Authors: Mari Hannah
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.
T
he 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.’
‘Tacky,’ the redhead pulled a sour face. Turning her back, she stared off into the distance, her eyes sliding over the models, and spoke without turning round. ‘No, I was
thinking more platinum silver with red leather interior. Failing that, I’d consider black.’ She pointed to one particular machine parked at a jaunty angle near the door. ‘That one
I do like very much.’
‘That one is sold, I’m afraid.’
‘Perfect, isn’t it?’ a man’s voice said. ‘Seems I pipped you to the post.’
The redhead turned. The bald man from the reception desk had his chubby hand out. She ignored it. Taken aback by her rudeness, he stomped off in a huff. She wandered away in the other direction,
with Hunt hot on her heels. ‘One of your best customers, I assume?’ she said, as he caught up with her.
‘Yes, buys new every year without fail.’
Of course he does.
‘Why don’t you show me what you’ve got available? I have other cars in mind and I’m in rather a hurry. I want something I can pick up on
Monday at the very latest.’
Hunt looked stunned. ‘Monday might be cutting it fine, madam. I—’
‘I don’t think you understand,’ she interrupted him. ‘I’ll be paying cash.’
‘I’m happy to ring round other dealerships if our shipments don’t suit your requirements. I’m sure we can accommodate you.’ He held out his hand, inviting her into
a second showroom which was as impressive as the first. ‘I take it you’re looking for a new car?’
‘Is there any other kind?’
He stifled a grin. ‘Any idea on spec?’
She waited a beat. ‘I think the accepted term is “fully loaded”.’
‘Yes, madam.’ Hunt rushed off to make enquiries.
F
or a Saturday lunchtime the station canteen was pretty empty. As a rule, there were more officers and PSOs on duty at weekends per head of population than at any other time,
mainly to police the cultural and social activities on offer in the city centre, but also to counteract an increased level of criminal activity. There were more fights, for a start. More drink or
drugs consumed. More arseholes emerging from their hovels to take advantage of decent folks flocking to Northumberland Street and Eldon Square, Newcastle’s shopping heart.
Summer always brought out its fair share of shoplifters and pickpockets. An offender’s paradise, Daniels thought as she watched Gormley tucking into an all-day breakfast: egg, bacon,
sausage, mushrooms and beans. They were sitting at a table near the open window discussing her find in Ivy’s car when her pocket began to vibrate. Putting down her coffee cup, she pulled out
her mobile phone.
The display showed Robson calling.
He didn’t introduce himself, just apologized for disturbing her break and launched straight in, telling her that Maggie Reid’s alibi, Stella Drew, had resurfaced within the last
half-hour. ‘To be honest, I don’t think she’s been anywhere at all . . .’ he said. ‘The uniform I sent round said she’s not the travelling type, unless you
include space exploration. I’m told she’s well out of it. Anyway, you said you wanted to know if we found her. You want me to chase that up? I’m happy to—’
‘No, sit tight, Robbo. Hank and I are done here. Is she at home now?’
‘At home might be stretching it, boss.’ He chuckled. ‘She’s in a bad way, apparently, but the attending PC told her to stay put until you’d spoken to her. Whether
she does that is another matter entirely.’
Robson’s upbeat chat pleased the DCI no end. It was like having an old friend back after a prolonged period of absence. His gambling addiction had caused him enormous personal problems and
he hadn’t been himself in a while. Maybe things were finally working out for him. She hoped so. She’d missed him.
‘You got an address for me?’
Taking a pen from her pocket, she looked around for something to write on but there was nothing available. Napkins, never mind notebooks, were a luxury item that had passed by the attentions of
those running the staff canteen. Instead, she accessed the memo pad on her BlackBerry and typed a note as he gave her the details.
Thanking him, she rang off.
Gormley asked her about the call.
‘C’mon, tell you on the way,’ she said. ‘OK if we use your car?’
Twenty minutes later they arrived at the address Robson had given her. Stella Drew didn’t answer their knock so they followed the racket coming from round the back of the property. A
wrought-iron gate led them to a garden littered with rusting trikes and toys. On a barren patch of grass, an indoor sofa the colour of Chicken tikka masala took centre stage. Stella Drew was
slumped on it, almost horizontal. Awake, barely. Three scruffy-looking boys – the oldest about three years old – clung on to her, all talking at once, all vying for her attention. The
youngest child’s legs were covered in an angry rash, his sodden nappy hanging around his knees with the weight of the urine inside.
A snarling Rottweiler took exception to the presence of the detectives. It barked incessantly, straining to be free from its chain, saliva drooling from its jaws.
Jesus Christ!
Daniels couldn’t hear herself think.
Stella Drew was oblivious to the din. She was painfully thin – anorexic thin – probably weighed less than six stone wet through. Robson’s joke about space exploration was spot
on. In the crease of her left arm there were track marks, evidence of recent drug abuse. She had dark, greasy hair tied back in a ponytail and wore no make-up. On heavily tattooed arms were the
names of at least three males. Wondering if they were the names of the children or their respective fathers, Daniels tried to rouse the woman and explain why they were there. But her eyes were
dull. She clearly wasn’t in. And when she did manage speech, it was hardly what they wanted to hear.
‘Leave me alone,’ she whined, switching her attention from Daniels to the kids. She shoved them away. ‘You’n all. Go and play or sommat.’
Her words were ignored.
Daniels raised her voice over the children. ‘You can’t hold out for ever, Stella. We need that statement. Just tell us where you were on Wednesday and Thursday and we’ll be on
our way.’ Getting no answer, she turned to Gormley. ‘I’ve got a headache, Hank. Either get rid of the rug-rats or entertain them while I talk to their mum.’
‘Mind telling me how?’
‘I don’t know! Pretend you’re Mr Tumble or something!’
‘Who’s he when he’s around?’
‘Big guy, acts the fool on TV. You’ve got a lot in common, I’m sure you’ll find a way.’
Reaching into his pocket, Gormley drew out a Nestlé Kit Kat. Homing in on the sound of the red-and-white wrapper coming off the chocolate biscuit, the three little ones stopped screaming
instantly, let go of their mother’s legs and ran towards him. Six hands, ingrained with muck, reached up like starving beggars being offered charitable aid. He gave them a finger each and
threw the last piece to the dog.
‘Silence is golden, isn’t it?’ he said, licking chocolate from his fingers.
Drew scowled at him. ‘The bairns haven’t had their lunch!’
Or breakfast either,
Daniels thought.
Like you’d care.
‘Sorry . . .’ Gormley crumpled up the wrapper and put it in his pocket. ‘You should’ve said.’
‘I just did!’ Drew growled, looking to her left. ‘And you can fuck off too!’
It was a ferocious attack on her next-door neighbour, a woman with spiky blonde hair who’d peeked over the fence. She was hanging out her washing, craning her neck to see and hear what was
going on. Her presence prompted Stella Drew to haul herself up off the sofa and go inside. Daniels and Gormley followed her indoors through a chaotic kitchen and into the living room, where she sat
down on another sofa, this one less threadbare than the one outside. Sweeping a rogue hair from her face, she lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. The kids were back, inhaling
her poison and eyeing Gormley’s suit pocket.
‘Stella, do yourself a favour and tell us what you know,’ Daniels said. ‘I’m in no mood to play games. I’ve got a long list of stuff to do and not enough time to
fit it all in. We can do this here or we can do it at the station. It’s entirely your choice.’
‘I’m going nowhere and you can’t make me,’ Drew bit back. ‘I done nothing wrong.’
‘No one is suggesting you did. But I can spot a lie when I hear one. Were you or were you not out with Maggie Reid on Wednesday night?’
‘Why’s it so important?’
‘Don’t play dumb.’ Daniels bent down and picked an unread newspaper off the table. She held it up, tapping the front-page headlines with the back of her hand:
Inferno Kills
Father and Son.
Stella Drew remained silent – took another hit of nicotine.
‘Well?’ Daniels waited. Then chose her words carefully so as not to alarm the kids. ‘I’m in the middle of a major enquiry, Stella. That means I haven’t got time to
mess about. So if you know anything that might be important to us, get it off your chest now. Don’t put yourself out for Maggie Reid. She’s probably not worth it.’
‘Get the fuck out of my house. I told you, I’ve done nowt wrong!’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. Now answer my question. Where were you Wednesday night?’ Again Daniels waited for what seemed like a very long time. Then she let out an exasperated
sigh. ‘OK, I’ve had enough of this. You’ve had your chance. Got a neighbour who can watch the kids? Or do I contact Social Services?’