19
It was gone four by the time Daniels and Gormley reached Mark Reid’s flat. The property was much more upmarket than the one he’d shared with his former wife. Situated in Jesmond, it occupied the second floor of an end terrace, south facing with a view over a parcel of land known locally as the Little Moor. A green space other city dwellers could only dream of.
Gormley gave an impressed whistle. They were standing in a hallway stuffed with original features: an elaborately carved staircase, ornate cornicing and stained-glass windows. Daniels followed him upstairs into Reid’s flat, the leaves of a pot plant brushing her right hand as she entered the living room. A woman’s touch was her first thought as she scanned the interior – one with an eye for the good things in life, from the look of it.
‘You reckon it’s his?’
Gormley glanced up from the desk drawer he was about to search. ‘This place?’
‘Yeah. No offence, but nothing in here tells me it belongs to a man. It’s really tasteful, not the sort of place I imagined at all.’
‘Hey! Men can do taste . . .’ He scanned the room. ‘I see what you mean, though.’ He pointed at a designer lampshade suspended from the ceiling like a big diamond swirl. ‘He didn’t buy that, for a start. No bloke I know would clean that thing.’
His words prompted a smile. ‘He doesn’t clean this place. No way! See if you can find a cleaning contract, mortgage docs, rent book . . . There’s something about our Mr Reid that doesn’t add up.’
Daniels left him and went to explore the rest of the flat. The kitchen and the bathroom were similarly tidy and well equipped, the first bedroom she came to likewise. She opened a cupboard, finding Reid’s own kit in one side: a mixture of suits, jeans, shirts, underwear. In the other side, there was some women’s clothing, enough to cement the impression that he was in a relationship, but not nearly enough to make her believe that he wasn’t the only one living there. Daniels knew clothes and these were bloody expensive – too expensive for her police salary. She checked the labels. Size 14. Either Reid was a pint-sized transvestite who got his kit from high-end boutiques, or he was seeing a high earner who knew how to shop.
The last room she came to took her breath away. A child’s nursery: a magical space filled with brightly coloured toys, mobiles, a frieze of nursery rhymes stencilled on the walls. On the far wall, a cot was crammed with soft toys, its bedding lovingly chosen with Jamie’s name embroidered in the centre. On a chair, a pair of child’s pyjamas and a nappy sat ready for a little visitor who had never arrived.
Daniels turned away, trying her best to blank out the image of a dead child that was forcing its way into her head. She wouldn’t let it. She couldn’t bear to look at it again. She just couldn’t. Carmichael wasn’t the only one suffering from the experience. You never got used to something like that.
There were no personal photographs on display in the room. But stuffed inside a drawer beneath children’s clothes was a framed photograph of Maggie and Mark Reid in happier times. Entwined in each other’s arms, Maggie heavily pregnant, presumably with Jamie. Daniels wondered if they were planning to get back together. Was that what all this was about? Maybe someone didn’t want that to happen. But who? Was she looking for a jealous other half?
If that was the case, was it his or hers?
Gormley shouted from the living room, interrupting her train of thought. She retraced her steps and found him by the window with his notebook out. He pointed at the landline. The display showed the correct date and time as well as two new calls, but no SMSs. A flashing light indicated that one of the callers had left a message.
‘One’s from a local dialling code – East End, if my memory serves: Wallsend? North Shields? Somewhere near the coast. Call came in at eight-o-six p.m. on Wednesday. Someone listed in the phonebook as Dave. The other is a mobile number. Call timed in the small hours, at one twenty-three a.m., to be precise. Caller is listed as Judy. I’ve taken a note of them both. You want to listen to the message?’
Daniels picked up the handset and dialled 1571. An automated voice hit her ear: Welcome to BT answer 1571. You have one new message. First new message. Message received at 1.23 a.m. on Thursday, 24 June. A woman’s voice came on the line. Fairly young, Daniels thought. There was a lot of background noise, laughing and chatting, as if the caller was in a pub or at a party: Hi, babe. Tried your mobile. Assume it’s on charge. Hope I haven’t woken Jamie. If you get this message, call me. The line clicked off.
Then BT bollocks again: To return the call, press—
Daniels hung up. She looked at Gormley, wondering if she’d stumbled upon Reid’s girlfriend. ‘We need to find Judy,’ she said.
20
George Milburn tripped and put a hand out to steady himself. He sat down on a wall to rest for a moment, pulled off his cap and wiped his brow with a handkerchief already damp with sweat. It was a stifling midsummer day, the hottest he could remember for a very long time. No breeze either. Just baking hot sun. OK for the young’uns, but he couldn’t cope with it any more. Maybe not the best of days to spend at the allotment with Elliot.
He’d been thinking about his grandson all the way home, feeling his disappointment as if it were his own. The lad’s face had dropped when he realized the car he’d set his heart on had been snapped up by someone else. It was a setback, not the end of the world. George had attempted to cheer him up while they worked, joking that the motor was probably an old banger and not worth half the asking price, if truth were known. No doubt it was clapped out somewhere, steam billowing from beneath the bonnet, its new owner beginning to realize he’d been sold a bag of shite and wasn’t quite the petrol-head he thought he was.
Elliot’s mood had lifted slightly. There would be other motors. Other days to spend their hard-earned cash. Though George suspected a lingering wish to possess that car, Elliot had managed to cover it well. He’d heard the words crying and spilt milk often enough over the years for them to have some meaning. Unlike his peers, he’d always listened respectfully to what George had to say. Even if sometimes they ended up agreeing to disagree. Only once had he gone off on one, his frustration boiling over at having to repeat himself. George had forgotten some minor detail of his first days at school. The name of his teacher, he seemed to recall.
Miss Proctor, Granddad. I already told you . . . three times!
Giggling, he’d leapt on to George’s knee and given him a great big hug – his way of saying sorry for yelling. He was only four then. These days he was more forgiving of his grandfather’s senior moments. And for his part, George was grateful to have the ear of someone so young. Their relationship was one to be cherished. It gave George a reason to get up in the morning.
His smile disappeared when he saw Chantelle Fox grinning at him from across the road. She never listened to anything other than her own voice. The girl was a complete fantasist. She’d told him once that her dad was a diplomat. He knew her father well: he was a dipper not a diplomat; a man who’d rob his granny for her eyes and come back for the sockets – and a pathological liar to boot. But she wasn’t all bad. She’d helped George at times when he needed errands run and Elliot was at work. Wasn’t her fault if she came from a family of wasters. The lass’s heart was in the right place.
But it wasn’t her heart that was bothering him. The pain in his chest had been coming and going since the fire last night. From the looks of it, a police presence in Ralph Street looked set to continue for some time yet. Mark Reid’s wailing as he tried to reach Jamie would stay with George for ever. Unfortunately for George, for ever was right now. The old man hit the deck before he had chance to call out to Chantelle. There was a flash. Then everything went black.