by Mari Hannah
66
Freek had not engaged a solicitor, despite his wobble the night before, so Daniels reminded him that he was still under caution and asked him again if he wanted one present. The suspect shook his head. Then, realizing he was required to speak for the benefit of the tape, he gave his answer verbally.
‘Right then . . .’ Daniels began. ‘Where were you between six p.m. and midnight on the evenings of Tuesday the fourth of May and Wednesday the fifth?’
‘You have my iPhone. It’ll tell you all you want to know.’
Carmichael had already examined the phone. He was supposed to be in Manchester on the fourth. All the same, Daniels wanted to hear it from him.
She waited.
‘I was at a Foals concert at the Ritz in Manchester on the Tuesday, I know that. I’m into alternative music . . .’ Freek’s grin was more like a sneer. ‘Ask your mate, the cute one I met at Fuse.’
Daniels glared at him. A night in the cells on a hard mattress had done nothing for his appearance: he was sporting a heavy growth of stubble flecked with more grey than his ego could possibly bear; his clothes were rumpled and sweaty; his gelled – normally slicked back – hair stuck out at odd angles. What he might have done to Carmichael had Andy Brown not intervened was anyone’s guess. Daniels noticed Gormley’s fingers close in a fist around his pen, his knuckles going white as he tried to keep his temper in check.
‘Can you produce any documentation to support that?’
‘Probably. I bought my ticket online. Fifteen quid or thereabouts—’
‘That doesn’t mean you were there,’ Daniels interrupted.
‘No, I don’t suppose it does.’
‘Anyone go with you?’
‘’fraid not.’
‘You drive down in the BM?’ Gormley asked.
‘No, as it happens I went by train.’ Freek yawned, fed up with their questions. ‘I hate motorway driving. I’ve got an extremely low boredom threshold, as you can probably tell.’
‘And on the Wednesday?’ Daniels pushed. ‘Where were you on the fifth?’
‘As far as I know, I was at home.’
‘Let me guess . . .’ Gormley said. ‘You were washing your hair and then you watched TV and there’s no one able to verify that.’
Freek smirked.
Daniels wanted to punch his lights out, wipe the supercilious grin off his face. She opened his file, took some pictures and posters out and slid them across the table, spreading them out in front of him. He glanced down at them, totally unconcerned.
‘So I like sporty girls!’ he said. ‘There no law against that, is there?’
Daniels produced the MAC flyer and slid that over too, studying his face for a reaction. There was none. Just the same arrogance he’d shown all along.
‘This particular flyer has been doctored,’ she said.
‘Nowt to do with me.’ He didn’t flinch, simply pushed the flyer back towards her. ‘It didn’t belong to anyone, so I took it. I collect stuff like that, as you can see.’
Either he was a very cool customer, or he was telling the truth and had nicked the poster for his own gratification. Daniels suspected the latter and let it go. For now. She was keen to get out of there, pass the bastard into the custody of her Durham colleagues for further questioning. She didn’t give a fat rat’s arse about what happened to him after that. She had more important things to do. Deciding there and then to bail him, she hesitated for a moment, considering the effect of her actions on Bryony Sharp. Maxwell had said she was a nice kid, terrified at the prospect of this fuckwit drugging someone else. If Daniels let him go now, how could she square that with her?
Carmichael.
Lisa understood what the girl was going through. She’d help Bryony understand the bigger picture, convince her that the police had their eye very firmly on Freek’s offending behaviour and promise that something would be done about it, maybe not directly relating to her case, but there would be consequences nevertheless. The squirt would lose his job for a start, especially if Patricia Conway at the university were to find out what he’d been up to. And find out she surely would. By the time Durham were finished with him, he’d end up with a custodial for his part in the prostitution racket. Whatever Daniels said to him now, she’d make damn sure of that.
She smiled – an assassin’s smile – feeling all warm and cuddly inside.
‘I’m a reasonable person,’ she said finally. ‘In a little while, I’m going to bail you. But before you get too excited, detectives from Durham will be here shortly to have a good, long chat with you. You come up trumps for them and they get the people they’re looking for, then who knows? I might think of all sorts of ways to be lenient. You fail to cooperate with them and I’ll come down hard on you when you return to the station for a decision. Do you understand?’
‘Perfectly.’ Freek crossed his arms. ‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Of course you do.’ Daniels stood up. ‘You can take it or leave it.’
The DCI ended the interview and went back upstairs. She called Carmichael into her office and briefed her on the outcome of the interview with Freek. Her young DC looked at the floor, too choked to speak. Daniels gave her a second to compose herself. When she looked up, the stress of recent days had all but disappeared.
‘Thanks, boss.’ Carmichael dropped her voice. ‘Can’t tell you how relieved I am that my undercover cock-up isn’t going to form part of a public court case.’
‘That was never going to happen, Lisa.’
‘’preciate that.’ Carmichael then added, ‘Robert Lester’s in reception.’
‘Oh, good.’ The internal phone rang and Daniels picked up. It was Brown. Asking him to hold on, she said to Carmichael, ‘Find an interview room and make Lester comfortable. Get him a cuppa and tell him I’ll be along in a minute.’ Carmichael walked away and Daniels went back to the phone. ‘Yes, Andy.’
‘I’ve just come from Amy’s parents. Your instincts were right.’ Brown had a slight tremor in his voice. ‘I have in my hand a photograph of Amy parachuting in Australia prior to her degree course – a gap year, so her father tells me.’
Daniels put down the phone in a daze. She left the incident room without speaking to another soul and went down two flights of stairs to the interview rooms below. Robert Lester looked up anxiously as she opened the door. He was extremely jumpy, not at all comfortable in unfamiliar surroundings.
‘Have you found Jessica?’ was the first thing he said.
‘Not yet.’ Daniels pointed to the cup in his hand. ‘How’s the coffee?’
‘Bloody awful. I was told you wanted to speak to me?’
‘I need more background information, that’s all. Something has come up during our enquiries; something I’m hoping might shed light on Jessica’s disappearance.’
‘Like what?’ Lester began to ramble nervously. ‘I told you everything when I saw you on Monday. I don’t see eye to eye with her father. Well, that’s putting it mildly – he hates my guts. I suppose you think he’s just an overprotective father. But it’s more than that, DCI Daniels. Honestly, the man’s a complete racist! You wouldn’t understand discrimination. Why should you? Bet nobody ever made up their mind about you at a distance of a hundred metres.’
‘That must be really difficult to cope with, for you and for Jessica.’
‘She doesn’t let him get to her. Sometimes I think she only goes out with me to get right up his aristocratic nose.’
‘I’m sure that’s not the case.’
‘I hope not. I’m mad about her.’
‘You must hate him a lot.’
Lester bristled, unhappy with the way the conversation was going. He took a pack of Marlboro Lights from inside his jacket, saw the no smoking sign and put them back again. Daniels found it curious that someone entering the medical profession would choose to smoke. Maybe it was the stress he was under.
No maybe about it.
They could both do with a fag right now.
Lester gave a little nod. ‘She loves that shit.’
Daniels tried not to react. But he must’ve seen a flicker in her eyes. His face paled as he misread the gravity of the situation. His hands flew to his mouth. For a moment, Daniels thought he would vomit. Fiona Fielding had told her that Lester and Jess were very much in love. The DCI wanted nothing more than to reunite the couple. But it had been nine days since Jessica’s abduction and she was beginning to fear the worst.
‘You have found her, haven’t you? Please tell me she’s not dead.’
‘No, we haven’t. I promise you we’re doing all we can, Robert. And when we do find her, you’ll be the first to know.’
‘After her father, you mean?’
‘Of course.’ She could see he resented that.
‘Why did you ask about the skydiving?’
Daniels couldn’t answer him.
67
Don Fairley looked good in his Aviator flying suit: a lightweight, flame-resistant affair in NATO green with multiple pockets on the thigh and upper sleeves, the logo of the MAC Flying School stitched into the breast pocket. He was standing outside a hangar next to a Piper Tomahawk aircraft, a pair of reflective Oakley sunglasses on his head, a Bose headset in his right hand, a flight plan in his left.
‘Is this going to take long?’ he said. ‘I’m due to take off in ten.’
Daniels stepped forward, showing him photographs of Amy and Jessica, asking if he recognized either girl. She watched him carefully as he put on a pair of reading glasses and scanned the images closely.
‘She looks familiar . . .’ Fairley tapped the photograph of Jessica. ‘The other one I don’t recognize. You’ll have to ask my partner. We work with different clients. I’m mostly involved with pilot training. He organizes and runs the skydive centre. D’you guys mind telling me—’
‘Your partner’s name, sir?’ Gormley interrupted.
‘Stewart Cole.’ He pointed towards a single-storey building. ‘Try the ground school or, failing that, the office. I’ve not seen him yet today.’ He shifted his gaze to the small car park. ‘His car’s not here. He might still be on his way in.’
The sun came out from behind a cloud and the wind picked up a little. Taking off his reading specs, Fairley dropped his sunglasses down on to the bridge of his nose as a young woman walked towards him also wearing a flying suit. He smiled at her, tucked his flight plan under his arm and held up his hand, spreading his fingers to let her know that he wouldn’t keep her waiting long.
‘Can I ask what this is about?’ he said, turning back.
‘First things first, Mr Fairley.’ Gormley pulled out a pen. ‘We need to talk to you and I’m afraid it’s not something that can wait. Could you accompany us to the office?’
‘No, I bloody can’t!’ Fairley raised his voice, swept his free hand towards his waiting trainee. ‘This young woman has paid a lot of money for my time. I told you, I’m working.’
‘So are we, sir,’ Daniels said. ‘We won’t keep you longer than is absolutely necessary. Do you have your advertising flyers printed here on the premises?’
‘No. A local printer does them for us.’ Fairley was beginning to worry. ‘He’s a friend of mine. Why d’you ask?’
‘So you have no objection to providing his details?’
Fairley shook his head. ‘Why would I? Look, the office staff can help you with that. Now, I really must go.’
Daniels held out a copy of the flyer the CSIs had found in the boot of Stephen Freek’s car. ‘Could I ask you to look at this and confirm whether or not it is genuine?’
He almost snatched the flyer from her, looked at the A4 sheet briefly and then handed it straight back, confirming that it was genuine. Daniels looked away as an Audi TT raced through an automatic barrier and pulled up in front of the ground school next to her Toyota. A guy about forty years old, also wearing dark glasses, got out carrying a flight bag. He locked the car and hurried into the building. If this was who Daniels thought it was, she knew he had form.
Carmichael had done some digging before they left the MIR.
‘Is that Stewart Cole, sir?’
‘Yes.’ Fairley bristled. ‘Can I go now?’
Daniels nodded. ‘But we may need to ask you further questions.’ She handed over a business card with her name, rank and department on it. When he saw she was Senior Investigating Officer in the murder investigation team, a look of horror flashed across his face.
She smiled. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
Fairley said nothing as they walked away.
They crossed the tarmac towards the ground school. Two plaques were attached to the wall on either side of the main entrance proclaiming British Parachute Association Approved Training Centre on the right; CAA Approved Flying School on the left. They found Stewart Cole inside, writing stuff on an old-fashioned blackboard for a lecture they presumed was about to take place. He turned around when he heard them enter, an inquisitive look on his face. He was really good-looking with deep-set eyes, chiselled features and a nice smile. His flying suit bore the logo of the club.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Daniels, sir. Northumbria Police, murder investigation team. This is Detective Sergeant Gormley. We’d like a word, if we may.’
‘Of course.’ Cole examined her ID as if he’d heard wrong. Then he reached out and picked up the phone. ‘First, I need to make a quick call.’
He dialled a number and turned away, looking out over the runway as he waited for an answer. Gormley made a face at Daniels. She knew what he was thinking, but he was wrong. Cole wasn’t calling his brief, just letting someone know that he had unexpected company, telling the person on the other end to apologize to his trainees for the delay. He said he’d call again when he was ready to begin his class. Ending the call, he turned back towards them, pointing at a vending machine in the corner of the room.
‘It’s not wonderful,’ he said, ‘but it’s all we have here, I’m afraid.’
The detectives declined to use it.
They were keen to get on.
Daniels showed Cole the same photographs of Amy and Jessica she’d shown his partner. ‘Can you confirm whether or not either girl has visited the club?’
‘Yes, they both have. Is there a problem?’
‘Can you take a look at this, sir –’ she handed him the flyer – ‘and tell me if it is one of yours.’
Cole spotted the discrepancy almost immediately. Daniels was sure of it. He flushed up, pulled the zip of his flying suit down to his waist, exposing a khaki special forces T-shirt. A link with his army career, she wondered, or just boys being boys, clothing to fit the image? Her father had once owned an SAS-issue knife he’d acquired somewhere on his travels. Loved showing it to folks, but as far as she was aware he’d never pretended it was his. He’d handed the damned thing in when the police had a knife amnesty. Worth a bloody fortune it was too.
‘Mr Cole?’
‘Sorry, yes, it’s one of ours.’
Daniels thanked him. ‘Could you take another look, please?’
‘A good look this time,’ Gormley added.
‘What more do you want me to say?’ Cole met Daniels’ steady gaze. ‘OK, it’s been tampered with. But not by me!’
‘What exactly do you mean,“tampered with”?’ Daniels asked.
‘The phone number’s different. I’ll show you.’ He walked to a three-drawer filing cabinet and looked inside. From it he produced an identical flyer and brought it to them. Daniels noted that it was for the same course, on the same dates, but on this one the contact number was correct. ‘Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?’
If she’d had money on it, Daniels would have said he was telling the truth. She glanced around the room. Six rows of chairs faced the blackboard on the rear wall. Either side of it were posters for the Private Pilot’s Licence (PPL) S
yllabus, medical and safety procedures, navigation, radiotelephony and Met Office charts covering almost the entire wall. In one corner, a picture gallery showed ex-students skydiving, all with smiling faces, some in tandem, some brave enough to jump alone.
Goosebumps covered Daniels’ skin as Amy Grainger’s dead body popped into her head.
‘You don’t like the police much, do you, Mr Cole?’ Gormley said.
Cole ignored the wind-up. For a long time he didn’t answer. Then he took a deep breath, his eyes on the more senior of the two detectives. ‘Do you believe in rehabilitation, DCI Daniels?’
Good question. One Daniels didn’t answer.
But Cole had her undivided attention.
‘I don’t know what you think I might’ve done. But I run a legitimate business here and I’ve nothing to hide from the police. I’ve been in trouble in the past, I admit it. But then, I guess you already know that.’ The pilot paused. ‘Look, I paid for my mistakes a long time ago and I’ve moved on. My business partner doesn’t know of my history and I’d like to keep it that way.’
‘I bet you would.’ Gormley kept up the pressure. ‘Three months’ imprisonment in 1999 for Affray, kicked out of the Army Air Corps in 2000. That’s not something I’d be proud of either.’
‘We haven’t accused you of anything, Mr Cole,’ Daniels reminded them both.
‘Yet,’ Gormley said, hellbent on the final word.
On this occasion, Daniels didn’t give him the satisfaction. She thanked Cole, deciding to leave it there . . . for now.
68
Driving was one of the pleasures of Daniels’ life. She never tired of it. But there was stuff she had to do and even she couldn’t work and drive at the same time, at least not on a laptop. So she took the unprecedented step of asking Gormley to drive down to the Mansion House as fast as the Toyota would carry them, calling Naylor from the car to give him an update and receive one in return.
‘Lisa’s squared things with Bryony Sharp,’ he told her. ‘And she’s also been doing some digging into the MAC Flying Club. They are up to their wings in shit, within an inch of being wound up – there’s possible motive there.’