by Hannah, Mari
‘If she didn’t take the money, then the ambulance crew must’ve. Or the medics when he was in the hospital. I don’t know, do I?’
‘You’re prepared to admit you were the only person near the man having the heart attack?’
‘No! Yes, maybe . . .’ Dixon was showing classic signs of stress. He’d gone terribly pale and a thin film of sweat had appeared on his upper lip. ‘Look, I was on my own and under pressure. I’d left a crime scene unattended and I was trying to save a life. As I told DCI Daniels, I’d never done that before.’
Trent shook her head. She wasn’t buying it.
‘Chantelle wasn’t close enough to take the cash, was she?’ she asked.
‘Then the ambulance crew must have it. I don’t!’
‘No need to lose your temper, Constable. I’ll ask again, did you or did you not take money from George Milburn following his collapse? Think carefully before you answer.’
‘No!’
‘Let me recap,’ Montagu said. ‘You now accept that Chantelle Fox wasn’t close enough to take the money, so it must have been the ambulance crew. Is that correct?’
No reaction.
‘PC Dixon? There’s no point in denying it. We have unequivocal proof, man.’
‘Yes.’
‘You really aren’t as bright as your record suggests, are you, Dixon?’ The comment had come from Trent. ‘You’re obviously unaware that the ambulance service operates a strict protocol for taking patients to hospital, logging them in with a triage team. They also have equipment to protect themselves from outrageous allegations from the likes of you.’ Dixon dropped his head as she waited for a response. None came. It was time to go for the jugular. ‘Have you ever been in the back of an ambulance?’
Dixon looked up. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Answer the question,’ Trent said.
Dixon shook his head.
For the benefit of the interview room’s digital recorder, Trent indicated that he’d done so. ‘PC Dixon, you are telling lies! Throughout this interview you’ve shown classic signs of a guilty man, shifting the blame, changing the story when it suited you. First you tell DCI Daniels that Chantelle was quote: standing over him . . . with him. Those are your words, the ones you used when first questioned. You repeated them today and then back-pedalled as soon as you realized you weren’t getting away with it. The truth is, Chantelle Fox couldn’t possibly have taken the money. Then you tried shifting the blame to the ambulance service. Well, let me enlighten you. There is video recording of what happens to the patients in transit and CCTV inside and outside accident and emergency departments. We’ve viewed the footage, which includes the transfer of Mr Milburn between the ambulance crew and the trauma team. Guess what? He was searched by a member of the hospital staff – because they knew he was in a bad way – so they could ID him and inform next of kin. Barring a few coins, he didn’t have any money on him. We already know Chantelle was telling the truth, so that proves to me you’re lying – unless you are suggesting that all the hospital staff are conspiring together to commit an offence? And that doesn’t happen.’
Dixon’s head went down as the interrogation came to an end. He was beaten and he knew it. For a moment the room was silent. When he looked up at his superiors he had tears in his eyes and his chest was heaving under his uniform shirt. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘I did take the cash, but I swear to you it was only for safekeeping. I was going to give it back. But when DCI Daniels contacted me, I panicked.’
‘Too. Late. Now,’ Trent said.
61
‘Ma’am, this is PC Dixon. Please don’t hang up . . .’
Daniels happened to be standing at the window looking out when she took the call. She’d seen him enter the car park in the pouring rain, a civilian jacket on, a mobile phone stuck to his ear. He stopped short of the station entrance, was just beneath her window now.
‘Ma’am? Are you there?’
‘What do you want?’ Her tone was harsh.
As if sensing the intensity of her gaze, the PC glanced upward, squinting as the rain fell even harder, a look of contrition on his young face as he saw her looking down on him. ‘I know you think I’m a piece of a shit. And I am, OK? But I need to see you right away. It’s very important . . .’
His voice was lost in a sudden rumble of thunder.
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ Daniels said. ‘Take my advice and keep well away from the station. You’re no longer welcome here.’
She hung up.
Dixon checked his phone and redialled. Almost immediately Daniels’ phone rang again. She hesitated. The drenched PC looked up at her window, held a hand to his chest, pleading with her to answer and stay on the line – a gesture so pathetic, she took the call. What he said next both surprised and excited her. Allegedly, he had information pertaining to the Ralph Street fire.
‘Station interview suite,’ she said. ‘Five minutes. It had better be good.’
Putting down the phone, Daniels went back to her desk to collect her mobile before heading downstairs. What the hell was Dixon on about? She’d observed his interview from the viewing room. Her colleagues had done well. Questions had been fired at him in quick succession, each one designed to trip him up. It took Professional Standards less than half an hour to break him, ten more minutes to get a clear admission of guilt. His explanation? He’d taken the money to impress a woman with expensive tastes. She’d since dumped him and was now refusing to take his calls.
So . . . bloody . . . what.
Daniels was curious. There had been no mention of information on Ralph Street at the time of his arrest. Although, now she came to think of it, as he left the charge room following his suspension from duty he’d asked to see her – for reasons she couldn’t fathom then. Still couldn’t. The custody sergeant refused, telling him that no one, least of all the DCI, was remotely interested in anything he had to say. He was an outsider now. No longer one of them. He’d crossed that invisible line and there was no way back.
On leaving court, Trent had called, letting Daniels know that Dixon had been bailed, despite an application from the CPS for a remand in custody. He’d been in the dock less than five minutes – probably the longest of his life – the focus of much press attention, more was the pity.
Daniels sighed. Bent cops sold newspapers.
The case had been adjourned so Dixon could seek proper representation. He’d elected trial at the Crown Court. Good move. Odds were he’d get a lesser sentence that way. He was young in service, but experienced enough to know that judges tended to be less punitive than magistrates when evidence was presented to them, even in cases where there had been an appalling breach of trust. He was facing a custodial for sure. But, in determining length of sentence, a judge would listen to all the evidence, properly weigh up the mitigating factors and take into account his previous exemplary record.
He’d be counting on that.
There was no longer even a slim chance of a future on the force and Daniels was finding it hard to understand what on earth possessed him to return to the station to face the vitriol of his former colleagues. It wasn’t anger she felt. It was sadness. Although Dixon had no one to blame but himself, the DCI took no pleasure in his downfall.
Still, the question remained: what the hell was he up to?
Dixon hung his head in shame as he was shown into the same interview room where he’d been questioned earlier. Daniels’ way of making a point, he thought. He felt like scum off the street as he sat back down. His eyes scanned the bare walls, the fly-infested fluorescent tube above his head, the digital recorder that had captured his full confession, a soundtrack that would be replayed in a court of law should he choose to plead not guilty. He could almost see the heavies sitting opposite, their wisdom as well as their contempt on show.
Dixon’s head was spinning, his face burning up with the heat in the room. His hands were ingrained with fingerprinting ink. It was in the charge room of the custody sui
te that the realization had dawned when he overheard two officers talking in low whispers about the Ralph Street fire. Not low enough. That snippet of station gossip had hit him like a brick. Daniels was looking for a female in uniform, a classy dresser, by all accounts.
Susan.
What a bloody fool he’d been.
After leaving court with his reputation in shreds, he’d gone home to remove his own uniform before making the most difficult journey of his life. He’d made one last attempt to contact Susan before the shit hit the fan. Then he’d driven back to the station for the final time, plucking up the courage to call Daniels instead.
Flinching as the door to the interview room flew open, Dixon stood to attention, force of habit in the company of a senior officer. Not that it mattered any more. Daniels charged into the room and didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. He knew exactly what she thought of him by the ugly expression on her face. He couldn’t feel any worse if she slapped him. Utterly ashamed of himself, he pushed an envelope across the table, George Milburn’s money inside. He wasn’t expecting thanks or sympathy.
Didn’t get any either.
‘I was duped, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Where have I heard that before?’ Daniels pointed at the cash. ‘You’re a damn disgrace, Dixon. It was a shameful thing to do. Whatever possessed you? No, don’t answer that. Your girlfriend dumped you. I know, I heard. Get over it.’
Dixon looked at her, his face draining of colour. ‘She’s a firefighter, ma’am.’
Daniels sat down. He had her attention now.
62
Gormley’s car sped up the West Road, dodging in and out of rush-hour traffic. After a long spell of blistering weather, the thunderstorm had been welcome, lifting the humidity and giving the ground a good soaking. The rain was short-lived. Within minutes of the downpour stopping, the sun came out and any surface water completely disappeared.
At the West End Fire Station, where Dixon said his girlfriend was stationed, they were met by the duty watch manager who told them no officer with the name Susan Armstrong worked there.
‘Check again,’ Daniels’ tone suggested an order, not a request.
He eyeballed her. ‘I know my officers.’
‘Please . . .’ she said, trying to placate him. ‘We haven’t got time to piss about. Can you do another search for Susan and Armstrong separately? She could’ve been married and reverted to a maiden name.’
Placing his fingers on computer keys, the watch manager searched the personnel database again. Looking up, he shook his head. ‘No matches. No female firefighter of either name anywhere in the system – in fact, anywhere in service locally.’
Thanking him, Daniels apologized for her abruptness. He said he understood, but she doubted it. ‘I require photographic records of all female personnel as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘I have a witness needs to take a look at them.’
The guy hesitated. ‘I’m not sure—’
‘Oh, don’t whinge, man! Give us them. We’re desperate to trace this woman!’
This time he didn’t argue. He agreed to send the files electronically as soon as he’d cleared it with the appropriate authority. Daniels had a nasty feeling as she walked back to the car and got in.
Gormley put his seat belt on and then took it off again, straining to get the keys out of his left trouser pocket. Turning the car over, he asked Daniels where she wanted to go. Dixon had given Armstrong’s address as Wingrove Road – a stone’s throw away – and she told him that would be their next port of call. They could’ve walked there in minutes but, in view of her recent experience of leaving a car unattended, she suggested they take the Peugeot in order to keep a close eye on it.
Wheels squealed on dry tarmac as Gormley did a quick U-turn in a confined space and headed back the way they’d come. ‘You think she’ll be up for visitors?’ he asked.
Daniels gave him a look. ‘Why, you want to stop and buy cake?’
‘I’m bloody starving, now you mention it.’
‘You’re always starving. Can you drive any slower?’
Ignoring her sarcasm, Gormley crossed the West Road, negotiated a mini roundabout and entered a wide street of red-brick Victorian houses. It was an area favoured by Asian householders, many of whom owned businesses nearby. Cars were parked on both sides of the road. Gormley braked gently in order to scan the numbers on the doors, then stepped on the accelerator as he realized he had a way to go.
Lucky for them, there was a space outside the house. They got out of the car, walked up the path and rang the bell. After a few seconds of waiting, Gormley left Daniels on the doorstep and took a peek through the bay window. The room was tidy but there were no lights on inside. No personal possessions lying around to suggest its occupant had just nipped upstairs.
He shook his head. No signs of life.
‘We got grounds to obtain a warrant?’ he said.
Daniels stared at the locked front door. ‘Bloody right, we have.’
Gormley looked around, braced himself for a shoulder charge. Daniels held him back, preventing an unlawful entry, telling him the last thing they needed was to find their offender and have them escape justice on a technicality. No – if they were to catch this woman it would have to be water-tight.
‘Everything by the book,’ she said. Taking out her mobile, she called Carmichael. ‘Lisa, we’re at Susan Armstrong’s house. We need a warrant. Get your arse into court with the necessary paperwork and make it snappy. If the magistrates have all gone home, interrupt someone’s tea and don’t take no for an answer – I need that double-U as soon as I can get it. Ring me when you have it. Better still, meet us here.’
Waiting for the warrant was a pain in the arse. Dead time. Time they could ill afford to waste. Gormley suggested they find a café on the West Road and wait there, but Daniels refused. She didn’t want to leave in case Armstrong showed. Sending him for a takeaway coffee, she went back to the car, ignoring the twitching curtains of neighbouring houses, imagining mobile phone calls criss-crossing the street. Why were the police sniffing around? What had Armstrong done?
What indeed?
When Gormley didn’t immediately return, Daniels made a few calls and then lapsed into boredom. The door of the neighbouring house opened. A man walked out into the sunshine dressed in shorts. He sat down on his front door step, eating what looked like a bacon stottie – a large bap that was a favourite in this part of the world.
Daniels left the car.
Approaching the man, she offered up ID. ‘Excuse me for spoiling your tea.’
‘Breakfast,’ he corrected her.
She nodded to the house next door. ‘Do you know Ms Armstong?’
‘Is that what she’s called?’
God! You’re a bundle of joy. ‘You don’t know her then?’
‘Hasn’t been there long . . .’ He took a bite of his buttie and spoke with his mouth full. ‘Never speaks to me or anyone else in the street. Keeps herself to herself, y’know. Fine with me, I’m a nightshift worker. Baggage handler at the airport, ten-to-six shift. The less people know I’m here all day, the better I like it.’
‘I remember . . .’ Daniels smiled. ‘I used to work at your local nick when I was in uniform.’
‘Nights are killers, the wife says.’
‘Yes, they are. Would you know if Ms Armstrong lives alone?’
The man threw a crumb of bread to a bird in the garden. It hopped away, squabbling with another bird who wanted to share. ‘Far as I know.’
‘Any visitors lately?’
‘A bloke, now you mention it.’
Dixon. ‘Boyfriend?’
‘Didn’t get that impression . . .’ He stifled a half-yawn. ‘Didn’t really suit each other, know what I mean? Bit rough for her, I would’ve said. She was classy . . . bit up herself.’
‘Can you describe the man to me?’
‘Middle-aged. Big. Swarthy complexion. A scar here.’ He pointed to his right cheek.
&n
bsp; Not Dixon.
‘Hard-looking,’ he added. ‘You know the type.’
‘Thanks. You’ve been really helpful.’ Daniels turned her head away, giving her eyes a rest from direct sunlight. She noticed that the upstairs window of the house the other side of Armstrong’s was open, a net curtain billowing out. She turned back to the man on the step. ‘Mind if I send someone to take a formal statement, Mister . . .?’
‘Caffrey. Anytime after three,’ he grunted. ‘Come earlier and you’ll get no reply.’
‘After three . . . I’ll make sure it goes down on the sheet.’
As she walked down the path, Gormley arrived back at the car with a coffee in each hand. Just as she opened the door, Carmichael pulled up with a signed warrant and a battering ram.
63
It was an unremarkable rental property, like many in the neighbourhood. Not flash. Not scruffy. Just your average furnished let.
Stepping over unopened mail in the hallway, the DCI led the way, immediately dispatching Carmichael upstairs, telling Gormley to search the ground floor. Leaving them to get on with it, she checked out the kitchen at the back of the house. What she found there led her to believe that Armstrong hadn’t been around for a few days. Either that or she’d already done a runner. There were some snacks in the fridge past their sell-by date, stuff Daniels classed as emergency food. There were no dishes in the sink. The bin was empty. The cupboards were bare and there was a thin film of dust on the work surfaces.
Unusual for a kitchen.
‘This isn’t a home. It’s a drop address,’ Carmichael said as she walked in. ‘There’s a change of clothes in the bedroom wardrobe, same size as those you found in Reid’s gaff, a few items of toiletries in the bathroom: toothbrush, hairbrush, a bit of slap. The rest of the rooms are totally empty. But this was hanging on the bathroom door.’
