Deadly Deceit

by Hannah, Mari

  Ivy closed her eyes and then opened them again as a hand reached out to her. Not her husband’s, rough and hard from tending his garden, but smoother, much younger skin altogether. The familiarity of a soft Geordie accent cut through the sound of panic going on around her – the voice of the person who’d come to help her.

  Ivy’s relief was overwhelming.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. Help him,’ she pleaded, unaware of the mantra going through the heads of the rescue personnel flooding into the area as fast as they were able.

  Faced with such a chaotic situation, certain decisions had to be made and made quickly. The dead were beyond help. And silent casualties caused fewer problems than those screaming for assistance, even though they were most probably more seriously injured. Prioritizing medical attention was the key to saving lives. And Ivy could be saved if they could get her to hospital quick enough.

  If they could extricate her from the car . . .

  If the car didn’t burst into flames . . .

  If was a very big word.

  ‘What’s your name, love?’

  Ivy said her name in a voice that sounded like someone else’s.

  ‘Well, don’t worry, Ivy. The ambulance will be here soon. You’re going to be fine.’

  Ivy wept again. ‘I . . . I told him it was madness.’

  ‘Here, let me try and make you a bit more comfortable. Told who, love?’

  Ivy’s eyes shifted to her husband, his glasses skewed on his face like they always did when he fell asleep reading in bed, a frequent occurrence in the last few years. Maybe he wasn’t dead after all, just knocked out having banged his head.

  ‘Husband, boyfriend or fancy man?’ The soft Geordie voice again.

  ‘Husband . . .’ Ivy managed a little grin. Feeling too calm for the circumstances, she looked down at legs she couldn’t feel, feet she couldn’t see. ‘It’s our Diamond Anniversary in August.’

  ‘Wow! Congratulations! You in any pain at all?’

  Ivy nodded.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  Moving her hands to her pelvis was an effort for Ivy.

  ‘OK, let’s have a look shall we?’

  Ivy thought she might vomit as efforts were made to free her. Once more, her eyes drifted towards her husband. He was in a bad way. But at least he couldn’t see the mayhem surrounding them. Or the blood. He’d been squeamish all his life. He’d turn his eyes away or make an excuse to leave the room rather than sit through a gory scene on TV. In all the time they’d been married, Ivy had never let on that she’d noticed. Instead, she allowed him to maintain the pretence of being the stronger partner when he was really nothing of the sort.

  ‘Try not to worry, pet. He’s just unconscious, take my word for it. He looks to me like a tough old bugger. You’ll have come through a lot worse than this together, I bet.’

  Tears welled up in Ivy’s eyes. Her husband was indeed a survivor. They’d known each other since primary school, lived in the same street in Byker in the East End of Newcastle as kids. They’d started seeing each other when they were fifteen years old, nearly seventy years ago. He’d worked in the Tyneside shipyards where his father worked before him and was also in the Territorial Army. One of the first to be called up when war broke out. His departure in May 1941 from Newcastle – along with hundreds of other Northumberland Fusiliers – had been heartbreaking for Ivy. She feared she’d never see him again.

  She couldn’t lose him now.

  6

  ‘Stay with me, Ivy . . . Ivy? Can you open your eyes for me?’

  The voice seemed further away than before. Straining to do as she was asked, Ivy’s eyelids refused to obey her command. There was that flutter in her chest again, like a large bird was trapped there. And still her eyes felt as if they were stuck together with superglue. It was as though she was sinking, down and down further, to a place beneath the level of the road. John was there too, smiling at her, encouraging her to keep her chin up as he’d done in 1941 – the first and only time they’d been separated.

  He’d been in Cyprus when she sent word she’d given birth to their only daughter, a letter sent through the free postal service run by the British Red Cross. People were so kind back then. Instead of moaning about hard times, they looked out for each other. Like the couple from Benwell in the city’s West End who used to listen in to Vatican Radio and write down the names of POWs. They took it upon themselves to write to Ivy and tell her that John was among them, captured in North Africa by the Italians. Their kindness averted heartbreak for Ivy who, the very next day, received a letter from the War Office telling her that John was posted: missing, presumed dead.

  Like the person helping her now, the Benwell couple were good people. Salt of the earth. Not long after they had made contact, Ivy received a pre-printed postcard for war prisoners with a red cross stamped on it and bits crossed out where appropriate. Ivy was so shocked to receive it, she could remember the words by heart . . .

  (post mark date)

  (Data del timbre postale)

  My dear, Ivy

  I am alright (I have not been wounded (or) I have

  Sto bene (non sono stato ferito (o) sono

  been slightly wounded). I am a prisoner of the Italians

  stato ferito leggermente). Sono stato catturato dagli Italiani

  and I am being treated well.

  e mi trovo bene.

  Shortly I shall be transferred to a prisoner’s camp and

  Nel prossimi glorni saró transferito in un campo di

  I will let you have my new address.

  Prigionieri del quale vi comunichero l’indirizzo.

  Only then will I be able to receive letters from you

  Soltanto allora potró ricevere la vostra corrispondenza

  and to reply.

  e rispondervi.

  With love John (signature)

  Saluti affettuosi (firma)

  J. Kerr

  The word wounded worried her sick. Just how wounded was wounded? That was the question she’d asked herself in the weeks and months that followed. But, with telegrams arriving daily for less fortunate soldiers’ loved ones, knowing John was alive was of great comfort to her and his extended family. He ended up in Stalag 18, near Wolfsburg in Austria when the Italians capitulated. He stayed there until peace was declared, working on a farm, being cared for by equally good people. He’d always wanted to go back there, find the family and thank them for all they had done. Only he’d never had the means, until a few hours ago when an opportunity to return to Austria had fallen in his lap. He’d seized upon it without a moment’s hesitation before it was too late.

  That’s how much it meant to him.

  They were separated for nearly five years in total. They went to live with Ivy’s mother when John came home until they could afford to rent a place of their own. Times were tough. They were practically strangers when he returned. He never talked about the war but she knew he’d seen bad things. He wasn’t the same afterwards. They married for their daughter’s sake, but it was a rocky relationship at times.

  Ivy loved him so much, even though she suspected he’d fallen in love with an Austrian girl when he was away. Not that it mattered any more. He’d come home to her. Married her. Been a good father to Annaliese, the name he’d chosen for their daughter. Forcing her eyes to stay open, Ivy tried to focus straight ahead and not on John, who still hadn’t moved or made a sound. He would survive. He had to. If only to make that trip.

  ‘He hates the sight of blood,’ Ivy said, as if her rescuer had been party to her memories.

  ‘It’s a good job he’s taking a nap then. You’re doing really well, Ivy. I’ll have you out of there in no time.’

  The wind had changed direction and rain was bleaching through the open window. Ivy felt cold. So cold. ‘He will be all right, won’t he?’

  ‘Try not to worry, love. Let’s concentrate on you for now.’

  Words of comfort couldn’t console Ivy in 1942. And today was
no different. What was taking so long? Wasn’t anyone else coming? There were no trenches here but the place looked like a war zone nevertheless.

  What terrors must John have seen all those years ago?

  ‘We were arguing when he lost control . . .’ Ivy confessed, a pang of guilt niggling deep inside her – making her feel partly responsible. ‘I wanted to delay ’til morning but he insisted there was no time like the present. Said we’d be in London by mid-morning. Our daughter doesn’t even know we’ve gone.’

  ‘I’ll take care of that, pet. Soon as you’re both out of here. Going on a trip, were you?’

  Ivy nodded. Glancing at John, she began sharing the secret he’d insisted she keep to herself.

  7

  ‘Jesus!’ DCI Daniels said, as they stepped from the Toyota.

  Gormley linked his fingers and put his hands on his head. They had attended serious road traffic accidents before but this was something else. Body parts and cars were strewn across both lanes for several hundred metres. There were dozens of vehicles involved. Two fatalities they could see as they walked towards the worst of it. Many serious injuries and lots of walking wounded. On the periphery of the incident blue strobe lights converging from all directions as police, medical personnel and fire crews battled to reach the scene.

  Smoke drifted from a tanker lying on its side and there were casualties everywhere they looked: sitting on barriers, shaking heads, crying and getting upset. Apart from the dead and injured, there were upwards of twenty-five civilians running back and forth, some involved in the incident, others trying to administer aid – an investigative nightmare for the traffic department.

  The police helicopter hovered overhead, sending vibrations through their feet. Suddenly they were in its spotlight. Daniels looked up, shielding her eyes from the rain, wondering if the pilot was a mate of hers, a civilian witness in her last case who’d received a commendation for services to the police and had since been employed by them following a recommendation from her. The spotlight blinked on and off letting her know Stew Cole was watching over her.

  He’d heard her on the radio to Mr Cool.

  A young man walked towards her. He had spiky hair and piercing blue eyes, was dressed in jeans and T-shirt with a film spotting logo on the front and blood – real blood – smeared across it. He was wearing flip-flops. Sensible footwear for the surface water they were standing in, Daniels thought, her eyes homing in on the rainbow effect of spilt diesel on the road. A biker’s nightmare, even after the rain stopped.

  ‘You police?’ The man was a little breathless.

  Drenched, cold and thoroughly miserable, Gormley looked down at his high-viz jacket. Daniels thought he was about to say What do you think? So she nudged his arm and he restrained himself.

  ‘You hurt, sir?’ he said instead.

  ‘Me? No. I wasn’t involved in the accident. I’m just doing my bit.’

  Daniels didn’t think the man was injured. She noticed a heavy camera bag slung over his shoulder. ‘Name?’

  ‘Steven, with a v, not a p h.’ His eyes were like saucers. ‘I counted three fatalities so far. But the body count will rise, there’s no doubt about it. And that’s just this side of the road. I haven’t been on the other side yet. Oh man! I’ve never seen anything like it! Who needs special effects?’

  ‘That’ll be Spielberg then, will it, Steven with a v?’ Gormley didn’t bother trying to hide his contempt. Flipping a pad open, he took a pen from his pocket. ‘Stop pissing about, son. I need a surname. An address. Then you can sling your hook and go back to your movies. People are in pain here. Show some bloody respect, why don’t you?’

  Gormley wrote his details down and then told him to move along.

  They watched him slope off, his bag bumping against his thigh as he walked.

  ‘What a dick!’ Daniels rolled her eyes and lifted her radio to her mouth. ‘7824 to 7295. Now on scene. Your six o’clock. What d’you want us to do?’

  The senior traffic officer turned towards her, calm in a crisis as she knew he would be.

  ‘Can you walk up the line, Kate? I need a rough sketch. Reg numbers. Position. Details of occupants where possible. Appreciate your help. See the bus?’

  Daniels’ eyes scanned the scene. A single-decker was right side up but half its windows were out. Red-and-white flags flapped through gaping holes where the glass was missing. Its passengers peering out from within, all of them ashen, some with superficial injuries, gawping at the chaos in disbelief.

  ‘Yeah, I see it.’

  ‘Thirty plus on board. En route to the airport, apparently. I’ve instructed the driver to keep the doors shut, but they’re whingeing to be off. They could use a little encouragement to stay put, Kate. I need more casualties wandering round like a hole in the head.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  Daniels led Gormley away from the film buff, who was still hanging around enjoying the spectacle, behaving like an arse. She didn’t have time for him. They had serious work to do.

  8

  Ivy Kerr was much more comfortable now with less pressure on her pelvis. She thought she’d seen John move a minute ago. But maybe she was mistaken. As her eyes slid over his face, she noticed, bizarrely, that the white hairs in his ears needed a trim. He would hate that. He’d always taken such a pride in his appearance.

  She’d tease him about it when they got home.

  More rescue personnel had arrived. Strobe lights from emergency vehicles flashed non-stop and there was frantic activity as professionals took over from civilians. A couple of plainclothes police officers with high-viz jackets walked by as the rain began to ease off. Despite the chaos all around her, the woman appeared calm, confident and businesslike. She stopped making notes in order to direct medics to a particular individual in distress. The man with her, a large man with a pleasant face, looked at Ivy through the car window.

  ‘You guys in there OK?’

  Gormley waited for a response. Hours ago, on a rare night off, he’d been watching footie with unmarried police mates. Take-out Indian food. A few jars. A few laughs. Time away from marital disharmony. And then all hell broke loose: three mobiles rang out simultaneously in the middle of the night, three ringtones competing with each other to interrupt deep, alcohol-induced sleep. Even for coppers, for all of them to be called out was unusual. An omen of what lay ahead. And now he was surrounded by death and destruction in the middle of a traffic nightmare in the pissing rain, with no bloody idea why Daniels had agreed to get involved.

  Who was he kidding? She couldn’t walk away from a lost dog.

  He didn’t approach the vehicle, just ducked beneath the height of the car roof, raising his voice over the din of sirens and screams and the noise inside his head. ‘Need any help in there?’

  A young woman grabbed his arm, begging for help. He led her to the nearest paramedic and then turned back to the car. Gormley knew a dead body when he saw one. The driver was a fatal by the looks, the old lady being worked on not much better. A front passenger, she looked proper poorly, her green eyes paling to yellow in the early morning light as they strained to meet his. She reminded him of his mother, or what she might look like in a few years’ time, should she live that long. The same stamp: heart-shaped face and short-cropped, silver hair. He gave her a reassuring smile.

  Ivy was comforted by his caring face. As the big man in plain clothes moved off, her rescuer smiled at her, far too busy cutting off her seatbelt to turn around and chat.

  ‘We’ve got it covered here, haven’t we, Ivy? You’re a star, aren’t you, love?’

  ‘Nice of him to ask,’ Ivy managed in return.

  She was relieved to hear that her rescue was proceeding well. It meant she would live long enough to make that trip. God forbid she’d meet anyone called Annaliese in Austria. Another glance at John. Those flapping wings in her chest again. It was time she learned to trust him. She took his hand in hers, praying he’d survive his injuries and make a full recovery
.

  Ivy looked out the window. The big man had caught up with his female colleague. They were heading in the direction of a busload of passengers Ivy could see in the distance. In the foreground, a young woman suddenly appeared in front of her. She’d crawled out from beneath a load of boxes that had spilled from the back of a four-by-four, blood streaming down her face, rendering her sightless. She walked towards Ivy, hands feeling her way, oblivious to her surroundings.

  ‘Help! Help me,’ she cried. ‘Is anyone there?’

  Ivy never saw the object that struck her, or the torch illuminating her bag. Never felt the hands searching her pockets, or the gap in her cleavage where the item was nestled between her breasts. She met her end holding her dead husband’s hand, with police and medical personnel metres away, a blind girl looking straight at her. And she certainly never heard the shout go up as her damaged brain stopped functioning.

  ‘Over here! I need help over here!’

  9

  Haunted by images of blood and mangled flesh, Daniels and Gormley left the crash site to continue their journey. They had done what any police officers would in similar circumstances, given assistance to the living before attending to the dead, remained at the crash scene until the incident management team had everything under control and they were no longer required.

  Gormley glanced at his watch. It was just gone five.

  ‘You think the dash-and-splash will still be there at this hour?’

  His pet name for the fire department was an attempt to lift Daniels’ mood. But it would take more than that, the way she was feeling. She gave a shrug, driving a little slower than usual tonight. Turning left, she entered Ralph Street where the alleged arson had taken place. A hundred metres ahead, a large white tent had been erected around the front door of a terraced house to keep prying eyes out. A fire engine was standing by, as well as a number of panda cars and Forensic vans. She drove towards the scene, steeling herself for more misery to come.