Deadly Deceit (7 page)

He had no fucking idea who he was dealing with.

‘I
’m Liv, short for Olivia . . .’ Taking his hand, she looked deep into his eyes. ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance.’

Ben held her gaze. ‘You always this direct on a first date?’

‘Only when I see something or some
one
I really like.’ She glanced briefly at the
Stock Trader
book cover being held in front of a stranger’s face. ‘Then
it’s no holds barred and I don’t stop until I get what I want. You?’

‘Same, pretty much.’

Yeah right. Who was he trying to kid?

‘Where you from?’ he asked. ‘No, let me guess. South of the river, certainly. Low Fell? Springwell? Am I at least warm?’

The redhead wasn’t happy. She’d spent time and money trying to lose her accent – trying to have no discernible accent at all – and this joker had nailed her good and
proper. Her elocution coach was toast. Must try harder, she thought.

‘I’m a linguist . . .’ Ben said, filling in the silence. ‘Accents are my business.’

‘Is there a Mrs Ben?’

‘Indeed.’

‘Of course there is. But what she doesn’t know, right?’

‘That about sums it up . . .’ He blushed like a schoolboy. ‘My father told me if you play with fire you’ll eventually get burnt. You think I should listen to
him?’

The redhead swallowed down the bile that rose in her throat, shivering as a ghost crept over her skin. She was somewhere else entirely, back in that dark, dark box room. She knew all about being
burnt: she still bore the scars under her very expensive clothes. She could feel them now – tight where the skin had healed itself – puckered pockets of ugliness.

Hideous.

She forced a smile.

As the train rattled on she rubbed her shoeless foot up and down Ben’s inside leg. She loved playing games with men she didn’t know. Loved fucking with their heads, seeing how far
she could push them. Over the years she’d found that even the most devoted of husbands came round to her way of thinking.
Eventually.
Of course, she’d wait until they were
absolutely besotted before making her play. A lucrative play it had been up to now.

Shame.

There would still be men like Ben.

But she was going to miss the rest of it.

I
t was gone four by the time Daniels and Gormley reached Mark Reid’s flat. The property was much more upmarket than the one he’d shared with his former wife.
Situated in Jesmond, it occupied the second floor of an end terrace, south facing with a view over a parcel of land known locally as the Little Moor. A green space other city dwellers could only
dream of.

Gormley gave an impressed whistle. They were standing in a hallway stuffed with original features: an elaborately carved staircase, ornate cornicing and stained-glass windows. Daniels followed
him upstairs into Reid’s flat, the leaves of a pot plant brushing her right hand as she entered the living room. A woman’s touch was her first thought as she scanned the interior
– one with an eye for the good things in life, from the look of it.

‘You reckon it’s his?’

Gormley glanced up from the desk drawer he was about to search. ‘This place?’

‘Yeah. No offence, but nothing in here tells me it belongs to a man. It’s really tasteful, not the sort of place I imagined at all.’

‘Hey! Men can do taste . . .’ He scanned the room. ‘I see what you mean, though.’ He pointed at a designer lampshade suspended from the ceiling like a big diamond swirl.
‘He didn’t buy that, for a start. No bloke I know would clean that thing.’

His words prompted a smile. ‘
He
doesn’t clean this place. No way! See if you can find a cleaning contract, mortgage docs, rent book . . . There’s something about our
Mr Reid that doesn’t add up.’

Daniels left him and went to explore the rest of the flat. The kitchen and the bathroom were similarly tidy and well equipped, the first bedroom she came to likewise. She opened a cupboard,
finding Reid’s own kit in one side: a mixture of suits, jeans, shirts, underwear. In the other side, there was some women’s clothing, enough to cement the impression that he was in a
relationship, but not nearly enough to make her believe that he wasn’t the only one living there. Daniels knew clothes and these were bloody expensive – too expensive for
her
police salary. She checked the labels. Size 14. Either Reid was a pint-sized transvestite who got his kit from high-end boutiques, or he was seeing a high earner who knew how to shop.

The last room she came to took her breath away. A child’s nursery: a magical space filled with brightly coloured toys, mobiles, a frieze of nursery rhymes stencilled on the walls. On the
far wall, a cot was crammed with soft toys, its bedding lovingly chosen with Jamie’s name embroidered in the centre. On a chair, a pair of child’s pyjamas and a nappy sat ready for a
little visitor who had never arrived.

Daniels turned away, trying her best to blank out the image of a dead child that was forcing its way into her head. She wouldn’t let it. She couldn’t bear to look at it again. She
just couldn’t. Carmichael wasn’t the only one suffering from the experience. You never got used to something like that.

There were no personal photographs on display in the room. But stuffed inside a drawer beneath children’s clothes was a framed photograph of Maggie and Mark Reid in happier times. Entwined
in each other’s arms, Maggie heavily pregnant, presumably with Jamie. Daniels wondered if they were planning to get back together. Was that what all this was about? Maybe someone didn’t
want that to happen. But who? Was she looking for a jealous other half?

If that was the case, was it his or hers?

Gormley shouted from the living room, interrupting her train of thought. She retraced her steps and found him by the window with his notebook out. He pointed at the landline. The display showed
the correct date and time as well as two new calls, but no SMSs. A flashing light indicated that one of the callers had left a message.

‘One’s from a local dialling code – East End, if my memory serves: Wallsend? North Shields? Somewhere near the coast. Call came in at eight-o-six p.m. on Wednesday. Someone
listed in the phonebook as Dave. The other is a mobile number. Call timed in the small hours, at one twenty-three a.m., to be precise. Caller is listed as Judy. I’ve taken a note of them
both. You want to listen to the message?’

Daniels picked up the handset and dialled 1571. An automated voice hit her ear:
Welcome to BT answer 1571. You have one new message. First new message. Message received at 1.23 a.m. on
Thursday, 24 June.
A woman’s voice came on the line. Fairly young, Daniels thought. There was a lot of background noise, laughing and chatting, as if the caller was in a pub or at a
party:
Hi, babe. Tried your mobile. Assume it’s on charge. Hope I haven’t woken Jamie. If you get this message, call me.
The line clicked off.

Then BT bollocks again:
To return the call, press—

Daniels hung up. She looked at Gormley, wondering if she’d stumbled upon Reid’s girlfriend. ‘We need to find Judy,’ she said.

G
eorge Milburn tripped and put a hand out to steady himself. He sat down on a wall to rest for a moment, pulled off his cap and wiped his brow with a handkerchief already damp
with sweat. It was a stifling midsummer day, the hottest he could remember for a very long time. No breeze either. Just baking hot sun. OK for the young’uns, but he couldn’t cope with
it any more. Maybe not the best of days to spend at the allotment with Elliot.

He’d been thinking about his grandson all the way home, feeling his disappointment as if it were his own. The lad’s face had dropped when he realized the car he’d set his heart
on had been snapped up by someone else. It was a setback, not the end of the world. George had attempted to cheer him up while they worked, joking that the motor was probably an old banger and not
worth half the asking price, if truth were known. No doubt it was clapped out somewhere, steam billowing from beneath the bonnet, its new owner beginning to realize he’d been sold a bag of
shite and wasn’t quite the petrol-head he thought he was.

Elliot’s mood had lifted slightly. There would be other motors. Other days to spend their hard-earned cash. Though George suspected a lingering wish to possess that car, Elliot had managed
to cover it well. He’d heard the words
crying
and
spilt milk
often enough over the years for them to have some meaning. Unlike his peers, he’d always listened
respectfully to what George had to say. Even if sometimes they ended up agreeing to disagree. Only once had he gone off on one, his frustration boiling over at having to repeat himself. George had
forgotten some minor detail of his first days at school. The name of his teacher, he seemed to recall.

Miss Proctor, Granddad. I already told you . . . three times!

Giggling, he’d leapt on to George’s knee and given him a great big hug – his way of saying sorry for yelling. He was only four then. These days he was more forgiving of his
grandfather’s senior moments. And for his part, George was grateful to have the ear of someone so young. Their relationship was one to be cherished. It gave George a reason to get up in the
morning.

His smile disappeared when he saw Chantelle Fox grinning at him from across the road. She never listened to anything other than her own voice. The girl was a complete fantasist. She’d told
him once that her dad was a diplomat. He knew her father well: he was a dipper not a diplomat; a man who’d rob his granny for her eyes and come back for the sockets – and a pathological
liar to boot. But she wasn’t all bad. She’d helped George at times when he needed errands run and Elliot was at work. Wasn’t her fault if she came from a family of wasters. The
lass’s heart was in the right place.

But it wasn’t
her
heart that was bothering him. The pain in his chest had been coming and going since the fire last night. From the looks of it, a police presence in Ralph Street
looked set to continue for some time yet. Mark Reid’s wailing as he tried to reach Jamie would stay with George for ever. Unfortunately for George, for ever was right now. The old man hit the
deck before he had chance to call out to Chantelle. There was a flash. Then everything went black.

C
armichael’s enquiries into Mark Reid’s background had yielded a lot of new information. As a consequence she had the floor of the incident room as well as the
attention of her peers. The team already knew that Reid was a joiner by trade and worked for a local firm: Albright’s. But his parents had told Carmichael that a year ago he’d got lucky
and his life had really taken off, an event his former wife had failed to mention when questioned earlier. Hardly surprising, given the death of her only child, Daniels reminded them.

No one argued.

Lisa checked her notes before continuing: ‘Reid’s skills so impressed the MD of the Malmaison hotel chain he was taken on permanently, pissing off his former employer and losing him
a lucrative contract to boot. He went into bat for himself, was self-employed at the time of his death, earning good money too, by all accounts. Good enough to pay off his parent’s
mortgage.’ She paused for breath. ‘Colin Albright, on the other hand, has been pushed over the edge during the recession. His company has recently gone into liquidation.’

‘This all makes sense.’ Daniels described Mark Reid’s home. ‘His belongings are not those of a common-or-garden joiner. It’s obvious he’s come a long way
since leaving Maggie, assuming he left her and not vice versa. The question is, did his newfound success lead to his death?’

‘Albright’s place is something else. A real fuck-off pad, but it’s up for sale.’ Carmichael gave an address at Runnymede Road, Darras Hall, an affluent suburb out past
the airport in the village of Ponteland. Everyone knew how posh it was. Even Alan Shearer had chosen to live there. ‘Took me an age to get in. Bloody place is like Fort Knox.’

Gormley glanced proudly at the DCI. Carmichael had done well.

‘What’s he like?’ Daniels asked her.

‘Albright? I wasn’t feeling the love, if that’s what you mean. His wife is a right pain in the arse. Bet she’s a real piece of work behind closed doors. Drinker, too. I
could smell the whisky soon as she opened the front door.’

‘Describe her.’

Carmichael looked perplexed.

‘Humour me, Lisa.’

‘Stick thin, good clothes, too much make-up—’

‘Please tell me they call her Judy.’

‘Denise. Why?’

‘Hank found a message on Reid’s answerphone.’ Daniels nodded to the recovered item. ‘Have a listen in. See if you recognize the voice.’

Carmichael stood up, walked over to the device and did as she was told. Then she turned it off and shook her head. ‘Nah, that’s not her.’

‘What size is she?’ Daniels asked.

‘Eight, possibly even a six.’ Carmichael sat back down.

‘OK, so she’s not the owner of the clothes in Reid’s wardrobe. What did the Albrights say about Reid? Anything of interest?’

‘No love lost. They blame him for their current predicament, the business going tits-up. Denise Albright admitted that the For Sale sign is a front. The house isn’t for sale,
it’s being repossessed.’

DS Robson whistled. ‘That’s quite a motive.’

‘She’s livid.’ Carmichael was referring to Denise Albright. ‘The business was set up entirely with her money. I spoke to the administrator, too. Colin Albright’s
not a savvy managing director by any stretch of the imagination. His wife had bailed him out before, standing guarantor for large loans he’d been forced to take out at the bank.’
Carmichael turned to Brown. ‘Andy, you want to say something about the restaurant?’

Maxwell interrupted. ‘They own a restaurant too?’

‘No, but I made enquiries in the village. Albright’s a bit of a gobshite, not well liked outside of his own set. There was an altercation in front of the Rendezvous one night between
him and Reid. Not the behaviour people round there see very often, I imagine. Not something easily forgotten either. It drew quite a crowd. By the time our lot turned up, they’d all pissed
off.’