Deadly Deceit (2 page)

A flash of lightning lit up the gory spectacle.

One man had a limb missing, a flap of skin hanging loose where his arm once was. Blood pulsed from a main artery and he fell to the ground as two of the walking wounded went to his aid. Dazed
and pale. Numb. Unable to take in the full horror in front of them. How anyone had survived at all was a mystery to David. The golden hour would be critical: the difference between life and death.
He called the emergency services before rushing out to help.

D
etective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels swore under her breath. If she hadn’t made a detour to Wideopen to pick up her DS from a mate’s house she’d have been
at her crime scene by now. An urgent callout had summoned her to work, interrupting her sleep for the second time in as many days. A case of arson, according to the control room, an accelerant,
most probably petrol, poured through the letterbox of a terraced house in the West End. The resulting inferno had claimed two lives.

As duty Senior Investigating Officer she couldn’t complain about her work schedule. In recent weeks there had been an unprecedented lull in murder enquiries. That would change now summer
was here. As the temperature rose, so would crime. Guaranteed every year. But she was going nowhere in a hurry tonight. Traffic had ground to a halt in front of her, stretching into the distance as
far as she could see. Sirens wailed and blue lights flashed in her rear-view mirror. A telltale beam of light pointed down from the sky on to the road ahead. The police helicopter – India 99
– had been deployed. With budgets in every department being squeezed, that meant only one thing: the incident was serious, if not fatal. People were out of their cars, engines left running,
keys dangling from ignitions. Abandoning their vehicles and their belongings, drivers were walking up the dual carriageway in between car lanes, chatting to strangers or talking on mobile phones,
all craning their necks to see what was going on, putting their own lives at risk.

She picked up her radio. ‘7824 to control.’

‘Control to 7824, go ahead.’

The familiar voice of Pete Brooks, the radio controller, woke her sleeping DS. Hank Gormley opened one eye, peering through the windscreen at a long line of tail lights. Daniels could smell
alcohol, but Hank wasn’t pissed by any stretch of the imagination. He knew better than to hang one on a school night. He was a bloody good investigator, her professional partner for almost a
decade, a man she respected and cared for a great deal, a valued friend and colleague she couldn’t do without.

‘What’s going on?’ he said, through a gaping yawn.

Daniels touched her lip to silence him in favour of her radio. ‘Pete, I’m southbound on the A1. Could you advise the fire department that I’m delayed? Tell them I’ll be
with them ASAP. I’m stuck in a long tailback. From the looks of it, I’m not getting out of here anytime soon.’

‘That’s received.’ There was a tap-tapping sound as Brooks accessed his control room computer. ‘Multiple RTA ahead of you, Kate. Total gridlock, according to air support.
First responders en route. You may as well send out for pizza, ’cause you’re gonna be a while.’

Shamefaced, Gormley apologized for dragging her out of her way.

Daniels shrugged. ‘Hey, don’t worry about it. You’re entitled to a life.’

‘Really?’

‘No, not really! That’s a warrant card in your pocket . . .’ A loud explosion made them duck. They waited for another. When it didn’t come, they raised their heads. The
beam from the helicopter was highlighting a huge plume of smoke through a curtain of pouring rain. Daniels went back to her radio. ‘Things are kicking off approximately quarter of a mile in
front of us, Pete. Speak to Traffic. Tell them we’re stuck and ask if we can be of any assistance.’

‘Senior officer is Mike 7295. Shall I put you on talk-through?’

‘Please.’ Mike 7295 was the call-sign of an officer Daniels knew well. What he didn’t know about traffic accident management wasn’t worth knowing.

The radio again. ‘Control to 7295. Take talk-through with 7824?’

‘Affirmative.’

Another voice. Low and controlled. Mr Cool. ‘This is not a good time, Kate.’

For either of them, Daniels thought. ‘7824. Two officers. Plain clothes. En route to serious incident. Southbound. Approximately five hundred metres. Sounds like you need a hand. Anything
we can do?’

‘If you’ve got a couple of high-viz jackets, we need all the help we can get.’

‘Roger that.’

Gormley looked at Daniels. ‘It’s raining stair-rods!’

‘Don’t be such a wuss, Hank.’ She swung the wheel to her left, blue light and siren engaged. ‘You can swim, can’t you?’

Pulling on to the hard shoulder, Daniels edged her way forward, weaving in and out of traffic that had no business being there, dodging pedestrians who’d rushed out of their homes with
blankets, torches, anything they thought might assist the dead and dying. None of them remotely aware of what they were letting themselves in for.

A
t the epicentre of the accident, pandemonium reigned. First responders included police, fire, medical personnel, but not in the numbers needed to cope with such a large
incident. Motorists were bloodied, some screaming, some sitting on the grassy bank by the side of the road. Others wandering aimlessly away, causing more problems for those trying to help them.
Still more casualties lay injured in their cars.

For some, the pain had already gone.

In one car an elderly couple were trapped and in a very bad way. As the man lost his fight for life, his wife, Ivy Kerr, wept, her summer dress drenched in his blood. It was getting light now.
The scene out of the window was nothing like the road she knew. It was more akin to a breaker’s yard she’d seen on American TV. The car closest to her, a green Peugeot 205, looked like
it had been in a crusher; its driver slumped over the steering wheel, dead as a post. A woman’s slender arm was lolling out of the rear side window. Blood trickled down her ring finger and
dropped on to the wet road, zigzagging across the uneven surface and pooling in a shallow pothole, turning rainwater red.

Ivy shivered. In her head, she could still hear the screeching of brakes, the shattering of glass, the sound of metal crunching on metal, the screams of trapped motorists – the whoosh of a
fire close by.

And now she could smell petrol.

Fear ripped through her.

Was she going to die too?

Ivy closed her eyes and then opened them again as a hand reached out to her. Not her husband’s, rough and hard from tending his garden, but smoother, much younger skin altogether. The
familiarity of a soft Geordie accent cut through the sound of panic going on around her – the voice of the person who’d come to help her.

Ivy’s relief was overwhelming.

‘Don’t worry about me. Help him,’ she pleaded, unaware of the mantra going through the heads of the rescue personnel flooding into the area as fast as they were able.

Faced with such a chaotic situation, certain decisions had to be made and made quickly. The dead were beyond help. And silent casualties caused fewer problems than those screaming for
assistance, even though they were most probably more seriously injured. Prioritizing medical attention was the key to saving lives. And Ivy
could
be saved if they could get her to hospital
quick enough.

If they could extricate her from the car . . .

If the car didn’t burst into flames . . .

If was a very big word.

‘What’s your name, love?’

Ivy said her name in a voice that sounded like someone else’s.

‘Well, don’t worry, Ivy. The ambulance will be here soon. You’re going to be fine.’

Ivy wept again. ‘I . . . I told him it was madness.’

‘Here, let me try and make you a bit more comfortable. Told who, love?’

Ivy’s eyes shifted to her husband, his glasses skewed on his face like they always did when he fell asleep reading in bed, a frequent occurrence in the last few years. Maybe he
wasn’t dead after all, just knocked out having banged his head.

‘Husband, boyfriend or fancy man?’ The soft Geordie voice again.

‘Husband . . .’ Ivy managed a little grin. Feeling too calm for the circumstances, she looked down at legs she couldn’t feel, feet she couldn’t see. ‘It’s our
Diamond Anniversary in August.’

‘Wow! Congratulations! You in any pain at all?’

Ivy nodded.

‘Whereabouts?’

Moving her hands to her pelvis was an effort for Ivy.

‘OK, let’s have a look shall we?’

Ivy thought she might vomit as efforts were made to free her. Once more, her eyes drifted towards her husband. He was in a bad way. But at least he couldn’t see the mayhem surrounding
them. Or the blood. He’d been squeamish all his life. He’d turn his eyes away or make an excuse to leave the room rather than sit through a gory scene on TV. In all the time
they’d been married, Ivy had never let on that she’d noticed. Instead, she allowed him to maintain the pretence of being the stronger partner when he was really nothing of the sort.

‘Try not to worry, pet. He’s just unconscious, take my word for it. He looks to me like a tough old bugger. You’ll have come through a lot worse than this together, I
bet.’

Tears welled up in Ivy’s eyes. Her husband was indeed a survivor. They’d known each other since primary school, lived in the same street in Byker in the East End of Newcastle as
kids. They’d started seeing each other when they were fifteen years old, nearly seventy years ago. He’d worked in the Tyneside shipyards where his father worked before him and was also
in the Territorial Army. One of the first to be called up when war broke out. His departure in May 1941 from Newcastle – along with hundreds of other Northumberland Fusiliers – had been
heartbreaking for Ivy. She feared she’d never see him again.

She couldn’t lose him now.

‘S
tay with me, Ivy . . . Ivy? Can you open your eyes for me?’

The voice seemed further away than before. Straining to do as she was asked, Ivy’s eyelids refused to obey her command. There was that flutter in her chest again, like a large bird was
trapped there. And still her eyes felt as if they were stuck together with superglue. It was as though she was sinking, down and down further, to a place beneath the level of the road. John was
there too, smiling at her, encouraging her to keep her chin up as he’d done in 1941 – the first and only time they’d been separated.

He’d been in Cyprus when she sent word she’d given birth to their only daughter, a letter sent through the free postal service run by the British Red Cross. People were so kind back
then. Instead of moaning about hard times, they looked out for each other. Like the couple from Benwell in the city’s West End who used to listen in to Vatican Radio and write down the names
of POWs. They took it upon themselves to write to Ivy and tell her that John was among them, captured in North Africa by the Italians. Their kindness averted heartbreak for Ivy who, the very next
day, received a letter from the War Office telling her that John was posted: missing, presumed dead.

Like the person helping her now, the Benwell couple were good people. Salt of the earth. Not long after they had made contact, Ivy received a pre-printed postcard for war prisoners with a red
cross stamped on it and bits crossed out where appropriate. Ivy was so shocked to receive it, she could remember the words by heart . . .

The word
wounded
worried her sick. Just how wounded
was
wounded? That was the question she’d asked herself in the weeks and months that followed. But, with telegrams
arriving daily for less fortunate soldiers’ loved ones, knowing John was alive was of great comfort to her and his extended family. He ended up in Stalag 18, near Wolfsburg in Austria when
the Italians capitulated. He stayed there until peace was declared, working on a farm, being cared for by equally good people. He’d always wanted to go back there, find the family and thank
them for all they had done. Only he’d never had the means, until a few hours ago when an opportunity to return to Austria had fallen in his lap. He’d seized upon it without a
moment’s hesitation before it was too late.

That’s how much it meant to him.

They were separated for nearly five years in total. They went to live with Ivy’s mother when John came home until they could afford to rent a place of their own. Times were tough. They
were practically strangers when he returned. He never talked about the war but she knew he’d seen bad things. He wasn’t the same afterwards. They married for their daughter’s
sake, but it was a rocky relationship at times.

Ivy loved him so much, even though she suspected he’d fallen in love with an Austrian girl when he was away. Not that it mattered any more. He’d come home to
her
. Married
her
. Been a good father to Annaliese, the name he’d chosen for their daughter. Forcing her eyes to stay open, Ivy tried to focus straight ahead and not on John, who still
hadn’t moved or made a sound. He would survive. He had to. If only to make that trip.