by Hannah, Mari
Carmichael flashed them a dubious look. Swivelling her chair round to face them, she asked what they thought of their new home. It was obvious she didn’t like it. Daniels didn’t either, but she ignored the question.
‘Is the guv’nor in, Lisa?’
‘He was a moment ago.’
‘Alone?’
‘Last time I looked. Something wrong?’
‘A bit of Feng Shui wouldn’t go amiss.’
Lisa burst out laughing. ‘Reminds me of the old room downstairs—’
‘What’s wrong with it?’ Gormley interrupted. ‘It’s not supposed to be cosy. It’s an office!’
‘Well, I don’t like it,’ said the DCI. ‘Hank, you’d better make yourself scarce. I’ll let you know when you can come back out to play.’
Carmichael gave them an odd look.
‘Don’t ask,’ Daniels said.
She went straight to her office, shut the door, and logged on to her computer. She needed some quiet time to think things through; time to come up with a strategy before she told Naylor the ugly truth that she’d gone behind his back. For once, she was delighted to see that her inbox was full of emails requiring an immediate reply. She dealt with those, then turned her attention to a hastily scribbled Post-it note from Harry Graham, the receiver: I NEED AN URGENT WORD. IT REALLY CAN’T WAIT.
Thank you, God!
But when she phoned his office, Harry told her he’d already spoken to Hank and had his question answered. Sod it, she thought, looking at her watch. Six-fifteen. Her desk and in-tray were clear of anything resembling work. With nothing else to distract her, she went to ’fess up.
She found Naylor in his office surrounded by files. On one side of his desk was a large white binder – the ACPO Murder Investigation Manual – the office bible. He’d been brushing up, though she couldn’t imagine why. What he didn’t know about running a major incident she could write on a postage stamp. Propped up on one elbow, he was eating a salad from a transparent plastic bowl.
‘This isn’t just food,’ he said. ‘It’s M and S food.’
Daniels smiled. His attempt at mimicking Dervla Kirwan, the voice of the Marks and Spencer ad campaign, was dreadful.
He held up the bowl. ‘You’re eyeing my grub. Want some?’
‘Not for me thanks, guv.’
‘No appetite for good food? You’d better sit down then. It must be serious.’
He knew her too well.
‘I’m not hungry,’ she said. Her stomach rumbled audibly.
‘Doesn’t sound like it.’ Chasing a cherry tomato around the salad bowl, he eventually managed to spike it with a white plastic fork and popped it into his mouth whole. ‘Is there something specific I can help you with? Pull up a perch.’
‘I was wondering how Ivy’s case is going.’ She remained standing, acting like she was just passing the time of day – normal office chat. ‘Got any definite leads yet?’
‘Eh?’ Naylor carried on eating. ‘I know I’m good, Kate. But I’m no miracle worker. How did you get on?’
‘Maggie Reid’s alibi collapsed. I need to interview her again.’ She rubbed at the back of her neck, playing for time, feeling hot and hoping it didn’t show. Then she lost her bottle altogether as guilt crept into the equation. Naylor wasn’t just her boss. He was a good mate too and had been for as long as she could remember. She smiled weakly. ‘I’d . . . better get on.’
She hadn’t reached the door when his voice caught up with her. ‘This got anything to do with what you found in Ivy’s car?’ he asked.
With her back to him, she froze. Pressing her lips tightly together, she turned to face him. His eyes were smiling – a good sign, she thought – then they weren’t. She found she couldn’t read him. There was an awkward silence for a moment. Out of the corner of her left eye, she caught movement in the office outside. Carmichael’s cheeky face popped up at the internal window, then Brown’s, Maxwell’s and finally Robson’s, fanning out like cards. They were doubled up laughing.
Daniels blushed as they walked away. Anticipating a bollocking, she tried to find a reasonable explanation for involving herself in his case. Direct disobedience of an order was a situation she’d been in before and one she’d vowed never to repeat. On the last occasion it had been a different boss, but all the same . . . Here she was again, keeping things from her guv’nor, digging herself a bloody big hole. Why oh why couldn’t she play it straight for once?
‘Pull another stunt like that and I’ll be forced to put you on the naughty step,’ Naylor said.
‘I won’t, Ron. I promise.’ She sat down and pulled her chair closer to his desk. ‘You’re not going to believe what I found—’
Her attempt to leave Gormley out of it failed.
‘I know exactly what you found and who you were with when you found it. But don’t you worry. The B Team will sort it.’
Daniels cringed. That bastard Wallace had grassed them up. ‘We really were rumbled, weren’t we?’
‘Spectacularly.’
The guv’nor sat back in his chair, enjoying himself at her expense. Same old Naylor she’d known at training school: happy to roll with the punches and not averse to bending the rules himself.
‘Where is the big man anyway?’ he asked.
‘Powdering his nose.’
‘Is that a euphemism for hiding?’
‘Something like that, but under my direction. Guv, please leave Hank out of this. I take full responsibility.’ Her plea brought no response. The result of the postcode search barged its way into her head: Camelot Group plc, an address at Tolpits Lane, Watford, Hertfordshire. She was desperate that Naylor take immediate action. ‘You going to get on to Lottery HQ? Winners are the only ones who make that trip.’
His triumph dissolved. ‘Carmichael’s already been on to them.’
‘And?’
‘There were five winning jackpot tickets on Wednesday night. Only one was bought in the north-east. All winners have been authenticated and prizes paid out.’
‘Already?’ Daniels was shocked. ‘Surely not?’
‘’Fraid so. A cool 1.1 million each.’
Daniels whistled. ‘We’re not looking for someone who just searched a bag and found a lottery ticket, are we? Not if they knew where it was bought and when. And they had to have done, to make a claim without raising suspicion—’
‘Indeed,’ Naylor said. ‘Ivy must’ve told her attacker everything.’
‘Silly, silly woman . . .’ Daniels paused. ‘Which also means she trusted them. Either that or she was forced to reveal the information under duress. What can Camelot tell us?’
‘Not a great deal. They have contacted the winners. Four are happy to talk to us if we can guarantee discretion. Their identities are obviously a closely guarded secret and they are anxious not to have personal details disclosed to the media—’
‘That’s a given, guv. And the fifth? I assume that’s the winner from this region.’
Nodding, he glanced at a sheet of paper on his desk. ‘Jennifer Rankin: tall, mid to late twenties, redhead, described as well dressed and respectable with looks to go with her newfound wealth. She produced everything they asked for: when and where the winning ticket was purchased; the fact that she used the same numbers every week, as well as passport, driving licence, rent documents, utility bills and bank account details. She had the lot, Kate. There was nothing suspicious about her.’
The Super leaned back in his seat, placed his elbows on the arms of his chair, linking his long fingers, his eyes sending her a message that there was more to it than that. Daniels had seen that look before. If she was reading him right, she figured that the news wasn’t good.
‘I’m nearly afraid to ask,’ she said.
‘Rankin declined assistance with money management, opting for no publicity. Winners are offered an advisory panel of legal and financial experts but she wasn’t having any of that. She told Camelot staff that she was an entrepreneur with her own team of financial a
dvisors who’d take care of that side of things for her.’
‘I bet she did. The money transfer went through?’
‘Worse than that. The cash has since been transferred again and again from the destination account to offshore accounts all over the knot end. Ones that have been set up for months. Rankin’s address is an empty flat. Andy said it hasn’t been lived in for months.’
‘Fuck!’ Daniels’ jaw tightened. ‘It’s totally clean?’
‘’Fraid so.’
That meant only one thing.
They had a major player on their hands.
44
Daniels was confused. She’d had the motive for Ivy Kerr’s murder pegged as an opportunist theft. But if the money was being transferred from account to account all over the world, who the hell was she dealing with? Mulling this thought over, she made her way to her office. Detectives were already putting the MIR back to normal – thank God – before the mother of all briefings Naylor had scheduled for later. With three murders to solve, the next few days and possibly weeks would be taxing for all concerned.
Those who knew she’d been rumbled by Naylor grinned at her as she walked by, grins she was certain would evaporate when she told them there was no longer even a small chance of them watching England’s next World Cup game, due to be televised tomorrow. Gormley had come out of hiding. He was standing near his desk looking sheepish. It was clear that he knew Naylor had been wise to them all along, turning the tables on Daniels, payback for trying to pull a fast one. She rolled her eyes as she approached him, flicking her head in the direction of her office. He scooped up his mobile phone and followed her in, shutting her door behind him.
‘Lisa filled you in?’ she asked.
He nodded and sat down.
‘Does it make sense to you?’
‘None at all . . .’ Gormley took off his tie. ‘I assume we’re back in the mix?’
Daniels nodded. ‘All hands on deck for both incidents. He can justify that to Bright, now we’re no longer suspects. Lottery HQ confirmed that a young posh bird collected Ivy’s win.’
‘Ah, that does makes sense . . .’ Gormley kept a straight face. ‘Young bird rules me out totally. And posh? Well, need I say more?’
‘This is serious, Hank. The money trail could take months.’ Crossing her legs, Daniels leaned back in her chair. ‘The woman calls herself Jennifer Rankin, but I’m betting that’s an alias. What was the name of the guy who called in the accident? David somebody?’
‘Healey? Hedley? Something like that—’
‘I think we should start with him and go from there.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s as good a place as any.’
‘You said it was a woman collected the win.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe our Mr Healey or whatever his name is has a girlfriend. Apart from the walking wounded, he was the only person on the scene until the first responders arrived. I’ll put Lisa on it. I’d like you to find that other little scrote: the one we spoke to at the scene, the film buff, remember him? Steven with a v, not a p h.’ Her mobile rang. She fumbled in her jacket pocket with the intention of silencing it, then changed her mind and decided to take the call. ‘DCI Daniels.’
‘It’s PC Dixon, B Rota, West Area Command. You wanted to speak to me, ma’am?’
‘Hold on a second . . .’ She covered the phone with her hand. ‘Sorry, I need to take this, Hank. Can you make sure the room is put back exactly as it was before Naylor’s reorganization? I know it’s an office, but I can’t possibly work in there.’
Gormley nodded, got to his feet and headed out, leaving her to take the call. Of all the times, this was probably the worst for PC Dixon to ring her. She had a double arson to solve and now Ivy Kerr’s murder too. But she’d promised Elliot Milburn she’d look into his grandfather’s missing money and felt duty bound to follow it through.
‘PC Dixon?’
Dixon answered in the affirmative.
‘I need to see you ASAP.’
‘About?’
‘Anything I damn well please!’ she barked.
There was a short pause.
‘Sorry, ma’am. I mean, is there a problem?’
‘I’ll explain when you get here . . .’ Logging on to her computer, she listened as the anxious constable made all sorts of excuses why he couldn’t get there. He was beginning to irritate her. ‘No, now! . . . Don’t worry about that, OK? I’ve already cleared it with him. Take my word for it.’
Ending the call abruptly, she pulled up the accident report. David Hedley had called the incident in on a mobile phone. Making a few notes she went back to find Carmichael in the MIR, checking the murder wall for any news as she entered the room. On the right side of the digital screen there was a box – a screen within a screen – a kind of newsflash arrangement that flagged up new developments so that no member of the Murder Investigation Team missed anything significant if they’d been conducting enquiries out of the office.
Nothing was listed.
Scanning the room, she found Carmichael back in her usual spot. Sensing Daniels’ gaze, Lisa glanced up attentively, looking fresh and alert, despite having been at work since the crack of dawn. Her inclusion in the team had a made a real difference. She was well liked by everyone, especially on days she brought in her famous lemon drizzle cake, as she had done that morning. The empty plate on her desk was evidence of that – not a crumb in sight.
‘I want you to interview David Hedley,’ Daniels said. ‘Be subtle about it though, Lisa. We’ve got nothing on him, but I checked the PNC and he’s got form. The 999 call came in from his mobile. I want to know if he rang from his flat or from the road. The background noise from the control-room recording will probably tell us that, but be sure to ask him anyway.’
‘OK . . .’ Carmichael tapped on her keyboard to bring up David Hedley’s address, scribbled it down on a Post-it note and shoved it in her pocket. Collecting the keys to her 3 series Beamer, she stood up. ‘Anything else you’re after – specifically, I mean?’
‘Yeah, try and find out if he recalls seeing Ivy’s car or anyone around it. And ask if he’s in a relationship. I’d like you to report back at the evening briefing, so don’t hang about. Just get what we need and get back here.’ Daniels thought for a moment, while the young DC gathered her things together. ‘You’re into films, aren’t you, Lisa?’
‘I go to the Tyneside Theatre a lot, if that’s what you mean.’
‘You know much about writers? I’m thinking scriptwriters in particular.’
‘Not much . . . I know of one group that meets at the Lit and Phil once a month. A mate of mine goes occasionally. Northern Screenwriters, I think they’re called, but don’t quote me on that.’
‘Would such a group operate on Twitter and Facebook, sites like that?’
‘Absolutely. Why?’
‘There was a film buff at the scene. He was a bit of a weirdo, excited rather than horrified by the spectacle. He told Hank he was a film maker. A writer/director, I think he said. I want him checked out discreetly. When you get back, give your mate a call. Ask around. See if anyone knows him. His name and address are on the system. When you’ve done that, tell Andy to get over there and take a full statement. I want the clothes he was wearing seized and any stills he took. He had a camera with him.’
‘Consider it done.’
Daniels returned to her office. Ten minutes later, Gormley was back, this time with a red-faced PC Dixon in tow. He was in his mid-thirties, older than she expected for someone not long out of training school, an officer with obvious potential, according to his supervision. He looked like a poster boy for the force as he assumed the position on the opposite side of her desk, almost standing to attention as if he were on parade. He was extremely nervous. Something to hide, she wondered, or anxious about being questioned by a senior detective he hadn’t met before?
More like a Spinetti than a Dixon, the probationary constable had chiselled features, olive skin a
nd smoky eyes. He wore his jet-black hair slicked back off his forehead and seemed immensely proud of his immaculate uniform. Her eyes slid over it, taking in his bulled shoes and pressed shirt. His uniform trousers had been taken in a little further than regulations allowed, showing off his toned physique, no doubt adding to his pulling power.
Reminded of her mother’s meticulous care over her own uniform, Daniels guessed Dixon still lived at home and hoped to God she was wrong about him.
She got straight to the point: ‘PC Dixon, a serious allegation has been made. A considerable amount of money has gone missing from an old man you rendered assistance to on Thursday morning following his collapse in the street.’
The absence of a reaction troubled Daniels. Her eyes left the rookie, settling on Gormley, who took that as his cue to speak.
‘Constable Dixon? Do you have anything to say?’
Dixon pointed at his chest. ‘Allegation against me?’
‘Do you know anything about it?’ Daniels was irritated.
The PC shook his head. ‘I did assist the old guy. Gave him mouth-to-mouth, actually. How could I forget? It was my first time. He was barely alive when he went in the ambulance. It was only later that I heard he didn’t make it. I didn’t see any money though.’
‘Did you search him for ID?’ Gormley asked.
‘No!’ Dixon’s eyes flitted back and forth between the two detectives. ‘I was too busy and, to be honest, I had no need to. There was this gobby cow standing over me the whole time. She knew who he was and where he lived. She was with him when I arrived.’
Guilty people often try and shift the blame. Daniels wondered if that was what Dixon was doing or if he was telling it straight. Time would tell, she supposed. The truth almost always came out in the end. She pushed a little further . . .
‘This gobby cow? She the one called the control room?’
Dixon shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
Gormley tutted. ‘Did you get a name?’
