by Hannah, Mari
‘Lisa? Lisa, what’s going on?’
‘Not sure, but it sounds serious. Call you back.’ She hung up.
Seconds later, although it seemed like hours, the phone rang again. ‘Boss, you’re not going to like this. Laidlaw escaped, seriously injuring one of the court security guards. She’s in a really bad way, she might not make it. All units have been alerted and are looking for Laidlaw.’
Jo’s words echoed around Daniels’ head: She walks and she’ll kill again, there’s no doubt about it. ‘Put Hank on, Lisa,’ she said calmly.
Chantelle left the General Hospital after an early out-patients appointment to have her dressing changed. The number 684 bus was already at the stop when she arrived, so she hopped on board for the short ride home, paid her fare, and threw herself down on a seat near the front. When she got off, a few minutes later, she had the distinct impression that she was being followed. It was a strange sensation, like heat burning a hole in the back of her head. She looked around, searching the faces of those who’d got off the bus with her.
But there was no one she knew.
She walked on for a bit, glancing over her shoulder before turning the corner. Daft cow. It wasn’t like her to let her imagination run wild like that. But since Laidlaw had done her over, she couldn’t be too careful. As she reached her front door, she swung round again, expecting to see someone for defo this time, but the street was deserted, except for a few idiots riding their bikes up and down trying to impress her by doing wheelies.
Chantelle ignored them. She was too busy scanning the cars lining the pavement. With the sun glinting off windscreens it was hard to tell if anyone was sitting there or not, watching, waiting to jump her. Then a thought suddenly occurred. Maybe the bizzies were keeping an eye on her. Unless . . . were they following her? Was Daniels?
Nah, Daniels was a top bird under all that authority.
She hadn’t condoned what Chantelle had done but neither had she made too big a deal out of it. She’d rescued her, sent a cop to guard her, made sure she was treated as an emergency at the hospital. There was no waiting in the queue like the rest of the divvis in A & E – not with Daniels on her side. That didn’t mean some other stupid fucker wasn’t still barking up the wrong tree though, did it?
Chantelle could tell all along the police didn’t believe her about George Milburn’s money. She wouldn’t deny she knew he had some, or that she’d have nicked it had she known where it was hidden. Now she came to think of it, his grandson had given her a hacky look on Monday morning when she left for work. He was round at George’s gaff, clearing it out, although what the fuck for was anyone’s guess – his possessions weren’t good enough for the charity shop. Elliot was probably the one who accused her in the first place. What an absolute tit he was.
‘I want two teams, Hank. You take one, Robbo the other. Chantelle is your priority, Laidlaw his. Her phone is constantly engaged so I’ll head over there now. She’ll be milking all the attention, no doubt. Some things never change. Before you join me, have Lisa dig off the system every possible location those two girls could be.’ A car horn blasted outside. Daniels looked out of the window and held up a thumb to her driver. ‘Tell her I want those jobs actioned immediately and put out to the relevant team. No duplication, obviously, we don’t want people turfing up at the same place. It’s imperative we find them quickly.’
‘You think Laidlaw will go after Chantelle?’ Gormley asked.
‘Don’t you? Chantelle is a prime mover in her downfall. If I’m any judge of character, she won’t let that lie. By the way, forensic results are in. That the fag in the wall sample is definitely Chantelle’s—’
‘So?’ Gormley shrugged. ‘We already knew that, didn’t we?’
‘Yes, but what we didn’t know is – and this has been checked and verified by Matt West – the hair we lifted from Laidlaw’s drop address was genetically very similar to Chantelle’s—’
‘She’d been there, at Laidlaw’s place?’
‘No, I queried that possibility with Matt. Although the samples are close, he’s confident that they are from two different people. It’s familial DNA: the two girls are related, probably sisters. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
Gormley stared at the floor, trying to get his head around what he’d been told, his detective brain working overtime. When he looked up, his eyes were wide open. ‘Jesus Christ! You’re not telling me Chantelle’s been playing us all along? That she and Laidlaw are in this together?’
‘No, but I can see where you’re coming from. Besides, we have too much evidence on Laidlaw for it not to be her. I know Chantelle’s a wrong ’un, but I can’t see her involving herself in murder, can you?’
‘You sure about that? Remember the cap in her hall? We’ve still to ID the petrol buyer.’
‘She’d hardly blackmail Laidlaw if she was involved, though, would she?’
‘She had the photos for insurance. Easy to pin the blame on her if we came calling.’
‘It would be more than her life was worth . . .’ With that worrying thought lingering in the back of her mind, Daniels checked outside. Her driver was still waiting with the engine of his panda running, his arm lolling out the window, a fag-end held between two brown-stained fingers. She turned back to Gormley. ‘You know what? I find this whole episode quite sad. I don’t believe Laidlaw and Chantelle know they’re related. Arthur Fox was a bastard to his women, Hank. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he has illegitimate children all over the place. Anyway that’s not important. We’ve got to find Chantelle before Laidlaw does. Meet me there as soon as you’re done here.’
86
Lucy Laidlaw stepped from the shadow of the upstairs hallway, the sound of a radio and running water reaching her as she crossed over the threshold and into the steamy bathroom. The opaque shower curtain was drawn. Apart from the tips of swollen fingers holding on to the top of the curtain rail, Lucy couldn’t see Chantelle. She could hear her though. The bitch was actually singing along to Lady Gaga’s ‘Telephone’.
Not a bad voice either: shame in a way to silence it.
Lucy had entered the house via the back kitchen, forcing the pathetic lock on the back door, lifting the phone off the hook as she passed through the empty living room. Sliding the bolt on the front door in case Chantelle attempted to escape, she crept up the stairs and waited. No reason to rush. By now Northumbria Police would have flooded the city centre with uniforms. They would be combing the area looking for her, not worried about Chantelle bloody Fox.
Lucy grinned. Never would they think she’d have the neck to return to Ralph Street, or that Chantelle would be stupid enough to return home with her on the run. Which meant only one thing: she didn’t know.
On the other hand, Lucy knew exactly where Chantelle would be. The girl had no imagination. And no reason to hide, if she’d been led to believe that her nemesis was under lock and key. Pathetic really. She was a sitting duck . . .
And she’d picked a fight with the wrong person this time.
The sound of running water ceased.
A hand reached out from the behind the curtain, grabbing a towel from the top of the adjacent wash basin. Seconds later, the curtain was ripped open. Chantelle didn’t notice her standing there at first. The steam was thick and her head was down, one corner of the towel held between her teeth as she struggled to wrap it round her body with her one arm. Her right arm was fucked, encased in a plastic bag to save it from getting wet.
As Chantelle’s eyes fell on Laidlaw, her mouth dropped open and the towel slipped to the floor. Her face drained of what little colour she had following surgery. Lucy was impressed. She didn’t scream or shout for help, just stepped calmly from the shower cubicle, eyeballing Lucy in the process. But beneath the bravado there was a mixture of terror and defeat, as if she was somehow resigned to her fate.
Let’s face it, she didn’t have a whole lot to live for.
Lucy smiled. ‘Hello, Chantelle.’
Fuck! The sight of Laidlaw produced a cold sweat all over Chantelle’s naked body. For a moment she was paralysed with fear. She made a sudden lunge for the door. Lucy countered, grabbing for her arm, but her hands slid off wet skin and Chantelle managed to slip from her grasp. She only made it as far as the landing before being yanked back by her hair. Shoving her hard against the bathroom wall, Lucy pinned her there with her right arm across her throat, blocking off her airway and making her choke.
In desperation, Chantelle fought for breath but none arrived. With her left hand, she tried prising Lucy’s arm from her neck but she was far too strong. Their faces were inches away from each other. Lucy’s eyes flashed with hatred and Chantelle knew it was useless pleading with her. Kneeing her hard in the crotch with force sent her flying backwards, unbalancing her for long enough for Chantelle to dash past her. Taking the stairs two at a time, she ran for her life. If she could get to the back door she had a weapon there.
Her father’s axe.
Time slowed as Lucy thundered down the stairs after her, closer and closer, until she was practically on top of her. As Chantelle ran from the hallway into the living room, she was felled like a deer as Lucy hurled herself at her legs, sending her crashing to the floor on to her injured arm. Unable to move, unimaginable pain shot through Chantelle’s body. She didn’t recognize her own voice as she begged for mercy. She wanted it over with. She wanted to die.
The attack was sudden and brutal. As the girl continued to beg, Lucy lifted the axe and smashed it into her head, sending a spray of blood right across the room. Lifting the weapon above her head for a second time, Lucy hesitated, her eyes fixed on the raised marks on Chantelle’s back. Marks she was seeing for the very first time. Marks that made her whole body shiver. Lucy almost threw up.
She lowered the axe. Dear God, what had she done?
It was like déjà vu when Daniels saw the open door as the panda car turned into Ralph Street and pulled up outside Chantelle’s house. She told her driver to call for backup immediately. She ought to have waited for Gormley, but that was never really an option. She was a police officer with a job to do and she’d make damn sure she did it. And this time it would be done properly. If necessary she’d escort the prison van personally all the way to Low Newton until the gates clanged shut and there was no possible avenue of escape for Laidlaw.
Chantelle heard the thud of a car door. She was lying face down on the floor, her injured arm beneath her body. But that was the very least of her problems. The side of her head felt like it was moving, like someone had poured a pint of warm custard over it, making sure it covered the entire surface of her face. And she was cold – so cold. She opened her remaining eye as Daniels stepped through the doorway, the DCI’s hand going straight to her mouth, her eyes filled with genuine grief. It was nice to know someone cared. Then crimson liquid covered Chantelle’s eyeball. Her heart pumped just once more. And stopped.
Gormley arrived before Daniels had a chance to bend down and check for vital signs. He stood over the naked body, clearly having difficulty reading the scene. There was so much blood the head was unrecognizable. He looked confused, his eyes telling him one thing, his brain something else as he stared down at the burn marks on the young girl’s back and came to rest on the seahorse tattoo on her upper arm. Matt West was right: Chantelle and Laidlaw were sisters.
A serious offender had escaped justice and gone to ground. Daniels let herself into the Turnbull penthouse with a heavy heart, knowing that a woman as clever and calculating as Laidlaw could evade the law for years, living off her ill-gotten gains. An all ports bulletin had been posted, but the DCI feared she might con her way through the cordon before the authorities had a chance to apprehend her. She was in the living room when she heard the noise. She swung round on full alert but no one entered. Investigating further, she found the source: an express-delivery package, addressed to Laidlaw, dropped through the letterbox by the concierge who’d signed for it that morning. Daniels ripped it open. Her eyes grew big as she realized what it was.
87
‘Tango 318 to Control: I’m parked at Tebay Services, southbound. Stand by . . .’ The Traffic officer looked out of his window as another Traffic car passed him on the northbound carriageway, the driver making a circular motion above his head and pointing in a northerly direction. ‘Tango 318: Cumbrian officer travelling north to take the Penrith roundabout in case target vehicle exits the M6, over.’
Thirty-five miles north, Daniels and Gormley were also in a Traffic car – him in the rear, her in front – with one of Northumbria’s finest advanced drivers. They were travelling at high speed across the A69, one of several vehicles in pursuit of Laidlaw. Ordering her Porsche ‘fully loaded’ had been a fatal mistake. In a bizarre twist of fate, the documentation for the vehicle dropped through the letterbox of her rented penthouse at the most opportune moment for the Murder Investigation Team, delivered by the concierge who was unable to hand it to her as she left the building in a hurry.
Of course she was in a bloody hurry: she’d killed the Cypriot.
The radio again, another call-sign: ‘Tango 512: direction west on the A66 at Penrith.’
And another, a female voice this time. ‘Tango 3529: heading east on same road, over.’
Daniels caught Gormley’s excitement through the rearview mirror. There was nothing like the adrenalin rush of hunting down a killer. At the A69/M6 junction, their car picked up speed. As the countryside flashed by, Daniels looked out of the window. An hour ago, she had been in a bad place as she entered the Turnbull Building. Not only was Laidlaw a dangerous fugitive with the skills, wherewithal and means to avoid capture, but Chantelle’s death had affected Daniels greatly, making her feel inadequate, despondent, and unworthy of the title of SIO. She’d failed in her promise to protect the girl and was wracked with guilt.
Not just guilt . . . sorrow.
Chantelle sure as hell wasn’t perfect – there was no doubt that she’d brought trouble to her own door – but she was vibrant and funny and had been through such a lot. She didn’t deserve to die at the hands of a psychopath. Hope of apprehending her killer was restored in a flash as Daniels tore open the envelope containing documentation for a new vehicle. A car enthusiast herself, she realized its significance immediately.
For the first time since the enquiry began, the DCI knew something Laidlaw didn’t: a tracker device had been fitted to the car, a system ironically designed to prevent theft, consisting of covertly placed transmitters which, when activated, would send a silent signal to every police force in the country, pinpointing the exact location of the vehicle. A quick phone call giving the unique reference number proved the turning point.
The Porsche was mobile.
Within seconds, Traffic officers were dispatched and put on alert across three counties. The police helicopter – India 99 – was also made available. A few minutes later, Stewart Cole was in the air and Daniels was leading a manhunt, hoping to form a rolling road – box Laidlaw in – and make an arrest.
Her car slowed . . .
The driver pointed out the front windscreen. He’d spotted the target vehicle in the distance, a shiny new Porsche in the inside lane, India 99 directly above it, keeping aerial observation, high enough not to be noticed. Laidlaw was sticking to the speed limit, seemingly in no particular hurry.
Good move, Lucy. Don’t want to draw attention to yourself.
Calmly lifting a radio handset, Daniels began to transmit: ‘7824: All officers engaged in Operation Tracker, I have the eyeball. I’m travelling south on the M6 some distance behind the target vehicle. I’ve got lots of car cover. The vehicle is doing about seventy on the inside lane, a few miles north of the Penrith turn-off. Stand by.’
Keeping her eyes on the Porsche, the DCI gave instructions for other police vehicles to slow the traffic behind her. ‘Approaching Penrith turn off . . .’ she said. ‘Target making no attempt to take the slip road. No physical indication from the vehicle. No,
no, that’s fine. This is perfect. No deviation, still southbound on the M6. Copy that?’
Glancing over her shoulder, Daniels could see traffic falling back. The units behind her were doing their job. ‘Tango 318: Prepare, please. I want you slowly on to the M6 travelling south from Tebay services. Tango 512, I want you behind as the last man. Tango 3529, you’re our side man. Take the south M6 also. When you’re a few miles away, let me know what the tale is. I’ll maintain my position for the present time. All other units, continue to slow the traffic behind us and give these guys some room. We’re not sure how she’ll react when we attempt the rolling road. Tango 318, have you got sight of the target vehicle yet?’
‘Negative. No sign yet. Allowing traffic to pass—’
‘India 99 to Control: Looks pretty good up here. Target has three-car cover plus an Eddie Stobart truck bringing up the rear.’
Daniels again. ‘Roger that, India 99.’
‘Go on!’ Gormley was getting excited in the back. ‘We’ve got her, boss.’
‘Bet you my pension she doesn’t come quietly,’ Daniels said.
‘Tango 512: I also have the eyeball!’
The urgency in his voice caused both fear and delight in Daniels’ vehicle: fear that an officer might get hurt, delight because a mass of police vehicles had converged on the road and were closing in. It was too early to celebrate. At excessive speeds the risk of serious injury to those involved was high. Tango 512 gave his position. He still had the eyeball as well as eight-car cover. Traffic was busy. At least four very large lorries bunching in the inside lane behind the target vehicle . . .
‘Maintaining speed,’ he said. ‘Target vehicle doesn’t appear conscious of us yet. 3529, when you’re ready to go, I’ll get in position.’
