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.