The MIR always looked eerie at this time of night: the main lights switched off, work stations empty, computer screens dead – the smell of floor polish lingering, courtesy of the office cleaner. Carmichael was tense. She was standing directly in front of the murder wall in an area bathed in a pool of light from spots mounted on the ceiling. She’d cleared two desks and pushed them together to form a long counter. A shallow exhibits box sat on one end with Freek’s laptop still inside. A second, empty box lay discarded on the floor, its contents laid out methodically: magazines in one pile, photographs, posters, and so on.
Picking up the photographs, Daniels sifted through them, studying each one carefully. They showed sportswomen in various stages of undress, athletes who seemed totally unaware that their activities were being captured on film – rowers, runners, hockey and rugby players, to name but a few. She was no expert, but the style and print quality led her to believe that they hadn’t all come from the same source, much less been printed in the same lab. Some looked professionally done, others were much more amateurish.
Many of the images had holes or traces of dried-up Blu-Tack in the corners, evidence that they’d once been pinned to something else. Daniels picked up the posters. Same here. They were old copies of advertisements for events dating back several months – the type seen on any noticeboard.
‘Is this what got you all fired up?’ Daniels turned to Carmichael.
Carmichael nodded.
‘We knew he was a voyeur,’ Daniels said.
‘She means perv,’ Gormley said. ‘That’s how she made DCI.’
Carmichael grinned, handing Daniels an A4 sheet. ‘I found this with the other stuff.’
It was an advertisement for a flying club based at a local aerodrome:
Jump for your life!
Parachuting and Skydiving
Beginners Welcome
Student Concessions with Union Card.
Reference to an extreme sports organization Daniels had found in Jessica’s belongings – an unexplained payment of five hundred pounds – shot into her thoughts, awakening the detective in her. It was too soon to say whether the investigation was about to take yet another unexpected twist. It was all too easy to let your mind run away with itself when you were scratching around in the dark, which was all they’d been doing since the whole team – herself included – had Mark Harris fingered for an incident he had absolutely nothing to do with. And that was only a couple of days ago. Wanting the evidence to fit was very different from actually producing it.
‘I couldn’t wait to show you.’ Carmichael’s eyes shifted to Daniels. She certainly wasn’t jumping up and down. Yet. ‘It’s a link with flying, yes?’
Daniels conceded that it was. ‘I don’t want to stifle your enthusiasm, Lisa. But it’s very late. I think we should all go home and sleep on it, discuss it with the rest of the team first thing in the morning.’
But Carmichael was resolute.
Still smiling.
Triumphant even.
She knew something more . . .
‘What?’ Daniels and Gormley said simultaneously.
‘What if I told you that flyer has been altered?’
‘In what way?’ Daniels’ heart was thumping now.
‘Look at the contact number,’ Carmichael said.
They read the flyer again.
Daniels looked up. ‘So?’
‘It’s a mobile number and it doesn’t correspond with the flying club’s current website – I checked.’ Carmichael pointed at the only live computer in the room. It was sitting on a nearby desk and had gone into hibernation, the screen saver showing a floating force logo. ‘Take a look for yourself.’
They all moved towards it. Carmichael sat down and ran her finger over the touchpad. The screen saver disappeared and was replaced by the flying club’s Internet site, which was open at the home page: MAC Flying School, Skydive and Parachute Centre. The club boasted a small fleet of fixed-wing aeroplanes, two helicopters and four qualified flight instructors – two of whom were CAA-appointed examiners. Various numbers were listed for the flying school and the sports activities, but – Carmichael was correct – none of them matched that on the A4 sheet in Daniels’ hand.
Daniels looked at Gormley, then at Carmichael. ‘I’m assuming the number isn’t already on the system?’
Carmichael shook her head. ‘The club itself is listed in relation to the general enquiry you instigated in the early stages – i.e. airports within a fifty-mile radius – but this number isn’t linked. It isn’t registered at all, according to the service provider, so it could belong to anyone, including the bastard that pushed Amy from that plane.’
A ripple of excitement ran between Daniels’ shoulder blades. She looked at her watch. It was close to midnight. Too late to ring and ask the Graingers if their daughter had ever expressed an interest in extreme sports. But not too soon to congratulate her brilliant young DC. Carmichael was definitely on to something.