67
Tuesday. Nine a.m. The briefing room was full. Some detectives were sharing desks, two and three apiece, the rest standing in groups waiting for the meeting to begin, every single person associated with both cases crammed into the room. Carmichael, Brown and Robson had formed a little faction of their own. They’d had the sense to grab a mug of tea before a rush on the drinks machine. To their left, Maxwell and Gormley’s conversation was about football, in particular Brazil’s three–nil win over Chile that had nudged them closer to a sixth World Cup title. But most of the excitement in the room was work related.
Since early doors, phones had been ringing off the hook. An image of Susan Armstrong had appeared again, not only on breakfast television, but in the headlines of the local papers and some of the nationals on sale in the shops.
It was the biggest story for years.
The public outcry Daniels had anticipated had arrived. People were incensed at such a despicable act of cruelty to such a vulnerable accident victim. The fact that a rogue fire officer might be involved, not only in the death of Ivy Kerr but also in the arson attack that killed Mark and Jamie Reid – had been withheld from the media for the time being. That revelation would come later, when they caught the bastard responsible.
Daniels’ phone rang: The fire investigator.
She covered the speaker. ‘Guv, I should take this. It’s Geoff Abbott.’
‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘I’ll start the ball rolling.’
Naylor told the team to get comfy, outlining the need for a thorough case review.
‘Things have moved fast in the last twenty-four hours,’ he began. ‘Yesterday, acting on information received from PC Dixon – who overheard station gossip about a woman in uniform we were desperate to track down – Hank and the DCI attended the West End fire station where she allegedly worked. They found no trace of her. At that point they had no photograph to show the watch manager and the DCI put in a request for personnel records of all female staff to be made available. She and Hank then went to the address of Susan Armstrong and later obtained a warrant. A search of the premises revealed two things. First: the clothing left there, such as it was, is size 14. An average size, you might say. But it matches that found in Mark Reid’s house. Second: the search turned up several passports, all bearing the photograph of a woman who’d attempted to disguise herself by changing hairstyle or colour.’
‘There was a wig there too, guv,’ Carmichael reminded him.
‘Yes, thank you, Lisa.’ He smiled. ‘I’d forgotten that. Even more shocking is the fact that the woman in the passports is the same woman captured on film at Lottery HQ – the one passing herself off as Jennifer Rankin.’ He paused a moment. ‘Everyone clear so far?’
There were nods all round.
‘Good.’ Naylor glanced at Daniels, who was still on the phone. It was important to go over events. This case was getting more and more complex by the minute. ‘Last night, PC Dixon was shown the passports we retrieved from Armstrong’s house. He confirmed that his former girlfriend is the woman in the photos. Therefore we know she is using several aliases. Although we can’t yet prove it, I think – and the DCI agrees with me – that Judy, the girlfriend of Mark Reid, the un-ident buying petrol and Jennifer Rankin are one and the same woman. Anyone disagree?’
There were no dissenters.
‘Not likely, guv,’ someone at the back called out.
‘The DCI took the unprecedented step of asking the media to put out a picture of the woman on national TV . . .’ He stopped talking as Daniels put down the phone.
‘Geoff Abbott is on board,’ she said. ‘He’ll get back to me in five. May I?’ She took his nod as her cue to take over. ‘When the news went out last night, Chantelle Fox rang me, claiming to know the identity of “Susan Armstrong”. By the time Lisa and I got round there, the place had been thoroughly ransacked and there were signs of a struggle, an amount of blood on the floor. Chantelle called again. The poor kid was scared to death. She gave the name Lucy Laidlaw and rang off. Now then – and this is important, so get your notebooks out, because I’m going to be putting out actions any minute . . .’
She waited until the team were ready.
‘Several names were thrown in the hat this morning, but I think we struck lucky. One witness, a man called Ben Foster, rang in claiming he’d met the woman on a train to London King’s Cross on Thursday the twenty-fourth of June, a matter of hours after Ivy Kerr was killed. She was using the name Laidlaw but not Lucy. She must’ve fancied Liv that day. I think she let her guard down and gave her real name by mistake. The name Laidlaw has never come up in the Fraud Intelligence Bureau’s investigation. Liv is short for Olivia, by the way, which does appear in one of the passports Hank found in the bureau at Armstrong’s drop address. Reduces the likelihood that Chantelle may have been mistaken, yes?’
Again there were nods. The team were buoyed by what she’d told them. She could see it in their eyes. They were on their marks and raring to go. Now all they had to do was prove it . . .
‘Cherchez la femme,’ she said. ‘And to help you in that task, I’ve asked one of our analysts to interrogate HOLMES for unknown females and un-ident females currently in the system.’
‘Excuse me, ma’am . . .’ A hand went up at the back. An officer assigned to the team on a temporary basis was looking puzzled. ‘What’s the difference between unknown and un-ident females exactly?’
‘That’s a good question. Unknowns are exactly that: persons about whom nothing is known. Whereas un-idents are those where there is some information assigned: for example a partial name, an approximate address, a street name, a workplace. Any information we have that might lead to a full identification at a later date.’
Her explanation seemed to satisfy him and she moved on.
‘Hair and eye colour is something that can easily be changed with the use of dyes and or lenses. So we’re matching physical descriptions here: height, size, shape – characteristics that are harder to alter or disguise.’ She pointed at the murder wall where the faces of Jamie and Mark Reid and Ivy Kerr stared back at her. ‘We have three victims so far. Chantelle Fox is lucky her picture isn’t up there too. She’s in grave danger and I want her picked up. We need to find her before Laidlaw does.’
She caught Gormley’s eye.
He shook his head, explained to the others that he’d called at her house on the way in. There was no sign of her and no indication she’d been back to the property since it was trashed. ‘She’s probably keeping her head down until Laidlaw is picked up,’ he said.
‘Smart move,’ someone muttered.
‘Chantelle has my number,’ Daniels said. ‘So hopefully she’ll use it. If she does call the incident room, try and persuade her to come in. Tell her I need to talk to her urgently and she’ll get all the protection she needs. If she won’t play ball, ask if she knows anything about Laidlaw’s male friend and possible accomplice. Caffrey, the guy who lives next door to the drop address, described him as a “rough-looking Mediterranean”, so another un-ident we know nothing about. Andy, keep your eye on the incident log. If Chantelle fled in a hurry and has no money, she’ll be up to her old tricks.’
Brown nodded.
Daniels picked up a remote and pressed a few buttons. The images on the murder wall changed. There were now several pictures side by side: the passport photos, the grainy shot obtained at the garage, a photograph Dixon had taken covertly for a keepsake, and one the team hadn’t seen before – a good facial image Daniels had uploaded from her phone a mere ten minutes ago.
She highlighted it on the wall. ‘This is a photograph I obtained from Steven Watkins, the film buff Hank and I came across at the accident. Lisa managed to track him down through a contact she has at the North East Screenwriters’ Group. Last night I interviewed Keith Jewitt, the writer who runs it. Nice man,’ she said. ‘He speaks highly of Watkins, describing his weird behaviour as youthful exuberance. Early this morning, I knocked Watkins up. Jewitt was right. He’s not such a prat as I first thought. He apologized for his remarks and promised not to let his passion for manufactured gore get confused with the real stuff in future. He gave me this picture and it puts Laidlaw firmly at the scene. The hat in her hand is the one Cole captured on video from the air in the backseat of Ivy’s car, I bet.’
Dozens of eyes were fixed on the image.
‘Anyone wish to comment before we move on?’ Daniels asked.
‘Jesus! Look at the eyes,’ Carmichael said. ‘Ice woman or what?’
‘They’re pretty evil.’ Brown looked at Daniels. ‘Your film guy deserves a BAFTA.’
‘You want me to grab a female officer and take some photographs of my own, boss?’ Maxwell said. ‘I’m happy to.’
Naylor frowned. ‘You finding this funny, Neil?’
‘No, guv. Perhaps I should rephrase that.’ Maxwell glanced at the murder wall. ‘Dixon claims Susan Armstrong is five-ten. I’m suggesting I take a policewoman to the garage. Stand her in exactly the same spot and get some CCTV footage for comparison. It would confirm or dismiss the person’s height, man or woman.’
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ Daniels said.
‘I’m full of them, boss.’
The DCI’s phone rang.
She answered with a bark. ‘Yes! What is it?’ After listening in earnest for a moment, she thanked the person on the other end and then hung up, her solemn expression placing everyone on alert. She turned to Naylor. ‘Guv, that was Abbott again. Remember the fire officer who went sick with post-traumatic stress after the accident?’ She paused. ‘It’s Laidlaw. Lucy Laidlaw.’