Authors: Mari Hannah
Her father’s axe.
Time slowed as Lucy thundered down the stairs after her, closer and closer, until she was practically on top of her. As Chantelle ran from the hallway into the living room, she was felled like a
deer as Lucy hurled herself at her legs, sending her crashing to the floor on to her injured arm. Unable to move, unimaginable pain shot through Chantelle’s body. She didn’t recognize
her own voice as she begged for mercy. She wanted it over with. She wanted to die.
T
he attack was sudden and brutal. As the girl continued to beg, Lucy lifted the axe and smashed it into her head, sending a spray of blood right across the room. Lifting the
weapon above her head for a second time, Lucy hesitated, her eyes fixed on the raised marks on Chantelle’s back. Marks she was seeing for the very first time. Marks that made her whole body
shiver. Lucy almost threw up.
She lowered the axe.
Dear God, what had she done?
I
t was like déjà vu when Daniels saw the open door as the panda car turned into Ralph Street and pulled up outside Chantelle’s house. She told her driver to
call for backup immediately. She ought to have waited for Gormley, but that was never really an option. She was a police officer with a job to do and she’d make damn sure she did it. And this
time it would be done properly. If necessary she’d escort the prison van personally all the way to Low Newton until the gates clanged shut and there was no possible avenue of escape for
Laidlaw.
C
hantelle heard the thud of a car door. She was lying face down on the floor, her injured arm beneath her body. But that was the very least of her problems. The side of her
head felt like it was moving, like someone had poured a pint of warm custard over it, making sure it covered the entire surface of her face. And she was cold –
so cold.
She opened
her remaining eye as Daniels stepped through the doorway, the DCI’s hand going straight to her mouth, her eyes filled with genuine grief. It was nice to know someone cared. Then crimson
liquid covered Chantelle’s eyeball. Her heart pumped just once more. And stopped.
G
ormley arrived before Daniels had a chance to bend down and check for vital signs. He stood over the naked body, clearly having difficulty reading the scene. There was so much
blood the head was unrecognizable. He looked confused, his eyes telling him one thing, his brain something else as he stared down at the burn marks on the young girl’s back and came to rest
on the seahorse tattoo on her upper arm. Matt West was right: Chantelle and Laidlaw
were
sisters.
A
serious offender had escaped justice and gone to ground. Daniels let herself into the Turnbull penthouse with a heavy heart, knowing that a woman as clever and calculating as
Laidlaw could evade the law for years, living off her ill-gotten gains. An all ports bulletin had been posted, but the DCI feared she might con her way through the cordon before the authorities had
a chance to apprehend her. She was in the living room when she heard the noise. She swung round on full alert but no one entered. Investigating further, she found the source: an express-delivery
package, addressed to Laidlaw, dropped through the letterbox by the concierge who’d signed for it that morning. Daniels ripped it open. Her eyes grew big as she realized what it was.
‘T
ango 318 to Control: I’m parked at Tebay Services, southbound. Stand by . . .’ The Traffic officer looked out of his window as another Traffic car passed
him on the northbound carriageway, the driver making a circular motion above his head and pointing in a northerly direction. ‘Tango 318: Cumbrian officer travelling north to take the Penrith
roundabout in case target vehicle exits the M6, over.’
Thirty-five miles north, Daniels and Gormley were also in a Traffic car – him in the rear, her in front – with one of Northumbria’s finest advanced drivers. They were
travelling at high speed across the A69, one of several vehicles in pursuit of Laidlaw. Ordering her Porsche ‘fully loaded’ had been a fatal mistake. In a bizarre twist of fate, the
documentation for the vehicle dropped through the letterbox of her rented penthouse at the most opportune moment for the Murder Investigation Team, delivered by the concierge who was unable to hand
it to her as she left the building in a hurry.
Of course she was in a bloody hurry: she’d killed the Cypriot.
The radio again, another call-sign: ‘Tango 512: direction west on the A66 at Penrith.’
And another, a female voice this time. ‘Tango 3529: heading east on same road, over.’
Daniels caught Gormley’s excitement through the rearview mirror. There was nothing like the adrenalin rush of hunting down a killer. At the A69/M6 junction, their car picked up speed. As
the countryside flashed by, Daniels looked out of the window. An hour ago, she had been in a bad place as she entered the Turnbull Building. Not only was Laidlaw a dangerous fugitive with the
skills, wherewithal and means to avoid capture, but Chantelle’s death had affected Daniels greatly, making her feel inadequate, despondent, and unworthy of the title of SIO. She’d
failed in her promise to protect the girl and was wracked with guilt.
Not just guilt . . . sorrow
.
Chantelle sure as hell wasn’t perfect – there was no doubt that she’d brought trouble to her own door – but she was vibrant and funny and had been through such a lot. She
didn’t deserve to die at the hands of a psychopath. Hope of apprehending her killer was restored in a flash as Daniels tore open the envelope containing documentation for a new vehicle. A car
enthusiast herself, she realized its significance immediately.
For the first time since the enquiry began, the DCI knew something Laidlaw didn’t: a tracker device had been fitted to the car, a system ironically designed to prevent theft, consisting of
covertly placed transmitters which, when activated, would send a silent signal to every police force in the country, pinpointing the exact location of the vehicle. A quick phone call giving the
unique reference number proved the turning point.
The Porsche was mobile
.
Within seconds, Traffic officers were dispatched and put on alert across three counties. The police helicopter – India 99 – was also made available. A few minutes later, Stewart Cole
was in the air and Daniels was leading a manhunt, hoping to form a rolling road – box Laidlaw in – and make an arrest.
Her car slowed . . .
The driver pointed out the front windscreen. He’d spotted the target vehicle in the distance, a shiny new Porsche in the inside lane, India 99 directly above it, keeping aerial
observation, high enough not to be noticed. Laidlaw was sticking to the speed limit, seemingly in no particular hurry.
Good move, Lucy. Don’t want to draw attention to yourself.
Calmly lifting a radio handset, Daniels began to transmit: ‘7824: All officers engaged in Operation Tracker, I have the eyeball. I’m travelling south on the M6 some distance behind
the target vehicle. I’ve got lots of car cover. The vehicle is doing about seventy on the inside lane, a few miles north of the Penrith turn-off. Stand by.’
Keeping her eyes on the Porsche, the DCI gave instructions for other police vehicles to slow the traffic behind her. ‘Approaching Penrith turn off . . .’ she said. ‘Target
making no attempt to take the slip road. No physical indication from the vehicle. No, no, that’s fine. This is perfect. No deviation, still southbound on the M6. Copy that?’
Glancing over her shoulder, Daniels could see traffic falling back. The units behind her were doing their job. ‘Tango 318: Prepare, please. I want you slowly on to the M6 travelling south
from Tebay services. Tango 512, I want you behind as the last man. Tango 3529, you’re our side man. Take the south M6 also. When you’re a few miles away, let me know what the tale is.
I’ll maintain my position for the present time. All other units, continue to slow the traffic behind us and give these guys some room. We’re not sure how she’ll react when we
attempt the rolling road. Tango 318, have you got sight of the target vehicle yet?’
‘Negative. No sign yet. Allowing traffic to pass—’
‘India 99 to Control: Looks pretty good up here. Target has three-car cover plus an Eddie Stobart truck bringing up the rear.’
Daniels again. ‘Roger that, India 99.’
‘Go on!’ Gormley was getting excited in the back. ‘We’ve got her, boss.’
‘Bet you my pension she doesn’t come quietly,’ Daniels said.
‘Tango 512: I also have the eyeball!’
The urgency in his voice caused both fear and delight in Daniels’ vehicle: fear that an officer might get hurt, delight because a mass of police vehicles had converged on the road and were
closing in. It was too early to celebrate. At excessive speeds the risk of serious injury to those involved was high. Tango 512 gave his position. He still had the eyeball as well as eight-car
cover. Traffic was busy. At least four very large lorries bunching in the inside lane behind the target vehicle . . .
‘Maintaining speed,’ he said. ‘Target vehicle doesn’t appear conscious of us yet. 3529, when you’re ready to go, I’ll get in position.’
‘3529: Roger that and ready to go.’
A split second later, 3529 came screaming past Daniels’ vehicle at 140 mph.
‘318, how are you in front?’ Daniels asked.
‘318: I can see vehicle. I’m engaging a blue light and moving to stop her.’
‘That’s received,’ Daniels said. ‘318, hold your position in front of her, please.’
‘512: I’m making up car cover. Have her in sight . . . I have one female in the car, no passengers.’ His voice went up an octave. ‘She’s now changing down and
– she’s away, boss.’
‘7824 to all units, I’ll give the commentary. She’s clocked us . . . eighty . . . ninety . . . hundred and ten miles an hour . . . she’s flooring it, weaving in and out
of traffic.’ Daniels flinched as something hard hit the windscreen. The Porsche had rammed the lead police vehicle from behind, smashing the offside light, sending debris flying. ‘3529,
big speed up, please. We need to get this sorted! 512, how are we?’
‘3529: We’ve got a rolling road. I repeat, we’ve got a rolling road. Attempting a stop, but she’s not having any.’
Up ahead, Laidlaw floored the accelerator and then braked hard, forcing the following car to take avoiding action. In the back of the Traffic car, Gormley consulted the map on his knee.
‘If we can stop her before Langdale Fell, all the better,’ he said. ‘Less chance of her taking off to Kendal. The last thing we need is her hurtling through the town at rush hour,
putting civilian lives at risk.’
Daniels agreed – it would be their best opportunity. ‘All units, we’re going to try and stop the vehicle parallel with the Langdale Fell. It’s very quiet there and we
don’t want this pursuit to go any further. India 99 has us in observation. Stop, stop, stop! Target vehicle is trying to force them off the road. She’s ramming the side
vehicle.’
The side Traffic car swerved. For a moment, Daniels thought the officer might lose control. She hoped 3529 was holding her own, but this was no time to be holding her hand. She was there to stop
Laidlaw and that is what she would do. Laidlaw threw the Porsche to the right, ramming her a second time, sending 3529 careering towards the central reservation. There was a pause in the
transmission. In Daniels’ car, they held their breath, relieved when she regained control and retook her position in the rolling road. When she came back on the radio, there was a telltale
high pitch to her voice. Laidlaw had her rattled, but the officer wasn’t giving up – not without a fight she wasn’t.
‘3529: Jesus! I can see the whites of her eyes now. We’re going to have to prevent her from disappearing into a built-up area . . . she’s not stopping, boss. She’s
thumping the steering wheel in a temper. She’s punching at the window, totally out of control. She’s screaming off her face.’
‘Silly cow . . .’ Daniels mumbled under her breath, wishing she was at the wheel. No reflection at all on her driver but, in situations like these, it was nice to have something to
hang on to. Lucy Laidlaw had nothing to lose. She had two choices: keep going or go to prison for life.
A no-brainer then
. ‘7824 to all units: we need to take positive action. We
can’t let her anywhere near traffic or public. Whoa, stop, stop. She’s pulling off. She’s trying to bail the vehicle. Bailing the vehicle. We’ve got a runner! She’s
out of the vehicle and running south-east across the Langdale Fell.’
Five Traffic cars pulled up simultaneously. Daniels got out of hers and started running, arms like pistons. Laidlaw was way ahead, four officers in pursuit. India 99 dropped out of the sky in
front of her. Laidlaw changed direction and so did Cole’s helicopter – once, twice, three times – coming so close it nearly blew her and those pursuing her off their feet.
Exhausted and fighting the lashing downdraught from the helicopter, Daniels closed in as Laidlaw dropped to her knees. Raising her eyes to the heavens, she let out a roar of anger no one could
hear for the thwacking sound of rotor blades above them. Daniels launched herself, shoulder-charging her, knocking her flat. As she struggled to get up, the DCI pulled her arms behind her back and
slapped the snips on.
‘You’re nicked,’ was all she had breath for.
D
aniels got out of her new Audi Q5 at Newcastle International airport, lifted the tailgate and removed a suitcase from the back. Pulling up the collapsible handle, she locked
her vehicle, made a note of its position, and strode towards the terminal feeling a little sad despite the sunshine. As she walked through the revolving doors into the departure hall, a shiver went
down her spine. The last time she’d been here she was looking for Lucy Laidlaw as she tried to flee the country. And now, as Daniels joined a long queue at the check-in desk, she recalled
that anxious wait at the control tower and the slightly bizarre conversation with a Norwegian pilot through the flight-deck window of an enormous Airbus A320 destined for Turkey.