Deadly Deceit (30 page)

Again there were nods. The team were buoyed by what she’d told them. She could see it in their eyes. They were on their marks and raring to go. Now all they had to do was prove it . .
.

‘Cherchez la femme,’ she said. ‘And to help you in that task, I’ve asked one of our analysts to interrogate HOLMES for unknown females and un-ident females currently in
the system.’

‘Excuse me, ma’am . . .’ A hand went up at the back. An officer assigned to the team on a temporary basis was looking puzzled. ‘What’s the difference between
unknown and un-ident females exactly?’

‘That’s a good question. Unknowns are exactly that: persons about whom nothing is known. Whereas un-idents are those where there is some information assigned: for example a partial
name, an approximate address, a street name, a workplace. Any information we have that might lead to a full identification at a later date.’

Her explanation seemed to satisfy him and she moved on.

‘Hair and eye colour is something that can easily be changed with the use of dyes and or lenses. So we’re matching physical descriptions here: height, size, shape –
characteristics that are harder to alter or disguise.’ She pointed at the murder wall where the faces of Jamie and Mark Reid and Ivy Kerr stared back at her. ‘We have three victims so
far. Chantelle Fox is lucky her picture isn’t up there too. She’s in grave danger and I want her picked up. We need to find her before Laidlaw does.’

She caught Gormley’s eye.

He shook his head, explained to the others that he’d called at her house on the way in. There was no sign of her and no indication she’d been back to the property since it was
trashed. ‘She’s probably keeping her head down until Laidlaw is picked up,’ he said.

‘Smart move,’ someone muttered.

‘Chantelle has my number,’ Daniels said. ‘So hopefully she’ll use it. If she does call the incident room, try and persuade her to come in. Tell her I need to talk to her
urgently and she’ll get all the protection she needs. If she won’t play ball, ask if she knows anything about Laidlaw’s male friend and possible accomplice. Caffrey, the guy who
lives next door to the drop address, described him as a “rough-looking Mediterranean”, so another un-ident we know nothing about. Andy, keep your eye on the incident log. If Chantelle
fled in a hurry and has no money, she’ll be up to her old tricks.’

Brown nodded.

Daniels picked up a remote and pressed a few buttons. The images on the murder wall changed. There were now several pictures side by side: the passport photos, the grainy shot obtained at the
garage, a photograph Dixon had taken covertly for a keepsake, and one the team hadn’t seen before – a good facial image Daniels had uploaded from her phone a mere ten minutes ago.

She highlighted it on the wall. ‘This is a photograph I obtained from Steven Watkins, the film buff Hank and I came across at the accident. Lisa managed to track him down through a contact
she has at the North East Screenwriters’ Group. Last night I interviewed Keith Jewitt, the writer who runs it. Nice man,’ she said. ‘He speaks highly of Watkins, describing his
weird behaviour as youthful exuberance. Early this morning, I knocked Watkins up. Jewitt was right. He’s not such a prat as I first thought. He apologized for his remarks and promised not to
let his passion for manufactured gore get confused with the real stuff in future. He gave me this picture and it puts Laidlaw firmly at the scene. The hat in her hand is the one Cole captured on
video from the air in the backseat of Ivy’s car, I bet.’

Dozens of eyes were fixed on the image.

‘Anyone wish to comment before we move on?’ Daniels asked.

‘Jesus! Look at the eyes,’ Carmichael said. ‘Ice woman or what?’

‘They’re pretty evil.’ Brown looked at Daniels. ‘Your film guy deserves a BAFTA.’

‘You want me to grab a female officer and take some photographs of my own, boss?’ Maxwell said. ‘I’m happy to.’

Naylor frowned. ‘You finding this funny, Neil?’

‘No, guv. Perhaps I should rephrase that.’ Maxwell glanced at the murder wall. ‘Dixon claims Susan Armstrong is five-ten. I’m suggesting I take a policewoman to the
garage. Stand her in exactly the same spot and get some CCTV footage for comparison. It would confirm or dismiss the person’s height, man or woman.’

‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Daniels said.

‘I’m full of them, boss.’

The DCI’s phone rang.

She answered with a bark. ‘Yes! What is it?’ After listening in earnest for a moment, she thanked the person on the other end and then hung up, her solemn expression placing everyone
on alert. She turned to Naylor. ‘Guv, that was Abbott again. Remember the fire officer who went sick with post-traumatic stress after the accident?’ She paused. ‘It’s
Laidlaw. Lucy Laidlaw.’

T
hunder rumbled overhead. It had been raining heavily since first light and the windows of the small café were all steamed up. Chantelle shivered. She was soaked to the
skin having come out of her hidey-hole to find some breakfast, a place no one would think of looking for her in a million years.

Another rumble of thunder.

Using her hand, she wiped a window in the condensation and peered through it. Outside, people in summer clothes were running for shelter under misshapen umbrellas, cars had their lights on and a
small group of shoppers were sheltering in a doorway across the road, waiting for a break in the weather. Chantelle wondered how Rooney was doing at home. Probably hiding under her bed, scared
stiff as usual. She loved that cat. He was a stray she’d picked up off the street, the only living thing she gave a shit about. He needed his scran, just as she did, and would probably starve
to death in a few days if he wasn’t fed.

Depressed by that thought, Chantelle finished her bacon buttie and picked up her tea. But the mug was empty, just cold dregs in the bottom. At the counter, the middle-aged woman who owned the
café was serving take-aways to youths from the building site down the road. She had greying hair cut too short for her oval face and was wearing a Harrow checked tabard type apron fastened
at the sides with Velcro. She gave a young man his change, throwing a concerned look at Chantelle as he made his way out the door.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

Other customers turned to see who the owner was talking to, their eyes sliding over Chantelle.

‘I’m fine!’ Chantelle said. ‘So you can all stop gawping!’

The owner wasn’t convinced. ‘You don’t look it.’

‘You looked in the mirror lately?’ Chantelle bit back.

‘Did your mother never teach you manners, young lady?’

Yeah right, Chantelle thought. The only thing her mother had ever taught her was how to play roulette and how to apply fake tan.

The woman had come out from behind her counter and was now standing over her.

‘Can I get you anything else before you go?’

It was a heavy hint that she was no longer welcome.

Ignoring the woman, Chantelle dropped her head into a magazine someone had left on the table, eyeing the lush watches on the wrists of the stars. One of them was practically identical to the
watch Laidlaw had been wearing last night. The memory of the encounter made her tremble. Chantelle had been watching the vicious cow for days and knew exactly what she was up to: fancy new watch,
new car, new names too, according to the papers.
Well, not any more.
Not now Chantelle had done her civic duty by tipping off Daniels and the fat fucker.

The police were lucky there were people like her around.

‘You need medical attention.’ The loitering owner uncrossed her arms and pointed at the makeshift bandage on Chantelle’s wrist, the blood-stained fingers poking out from
beneath. ‘Your face isn’t much better. Look at the state of you!’ Her voice softened. ‘Has something happened to you, dear? Shall I call someone? The police?’

‘No! Just get lost and leave me alone. I slipped in the bath, that’s all.’

Chantelle’s lie was the first thing that came into her head: the excuse women give in prison if they’re attacked in the shower block and don’t want to snitch to the zombies
looking after them. She knew the wound needed stitches but was too scared to go to casualty in case Lucy was watching. She didn’t want the café owner’s sympathy. She
couldn’t cope with that.

‘Then I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave . . .’ The owner indicated the door. ‘This is a café, not a waiting room, and you’re
upsetting my regulars. Besides, it’s against health and safe—’

‘Bollocks!’ Chantelle got up so suddenly the chair fell backwards and landed with a crash on the floor. Two old ladies at the next table picked up their shopping and made for the
exit. A bell sounded as they pulled the door open and waddled out into the pouring rain. Chantelle turned back to the owner. ‘See . . . you’re the divvi upsetting everyone! You could do
with a course on customer service. And don’t you ever call me
dear!
’

The woman held out her hand. ‘That’ll be one pound fifty.’

‘Bacon was off. Tea was like piss. You can swing for it,
pet
!’

And with that, Chantelle was gone.

N
ow that Laidlaw’s description had been widely circulated, the public were on the lookout and the incident room was buzzing with excitement. Call takers were rushed off
their feet. Within the last hour, they had received hundreds of calls from people claiming to know her, some adamant that they had seen her recently. It was impossible to say how many of them were
genuine, but all sightings were being checked by an outside team as a matter of urgency. Another team were out looking for Chantelle.

Daniels could see hope in the faces of murder investigators. They knew they were closing in on a suspect. Two cases were at stake here, involving three murders, so it was all hands on deck to
make an arrest. In a show of unity and inter-agency cooperation the Chief Fire Officer and the Chief Constable of Northumbria Police had agreed that Geoff Abbott could assist them in order to bring
Laidlaw to justice as quickly as possible. He’d just arrived at the office looking a little sheepish with her personnel file under his arm.

‘Welcome to my world,’ Daniels said. Abbott had never been in the new Major Incident Suite before. ‘Good to have you on board, Geoff.’

‘Tell me that when you’ve read this.’ He tapped the file.

‘Is there a problem?’ Daniels asked.

‘I’d say there might be.’ He sighed, handing over the file and watching as she scanned the pages contained therein. ‘It’s what’s not in there that worries me,
Kate. It seems Laidlaw may have slipped through the recruitment net. She had a traumatic early childhood and time spent in care, but there’s no psychological assessment, no psychometric test
score. Need I go on?’

‘Why am I not surprised?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Dixon says she’s a manipulative looker who knows how to get what she wants.’ Daniels shook her head. It never ceased to amaze her how women – even in her own
organization – could get on by batting their eyelashes or stroking the egos of the decision makers. More than a smile and you were destined for a meteoric rise through the echelons of the
police service. Nobody cared if you could actually do the job. It was whether you looked good that counted. She glanced sideways. ‘Hank, get Jo on the phone. Tell her we need her in on this
one after all.’

‘After all? Something I missed?’

‘Don’t question me, Hank. Just do it!’ Daniels winced as he sloped off in a strop, passing Andy Brown coming the other way. The DC seemed a little out of breath and headed
straight towards her, pulling up sharply as her mobile phone rang in her hand. The display read: Matt West calling.

About bloody time.
She was keen to hear the results of the samples he’d been testing.

‘Matt, what you got for me?’ she said.

‘You want the good news or the bad?’

‘Don’t you start!’

‘Pardon?’

‘Doesn’t matter. What’s up?’

He hesitated. ‘Your fag sample was contaminated by one of my interns.’

‘For God’s sake! We’re running a triple murder case here!’

‘I’m so sorry, Kate. We only used part of the sample, so it is possible to do the whole thing again.’ He paused – probably feeling her frustration down the line, hoping
she wouldn’t fly off on one. ‘The guy who made the mistake is a good kid. He’s shitting himself that you’ll make things difficult for him. Can I put his mind at
rest?’

Daniels swore, DS Robson’s blunder on a serial murder case popping into her head as he walked past her in the MIR. More recently, Carmichael had come a cropper while working under cover.
No matter how much care was taken, how much training given, human error crept in from time to time. Abbott and Brown were both still hovering. She mouthed the word
sorry
before going back
to her call. The error was hardly Matt West’s fault.

‘Don’t you worry about it,’ she said, trying to keep her temper in check. ‘To be honest, the pressure we’re under, I’m amazed it doesn’t happen more
often. We’re not perfect this end either. But you be sure to kick his arse and tell him I’m not at all happy. This is a murder enquiry not a petty theft and he should take more care.
There will be no complaint from me, but leave him in no doubt he owes me – and I
will
collect.’

‘Thanks, Kate.’ West sounded relieved.

Daniels glanced at her watch.
Five to eleven
. ‘How soon can you get back to me?’

‘I’ll get on to it right away. As soon as I have a result, I’ll call you.’

Daniels registered the indirect answer. Matt West was the most meticulous scientist she’d ever worked with. She’d have a reliable result sooner rather than later. She thanked him,
hung up and looked at her waiting DC.

‘You wanted to see me, Andy?’

Brown nodded. ‘A young woman matching Chantelle’s description nicked off without making payment at a café in the West End. The proprietor thinks she’s seen her before.
Said she’d taken quite a beating and was bleeding from an arm injury. It sounded pretty bad, so much so, the owner was more concerned to report an assault than she was about getting her money
back.’