by Hannah, Mari
Daniels shook her head. ‘You’re amazing, you know that? And wasted as an artist.’ Looking down from the window on to the road below she took out her mobile and dialled Gormley’s number. He answered right away. ‘Hank, did Naylor come through with the warrant? OK, I need you up here, but swing by the underground car park first and check if there’s a steel grey, 09 Audi A5 . . .’ She grinned at Fielding. ‘Meet me at the penthouse as soon as you can.’ She hung up and headed for the door. Before she reached it, she turned, retraced her steps and kissed Fielding squarely on the lips. ‘Thanks, Fiona.’
‘For what?’
‘For being so understanding.’
That enigmatic smile again. ‘The pleasure’s all mine.’
‘Stay here. Don’t open the door to anyone. Wish us luck.’
Fielding’s smile faded. ‘You think you’ll need it?’
Daniels shook her head. ‘I have my own minder, remember?’ With that, she turned on her heels and left the apartment, closing the door behind her. She knew how to get to the penthouse from the floorplan Carmichael had commandeered from the council – an old planning application. She took the stairs two at a time, her antennae raised for any movement on the floor above.
75
Daniels watched the lift ascending. A bell rang, announcing its arrival. The doors slid open and Gormley stepped out. He too had on a Kevlar vest. He was carrying a police baton in one hand and a warrant in the other, delivered by Robson a few minutes before. Naylor had attended court himself, making an emergency application for a warrant to search the premises of a prime suspect in a triple murder case, telling the bench that he was confident it would lead to the arrest and detention of the person or persons responsible. There were no arguments from the magistrates.
Gormley took the key to the penthouse from his pocket and dangled it in the air.
‘Courtesy of a red-faced concierge,’ he said.
‘Shame it took a court order to bring about his cooperation,’ Daniels replied. ‘You checked the car park?’
Gormley nodded. ‘No Audi A5s.’
Daniels knocked on the door but no one answered.
‘How’d you know what vehicle they’re driving?’ Gormley asked, handing her the key.
Ignoring the question, Daniels put the key into the lock, turned it clockwise and pushed open the door. The apartment was much like Fielding’s in size and shape: a high-quality furnished rental with some nice artistic touches, possibly a musician’s pad or, at the very least, someone heavily into music.
There were several framed posters on the walls. One in particular caught her eye. Joni Mitchell: Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter. Joni was at the mike singing, her inimitable pout clearly visible. An over-sized acoustic guitar hung round her neck from a shoulder strap. The singer was wearing faded blue jeans, a throwback from the eighties, possibly even as far back as the seventies, Daniels thought. Underneath her picture were the words: Give Joy To The World . . . With Music.
Gormley moved through the apartment into one of the bedrooms while Daniels remained in the living room. There weren’t many personal possessions belonging to Laidlaw in the room, just a man’s leather jacket slung over a sofa, a pair of very large shoes on the floor, an open bi-fold leather wallet discarded on a side table, no cash but several credit cards inside.
Daniels wandered into the kitchen, the only sound in the apartment coming from her shoes as she walked over the wooden floor. It was then that she saw him. The shock nearly took her breath away. He was a heavy-set man with jet-black, greasy, shoulder-length hair, hard eyes fixed on her, lips slightly apart. He was dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt that clung to a swollen gut.
‘Oh my God!’ a voice behind her said.
Daniels turned towards it.
Fiona Fielding had her right hand to her mouth. Her eyes were welded to the floor where the man’s body lay, a knife still in his back, a pool of settled blood all around him. Having heard the cry, Gormley came thundering through the apartment with his baton raised in the air, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw Daniels hugging a woman who had her back to him.
‘Can anyone join in?’ he said, his tongue firmly planted in his cheek.
Both women turned towards him. ‘Hank, this is Fiona—’
‘Fielding, I remember.’
‘Good, then get her out of here!’ As the women parted, Gormley’s eyes shifted to the body on the floor, to the knife in particular, a spring-assisted flick-knife if he was any judge, the type often used by the military.
‘He must’ve been to a Superintendent’s promotion do,’ he quipped.
Fielding laughed at his gallows humour but her laughter turned to tears as the shock of seeing a dead man kicked in. It may have been his way of coping with the macabre side of being a murder detective, but it was completely inappropriate in front of a civilian and Daniels wasn’t laughing. Repeating her instruction to lose Fielding, she waited for them to leave and then bent down to check for a pulse, even though it seemed pointless; an automatic response to make sure the man was actually dead.
He was.
She pulled out her phone and rang Robson. Giving him a quick update to pass on to their guv’nor, she told him to alert the outside team that Laidlaw was currently a natural redhead, medium-length hair, well made-up. At least, she was when last seen, a description she assumed could change at any minute.
‘She’s driving a steel grey, 09 Audi A5,’ she added. ‘I want a uniformed officer, a scientific aids team and a pathologist down here right away.’
She rang off.
Seconds later, she heard the front door go.
She swung round, half-expecting to see Laidlaw, steeling herself for a confrontation. As the footsteps drew nearer, her eyes glanced at the knife in the man’s back, the only weapon within reach.
‘She didn’t touch anything on the way out,’ Gormley said as he appeared in the doorway. Daniels blew out her cheeks. Gormley held both hands above his head as she yelled at him for not warning her on the way in.
‘How’s Fiona?’ she asked.
‘Pretty shaken up. You want to pop down and see her while I hold the fort?’
Daniels growled at him. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you want to find Laidlaw, boss.’
‘Yeah, like it’s that simple!’ Daniels said. ‘We don’t know where to look.’
Gormley grinned. He knew something.
‘Fielding said to tell you she is wasted as an artist, whatever that means. She said she’s travelled the world and knows an airport hire car when she sees one. Looks like Laidlaw’s going to make a run for it.’
76
The Peugeot hurtled out of the city northwards on the central motorway with a Traffic car escort, its blue lights flashing and sirens screaming for other motorists to give way. Gormley floored the accelerator and took the airport road. As the miles flashed by and they left the city behind, the speedometer climbed steadily. But in the passenger seat Daniels’ right foot was pressed down hard on an imaginary pedal, wishing she was driving her own car, urging him to get an even greater move on.
Desperate to apprehend Laidlaw, she got on the radio.
‘7824 to control. Any MIT officers near the airport yet?’
Pete Brooks in the control room responded immediately: ‘3962 on way.’
‘ETA two minutes, boss.’ Carmichael’s voice hit Daniels’ ear.
Good girl! ‘Reference our suspect. We’re fairly certain she’s making a run for it, Lisa. No details on flights or names, but the Audi A5 is a hire car.’
‘Steel grey, 09 plate, yeah?’
‘Correct. Check it out, soon as you get there. Hank and I are right behind you. If you see her, do not, I repeat do not approach her without backup. When you’re done, rendezvous with us at airport security.’
Using the emergency bay to park her private car at Newcastle International Airport was always risky. Carmichael placed her circular police sticker in the window, insurance ag
ainst being towed away or slapped with a hefty fine. There were five car hire companies to choose from: Avis, Budget, Europcar, Hertz and Thrifty. It was guesswork: a matter of getting round the lot as hastily as she could.
Walking quickly towards the terminal building, she scanned the car park, keeping her eye out for Laidlaw, wondering how soon her boss and Gormley would arrive. Word was, they’d found a body at the Turnbull Building. Carmichael was out and about following up on a lead when Daniels called in. She’d received the news second-hand from Andy Brown. As a result, she was first out of the blocks. And, as luck would have it, in close proximity to the airport when the call went out for officers to assist in the apprehension of their prime suspect.
What a feather in her cap that would be, if she was the one to make the arrest.
With that career-enhancing opportunity in her head, Carmichael could hardly contain herself. She’d learned a lot about Laidlaw from looking into her dodgy dealings while investigating the murder of three – now four – people. And what she’d learned enabling her to build a picture of the kind of woman she was. Consequently, she was able to make an educated guess at which hire company her suspect might choose from the list of those available.
Immediately discounting two – Budget and Thrifty were not Laidlaw’s style – Carmichael bypassed Europcar and headed for Hertz: the world’s largest car-rental agency, according to the blurb on the wall in front of her. At the counter, she showed ID to a Chinese woman of indeterminate age, explaining why she was there. The woman consulted her records, then frowned and shook her head, telling the detective that no Ms or Mrs Laidlaw was currently a client of the firm.
‘Any Audi A5s handed in today?’ Carmichael was trying to read the returns sheet upside down. ‘The person I’m looking for may well be using another name.’
‘That’s a little easier. We only have one A5 in the fleet at the moment. It was handed back at, let me see . . .’ The woman ran a long red fingernail down the page and then glanced at her watch. ‘About forty minutes ago. It was signed off at three-o-five.’
Bingo!
Carmichael asked for details and wrote them down, conscious that she was running out of time if Laidlaw was catching a flight and not laying a false trail. The A5 was part of Hertz’ Prestige Collection. Why didn’t that surprise her? It had been rented by a woman calling herself Marianne Spencer, a Christian name she knew Laidlaw had used before.
Maybe she was getting sloppy.
The assistant remembered her too: ‘Short, dark hair, quite striking in appearance.’ She described what Laidlaw was wearing, then added, ‘Most of our customers are friendly, even when they are in a hurry. But the lady you’re looking for was rather rude, too full of herself to pass the time of day with the likes of me—’
‘You’ve been really helpful,’ Carmichael cut her off. Taking a business card from her wallet, she handed it over. The woman studied it: the force crest on the top left-hand corner, the words Northumbria Police written across a thin blue strip, details of where Carmichael could be found, her department, her name and rank. ‘Please make sure the vehicle isn’t cleaned. We’ll need to retain it for forensic examination.’
The woman nodded and picked up the phone.
Carmichael did likewise, arranging to have the Audi collected immediately. As she hung up, Daniels and Gormley arrived, separating as soon as they walked through the door, their eyes scanning the cavernous terminal building for any sign of Laidlaw. The departure hall was crammed with tourists, business travellers and families saying goodbye. At the check-in desks people queued, cases were dumped, tickets checked, hopes raised that flights would leave on time. Carmichael caught Daniels’ eye and met her halfway in, hurriedly explaining what she’d managed to learn so far. The DCI was too busy studying the departures boards to congratulate her on a job well done. That would come later: Carmichael was sure of it.
‘Any idea which flight she’s heading for?’ Daniels asked.
‘None.’ Carmichael’s shoulders went down.
Daniels cursed. ‘Then you and I have a decision to make.’
77
They headed straight for airport security and couldn’t get there quick enough. They were met by several official-looking figures and soon learned that no one by the name of Marianne Spencer had booked in for any flight. Gormley made the rendezvous minutes later. He didn’t need to say anything for Daniels to know he’d lucked out too. It was writ large across his face the minute he was shown into the room.
Scanning the panel of monitors, he shook his head, muttering something about needles in haystacks. He wasn’t wrong. The airport was approaching its busiest period in the calendar, a rush to get away and back before the schools turfed out and prices soared. The terminal was full, a constant flow of pedestrian traffic making it difficult to pick out any one person in particular.
‘What next?’ Carmichael asked. ‘Do we flood the place with uniforms or what?
‘No time,’ Daniels said. ‘We’ll have to do this covertly.’
‘What does she look like?’ a security officer asked.
‘Approximately five-ten, last seen with short, dark hair: I think she’s wearing a light, possibly linen, beige dress and jacket,’ Carmichael said. ‘That’s if the Hertz clerk has a good memory.’
‘Nowt gets past Ann Chow,’ an airport policeman said.
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ Gormley said. ‘Laidlaw is a clever con woman and master of disguise. She could’ve changed clothes a dozen times since she got here.’
‘Not possible,’ Carmichael countered. ‘The Hertz woman told me she had no luggage, just a small brown handbag.’
Daniels hoped Carmichael was right.
Her eyes were back on the monitors, but it was useless. There was no way they were going to ID Laidlaw in time to prevent her escape. Unless . . . the idea came to her in a flash. Reaching into her pocket, she drew out her phone, asking the person in charge if it was possible to upload an image directly on to the airport system.
Gormley and Carmichael both looked puzzled. But all became clear as a good likeness of Laidlaw appeared on the screen in front of them, an image Daniels imagined that scores of eyes would now be viewing on their monitors as a level one security alert. She had no time to explain about the sketch Fiona Fielding had done – or why she’d felt compelled to capture the image on her phone – but it was clear from Gormley’s expression that he’d made the leap as they waited for airport staff to respond.
Seconds later, the phone rang in the control room. The receiver was knocked off its station as a member of staff rushed to answer it. Daniels glanced nervously at Gormley and Carmichael as they waited, counting the seconds. The security officer wrote something down, ended the call and turned back to face them, his expression buoyant, his tired eyes filled with hope and expectation.
‘A guy working the Thomas Cook check-in desk booked a woman calling herself Penelope Clark on to a flight to Dalaman about a half hour ago as he was about to shut up shop. She was running late but managed to catch him before her flight was called for departure. She was wearing a headscarf as he rushed her through, but he’s fairly certain it was her.’
‘Dalaman?’ Carmichael had never heard of it.
‘It’s in Turkey,’ Gormley replied.
‘Fuck!’ Daniels’ troubled expression darkened as her brain made an obvious connection. The body she’d found at the Turnbull Building had yet to be identified, but credit cards in his wallet suggested he may be of Greek origin, possibly Cypriot. ‘She’s fleeing out of harm’s way!’ Daniels said. ‘From Dalaman she can easily get to Northern Cyprus, where there’s no extradition treaty. If she achieves that, she knows we can’t touch her. We need to stop that plane!’ Daniels looked at the security man. ‘Well, don’t stand there, do something!’
78
Lucy Laidlaw took a long deep breath. Linking her hands loosely in her lap, she relaxed back against the head rest as the Airbus A320 pushed back from the stand
ready for takeoff. She was home and hosed.
Fifty metres away, in the airport terminal, detectives Gormley and Carmichael were standing anxiously at the window of the departure lounge, a locked door preventing them from going airside. They watched as the aircraft slowly began to move, fearful that Daniels’ intervention had come too late, and powerless to do anything about it. But on the flight deck of the Airbus, the captain was receiving a vital call . . .
‘Kestrel seven-six-two-bravo, this is the tower. We’ve got a message for you. Ready to copy?’
‘Go ahead, Tower.’
‘Kestrel seven-six-two-bravo: go to discreet frequency one, two, seven decimal six.’
Captain Kjell Halvorsen looked at his first officer and said, ‘Take over talking to the ground on box one. Keep the push-back going. I’m going to box two to see what the tower wants.’ He went to box two, dialled in the frequency and said, ‘Tower, this is Kestrel seven-six-two-bravo, go ahead.’
‘Kestrel seven-six-two-bravo, we’ve been advised by Northumbria Police that you’ve got a criminal on board travelling under a false passport, endeavouring to escape the country. We’ll hand you over to the SIO, who has further instructions for you.’
Daniels’ voice: ‘Captain?’
Halvorsen again turned to his FO. ‘Tell them to hold the pushback.’ Then, to Daniels: ‘Yes, this is the captain. Go ahead.’
‘I am Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels, Northumbria Police, Murder Investigation Team. It is imperative that we are allowed on board to extricate a passenger travelling by the name of Penelope Clark. She is wanted in connection with very serious offences. Copy that?’
‘That’s received. What do you want us to do?’
Daniels could hear the FO relaying information to the tower: Ground, this is the flight deck. Can you stop the push-back there please? We might have to go back on stand. ‘I’d like you to return to stand immediately,’ she said.
