56
The journey back to town didn’t take long. At the Swan House roundabout, Daniels took the second exit left on to the central motorway and picked up speed, travelling north away from the River Tyne. University buildings stood like sentries on either side of the four-lane road. She swung sharp left with the city centre straight ahead, arriving at the station minutes later.
There were few vehicles in the car park: a couple of squad cars lying idle along the perimeter fence, one or two belonging to the CID. A mishmash of civilian vehicles too, some smart and well cared for, others rust buckets that didn’t look legal. Her own two wheels were parked where her Toyota ought to have been, a niggling reminder that she must find time to sort out a replacement. Had it been a weekday, a prison van would’ve been backed up to the rear door, waiting to take prisoners from the magistrates court to either HMP Durham or Low Newton Remand Centre, depending on their age. But on this sunny Sunday afternoon, the place was relatively empty.
By the time she’d reached the MIR the England game was over and the acrimony over a bizarre decision by the Uruguayan referee had just begun. Her team were loitering by the coffee machine, their bitter disappointment clearly visible. Maxwell looked positively pale, shell-shocked, utterly miserable, like a kid whose parents had taken away his toy soldiers. Jacket off, tie loosened, he had dark wet patches under his arms. Daniels stifled a grin. Probably the first time he’d broken sweat in the incident room for a very long time.
‘Even a fucking octopus predicted that one,’ he was saying.
Daniels gave him a sympathetic pat on the arm as she walked by. Gormley looked up as she approached. She threw his car keys at him. ‘You need diesel and a car wash. It smells like a brothel inside.’
He didn’t answer.
Things were always serious when Hank’s sense of humour went walkabout.
Pushing her way to the drinks machine, Daniels dropped a coin into the slot, selecting white coffee, a change from her usual black. Too busy to replenish her personal supply, she was resigned to something a little less palatable and hoped the milk would help. As the drink was being dispensed, she listened to her colleagues’ tales of woe, letting them air their grievances and get the match out of their systems before reminding them they had work to do.
After a few minutes, they peeled off and went back to their desks. Even Maxwell agreed there were more important things in life than a bunch of under-achievers who’d let their country down by not rising to the occasion. Leaving them to it, Daniels went directly to her office, shut the door behind her and pulled down the window blind – her way of saying: Do Not Disturb.
Cradling her coffee in both hands, she relaxed back in her seat, put her feet up on her desk and shut her eyes, trying to rid herself of the noise in her head. Random thoughts of three incidents came and went in no particular order. A confused jumble of concerns. So many questions. Too few answers. No matter how hard she tried to pull them apart and make sense of them, they merged into one bloody big problem that threatened to overwhelm her.
Chantelle Fox knew more than she was letting on – that was a given – but it didn’t mean she was lying about everything. The photographs she’d taken clearly showed PC Dixon working on George Milburn, which meant that he was still alive at that point – probably a thousand pounds richer too. What if she was telling the truth vis-à-vis the old man’s money?
Am I dealing with a bent cop?
The more Daniels mulled it over, the more convinced she was that the girl was covering up something even more sinister than theft from a dying heart attack victim, as distasteful as that might be. The arson perhaps? During their little encounter she’d slipped up, shown her colours in a way she probably hadn’t intended to. If she disliked football enough to bet against her national team, maybe she wasn’t at the party on the night of the fire.
Sitting up, Daniels put down her coffee cup. Accessing the HOLMES system, she typed in Chantelle’s details and quickly located the names of those reported to have been at the Ralph Street party. Her name wasn’t among them. Her house-to-house statement confirmed that she was alone at home that night. Or was she? Daniels knew Chantelle was a smoker. She’d smelled nicotine on her, seen spent fag-ends in ashtrays in her home. A smoker had extinguished a cigarette at her front door. Was it her? Had she been watching? Was there more than one person involved? Maybe Chantelle started the fire and someone else was keeping toot? Or was she the one acting as lookout?
Daniels’ mind was in turmoil. She’d yet to discover the identity of Mark Reid’s mystery girlfriend, the person whose clothing was in his flat. The person who’d rung his home phone at 01.23 a.m., hours after he was killed. Was this the same woman his mates had seen wearing a uniform? A security guard? A fire officer? A prison officer?
A cop?
And what of Cole’s footage from the air? Was the item in the rear of Ivy’s car what Daniels feared it might be? If it was a hat, who did it belong to? A medic? A fire officer?
A cop?
There was a pattern forming here and Daniels didn’t like it.
She sighed, frustrated by her lack of progress. She needed results and she needed them now: DNA from the cigarette butt she’d sent to Matt West at the forensic science laboratory at Wetherby; enhancements of CCTV images Maxwell had retrieved from the garage; the same of the object Cole’s recording had captured in the back seat of Ivy’s car. Technical Support were working flat out, but not fast enough.
The rest of the day was a blur.