Don 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.
‘Mr Cole?’
‘Sorry, yes, it’s one of ours.’
Daniels thanked him. ‘Could you take another look, please?’
‘A good look this time,’ Gormley added.
‘What more do you want me to say?’ Cole met Daniels’ steady gaze. ‘OK, it’s been tampered with. But not by me!’
‘What exactly do you mean,“tampered with”?’ Daniels asked.
‘The phone number’s different. I’ll show you.’ He walked to a three-drawer filing cabinet and looked inside. From it he produced an identical flyer and brought it to them. Daniels noted that it was for the same course, on the same dates, but on this one the contact number was correct. ‘Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?’
If she’d had money on it, Daniels would have said he was telling the truth. She glanced around the room. Six rows of chairs faced the blackboard on the rear wall. Either side of it were posters for the Private Pilot’s Licence (PPL) Syllabus, medical and safety procedures, navigation, radiotelephony and Met Office charts covering almost the entire wall. In one corner, a picture gallery showed ex-students skydiving, all with smiling faces, some in tandem, some brave enough to jump alone.
Goosebumps covered Daniels’ skin as Amy Grainger’s dead body popped into her head.
‘You don’t like the police much, do you, Mr Cole?’ Gormley said.
Cole ignored the wind-up. For a long time he didn’t answer. Then he took a deep breath, his eyes on the more senior of the two detectives. ‘Do you believe in rehabilitation, DCI Daniels?’
Good question. One Daniels didn’t answer.
But Cole had her undivided attention.
‘I don’t know what you think I might’ve done. But I run a legitimate business here and I’ve nothing to hide from the police. I’ve been in trouble in the past, I admit it. But then, I guess you already know that.’ The pilot paused. ‘Look, I paid for my mistakes a long time ago and I’ve moved on. My business partner doesn’t know of my history and I’d like to keep it that way.’
‘I bet you would.’ Gormley kept up the pressure. ‘Three months’ imprisonment in 1999 for Affray, kicked out of the Army Air Corps in 2000. That’s not something I’d be proud of either.’
‘We haven’t accused you of anything, Mr Cole,’ Daniels reminded them both.
‘Yet,’ Gormley said, hellbent on the final word.
On this occasion, Daniels didn’t give him the satisfaction. She thanked Cole, deciding to leave it there . . . for now.