by Hannah, Mari
‘Not necessarily. Maybe she didn’t recognize the address, didn’t connect the two.’
‘That’s always a possibility.’
‘He was supposed to be babysitting Jamie at his own house, don’t forget. She might’ve rung late that night because she was going away for the weekend. If she’s out of town, she could be completely unaware. It does happen.’
Daniels wasn’t convinced and told Gormley why. She’d been going over and over Judy’s phone call the whole way through the funeral. There was no mention of a trip when she called him, no ‘miss you’ message. If she was on the level, why were there no clues to her identity in his flat? They had found nothing written down, no photos, no personal mementos or keepsakes. They had no evidence tying her to him, just a wardrobe full of clothes, if indeed they were hers . . .
‘You don’t think that’s odd? Because I do,’ she said.
Draining his pint, Gormley set the empty glass down on the table. He had something on his mind. Something he was reluctant to part with.
‘What?’ Daniels queried.
Gormley shrugged it off. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said.
‘Yes, it does. You got something to say, I want to hear it.’
‘I think it’s too early to judge her, that’s all. She could be completely innocent. She and Reid might have legitimate reasons for keeping their relationship secret. I’m not having a dig, but you of all people would know about that.’ He met her gaze across the table. ‘I’m making a pig’s ear of this. What I’m trying to say is, it’s not only the guilty who have things to hide.’
He meant no offence and none was taken. He knew all about her ‘baggage’ and was cool with it. She was pleased. It made it easier to talk to him. Besides, she knew exactly what he was getting at. But she wasn’t buying it. Even if she was dealing with a clandestine relationship, she’d have expected to find stuff belonging to Judy in Reid’s flat. So far she’d found zilch. There was still no clue to Judy’s identity – except a uniform – assuming she was the same woman Reid’s mates had seen him with – and they had no proof of that either.
‘Maybe they didn’t want to go public until his divorce went through,’ Gormley suggested. ‘I know a guy whose ex screwed him rotten because of a new squeeze, insisted on having her salary taken into account when the civil courts were working out alimony payments. You said yourself the clothes in his wardrobe were top notch. For all we know, she may have been a high earner too.’
‘That’s plausible . . .’
‘So what’s bothering you?’
‘There wasn’t even a toothbrush of hers there.’
‘No DNA, you mean?’
‘That too. But people in love send each other daft things, don’t they? My relationship with Jo may not have been common knowledge, but I’ve got loads of that sort of thing at home. Books, letters, cards she sent me when we were together, all of them signed. Suffice to say, there’s plenty there to lead a clued-up detective to her if they looked hard enough. See what I’m saying?’
Gormley shrugged, his eyes darting to his nephew then settling on Daniels.
‘Maybe she wasn’t that important to him,’ he said. ‘Maybe he still had the hots for his wife and was waiting to see how the land lay before getting too involved with anyone else.’
Gormley could identify with that. His own marital problems had begun many years ago when he was conducting enquiries away from home. He’d been unfaithful to his wife and got caught, quite literally with his pants down, when she turned up unexpectedly to tell him she was pregnant. The hooker he was with hadn’t batted an eyelid, just picked up her clobber and left the room. His wife had never really got past it.
That didn’t mean he loved her any less.
Daniels wanted to reach out and hug him, support him like he’d supported her. If he could turn back the clock, she knew he would. But was the same true of Mark Reid, she wondered? It would certainly explain the photograph of Maggie they’d found in his flat. Had he strayed while his wife was pregnant only to regret his indiscretion afterwards? Had Judy got wind of it and taken drastic action to get rid of the competition?
The voice message again. Hi, babe. Tried your mobile. Assume it’s on charge. Hope I haven’t woken Jamie. If you get this message, call me.
Suddenly, a thought occurred that really wound Daniels up. Not quite a Eureka moment, but enough to get her excited.
59
‘You know, you might be right, Hank.’ She stared at him, her eyes wide with hope. ‘For days something’s been niggling away in the back of my brain. I couldn’t quite nail it. Judy hasn’t phoned Reid since the night of the fire or left any further messages, right? Why hasn’t she?’
‘Well, he didn’t return her calls, did he? Maybe she’s lost interest, hooked up with someone new.’
‘No.’ Daniels shook her head. ‘The tone of her call didn’t suggest that to me. I think she knows he’s dead and therefore knows there’s no point calling him again. The questions we have to ask ourselves are these: did she phone him to give herself an alibi initially and isn’t bright enough to have kept up the pretence? Or did she really not know he was dead until she read it in the press? You just said it yourself: she thought he was at home with Jamie. If she’s the one who set the fire, the target being Maggie, she may not have realized her fatal mistake until afterwards. I want you to be more proactive. Get out there and concentrate on her. Talk to Reid’s mates again, his neighbours. Someone must know who the hell she is.’
‘What you going to do?’
It was a good question, one she didn’t answer straight away. Her head was spinning with countless jobs, a long list of actions for her team. She needed to call Matt West for a start, see how the Forensic Science Lab were getting on, find out how close they were to a result on the cigarette butt. Then she planned to ask Carmichael to exert pressure on the Technical Support Unit for those video enhancements in both murder cases. And set aside some time to analyse the report on the high-viz jackets she’d asked the accident investigators to supply. And re-interview PC Dixon and a whole lot more besides.
Her work mobile rang: a number she didn’t recognize. ‘DCI Daniels.’
‘Is it convenient to talk to you, ma’am?’
Daniels sat up straight. Gormley gave her an odd look across the table. She mimed a puzzled look in return. It was Sergeant McCabe, the officer whose daughter’s funeral they had come from. There was background noise on the line. The crackle of a police-issue radio and the familiar voice of a custody sergeant she knew. It was less than two hours since McCabe had buried Bridget and he was already back at work? Surely not.
‘Yes, of course, Mick. Sounds like you’re at the nick?’
‘Custody suite, Market Street.’ He paused a beat, then explained that Bridget’s twin and his other daughter were with their grandparents, on the way south for a bit of a break.
‘So soon? You sure that’s a good idea?’
‘For them or me?’
‘Make your way to the MIR on the second floor. I’ll meet you there in five.’
Daniels ditched her whisky and left the pub immediately. Four minutes later, she found McCabe at the top of the stairwell, pale and drawn, slightly the worse for wear, still dressed in his funeral suit and black tie. She led him along the corridor to the major incident suite and towards her office, stopping on the way to tell Carmichael she wanted some quiet time and wasn’t to be disturbed.
McCabe was more than a little unsteady on his feet. She sat him down, offered him coffee.
He declined. ‘I don’t want to take up your valuable time, ma’am.’ He gestured through her office door to the MIR beyond. ‘Looks like you’ve got a lot on. It’s just . . . well, I’ve lost something of Bridget’s and wondered if you could help me find it. Me and my girls have looked everywhere. The only possible explanation is that she was wearing it when . . .’ He stumbled over his words. ‘It definitely wasn’t returned with her possessions by hospital staff, I checked.’
D
aniels’ ears pricked up. ‘Go on.’
‘My father bought each of the girls a seal ring. I know it sounds stupid, but we have this family crest. He thought it would be nice if they each had one. Bridget didn’t often wear hers because it was a bit loose for her little finger and too small for her ring finger. She was terrified of losing it. Thing is, it isn’t in the house. I wondered if you noticed it on the night, y’know, when you were with Bridget.’
Ivy’s missing lottery ticket leapt into Daniels’ mind. She tried not to look alarmed or let her growing anger show. The idea that anyone might steal from – or, in Ivy’s case, kill – a person at their most vulnerable appalled her. She knew from talking to Bridget that someone had attended her immediately following the crash, before she had come along. The burning question was, who? Emergency services personnel? A member of the public?
Shit! A cop?
McCabe filled the silence. ‘I shouldn’t have bothered you with this.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I’m dog tired and not thinking straight.’
‘No. Please sit down. I want to help.’
‘It’s fine, I’ll check with Traffic.’
Daniels could almost feel Bridget’s hand in hers. Cold. Wet. Trembling. She could smell the girl’s fear. Taste it even. Images flashed through her mind. Slim fingers on young hands. Painted nails: two of which had been torn off in the collision. A ring. She was wearing a ring, but not the one McCabe just described, she told him . . .
‘It was a simple gold band, worn on the middle finger of her left hand—’
‘Her mother’s wedding ring.’ McCabe was losing it, the harsh reality of the day hitting him hard. He cleared his throat before continuing, swallowing down his heartache. ‘That one was returned. Becci now has it.’
His words hung in the air.
Daniels could see he was a broken man. She leaned across her desk and handed him a tissue, her thoughts very firmly on the missing ring. There was no evidence that a theft had actually occurred, but if the seal ring had been stolen then why not the wedding band too? Or did it? ‘This is going to sound like an odd question,’ she said after a while, ‘but was the wedding ring a tight fit?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Then you could be right . . .’ Daniels hated keeping her suspicions from him. ‘The seal ring most probably came off during the crash. Why don’t you let me look into it for you? I’ll have Bridget’s car searched. It’ll still be at the recovery garage, it shouldn’t take long. I’ll get someone on to it right away and get back to you.’
‘Thanks, ma’am.’
‘It’s no problem,’ Daniels said. Even as she said it, she knew that wasn’t the truth.
Far from it.
60
PC Dixon was desperate to talk to his girlfriend. He’d been calling her for days but she wasn’t picking up or returning his calls. He’d gone to her home but there was no answer at the door. The neighbours hadn’t seen her either. Completely baffled by her disappearance, and wondering what the silly cow was up to, he’d returned to the station only to run into more bad news. Daniels had called in Professional Standards.
Ray Montagu, a severe-looking detective superintendent, was facing him now, an equally serious female DI by his side. The pair had years of experience under their belts, impressive reputations in their field of expertise. Dixon didn’t need telling that his own good name was on the line.
You want a better class of detective, complain about a polis.
Report a rape, you get a numpty.
Those words had come from his shift sergeant as he’d left to face the big guns. He could say that again. Montagu was looking right through him, judging him before he’d even opened his mouth, a cause of deep anxiety for Dixon. A file on the table had his name, rank and number written in thick black pen on the cover. There was no mistake. He was fighting for his life here.
Taking her cue from her senior officer, the woman introduced herself as Detective Inspector Jane Trent. Advising Dixon that she was recording the interview, she then cautioned him, giving the time, date and location of where the interview was taking place. ‘You’re entitled to have a solicitor present,’ she said. ‘Or someone from the Police Federation, if you’d prefer.’
‘I don’t.’ Dixon cleared his throat. ‘Want anyone, I mean. I’ve done nothing wrong, ma’am.’
‘Then you have nothing to worry about, Constable.’ The DI’s lips were smiling but her eyes were not.
Dixon kept shtum, so Trent carried on: ‘On Saturday the twenty-sixth of June you were spoken to by Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels of the Murder Investigation Team with regard to an incident in Ralph Street. An old man, since identified as George Milburn, had collapsed in the street. You left her crime scene to render assistance. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Dixon said.
‘Following on from that interview,’ Montagu chipped in, ‘we have a few more questions for you. You’re aware that an amount of money was taken from the old man?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Money which you deny having any knowledge of.’
‘That is correct.’
‘Have you anything further to say on the matter?’
Montagu waited, searching Dixon’s face for clues. There were none. The PC was showing no signs of distress. He sat stony-faced, not a flicker of concern, his expression deadpan. After a moment, he told them that he had nothing at all to add to what he’d already told DCI Daniels when first questioned.
‘That’s a shame,’ the Super said. ‘I really was hoping you’d help us out here.’
Montagu looked away deliberately. Opening up Dixon’s personnel file, he flicked through a few pages, commenting on his exemplary record, reminding him what he stood to lose should any impropriety be uncovered during the interview. A ploy designed to make him sweat. Closing the file, he looked up.
‘I’ll get straight to the point then, shall I?’
‘If you would, sir. I’m due on at two.’
Cocky shit!
‘You allege that a young woman at the scene may have taken the money.’
‘That may well be the case, sir.’
‘But that’s not true, is it?’ Montagu said. ‘What if I told you we’ve already established that you were the only person within touching distance of the old gentleman while he was lying prostrate on the ground – what would you say?’
‘I’d say you’re mistaken,’ Dixon replied. ‘The girl was with him when I got there, sir.’
‘We’re willing to accept your word on that score,’ Trent said. ‘That would be Chantelle Fox, yes? The young woman you described as a “gobby cow” to DCI Daniels?’
Dixon’s gaze shifted from the Super to Trent. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Yes, indeed . . .’ Montagu let some time pass before moving the interview along. ‘We’ve made extensive enquiries. We’ve spoken to a number of witnesses to the old man’s unfortunate collapse. I have to tell you, the information coming back is fairly conclusive. Everyone agrees that, while Chantelle Fox did take photographs of him lying on the deck, she did not approach him at any time. Therefore she couldn’t have removed anything from his person. What have you got to say about that?’
‘Not true. She was very close to him.’
‘You’re saying the people we’ve interviewed are lying and you’re telling the truth?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. Shit stick together, sir.’
‘Do they?’ Trent bristled. ‘You got something against people living in the West End?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Sounds like you have.’ Trent glanced at Montagu. ‘The people we interviewed were very cooperative, weren’t they, sir?’ Taking in Montagu’s nod, Trent turned back to Dixon. ‘Chantelle may be gobby, but she had the decency to admit taking inappropriate images. Her neighbours back up her claim that she went nowhere near the old man. They seemed pretty genuine to me.’
‘Someone’s lying.’ It was a statement, not a ques
tion. Montagu was watching Dixon closely. Making a fist of his hand, the PC propped up his chin, his elbow on the table, all the time insisting that Chantelle Fox was with the old man when he got there. ‘So you said. And sit up straight when you’re talking to me. You’re not in the staff canteen now, son.’
His harsh words had the desired effect.
Dixon sat back, couldn’t look the detectives in the eye.
‘That’s better . . .’ Montagu waited until he had Dixon’s full attention. ‘According to DCI Daniels, you deny having taken possession of Mr Milburn’s cash, even for safekeeping. Is that still your contention?’
‘I didn’t take anything, sir.’
‘Very well.’
Montagu had a bombshell to drop. But not yet. Not until he was good and ready. Not until the little shit across the table denied his career away. For a moment or two he did just that, repeating his claim that Chantelle Fox was the guilty party, insisting he had nothing whatsoever to hide. He was simply doing his job, as always.
Silly boy.
The hiatus proved too much for Dixon. ‘I’m not pointing any fingers, sir. Perhaps she wasn’t the one who took the money. But I didn’t, that’s all I’m saying. I’m as clueless as you appear to be.’
Trent had to work hard to keep the smile off her face. Her eyes flicked to the Super. His expression was inscrutable. They had worked together for years and ‘clueless’ was not something he’d ever been called before. Not by anyone. It was a big mistake on Dixon’s part, because Montague had realized he was beginning to crack.
‘First she did, then she didn’t . . .’ Montagu paused. ‘You were certain a moment ago. Have you changed your mind?’
Dixon was sweating profusely. ‘No, sir. All I’m saying is, I didn’t see her take it. She was near him though, whatever her neighbours told you.’
‘You’re prepared to admit that you may have been mistaken though, yes?’ Trent pushed.
‘It’s possible.’
‘Cut the crap!’ Montague was angry now and it showed. ‘We have you bang to rights, son. For security reasons, DCI Daniels installed covert monitoring equipment in Ralph Street following the arson attack. It proves beyond a shadow of doubt that Chantelle Fox went nowhere near the dying man. Now what do you have to say for yourself?’
