25
The redhead had practised all day yesterday. Nothing written down. Just a script she’d created with the Cypriot, learned by heart by the time she stepped from the train and set off for that all-important meeting equipped with the relevant documentation. The meeting went the way she’d planned it. Word perfect, in fact.
It had been quite a while since she’d been in London and she was filled with excitement as she woke early in a sumptuous king-size bed in a suite where immaculate attention had been paid to the last detail: bespoke furniture, heavy drapes, those little touches that made a difference between a good and mediocre hotel. She didn’t ever want to get up, except – cliché or not – today was the first day of the rest of her life.
Arching her back, she yawned, stretching her arms above her head. For a moment she just lay there thinking of Ben, the stranger she’d met the day before. No longer such a stranger after a quick shag on the train – quick being the operative word. It was over in a flash, a sordid fuck in a confined space with a man she’d never see again. Never speak to. No need. He’d served his purpose, filled in a bit of time on her boring journey south.
On the pretext of helping with her luggage, he’d followed her dutifully from the first-class carriage. As they’d passed the lavatory, she opened the door and manhandled him inside. It was a small space. Big enough. But even in first class there was water – or something worse – on the floor.
Shoving him down on the seat with some force, she had undone his flies, lifted her skirt and straddled him. She was born to take risks. It was what made her tick. Made her feel alive. She took him deep inside her, his hands on her hips as she worked her magic. But he disappointed, came way too soon, before she’d even got started. And afterwards, he couldn’t get out of there quick enough.
Blushing as he reached the comfort of his seat, he didn’t know where to put himself as the eyes of fellow passengers turned in their direction, the financial wizard’s included. The redhead knew she’d smell sex on them. It was the sole reason she’d fucked him – to shove that dirty look right back in the woman’s frosty face. Maybe next time she’d think twice about looking down her nose at people.
When the train pulled in, Ben had guided her through the station, turning left and out into the sunshine to find a cab. Walking to her meeting wasn’t an option after all. It turned out to be twenty miles from central London, a monumental pain in the arse. So she had joined a long queue of businessmen, tourists and locals who’d opted not to take the tube, Ben insisting on keeping her company while she waited. They stood there, making small talk, until a black cab arrived. He even kissed her goodbye before she climbed in.
Fool.
Didn’t he realize that women like her never looked back?
Now, in the comfort of her hotel suite, she wondered if he’d hung around where she’d agreed to meet him. Her mobile suddenly rang out. Mark, probably. Took him long enough. She rolled over and answered the phone.
‘Mission accomplished?’ The Cypriot wasn’t one for chatty conversations.
‘Free and clear. Forward the assignment in the usual way.’
The line went dead.
The phone rang again almost immediately, this time a number she didn’t recognize. It certainly wasn’t the Cypriot. Or Mark. Or boring Ben. They hadn’t exchanged numbers. No. This same number had called her yesterday, twice while she was on the train, opting not to leave a voicemail. Intrigued, she sat up in bed and pushed the receive key without speaking.
‘This is DS Hank Gormley, Northumbria Police. Who am I speaking to, please?’
Damn. The redhead hung up. Removing the SIM card from the phone, she inserted another she took from her purse. Yesterday she’d pulled it off. Now she had to be careful.
26
It was only eight a.m. and yet the Murder Investigation Team were already at full stretch as the DCI entered the MIR in search of Gormley. He was sitting at a desk in the centre of the room in relaxation pose, legs outstretched, feet crossed at the ankles, a phone nestled in the crook of his neck. She was about to spoil his day.
‘Hmm . . . that’s odd,’ Gormley pocketed his mobile.
‘What is?’ Brown asked.
Gormley didn’t answer. He was deep in thought. Ignoring Brown, he picked up his desk phone, redialled the same number and listened as it rang out. Seeing his concern, Daniels wandered up to join him, still stewing over the latest developments. Stanton’s call the previous evening had been followed by an unscheduled meeting afterwards that lasted late into the night, a meeting her team didn’t yet know about.
Ivy Kerr’s murder was an incident so serious it would be deemed a category A – the worst possible kind – on a par with the arson MIT were already dealing with. Superintendent Naylor had hinted as much and had asked her to run both enquiries.
No problem.
She’d done so before and could do so again. In fact, she’d told him she’d work round the clock to find whoever was responsible. Daniels shuddered at the thought of a defenceless old lady being trapped in her car at the mercy of a killer. It was hard to imagine who’d do such a thing. Two scenarios played out in her head. It was either a civilian who’d raced to the scene or someone sent to rescue her. The second was unthinkable. Whoever it was, she’d take great pleasure in putting them away. First, however, she had to break the news to Hank.
‘That was a number Mark Reid called regularly from his landline,’ Gormley said, as he hung up the phone. ‘There was no answer at all yesterday. Then just now, I thought I’d got lucky, but as soon as I introduced myself the bastard cut me dead.’
Daniels’ interest grew. ‘Judy?’
He stopped chewing his pen. ‘Not unless she has two different mobiles. I don’t even know if it was a man or a woman. They hung up without speaking.’
‘Put an action out to trace who it belongs to,’ Daniels said. ‘And check with Reid’s parents to see if they recognize it. Actually, before you do, I need a word, Hank. My office?’
Gormley threw his chewed pen on his desk. Gathering up his phone and car keys, he stood up. They were almost at Daniels’ office door when Carmichael approached, practically blocking their entry into the room. The expression on her face told them she had something important to share.
‘Am I interrupting?’ Her cheeks were flushed. ‘I am, aren’t I?’
Daniels wanted to say yes, but instead said: ‘No, Lisa. What is it?’
‘Three of the four of Albright’s staff who lost their jobs are now working. They all have alibis and are giving statements as we speak. But the fourth might be of interest to us.’ She looked down at the sheet of paper in her hand. ‘David Matthews. Single. Pre cons for Section Eighteen: Wounding with Intent. Served a year at Castington two years ago.’
‘Of interest’ was putting it mildly. Castington Young Offenders Institution had since merged with Acklington prison to form HMP Northumberland. If Matthews had form, Daniels wanted to know a lot more about him. She gestured to an empty desk; they pulled up a chair each and sat down, then the DCI nodded for Lisa to carry on.
‘That’s all there is, boss. He took a course in bricklaying while he was there. His probation officer managed to talk Albright into hiring him. God knows how. As I told you, the man’s a prick. Didn’t you say someone called Dave phoned Reid on the night he died?’
‘Does he live in the East End?’ Gormley asked.
Carmichael nodded. ‘On the Meadow Well Estate.’
Robson looked up from his desk. ‘That’s all we need.’
Daniels took in the clock on the wall. This new development excited her, but she was pushed for time. She had things to discuss with Gormley and a murder file to submit. Not to the Crown Prosecution Service, as would usually be the case, but to the Force Crime Manager at headquarters, her former boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Bright. The perpetrator of her most recent case – a vengeful father who’d killed a young student – had poisoned himself in custody and taken his guilt to the grave. His death had left her with a real headache. Not to mention an investigation by the Police Complaints Authority to contend with. Even though the man was dead, the Murder Investigation Team still had to prove his culpability beyond reasonable doubt, in exactly the same way they would’ve done had he been prosecuted in a court of law. Her Majesty’s Inspectorate of Constabulary demanded nothing less. It had taken weeks to assemble a full file.
On top of that, she had back-to-back meetings for the rest of the morning. But she didn’t want Carmichael heading out to the Meadow Well alone. Almost twenty years ago, the estate – formerly The Ridges – had been the scene of violent riots after a police chase of a stolen vehicle ended in the deaths of two youths. The place was no longer a no-go area – thanks to residents and community groups who’d worked hard to repair the estate’s damaged reputation and give local youngsters a better start in life – but there was still some lingering anti-police feeling.
‘OK, check out Matthews,’ she said to Carmichael.
Carmichael nodded. ‘Beats a PM hands down. Remind me to take your advice next time.’
It was the first indication that Lisa was willing to share her anxieties and admit when things bothered her instead of bottling them up. Officers who didn’t grasp the concept of the debrief often took on too much. Many ended up with the force psychologist banging on their doors. Or worse. There had even been one or two suicides over the years.
Daniels caught Brown’s eye. ‘Andy, go with her in case he gives her any humpy.’ She shifted her gaze back to Carmichael. ‘That’s no reflection on you, Lisa. There’s a lot both of you don’t know about the Meadow Well and I haven’t got time to fill you in. Suffice to say you’ll be glad of the company.’
Carmichael and Brown had received the warning loud and clear.