Settled Blood (33 page)

‘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.

She decided to back off and get to the point. ‘Did Jessica ever mention skydiving or parachuting to you?’

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.

D
on 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.