Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries) (18 page)

‘You want me to go to Scotland?’

Something about Amy’s demeanour, her breezy words and her unsteady gait, had Jason looking for a drained bottle of red. But in the absence of glass in the recycling or scattered about the living room, Jason had to admit that her state was nothing to do with alcohol. Which left the pills.

‘Corelia thinks she can get to Belfast tomorrow, because I wrote her a note – ha! And I have Southampton and Nottingham cachers willing to trade. That leaves Scotland.’

Jason swung his rucksack off his shoulder, as Amy dropped onto the sofa, her tea sloshing over the edge of her mug onto the cushion. She was stoned. He’d left her alone for a couple of hours and she was completely off her head, making next to no sense.

‘What’s in Scotland?’ he asked, perching beside her on the sofa.

‘The unsolved cache. Only one on the list – except Cardiff, of course. That was the deal.’

Jason felt something uncomfortable lurch in his stomach. ‘What deal? What have you done?’

‘Deal with the thief,’ Amy said, as if it were obvious. ‘For “The Blue Lady”. Five geocaches to release her.’

‘And you just … did this? This morning, without saying anything?’

Amy grinned, a childish expression that stretched her pale cracked lips. ‘I’m a genius!’

Jason was reminded yet again that this wasn’t an equal partnership, that he couldn’t chew her out for not consulting him, but he also figured she hadn’t exactly acted out of sober judgement in this instance. And that put this whole case in jeopardy.

‘Amy, what have you taken?’

She blinked at him. ‘What?’

‘Tablets. What did you take and how many.’

She pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘You sound like my sister.’

‘I sound like your friend. How many tablets?’

Amy shrugged, an exaggerated movement that cost her more tea. ‘Some. I don’t count. What does it matter?’

‘How can you investigate if you’re off your head?’

Amy stared at him. ‘I’m not off my head.’ She hesitated. ‘Am I?’

Jason rested his hand on her arm. ‘Maybe you should lie down, yeah? Until it wears off.’

Amy yanked her arm out from under his palm. ‘I’m fine. You need to do what I say. I’m your boss.’

‘I know you are—’

‘Frieda asks you to go to North Wales and you just leave! I ask you to go to Scotland, with a plan and everything, and you tell me I’m baked.’ Amy stood up, the mug tumbling to the floor and soaking the carpet in tea.

‘Did I say I wouldn’t go? I just don’t think you should be making these decisions when you’re … not at your best.’

‘I’m brilliant! I’m not at my best when I’m shaking and crying and can’t get out of bed. This isn’t that, is it?’

‘Can’t you be something in between?’

But he already knew he’d lost this fight. He couldn’t argue in favour of the anxiety, the panic attacks that could rob her of an entire day. He didn’t know nearly enough about this illness to save her from it, didn’t even know if it were possible. So he turned a blind eye to the tablets and the duvet days, and hoped it would pass over. But it hadn’t, and he had to face the fact that it wouldn’t. Not without help, help he wasn’t qualified to give.

Amy didn’t answer him, moving back to AEON with the jerky walk of a woman trying not to let on how intoxicated she was. The printer spat out a couple of sheets of paper and she nodded her head towards them.

‘The starting GPS coordinates and the riddle. I can’t make it out yet, but being on location should help. I’ve booked tickets for you on the last train.’

Jason opened his mouth to protest, to argue that there was no way in hell he was leaving her like this, when the doorbell rang. Amy flicked up the image on the monitor.

‘Are you expecting your sister?’

Amy buzzed her up without waiting for an answer, but Jason had read the agitation in Cerys’ body. She was here for A Talk, which was the last thing he needed today. He had almost preferred it when his little sister had been running around Cardiff seducing gang runners and snorting drugs, instead of taking on all their mam’s nagging qualities and trying to intervene in his life for the better. Just because she was now an applicant for the sainthood didn’t mean that he had to follow suit.

The lift spat out his sister, in her uniformed best, and Jason stood in front of Amy to face her down. She didn’t need to see how the hacker was handling Owain’s betrayal.

‘Bad time?’ Cerys asked tentatively.

‘For what?’ he snapped back, more hostile than he intended.

Cerys squared her shoulders and he knew then the niceties were done with. She directed her next words over his shoulder. ‘You contacted the blackmailer from Talia’s account.’

‘The account isn’t Talia’s,’ Jason said. ‘Which you would know if you hadn’t shut us out of the case.’

‘No one is shutting you out,’ Cerys said, but he could see she wasn’t convinced by that argument herself.

‘Oh yeah? So what do you call not sharing vital evidence? And setting up a Cyber Crime Unit without saying a fucking word?’

‘You think he told me about this?’ Cerys’ words were infused with cold anger. ‘I found out yesterday!’

‘Yet you’re not fighting him, are you? You’ve come round here to tell us to back off.’ When her denial wasn’t immediate, Jason stepped closer, his voice louder. ‘Haven’t you?’

‘Bryn said you were prejudicing the investigation.’

‘We’re the only people in this investigation with some bloody clue what’s going on!’

‘Care to share?’ Cerys asked, too casually.

‘So you can run back to Owain with our leads? No, ta. If he’s the police’s pet hacker now, he can do it himself. Don’t need us, do you?’

‘I am on your side!’

‘Are you? Coming over here, telling us to quit investigating? Playing errand girl to your lover in your fetish outfit.’

He had gone too far, he could tell. Cerys’ cheeks were flushed, her hands clenched at her sides. She’d never looked more like him.

‘You can fuck around with NCA agents and then just saunter on back to your boss but I can’t have both a boyfriend and a brother? Where the fuck do you get off telling me what to do?’

‘I care something about loyalty!’ Jason roared, ignoring the hypocrisy staring him in the face.

Cerys laughed, a bitter, ugly sound. ‘You hear that, Amy? I hope you’re very happy with him.’

She turned on her heel and left. The slam of the front door echoed upstairs, and Jason watched on the monitor as she stormed off down the street.

As she slowly returned to earth, Amy realised exactly what she had done.

She had contacted a murderer and agreed to play a game. She had tied Jason and Corelia into this dangerous play, even forging a sick note for Corelia’s school. And she was sending Jason to Scotland, when she had only just got him back within her sanctuary.

She stared at the whorls of plaster on the ceiling, listening to Jason washing up in the kitchen, and struggled to remember what had been important about today. Cerys, she could recall, the shouting and the accusations. But she also recalled Jason using the word ‘loyalty’ and meaning her, the warmth that had filled her entire body that had nothing to do with drugs.

Jason peered over the back of the sofa, looking at her with trepidation. ‘Y’alright?’

‘Mm,’ she said, and swung her legs down to make room for him on the sofa.

He sat beside her, pressing a cup of strong, sweet coffee into her hands. She took the first scalding sip immediately, enjoying the tingling on her tongue as the liquid seared its way down her throat.

‘You want to hear what I got from Talia?’

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, trying to give the impression she was both sensible and sober in that moment. The look Jason gave her suggested she wasn’t particularly convincing.

‘She said the first blackmail note wasn’t sent by email or post, but left on her desk. The killer thought she was LizzieSiddal because Paul used her photo. He was shy or something. But I thought the bit about the note was interesting because you would’ve seen that, right? On the CCTV. So she must be lying.’

Something nagged at the back of her brain, the blurry highlight reels of hours upon hours of CCTV playing across her mind. ‘There isn’t a camera on the laboratory corridor. Only on the end. And … I don’t remember if I checked it.’

She remembered watching the exits, but had she tracked the killer inside the museum? Fuck, she was losing it.

‘Later,’ Jason said. ‘It might be nothing. You look tired.’

It sounded like an accusation to her ears, ‘tired’ meaning drained, exhausted, not coping. She couldn’t afford to be ‘tired’ in front of him. She couldn’t let on exactly how much she didn’t want him to leave tonight and go to bloody Scotland.

‘I’m fine,’ she said, sticking with that socially acceptable lie that meant anything from breezy as a summer’s day to knocking on death’s door.

‘Yeah, sure you are.’ Jason’s narrowed eyes peered into hers, as if he could see the brain whirring beneath, a little off-kilter, a few thousand molecules of serotonin out of whack.

‘Have you packed for Scotland?’ she asked, when what she wanted to say was:
Don’t leave. I’m not fine. I need you.

‘Can we talk about what happened today?’ he said.

That was the very last thing she wanted to do. But it was too much effort to escape, both hands occupied by the coffee and her thigh muscles too weak to stand alone. She needed a personal trainer. She needed a new life.

When she didn’t answer him, Jason barrelled on. ‘You weren’t right today. It’s the pills, isn’t it?’

She didn’t meet his eyes. ‘I got a new batch,’ she lied. ‘They were stronger than the last lot. They took me by surprise. It won’t happen again.’

‘A parcel arrived?’ Jason asked, suspiciously.

‘Courier,’ she said, trying to keep it simple. The most effective deceits were simple.

‘Right,’ he said, a sliver of belief creeping in around the edges of his suspicion. ‘Maybe you need a better supplier.’

‘I’m cutting down.’ More lies. ‘I should be off them by Christmas.’

‘That would be a great present.’ A warm smile eclipsed that tense, worried look he hadn’t shaken for days. ‘Maybe we can go round my mam’s for Christmas dinner.’

Her heart lurched in her chest, but Amy smiled, remembered the part she was playing.
I’m fine.
‘You need to pack.’

Jason took hold of her wrist, swept his thumb over her pounding pulse point. ‘You’d tell me? If things were getting worse?’

Amy merely smiled and slurped her coffee, burning her tongue. How could she tell him how the news about the Cyber Crime Unit had shattered all her illusions? If she had the energy to argue, she would tell him that a cup of coffee couldn’t solve everything. It wouldn’t find ‘The Blue Lady’ and it wouldn’t help her feel like someone who belonged on this planet, who could know and be known by other humans.

Jason nodded, apparently satisfied, and left to pack for Scotland.

Leaving Amy sinking under the weight of her own untruths.

The game was afoot.

That was what that famous English detective said, wasn’t it? ‘The game is afoot.’ Truth had never understood the strange phrase – how could any game be a foot? Unless it was some obscure soccer reference. She had never understood football.

This ‘concerned third party’ could be the answer to all her problems, something to turn her frustration into joy. Truth could taste the triumph, the way her mother would look at her, recognise her. She could still fix this, make it all right for them. Become a true daughter.

She wouldn’t have to watch her mother die because Truth was too weak to fight, too weak to claim what was owed to her, and save the life of a woman who hated her – yet meant everything to her.

If it was genuine. Truth knew enough about hiding IP addresses to know that the mystery puzzle solver was concealing theirs. Why were they intervening? How had they known that she needed them?

So many questions. But if she could solve the last few caches, she could bring this game to an end. Remove the hold all these spectres had over her once and for all. She would have the recognition she deserved.

And if they betrayed her? She had killed once. She could do it again.

All she had to do was wait for the clues to arrive. But time was running out, another day under the weight of the lady’s eyes. Truth still had her scissors close at hand, to peel away another ribbon of canvas from the whore’s skirts – that would make them hurry, feel her urgency to be out from under that gaze.

Truth fancied she saw fear in the vapid girl’s eyes now, knowledge that the next blow would wound more than her coy toes. The temptation to eviscerate her was strong, her blood heating at the thought, but Truth forced it down. She had more important things to consider, even if it meant sparing the tart.

Truth had to make the deadline short, because she was fast running out of time, out of hope. It would increase the chance of the girl meeting another sweep of the blade, but what did she care? They would restore her, of course, no expense spared for that obscene woman and her criminally blank eyes.

Three days, Truth would give them.

Three days until ‘The Blue Lady’ was torn in two.

Walking back to the station, after another set of tedious interviews at the museum, Bryn was glad of the distraction of his ringing phone. He was glad he didn’t recognise the number, still struggling to think of a decent excuse for his daughters about why he wasn’t home for dinner. Again.

‘Hesketh.’

‘Detective? It’s Talia Yeltsova. The blackmailer says three days only! Until he destroys our blue lady.’

A chill shivered down his spine, as if it were a real, living woman who had been threatened. ‘I assure you we are doing everything we can.’

‘But you must do it faster. Please. I don’t trust that Jason Carr, not after what Frieda said. I want only professionals.’

Bryn gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to ask exactly what Frieda said. ‘Our best professionals are on it. We won’t let you down.’

He replaced the phone in his pocket, his mind struggling to catch up with what Talia had told him. He was going to get hold of Frieda Haas and find out exactly what the bitch was playing at. But first he had to deal with Owain.

They hadn’t said a single word to each other since Bryn had found out about the Cyber Crime Unit, not even pleasantries exchanged over the kettle. Bryn was still seething, like a wounded tiger – an old toothless one whose claws had been filed down to stubs.

He wanted to ask why Owain had planned all this behind his back, and yet he was afraid of having his suspicions confirmed. That he had been dreading returning to work but hadn’t felt able to say. That he thought Bryn would take Amy’s part over his.

Bryn approached Owain’s new office, the fresh plate on the door bearing the legend CYBER CRIME UNIT. He pushed open the door without knocking, but Owain was nowhere to be seen. Only Catriona was in the office, typing away on a laptop and not looking up at the intrusion.

‘Where’s Owain?’ Bryn asked.

Catriona started, but she looked him square in the eye, without a trace of guilt. She had never been his partner, owed him nothing more than any other colleague in the department.

‘Urgent personal business,’ she said, which Bryn took to mean he was with Cerys.

‘Talia Yeltsova reported a new blackmail message.’

‘Carr’s on it. We think it’s in response to the Lane girl’s meddling.’

It took Bryn a moment to realise that she meant Cerys, not Jason.
Because sending your girlfriend round to confront her brother’s boss will always end well, Owain.

‘It would be helpful if you kept me informed.’ Bryn had no idea what Catriona meant by ‘meddling,’ but he could guess.

‘I copied you into the email to Matt.’

Bryn would have to keep a closer eye on his email if he wanted to keep up with the kids. Amy had always laid things out for him, but Owain and Catriona wanted to play with the big boys at the NCA.

‘We’ll need a strategy meeting to address the new threat.’

Catriona’s computer emitted a dull chime. ‘Matt confirms eight o’clock in the detectives’ office.’

Bryn left the office without another word. He walked downstairs and into the administrative corner of the forensics laboratory, hoping that some fingerprint or bundle of fibres would crack this case, instead of a smattering of data in some email.

Indira stood at the desk, in earnest conversation with the duty tech, but looked up at Bryn’s approach. ‘Just checking on our samples,’ she said. ‘The sand analysis is back – nothing like North Wales, as it turns out. Including the sample Jason brought back for us. The experts reckon it’s from some beach in Cornwall. Besides, we found it in many of our elimination samples throughout the museum – probably a random contaminant.’

Another wild goose chase, with Frieda and Jason’s road trip offering nothing to their investigation – but bringing down a human trafficking and organ smuggling operation. Bryn couldn’t exactly say they didn’t get results.

‘There is one thing.’ Indira gestured towards the tech’s computer. ‘I’m not the first person to access these results. One request came from Owain and the other via your computer.’

No prizes for guessing the identity of that particular data thief. ‘Best keep that to ourselves, eh?’

Indira waved away his concern. ‘It’s Owain’s request that interests me. The remote connection was today, but these results had a rush put on them from on high – they were back last week, before Frieda Haas left for North Wales.’

‘So you’re saying Frieda knew the sand wasn’t a match before she left?’

Was that what Frieda’s investigation was really about? Did Talia Yeltsova know something about the girls in lorries from Eastern Europe?

‘Sure looks that way,’ Indira said. ‘I can’t imagine why Owain would’ve kept it from her.’

‘There’s a lot of secrets Owain’s been keeping.’

The edge of bitterness in his voice clearly took Indira by surprise.

‘How’s he finding his new job?’ she asked tentatively.

‘You’ll have to ask him.’

He left the lab, his mind churning like a vat of rancid butter. His feet carried him to the detectives’ office automatically but he stopped short of the door. The closed door.

In all the years Bryn had worked in the department, he’d never known the door to be closed. It was always wedged back with a folded, yellowing piece of card that was replaced every year or so when it threatened to disintegrate.

Bryn stepped forward and tried the handle – locked. What the hell was going on?

He could hear something from behind the wood and he lifted his hand to knock smartly on the door. The sounds died away and, after a few moments, the door opened a fraction to reveal Matt Boateng and behind him a host of suited men Bryn didn’t recognise.

‘What’s this now?’

‘Change of plan,’ Matt said, unruffled by Bryn’s sharp tone. ‘The agency wants to make sure the investigation is watertight. We’ll be taking this one off your hands.’

It sounded so generous when he put it like that, as if he was doing Bryn a great favour. Bryn squared his shoulders, bracing himself for a fight.

‘If there are any leaks,’ he said, ‘they’re not coming from us.’

Matt’s smile was fixed, a slight narrowing of the eyes the only sign of his anger and disdain. ‘In a case of national and international interest, we are keen to avoid the appearance of impropriety. I’m sure you understand.’

Bryn understood perfectly – he and his team were under scrutiny, and the NCA had poached their case, stolen their office and identified their scapegoats should they fail to retrieve the painting.

‘I’ll leave you to your scheming then,’ he said, the false cheer causing Matt’s eyes to narrow further.

Bryn walked away, up the stairs towards the top floor, where the brass sat. If Owain was truly Matt’s man now, his secrets weren’t safe with his former partner. All that running to Amy, the unprecedented access he had given both her and Jason to evidence, police records and even crime scenes. All the time he’d looked the other way in exchange for a lead, using her as a confidential informant and never asking exactly how she came by her information yet knowing all the same.

It was all coming back to haunt him now, his failing grasp on twenty-first century policing, his reliance on Amy when he could’ve been giving Owain opportunities to shine, to develop. Paying attention to his partner’s dreams instead of belittling his enthusiasm for every flashy out-of-towner who could show him newer, faster ways of working that Bryn could barely understand.

Perhaps it was time to pass on the baton. Time to accept that what Bryn knew about detective work was slowly falling into obscurity.

The light in the chief constable’s office was still on and the secretary buzzed him through without questions.

‘Seen the light, Bryn?’ he asked.

Bryn smiled tightly, feeling every single one of his fifty-eight years.

‘Where do I sign?’