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They headed straight for airport security and couldn’t get there quick enough. They were met by several official-looking figures and soon learned that no one by the name of Marianne Spencer had booked in for any flight. Gormley made the rendezvous minutes later. He didn’t need to say anything for Daniels to know he’d lucked out too. It was writ large across his face the minute he was shown into the room.
Scanning the panel of monitors, he shook his head, muttering something about needles in haystacks. He wasn’t wrong. The airport was approaching its busiest period in the calendar, a rush to get away and back before the schools turfed out and prices soared. The terminal was full, a constant flow of pedestrian traffic making it difficult to pick out any one person in particular.
‘What next?’ Carmichael asked. ‘Do we flood the place with uniforms or what?
‘No time,’ Daniels said. ‘We’ll have to do this covertly.’
‘What does she look like?’ a security officer asked.
‘Approximately five-ten, last seen with short, dark hair: I think she’s wearing a light, possibly linen, beige dress and jacket,’ Carmichael said. ‘That’s if the Hertz clerk has a good memory.’
‘Nowt gets past Ann Chow,’ an airport policeman said.
‘I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ Gormley said. ‘Laidlaw is a clever con woman and master of disguise. She could’ve changed clothes a dozen times since she got here.’
‘Not possible,’ Carmichael countered. ‘The Hertz woman told me she had no luggage, just a small brown handbag.’
Daniels hoped Carmichael was right.
Her eyes were back on the monitors, but it was useless. There was no way they were going to ID Laidlaw in time to prevent her escape. Unless . . . the idea came to her in a flash. Reaching into her pocket, she drew out her phone, asking the person in charge if it was possible to upload an image directly on to the airport system.
Gormley and Carmichael both looked puzzled. But all became clear as a good likeness of Laidlaw appeared on the screen in front of them, an image Daniels imagined that scores of eyes would now be viewing on their monitors as a level one security alert. She had no time to explain about the sketch Fiona Fielding had done – or why she’d felt compelled to capture the image on her phone – but it was clear from Gormley’s expression that he’d made the leap as they waited for airport staff to respond.
Seconds later, the phone rang in the control room. The receiver was knocked off its station as a member of staff rushed to answer it. Daniels glanced nervously at Gormley and Carmichael as they waited, counting the seconds. The security officer wrote something down, ended the call and turned back to face them, his expression buoyant, his tired eyes filled with hope and expectation.
‘A guy working the Thomas Cook check-in desk booked a woman calling herself Penelope Clark on to a flight to Dalaman about a half hour ago as he was about to shut up shop. She was running late but managed to catch him before her flight was called for departure. She was wearing a headscarf as he rushed her through, but he’s fairly certain it was her.’
‘Dalaman?’ Carmichael had never heard of it.
‘It’s in Turkey,’ Gormley replied.
‘Fuck!’ Daniels’ troubled expression darkened as her brain made an obvious connection. The body she’d found at the Turnbull Building had yet to be identified, but credit cards in his wallet suggested he may be of Greek origin, possibly Cypriot. ‘She’s fleeing out of harm’s way!’ Daniels said. ‘From Dalaman she can easily get to Northern Cyprus, where there’s no extradition treaty. If she achieves that, she knows we can’t touch her. We need to stop that plane!’ Daniels looked at the security man. ‘Well, don’t stand there, do something!’