‘We should check all flights from Mexico in the days before Dave Prentiss was shot,’ I said. ‘If she is our assassin then I’m guessing that was when she flew in.’

‘I’ll get on it,’ he said as he stepped out of the room and started talking on the phone.

I remained sitting at the desk. My mind was on fire, and when I rubbed the back of my neck I realised that I was sweating.

I found it easy to imagine how Danny Carver must have spent hours in this room. It was cramped, but cosy, and for a computer geek it was the perfect sanctuary.

There were four shelves on the wall above me and they contained a collection of unlabelled CDs, books on computers and a pile of glossy magazines on computing and technology.

In the past it would have struck me as odd that a thug like Carver would be interested in this stuff. But these days criminals saw it as a way to enhance their repertoire. And I didn’t doubt that Carver had used his skills to help Slack generate business and make the firm’s lines of communication more secure.

A few other items were on the desk in addition to the computer and printer. There was a half-full can of Carlsberg, an empty pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a spiral-bound notepad and pen.

I picked up the pad to see if there was anything written inside, but all the pages were blank. However, experience had taught me to always check for indentation writing.

And sure enough there was an impression on the first page that would have been created by the pressure of the pen on the page that had been above it.

I couldn’t quite make it out so I went in search of a pencil. I found one in a kitchen drawer and rested the pad on the worktop while I gently rubbed the lead tip over the indentation marks to bring out the contrast.

The letters and numbers that appeared as if by magic sent a cold rush of blood through my veins.

They also made me believe that we might at last be closing in on the killer.

67

Laura

Danny Carver looked mortified when I held up the notepad to show him what the pencil had revealed.

‘The top sheet might have been torn out but this is what you wrote on it,’ I said. ‘So it’s time to stop fucking us around.’

‘Go screw yourself,’ he snapped. ‘And while you’re at it, call my brief. I’ve given the number to that twat over there in the uniform.’

Carver had been hauled back into the house from the patrol car he’d been put in outside. He was now sitting at the kitchen table, his hands still cuffed behind his back.