Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries) (3 page)

When Jason reached the museum, the mass of police officers had been reduced to a couple of plods reluctantly keeping watch in front of yards and yards of crime scene tape.

While Amy searched for old city maps and blueprints of the museum building, Jason played errand boy by fetching the rest of the day’s CCTV along with the preceding week to check out anyone looking shady. When Amy latched on to a theory, she was like a dog with a bone and everyone else servants to her master plan.

Jason didn’t recognise either copper on the door, so he felt around in his jacket pockets for the ID Bryn had given him. Nothing.

The Carr charm was probably not going to cut it, as both officers would be up for disciplinary action if they let in a reporter by mistake. Besides, one of the lads already looked nervous at his presence. They were more likely to arrest him than call Bryn to see if he checked out.

‘Skulking around crime scenes? Anyone would think you’re a criminal.’

Jason scowled at his smart-arse sister, as Cerys strode over to him. Her probationary constable uniform was immaculate, though tufts of peroxide blonde hair escaped the confines of her pristine cap.

‘What you doing here?’

‘Lead didn’t work out.’

Jason knew he wasn’t the smartest bloke, but he also knew Cerys wasn’t allowed on cases yet and Central Police Station was just across the way. He was going to have words with Owain when he saw him.

‘Uh-huh. Fancy helping Amy out for a bit?’

Without further instruction, Cerys marched up to the cordon and beamed at the two officers, all eager eyes and bouncing on her toes.

‘Y’alright? DI Hesketh sent me over to fetch some evidence. Pretty exciting stuff, isn’t it? I’ve never worked a murder before!’

The officers rolled their eyes and lifted the cordon, as Jason sidled up beside her.

‘And I’m—’

‘The evidence courier. Have a good evening, now.’

Cerys yanked on Jason’s arm and dragged him into the museum.

‘Oi! I’m not the courier!’ His protest echoed around the great marble hall.

‘You want to tell them you’re an ex-convict and maybe they’d seen your face all over the news a few months ago? Why was that again?’

‘Shut up,’ he muttered.

‘Can I help you?’

Jason registered the vivid colours of the blouse before he recognised the Spanish-speaking woman from earlier, though her accent was definitely American.

‘Afternoon,’ Cerys said, before Jason could answer. ‘I’m Probationary Constable Cerys Carr and we’re here to collect some…’

She glanced at Jason and he realised he’d never actually told her why they were there.

‘CCTV footage.’

‘I’m the curator – Lucila Paniagua.’ She reached out to shake Cerys’ hand. ‘Any news of our lady?’

Cerys shook her head, and genuine sorrow filled the woman’s face. It was almost as if she’d lost a relative, regarding ‘The Blue Lady’ as a person just like Amy had. Though Lucila had probably seen the picture every day, while Amy had only had her first glance an hour ago. She continued to mystify Jason, even after nearly a year of working for her.

Lucila escorted them personally to the security office, where the security guard confessed that they only had four days of footage.

‘We only have so many discs,’ she said. ‘But you’ll catch him, won’t you? For Paul?’

‘We’ll do what we can,’ Cerys said, a second before Jason wanted to promise her they would. ‘When the museum reopens tomorrow, keep an eye out for anyone suspicious. Especially in the galleries.’

The guard nodded seriously, as if the instruction was being burned into her brain, before Lucila walked them to the side door down a bland staircase.

‘Security are taking it hardest,’ the curator said. ‘The rest of us didn’t know Paul well – Christmas parties, things like that. He only worked night shifts. He loved the time alone in the galleries.’

‘Why was that?’ Jason asked.

‘He had a passion for the Impressionists, more than some of our technicians. He’d spend hours with … what was it?
San Maggiore
? The cleaners have to go over that spot of floor every morning, because of the scuffs from him staring.’ A sad light entered Lucila’s eyes. ‘But not anymore, I suppose.’

When they reached the door, Jason noted the second police cordon and a plastic evidence bag taped over the external card readers and keypad.

‘This where he got in?’

‘You know better than me.’

Jason glanced back up the stairs, remembering their route. ‘And how many cameras on this stretch?’

‘Only one outside the door and one at the end of the laboratory corridor. We had some tools go missing last year. Our senior technician Talia insisted we monitor the staff.’

‘I bet she did.’ Jason remembered well the wounds from her tongue-lashing.

Lucila smiled. ‘I see you’ve met. She’s broken-hearted over the painting. We all are.’

Jason decided to just throw his wackier line of questioning out there. ‘And this is one of only three doors, right? No other … hidden exits or secret passageways?’

Lucila started to laugh, the sound threatening to take over her entire body, before she brought her mirth under control.

‘If there are, no one’s told me.’

Lucila left them at the door, Jason tucking the discs inside his jacket as they passed the cordon. A dense Cardiff drizzle was falling, the overcast sky turning afternoon to premature evening.

‘You staying round Mam’s tonight?’ Jason asked.

Cerys rounded on him. ‘Why do you say that?’ She was sharper than him, always had been, and she jabbed a manicured finger into his chest. ‘You knew Owain was blowing me off this weekend.’

‘What you and Owain get up to—’

‘Fuck off! You knew, didn’t you?’

Jason strode back towards the Harley at the front of the museum, forcing Cerys to trot to keep up. ‘It’s the case, Cerys. Nothing personal.’

‘I get to decide whether it’s personal, not you! You could’ve warned me.’

‘No way am I your go-between. I run enough errands for Amy and Bryn.’

She sulked silently until they got back to the bike, the rain falling in heavy droplets now, beating a rhythm on his uncovered head.

‘Want a lift down Butetown?’ he asked, grudgingly.

‘Yeah, all right.’

He gave up his helmet to her, as she climbed on the pillion and he kick-started the bike. Nothing. The engine didn’t even splutter, the nothingness of a failed start.

He tried again with the same result. Frustrated, he climbed off and looked it over, hoping to spot something obvious he could tidy up and be on his way.

‘You need to stop relying on rust buckets,’ Cerys said.

‘This is a genuine 1940s Harley Davidson,’ Jason said with feeling.

‘Yeah, yeah, Cap’s bike – I remember. Better make my own way while you haul that into Dylan’s garage.’

She was off before he could stop her, but she had a point. He couldn’t strip down the engine in the centre of Cardiff, and definitely not in the rain. He made a quick call to Dylan, who chastised him for dropping out of their drinks date by text before arranging to pick up the bike round the back of the university’s creatively named Main Building. The students weren’t back yet and they’d have some room to manoeuvre both the bike and the old truck.

Jason walked the Harley round the other side of the museum, ignoring the amused laughter from the police on guard. He, at least, would soon be out of the rain, whereas their shift lasted hours. The mean-spirited glee warmed him as he passed the closed museum car park on his right and the memorial park on the left. The roads around Park Place were lined with cars, cheap parking near the city centre hard to come by, but he saw only a few people, on their way to somewhere else.

He found a spot for the Harley outside Main Building, a name more befitting an anonymous concrete monster than the elegant marble affair with a flourishing garden. It was tempting to seek shelter in the foyer, but without the hubbub of students and considering the recent crime on their doorstep, security would be twitchy around strangers.

Speaking of strangers…
A striking blonde across the street caught his eye. She was maybe early thirties with a shining head of golden hair, a more natural shade than Cerys’ platinum blonde, turning bronze under the rain. Her coat was expensive, the kind they sold knock-offs of down the market, and beneath it she wore a pinstripe trouser suit with high-heeled boots.

And she was standing next to a posh Mercedes 4x4 without getting in it.

Jason looked for any explanation for her standing in the rain, but she didn’t check a watch or phone, wasn’t smoking a cigarette. Thinking about cigarettes stirred something in his veins, but he forced it down. After a stubborn chest infection that just wouldn’t shift, Amy had cajoled him into quitting – ninety-three days and counting. Felt like a decade.

The woman could just be lost. Or waiting for someone. But maybe she was an art thief returning to the scene of the crime, trying to discover how much the police knew about her.

They’d assumed the person on the video was a man, but Jason couldn’t swear to it. Without her heels, she might be about the right height, judging by the roof of the 4x4. Maybe she had seen him emerge from the museum and thought he knew something, because who else could she be watching?

Jason nonchalantly pulled his phone from his pocket, fired off a text to Amy, and walked off down the road. If he was wrong, no harm done. If he was right, though … this would be the breakthrough they needed to feed this case and reclaim the painting. It would be nice to see his name on some positive news stories for a change.

He walked past the Main Building and right up a ramp to the made-over Biomedical Sciences building. The nauseating smell of formaldehyde oozed from the basement windows, the signature scent of the preserved human bodies the medical students dissected here.

At the ramp, he turned left and flattened himself against the wall. Looping his Bluetooth headset over his ear, he heard Amy’s voice as clearly as if she stood next to him.

‘Main Building camera too far for a face, but she’s definitely on the move. Stand by.’

He could tell when Amy had been watching too much crime drama because her phone calls were styled after police radio. He forced his shoulders to relax, a stance of readiness not rigid tension. He wasn’t looking for a fight, but one always seemed to find him anyway.

‘On the ramp. ETA twenty seconds.’

He was cutting off her supply of
Homeland
. It was the only solution.

The woman rounded the corner and Jason moved, crowding her against the wall without laying a finger on her.

‘You my secret admirer?’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘What’s to admire, Mr Carr?’

The tension flooded back, setting his teeth on edge. ‘Who says?’

She withdrew a leather cardholder from her pocket and Jason internally groaned before she even flipped it open.

‘Frieda Haas, National Crime Agency. What’s a notorious thief doing at the scene of an art heist, hmm?’

‘I work for Amy Lane, Police Consultant. I was there on official business.’

However long he spent out of jail, he would never shake the label of
thief
. No matter how many cases he solved with Amy, the past wouldn’t leave him alone.

‘Your private investigator licence, please.’ She held out her hand, but in a way that meant she knew he had nothing to show.

‘I’m her assistant. I fetch and carry, run errands.’

Jason had no idea whether Amy had a licence, but he suspected the answer was no. She could probably find one at short notice, however. The advantage of knowing the back doors of so many government departments.

‘The legislation doesn’t come into force until next year.’ Amy’s voice returned to his ear.

Shit, he’d been played.

‘Is that badge legit?’ Amy continued. ‘I’ll check the National Crime Command database.’

‘Can your employer verify—?’

‘Have you met Bryn yet?’ Jason asked. One sure-fire way of checking her out.

‘Bryn?’ she said blankly, setting off all sorts of warning alarms in his head. But then the mist lifted. ‘You mean DI Hesketh? I’ve not yet had the pleasure.’

‘You often start snooping around before letting the city cops know you’re here?’

‘You know a lot about cops, don’t you? Comes from staring at them from across the interrogation table.’

‘Why don’t you come down the station and learn with me? I’m sure Bryn would love to interrogate you.’

‘Are you arresting me?’ Her voice was mocking, almost teasing. ‘Or did you leave your handcuffs at home?’

Something about her gnawed at him, like an itch that needed to be scratched. She was hot, no denying it, but her cool blue eyes gave away absolutely nothing. He wondered what it would take for her to show her hand.

‘Don’t trust her.’ Amy again. ‘Don’t go anywhere with her alone.’

Jason slipped the headset from his ear. ‘I’m sure you’ll come quietly.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.’

Her smirk would stay with him, he knew, as she walked away down the ramp and Jason followed. He couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Bryn watched Owain out of the corner of his eye, as the young detective put together the murder board.

The detectives’ office at Central Police Station was open-plan, the walls lined with vast windows to look out onto Park Place. On the other side of Cathays Park and the Wales National War Memorial was their crime scene, the noble building in white marble a stark contrast to the ugly concrete the police force called home.

The museum was completely shut down for the day, the staff falling over themselves to give the police every chance of returning their precious painting. But art theft wasn’t exactly Bryn’s area of expertise – hell, even murder was a rare event in the Welsh capital. He had phoned for assistance from the National Crime Agency and they’d promised to send someone down within the week.

But by the end of the day, the painting could’ve left the country. It wasn’t like airport scanners and coastguards were set up to hunt down masterpieces shoved down the side of a suitcase. They didn’t have a sniffer dog for that.

Bryn clicked on the folder in the corner of his desktop, called simply ‘updates’. A dozen CCTV stills and a file full of notes appeared, which he moved to a different folder – creatively named ‘old updates’ – and printed for Owain’s board.

He hadn’t wanted Amy involved in this case, but Jason had pushed him and, like a fool, he’d relented. The acting detective superintendent wanted to fend off any hint of irregularity after the scandal that had hit the department earlier in the year, and Amy was definitely an irregularity.

He handed the pictures to Owain, who pinned the series of CCTV images around the crime scene photos. ‘These images fit with Indira’s preliminary report, though she hadn’t realised the hammer was … lodged like that. He was dead within a minute, she reckons.’

A few curious onlookers came over to gawp, but they retreated at Bryn’s glare.

‘Anything else?’

‘Prints and DNA still processing, but he’s gloved and masked, so not much chance of transfer. I’ve asked Catriona to compare this to European art heists from the past five years to see if the MO matches.’

Catriona Aitken was only a detective constable so Owain technically outranked her, but as lead investigator, Bryn should be giving the orders. Maybe Owain was trying on the rank of inspector, seeing how it fitted. Because the rumour mill had it that the new detective superintendent would be coming from within the ranks, leaving a vacant detective inspector post for the taking.

And all eyes were on Bryn.

Of course, he should be ranked detective chief inspector to apply for the post, but their last DCI had retired three years ago and the higher-ups had never got round to appointing another. Interview phases would come and go, but it worked out better for the budget if the existing inspectors shouldered the extra responsibility.

The chief constable had come sniffing round the office once or twice, but Bryn had hidden in the stationery cupboard until he’d gone. If he was asked to apply for the job by the big boss, he’d have no choice but to say yes. And be confined to a desk for the rest of his days.

But if he didn’t apply, what then? He was getting on in years and how would the department look with a complete stranger running it? The acting super was from North Wales, which was bad enough, but what if an Englishman took the helm? It didn’t bear thinking about. Maybe he owed it to his boys – and girls – to become their super.

‘Bryn? Bryn, are you listening?’

Owain’s words brought him back to the task at hand and he gestured at the board.

‘Good thinking, the MOs. Let me know if she finds something.’

Owain smiled half a smile, forced to put on a happy face. But Bryn was well acquainted with liars.

‘If something’s bothering you—’

‘Bryn!’

The office was silenced by Jason’s shout – or possibly by the tall blonde at his side. She strode up to Bryn without waiting for an invitation.

‘I’m Frieda Haas from the National Crime Agency.’

Bryn blinked at her. ‘Bloody hell, you’re quick. I wasn’t expecting you ’til at least Monday.’

‘And yet here I am. I will expect your full cooperation with my investigation and will be deputising your officers as required.’

Bryn tried not to swear. She had a tinge to her accent that, combined with her name and Aryan poster-girl looks, made him think German. He could add cold efficiency to his equation now.

‘This is a South Wales Police investigation—’

‘Not anymore. Do you understand the diplomatic significance of this painting, Mr Hesketh?’

Bryn ground his teeth. Robbing him of his title was a cheap psychological trick, but he couldn’t help the way it grated on him. ‘Enlighten me.’

‘The French tolerate British possession of Impressionist paintings because we guarantee their safety and security. Now one of them is missing, presumed stolen. What would happen to the National Museum of Wales if France demanded the repatriation of all French paintings?’

‘It would financially collapse,’ Owain said. His eyes were fixed on the newcomer like an eager puppy dog. It only took a whiff of the Big City to impress the boy with big ambitions.

‘And Welsh tourism would take a hit it can’t afford. If other museums received similar demands, the financial recovery could stutter. This is about so much more than a stolen painting.’