night?’
‘Slaley Hall,’ Carmichael’s enthusiasm diminished. ‘Golf tournament. Charity Fundraiser. Anyone who’s anyone was there, including the Chief. Denise Albright was
almost smirking when she told me that.’
‘Shit!’ Daniels sighed. ‘Thought it sounded too good to be true.’
‘There’s better news . . .’ Carmichael said finally. The team held its collective breath. ‘The Albrights weren’t the only ones to lose out when their business
folded. Four others lost their jobs and as far as I know they’re still on the dole.’
22
C hantelle slipped her phone back in her pocket as she watched the ambulance disappear. No lights or sirens. Too late for that now. It was horrible, seeing George drop like a
stone to the pavement right in front of her. He was a canny old man. A stingy old git. But he’d always been kind, especially when her parents threw her out – a frequent occurrence over
the years. She felt guilty for what she’d done. Still, George was past caring, why should she bother?
When her neighbours had wandered away, Chantelle had hung around watching the polis work on him. The daft sod hadn’t twigged that there were three outstanding warrants for her down at the
nick – unpaid fines going back years. Then again, he’d been rather busy trying to revive the old man.
George’s demise had drawn the attention of the journo she’d yelled at that morning. Having photographed the disappearing ambulance, he was hurtling towards her from across the road,
one finger raised in the air to catch her eye, his man-bag bumping against his legs as he ran. She knew he’d come crawling back sooner or later. DCI la-de-da Daniels had sent him packing with
his tail between his legs earlier.
What a divvi!
He smiled, apologized for leaving her high and dry.
She shrugged. ‘S’oright . . . wasn’t ready to talk to you then anyhow.’
‘You know the old man?’ he asked.
‘No, never clapped eyes on him.’
‘Really? You seem upset.’
‘Hay fever.’ Chantelle wiped her eye. She nodded at the shell of the house across the road. Chancing her arm, she asked, ‘What’s in it for me if give you the heads up on
stuff round here then? An exclusive, I mean.’
‘Depends what you know.’
Chantelle knew plenty. And she could spot an opportunity from a hundred metres. Her pissy part-time job at a secondhand phone dealership wasn’t going to make her rich, was it? She was
going to have to create her own luck. Lay her hands on a bit of cash some other way. By fair means or foul – she wasn’t arsed which. She was prepared to take her chances wherever and
whenever they appeared. But the journo wasn’t taking her seriously.
Realizing how transparent he was, all of a sudden he started being nice. Offering to take Chantelle’s picture. Maybe even get it into the
Evening Chronicle
if she came across with
what she knew.
Loser.
‘We could help each other out,’ he said. ‘C’mon, I need something special for my editor, something that might give us a handle on who started the fire.’
‘A snout, you mean?’ Chantelle laughed. ‘Do me a favour. Posh boy like you would be hard pushed to find one of them round here. I do have something, as it happens, something
that would make your eyes bulge . . . but I’m not givin’ it to you, so get lost.’
He walked off in a huff.
23
T im Stanton looked at his watch, saddened by the thought that he’d not managed to finish in time to get home for his son’s fifth birthday tea in the garden. He
exhaled loudly. He’d promised his wife he’d be there
no matter what
. But with two of his colleagues on leave, the urgent demands of his job required his presence here.
The pathologist and his associates were busier than they had ever been. Eleven sudden deaths in the space of twelve hours was unprecedented: a young woman hit by a bus while crossing the road;
six fatalities from an accident on the A1; two from the scene of a suspicious
‘Slaley Hall,’ Carmichael’s enthusiasm diminished. ‘Golf tournament. Charity Fundraiser. Anyone who’s anyone was there, including the Chief. Denise Albright was
almost smirking when she told me that.’
‘Shit!’ Daniels sighed. ‘Thought it sounded too good to be true.’
‘There’s better news . . .’ Carmichael said finally. The team held its collective breath. ‘The Albrights weren’t the only ones to lose out when their business
folded. Four others lost their jobs and as far as I know they’re still on the dole.’
22
C hantelle slipped her phone back in her pocket as she watched the ambulance disappear. No lights or sirens. Too late for that now. It was horrible, seeing George drop like a
stone to the pavement right in front of her. He was a canny old man. A stingy old git. But he’d always been kind, especially when her parents threw her out – a frequent occurrence over
the years. She felt guilty for what she’d done. Still, George was past caring, why should she bother?
When her neighbours had wandered away, Chantelle had hung around watching the polis work on him. The daft sod hadn’t twigged that there were three outstanding warrants for her down at the
nick – unpaid fines going back years. Then again, he’d been rather busy trying to revive the old man.
George’s demise had drawn the attention of the journo she’d yelled at that morning. Having photographed the disappearing ambulance, he was hurtling towards her from across the road,
one finger raised in the air to catch her eye, his man-bag bumping against his legs as he ran. She knew he’d come crawling back sooner or later. DCI la-de-da Daniels had sent him packing with
his tail between his legs earlier.
What a divvi!
He smiled, apologized for leaving her high and dry.
She shrugged. ‘S’oright . . . wasn’t ready to talk to you then anyhow.’
‘You know the old man?’ he asked.
‘No, never clapped eyes on him.’
‘Really? You seem upset.’
‘Hay fever.’ Chantelle wiped her eye. She nodded at the shell of the house across the road. Chancing her arm, she asked, ‘What’s in it for me if give you the heads up on
stuff round here then? An exclusive, I mean.’
‘Depends what you know.’
Chantelle knew plenty. And she could spot an opportunity from a hundred metres. Her pissy part-time job at a secondhand phone dealership wasn’t going to make her rich, was it? She was
going to have to create her own luck. Lay her hands on a bit of cash some other way. By fair means or foul – she wasn’t arsed which. She was prepared to take her chances wherever and
whenever they appeared. But the journo wasn’t taking her seriously.
Realizing how transparent he was, all of a sudden he started being nice. Offering to take Chantelle’s picture. Maybe even get it into the
Evening Chronicle
if she came across with
what she knew.
Loser.
‘We could help each other out,’ he said. ‘C’mon, I need something special for my editor, something that might give us a handle on who started the fire.’
‘A snout, you mean?’ Chantelle laughed. ‘Do me a favour. Posh boy like you would be hard pushed to find one of them round here. I do have something, as it happens, something
that would make your eyes bulge . . . but I’m not givin’ it to you, so get lost.’
He walked off in a huff.
23
T im Stanton looked at his watch, saddened by the thought that he’d not managed to finish in time to get home for his son’s fifth birthday tea in the garden. He
exhaled loudly. He’d promised his wife he’d be there
no matter what
. But with two of his colleagues on leave, the urgent demands of his job required his presence here.
The pathologist and his associates were busier than they had ever been. Eleven sudden deaths in the space of twelve hours was unprecedented: a young woman hit by a bus while crossing the road;
six fatalities from an accident on the A1; two from the scene of a suspicious
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