Authors: Mari Hannah
Fortunately for the SIO, the evidence was pretty overwhelming for the Section 18 wounding. But that was merely the tip of this particular iceberg. Other charges, some much more serious, would be
put to her in due course: obtaining monies by deception, arson with intent to endanger life, and four counts of murder – such was the confidence of the Murder Investigation Team – each
count of murder carrying a mandatory life sentence.
‘Is everyone ready?’ Daniels asked.
Parks nodded on behalf of herself and her client.
Daniels checked her watch and turned on a recording device housed in a recess in the wall. She made sure it was running and then linked her hands together, placed her elbows on the table and
looked across at Laidlaw, whose mood was hard to read. ‘This interview is taking place at Market Street Police Station. It is Tuesday the twenty-ninth of June 2010. The time is sixteen-forty
hours. I am Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels.’ She nodded at Gormley, his cue to speak.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Hank Gormley,’ he said.
Daniels gestured to Parks. ‘And you are?’
‘Beatrice Parks, of Thomas Gillespie and Associates, representing Ms Laidlaw.’
Daniels gestured to Laidlaw. ‘Please identify yourself.’
‘My name is Lucy Laidlaw.’
‘Ms Laidlaw, I must remind you that you’re still under caution. Please make yourself comfortable, because you’re going to be here a while. Earlier today, I arrested you as you
were attempting to leave the country on a false passport. Leaving that to one side for a moment, I’d first like to talk to you about an allegation of assault on Chantelle Fox. She claims that
on Monday the twenty-eighth of June 2010 you forced your way into her home and assaulted her. Is that correct?’
‘I never touched her.’
‘We have a written statement says you did.’
‘Chantelle Fox is a pathological liar.’
‘You’re entitled to an opinion. Never let it be said that I would stifle your right to free speech.’ Laidlaw probably had a point, but Daniels wasn’t about to debate it
with her. ‘I’m sure Ms Fox will take her chances and allow a court of law to decide who’s telling the truth and who is lying. She’s already agreed to testify, under oath if
necessary.’
Laidlaw and her solicitor remained silent.
‘Maybe we should start at the beginning, deal with events chronologically,’ Daniels said. ‘It might help you to understand the gravity of the charges you’re
facing.’
‘My client understands perfectly,’ Parks said. ‘And she has nothing to hide.’
Daniels ignored her. ‘We have CCTV images of you buying petrol at a garage on the evening of Tuesday, twenty-second June—’
Parks interrupted and drew first blood. ‘I think you’ll find those images will prove inconclusive.’
‘They may do,’ Daniels agreed. No need to bullshit. The woman knew her stuff and the likelihood of identification was uncertain at this stage. ‘They are still in the process of
being enhanced, but we have better images, photographs that caught Ms Laidlaw in the act of arson at number 23 Ralph Street. And that brings us back to Chantelle Fox, who actually saw her do
it.’ She shifted her focus to Laidlaw. ‘That’s why you tried to silence her. Isn’t that correct, Lucy?’
Laidlaw rolled her eyes at her solicitor. ‘This is pure fantasy.’
‘OK, let’s move on. I don’t want to waste time. Need I remind you that you are also under arrest for the murder of Mark and Jamie Reid?’ Daniels said. Laidlaw
didn’t respond. She sat motionless on the other side of the table. ‘Was that a mistake? If so, it was the first of many you made this week. You set fire to Maggie Reid’s home,
unaware that Mark and Jamie were in there at the time. Were you sick of Maggie, jealous of the hold she still had on Mark?’
No reply.
‘I think you were. I think that’s why you decided to do something about it. Only, unbeknown to you, arrangements were changed at the last minute. That must’ve come as quite a
shock to you, if your intention was to burn the house down.’
Laidlaw lifted her arms, joined them at the back of her neck and yawned.
‘I don’t think you wanted to hurt Mark at all, did you? And you certainly didn’t want to hurt Jamie. You liked him, didn’t you, despite the fact that he wasn’t your
child? I saw the nursery, Lucy. A woman who cared decorated that room. I bet you spent hours on it . . .’ Daniels paused. Laidlaw’s body language was giving her away. She avoided eye
contact by examining her beautifully painted nails. Then the DCI pushed a little further, her tone harder than before. ‘Jamie was only ten months old. He died a horrible death in his cot,
having suffered ninety per cent burns.’ Opening the case file, Daniels took out autopsy photographs of the child’s body and placed them carefully and deliberately in front of Laidlaw.
‘Look at them.’
Laidlaw’s eyes were everywhere but the table.
‘Look at them!’
Daniels eyeballed her suspect with contempt. ‘How could you do that to a child you’d held, played with, loved even?’
The silence in the room seemed to go on and on. Jo had shown Daniels horrific photographs of Laidlaw’s own injuries as a young child. But she had no sympathy in her heart for the woman. No
amount of abuse, no matter how awful, could justify her actions that night. Whether or not she thought the house was empty, as a firefighter she knew how quickly the flames would spread and yet
she’d chosen to go ahead and endanger the lives of Maggie Reid’s neighbours.
Still avoiding the gruesome photographs, Laidlaw crossed her arms, glancing at Gormley in the process, her attention prompting him to join in.
‘But then things
really
got out of hand, didn’t they?’ he said. ‘In the early hours of Thursday morning a better opportunity fell into your lap. You were called
out to an accident on the A1 north of the Gosforth Park Hotel. Ivy Kerr told you she was on her way to Lottery HQ, didn’t she? So you killed her as she sat trapped in her car in order to
claim the money for yourself.’
‘Is money so important to you?’ Daniels asked.
‘Check my bank account,’ Laidlaw was almost smirking as she spoke. ‘It’s in the red. I have no idea what either of you are talking about. I did attend the incident
you’re referring to, along with several of my colleagues. In fact, I was so traumatized by it I’m currently off duty with post-traumatic stress disorder. But I don’t seem to
recall the old lady you mentioned.’
‘I never said she was old.’ Gormley threw her slip of the tongue right back at her.
Laidlaw’s face flushed up. ‘Sorry, I thought you did.’
‘No, he definitely didn’t.’ Daniels smiled. ‘Did he, Ms Parks?’
Ignoring the question, Parks jotted something down on a pad.
‘Did I mention that we have fabulous CCTV footage from Lottery HQ? We’ve also searched your locker at work and taken possession of the torch . . .’ Daniels let that one float
in the air a moment, watching for a reaction. Despite Laidlaw’s attempt to show no emotion whatsoever, behind her eyes was a clear message: guilty as charged. ‘Come on, you’re
doing yourself no favours. It’s your service torch and it has your number and prints on it. I have one of the best forensic scientists in the country examining it as we speak. A tenner says
he’ll prove you struck Ivy Kerr with it several times.’
Gormley’s face gave nothing away. He tried hard to hide his hatred for the woman they were interviewing. ‘How could you do it?’ he asked. ‘Make us understand, because
from where we’re sitting you look like a monster. But you’re not, are you? We know that you had a tough childhood, but even so . . . It’s time to come clean now, for
everyone’s sake.’
No response.
‘DS Gormley’s right. We’re just not getting this. How could you
do
that to an old lady when you’ve been the subject of abuse yourself? It doesn’t make
sense. How you could even think of setting fire to a place when you were once a burn victim is beyond me, it really is.’ Daniels threw the set of photographs Jo had given her on to the table.
Like a deck of cards, they fanned out as they hit the shiny surface.
Laidlaw flinched as her eyes seized on them.
‘That must’ve really hurt, Lucy.’
A slight flicker of emotion, then Laidlaw’s eyes grew dark again.
‘Chantelle Fox was clever, wasn’t she? With incriminating photographs in her possession, she waited until the time was right and decided to spoil your plan. How much was she asking
for? She didn’t say.’
Laidlaw glanced at her solicitor.
‘My client denies all the charges and has nothing more to add.’
‘What about Yusuf? Did you row with him over Chantelle, is that it?’
‘I know no one called Yusuf.’
‘He’s the man you murdered in the Turnbull Building. We’re sure to find traces of his blood on your clothing. You were seen leaving in a hurry, by the way. Another mistake.
There’s a pattern developing here, don’t you think?’
Laidlaw looked through Daniels like she wasn’t there. When the DCI told her she was going to prison for a very long time, she didn’t even flinch. She hadn’t talked about her
own abuse in twenty years and she wasn’t going to start now, no matter what buttons they pushed. As a little girl she’d been let down by a system that should’ve protected her.
While the burns on her skin had long since healed, the emotional trauma remained. Sadly, the cycle of violence had been perpetuated. Daniels felt angry about that and didn’t feel comfortable
adding insult to injury. She had enough evidence to convict and a confession was highly unlikely. She ended the interview there and then.
A
huge round of applause went up when Daniels walked into the MIR. The Murder Investigation Team were jubilant, the pressure off, the case on target for a successful
conclusion. There were the usual slaps on the back, calls to tell family the good news, promises of an early finish for once, a chance to catch up with what really mattered. But Daniels
didn’t feel like celebrating, or particularly elated for that matter. Laidlaw was a victim as much as she was a killer, and that was always hard to come to terms with. She’d been
charged with a string of serious offences and would be held in custody until morning, when she’d appear in court at the earliest opportunity. Any application for bail would be futile.
She’d be remanded for sure. And probably spend the rest of her unhappy life in jail.
Depressed by that thought but also relieved that Laidlaw could do no more damage, Daniels called the safe house to let Chantelle Fox know it was OK to return home. Then she shut up shop and took
everyone to the Bacchus for a few drinks. It was expected, the way things were always done at the end of an enquiry. Regardless of her wish to go home, the DCI would not disappoint the Murder
Investigation Team. After all the hours and hard work they’d put in, they deserved to let their hair down.
At the pub, she tried her very best to join in the revelry, to push Lucy Laidlaw to the back of her mind. But nothing seemed to work. Not the euphoria of having cracked the case – several
cases at once – or the booze, the chat or the music. Something was missing and that something was Jo. Normally the life and soul of any party, for some reason she hadn’t turned up. For
the umpteenth time, Daniels checked her mobile but there were no missed calls, no texts or voicemails. Every time the door opened, she glanced towards it, expecting her to walk in, a smile on her
face that would brighten the room, an unspoken look in her eye for Daniels.
Where the hell was she?
Almost like a missile, an explanation crashed into Daniels’ head. Jo had made up her mind. This was to be her very last case within the department. She hadn’t shown because she
didn’t want to put a damper on the celebrations.
‘No!’
‘No, what?’ Gormley asked. Despite his bewilderment, he didn’t wait for an answer, just held an empty pint glass in the air. ‘Ready for another?’
‘Why not?’ Daniels lied. ‘Make it a double.’
She didn’t really want a drink. In fact she wanted nothing Gormley could give her. Not here. Not now. She didn’t want to hear his take on the case and she certainly didn’t want
to laugh at his humour. She wanted to scream and shout. Stamp her feet. Take him into a quiet corner and tell him how pissed off she was. But this was neither the time nor the place, so she held it
in.
Taking her glass from her, Gormley fought his way to the bar. Raising his voice above the din, he ordered their drinks from his nephew, then stood chatting and joking with other detectives as he
waited for the barman to hand them over. Daniels looked around her. Near the window, Robson and Carmichael were playing a slot machine, Brown looking over their shoulder. Naylor and Maxwell were
talking football, Germany inevitably featuring in the conversation. ‘A place in the last sixteen,’ Daniels heard Naylor say. Some mention of a game with Ghana at the Soccer City in
Johannesburg. She checked her mobile again as Gormley returned to her side. Then threw back her drink, gave him a wad of cash to keep the beers coming, made her excuses and left.
A cab got her home in double-quick time. She set down her bag, then picked it up again and removed her iPod. Unable to choose what she wanted to listen to, she set it to shuffle and then placed
it on its station and turned up the volume. Jackson Browne – ‘For a Dancer’ – began to play, a song about love and loss, but the words depressed her so much she was forced
to turn it off again. Picking up the phone, she called Jo’s mobile. No reply. She tried her landline. No reply there either.
Fine!
Daniels made her way upstairs and took a long, hot shower. She was drying her hair when the phone rang. It was Fielding: the best thing that had happened to her all day. They arranged to meet at
Zizzi’s on Grey Street at nine o’clock. Nothing heavy: a pizza or pasta, a few glasses of wine. Daniels put down the phone, dressed quickly in jeans and a blue shirt she’d been
keeping for a special occasion and then went back downstairs. This time Fielding might get her wish . . .
I prefer my women to take clothes off, not put them on.