by Hannah, Mari
‘3529: Roger that and ready to go.’
A split second later, 3529 came screaming past Daniels’ vehicle at 140 mph.
‘318, how are you in front?’ Daniels asked.
‘318: I can see vehicle. I’m engaging a blue light and moving to stop her.’
‘That’s received,’ Daniels said. ‘318, hold your position in front of her, please.’
‘512: I’m making up car cover. Have her in sight . . . I have one female in the car, no passengers.’ His voice went up an octave. ‘She’s now changing down and – she’s away, boss.’
‘7824 to all units, I’ll give the commentary. She’s clocked us . . . eighty . . . ninety . . . hundred and ten miles an hour . . . she’s flooring it, weaving in and out of traffic.’ Daniels flinched as something hard hit the windscreen. The Porsche had rammed the lead police vehicle from behind, smashing the offside light, sending debris flying. ‘3529, big speed up, please. We need to get this sorted! 512, how are we?’
‘3529: We’ve got a rolling road. I repeat, we’ve got a rolling road. Attempting a stop, but she’s not having any.’
Up ahead, Laidlaw floored the accelerator and then braked hard, forcing the following car to take avoiding action. In the back of the Traffic car, Gormley consulted the map on his knee. ‘If we can stop her before Langdale Fell, all the better,’ he said. ‘Less chance of her taking off to Kendal. The last thing we need is her hurtling through the town at rush hour, putting civilian lives at risk.’
Daniels agreed – it would be their best opportunity. ‘All units, we’re going to try and stop the vehicle parallel with the Langdale Fell. It’s very quiet there and we don’t want this pursuit to go any further. India 99 has us in observation. Stop, stop, stop! Target vehicle is trying to force them off the road. She’s ramming the side vehicle.’
The side Traffic car swerved. For a moment, Daniels thought the officer might lose control. She hoped 3529 was holding her own, but this was no time to be holding her hand. She was there to stop Laidlaw and that is what she would do. Laidlaw threw the Porsche to the right, ramming her a second time, sending 3529 careering towards the central reservation. There was a pause in the transmission. In Daniels’ car, they held their breath, relieved when she regained control and retook her position in the rolling road. When she came back on the radio, there was a telltale high pitch to her voice. Laidlaw had her rattled, but the officer wasn’t giving up – not without a fight she wasn’t.
‘3529: Jesus! I can see the whites of her eyes now. We’re going to have to prevent her from disappearing into a built-up area . . . she’s not stopping, boss. She’s thumping the steering wheel in a temper. She’s punching at the window, totally out of control. She’s screaming off her face.’
‘Silly cow . . .’ Daniels mumbled under her breath, wishing she was at the wheel. No reflection at all on her driver but, in situations like these, it was nice to have something to hang on to. Lucy Laidlaw had nothing to lose. She had two choices: keep going or go to prison for life. A no-brainer then. ‘7824 to all units: we need to take positive action. We can’t let her anywhere near traffic or public. Whoa, stop, stop. She’s pulling off. She’s trying to bail the vehicle. Bailing the vehicle. We’ve got a runner! She’s out of the vehicle and running south-east across the Langdale Fell.’
Five Traffic cars pulled up simultaneously. Daniels got out of hers and started running, arms like pistons. Laidlaw was way ahead, four officers in pursuit. India 99 dropped out of the sky in front of her. Laidlaw changed direction and so did Cole’s helicopter – once, twice, three times – coming so close it nearly blew her and those pursuing her off their feet.
Exhausted and fighting the lashing downdraught from the helicopter, Daniels closed in as Laidlaw dropped to her knees. Raising her eyes to the heavens, she let out a roar of anger no one could hear for the thwacking sound of rotor blades above them. Daniels launched herself, shoulder-charging her, knocking her flat. As she struggled to get up, the DCI pulled her arms behind her back and slapped the snips on.
‘You’re nicked,’ was all she had breath for.
88
Daniels got out of her new Audi Q5 at Newcastle International airport, lifted the tailgate and removed a suitcase from the back. Pulling up the collapsible handle, she locked her vehicle, made a note of its position, and strode towards the terminal feeling a little sad despite the sunshine. As she walked through the revolving doors into the departure hall, a shiver went down her spine. The last time she’d been here she was looking for Lucy Laidlaw as she tried to flee the country. And now, as Daniels joined a long queue at the check-in desk, she recalled that anxious wait at the control tower and the slightly bizarre conversation with a Norwegian pilot through the flight-deck window of an enormous Airbus A320 destined for Turkey.
The fact that Laidlaw had managed to maim and kill since that day weighed heavily on Daniels’ mind. Not that she was at all responsible. But still. It was a death that could’ve – some say should’ve – been prevented. There would be an enquiry, of course. There always was. Lessons learned and all that bollocks when the report was made public. She could almost hear the Chief Constable waxing lyrical on the subject as he sat in front of the force logo, making sure he got his sound bites in. But that wouldn’t help the female security guard, a mother of three who, sadly, had suffered permanent brain damage in the cell block at Market Street police station and would never work again. Or poor Chantelle, whose unhappy life had come to such a brutal and abrupt end in the home where she was born and brought up – a home that held secrets of unimaginable brutality.
One way or the other, June 2010 had been a hell of a month. The hottest on record, it should also have been the most joyous with England winning the World Cup for the first time since 1966. But it wasn’t. Instead it was depressing and sad and any other negative adjective you cared to attach to it, a time of deep sorrow for a great many people: Maggie Reid, Annaliese Ridley, Elliot Milburn, Sergeant McCabe. And also for Todd Fox, a soldier repatriated to England by his regiment for his sister’s funeral.
Twenty-seven people were directly affected by tragedy that month. And that was just close family. If you were to add in all the friends and colleagues of the victims and Daniels’ own staff in the Murder Investigation Team, that number would run into the hundreds. Gormley had been particularly affected by the death of Ivy Kerr.
It was scant compensation, but Daniels had returned Bridget’s seal ring to her father and George Milburn’s money to his grandson, Elliot. She’d also managed to find a new home for Rooney, Chantelle’s cat. In time, with the help of the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau, she hoped to trace Ivy’s lottery win and return it to her estate. Annaliese planned to use some of the money to make that trip to Austria on her father’s behalf, to find the place where he’d been held captive during the war. Who knew? Maybe she’d even trace the people who’d looked after him and kept him safe for a sweetheart waiting back home.
For the Murder Investigation Team, the victory of catching Lucy Laidlaw was bittersweet. There was no doubt she’d been badly treated by Arthur Fox. But she’d shown no remorse for her despicable acts of cruelty; not for the inferno that had claimed the lives of a devoted father and son, or for her actions at the crash scene on that hellish night in the pouring rain. Following her re-arrest she’d shown her true colours. ‘The old witch was practically dead already,’ she had said, as if Ivy Kerr’s life was of no consequence whatsoever. ‘Her legs looked bad, really bad. I’ve seen enough crashes to know a probable amputation when I see one. I gave her a helping hand, that’s all.’
Daniels sighed, looking up at the departures board.
Laidlaw had learned one lesson though: those who played with fire did sometimes get burned. She’d always wanted a sister, someone she could share her troubles with. If she had one regret in all of this it was that she’d finally found a sibling and would serve life for her murder.
DCI Kate Daniels was glad the investigation was ove
r, pleased that she was finally able to close the file and concentrate on the future. Her love life was still uncertain. Her timing had always been crap. And so was Jo Soulsby’s; her wish to start again had come at a particularly awkward time. If it wasn’t so serious it would be funny, a typical scenario for a romantic comedy. Jo had now left her post as Criminal Profiler with Northumbria Police’s Murder Investigation Team to take up the research position at HMP Northumberland, promising to keep in touch. There had been no fanfare or leaving do. She’d slipped away with no fuss and tears in her eyes that Daniels didn’t see.
‘All set?’ Daniels asked.
‘I’ll send you a postcard.’ Fiona Fielding smiled, tucking passport and tickets back into her bag. Her trip to the Far East was due to last a month and she hoped to be back in Britain by Christmas. She hugged Daniels and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Call her,’ she whispered before walking away.
Acknowledgements
Thanks again to my dream team at Pan Macmillan: especially my fabulous editor, Wayne Brookes, and also his assistant, Louise Buckley, who kept me on track throughout the edit of Deadly Deceit. Also, to the entire staff at Blake Friedmann Literary, TV & Film Agency who look after me in so many ways. A special mention must go to my friend and agent Oli Munson who makes writing so much fun. Lastly, to my wonderful copy-editor, the woman from whom I have learned so much along the way, Anne O’Brien.
Appreciation to my friend Dave Willis (pilot extraordinaire, now also known as Kjell), who helped Kate Daniels climb aboard an enormous Airbus A320 destined for Turkey in this book. To New Writing North who support and promote my work – I am very grateful.
To my whole family, a constant source of feedback and encouragement: Paul and Kate, Chris and Caroline. Also to the A-team of helpers, Max and Frances, who inspire me to do my very best every single day. Lastly, to my partner Mo, who somehow manages to keep all the other balls in the air while I play with words. I could wish for no more.
About the Author
MARI HANNAH was born in London and moved north as a child. Her career as a probation officer was cut short when she was injured while on duty, and thereafter she spent several years as a film/television screenwriter. She now lives in Northumberland with her partner, an ex-murder detective. She was the winner of the 2010 Northern Writers’ Award and is a nominee for the 2013 Polari First Book Prize.
www.marihannah.com
@mariwriter
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Also by Mari Hannah
The Murder Wall
Settled Blood
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
First published in 2013 in the UK by Pan Books, an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited.
DEADLY DECEIT. Copyright © 2013 by Mari Hannah. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition DECEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780062323545
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