62
Gormley’s car sped up the West Road, dodging in and out of rush-hour traffic. After a long spell of blistering weather, the thunderstorm had been welcome, lifting the humidity and giving the ground a good soaking. The rain was short-lived. Within minutes of the downpour stopping, the sun came out and any surface water completely disappeared.
At the West End Fire Station, where Dixon said his girlfriend was stationed, they were met by the duty watch manager who told them no officer with the name Susan Armstrong worked there.
‘Check again,’ Daniels’ tone suggested an order, not a request.
He eyeballed her. ‘I know my officers.’
‘Please . . .’ she said, trying to placate him. ‘We haven’t got time to piss about. Can you do another search for Susan and Armstrong separately? She could’ve been married and reverted to a maiden name.’
Placing his fingers on computer keys, the watch manager searched the personnel database again. Looking up, he shook his head. ‘No matches. No female firefighter of either name anywhere in the system – in fact, anywhere in service locally.’
Thanking him, Daniels apologized for her abruptness. He said he understood, but she doubted it. ‘I require photographic records of all female personnel as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘I have a witness needs to take a look at them.’
The guy hesitated. ‘I’m not sure—’
‘Oh, don’t whinge, man! Give us them. We’re desperate to trace this woman!’
This time he didn’t argue. He agreed to send the files electronically as soon as he’d cleared it with the appropriate authority. Daniels had a nasty feeling as she walked back to the car and got in.
Gormley put his seat belt on and then took it off again, straining to get the keys out of his left trouser pocket. Turning the car over, he asked Daniels where she wanted to go. Dixon had given Armstrong’s address as Wingrove Road – a stone’s throw away – and she told him that would be their next port of call. They could’ve walked there in minutes but, in view of her recent experience of leaving a car unattended, she suggested they take the Peugeot in order to keep a close eye on it.
Wheels squealed on dry tarmac as Gormley did a quick U-turn in a confined space and headed back the way they’d come. ‘You think she’ll be up for visitors?’ he asked.
Daniels gave him a look. ‘Why, you want to stop and buy cake?’
‘I’m bloody starving, now you mention it.’
‘You’re always starving. Can you drive any slower?’
Ignoring her sarcasm, Gormley crossed the West Road, negotiated a mini roundabout and entered a wide street of red-brick Victorian houses. It was an area favoured by Asian householders, many of whom owned businesses nearby. Cars were parked on both sides of the road. Gormley braked gently in order to scan the numbers on the doors, then stepped on the accelerator as he realized he had a way to go.
Lucky for them, there was a space outside the house. They got out of the car, walked up the path and rang the bell. After a few seconds of waiting, Gormley left Daniels on the doorstep and took a peek through the bay window. The room was tidy but there were no lights on inside. No personal possessions lying around to suggest its occupant had just nipped upstairs.
He shook his head. No signs of life.
‘We got grounds to obtain a warrant?’ he said.
Daniels stared at the locked front door. ‘Bloody right, we have.’
Gormley looked around, braced himself for a shoulder charge. Daniels held him back, preventing an unlawful entry, telling him the last thing they needed was to find their offender and have them escape justice on a technicality. No – if they were to catch this woman it would have to be water-tight.
‘Everything by the book,’ she said. Taking out her mobile, she called Carmichael. ‘Lisa, we’re at Susan Armstrong’s house. We need a warrant. Get your arse into court with the necessary paperwork and make it snappy. If the magistrates have all gone home, interrupt someone’s tea and don’t take no for an answer – I need that double-U as soon as I can get it. Ring me when you have it. Better still, meet us here.’
Waiting for the warrant was a pain in the arse. Dead time. Time they could ill afford to waste. Gormley suggested they find a café on the West Road and wait there, but Daniels refused. She didn’t want to leave in case Armstrong showed. Sending him for a takeaway coffee, she went back to the car, ignoring the twitching curtains of neighbouring houses, imagining mobile phone calls criss-crossing the street. Why were the police sniffing around? What had Armstrong done?
What indeed?
When Gormley didn’t immediately return, Daniels made a few calls and then lapsed into boredom. The door of the neighbouring house opened. A man walked out into the sunshine dressed in shorts. He sat down on his front door step, eating what looked like a bacon stottie – a large bap that was a favourite in this part of the world.
Daniels left the car.
Approaching the man, she offered up ID. ‘Excuse me for spoiling your tea.’
‘Breakfast,’ he corrected her.
She nodded to the house next door. ‘Do you know Ms Armstong?’
‘Is that what she’s called?’
God! You’re a bundle of joy. ‘You don’t know her then?’
‘Hasn’t been there long . . .’ He took a bite of his buttie and spoke with his mouth full. ‘Never speaks to me or anyone else in the street. Keeps herself to herself, y’know. Fine with me, I’m a nightshift worker. Baggage handler at the airport, ten-to-six shift. The less people know I’m here all day, the better I like it.’
‘I remember . . .’ Daniels smiled. ‘I used to work at your local nick when I was in uniform.’
‘Nights are killers, the wife says.’
‘Yes, they are. Would you know if Ms Armstrong lives alone?’
The man threw a crumb of bread to a bird in the garden. It hopped away, squabbling with another bird who wanted to share. ‘Far as I know.’
‘Any visitors lately?’
‘A bloke, now you mention it.’
Dixon. ‘Boyfriend?’
‘Didn’t get that impression . . .’ He stifled a half-yawn. ‘Didn’t really suit each other, know what I mean? Bit rough for her, I would’ve said. She was classy . . . bit up herself.’
‘Can you describe the man to me?’
‘Middle-aged. Big. Swarthy complexion. A scar here.’ He pointed to his right cheek.
Not Dixon.
‘Hard-looking,’ he added. ‘You know the type.’
‘Thanks. You’ve been really helpful.’ Daniels turned her head away, giving her eyes a rest from direct sunlight. She noticed that the upstairs window of the house the other side of Armstrong’s was open, a net curtain billowing out. She turned back to the man on the step. ‘Mind if I send someone to take a formal statement, Mister . . .?’
‘Caffrey. Anytime after three,’ he grunted. ‘Come earlier and you’ll get no reply.’
‘After three . . . I’ll make sure it goes down on the sheet.’
As she walked down the path, Gormley arrived back at the car with a coffee in each hand. Just as she opened the door, Carmichael pulled up with a signed warrant and a battering ram.