Deadly Deceit

by Hannah, Mari

  ‘Even so, I hope you have proof of purchase because something tells me you can’t afford that.’

  ‘Don’t keep receipts, sorry. Anyway, it’s a knock-off. A copy.’

  ‘My arse. I know quality when I see it. Knocked off more like. What if I take possession and maybe arrest you for . . .’ Daniels pretended to think hard on it. ‘Theft? Receiving? How does that sound?’

  Chantelle’s right hand formed into a fist. Her knuckles turned white. But she wasn’t about to get violent. Her eyes were back on the television set. With sixty-seven minutes gone, the Germans were celebrating yet another goal. From the way she was behaving, Daniels half expected her to punch the air in celebration. It didn’t surprise her that she had a flutter now and then. Her old man would bet on two flies crawling up a wall.

  Like father like daughter.

  Daniels tried shock tactics. ‘Taken any other photographs of dying men recently?’

  It worked. ‘What d’ya mean?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb, Chantelle. You know exactly what I mean. If I find out you’re not telling me the truth, you’ll lose more than your handbag. Show some respect, why don’t you? A man and a child lost their lives across the road. And take that smug look off your face before I do something about it – this is no laughing matter.’

  ‘Hey, wait a minute, I had nowt to do with that! I took those . . .’ She pointed at the phone in Daniels’ hand. ‘But that’s all I did, I swear. I didn’t take the old man’s cash neither. I saw him go down and dialled 999, like I said last time you and the fat fucker were here. I took his picture, then the polis came along and tried to help him. I wasn’t going to give the skanky old minger mouth-to-mouth now, was I?’

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment or two. Daniels stood in the centre of the room, considering her options. The girl had more to tell, she was sure of it. Nevertheless she decided to bide her time. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ she said. ‘But mark my words, I will be back.’

  She walked out with Chantelle’s voice ringing in her ears.

  ‘Hey! When do I get my phone back?’

  ‘When I’m good and ready.’ Daniels turned. ‘By the way, you had better find a receipt for that bag or come up with some information or I’ll be knocking on your door from now ’til Doomsday.’ She walked to Gormley’s dark blue Peugeot feeling the girl’s eyes on her back. The gummy kid appeared from nowhere with his hand out. The DCI threw him a quid, got in and drove away.

  Chantelle remained on the doorstep unable to keep the smug grin off her face. Her friend Tracy walked up to the front door and asked what the police were doing there. Chantelle ignored her. She was too busy watching Daniels’ car drive slowly down the street. Keep the phone, fuckwit – the photos an’ all! I’ve got more interesting ones than that! And someone dafter than you dying to get her hands on them.

  The redhead knew a cop when she saw one. She slid down in her seat, watching Daniels drive away, keeping her eyes firmly on the wing mirror until the Peugeot turned the corner and disappeared from view. Across the street, Chantelle and the other girl lingered on the doorstep for a moment or two and then went inside and shut the door.

  Her phone rang: the Cypriot, a hint of tension in his voice. ‘Did you find it?’

  ‘No. The cops were there.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Gone. But she’s got company. Did she ring back?’

  ‘No. Maybe she bluffs you.’

  ‘We’re in no position to take that chance.’

  ‘Silence her then!’

  ‘No!’ The redhead could see Chantelle laughing through the window. ‘She dies and we may never find the incriminating evidence she insists she has. I’m not prepared to risk that. There’s too much at stake. I’ll watch her. When it’s clear, I’ll make my move. Don’t worry. She won’t get away with blackmailing me. The girl is greedy for cash. We’re safe. For the time being.’

  56

  The journey back to town didn’t take long. At the Swan House roundabout, Daniels took the second exit left on to the central motorway and picked up speed, travelling north away from the River Tyne. University buildings stood like sentries on either side of the four-lane road. She swung sharp left with the city centre straight ahead, arriving at the station minutes later.

  There were few vehicles in the car park: a couple of squad cars lying idle along the perimeter fence, one or two belonging to the CID. A mishmash of civilian vehicles too, some smart and well cared for, others rust buckets that didn’t look legal. Her own two wheels were parked where her Toyota ought to have been, a niggling reminder that she must find time to sort out a replacement. Had it been a weekday, a prison van would’ve been backed up to the rear door, waiting to take prisoners from the magistrates court to either HMP Durham or Low Newton Remand Centre, depending on their age. But on this sunny Sunday afternoon, the place was relatively empty.

  By the time she’d reached the MIR the England game was over and the acrimony over a bizarre decision by the Uruguayan referee had just begun. Her team were loitering by the coffee machine, their bitter disappointment clearly visible. Maxwell looked positively pale, shell-shocked, utterly miserable, like a kid whose parents had taken away his toy soldiers. Jacket off, tie loosened, he had dark wet patches under his arms. Daniels stifled a grin. Probably the first time he’d broken sweat in the incident room for a very long time.

  ‘Even a fucking octopus predicted that one,’ he was saying.

  Daniels gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm as she walked by. Gormley looked up as she approached. She threw his car keys at him. ‘You need diesel and a car wash. It smells like a brothel inside.’

  He didn’t answer.

  Things were always serious when Hank’s sense of humour went walkabout.

  Pushing her way to the drinks machine, Daniels dropped a coin into the slot, selecting white coffee, a change from her usual black. Too busy to replenish her personal supply, she was resigned to something a little less palatable and hoped the milk would help. As the drink was being dispensed, she listened to her colleagues’ tales of woe, letting them air their grievances and get the match out of their systems before reminding them they had work to do.

  After a few minutes, they peeled off and went back to their desks. Even Maxwell agreed there were more important things in life than a bunch of under-achievers who’d let their country down by not rising to the occasion. Leaving them to it, Daniels went directly to her office, shut the door behind her and pulled down the window blind – her way of saying: Do Not Disturb.

  Cradling her coffee in both hands, she relaxed back in her seat, put her feet up on her desk and shut her eyes, trying to rid herself of the noise in her head. Random thoughts of three incidents came and went in no particular order. A confused jumble of concerns. So many questions. Too few answers. No matter how hard she tried to pull them apart and make sense of them, they merged into one bloody big problem that threatened to overwhelm her.

  Chantelle Fox knew more than she was letting on – that was a given – but it didn’t mean she was lying about everything. The photographs she’d taken clearly showed PC Dixon working on George Milburn, which meant that he was still alive at that point – probably a thousand pounds richer too. What if she was telling the truth vis-à-vis the old man’s money?

  Am I dealing with a bent cop?

  The more Daniels mulled it over, the more convinced she was that the girl was covering up something even more sinister than theft from a dying heart attack victim, as distasteful as that might be. The arson perhaps? During their little encounter she’d slipped up, shown her colours in a way she probably hadn’t intended to. If she disliked football enough to bet against her national team, maybe she wasn’t at the party on the night of the fire.

  Sitting up, Daniels put down her coffee cup. Accessing the HOLMES system, she typed in Chantelle’s details and quickly located the names of those reported to have been at the Ralph Street party. Her name wasn’t among them. Her house-
to-house statement confirmed that she was alone at home that night. Or was she? Daniels knew Chantelle was a smoker. She’d smelled nicotine on her, seen spent fag-ends in ashtrays in her home. A smoker had extinguished a cigarette at her front door. Was it her? Had she been watching? Was there more than one person involved? Maybe Chantelle started the fire and someone else was keeping toot? Or was she the one acting as lookout?

  Daniels’ mind was in turmoil. She’d yet to discover the identity of Mark Reid’s mystery girlfriend, the person whose clothing was in his flat. The person who’d rung his home phone at 01.23 a.m., hours after he was killed. Was this the same woman his mates had seen wearing a uniform? A security guard? A fire officer? A prison officer?

  A cop?

  And what of Cole’s footage from the air? Was the item in the rear of Ivy’s car what Daniels feared it might be? If it was a hat, who did it belong to? A medic? A fire officer?

  A cop?

  There was a pattern forming here and Daniels didn’t like it.

  She sighed, frustrated by her lack of progress. She needed results and she needed them now: DNA from the cigarette butt she’d sent to Matt West at the forensic science laboratory at Wetherby; enhancements of CCTV images Maxwell had retrieved from the garage; the same of the object Cole’s recording had captured in the back seat of Ivy’s car. Technical Support were working flat out, but not fast enough.

  The rest of the day was a blur.

  57

  Four miles away, Jo Soulsby began her Monday morning by scanning the shelves of her local library trying to find a novel she hadn’t yet read. Despite working within a related field, crime fiction was her thing. Opting for Karin Slaughter’s Faithless, a book she’d missed in the Grant County series, she got it stamped and made her way outside into the sunshine. Despite the lovely weather, her mood was grim. Kate Daniels had been on her mind all morning and she wondered what her reaction would be when she confirmed that she was leaving the Murder Investigation Team to take up the job at HMP Northumberland.

  Who was she kidding?

  Jo knew perfectly well what Kate’s reaction would be: disappointment, frustration, regret – all three.

  Take your pick.

  As if on cue, her mobile rang.

  It wasn’t Kate.

  ‘Have you told her yet?’ Emily McCann said. ‘Assuming you’ve made up your mind.’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ Jo said.

  ‘Told her or made up your mind?’

  ‘Don’t push it, Em.’ The doors to Jo’s Land Rover clunked open. Climbing in, she placed her book on the passenger seat, steeling herself for an earache from her friend. ‘I’ve been really busy and never got the chance.’

  Emily McCann was too astute to buy such a pathetic excuse. ‘You must. You know how she feels about you. If she finds out from someone else, she’ll be completely devastated!’

  Jo started the engine. ‘She’s tough. She’ll cope.’

  ‘You owe her—’

  ‘I owe her nothing!’

  ‘OK, OK.’ Emily sighed. ‘But you’re in the wrong and you know it. Why can’t you two kiss and make up and put the past behind you? Life’s too bloody short. I’d give my right arm to have Robert back—’

  ‘That’s different!’

  ‘How?’ Emily asked.

  ‘You were married, for years. He was—’

  ‘The most amazing person in the world, my soul mate? I seem to remember you describing Kate in exactly those terms not so very long ago. You only get to meet the one once, Jo. Believe me, I’m speaking from experience. Isn’t it time you started acting like grown-ups?’

  ‘Isn’t it time you stopped pretending it’ll work?’

  Jo didn’t mean that. She knew it could work. One word from her and Kate Daniels would succumb to whatever demands she made, including coming out to the whole wide world if she really pushed it, despite what she’d said yesterday. But Jo wasn’t about to ask her to sacrifice her police career, a job she was good at, a job that meant everything to her. It’d always been – and still was – Jo’s contention that Kate would rise through the ranks no matter what her sexual orientation. But she’d got it into her head that the opposite was true. And every time a high-up closet gay was outed by the press and felt compelled to resign from his or her job, it only served to reinforce her perception that ambition and homosexuality were a disastrous combination.

  Jo suddenly had that aching feeling, the one she got every time she thought about Kate, the one that began in her chest and worked its way into the pit of her stomach where it ached some more. She didn’t need reminding how good they were together, by Emily McCann or anyone else.

  ‘Are you angry with me?’ Emily asked.

  ‘No, Emily. I’m angry with her! I’ve been angry with her for months, so angry I could punch her lights out. She did this to us, not me!’

  ‘So bite the bullet and put an end to it.’

  Jo sighed. Until Kate came along she’d not had much luck in the love department. She’d been married and divorced from a bully who’d since been murdered – caught up in a sinister psychopath’s game of revenge against his mother. Jo had actually been accused of his murder by the force that employed her as a profiler, spending several weeks in custody on remand, only to have the charges withdrawn by the CPS before the case reached court. She had Kate to thank for that.

  Another thing to thank her for.

  ‘Jesus, Em. Why is life always so fucking complicated?’

  ‘I don’t know, it just is . . .’ Emily’s voice trailed off. ‘Have you actually made a decision about the research project? I need to know one way or the other.’

  ‘Yes, no . . . not entirely.’

  ‘You’d be mad not to take it.’

  ‘I know I would.’ To Jo’s left, the library door opened. A woman wheeling a shopping trolley with the words These wheels emit no CO2 written large across the front emerged into the sunshine glaring at Jo’s four-by-four. Turning off the ignition, Jo looked away. ‘I need time to think it through, Em.’

  ‘You did apply?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Good . . . then the job’s all yours.’

  Torn both ways, Jo leaned her head in her hands, her elbows on the steering wheel. She loved working with the Murder Investigation Team. Hell, she loved working with Kate Daniels. But maybe the time had come to make a clean break of it. Yesterday morning she’d lied to Kate for the very first time, stalling, pretending to have too much on when she’d asked her to help with her current murder incidents.

  Nasty cases they were, too.

  Out the front windscreen, an elderly couple with cotton-wool hair and wrinkled skin strolled by hand in hand, a young couple following close behind, their arms wrapped around each other. The whole world appeared to be in love. The question Jo was asking herself was: did she want to join them?

  ‘I’m not taking the job,’ she said.

  58

  The Bacchus was on High Bridge in Grainger Town; a narrow cobbled street that ran between Grey Street and Pilgrim Street. It was very close to the police station, which is why Daniels had chosen it. She rarely drank in the pub herself but it was Gormley’s second home. They could be back in the incident room in minutes if need be.

  Adele’s voice floated in the air as he held the door open for her.

  Inside, four men were propping up the bar. Another stood waiting to be served. The young man pulling his pint looked shagged out, a growth of designer stubble on his chin, hair thick with gel. Like any good barman, he clocked the detectives the minute they appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Bit early for you, isn’t it?’ he said to Gormley as they approached.

  ‘Funeral,’ was all Gormley managed in return.

  The barman raised an eyebrow. ‘Anyone I know?’

  Gormley shook his head. ‘Daughter of a polis killed in the A1 crash last week.’

  ‘Grim. Want the usual or a short?’

  ‘A half, and pour yourself one, Justin.
Second thoughts, make mine a pint.’ Gormley turned to Daniels. ‘My shout, boss. What can I get you?’

  Daniels scanned the optics. ‘Famous Grouse. Straight, no ice.’

  Froth from the John Smith’s spilled over the glass and pooled on the bar as the lad set it down. Gormley paid up and then followed Daniels across the worn wooden floor to a quiet table in the corner of the room. As she sat down, she glanced back towards the bar.

  ‘Justin a new friend of yours?’ she asked.

  ‘Wife’s nephew.’ Gormley took a long pull on his pint and wiped a wet hand on his jacket. ‘He’s harmless. Bit of a barrack-room psychologist, mind you. You know the type. Thinks he can solve everyone’s problems across the bar. Jumps to conclusions too. You’ll be the scarlet harlot by the time I get home.’

  Daniels smiled at his attempt to lift her mood. It was a difficult task with multiple enquiries weighing her down. The Ralph Street enquiry had stalled. Naylor wasn’t happy because headquarters were breathing down his neck for a result. Letting out a big sigh, she asked Gormley for his take on it, knowing full well what his answer would be.

  He didn’t disappoint.

  ‘It’s a dog’s breakfast, if you ask me.’ He pointed out the obvious, that they had begun the investigation with four possibilities: random kids’ prank gone wrong . . . right house, wrong person . . . right house, right person . . . wrong house entirely. ‘As far as I can see, that remains where we’re at.’

  He had a point. The investigation was going nowhere, and scratching around for leads was frustrating the hell out of both of them. Mark Reid’s mystery girlfriend still hadn’t materialized and Daniels was asking herself why. The identity of the woman was vital. They needed to rule her in or out. But all efforts to trace her had failed. According to her service provider, her phone had gone silent since Gormley tried to contact her.

  ‘We’re missing something, Hank. Why has Reid’s girlfriend not come forward? She’s bound to have seen reports of the fire by now.’