86
Lucy Laidlaw stepped from the shadow of the upstairs hallway, the sound of a radio and running water reaching her as she crossed over the threshold and into the steamy bathroom. The opaque shower curtain was drawn. Apart from the tips of swollen fingers holding on to the top of the curtain rail, Lucy couldn’t see Chantelle. She could hear her though. The bitch was actually singing along to Lady Gaga’s ‘Telephone’.
Not a bad voice either: shame in a way to silence it.
Lucy had entered the house via the back kitchen, forcing the pathetic lock on the back door, lifting the phone off the hook as she passed through the empty living room. Sliding the bolt on the front door in case Chantelle attempted to escape, she crept up the stairs and waited. No reason to rush. By now Northumbria Police would have flooded the city centre with uniforms. They would be combing the area looking for her, not worried about Chantelle bloody Fox.
Lucy grinned. Never would they think she’d have the neck to return to Ralph Street, or that Chantelle would be stupid enough to return home with her on the run. Which meant only one thing: she didn’t know.
On the other hand, Lucy knew exactly where Chantelle would be. The girl had no imagination. And no reason to hide, if she’d been led to believe that her nemesis was under lock and key. Pathetic really. She was a sitting duck . . .
And she’d picked a fight with the wrong person this time.
The sound of running water ceased.
A hand reached out from the behind the curtain, grabbing a towel from the top of the adjacent wash basin. Seconds later, the curtain was ripped open. Chantelle didn’t notice her standing there at first. The steam was thick and her head was down, one corner of the towel held between her teeth as she struggled to wrap it round her body with her one arm. Her right arm was fucked, encased in a plastic bag to save it from getting wet.
As Chantelle’s eyes fell on Laidlaw, her mouth dropped open and the towel slipped to the floor. Her face drained of what little colour she had following surgery. Lucy was impressed. She didn’t scream or shout for help, just stepped calmly from the shower cubicle, eyeballing Lucy in the process. But beneath the bravado there was a mixture of terror and defeat, as if she was somehow resigned to her fate.
Let’s face it, she didn’t have a whole lot to live for.
Lucy smiled. ‘Hello, Chantelle.’
Fuck! The sight of Laidlaw produced a cold sweat all over Chantelle’s naked body. For a moment she was paralysed with fear. She made a sudden lunge for the door. Lucy countered, grabbing for her arm, but her hands slid off wet skin and Chantelle managed to slip from her grasp. She only made it as far as the landing before being yanked back by her hair. Shoving her hard against the bathroom wall, Lucy pinned her there with her right arm across her throat, blocking off her airway and making her choke.
In desperation, Chantelle fought for breath but none arrived. With her left hand, she tried prising Lucy’s arm from her neck but she was far too strong. Their faces were inches away from each other. Lucy’s eyes flashed with hatred and Chantelle knew it was useless pleading with her. Kneeing her hard in the crotch with force sent her flying backwards, unbalancing her for long enough for Chantelle to dash past her. Taking the stairs two at a time, she ran for her life. If she could get to the back door she had a weapon there.
Her father’s axe.
Time slowed as Lucy thundered down the stairs after her, closer and closer, until she was practically on top of her. As Chantelle ran from the hallway into the living room, she was felled like a deer as Lucy hurled herself at her legs, sending her crashing to the floor on to her injured arm. Unable to move, unimaginable pain shot through Chantelle’s body. She didn’t recognize her own voice as she begged for mercy. She wanted it over with. She wanted to die.
The attack was sudden and brutal. As the girl continued to beg, Lucy lifted the axe and smashed it into her head, sending a spray of blood right across the room. Lifting the weapon above her head for a second time, Lucy hesitated, her eyes fixed on the raised marks on Chantelle’s back. Marks she was seeing for the very first time. Marks that made her whole body shiver. Lucy almost threw up.
She lowered the axe. Dear God, what had she done?
It was like déjà vu when Daniels saw the open door as the panda car turned into Ralph Street and pulled up outside Chantelle’s house. She told her driver to call for backup immediately. She ought to have waited for Gormley, but that was never really an option. She was a police officer with a job to do and she’d make damn sure she did it. And this time it would be done properly. If necessary she’d escort the prison van personally all the way to Low Newton until the gates clanged shut and there was no possible avenue of escape for Laidlaw.
Chantelle heard the thud of a car door. She was lying face down on the floor, her injured arm beneath her body. But that was the very least of her problems. The side of her head felt like it was moving, like someone had poured a pint of warm custard over it, making sure it covered the entire surface of her face. And she was cold – so cold. She opened her remaining eye as Daniels stepped through the doorway, the DCI’s hand going straight to her mouth, her eyes filled with genuine grief. It was nice to know someone cared. Then crimson liquid covered Chantelle’s eyeball. Her heart pumped just once more. And stopped.
Gormley arrived before Daniels had a chance to bend down and check for vital signs. He stood over the naked body, clearly having difficulty reading the scene. There was so much blood the head was unrecognizable. He looked confused, his eyes telling him one thing, his brain something else as he stared down at the burn marks on the young girl’s back and came to rest on the seahorse tattoo on her upper arm. Matt West was right: Chantelle and Laidlaw were sisters.
A serious offender had escaped justice and gone to ground. Daniels let herself into the Turnbull penthouse with a heavy heart, knowing that a woman as clever and calculating as Laidlaw could evade the law for years, living off her ill-gotten gains. An all ports bulletin had been posted, but the DCI feared she might con her way through the cordon before the authorities had a chance to apprehend her. She was in the living room when she heard the noise. She swung round on full alert but no one entered. Investigating further, she found the source: an express-delivery package, addressed to Laidlaw, dropped through the letterbox by the concierge who’d signed for it that morning. Daniels ripped it open. Her eyes grew big as she realized what it was.