Deadly Deceit

by Hannah, Mari

  ‘Tacky,’ the redhead pulled a sour face. Turning her back, she stared off into the distance, her eyes sliding over the models, and spoke without turning round. ‘No, I was thinking more platinum silver with red leather interior. Failing that, I’d consider black.’ She pointed to one particular machine parked at a jaunty angle near the door. ‘That one I do like very much.’

  ‘That one is sold, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Perfect, isn’t it?’ a man’s voice said. ‘Seems I pipped you to the post.’

  The redhead turned. The bald man from the reception desk had his chubby hand out. She ignored it. Taken aback by her rudeness, he stomped off in a huff. She wandered away in the other direction, with Hunt hot on her heels. ‘One of your best customers, I assume?’ she said, as he caught up with her.

  ‘Yes, buys new every year without fail.’

  Of course he does. ‘Why don’t you show me what you’ve got available? I have other cars in mind and I’m in rather a hurry. I want something I can pick up on Monday at the very latest.’

  Hunt looked stunned. ‘Monday might be cutting it fine, madam. I—’

  ‘I don’t think you understand,’ she interrupted him. ‘I’ll be paying cash.’

  ‘I’m happy to ring round other dealerships if our shipments don’t suit your requirements. I’m sure we can accommodate you.’ He held out his hand, inviting her into a second showroom which was as impressive as the first. ‘I take it you’re looking for a new car?’

  ‘Is there any other kind?’

  He stifled a grin. ‘Any idea on spec?’

  She waited a beat. ‘I think the accepted term is “fully loaded”.’

  ‘Yes, madam.’ Hunt rushed off to make enquiries.

  41

  For a Saturday lunchtime the station canteen was pretty empty. As a rule, there were more officers and PSOs on duty at weekends per head of population than at any other time, mainly to police the cultural and social activities on offer in the city centre, but also to counteract an increased level of criminal activity. There were more fights, for a start. More drink or drugs consumed. More arseholes emerging from their hovels to take advantage of decent folks flocking to Northumberland Street and Eldon Square, Newcastle’s shopping heart.

  Summer always brought out its fair share of shoplifters and pickpockets. An offender’s paradise, Daniels thought as she watched Gormley tucking into an all-day breakfast: egg, bacon, sausage, mushrooms and beans. They were sitting at a table near the open window discussing her find in Ivy’s car when her pocket began to vibrate. Putting down her coffee cup, she pulled out her mobile phone.

  The display showed Robson calling.

  He didn’t introduce himself, just apologized for disturbing her break and launched straight in, telling her that Maggie Reid’s alibi, Stella Drew, had resurfaced within the last half-hour. ‘To be honest, I don’t think she’s been anywhere at all . . .’ he said. ‘The uniform I sent round said she’s not the travelling type, unless you include space exploration. I’m told she’s well out of it. Anyway, you said you wanted to know if we found her. You want me to chase that up? I’m happy to—’

  ‘No, sit tight, Robbo. Hank and I are done here. Is she at home now?’

  ‘At home might be stretching it, boss.’ He chuckled. ‘She’s in a bad way, apparently, but the attending PC told her to stay put until you’d spoken to her. Whether she does that is another matter entirely.’

  Robson’s upbeat chat pleased the DCI no end. It was like having an old friend back after a prolonged period of absence. His gambling addiction had caused him enormous personal problems and he hadn’t been himself in a while. Maybe things were finally working out for him. She hoped so. She’d missed him.

  ‘You got an address for me?’

  Taking a pen from her pocket, she looked around for something to write on but there was nothing available. Napkins, never mind notebooks, were a luxury item that had passed by the attentions of those running the staff canteen. Instead, she accessed the memo pad on her BlackBerry and typed a note as he gave her the details.

  Thanking him, she rang off.

  Gormley asked her about the call.

  ‘C’mon, tell you on the way,’ she said. ‘OK if we use your car?’

  Twenty minutes later they arrived at the address Robson had given her. Stella Drew didn’t answer their knock so they followed the racket coming from round the back of the property. A wrought-iron gate led them to a garden littered with rusting trikes and toys. On a barren patch of grass, an indoor sofa the colour of Chicken tikka masala took centre stage. Stella Drew was slumped on it, almost horizontal. Awake, barely. Three scruffy-looking boys – the oldest about three years old – clung on to her, all talking at once, all vying for her attention. The youngest child’s legs were covered in an angry rash, his sodden nappy hanging around his knees with the weight of the urine inside.

  A snarling Rottweiler took exception to the presence of the detectives. It barked incessantly, straining to be free from its chain, saliva drooling from its jaws.

  Jesus Christ! Daniels couldn’t hear herself think.

  Stella Drew was oblivious to the din. She was painfully thin – anorexic thin – probably weighed less than six stone wet through. Robson’s joke about space exploration was spot on. In the crease of her left arm there were track marks, evidence of recent drug abuse. She had dark, greasy hair tied back in a ponytail and wore no make-up. On heavily tattooed arms were the names of at least three males. Wondering if they were the names of the children or their respective fathers, Daniels tried to rouse the woman and explain why they were there. But her eyes were dull. She clearly wasn’t in. And when she did manage speech, it was hardly what they wanted to hear.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ she whined, switching her attention from Daniels to the kids. She shoved them away. ‘You’n all. Go and play or sommat.’

  Her words were ignored.

  Daniels raised her voice over the children. ‘You can’t hold out for ever, Stella. We need that statement. Just tell us where you were on Wednesday and Thursday and we’ll be on our way.’ Getting no answer, she turned to Gormley. ‘I’ve got a headache, Hank. Either get rid of the rug-rats or entertain them while I talk to their mum.’

  ‘Mind telling me how?’

  ‘I don’t know! Pretend you’re Mr Tumble or something!’

  ‘Who’s he when he’s around?’

  ‘Big guy, acts the fool on TV. You’ve got a lot in common, I’m sure you’ll find a way.’

  Reaching into his pocket, Gormley drew out a Nestlé Kit Kat. Homing in on the sound of the red-and-white wrapper coming off the chocolate biscuit, the three little ones stopped screaming instantly, let go of their mother’s legs and ran towards him. Six hands, ingrained with muck, reached up like starving beggars being offered charitable aid. He gave them a finger each and threw the last piece to the dog.

  ‘Silence is golden, isn’t it?’ he said, licking chocolate from his fingers.

  Drew scowled at him. ‘The bairns haven’t had their lunch!’

  Or breakfast either, Daniels thought. Like you’d care.

  ‘Sorry . . .’ Gormley crumpled up the wrapper and put it in his pocket. ‘You should’ve said.’

  ‘I just did!’ Drew growled, looking to her left. ‘And you can fuck off too!’

  It was a ferocious attack on her next-door neighbour, a woman with spiky blonde hair who’d peeked over the fence. She was hanging out her washing, craning her neck to see and hear what was going on. Her presence prompted Stella Drew to haul herself up off the sofa and go inside. Daniels and Gormley followed her indoors through a chaotic kitchen and into the living room, where she sat down on another sofa, this one less threadbare than the one outside. Sweeping a rogue hair from her face, she lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. The kids were back, inhaling her poison and eyeing Gormley’s suit pocket.

  ‘Stella, do yourself a favour and tell us what you know,’ Daniels said. ‘I’m in no mood
to play games. I’ve got a long list of stuff to do and not enough time to fit it all in. We can do this here or we can do it at the station. It’s entirely your choice.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere and you can’t make me,’ Drew bit back. ‘I done nothing wrong.’

  ‘No one is suggesting you did. But I can spot a lie when I hear one. Were you or were you not out with Maggie Reid on Wednesday night?’

  ‘Why’s it so important?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb.’ Daniels bent down and picked an unread newspaper off the table. She held it up, tapping the front-page headlines with the back of her hand: Inferno Kills Father and Son.

  Stella Drew remained silent – took another hit of nicotine.

  ‘Well?’ Daniels waited. Then chose her words carefully so as not to alarm the kids. ‘I’m in the middle of a major enquiry, Stella. That means I haven’t got time to mess about. So if you know anything that might be important to us, get it off your chest now. Don’t put yourself out for Maggie Reid. She’s probably not worth it.’

  ‘Get the fuck out of my house. I told you, I’ve done nowt wrong!’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. Now answer my question. Where were you Wednesday night?’ Again Daniels waited for what seemed like a very long time. Then she let out an exasperated sigh. ‘OK, I’ve had enough of this. You’ve had your chance. Got a neighbour who can watch the kids? Or do I contact Social Services?’

  ‘Good idea . . .’ Gormley put his head on one side. For Daniels’ benefit, he pointed at something on the floor beside Stella’s feet. ‘If you’re going to kick a hypodermic under the couch, you should make sure you do it properly.’

  Drew’s face paled but still she kept shtum.

  Daniels glanced at Gormley. ‘Make the call, Hank.’

  ‘No, listen—’ The end of Drew’s Marlborough dropped on to the greasy armrest of her chair as she spoke. Brushing it away, she stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and stood up to face them, her eyes flitting to each of her kids before finally coming to rest on Daniels. ‘Whatever you think of me, my kids are all I’ve got. They mean everything to me. I’m trying to get clean, I swear to you. I’ll tell you all I know if you don’t tell the Social.’

  ‘I want to believe that . . .’ Daniels made a mental note to phone Social Services as soon as she got back to the office. The kids were at risk, whatever their mother might say. You could tell that by looking at them. ‘If you cared that much you’d put them first and get rid of the gear for good.’

  The Scotswood stare is a colloquialism for an intimidating glare: an angry look, a glower, hard eyes. Whatever description a person cared to use, it was impossible not to know when you’d received one. Stella Drew’s were degree standard, a mixture of hatred and despair thrown in for good measure.

  Her eyes fixed on to Daniels’ like lasers. ‘What would you know?’ she said.

  ‘Very perceptive . . .’ Daniels gave a half smile. ‘You’re right, I’m not a mother. But even I can see when kids are being neglected. These little ones deserve more than you’re prepared to give, Stella. But that’s not why we’re here. Tell us what’s going on. We’re going to find out anyway.’

  ‘No Social? Promise me . . .’ Drew pleaded. Her eyes misted up when Daniels didn’t answer. ‘I agreed to cover for Maggie, right? But I don’t want to get involved now that . . . now that her kid . . .’ She broke off, wiping snot from her nose with the back of her hand. ‘We weren’t together that night. She asked me to lie ’cause she’s got a boyfriend, a married one. Lives local. But I don’t know who he is, I swear. She wouldn’t tell me. I think she’s scared of him.’

  Daniels had what she came for. Stella Drew would cough sooner or later, but for now she refused to be drawn any further. At least they knew Maggie Reid was lying about being out with her on the night of the fire. And if she hadn’t been clubbing, then where the hell had she been? Maybe the boyfriend wasn’t the only thing she’d lied about, Daniels mused on the way back to the MIR. Maybe the child wasn’t Mark Reid’s at all. Maybe the mystery boyfriend was the father, but not quite ready for fatherhood. There were always a million maybes.

  When they pulled into the station, Gormley seemed preoccupied. Daniels followed his gaze to the perimeter fence. The low-loader was gone, Ivy’s car nowhere to be seen. She got out and looked at him across the roof of the car, the postcode she’d lifted from Ivy’s satnav pushing its way into her thoughts.

  ‘That postcode I gave you? You got it with you?’

  Gormley stuck a hand in his pocket, pulled out a bit of paper and waved it in the air. Daniels took it from him, got out her phone and keyed it into BlackBerry maps. Her eyes were like saucers as the result popped up on the tiny screen. Raising her head, she looked at Gormley for a long moment, her heart banging in her chest, her hands shaking as she pocketed the phone.

  ‘Get on to the search coordinator,’ she said. ‘Tell him I want to see him right away.’

  Gormley frowned. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just do it!’ Daniels yelled.

  42

  The search coordinator shook his head, a concerned expression crossing his face. He leaned on a pool cue, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle. They were in the recreation room surrounded by officers making the most of their tea break. By the looks of them, they weren’t too happy about the interruption.

  ‘You going to be long, boss?’ one of them asked, impatient to resume his game.

  Daniels shot him a dirty look. She eyeballed the search coordinator, a man she trusted implicitly to tell her the truth. ‘You’re absolutely certain that no lottery ticket was found on either body or in the car?’

  ‘One hundred per cent, boss,’ he answered confidently. ‘Searched it myself.’

  Gormley and Daniels exchanged a look.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he queried.

  ‘No, no problem,’ Gormley said. ‘Sorry for holding up your game.’

  Daniels pulled a fifty-pence piece from her pocket and placed it under the pile of coins already there. ‘Next game’s on me,’ she said, then walked away with Gormley following close behind.

  They headed straight for the MIR, excitement giving way to anxiety as they reached the second floor. Stopping at the head of the stairs, Gormley was breathing heavily as usual, chuntering about losing weight again.

  ‘So greed is the motive for Ivy’s murder,’ he said.

  ‘Looks like it.’ Daniels sighed. ‘That’s assuming she bought a ticket.’

  ‘Of course she bought a ticket! Their satnav was—’

  ‘Programmed for Lottery HQ, I know. But without the ticket we have no proof. We need to talk to Ivy’s family, Hank. Find out if she was in the habit of buying tickets and, if so, when and where from. If we can pin down a particular retailer, maybe we have a chance. Right now we need to spill the beans to Naylor. He’s not going like it that we’ve been meddling in his case.’

  Gormley stared along the corridor towards the MIR. ‘OK, here’s what we do,’ he said. ‘Just blame me, like it was all my idea—’

  ‘Ahm, it was your idea.’

  ‘Don’t split hairs! Anyway, what’s he going to do, sack me?’

  ‘I’ve seen him can people for less.’

  ‘Nah. He’s one of the good guys! That’s never going to happen.’

  Daniels wasn’t too sure.

  ‘You think?’ Gormley made a crazy face. ‘So we took a peek at Ivy’s car, so what?’

  Daniels wasn’t really listening.

  ‘It’s hardly a hanging offence!’ Gormley added when she looked back at him. ‘Just tell him it was—’

  ‘He expressly told us not to involve ourselves, Hank. That’s direct insubordination in anyone’s book. Maybe sacking’s a bit strong. But think of it from his point of view. He’s relatively new in post and one of the first orders he gives is ignored. You can’t expect him to be happy about—’

  ‘You got a better idea?’

  She didn’t answer.

  �
�Didn’t think so . . .’ Gormley stroked his chin, searched his brain for inspiration, not finding any. ‘Well, we can’t sit on what we know. Someone needs to follow it up with Ivy’s family right now, not when the B Team get their arses into gear.’

  ‘Hope that wasn’t for my benefit, Hank.’

  Detective Inspector Roger Wallace had reached them on the stairwell, a big man with eyes too close together and really thin lips that made him appear bad tempered even thought he was actually quite jolly. Gormley glowered at him. For some reason these two gentle giants had never got along.

  ‘You shouldn’t creep up on people,’ Gormley growled.

  ‘Sorreee!’ The DI feigned surrender, both hands in the air. ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt. You two sound like you’re having a domestic. Like me and my lass . . . on a good day. I give her grief. She gives me earache. It’s what the guv’nor calls a lively exchange of views. If I were you, I’d kiss and make up.’

  ‘If I were you, I’d piss right off,’ Gormley said.

  The DI walked away grinning.

  43

  The saying ‘walls have ears’ is true of all police stations. Detectives worldwide earwig other people’s conversations and take an interest in their business, invited or not. It’s all intelligence gathering, after all – a skill drummed into them at training school. Once Wallace was out of earshot, Daniels checked the stairwell to make sure others weren’t listening in. Two officers lurking on the floor below looked up. Seeing her peering over the top of the handrail, they scurried off, and she turned back to Gormley in time to catch his dumb idea.

  ‘Why don’t you suggest to the guv’nor that he treat Ivy’s car as an absolute priority?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, that’ll work!’ She grabbed his arm. ‘Come on.’

  Entering the MIR ahead of him, she did a double take as she passed over the threshold. Naylor had completely reorganized the place. Because she had wanted to stay in touch with the A1 murder case, the idea of sharing the incident room sounded great when he had suggested it. But in reality she could see it was going to be a total nightmare: desks pushed together haphazardly, filing cabinets moved, no rhyme or reason to the arrangement. Clearly, aesthetics were not his strong point.