Settled Blood

by Mari Hannah

Maxwell’s mouth twitched, almost a smirk.

  It probably didn’t mean anything, but Robson instantly felt anxious – nauseous – his new-found confidence taking a dive. Were his colleagues really ready to accept him back into the fold? Or were they just pretending to forgive him? Maxwell didn’t look at him as he pulled on his jacket and headed out of the MIR.

  Robson watched him go, the betting slip he’d purchased in his break time from the bookies around the corner burning a hole in his pocket. He wanted – no, needed – the rush of another big win. He wanted it now. And nothing else would do. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow. He wiped them away on his sleeve, his stomach in knots, his heart thumping. And still the caller demanded an answer.

  He reached for the phone. ‘DS Robson.’

  ‘This is Laura Somers. Please may I speak to DCI Daniels?’

  ‘I’m sorry, she’s out of the office. Can I help?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  The woman faltered. ‘I don’t know quite how to put this . . .’

  ‘I know who you are, Mrs Somers,’ Robson was trying to help her out. ‘And I’ve a good idea why you’re ringing. I work for DCI Daniels on the murder investigation team. Is your daughter there?’

  ‘Yes. She arrived home safe and well about ten minutes ago. I thought I’d better let you know immediately.’ Laura Somers paused. Robson could hear shouting in the background as an argument sprung up. A man’s voice, he thought. Then a young woman’s; Rachel, maybe? Then Laura Somers’ voice, yelling in his ear: ‘Will you two keep it down!’ After a moment of silence, she said, ‘Sorry, Detective. As you can imagine, things are a little difficult here at present. I should’ve been honest with them years ago. It seems I’ve a lot of explaining to do.’

  Robson’s mouth had dried up. He too had a lot of explaining still to do. His gambling had split his family apart – not just his immediate family but his extended family too. They’d all piled in. An opinion here. A warning there. So much fucking advice he felt he was drowning in the stuff. He couldn’t find words.

  Laura Somers’ voice again. ‘Hello?’

  Robson cleared his throat. ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘Look, you’re obviously busy. I wanted to apologize to all of you for wasting your time, that’s all. I genuinely thought my Rachel was missing at first. I certainly never meant to mislead or deceive anyone. I know you have a difficult job to do and I hope you catch the bastard that murdered that poor girl. I’m sure you will. Your DCI sounds like a really good person.’

  Robson swallowed hard. Deceit was something he knew a lot about. And Laura Somers was right. Kate Daniels was a good person, someone who trusted him to do the right thing and turn his life around. Reaching into his trouser pocket, he withdrew a pink betting slip, screwed it up and threw it in the bin just as Maxwell walked back through the door, his warrant card dangling from a cord around his neck.

  Robson kicked his waste-paper bin under the desk, praying that Maxwell hadn’t noticed. He thanked Laura Somers for calling and arranged for her to bring Rachel to the station to make a full statement, then ended the call.

  ‘You OK?’ Maxwell said as he approached. ‘You look hot.’

  ‘Bet you say that to all the guys.’ Robson forced an uneasy grin. ‘That was Laura Somers. Three guesses what she was calling for.’

  Maxwell handed over an envelope. ‘Her daughter’s back?’

  ‘Yep. The boss was right. Harris is in the clear.’

  As Robson slit open the envelope, Maxwell perched himself on the edge of the desk in case the report contained anything requiring his immediate attention. It was a fairly lengthy document, a couple of A4 pages of text with a detailed map attached at the back. Robson took his time reading it, an inscrutable expression on his face. But when he got to the end, there was a distinct look of optimism in his eyes.

  He held out the report and said, ‘The geologist came up trumps. Fax this through to Weldon. Tell him to focus his search on the shaded areas marked on this map, the only places where green fluorspar was actually mined. And tell him it changes colour when exposed to light, so we’re definitely looking for a scene below ground.’

  ‘That’ll narrow down the search area significantly, won’t it?’ Maxwell said.

  Robson gave a little nod.

  The answer was in the question.

  Some positive news at last.

  55

  Patricia Conway’s face paled. She looked down at the image on the phone and then handed the device back across the desk. ‘He does work here. But in this department. He’s an admin clerk, not an anthropology lecturer. His name is Stephen, spelt with a ph, not a v. But his surname isn’t Curtis, it’s Freek. That’s F-r-e-e-k.’

  ‘And does he live up to the name?’ Gormley couldn’t help himself.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly answer that, Detective.’

  ‘Aw, go on. I can see you’re dying to,’ Gormley teased.

  ‘Is he at work now?’ Daniels asked.

  ‘I haven’t seen him. Let me check.’ The woman placed her hands on her keyboard and typed a command. A duty roster popped up on her screen. She scrolled through a page or two and shook her head. ‘Unfortunately not, it’s his day off.’

  ‘What exactly is his role here?’ Daniels asked.

  ‘He processes new admissions mainly: verifies qualifications, liaises with individual faculties, that sort of thing. He’s a pen-pusher, like the rest of us. Delusional too, by the sounds of it.’ Conway glanced down at her computer screen. ‘He doesn’t actually have a degree himself. In fact, he didn’t get very good grades at school. Frankly, I’m amazed he ever got a job here.’

  Like many people Daniels had interviewed over the years, Patricia Conway was cautious about offering information at first due to a perceived notion of confidentiality. But then the floodgates opened and they couldn’t stop talking. What was even more exciting, from Daniels’ point of view, was the fact that Conway didn’t like Stephen Freek, not one little bit.

  ‘. . . Freek by name, freak by nature, if you want my honest opinion.’

  Daniels felt a sudden rush of adrenalin. Goosebumps crept over her skin and the hairs on the back of her neck stood to attention. Was this the turning point they’d been praying for? She lifted her hand, stopping the woman in her tracks. For a split second they locked eyes, staring at one another across the desk.

  ‘Are you telling us he has access to student records?’ Daniels asked.

  ‘Of course! The whole damned database. Why?’

  Gormley fired off another question. ‘Does he share an office with anyone?’

  ‘No. He works alone, along the corridor. We passed it on the way in.’

  The air was suddenly charged with electricity. Daniels looked at Gormley with hope in her eyes. If his expression was anything to go by, they were both thinking the same thing. Freek could be guilty of a number of offences, some of them even more serious than administering a noxious substance to Carmichael: ABH, living off immoral earnings, the abduction of Jessica Finch, murder of Amy Grainger – all or none of the above.

  ‘I could show you, if you like,’ Conway volunteered.

  ‘We’d appreciate that,’ Gormley said. ‘It’s rare to get this level of cooperation.’

  ‘Oh, I can’t give you access,’ Conway backtracked, suddenly becoming defensive. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have that much clout. But I’m happy to show you where he hangs out.’

  ‘That’s not good enough,’ Gormley bit back, disappointed now.

  Daniels couldn’t help wishing they were dealing with Maria Wilson, Jessica’s personal tutor, the bubbly woman who’d been so keen to assist with their enquiries. If there’s anything we can do, anything at all, just ask, she’d said, and meant it. Showing her frustration with a sigh, she thought of lying to Conway, telling her they already had authorization, but that wouldn’t work. Devoid of a better idea, she glanced at Gormley for inspiration. He pulled his chair a little clo
ser to Patricia Conway’s desk, placed his elbows on it and clasped his hands in front of him, looking deep into her eyes. She probably thought he was going to say something nice, pander to her better nature.

  She was wrong.

  ‘Thing is,’he began,‘we’re investigating a very serious matter here and we really could do with your help. We need Freek’s details urgently and, while we appreciate you’ll have concerns about divulging personal information, legitimate exceptions to the Data Protection Act do exist for good reason, as I’m sure you know. Exceptions that supersede all that bollocks—’

  ‘He means for the prevention or detection of crime.’ Daniels cut him off before he said something they’d both regret. It wasn’t a good idea to put the woman’s back up. They weren’t going to get anywhere without her help. ‘I won’t lie to you. We need to examine Freek’s computer before he gets wind of the fact that we’re on to him.’

  Conway thought for a moment. Then she sat up straight, typed another command on her keyboard. ‘I need to pop out for a moment, would you excuse me, please?’

  The administrator left the room.

  Daniels turned the monitor round so they could view it. On the screen was a page displaying a picture of Stephen Freek: middle-aged, well-groomed, but so obviously posing for the camera. It was him all right and he looked like a complete twat. Underneath his photograph were all the details they were after: full name, address – which Daniels noticed was a stone’s throw from her own – an NI number and phone numbers too. Gormley made a note of them. Then the door opened and Patricia Conway re-entered.

  Daniels thanked her. ‘We won’t divulge the source of this.’

  ‘We’d like to see his office now,’ Gormley added.

  Conway nodded.

  ‘Why do you dislike him so much?’ Daniels slipped the question in casually as they left the office. They turned left, walking back down the corridor towards reception. Conway didn’t answer immediately, just lumbered along in front of them, her slack shoes flip-flopping on the lino, her tent dress wafting as she walked. Stopping short of an office a few doors down, she reached for the handle and turned to face them.

  ‘Off the record?’ she said.

  Both police officers answered with a nod.

  ‘Freek thinks he’s God’s gift to women. He’s a creepy little git who makes my skin crawl, and I’m not the only one to say so. He’s not very well liked around here, especially, though not exclusively, among female members of staff. Are you going to tell me what this is about?’

  She waited.

  ‘In a word, no,’ Gormley said. ‘Data protection’s a bummer, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very funny!’ Conway grinned at Daniels. ‘Your friend here should try stand-up.’

  ‘He’s not that funny.’ Daniels returned the woman’s smile. ‘We can’t tell you why we need to speak to him. But, put it this way: if he were here now, we’d have locked him up. If we’re right about him, you’ll read about it in the newspapers soon enough.’

  The comment seemed to satisfy Patricia Conway. Trying to conceal her delight, she glanced at her watch, opened the door and stood back to let them in.

  ‘Would you let me know when you’re finished? I’ll be in my office.’

  ‘Actually, I’d like you to stay.’ Daniels beckoned her inside and shut the door, blocking out the noise of passing traffic in the corridor beyond. The office was unremarkable, except that it contained two desks but only one chair. ‘Is Freek the only person who works in here?’

  Patricia Conway nodded. ‘Yes, I told you, he works alone.’

  ‘So nobody else has access to that –’ Daniels pointed at the computer on Freek’s desk. ‘If he shares the computer with anyone, we need to know.’

  ‘He doesn’t. It’s not password-protected, exactly . . .’ Conway held up the ID tag hanging on a ribbon round her neck. ‘Our system is ID sensitive, much the same as yours, I imagine, the only exception being the System Administrator, who has the power to override an access code.’

  ‘And who might that be?’ Gormley asked, pen poised to record her answer.

  Patricia Conway grinned.

  56

  ‘Can you do an audit trail? Tell us what he’s been looking at lately?’

  They were still in Freek’s office, door locked, blinds down. Patricia Conway nodded, sat down in front of the computer and logged on. At times like this, Daniels preferred to have Carmichael with her. She was MIT’s in-house technical expert. What she didn’t know about computers wasn’t worth knowing. Still, this woman looked like she knew a thing or two also.

  ‘You think he has a virtual life as opposed to a real one?’ Patricia Conway asked. Pulling at the neck of her dress, she switched on a desk fan but it made little difference to the heat in the room. She tapped instructions into the keyboard, then sat back reading the data on screen. ‘He doesn’t appear to have accessed any dodgy Internet sites, if that’s what you’re after. I’ll pull up the files he’s been working on most recently.’

  She closed down the page, pushed more keys and brought up a history log, enabling her to view by date: three months ago, a month ago, a week, a day. Today’s date was on the screen. Thursday, 13 May. It was blank. Conway changed to a week’s view, but nothing on the screen rang any bells with Daniels. She hoped she wasn’t wasting precious time.

  Jessica Finch was still missing.

  ‘That can’t be right!’ Conway was scrolling again, her eyes flitting across the screen, her brow set in a frown. ‘What the hell has he been doing? I don’t under. . .’

  Her voice trailed off.

  But her concern had sent a tingle of excitement down Daniels’ spine. Something was very wrong. With Gormley looking over her shoulder, she leaned in closer, eyes firmly focused on the screen. More specifically on a page showing several columns of names, each with a date next to it indicating when it had last been viewed on the system.

  In the distance, a siren screamed.

  ‘They’re playing our song,’ Gormley said.

  Ignoring the one-liner she’d heard a million times before, Daniels tried to make sense of the data facing her. It struck her as odd that the list was in alphabetical order, using Christian rather than surnames. The word ‘familiarity’ popped into her head.

  Conway’s eyes were like saucers as she stared at the monitor. More tapping. Different pages. It seemed to take for ever for her to look up. ‘Some of these are second-year students,’ she explained. ‘He has absolutely no business looking at them! His remit is new intake only. He’s even accessed their financial status. Why on earth would he want to do that?’

  Why indeed?

  A number of possibilities whirred round Daniels’ head. Was Freek sorting out the rich from the poor here? Targeting girls he could get into bed? Or was the fuckwit grooming girls from poorer backgrounds, enticing them to make easy money to subsidize their studies? It seemed likely he had something to do with Durham’s prostitution enquiry, but she needed more proof than this.

  ‘Maybe someone from within the university instructed him to access these names,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t he have been collating information to assist someone else?’

  Conway’s eyes flashed. ‘No way! At least, not without clearing it with me first—’

  ‘But you said yourself you’ve been away on extended leave. Isn’t it possible he was given a task to do in your absence, one outside of his normal remit?’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose, but not likely. We have floating staff whose job it is to do that sort of thing. I can easily check with the person who covered for me while I was away, but I’m sure I’d have been told if that was the case. Otherwise he’d have got it in the neck when I carried out my next check.’

  ‘You check his system periodically?’ Daniels asked.

  Conway nodded. ‘Certainly do.’

  ‘The last time being . . .?’

  ‘The day before I went on leave. Just over a month ago. I flew out on Easter Monday, the fifth of Ap
ril. I wasn’t at work on the Friday, obviously, so my last day was Thursday the first.’

  ‘And that was the day the system was last checked?’

  ‘Definitely . . .’ She pointed at the screen. ‘There’ll be a record of it in here somewhere, if you want to see it.’

  ‘Maybe later.’ Daniels thought for a moment. Had Freek taken the opportunity to trawl the database for information while Conway’s back was turned? Slipping off her jacket, she pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Can you go back one calendar month, take a copy for me, then tag the students he shouldn’t have accessed in the normal course of his duties and take a copy of that also?’

  ‘No problem.’

  Conway did what was necessary. Seconds later, in the corner of the room, a printer burst into life. Gormley left them and walked over to it, collecting hard copies as they spilled out, face up but the wrong way round: two files; four pages each; one tagged, one not. He turned them round so he could read them, confirming with a nod that they were what Daniels had asked for. Casually scanning them as he made his way back, his step suddenly faltered and his eyes grew big.

  ‘Fu—’ He nearly swore.

  ‘Hank?’ Daniels leapt from her seat, her pulse racing. Grabbing the document, she speed-read to a tagged name on the first document: Amy Jennifer Grainger. Daniels’ eyes flew down the page, to the second name with a tag against it: Bryony May Sharp. It was a eureka moment. She looked at Gormley, a lump forming in her throat. ‘I think we’ve got him.’

  Not entirely sure what they’d got him for, Conway beamed up at them proudly.

  ‘Warrant request, NOW!’ Daniels said. ‘Phone it through to Robbo.’

  Thanking Conway, they excused themselves and left the building. Outside, Gormley walked off to find a quiet place from which to make his call. Daniels checked her watch: one forty-five. She pulled out her phone and dialled a number, suddenly re-energized, ready for anything, a lost night’s sleep of no consequence now. Naylor answered right away. She told him what had happened and asked him to cover the briefing at two.

  ‘That’s if you’re not busy, guv.’