Deadly Deceit (12 page)

Gormley had spent quite a while with the lad, he told her. The interview had thrown up more questions than answers, but it had proved useful too, given him a fresh perspective on Ralph Street.
Crime pattern analysis was all well and good, but if you really wanted to know what went on in a particular area, nothing could beat talking to locals. In that sense, policing hadn’t changed
in decades.

‘He said a lot of residents complained about being disturbed at night, being sworn at, called names. George did too, even rang the police on occasions, asking to remain anonymous in case
he was singled out as a grass. The lad claims it’s gone on for months and our lot have done sod all to stop it. You know the area, Kate. Kids round there couldn’t give a stuff about a
blue uniform. They laugh and stick a finger up if challenged. Community Support can’t cope, simple as that. They move them on and ten minutes later they’re back, giving the old folks
even more grief for calling the law. It’s a vicious circle.’

He was right of course and it made the DCI angry. The police service was not the one she had joined. It had been undermined by politicians obsessed with cutting costs. They had pushed through a
succession of measures, recruiting community support personnel at the expense of real police officers, to the detriment of both the force and the communities they served. In Daniels’ opinion,
the Home Office needed to stop the rot before the situation got any worse, take a step back and think about the consequences of their actions, support her force to do its job, revert to the
in-depth training her generation of recruits had been given. The Police Federation’s concerns had been voiced and discounted by a succession of Home Secretaries who’d sold them out.
Morale was lower than it had ever been.

It was a depressing thought.

When George Milburn suddenly collapsed, Gormley had raised concerns that there might be a connection between his death and the fire. At the time, Daniels hadn’t taken it too seriously, but
now her mind was all over the place. Could the old man have started the fire? He lived so close, it would have been easy to slip out and back without being seen. Maybe he hadn’t known the
child was inside. Had the shock of finding out precipitated his heart attack? Or perhaps he witnessed the arson but was too scared to come forward for fear of reprisals, the stress of that playing
on his mind.

Daniels placed her elbows on the table and made a steeple with her hands, her thoughts turning in a different direction. ‘You think the old man was in some kind of trouble?’

‘Like what? Elliot says he was a nice old man who wouldn’t hurt a fly—’

‘He would say that, though, wouldn’t he?’

‘Why d’you ask?’

‘Either these two incidents are purely coincidental or they’re not. If they are, fair enough. But if there is a connection, could it be that Maggie Reid’s house was mistaken
for George’s?’ Daniels didn’t wait for an answer. ‘What’s Elliot like?’

Gormley thumbed toward the interview room door. ‘Breath of fresh air, compared to the low-lives normally frog-marched in here.’

‘This missing money bothers me,’ Daniels said. ‘Is he absolutely sure?’

‘One hundred per cent. George took a grand to the garage yesterday to buy the lad a car but it was already sold. They spent some time together at the old man’s allotment and then
Elliot put him on the bus. A witness saw him get off the bus and he goes down like a bag of hammers. That was less than half an hour before an ambulance took him to hospital. He couldn’t have
spent the money and there were no banks on his way home. Elliot says he wouldn’t use one anyway ’cause he kept his money in the house under the floorboards.’

‘And it’s not there now?’

Gormley shook his head.

Something didn’t smell right in Daniels’ view. Had someone relieved him of the cash on the bus? she wondered. She discounted that. Too risky. Buses had CCTV nowadays. Anyway, George
would surely have raised the alarm with the driver. She asked, ‘Where did the money come from, Hank?’

‘Life savings.’

‘Who apart from Elliot knew about it?’

‘Not another living soul, according to the lad.’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘What could I say?’ Gormley hesitated. ‘OK, I said we’d get to the bottom of—’

‘Hank! There’s no evidence George Milburn was murdered!’

‘I know and so does he now . . . I told him I knew the pathologist who carried out the autopsy and that he wasn’t a man given to mistakes. I stressed that there was no doubt his
granddad died from natural causes, but I had to accept the possibility that he may – and I stressed
may
– have been threatened or robbed before that happened. What else could I
say?’

Daniels stood up, gathering her bag from the floor. ‘Bet that went down well.’

‘Actually, he accepted it.’ Gormley stood up too. ‘I told you he’s a nice kid.’

‘You did right, Hank.’ Daniels patted his arm as she walked past. ‘Tell Elliot we’ll look into it. But make sure he knows that further enquiries will have to be made and
that’ll take time. You better brief the guv’nor too.’

‘Don’t you want to do that?’

‘In a word, no.’ Grabbing the door handle, she turned to look at him. ‘You did good with Elliot. But you’re not the only one with news, Hank. Naylor wants a
word.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘You’ll know soon enough.’

D
aniels returned to her desk and slipped her warrant card into the slot in her computer in order to access the report on George Milburn’s death. Bizarrely, it had taken
place not only in the same street, but literally metres from Maggie Reid’s front door. As she waited for the incident to pop up on screen, she sat back wondering if the old man was somehow
involved in her current case, either as the arsonist – as Gormley had suggested initially – or as a lucky target because the fuckwit that started the fire had got the wrong address.
With his body lying in the morgue, it was going to be difficult to prove either way.

Scrolling through the incident report, she noted that a call had come into the control room from a female member of the public. MAN COLLAPSED is all it said. The first responder to the
subsequent callout from the control room was recorded as PC4576 Dixon, an officer standing guard outside Daniels’ crime scene.

Small world.

She read on . . . Dixon had given mouth-to-mouth and called the ambulance. The case was then referenced off, having been handed over to the ambulance service. There was a note of a number of
witnesses to the event, locals who lived on Ralph Street, and a list of names taken. None of them rang any bells with Daniels.

Picking up the phone, she dialled the West End nick. After a few minutes the desk sergeant answered. She explained who she was and asked to speak with PC Dixon, but neither he, nor his
supervision, Sergeant Terrance Smith, were currently in the building.

‘B Rota is on days off,’ the desk sergeant said.

‘OK, make sure either one calls me as soon as their shift comes back on duty.’

She hung up as someone knocked on her door. Looking up, she saw it was Gormley. He had a face like thunder. Assuming Naylor had told him he wouldn’t be working the A1 incident, she
beckoned him in, ready for a fight. He slung himself down in the chair opposite but before he had chance to open his mouth she held her hands up in surrender as if he’d pulled out a gun.

‘I know what you’re going to say, Hank. And, for what it’s worth, I don’t like it either. But that’s the way it is. Believe me, I want to get the nut-job that
killed Ivy Kerr as much as you do, but it isn’t going to happen, so you may as well get used to it. Besides, I need you on the arson with me.’

‘Can’t I swap with Carmichael?’ He was practically begging. ‘You could have a word with the guv’nor, he’ll listen to you. You know he will.’

‘No, he
won’t
. I’ve already been there. Besides, he’s got a point, Hank. You’re too emotionally involved. Too close to the case to be objective. You know
as well as I do that situations like those rarely, if ever, prove fruitful for the case or the officer concerned. Naylor’s right. We should stay out of it.’

‘Thanks for your support. You could’ve at least warned me.’

‘There’s no good sulking about it, Hank.’ She studied him for a moment, letting him sweat. ‘What exactly
did
you see anyway . . . at the crash site, I
mean?’

‘I thought you said we should both stay—’

‘That was the official line.’ She grinned. ‘Unofficially, I’ve spoken to Carmichael and asked her to produce a computer-generated image of the A1 accident from the rough
sketches I drew up at the time. I made contemporaneous notes of the walking wounded and what cars they belonged to, so we should get a pretty clear picture when she waves her magic wand. Lisa has
agreed to feed back anything we need to know at the end of each day – confidentially, of course.’

‘You are some piece of work, Kate Daniels!’ Gormley beamed at her. ‘And if Naylor asks Carmichael what she’s doing?’

‘She’ll be using her initiative, as always.’

‘If he catches on, I hope you know you’ll get your head in your hands to play with.’

Daniels was resolute. ‘We were there first!’

‘Did I ever tell you how much I love working with you? Your epitaph should read: “Insubordination for the good of the cause.” You’re my Jack Bauer.’

She grinned. ‘That makes
you
my Chloe.’

‘I’m on it, Jack. How can I help?’

Laughing at his Kiefer Sutherland impression, she responded in kind: ‘I think we should talk about what you saw. The President is depending on us. We can’t let him down.’

‘Since when was Jack Bauer Irish?’

They chuckled, the tension leaving them both.

Dropping the accent, Daniels said. ‘Get your thinking cap on. The guv’nor wants a statement from you right away.’

‘I know, he told me.’ Gormley’s expression darkened. ‘I’ve been wracking my brains, but the simple truth is I’m not really sure what I saw.’

‘You must have some idea! The person attending Ivy – was it a man? A woman? Police, fire officer, paramedic . . . ?’

Gormley looked at her. Of his own admission, he’d had a skinful that night, having spent the evening drinking beer and watching the match. Probably shouldn’t have been working, if
the truth be known. It was tanking down when they’d arrived at the crash site. So much going on. It was entirely understandable if he couldn’t recall everything in minute detail.

But he had to.

And he would – eventually.

‘I just remember Ivy’s face . . .’ He palmed his brow. ‘Jesus! Those eyes will haunt me for the rest of my days. Someone wearing a high-viz jacket was crouched down
beside her. I never saw their face, I swear.’

‘A high-viz jacket means fuck all,’ Daniels reminded him. ‘They’re two a penny at Amble Market. I nearly bought one myself last Sunday.’

‘Yeah, but I was concentrating on her. Seeing
her
. Then a kid came up to me, nasty head injury. I turned away to find some medical help before I got an answer.’

‘Can’t you visualize the person with Ivy? Why don’t you walk yourself through a cognitive interview in the same way you would any other witness?’ She didn’t need to
remind him that the mind does funny things to people when they get stressed out. Often shuts down in order to protect a person’s sanity. ‘Come on, Hank. Your evidence might be all we
have. Did you speak to them at all?’

‘No, yes . . . I asked if they needed a hand.’

‘They?’

‘Figure of speech.’ He shook his head, disappointed not to have been able to tell her more. ‘I’m sorry, that’s all I recall.’

Daniels was disappointed too but didn’t let it show. He was beating himself up enough without her giving him any more grief.

T
he evening briefing began at seven o’clock sharp. The MIR was full to bursting and Naylor had the floor. He’d informed the Murder Investigation Team of his
intention to split them up, half remaining on the arson, the rest working the A1 incident under his leadership as SIO. Detectives were unhappy about the situation. Daniels could see it in their
eyes. She was hardly jumping up and down about it herself. The handover had come at the worst possible time as far as she was concerned. Naylor’s assurance that other officers would be
drafted in to assist either enquiry as and when the need arose didn’t exactly fill her with joy. They may not be perfect, but this was
her
team. A bunch of detectives who worked well
together as a unit, not some hastily arranged hotchpotch that didn’t know their arses from their elbows. Still, she had no choice in the matter. Officially, at any rate. She’d have to
get on with it.

As Naylor elaborated on his plans, she thought about the arson case. Progress was slow. She was still waiting for forensic results on the rubber glove recovered from the wheelie bin and the
fragment found in Maggie Reid’s house.
A match now would certainly float her boat.
Colin and Denise Albright appeared to be in the clear. There was no evidence to suggest that either
had made a journey from Slaley Hall to the West End of Newcastle in order to carry out a revenge execution in the dead of night. But lab technicians had managed to identify residue from the petrol
as Shell. Maxwell had spent the afternoon following that up, visiting garages within a three-mile radius, trying to establish how many punters had bought petrol in a can recently. So far,
he’d covered Scotswood Road, Denton Road, West Road, down to nineteenth-century landmark The Big Lamp, and all points in between. He was now on his feet telling them what he’d
discovered.

Sensing where he was taking them, Daniels gave him a nod of encouragement, even though it was a long shot. This was flaming June after all, the beginning of summer, a month when people
frequently bought fuel to store at home in case they ran dry – gardeners and motorcyclists being two obvious examples. Such purchases would be time-consuming to investigate. And petrol used
to start the fire could easily have been months old, stored in someone’s garage or lock-up.