Authors: Mari Hannah
Chantelle’s colour rose ever so slightly. ‘Dunno what you’re on about . . .’ She looked out the window as if she was expecting company, a supercilious grin on her face.
No inkling of embarrassment or guilt at having been caught out in her little scam. ‘I want you to go now. Me nana’s calling in and I don’t want her to find you here. She’s
not been well.’
‘Same nan your father told us died last time we arrested him? Or the one whose funeral he was on the way to when we stopped him for dangerous driving for the third time in a week? Most
people only have two. Come on, Chantelle, hand over the camera or whatever device it was you used. The woman at the
Journal
’s not coming round.’ Daniels grinned. ‘She
sent me instead.’
Chantelle remained silent.
‘Do
not
piss me off, Chantelle. I said, give it here!’
The girl looked vulnerable standing there in her summer jimjams, her chunky legs like tree trunks in a pair of skimpy shorts, her knees a bit red from too much sun. But she was as hard as nails.
Her eyes, thick with last night’s make-up, flicked briefly past Daniels to the sofa beyond, causing the DCI to turn and investigate further. And lo and behold, she spotted a brand-new
Mulberry handbag hidden under a cushion, presumably wedged there in a hurry when she’d knocked on the door.
‘Well, well,’ Daniels said. ‘What have we here?’
‘Hey! Gimme that!’ Chantelle made a lunge for the bag.
Daniels snatched it away. Taking a pair of Latex gloves from her pocket, she put them on. She could smell expensive leather as she examined the contents, eventually extracting a mobile. She
threw the bag back down on the couch and then accessed the phone’s media files until she came across an image of George Milburn. He was lying on the pavement in brilliant sunshine clutching
his chest, but still very much alive. There were other images too, the last one of PC Dixon kneeling on the ground beside the old man, his uniform belt clearly visible as he administered
mouth-to-mouth.
If Daniels’ calculations were correct, Chantelle must’ve been standing at least ten feet away from the body as she took the photos, and that bothered her. It was true the girl had
form for theft. But would she have taken the old guy’s money and then called the police while he was still alive to tell the tale? Daniels didn’t think so. More likely she’d have
robbed him and legged it, leaving him dying on the pavement.
It wasn’t looking good for the Italian stallion.
Glancing at the image in her hand, Daniels was sickened by what she saw. Happy slapping – youngsters videoing violent assaults – was one thing, a craze she hoped had had its day. But
happy snapping? She’d read somewhere that mobile phone subscriptions had reached over five billion globally. Every sale placed a camera in a hand. It stood to reason that the practice of
capturing any kind of human disaster on film was a growing trend. But there were limits of acceptable behaviour, unless you had a screw loose, or a cruel fascination with death.
Did Chantelle?
Was she a voyeur?
If so, was she connected to the arson?
Daniels had been in the police long enough to keep an open mind. She decided to rule nothing in or out until she knew which way the wind was blowing. Thankfully, she was on her own today. Had
Gormley been with her, she’d have had her work cut out to keep him from rounding on the girl. He had a tendency to tell the unpalatable truth to offenders who pissed him off. But on this
occasion she didn’t even try to restrain
herself
.
‘You’re despicable, you know that?’ Daniels said. Her words made no impact. The girl looked at her like she was from another planet. ‘He was an old man, Chantelle. And
this . . .’ Daniels tapped the mobile. ‘It’s just not on! I hope you’re really proud of yourself.’
‘It’s not an offence to take a picture,’ the girl said, sheepishly.
‘Handling stolen goods is, though.’ Daniels pointed to the Mulberry bag. ‘Get a pay rise, did you? Been saving up your pennies?’
‘Told you, I had a bit of good fortune.’
‘Even so, I hope you have proof of purchase because something tells me you can’t afford that.’
‘Don’t keep receipts, sorry. Anyway, it’s a knock-off. A copy.’
‘My arse. I know quality when I see it. Knocked off more like. What if I take possession and maybe arrest you for . . .’ Daniels pretended to think hard on it. ‘Theft?
Receiving? How does that sound?’
Chantelle’s right hand formed into a fist. Her knuckles turned white. But she wasn’t about to get violent. Her eyes were back on the television set. With sixty-seven minutes gone,
the Germans were celebrating yet another goal. From the way she was behaving, Daniels half expected her to punch the air in celebration. It didn’t surprise her that she had a flutter now and
then. Her old man would bet on two flies crawling up a wall.
Like father like daughter.
Daniels tried shock tactics. ‘Taken any other photographs of dying men recently?’
It worked. ‘What d’ya mean?’
‘Don’t play dumb, Chantelle. You know exactly what I mean. If I find out you’re not telling me the truth, you’ll lose more than your handbag. Show some respect, why
don’t you? A man and a child lost their lives across the road. And take that smug look off your face before I do something about it – this is no laughing matter.’
‘Hey, wait a minute, I had nowt to do with that! I took those . . .’ She pointed at the phone in Daniels’ hand. ‘But that’s all I did, I swear. I didn’t take
the old man’s cash neither. I saw him go down and dialled 999, like I said last time you and the fat fucker were here. I took his picture, then the polis came along and tried to help him. I
wasn’t going to give the skanky old minger mouth-to-mouth now, was I?’
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment or two. Daniels stood in the centre of the room, considering her options. The girl had more to tell, she was sure of it. Nevertheless she decided
to bide her time. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ she said. ‘But mark my words, I
will
be back.’
She walked out with Chantelle’s voice ringing in her ears.
‘Hey! When do I get my phone back?’
‘When I’m good and ready.’ Daniels turned. ‘By the way, you had better find a receipt for that bag or come up with some information or I’ll be knocking on your door
from now ’til Doomsday.’ She walked to Gormley’s dark blue Peugeot feeling the girl’s eyes on her back. The gummy kid appeared from nowhere with his hand out. The DCI threw
him a quid, got in and drove away.
C
hantelle remained on the doorstep unable to keep the smug grin off her face. Her friend Tracy walked up to the front door and asked what the police were doing there. Chantelle
ignored her. She was too busy watching Daniels’ car drive slowly down the street.
Keep the phone, fuckwit – the photos an’ all! I’ve got more interesting ones than that!
And someone dafter than you dying to get her hands on them.
T
he redhead knew a cop when she saw one. She slid down in her seat, watching Daniels drive away, keeping her eyes firmly on the wing mirror until the Peugeot turned the corner
and disappeared from view. Across the street, Chantelle and the other girl lingered on the doorstep for a moment or two and then went inside and shut the door.
Her phone rang:
the Cypriot
, a hint of tension in his voice. ‘Did you find it?’
‘No. The cops were there.’
‘And now?’
‘Gone. But she’s got company. Did she ring back?’
‘No. Maybe she bluffs you.’
‘We’re in no position to take that chance.’
‘Silence her then!’
‘No!’ The redhead could see Chantelle laughing through the window. ‘She dies and we may never find the incriminating evidence she insists she has. I’m not prepared to
risk that. There’s too much at stake. I’ll watch her. When it’s clear, I’ll make my move. Don’t worry. She won’t get away with blackmailing me. The girl is
greedy for cash. We’re safe. For the time being.’
T
he journey back to town didn’t take long. At the Swan House roundabout, Daniels took the second exit left on to the central motorway and picked up speed, travelling
north away from the River Tyne. University buildings stood like sentries on either side of the four-lane road. She swung sharp left with the city centre straight ahead, arriving at the station
minutes later.
There were few vehicles in the car park: a couple of squad cars lying idle along the perimeter fence, one or two belonging to the CID. A mishmash of civilian vehicles too, some smart and well
cared for, others rust buckets that didn’t look legal. Her own two wheels were parked where her Toyota ought to have been, a niggling reminder that she must find time to sort out a
replacement. Had it been a weekday, a prison van would’ve been backed up to the rear door, waiting to take prisoners from the magistrates court to either HMP Durham or Low Newton Remand
Centre, depending on their age. But on this sunny Sunday afternoon, the place was relatively empty.
By the time she’d reached the MIR the England game was over and the acrimony over a bizarre decision by the Uruguayan referee had just begun. Her team were loitering by the coffee machine,
their bitter disappointment clearly visible. Maxwell looked positively pale, shell-shocked, utterly miserable, like a kid whose parents had taken away his toy soldiers. Jacket off, tie loosened, he
had dark wet patches under his arms. Daniels stifled a grin.
Probably the first time he’d broken sweat in the incident room for a very long time.
‘Even a fucking octopus predicted that one,’ he was saying.
Daniels gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm as she walked by. Gormley looked up as she approached. She threw his car keys at him. ‘You need diesel and a car wash. It smells like a
brothel inside.’
He didn’t answer.
Things were always serious when Hank’s sense of humour went walkabout.
Pushing her way to the drinks machine, Daniels dropped a coin into the slot, selecting white coffee, a change from her usual black. Too busy to replenish her personal supply, she was resigned to
something a little less palatable and hoped the milk would help. As the drink was being dispensed, she listened to her colleagues’ tales of woe, letting them air their grievances and get the
match out of their systems before reminding them they had work to do.
After a few minutes, they peeled off and went back to their desks. Even Maxwell agreed there were more important things in life than a bunch of under-achievers who’d let their country down
by not rising to the occasion. Leaving them to it, Daniels went directly to her office, shut the door behind her and pulled down the window blind – her way of saying: Do Not Disturb.
Cradling her coffee in both hands, she relaxed back in her seat, put her feet up on her desk and shut her eyes, trying to rid herself of the noise in her head. Random thoughts of three incidents
came and went in no particular order. A confused jumble of concerns. So many questions. Too few answers. No matter how hard she tried to pull them apart and make sense of them, they merged into one
bloody big problem that threatened to overwhelm her.
Chantelle Fox knew more than she was letting on – that was a given – but it didn’t mean she was lying about everything. The photographs she’d taken clearly showed PC
Dixon working on George Milburn, which meant that he was still alive at that point – probably a thousand pounds richer too. What if she was telling the truth vis-à-vis the old
man’s money?
Am I dealing with a bent cop?
The more Daniels mulled it over, the more convinced she was that the girl was covering up something even more sinister than theft from a dying heart attack victim, as distasteful as that might
be. The arson perhaps? During their little encounter she’d slipped up, shown her colours in a way she probably hadn’t intended to. If she disliked football enough to bet against her
national team, maybe she wasn’t at the party on the night of the fire.
Sitting up, Daniels put down her coffee cup. Accessing the HOLMES system, she typed in Chantelle’s details and quickly located the names of those reported to have been at the Ralph Street
party. Her name wasn’t among them. Her house-to-house statement confirmed that she was alone at home that night. Or was she? Daniels knew Chantelle was a smoker. She’d smelled nicotine
on her, seen spent fag-ends in ashtrays in her home. A smoker had extinguished a cigarette at her front door. Was it her? Had she been watching? Was there more than one person involved? Maybe
Chantelle started the fire and someone else was keeping toot? Or was
she
the one acting as lookout?
Daniels’ mind was in turmoil. She’d yet to discover the identity of Mark Reid’s mystery girlfriend, the person whose clothing was in his flat. The person who’d rung his
home phone at 01.23 a.m., hours after he was killed. W
as
this the same woman his mates had seen wearing a uniform? A security guard? A fire officer? A prison officer?
A cop?
And what of Cole’s footage from the air? Was the item in the rear of Ivy’s car what Daniels feared it might be? If it
was
a hat, who did it belong to? A medic? A fire
officer?
A cop?
There was a pattern forming here and Daniels didn’t like it.
She sighed, frustrated by her lack of progress. She needed results and she needed them now: DNA from the cigarette butt she’d sent to Matt West at the forensic science laboratory at
Wetherby; enhancements of CCTV images Maxwell had retrieved from the garage; the same of the object Cole’s recording had captured in the back seat of Ivy’s car. Technical Support were
working flat out, but not fast enough.
The rest of the day was a blur.
F
our miles away, Jo Soulsby began her Monday morning by scanning the shelves of her local library trying to find a novel she hadn’t yet read. Despite working within a
related field, crime fiction was her thing. Opting for Karin Slaughter’s
Faithless
, a book she’d missed in the Grant County series, she got it stamped and made her way outside
into the sunshine. Despite the lovely weather, her mood was grim. Kate Daniels had been on her mind all morning and she wondered what her reaction would be when she confirmed that she was leaving
the Murder Investigation Team to take up the job at HMP Northumberland.