again, divided loyalties weighed heavy on her mind.
There was a muddle of bodies around a desk in one corner of the incident room. As it slowly dispersed, Daniels was delighted to see DS Robson emerge from its centre. His wife had given birth
overnight to a boy – Callum, named after a Scottish grandfather on his mother’s side – weighing in at a healthy
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