Deadly Deceit (6 page)

Her phone rang.

Saved by the bell.

She took the call but didn’t speak. ‘Is everything OK?’ the Cypriot said.

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘Any problems, you bail.’

‘Relax, I told you the matter is in hand.’

The redhead hung up, looking back at her new friend. Shame she had better things to do today than having sex with a stranger, albeit a very attractive one. In just under four hours, she’d
enter the lion’s den and face the most important meeting of her entire life. Question was:
could she pull it off?

I
t was getting on for two as they left the morgue. Carmichael’s phone rang, a request from Gormley that they stop and pick up Dene’s Deli sandwiches on the way back
to the incident room. When they got there, Daniels went to brief their guv’nor while Carmichael handed out refreshments to the team. But she was picking at her lunch when the DCI
returned.

‘OK, you lot. Mobiles off!’ she said. ‘Hank and I are expected elsewhere.’

Daniels sat down, surrounded by core members of the squad, all eyes turned in her direction. Hank Gormley took a seat by her side, directly opposite DC Andy Brown. Andy was mid twenties, built
like the scrum half, his ruddy face topped with a mop of strawberry blond hair. He was a great bloke whose parents were employed at either end of the lifecycle – his mother a midwife, his
father an undertaker – which Brown always said equipped him well for the brief interlude in between. He was Daniels’ obs man, the detective she used whenever there was a need for
surveillance. He had the capacity to sit still for hours and could survive with very little sleep.

Sitting next to him, as always, was Lisa Carmichael. They had joined the squad together and were the best of mates. She was about to bin her lunch when DS Neil Maxwell reached out and took it
from her. Large, lazy and lethargic, he was nicknamed Sicknote by the others. He had a fondness for women and soft porn, in any order, and both at the same time if he could possibly manage it.
He’d been forced upon the squad, arriving under a cloud on a final warning. Considered the weak link in the team, he’d shown significant improvement after a choice word in his
shell-like from Daniels, a true believer in three strikes and you’re out.

And lastly, DS Paul Robson, Robbo for short. A skilled detective but a man whose popularity had plummeted following mistakes he’d made recently that reflected badly on the team as a whole.
A new father with a gambling addiction he’d not yet come to terms with, he still looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Daniels got straight down to business, giving a brief case review to kick-start the enquiry. The consensus among the team was pretty clear-cut. If Mark Reid was last seen alive by Maggie Reid at
around seven-thirty when she put Jamie down for the night – the same woman who’d dialled 999 nearly five and a half hours later – that in itself was highly suspicious.

‘Then again . . .’ a voice at the back said, ‘the West End shite wouldn’t call the police if the aliens had landed—’

‘I need evidence, not innuendo,’ Daniels countered. ‘Having talked to the woman myself, I’m not convinced she’s anything other than a grieving mother.’ She
looked at her watch. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve seen her again. Hank and I are due there in twenty minutes.’ She eyeballed the smartarse at the back. ‘Remind me
never to recommend you for Community Crime Prevention.’

A titter went round the room.

Daniels allowed them their moment of fun, naming Robson as statement reader before moving on to specific actions she wanted carried out immediately. ‘Lisa, look into Mark Reid’s
background. Find out who his friends are, talk to his work colleagues, try to build a picture of the kind of man he was.’ Her gaze shifted to Brown. ‘Andy, until we know more, I want
covert surveillance of that street in case there’s a pyromaniac on the loose. Fix it up with Technical Support. Tell them it’s an urgent job, no excuses. Then liaise with the Search
Coordinator. Drains and rubbish bins are to be searched before the next collections in case evidence was dumped by the perpetrator fleeing the scene. Neil, canvass all local petrol stations. Make a
note of anyone buying petrol in a can of late. And seize CCTV where you think appropriate.’

It was a start, of sorts.

Daniels left the station with Gormley. Leaving the city centre, they headed up the West Road passing the motorcycle garages where the DCI spent a lot of her off-duty time. A little further up
the hill a fight was going on outside the bowling alley, two uniforms getting stuck in. She slowed the car in case they needed a hand. Satisfied that they had everything under control, she picked
up speed again passing the City West Police Station on her left where she once worked, a challenging location for any officer on the force.

As she drove by, she thought of the staff there with affection. In the bate room at the back, you could see all the way to the Angel of the North. It was the place she’d first met Gormley.
She drove on, counting down the streets. Police officers were taught to associate a saying with streets abutting a main road. For example: Fair Lady Hampstead stood for Fairholme Road, Ladykirk
Road and Hampstead Road. It made it easier to recall them if you needed to get there in a hurry.

They dropped down on to Elswick Road, still heading west, then down again on to Armstrong Road where Maggie Reid was being cared for by her sister-in-law, Nadia Turner. They were shown into a
tidy living room with views across the river to Gateshead’s Metro Centre. A uniformed officer stood up as they walked in, explaining that Maggie’s parents were too traumatized to look
after themselves let alone their grieving daughter and so Nadia had volunteered to do so until alternative accommodation could be found.

Nadia offered them tea, telling Daniels that no Family Liaison Officer had yet arrived.

This news angered the DCI more than she could possibly show. ‘My apologies . . .’ She glanced at the PC. A silent message to sort the FLO. And then to Nadia. ‘We’ll take
care of that right away.’

The officer and Nadia both made themselves scarce.

Maggie Reid was sitting hunched over in a chair by the picture window, but the vista across the Tyne was completely lost on her. She was in a hell of a state, hardly registering their presence
as they sat down to talk to her, spaced out on sedatives the doctor had given her before they arrived. Her eyes were dull and lifeless and she was still dressed in the same clothes she’d gone
out in the previous night, blue streaks in her blonde hair matching her smudged eyeliner.

‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Maggie . . .’ Daniels said gently. ‘And for intruding on your grief at this difficult time. But I’m afraid I must ask you some
questions. Is that OK?’ Reid nodded without making eye contact. ‘When exactly did you make arrangements to go out last night?’

‘Ages ago . . . couple of weeks, maybe . . . Mark was good and stuff, but he liked plenty of notice to babysit.’ She looked up, trying to hold back the tears. ‘It’s his
birthday today. We were going to celebrate as a family, like we used to. I made him a chocolate cake yesterday, his favourite . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Who else knew he was at your house?’

‘What do you mean?’

Daniels rephrased. ‘Who else knew Mark was looking after Jamie?’

‘Me mam. What difference does it make?’ Maggie looked puzzled. Her hands shook as she tore at a bunch of tissues Nadia had shoved on her lap before leaving the room.

‘Can you think of any reason why someone would want to harm Mark? Or you, for that matter?’ Daniels didn’t mention the child this time. Maggie didn’t respond and
hadn’t yet twigged what she was getting at. ‘Maggie? I need you to think very carefully. Any idea who might have a grudge against—?’

‘No! Despite our differences, Mark’s a lovely guy. Ask anyone, if you don’t believe me!’ The woman’s face paled further. She pawed at her throat, fighting back
vomit, almost choking on her words. ‘He wasn’t supposed to be there . . . him or the bairn! Mark usually has Jamie at his and me mam picks him up to give me a lie-in and that when I go
out clubbing. It’s usually late when I get back. She can’t keep him at her place overnight coz me dad’s got special needs and Jamie doesn’t sleep. It’s too much for
her to look after them both at the same time.’

Daniels caught Gormley’s unease. He was standing a few feet away, stroking the stubble on his chin. He raised an eyebrow. This was certainly an interesting development. Responding to the
silence in the room, Maggie looked up, her gaze flitting back and forth between the two detectives. Her eyes grew big as the penny dropped.

‘You saying they were after
me
?’

‘We don’t know.’ Gormley’s tone was flat. ‘We were hoping you could tell—’

‘What did you mean, they weren’t supposed to be there?’ Daniels said, interrupting.

‘Jamie had a nasty cold. Mark and I decided he’d be better off at mine.’

‘You changed arrangements at the last minute?’

A nod was Maggie’s answer.

‘You on Facebook, Maggie?’ Gormley asked.

It was a good question. When Maggie didn’t reply, Daniels repeated it, adding other social networking sites in case she’d mentioned her change of plan publicly. People were cavalier
in their attitude to giving out personal information these days. They rarely thought through the consequences. But Maggie was in a bad way, too wired to answer. With a flick of her head, Daniels
sent Gormley off to ask Nadia if she had a Facebook page or Twitter account.

Seconds later, he was back in the room, shaking his head.

Daniels turned to Maggie again. ‘So where did you go last night?’ she asked.

‘I told you, I went clubbing.’ Maggie sniffed. ‘With a mate.’

‘We’ll need a name,’ Gormley said gently. ‘Of the person you were with and the club you visited. You’ll understand why.’

Maggie Reid just looked at him. Blurting out the name Stella Drew, she ran from the room.

‘T
he sudden change of arrangements could be highly significant,’ Daniels said as they left the property and got back in the car. ‘Assuming for one moment that
Maggie’s an innocent in all this, either the offence was totally random, or she
was
the target, or someone very close to one or both of them knew they had altered their
plans.’

‘She’s lying, boss!’

‘Makes you say that?’

‘You saw her reaction when you asked her who she was with last night. She was sweating like a Geordie on a spelling test.’

Daniels grinned. ‘You don’t think her grief is genuine?

‘I’ve seen others fake it better. Do you?’

Daniels waggled her hand from side to side. The jury was still out on that one. She started the engine and moved off as a crash of thunder brought more rain. ‘Much as we might like to
think so, we have no idea what she’s going through. She doesn’t know what she’s feeling or thinking, let alone saying. And where the
hell
is the FLO?’

Gormley shrugged.

‘Well, find out! And put your bloody seat belt on.’

T
he redhead stared at the last dregs of countryside as it flashed by. In the seat behind her she could hear a couple of guys arranging a game of golf. Someone had ordered a
late lunch and the chink, chink of cutlery on china was beginning to annoy her. She’d never understood why people ate on trains: in half an hour or so they’d be nearing the outskirts of
London with hundreds of brilliant cafés and restaurants at their disposal.

She flinched as a train whooshed by, going in the opposite direction, vibrating the carriage as it sped past. She wondered what lay ahead and wished it were over. Should she take a cab from
King’s Cross or walk? Yes,
definitely
walk. She needed fresh air in her lungs, needed to oxygenate her brain and concentrate. Everything depended on her memorizing her script by
heart. She opened the browser on her phone, then closed it again, remembering she had an app to guide her to her destination. Pressing the menu key, she scrolled to it in readiness to type in a
postcode. The device wasn’t playing.

‘Bloody technology!’ She rolled her eyes as her prosperous admirer looked up. ‘Of all the times to go walkabout . . .’ Sighing, she put the phone back in her bag.
‘The mapping system appears to be down. I can’t live without it now. How about you?’

‘Same here . . .’ The man took off his Prada glasses and smiled at her. That sexual tension again. ‘I was considering a glass of wine. Would you like to join me?’

She was all set to decline – she needed her wits about her today – but then a frosty woman sitting diagonally opposite who’d boarded the train at York gave them a filthy look.
The redhead had been watching her too. She’d been reading
The Stock Trader
by Tony Oz. Its strap line:
How I Make a Living Trading Stocks.
Obviously thought she was a
player. Didn’t the silly cow know she was in the company of the best in the business?

‘I’d like that very much.’ The redhead grinned.

Picking up the menu, the man held it out to her.

‘Anything but Sauvignon,’ she said, ignoring the menu. ‘Do you fuck too?’

She didn’t bat an eyelid when a number of passengers turned to look at her. Appalled, the woman across the aisle hid behind her book.

The man stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Ben . . . Foster.’

But the redhead already knew his name, his date of birth, his home address. That he was a professor at Newcastle University. She’d read the passport application he’d been fiddling
with since the train pulled out of the Central Station of her home city. She also knew that he was on his way to the University of California, Berkeley, in the not too distant future and that the
trip involved an international conference.

It never ceased to amaze her how many people laid themselves open to identity theft. She could read upside down almost as well as the right way up after years of practice. If she were so minded,
her interesting stranger would be begging for his life back in a matter of weeks. She was a class act.