Authors: Mari Hannah
Both women had used those words at the beginning.
Daniels was suddenly ravenous – in every sense. She hadn’t eaten since a piece of toast at six and she hadn’t had sex for more time than she cared to remember. ‘If you
knew I had another agenda, why did you agree to see me?’ she asked.
‘Why do you think?’ Fielding was teasing her now,
as only she could
.
‘I’m sorr— what I mean is, I really wish it had been different.’ Daniels could feel herself blushing again. ‘Can we get the professional stuff out the way and start
over? I don’t expect you to believe me, but I would’ve called you anyway.’
‘Works for me,’ Fielding said. ‘You sure you’re ready, though? I seem to remember—’
‘I’ve never been surer of anything in my whole life,’ Daniels cut her off. She didn’t want to talk about Jo. Not here. Not now. So she quickly changed the subject in
favour of work, reminding them both of why she was there. ‘Tell me about the redhead.’
‘Smart but unfriendly. And
he
looks like your average thug. Acts like her minder, if you know what I mean. Shifty git. Walks ten paces behind. Always looking over his
shoulder.’ Fielding watched Daniels take a stab-proof vest from the holdall and pass it over her head. She pulled a face. ‘That’s a first. I prefer my women to take clothes off,
not put them on.’
Daniels laughed. ‘Later.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Later then.’ Fielding lifted her glass in the air. ‘You know what she looks like?’
‘I’ve got a good idea.’
‘Come over here.’ Fielding led her towards her mini artist studio in the corner. Through the window there were great views across rooftops to the River Tyne. ‘Would this
help?’
‘Jesus!’ Daniels was gobsmacked and instantly back in the MIR.
Look at the eyes
. . .
Ice woman . . . they’re pretty evil . . . your film guy deserves a
BAFTA
. In front of her was a fantastic sketch of Laidlaw, who was indeed a young Hermione Norris. A gifted and highly successful artist, Fielding travelled the world exhibiting her work. And
no wonder. Daniels looked at her. ‘You did this from
memory
?’
Fielding nodded. ‘Trust me, I’m an artist.’
‘Fiona, it’s fantastic!’
Fielding took a bow. ‘She isn’t in, by the way. I saw her drive away like a bat out of hell not ten minutes before you arrived.’
‘Shit!’
‘She’s driving an Audi A5 rental, steel grey, 09 registration, if that’s any use to you. I saw the documentation on the dash and the little medallion thingy dangling from the
rear-view mirror. Our bays are next door to each other.’
Daniels shook her head. ‘You’re amazing, you know that? And wasted as an artist.’ Looking down from the window on to the road below she took out her mobile and dialled
Gormley’s number. He answered right away. ‘Hank, did Naylor come through with the warrant? OK, I need you up here, but swing by the underground car park first and check if there’s
a steel grey, 09 Audi A5 . . .’ She grinned at Fielding. ‘Meet me at the penthouse as soon as you can.’ She hung up and headed for the door. Before she reached it, she turned,
retraced her steps and kissed Fielding squarely on the lips. ‘Thanks, Fiona.’
‘For what?’
‘For being so understanding.’
That enigmatic smile again. ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’
‘Stay here. Don’t open the door to anyone. Wish us luck.’
Fielding’s smile faded. ‘You think you’ll need it?’
Daniels shook her head. ‘I have my own minder, remember?’ With that, she turned on her heels and left the apartment, closing the door behind her. She knew how to get to the penthouse
from the floorplan Carmichael had commandeered from the council – an old planning application. She took the stairs two at a time, her antennae raised for any movement on the floor above.
D
aniels watched the lift ascending. A bell rang, announcing its arrival. The doors slid open and Gormley stepped out. He too had on a Kevlar vest. He was carrying a police
baton in one hand and a warrant in the other, delivered by Robson a few minutes before. Naylor had attended court himself, making an emergency application for a warrant to search the premises of a
prime suspect in a triple murder case, telling the bench that he was confident it would lead to the arrest and detention of the person or persons responsible. There were no arguments from the
magistrates.
Gormley took the key to the penthouse from his pocket and dangled it in the air.
‘Courtesy of a red-faced concierge,’ he said.
‘Shame it took a court order to bring about his cooperation,’ Daniels replied. ‘You checked the car park?’
Gormley nodded. ‘No Audi A5s.’
Daniels knocked on the door but no one answered.
‘How’d you know what vehicle they’re driving?’ Gormley asked, handing her the key.
Ignoring the question, Daniels put the key into the lock, turned it clockwise and pushed open the door. The apartment was much like Fielding’s in size and shape: a high-quality furnished
rental with some nice artistic touches, possibly a musician’s pad or, at the very least, someone heavily into music.
There were several framed posters on the walls. One in particular caught her eye. Joni Mitchell:
Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter.
Joni was at the mike singing, her inimitable pout
clearly visible. An over-sized acoustic guitar hung round her neck from a shoulder strap. The singer was wearing faded blue jeans, a throwback from the eighties, possibly even as far back as the
seventies, Daniels thought. Underneath her picture were the words:
Give Joy To The World . . . With Music
.
Gormley moved through the apartment into one of the bedrooms while Daniels remained in the living room. There weren’t many personal possessions belonging to Laidlaw in the room, just a
man’s leather jacket slung over a sofa, a pair of very large shoes on the floor, an open bi-fold leather wallet discarded on a side table, no cash but several credit cards inside.
Daniels wandered into the kitchen, the only sound in the apartment coming from her shoes as she walked over the wooden floor. It was then that she saw him. The shock nearly took her breath away.
He was a heavy-set man with jet-black, greasy, shoulder-length hair, hard eyes fixed on her, lips slightly apart. He was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt that clung to a swollen gut.
‘Oh my God!’ a voice behind her said.
Daniels turned towards it.
Fiona Fielding had her right hand to her mouth. Her eyes were welded to the floor where the man’s body lay, a knife still in his back, a pool of settled blood all around him. Having heard
the cry, Gormley came thundering through the apartment with his baton raised in the air, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Daniels hugging a woman who had her back to him.
‘Can anyone join in?’ he said, his tongue firmly planted in his cheek.
Both women turned towards him. ‘Hank, this is Fiona—’
‘Fielding, I remember.’
‘Good, then get her out of here!’ As the women parted, Gormley’s eyes shifted to the body on the floor, to the knife in particular, a spring-assisted flick-knife if he was any
judge, the type often used by the military.
‘He must’ve been to a Superintendent’s promotion do,’ he quipped.
Fielding laughed at his gallows humour but her laughter turned to tears as the shock of seeing a dead man kicked in. It may have been his way of coping with the macabre side of being a murder
detective, but it was completely inappropriate in front of a civilian and Daniels wasn’t laughing. Repeating her instruction to lose Fielding, she waited for them to leave and then bent down
to check for a pulse, even though it seemed pointless; an automatic response to make sure the man was actually dead.
He was.
She pulled out her phone and rang Robson. Giving him a quick update to pass on to their guv’nor, she told him to alert the outside team that Laidlaw was currently a natural redhead,
medium-length hair, well made-up. At least, she was when last seen, a description she assumed could change at any minute.
‘She’s driving a steel grey, 09 Audi A5,’ she added. ‘I want a uniformed officer, a scientific aids team and a pathologist down here right away.’
She rang off.
Seconds later, she heard the front door go.
She swung round, half-expecting to see Laidlaw, steeling herself for a confrontation. As the footsteps drew nearer, her eyes glanced at the knife in the man’s back, the only weapon within
reach.
‘She didn’t touch anything on the way out,’ Gormley said as he appeared in the doorway. Daniels blew out her cheeks. Gormley held both hands above his head as she yelled at him
for not warning her on the way in.
‘How’s Fiona?’ she asked.
‘Pretty shaken up. You want to pop down and see her while I hold the fort?’
Daniels growled at him. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you want to find Laidlaw, boss.’
‘Yeah, like it’s that simple!’ Daniels said. ‘We don’t know where to look.’
Gormley grinned.
He knew something
.
‘Fielding said to tell you she
is
wasted as an artist, whatever that means. She said she’s travelled the world and knows an airport hire car when she sees one. Looks like
Laidlaw’s going to make a run for it.’
T
he Peugeot hurtled out of the city northwards on the central motorway with a Traffic car escort, its blue lights flashing and sirens screaming for other motorists to give way.
Gormley floored the accelerator and took the airport road. As the miles flashed by and they left the city behind, the speedometer climbed steadily. But in the passenger seat Daniels’ right
foot was pressed down hard on an imaginary pedal, wishing she was driving her own car, urging him to get an even greater move on.
Desperate to apprehend Laidlaw, she got on the radio.
‘7824 to control. Any MIT officers near the airport yet?’
Pete Brooks in the control room responded immediately: ‘3962 on way.’
‘ETA two minutes, boss.’ Carmichael’s voice hit Daniels’ ear.
Good girl!
‘Reference our suspect. We’re fairly certain she’s making a run for it, Lisa. No details on flights or names, but the Audi A5 is a hire car.’
‘Steel grey, 09 plate, yeah?’
‘Correct. Check it out, soon as you get there. Hank and I are right behind you. If you see her, do not, I repeat
do not
approach her without backup. When you’re done,
rendezvous with us at airport security.’
U
sing the emergency bay to park her private car at Newcastle International Airport was always risky. Carmichael placed her circular police sticker in the window, insurance
against being towed away or slapped with a hefty fine. There were five car hire companies to choose from: Avis, Budget, Europcar, Hertz and Thrifty. It was guesswork: a matter of getting round the
lot as hastily as she could.
Walking quickly towards the terminal building, she scanned the car park, keeping her eye out for Laidlaw, wondering how soon her boss and Gormley would arrive. Word was, they’d found a
body at the Turnbull Building. Carmichael was out and about following up on a lead when Daniels called in. She’d received the news second-hand from Andy Brown. As a result, she was first out
of the blocks. And, as luck would have it, in close proximity to the airport when the call went out for officers to assist in the apprehension of their prime suspect.
What a feather in her cap that would be, if she was the one to make the arrest.
With that career-enhancing opportunity in her head, Carmichael could hardly contain herself. She’d learned a lot about Laidlaw from looking into her dodgy dealings while investigating the
murder of three – now four – people. And what she’d learned enabling her to build a picture of the kind of woman she was. Consequently, she was able to make an educated guess at
which hire company her suspect might choose from the list of those available.
Immediately discounting two – Budget and Thrifty were not Laidlaw’s style – Carmichael bypassed Europcar and headed for Hertz: the world’s largest car-rental agency,
according to the blurb on the wall in front of her. At the counter, she showed ID to a Chinese woman of indeterminate age, explaining why she was there. The woman consulted her records, then
frowned and shook her head, telling the detective that no Ms or Mrs Laidlaw was currently a client of the firm.
‘Any Audi A5s handed in today?’ Carmichael was trying to read the returns sheet upside down. ‘The person I’m looking for may well be using another name.’
‘That’s a little easier. We only have one A5 in the fleet at the moment. It was handed back at, let me see . . .’ The woman ran a long red fingernail down the page and then
glanced at her watch. ‘About forty minutes ago. It was signed off at three-o-five.’
Bingo!
Carmichael asked for details and wrote them down, conscious that she was running out of time if Laidlaw was catching a flight and not laying a false trail. The A5 was part of Hertz’
Prestige Collection.
Why didn’t that surprise her?
It had been rented by a woman calling herself Marianne Spencer, a Christian name she knew Laidlaw had used before.
Maybe she was getting sloppy.
The assistant remembered her too: ‘Short, dark hair, quite striking in appearance.’ She described what Laidlaw was wearing, then added, ‘Most of our customers are friendly,
even when they are in a hurry. But the lady you’re looking for was rather rude, too full of herself to pass the time of day with the likes of me—’
‘You’ve been
really
helpful,’ Carmichael cut her off. Taking a business card from her wallet, she handed it over. The woman studied it: the force crest on the top
left-hand corner, the words Northumbria Police written across a thin blue strip, details of where Carmichael could be found, her department, her name and rank. ‘Please make sure the vehicle
isn’t cleaned. We’ll need to retain it for forensic examination.’
The woman nodded and picked up the phone.