Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries) (5 page)

Her unvented anger had exhausted her and Amy slept late, her bed more inviting than the case. She drifted in and out of broken sleep, repeatedly sucked back into obscure dreams of shadows and a hundred false awakenings.

When she finally rose, it was gone midday and the house was empty. Amy recalled Jason saying something about visiting Lewis this weekend – perhaps he had made an early start. She made some toast and tea in her dressing gown, before gravitating towards AEON to check for overnight developments.

Indira had uploaded her preliminary autopsy report, including possible connections and disparities from the evidence collected by the scene of crime officers. One report compared trace found all around the body to that recovered from the deceased’s clothes and shoes. One entry stood out: ‘silica and particulate organic matter consistent with natural beach sand’. No such sand was found on Paul Roberts’ shoes, which meant the killer probably brought it with him. Like breadcrumbs, the trail of sand would also give a cunning Scene of Crime Officer confirmation of the entry and exit points that the killer used. Amy put another mark in the amateur column.

She checked the results of Paul’s social media search. The results were sparse, a forgotten Facebook profile amongst a slew of older, mothballed networks that hadn’t seen use in years. Who still had a Friends Reunited account?

She would need access to his home computer or his work account to get a better picture of his browsing history, his interests, his connections. She fired off a quick email to Bryn with her modest requests, before looking for a distraction while waiting for new information. Why hadn’t they thought of this before now? How was she supposed to work without data?

Bryn had been getting sloppy about evidence provision recently. She’d had to ask on more than one occasion for the files and access she needed since returning to work after the accident. At first, she’d thought Bryn didn’t want to overburden her after her injuries but she’d been recovered for weeks now. He had no excuse for his continued laxity, in her mind.

Part of her was aware she was being unfair and knew that Bryn had a lot on his plate, but if he wanted her help in these crimes, he had to give her something to work with. She could only get so far working from unofficial sources – social media, remote access, supposedly secure government databases.

The lift doors opened, startling her. ‘Honey, I’m home!’

Jason thought he was being funny again, that was all. But Amy smiled all the same.

‘Good day at the prison, dear?’

‘Same old, same old. Didn’t fancy hanging about this time.’ He came up behind her and flipped open his notebook. ‘Ready?’

Amy found that she wasn’t angry anymore. Relieved, she opened her notes and assumed her typing position. ‘Ready.’

‘Lewis’ unnamed sources reckon this is part of an organised crime network operating on and off boats, like the drug supply. Definitely not the same blokes who robbed Oxford. And he thinks we’re looking at a North Walean connection.’

Amy nodded as she typed:
CI HMPS gangs boats Oxford X N Wales.
‘Anything else?’

‘I’ve got to buy tickets to One Direction.’

‘If that’s how you’re spending your salary, I might need to reconsider my generosity.’

‘Oh, give over.’ Jason gently shoved at her shoulder and she didn’t flinch. She was getting better at that. ‘Tea?’

‘Please.’ She finished the dregs of her last mug before handing it off to him. ‘This intel fits the evidence perfectly. The SOCOs found beach sand tracked in by the killer.’

‘They can do tests on that, can’t they? Find out if it’s from North Wales’ beaches?’ Jason called from the kitchen.

‘Mm.’ Amy scanned the report again. ‘They’ve sent it to some national lab for analysis, but it could take a few days. You’re turning into a proper detective, aren’t you?’

‘I just know my limits. I bring you second-hand gossip and you turn it into evidence that would stand up in court.’

‘That’s Bryn’s job. I just shore up your gossip with my own, before handing it over to the real police.’

Jason laughed. ‘Modesty? From you? You’re a genius at this and you know it.’

Amy blushed and tried to cool her cheeks with her palms before Jason came back in. ‘I’m all right,’ she said, noncommittal.

But she knew that Bryn needed her and she liked that feeling. Cardiff Police didn’t have access to computer forensics and that meant she was it. It was a huge responsibility, but she didn’t mind. She liked to be needed. She sent the scant details of Jason’s prison intelligence to Bryn via email, flagging up the connection to the sand. Playing her part.

Jason returned with her tea and she took a break from the computer, sitting beside him on the sofa as they drank in companionable silence.

‘Did you find anything out while I was gone?’

Amy filled him in on her lack of information from Paul’s social media, at which he nodded in all the right places. She had him well trained.

‘So, what’s next?’ he asked.

‘I have hours of CCTV to review.’

She felt Jason’s eyes on the side of her face, boring a hole. ‘And me?’

Amy hesitated. She didn’t have anything that needed fetching, no suspects to be interrogated. Bryn hadn’t responded to her request for Paul’s data and devices, so she had no need for Jason’s particular skillset.

‘How are we for bread?’

‘Seriously? We’re looking at a murder and you want me to pop to the shops?’

Amy flustered. ‘I have nothing for you to do.’

‘I can look at CCTV just as well as you can. We’ve got the tablet or my laptop.’

She hesitated, a moment too long.

Jason huffed and got up off the sofa. ‘Fine. I’ll check the cupboards for Cerys coming over tonight. Let me know if you think of some “one-brain-cell” tasks, yeah?’

‘Jason, I didn’t mean it like that,’ Amy protested.

Jason towered above her, all six feet of him radiating barely contained frustration. ‘Look, I know computers aren’t my thing. But you could teach me some stuff, enough to help you out. I’m not only good for my feet and fists.’

‘I know. I do know.’ Amy had no idea how they’d got into the bizarre situation of her giving Jason reassurance. It was a strange place to be.

‘I’m just saying I can do a lot more if you let me.’

He retreated into the kitchen, leaving Amy staring after him. Maybe she hadn’t been fair. But what if he missed something? She had years of practice looking at CCTV and she knew she could comb every frame perfectly. It would be difficult to let go.

But she trusted him with her evidence, with witnesses and dangerous situations. Amy trusted Jason with her life. Was trusting him with AEON really that different?

Amy headed for the shower, her mind still churning over this new development. The hot water would clear her head and give her the opportunity to think it through, away from the distraction of Jason’s earnest eyes and how much she wanted to please him.

She had to make this decision with her head, and not her unreliable heart.

Jason unloaded the dishwasher with jerky movements, frustration bleeding into his household chores. Other people had jobs that gave them weekends off and bosses who trusted them with more than just playing errand boy.

Sure, he hadn’t done much with himself in school, preferring to bunk off and shake down younger kids for their lunch money, case the best corner shops for a bit of thieving, or find who could score an eighth or two for a session down by the river. That had been his education, learning how to please himself and his mates, and intimidate anyone who got in their way.

But he thought he was better than that now. He wasn’t just some thug who got answers with a bruising. He was doing honest work, for Amy and the police. Why wouldn’t she let him prove that he could do more than just fetch, carry and clean?

The doorbell rang. They weren’t expecting Cerys until later, so who was paying them a visit? When the bell rang again, Jason crossed into the living room to find it empty and the sound of the shower running coming from down the corridor.

With AEON locked down, Jason moved towards the intercom and pressed the button the old-fashioned way. ‘Yeah?’

‘Jason, it’s Owain.’

‘Oh. Hi.’ What the hell was Owain doing here two days in a row?

‘Hi. Can I … come up?’

‘Yeah, sure.’ Jason buzzed him up and waited in the corridor. Something weird was going on here and he intended to find out what.

The lift doors opened and Owain strode out, dressed down with his laptop bag on his shoulder. ‘Where’s Amy?’

‘She’s in the shower. You need something?’

‘Mind if I disturb her?’ Owain tried to peer around him, as if doubting he believed Jason at all.

Jason decided he was getting to the bottom of this. ‘Why are you here? I thought you were working.’

Owain tapped the laptop bag. ‘This is work.’

Jason moved across the corridor to block Owain’s path to Amy. ‘I’m all ears.’

Owain’s hand gripped the bag strap until his knuckles turned white. ‘The CCTV—’

‘Yeah, we’ve got it.’ Jason wasn’t budging an inch.

‘I’m here to help. Her analysis.’

Jason’s mouth went dry. After she’d turned him down… ‘Since when does Amy need help with computers?’

‘Jason, please—’

‘Since when?’ he shouted, getting in Owain’s face.

Owain tensed, his whole body rigid and his eyes squeezed shut. As if bracing for a blow.

Jason deflated immediately. ‘Fuck, mate, I’m not gonna hit you.’

Owain released a shaky breath and slowly opened his eyes, as if he was afraid of what he might see. ‘Sorry. Just … jumpy.’

Jason had seen this kind of jumpy before. Amy startled like a rabbit in the face of a 4x4. But he’d never seen Owain wear it, like a heavy cloak weighing him down. But a brush with death altered a person, didn’t it?

Jason had seen the evidence of Amy’s nightmares, dark circles under her eyes and savagely bitten fingernails, and heard the stifled cries through the floorboards. He’d kept an eye on her, but he hadn’t ventured past her bedroom door. Some lines shouldn’t be crossed in your boss’s house, and entering Amy’s room for more than a wake-up call and a cup of tea was out of the question.

‘How about I put the kettle on while we wait for Amy?’ he said gently.

Owain nodded, still pale and trembling. Jason shepherded him towards the living room and made the tea, adding an extra spoonful of real sugar to Owain’s. He took it silently and stuffed a chocolate digestive in his mouth, like a small child at his nan’s house.

Jason watched him, his own hands unable to keep still in his lap. Because for all his protests to Amy, despite everything he thought he could make of himself, he still led with his temper, choosing the physical over the mental to solve a problem.

No wonder Amy couldn’t trust him with peanuts. Jason wasn’t even sure if he could trust himself.

Amy washed the sweat from her skin, trying to be rational about Jason and his effect on her. She was used to struggling on with a head full of cotton wool, from the depression or the panic, lack of caffeine or a little too much red wine. But for another person to put her in a spin like this … The last person to have that kind of hold over her had been her mother, that raging hatred that had consumed her teenage years until she had finally escaped from her.

Stealing from her parents was the best day’s hacking she’d ever done and she refused to regret it. The insurance company had coughed up, her father had changed his passwords to another predictable set of cricketing highlights, and they had all moved on with their lives. Except Amy and her sister were five million pounds richer.

Their parents had never found out who stole the money. Just as they had failed to notice Grandma’s fading memory, leaving the old woman to raise two young girls. Leaving Amy and Lizzie to bury their grandmother. It was only when Lizzie had reached out to them earlier in the year that they even knew what had happened to their daughters. Their father had assumed it was being ‘taken care of’, like so many little things. His mother’s memory. Lizzie’s education. Amy’s fragile mental health.

Rinsing the bitter taste from her mouth, Amy pushed the past away and boxed it up inside her. It would keep. Back in her room, she threw on whatever was to hand and headed for the living room.

She stopped short at the sight of Owain on the sofa. He was staring into his mug, looking both lost and hopeful that the tea would somehow hold the answers.

‘Owain’s brought his laptop,’ Jason said, from the kitchen doorway. ‘To help with the CCTV.’

She heard the hesitancy in his voice, with an edge of anger. He wanted her to intervene, to drag Owain back from wherever he had fled. But, if she let Owain in, she would be admitting that she could share her work – just not with Jason.

Amy was torn. Jason was her assistant, her best friend. But Owain needed a purpose, needed to keep moving in case he realised that in stopping the world had changed irrevocably. She recognised that look from the mirror. Maybe she could fix him in a way she had never managed for herself?

But before she could answer, Owain was unpacking his laptop and he’d lost some of the shadows from his face, his eyes. He almost looked like himself again. Amy knew exactly how much the work was therapy. Could she deny him that?

‘What about me?’ Jason asked.

She tried not to hear the hurt in his words. ‘You were going shopping. For Cerys.’

Owain slumped, head bent over his laptop though she knew he was listening intently. Whatever was off between Owain and Cerys, it wasn’t due to a lack of feeling on either side.

With an aggressive glare at Owain, Jason picked up some bags from the cupboard and made for the door. ‘I’ll just be shopping then.’

She knew she’d offended him, but he would survive. She couldn’t leave Owain to fend for himself, as she’d been left. It was worth Jason’s flare of temper to provide the crutch for once, instead of being the one dependent on it.

Amy picked up the set of CCTV discs and fanned them out for Owain.

‘Pick a card.’

Seething at being ordered to pick up the groceries like he was some kind of fifties housewife, Jason dumped the empty shopping bags in the boot of his Micra and decided he was going to check on the Harley.

Dylan hadn’t called, so she wasn’t ready to ride, but maybe they could spend a couple of hours figuring it out together. Jason missed his long hours at the garage, tinkering with cars and bikes, but Dylan’s tendency to work with cheap parts of dubious origins meant he had to keep his distance. Jason’s criminal record and Dylan’s dodgy parts were too well known for either of them to prosper from that arrangement.

And the bloody shopping could wait. He had suspected Amy was blowing him off, but now he had confirmation. It wasn’t about guarding her domain from all-comers – it was about keeping Jason out. The anger faded now, replaced by sadness and a sense of loss. He wasn’t Amy’s only assistant, the one person she could completely rely on. Other people could take his place in an instant, and in some cases, do things that he would never be permitted to touch. As if he were a naughty five-year-old who couldn’t be trusted with the remote control.

As Jason drove between the Students’ Union and the museum, he glanced across at the entrances. Still cordoned off and guarded. Not only had the place lost its most iconic work of art, but it must be haemorrhaging money from the lack of tourists. The mystery nagged at him. He wanted to be part of it. He couldn’t bear to be shut out like this.

He drove past the castle before leaving the town centre, crossing the bridge into Canton. The shabby end of town was a mishmash of young professionals, new immigrants, and old Cardiffians, where a polski sklep stood next to an ancient greasy café, both frequented by hipsters.

As he turned into Dylan’s road, he spotted a familiar Mercedes 4x4 parked outside. Jason loathed posh 4x4s, the province of rich middle-class parents who wanted something to drive their children to school in and didn’t care about the hit to their pockets. But take one of those cars down a proper dirt track in the country and it would never survive the bumps, ditches, and ice-marked lanes it was supposedly built for.

He parked and marched up to the forecourt, where Dylan and Miss National Crime Agency were peering into a covered trailer attached to the Chelsea Tractor. He might hate the car, but this was his chance to get inside information on the investigation. Prove his worth to Amy and get back into the crime solving that had united them.

But any cunning plan died when he saw what was inside the trailer. The Harley Davidson touring bike was all black seduction, the newest model with an eye-watering price tag that Jason couldn’t hope to afford even with Amy’s generous salary. He felt sick with envy, yet the beautiful machine also added a touch of gloss to his impression of Frieda.

‘Now I’m the one with the admirer. Though not so secret.’

Jason realised he was staring, at both her and the bike. Her cool amusement should’ve rankled, but it just added to her confident air. He couldn’t deny her whole attitude was attractive, tantalising.

‘I figured you for a BMW girl,’ he said, trying to cover his naked admiration of more than just the bike.

‘Time for a change. I tire easily.’

‘Miss Haas was looking at your Captain America bike,’ Dylan chipped in.

She glanced back at his bike, in pride of place in the centre of Dylan’s space. ‘A loving restoration. You must be a proud parent.’

Jason shrugged, unwilling to admit his beloved bike wouldn’t even start on a mild day in autumn.

‘If only she would turn over, eh, Jason?’

Dylan, however, never knew when to keep his mouth shut.

‘I can take a look, if you like?’ Frieda offered.

‘I think we’ve got it,’ Jason said, too quickly.

But her expression didn’t flicker. Why wouldn’t she give anything away? She was another mystery to solve, and he was fascinated by her refusal to react. Professional veneer or personal protection? He longed to know the truth of her.

‘Dylan was just giving my tourer the once-over before I take her on a trip.’ Frieda reached out to caress the leather seat of her bike. ‘Sometimes it takes a professional eye to get the job done.’

‘Leaving Cardiff already? Case closed – or just not enough excitement for you?’

His tone was biting, but that professional comment had riled him. She was needling Amy and him, and he wasn’t going to stand for that.

‘Wales’ beaches won’t inspect themselves.’

‘You’re following the sand lead?’

Jason was aware of Dylan in his peripheral vision, dithering about giving them some space to talk or eavesdropping on the murder investigation some more. He shot his mate a look, and Dylan muttered something about brake fluid before making himself scarce.

‘The full analysis could take weeks. From the prison intel and the first-pass data, we have enough to narrow down the geography. We have to move fast if we want to stop the painting leaving the country – if it hasn’t already.’

‘You’re going alone?’

An Englishwoman alone in the heart of North Wales was just asking for trouble.

‘You want to be my chaperone?’

‘If you let me drive.’

The words were out before he’d thought them through, but he immediately liked the idea. Time to play with a beautiful bike, and get to know the beautiful woman who so puzzled him.

‘I’ll let you try her. I’m leaving in an hour. Where should I pick you up?’

‘I’ll meet you here,’ Jason said.

A woman on a motorbike showing up outside Amy’s would likely give her a heart attack.

Amy. Shit.

Jason wasn’t a free man. He had responsibilities to Amy. But if Owain was installing himself in their living room, he didn’t see why he couldn’t follow another lead. The young detective was capable of fetching in the sandwiches and Amy could make her own tea.

‘Better let the boss know then,’ Frieda said, reading his mind.

‘She’ll get it,’ he said, knowing exactly how big a lie that was.