Settled Blood (26 page)

G
ormley followed the DCI back down a concrete stairwell and out on to the pavement of a busy street. As they walked, Daniels keyed in Bryony Sharp’s number, but there was
no answer and the phone switched to voicemail:

‘The mobile you are calling may be switched off. Please try again later.’

Daniels left a message and rang off. She checked her watch – twelve fifteen
-
then guided Gormley along a narrow street, eventually turning left into the cobbled courtyard of an
office block housing the university HR department. They’d rung ahead for an appointment and were already ten minutes late.

Daniels’ phone rang: Carmichael calling.

She took the call. ‘Thought I told you to go back to bed and sleep it off.’

‘I did.’ Carmichael sounded upbeat. Switched on. Back in business. ‘The creep is a lecturer of anthropology. It jumped into my head as I woke up thinking about him. It just
came out of nowhere. His name’s Curtis, Steve Curtis.’

‘You sure?’

‘Absolutely! Want me to chase him up?’

‘No, stay put, Lisa. Hank and I have it covered.’

There was a brief pause.

‘Is he pissed at me?’ Carmichael sounded anxious.

Daniels glanced at Gormley. He was smiling, preoccupied with something off to their left, not remotely interested in their conversation. Daniels followed his gaze, a broad grin developing as she
saw what he was looking at. A no turning notice fixed to the wall in the yard had been cleverly altered to read: no turn on.

‘He’s fine,’ Daniels said. ‘Concerned about you, obviously, but otherwise fine.’ A door squealed as Gormley held it open. Daniels walked through. ‘Look,
I’ve got to go, I’ll catch you later.’

She pocketed her phone.

They had reached an unmanned reception window. Gormley stuck his thumb on a bell-push to call for assistance and then stood back, waiting for someone to appear.

‘If I get my hands on that weirdo—’

So he had been listening.
‘You’ll treat him with professional composure, right? For Christ’s sake, let it drop, Hank. Just be thankful she’s all right. It
won’t happen again, I can assure you. Lisa won’t make
that
mistake twice. You should’ve seen the clip of her this morning. I’ve seen better-looking dead
people.’

A wry smile spread across Daniels’ face.

Gormley stared at her. ‘What?’

‘She stirred during the night and called me a
legend
.’

Gormley grinned. ‘She was pissed – she meant lesbian.’

Punching his arm, Daniels laughed out loud.

A middle-aged woman arrived at reception, a curious look on her face. She was obviously wondering what they were finding so funny. As wide as she was tall, she was wearing what could only be
described as a tent over leggings and saggy flat pumps on her feet that weren’t quite coping under the strain of her bodyweight. Daniels had to work hard to keep a straight face, concerned
that she might think they were laughing at her.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Kate Daniels.’ She pointed at Gormley. ‘And this is Detective Sergeant Hank Gormley. We have an appointment with Patricia
Conway.’

‘That’s me.’

She indicated a door to her left and buzzed them through. On the other side of it, a dreary, well-used corridor stretched off into the distance for quite a long way. It had green doors on either
side that reminded Daniels of the police station.

‘Please follow me,’ Patricia Conway said.

As she waddled off in front of them, Gormley stifled a grin. ‘I know I’m a bit on the beefy side, boss. But aren’t her legs on upside down?’

Daniels stifled the urge to burst out laughing, telling him to behave. About halfway along the corridor, the woman stopped in front of a door bearing her name, black lettering on a white sign,
the sliding sort, easily replaceable. She invited them inside, offered them tea, which they both declined, then took a seat behind her desk.

‘So,’ she said, ‘how might I be of assistance?’

‘I’m trying to find a man called Steve Curtis who works at the university. I have reason to believe that he may be a lecturer or professor of anthropology here.’

‘I don’t think so.’ The woman frowned. ‘Unless he’s
very
new to us. I’m not long back from the Far East – unpaid leave. My sister lives in
Singapore.’

‘Nice.’ Gormley smiled. ‘Could you check your records, just in case?’

Ms Conway nodded, put on a pair of specs and logged on to her computer. After a few keystrokes she leaned forward, peering at the monitor, two tiny white screens reflected in the lenses of her
glasses, before looking up, shaking her head.

‘There’s no one named Steve Curtis in that faculty.’

Daniels wondered if Carmichael had got her wires crossed. And who could blame her, after what she’d been through? But she seemed so clear on the phone. So certain of her facts. Daniels dug
deep into her pocket. Earlier in the day she’d asked Brown to send his photographs of their mystery man to her phone. She called up the best one and passed the phone to Conway.

‘Do you know this man?’

Recognition flashed across the woman’s face. ‘This is a wind-up, right?’

I
t felt good to be back in the MIR among friends.

The room was almost deserted now. Earlier, Detective Sergeant Robson had taken the unprecedented step of calling the squad together to tell his fellow officers the truth about his problems,
explaining how and why he’d fallen from grace in such spectacular fashion. It was a painful and bruising experience, but they’d reacted positively on the whole, applauding his honesty
and appreciating the courage it must have taken to face them head on.

Robson knew they wouldn’t forget what he’d done, but drew some comfort from the fact that they’d forgiven him. Daniels had been especially supportive. She’d gone out,
leaving him in charge of the incident room; her way of telling the others to let bygones be bygones and drop the cold-shoulder treatment. Robson took a deep breath and wiped his eye as DC Maxwell
lifted his head and glanced inquisitively in his direction. Thankfully, his prying didn’t last long. He went back to his work as the internal phone rang on Robson’s desk.

Robson lifted the receiver. ‘Incident room.’

‘Yo, Robbo. How goes it?’

‘Living the dream, mate.’ Robson lied. ‘And you?’

It was Sergeant Eddie Veitch. He worked downstairs in the front office. They’d been friends for many years, played poker occasionally with other guys at the station. A few quid once a
month. A laugh. A few beers. No big deal.
Until now
. Their wives had gone to school together and had remained friends ever since. But lately they’d drifted apart, another reason for
Robson to feel guilty.

He took a deep breath, hoping Veitch wasn’t going to ask them round.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Package for you. Hand delivery. Urgent report for the attention of the SIO.’

Robson relaxed. In Daniels’ absence, that meant him. ‘Be right down,’ he said.

He hung up. Seconds later, the phone rang again, before he’d even risen to his feet. Probably Veitch again. He hesitated before answering, raising his voice to regain Maxwell’s
attention. ‘Neil, nip down to the front office while I take this, will you? Eddie’s got something for the boss. And don’t hang around down there. Whatever it is, it’s
urgent.’

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.

P
atricia 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?’