55
Daniels borrowed Gormley’s car keys and left the building. Naylor was right. The streets were empty. Not a soul on them as she drove along West Road, normally one of the busiest thoroughfares in that part of the city. But today was not normal. Red-and-white flags were everywhere: draped across shop windows, pinned over pub doorways, even wrapped around lampposts.
The car radio was already tuned to the football. According to the commentator, England had gifted the Germans another goal. Upson had clawed one back from a short corner minutes later. Then Lampard should’ve – some say he had – equalized six minutes from the half-time break.
‘We were robbed,’ was the cry in the studio. ‘It should definitely be two-all.’
We’ll stuff them in the second half, Daniels thought. She drove on, urging the radio presenters to keep the faith, refusing to believe the game was over and done with, hoping her positivity would transfer to the players on the pitch. Traffic lights were on green so she shot through them, turned left and then sharp right into Ralph Street, pulling up directly outside Chantelle Fox’s house.
As she got out and locked the car, a little boy approached, no more than five, maybe six years old. His front teeth were missing and he had elongated bruises on his left cheek like someone had given him a backhander.
‘Watch ya car, missus?’ he said.
There was a veiled threat to his voice. Daniels was about to tell the little runt to get lost. But she felt sorry for him. The kid had balls, and she liked that. Besides, she had Gormley’s pride and joy and not a pool car. She didn’t want to risk the damn thing ending up like an etching pad. She threw the boy a quid, promising another if the Peugeot was still in one piece when she returned.
He gave her a gummy grin.
Cheeky little sod!
Daniels rapped on the knocker, secretly wishing she was back at the MIR, watching the match with the rest of the guys. The door was flung open with some force, its tenant poised to remonstrate with her untimely visitor. Chantelle’s face dropped when she saw who was standing there.
‘Oh, you’ve got to be joking!’ she said. ‘What now? I’m busy!’
‘Thanks, don’t mind if I do,’ Daniels said.
‘Hey! I never said—’
But Daniels was already inside, taking in the baseball cap still hanging on a peg as she passed along the hallway, that same sweet sickly smell hitting her senses as she pushed on through to the living room. The television was on full volume. The pundits were replaying Lampard’s shot on goal, over and over. They shook their heads – unable to believe the referee’s decision to disallow it. A blind man on a galloping horse could see it had clearly crossed the line.
Chantelle seemed to find the whole thing hilarious. A betting slip on her coffee table explained why: her money was on Germany. Obviously no footy fan. She looked rough today. Her face was pale, her eyes drawn and she reeked of alcohol. Her hair was scraped back in an untidy mess and, despite the hour, she was still dressed in a pair of silky pyjamas. A camisole top and shorts with drips of hardened egg yolk down the front.
Daniels pointed at her chest. ‘You missed your big mouth,’ she said.
‘Very funny! What d’you want?’
‘Can we kill the sound? I need to ask you a few more questions.’
Chantelle didn’t move. ‘’bout what?’
Daniels picked up the remote and pressed the mute button. She knew before she got there what to expect from the girl. She nodded towards the television. ‘You want to watch the second half here or listen to it along a cell corridor? I want answers, Chantelle. I also want the photos you’ve been trying to offload.’
Chantelle’s colour rose ever so slightly. ‘Dunno what you’re on about . . .’ She looked out the window as if she was expecting company, a supercilious grin on her face. No inkling of embarrassment or guilt at having been caught out in her little scam. ‘I want you to go now. Me nana’s calling in and I don’t want her to find you here. She’s not been well.’
‘Same nan your father told us died last time we arrested him? Or the one whose funeral he was on the way to when we stopped him for dangerous driving for the third time in a week? Most people only have two. Come on, Chantelle, hand over the camera or whatever device it was you used. The woman at the Journal’s not coming round.’ Daniels grinned. ‘She sent me instead.’
Chantelle remained silent.
‘Do not piss me off, Chantelle. I said, give it here!’
The girl looked vulnerable standing there in her summer jimjams, her chunky legs like tree trunks in a pair of skimpy shorts, her knees a bit red from too much sun. But she was as hard as nails. Her eyes, thick with last night’s make-up, flicked briefly past Daniels to the sofa beyond, causing the DCI to turn and investigate further. And lo and behold, she spotted a brand-new Mulberry handbag hidden under a cushion, presumably wedged there in a hurry when she’d knocked on the door.
‘Well, well,’ Daniels said. ‘What have we here?’
‘Hey! Gimme that!’ Chantelle made a lunge for the bag.
Daniels snatched it away. Taking a pair of Latex gloves from her pocket, she put them on. She could smell expensive leather as she examined the contents, eventually extracting a mobile. She threw the bag back down on the couch and then accessed the phone’s media files until she came across an image of George Milburn. He was lying on the pavement in brilliant sunshine clutching his chest, but still very much alive. There were other images too, the last one of PC Dixon kneeling on the ground beside the old man, his uniform belt clearly visible as he administered mouth-to-mouth.
If Daniels’ calculations were correct, Chantelle must’ve been standing at least ten feet away from the body as she took the photos, and that bothered her. It was true the girl had form for theft. But would she have taken the old guy’s money and then called the police while he was still alive to tell the tale? Daniels didn’t think so. More likely she’d have robbed him and legged it, leaving him dying on the pavement.
It wasn’t looking good for the Italian stallion.
Glancing at the image in her hand, Daniels was sickened by what she saw. Happy slapping – youngsters videoing violent assaults – was one thing, a craze she hoped had had its day. But happy snapping? She’d read somewhere that mobile phone subscriptions had reached over five billion globally. Every sale placed a camera in a hand. It stood to reason that the practice of capturing any kind of human disaster on film was a growing trend. But there were limits of acceptable behaviour, unless you had a screw loose, or a cruel fascination with death.
Did Chantelle?
Was she a voyeur?
If so, was she connected to the arson?
Daniels had been in the police long enough to keep an open mind. She decided to rule nothing in or out until she knew which way the wind was blowing. Thankfully, she was on her own today. Had Gormley been with her, she’d have had her work cut out to keep him from rounding on the girl. He had a tendency to tell the unpalatable truth to offenders who pissed him off. But on this occasion she didn’t even try to restrain herself.
‘You’re despicable, you know that?’ Daniels said. Her words made no impact. The girl looked at her like she was from another planet. ‘He was an old man, Chantelle. And this . . .’ Daniels tapped the mobile. ‘It’s just not on! I hope you’re really proud of yourself.’
‘It’s not an offence to take a picture,’ the girl said, sheepishly.
‘Handling stolen goods is, though.’ Daniels pointed to the Mulberry bag. ‘Get a pay rise, did you? Been saving up your pennies?’
‘Told you, I had a bit of good fortune.’
‘Even so, I hope you have proof of purchase because something tells me you can’t afford that.’
‘Don’t keep receipts, sorry. Anyway, it’s a knock-off. A copy.’
‘My arse. I know quality when I see it. Knocked off more like. What if I take possession and maybe arrest you for . . .’ Daniels pretended to think hard on it. ‘Theft? Receiving? How does that sound?’
Chantelle’s right hand formed into a fist. Her knuckles turned white. But she wasn’t about to get violent. Her eyes were back on the television set. With sixty-seven minutes gone, the Germans were celebrating yet another goal. From the way she was behaving, Daniels half expected her to punch the air in celebration. It didn’t surprise her that she had a flutter now and then. Her old man would bet on two flies crawling up a wall.
Like father like daughter.
Daniels tried shock tactics. ‘Taken any other photographs of dying men recently?’
It worked. ‘What d’ya mean?’
‘Don’t play dumb, Chantelle. You know exactly what I mean. If I find out you’re not telling me the truth, you’ll lose more than your handbag. Show some respect, why don’t you? A man and a child lost their lives across the road. And take that smug look off your face before I do something about it – this is no laughing matter.’
‘Hey, wait a minute, I had nowt to do with that! I took those . . .’ She pointed at the phone in Daniels’ hand. ‘But that’s all I did, I swear. I didn’t take the old man’s cash neither. I saw him go down and dialled 999, like I said last time you and the fat fucker were here. I took his picture, then the polis came along and tried to help him. I wasn’t going to give the skanky old minger mouth-to-mouth now, was I?’
There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment or two. Daniels stood in the centre of the room, considering her options. The girl had more to tell, she was sure of it. Nevertheless she decided to bide her time. ‘I’ll see myself out,’ she said. ‘But mark my words, I will be back.’
She walked out with Chantelle’s voice ringing in her ears.
‘Hey! When do I get my phone back?’
‘When I’m good and ready.’ Daniels turned. ‘By the way, you had better find a receipt for that bag or come up with some information or I’ll be knocking on your door from now ’til Doomsday.’ She walked to Gormley’s dark blue Peugeot feeling the girl’s eyes on her back. The gummy kid appeared from nowhere with his hand out. The DCI threw him a quid, got in and drove away.
Chantelle remained on the doorstep unable to keep the smug grin off her face. Her friend Tracy walked up to the front door and asked what the police were doing there. Chantelle ignored her. She was too busy watching Daniels’ car drive slowly down the street. Keep the phone, fuckwit – the photos an’ all! I’ve got more interesting ones than that! And someone dafter than you dying to get her hands on them.
The redhead knew a cop when she saw one. She slid down in her seat, watching Daniels drive away, keeping her eyes firmly on the wing mirror until the Peugeot turned the corner and disappeared from view. Across the street, Chantelle and the other girl lingered on the doorstep for a moment or two and then went inside and shut the door.
Her phone rang: the Cypriot, a hint of tension in his voice. ‘Did you find it?’
‘No. The cops were there.’
‘And now?’
‘Gone. But she’s got company. Did she ring back?’
‘No. Maybe she bluffs you.’
‘We’re in no position to take that chance.’
‘Silence her then!’
‘No!’ The redhead could see Chantelle laughing through the window. ‘She dies and we may never find the incriminating evidence she insists she has. I’m not prepared to risk that. There’s too much at stake. I’ll watch her. When it’s clear, I’ll make my move. Don’t worry. She won’t get away with blackmailing me. The girl is greedy for cash. We’re safe. For the time being.’