by Hannah, Mari
They dropped down on to Elswick Road, still heading west, then down again on to Armstrong Road where Maggie Reid was being cared for by her sister-in-law, Nadia Turner. They were shown into a tidy living room with views across the river to Gateshead’s Metro Centre. A uniformed officer stood up as they walked in, explaining that Maggie’s parents were too traumatized to look after themselves let alone their grieving daughter and so Nadia had volunteered to do so until alternative accommodation could be found.
Nadia offered them tea, telling Daniels that no Family Liaison Officer had yet arrived.
This news angered the DCI more than she could possibly show. ‘My apologies . . .’ She glanced at the PC. A silent message to sort the FLO. And then to Nadia. ‘We’ll take care of that right away.’
The officer and Nadia both made themselves scarce.
Maggie Reid was sitting hunched over in a chair by the picture window, but the vista across the Tyne was completely lost on her. She was in a hell of a state, hardly registering their presence as they sat down to talk to her, spaced out on sedatives the doctor had given her before they arrived. Her eyes were dull and lifeless and she was still dressed in the same clothes she’d gone out in the previous night, blue streaks in her blonde hair matching her smudged eyeliner.
‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Maggie . . .’ Daniels said gently. ‘And for intruding on your grief at this difficult time. But I’m afraid I must ask you some questions. Is that OK?’ Reid nodded without making eye contact. ‘When exactly did you make arrangements to go out last night?’
‘Ages ago . . . couple of weeks, maybe . . . Mark was good and stuff, but he liked plenty of notice to babysit.’ She looked up, trying to hold back the tears. ‘It’s his birthday today. We were going to celebrate as a family, like we used to. I made him a chocolate cake yesterday, his favourite . . .’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Who else knew he was at your house?’
‘What do you mean?’
Daniels rephrased. ‘Who else knew Mark was looking after Jamie?’
‘Me mam. What difference does it make?’ Maggie looked puzzled. Her hands shook as she tore at a bunch of tissues Nadia had shoved on her lap before leaving the room.
‘Can you think of any reason why someone would want to harm Mark? Or you, for that matter?’ Daniels didn’t mention the child this time. Maggie didn’t respond and hadn’t yet twigged what she was getting at. ‘Maggie? I need you to think very carefully. Any idea who might have a grudge against—?’
‘No! Despite our differences, Mark’s a lovely guy. Ask anyone, if you don’t believe me!’ The woman’s face paled further. She pawed at her throat, fighting back vomit, almost choking on her words. ‘He wasn’t supposed to be there . . . him or the bairn! Mark usually has Jamie at his and me mam picks him up to give me a lie-in and that when I go out clubbing. It’s usually late when I get back. She can’t keep him at her place overnight coz me dad’s got special needs and Jamie doesn’t sleep. It’s too much for her to look after them both at the same time.’
Daniels caught Gormley’s unease. He was standing a few feet away, stroking the stubble on his chin. He raised an eyebrow. This was certainly an interesting development. Responding to the silence in the room, Maggie looked up, her gaze flitting back and forth between the two detectives. Her eyes grew big as the penny dropped.
‘You saying they were after me?’
‘We don’t know.’ Gormley’s tone was flat. ‘We were hoping you could tell—’
‘What did you mean, they weren’t supposed to be there?’ Daniels said, interrupting.
‘Jamie had a nasty cold. Mark and I decided he’d be better off at mine.’
‘You changed arrangements at the last minute?’
A nod was Maggie’s answer.
‘You on Facebook, Maggie?’ Gormley asked.
It was a good question. When Maggie didn’t reply, Daniels repeated it, adding other social networking sites in case she’d mentioned her change of plan publicly. People were cavalier in their attitude to giving out personal information these days. They rarely thought through the consequences. But Maggie was in a bad way, too wired to answer. With a flick of her head, Daniels sent Gormley off to ask Nadia if she had a Facebook page or Twitter account.
Seconds later, he was back in the room, shaking his head.
Daniels turned to Maggie again. ‘So where did you go last night?’ she asked.
‘I told you, I went clubbing.’ Maggie sniffed. ‘With a mate.’
‘We’ll need a name,’ Gormley said gently. ‘Of the person you were with and the club you visited. You’ll understand why.’
Maggie Reid just looked at him. Blurting out the name Stella Drew, she ran from the room.
‘The sudden change of arrangements could be highly significant,’ Daniels said as they left the property and got back in the car. ‘Assuming for one moment that Maggie’s an innocent in all this, either the offence was totally random, or she was the target, or someone very close to one or both of them knew they had altered their plans.’
‘She’s lying, boss!’
‘Makes you say that?’
‘You saw her reaction when you asked her who she was with last night. She was sweating like a Geordie on a spelling test.’
Daniels grinned. ‘You don’t think her grief is genuine?
‘I’ve seen others fake it better. Do you?’
Daniels waggled her hand from side to side. The jury was still out on that one. She started the engine and moved off as a crash of thunder brought more rain. ‘Much as we might like to think so, we have no idea what she’s going through. She doesn’t know what she’s feeling or thinking, let alone saying. And where the hell is the FLO?’
Gormley shrugged.
‘Well, find out! And put your bloody seat belt on.’
18
The redhead stared at the last dregs of countryside as it flashed by. In the seat behind her she could hear a couple of guys arranging a game of golf. Someone had ordered a late lunch and the chink, chink of cutlery on china was beginning to annoy her. She’d never understood why people ate on trains: in half an hour or so they’d be nearing the outskirts of London with hundreds of brilliant cafés and restaurants at their disposal.
She flinched as a train whooshed by, going in the opposite direction, vibrating the carriage as it sped past. She wondered what lay ahead and wished it were over. Should she take a cab from King’s Cross or walk? Yes, definitely walk. She needed fresh air in her lungs, needed to oxygenate her brain and concentrate. Everything depended on her memorizing her script by heart. She opened the browser on her phone, then closed it again, remembering she had an app to guide her to her destination. Pressing the menu key, she scrolled to it in readiness to type in a postcode. The device wasn’t playing.
‘Bloody technology!’ She rolled her eyes as her prosperous admirer looked up. ‘Of all the times to go walkabout . . .’ Sighing, she put the phone back in her bag. ‘The mapping system appears to be down. I can’t live without it now. How about you?’
‘Same here . . .’ The man took off his Prada glasses and smiled at her. That sexual tension again. ‘I was considering a glass of wine. Would you like to join me?’
She was all set to decline – she needed her wits about her today – but then a frosty woman sitting diagonally opposite who’d boarded the train at York gave them a filthy look. The redhead had been watching her too. She’d been reading The Stock Trader by Tony Oz. Its strap line: How I Make a Living Trading Stocks. Obviously thought she was a player. Didn’t the silly cow know she was in the company of the best in the business?
‘I’d like that very much.’ The redhead grinned.
Picking up the menu, the man held it out to her.
‘Anything but Sauvignon,’ she said, ignoring the menu. ‘Do you fuck too?’
She didn’t bat an eyelid when a number of passengers turned to look at her. Appalled, the woman across the aisle hid behind her book.
The man stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Ben . . . Foster.’
But the redhead already knew his name, his date of birth, his home address. That he was a professor at Newcastle University. She’d read the passport application he’d been fiddling with since the train pulled out of the Central Station of her home city. She also knew that he was on his way to the University of California, Berkeley, in the not too distant future and that the trip involved an international conference.
It never ceased to amaze her how many people laid themselves open to identity theft. She could read upside down almost as well as the right way up after years of practice. If she were so minded, her interesting stranger would be begging for his life back in a matter of weeks. She was a class act.
He had no fucking idea who he was dealing with.
‘I’m Liv, short for Olivia . . .’ Taking his hand, she looked deep into his eyes. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’
Ben held her gaze. ‘You always this direct on a first date?’
‘Only when I see something or someone I really like.’ She glanced briefly at the Stock Trader book cover being held in front of a stranger’s face. ‘Then it’s no holds barred and I don’t stop until I get what I want. You?’
‘Same, pretty much.’
Yeah right. Who was he trying to kid?
‘Where you from?’ he asked. ‘No, let me guess. South of the river, certainly. Low Fell? Springwell? Am I at least warm?’
The redhead wasn’t happy. She’d spent time and money trying to lose her accent – trying to have no discernible accent at all – and this joker had nailed her good and proper. Her elocution coach was toast. Must try harder, she thought.
‘I’m a linguist . . .’ Ben said, filling in the silence. ‘Accents are my business.’
‘Is there a Mrs Ben?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Of course there is. But what she doesn’t know, right?’
‘That about sums it up . . .’ He blushed like a schoolboy. ‘My father told me if you play with fire you’ll eventually get burnt. You think I should listen to him?’
The redhead swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat, shivering as a ghost crept over her skin. She was somewhere else entirely, back in that dark, dark box room. She knew all about being burnt: she still bore the scars under her very expensive clothes. She could feel them now – tight where the skin had healed itself – puckered pockets of ugliness.
Hideous.
She forced a smile.
As the train rattled on she rubbed her shoeless foot up and down Ben’s inside leg. She loved playing games with men she didn’t know. Loved fucking with their heads, seeing how far she could push them. Over the years she’d found that even the most devoted of husbands came round to her way of thinking. Eventually. Of course, she’d wait until they were absolutely besotted before making her play. A lucrative play it had been up to now.
Shame.
There would still be men like Ben.
But she was going to miss the rest of it.
19
It was gone four by the time Daniels and Gormley reached Mark Reid’s flat. The property was much more upmarket than the one he’d shared with his former wife. Situated in Jesmond, it occupied the second floor of an end terrace, south facing with a view over a parcel of land known locally as the Little Moor. A green space other city dwellers could only dream of.
Gormley gave an impressed whistle. They were standing in a hallway stuffed with original features: an elaborately carved staircase, ornate cornicing and stained-glass windows. Daniels followed him upstairs into Reid’s flat, the leaves of a pot plant brushing her right hand as she entered the living room. A woman’s touch was her first thought as she scanned the interior – one with an eye for the good things in life, from the look of it.
‘You reckon it’s his?’
Gormley glanced up from the desk drawer he was about to search. ‘This place?’
‘Yeah. No offence, but nothing in here tells me it belongs to a man. It’s really tasteful, not the sort of place I imagined at all.’
‘Hey! Men can do taste . . .’ He scanned the room. ‘I see what you mean, though.’ He pointed at a designer lampshade suspended from the ceiling like a big diamond swirl. ‘He didn’t buy that, for a start. No bloke I know would clean that thing.’
His words prompted a smile. ‘He doesn’t clean this place. No way! See if you can find a cleaning contract, mortgage docs, rent book . . . There’s something about our Mr Reid that doesn’t add up.’
Daniels left him and went to explore the rest of the flat. The kitchen and the bathroom were similarly tidy and well equipped, the first bedroom she came to likewise. She opened a cupboard, finding Reid’s own kit in one side: a mixture of suits, jeans, shirts, underwear. In the other side, there was some women’s clothing, enough to cement the impression that he was in a relationship, but not nearly enough to make her believe that he wasn’t the only one living there. Daniels knew clothes and these were bloody expensive – too expensive for her police salary. She checked the labels. Size 14. Either Reid was a pint-sized transvestite who got his kit from high-end boutiques, or he was seeing a high earner who knew how to shop.
The last room she came to took her breath away. A child’s nursery: a magical space filled with brightly coloured toys, mobiles, a frieze of nursery rhymes stencilled on the walls. On the far wall, a cot was crammed with soft toys, its bedding lovingly chosen with Jamie’s name embroidered in the centre. On a chair, a pair of child’s pyjamas and a nappy sat ready for a little visitor who had never arrived.
Daniels turned away, trying her best to blank out the image of a dead child that was forcing its way into her head. She wouldn’t let it. She couldn’t bear to look at it again. She just couldn’t. Carmichael wasn’t the only one suffering from the experience. You never got used to something like that.
There were no personal photographs on display in the room. But stuffed inside a drawer beneath children’s clothes was a framed photograph of Maggie and Mark Reid in happier times. Entwined in each other’s arms, Maggie heavily pregnant, presumably with Jamie. Daniels wondered if they were planning to get back together. Was that what all this was about? Maybe someone didn’t want that to happen. But who? Was she looking for a jealous other half?
If that was the case, was it his or hers?
Gormley shouted from the living room, interrupting her train of thought. She retraced her steps and found him by the window with his notebook out. He pointed at the landline. The display showed the correct date and time as well as two new calls, but no SMSs. A flashing light indicated that one of the callers had left a message.
‘One’s from a local dialling code – East End, if my memory serves: Wallsend? North Shields? Somewhere near the coast. Call came in at eight-o-six p.m. on Wednesday. Someone listed in the phonebook as Dave. The other is a mobile number. Call timed in the small hours, at one twenty-three a.m., to be precise. Caller is listed as Judy. I’ve taken a note of them both. You want to listen to the message?’
Daniels picked up the handset and dialled 1571. An automated voice hit her ear: Welcome to BT answer 1571. You have one new message. First new message. Message received at 1.23 a.m. on Thursday, 24 June. A woman’s voice came on the line. Fairly young, Daniels thought. There was a lot of background noise, laughing and chatting, as if the caller was in a pub or at a party: Hi, babe. Tried your mobile. Assume it’s on charge. Hope I haven’t woken Jamie. If you get this message, call me. The line clicked off.
Then BT bollocks again: To return the call, press—
Daniels hung up. She looked at Gormley, wondering if she’d stumbled upon Reid’s girlfriend. ‘We need to find Judy,’ she said.
20
George Milburn tripped and put a hand out to steady himself. He sat down on a wall to rest for a moment, pulled off his cap and wiped his brow with a handkerchief already damp with sweat. It was a stifling midsummer day, the hottest he could remember for a very long time. No breeze
either. Just baking hot sun. OK for the young’uns, but he couldn’t cope with it any more. Maybe not the best of days to spend at the allotment with Elliot.
He’d been thinking about his grandson all the way home, feeling his disappointment as if it were his own. The lad’s face had dropped when he realized the car he’d set his heart on had been snapped up by someone else. It was a setback, not the end of the world. George had attempted to cheer him up while they worked, joking that the motor was probably an old banger and not worth half the asking price, if truth were known. No doubt it was clapped out somewhere, steam billowing from beneath the bonnet, its new owner beginning to realize he’d been sold a bag of shite and wasn’t quite the petrol-head he thought he was.
Elliot’s mood had lifted slightly. There would be other motors. Other days to spend their hard-earned cash. Though George suspected a lingering wish to possess that car, Elliot had managed to cover it well. He’d heard the words crying and spilt milk often enough over the years for them to have some meaning. Unlike his peers, he’d always listened respectfully to what George had to say. Even if sometimes they ended up agreeing to disagree. Only once had he gone off on one, his frustration boiling over at having to repeat himself. George had forgotten some minor detail of his first days at school. The name of his teacher, he seemed to recall.
Miss Proctor, Granddad. I already told you . . . three times!
Giggling, he’d leapt on to George’s knee and given him a great big hug – his way of saying sorry for yelling. He was only four then. These days he was more forgiving of his grandfather’s senior moments. And for his part, George was grateful to have the ear of someone so young. Their relationship was one to be cherished. It gave George a reason to get up in the morning.
His smile disappeared when he saw Chantelle Fox grinning at him from across the road. She never listened to anything other than her own voice. The girl was a complete fantasist. She’d told him once that her dad was a diplomat. He knew her father well: he was a dipper not a diplomat; a man who’d rob his granny for her eyes and come back for the sockets – and a pathological liar to boot. But she wasn’t all bad. She’d helped George at times when he needed errands run and Elliot was at work. Wasn’t her fault if she came from a family of wasters. The lass’s heart was in the right place.
