Deadly Deceit

by Hannah, Mari

  ‘Listen up, everyone!’ She waited for them all to stop what they were doing. ‘Hank found a big telly in the lost property – we’re going to use it for the match.’ Her statement was met with cries of thanks – Yes! Really? Good on ya, boss – and words to that effect. ‘Just the match, mind. No preamble bollocks or post-mortem afterwards, understood? We still have three murders to solve. Maxwell will fill you in on team selection.’

  Realizing all eyes were on him, Maxwell looked up and nearly fell off his seat when he saw her standing there. Pulling his earphones out, unsure of what he’d missed, he took in the reaction of the team, curiosity getting the better of him. There were beaming faces all round, in some cases unadulterated joy. In a city like Newcastle, football was a big part of life: players were gods, St James’s Park the city’s cathedral, supporters the congregation. It was unthinkable that they’d miss out on the biggest game the country had faced for years.

  ‘Lorna – and only Lorna – is in charge of the remote,’ Daniels added.

  The focus of attention switched to a woman sitting quietly in one corner, a headset clamped over short cropped hair. Lorna McKenzie had worked for Strathclyde Police for many years until transferring south to Northumbria. Well liked by everyone and possessing a wicked sense of humour, she was one of several call handlers drafted in by Naylor, due to the level of people ringing the MIR.

  Until today.

  Today, phones had fallen silent. There was absolutely nothing going on.

  ‘Lorna, you kill the sound if a call comes in.’ Daniels gave the rest of them a pointed look. ‘So no jeering or whingeing – or the set goes off! And remember, you lot, Lorna’s a Scot – so you better be nice. Any excuse and she’ll turn the damn thing off.’

  Lorna narrowed her eyes at the detectives, a big smile on her face.

  54

  The incident room door creaked shut as Naylor released the handle, letting it lock behind him automatically. The room held its collective breath when he asked Daniels to join him in his office right away. She followed him in and closed the door, aware of two dozen pairs of hopeful eyes watching her every move.

  Winking at the team through the glass, she turned to face him. ‘Guv, I—’

  ‘Handled that well, from what I heard . . .’ Naylor walked round the desk and sat down heavily in his chair. ‘Good leadership doesn’t always mean cracking the whip, Kate. I’d have done the same thing in your position as SIO. Can’t see we’ll be inundated with calls in the next few hours. There’s not a soul on the roads and no chatter on the radio. Same story all over the country.’

  ‘Thanks, guv. They really deserve it.’

  ‘I hope we win,’ Naylor said.

  ‘So do I . . .’ She made a scary face at Naylor. He was more a rugger fan himself. He could take or leave footie and she appreciated his attempt to lift morale by allowing the squad to watch the match. She pointed through the window at the MIR. ‘I’ll see to it personally that they work late to make up the time—’

  ‘No need.’ He patted fresh air, gesturing that she should sit. ‘I know how hard you’ve been pushing them.’

  Daniels sat down and spent the next forty-five minutes updating him on both cases. They were still hard at it when, suddenly, there was an almighty uproar from the room next door. A glut of expletives hit their ears. Neither needed telling that Germany had scored.

  ‘Jesus!’ someone yelled. ‘What the fuck was Terry doing?’

  ‘He’s on another planet, man!’ Maxwell sounded incredulous.

  ‘What a gift!’ Carmichael added. ‘Where the hell were the defence?’

  Daniels wondered if letting them watch the match was such a good idea after all. Naylor grinned, telling her to relax. He’d just come from headquarters, which was like the Marie Celeste. The place was totally abandoned. Everyone who could do had decamped to the pub or taken leave in order to check out the national team. Except Bright who, like Naylor, was a fan of the funny-shaped ball.

  ‘How was my old guv’nor, anyway?’ she asked.

  ‘Bright by name, bright by nature, actually.’

  ‘Really? Didn’t think he liked it up at Fantasy Island.’

  Naylor smiled. Fantasy Island was the nickname for Ponteland headquarters, the home of the Northumbria force. ‘I think you’ll find things have changed a little since you last spoke to him. There’s a certain attraction to the place of late.’

  Daniels’ face lit up. ‘Ellen Crawford?’

  ‘The very same. A PA like no other, apparently.’

  ‘Well, good on him!’ she said. ‘I suspected they were made for each other from day one.’

  And she had. Even so, she had to admit she was surprised how fast events in the romance department had moved. Bright’s wife had died relatively recently, though in truth he’d lost her to injuries sustained in a car crash much earlier than that. He’d been driving at the time and had been to hell and back over it.

  Her eyes scanned Naylor’s desk. There were no framed photographs on it as there used to be when his predecessor had occupied it. No personal memorabilia or knick-knacks she might’ve expected to see there. She and Naylor were very similar in that respect; work and home lives entirely separate. Baggage was a definite no-no for those intending to rise through the ranks. Maybe that’s why they got on so well. Good detectives, from DCs to top brass, had fallen by the wayside because their private lives had got in the way. But it was also true that ambition had killed many a once-happy relationship.

  Will you ever forgive me, Jo?

  ‘You think we should bring Jo Soulsby in on Ivy’s case?’ Naylor asked.

  Mention of her name made Daniels blush, this morning’s dream flashing into her head.

  ‘Problem?’ Naylor said.

  ‘No, guv.’ Daniels ran a hand through her hair, aware that he’d noted her hesitation. ‘It’s Sunday. I think she’ll have better things to do, that’s all. I’ll give her a call later, fix up a meet.’

  Her phone rang.

  Naylor smiled. ‘Maybe that’s her.’

  The way he’d said it made Daniels feel decidedly uncomfortable. Did he know about her and Jo? Had her former boss said something? No way. Bright had too much integrity for that. She relaxed. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she checked the display: Gillian Garvey. A crime reporter at the Journal, a young woman she had a lot of time for, someone with her ear to the ground. It was true they’d had their ups and downs, but she’d given the police good intel over the years.

  And she never rang just to chat.

  Looking up, she said, ‘Mind if I take this, guv? It might be important.’

  ‘Better had then.’

  ‘Gillian? What’s up?’

  ‘I just had an interesting conversation with a reporter on our news desk. Someone’s been on the phone trying to flog a picture of a dying man. Ralph Street was mentioned in there somewhere and I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘Someone?’ Daniels waited.

  Garvey didn’t answer.

  ‘What do you want, Gillian? I need a name.’

  ‘I’m not withholding evidence. It’s—’

  ‘I’ll tell you how this works, shall I?’ Daniels’ tone was harsh. ‘You have important information. You pass it to me. Everyone’s happy. If you don’t, you’d better look for another gig because your days on the crime desk are numbered. No detective on this force will give you shit!’

  ‘And if I still don’t?’

  ‘You ever heard of the Press Complaints Commission?’

  ‘OK, don’t get your knickers in a twist.’ Garvey paused for effect. ‘The caller lives across the road from your crime scene – the arson, I mean, not the old lady in the car.’

  ‘Jesus! How the hell—?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Kate.’ Gillian sounded smug. ‘I’m not printing that until I’m informed officially. But I’d like the heads-up ahead of the pack, if that’s OK with you. You help me, I help you. Then, as you so eloquently put it, everyone is hap
py. Got to stay one step ahead of the nationals if I’m to keep my crown as reporter of the year!’

  Daniels was irritated. Someone had been telling tales out of school. But there wasn’t a hope in hell that Gillian Garvey would divulge her source. So Daniels didn’t waste breath asking her to. ‘This woman flogging the photograph? You do have a name?’

  ‘Hang on a sec . . .’ There was a shuffling sound on the line and then muffled voices. Gillian had covered the handset but Daniels got the gist of a conversation she was having with one of her colleagues. Then she was back. ‘The name’s Chantelle F—’

  ‘Fox?’ They both said the name at the same time.

  ‘Bloody hell, you psychic now?’ Garvey asked.

  Daniels smiled. ‘You’re not the only one with your finger on the pulse. Chantelle and I have already met. Can you email a copy of the photo?’

  ‘No. She’s cute. Insisted on being paid – get this – before she hands it over.’

  ‘Sounds like Chantelle.’

  ‘Our news desk reporter decided to humour her. Offered a few quid, more if it was a good image. She managed to wheedle an address out of her on the pretext of handing the money over. In person. In cash. When what she was really going to do was pass it to me. She reckons there’s a bloody good story in there somewhere. You want me to hold off on that?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I want to knock on that particular door myself.’

  ‘Take Hank with you. He’ll make damn sure you get in. How is he these days?

  ‘He’s good . . .’ Daniels could see Naylor was getting impatient. ‘Look, Gillian, thanks for the information. I’ve gotta go. I owe you one.’

  ‘Yes, you do!’ Garvey sang the words and then hung up.

  ‘Something of interest?’ Naylor asked.

  ‘Very much so. Remember the address where we found the fag-end stubbed out in the wall?’

  Naylor nodded.

  ‘Chantelle Fox, the girl who lives there, tried to flog a picture of a dying man to the Journal. She also happens to own a dark baseball cap similar to the one worn by an unidentified person buying petrol prior to the Ralph Street fire. I haven’t seized it yet as I’m still waiting on enhancements and I don’t want to tip her off.’

  ‘Then you’d better go and pay her a visit.’

  ‘I’m already there.’ A worried look crossed Daniels’ face. ‘Question is, which dying man are we talking about?’

  55

  Daniels borrowed Gormley’s car keys and left the building. Naylor was right. The streets were empty. Not a soul on them as she drove along West Road, normally one of the busiest thoroughfares in that part of the city. But today was not normal. Red-and-white flags were everywhere: draped across shop windows, pinned over pub doorways, even wrapped around lampposts.

  The car radio was already tuned to the football. According to the commentator, England had gifted the Germans another goal. Upson had clawed one back from a short corner minutes later. Then Lampard should’ve – some say he had – equalized six minutes from the half-time break.

  ‘We were robbed,’ was the cry in the studio. ‘It should definitely be two-all.’

  We’ll stuff them in the second half, Daniels thought. She drove on, urging the radio presenters to keep the faith, refusing to believe the game was over and done with, hoping her positivity would transfer to the players on the pitch. Traffic lights were on green so she shot through them, turned left and then sharp right into Ralph Street, pulling up directly outside Chantelle Fox’s house.

  As she got out and locked the car, a little boy approached, no more than five, maybe six years old. His front teeth were missing and he had elongated bruises on his left cheek like someone had given him a backhander.

  ‘Watch ya car, missus?’ he said.

  There was a veiled threat to his voice. Daniels was about to tell the little runt to get lost. But she felt sorry for him. The kid had balls, and she liked that. Besides, she had Gormley’s pride and joy and not a pool car. She didn’t want to risk the damn thing ending up like an etching pad. She threw the boy a quid, promising another if the Peugeot was still in one piece when she returned.

  He gave her a gummy grin.

  Cheeky little sod!

  Daniels rapped on the knocker, secretly wishing she was back at the MIR, watching the match with the rest of the guys. The door was flung open with some force, its tenant poised to remonstrate with her untimely visitor. Chantelle’s face dropped when she saw who was standing there.

  ‘Oh, you’ve got to be joking!’ she said. ‘What now? I’m busy!’

  ‘Thanks, don’t mind if I do,’ Daniels said.

  ‘Hey! I never said—’

  But Daniels was already inside, taking in the baseball cap still hanging on a peg as she passed along the hallway, that same sweet sickly smell hitting her senses as she pushed on through to the living room. The television was on full volume. The pundits were replaying Lampard’s shot on goal, over and over. They shook their heads – unable to believe the referee’s decision to disallow it. A blind man on a galloping horse could see it had clearly crossed the line.

  Chantelle seemed to find the whole thing hilarious. A betting slip on her coffee table explained why: her money was on Germany. Obviously no footy fan. She looked rough today. Her face was pale, her eyes drawn and she reeked of alcohol. Her hair was scraped back in an untidy mess and, despite the hour, she was still dressed in a pair of silky pyjamas. A camisole top and shorts with drips of hardened egg yolk down the front.

  Daniels pointed at her chest. ‘You missed your big mouth,’ she said.

  ‘Very funny! What d’you want?’

  ‘Can we kill the sound? I need to ask you a few more questions.’

  Chantelle didn’t move. ‘’bout what?’

  Daniels picked up the remote and pressed the mute button. She knew before she got there what to expect from the girl. She nodded towards the television. ‘You want to watch the second half here or listen to it along a cell corridor? I want answers, Chantelle. I also want the photos you’ve been trying to offload.’

  Chantelle’s colour rose ever so slightly. ‘Dunno what you’re on about . . .’ She looked out the window as if she was expecting company, a supercilious grin on her face. No inkling of embarrassment or guilt at having been caught out in her little scam. ‘I want you to go now. Me nana’s calling in and I don’t want her to find you here. She’s not been well.’

  ‘Same nan your father told us died last time we arrested him? Or the one whose funeral he was on the way to when we stopped him for dangerous driving for the third time in a week? Most people only have two. Come on, Chantelle, hand over the camera or whatever device it was you used. The woman at the Journal’s not coming round.’ Daniels grinned. ‘She sent me instead.’

  Chantelle remained silent.

  ‘Do not piss me off, Chantelle. I said, give it here!’

  The girl looked vulnerable standing there in her summer jimjams, her chunky legs like tree trunks in a pair of skimpy shorts, her knees a bit red from too much sun. But she was as hard as nails. Her eyes, thick with last night’s make-up, flicked briefly past Daniels to the sofa beyond, causing the DCI to turn and investigate further. And lo and behold, she spotted a brand-new Mulberry handbag hidden under a cushion, presumably wedged there in a hurry when she’d knocked on the door.

  ‘Well, well,’ Daniels said. ‘What have we here?’

  ‘Hey! Gimme that!’ Chantelle made a lunge for the bag.

  Daniels snatched it away. Taking a pair of Latex gloves from her pocket, she put them on. She could smell expensive leather as she examined the contents, eventually extracting a mobile. She threw the bag back down on the couch and then accessed the phone’s media files until she came across an image of George Milburn. He was lying on the pavement in brilliant sunshine clutching his chest, but still very much alive. There were other images too, the last one of PC Dixon kneeling on the ground beside the old man, his uniform belt clearly visible as he administered
mouth-to-mouth.

  If Daniels’ calculations were correct, Chantelle must’ve been standing at least ten feet away from the body as she took the photos, and that bothered her. It was true the girl had form for theft. But would she have taken the old guy’s money and then called the police while he was still alive to tell the tale? Daniels didn’t think so. More likely she’d have robbed him and legged it, leaving him dying on the pavement.

  It wasn’t looking good for the Italian stallion.

  Glancing at the image in her hand, Daniels was sickened by what she saw. Happy slapping – youngsters videoing violent assaults – was one thing, a craze she hoped had had its day. But happy snapping? She’d read somewhere that mobile phone subscriptions had reached over five billion globally. Every sale placed a camera in a hand. It stood to reason that the practice of capturing any kind of human disaster on film was a growing trend. But there were limits of acceptable behaviour, unless you had a screw loose, or a cruel fascination with death.

  Did Chantelle?

  Was she a voyeur?

  If so, was she connected to the arson?

  Daniels had been in the police long enough to keep an open mind. She decided to rule nothing in or out until she knew which way the wind was blowing. Thankfully, she was on her own today. Had Gormley been with her, she’d have had her work cut out to keep him from rounding on the girl. He had a tendency to tell the unpalatable truth to offenders who pissed him off. But on this occasion she didn’t even try to restrain herself.

  ‘You’re despicable, you know that?’ Daniels said. Her words made no impact. The girl looked at her like she was from another planet. ‘He was an old man, Chantelle. And this . . .’ Daniels tapped the mobile. ‘It’s just not on! I hope you’re really proud of yourself.’

  ‘It’s not an offence to take a picture,’ the girl said, sheepishly.

  ‘Handling stolen goods is, though.’ Daniels pointed to the Mulberry bag. ‘Get a pay rise, did you? Been saving up your pennies?’

  ‘Told you, I had a bit of good fortune.’