54
The incident room door creaked shut as Naylor released the handle, letting it lock behind him automatically. The room held its collective breath when he asked Daniels to join him in his office right away. She followed him in and closed the door, aware of two dozen pairs of hopeful eyes watching her every move.
Winking at the team through the glass, she turned to face him. ‘Guv, I—’
‘Handled that well, from what I heard . . .’ Naylor walked round the desk and sat down heavily in his chair. ‘Good leadership doesn’t always mean cracking the whip, Kate. I’d have done the same thing in your position as SIO. Can’t see we’ll be inundated with calls in the next few hours. There’s not a soul on the roads and no chatter on the radio. Same story all over the country.’
‘Thanks, guv. They really deserve it.’
‘I hope we win,’ Naylor said.
‘So do I . . .’ She made a scary face at Naylor. He was more a rugger fan himself. He could take or leave footie and she appreciated his attempt to lift morale by allowing the squad to watch the match. She pointed through the window at the MIR. ‘I’ll see to it personally that they work late to make up the time—’
‘No need.’ He patted fresh air, gesturing that she should sit. ‘I know how hard you’ve been pushing them.’
Daniels sat down and spent the next forty-five minutes updating him on both cases. They were still hard at it when, suddenly, there was an almighty uproar from the room next door. A glut of expletives hit their ears. Neither needed telling that Germany had scored.
‘Jesus!’ someone yelled. ‘What the fuck was Terry doing?’
‘He’s on another planet, man!’ Maxwell sounded incredulous.
‘What a gift!’ Carmichael added. ‘Where the hell were the defence?’
Daniels wondered if letting them watch the match was such a good idea after all. Naylor grinned, telling her to relax. He’d just come from headquarters, which was like the Marie Celeste. The place was totally abandoned. Everyone who could do had decamped to the pub or taken leave in order to check out the national team. Except Bright who, like Naylor, was a fan of the funny-shaped ball.
‘How was my old guv’nor, anyway?’ she asked.
‘Bright by name, bright by nature, actually.’
‘Really? Didn’t think he liked it up at Fantasy Island.’
Naylor smiled. Fantasy Island was the nickname for Ponteland headquarters, the home of the Northumbria force. ‘I think you’ll find things have changed a little since you last spoke to him. There’s a certain attraction to the place of late.’
Daniels’ face lit up. ‘Ellen Crawford?’
‘The very same. A PA like no other, apparently.’
‘Well, good on him!’ she said. ‘I suspected they were made for each other from day one.’
And she had. Even so, she had to admit she was surprised how fast events in the romance department had moved. Bright’s wife had died relatively recently, though in truth he’d lost her to injuries sustained in a car crash much earlier than that. He’d been driving at the time and had been to hell and back over it.
Her eyes scanned Naylor’s desk. There were no framed photographs on it as there used to be when his predecessor had occupied it. No personal memorabilia or knick-knacks she might’ve expected to see there. She and Naylor were very similar in that respect; work and home lives entirely separate. Baggage was a definite no-no for those intending to rise through the ranks. Maybe that’s why they got on so well. Good detectives, from DCs to top brass, had fallen by the wayside because their private lives had got in the way. But it was also true that ambition had killed many a once-happy relationship.
Will you ever forgive me, Jo?
‘You think we should bring Jo Soulsby in on Ivy’s case?’ Naylor asked.
Mention of her name made Daniels blush, this morning’s dream flashing into her head.
‘Problem?’ Naylor said.
‘No, guv.’ Daniels ran a hand through her hair, aware that he’d noted her hesitation. ‘It’s Sunday. I think she’ll have better things to do, that’s all. I’ll give her a call later, fix up a meet.’
Her phone rang.
Naylor smiled. ‘Maybe that’s her.’
The way he’d said it made Daniels feel decidedly uncomfortable. Did he know about her and Jo? Had her former boss said something? No way. Bright had too much integrity for that. She relaxed. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she checked the display: Gillian Garvey. A crime reporter at the Journal, a young woman she had a lot of time for, someone with her ear to the ground. It was true they’d had their ups and downs, but she’d given the police good intel over the years.
And she never rang just to chat.
Looking up, she said, ‘Mind if I take this, guv? It might be important.’
‘Better had then.’
‘Gillian? What’s up?’
‘I just had an interesting conversation with a reporter on our news desk. Someone’s been on the phone trying to flog a picture of a dying man. Ralph Street was mentioned in there somewhere and I thought you’d like to know.’
‘Someone?’ Daniels waited.
Garvey didn’t answer.
‘What do you want, Gillian? I need a name.’
‘I’m not withholding evidence. It’s—’
‘I’ll tell you how this works, shall I?’ Daniels’ tone was harsh. ‘You have important information. You pass it to me. Everyone’s happy. If you don’t, you’d better look for another gig because your days on the crime desk are numbered. No detective on this force will give you shit!’
‘And if I still don’t?’
‘You ever heard of the Press Complaints Commission?’
‘OK, don’t get your knickers in a twist.’ Garvey paused for effect. ‘The caller lives across the road from your crime scene – the arson, I mean, not the old lady in the car.’
‘Jesus! How the hell—?’
‘Don’t worry, Kate.’ Gillian sounded smug. ‘I’m not printing that until I’m informed officially. But I’d like the heads-up ahead of the pack, if that’s OK with you. You help me, I help you. Then, as you so eloquently put it, everyone is happy. Got to stay one step ahead of the nationals if I’m to keep my crown as reporter of the year!’
Daniels was irritated. Someone had been telling tales out of school. But there wasn’t a hope in hell that Gillian Garvey would divulge her source. So Daniels didn’t waste breath asking her to. ‘This woman flogging the photograph? You do have a name?’
‘Hang on a sec . . .’ There was a shuffling sound on the line and then muffled voices. Gillian had covered the handset but Daniels got the gist of a conversation she was having with one of her colleagues. Then she was back. ‘The name’s Chantelle F—’
‘Fox?’ They both said the name at the same time.
‘Bloody hell, you psychic now?’ Garvey asked.
Daniels smiled. ‘You’re not the only one with your finger on the pulse. Chantelle and I have already met. Can you email a copy of the photo?’
‘No. She’s cute. Insisted on being paid – get this – before she hands it over.’
‘Sounds like Chantelle.’
‘Our news desk reporter decided to humour her. Offered a few quid, more if it was a good image. She managed to wheedle an address out of her on the pretext of handing the money over. In person. In cash. When what she was really going to do was pass it to me. She reckons there’s a bloody good story in there somewhere. You want me to hold off on that?’
‘Yes, I do. I want to knock on that particular door myself.’
‘Take Hank with you. He’ll make damn sure you get in. How is he these days?
‘He’s good . . .’ Daniels could see Naylor was getting impatient. ‘Look, Gillian, thanks for the information. I’ve gotta go. I owe you one.’
‘Yes, you do!’ Garvey sang the words and then hung up.
‘Something of interest?’ Naylor asked.
‘Very much so. Remember the address where we found the fag-end stubbed out in the wall?’
Naylor nodded.
‘Chantelle Fox, the girl who lives there, tried to flog a picture of a dying man to the Journal. She also happens to own a dark baseball cap similar to the one worn by an unidentified person buying petrol prior to the Ralph Street fire. I haven’t seized it yet as I’m still waiting on enhancements and I don’t want to tip her off.’
‘Then you’d better go and pay her a visit.’
‘I’m already there.’ A worried look crossed Daniels’ face. ‘Question is, which dying man are we talking about?’