by Mari Hannah
‘Hmm . . . hold a second, Kate.’
Daniels watched Gormley sit himself down on a low wall surrounding the courtyard. She caught snippets of his telephone conversation as traffic passed by on the main road out of Durham: extensive enquiries . . . his place of work . . . he has accessed information . . . examining a database unlawfully . . . a serious offence being investigated . . . his arrest and the search of his premises.
Naylor was back. ‘Consider it done. I just cancelled a handover with Bright. You two been arguing again? He’s in a right strop.’
‘Nowt to do with me!’ Daniels hated lying to him, but Bright had been good to her and she couldn’t report him. She just couldn’t. This would be the last time, though. From here on in, she told herself, her loyalty was to Naylor. No question. ‘’preciate your help, guv. I’d ask Robbo, but he’s got something else on. Hank’s dictating a double-u as we speak.’
‘You sending the report over electronically?’
‘Yeah, by fax in the next few minutes.’
‘I’ll cross-check the names with the prostitution enquiry and get back to you.’
‘Thanks.’ A million things were going through her mind, questions she needed answers to. The most prominent of all: would they catch the bastard? ‘Guv, I need that warrant like yesterday. Can you make sure it’s delivered to Freek’s premises as soon as it’s signed? And not in a marked car, we don’t want to lose him.’
‘Would you have suggested that to Bright?’ Naylor made like he was insulted but he was only pulling her leg. ‘I’m wounded, Kate. What d’you take me for?’
Daniels could almost hear him grinning.
57
Freek lived on an elegant terrace of Georgian villas close to Jesmond Metro station. Daniels drove along slowly, checking door numbers as she went. The terrace was not as green and leafy as it once was. Many of the gardens were now gravelled or flagged, professionals who lived there too busy to care. High-end vehicles lined the pavement, wing mirrors inverted to avoid damage from passing traffic. Stephen Freek’s home was a converted maisonette occupying the ground floor and basement of a three-storey house. It had a separate entrance from the main residence. No surprise there then, Daniels thought, as she parked across the road and turned off the ignition.
Checking the street from the car before getting out, she checked her watch: two ten. Robson should have secured the warrant by now. So where the hell was he? She pulled out her mobile and called him, but there was no reply. Maybe he was still with the magistrate. She left a message and rang off. Returning to the Toyota, she gave a little tap on the passenger window.
‘No joy?’ Gormley opened the door.
Daniels shook her head. ‘C’mon.’
They crossed the road, entering the garden through a wrought-iron gate. At the end of the path, a few steps led down to a newly painted black front door. At night the area would be hidden from the quiet street above, perfect for whatever depraved acts its owner had in mind. Particularly if unsuspecting victims happened to be unconscious as he carried them inside.
She rang the bell.
Nothing.
She rang again.
Still nothing.
‘Guess that’s it then, ’til the warrant arrives,’ she said.
Lifting his right forefinger to his lips, Gormley silenced her. ‘You hear that?’
‘What?’ Daniels listened with her best ear but couldn’t hear a thing. Not a sound. Zero. Zilch. Total silence. ‘Must’ve been next door.’
‘No, it definitely came from inside!’
‘No, Hank!’
With a solemn expression on his face, Gormley held up an imaginary bible. His tone was deferential. ‘We believed that a serious offender was attempting to resist arrest, Your Honour. Unfortunately, we had no choice but to break into the premises.’ Grinning, he stepped back and took a running lunge at the door, smashing into it with his shoulder. Once. Twice. Third time lucky. The door swung open, rebounding on the interior wall, causing a chip of white plaster to fall on the wooden floor.
‘Now did you hear it?’ he said.
Daniels punched the shoulder he was still rubbing.
‘Ouch! That hurt!’
‘Don’t be such a wuss!’
Looking behind her, Daniels checked the street, making sure the break-in hadn’t attracted unwelcome attention. Leading the way into the hallway, she noted the lack of any mail on the floor. Freek had either been home since his encounter with Carmichael or he hadn’t received any fan mail that day.
‘He must have a cleaning lady,’ Gormley said, walking in.
There was very little natural light in the basement, but Daniels could see what he meant. The apartment was well cared for. The wooden floors were so clean you could eat off them. What looked like a bijou basement flat from the outside was a Tardis on the inside. The hall opened out into a large, open-plan living area, distinctly Japanese in style. They stood for a while taking it in: black lacquered furniture, very low seating; hanging lanterns; free-standing sculptures and oriental art – original paintings as well as prints.
Freek was living way above his means.
To their left, a free-floating staircase led up to the floor above. Directly ahead, a giant sliding screen with a subtle cherry blossom tree design hid a small kitchen at the back of the house.
Daniels had to admit it was beautifully done.
Jo Soulsby would love it.
Gormley didn’t.
‘Christ!’ He grimaced. ‘The fat lady was right. This guy is an utter weirdo. Confucius he say: sad man with design on girls need to get a life.’
‘Serve life might be more appropriate . . .’ Daniels glanced at her watch. ‘Try Robbo again, Hank. I’ll check upstairs.’
She left him to it, her heels clattering on the stairs as she climbed to the floor above. There were two large rooms up there; a study on the left, a bedroom on the right. She chose to look in the latter first. A solid wood super-king faced her on the far wall. It had an intricate lattice-work headboard, a black duvet cover, a black-and-white throw and several white cushions with a bamboo design picked out in black silk thread.
It wasn’t a bedroom.
More a stage.
A door to her left took her into an en suite bathroom with a loo, a bidet, his and hers wash basins and a huge, sunken, circular bath. Fresh, tumble-dried linen hung over a heated towel rail and the toilet roll was brand new. Bizarrely, the ends were folded into a point and held there with a sticker bearing some kind of Asian symbol, like you sometimes saw in hotels. Tiring of the Japanese theme, Daniels wondered what kind of sad bastard she was dealing with. She checked the toilet cistern, then peered into the bathroom cabinet and found men’s toiletries, all of them expensive, along with a carton of hair dye and, curiously, a tin of smoker’s toothpaste.
At least, that’s what it looked like.
The tin struck her as odd. It was old and worn when everything else in the apartment was spotless and new. Why? She removed the top and found a white powdery substance. Sedative maybe? Drugs? Definitely not something that would clean his teeth. The stairs creaked on the landing behind her. Daniels spun round. Peering through the crack in the door, she saw Gormley walking into the bedroom, waving a warrant in the air.
‘Now all we have to do is find him,’ she said.
He joined her in the bathroom. ‘It’s clean downstairs. And I mean clean. There are no personal effects down there. Not a bill, letter, nowt. No books, magazines or videos, despite the flat screen on the wall. That’s odd for a bloke living on his own. You?’
She showed him the white powder posing as toothpaste.
‘You want a full search team down here?’
‘I want the whole place stripped eventually: loft, drains, the works. But we can’t afford to spook him. If he gets a whiff of forensic suits he’ll know we’re on to him and go to ground. This may not be his only pad. It’s hardly been used, by the look of it. Probably has another, much closer to his w
ork. Once administered, Rohypnol-type drugs only last a few hours. He’d be cutting it fine getting back here from Durham with an unconscious, dead-weight shag in tow, even if he drives. When we get back, check for any parking permits registered to this address. Unless . . . I dunno, maybe he doesn’t screw the girls—’
‘You mean, he gets his kicks just looking?’
‘Wouldn’t surprise me . . .’ Daniels gestured toward the adjoining room. ‘That bed look like it’s been slept in to you? You find any cameras?’
Gormley shook his head, his attention drifting off somewhere.
Daniels tapped her forehead. ‘What’s going on up there, Hank?’
‘Dunno . . .’
‘Something is.’
‘I was thinking about Amy’s underwear not being swapped. Maybe Freek can’t get it up. Maybe that powder you found isn’t a sedative or date-rape drug. Maybe it’s speed.’
‘Dutch courage, you mean?’
Gormley shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows?’
Daniels felt like a kid with pieces of several different jigsaws, frantically trying to fit them together and failing every time. She couldn’t decide if Freek was a serious sexual predator or a creep running a prostitution racket in order to finance a flashy lifestyle. He’d accessed the financial records of a number of students. She only needed to look around her to see that he was money-driven, a self-obsessed egomaniac and conman to boot. If he was responsible for Amy’s death, then he was also to blame for Jessica’s abduction. Could he have abducted her to get his hands on her father’s cash? Make it big? Live the dream? But in that case, why Amy? That didn’t fit. Her parents were poor by comparison.
Nothing made sense.
Moving away from the bathroom, Daniels crossed the hall into the study and stood in the centre of the room checking it out. It was much the same as the rest of the house. Clean lines. No clutter. Gormley followed her in, began a cursory search of the desk. Daniels watched him get down on the floor and run his hands along the base of the desk drawer, making sure that there was nothing taped to the underside.
He shook his head – nothing doing – and went on with his search.
The desk itself was completely bare, apart from a landline that looked new and unused. Daniels picked it up, checking for a connection, replacing the receiver when she heard the dialling tone.
‘Smart move,’ she mumbled under her breath.
‘I’m good, aren’t I?’ Gormley said, getting up off the floor.
‘Not you, you idiot – him! No computer, Hank. Strange for a man who works on one all day long, don’t you think? Probably carries it with him. We need to find it before the bastard deletes any stuff he might have on it. Get Brown over here. I want this apartment under surveillance round the clock, starting right now! On second thoughts, get Maxwell. I want Brown to play minder tonight for Carmichael. He knows what this guy looks like. Hopefully we can take Freek off the streets before he does any more damage.’
58
Maxwell’s unmarked police car arrived outside the maisonette just as Daniels and Gormley were leaving. He parked the vehicle in shade across the street, staying with it as instructed. Daniels acknowledged him with a nod as she drove away and then called him on the radio, telling him what action to take should the man himself make an appearance.
On the way back to the station, she made a number of other calls: arranging to meet Carmichael at the MIR at seven o’clock sharp; asking the Technical Support Unit for a covert listening device for an operation she was planning in a few hours’ time; and lastly to Dave Weldon for news of Jessica.
Still no joy.
It was depressing news. But Daniels’ despair didn’t last long. Pessimism was not in her nature. She couldn’t allow her concern for the girl to cloud her focus, even for a short time, or the investigation would stall. Her team were counting on her leadership and she had to stay strong.
‘What you thinking about?’ Gormley asked.
Daniels kept driving. He’d always been able to read her, just as Jo had done. And, like Jo, Gormley had the wisdom to know when not to push it if she didn’t feel ready to answer his questions. She smiled to herself as he crossed his arms, settled back in his seat and shut his eyes.
The MIR room was buzzing with news of the day’s events when they arrived. The murder wall had been updated: Arrest Imminent was all it said. Naylor appeared to be in complete control: all officers were focusing on their assigned tasks; HOLMES was being updated with new intel; every member of the team – civilians included – were doing their bit for the cause.
Leaving them to it, Daniels went straight to her office, intending to ring Carmichael and check that she was feeling well enough to work later. There had been a hint of something untoward when they’d spoken a few minutes ago, something deeply troubling, a slight tremor in Lisa’s voice that put Daniels’ guard up. The phone rang out. But this time, Carmichael failed to pick up at the other end.
Probably in the shower, Daniels thought.
At least she hoped so.
Gormley was in a strop when she returned to the incident room, the office phone stuck to his ear. ‘So how come it’s taken four separate members of staff to answer one simple question then? It’s hardly a matter of national security.’ There was a short pause. ‘Yeah? Well, may all of your problems be big ones, mate.’ He ended his call abruptly as Daniels approached. ‘Jesus! These council officials boil my piss!’
‘Oh, really?’ Daniels laughed. ‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘There’s no parking permit allocated to Stephen Freek’s address.’
Daniels was quiet for a second, still stewing over Carmichael, whether she was up for another bout with Freek. With that worrying thought persisting, she pulled Gormley’s phone towards her, took a business card from her pocket, dialled Patricia Conway’s number and waited.
She answered right away.
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Daniels. Sorry to disturb you, yet again. I need to ask you one more thing: does Stephen Freek have a car?’
‘Yes, he does. A BMW three series convertible. I know that because I’d die for one myself. Well, I’d prefer a Maserati, but a beemer would do.’ Conway giggled. ‘Sadly, my salary won’t stretch to either.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to have a registration number, would you?’
‘It’s personalized, I know that much. Hang on . . .’ The phone went down at the other end. Daniels could hear the clicking of a keyboard. A few seconds later Conway was back on the line. ‘Got a pen, Inspector?’
‘Yep, go ahead.’
Daniels scribbled in the air. Gormley gathered up a yellow post-it pad and a pen. As Conway read out the registration number, Daniels repeated it back to her, ‘Foxtrot Romeo Echo Three Kilo.’
Gormley looked at the number he’d written on the pad: FRE3K.
‘You have got to be kidding!’ he said.
59
Carmichael ran the wire along the underside of her bra and taped it to her skin, nestling the microphone in her cleavage. She pulled down her shirt and took a good look in the mirror, making sure it wasn’t visible. Bending over the basin, she ran the tap and washed her face, fear of failure creeping over her as it had done all day.
Patting her face dry, she took a long, deep breath.
‘Testing,’ she said, keeping her voice at the level of a normal conversation, mindful of Daniels at the other end. ‘Boss, can you hear me?’
Seconds later, her phone rang.
Daniels’ voice: ‘Affirmative, Lisa. Meet me in the MIR as soon as you’re ready.’
Carmichael put on her jacket. She left the women’s rest-room feeling nervous but also thrilled at the prospect of catching Stephen Freek.
If only she was up to it.
Andy Brown was waiting outside, lolling against the wall in the corridor, arms folded, feet crossed over one another. Carmichael blushed. It was the first time she’d seen him since he’d extricated her from Fuse and she didn’t
quite know what to say to him. Daniels had been good about her fuck-up. Gormley, too, considering. But Brown might take the piss, and that she couldn’t bear.
He smiled when he saw her. ‘Boss wants to brief us asap.’
Carmichael didn’t stop. ‘Yeah, I know.’
‘You all set?’ He fell in step.
She kept walking. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Just asking.’ He was practically running to keep up. ‘Hey! What’s wrong?’
Carmichael swiped her warrant card at the entrance to the MIR. She opened the door, her stomach churning as she walked into the crowded room. She was behaving like a complete bitch. Not talking about last night wasn’t going to make it go away. But she had nothing to apologize for. Did she?
Of course she fucking did.
Brown was her oppo and she’d let him down.
Badly.
She’d reached her desk. ‘Look, Andy, ’bout last night—’
‘Forget it, man.’ Brown’s gentle Geordie accent seemed more pronounced than usual, not a hint of one-upmanship or triumph in his eyes. ‘We’re mates, right?’
‘So?’
‘So, it didn’t happen.’
‘What didn’t happen?’
Carmichael managed a half-smile, a lump forming in her throat. Brown was a top bloke and a good colleague. She should’ve known better than to doubt his integrity. Patting his upper arm, she thanked him for his support, wanting to tell him she was still feeling rough, confide in him about the flashbacks she was experiencing. Weird images had come and gone all day in her waking hours as well as when she slept: Freek standing too close for comfort; threatening shadows she didn’t understand moving towards her, then fading away; spinning faces turned in her direction disappearing into a black hole. Before she managed to utter one word, Gormley’s voice cut through her thoughts:
‘You two ready to rock ’n’ roll?’
Brown and Carmichael nodded in unison.
‘C’mon, the boss is waiting to brief you.’
Carmichael didn’t move. Another flashback. They were coming thick and fast now. She should tell someone. No. She had to do this. Had to show them she could be trusted. She couldn’t let them down again.