Deadly Deceit Read online

  Dedication

  For my parents

  Marie & Gordon

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Mari Hannah

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  Twelve forty-five a.m., Thursday, 24 June 2010. Another hot and sticky night. Standing in the shadows, the girl peered into the darkness. Not a soul about. Several streetlights were out thanks to a couple of local yobs who possessed an air rifle each and no more sense than they were born with. She had to admit, the conditions were perfect for someone with murder in mind.

  Just metres away, in scenes reminiscent of the end of World War Two, the scruffy back lanes of Newcastle’s West End had been transformed. Red-and-white bunting blew in the breeze, criss-crossing Victorian terraces. Beneath it, trestle tables laid end to end stretched the full length of the lane where she lived.

  If anyone could actually call it living.

  With the eyes of the world on South Africa, the Brits were behaving like wankers celebrating a one–nil win over Slovenia after a piss-poor start to their World Cup. The party had begun at noon, a knocked-off flat screen rigged up outside so everyone could watch the match and get smashed in the sunshine. Paper plates were piled high with enough sandwiches and crisps to feed a small nation, crates of cheap booze stacked against one wall, a barbeque as big as Texas built just for the occasion, a karaoke system laid ready and waiting for the really sad fuckers.

  One of the guys had organized a mini football tournament, clearing wheelie bins away and drawing makeshift goalposts on the gable end of the next terrace down. Before coverage of the big game began, he’d exhibited his ball skills with an impressive number of keepy-ups to the delight of the kids. As they ran towards him cheering, he’d dribbled the ball past one, past two, and scored a goal before running off celebrating through a rotting wooden gate that was hanging from its hinges, returning minutes later with prizes: water pistols and catapults. Perfect choice for the next generation of fuckwits unlucky enough to grow up round here.

  But that was nearly twelve hours ago.

  Leftover food, gone stale in the heat of the day, littered the ground, blown there by the wind. Kids were tired and fractious, many of their parents drunk and incapable – none of them remotely interested in putting their bairns to bed. They’d spent the last few hours with beer goggles on, bigging up the game: Terry was awesome, Upson too, Milner outstanding – we can go on and win the tournament now. Bring on Germany!

  Yeah right: only yesterday they were accusing the England team of bottling it, choking under pressure – their manager, Fabio Capello, of ill-considered tactics. In the pre-match build up, TV commentators had talked of the courage required to play for your country. Bollocks. Her brother was in Afghanistan fighting for his. That took courage. Not kicking a ball round on a patch of grass for an hour and a half, a group hug at the end to show their solidarity. Footballers were only good for two things: shagging or fleecing – and not necessarily in that order.

  The smell of barbequed food reached her. That would be the kid three doors down – twenty-two years old and thirty stones in weight – never more than three metres from a burger, two if there were chips and curry sauce on the go. It seemed like everyone was involved in the street party.

  Except one.

  A raised voice broke through the laughter. A bottle flew through the air and landed in the street a few metres away, smashing into a million pieces. They were off, the neighbours from hell. It would all end in tears, probably at the General Hospital, their second home. Pissheads, both of them. Deserved each other. Wouldn’t know a good time if it ran up and bit them on the arse. Still, with neither of them working, there was a whole day ahead to sleep it off. Or so they thought.

  But then they didn’t know what she knew.

  2

  Within hours, the place would be a crime scene crawling with emergency personnel: medical, fire, forensic teams and cops. Locals rounded up. Statements taken. Those too pissed to cooperate locked up for drunk and disorderly, assaulting the police, breathing the same air – mutual disrespect the order of the day.

  Then it really would be game on.

  A snotty-nosed kid in Ben Ten pyjamas – no more than four years old – wandered out into the middle of the road. Kai, his mother called him. Poor little bastard hadn’t long been home from the care of the local authority after a non-accidental injury resulted in a place of safety being sought by social workers concerned for his welfare. Where the hell were they when he needed them, eh? Or the divvies he called parents, come to think of it?

  The boy blinked – dead on his feet – the epitome of neglect.

  Winking back at him, she stepped into the shadow of the doorway, stubbing her fag in the wall as his mother arrived, totally gone, vodka bottle in hand, no shoes. Just an England shirt and red leggings on pins that looked like they were on upside down. Her face was grotesque, smeared with the remains of a flag of St George. Unaware she was under scrutiny, she took hold of the young ’un by the scruff of the neck and dragged him kicking and screaming up a side alley and back to the party.

  The front of the terrace fell silent again and her attention shifted to the house across the road, lights inside dimmed, a wall-mounted TV reflected in the mirror in the living room. In her mind’s eye she saw the fire before it was even
lit. A smile formed on her lips as it ignited for real, small at first – barely a flicker – then building in strength as it licked its way silently up the stairs, raging out of control, fast and more furious now.

  Dense, acrid smoke drifted beneath the door. Windows exploded. A scream from inside. Him not her? It was a sound so chilling it made her shiver. The male voice surprised her. He was persona non grata in that house, supposed to be at his pad looking after their kid. Had she misheard? Maybe she’d got it wrong. It looked like Maggie had gone away and he was house-sitting, not babysitting.

  Oh God! Now she had a decision to make.

  A fire alarm went off but no one came running. In the lane behind her, The Killers’ ‘Mr Brightside’ blasted out as someone turned up the volume. Even without the music, elderly neighbours not at the party would write it off as just another bloody false alarm, cover their heads with pillows to drown out the din. Many of them too scared to venture out at night in an area where it paid to mind your own business.

  And still the elements of fire, oxygen and heat combined to create a mini inferno, so intense she could feel it burning her suntan from where she was standing. Deep down, she felt guilty. But not for long. No sweat. He’d have scarpered out the back door for sure. Anyhow, this was an opportunity she couldn’t afford to miss. Pulling out her mobile phone, she switched to camera mode and took her shot, wondering if the image she’d captured could do her any good. They say knowledge is power. Well, knowledge was money in her world.

  3

  Thursday, four a.m. Thunder rumbled overhead. On the southbound carriageway of the A1, a driver braked suddenly and then lost control. His lorry slewed across the road, fish-tailing as he tried to correct it, then hit the central reservation and literally took off. It flipped, rotating as it travelled through the air in slow motion, before crashing to earth with an almighty racket, sparks flying everywhere as it continued on its roof for several metres.

  The tail-gating driver behind couldn’t stop in time. His car aquaplaned on the wet surface and then ploughed into the back of the first car with a low crunching sound, throwing its unbelted rear passenger through the windscreen on to the underside of a third car.

  Her body began to cook on the red-hot exhaust.

  A third vehicle joined in the madness with an almighty crack, its engine seizing on impact, steam billowing from beneath the bonnet. Then another, and another, in a concertina of mangled metal. An HGV in the nearside lane had no chance. Jack-knifing as its driver swerved to avoid colliding with the others, it took out two cars in the fast lane, pushing one over the central reservation into the path of oncoming traffic.

  Metal crumpled like bits of paper, puncturing fuel tanks that spewed a lethal mixture of petrol and diesel on to the road. Glass and bones shattered simultaneously, rupturing internal organs, soft tissue ripped away. A swift death for some. Unimaginable pain for others as their bodies fought to survive. Misery for all concerned.

  The road was blocked in both directions. And still vehicles added to the chaos, emerging through the torrential rain at high speed, colliding with upturned cars, resulting in multiple casualties, horns going off, and fire as one car burst into flames.

  One minute there was lots of noise . . .

  The next, a deathly quiet.

  Local stargazer David Hedley was certain the death toll would be high as he looked down at the carnage from the balcony of his third-floor flat. The rain was welcome after days of dry weather but the sudden downpour had caused mayhem. Wrecks with their headlights still illuminated were strewn across wet carriageways, on grass verges, two straddling the central reservation. In utter disbelief he watched motorists emerge from cars, some crawling on their hands and knees, collapsing as their bodies succumbed to horrific injuries.

  A flash of lightning lit up the gory spectacle.

  One man had a limb missing, a flap of skin hanging loose where his arm once was. Blood pulsed from a main artery and he fell to the ground as two of the walking wounded went to his aid. Dazed and pale. Numb. Unable to take in the full horror in front of them. How anyone had survived at all was a mystery to David. The golden hour would be critical: the difference between life and death. He called the emergency services before rushing out to help.

  4

  Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels swore under her breath. If she hadn’t made a detour to Wideopen to pick up her DS from a mate’s house she’d have been at her crime scene by now. An urgent callout had summoned her to work, interrupting her sleep for the second time in as many days. A case of arson, according to the control room, an accelerant, most probably petrol, poured through the letterbox of a terraced house in the West End. The resulting inferno had claimed two lives.

  As duty Senior Investigating Officer she couldn’t complain about her work schedule. In recent weeks there had been an unprecedented lull in murder enquiries. That would change now summer was here. As the temperature rose, so would crime. Guaranteed every year. But she was going nowhere in a hurry tonight. Traffic had ground to a halt in front of her, stretching into the distance as far as she could see. Sirens wailed and blue lights flashed in her rear-view mirror. A telltale beam of light pointed down from the sky on to the road ahead. The police helicopter – India 99 – had been deployed. With budgets in every department being squeezed, that meant only one thing: the incident was serious, if not fatal. People were out of their cars, engines left running, keys dangling from ignitions. Abandoning their vehicles and their belongings, drivers were walking up the dual carriageway in between car lanes, chatting to strangers or talking on mobile phones, all craning their necks to see what was going on, putting their own lives at risk.

  She picked up her radio. ‘7824 to control.’

  ‘Control to 7824, go ahead.’

  The familiar voice of Pete Brooks, the radio controller, woke her sleeping DS. Hank Gormley opened one eye, peering through the windscreen at a long line of tail lights. Daniels could smell alcohol, but Hank wasn’t pissed by any stretch of the imagination. He knew better than to hang one on a school night. He was a bloody good investigator, her professional partner for almost a decade, a man she respected and cared for a great deal, a valued friend and colleague she couldn’t do without.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he said, through a gaping yawn.

  Daniels touched her lip to silence him in favour of her radio. ‘Pete, I’m southbound on the A1. Could you advise the fire department that I’m delayed? Tell them I’ll be with them ASAP. I’m stuck in a long tailback. From the looks of it, I’m not getting out of here anytime soon.’

  ‘That’s received.’ There was a tap-tapping sound as Brooks accessed his control room computer. ‘Multiple RTA ahead of you, Kate. Total gridlock, according to air support. First responders en route. You may as well send out for pizza, ’cause you’re gonna be a while.’

  Shamefaced, Gormley apologized for dragging her out of her way.

  Daniels shrugged. ‘Hey, don’t worry about it. You’re entitled to a life.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, not really! That’s a warrant card in your pocket . . .’ A loud explosion made them duck. They waited for another. When it didn’t come, they raised their heads. The beam from the helicopter was highlighting a huge plume of smoke through a curtain of pouring rain. Daniels went back to her radio. ‘Things are kicking off approximately quarter of a mile in front of us, Pete. Speak to Traffic. Tell them we’re stuck and ask if we can be of any assistance.’

  ‘Senior officer is Mike 7295. Shall I put you on talk-through?’

  ‘Please.’ Mike 7295 was the call-sign of an officer Daniels knew well. What he didn’t know about traffic accident management wasn’t worth knowing.

  The radio again. ‘Control to 7295. Take talk-through with 7824?’

  ‘Affirmative.’

  Another voice. Low and controlled. Mr Cool. ‘This is not a good time, Kate.’

  For either of them, Daniels thought. ‘7824. Two officers. Plain clothes.
En route to serious incident. Southbound. Approximately five hundred metres. Sounds like you need a hand. Anything we can do?’

  ‘If you’ve got a couple of high-viz jackets, we need all the help we can get.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Gormley looked at Daniels. ‘It’s raining stair-rods!’

  ‘Don’t be such a wuss, Hank.’ She swung the wheel to her left, blue light and siren engaged. ‘You can swim, can’t you?’

  Pulling on to the hard shoulder, Daniels edged her way forward, weaving in and out of traffic that had no business being there, dodging pedestrians who’d rushed out of their homes with blankets, torches, anything they thought might assist the dead and dying. None of them remotely aware of what they were letting themselves in for.

  5

  At the epicentre of the accident, pandemonium reigned. First responders included police, fire, medical personnel, but not in the numbers needed to cope with such a large incident. Motorists were bloodied, some screaming, some sitting on the grassy bank by the side of the road. Others wandering aimlessly away, causing more problems for those trying to help them. Still more casualties lay injured in their cars.

  For some, the pain had already gone.

  In one car an elderly couple were trapped and in a very bad way. As the man lost his fight for life, his wife, Ivy Kerr, wept, her summer dress drenched in his blood. It was getting light now. The scene out of the window was nothing like the road she knew. It was more akin to a breaker’s yard she’d seen on American TV. The car closest to her, a green Peugeot 205, looked like it had been in a crusher; its driver slumped over the steering wheel, dead as a post. A woman’s slender arm was lolling out of the rear side window. Blood trickled down her ring finger and dropped on to the wet road, zigzagging across the uneven surface and pooling in a shallow pothole, turning rainwater red.

  Ivy shivered. In her head, she could still hear the screeching of brakes, the shattering of glass, the sound of metal crunching on metal, the screams of trapped motorists – the whoosh of a fire close by.

  And now she could smell petrol.

  Fear ripped through her.

  Was she going to die too?