Deadly Deceit (21 page)

G
ormley’s blue Peugeot was parked in his favoured spot near the back door, the one he collared most days on account of the fact that, after Daniels, he was almost always
first to arrive at the station. And he was the last man standing too, pretty much. From there he could make a quick getaway at a moment’s notice. Though it was getting on for ten years old,
the car was his pride and joy. The registration, DS 3459, was the number Julie had bought him when he made detective sergeant, when they were still very much in love – 3459 being his police
number.

‘Why do we do it, Hank?’ Daniels said as they got in the car.

‘Do what?’ Gormley slammed his door shut, strapped himself in. He put his key in the ignition and fired up the engine. ‘Flirt with the wrong people?’

‘I wasn’t flirting! Neither was he!’

‘Oh yeah? He practically had his tongue down your throat!’

Daniels fastened her seat belt as he pulled hard on the wheel, swinging the car right as he reversed. Stopping briefly at the security barrier, he tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering
wheel waiting for the red-and-white pole to lift. As soon as his exit was clear, he accelerated sharply, turning left out of the car park. On the open road he put his foot down, apparently as keen
as she was to get the hell away from the office for once. Even
he
had a limit. From the look of him, he’d reached it.

A couple of kids on unlit push bikes crossed the road in front of them within inches of the car. Gormley blasted his horn. They responded with wheelies along the pavement, scattering a crowd of
pedestrians making their way home from a local chippy, at least one of them losing their supper as a result. Gormley scowled at the kids as he drove by.

‘Give us a clue, boss. I’ve no idea what you’re on about.’

‘I meant why do we fuck with each other’s lives?’ Daniels said. ‘Maggie and Mark Reid looked so happy in the photograph I found in his flat. Baby on the way. Everything
to look forward to. Then within a few months they’ve separated. Moved on. Don’t people ever stop to consider what they’re doing these days?’

‘For some the grass is always—’

‘Greener, yeah I know. But it isn’t, though, is it?’

Gormley glanced to his left. ‘You still talking about Mark and Maggie Reid?’

Daniels went quiet. It was late. They were both too exhausted to get into a deep and meaningful. In less than seven hours they’d be making their way back to the MIR for another long shift.
Tonight’s briefing had signified a move in the right direction and they couldn’t afford to lose momentum. If anything, they needed to up their game.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, no more than a ten-minute ride. Pulling up outside her house, Gormley yanked on the handbrake, almost taking it off its ratchet. He let the engine idle
as she grabbed the door handle in readiness to get out. Unusually, he declined an invitation to join her for a quick drink, making an excuse that his wife would most probably be waiting up to
finish the argument she’d started at the breakfast table.

‘You know Julie . . .’ he said. ‘Never likes to see anything half done.’

Behind his tired eyes Daniels saw pain. The same pain she’d been feeling since having a go at Jo earlier. She wasn’t fooled by his attempt to make light of his marital problems and
suddenly felt guilty for keeping him so late. Sorry that another ‘perfect couple’ weren’t getting on. From what he’d told her – which wasn’t much – unless
he could pull off a miraculous recovery, his marriage was as good as over.

For fuck’s sake, what was wrong with everyone?

Daniels got out of the car. Ducking her head, she peered back in and tried not to sound as down in the dumps or as tired as she felt. Late at night things often seemed worse than they actually
were. Hopefully, a few hours’ kip would see them both back on track. She said goodnight and thanked him for the lift home.

‘You wouldn’t have got rid of Cole as easy.’

It wasn’t like Gormley to be so familiar. Daniels debated telling him to keep his nose out of her personal business, but the dynamics between them had shifted lately. She was no longer
simply his DCI, he her DS. They’d grown much closer since she’d confided in him about her feelings for Jo. Or, to be more accurate, since he’d discovered their affair and
confronted her with it. At the time he’d taken her silence personally. Hurt by what he saw as a betrayal, he’d accused her of not trusting him enough to be honest about who, or what,
she really was. But Daniels hated labels. She didn’t need the distraction that everyone knowing her business would bring. Hell,
she
didn’t even know who she was any more. Why
should Gormley? Did he think she needed protection from herself now? That she was no longer capable of making the right choices?

She forced a smile. ‘What have I told you about acting like my dad?’

‘Whatever!’ Like a petulant teenager, he stared out at the dark leafy terrace through the Peugeot’s front windscreen. Pressing her lips together tightly, Daniels resisted the
temptation to laugh out loud and managed to recover as he turned back to face her. But what he said next made her angry.

‘You do what you want, Kate. You will anyway.’

‘Hey! What is your problem? You’re my DS, not my personal minder.’

And still he wouldn’t let it go. ‘Just don’t come crying to me if it all goes pear-shaped.’ Looking in the rear-view mirror, he engaged first gear. ‘Pick you up
tomorrow?’

‘No! I’ll ride in.’

‘Not speaking to me now?’

‘Of course I am, you idiot. I fancy bringing my bike, that’s all.’

He blipped the accelerator and raced off into the night.

H
eading down Dog Leap Stairs towards the Quayside, Chantelle followed her usual crowd. Many of the guys were already pissed, their normally smart dress code ignored in favour
of jeans and mandatory footie shirts. Their chanting and singing was getting right on her tits. Earlier it hadn’t seemed so bad, but now it was reduced to the National Anthem, she’d had
enough.

Who
were
they kidding?

England versus Germany was a headline-grabbing game no matter which way it went. But England were
bound
to lose. Chantelle had placed a bet on it. Got reasonable odds too. If only her
mates would shut the fuck up, she’d be able to hear herself think and work out what she’d win for her five-pound stake.

Maths was never her strong point.

The girl in front of her tripped and went hurtling down the remaining steps, landing in a heap at the bottom with her cellulite arse on show. Everyone laughed and walked on. Not one of them
batted an eyelid or stopped to help her up. Daisy had never been able to hold her drink and would get worse as the night went on.

Chantelle took a swig from her wine bottle as she stepped over her. Winter or summer, Newcastle city centre was always pretty mad and this balmy Saturday night was proving no exception. World
Cup hysteria meant that all her mates had come out to play and were intent on having a good time. There was plenty of talent to choose from and the bars were buzzing with a real party
atmosphere.

Every single person she’d spoken to that night had been full of hope and expectation with the big game looming tomorrow. It was to be an afternoon fixture, she was pleased to hear, ample
time to sleep off the excesses of tonight’s binge before coverage began. Just as well, Chantelle thought. At the beginning of the pub crawl she’d foolishly bragged she’d drink
them all under the table. Not the brightest thing to do in view of
her
track record. Even if she managed to stay upright, in the early hours she’d probably find herself plaiting her
legs as she fought her way to the nearest taxi rank.

Fought being the operative word.

Not that Chantelle minded that. It was all part of the fun, as far as she was concerned. She always gave as good as she got and rarely came off worst. Only twice had she needed medical
attention. Once when she’d had her stomach pumped after trying a different cocktail at every bar in the Bigg Market for a bet. Not the most pleasant of experiences. The other time was when
she decided to go swimming in the Tyne at midnight and had to be rescued by the river police when she couldn’t drag herself out again. Last January she’d been locked up for disorderly
conduct. But that was OK too. A damn sight better than collapsing on a bench somewhere in the freezing cold. She’d created such a fuss during her few hours in the cells at Market Street
station the daft bizzies took her home just to get rid of her. She ended up quids in, having saved on the taxi fare.

Now that’s what she called a public service.

Chantelle turned right on to the Quayside itself. Two well-built lasses were staggering towards her, footie shirts on, heavily tattooed forearms around each other’s necks. They had short,
spiky hair and wore jeans and trainers. Not your usual Saturday-night attire, Chantelle thought. Unless . . .

Fucking dykes
.

Chantelle tensed. She’d seen girls like them in Styal Prison and something told her they wouldn’t get on. They burst out laughing when they saw her. The tallest, a real bruiser,
looked like she could handle herself. Blinking as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing, she pointed in the general direction of Chantelle’s right thigh, her hand waving
around as she tried to focus properly.

‘Something I can do for you?’ Chantelle asked.

The two girls made faces at each other.

‘Maybe . . .’ the bruiser laughed. ‘Not!’

Now they were
really
taking the piss.

‘That was the right answer,’ Chantelle said. She stood her ground, the hair rising on the back of her neck, her hand closing on her wine bottle. She’d been rolled in town
before and there was no way it was happening again. ‘You wanna drink? Get your own.’

Holding her hand to her chest, the bruiser burped. ‘Don’t wanna drink . . .’

Her mate collapsed in a fit of laughter. Chantelle barged past them, knocking them both sideways like skittles in a bowling alley. The skinny one was no threat. She lurched first one way and
then, as Chantelle was sure she’d hit the deck, she lurched the other, almost defying gravity before grabbing hold of a lamppost for support.

As they moved off, Chantelle caught her reflection in the blacked-out window of a restaurant that had recently closed down. She did a double take, embarrassment washing over her as the girls
disappeared around the corner. Her classy dress had accidentally got caught in her knickers. It was at least half an hour ago that she’d nipped up a back lane to relieve her bursting bladder.
Pulling the dress out, she smoothed down the material and ran a hand through her hair.

Looking good, all the same.

More like Cheryl Cole each day. Chantelle had every reason to feel happy tonight. She was on a promise to a guy called Jason Mountfield, someone she’d had her eye on for quite some time.
She knew he’d come round in the end. She didn’t feel at all guilty for intimidating his current girlfriend, sending her texts threatening to spread the word that she’d had an
abortion when they were both at school.

All’s fair in love and war.

Chantelle smiled to herself. Today had been a blast. She’d made her move to flog the images stored on her phone to the local newspaper. It hadn’t been as lucrative as she’d
hoped. Beer money was all. The stuck-up cow she’d spoken to had promised more, depending on something she called ‘content’.
Whatever that meant
. Probably news-speak for
quality of the shot or some such bollocks.

Who gave a stuff?

Chantelle sure as hell didn’t.

No. What upset her was being talked down to, like she was shit on the woman’s very expensive shoes. She felt like marching into that office and decking the bitch. But then her old
man’s wise words jumped into her head and made her think twice:
Never bite the hand that feeds you, Chantelle. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
Just two pearls of wisdom from
the biggest loser she knew. But she got the gist and decided to zip her lip. That newspaper reporter would get hers when the time came. Probably when her editor realized she’d missed the
scoop of a lifetime.

Chantelle turned around. Her mates had moved along the road without her, Jason Mountfield bringing up the rear. He turned, checking her out. She grinned as he mooned at her from across the road
and got her phone out to take his picture. Then the smile slid off her face as quickly as it had appeared. The silly fuck hadn’t seen the dark van lurking on the corner, two pairs of eyes
focused on his bare arse.

Suddenly the van door opened and a couple of cops emerged. Pulling up his strides, Jason legged it. But one of the cops ran faster, and the big bugger brought Jason down in one fell swoop. A
rugby tackle Johnny Wilkinson would’ve been proud of. Chantelle literally stamped her feet as the cop cuffed Jason, dragging him kicking and screaming into the van, pushing him inside with
some force, only a cage separating him from a barking Alsatian that looked like it had seen its supper arrive on a tray.

Chantelle swore at them as they went by, swigged her wine and watched the van drive off at speed, her promise along with it.

Just her luck to back another loser.

T
he sheet slid off Daniels’ shoulder. She was neither asleep nor awake but in that space in between. The next thing she was aware of was the smell of exquisite perfume
and the low flicker of candle light. Then Jo’s warm naked body slid into the bed, shuffling up close until she could feel every part of her. Arching her back in response, Daniels lay there
savouring the moment. Then she turned, locking eyes with her ex, unable to believe she was really there.

‘How did?’

‘Shh . . .’ Jo put her forefinger to Daniels’ lips and followed it up with a gentle, almost imperceptible kiss. ‘You never asked for your key back.’ She held out
both wrists and smiled, the way only
she
could. ‘You going to lock me up for breaking and entering? I seem to remember you have before.’