Deadly Deceit (11 page)

‘I’m sorry, Ron.’

‘For what?’

‘Want a list? And don’t tell me you didn’t notice me getting arsy about your involvement either. You’re right, obviously . . .’ She grinned, covering her
embarrassment. ‘I’ve not been much help to you since you moved here, even turned down your invitation to your house-warming party. I’m sorry.’

‘You should’ve come. It was a good do.’

‘Never known you to throw a bad one.’

They had reached the crime scene. She parked the car a little way up Ralph Street and they sat for a while discussing the case. Daniels didn’t know why she felt compelled to take him
there. Just a case of two heads most probably. She was finding it hard to imagine anyone starting a fire with so many people partying nearby. Why risk being seen? Unless the risk was greatly
reduced because the perpetrator was local – no one would bat an eyelid then, would they?

They got out of the car. Locking it, she led Naylor to the terrace opposite in order to view the blackened building from across the road. They stood in silence for a while. For her part, she was
trying to imagine the place in darkness with a noisy party going on in the lane behind her. Offences she’d dealt with as part of the Murder Investigation Team and before that in the Serious
Incident Squad floated in and out of her head.
Motive. Opportunity. Means
. She couldn’t decide if the arson was a prank gone tragically wrong or an offence that had been carefully
planned, executed in cold blood with calculated intent to cause death.

‘First impressions?’ she said.

Naylor was thoughtful a moment. ‘What would Jo make of it, I wonder?’

It was a good question, one Daniels didn’t immediately answer.

‘More importantly,’ he added. ‘What advice would she give?’

‘She’d tell me to think like an offender, get inside their head, be their shrink. She’d point out that arsonists can be habitual, remind me there’s often an element of
voyeurism associated with such offences, a thrill-seeking element too, no doubt. Hard to imagine, I know, with a baby in the house.’

She fell silent, trying to stem images of Jamie Reid’s body on a cold slab in the examination room of the morgue. Closing her eyes, she brought to mind the picture of the child on the
murder wall: a happy snap of a little boy with dimpled cheeks and a mass of dark, curly hair. That made her more depressed but all the more determined to catch his killer. She looked past Naylor,
her eyes locking on to something on the wall over his right shoulder. He turned to see what had caught her interest, homing in on a blackened mark where a cigarette had been stubbed out. Its
residue was still embedded in the brickwork. Beneath it, a single cigarette butt lay on a concrete flagstone.

It hit them simultaneously.

Had someone been watching the place burn?

I
dentifying his grandfather’s body at the city morgue hit Elliot Milburn hard. It was a task no grandson should ever be asked to perform, one he’d been dreading all
day. His mother was too upset and his father was working away, too busy and too selfish to do this one last thing for his own flesh and blood. It was common knowledge that the two men hadn’t
got along and Elliot wasn’t entirely sure why.

Neither one would talk about it.

The morgue assistant was a compassionate woman, softly spoken, with caring eyes. She’d insisted on keeping Elliot company while he waited to view the body, supporting him and yet still
managing, somehow, to allow him the silence he craved. He was staring at the green door opposite, willing it not to open. Inevitably, after a while, it had. Elliot froze. Without saying a word, the
assistant gently touched his elbow, eased him to his feet and into the viewing room to go through the motions of identification.

It was sad moment; the worst of Elliot’s life so far. He found it incredibly hard to be there in that room. His grandfather meant everything to him. He idolized the man. Who would give
Elliot guidance now this wise old man was gone? Even though he’d had a good long life, they had so much more to do together. This was to be their very last meeting and yet Elliot
couldn’t bring himself to look at him.

But then he realized he had to.

It was the sole reason he was there.

Raising his eyes from the floor, they came to rest on the old man’s weather-beaten face. He looked so peaceful, like he did on a sunny Sunday afternoon in his garden at the allotment where
they’d go after lunch, where he’d fall asleep in his deckchair, his belly full of roast beef, Yorkshire pud and veggies he’d grown himself.

Giving George a final kiss goodbye, he turned away in tears.

Outside, in the anteroom, the old man’s belongings were handed to him in a transparent plastic bag: the clothes he’d been wearing the last time they saw each other; his ancient watch
rendered useless as a timepiece, its numerals blurred by deep scratches on the face from handling brambles in the allotment; his rose gold wedding band, soft and smooth with wear; a few quid and
some loose change.

Not much to show for nearly eighty years of exemplary life.

It’s not much.
They were his grandfather’s very words when he held up the brown paper parcel at the garage with his money inside.
It’s not much but it’s all
I’ve got, lad, and I want you to have it.

Elliot suddenly got to his feet, panic rising in his chest. The morgue assistant looked genuinely shocked when he asked her where the rest of the money was. Taken aback by the question, she
asked him to sit down while she rechecked the property log, specifically the entry made when his grandfather’s body was transferred to the morgue from the hospital emergency room.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Milburn. I’m afraid that’s all there was.’

‘No! That’s not right!’ Elliot tried not to display his anger after the kindness she’d shown to him earlier. ‘My granddad had over a thousand pounds in his pocket,
his life savings. I want it back.’

Taking the only avenue open to her, the assistant referred him to the police to make a formal complaint of theft. He’d been stewing over it ever since. It wasn’t the money that
worried him but the thought that his grandfather may have been murdered for it. Had he been mugged in the street? There were no obvious signs of injury on his person, no bump where he’d
fallen – or so they said. Cause of death had been determined as sudden cardiac arrest according to the medical examiner. Not suspicious in nature, just plain old natural causes.

But that didn’t quite cut it for Elliot. Cardiac arrest could’ve been brought on by shock, couldn’t it? If his grandfather had been attacked, or even threatened, it might well
have contributed to his death. In his mind, that was tantamount to murder. No different to that of a thief plunging a knife into the old man’s chest. And if foul play was even suspected,
then, much as it pained him to do it, he would insist on a second post-mortem.

Poor Gramps.

E
lliot took out his handkerchief and blew hard, choking back a flood of tears he still had left to shed, wondering how he’d fill the void left by his grandfather’s
demise. The clock on the wall opposite ticked forward a notch to three-fifteen. He’d been waiting for ages to see Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels, the woman in charge of the Murder
Investigation Team. He’d asked for her by name but was told she was dealing with a major enquiry, which he presumed was the arson in Ralph Street. He’d seen her on the television many
times appealing for witnesses or talking to the press. She’d always impressed him as a compassionate human being, a person determined to seek justice for victims of crime. Not like some of
the tossers you get on the box nowadays, only interested in getting their sound bites in, their main aim to look good in front of the camera in order to attain the next rank.

A big man appeared through a security door marked
Staff Only Beyond This Point
. He crossed to the counter and talked in low whispers for a second to the desk sergeant, who pointed at
the bench where Elliot was sitting. Then the big man turned to face him, giving him a sympathetic half-smile as if somehow he knew about his grandfather and understood exactly what he must be going
through.

‘Mr Milburn?’ he said. ‘I’m DS Gormley, Murder Investigation Team. I understand you’ve been waiting to see DCI Daniels.’

Elliot nodded cautiously.

‘I’m sorry, but she’s been delayed. Please come this way.’

T
he redhead’s eyes widened. Of all the people in a city this size, she had to run into
him
. Even though she didn’t know Ben Foster well, she clocked his
unmistakable profile immediately: his sharp jawline, short cropped hair flecked with grey, those thick dark eyelashes.

Sensing her presence, he turned.

She looked away. Had her scent alerted him? Did the smart arse possess ESP? Her own insights were telling her to avoid him like the plague. She’d had her fun but didn’t intend, or
want, to see him ever again. She had to shake him off.

The tube lights flashed off, then back on.

Oh fuck!
He was making his way towards her, squeezing his body through tightly packed passengers. Closer. Closer. Ever closer. The last thing she needed was complications now. She felt
the tube slowing as it neared Goodge Street station. But not quick enough. Ben was already by her side.

‘Hello again . . .’ His eyes slid over her. ‘You must think I’m a waste of space. I’m sorry I missed you last night. Got held up at the conference and
couldn’t get away. By the time I reached the restaurant you’d gone. Am I forgiven?’

The redhead was profoundly hacked off. Not only had the bastard stood her up – and that didn’t happen often! – but he’d told a train-load of fuckwits all about it. Just
who the hell did he think he was? Did he really think she’d been waiting there, hoping he’d come, like some drooling schoolgirl with a crush on an older man? That would require
feelings. And feelings were in short supply in her particular box of tricks.

‘I’m sorry?’ She smiled at him, a mixture of puzzlement and embarrassment. It was time to show the pathetic loser who was boss. ‘You have me at a disadvantage. Do I know
you?’

He just looked at her, incredulous, a deep furrow on his brow. ‘You are joking, right?’

‘I don’t think so!’ She scanned his face, pretending to search her memory in an effort to remember where – if – they might have met before. Then she shook her head,
bemused. ‘I really think you must’ve mistaken me for someone else.’

‘This another one of your games, Liv?’

‘Now I know you have me mixed up,’ she said. ‘My name isn’t Liv.’

The jerk was still smiling. ‘You like playing games, don’t you? Well, so do I.’

The redhead looked around her. People crammed into the carriage were earwigging their conversation. One in particular was glaring at Ben. A young guy: mid-thirties or thereabouts, body-building
type, fair-haired, six-two, square shoulders, military crew cut, a man who looked like he could handle himself. Her eyes pleaded with him to intervene. He didn’t need asking twice . . .

‘Pardon me, ma’am.’ He sounded like a New Yorker. ‘Is this guy bothering you?’

‘No, well . . .’ She flashed him an innocent smile. ‘I’m sure he made a genuine mistake.’

‘Oh, please!’ Ben Foster looked at the Yank. ‘She’s winding me up! She’s pissed with me for not turning up last night.’

The redhead was wide-eyed. ‘I’ve never seen this man before!’

‘Back off, buddy!’ The Yank leaned into Ben, his dark eyes sending him a message: Don’t-mess-with-me-if-you-know-what’s-good-for-you. ‘The lady isn’t
interested.’

Ben stood his ground, furious now. ‘Will you mind your own business?’

Thanking the American, the redhead excused herself politely and moved towards the door, easing herself through a muddle of bodies as fast as her long legs would carry her. The tube screeched to
a stop. Once she was off the train, she looked over her shoulder. The doors were still open, allowing passengers on. Ben was about to follow her when the American guy put a hand against his chest,
preventing him from getting off. As the train doors closed, the redhead smiled, relieved to be free of him.

T
he minute Daniels stepped through the front door of the station, Hank Gormley caught her eye, sending a clear message that something was up. The exchange was so brief, Naylor
didn’t appear to notice. But when Gormley said he needed her ear, the Super narrowed his eyes.

‘Something I should know?’ He was no fool.

‘Long story . . .’ Gormley flicked his eyes in the direction of four civilians waiting to be seen: two middle-aged women, an elderly guy in a wheelchair, and a skinny young man who
looked a little distressed. Dropping his voice to a whisper, Gormley said, ‘Mind if I grab the boss a mo, guv? I’m sure she’ll fill you in later.’

Naylor held his gaze. ‘This isn’t trivial office politics, is it?’

Gormley shook his head. ‘No, sir. It’s not.’

Rolling his eyes, Naylor didn’t argue. Without another word, he spun on his heel, punched a number into a keypad and pushed open the door, disappearing along the main corridor and into the
labyrinth beyond. When he was out of sight, Daniels turned toward her DS, a question in her eyes. Gormley nodded to the interview room and then followed her in, closing the door quietly behind
them.

‘George Milburn,’ he said.

Pulling out a chair, Daniels slumped down on it and crossed her arms. ‘What about him?’

‘The young lad in reception is his grandson, Elliot.’ Gormley let out a worried sigh. ‘He claims the old man was rolled, possibly even murdered. Apparently he was carrying a
large amount of cash on him and now it can’t be found. Had the old man collapsed on any other street, I’d have offloaded the job to another incident team, Kate. I’m
sorry—’

‘You don’t need to explain. I made it perfectly clear I wanted any activity within that beat area logged and brought to my attention.’ For a moment, she stared at him,
processing this new information. No wonder he was worried. They already had two murder cases to deal with. Yet another complication was the last thing they needed. The very thought of it sapped her
energy. ‘What exactly did he tell you?’