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Cole looked at her, a puzzled expression on his face. Gormley peered at the screen, trying to see what she was getting at. Ignoring them both, Daniels scanned the screen herself, making absolutely sure she wasn’t jumping to the wrong conclusions.
‘If I’m not mistaken, that’s a hat on the back seat, gents. Whoever attended Ivy Kerr was a professional,’ Daniels said. ‘Someone who knew to take the hat off so as not to soak the casualty. Either they were assessing her injuries, establishing ID, or trying to free her. We’re not looking for a civilian here. This is a massive breakthrough.’
‘You’re suggesting it’s one of ours?’ Cole queried.
‘I bloody well hope not.’ Removing the flash drive from its slot, Daniels handed it to him. ‘Take this to Technical Support right away, Stew. Tell them I want it enhanced as a matter of urgency. Whatever else they’ve got on can wait. And while you’re at it, tell them this is absolutely hush-hush. We need to keep a lid on it for now. If it reaches the media, there’ll be a public outcry.’
As Cole left the room, Robson entered. ‘Thought you’d want to know: we have unequivocal proof that Ivy Kerr bought that winning lottery ticket at Tesco Extra, Kingston Park at five past eleven on Friday the eighteenth of June.’
‘Time and date Camelot gave us?’ Daniels asked.
Robson nodded. ‘Exact match. Checked the CCTV myself.’
‘And it’s in our possession?’
Another nod. ‘So, that’s motive sorted,’ Robson said. ‘Now all we have to do is find Jennifer Rankin.’
A worrying thought washed over Daniels. Rankin hadn’t put a foot wrong so far. She’d covered her tracks well and it wouldn’t be easy to find her. ‘Any news on her yet?’
‘Not a squeak,’ Robson answered as he made for the door.
Gormley asked him if there was any news on team selection for the World Cup game gripping the nation. Robson shrugged, his hand resting on the doorknob. ‘You want me to ask Neil? He’s had his radio stuck to his ear all morning.’ Gormley waved the offer away, but as he turned away DS Robson caught the stony expression on Daniels’ face. His shoulders dropped. ‘What? You are kidding me! The lazy bastard said he’d cleared it with you. He didn’t, did he?’
Daniels gave a wry smile. ‘That’s classic Neil. He’s so bloody sharp he’ll cut himself one day. Don’t be too hard on him, Robbo. You know how fanatical he is about football. To be honest, I fully expected him to pull a fast one. Pull a sickie even, but he hasn’t. That’s progress, in my book.’
Feeling a little hard done by, Robson went back to work.
Daniels sent Gormley on an errand and set off in search of Naylor with two purposes in mind. One: she had an idea to run by him. Two: she wanted to ask a favour. On both counts she was out of luck – he’d been summoned to headquarters by the head of CID, which meant she was forced to make a decision without first consulting him.
What the hell. She’d take the flak if it wasn’t to his liking.
She returned to the incident room.
Seconds later, Gormley entered from the corridor, nodding conspiratorially as he sat down at an empty desk. Everyone in the room had their heads down, oblivious to both of them. One or two looked abnormally glum today, their minds on the Free State Stadium in Bloemfontein – kick-off for the big game was less than half an hour away. A quick check on the murder wall confirmed no new events requiring their attention. Daniels already knew there were very few calls coming into the incident room today.
‘Listen up, everyone!’ She waited for them all to stop what they were doing. ‘Hank found a big telly in the lost property – we’re going to use it for the match.’ Her statement was met with cries of thanks – Yes! Really? Good on ya, boss – and words to that effect. ‘Just the match, mind. No preamble bollocks or post-mortem afterwards, understood? We still have three murders to solve. Maxwell will fill you in on team selection.’
Realizing all eyes were on him, Maxwell looked up and nearly fell off his seat when he saw her standing there. Pulling his earphones out, unsure of what he’d missed, he took in the reaction of the team, curiosity getting the better of him. There were beaming faces all round, in some cases unadulterated joy. In a city like Newcastle, football was a big part of life: players were gods, St James’s Park the city’s cathedral, supporters the congregation. It was unthinkable that they’d miss out on the biggest game the country had faced for years.
‘Lorna – and only Lorna – is in charge of the remote,’ Daniels added.
The focus of attention switched to a woman sitting quietly in one corner, a headset clamped over short cropped hair. Lorna McKenzie had worked for Strathclyde Police for many years until transferring south to Northumbria. Well liked by everyone and possessing a wicked sense of humour, she was one of several call handlers drafted in by Naylor, due to the level of people ringing the MIR.
Until today.
Today, phones had fallen silent. There was absolutely nothing going on.
‘Lorna, you kill the sound if a call comes in.’ Daniels gave the rest of them a pointed look. ‘So no jeering or whingeing – or the set goes off! And remember, you lot, Lorna’s a Scot – so you better be nice. Any excuse and she’ll turn the damn thing off.’
Lorna narrowed her eyes at the detectives, a big smile on her face.