Deadly Deceit (22 page)

She kissed her again, this time with more urgency.

‘
Jesus!
You drive me mad . . .’ Daniels pulled away, a sudden rush of mixed emotions. She felt elated and yet forlorn. They had wasted so much time and many harsh words had
passed between them. Jo’s presence now didn’t alter a thing. It certainly didn’t make up for the fact that they were about to part company – perhaps for good. ‘Have
you decided yet?’

‘Shh . . .’ Another kiss. ‘Do I look like I’m going anywhere?’

They made love to the point of exhaustion – the months they’d been apart drifting away – and fell asleep in the darkness wrapped in each other’s arms. But in the morning,
Jo was gone. Daniels sat up and listened. Nothing. Leaning out of bed to switch off her alarm, she realized Jo had never been there. It was all a vivid dream – wishful thinking on her
part.

Feeling miserable, she got out of bed and drew the curtains back from the window. The sun was up already, another fabulous day in prospect, according to the radio. She dressed quickly, ate some
toast and drank orange juice. It was far too early to call Jo, a final attempt at talking sense into her. Besides, it would probably turn into yet another round of aggravation. Daniels needed that
like a hole in the head at this hour on a Sunday morning. She wouldn’t beg her to stay, why the hell should she? Instead, she went in search of her bike.

Wheeling it outside, she yanked it on to its stand and did a quick BOLTS check: Brakes, Oil, Lights, Tyres, Suspension. Satisfied that all was as it should be, she went back inside and pulled on
her leathers ready for the short ride to work. Lifting her helmet off the floor, she opened the front door and was about to leave when the house phone rang, startling her. She picked up expecting
to hear Jo’s voice, her hopes dashed as Gormley came on the line.

‘It’s me.’

‘Hi, you.’ She tried not to sound disappointed.

‘Sure you don’t want a lift?’

‘I’m all sorted, thanks.’

‘Was I a prat last night?’

Daniels grinned. ‘I think you’ll find the answer is in the question.’

‘Then I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be daft. You at home?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Last one there buys lunch.’ She hung up.

By eight o’clock the MIR was buzzing. Daniels headed for interview room number three for a meeting with Charles Milburn, who had been brought in for questioning by the early shift. Elliot
had described his father as nasty piece of work, and so it proved. He refused to help with enquiries, insisting on having his brief present before any questions could be put to him. Exasperated,
the DCI had gone to find Stewart Cole so they could view the footage of the A1 crash, only to be told that he’d had to leave the station for an hour or two, a personal problem she hoped
wasn’t serious.

By the time Milburn’s solicitor arrived, her prisoner was insisting on being fed, frustrating the hell out of Daniels who had to wait in line to see him. And when she did eventually get to
him, he was totally unconcerned by the loss of his father, even less so with the nightmare his girlfriend was going through.

Nothing he had to say moved the arson enquiry any further forward.

Forced to release him, Daniels returned to her office.

Cole wasn’t yet back, so she bent Carmichael’s ear about her wasted morning. They had an early lunch at her desk, discussing outstanding actions, the main one being Jennifer Rankin,
their prime suspect for the A1 case. There was still no news of her.

Daniels had an idea.

Telling Carmichael she needed to make a call was a heavy hint for her DC to return to work. As the door closed behind her, Daniels picked up her mobile, scrolling to the number for the analytics
team of NFIB. The National Fraud Intelligence Bureau – a police unit set up to combat fraud and funded by the Home Office – held all manner of data on organized crime groups, including
aliases of people on their ‘most wanted’ list.

It was a long shot – but anything was worth a try.

A female DI with a southern accent answered almost immediately. Daniels explained who she was and why she was calling, asking if the name Jennifer Rankin had ever come up on their radar. The DI
agreed to look into it, offering to call back as soon as she had a result. Thanking her, Daniels put the phone down, then lifted it again and rang Gormley’s desk. His extension was engaged,
so she called Stewart Cole’s mobile just as the man himself walked through the door, apologizing for keeping her waiting, advising that Gormley was now tied up on a call but would join them
as soon as humanly possibly.

While they waited for him to arrive, Daniels made coffee. Cole never mentioned why he had been called away and she didn’t pry – not directly.

‘Is everything okay?’ she asked.

Cole nodded. He didn’t look upset or anything, so she let it go. He was supposed to be on a rest day and she felt guilty about encroaching on his free time.
Again.
She seemed to
be making a habit of that. Wondering if she’d spoiled a prearranged engagement, she told him she’d make it up to him.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘Joining the force is the best move I ever made.’

‘That’s great, Stew. I’m
really
chuffed it’s working out for you.’

‘I owe you, Kate. Big style. Anything I can do in return, just ask.’

He was standing by the window looking like he belonged on a windswept prairie: a pair of old jeans, a faded checked shirt, a worn brown belt with a brushed metal buckle that had some kind of
winged motif on it, his tan cowboy boots all scuffed at the toe. Although he’d never said as much, it didn’t take a super brain to deduce that he worked out in the gym. It occurred to
her that she knew very little of what he got up to when not on duty. What she knew of his past, he probably wished she didn’t. His criminal record might be short, his offence a one-off, but
it was doubtless a deep source of embarrassment to him and always would be.

Gormley still hadn’t arrived so she suggested they view the footage without him. Daniels knew from experience that ‘as soon as possible’ was difficult to measure. It could mean
a few minutes, an hour, or half a day, depending on what was keeping him. Viewing video recordings was a task she’d normally delegate to a junior member of the squad, but Cole’s
attendance at the briefing the night before had raised her expectations. He’d told her it contained something she needed to see for herself.

And so it proved . . .

As she placed the flash drive in to her computer, Cole drained his coffee and pulled up a chair. He sat closer to her than she felt comfortable with. She moved away slightly as the footage
began. On screen, a bright beam of light from Cole’s aircraft illuminated a section of the A1 below. The direction indicator in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen showed her that he
was travelling south. He flew directly over the accident, giving a running commentary of what he could see, highlighting traffic problems to the control room at the same time, no panic in his voice
as he relayed the information.

‘Can you fast-forward?’ he asked.

She looked up, puzzled.

‘You won’t see anything interesting until after I complete a reciprocal and head back the other way,’ he explained. ‘It’ll save you some time.’

Daniels did as he asked.

Cole’s eyes were riveted on the counter, bottom left on the screen. ‘Stop it there!’

Daniels paused the recording, then restarted it again. Cole had fixed his beam on the epicentre of the crash, the impact zone, flying in a tight full circle around it, all the while transmitting
footage back to the control room via a satellite link. They watched for a few seconds. Then the beam of light stopped moving and the camera zoomed in. Daniels saw herself and Gormley on the ground
being pelted with torrential rain. A split second later, the beam flashed off, then on again.

His greeting to her from the air.

This was really helpful as it fixed the memory in her mind, gave her a real sense of time and place. She glanced up as Gormley entered the room, beckoned him round behind her so he could see
what she and Cole were seeing. Putting on his bifocals, Gormley approached the desk and moved in close, looking over their shoulders.

‘You found anything?’ he said.

‘Coming up now,’ Cole said.

Daniels saw herself again, walking up the line, taking notes. The moving beam picked up Ivy’s Honda Jazz, a figure crouching at the rear, their head obscured by the roof of the car.
Gormley stepped into shot, paused briefly. He crouched down but didn’t approach the vehicle.

‘You spoke to them?’ Cole said.

‘Yeah, I did. I got no answer though. Or if I did, I never heard it. It was mayhem out there.’ On the screen, Gormley’s attention was taken by another casualty. ‘The Home
Office pathologist, Tim Stanton, said the old man died instantaneously. But Ivy Kerr was alive then. She actually smiled at me.’ He leaned in further, eyes like heat-seeking missiles on the
crouching figure next to the car. ‘Look at this evil shit . . . unbelievable!’

‘Can you get in closer?’ Cole asked.

Daniels zoomed in on the car but the nearer she got, the grainier the image became. She ran the recording again, only this time in slow motion, her eyes still glued to the screen. ‘I
can’t distinguish at this range between police, fire and medical personnel.’ Pausing the footage, she turned towards the two men. ‘I want you both to keep quiet about this for the
time being. Hank, I need to see the officer responsible for interviewing scene attendees immediately. And find out exactly what every one of them was wearing at the scene.’

Cole looked flummoxed. ‘Why?’

‘Look at Hank and me.’ Daniels indicated the frozen image on the screen.

Cole said, ‘So?’

‘I was wearing a police-issue high-viz jacket,’ Daniels explained. ‘Hank, on the other hand, was wearing an Arco rip-off.’

Gormley looked at Cole. ‘She means unofficial uniform. Stuff gets lost all the time. People replace it with anything they can get hold of. Or should I say, anything they can get away with.
No one questions you, so long as it fits loosely with requirements.’

‘We need pictures of all official and unofficial uniforms worn that night, Hank. Get
everyone
to identify what they were wearing and then I want itemized clothing verified by at
least one colleague who was there. And I want possession of each and every item. No exceptions.’ Gormley’s attention had strayed. He was staring intently at the screen. ‘Oi! You
listening to me?’

‘Yeah, I heard you. But what’s that?’ Gormley touched a point on the screen, specifically the rear end of Ivy’s Honda Jazz. He glanced up at them, a serious expression on
his face. ‘There was nothing recovered from the rear of car! I checked.’

Daniels peered at the bright object he’d drawn her attention to.

‘Shit!’ Her interest grew. ‘I know
exactly
what that is.’

C
ole looked at her, a puzzled expression on his face. Gormley peered at the screen, trying to see what she was getting at. Ignoring them both, Daniels scanned the screen
herself, making absolutely sure she wasn’t jumping to the wrong conclusions.

‘If I’m not mistaken, that’s a hat on the back seat, gents. Whoever attended Ivy Kerr was a professional,’ Daniels said. ‘Someone who knew to take the hat off so as
not to soak the casualty. Either they were assessing her injuries, establishing ID, or trying to free her. We’re not looking for a civilian here. This is a massive breakthrough.’

‘You’re suggesting it’s one of ours?’ Cole queried.

‘I bloody well hope not.’ Removing the flash drive from its slot, Daniels handed it to him. ‘Take this to Technical Support right away, Stew. Tell them I want it enhanced as a
matter of urgency. Whatever else they’ve got on can wait. And while you’re at it, tell them this is absolutely hush-hush. We need to keep a lid on it for now. If it reaches the media,
there’ll be a public outcry.’

As Cole left the room, Robson entered. ‘Thought you’d want to know: we have unequivocal proof that Ivy Kerr bought that winning lottery ticket at Tesco Extra, Kingston Park at five
past eleven on Friday the eighteenth of June.’

‘Time and date Camelot gave us?’ Daniels asked.

Robson nodded. ‘Exact match. Checked the CCTV myself.’

‘And it’s in our possession?’

Another nod. ‘So, that’s motive sorted,’ Robson said. ‘Now all we have to do is find Jennifer Rankin.’

A worrying thought washed over Daniels. Rankin hadn’t put a foot wrong so far. She’d covered her tracks well and it wouldn’t be easy to find her. ‘Any news on her
yet?’

‘Not a squeak,’ Robson answered as he made for the door.

Gormley asked him if there was any news on team selection for the World Cup game gripping the nation. Robson shrugged, his hand resting on the doorknob. ‘You want me to ask Neil?
He’s had his radio stuck to his ear all morning.’ Gormley waved the offer away, but as he turned away DS Robson caught the stony expression on Daniels’ face. His shoulders
dropped. ‘What? You are kidding me! The lazy bastard said he’d cleared it with you. He didn’t, did he?’

Daniels gave a wry smile. ‘That’s classic Neil. He’s so bloody sharp he’ll cut himself one day. Don’t be too hard on him, Robbo. You know how fanatical he is about
football. To be honest, I fully expected him to pull a fast one. Pull a sickie even, but he hasn’t. That’s progress, in my book.’

Feeling a little hard done by, Robson went back to work.

Daniels sent Gormley on an errand and set off in search of Naylor with two purposes in mind. One: she had an idea to run by him. Two: she wanted to ask a favour. On both counts she was out of
luck – he’d been summoned to headquarters by the head of CID, which meant she was forced to make a decision without first consulting him.

What the hell. She’d take the flak if it wasn’t to his liking.

She returned to the incident room.

Seconds later, Gormley entered from the corridor, nodding conspiratorially as he sat down at an empty desk. Everyone in the room had their heads down, oblivious to both of them. One or two
looked abnormally glum today, their minds on the Free State Stadium in Bloemfontein – kick-off for the big game was less than half an hour away. A quick check on the murder wall confirmed no
new events requiring their attention. Daniels already knew there were very few calls coming into the incident room today.