by Hannah, Mari
Robson paused for breath.
The resulting silence broke Daniels’ daydream.
‘Was her mother in the habit of buying lottery tickets?’ she asked.
Robson nodded. ‘Always at Tesco Extra at Kingston Park. Always on a Friday, the day she collected her pension. She played the same numbers every week and kept the repeat slips in a writing bureau at home so she didn’t have to write them out each time. I accessed the house and found these, right where Annaliese said they’d be . . .’ He raised his arm. In his hand were three credit-card-sized transparent plastic folders, familiar to almost everyone in the room. Inside were little pink tickets bearing barcodes of Ivy’s chosen numbers. ‘These three slips represent Wednesday, Friday and Saturday draws.’ He dropped his arm down by his side. ‘Our Camelot contact claims that the barcode on Wednesday’s winning ticket proves without a shadow of a doubt that it was bought with the corresponding one of these—’
‘Good work, mate!’ Gormley said.
Others in the room echoed the sentiment.
Daniels was pleased to see Robson on top of his game after a period of uncertainty and a struggle to put his gambling behind him. ‘I presume they were also able to ident the retailer where they were bought?’
‘Time, date, the works.’
‘You’ve requested the CCTV?’
‘And sent someone out to pick it up.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ Naylor sounded impressed.
The Super had been quiet up to that point; so quiet Daniels had forgotten he was in the room – an unlikely situation had Bright still been her guv’nor. She had great respect for both men, but their styles of leadership were poles apart. She turned her focus back to Robson, who was waiting patiently to resume.
‘Anything else we need to know?’ she asked.
‘Only that Mr Kerr was a secretive man. Annaliese was adamant that the trip would’ve been his idea. She said Ivy would’ve been desperate to share the news of their good fortune but that her dad made the rules and her mum generally followed. It came as no surprise that he’d taken off for London without telling her where he was going. It’s the way he was, apparently. Not cold exactly. Just a man who played his cards very close to his chest, a man with hidden depths.’
Gormley had a wry smile to himself. Daniels did her best to ignore it. He’d asked her earlier if she and Jo had been arguing again. It was as if he could sense it. She hated to think that she was so transparent. Gormley was the only one in the force – barring Bright – who knew of her intimate past with Jo Soulsby, her own hidden depths.
She moved on. ‘Lisa, what’s the state of play with David Hedley?’
‘Lives alone, or so he says.’
‘You have reason to believe otherwise?’
‘Hard to say . . .’ A vague expression crossed Carmichael’s face. ‘There were no sign of a female presence in his flat, but he was difficult to read. He seemed more than a little nervous around me—’
‘It’s the effect you have on all men,’ Maxwell quipped. ‘’Specially Andy.’
Maxwell’s joke drew a few sniggers and a hard look from Naylor. Regretting his indiscretion, Maxwell stuck his tongue in his cheek and looked at the floor. Andy Brown blushed, avoiding Carmichael’s gaze. It was common knowledge that he liked her – more than liked her, if truth be known. Not that he’d ever have the bottle to do anything about it. He was far too shy to make the first move and Carmichael’s focus was exclusively on her career. Everyone knew it and so did he. He didn’t stand a chance.
Daniels eyeballed Maxwell. He had an attitude problem where female officers were concerned. He’d improved a lot in recent months but occasionally reverted to type, allowing his mouth to run away with him. Time to pull him back in line with a few choice words, let him know she was not remotely amused.
He mumbled an apology and the DCI invited Carmichael to carry on.
‘Hedley was the first to arrive at the scene but doesn’t remember Ivy’s car. In fact, he doesn’t remember much at all. He seems genuinely traumatized by the things he saw. Quite raw, actually.’
Daniels understood perfectly. At one point while standing on the hard shoulder taking notes, her attention had shifted from the pad in her hand to the road beneath her feet. Rivers of blood had trickled across the camber and pooled around her sodden shoes. Not just blood either, but bits of flesh and stuff she couldn’t immediately identify as human. No autopsy she could recall had been as gory, probably due to the fact that the bodies in the road were still alive – albeit, in the worse cases, barely hanging on. That was what had made it so distressing. For hours afterwards, she hadn’t been able to shake those images from her head.
‘So, your impression is what . . . ?’ Naylor interjected. ‘Hedley’s on the level?’
‘Honestly?’ Carmichael hesitated. ‘At this stage, guv, I wouldn’t rule him in or out.’
‘Maybe I can help?’
Daniels knew that voice.
She turned towards it, a smile appearing on her face. Stewart Cole, a handsome man of about her age, was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He had deep-set eyes, chiselled features and a captivating smile. He was dressed casually – jeans, trainers, police sweat shirt. It was the first time she’d seen him out of a flying suit, which these days bore the logo of the police air support unit.
He stood up straight as she addressed the floor.
‘For those of you who’ve not been introduced, this is Stew Cole, Air Support Unit’s newest recruit.’ She turned back to Cole, her expectations raised. What he had to say must be important. If not, he’d have called her instead of attending the briefing in person so late in the day. ‘What you got for me, Stew?’
Cole moved towards her, taking something from his pocket. ‘This is footage taken from the air following the accident.’ He handed her an encrypted USB flash drive. ‘The images are pretty blurred in view of the appalling conditions on Thursday morning, but I think you’ll find them enlightening. I’ll talk you through them if you like.’
Daniels took in the clock on the wall. It was nearly eleven. Her team were wrung out. They had been pushed to the point of exhaustion. ‘In view of the hour, I think we’d best leave it till the morning. Can you get in here tomorrow, Stew? First thing would be good.’
Cole nodded. It was his day off, but what the hell.
When the meeting finally broke up it was too late to call Jo. But Daniels had a lot to feel glad about. Both briefings had gone well and she was a damn sight closer to a result than she’d been an hour and a half ago.
As the detectives filed out of the MIR, Cole and Gormley hung back. Packing up her things, Daniels turned off the lights on her way out of the door. In the dimly lit corridor, Gormley opened his mouth to speak but Cole got in first.
‘Fancy a nightcap at mine?’ he said.
‘Careful . . .’ Daniels made for the stairwell. ‘You’re not wearing wings now.’
It was a private joke between them. But the warning was real. As a pilot, Cole had had his fair share of attractive women falling at his feet. Some offers he’d taken up, some not. One in particular he wished he hadn’t. The tryst had landed him in a love triangle and a fight with the other man that ended in a prison sentence for Cole as well as the loss of his military career.
‘Excuse me?’ His brow creased. ‘I don’t understand. I heard your wheels got stolen.’
‘My mistake.’ Daniels walked on, embarrassed at having misread him.
‘Besides . . .’ Cole caught up with her, ‘I couldn’t be that lucky.’
She punched him playfully. ‘You never give up, do you?’
‘Give it a rest!’ For once, Gormley wasn’t laughing. Acting like a jealous husband, he squared up to Cole and said, ‘Your patter stinks, mate. The boss is coming home with me.’
50
Gormley’s blue Peugeot was parked in his favoured spot near the back door, the one he collared most days on account of the fac
t that, after Daniels, he was almost always first to arrive at the station. And he was the last man standing too, pretty much. From there he could make a quick getaway at a moment’s notice. Though it was getting on for ten years old, the car was his pride and joy. The registration, DS 3459, was the number Julie had bought him when he made detective sergeant, when they were still very much in love – 3459 being his police number.
‘Why do we do it, Hank?’ Daniels said as they got in the car.
‘Do what?’ Gormley slammed his door shut, strapped himself in. He put his key in the ignition and fired up the engine. ‘Flirt with the wrong people?’
‘I wasn’t flirting! Neither was he!’
‘Oh yeah? He practically had his tongue down your throat!’
Daniels fastened her seat belt as he pulled hard on the wheel, swinging the car right as he reversed. Stopping briefly at the security barrier, he tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel waiting for the red-and-white pole to lift. As soon as his exit was clear, he accelerated sharply, turning left out of the car park. On the open road he put his foot down, apparently as keen as she was to get the hell away from the office for once. Even he had a limit. From the look of him, he’d reached it.
A couple of kids on unlit push bikes crossed the road in front of them within inches of the car. Gormley blasted his horn. They responded with wheelies along the pavement, scattering a crowd of pedestrians making their way home from a local chippy, at least one of them losing their supper as a result. Gormley scowled at the kids as he drove by.
‘Give us a clue, boss. I’ve no idea what you’re on about.’
‘I meant why do we fuck with each other’s lives?’ Daniels said. ‘Maggie and Mark Reid looked so happy in the photograph I found in his flat. Baby on the way. Everything to look forward to. Then within a few months they’ve separated. Moved on. Don’t people ever stop to consider what they’re doing these days?’
‘For some the grass is always—’
‘Greener, yeah I know. But it isn’t, though, is it?’
Gormley glanced to his left. ‘You still talking about Mark and Maggie Reid?’
Daniels went quiet. It was late. They were both too exhausted to get into a deep and meaningful. In less than seven hours they’d be making their way back to the MIR for another long shift. Tonight’s briefing had signified a move in the right direction and they couldn’t afford to lose momentum. If anything, they needed to up their game.
They drove the rest of the way in silence, no more than a ten-minute ride. Pulling up outside her house, Gormley yanked on the handbrake, almost taking it off its ratchet. He let the engine idle as she grabbed the door handle in readiness to get out. Unusually, he declined an invitation to join her for a quick drink, making an excuse that his wife would most probably be waiting up to finish the argument she’d started at the breakfast table.
‘You know Julie . . .’ he said. ‘Never likes to see anything half done.’
Behind his tired eyes Daniels saw pain. The same pain she’d been feeling since having a go at Jo earlier. She wasn’t fooled by his attempt to make light of his marital problems and suddenly felt guilty for keeping him so late. Sorry that another ‘perfect couple’ weren’t getting on. From what he’d told her – which wasn’t much – unless he could pull off a miraculous recovery, his marriage was as good as over.
For fuck’s sake, what was wrong with everyone?
Daniels got out of the car. Ducking her head, she peered back in and tried not to sound as down in the dumps or as tired as she felt. Late at night things often seemed worse than they actually were. Hopefully, a few hours’ kip would see them both back on track. She said goodnight and thanked him for the lift home.
‘You wouldn’t have got rid of Cole as easy.’
It wasn’t like Gormley to be so familiar. Daniels debated telling him to keep his nose out of her personal business, but the dynamics between them had shifted lately. She was no longer simply his DCI, he her DS. They’d grown much closer since she’d confided in him about her feelings for Jo. Or, to be more accurate, since he’d discovered their affair and confronted her with it. At the time he’d taken her silence personally. Hurt by what he saw as a betrayal, he’d accused her of not trusting him enough to be honest about who, or what, she really was. But Daniels hated labels. She didn’t need the distraction that everyone knowing her business would bring. Hell, she didn’t even know who she was any more. Why should Gormley? Did he think she needed protection from herself now? That she was no longer capable of making the right choices?
She forced a smile. ‘What have I told you about acting like my dad?’
‘Whatever!’ Like a petulant teenager, he stared out at the dark leafy terrace through the Peugeot’s front windscreen. Pressing her lips together tightly, Daniels resisted the temptation to laugh out loud and managed to recover as he turned back to face her. But what he said next made her angry.
‘You do what you want, Kate. You will anyway.’
‘Hey! What is your problem? You’re my DS, not my personal minder.’
And still he wouldn’t let it go. ‘Just don’t come crying to me if it all goes pear-shaped.’ Looking in the rear-view mirror, he engaged first gear. ‘Pick you up tomorrow?’
‘No! I’ll ride in.’
‘Not speaking to me now?’
‘Of course I am, you idiot. I fancy bringing my bike, that’s all.’
He blipped the accelerator and raced off into the night.
51
Heading down Dog Leap Stairs towards the Quayside, Chantelle followed her usual crowd. Many of the guys were already pissed, their normally smart dress code ignored in favour of jeans and mandatory footie shirts. Their chanting and singing was getting right on her tits. Earlier it hadn’t seemed so bad, but now it was reduced to the National Anthem, she’d had enough.
Who were they kidding?
England versus Germany was a headline-grabbing game no matter which way it went. But England were bound to lose. Chantelle had placed a bet on it. Got reasonable odds too. If only her mates would shut the fuck up, she’d be able to hear herself think and work out what she’d win for her five-pound stake.
Maths was never her strong point.
The girl in front of her tripped and went hurtling down the remaining steps, landing in a heap at the bottom with her cellulite arse on show. Everyone laughed and walked on. Not one of them batted an eyelid or stopped to help her up. Daisy had never been able to hold her drink and would get worse as the night went on.
Chantelle took a swig from her wine bottle as she stepped over her. Winter or summer, Newcastle city centre was always pretty mad and this balmy Saturday night was proving no exception. World Cup hysteria meant that all her mates had come out to play and were intent on having a good time. There was plenty of talent to choose from and the bars were buzzing with a real party atmosphere.
Every single person she’d spoken to that night had been full of hope and expectation with the big game looming tomorrow. It was to be an afternoon fixture, she was pleased to hear, ample time to sleep off the excesses of tonight’s binge before coverage began. Just as well, Chantelle thought. At the beginning of the pub crawl she’d foolishly bragged she’d drink them all under the table. Not the brightest thing to do in view of her track record. Even if she managed to stay upright, in the early hours she’d probably find herself plaiting her legs as she fought her way to the nearest taxi rank.
Fought being the operative word.
Not that Chantelle minded that. It was all part of the fun, as far as she was concerned. She always gave as good as she got and rarely came off worst. Only twice had she needed medical attention. Once when she’d had her stomach pumped after trying a different cocktail at every bar in the Bigg Market for a bet. Not the most pleasant of experiences. The other time was when she decided to go swimming in the Tyne at midnight and had to be rescued by the river police when she couldn’t drag herself out again. Last January she’d been locked
up for disorderly conduct. But that was OK too. A damn sight better than collapsing on a bench somewhere in the freezing cold. She’d created such a fuss during her few hours in the cells at Market Street station the daft bizzies took her home just to get rid of her. She ended up quids in, having saved on the taxi fare.
Now that’s what she called a public service.
Chantelle turned right on to the Quayside itself. Two well-built lasses were staggering towards her, footie shirts on, heavily tattooed forearms around each other’s necks. They had short, spiky hair and wore jeans and trainers. Not your usual Saturday-night attire, Chantelle thought. Unless . . .
Fucking dykes.
Chantelle tensed. She’d seen girls like them in Styal Prison and something told her they wouldn’t get on. They burst out laughing when they saw her. The tallest, a real bruiser, looked like she could handle herself. Blinking as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing, she pointed in the general direction of Chantelle’s right thigh, her hand waving around as she tried to focus properly.
‘Something I can do for you?’ Chantelle asked.
The two girls made faces at each other.
‘Maybe . . .’ the bruiser laughed. ‘Not!’
Now they were really taking the piss.
‘That was the right answer,’ Chantelle said. She stood her ground, the hair rising on the back of her neck, her hand closing on her wine bottle. She’d been rolled in town before and there was no way it was happening again. ‘You wanna drink? Get your own.’
Holding her hand to her chest, the bruiser burped. ‘Don’t wanna drink . . .’
Her mate collapsed in a fit of laughter. Chantelle barged past them, knocking them both sideways like skittles in a bowling alley. The skinny one was no threat. She lurched first one way and then, as Chantelle was sure she’d hit the deck, she lurched the other, almost defying gravity before grabbing hold of a lamppost for support.
