63
It was an unremarkable rental property, like many in the neighbourhood. Not flash. Not scruffy. Just your average furnished let.
Stepping over unopened mail in the hallway, the DCI led the way, immediately dispatching Carmichael upstairs, telling Gormley to search the ground floor. Leaving them to get on with it, she checked out the kitchen at the back of the house. What she found there led her to believe that Armstrong hadn’t been around for a few days. Either that or she’d already done a runner. There were some snacks in the fridge past their sell-by date, stuff Daniels classed as emergency food. There were no dishes in the sink. The bin was empty. The cupboards were bare and there was a thin film of dust on the work surfaces.
Unusual for a kitchen.
‘This isn’t a home. It’s a drop address,’ Carmichael said as she walked in. ‘There’s a change of clothes in the bedroom wardrobe, same size as those you found in Reid’s gaff, a few items of toiletries in the bathroom: toothbrush, hairbrush, a bit of slap. The rest of the rooms are totally empty. But this was hanging on the bathroom door.’
She held up a blonde wig.
An exclamation from Gormley reached them from the living room.
‘Hey, take a look at this!’ he yelled.
They followed the voice. As they entered the room, Gormley opened his hand, gesturing towards an old-fashioned writing bureau in front of him. He looked elated. No wonder. He’d found a stash of incriminating evidence: several European passports, medical cards, bank and credit-card statements, suggesting that Susan Armstrong was more than your average con artist. Using the tip of his pen, Gormley turned over one of the medical cards, revealing a name: Judy Amos.
‘Yes!’ Carmichael was getting excited.
Snapping on a pair of Latex gloves, Daniels thought it ironic that intelligence on Reid’s girlfriend – the elusive ‘woman in uniform’ – had come from a man who’d be stripped of his within a matter of months. Dixon had been well and truly duped. For a split second, she almost felt sorry for him, until revulsion took over when she thought of what he’d done. His actions were despicable: not only to George Milburn and his grandson, but to Chantelle Fox and his police colleagues too. Why should they be tarred with the same dirty brush? Right now though, that was the least of Daniels’ worries . . .
Sifting through the passports, her stomach took a dive as a woman’s face stared back at her from the laminated photographs in each. Despite attempts to change her appearance, there was no mistaking her. The SIO didn’t need to ask Carmichael or Gormley for confirmation. They all knew it was Jennifer Rankin, the woman who’d casually walked into Lottery HQ with a stolen ticket, passing herself off as a big prize winner. The question was, did she bludgeon an old lady to death – and, if not, who did?
‘Hank, get a scenes of crime team down here now!’ she said. ‘And a uniform to stand guard until the house is secure.’
Gormley didn’t move an inch. His face was white with rage and he appeared not to have heard her. There was no doubt in Daniels’ mind that he was dwelling on his one and only brief encounter with Ivy Kerr, strapped to her seat in the pouring rain next to her dead husband, mayhem all around her, minutes before she met her end at the hands of a callous and cold-blooded killer.
In an attempt to snap him out of his reverie, Daniels raised her voice. ‘Hank! CSIs, pronto! Lisa, get this lot bagged up, the entire contents of the bureau. Log everything meticulously and get it all back to the nick. As soon as it’s been processed you’re going to be very busy on that computer of yours.’
As soon as they got back to the incident room, Daniels went to brief Naylor. When she returned an hour later, Carmichael had made excellent progress. Susan Armstrong, aka Judy Amos, was already under investigation by the fraud squad, Interpol and the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau. The names were just two of several aliases used in connection with a real estate scam where foreign property was either sold or rented to unsuspecting victims, the proceeds channelled through Internet accounts in foreign banks in Spain, Portugal, Cyprus and other places before disappearing into the ether.
‘Her criminal activity is well documented.’ Carmichael buried her head in her notes. ‘Funds go in and out of dodgy accounts like fiddlers’ elbows, at which point accounts are abandoned and the trail goes cold. Investigators have travelled many a blind alley trying to collar her – whatever her name is. Her “businesses” look kosher, but they’re far from that.’
Daniels rubbed at her aching neck. The lottery money had disappeared in much the same way, gone within seconds of arriving in the destination account, according to the guv’nor. She had wondered how the woman managed to bury it so quickly, why it left no trail. Now she knew. She’d worked in the fraud squad as a DS. If scams were well set up, it was like chasing shadows trying to follow the cash.
‘Have you spoken to any of her victims?’ Daniels asked.
‘Andy has,’ Carmichael said. ‘Not one of them had any direct contact with her.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ Daniels said. ‘Most business is conducted via email or phone these days. No one bats an eyelid, paying for stuff by electronic transfer without first seeing the goods. That’s a gift for someone who’s dodgy.’
Carmichael nodded. ‘I gather victims turned up on holiday and found that either they weren’t booked in, or else there was no dream villa in the sun. Poor buggers. Can you imagine ploughing your life savings into a pile of rubble, or turning up with your bucket and spade with nowhere to stay?’
‘They only lost a holiday, Lisa. Or money. I have little sympathy.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’
‘Is it? Some people ask to be fleeced.’
‘Even Ivy?’
Daniels gave her a pointed look. She didn’t say as much, but the sad fact was the old lady had been foolish telling a stranger about her windfall.
Carmichael flicked her eyes right. ‘Is Hank OK?’
Daniels glanced in Gormley’s direction. Carmichael’s hero had crumbled and was staring blankly out of the window, deep in thought. A massive breakthrough in a murder case was usually a time for celebration. But not today. A vicious killer was out there. He knew it. She knew it. And so did Carmichael. The team couldn’t afford to relax. Gormley would have to ‘man up’ and get on with it. They needed to find this woman before she fled the country. She certainly had the means to do that. But first they needed to find out who she really was.
‘It’s late, Lisa.’ Daniels managed a half-smile. ‘We’re all exhausted. He’ll be OK.’
Responding to the whispering, Gormley turned around. He got up and walked over to join them. ‘Did you record the names and numbers on the passports?’ He was talking to Carmichael.
Nodding, Carmichael reeled off a list of names from her notebook.
‘Gimme a look at that!’ he said, taking it from her. He scanned her neat handwriting with Daniels breathing down his neck: Judy Amos, Karen Thompson, Marriane Forbes, Naomi Crouch, Olivia Raynard.
No Jennifer Rankin, Daniels noticed, but then why would there be? Whoever they were dealing with was clever and sophisticated. She wouldn’t risk using the same name twice. Gormley studied the names for what seemed like ages, noting that the capital letters of each first name ran alphabetically. He read them out: Judy . . . Karen . . . Marriane . . . Naomi . . . Olivia.
‘The only missing letter is L,’ he said, looking up.
‘You think that’s significant?’ asked Carmichael.
He shrugged. ‘I’d bet my pension that Judy Amos is Reid’s girlfriend. His mates say she was shy and never joined them socially. Dixon told me the only reason he knew Armstrong’s address is because he followed her home one night. She was cagey about where she lived and refused to have her picture taken. Now we know why. If Armstrong, Amos and Rankin are one and the same, we should alert the press. Every shift should have a copy of her picture. We should publish it on the PNC and in the media too. I want to lock this woman up so badly it hurts.’
Daniels didn’t argue. It was nice to have him back.