by Hannah, Mari
Blushing as he reached the comfort of his seat, he didn’t know where to put himself as the eyes of fellow passengers turned in their direction, the financial wizard’s included. The redhead knew she’d smell sex on them. It was the sole reason she’d fucked him – to shove that dirty look right back in the woman’s frosty face. Maybe next time she’d think twice about looking down her nose at people.
When the train pulled in, Ben had guided her through the station, turning left and out into the sunshine to find a cab. Walking to her meeting wasn’t an option after all. It turned out to be twenty miles from central London, a monumental pain in the arse. So she had joined a long queue of businessmen, tourists and locals who’d opted not to take the tube, Ben insisting on keeping her company while she waited. They stood there, making small talk, until a black cab arrived. He even kissed her goodbye before she climbed in.
Fool.
Didn’t he realize that women like her never looked back?
Now, in the comfort of her hotel suite, she wondered if he’d hung around where she’d agreed to meet him. Her mobile suddenly rang out. Mark, probably. Took him long enough. She rolled over and answered the phone.
‘Mission accomplished?’ The Cypriot wasn’t one for chatty conversations.
‘Free and clear. Forward the assignment in the usual way.’
The line went dead.
The phone rang again almost immediately, this time a number she didn’t recognize. It certainly wasn’t the Cypriot. Or Mark. Or boring Ben. They hadn’t exchanged numbers. No. This same number had called her yesterday, twice while she was on the train, opting not to leave a voicemail. Intrigued, she sat up in bed and pushed the receive key without speaking.
‘This is DS Hank Gormley, Northumbria Police. Who am I speaking to, please?’
Damn. The redhead hung up. Removing the SIM card from the phone, she inserted another she took from her purse. Yesterday she’d pulled it off. Now she had to be careful.
26
It was only eight a.m. and yet the Murder Investigation Team were already at full stretch as the DCI entered the MIR in search of Gormley. He was sitting at a desk in the centre of the room in relaxation pose, legs outstretched, feet crossed at the ankles, a phone nestled in the crook of his neck. She was about to spoil his day.
‘Hmm . . . that’s odd,’ Gormley pocketed his mobile.
‘What is?’ Brown asked.
Gormley didn’t answer. He was deep in thought. Ignoring Brown, he picked up his desk phone, redialled the same number and listened as it rang out. Seeing his concern, Daniels wandered up to join him, still stewing over the latest developments. Stanton’s call the previous evening had been followed by an unscheduled meeting afterwards that lasted late into the night, a meeting her team didn’t yet know about.
Ivy Kerr’s murder was an incident so serious it would be deemed a category A – the worst possible kind – on a par with the arson MIT were already dealing with. Superintendent Naylor had hinted as much and had asked her to run both enquiries.
No problem.
She’d done so before and could do so again. In fact, she’d told him she’d work round the clock to find whoever was responsible. Daniels shuddered at the thought of a defenceless old lady being trapped in her car at the mercy of a killer. It was hard to imagine who’d do such a thing. Two scenarios played out in her head. It was either a civilian who’d raced to the scene or someone sent to rescue her. The second was unthinkable. Whoever it was, she’d take great pleasure in putting them away. First, however, she had to break the news to Hank.
‘That was a number Mark Reid called regularly from his landline,’ Gormley said, as he hung up the phone. ‘There was no answer at all yesterday. Then just now, I thought I’d got lucky, but as soon as I introduced myself the bastard cut me dead.’
Daniels’ interest grew. ‘Judy?’
He stopped chewing his pen. ‘Not unless she has two different mobiles. I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman. They hung up without speaking.’
‘Put an action out to trace who it belongs to,’ Daniels said. ‘And check with Reid’s parents to see if they recognize it. Actually, before you do, I need a word, Hank. My office?’
Gormley threw his chewed pen on his desk. Gathering up his phone and car keys, he stood up. They were almost at Daniels’ office door when Carmichael approached, practically blocking their entry into the room. The expression on her face told them she had something important to share.
‘Am I interrupting?’ Her cheeks were flushed. ‘I am, aren’t I?’
Daniels wanted to say yes, but instead said: ‘No, Lisa. What is it?’
‘Three of the four of Albright’s staff who lost their jobs are now working. They all have alibis and are giving statements as we speak. But the fourth might be of interest to us.’ She looked down at the sheet of paper in her hand. ‘David Matthews. Single. Pre cons for Section Eighteen: Wounding with Intent. Served a year at Castington two years ago.’
‘Of interest’ was putting it mildly. Castington Young Offenders Institution had since merged with Acklington prison to form HMP Northumberland. If Matthews had form, Daniels wanted to know a lot more about him. She gestured to an empty desk; they pulled up a chair each and sat down, then the DCI nodded for Lisa to carry on.
‘That’s all there is, boss. He took a course in bricklaying while he was there. His probation officer managed to talk Albright into hiring him. God knows how. As I told you, the man’s a prick. Didn’t you say someone called Dave phoned Reid on the night he died?’
‘Does he live in the East End?’ Gormley asked.
Carmichael nodded. ‘On the Meadow Well Estate.’
Robson looked up from his desk. ‘That’s all we need.’
Daniels took in the clock on the wall. This new development excited her, but she was pushed for time. She had things to discuss with Gormley and a murder file to submit. Not to the Crown Prosecution Service, as would usually be the case, but to the Force Crime Manager at headquarters, her former boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Bright. The perpetrator of her most recent case – a vengeful father who’d killed a young student – had poisoned himself in custody and taken his guilt to the grave. His death had left her with a real headache. Not to mention an investigation by the Police Complaints Authority to contend with. Even though the man was dead, the Murder Investigation Team still had to prove his culpability beyond reasonable doubt, in exactly the same way they would’ve done had he been prosecuted in a court of law. Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary demanded nothing less. It had taken weeks to assemble a full file.
On top of that, she had back-to-back meetings for the rest of the morning. But she didn’t want Carmichael heading out to the Meadow Well alone. Almost twenty years ago, the estate – formerly The Ridges – had been the scene of violent riots after a police chase of a stolen vehicle ended in the deaths of two youths. The place was no longer a no-go area – thanks to residents and community groups who’d worked hard to repair the estate’s damaged reputation and give local youngsters a better start in life – but there was still some lingering anti-police feeling.
‘OK, check out Matthews,’ she said to Carmichael.
Carmichael nodded. ‘Beats a PM hands down. Remind me to take your advice next time.’
It was the first indication that Lisa was willing to share her anxieties and admit when things bothered her instead of bottling them up. Officers who didn’t grasp the concept of the debrief often took on too much. Many ended up with the force psychologist banging on their doors. Or worse. There had even been one or two suicides over the years.
Daniels caught Brown’s eye. ‘Andy, go with her in case he gives her any humpy.’ She shifted her gaze back to Carmichael. ‘That’s no reflection on you, Lisa. There’s a lot both of you don’t know about the Meadow Well and I haven’t got time to fill you in. Suffice to say you’ll be glad of the company.’
Carmichael and Brown had received the warning loud and cle
ar.
27
Daniels waited until Gormley had followed her into the office then shut the door. He went and sat near the open window, waiting patiently as she made them both a coffee and took it over to him. Not entirely sure where to begin, she sat down at her desk and chose the indirect route.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said.
‘Does it hurt?’ Gormley joked.
‘You know, sometimes it actually does.’ She was stalling, not wanting to give him the bad news about Ivy Kerr, knowing how he was likely to react when he heard what had happened to her and when. ‘This old guy who lives next door to the crime scene, George Milburn? Anyone managed to see him yet, take his statement?’
‘Only Stanton . . .’ Gormley said. ‘The old guy is as dead as a post.’
‘What?’ Daniels put her coffee down, a worried look on her face. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Yesterday afternoon. Heart failure, according to Stanton. He did the PM first thing, rang me when he noticed the address was so close to our crime scene.’ Gormley sighed. ‘Coincidence, I reckon. Just his turn to go. Either that or the upset of the fire killed him. Unless of course he’s a dab hand with a petrol can. You think it’s possible to die of a guilty conscience?’
‘You serious?’ she said, looking worried. She glanced down at the murder file she’d just completed. Another dead perpetrator would finish her off.
‘Why not? Elderly doesn’t mean incapable of murder. I’ve met some grumpy old gits in my time. My old man, for starters. He’d have killed me with his bare hands if he thought he could get away with it. Was that why you wanted to see me? About Milburn?’
He waited.
It was obvious she was holding back.
‘You don’t miss much, do you, Hank?’ And still she hesitated. ‘We’ve got another murder case on our hands: Ivy Kerr, woman in her late eighties.’
The name meant nothing to him. Why should it? A crash site in the pissing rain was hardly the place to get properly acquainted.
‘When did that come in?’ he queried. ‘There was nothing on the incident log this morning. I looked.’
‘I withheld it, wanted to talk to you first.’
Hank’s face paled as she filled him in on the grim details of Ivy Kerr’s death. He didn’t need accident investigators to draw him any pictures. He’d witnessed the mayhem with his own eyes. Daniels had worked out who Ivy was from the ages of the victims on the RTA report. There had been no other elderly women involved. Ivy had to have been the old lady she’d seen Hank speaking to at the scene.
The news hit him hard. At first he didn’t seem to grasp what she was saying. Then, as the information began to sink in, it was as if he’d been punched, a body-blow from someone twice his size. His head went down and his shoulders slumped. When he looked up, his jaw bunched and his eyes were filled with hatred, not all of it directed outwards. It was obvious he blamed himself for Ivy’s fate. He couldn’t get over the fact that he’d actually been standing metres away, probably only minutes before she was bludgeoned to death.
‘It’s despicable,’ Daniels said.
‘She was alive,’ Gormley said. ‘Alive. She looked at me, Kate. Smiled almost, relieved that someone was helping her, except they weren’t, were they? Jesus Christ, what kind of animal could do such a thing?’
He lit a cigarette, took the smoke deep into his lungs and stared across the room at her. She didn’t ask him to put it out. By the look on his face, he needed it. For a while they sat in silence, instinct reminding them of an impossible task ahead. Apart from those directly involved in the accident, scores of people had gone to the casualties’ aid. Dozens of emergency service personnel: police, fire, medical. Then there were the civilians who’d left their homes and cars. To help. To gawp. Probably a bit of both. No forensics had been retained. To make matters worse, Ivy’s car had caught fire and had to be hosed down by the fire service, which meant it would be doubly difficult to find any evidence.
‘What a ’mare.’ Gormley flicked the cigarette butt out the window.
‘Everyone at the crash site needs interviewing,’ Daniels said, trying to drag him from his reverie and propel him into action. ‘The car’s gone off for forensic examination, for what good it’ll do. I’ve got a feeling this one’s going to run and run.’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ Gormley snapped.
She knew he meant it. It was unlike Hank to let a case get to him. But this was no ordinary case. He’d work day and night to take this bastard down. Draining her coffee, she signed off on the outstanding murder file and called Robson’s extension, asking him to collect it from her desk.
‘Make sure it’s transported in a police car directly to headquarters,’ she told him. She hung up, checked her watch. God! She was jaded already and it was just gone ten. She stood up. ‘We’d better get going, Hank. The guv’nor’s waiting and I need to brief the squad.’
‘I’ll be right along.’ Gormley picked up her phone. ‘Long story. I’ve got to call my mum.’
28
Chantelle glared at the back of her boss’s baldy head as he walked away. Fat bastard. He’d given her a right royal rollicking for coming in late. Said he didn’t care if Jesus Christ had showed up in her street, she was on a final warning and that was that. Where did he get off, showing her up in front of her mates?
Well, screw him.
She hated the man. Hated the stupid job, had only taken it ’cause the Social said they’d stop her benefits if she didn’t – same reason she couldn’t hand in her notice. The best she could hope for was the sack. Slipping off her five-inch platforms, she kicked them under the counter, put on a pair of flat glittery pumps and waited near the till for the hordes to arrive. Lizzie, the new girl, unlocked the door and threw it open, but no one was waiting outside. Hardly surprising. It was boiling again. Oppressive. The continuing heatwave meant no one wanted to shop.
Another mind-boggling day of boredom to look forward to.
The boss was too tight-fisted to put in air conditioning. God forbid he’d invest any of his considerable wealth on his staff. The place hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years and was stained brown with nicotine from when he allowed customers to smoke. The staff had never been allowed, of course, even in the back yard that housed the netty, bog, loo, john, WC – whatever form of words you cared to use. Chantelle hated going in there. Spiders were like tarantulas. They waited until you sat down before making an appearance. Same with the rats. The first time she’d seen one, she’d run outside with her knickers round her ankles, straight into Baldy’s path.
Only time she’d seen the dickhead smile.
The evil twat took great delight in docking her pay for any misdemeanour under the sun: being late, texting, flirting with customers, eating, chewing gum, generally having a laugh. If he couldn’t think of a reason, he’d make one up. Breathing was allowed, but only just. He didn’t mind her showing her tits though, did he?
Wanker.
Chantelle sighed. It was her day off tomorrow and she planned to go to Whitley Bay, check out the beach and top up her tan. She deserved a little fun after the mayhem of the last thirty-six hours, what with the press and all.
The boss stuck his head out of his office, checking they were all getting on with their work. Omar was sniggering in the corner, pretending to dust the phones, Chaz on window-cleaning duty making a right mess.
And still Chantelle waited behind the counter. Had everyone died? Where the fuck were the customers? She waited some more and then checked her phone. No messages. Keeping one eye on the office door, she texted a couple of mates:
wot u up 2 the morra? metro to coast ok? got hods of nwz’ll blow yr mind.
Seconds later, she received a reply from Tracy, her best mate from school: oh yeah?
And another from Karin: like wot Shell?
pure gold! meet us at mine – not 2 urly – tell u then. Xx
Chantelle enjoyed being a tease.
Starin
g through the open door, she pocketed her phone. The sex shop opposite was doing a roaring trade. A sign in the window said: 70 per cent off – Midsummer Sale. She might pop over at lunchtime if Baldy went out. It wasn’t Harrods or Harvey Nicks, but they had some good lingerie in there for very special occasions. The way she figured it, she’d be celebrating soon.
‘How much is this one?’ Omar’s voice interrupted her daydream.
He was holding up a Motorola at least ten years old. Bless. Chantelle walked round the counter and dropped her voice, telling him not to waste his money. If he really wanted it, he should nick it tonight before they closed and she’d look the other way. She’d done it hundreds of times and never been caught. But he looked at her affronted, dubious about her plan. Problem was, he’d been brought up, not dragged up, and he was far too nice.
‘Just call it staff discount!’ she whispered.
Omar backed away.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ she said. ‘Shy bairns get nowt!’
Still he wasn’t convinced.
Chantelle made a face. ‘Doh . . . you’re on the minimum wage!’ Then she went back to her dreams, annoyed by his hacky look. Give a person advice, the very least they could do was take it. She was pleased she didn’t have his scruples. He was too honest to be trusted, that was his problem. No way would she share her secrets with him. Having an appetite to better yersel’ wasn’t a crime, was it?
Chantelle thought about this for a moment. Her father didn’t think so. He’d taught her never to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was a good dad really, when he was around. Always gave her the benefit of his advice. She could practically hear him from the grave: As one door closes, another slams in your face!
Well, not this time . . .