Deadly Deceit

by Hannah, Mari

  Avoiding the centre treads, they crept silently up the stairs, keeping their bodies close to the wall. During situations like these, time stood still. It seemed an age before they reached the top. Another thud from inside the room. Carmichael withdrew her snips to use as a weapon. Daniels took a peek through the door jamb. Nothing visible. Her heart was punching a hole in her chest. Carmichael was tough, but they could’ve done with Gormley’s bulk alongside them now. His sheer size was enough to put most offenders off.

  Listening with her best ear, Daniels tried to identify how many people were searching. One, she thought. Reaching into her breast pocket, she took out a Maglite pencil torch and gently pushed open the door to her left, checking that no one was in there getting ready to rush them. Her torch beam panned around the bathroom. Empty. Second bedroom. Empty. No cupboards to hide in. No nasty surprises in there: a single bed, an old rocking chair, an exercise bike much like the one she had at home.

  Her eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, knowing that Carmichael was watching her back the whole time. That was a given, instinctive. Just like the urge to keep moving forward when a civilian’s response would be to flee the scene. Daniels listened again, planning to wait until the person inside was physically doing something before entering the room. Two hands pulling out a drawer worked every time. She nodded to Carmichael and pointed to the floor.

  Flattening herself against the wall so as not to get thrown back down the stairs, the DC positioned her foot in such a way to prevent the door being smashed into Daniels’ face should someone try and make an escape.

  A ticking noise was coming from the room.

  Daniels’ brow creased. Carmichael heard it too. She looked at her DCI: What-the-fuck-is-that? Daniels spread her hands: No idea. Experience told her that ticking sounds were not good. She took a deep breath and made her play.

  ‘Shit, shit, SHIT!’ Daniels exhaled loudly.

  The ticking sound stopped as a black-and-white cat looked up, interrupted in its attempt to lick a creamy liquid off the carpet. As her heartbeat returned to normal, Daniels’ eyes locked on to an open can of condensed milk that lay on its side on the floor, knocked off the bedside table, the source of the baby-sick smell that had confounded her from the moment she set foot in the place two long days ago.

  ‘Boss? Over here!’

  Carmichael was on the other side of the bed, staring at a point near the floor.

  Daniels joined her and bent down. There was blood on the white duvet cover – a definite hand print – and a drip or two on the floor. She looked up, considering what might have happened here. Less than an hour ago, Chantelle Fox had admitted knowing the identity of a woman the whole force were looking for, a strong suspect for one murder and possibly more. Chantelle lived in Ralph Street, directly opposite one of the crime scenes and she was handy with a camera. It didn’t take a genius to work out the rest.

  ‘You better get the CSI lads down here, Lisa. Whoever killed Mark and Jamie Reid is responsible for this.’

  ‘You think they took her? Why not kill her?’

  ‘It looks like they tried.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I suspect Chantelle’s been playing David Bailey again. Pound to a penny she’s got more photos. Only these aren’t of the old man. I think she saw the arsonist and she’s been playing silly buggers in order to make some easy money, blackmailing someone who desperately wants to remain anonymous . . . This time Chantelle bit off more than she could chew.’ Daniels glanced at the bloody duvet. ‘I told you she wouldn’t come quietly.’

  Her mobile rang, startling them both. ‘It’s her!’ Daniels pushed a button on her phone. ‘Chantelle?’

  ‘The name you want is Lucy Laidlaw.’

  Daniels registered this was a name beginning with L. ‘Chantelle, are you OK?’

  ‘What do you care?’ The girl sounded scared to death and out of breath. She was crying now, her distress reaching Daniels via loud sobs in her right ear. ‘You make sure you get the bitch. She nearly fucking killed me.’

  ‘Where are you? Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’ve had worse . . .’ Chantelle paused, choking back tears. ‘Inspector?’

  ‘I’m still here. Let me come and get you—’

  ‘No! You be careful, OK? She’s one fucking psycho!’

  The phone went dead.

  67

  Tuesday. Nine a.m. The briefing room was full. Some detectives were sharing desks, two and three apiece, the rest standing in groups waiting for the meeting to begin, every single person associated with both cases crammed into the room. Carmichael, Brown and Robson had formed a little faction of their own. They’d had the sense to grab a mug of tea before a rush on the drinks machine. To their left, Maxwell and Gormley’s conversation was about football, in particular Brazil’s three–nil win over Chile that had nudged them closer to a sixth World Cup title. But most of the excitement in the room was work related.

  Since early doors, phones had been ringing off the hook. An image of Susan Armstrong had appeared again, not only on breakfast television, but in the headlines of the local papers and some of the nationals on sale in the shops.

  It was the biggest story for years.

  The public outcry Daniels had anticipated had arrived. People were incensed at such a despicable act of cruelty to such a vulnerable accident victim. The fact that a rogue fire officer might be involved, not only in the death of Ivy Kerr but also in the arson attack that killed Mark and Jamie Reid – had been withheld from the media for the time being. That revelation would come later, when they caught the bastard responsible.

  Daniels’ phone rang: The fire investigator.

  She covered the speaker. ‘Guv, I should take this. It’s Geoff Abbott.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘I’ll start the ball rolling.’

  Naylor told the team to get comfy, outlining the need for a thorough case review.

  ‘Things have moved fast in the last twenty-four hours,’ he began. ‘Yesterday, acting on information received from PC Dixon – who overheard station gossip about a woman in uniform we were desperate to track down – Hank and the DCI attended the West End fire station where she allegedly worked. They found no trace of her. At that point they had no photograph to show the watch manager and the DCI put in a request for personnel records of all female staff to be made available. She and Hank then went to the address of Susan Armstrong and later obtained a warrant. A search of the premises revealed two things. First: the clothing left there, such as it was, is size 14. An average size, you might say. But it matches that found in Mark Reid’s house. Second: the search turned up several passports, all bearing the photograph of a woman who’d attempted to disguise herself by changing hairstyle or colour.’

  ‘There was a wig there too, guv,’ Carmichael reminded him.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Lisa.’ He smiled. ‘I’d forgotten that. Even more shocking is the fact that the woman in the passports is the same woman captured on film at Lottery HQ – the one passing herself off as Jennifer Rankin.’ He paused a moment. ‘Everyone clear so far?’

  There were nods all round.

  ‘Good.’ Naylor glanced at Daniels, who was still on the phone. It was important to go over events. This case was getting more and more complex by the minute. ‘Last night, PC Dixon was shown the passports we retrieved from Armstrong’s house. He confirmed that his former girlfriend is the woman in the photos. Therefore we know she is using several aliases. Although we can’t yet prove it, I think – and the DCI agrees with me – that Judy, the girlfriend of Mark Reid, the un-ident buying petrol and Jennifer Rankin are one and the same woman. Anyone disagree?’

  There were no dissenters.

  ‘Not likely, guv,’ someone at the back called out.

  ‘The DCI took the unprecedented step of asking the media to put out a picture of the woman on national TV . . .’ He stopped talking as Daniels put down the phone.

  ‘Geoff Abbott is on board,’ she said. ‘He’ll get
back to me in five. May I?’ She took his nod as her cue to take over. ‘When the news went out last night, Chantelle Fox rang me, claiming to know the identity of “Susan Armstrong”. By the time Lisa and I got round there, the place had been thoroughly ransacked and there were signs of a struggle, an amount of blood on the floor. Chantelle called again. The poor kid was scared to death. She gave the name Lucy Laidlaw and rang off. Now then – and this is important, so get your notebooks out, because I’m going to be putting out actions any minute . . .’

  She waited until the team were ready.

  ‘Several names were thrown in the hat this morning, but I think we struck lucky. One witness, a man called Ben Foster, rang in claiming he’d met the woman on a train to London King’s Cross on Thursday the twenty-fourth of June, a matter of hours after Ivy Kerr was killed. She was using the name Laidlaw but not Lucy. She must’ve fancied Liv that day. I think she let her guard down and gave her real name by mistake. The name Laidlaw has never come up in the Fraud Intelligence Bureau’s investigation. Liv is short for Olivia, by the way, which does appear in one of the passports Hank found in the bureau at Armstrong’s drop address. Reduces the likelihood that Chantelle may have been mistaken, yes?’

  Again there were nods. The team were buoyed by what she’d told them. She could see it in their eyes. They were on their marks and raring to go. Now all they had to do was prove it . . .

  ‘Cherchez la femme,’ she said. ‘And to help you in that task, I’ve asked one of our analysts to interrogate HOLMES for unknown females and un-ident females currently in the system.’

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am . . .’ A hand went up at the back. An officer assigned to the team on a temporary basis was looking puzzled. ‘What’s the difference between unknown and un-ident females exactly?’

  ‘That’s a good question. Unknowns are exactly that: persons about whom nothing is known. Whereas un-idents are those where there is some information assigned: for example a partial name, an approximate address, a street name, a workplace. Any information we have that might lead to a full identification at a later date.’

  Her explanation seemed to satisfy him and she moved on.

  ‘Hair and eye colour is something that can easily be changed with the use of dyes and or lenses. So we’re matching physical descriptions here: height, size, shape – characteristics that are harder to alter or disguise.’ She pointed at the murder wall where the faces of Jamie and Mark Reid and Ivy Kerr stared back at her. ‘We have three victims so far. Chantelle Fox is lucky her picture isn’t up there too. She’s in grave danger and I want her picked up. We need to find her before Laidlaw does.’

  She caught Gormley’s eye.

  He shook his head, explained to the others that he’d called at her house on the way in. There was no sign of her and no indication she’d been back to the property since it was trashed. ‘She’s probably keeping her head down until Laidlaw is picked up,’ he said.

  ‘Smart move,’ someone muttered.

  ‘Chantelle has my number,’ Daniels said. ‘So hopefully she’ll use it. If she does call the incident room, try and persuade her to come in. Tell her I need to talk to her urgently and she’ll get all the protection she needs. If she won’t play ball, ask if she knows anything about Laidlaw’s male friend and possible accomplice. Caffrey, the guy who lives next door to the drop address, described him as a “rough-looking Mediterranean”, so another un-ident we know nothing about. Andy, keep your eye on the incident log. If Chantelle fled in a hurry and has no money, she’ll be up to her old tricks.’

  Brown nodded.

  Daniels picked up a remote and pressed a few buttons. The images on the murder wall changed. There were now several pictures side by side: the passport photos, the grainy shot obtained at the garage, a photograph Dixon had taken covertly for a keepsake, and one the team hadn’t seen before – a good facial image Daniels had uploaded from her phone a mere ten minutes ago.

  She highlighted it on the wall. ‘This is a photograph I obtained from Steven Watkins, the film buff Hank and I came across at the accident. Lisa managed to track him down through a contact she has at the North East Screenwriters’ Group. Last night I interviewed Keith Jewitt, the writer who runs it. Nice man,’ she said. ‘He speaks highly of Watkins, describing his weird behaviour as youthful exuberance. Early this morning, I knocked Watkins up. Jewitt was right. He’s not such a prat as I first thought. He apologized for his remarks and promised not to let his passion for manufactured gore get confused with the real stuff in future. He gave me this picture and it puts Laidlaw firmly at the scene. The hat in her hand is the one Cole captured on video from the air in the backseat of Ivy’s car, I bet.’

  Dozens of eyes were fixed on the image.

  ‘Anyone wish to comment before we move on?’ Daniels asked.

  ‘Jesus! Look at the eyes,’ Carmichael said. ‘Ice woman or what?’

  ‘They’re pretty evil.’ Brown looked at Daniels. ‘Your film guy deserves a BAFTA.’

  ‘You want me to grab a female officer and take some photographs of my own, boss?’ Maxwell said. ‘I’m happy to.’

  Naylor frowned. ‘You finding this funny, Neil?’

  ‘No, guv. Perhaps I should rephrase that.’ Maxwell glanced at the murder wall. ‘Dixon claims Susan Armstrong is five-ten. I’m suggesting I take a policewoman to the garage. Stand her in exactly the same spot and get some CCTV footage for comparison. It would confirm or dismiss the person’s height, man or woman.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Daniels said.

  ‘I’m full of them, boss.’

  The DCI’s phone rang.

  She answered with a bark. ‘Yes! What is it?’ After listening in earnest for a moment, she thanked the person on the other end and then hung up, her solemn expression placing everyone on alert. She turned to Naylor. ‘Guv, that was Abbott again. Remember the fire officer who went sick with post-traumatic stress after the accident?’ She paused. ‘It’s Laidlaw. Lucy Laidlaw.’

  68

  Thunder rumbled overhead. It had been raining heavily since first light and the windows of the small café were all steamed up. Chantelle shivered. She was soaked to the skin having come out of her hidey-hole to find some breakfast, a place no one would think of looking for her in a million years.

  Another rumble of thunder.

  Using her hand, she wiped a window in the condensation and peered through it. Outside, people in summer clothes were running for shelter under misshapen umbrellas, cars had their lights on and a small group of shoppers were sheltering in a doorway across the road, waiting for a break in the weather. Chantelle wondered how Rooney was doing at home. Probably hiding under her bed, scared stiff as usual. She loved that cat. He was a stray she’d picked up off the street, the only living thing she gave a shit about. He needed his scran, just as she did, and would probably starve to death in a few days if he wasn’t fed.

  Depressed by that thought, Chantelle finished her bacon buttie and picked up her tea. But the mug was empty, just cold dregs in the bottom. At the counter, the middle-aged woman who owned the café was serving take-aways to youths from the building site down the road. She had greying hair cut too short for her oval face and was wearing a Harrow checked tabard type apron fastened at the sides with Velcro. She gave a young man his change, throwing a concerned look at Chantelle as he made his way out the door.

  ‘Are you OK?’ she asked.

  Other customers turned to see who the owner was talking to, their eyes sliding over Chantelle.

  ‘I’m fine!’ Chantelle said. ‘So you can all stop gawping!’

  The owner wasn’t convinced. ‘You don’t look it.’

  ‘You looked in the mirror lately?’ Chantelle bit back.

  ‘Did your mother never teach you manners, young lady?’

  Yeah right, Chantelle thought. The only thing her mother had ever taught her was how to play roulette and how to apply fake tan.

  The woman had come out from behind her counter and was
now standing over her.

  ‘Can I get you anything else before you go?’

  It was a heavy hint that she was no longer welcome.

  Ignoring the woman, Chantelle dropped her head into a magazine someone had left on the table, eyeing the lush watches on the wrists of the stars. One of them was practically identical to the watch Laidlaw had been wearing last night. The memory of the encounter made her tremble. Chantelle had been watching the vicious cow for days and knew exactly what she was up to: fancy new watch, new car, new names too, according to the papers. Well, not any more. Not now Chantelle had done her civic duty by tipping off Daniels and the fat fucker.

  The police were lucky there were people like her around.

  ‘You need medical attention.’ The loitering owner uncrossed her arms and pointed at the makeshift bandage on Chantelle’s wrist, the blood-stained fingers poking out from beneath. ‘Your face isn’t much better. Look at the state of you!’ Her voice softened. ‘Has something happened to you, dear? Shall I call someone? The police?’

  ‘No! Just get lost and leave me alone. I slipped in the bath, that’s all.’

  Chantelle’s lie was the first thing that came into her head: the excuse women give in prison if they’re attacked in the shower block and don’t want to snitch to the zombies looking after them. She knew the wound needed stitches but was too scared to go to casualty in case Lucy was watching. She didn’t want the café owner’s sympathy. She couldn’t cope with that.

  ‘Then I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave . . .’ The owner indicated the door. ‘This is a café, not a waiting room, and you’re upsetting my regulars. Besides, it’s against health and safe—’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Chantelle got up so suddenly the chair fell backwards and landed with a crash on the floor. Two old ladies at the next table picked up their shopping and made for the exit. A bell sounded as they pulled the door open and waddled out into the pouring rain. Chantelle turned back to the owner. ‘See . . . you’re the divvi upsetting everyone! You could do with a course on customer service. And don’t you ever call me dear!’