21
Carmichael’s enquiries into Mark Reid’s background had yielded a lot of new information. As a consequence she had the floor of the incident room as well as the attention of her peers. The team already knew that Reid was a joiner by trade and worked for a local firm: Albright’s. But his parents had told Carmichael that a year ago he’d got lucky and his life had really taken off, an event his former wife had failed to mention when questioned earlier. Hardly surprising, given the death of her only child, Daniels reminded them.
No one argued.
Lisa checked her notes before continuing: ‘Reid’s skills so impressed the MD of the Malmaison hotel chain he was taken on permanently, pissing off his former employer and losing him a lucrative contract to boot. He went into bat for himself, was self-employed at the time of his death, earning good money too, by all accounts. Good enough to pay off his parent’s mortgage.’ She paused for breath. ‘Colin Albright, on the other hand, has been pushed over the edge during the recession. His company has recently gone into liquidation.’
‘This all makes sense.’ Daniels described Mark Reid’s home. ‘His belongings are not those of a common-or-garden joiner. It’s obvious he’s come a long way since leaving Maggie, assuming he left her and not vice versa. The question is, did his newfound success lead to his death?’
‘Albright’s place is something else. A real fuck-off pad, but it’s up for sale.’ Carmichael gave an address at Runnymede Road, Darras Hall, an affluent suburb out past the airport in the village of Ponteland. Everyone knew how posh it was. Even Alan Shearer had chosen to live there. ‘Took me an age to get in. Bloody place is like Fort Knox.’
Gormley glanced proudly at the DCI. Carmichael had done well.
‘What’s he like?’ Daniels asked her.
‘Albright? I wasn’t feeling the love, if that’s what you mean. His wife is a right pain in the arse. Bet she’s a real piece of work behind closed doors. Drinker, too. I could smell the whisky soon as she opened the front door.’
‘Describe her.’
Carmichael looked perplexed.
‘Humour me, Lisa.’
‘Stick thin, good clothes, too much make-up—’
‘Please tell me they call her Judy.’
‘Denise. Why?’
‘Hank found a message on Reid’s answerphone.’ Daniels nodded to the recovered item. ‘Have a listen in. See if you recognize the voice.’
Carmichael stood up, walked over to the device and did as she was told. Then she turned it off and shook her head. ‘Nah, that’s not her.’
‘What size is she?’ Daniels asked.
‘Eight, possibly even a six.’ Carmichael sat back down.
‘OK, so she’s not the owner of the clothes in Reid’s wardrobe. What did the Albrights say about Reid? Anything of interest?’
‘No love lost. They blame him for their current predicament, the business going tits-up. Denise Albright admitted that the For Sale sign is a front. The house isn’t for sale, it’s being repossessed.’
DS Robson whistled. ‘That’s quite a motive.’
‘She’s livid.’ Carmichael was referring to Denise Albright. ‘The business was set up entirely with her money. I spoke to the administrator, too. Colin Albright’s not a savvy managing director by any stretch of the imagination. His wife had bailed him out before, standing guarantor for large loans he’d been forced to take out at the bank.’ Carmichael turned to Brown. ‘Andy, you want to say something about the restaurant?’
Maxwell interrupted. ‘They own a restaurant too?’
‘No, but I made enquiries in the village. Albright’s a bit of a gobshite, not well liked outside of his own set. There was an altercation in front of the Rendezvous one night between him and Reid. Not the behaviour people round there see very often, I imagine. Not something easily forgotten either. It drew quite a crowd. By the time our lot turned up, they’d all pissed off.’
‘Handbags at dawn then,’ Gormley said.
‘Kinda. Albright got all defensive when Lisa asked him about it. And when I told him Reid was dead, he nearly shit himself. Unlike his wife. She said, quote “I’m glad” unquote.’
Daniels’ interest grew. ‘Where were they last night?’
‘Slaley Hall,’ Carmichael’s enthusiasm diminished. ‘Golf tournament. Charity Fundraiser. Anyone who’s anyone was there, including the Chief. Denise Albright was almost smirking when she told me that.’
‘Shit!’ Daniels sighed. ‘Thought it sounded too good to be true.’
‘There’s better news . . .’ Carmichael said finally. The team held its collective breath. ‘The Albrights weren’t the only ones to lose out when their business folded. Four others lost their jobs and as far as I know they’re still on the dole.’
22
Chantelle slipped her phone back in her pocket as she watched the ambulance disappear. No lights or sirens. Too late for that now. It was horrible, seeing George drop like a stone to the pavement right in front of her. He was a canny old man. A stingy old git. But he’d always been kind, especially when her parents threw her out – a frequent occurrence over the years. She felt guilty for what she’d done. Still, George was past caring, why should she bother?
When her neighbours had wandered away, Chantelle had hung around watching the polis work on him. The daft sod hadn’t twigged that there were three outstanding warrants for her down at the nick – unpaid fines going back years. Then again, he’d been rather busy trying to revive the old man.
George’s demise had drawn the attention of the journo she’d yelled at that morning. Having photographed the disappearing ambulance, he was hurtling towards her from across the road, one finger raised in the air to catch her eye, his man-bag bumping against his legs as he ran. She knew he’d come crawling back sooner or later. DCI la-de-da Daniels had sent him packing with his tail between his legs earlier.
What a divvi!
He smiled, apologized for leaving her high and dry.
She shrugged. ‘S’oright . . . wasn’t ready to talk to you then anyhow.’
‘You know the old man?’ he asked.
‘No, never clapped eyes on him.’
‘Really? You seem upset.’
‘Hay fever.’ Chantelle wiped her eye. She nodded at the shell of the house across the road. Chancing her arm, she asked, ‘What’s in it for me if give you the heads up on stuff round here then? An exclusive, I mean.’
‘Depends what you know.’
Chantelle knew plenty. And she could spot an opportunity from a hundred metres. Her pissy part-time job at a secondhand phone dealership wasn’t going to make her rich, was it? She was going to have to create her own luck. Lay her hands on a bit of cash some other way. By fair means or foul – she wasn’t arsed which. She was prepared to take her chances wherever and whenever they appeared. But the journo wasn’t taking her seriously.
Realizing how transparent he was, all of a sudden he started being nice. Offering to take Chantelle’s picture. Maybe even get it into the Evening Chronicle if she came across with what she knew.
Loser.
‘We could help each other out,’ he said. ‘C’mon, I need something special for my editor, something that might give us a handle on who started the fire.’
‘A snout, you mean?’ Chantelle laughed. ‘Do me a favour. Posh boy like you would be hard pushed to find one of them round here. I do have something, as it happens, something that would make your eyes bulge . . . but I’m not givin’ it to you, so get lost.’
He walked off in a huff.