Deadly Deceit (14 page)

‘You sure? I rang the office and they told me you weren’t due in till twelve.’ Jo stepped into the hallway, squeezed past the Yamaha motorbike, turning to face Daniels when
they reached the kitchen. ‘If you want the truth, I came round because I was curious to know why you were taking time off in the middle of a murder enquiry. You’re the SIO on the arson
in Ralph Street, aren’t you?’

Daniels nodded.

‘You’re not ill, are you?’

‘No . . . I’m involved in two cases, Jo. But therein lies the problem. In one of them, I’m a witness and possibly even a suspect—’

‘What?’ Confusion flashed across Jo’s face.

Leaving nothing out, Daniels briefed her on the death of Ivy Kerr, the fact that she and Gormley had been on the scene at the time, the whole sorry mess. She also mentioned Naylor’s
insistence that she stay out of the MIR until the lines were well and truly drawn between the two incidents . . .

‘He’s covering our arses so that further down the line no barrister or judge could accuse us of any impropriety or conflict of interest.’

‘Sounds sensible,’ Jo said.

Daniels locked eyes with her.

‘What?’ Jo said. ‘You’re unhappy with that?’

Pointing at the bakery bag in Jo’s hand, Daniels sidestepped the question. ‘What you got there?’

‘Kate? Don’t do it . . . This will not end well.’

Daniels wasn’t listening. Splitting the team was a sound idea, but that didn’t stop her feeling aggrieved. OK, she had Robson and Gormley to investigate the fire, but Carmichael had
skills they didn’t and she’d be unable to utilize them while her DC was working for the Super. Besides, she’d promised Hank they would do a little digging themselves and she
didn’t feel inclined to let regulations change her mind.

‘Fine!’ Jo said. ‘If you insist on getting fired you need to eat before going in.’ Jo held out two Danish pastries, a warning in her eyes. ‘You, coffee. Me,
eggs.’

Daniels put on the coffee, excused herself, then ran upstairs and jumped in the shower. Had Jo not been there she’d have skipped breakfast altogether and gone into the incident room in
spite of Naylor’s insistence that she stay away. But now she had an invitation to spend time with Jo, maybe for once she’d actually do as she was told.

Jo tried to talk Daniels out of her maverick tendencies but she wouldn’t listen, so they took their coffee outside into the sunshine and sat in her back yard like an old married couple,
scanning the morning papers the way they used to,
light years ago
.

‘Stop it!’ Jo said.

‘Stop what?’ Acting innocent, Daniels lowered the
Guardian
.

‘You were staring at me!’

‘No I wasn’t!’ Daniels pointed at Jo’s Serengeti sunglasses. ‘Anyway, how can you possibly tell with those on?’

Jo tapped her right lens and then lifted the glasses on to the top of her head. ‘With these I can see straight into your heart. There’s no escaping my powers!’

Daniels laughed out loud.

She began reading again, grateful still to have Jo in her life, albeit it not as close as she’d like. Ironically, the job that had pulled them apart now bound them together as friends and
colleagues. She didn’t have to like the situation to accept it as a fact. But on that beautifully sunny morning – surrounded by ugly brick walls on all sides and no view whatsoever
– she couldn’t think of a single thing that would spoil that moment.

Then the phone rang.

D
aniels paid the driver and leapt out of the cab. Gormley looked hot and bothered as he hurried towards her, cutting her off from entering the station via the back door.
Grabbing her upper arm he led her around the side of the building, guiding her to a quiet spot where they could talk without fear of being overheard.

‘We’ve got to stop meeting like this,’ Daniels said. ‘People will get the wrong idea.’

‘Very funny. What’s with the taxi?’

‘You haven’t heard then . . .’

Daniels wondered if her Toyota was still in one piece or lying burnt-out somewhere, along with the kit she’d left in the back. Thankfully, none of it official or traceable to her home
address. Just a few personal items, including a tyre pressure gauge and bike lock she’d only just bought.

Bastard joy riders.

Gormley looked confused. ‘About what?’

‘Never mind. This had better be good, Hank.’ She tried not to sound put out, even though her morning had been spoiled by his phone call. Jo would still be eating breakfast alone in
her sunny back yard, the first quality time they’d spent together in ages. ‘I wasn’t due in for a couple of hours and neither were you. Mind telling me what the hell we’re
doing here?’

‘Long story . . . won’t bore you with the details.’

‘Oh, good. We’re both speaking in code!’

‘I couldn’t sleep. That’s all you need to know.’ Gormley pointed towards the perimeter fence where a number of police vehicles stood idle. Next to them was a flat-back
low-loader carrying a smashed-up vehicle. ‘I spotted it arriving as I parked my car. Recognize the Honda Jazz? That’s Ivy’s car. Thought you’d like to take a look before the
CSIs offload it. They’ve gone for a late breakfast in the canteen, hence the urgency. You haven’t got long if you want to examine it before Naylor does.’

A couple of uniformed officers walked by and said hello as they passed. Acknowledging them with a nod, Daniels watched them get into a panda car and drive away. Glancing up at the second floor
of the station, she homed in on the windows of the MIR. The low loader was visible from there. If spotted tampering with the car she knew she’d be in deep shit with her new boss –
friend or no friend.

Gormley picked up on her anxiety. ‘Don’t sweat,’ he said. ‘Naylor’s busy launching his enquiry. You know what that’s like. He’ll be tied up all
morning.’

She shook her head. ‘Too risky, Hank. Can’t be done.’

‘Yes, it can! Carmichael promised to keep him occupied ’til I give her the heads-up that we’re finished.’

‘That sounds rather like a conspiracy. Er, Naylor? Me? What bloody difference does it make who examines the vehicle? We’re on the same side, remember?’

‘Please, Kate. Just take a look. And hurry, or I’ll need another shave.’

Daniels punched his arm and then set off towards the low-loader as naturally as she could, Jo’s warning ringing in her ears:
This will not end well.
Gormley followed, reminding
her that officers not party to last night’s briefing wouldn’t give them a second glance. They were murder detectives, after all, even if they weren’t behaving like it. As they
neared the recovery truck, he bent his knee for her to use as a step, feigning a groan as she propelled herself on to the vehicle.

Daniels looked around her. Gormley was right. No one was paying her any attention. Ripping off her scarf, she used it as a glove and opened the door of the Jazz. A set of keys were still
dangling from the ignition; there was blood everywhere, a shallow pool of which had congealed on the rubber matting in the driver’s footwell, enough to make her think that Ivy’s husband
had bled to death in his seat. Leaning in, she turned the ignition key a notch and nearly jumped out of her skin as the computerized voice of the satnav filled the car:

‘ Turn round. Turn round.’

Letting out a sigh, she glanced up at the MIR again. Naylor was standing with his back to the window. Praying that he wouldn’t turn round, she took in Gormley’s apologetic expression
which suddenly morphed into a plea for her to continue. This is crazy, she thought. Returning her attention to Ivy’s car, she quickly accessed the satnav, checking the device’s saved
locations, scrolling down to the last entry which was nothing more than a postcode: WD18 9RN. She read it out and told Gormley to write it down, then leapt to the ground, hoping it would lead to
something because they had sod-all else right now.

I
n Chantelle’s opinion, Whitley Bay wasn’t the place it used to be. Nowadays, disappointed tourists came looking for Spanish City and found nothing resembling the
fairground it once was. A place so iconic that its Tunnel of Love had inspired a song by Mark Knopfler, no less. She had binned the idea of spending a day there, opting instead for Seaton Sluice a
couple of miles north up the coast, talking her mates into going with her. It had the same fabulous golden sands but no cafés, candyfloss or chips, just miles and miles of beach fringed with
sand dunes where they could smoke a spliff without being seen, or strip off naked if they wanted to.

’cept not one of the bottleless mingers did.

‘Who needs St Tropez, eh, Shell?’ Tracy said.

Chantelle didn’t answer. She was too busy gawping at Leigh and Daisy, who already had fabulous tans on account of the fact that they were out of work. Thinking she had a lot of catching up
to do, Chantelle watched Tracy get her kit off, revealing a lush polka-dot bikini underneath. It showed off her superb figure and left nothing to the imagination. She worked in a knocking shop on
Elswick Road, and had once taken Chantelle there for an interview – if that was what giving the owner a blow-job was called these days. But the nobber said she didn’t have quite the
right qualifications. What he meant was, she was a little larger than his other girls.

Tosser.

Chantelle would never tell Tracy, but the experience had dented her confidence and made her all the more determined to show them she didn’t have to be a slapper to earn her keep. Anyhow,
she was better than that. Classier. No need to lie on her back and think of England for some married, hairy-arsed polis, judge, accountant, looking for a bit on the side. She had a brain in her
head and intended to use it.

Starting tomorrow.

Maybe then she could bag herself a footie player and realize her dream of becoming a WAG. Chantelle stroked her stomach. She’d lost weight lately and had spent all morning brushing up on
Celebrity Biggest Loser on the net. Poring over their weight-loss stories, picking up tips: what worked, what didn’t. More of the divvies seemed to be going up than down this week, which made
her feel a little less inadequate.

Spraying her legs with Tesco suntan lotion, making sure she covered the bits round her knees that always got burnt, she bristled as she noticed a bottle of Piz Buin sticking out of Tracy’s
bag. Knocked-off, obviously. She couldn’t afford to buy it, not with a kid at home to look after, no matter how many tricks she turned. Couldn’t pronounce it neither, prob’ly.

That was Tracy in a nutshell:
all the gear, no idea.

But they were great mates – had been since starting school. They had fallen out numerous times, but never for long. If Chantelle was being honest, Tracy was the one person in the world she
could trust, the only one who was there for her through thick and thin. Mostly thin, now she came to think of it.

A kid screamed as he entered the shimmering water. Chantelle watched him run back out and kick sand in his sister’s eyes, making her cry. Little twat reminded her of her brother, whose
real name was Todd but who was referred to as Samantha by his mates – a nickname that stuck with him when he entered the military. He took great pleasure in her discomfort. There was a posh
word for that, so his social worker said. German, if Chantelle recalled right. Chardonnay? Sommat like that, at any rate. Why didn’t folks speak plain English?

‘Evil little shit’ worked just as well.

There were no adults in the sea. And who could blame them? Chantelle had dipped her toe in the water when they arrived and watched as it turned blue. She could swear it was degrees warmer when
she was a kid than it was today.

‘Global warming, my arse!’ she said out loud.

‘Eh?’ Tracy looked up from
Grazia
– the fifth-birthday collector’s issue she’d half-inched from a mate’s house the night before. The magazine was
well thumbed, its pages curled at the corners. It had a picture of Lady Gaga on the front, the celebrity she most admired.

Pulling a face, she threw a baseball cap at Chantelle.

‘Better put that on,’ she said. ‘Either you’ve had too much sun or too much dope!’

Chantelle ignored the hat, repeating Tracy back to herself, mimicking her broad Geordie accent, which was far more pronounced than hers. She’d always tried to talk proper on account of the
fact that she was going places, the only one trying to better herself – the only one working, for that matter. The only one with a plan.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed an unhappy boy lying on a towel, his father ignoring him completely in favour of the phone in his hand. She wondered who they were, why they had bothered
to come down to the beach together. The lack of interaction between them made her feel sad. She wanted to go over and speak to the kid, do something to brighten his day. Being ignored was the worst
thing that could happen to anyone. She knew all about that. No wonder she craved the limelight.

She laid down and suddenly there was no wind, only baking, relentless sun. Gulls flew right overhead in a clear blue sky, a rare sight in the north-east. There wasn’t a cloud to be seen,
just acres of blue, reminding her of trips to the beach with her mam and Todd. He always insisted on bringing a cricket bat and stumps, a bottle of water and jam sandwiches to last a whole day. But
Chantelle was watching her weight, so lunch was a little more sophisticated nowadays: potted spread, BBQ crisps and Red Bull.

Smashing.

Chantelle suddenly sat up again.

‘Fucking Gobi Desert down there,’ she said. Turning around to face the water, she scanned the beach. Apart from the lad who was being ignored, there was maybe half a dozen families,
no more than that, paddling, sunbathing, some of them reading, cool-boxes and bottles of pop everywhere. The water looked so inviting.

Sighing, Chantelle glanced at her mates. ‘Anyone fancy a plodge?’

Nobody moved.

Chantelle laid back down. She could hear the wash of the sea on the shore, the laughter of children playing on the beach and some dozy cow yelling like a banshee for a dog called Roly. Chantelle
didn’t like dogs, having been bitten by a terrier when she was four. Little twat sunk its teeth right into her arm and she still bore the scar to this day. Let sleeping dogs lie, her father
had always told her. But did she listen?