65
Daniels had stepped out for some air. It had been a hell of a day, but at least she was finally making headway. There was a way to go though, before catching the woman with the multiple aliases.
Her mobile rang.
Daniels had lost count of how many calls she’d received during the day. She checked her watch. It was five past ten. Maybe this was Matt West with the result on the cigarette end she’d found stubbed against the wall of Chantelle Fox’s home. He’d promised it was imminent a couple of hours ago.
‘DCI Daniels . . .’ She cringed on hearing the voice on the other end of the line. It wasn’t Matt West. Not even close. Daniels was tired of silly games. Tired full stop. She took the phone away from her ear, put it on speaker, and tried not to sound too interested. ‘What can I do for you, Chantelle?’
‘Nothing! But I can do something for you.’
Leaning against the wall of the station, Daniels waited for Chantelle to explain herself. She didn’t speak right away, but the DCI could tell she was indoors, a TV on in the background, News at Ten, by the sounds of it, a programme she’d meant to catch herself. At her request, the BBC were running a piece warning people to be aware of a female fugitive wanted in connection with a murder by Northumbria Police. And then the penny dropped . . . Chantelle had seen the breaking news.
‘Has this got something to do with the woman I’m looking for?’ Daniels asked.
‘Might do.’
‘Has it?’
‘Just so happens I know who she is—’
The girl’s voice was lost as a siren wailed into action close by. A panda car reversed, then shot out of the car park, blues-and-twos engaged. A Traffic car followed it out, adding to the din. Daniels waited for the noise to fade away. For a moment, she thought the girl had had second thoughts and hung up. Then she heard a siren on the other end. A coincidence? Or was Chantelle close by?
‘Chantelle? Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’ Taking out her key, Daniels pushed open the back door and stepped inside. ‘Who is she, Chantelle? I need a name.’
‘Nice one, Inspector. You think I’m daft?’
‘You really want me to answer that?’ Daniels said, heading upstairs.
‘Well, I’m not as daft as you, am I? ’Cause I know stuff would make your eyes pop.’
‘So tell me. And stop buggering about – this is really important.’
‘I need assurances.’
Daniels mounted the stairs two at a time. ‘Such as?’
‘That I won’t face prosecution for wasting police time.’
‘No deal . . .’ Daniels paused on the landing. ‘Look, tell me what you know and I’ll see what I can do. I really could use some help here.’
‘You’re not the only one.’
‘Fuck’s sake! Tell me who she is!’
‘You know what, forget it!’
The line went dead.
Cursing Chantelle, Daniels called Gormley but he didn’t pick up. Running back down the stairs, she burst through the exit door looking for him. His car was nowhere in sight. He was probably out picking up Dixon – they needed confirmation that the woman he knew as Susan Armstrong was in fact the woman in the passports – or maybe he was in the Bacchus, having called it a day.
No. If that was the case, he’d have rung to let her know.
Daniels called Carmichael instead.
‘Lisa, I’m in the station yard. Get down here ASAP. We’ve got a witness to see. And bring your snips. I’ve a feeling this one won’t go quietly.’