Deadly Deceit (31 page)

‘Sounds like a nice lady.’

‘She is. Want me to take care of it?’

‘No, I’ll sort it, thanks.’ She turned to Abbott. ‘Sorry, this is important, I’ve got to go. Can you sit tight ’til our profiler gets here? I’m sure she
won’t be long.’ She grabbed Brown before he had chance to walk away. ‘Andy, get Geoff a coffee and bring him up to speed on where we are.’ On the way out the door, she rang
Gormley. He picked up right away and she dropped her voice so she wouldn’t be overheard by officers in the corridor. ‘Sorry I snapped at you before. Things are difficult between Jo and
I. When she arrives, can you pair her with Geoff? They can work in my office. Tell her . . .’ she paused. ‘Doesn’t matter, I’ll tell her myself. Oh shit!’

‘What’s up?’

‘I rode in! Forget what I said before. Just meet me in the car park and bring your keys with you. I might need to transport someone to hospital and I can hardly do that on the back of my
bike.’

By the time he got there, Daniels had repeated her instruction to Carmichael.

‘Where we going?’ Gormley asked.

‘Café.’

His eyes lit up. ‘Brill!’

‘Don’t get excited. We won’t be eating. I’ll explain on the way.’

They reached the café about fifteen minutes later and took a statement from the owner, satisfied that it really was Chantelle the woman had seen. Daniels called the MIR and asked Robson
to arrange a uniformed presence at casualty at the hospitals in the city: the Royal Victoria Infirmary and Newcastle General Hospital, the latter being the best bet in view of its location in the
West End. Then they walked back to Gormley’s car.

‘If she’s injured, where would she hide?’ Daniels asked, getting in.

‘She’ll be bunkered in with a mate somewhere.’

‘No, that’s too risky, for her and her mates. She described Laidlaw as a psycho, Hank. She wasn’t spooked when I spoke to her, she was bloody terrified. Her world is
microscopic compared to ours. She’s lived in the same house all her life, never goes further than the corner shop, works just a few streets away – although not today. I checked and got
a mouthful of abuse for my trouble. Her P45 is in the post, according to her boss.’

‘Oh, she’ll love that!’ Gormley was being ironic. ‘What about the neighbours?’

‘No chance. Believe me, she’ll be as far from Ralph Street as she can possibly get.’

‘Unless—’

‘What?’ Daniels could see he was excited about something. ‘You think she’s in George Milburn’s empty house?’

‘Close . . .’ he smiled. ‘I think I know exactly where she is.’

G
ormley started the car. Cancelling windscreen wipers left on when he’d cut the engine, he drove out of the side street on to the main road. While they were in the
café, the rain had stopped and the sun had come out, the same blistering heat the country had enjoyed in the run-up to the World Cup. Daniels could feel it on her left arm through the
passenger window and noticed steam rising from the pavements on either side of the road.

‘You going to tell me where we’re going?’ she asked.

‘Benwell Lane.’

‘Because . . .?’

‘That’s where George Milburn’s allotment is.’

She grinned. ‘You’re smart, you know that?’

‘You better believe it!’ He opened his window, allowing the breeze into the car. His Peugeot had no air conditioning and it was like an oven inside. ‘Chantelle may be a wrong
’un but she’s smart, boss. She knows Elliot Milburn won’t be there. He was so devastated by his Granddad’s death, he’s hardly been able to bring himself to visit the
house, let alone the old man’s cherished plot. They spent a lot of time there together.’

‘You like him, don’t you?’

‘Elliot? There’s nothing to dislike. He reminds me of Ryan in many ways. Not because they’re the same age. He’s got a lovely nature and good manners. He’s a breath
of fresh air from the shite we sometimes come across.’

Daniels swivelled in her seat, trying to catch his eye. But Gormley kept his eyes on the road, slowing right down as they approached traffic lights where a crocodile of nursery-age children were
waiting to cross. He hadn’t mentioned his son in ages, or his wife for that matter, and she wondered how things were going at home.

‘How is he?’ she asked. ‘Ryan, I mean.’

‘Struggling. Not that he talks about it much . . . I thought we might take off somewhere after we wrap this case up, have a bit of fun, do stuff like we used to. Julie said he’s
thinking of moving out. Can’t say I blame him.’

‘Where to?’ Daniels closed her window as they arrived at the allotments.

‘He’s got mates at Northumbria uni he can share with.’ Gormley pulled on the hand brake and removed his key from the ignition, glancing to his left, meeting her eye. ‘I
wasn’t too keen at first, but I think it’ll be good for him.’ He pointed through the windscreen. ‘How do you want to approach this?’

‘I’ve got to make a quick call.’ She pulled her phone from her pocket. ‘Can you contact the council? Find out the number and location of the Milburn plot? There are forty
allotments in there. It’ll save time.’

They both began dialling. Gormley’s call was answered almost immediately. He asked for the allotments officer and was put on hold to wait for a man named Richard Waites. The number Daniels
had called was still ringing in her ear. She was about to put the phone down when Sergeant McCabe answered with his telephone number. She couldn’t decide if he sounded drowsy or drunk.

‘Mick?’ She waited.
No reply
. ‘Mick, are you OK?’

‘Did you find Bridget’s ring?’

Definitely drunk.
‘No, I’m sorry. It must’ve come off at the crash site. Are the girls home yet? I thought—’ But he was already gone. ‘Damn
it!’

‘McCabe in a bad way?’

‘Wouldn’t you be? Come on, we need to find Chantelle.’

They got out of the car and walked through the allotment gates. The plots nearest to the entrance were a riot of colour. A couple of old men were sitting on a bench admiring the view – fag
in hand, a mug of tea – brief respite from a hard morning’s labour. One fat, one thin, both heads shaded by flat caps against the midday sun. Typical northern males. They wouldn’t
have looked out of place making their way into a shipyard or to the coal face, if either industry had still existed.

‘Fine day,’ one of them said.

‘Aye, for some . . .’ Gormley held up ID. ‘We’re looking—’

‘She’s still in there . . .’ The thin man gave them a knowing look and held out his hand. ‘I’m ex-job.’

‘Thinks we didn’t notice her sneaking in,’ the other man said.

Gormley and Daniels shook hands with both of them.

‘Nowt gets past Jake . . .’ the ex polis grinned. ‘He outranks me by a mile round here. Has held a plot longer than the rest of us. Makes awful tea, mind. I’d offer you a
cup but I’m guessing you’re not here to chat or they’d have sent a wooden top like me. I never made it to CID, more’s the pity. Uniforms were scratchy and heavy in my day,
no short sleeves in summer like the young ’uns you see walking the streets nowadays . . .’ He nodded to the shed where Chantelle was hiding. ‘It’s the one with the horseshoe
on the door.’

‘We thought we’d leave her be, given George’s recent bereavement,’ the other man added. ‘No need to chase her until the committee is notified. She’ll be
family, no doubt. Come to pay her respects at his second home.’

‘Something like that,’ Daniels said.

The octogenarian knew different. Kate could see it in his eyes. He had obviously felt sorry for Chantelle and didn’t want to move her on. Conversation over, the old guys put down their
mugs and staggered from the bench, regretting the tea-break now their bones and muscles had seized up. As they resumed their digging, Daniels and Gormley walked on, arriving at George
Milburn’s shed just as Chantelle made a run for it.

C
hantelle didn’t get far. The fences were in good order and she was in no condition to stand, let alone resist being taken into custody for her own safety. She slumped to
the ground looking awfully pale, her right cheek so badly swollen it had forced her eye shut. Dried blood covered a shocking pink scarf wrapped loosely around her right wrist and her fingers were
twice their normal size.

‘Get her in the car,’ Daniels ordered. ‘On second thoughts, ring the General, Hank. Let them know we’re on our way.’

‘No chance!’ Chantelle pulled away. ‘I’m not going to hospital. That’s the first place Lucy will look. She knows I’m hurt.’

‘No arguments, Chantelle. You need emergency treatment. You could die of septicaemia.’ As Gormley turned away to make the call, Kate helped the girl to her feet. ‘Quit
struggling, will you! You’re coming whether you like it or not. No,
listen
to me!’ Chantelle went limp. She’d finally run out of steam. ‘That’s better . . .
you’ll be completely safe, I
promise
you. You’ll get police protection and a safe house if necessary until we make an arrest. If Laidlaw comes within half a mile of the
hospital we’ll be waiting there to lock her up.’

Emotionally exhausted, Chantelle began to weep.

‘Come here . . .’ Daniels embraced the girl, hugging her gently as her tears turned to sobs. She was in a bad way and Kate was determined to catch the sadistic cow responsible. But
first she needed to get Chantelle some help. Shushing her, trying to offer reassurance, she said: ‘Lucy can’t hurt you now. Can you walk or d’you want the “fat fucker”
to carry you?’

Chantelle managed a weak smile. ‘I can walk.’

‘That’s the way.’ Daniels returned the smile. ‘Come on, we need to go.’

The DCI looked worriedly over her shoulder as the car sped up Condercum Road, then right on to the West Road towards the city’s General Hospital. Chantelle was lying asleep across the back
seat of the Peugeot, cradling her bad arm on her stomach. Her knees were bent, her eyes shut, her breathing laboured. Getting her to the car had proven more difficult than either of them
anticipated. Hank had picked her up and carried her the last few metres, laying her gently on the seat, suspecting broken ribs.

Chantelle stirred.

‘Lucy’s living in the Turnbull Building. I’ve been following her for days. Stupid, aren’t I?’ Wincing in pain, she forced her eyes open. Her right eye was blood
red, no white visible. She tried to sit up but Daniels told her to lie still. She looked absolutely wrung out. ‘Promise me you’ll get her. I wanna go home and feed Rooney, my
cat.’

‘We’ll collect him, don’t worry,’ Daniels said. ‘Was Lucy with anyone else?’

‘Didn’t see anyone.’

‘OK, let’s get you sorted first and then we’ll look into it.’

Turning away, Daniels rang Brown. ‘Andy, we’ve got Chantelle and we’re en route to the General. Send someone to meet us there to guard her while she receives treatment. I doubt
she’ll be discharged today, but if she is I want her taken to a safe house until further notice, understood?’

‘Yep. Anything else?’

‘No, yes. Is Lisa about?’

‘She’s right here.’

‘Tell her to find out as much as possible about the interior of Turnbull Building . . .’ Daniels didn’t need to tell him which building it was. Like everyone else in the area,
he knew the landmark well. A Grade II listed former Victorian printworks, it had been converted years ago and was now one of the most prestigious addresses in the heart of the city centre. At the
entrance lodge of the hospital, she waved ID at the security guard as they drove through. ‘I want a floor plan, if she can manage it. I’ll explain when I get back. And get someone over
to Chantelle’s place to find and feed her cat. It goes by the name of Rooney.’

Daniels hung up feeling a real sense of excitement. Gormley felt it too, by the look of him.

Laidlaw would have seen the news. In the past twenty-four hours, her face had been splashed over every TV screen and newspaper. She’d be keeping a low profile for sure, biding her time
until she could make a run for it. But investigators from the murder squad not only knew
who
she was, they knew
where
she was, if the information from Chantelle Fox was correct.
Their suspect had no idea that they were on to her location and that gave them the upper hand for the first time since the enquiry began.

Game on,
Daniels thought.

‘Y
ou idiot!’ the Cypriot yelled. ‘You go back. And this time you do it properly!’

Yeah, right. As if.

Lucy glared at him. There were times when stuff just didn’t go according to plan. This whole week had been like that. She was tempted to tell him about her little forays on the side, her
relationships with other men, her scheme to leave his sorry arse and go it alone. But this wasn’t the right moment. She’d been biding her time for two years, learning the ropes,
infiltrating his contacts. Soon, he’d be going the same way as her old man. The same way as—

Lucy picked up her drink and slugged it back. She couldn’t bear to think about Mark in that house as the fire swept through it. It was never part of her plan that he should suffer. Or the
child – she cringed –
that beautiful, beautiful child.
No, it was
her:
the leech draining his bank balance that she wanted to disappear. Maggie was the one deserved to
fry.

Another slug of her drink.

Mark had been good to her. He was the only man who’d treated her with any respect. He was a good man too, as near to a perfect partner as she’d ever come across, the only man who had
ever managed to make her feel—

Lucy shut her eyes as her father’s hands crept over her skin. Even from the grave he managed to make her feel dirty. What was she thinking? It would never have worked with Mark. Once he
found out what she’d been up to, he’d have cut her loose. No point in crying about it now, was there? No one’s fault if people couldn’t stick to their bloody babysitting
arrangements. And how was she to know that a better scenario would present itself that very same night? But it had . . .

The old gadgie had croaked by the time she reached the scene of the accident. Fortunately for Lucy, the old bird was still alive. Had plenty to say for herself too, letting slip her big secret,
the one that would change her life.