Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries) (16 page)

When Jason got up the next morning, half-remembered dreams lingering on his mind, he was surprised to find Amy showered, dressed and finishing breakfast.

‘Bloody hell, what happened to you?’

Amy didn’t turn, her thin smile reflected in her blank monitor. ‘I managed while you were away, didn’t I?’

Jason conceded that she had, though the idea made him uneasy. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Amy to grow in her life skills, her confidence, but if she emerged as a competent butterfly, what need would she have for an assistant?

He was under no illusions about who was the brains of the outfit, or exactly how far she was willing to trust him, and his legwork became redundant if Amy could just take a bus into town and do it herself. He fancied himself useful to her – how long would her interest in him last if he was no longer useful?

‘What are we doing today?’ He emerged from the kitchen with fresh mugs of tea and tried to insinuate himself back into her investigation.

‘I’ve confirmed that LizzieSiddal is inside the museum, but a generic login was used to connect to the forum.’ She handed him a USB stick over her shoulder. ‘Insert this into any free slot in a museum computer for two minutes. It will give me a remote connection into their system and I can monitor the network in real-time.’

Her voice had that slightly posher ring to it that she unconsciously adopted when she’d been speaking to her sister, as if she triggered remote memories of a time when Amy had spoken with a plum in her mouth. Jason’s harsh Cardiff accent always thickened in response, until they drifted back to their natural tones.

‘You want me to ask questions?’ he asked.

‘Can’t hurt. Cerys is meeting you there in an hour.’

Jason’s stomach twisted. Since when had Cerys become part of this operation? ‘She’s got police stuff,’ he protested.

‘Bryn said he would put in a word for her. I’d ask you to look into the possible secret entrance, but I’m still flying without data.’

Jason wanted to demand answers, to shake her until she gave them up. Why was his competence being called into question? He could just about understand Amy’s logic with the school, but he was perfectly capable of investigating the museum by himself. Didn’t she trust him at all now?

Or was this some bizarre punishment for running away with Frieda? She was telling him he was expendable, that she had a replacement waiting in the wings. Would his sister really do that to him?

Jason tried to shake off his absurd thoughts. Of course she wouldn’t – she wanted to be a copper, a proper detective with the badge and attitude to match. She wouldn’t just take his place.

But how many people would leap at the chance? Amy could put a call out for an assistant on one of her forums, and her online minions would all leap at the chance, to work with the great @d@l and her high-profile investigations.

And they would be knowledgeable, in computers and in the world outside the backstreets of Cardiff. Jason might be her first assistant, but maybe she thought it was time for an upgrade.

‘The organ smuggling was on the news this morning,’ Amy said. ‘No mention of you.’

‘Good,’ Jason said, with feeling. His face had been on the news enough for one lifetime.

‘Apparently it crosses at least four countries, and Interpol are very pleased. They interviewed that NCA agent.’

‘Frieda’s back?’

His stomach lurched. The last thing he wanted was to see the NCA agent, for a cold shoulder or another amorous mistake. He had hoped she’d stay in North Wales a little longer.

‘No. The man.’ Amy’s voice was flat, without a trace of emotion. Too controlled.

Jason realised he’d been baited. Amy was fishing for information about Frieda and he’d made it look like he gave a damn.
Fucking manipulative women.

‘I hope she stays away,’ he said, voicing his thoughts. He knew Amy wanted to hear how he felt, even if she would never ask outright. ‘Cares more about her precious bike than my skin.’

Amy mumbled something under her breath that was indistinguishable over the rim of her mug, but Jason thought he heard ‘run off’ in there. He was going to be in the doghouse for weeks over his little trip up north, he could tell. As long as she kept him around to be mocked.

The Micra was still parked up outside Dylan’s, along with his motorbike, so he walked the short distance into town. The area around Cardiff’s main hospital was quiet, the majority of students not yet returned from their long summer break, but the schools all back for term time. The first leaves of autumn drifted across the pavements, damp from last night’s rain. The air was close, too warm for September, as the overcast, pregnant sky threatened to birth a storm at any moment.

The smells from Whitchurch Road’s many eateries proved too tempting and he picked up some Indian street food to eat on his way to meet Cerys. He wiped the last crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned down the approach to the main university campus.

The storm broke just as he passed between the Students’ Union and the university Main Building, breaking into a run as he hauled his leather jacket up over his head. Cerys was waiting at the top of the stairs in her uniform, between two pillars, in the shelter of the lintel.

‘So, you’re here on official business?’ Jason asked.

Cerys tipped his head to examine his bandage, as if she were a nurse, not a trainee copper. ‘Mm. Bryn has issues with Talia’s statement but he’s stuck in some meeting. When Amy called to say you were heading over here, he asked me to keep you in line.’

‘Did he now?’ So they were colluding against him. ‘I can do this by myself, you know.’

‘Yeah, I’m just here to give it an air of legitimacy. And so anything said can be presented as evidence.’

Jason hesitated. ‘Cerys, there’s something else—’

‘Nope! Not listening!’ She shook both hands an inch from her ears and squeezed her eyes closed. ‘I don’t want to know what else you’re up to.’

‘What happened to my partner in crime?’ he teased.

‘She’s working the right side of the law now.’

They entered together and asked to see security first, Cerys flashing her badge and a smile to get them in without questions.

The duty guards told Cerys that their systems were all run by a private IT company, as Jason pretended to drop his phone and slipped the USB drive into the tower beneath the desk.

‘Who has access to the generic login?’ Jason asked.

The guards exchanged a nervous glance. ‘It’s for staff who don’t have their own, but some of the computers … they’re just left logged in.’

Cerys tried to thank them for their time, but Jason had another ninety seconds to fill.

‘When are the galleries reopening?’

One guard winced. ‘When they’ve got the blood off the floor,’ she said quietly.

‘They might have to replace the floor altogether,’ the other added. ‘Not that any of the workmen will touch it – they reckon the gallery is haunted.’

‘Haunted?’ Jason said, even though he could sense Cerys’ eye roll.

‘It’s nonsense,’ the female guard said impatiently, but she didn’t sound quite convinced.

‘The workmen have heard noises, footsteps across the gallery – but no one there,’ the male guard said. ‘They say…’ He stopped, suddenly self-conscious of his story and how ridiculous it sounded.

‘What do they say?’ Jason prompted.

‘They think it’s
her
, “The Blue Lady”,’ the female guard said, exasperated. ‘Or Paul. A ghost in the gallery, waiting for the bloody picture to come back. It’s disrespectful is what it is.’

Cerys tried to leave again, but Jason seized on another loose end.

‘Any rumours of secret passages in the museum? Tunnels or the like?’

The guards both laughed.

‘It’s all concrete in the basement,’ the female guard said. ‘And the galleries have all been renovated in the last twenty years. No way something like that could stay hid.’

‘No way anyone could get in or out without passing by the CCTV cameras on the entrances?’ Jason persisted.

‘Not that I can see,’ she said. ‘Even if you avoided the cameras, the doors record when they’re opened and closed.’

Jason thanked them, before bending down to adjust his shoelace and palming the small USB stick before standing.

Cerys looked at him strangely as they headed for the restoration laboratories. ‘Amy sent you here to check out ghost stories and secret passageways?’

‘It could be useful,’ he said defensively.

Actually, he thought it was utter bollocks but he didn’t want his sister to know that he had just opened a door for Amy to the museum computer network.

In the lab, Talia, Soo-jin and Noah had stopped for tea, a packet of Bourbons half-eaten between them, as their colleagues continued to work independently behind them on their myriad precious projects.

Talia scowled as she caught sight of them. ‘Why do you keep bothering us here? Why aren’t you out looking for our picture?’

‘We have questions,’ Cerys said tersely, and Jason was surprised that she had shifted to ‘bad cop’.

‘We have answered all your questions!’ Talia threw her hands into the air dramatically. ‘I am tired of questions!’

‘Before the theft,’ Cerys continued, ignoring the theatrics, ‘did anyone visit the laboratory, asking questions about the painting?’

‘As you know,’ Talia said, to Jason, ‘we do not allow visitors in the laboratory.’

‘What about Frieda Haas?’

Jason started at the name, looking at Cerys in confusion. But Talia fell quiet, the atmosphere in the room suddenly strained.

‘That is a private matter,’ she said. ‘It does not concern the painting.’

‘What did you discuss?’ Cerys pressed.

‘She thought I could help her with … something else, in exchange for…’ Talia looked up at Jason, then Cerys. ‘Why don’t you ask Frieda?’

The lab door opened, temporarily saving Talia from responding. Lucila was holding a cardboard parcel tube in her hands, waving it for the restoration experts.

‘Anyone expecting a package?’

Noah crossed the room and took the tube from her. ‘There’s no Elizabeth Siddal here.’

‘Give me that!’ Talia snatched the tube out of Noah’s hands.

Jason’s heart leapt – had they found the mysterious LizzieSiddal?

Talia tore off the plastic end of the tube and reached inside it. A long pale strip of pastels and brilliant blue spiralled from the ends of her fingers, like a magician’s silk scarf, as a low moan of grief left her lips.

‘What is it?’ Jason demanded. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘He’s cut her,’ Talia said thickly, as the impudent black shoe of ‘The Blue Lady’ fell from her hands.

The museum’s computer system opened up before her and Amy started navigating the network, siphoning off data onto her personal servers for later perusal.

She located the last computer to log in to the geocaching forum, but the network map did not include the location or assignment of the machines. Useless.

The pages browsed corresponded exactly to LizzieSiddal’s forum activity. The other pages accessed were news articles about the missing painting, and Gmail. Amy lifted LizzieSiddal’s password from the forum, and set up her own backdated account for Corelia’s benefit. She was playing two games now.

Thankfully, LizzieSiddal wasn’t exactly security conscious and the passwords matched exactly –
Lovenh8
, likely an oblique reference to the vitriolic poem ‘Love and Hate’ by the original Elizabeth Siddal.

She’d spent some time researching Rossetti and Siddal after the forum handle had been revealed. Siddal had been a poet, painter, and muse to more than one artist, the classic model for
Ophelia
as she lay drowning, a role that had almost killed her. And then she’d fallen for Rossetti, kept in secret from his family, until he finally made an honest woman of her. But when he turned away from her, her life grew cold, empty, and she used laudanum to dull the pain. The death of their baby was the last straw, shattering the last shadows of her world, and she drank her comfort until it carried her to the grave.

It seemed that the dramas of the art that surrounded her had followed Siddal into her home, claiming her sanity and finally her life. And what had Rossetti done to stop it? Not a goddamn thing. He had watched his lover waste away into nothing, because he preferred other women, other so-called muses. A different thrill.

Why had the geocacher chosen the handle? Amy itched to ask her. As someone who had modelled her own internet identity on the daughter of Lord Byron, mathematical prodigy and mother of the computer, Ada Lovelace, Amy could relate.

Only three emails had been read since the painting went missing, the others promotions, mailing list digests, and forum notifications. The three read messages had subject lines in all caps:
RENOIR, ANSWER TRUTH, CONSAQUENCES
.

Amy clicked on the first curiously, noting the sender was operating behind a Virtual Private Network and URL masker.

i have it. exchange can go ahead now yes?

‘Blackmail,’ Amy mumbled, eagerly clicking on the next email.

why wont you answer? tiem running out for her.

Her mouse pointer hovered over the final email, for once her heart beating madly with excitement rather than fear.

answer me or there will be very big consaquences. I am not a child.

Despite the careless typos, the message was clear. The blackmailer wanted something in exchange for
La Parisienne
. But what did he want? There was no ransom demand here, no conditions. And why would LizzieSiddal have a personal stake in the painting’s return?

Amy’s phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Jason –
Talia got painting bit in post. She’s LizzieS.

Amy grinned at the new information, belatedly thinking to check the computer’s other logins for information. Talia Yeltsova’s name was first on the list.

She wanted to call Jason, demand more information, but AEON beeped and the third monitor spluttered to life. Talia’s face took up most of the screen, sitting in a lab somewhere, as Amy flicked on the speakers.

‘Thank you, Cerys,’ she mumbled. She’d forgotten she still had the daffodil camera.

‘Who is Elizabeth Siddal?’ Cerys asked.

Talia scowled. ‘What does that matter? You must send this for analysis! The killer is a madman!’

‘And we will.’ Cerys’ voice was steady, patient. ‘First, I want to know why you opened a package addressed to another woman.’

‘Lizzie Siddal has been dead for over a hundred years,’ a woman butted in, from somewhere off screen. ‘She’s a nineteenth-century artist and poet.’

‘I use the name on the internet,’ Talia said, as if the woman hadn’t spoken. ‘Who uses their real name, hmm?’

‘Do you know who sent you this piece of painting?’

‘No. No idea.’ Her knuckles were white on the edge of the table, her voice quavering.

‘But someone who knows your internet handle and that you work at the museum.’

‘Everyone knows I work here,’ Talia snapped. ‘That is not a secret.’

‘Why address you as Elizabeth Siddal?’ Cerys persisted.

‘I told you – he is mad!’

Amy picked up her phone and texted Jason, her eyes never leaving the video:
ask about emails @

‘What about the note? It talks about wanting answers.’

‘I don’t know what th-that means.’ Her voice betrayed her again, the stutter giving her away.

‘What about the emails?’ Jason’s voice came from somewhere to Cerys’ right. ‘Don’t know what they mean either?’

‘How do you – you have been spying on me!’

‘Frieda sends her regards.’

Amy stiffened. Frieda? Why was that NCA bitch taking the credit for her work? But the reaction in Talia was astonishing, her face crumpling at his words.

‘I think the emails … they are about the cache.’

‘You owe someone money?’ Cerys said, mistaking her words.

‘No, no, the geocache. It is a competition, online. That is where I use the handle LizzieSiddal. I have … hidden something and this man, he wants to find it.’

‘He killed a man over a geocache?’ Jason said, incredulously.

‘I told you – he is mad. And now he is tearing her to shreds over it.’

Bryn listened to Jason and Cerys’ account with astonishment. ‘It’s about some online game, G.I. Catching?’

‘Geocaching,’ Jason corrected. ‘That’s what Talia thinks.’

‘I don’t know if we can trust her.’ Amy’s voice rang out from Jason’s phone, placed in the middle of Bryn’s desk in the detectives’ office. ‘She lied about her visa and she’s working with Frieda Haas. It could be something else.’

‘I guess we can’t just walk up to Frieda and ask her what it’s about.’

The questioning note in Cerys’ words was weak. She was a Butetown girl and knew a thing or two about asking after people’s secrets. If you don’t want people to pry into your own, you kept damn quiet about theirs.

‘And we can’t ask Talia. She thinks Frieda already told us.’

‘What’s going on?’

Matt walked up to the huddle and Jason’s hand leapt out to kill the call to Amy.

‘Talia Yeltsova is being blackmailed by the murderer,’ Bryn said, bringing him up to speed. ‘She has answers to some online puzzle that he wants. I was just about to brief you.’

‘And why are you here?’ Matt fixed Jason with a look.

‘Just confirming my statement with Bryn,’ Jason lied smoothly. ‘I was here when Cerys arrived with the evidence.’

‘Your sister,’ Matt said, looking between the two of them. ‘Don’t they teach confidentiality anymore, Miss Carr?’

Bryn quickly interjected, before Cerys could vent her spleen. ‘I asked for his opinion. Because of Amy’s—’

‘I’m sure the Cyber Crime Unit can handle that,’ Matt said. ‘We don’t need external consultants for this investigation.’

Jason looked at Bryn before smiling tightly at Matt. ‘Only when it’s convenient for me to get my arse burned, is it?’

Before Matt could reply, Jason pocketed his phone and walked away from them.

‘Talia will need a formal interview,’ Matt said, turning to Cerys. ‘Type up your notes, Miss Carr, so the detectives can do their work.’

Cerys sat at Owain’s desk without another word, flipping open her notebook and busying herself with logging on. However, Bryn knew she would be keeping half an ear on the conversation – to report back to Amy, Jason, Owain. Carrs might be adept at keeping secrets, but they also knew the value of them.

‘I will have Head Office look into Miss Yeltsova. This can’t just be about a game.’

Bryn decided to play his hand. ‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you. I think Frieda Haas has all the information you need.’

Matt’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Oh, didn’t she tell you? She was in contact with Talia before the painting was even stolen. Now that’s a funny coincidence, isn’t it?’

Matt tried to cover his wince. ‘I’ll talk to Frieda. You take Yeltsova’s formal statement and get a warrant for her computer.’

‘You don’t seem surprised,’ Bryn said, testing the waters, looking for a reaction.

Matt leaned in, his words only for Bryn’s ears. ‘I don’t know why she was there, but I intend to find out. In the meantime, I don’t want idle gossip prejudicing this investigation.’

‘And I don’t want a cover-up.’ Bryn was blunt, as always. ‘Why was she even in Cardiff?’

‘Frieda was working a separate investigation before the painting was stolen.’

‘Which was…?’

‘Need-to-know. I’m not clear on all the details. I’m sure her dealings with Miss Yeltsova relate to that investigation.’

‘And you didn’t think to mention it? How do you know the two aren’t connected?’

Matt’s smile was enigmatic, guarded. ‘I’m pretty sure on this one. And we have bigger fish to fry. My bosses want developments.’

‘Are you going to call the Foreign Minister?’

‘Why would I do that?’ Matt seemed genuinely puzzled.

‘Because of our diplomatic relations with France?’

But even as he said it, Bryn realised something was off about it. France couldn’t just demand the restoration of all Impressionist paintings. How had he been naïve enough to believe anything that came out of Frieda’s mouth?

‘I think the French can wait,’ Matt said, his voice filled with amusement, and Bryn fought down his embarrassed flush.

Before Bryn could question him further, he had walked away, presumably to bring Owain and Catriona up to speed. Owain, who hadn’t even had the decency to tell Bryn he was leaving, just scuttled off to his new office without a word.

Bryn still had one computer expert he could trust. Quietly, he copied all the investigation files in the update folder, watching as they disappeared one by one. If anyone could puzzle out the contents of Paul’s apartment, Talia’s secret identity and Frieda’s investigation, it was Amy Lane.