66
Carmichael’s old 3 series BMW pulled to the kerb. No kids around at this time of night to lighten their pockets for watching the vehicle. Ralph Street was in semi-darkness, streetlights still missing, despite Daniels’ request to the city council to fix them. She looked up and down the terrace as she got out of the car. Some women were gathered in a doorway chatting. They looked over in her direction then went back to their conversation, unperturbed by her presence.
Seeing the law in this street was an everyday occurrence.
‘Chantelle’s obviously expecting us.’ Carmichael pointed to an open front door.
‘That’s handy for us . . .’ Daniels smiled. ‘No need to knock or wait for an invitation.’
Daniels led the way, Carmichael behind as they passed through the hallway, stopping dead in their tracks as they entered the living room. The place had been trashed, thoroughly ransacked: drawers emptied on to the floor, cupboard doors flung open, the fireside rug lifted, cushions slashed – the stuffing inside removed.
The back kitchen was much the same.
A thud on the ceiling got their attention.
Carmichael froze. ‘They haven’t found what they were looking for then,’ she whispered.
Daniels put a finger to her lip and pointed to the ceiling above. They moved out of the kitchen and back through the living room to the hallway, picking their way over the debris on the floor. The stairs were clear. Steep and narrow. Light shone out from a chink in one of the doors on the landing above.
Avoiding the centre treads, they crept silently up the stairs, keeping their bodies close to the wall. During situations like these, time stood still. It seemed an age before they reached the top. Another thud from inside the room. Carmichael withdrew her snips to use as a weapon. Daniels took a peek through the door jamb. Nothing visible. Her heart was punching a hole in her chest. Carmichael was tough, but they could’ve done with Gormley’s bulk alongside them now. His sheer size was enough to put most offenders off.
Listening with her best ear, Daniels tried to identify how many people were searching. One, she thought. Reaching into her breast pocket, she took out a Maglite pencil torch and gently pushed open the door to her left, checking that no one was in there getting ready to rush them. Her torch beam panned around the bathroom. Empty. Second bedroom. Empty. No cupboards to hide in. No nasty surprises in there: a single bed, an old rocking chair, an exercise bike much like the one she had at home.
Her eyes scanned every corner, every shadow, knowing that Carmichael was watching her back the whole time. That was a given, instinctive. Just like the urge to keep moving forward when a civilian’s response would be to flee the scene. Daniels listened again, planning to wait until the person inside was physically doing something before entering the room. Two hands pulling out a drawer worked every time. She nodded to Carmichael and pointed to the floor.
Flattening herself against the wall so as not to get thrown back down the stairs, the DC positioned her foot in such a way to prevent the door being smashed into Daniels’ face should someone try and make an escape.
A ticking noise was coming from the room.
Daniels’ brow creased. Carmichael heard it too. She looked at her DCI: What-the-fuck-is-that? Daniels spread her hands: No idea. Experience told her that ticking sounds were not good. She took a deep breath and made her play.
‘Shit, shit, SHIT!’ Daniels exhaled loudly.
The ticking sound stopped as a black-and-white cat looked up, interrupted in its attempt to lick a creamy liquid off the carpet. As her heartbeat returned to normal, Daniels’ eyes locked on to an open can of condensed milk that lay on its side on the floor, knocked off the bedside table, the source of the baby-sick smell that had confounded her from the moment she set foot in the place two long days ago.
‘Boss? Over here!’
Carmichael was on the other side of the bed, staring at a point near the floor.
Daniels joined her and bent down. There was blood on the white duvet cover – a definite hand print – and a drip or two on the floor. She looked up, considering what might have happened here. Less than an hour ago, Chantelle Fox had admitted knowing the identity of a woman the whole force were looking for, a strong suspect for one murder and possibly more. Chantelle lived in Ralph Street, directly opposite one of the crime scenes and she was handy with a camera. It didn’t take a genius to work out the rest.
‘You better get the CSI lads down here, Lisa. Whoever killed Mark and Jamie Reid is responsible for this.’
‘You think they took her? Why not kill her?’
‘It looks like they tried.’
‘But why?’
‘I suspect Chantelle’s been playing David Bailey again. Pound to a penny she’s got more photos. Only these aren’t of the old man. I think she saw the arsonist and she’s been playing silly buggers in order to make some easy money, blackmailing someone who desperately wants to remain anonymous . . . This time Chantelle bit off more than she could chew.’ Daniels glanced at the bloody duvet. ‘I told you she wouldn’t come quietly.’
Her mobile rang, startling them both. ‘It’s her!’ Daniels pushed a button on her phone. ‘Chantelle?’
‘The name you want is Lucy Laidlaw.’
Daniels registered this was a name beginning with L. ‘Chantelle, are you OK?’
‘What do you care?’ The girl sounded scared to death and out of breath. She was crying now, her distress reaching Daniels via loud sobs in her right ear. ‘You make sure you get the bitch. She nearly fucking killed me.’
‘Where are you? Are you hurt?’
‘I’ve had worse . . .’ Chantelle paused, choking back tears. ‘Inspector?’
‘I’m still here. Let me come and get you—’
‘No! You be careful, OK? She’s one fucking psycho!’
The phone went dead.