Binary Witness (The Amy Lane Mysteries) (4 page)

Chapter Seven: Man About Town

Jason didn’t stay long at Dylan’s. The garage was the local area’s gossip hall and everyone had something to say about Kate Thomas and Melody Frank. Was someone holding them hostage? What must their parents be going through? And what if they were...you know...?

Well, they were “you know” and Jason knew about it before anybody else. Maybe it was true that ignorance was bliss because he sure as hell didn’t want to know this in a crowd of his mates not-knowing. It wasn’t his right to tell them neither, so he got out of there and made his way to the next job.

It was a gig at one of the large nightclubs on St. Mary’s Street—Koalas, the Australian place. Jason remembered huddling in front of one of their big screens for the Rugby World Cup semi-final, beer in hand at nine o’clock in the morning, and his heart breaking into a hundred pieces as his beloved Wales lost to France. Gutting it was, and the ten pints he’d downed after had done nothing to ease the pain.

Several of the cleaning boys were going to help out at the club after a large party they’d hosted the night before—medical students, apparently. They really knew how to tear a place up and had been banned from several venues across the city, including Cardiff Castle. Something about someone pissing on a three-hundred-year-old tapestry.

Jason showed up a couple of minutes late but the others were right behind him, so they just got a bit of an eye roll from the manager before the mops and brooms were handed out and they got to work. The place appeared like a vaulted cavern when empty. The top floor overlooked the basement below, where most of the action happened, and where the big screens dominated the main wall. It was weird to see them dark and dormant instead of showing rugby or some obscure late-night athletics. Of course, the stickiness of the floor was the same as always, and Jason wished he’d worn his old trainers for this job. The place was worse than Amy’s for unknown organic substances covering the surfaces.

Jason, as the new kid, got men’s toilets, and he was amazed yet again at how piss really did get everywhere. The place looked like it had been flooded, and he figured it would take a couple of go-overs with the mop before it was anything like usable again. And a week of washing to get the awful stench out of his clothes.

While he was waiting for the floor to dry, he snuck out for a cigarette and bumped into a couple of bar-backs also outside for a crafty one. They nodded to each other, a mutual understanding established, and concentrated on their fix.

“You heard anything about Kate?” one heavy guy said, frowning down at his mate sitting astride a keg. Jason’s ears pricked up.

“Nah, nothing. Police are still looking, but they’re fucking useless.” The man threw down his cigarette and tugged anxiously at his goatee. He looked haggard, but he couldn’t have been more than thirty. He was Australian, but a hint of South Wales had slipped into his accent. “It’s been two weeks, Dan. How can she still be alive?”

“You can’t think like that, Pete,” Dan said, shooting a glance at Jason to see his reaction. Jason straightened, taking it as an invitation.

“You talking about Kate Thomas?” They both turned to look at him. “You know her, then?”

Pete stood up, looking like he might be cruising for a fight, but Dan just shrugged. “Yeah, she worked with us. Was meant to work the Saturday shift but never got here. Naomi thought she must’ve missed her at home, but she could’ve gone at any time. Naomi’s pretty cut up about it—housemate going missing like that, from right under your nose.”

Pete walked off, clearly not interested in telling a total stranger about his friend’s disappearance. Dan, however, seemed to want to get it off his chest and leaned against the wall next to Jason. “Pete and her had a thing. Nothing serious, but he’s right upset. Down the cop shop every day, he is. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they fished her out of the Taff.”

“You think she was pushed, or...?” Jason trailed off. It was hard to bring up the idea that this guy’s friend had jumped into the river.

“I don’t know what to think, mate. All I know is she ain’t here no more, is she? And every day she stays missing, it’s less likely she’s coming home.”

Jason shook his head. “That’s hard, man. Don’t know how you cope with it, like. Had she been here long?”

“Only since the beginning of term. We get a lot of students, y’know. I don’t think she was a fresher, though, but she needed a job to get her through the year. She always wanted the extra shifts, just like Naomi. They were pretty skint most of the time.” He pulled at his cropped, gelled hair. “Fuck, I’m already talking like she’s gone.”

Jason turned away until the sniffles beside him had stopped, taking another slow drag of his rollie. He heard the familiar click of a lighter and the shaky exhale of a comfort cigarette. “They’ll find the bastard who did it,” he found himself saying. “We may talk shit about the Cardiff cops, but they’ve got eyes everywhere.”

“Hope you’re right, mate,” Dan said and threw half his cigarette away, letting it fizzle out in the rain.

Chapter Eight: The Body in the Trunk

He couldn’t keep her in the suitcase forever.

For a start, the suitcase was staring at him. Accusing him. He needed to Get. Rid. He’d thought he was being smart, keeping her locked away until he was ready to deal with her, but he hadn’t expected such accusation.

He waited until sunset, which didn’t take long these days, not after the clocks had gone back. It was Fate, really, everything coming together like this. It meant that she would finally come back to him. It was Destiny, Disney, Devilry—like true love should be.

He dragged the suitcase down the stairs and out the front door. Nobody noticed him. Nobody ever noticed him. He was invisible, like a superhero. Crusading for his girlfriend, his Lois Lane, and one day, she’d learn his true identity and they’d be together. Fate.

He heaved at the suitcase, the leather slipping in his sweaty grip as he lifted it. He hadn’t realised a person would be so heavy, but he’d learned that lesson the first time. He hadn’t brought a suitcase then, because how could he be sure? The pretty blonde girl with the easy smile, so very easy. But then he’d seen her and she was...nothing like
her
, nothing at all. He struck down temptation—but then he had to move her out. He hadn’t made that mistake the second time, brought the old suitcase just in case. It never hurt to be prepared.

With the suitcase in the boot, he carefully switched on his lights and his wipers, driving exactly at the speed limit. He would be invisible. There were a few cars heading out of town, but as he got farther away from the city, the traffic died away and it was just him and the Welsh Valleys.

His mum had once taken him on holidays to the Brecon Beacons: hills and lakes, damp and cold, endless walking. Now he welcomed their brooding silence. Dead men tell no tales, and neither do the hills. He quite liked that, actually—it was almost poetry. He’d write it in his blog. He’d write it to her. One day, she would read it, and that could be the key, the way back to her. She was the reason, the one thing that made this whole distasteful thing worthwhile.

She’d be jealous—and then she’d be proud.

He pulled up alongside the lake, dark waters stretching away as far as the eye could see. The alarm beeped as he opened the door, the headlights still blazing fire along the deserted road. Popping open the boot, he hauled out the suitcase and it thudded on the ground. But the clasp held and she stayed contained within. He hesitated on the shore. He didn’t want to lose the suitcase—he might need it again.

She tumbled out on the bank, and gravity did the rest, tugging her inexorably towards her final resting place. The ripples spiralled outward and then faded to nothing. It was peaceful here. She’d like it. And she could be with the other girl and they could talk and stuff. Yeah, it would be nice for them out here. He didn’t want there to be any hard feelings. It wasn’t really about them, after all. Just her. Only her.

Slamming the boot, he got back in the car, finally silencing that irritating beep, and drove back home. He had work tomorrow and he should get an early night. It might be another busy weekend.

* * *

Monitoring social networks was like watching a car crash, or so she was led to believe. Amy hadn’t been in a car in the past ten years and wasn’t planning on trying it in the next ten either.

Facebook had Find Kate and Melody: Have You Seen Her? groups, full of well-networked university students and friends from home. The student population was expert at getting a message out, information flowing over Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Reddit, sinking into every crack and crevice of the interverse. And Amy looked on, the spider at the centre of the web. Big Sister’s Watching You.

The mood would change tomorrow, when the police announced they were dead and likely connected. The national press would prick up their ears and come running, camping outside the Senedd building until the First Minister and the Welsh Assembly declared martial law or whatever it was they wanted. Sniffing out the story.

That would be useful. Journalists could talk their way into anything and then splurged it out in print, on blogs, in 140 characters of Brkng News. Amy had found the Cardiff Castle robber using a combination of newspaper articles and online dating—but this was an altogether different beast.

And there was already so much to absorb. The local press had done their best with Kate, eking out every modicum of interest. Melody was relatively fresh meat and they still had more to find, more to churn out for Amy’s eager eyes.

For the moment, however, they didn’t know. The IP trace was running itself in circles, and trawling through the rest of the forum had yielded only teenage obsession and a purist’s love of the drum solo. Amy kept her eye on the usernames flashing up on the bottom of the screen, the number of anonymous Guests. Did the killer share this forum space with her, idly surfing through the posts? Police wisdom said that murderers liked to lurk at the scene, watch the aftermath, the crowds. Now they could do it from a smartphone.

Amy idly flicked up her sister’s Facebook page. There were photographs taken on beaches, in bars, with boys and barbecues. Ten thousand miles away from Amy’s life. She checked her watch. It was afternoon in Australia, but she wouldn’t bother Lizzie today.

While her mind was wandering, she pulled up a programme and invoked a number of designer encryption keys, like genies from a lamp, summoned to do her bidding. A series of transactions appeared on the screen and she scanned them quickly. She had about thirty seconds before the alarm sounded in a tech’s office in Switzerland. Oh, they were in Monaco. How nice for them.

Amy severed the connection, yawned, stretched. There was nothing left to do. She sat at her portal, merely an observer, an idle running process waiting to be activated to greater purpose.

Until then, there was the watching.

Chapter Nine: Streetlight Serenader

Jason walked home from the club, bag slung over his shoulder and mulling over the day. When he’d left for work that morning, he’d had no idea that he’d be involved in a murder investigation. Of course, “involved” was too strong a word—he was watching other people investigate a murder. It was like being an extra in
CSI.

The most surprising thing, of course, was that the unassuming Amy Lane was able to tell a woman was dead from a photograph. He had seen her working at her computer, but this had real-world, practical use.

He’d never thought of computers like that before. Of course, people used them to type up reports or whatever people in offices did. And Facebook was fun to waste an hour or two on games or to look up some bird from last night’s pull, but Amy used it to work out how people were connected and who might’ve killed them. Jason decided he’d been born in the wrong decade—he’d have been better in the seventies or eighties, maybe, but then he would have most likely ended up down a mine. The beauty of the music might’ve made up for it though, and he hummed his own off-key version of “Comfortably Numb.” He wished his mam had kept his dad’s old record player, mourned the boxes of classic LPs gathering dust in the attic, unplayed.

The rain had settled into a mild drizzle and he pulled up the collar of his leather jacket, hunching his shoulders against the chill. His mam would give him another lecture when he got home about how he needed a mac and would catch his death any day now. Jason started to wish he’d brought the car down, but parking in the centre was hell and would’ve wiped out half his day’s wages. Still, he should’ve brought change for the bus.

Jason made for Bute Street, his home in the former Docklands—the bit that hadn’t been overhauled for the shiny new Cardiff Bay. His mind was on dinner and how much tea he could drink before it was ready. But as soon as he stepped back into his territory, he was aware something was wrong. He knew this part of town like it was his family, but now it seemed hostile, threatening. The last edge of dusk was fading away and he put his head down and walked faster. Suddenly, he didn’t want to be out alone.

A couple of boys sauntered out from a side street and Jason recognised them, checked them over for weapons, and carried on past. They ran with a gang out of Canton but they weren’t bad kids. Jason could say that, because his mam was friends with their mams, and he was sure they’d caused their families fewer tears than he had his.

He was only a hundred yards from home now, but he was seeing more faces by the roadside, the same crew. He didn’t know what they were planning but he couldn’t help but feel he was part of it somehow. And then the boy standing in the middle of the road proved it. Damage Jones. The hood pulled over his cropped brown hair couldn’t hide his coal-black eyes, that intense stare that made him the spit of Lewis—a ghost from Jason’s past in the form of his best mate’s baby brother. Well, not his best mate anymore.

It was no use pretending that he hadn’t seen him, making a scene like that in the street, so Jason slowed right down. The pavement ahead was blocked and he had no choice but to step off the kerb, turning his walk into a casual stroll through his turf. Damage was just a kid, nineteen years old and full of himself, the prick. But he also had an axe to grind and Jason had avoided the inevitable confrontation, like any sane boy would.

He’d spent six months lying low, hanging around his mam’s and the garage, but not on the streets after dark. He wasn’t afraid—Jason Carr weren’t afraid of no one—but because he didn’t want to break Damage’s nose, especially when he owed the kid’s brother a debt he couldn’t repay.

“Evenin’, Damage. Throwing me a surprise party? And it isn’t even my birthday.”

Damage scowled. “You think you fucking own this street. You’re a cock, Jay Bird.”

Jason flinched. No one had called him that for over a year and it stung to hear it out of this little brat’s mouth, especially when Lewis was the one who’d given him the damn nickname in the first place. And in return he’d got ten years in prison.

“I don’t own nothing,” Jason said quietly. “Let it go, Dai. You don’t want to do this.” He was willing to give the boy a pass, but Damage had all his mates watching him, his little friends manning the pavement for him while he took down the older, jail-hardened veteran of the streets. The quest for glory was too good to walk away from, especially now he’d got Jason just where he wanted him. Jason quickly ran through what he had in his bag and debated how he was going to take down the kid without scarring him with bleach.

He was aware that Damage’s mates were closing in, about ten of them, and he could spot a couple of knives. For the first time since prison he wished he still had his switchblade. They were circling him, and he realised he wasn’t going to get out of this without busting a few heads and probably cracking a couple of ribs himself. He wished he had his boys at his back, but his boys were never going to have his back again. They were too busy hating him from their cells—the deserter, the traitor.

“Think it through, Dai.” If he could persuade the kid to take him on one-on-one—yeah, fat chance—he might get away with knocking the boy down and walking away. “Are your betters going to be happy with you? Drawing attention like this?” The older guys in this club weren’t the forgiving sort. Stuart Williams was their ringleader, a boy who’d worn the scars of a glassing since he was twenty. That was the day he’d earned his place at the top of their little food chain and sent his rival crying to his mother in Splott.

“I’ve thought it through, Jay Bird,” Damage spat at him. “My brother says hi.” He took a swing, which Jason ducked easily. He’d dodge as long as he could, take a couple of blows—he’d burn his last bridge with Lewis if he hit his kid brother.

“Scared, are you, Jay Bird?” Damage was warming up now, crying out for blood. His mates were a jeering ring of arrogant kids, some as young as fourteen. But Jason shouldn’t be surprised—he’d been one of them when he was twelve, feeling the power of walking down the street with your hood up and no one knowing what you might be carrying. He remembered the thrill and knew that these kids knew nothing about consequences. It made them fucking dangerous.

In the distance, Jason could hear sirens. It put everyone on edge and he could sense the ripple of fear that went through the group. There was no chance the police were coming for them—unless one of the mams behind the curtain couldn’t watch her boy get into it in the street, but they knew better than to start a fight outside their own front doors.

It started with a shove, Damage pushing him back into another kid, who sent him back the way he came. Child’s play. Jason kept his cool, trying to rein in his temper. He was stronger than three of them, but all it would take was one of them to bounce off the pavement the wrong way and he’d get life. Not to mention the Technicolor movie playing over his conscience every day of some kid’s brains smeared on the asphalt.

The sirens were getting louder. That made no bloody sense, but Jason didn’t have time to worry about it. He ducked another clumsy punch from Damage, but caught the blow to his ribs. Slightly winded, he barely avoided the kick aimed at his knee, before he decided that enough was enough. He had to get out of there before he hurt one of them.

With a swing of his holdall, several bottles of household cleaner collided with Damage’s stomach. The boy cried out, doubled over, and Jason took his opportunity to leg it. But one of them snagged his shirt and pulled him down, the tarmac scraping up his back.
Shit.
No one comes back from the floor.

But there were blue flashing lights and suddenly the kids were scrambling and yelling, hoods up and away, leaving him crashed out on the ground.

Jason sat up slowly, wincing as his body reported in his various scrapes and bruises. An anxious-looking copper came over, one hand on her truncheon and the other on her radio. “You all right? Did they get anything?”

“Just my pride,” Jason heard himself say, levering himself up and onto his feet. He reclaimed his bag and stood up to meet the police officer’s gaze. “And I didn’t know them, didn’t see any faces, and even if I did—”

“You wouldn’t be pressing charges,” the officer finished tiredly. “You lot don’t make it easy on yourselves, you know?”

Jason didn’t know who exactly she meant by “you lot”—young men, Bute boys, ex-cons—but he kept his curiosity to himself. “Thank you, officer,” Jason said, already making to leave.

“Wait,” she said, “can we give you a lift home?”

“I’m already home,” Jason said and limped away.