by Hannah, Mari
‘A high-viz jacket means fuck all,’ Daniels reminded him. ‘They’re two a penny at Amble Market. I nearly bought one myself last Sunday.’
‘Yeah, but I was concentrating on her. Seeing her. Then a kid came up to me, nasty head injury. I turned away to find some medical help before I got an answer.’
‘Can’t you visualize the person with Ivy? Why don’t you walk yourself through a cognitive interview in the same way you would any other witness?’ She didn’t need to remind him that the mind does funny things to people when they get stressed out. Often shuts down in order to protect a person’s sanity. ‘Come on, Hank. Your evidence might be all we have. Did you speak to them at all?’
‘No, yes . . . I asked if they needed a hand.’
‘They?’
‘Figure of speech.’ He shook his head, disappointed not to have been able to tell her more. ‘I’m sorry, that’s all I recall.’
Daniels was disappointed too but didn’t let it show. He was beating himself up enough without her giving him any more grief.
35
The evening briefing began at seven o’clock sharp. The MIR was full to bursting and Naylor had the floor. He’d informed the Murder Investigation Team of his intention to split them up, half remaining on the arson, the rest working the A1 incident under his leadership as SIO. Detectives were unhappy about the situation. Daniels could see it in their eyes. She was hardly jumping up and down about it herself. The handover had come at the worst possible time as far as she was concerned. Naylor’s assurance that other officers would be drafted in to assist either enquiry as and when the need arose didn’t exactly fill her with joy. They may not be perfect, but this was her team. A bunch of detectives who worked well together as a unit, not some hastily arranged hotchpotch that didn’t know their arses from their elbows. Still, she had no choice in the matter. Officially, at any rate. She’d have to get on with it.
As Naylor elaborated on his plans, she thought about the arson case. Progress was slow. She was still waiting for forensic results on the rubber glove recovered from the wheelie bin and the fragment found in Maggie Reid’s house. A match now would certainly float her boat. Colin and Denise Albright appeared to be in the clear. There was no evidence to suggest that either had made a journey from Slaley Hall to the West End of Newcastle in order to carry out a revenge execution in the dead of night. But lab technicians had managed to identify residue from the petrol as Shell. Maxwell had spent the afternoon following that up, visiting garages within a three-mile radius, trying to establish how many punters had bought petrol in a can recently. So far, he’d covered Scotswood Road, Denton Road, West Road, down to nineteenth-century landmark The Big Lamp, and all points in between. He was now on his feet telling them what he’d discovered.
Sensing where he was taking them, Daniels gave him a nod of encouragement, even though it was a long shot. This was flaming June after all, the beginning of summer, a month when people frequently bought fuel to store at home in case they ran dry – gardeners and motorcyclists being two obvious examples. Such purchases would be time-consuming to investigate. And petrol used to start the fire could easily have been months old, stored in someone’s garage or lock-up.
Still, anything was worth a try.
‘Had it been winter, it would’ve been a much simpler . . .’ Maxwell was almost verbalizing Daniels’ thoughts. ‘I came up with fifteen purchases made over the three days prior to the arson, out of which eight have already been identified by garage staff as local people known to them. They’re being seen as we speak and actions have been raised to trace the others.’ He paused for breath, before adding, ‘But there is one CCTV image that bothers me . . .’
Daniels met his eyes. ‘How so?’
‘Punter was acting weird, boss. Medium build and height. Boiler suit and baseball cap. Being really careful not to look directly at the camera.’ He pointed at Carmichael. ‘Lisa has uploaded the tape.’
‘Was it a Shell station?’ Robson asked.
Maxwell nodded.
Daniels looked at Carmichael. ‘Show me.’
Carmichael ran the footage on the electronic murder wall. The room went quiet as detectives watched Maxwell’s weirdo fill up a can and walk, head bowed unnaturally, into the cashier’s desk to pay – in cash, Daniels noted – before making off on foot.
‘Bing-bong,’ Gormley sung the words like a doorbell. ‘He’s our guy.’
‘Could be local too, if he didn’t drive there,’ Brown offered.
Daniels was still peering at the screen. ‘Not necessarily. If he is our man he’d hardly bring his car on to the forecourt, would he? He’d have left it parked in the street to avoid detection. Run it again please, Lisa.’ Carmichael quickly rewound the tape and set it running with dozens of pairs of eyes fixed to the screen as they took a second look. ‘Freeze it there!’ The DCI turned to face the squad. ‘Anyone else think “our guy”, as Gormley so eloquently put it, walks like a girl?’
There was a chorus of: possibly, maybe, not sure.
Looking back at the murder wall, Daniels wondered if the shapeless boiler suit had been worn as a partial disguise. It could mask several layers underneath: added bulk to make the punter appear bigger than they really were. The victim’s wife, Maggie Reid, popped into her head. Her alibi – the elusive Stella Drew – still hadn’t turned up or answered repeated calls to her mobile and Daniels had the distinct impression that she was staying out of the way on purpose.
‘Boss?’ ‘Boss?’ Brown and Carmichael said in unison.
Carmichael gestured for Brown to go first. He smiled and did the same. He was a good detective, less vocal than some at MIT but an essential part of the squad. Their surveillance specialist, he liked working in the background. He had taken a shine to Carmichael. They’d joined the squad together and, when they worked as a twosome, she was almost always the spokesperson.
Carmichael took her cue to proceed. ‘We just got back from the Meadow Well Estate. You’ll be pleased to hear we had no humpy from David Matthews, the lad I told you worked for Albrights firm, the only one with a CRO number. He wasn’t quite what we expected, was he, Andy?’ Brown shook his head and she moved on. ‘He was a quiet lad, salt of the earth, actually, despite his appearance. No neck and tats,’ she explained. ‘Looked like your average thug, but he was really helpful. Considers himself one of Mark Reid’s mates in spite of losing his job when Mark put Albright’s firm out of business.’
‘Easy to say after the event,’ Gormley reminded her. ‘Reid’s not around to confirm or deny it, is he?’
‘True,’ Carmichael acknowledged. ‘But he seemed pretty genuine to me.’
‘They continued to see each other afterwards?’ Naylor asked.
‘Yes, guv. Matthews was gutted to hear of Reid’s death. Even more upset about the boy. Read it in the newspaper, apparently. He was also up front about his conviction and expecting our visit, I reckon—’
‘I agree with that, guv,’ Brown said. ‘The lad was in tears at one point, not bolshie in the slightest. Comes from a hard-working family. Parents both in employment. Mother has some involvement with the Meadows Neighbourhood Centre. Father’s a postie. I’ve not had time to check, but I’m guessing that means he has no form. Both parents seem determined to give their kids a better start in life than they both had.’
Robson looked up from the notes he was taking. ‘Where was he between seven-thirty p.m. Wednesday and one a.m. yesterday?’
‘Same as most people, insensible after the match. We’re checking that out, but we’re probably wasting our time. Reid was taking Matthews on. He was due to start work for him on Monday. Claims that’s why he rang him, to cadge a lift to the site. We saw the offer of employment and it was dated last week.’ He looked at Daniels. ‘There’s a copy on your desk.’
‘Why bite the hand?’ Naylor said to no one in particular.
‘That’s what we thought, guv.’ Carmichael glanced at Brown to check he had nothing to add. ‘Matthews
claims Reid was having an affair but was being very secretive about it. Don’t know if it means anything, but he thinks the woman was a security guard.’
‘Just thinks?’ Daniels queried. ‘Don’t suppose he knew her name?’
‘No, boss. We were hoping he might have thrown some light on Judy, the woman who called Reid the night he died. Anyway, Matthews only saw the girlfriend once but he did notice she was wearing a white shirt under a civvi jacket. Could equally have been a prison officer, I suppose. Or a WPC, for that matter, though he didn’t seem to think so.’ Carmichael and Brown both smiled, enjoying a private joke. ‘When Andy pushed him on it, Matthews said growing up on the Meadow Well you get a kind of sixth sense about the police. We’re easy to spot, apparently, in or out of uniform.’
A chuckle went up in the room.
Daniels thought for a moment. ‘The female kit I saw in Reid’s flat doesn’t fit with my idea of ill-paid security guards. When this Judy woman called Reid there were people talking in the background, so maybe she’s a shift worker. The call is timed at one fifteen and she asked him to ring her back, which would suggest she wasn’t hitting the sack right away. It’s certainly something to bear in mind . . .’ Daniels shifted her attention to Maxwell, commending his diligence in following the petrol trail. She pointed at the frozen image on the murder wall. ‘Neil, concentrate your efforts on this one. Does anyone else have anything to add before we wrap it up for the night?’
There was a collective shake of heads.
‘Right . . .’ She began packing up her stuff. ‘Those of you no longer working the arson make sure you hand everything over tonight. From tomorrow morning, you’re officially off the case. Thanks a lot, guys.’
As everyone disbanded, Daniels caught Gormley’s tired eyes across the room. It had been a long day – a long week in fact – and they were both exhausted. In the coming days, possibly even weeks, they’d be working at full stretch with half their usual complement with a double murder to solve, the A1 murder to occupy their minds and the hopes of Elliot Milburn weighing them down. Things couldn’t get much worse.
36
Kate left the MIR immediately, making her way down the stairwell and out of the station via the back door. Force of habit. Suddenly remembering where she’d parked her car, she turned towards the entrance gate, slinging her bag over her shoulder and giving Gormley a wave as he pulled away. Turning left, she dug her hand into her pocket for her keys and came to a sudden stop, her eyes searching the street.
‘Shit!’ Shit, shit, shit!
The Toyota wasn’t there.
With her heart thumping in her chest, she walked up the road a bit, making sure that tiredness hadn’t confused her. She passed a number of cars: an Audi A4, a VW Passat, Vauxhall Corsa, Land Rover Discovery, the old type – but no black Rav 4. The Corsa had its offside front light smashed. Fragmented glass lay on the floor beside it. No prizes for guessing what had happened there.
As she stood in the middle of the road with her hands on her head, a car tooted behind her.
Robson’s voice broke through her trance. ‘Boss? Why are you staring at the pavement?’
‘Some bastard’s nicked my car!’ she yelled, almost breaking into a run.
An hour later, having filed a report – for what bloody good it would do – she hailed a taxi and went home. Angry with herself for having parked the Toyota on the road outside the station in her rush to get into work, she decided that even if she got the car back she wouldn’t keep it, not after some arsehole had been raking it around doing God knows what inside.
No chance.
If a burglar had been in her bed she wouldn’t want to sleep in it again, would she?
There was a pile of mail on the floor in the hallway as she entered the house: several utility bills, a letter from her cousin in New York and a postcard from Venice that, despite her black mood, brought a smile to her face. It was unsigned but in the same handwriting as the other three she’d received that week. It contained just four words:
Are you hungry yet?
It surprised her how much she’d thought about Fiona Fielding in the past few weeks, how tempted she was to ring and say hi. But on each occasion she’d lifted the phone, something had happened to stop her: yet another emergency cropped up, one of her team needed her ear, or Jo Soulsby leapt out of the shadows, pushing any thoughts of Fielding to the back of her mind.
How sad an excuse was that?
Fielding was a successful artist – a witness Daniels had interviewed on her last murder enquiry – an attractive woman with a raspy voice and deep blue penetrating eyes. She was very outspoken and had the world at her feet. Not a hang-up in sight. No worries she’d be held back in her chosen profession because of the way she chose to conduct her life. She was free to do whatever she wanted, with whoever she wanted.
Rereading the postcard, Daniels could feel her cheeks burning as she recalled meeting Fielding for the first time – an unforgettable encounter. If she was being honest, it was the same inexplicable feeling she’d had when she’d first met Jo, a spark between two people too powerful to ignore, something that went much deeper than physical attraction. In the space of half an hour or so, Fielding had somehow managed to get under her skin. Then she’d disappeared, never to be heard of again. Or so Daniels thought, until the postcards began arriving. She’d kept all twenty-eight.
The woman was relentless.
Putting the postcard in a drawer with the others, she wondered if her feelings for Fiona were stronger because she reminded her of Jo. She too had disappeared off the scene as quickly as she’d arrived, allowing Daniels to put her on a pedestal to idolize from afar. Until one day she materialized as the new criminal profiler.
Daniels sighed. What a fucked-up mess her life was.
She couldn’t go there again.
Why was she pretending she could?
Despite the late hour – it was almost ten and getting dark – she changed her clothes and went for a run in Jesmond Dene, her favoured circuit, a draw for locals and tourists alike. A haven of tranquillity on the edge of a busy city, it had a certain stillness she craved after a long day in the office, particularly late at night when her head was crammed with multiple problems. It gave her the opportunity to think things through, then file stuff away until morning and get a good night’s sleep.
Entering from the top road, she took a steep path down into the wooded valley past the pet cemetery and Pet’s Corner – a small city farm – keeping the stream on her left. She ran on, crossing the bridge, pausing a moment or two to listen to the refreshing rush of the waterfall, then peering over the stone wall to watch the water crashing into the moonlit stream below. Hard to imagine she was less than three miles from Newcastle City Centre on a Friday night.
When she got home, she showered and fell into bed.
But her run hadn’t done its job. Her sleep was filled with images of death and destruction: the Rav 4 racing through the streets, crashing through the security barrier at the station with Bridget and Ivy inside, banging on the windows like patients in a lunatic asylum; her running upstairs to get help – her heart almost bursting with the effort – and not being able to find any; the ear-splitting noise of a fire alarm.
37
She woke with a start, fighting her way from beneath her duvet, drenched in sweat. Confusion subsided as she lay there in the dark. The doorbell was ringing. Shit! She looked at the clock by her bedside. Eight-fifteen. That was OK. Naylor had asked her to stay clear of the office while he got the A1 incident underway and marked out their respective territories.
Jumping out of bed, she hurried to her bedroom window. It was a glorious day and Jo was at the door with newspapers, a carton of milk, and what looked suspiciously like a bag of fresh croissants. Daniels flung on a robe and rushed downstairs, her heart pounding from the nightmare still running in her head.
Jo was casually dressed in a pair of cut-off shorts and her favourite faded khaki T-shirt. She’d worn it
the first time they’d gone out together, but with jeans and killer heels that made her even taller than her normal six feet. They had met up at Francesca’s, an Italian restaurant not a million miles from where they both lived. Jo had had her back to the door, chatting to a staff member, her distinctive laughter filling the air when Daniels walked in. Then, sensing a presence behind her, she’d swung round, her eyes sending a secret message across the room: You are so special. It turned Daniels’ legs to jelly.
Still did, even now.
‘Hey . . .’ Daniels’ tone was flat. She kissed Jo lightly on the cheek. ‘Am I glad to see you?’
‘You don’t sound it. I nearly didn’t knock when I saw no car.’
‘Some bastard stole it.’
‘No! When?’
‘Last night. I was going to call you, but to be perfectly honest I couldn’t be arsed.’
‘I noticed your bedroom curtains were drawn. You feeling OK? You look awful.’
‘Could’ve done with a better sleep, but I’m fine.’
‘You sure? I rang the office and they told me you weren’t due in till twelve.’ Jo stepped into the hallway, squeezed past the Yamaha motorbike, turning to face Daniels when they reached the kitchen. ‘If you want the truth, I came round because I was curious to know why you were taking time off in the middle of a murder enquiry. You’re the SIO on the arson in Ralph Street, aren’t you?’
Daniels nodded.
‘You’re not ill, are you?’
‘No . . . I’m involved in two cases, Jo. But therein lies the problem. In one of them, I’m a witness and possibly even a suspect—’
‘What?’ Confusion flashed across Jo’s face.
Leaving nothing out, Daniels briefed her on the death of Ivy Kerr, the fact that she and Gormley had been on the scene at the time, the whole sorry mess. She also mentioned Naylor’s insistence that she stay out of the MIR until the lines were well and truly drawn between the two incidents . . .