by Hannah, Mari
‘He’s covering our arses so that further down the line no barrister or judge could accuse us of any impropriety or conflict of interest.’
‘Sounds sensible,’ Jo said.
Daniels locked eyes with her.
‘What?’ Jo said. ‘You’re unhappy with that?’
Pointing at the bakery bag in Jo’s hand, Daniels sidestepped the question. ‘What you got there?’
‘Kate? Don’t do it . . . This will not end well.’
Daniels wasn’t listening. Splitting the team was a sound idea, but that didn’t stop her feeling aggrieved. OK, she had Robson and Gormley to investigate the fire, but Carmichael had skills they didn’t and she’d be unable to utilize them while her DC was working for the Super. Besides, she’d promised Hank they would do a little digging themselves and she didn’t feel inclined to let regulations change her mind.
‘Fine!’ Jo said. ‘If you insist on getting fired you need to eat before going in.’ Jo held out two Danish pastries, a warning in her eyes. ‘You, coffee. Me, eggs.’
Daniels put on the coffee, excused herself, then ran upstairs and jumped in the shower. Had Jo not been there she’d have skipped breakfast altogether and gone into the incident room in spite of Naylor’s insistence that she stay away. But now she had an invitation to spend time with Jo, maybe for once she’d actually do as she was told.
Jo tried to talk Daniels out of her maverick tendencies but she wouldn’t listen, so they took their coffee outside into the sunshine and sat in her back yard like an old married couple, scanning the morning papers the way they used to, light years ago.
‘Stop it!’ Jo said.
‘Stop what?’ Acting innocent, Daniels lowered the Guardian.
‘You were staring at me!’
‘No I wasn’t!’ Daniels pointed at Jo’s Serengeti sunglasses. ‘Anyway, how can you possibly tell with those on?’
Jo tapped her right lens and then lifted the glasses on to the top of her head. ‘With these I can see straight into your heart. There’s no escaping my powers!’
Daniels laughed out loud.
She began reading again, grateful still to have Jo in her life, albeit it not as close as she’d like. Ironically, the job that had pulled them apart now bound them together as friends and colleagues. She didn’t have to like the situation to accept it as a fact. But on that beautifully sunny morning – surrounded by ugly brick walls on all sides and no view whatsoever – she couldn’t think of a single thing that would spoil that moment.
Then the phone rang.
38
Daniels paid the driver and leapt out of the cab. Gormley looked hot and bothered as he hurried towards her, cutting her off from entering the station via the back door. Grabbing her upper arm he led her around the side of the building, guiding her to a quiet spot where they could talk without fear of being overheard.
‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this,’ Daniels said. ‘People will get the wrong idea.’
‘Very funny. What’s with the taxi?’
‘You haven’t heard then . . .’
Daniels wondered if her Toyota was still in one piece or lying burnt-out somewhere, along with the kit she’d left in the back. Thankfully, none of it official or traceable to her home address. Just a few personal items, including a tyre pressure gauge and bike lock she’d only just bought.
Bastard joy riders.
Gormley looked confused. ‘About what?’
‘Never mind. This had better be good, Hank.’ She tried not to sound put out, even though her morning had been spoiled by his phone call. Jo would still be eating breakfast alone in her sunny back yard, the first quality time they’d spent together in ages. ‘I wasn’t due in for a couple of hours and neither were you. Mind telling me what the hell we’re doing here?’
‘Long story . . . won’t bore you with the details.’
‘Oh, good. We’re both speaking in code!’
‘I couldn’t sleep. That’s all you need to know.’ Gormley pointed towards the perimeter fence where a number of police vehicles stood idle. Next to them was a flat-back low-loader carrying a smashed-up vehicle. ‘I spotted it arriving as I parked my car. Recognize the Honda Jazz? That’s Ivy’s car. Thought you’d like to take a look before the CSIs offload it. They’ve gone for a late breakfast in the canteen, hence the urgency. You haven’t got long if you want to examine it before Naylor does.’
A couple of uniformed officers walked by and said hello as they passed. Acknowledging them with a nod, Daniels watched them get into a panda car and drive away. Glancing up at the second floor of the station, she homed in on the windows of the MIR. The low loader was visible from there. If spotted tampering with the car she knew she’d be in deep shit with her new boss – friend or no friend.
Gormley picked up on her anxiety. ‘Don’t sweat,’ he said. ‘Naylor’s busy launching his enquiry. You know what that’s like. He’ll be tied up all morning.’
She shook her head. ‘Too risky, Hank. Can’t be done.’
‘Yes, it can! Carmichael promised to keep him occupied ’til I give her the heads-up that we’re finished.’
‘That sounds rather like a conspiracy. Er, Naylor? Me? What bloody difference does it make who examines the vehicle? We’re on the same side, remember?’
‘Please, Kate. Just take a look. And hurry, or I’ll need another shave.’
Daniels punched his arm and then set off towards the low-loader as naturally as she could, Jo’s warning ringing in her ears: This will not end well. Gormley followed, reminding her that officers not party to last night’s briefing wouldn’t give them a second glance. They were murder detectives, after all, even if they weren’t behaving like it. As they neared the recovery truck, he bent his knee for her to use as a step, feigning a groan as she propelled herself on to the vehicle.
Daniels looked around her. Gormley was right. No one was paying her any attention. Ripping off her scarf, she used it as a glove and opened the door of the Jazz. A set of keys were still dangling from the ignition; there was blood everywhere, a shallow pool of which had congealed on the rubber matting in the driver’s footwell, enough to make her think that Ivy’s husband had bled to death in his seat. Leaning in, she turned the ignition key a notch and nearly jumped out of her skin as the computerized voice of the satnav filled the car:
‘ Turn round. Turn round.’
Letting out a sigh, she glanced up at the MIR again. Naylor was standing with his back to the window. Praying that he wouldn’t turn round, she took in Gormley’s apologetic expression which suddenly morphed into a plea for her to continue. This is crazy, she thought. Returning her attention to Ivy’s car, she quickly accessed the satnav, checking the device’s saved locations, scrolling down to the last entry which was nothing more than a postcode: WD18 9RN. She read it out and told Gormley to write it down, then leapt to the ground, hoping it would lead to something because they had sod-all else right now.
39
In Chantelle’s opinion, Whitley Bay wasn’t the place it used to be. Nowadays, disappointed tourists came looking for Spanish City and found nothing resembling the fairground it once was. A place so iconic that its Tunnel of Love had inspired a song by Mark Knopfler, no less. She had binned the idea of spending a day there, opting instead for Seaton Sluice a couple of miles north up the coast, talking her mates into going with her. It had the same fabulous golden sands but no cafés, candyfloss or chips, just miles and miles of beach fringed with sand dunes where they could smoke a spliff without being seen, or strip off naked if they wanted to.
’cept not one of the bottleless mingers did.
‘Who needs St Tropez, eh, Shell?’ Tracy said.
Chantelle didn’t answer. She was too busy gawping at Leigh and Daisy, who already had fabulous tans on account of the fact that they were out of work. Thinking she had a lot of catching up to do, Chantelle watched Tracy get her kit off, revealing a lush polka-dot bikini underneath. It showed off her superb figure and left nothing to t
he imagination. She worked in a knocking shop on Elswick Road, and had once taken Chantelle there for an interview – if that was what giving the owner a blow-job was called these days. But the nobber said she didn’t have quite the right qualifications. What he meant was, she was a little larger than his other girls.
Tosser.
Chantelle would never tell Tracy, but the experience had dented her confidence and made her all the more determined to show them she didn’t have to be a slapper to earn her keep. Anyhow, she was better than that. Classier. No need to lie on her back and think of England for some married, hairy-arsed polis, judge, accountant, looking for a bit on the side. She had a brain in her head and intended to use it.
Starting tomorrow.
Maybe then she could bag herself a footie player and realize her dream of becoming a WAG. Chantelle stroked her stomach. She’d lost weight lately and had spent all morning brushing up on Celebrity Biggest Loser on the net. Poring over their weight-loss stories, picking up tips: what worked, what didn’t. More of the divvies seemed to be going up than down this week, which made her feel a little less inadequate.
Spraying her legs with Tesco suntan lotion, making sure she covered the bits round her knees that always got burnt, she bristled as she noticed a bottle of Piz Buin sticking out of Tracy’s bag. Knocked-off, obviously. She couldn’t afford to buy it, not with a kid at home to look after, no matter how many tricks she turned. Couldn’t pronounce it neither, prob’ly.
That was Tracy in a nutshell: all the gear, no idea.
But they were great mates – had been since starting school. They had fallen out numerous times, but never for long. If Chantelle was being honest, Tracy was the one person in the world she could trust, the only one who was there for her through thick and thin. Mostly thin, now she came to think of it.
A kid screamed as he entered the shimmering water. Chantelle watched him run back out and kick sand in his sister’s eyes, making her cry. Little twat reminded her of her brother, whose real name was Todd but who was referred to as Samantha by his mates – a nickname that stuck with him when he entered the military. He took great pleasure in her discomfort. There was a posh word for that, so his social worker said. German, if Chantelle recalled right. Chardonnay? Sommat like that, at any rate. Why didn’t folks speak plain English?
‘Evil little shit’ worked just as well.
There were no adults in the sea. And who could blame them? Chantelle had dipped her toe in the water when they arrived and watched as it turned blue. She could swear it was degrees warmer when she was a kid than it was today.
‘Global warming, my arse!’ she said out loud.
‘Eh?’ Tracy looked up from Grazia – the fifth-birthday collector’s issue she’d half-inched from a mate’s house the night before. The magazine was well thumbed, its pages curled at the corners. It had a picture of Lady Gaga on the front, the celebrity she most admired.
Pulling a face, she threw a baseball cap at Chantelle.
‘Better put that on,’ she said. ‘Either you’ve had too much sun or too much dope!’
Chantelle ignored the hat, repeating Tracy back to herself, mimicking her broad Geordie accent, which was far more pronounced than hers. She’d always tried to talk proper on account of the fact that she was going places, the only one trying to better herself – the only one working, for that matter. The only one with a plan.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed an unhappy boy lying on a towel, his father ignoring him completely in favour of the phone in his hand. She wondered who they were, why they had bothered to come down to the beach together. The lack of interaction between them made her feel sad. She wanted to go over and speak to the kid, do something to brighten his day. Being ignored was the worst thing that could happen to anyone. She knew all about that. No wonder she craved the limelight.
She laid down and suddenly there was no wind, only baking, relentless sun. Gulls flew right overhead in a clear blue sky, a rare sight in the north-east. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen, just acres of blue, reminding her of trips to the beach with her mam and Todd. He always insisted on bringing a cricket bat and stumps, a bottle of water and jam sandwiches to last a whole day. But Chantelle was watching her weight, so lunch was a little more sophisticated nowadays: potted spread, BBQ crisps and Red Bull.
Smashing.
Chantelle suddenly sat up again.
‘Fucking Gobi Desert down there,’ she said. Turning around to face the water, she scanned the beach. Apart from the lad who was being ignored, there was maybe half a dozen families, no more than that, paddling, sunbathing, some of them reading, cool-boxes and bottles of pop everywhere. The water looked so inviting.
Sighing, Chantelle glanced at her mates. ‘Anyone fancy a plodge?’
Nobody moved.
Chantelle laid back down. She could hear the wash of the sea on the shore, the laughter of children playing on the beach and some dozy cow yelling like a banshee for a dog called Roly. Chantelle didn’t like dogs, having been bitten by a terrier when she was four. Little twat sunk its teeth right into her arm and she still bore the scar to this day. Let sleeping dogs lie, her father had always told her. But did she listen?
Did she shite.
Turning her head sideways, Chantelle saw that her mates were all fast asleep, their faces lifted towards the sun. Tracy’s mouth was wide open and she was snoring like a horse. Very attractive. Chantelle wished she could do the same, but she was so tense. So restless. She had far too much on her mind. In the immediate wake of the fire, you couldn’t get shifted on Ralph Street as scores of police officers flooded the area. She’d thought it best to keep a low profile until the excitement died down. Two days on and the house was boarded up, the street empty of police now they’d gone back to headquarters to investigate the case. Maybe it was time to make her move.
Unable to keep a secret for very long, Chantelle had told the only one she knew she could trust. But her plan hadn’t gone down well; Tracy had tried laying a guilt trip on her as soon as she heard. In the end, Chantelle warned her to keep her mouth shut if she knew what was good for her, or Wannabe Lady Gaga would end up looking like someone had chopped sticks on her face. That shut her up good and proper; she hadn’t mentioned it again.
Right now, Chantelle wished Todd was there to talk to, even if he did kick sand in her face. Her brother understood the concept of looking after number one. He’d once told her that, in order to be first over the hill, you had to tread on the necks of others or get trampled in the stampede.
Chantelle smiled and shut her eyes. Necks it is then.
40
The tall redhead smiled at the female receptionist as she entered through a revolving door. Ignoring the young woman’s offer of help, she wandered away, her fuck-me high heels clicking on pristine floor tiles, each step echoing around the cavernous showroom. It felt great to be back in Newcastle on a Saturday, perfect timing for a shopping spree in a busy showroom selling high-end cars.
There were some glass display cabinets on her left with good kit inside. Accessories for those who could afford them, boys toys mainly, with the Porsche brand-name emblazoned across them: jackets, hats, key-rings, watches and leather goods, including a mini golf bag that would fit perfectly into the limited boot space of the bigger toys on sale. Each one of the cars was a genuine piece of precision engineering, design classics made with the discerning motorist in mind.
Although sufficient daylight flooded in through floor-to-ceiling windows, spotlights suspended from the ceiling were perfectly positioned to highlight the sleek lines and stylish interiors of the vehicles on display. The place even smelled classy – a mixture of polish and expensive leather – everything about it said quality. Inhaling deeply, drinking it in, the redhead drew an odd look from a balding fat man who was sitting at the service desk. He looked right through her before handing a set of keys to a young woman dressed more like a senior bank official than an automotive admin clerk.
‘Can I help
you, madam?’ a voice behind her said.
Madam? The redhead liked the sound of that. She wished her late father had been there to hear it spoken so deferentially in such an upmarket dealership. Fast cars were the only thing they had in common. He’d once told her she had designs above her station and should remember where she came from. Well, she had news for him. She wasn’t arsed where she’d come from. It was where she was going that interested her.
She had no idea if it was true, but someone had once told her that a tiny percentage of the people possessed a disproportionate amount of the nation’s wealth. Well, she was on her way to join them. She turned towards the voice, almost expecting a salute, and came face to face with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen under a mop of tousled blond hair. The young sales executive had a striking resemblance to her father’s hero, the late Formula One World Champion, James Hunt, who had retired from racing in 1979 – the year she was born – and died fourteen years later aged forty-five.
Living in the fast lane had its pitfalls.
Hunt flushed up under the intensity of her gaze. ‘Is it the basic 911 that interests you?’
‘Do I look like I do basic?’ she countered, her eyes flirting with him. ‘I was rather hoping you’d help me choose.’ She scanned the showroom. ‘I’m torn between models and colours: the Carrera 4S versus the convertible—’
‘The cabriolet is a beauty,’ he corrected her.
The redhead bristled. So Porsche didn’t call them convertibles. She didn’t need a little prick who worked in a garage to remind her of that.
Taking in her reaction, the sales executive flushed up and changed the subject to cover his gaffe. ‘In terms of colours, we have speed yellow over there . . .’ He pointed to a car near the front of the showroom. He waited for a reaction which she didn’t supply. ‘We also have ruby red metallic due in later today, if you’d be interested.’