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 closer 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.