Deadly Deceit

by Hannah, Mari

  Lucy picked up her drink and slugged it back. She couldn’t bear to think about Mark in that house as the fire swept through it. It was never part of her plan that he should suffer. Or the child – she cringed – that beautiful, beautiful child. No, it was her: the leech draining his bank balance that she wanted to disappear. Maggie was the one deserved to fry.

  Another slug of her drink.

  Mark had been good to her. He was the only man who’d treated her with any respect. He was a good man too, as near to a perfect partner as she’d ever come across, the only man who had ever managed to make her feel—

  Lucy shut her eyes as her father’s hands crept over her skin. Even from the grave he managed to make her feel dirty. What was she thinking? It would never have worked with Mark. Once he found out what she’d been up to, he’d have cut her loose. No point in crying about it now, was there? No one’s fault if people couldn’t stick to their bloody babysitting arrangements. And how was she to know that a better scenario would present itself that very same night? But it had . . .

  The old gadgie had croaked by the time she reached the scene of the accident. Fortunately for Lucy, the old bird was still alive. Had plenty to say for herself too, letting slip her big secret, the one that would change her life.

  Hadn’t it just.

  Lucy recalled the moment when the silly old woman told her that she’d won the lottery. ‘Wow!’ she’d said. ‘How cool is that?’ She’d patted the woman’s bony hand, flashing her a winning smile before panic set in. ‘Ivy? Ivy?’ Lucy had tapped the old woman’s face, almost slapped it to bring her round. Don’t you fucking die on me. ‘You need to stay awake, love. Ivy?’

  Ivy’s eyes strained to focus and then she was back.

  ‘That’s better . . . you feeling a bit more comfortable now?’

  ‘A little.’ She was being brave, fading fast.

  A voice called out: ‘Need any help in there?’

  Fuck! Out of the corner of her eye Lucy had seen the copper standing there in the pouring rain, his high-viz jacket on and built like a brick shithouse. With her heart banging in her chest, she had remained crouched over, pretended to work the steering column free, willing the bastard to move away from the car.

  Breathe. Breathe, she’d told herself, whispering to the old girl. ‘We’ve got it covered here, haven’t we, Ivy? You’re a star, aren’t you, love?’

  ‘Nice of him to ask,’ Ivy managed in return.

  ‘You must be overjoyed with that win, eh? Planning anything? That’s if you don’t mind me asking . . .’ Lucy had tried to sound casual, allowed her voice to trail off. She’d waved a hand in front of her face as if dismissing some ridiculous notion, her thoughts on all that money. Cash that would go to waste on an old codger who’d most probably be dead in a year – a month, a week – if Lucy didn’t act. Unless. ‘Have you out of there in a jiffy, love.’

  Ivy turned her head sideways. ‘What were you going to say, dear?’

  ‘Nothing . . .’

  ‘Please, you’ve been so kind.’

  ‘No, it’s daft . . .’ Ivy was about to let the matter drop, so Lucy added, ‘I was going to ask where the lucky shop is.’ She grinned, glancing at Ivy’s crushed leg. The bleeding was getting worse and worse. ‘Thought I might buy a ticket on my way off duty. You never know, I might get lucky too.’

  ‘They say lightning never strikes twice though, don’t they?’ Ivy said.

  Lucy tried for a grin. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’

  ‘Well, it’s rubbish. There was a big win there not so long ago. The girl on the lottery counter told me so. You get yourself along there, dear. Tesco Extra at Kingston Park.’ Ivy glanced at her husband, who still hadn’t moved. ‘We play the same numbers every week and get one lucky dip. Neither of us smoke or drink and we don’t go out much nowadays. It’s a bit of fun really. We like checking the numbers as they’re drawn, don’t we, John?’ She reached for her husband’s hand. ‘Can you get him a blanket, dear? He’s cold.’

  ‘Course I can,’ Lucy said, reaching for her service torch.

  It was a lucky dip, all right. Lucy grinned to herself. Just not Ivy’s.

  ‘You think this is a joke, eh?’ the Cypriot barked.

  Lucy looked away. Did he really think he was still in control? She was worth a mint, had taken huge risks to get the money without his help. The only reason she’d told him about it was because she needed his help to filter it away quickly. No trace. No way back to us. Just as he’d taught her. And now she had no further use for him.

  She didn’t answer: at least not in words.

  73

  Six days in and things were moving fast. Having deposited Chantelle in the Accident & Emergency department at the General Hospital, ordering a uniformed presence to remain with her at all times, Daniels had returned to the station to meet up with the team. Her phone rang constantly on the way there. Asking the press for help to identify Laidlaw had lifted the profile of the case in the eyes of local and national journalists who wanted chapter and verse on progress and she’d had to fend off their questions for fear of tipping them off.

  ‘So now we know where they are,’ Naylor said. ‘How do you propose to handle it?’

  ‘Do we need armed response?’ Maxwell said, interrupting.

  Daniels shook her head, feeling under pressure to bring in Laidlaw and her cohort. ‘There’s no question that she’s violent, but no evidence she’s armed. If she had been, Chantelle wouldn’t be alive to tell the tale.’

  Maxwell was disappointed. Years ago, he’d applied to be part of the armed response unit but was turned down flat: not the right persona and therefore unfit. The powers that be were very careful about who they let loose with a gun and, on this occasion, she thought they had made a good call.

  ‘I’d like to handle this as quietly as possible,’ she said. ‘But it’ll be hard to observe her in the Turnbull Building when we don’t know exactly where she is.’

  ‘I vote we keep observations,’ Gormley suggested. ‘Inside and out, see if we can spot her before she spots us. Then we grab her and her boyfriend when they’re least expecting it. That way no one else gets hurt.’

  ‘You’ve all seen the pictures . . .’ Daniels pointed at the murder wall where images of Laidlaw remained. ‘You know she’s clever at changing her appearance, so she may not look like any of these. Chantelle told me she’s a natural redhead, but bear in mind Dixon’s general description: blue-eyed blonde, short hair, oval face, five ten, fit build, edgy-looking. Think Hermione Norris but ten years younger.’

  ‘That won’t be difficult.’ Maxwell feigned a shiver.

  ‘She certainly floats my boat,’ Gormley added.

  ‘Mine too,’ Brown joined it. ‘Problem is, I don’t have an ice pick.’

  Everyone laughed.

  ‘No wonder Dixon fell for her charms,’ Robson said.

  ‘He’s an idiot!’ Daniels said.

  ‘An unemployed idiot!’ someone added.

  ‘All right, that’s enough! We have work to do.’ Daniels waited for the team to pay attention before moving on. ‘According to Chantelle, Laidlaw was seeing Dixon, Reid and other men, milking them for all they were worth. She describer her as a money-driven arsehole who can twist men round her little finger. Always could, even at school. She was the one poured petrol through the letterbox. Chantelle saw her do it and captured the image on her phone. She was looking to put the bite on her when police activity died down. A dangerous plan, in my view. Chantelle could easily have come a cropper – and very nearly did. She may not have committed any offence in the eyes of the law but her actions were morally reprehensible.’

  ‘I agree,’ Naylor said.

  ‘And if she’d made an emergency call, maybe Mike Reid and his boy would’ve lived. She swears she didn’t know anyone was in there, guv. I’m inclined to believe her and, if it’s any consolation, I think she’s learned her lesson.’

  ‘Will she be charged?’ a uniform at the back as
ked.

  ‘With what? Failing to make a phone call?’ Daniels looked at him, nonplussed. ‘I take your point that she might have come forward after the event and that she may have wasted our time. But, given the information she’s now supplied, I think it would be harsh to charge her. The CPS would most probably agree. She couldn’t have prevented a death if she didn’t know anyone was in the house.’

  ‘Boss?’ Carmichael caught her eye. ‘You can’t just walk into the Turnbull Building. It’s like Fort Knox in there. Name any security device going, they’ve got it: secure underground parking, electronic gates, video entry and CCTV, all designed to keep unwanted visitors out. Probably the reason Laidlaw chose it.’

  ‘Is there a concierge?’

  Carmichael nodded. ‘On duty, eight ’til four. But that doesn’t help us. He’s a regulations man. Only a warrant gets you inside. Says it’s more than his job’s worth to allow us into an occupied apartment whether or not we’re –’ she used her fingers as inverted commas – ‘“wearing a badge”.’

  ‘He’s been watching too much telly,’ Naylor said.

  All eyes were on Daniels. ‘I might have a quicker way in,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah?’ Gormley said. ‘How?’

  ‘I happen to know someone who lives there.’ She looked at Naylor. ‘Can you hold the fort while I check it out, guv?’

  Naylor said he’d be happy to. Daniels told Gormley to meet her in the car park. Walking towards her office, she felt guilty for what she was about to do. But what the hell. She’d burned her bridges with Jo Soulsby and now there was no going back. Happy ever after endings only happened in books and movies. It was a pipedream, no more, no less. Time to move on. Sitting down at her desk, she took Fiona Fielding’s card from her wallet and dialled the number.

  Fielding picked up on the third ring.

  ‘It’s Kate,’ Daniels said. ‘I’m feeling a little peckish.’

  74

  Daniels felt like a schoolgirl getting ready for a first date as they drove through town, surprised at how excited she was at the thought of seeing Fielding again. She flipped open the vanity mirror and peered into it, pretending she had something in her eye, wishing she’d run a comb through her hair before jumping into Gormley’s car in her rush to get a handle on Laidlaw. This wasn’t how she would choose to look, but she didn’t have time to go home and change. It was now or never.

  ‘Who is this mate of yours anyway?’ Gormley asked.

  ‘Oh, no one special.’ Just a little white lie.

  Gormley tried to catch her eye but Daniels kept looking straight ahead.

  A moment ago, Brown had phoned. Word had come through that Chantelle had six broken ribs and a deep gash to her right wrist. She was undergoing surgery to repair a tear to the triangular fibro-cartilage which might result in a shortening of the ulna – the bone extending from the elbow to the wrist. There would be some nerve damage but she was expected to make a full recovery in time, assuming she didn’t fall victim to MRSA, E-coli, or whatever other bacterium might be lurking within the hospital.

  At A & E earlier, she’d let her guard down, all that hostility and mistrust of the police fading away. Underneath they saw a frightened child who’d never felt loved – a sad case really. She hadn’t stood a chance: losing her mother before the age of ten, being left with a father like Arthur Fox, who used to abandon his kids for weeks, sometimes months on end, resulting in separate care homes for her and her brother Todd – until Arthur decided he wanted them back.

  Parking the car, Gormley turned off the engine. He took hold of the door handle in readiness to get out, but Daniels held him back, told him to stay put and keep an eye on the main gate, make a note of any vehicles entering or leaving the building. He grumbled for a moment and then succumbed.

  Getting out, Daniels shut the door, leaned in and spoke to him through the open window. ‘Keep your phone clear. I’ll give you a ring if I need you.’

  She entered the Turnbull with a sense of trepidation and dread. It wasn’t Laidlaw or the unidentified Mediterranean man that worried her. It was meeting Fielding again. Checking the entrance and exit routes on her way in, she found the right apartment and knocked at the door. Taking a big deep breath, she pushed her hair away from her face, hoping she didn’t look too bad. It was the best she could do in the limited time available.

  Seconds later, Fielding opened the door.

  Daniels smiled but couldn’t speak.

  ‘Hello, Kate.’ Fielding’s enigmatic smile seemed to convey so much more than a greeting. Her eyes went straight to the holdall Daniels was carrying. Tipping her head on one side, she stood aside, inviting her in. ‘You planning to stay awhile, DCI Daniels?’

  Prompted by Fielding’s comment, Jo Soulsby’s voice arrived in Daniels’ head: What does a dyke bring on a first date? She hadn’t known the answer back then. Everything! Jo had told her, making her laugh out loud.

  Noticing the private joke from the smile playing round Daniels’ lips, Fielding waited for her to say something. But Daniels was too busy taking in the apartment: the solid wood floors, the contemporary furniture, a mini studio in one corner, lots of objets d’art, much as she’d imagined her place might be.

  ‘This is lovely,’ she said.

  It wasn’t lovely. It was awkward. Having ignored Fielding’s postcards for months, she didn’t know how to explain the sudden change of heart without sounding like a user – which was exactly what she was. In the end, she decided to go for it. Just tell her straight. She wouldn’t risk starting another relationship on the wrong foot.

  ‘I won’t deny I’ve been thinking about you, Fiona . . .’ Daniels glanced at her feet, trying to find the right words. ‘But that’s not why . . . look, I’m sorry—’

  ‘I told you once, you apologize too much.’

  She had too, in the station, the first time they met.

  ‘Don’t look so glum, Kate. I think I know why you’re here.’ Her voice was low, breathless almost, like she had a permanent sore throat. It was very attractive too. She wasn’t hacked off that Daniels had an alternative motive for being there. Quite the opposite: she seemed pleased to see her, whatever the reason or circumstance. ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess. It’s the redhead who just moved into the penthouse with an ape in tow. I knew there was something dodgy about those two. Your call confirmed it. What have they done? Something wicked, I hope.’

  Smart as well as beautiful.

  Fielding put a hand up. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I guess if you’re involved it must be pretty serious.’

  ‘It is. Trust me, I’m a detective.’

  Fielding bent down and picked up a glass of white wine from her coffee table. Daniels had forgotten how attractive she was, not just physically, although she was certainly that. She had a body to die for, an alluring smile, and the deepest, most penetrating blue eyes she’d ever seen. She was dressed casually today: black leggings, a figure-hugging, thigh-length, skinny grey T-shirt, strappy sandals on her feet. Each strap picked out in a different colour, her toenails painted to match the one that looped round her big toe. Her attention to detail reminded Daniels of Jo. And that intrigued her. But maybe it shouldn’t.

  Detectives do eat, don’t they?

  Both women had used those words at the beginning.

  Daniels was suddenly ravenous – in every sense. She hadn’t eaten since a piece of toast at six and she hadn’t had sex for more time than she cared to remember. ‘If you knew I had another agenda, why did you agree to see me?’ she asked.

  ‘Why do you think?’ Fielding was teasing her now, as only she could.

  ‘I’m sorr— what I mean is, I really wish it had been different.’ Daniels could feel herself blushing again. ‘Can we get the professional stuff out the way and start over? I don’t expect you to believe me, but I would’ve called you anyway.’

  ‘Works for me,’ Fielding said. ‘You sure you’re ready, though? I seem to remember—’

  ‘I’ve
never been surer of anything in my whole life,’ Daniels cut her off. She didn’t want to talk about Jo. Not here. Not now. So she quickly changed the subject in favour of work, reminding them both of why she was there. ‘Tell me about the redhead.’

  ‘Smart but unfriendly. And he looks like your average thug. Acts like her minder, if you know what I mean. Shifty git. Walks ten paces behind. Always looking over his shoulder.’ Fielding watched Daniels take a stab-proof vest from the holdall and pass it over her head. She pulled a face. ‘That’s a first. I prefer my women to take clothes off, not put them on.’

  Daniels laughed. ‘Later.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Later then.’ Fielding lifted her glass in the air. ‘You know what she looks like?’

  ‘I’ve got a good idea.’

  ‘Come over here.’ Fielding led her towards her mini artist studio in the corner. Through the window there were great views across rooftops to the River Tyne. ‘Would this help?’

  ‘Jesus!’ Daniels was gobsmacked and instantly back in the MIR. Look at the eyes . . . Ice woman . . . they’re pretty evil . . . your film guy deserves a BAFTA. In front of her was a fantastic sketch of Laidlaw, who was indeed a young Hermione Norris. A gifted and highly successful artist, Fielding travelled the world exhibiting her work. And no wonder. Daniels looked at her. ‘You did this from memory?’

  Fielding nodded. ‘Trust me, I’m an artist.’

  ‘Fiona, it’s fantastic!’

  Fielding took a bow. ‘She isn’t in, by the way. I saw her drive away like a bat out of hell not ten minutes before you arrived.’

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘She’s driving an Audi A5 rental, steel grey, 09 registration, if that’s any use to you. I saw the documentation on the dash and the little medallion thingy dangling from the rear-view mirror. Our bays are next door to each other.’