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Daniels got out of her new Audi Q5 at Newcastle International airport, lifted the tailgate and removed a suitcase from the back. Pulling up the collapsible handle, she locked her vehicle, made a note of its position, and strode towards the terminal feeling a little sad despite the sunshine. As she walked through the revolving doors into the departure hall, a shiver went down her spine. The last time she’d been here she was looking for Lucy Laidlaw as she tried to flee the country. And now, as Daniels joined a long queue at the check-in desk, she recalled that anxious wait at the control tower and the slightly bizarre conversation with a Norwegian pilot through the flight-deck window of an enormous Airbus A320 destined for Turkey.
The fact that Laidlaw had managed to maim and kill since that day weighed heavily on Daniels’ mind. Not that she was at all responsible. But still. It was a death that could’ve – some say should’ve – been prevented. There would be an enquiry, of course. There always was. Lessons learned and all that bollocks when the report was made public. She could almost hear the Chief Constable waxing lyrical on the subject as he sat in front of the force logo, making sure he got his sound bites in. But that wouldn’t help the female security guard, a mother of three who, sadly, had suffered permanent brain damage in the cell block at Market Street police station and would never work again. Or poor Chantelle, whose unhappy life had come to such a brutal and abrupt end in the home where she was born and brought up – a home that held secrets of unimaginable brutality.
One way or the other, June 2010 had been a hell of a month. The hottest on record, it should also have been the most joyous with England winning the World Cup for the first time since 1966. But it wasn’t. Instead it was depressing and sad and any other negative adjective you cared to attach to it, a time of deep sorrow for a great many people: Maggie Reid, Annaliese Ridley, Elliot Milburn, Sergeant McCabe. And also for Todd Fox, a soldier repatriated to England by his regiment for his sister’s funeral.
Twenty-seven people were directly affected by tragedy that month. And that was just close family. If you were to add in all the friends and colleagues of the victims and Daniels’ own staff in the Murder Investigation Team, that number would run into the hundreds. Gormley had been particularly affected by the death of Ivy Kerr.
It was scant compensation, but Daniels had returned Bridget’s seal ring to her father and George Milburn’s money to his grandson, Elliot. She’d also managed to find a new home for Rooney, Chantelle’s cat. In time, with the help of the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau, she hoped to trace Ivy’s lottery win and return it to her estate. Annaliese planned to use some of the money to make that trip to Austria on her father’s behalf, to find the place where he’d been held captive during the war. Who knew? Maybe she’d even trace the people who’d looked after him and kept him safe for a sweetheart waiting back home.
For the Murder Investigation Team, the victory of catching Lucy Laidlaw was bittersweet. There was no doubt she’d been badly treated by Arthur Fox. But she’d shown no remorse for her despicable acts of cruelty; not for the inferno that had claimed the lives of a devoted father and son, or for her actions at the crash scene on that hellish night in the pouring rain. Following her re-arrest she’d shown her true colours. ‘The old witch was practically dead already,’ she had said, as if Ivy Kerr’s life was of no consequence whatsoever. ‘Her legs looked bad, really bad. I’ve seen enough crashes to know a probable amputation when I see one. I gave her a helping hand, that’s all.’
Daniels sighed, looking up at the departures board.
Laidlaw had learned one lesson though: those who played with fire did sometimes get burned. She’d always wanted a sister, someone she could share her troubles with. If she had one regret in all of this it was that she’d finally found a sibling and would serve life for her murder.
DCI Kate Daniels was glad the investigation was over, pleased that she was finally able to close the file and concentrate on the future. Her love life was still uncertain. Her timing had always been crap. And so was Jo Soulsby’s; her wish to start again had come at a particularly awkward time. If it wasn’t so serious it would be funny, a typical scenario for a romantic comedy. Jo had now left her post as Criminal Profiler with Northumbria Police’s Murder Investigation Team to take up the research position at HMP Northumberland, promising to keep in touch. There had been no fanfare or leaving do. She’d slipped away with no fuss and tears in her eyes that Daniels didn’t see.
‘All set?’ Daniels asked.
‘I’ll send you a postcard.’ Fiona Fielding smiled, tucking passport and tickets back into her bag. Her trip to the Far East was due to last a month and she hoped to be back in Britain by Christmas. She hugged Daniels and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Call her,’ she whispered before walking away.
Acknowledgements
Thanks again to my dream team at Pan Macmillan: especially my fabulous editor, Wayne Brookes, and also his assistant, Louise Buckley, who kept me on track throughout the edit of Deadly Deceit. Also, to the entire staff at Blake Friedmann Literary, TV & Film Agency who look after me in so many ways. A special mention must go to my friend and agent Oli Munson who makes writing so much fun. Lastly, to my wonderful copy-editor, the woman from whom I have learned so much along the way, Anne O’Brien.
Appreciation to my friend Dave Willis (pilot extraordinaire, now also known as Kjell), who helped Kate Daniels climb aboard an enormous Airbus A320 destined for Turkey in this book. To New Writing North who support and promote my work – I am very grateful.
To my whole family, a constant source of feedback and encouragement: Paul and Kate, Chris and Caroline. Also to the A-team of helpers, Max and Frances, who inspire me to do my very best every single day. Lastly, to my partner Mo, who somehow manages to keep all the other balls in the air while I play with words. I could wish for no more.
About the Author
MARI HANNAH was born in London and moved north as a child. Her career as a probation officer was cut short when she was injured while on duty, and thereafter she spent several years as a film/television screenwriter. She now lives in Northumberland with her partner, an ex-murder detective. She was the winner of the 2010 Northern Writers’ Award and is a nominee for the 2013 Polari First Book Prize.
www.marihannah.com @mariwriter Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.