Deadly Deceit (26 page)

Her work mobile rang: a number she didn’t recognize. ‘DCI Daniels.’

‘Is it convenient to talk to you, ma’am?’

Daniels sat up straight. Gormley gave her an odd look across the table. She mimed a puzzled look in return. It was Sergeant McCabe, the officer whose daughter’s funeral they had come from.
There was background noise on the line. The crackle of a police-issue radio and the familiar voice of a custody sergeant she knew. It was less than two hours since McCabe had buried Bridget and he
was already back at work? Surely not.

‘Yes, of course, Mick. Sounds like you’re at the nick?’

‘Custody suite, Market Street.’ He paused a beat, then explained that Bridget’s twin and his other daughter were with their grandparents, on the way south for a bit of a
break.

‘So soon? You sure that’s a good idea?’

‘For them or me?’

‘Make your way to the MIR on the second floor. I’ll meet you there in five.’

Daniels ditched her whisky and left the pub immediately. Four minutes later, she found McCabe at the top of the stairwell, pale and drawn, slightly the worse for wear, still dressed in his
funeral suit and black tie. She led him along the corridor to the major incident suite and towards her office, stopping on the way to tell Carmichael she wanted some quiet time and wasn’t to
be disturbed.

McCabe was more than a little unsteady on his feet. She sat him down, offered him coffee.

He declined. ‘I don’t want to take up your valuable time, ma’am.’ He gestured through her office door to the MIR beyond. ‘Looks like you’ve got a lot on.
It’s just . . . well, I’ve lost something of Bridget’s and wondered if you could help me find it. Me and my girls have looked everywhere. The only possible explanation is that she
was wearing it when . . .’ He stumbled over his words. ‘It definitely wasn’t returned with her possessions by hospital staff, I checked.’

Daniels’ ears pricked up. ‘Go on.’

‘My father bought each of the girls a seal ring. I know it sounds stupid, but we have this family crest. He thought it would be nice if they each had one. Bridget didn’t often wear
hers because it was a bit loose for her little finger and too small for her ring finger. She was terrified of losing it. Thing is, it isn’t in the house. I wondered if you noticed it on the
night, y’know, when you were with Bridget.’

Ivy’s missing lottery ticket leapt into Daniels’ mind. She tried not to look alarmed or let her growing anger show. The idea that anyone might steal from – or, in Ivy’s
case, kill – a person at their most vulnerable appalled her. She knew from talking to Bridget that someone had attended her immediately following the crash, before
she
had come
along. The burning question was, who? Emergency services personnel? A member of the public?

Shit! A cop?

McCabe filled the silence. ‘I shouldn’t have bothered you with this.’ He stood up. ‘I’m sorry, I’m dog tired and not thinking straight.’

‘No. Please sit down. I want to help.’

‘It’s fine, I’ll check with Traffic.’

Daniels could almost feel Bridget’s hand in hers. Cold. Wet. Trembling. She could smell the girl’s fear. Taste it even. Images flashed through her mind. Slim fingers on young hands.
Painted nails: two of which had been torn off in the collision.
A ring.
She
was
wearing a ring, but not the one McCabe just described, she told him . . .

‘It was a simple gold band, worn on the middle finger of her left hand—’

‘Her mother’s wedding ring.’ McCabe was losing it, the harsh reality of the day hitting him hard. He cleared his throat before continuing, swallowing down his heartache.
‘That one
was
returned. Becci now has it.’

His words hung in the air.

Daniels could see he was a broken man. She leaned across her desk and handed him a tissue, her thoughts very firmly on the missing ring. There was no evidence that a theft had actually occurred,
but if the seal ring
had
been stolen then why not the wedding band too?
Or did it?
‘This is going to sound like an odd question,’ she said after a while, ‘but
was the wedding ring a tight fit?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Then you could be right . . .’ Daniels hated keeping her suspicions from him. ‘The seal ring most probably came off during the crash. Why don’t you let me look into it
for you? I’ll have Bridget’s car searched. It’ll still be at the recovery garage, it shouldn’t take long. I’ll get someone on to it right away and get back to
you.’

‘Thanks, ma’am.’

‘It’s no problem,’ Daniels said. Even as she said it, she knew that wasn’t the truth.

Far from it.

P
C Dixon was desperate to talk to his girlfriend. He’d been calling her for days but she wasn’t picking up or returning his calls. He’d gone to her home but
there was no answer at the door. The neighbours hadn’t seen her either. Completely baffled by her disappearance, and wondering what the silly cow was up to, he’d returned to the station
only to run into more bad news. Daniels had called in Professional Standards.

Ray Montagu, a severe-looking detective superintendent, was facing him now, an equally serious female DI by his side. The pair had years of experience under their belts, impressive reputations
in their field of expertise. Dixon didn’t need telling that his own good name was on the line.

You want a better class of detective, complain about a polis.

Report a rape, you get a numpty.

Those words had come from his shift sergeant as he’d left to face the big guns. He could say that again. Montagu was looking right through him, judging him before he’d even opened
his mouth, a cause of deep anxiety for Dixon. A file on the table had his name, rank and number written in thick black pen on the cover. There was no mistake.
He was fighting for his life
here
.

Taking her cue from her senior officer, the woman introduced herself as Detective Inspector Jane Trent. Advising Dixon that she was recording the interview, she then cautioned him, giving the
time, date and location of where the interview was taking place. ‘You’re entitled to have a solicitor present,’ she said. ‘Or someone from the Police Federation, if
you’d prefer.’

‘I don’t.’ Dixon cleared his throat. ‘Want anyone, I mean. I’ve done nothing wrong, ma’am.’

‘Then you have nothing to worry about, Constable.’ The DI’s lips were smiling but her eyes were not.

Dixon kept shtum, so Trent carried on: ‘On Saturday the twenty-sixth of June you were spoken to by Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels of the Murder Investigation Team with regard to an
incident in Ralph Street. An old man, since identified as George Milburn, had collapsed in the street. You left her crime scene to render assistance. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Dixon said.

‘Following on from that interview,’ Montagu chipped in, ‘we have a few more questions for you. You’re aware that an amount of money was taken from the old man?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Money which you deny having any knowledge of.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Have you anything further to say on the matter?’

Montagu waited, searching Dixon’s face for clues. There were none. The PC was showing no signs of distress. He sat stony-faced, not a flicker of concern, his expression deadpan. After a
moment, he told them that he had nothing at all to add to what he’d already told DCI Daniels when first questioned.

‘That’s a shame,’ the Super said. ‘I really was hoping you’d help us out here.’

Montagu looked away deliberately. Opening up Dixon’s personnel file, he flicked through a few pages, commenting on his exemplary record, reminding him what he stood to lose should any
impropriety be uncovered during the interview. A ploy designed to make him sweat. Closing the file, he looked up.

‘I’ll get straight to the point then, shall I?’

‘If you would, sir. I’m due on at two.’

Cocky shit!

‘You allege that a young woman at the scene may have taken the money.’

‘That may well be the case, sir.’

‘But that’s not true, is it?’ Montagu said. ‘What if I told you we’ve already established that
you
were the only person within touching distance of the old
gentleman while he was lying prostrate on the ground – what would you say?’

‘I’d say you’re mistaken,’ Dixon replied. ‘The girl was with him when I got there, sir.’

‘We’re willing to accept your word on that score,’ Trent said. ‘That would be Chantelle Fox, yes? The young woman you described as a “gobby cow” to DCI
Daniels?’

Dixon’s gaze shifted from the Super to Trent. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Yes, indeed . . .’ Montagu let some time pass before moving the interview along. ‘We’ve made extensive enquiries. We’ve spoken to a number of witnesses to the old
man’s unfortunate collapse. I have to tell you, the information coming back is fairly conclusive. Everyone agrees that, while Chantelle Fox did take photographs of him lying on the deck, she
did not approach him at any time. Therefore she couldn’t have removed anything from his person. What have you got to say about that?’

‘Not true. She was very close to him.’

‘You’re saying the people we’ve interviewed are lying and you’re telling the truth?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying. Shit stick together, sir.’

‘Do they?’ Trent bristled. ‘You got something against people living in the West End?’

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Sounds like you have.’ Trent glanced at Montagu. ‘The people we interviewed were very cooperative, weren’t they, sir?’ Taking in Montagu’s nod, Trent turned
back to Dixon. ‘Chantelle may be gobby, but she had the decency to admit taking inappropriate images. Her neighbours back up her claim that she went nowhere near the old man. They seemed
pretty genuine to me.’

‘Someone’s lying.’ It was a statement, not a question. Montagu was watching Dixon closely. Making a fist of his hand, the PC propped up his chin, his elbow on the table, all
the time insisting that Chantelle Fox was with the old man when he got there. ‘So you said. And sit up straight when you’re talking to me. You’re not in the staff canteen now,
son.’

His harsh words had the desired effect.

Dixon sat back, couldn’t look the detectives in the eye.

‘That’s better . . .’ Montagu waited until he had Dixon’s full attention. ‘According to DCI Daniels, you deny having taken possession of Mr Milburn’s cash,
even for safekeeping. Is that still your contention?’

‘I didn’t take anything, sir.’

‘Very well.’

Montagu had a bombshell to drop. But not yet. Not until he was good and ready. Not until the little shit across the table denied his career away. For a moment or two he did just that, repeating
his claim that Chantelle Fox was the guilty party, insisting he had nothing whatsoever to hide. He was simply doing his job, as always.

Silly boy.

The hiatus proved too much for Dixon. ‘I’m not pointing any fingers, sir. Perhaps she wasn’t the one who took the money. But I didn’t, that’s all I’m saying.
I’m as clueless as you appear to be.’

Trent had to work hard to keep the smile off her face. Her eyes flicked to the Super. His expression was inscrutable. They had worked together for years and ‘clueless’ was not
something he’d ever been called before. Not by anyone. It was a big mistake on Dixon’s part, because Montague had realized he was beginning to crack.

‘First she did, then she didn’t . . .’ Montagu paused. ‘You were certain a moment ago. Have you changed your mind?’

Dixon was sweating profusely. ‘No, sir. All I’m saying is, I didn’t see her take it. She was near him though, whatever her neighbours told you.’

‘You’re prepared to admit that you may have been mistaken though, yes?’ Trent pushed.

‘It’s possible.’

‘Cut the crap!’ Montague was angry now and it showed. ‘We have you bang to rights, son. For security reasons, DCI Daniels installed covert monitoring equipment in Ralph Street
following the arson attack. It proves beyond a shadow of doubt that Chantelle Fox went nowhere near the dying man. Now what do you have to say for yourself?’

‘If she didn’t take the money, then the ambulance crew must’ve. Or the medics when he was in the hospital. I don’t know, do I?’

‘You’re prepared to admit you were the only person near the man having the heart attack?’

‘No! Yes, maybe . . .’ Dixon was showing classic signs of stress. He’d gone terribly pale and a thin film of sweat had appeared on his upper lip. ‘Look, I was on my own
and under pressure. I’d left a crime scene unattended and I was trying to save a life. As I told DCI Daniels, I’d never done that before.’

Trent shook her head. She wasn’t buying it.

‘Chantelle wasn’t close enough to take the cash, was she?’ she asked.

‘Then the ambulance crew must have it. I don’t!’

‘No need to lose your temper, Constable. I’ll ask again, did you or did you not take money from George Milburn following his collapse? Think carefully before you answer.’

‘No!’

‘Let me recap,’ Montagu said. ‘You now accept that Chantelle Fox wasn’t close enough to take the money, so it must have been the ambulance crew. Is that
correct?’

No reaction.

‘PC Dixon? There’s no point in denying it. We have unequivocal proof, man.’

‘Yes.’

‘You really aren’t as bright as your record suggests, are you, Dixon?’ The comment had come from Trent. ‘You’re obviously unaware that the ambulance service
operates a strict protocol for taking patients to hospital, logging them in with a triage team. They also have equipment to protect themselves from outrageous allegations from the likes of
you.’ Dixon dropped his head as she waited for a response. None came. It was time to go for the jugular. ‘Have you ever been in the back of an ambulance?’

Dixon looked up. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Answer the question,’ Trent said.

Dixon shook his head.

For the benefit of the interview room’s digital recorder, Trent indicated that he’d done so. ‘PC Dixon, you are telling
lies!
Throughout this interview you’ve
shown classic signs of a guilty man, shifting the blame, changing the story when it suited you. First you tell DCI Daniels that Chantelle was quote: standing over him . . . with him. Those are
your
words, the ones
you
used when first questioned. You repeated them today and then back-pedalled as soon as you realized you weren’t getting away with it. The truth is,
Chantelle Fox couldn’t possibly have taken the money. Then you tried shifting the blame to the ambulance service. Well, let me enlighten you. There is video recording of what happens to the
patients in transit and CCTV inside and outside accident and emergency departments. We’ve viewed the footage, which includes the transfer of Mr Milburn between the ambulance crew and the
trauma team. Guess what? He was searched by a member of the hospital staff – because they knew he was in a bad way – so they could ID him and inform next of kin. Barring a few coins, he
didn’t have any money on him. We already know Chantelle was telling the truth, so that proves to me you’re lying – unless you are suggesting that all the hospital staff are
conspiring together to commit an offence? And that doesn’t happen.’