Deadly Deceit (37 page)

Zizzi’s was full when Daniels arrived. It was nine on the dot. Fielding was already there, drinking a glass of white wine, looking divine and relaxed. Daniels ordered Linguine Gamberi,
Fielding the Penne Della Casa and a bottle of Pinot Grigio Sartori to wash it down with. All things considered, Daniels had a good night, much better than she expected. She was nervous at first
– but in a nice way – and excited at the prospect of a first date with someone unconnected with her work.

During their meal, Fielding was attentive and interesting, really good company as it turned out. They had plenty in common too: a diverse taste in music, the love of a good book,
motorcycling.

‘Really?’ Daniels said.

‘You sound surprised.’

‘I never figured you for a biker, that’s all.’

‘Why?’ Fielding smiled. ‘I like to live dangerously.’ She toyed with her wine glass, tilting the liquid inside, watching it stick to the sides. ‘There’s a lot
you don’t know about me, actually. And a lot more I don’t know about you, I suspect.’ She looked up at Daniels and chanced her arm. ‘You still on the rebound?’

‘Makes you say that?’

‘Detectives aren’t the only ones with intuition.’ Using her free hand, Fielding pointed at her own temple. ‘There’s stuff happening up there. You going to tell me
what it’s like on planet Kate?’

‘Would it make a difference if I was – on the rebound, I mean?’

‘Hey, I’m not criticizing. I saw her, don’t forget. She’s very beautiful.’

‘Yes, she is.’ Daniels went quiet for a while and then changed the subject. ‘I’m always distracted at the end of a case. We have your murderous neighbour in custody, but
there are so many loose ends to tie up and then the case file to compile. I warn you, I’m a workaholic who never really switches off. I bet you’re the same when you’re putting
together one of your art exhibitions.’

‘Nice sidestep, Kate. You didn’t answer my question.’

‘Or you mine.’ Daniels took a sip of wine, meeting Fielding’s gaze over the top of the glass. ‘I’d rather not talk about Jo, if it’s all the same to you.
I’m here, aren’t I? That should tell you all you need to know.’

‘It’s certainly a step in the right direction,’ Fielding said, flirting with her. ‘I think we could have some fun, you and I. As it happens, I also come with a warning. I
spend a lot of time abroad, Kate. If we can see each other in between trips, I’d really like that. There’s no need to get heavy, is there? Sound like a plan to you?’

‘Sounds perfect.’

They left the restaurant and went back to Fielding’s place. They drank more wine, put on some music and talked until the small hours. Then, without warning, Fielding took hold of
Daniels’ hand and led her to an adjoining room, sat down on the bed and kissed her softly on the mouth. She smelled of good perfume. Her bare arms were cool to the touch but smooth and toned.
Daniels returned the kiss, feeling the need to have all of her.

The urgency of that kiss made Fielding pull back. ‘You sure about this?’

‘Shut up,’ Daniels said, unbuttoning her shirt.

I
t was almost eight-thirty when Daniels woke. Fielding was still asleep, so she slipped out of bed, picked up her clothes and tiptoed from the room in search of the shower. A
text had come through on her mobile, the third from Jo during the night, according to the display. The first two said:
Call me.
She deleted them. The third read:
Call your voicemail,
please!
Daniels was about to delete that too, but the frantic ‘please’ made her change her mind. Instead she dialled her voicemail service, put the phone to her ear and listened .
. .

‘
Hi, it’s me. I’ve been calling you all night
. . .’ Jo sounded stressed to death. ‘
Look, I’m not sure what’s going on, I just know I
don’t like it. I wanted to tell you yesterday, but you seemed mad at me for some reason. I’ve had second thoughts about . . . well, a lot of things really: the job, you, us. Is there
still an us?
’ If a pause could be described as a feeling, this one was desperately sad. ‘
I suppose what I’m saying is, I’m game to give it another try if you are. I
don’t care about the other stuff, Kate. Please call me when you get this. We really need to talk.
’

Fuck! What’s she playing at? And why now?

Daniels caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. For a moment, guilt stared back at her. Then she thought of Fielding lying in the next room and quickly forgave herself. She’d done
nothing wrong, nothing to reproach herself for. She and Jo had been history for a long time and she’d had every opportunity to make things right between them. In fact, Daniels had almost
begged her to. How was
she
to know that Jo would have a last-minute change of heart? And why did she suddenly feel the urge to get out of Fielding’s apartment as quick as her legs
would carry her?

She was about to switch the phone off when it rang in her hand:
Jo again.
Daniels panicked, fumbling with the phone in order to switch it off, hell-bent on killing the sound before
Fielding woke up. She couldn’t speak to Jo until she was clear of the apartment.

Some things were plain wrong
.

Taking a long, deep breath to calm herself, she opened the bathroom cabinet, looking for a spare toothbrush. There wasn’t one, so she put toothpaste on her index finger and cleaned her
teeth with that instead, then took a quick shower. She was nearly dressed when Fielding walked up behind her, slid her arms around her waist and kissed her gently on the neck.

‘Morning . . .’ It was a mumble rather than proper speech. Her voice was more gravelly than normal – if that were possible. ‘I made breakfast, such as it is.’

‘You didn’t need to do that.’ Daniels didn’t dare turn around. Fielding was a perceptive, intelligent woman who’d know something was up as soon as their eyes met.
Instead, she tipped her head back so that their cheeks came together, sweeping Fielding’s hair away from her face. ‘But I’m glad you did, I’m really hungry.’

‘Again?’

‘I meant for food!’ Now Daniels turned around.

Despite their late night, Fielding’s tangled hair and sleepy eyes made her look even more attractive than she had the night before. She was wearing a black, silk, kimono-style wrap with a
dragon embroidered in gold down one side. It looked authentic and expensive, something Daniels presumed the artist had picked up on her travels in Japan. Fielding was stroking her lip, a wicked
smile on her face as she tried to coax her guest back to bed.

‘I can’t!’ Daniels said emphatically. ‘I’ve got work today, even if you don’t.’

‘Spoilsport.’ Fielding feigned a sulk. ‘You want tea or coffee? I’ve made both.’

‘Coffee. Strong and black, please, no sugar.’

By the time she reached the living room, Fielding was already tucking into her breakfast at one end of an eight-seater dining table positioned in front of a huge window with views over the city.
The sun was out and in the streets below people were going about their business: walking, talking, driving in cars that looked like toys from this high up. Daniels ate yoghurt and a little fruit
and then asked if Fielding minded if she checked her emails, turning her phone back on when her host yawned and shook her head. She’d missed two further calls from Jo, one from Gormley and
three from forensic scientist, Matt West, all of which had arrived in the past fifteen minutes. A typical morning for her, clearly not so for Fielding . . .

Fiona yawned again and said, ‘You always this dynamic when you first wake up?’

Daniels smiled. ‘That’s me, a real dynamo. Why don’t you go back to bed?’

‘Only if you join me.’

‘I’m sorry, Fiona. I need to make an urgent call.’ Picking up her phone, she scrolled through her contacts, accessing Matt West’s work number. He answered on the fourth
ring in his usual optimistic voice. ‘Morning, Matt. What you got for me?’

‘Quite a lot, actually. The first of the two jobs you gave me . . .’ There was a shuffling of papers at the other end. ‘Reference KD1 is the cigarette stub found in the wall
opposite your arson scene. HG1 is the hair lifted from Susan Armstrong’s flat. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve got results on both, finally. I’m so sorry for the
delay.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Hold on a sec.’ Daniels excused herself and got up from the table. She found her bag on the living-room floor where she’d dumped it the night
before. Removing a pen and pad, she took it to the table, switching the phone into her left hand as she sat, poised to scribble down his findings. ‘OK, shoot.’

‘The cigarette stub is
definitely
Chantelle Fox—’

‘That’s no surprise. She admitted having watched the house burn and a whole lot more besides.’ Her pen hovered over blank paper. ‘And the hair?’

‘
Might
belong to Chantelle Fox, but doesn’t . . .’ West paused, giving her time to digest the snippet of information he’d divulged. He was a man who dealt in
hard facts, not speculation. ‘There are many similarities, but I’m confident that these two samples are from closely related females rather than the same person. And, before you ask,
yes, you can quote me on that.’

Daniels was stunned into silence.

‘You still there?’ West said after a while.

‘Yes, sorry, I got that . . .’ Feeling a change in Daniels’ mood, Fielding looked up from her toast. But the DCI was now in police mode and didn’t seem to notice. She was
staring into space through the window, trying to make sense of what she’d heard – a mixture of horror and puzzlement on her face. ‘Matt, Chantelle hasn’t got any sisters and
her mother’s dead.’

‘No,’ he countered. ‘She
thinks
she hasn’t got any sisters!’

Daniels thanked him and hung up.

‘Something wrong?’ Fielding asked.

‘Not wrong, just very surprising,’ Daniels said vaguely. ‘I can’t tell you about it, obviously. Look, I’m sorry, Fiona. I’ve got to go.’

A
t Newcastle Magistrates’ Court, overnight remands were always heard an hour earlier than the rest of the day’s business. The building was adjacent to Market Street
police station, ensuring a handy transfer of prisoners. At precisely 9:55 a.m., Lucy Laidlaw left her cell flanked by a female security guard whose heavy uniform shoes squeaked on the tiled floor
in rhythm with the keys jangling off her belt as she walked. Laidlaw was still wearing the white boiler suit she’d been forced to put on when her clothes were seized for forensic examination.
But that wasn’t causing her a problem today.

She might yet have a use for it.

A short journey along a corridor and up one flight of stairs would take her directly into a courtroom where she would face senior magistrates sitting especially to hear her case. Half an hour
earlier, her solicitor had visited her in the cells. Beatrice Parks had held her hand, both literally and figuratively, and told her what was about to happen: a brief hearing, followed by a further
remand in custody until a date could be set for her trial at the Crown Court in front of a judge and jury. Parks warned her to expect to wait a good few weeks. An application for her release on
bail was apparently not an option, given the growing body of evidence the CPS had at their disposal: the photographs, her torch, video evidence taken from the helicopter that her hat had been on
the back seat of Ivy’s car at the time she was murdered, and probably by now her DNA.

So bloody what?

Did they think she’d be intimidated by that?

If so, they could think again.

Laidlaw played her part, shuffling along the cell-block corridor with her head bowed deferentially – the picture of remorse for all the cruel things she’d done – her jailer
watching her all the time, oblivious to what she was really capable of and what was running through her mind. They were passing a white board fixed to the wall; it was sectioned off in rows and
columns, with a space to write each prisoner’s details. Across the top, reading from left to right, each column had a heading: cell number, name, relevant times, detention review and other
important information. She noticed hers was the only name written on the board and bristled as she read the words
suicide risk
in the last column, a throwback from another time, another
life, when she was weak and vulnerable.

It didn’t surprise her that she was the only prisoner in detention that morning. There’d been no noise during the night to keep her awake, no drunks or prostitutes in custody to
disturb her, no banging on cell doors as she’d been led to expect. Just the constant hum from the light above her head, and nothing to keep her mind occupied as she lay there surrounded by
four bare walls on a bed so very different from the sumptuous one she’d slept in at the hotel in London almost a week ago.

Was it only a week ago?

‘Keep moving!’ the gruff voice behind her said.

Laidlaw felt a nudge in her back propelling her forward along the corridor, past a free-standing fire extinguisher she’d examined the last time she was there, an old-fashioned one
she’d advised them to replace, a slight smile forming on her lips as an idea jumped in her head. She knew what to do now as she mounted the narrow staircase, taking in every detail, planning
her escape when all appeared lost, just as the Cypriot had taught her.

Despite his faults, she had a lot to thank him for.

The courtroom was large and relatively empty as she was led into the dock. Eight people in total: a reporter from the local press; a woman wearing a badge she assumed was a probation officer;
two female magistrates on the bench; and a male court clerk sitting in front of them. Directly in front of Laidlaw, facing the bench, was Beatrice Parks. Next to her, a Crown Prosecutor and a young
woman in plain clothes who identified herself as DC Lisa Carmichael, representing the Murder Investigation Team should the magistrates have any questions that might need clarifying.

Not a uniform polis in sight.

The hearing lasted less than three minutes in total. Laidlaw stood passively in the dock and spoke only once to confirm her name and the fact that she was of no fixed abode. But that
wasn’t how she wanted her court appearance to end. She wasn’t going down without a fight.