Authors: Mari Hannah
‘Handbags at dawn then,’ Gormley said.
‘Kinda. Albright got all defensive when Lisa asked him about it. And when I told him Reid was dead, he nearly shit himself. Unlike his wife. She said, quote “I’m glad”
unquote.’
Daniels’ interest grew. ‘Where were they last night?’
‘Slaley Hall,’ Carmichael’s enthusiasm diminished. ‘Golf tournament. Charity Fundraiser. Anyone who’s anyone was there, including the Chief. Denise Albright was
almost smirking when she told me that.’
‘Shit!’ Daniels sighed. ‘Thought it sounded too good to be true.’
‘There’s better news . . .’ Carmichael said finally. The team held its collective breath. ‘The Albrights weren’t the only ones to lose out when their business
folded. Four others lost their jobs and as far as I know they’re still on the dole.’
C
hantelle slipped her phone back in her pocket as she watched the ambulance disappear. No lights or sirens. Too late for that now. It was horrible, seeing George drop like a
stone to the pavement right in front of her. He was a canny old man. A stingy old git. But he’d always been kind, especially when her parents threw her out – a frequent occurrence over
the years. She felt guilty for what she’d done. Still, George was past caring, why should she bother?
When her neighbours had wandered away, Chantelle had hung around watching the polis work on him. The daft sod hadn’t twigged that there were three outstanding warrants for her down at the
nick – unpaid fines going back years. Then again, he’d been rather busy trying to revive the old man.
George’s demise had drawn the attention of the journo she’d yelled at that morning. Having photographed the disappearing ambulance, he was hurtling towards her from across the road,
one finger raised in the air to catch her eye, his man-bag bumping against his legs as he ran. She knew he’d come crawling back sooner or later. DCI la-de-da Daniels had sent him packing with
his tail between his legs earlier.
What a divvi!
He smiled, apologized for leaving her high and dry.
She shrugged. ‘S’oright . . . wasn’t ready to talk to you then anyhow.’
‘You know the old man?’ he asked.
‘No, never clapped eyes on him.’
‘Really? You seem upset.’
‘Hay fever.’ Chantelle wiped her eye. She nodded at the shell of the house across the road. Chancing her arm, she asked, ‘What’s in it for me if give you the heads up on
stuff round here then? An exclusive, I mean.’
‘Depends what you know.’
Chantelle knew plenty. And she could spot an opportunity from a hundred metres. Her pissy part-time job at a secondhand phone dealership wasn’t going to make her rich, was it? She was
going to have to create her own luck. Lay her hands on a bit of cash some other way. By fair means or foul – she wasn’t arsed which. She was prepared to take her chances wherever and
whenever they appeared. But the journo wasn’t taking her seriously.
Realizing how transparent he was, all of a sudden he started being nice. Offering to take Chantelle’s picture. Maybe even get it into the
Evening Chronicle
if she came across with
what she knew.
Loser.
‘We could help each other out,’ he said. ‘C’mon, I need something special for my editor, something that might give us a handle on who started the fire.’
‘A snout, you mean?’ Chantelle laughed. ‘Do me a favour. Posh boy like you would be hard pushed to find one of them round here. I do have something, as it happens, something
that would make your eyes bulge . . . but I’m not givin’ it to you, so get lost.’
He walked off in a huff.
T
im Stanton looked at his watch, saddened by the thought that he’d not managed to finish in time to get home for his son’s fifth birthday tea in the garden. He
exhaled loudly. He’d promised his wife he’d be there
no matter what
. But with two of his colleagues on leave, the urgent demands of his job required his presence here.
The pathologist and his associates were busier than they had ever been. Eleven sudden deaths in the space of twelve hours was unprecedented: a young woman hit by a bus while crossing the road;
six fatalities from an accident on the A1; two from the scene of a suspicious fire; a motorcyclist who’d failed to take a sharp bend. And now, an old man who’d keeled over in the street
on his way home from a family visit – probably a heart attack, aneurism, or some other catastrophic condition.
Promising himself he
would
get home in time to kiss his son goodnight at least, Stanton looked down at the examination table where Ivy Kerr’s body was laid out.
‘Turn her over please, Sally.’
Bright, and with a Scottish accent, his assistant was in the final stages of a postgraduate course in forensic medicine at the University of Edinburgh. Stanton had taken his own qualifications
there and was now an Honorary Lecturer. Sally had been working with him for the past three months and had proven she was capable and committed to her job. He registered her reaction almost before
it had formed fully on her face, alerting his curiosity, bringing with it a sinking feeling as reality dawned.
There was little chance his kids, Edward and Maddie, would see their Daddy tonight.
His eyes followed Sally’s, homing in on her concern immediately. Something was very wrong here. At that moment, his duty of care to the dead woman became his one and only priority.
‘Tell me what you see,’ he said.
Sally pulled a magnifying lamp towards the body, angling it slightly. She leaned in, peering at the mess of matted blood and hair at the back of Ivy’s head, taking her time before
answering. ‘Acute haematoma caused by penetrating trauma to the back of the head, cerebral contusions and brain matter—’
‘Which are?’ Stanton said, interrupting.
‘Inconsistent with injuries in any road traffic accident victim
I’ve
ever seen.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Stanton was playing Devil’s Advocate now. He wanted her to justify her statement. ‘We have no way of knowing what heavy items she might’ve
been carrying unsecured in the back seat of her vehicle. Maybe something shot forward at the point of impact, striking this lady, entering the brain and causing her death.’
‘No . . .’ Sally shook her head confidently, her eyes showing no doubt. ‘These injuries suggest repeated bludgeoning with a heavy object, something with a rounded edge. Looks
to me like a ball-peen hammer or suchlike. This unfortunate soul didn’t die of injuries sustained in the crash. She was murdered.’
B
ack at the MIR, the seven o’clock briefing was already underway. Detectives ate at their desks, conscious that home-time was a long way off. The first twenty-four hours
of any murder enquiry often produced the best results. If you found a perpetrator within ten minutes, likely as not they would still be wearing the same clothes. Ten hours, they might not have got
round to washing the clothes. Ten days, trace evidence may well have been lost for ever.
The squad had been tossing around a number of scenarios in an effort to find what in police terms was called
motive to victim
. Why was this particular house set on fire? And who was the
intended victim? Discounting the child as the target, they were left with only three possibilities: Mark Reid, Maggie Reid, or the person who lived in the house before them.
‘There is a fourth,’ Daniels chipped in.
‘You think they got the wrong house?’ Maxwell asked. He was sitting on a desk directly in front of her, a can of Coke in one hand, a half-eaten bacon stottie in the other.
‘It’s not the first thing that springs to mind,’ Daniels said. ‘But it
is
a consideration. Without forensics, we start with the victim and go from
there.’
Questions came thick and fast from the floor. What was Maggie not telling them? Gormley was convinced she was hiding something. Who knew Mark Reid was in the house? Whose clothes were hanging in
his wardrobe? Who was Judy, the woman on the phone? Mark Reid’s professional success had unwittingly upset people: the Albrights, their staff, maybe his ex. According to Carmichael, several
Albright employees had lost their jobs. They needed tracing and eliminating as a matter of urgency.
Daniels instructed Maxwell to check out the Albrights’ alibi. ‘I want confirmation that they stayed over at Slaley Hall. I want times, names of other guests they might’ve seen,
including when they turned in and what they had for breakfast. Don’t save the horses – and time your journey, starting at the crime scene. If they slipped out to start a bonfire,
whatever route they took, there are too many cameras to get there and back without detection. It’s what? Twenty-five miles, tops?’
Maxwell nodded. ‘About that.’
‘The Albrights seem to think they’re home and dry with the Chief there,’ Carmichael said. She got up and handed A4 sheets to everyone. ‘These are the people that lost
their jobs when Albright’s company went bust.’
Having speed-read the list, Daniels looked up. ‘Names ring any bells with anyone?’
Heads shook and no one spoke.
‘OK, run them through the database, Lisa. See what gives. Do it now, please.’
Carmichael was already on her feet and heading for her computer, DCs Neil Maxwell and Andy Brown watching her leap into action. Daniels smiled. Either Carmichael was totally unaware of the
effect she had on these two or she chose to ignore it. She had only one thing on her mind, and it wasn’t getting her rocks off with fellow officers, on or off duty. She’d been burned
once and there was no way it was happening again.
‘What else have we got?’ Daniels asked. ‘Any news from the search team?’
‘Sure is,’ Brown said. ‘A petrol can dumped in a wheelie bin three streets from the crime scene, along with a singed rubber glove. The householder has been interviewed, gave a
statement claiming
she
didn’t put it there. She seems pretty genuine, according to the reporting officer.’
‘Make sure the items go off for urgent forensic examination, marked for my attention.’
‘Already taken care of, boss.’
The team were buoyed by this potential new lead. Daniels was too. However, her enthusiasm was replaced by annoyance as her mobile phone rang out. If it had been anyone else but Stanton calling,
she’d have ignored it. It must be important for him to interrupt her during a briefing. And
important
from a forensic pathologist usually wasn’t good.
What he had to say depressed her.
‘Are you sure?’ Daniels’ mind raced back to the A1 crash: the rain, the mayhem, the dead and the dying,
Bridget
.
‘We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I wasn’t, would we?’ He sounded hacked off.
It wasn’t like him to snap. It made Daniels realize that her team weren’t the only ones in the criminal justice system working flat out. The incident room suddenly came into sharp
focus, like a scene fading up on a movie screen. Faces were turned in her direction, inquisitive expressions on all of them, Stanton’s voice bringing her attention back to the phone.
‘. . . despite the massive injuries, even at her age, I’m certain this lady
would
have lived, given the necessary medical intervention. I’m afraid you’ve got
yourself another murder case, Kate. One of the worst I’ve come across in all the years I’ve been practising.’
‘What about her husband? The other crash victims?’
More worried stares from around the room.
‘So far, so good.’ He didn’t sound entirely convinced.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I’m about to examine the last one. They were all unlucky, but this lady in particular, murdered when she was at her most vulnerable.’
T
he redhead had practised all day yesterday. Nothing written down. Just a script she’d created with the Cypriot, learned by heart by the time she stepped from the train
and set off for that all-important meeting equipped with the relevant documentation. The meeting went the way she’d planned it. Word perfect, in fact.
It had been quite a while since she’d been in London and she was filled with excitement as she woke early in a sumptuous king-size bed in a suite where immaculate attention had been paid
to the last detail: bespoke furniture, heavy drapes, those little touches that made a difference between a good and mediocre hotel. She didn’t ever want to get up, except –
cliché or not – today was the first day of the rest of her life.
Arching her back, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head. For a moment she just lay there thinking of Ben, the stranger she’d met the day before. No longer such a
stranger
after a quick shag on the train –
quick
being the operative word. It was over in a flash, a sordid fuck in a confined space with a man she’d never see again. Never speak to. No
need. He’d served his purpose, filled in a bit of time on her boring journey south.
On the pretext of helping with her luggage, he’d followed her dutifully from the first-class carriage. As they’d passed the lavatory, she opened the door and manhandled him inside.
It was a small space. Big enough. But even in first class there was water – or something worse – on the floor.
Shoving him down on the seat with some force, she had undone his flies, lifted her skirt and straddled him. She was born to take risks. It was what made her tick. Made her feel alive. She took
him deep inside her, his hands on her hips as she worked her magic. But he disappointed, came way too soon, before she’d even got started. And afterwards, he couldn’t get out of there
quick enough.
Blushing as he reached the comfort of his seat, he didn’t know where to put himself as the eyes of fellow passengers turned in their direction, the financial wizard’s included. The
redhead knew she’d smell sex on them. It was the sole reason she’d fucked him – to shove that dirty look right back in the woman’s frosty face. Maybe next time she’d
think twice about looking down her nose at people.
When the train pulled in, Ben had guided her through the station, turning left and out into the sunshine to find a cab. Walking to her meeting wasn’t an option after all. It turned out to
be twenty miles from central London,
a monumental pain in the arse
. So she had joined a long queue of businessmen, tourists and locals who’d opted not to take the tube, Ben insisting
on keeping her company while she waited. They stood there, making small talk, until a black cab arrived. He even kissed her goodbye before she climbed in.