Authors: Mari Hannah
Her mobile rang.
Daniels had lost count of how many calls she’d received during the day. She checked her watch. It was five past ten. Maybe this was Matt West with the result on the cigarette end
she’d found stubbed against the wall of Chantelle Fox’s home. He’d promised it was imminent a couple of hours ago.
‘DCI Daniels . . .’ She cringed on hearing the voice on the other end of the line. It wasn’t Matt West. Not even close. Daniels was tired of silly games.
Tired full
stop.
She took the phone away from her ear, put it on speaker, and tried not to sound too interested. ‘What can I do for you, Chantelle?’
‘Nothing! But I can do something for you.’
Leaning against the wall of the station, Daniels waited for Chantelle to explain herself. She didn’t speak right away, but the DCI could tell she was indoors, a TV on in the background,
News at Ten
, by the sounds of it, a programme she’d meant to catch herself. At her request, the BBC were running a piece warning people to be aware of a female fugitive wanted in
connection with a murder by Northumbria Police. And then the penny dropped . . .
Chantelle had seen the breaking news.
‘Has this got something to do with the woman I’m looking for?’ Daniels asked.
‘Might do.’
‘Has it?’
‘Just so happens I know who she is—’
The girl’s voice was lost as a siren wailed into action close by. A panda car reversed, then shot out of the car park, blues-and-twos engaged. A Traffic car followed it out, adding to the
din. Daniels waited for the noise to fade away. For a moment, she thought the girl had had second thoughts and hung up. Then she heard a siren on the other end. A coincidence? Or was Chantelle
close by?
‘Chantelle? Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’ Taking out her key, Daniels pushed open the back door and stepped inside. ‘Who is she, Chantelle? I need a name.’
‘Nice one, Inspector. You think I’m daft?’
‘You really want me to answer that?’ Daniels said, heading upstairs.
‘Well, I’m not as daft as you, am I? ’Cause I know stuff would make your eyes pop.’
‘So tell me. And stop buggering about – this is really important.’
‘I need assurances.’
Daniels mounted the stairs two at a time. ‘Such as?’
‘That I won’t face prosecution for wasting police time.’
‘No deal . . .’ Daniels paused on the landing. ‘Look, tell me what you know and I’ll see what I can do. I really could use some help here.’
‘You’re not the only one.’
‘Fuck’s sake! Tell me who she is!’
‘You know what, forget it!’
The line went dead.
Cursing Chantelle, Daniels called Gormley but he didn’t pick up. Running back down the stairs, she burst through the exit door looking for him. His car was nowhere in sight. He was
probably out picking up Dixon – they needed confirmation that the woman he knew as Susan Armstrong was in fact the woman in the passports – or maybe he was in the Bacchus, having called
it a day.
No
. If that was the case, he’d have rung to let her know.
Daniels called Carmichael instead.
‘Lisa, I’m in the station yard. Get down here ASAP. We’ve got a witness to see. And bring your snips. I’ve a feeling this one won’t go quietly.’
C
armichael’s old 3 series BMW pulled to the kerb. No kids around at this time of night to lighten their pockets for watching the vehicle. Ralph Street was in
semi-darkness, streetlights still missing, despite Daniels’ request to the city council to fix them. She looked up and down the terrace as she got out of the car. Some women were gathered in
a doorway chatting. They looked over in her direction then went back to their conversation, unperturbed by her presence.
Seeing the law in
this
street was an everyday occurrence.
‘Chantelle’s obviously expecting us.’ Carmichael pointed to an open front door.
‘That’s handy for us . . .’ Daniels smiled. ‘No need to knock or wait for an invitation.’
Daniels led the way, Carmichael behind as they passed through the hallway, stopping dead in their tracks as they entered the living room. The place had been trashed, thoroughly ransacked:
drawers emptied on to the floor, cupboard doors flung open, the fireside rug lifted, cushions slashed – the stuffing inside removed.
The back kitchen was much the same.
A thud on the ceiling got their attention.
Carmichael froze. ‘They haven’t found what they were looking for then,’ she whispered.
Daniels put a finger to her lip and pointed to the ceiling above. They moved out of the kitchen and back through the living room to the hallway, picking their way over the debris on the floor.
The stairs were clear. Steep and narrow. Light shone out from a chink in one of the doors on the landing above.
Avoiding the centre treads, they crept silently up the stairs, keeping their bodies close to the wall. During situations like these, time stood still. It seemed an age before they reached the
top. Another thud from inside the room. Carmichael withdrew her snips to use as a weapon. Daniels took a peek through the door jamb.
Nothing visible.
Her heart was punching a hole in her
chest. Carmichael was tough, but they could’ve done with Gormley’s bulk alongside them now. His sheer size was enough to put most offenders off.
Listening with her best ear, Daniels tried to identify how many people were searching.
One
, she thought. Reaching into her breast pocket, she took out a Maglite pencil torch and gently
pushed open the door to her left, checking that no one was in there getting ready to rush them. Her torch beam panned around the bathroom.
Empty
. Second bedroom.
Empty
. No
cupboards to hide in. No nasty surprises in there: a single bed, an old rocking chair, an exercise bike much like the one she had at home.
Her eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, knowing that Carmichael was watching her back the whole time. That was a given, instinctive. Just like the urge to keep moving forward when a
civilian’s response would be to flee the scene. Daniels listened again, planning to wait until the person inside was physically doing something before entering the room. Two hands pulling out
a drawer worked every time. She nodded to Carmichael and pointed to the floor.
Flattening herself against the wall so as not to get thrown back down the stairs, the DC positioned her foot in such a way to prevent the door being smashed into Daniels’ face should
someone try and make an escape.
A ticking noise was coming from the room.
Daniels’ brow creased. Carmichael heard it too. She looked at her DCI:
What-the-fuck-is-that?
Daniels spread her hands:
No idea.
Experience told her that ticking sounds
were not good. She took a deep breath and made her play.
‘Shit, shit, SHIT!’ Daniels exhaled loudly.
The ticking sound stopped as a black-and-white cat looked up, interrupted in its attempt to lick a creamy liquid off the carpet. As her heartbeat returned to normal, Daniels’ eyes locked
on to an open can of condensed milk that lay on its side on the floor, knocked off the bedside table, the source of the baby-sick smell that had confounded her from the moment she set foot in the
place two long days ago.
‘Boss? Over here!’
Carmichael was on the other side of the bed, staring at a point near the floor.
Daniels joined her and bent down. There was blood on the white duvet cover –
a definite hand print
– and a drip or two on the floor. She looked up, considering what might
have happened here. Less than an hour ago, Chantelle Fox had admitted knowing the identity of a woman the whole force were looking for, a strong suspect for one murder and possibly more. Chantelle
lived in Ralph Street, directly opposite one of the crime scenes and she was handy with a camera. It didn’t take a genius to work out the rest.
‘You better get the CSI lads down here, Lisa. Whoever killed Mark and Jamie Reid is responsible for this.’
‘You think they took her? Why not kill her?’
‘It looks like they tried.’
‘But why?’
‘I suspect Chantelle’s been playing David Bailey again. Pound to a penny she’s got more photos. Only these aren’t of the old man. I think she saw the arsonist and
she’s been playing silly buggers in order to make some easy money, blackmailing someone who desperately wants to remain anonymous . . . This time Chantelle bit off more than she could
chew.’ Daniels glanced at the bloody duvet. ‘I told you she wouldn’t come quietly.’
Her mobile rang, startling them both. ‘It’s her!’ Daniels pushed a button on her phone. ‘Chantelle?’
‘The name you want is Lucy Laidlaw.’
Daniels registered this was a name beginning with L
.
‘Chantelle, are you OK?’
‘What do you care?’ The girl sounded scared to death and out of breath. She was crying now, her distress reaching Daniels via loud sobs in her right ear. ‘You make sure you get
the bitch. She nearly fucking killed me.’
‘Where are you? Are you hurt?’
‘I’ve had worse . . .’ Chantelle paused, choking back tears. ‘Inspector?’
‘I’m still here. Let me come and get you—’
‘No! You be careful, OK? She’s one fucking psycho!’
The phone went dead.
T
uesday. Nine a.m. The briefing room was full. Some detectives were sharing desks, two and three apiece, the rest standing in groups waiting for the meeting to begin, every
single person associated with both cases crammed into the room. Carmichael, Brown and Robson had formed a little faction of their own. They’d had the sense to grab a mug of tea before a rush
on the drinks machine. To their left, Maxwell and Gormley’s conversation was about football, in particular Brazil’s three–nil win over Chile that had nudged them closer to a sixth
World Cup title. But most of the excitement in the room was work related.
Since early doors, phones had been ringing off the hook. An image of Susan Armstrong had appeared again, not only on breakfast television, but in the headlines of the local papers and some of
the nationals on sale in the shops.
It was the biggest story for years.
The public outcry Daniels had anticipated had arrived. People were incensed at such a despicable act of cruelty to such a vulnerable accident victim. The fact that a rogue fire officer might be
involved, not only in the death of Ivy Kerr but also in the arson attack that killed Mark and Jamie Reid – had been withheld from the media for the time being. That revelation would come
later, when they caught the bastard responsible.
Daniels’ phone rang:
The fire investigator.
She covered the speaker. ‘Guv, I should take this. It’s Geoff Abbott.’
‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘I’ll start the ball rolling.’
Naylor told the team to get comfy, outlining the need for a thorough case review.
‘Things have moved fast in the last twenty-four hours,’ he began. ‘Yesterday, acting on information received from PC Dixon – who overheard station gossip about a woman in
uniform we were desperate to track down – Hank and the DCI attended the West End fire station where she allegedly worked. They found no trace of her. At that point they had no photograph to
show the watch manager and the DCI put in a request for personnel records of all female staff to be made available. She and Hank then went to the address of Susan Armstrong and later obtained a
warrant. A search of the premises revealed two things. First: the clothing left there, such as it was, is size 14. An average size, you might say. But it matches that found in Mark Reid’s
house. Second: the search turned up several passports, all bearing the photograph of a woman who’d attempted to disguise herself by changing hairstyle or colour.’
‘There was a wig there too, guv,’ Carmichael reminded him.
‘Yes, thank you, Lisa.’ He smiled. ‘I’d forgotten that. Even more shocking is the fact that the woman in the passports is the same woman captured on film at Lottery HQ
– the one passing herself off as Jennifer Rankin.’ He paused a moment. ‘Everyone clear so far?’
There were nods all round.
‘Good.’ Naylor glanced at Daniels, who was still on the phone. It was important to go over events. This case was getting more and more complex by the minute. ‘Last night, PC
Dixon was shown the passports we retrieved from Armstrong’s house. He confirmed that his former girlfriend is the woman in the photos. Therefore we know she is using several aliases. Although
we can’t yet prove it, I think – and the DCI agrees with me – that Judy, the girlfriend of Mark Reid, the un-ident buying petrol
and
Jennifer Rankin are one and the same
woman. Anyone disagree?’
There were no dissenters.
‘Not likely, guv,’ someone at the back called out.
‘The DCI took the unprecedented step of asking the media to put out a picture of the woman on national TV . . .’ He stopped talking as Daniels put down the phone.
‘Geoff Abbott is on board,’ she said. ‘He’ll get back to me in five. May I?’ She took his nod as her cue to take over. ‘When the news went out last night,
Chantelle Fox rang me, claiming to know the identity of “Susan Armstrong”. By the time Lisa and I got round there, the place had been thoroughly ransacked and there were signs of a
struggle, an amount of blood on the floor. Chantelle called again. The poor kid was scared to death. She gave the name Lucy Laidlaw and rang off. Now then – and this is important, so get your
notebooks out, because I’m going to be putting out actions any minute . . .’
She waited until the team were ready.
‘Several names were thrown in the hat this morning, but I think we struck lucky. One witness, a man called Ben Foster, rang in claiming he’d met the woman on a train to London
King’s Cross on Thursday the twenty-fourth of June, a matter of hours after Ivy Kerr was killed. She was using the name Laidlaw but not Lucy. She must’ve fancied Liv that day. I think
she let her guard down and gave her real name by mistake. The name Laidlaw has never come up in the Fraud Intelligence Bureau’s investigation. Liv is short for Olivia, by the way, which does
appear in one of the passports Hank found in the bureau at Armstrong’s drop address. Reduces the likelihood that Chantelle may have been mistaken, yes?’