by T. M. Logan
‘Has he indicated that he might have changed his name in the past?’
‘No.’
My mind raced with possibilities. A change of name? What did that mean? Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
‘Has he indicated to you that he may have served time in jail?’
‘No, nothing like that.’ I felt my heart start to thud in my chest, a mixture of relief and horror that I might have been on the right track after all. ‘What did he do?’
‘We’re working on that. Our investigation so far strongly suggests there would be merit in a more forensic examination of the subject. A deeper dive, if you like.’
‘How deep can you go?’
Farmer took a sip of his coke.
‘You know, back when I started out in this job, in ’96, the industry hadn’t really changed in a long time, in decades. We were still doing a lot of the same things that had been done by our predecessors half a century before: same searches, same fieldcraft, same bread-and-butter stuff that the investigative community has always done. Almost like it was going to stay the same forever. The nineties seem like a lifetime ago, don’t they?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘But when digital came along, everything changed. Not overnight, but over the course of a decade it changed the investigation business beyond all recognition.’
‘I understand that, but what’s it got to do with—’
‘Digital has seen my business explode. Mobile phones, GPS, email, social media, online commerce – there’s so much information now, more than anyone can really get a handle on, and so much more of it available because of where it’s kept. And all of it is meat and drink to people in my line of work.’ He glanced around briefly, checking that everyone else had their attention on the band. ‘In the digital arena, we’re able to offer certain . . . bespoke services that are not advertised on our website, for reasons of sensitivity.’
‘What kind of services?’
‘Interrogation of certain online resources that might not otherwise be accessible.’
I frowned. Farmer seemed to have started talking in code. ‘I don’t understand, I thought you were already doing everything you could?’
‘At this level, yes.’ Farmer leaned in closer until I could feel his breath on my ear. ‘But there are certain additional avenues we can explore if you want to take the investigation to the next level.’
‘The next level?’
‘That’s right.’
The reason Farmer had chosen this venue for the meeting suddenly became clear. A noisy pub, a band on stage, a table next to a blaring speaker meant the conversation couldn’t be recorded and captured on my phone. And that meant there wouldn’t be any record of this conversation – and he could deny it if necessary.
‘You’re talking about hacking,’ I said. ‘Breaking into secure databases that you’re not supposed to be able to see? That’s why you wanted to talk about it here, so you can be sure you’re not being recorded, isn’t it?’
Farmer smiled.
‘I love the music too.’ He took a sip of his drink. ‘My business is about helping people to make good decisions, Ed. To make good decisions they need good data. Unfortunately, some of the most helpful information is kept from us behind layers of bureaucracy, by big government shouting about data protection when really all they want is to keep us at arm’s length from the truth. It hinders us from making the best decisions, which I know is all you want for your family, your daughter.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘In my experience, the deeper you go, the more useful the information becomes.’
‘And what’s the likelihood of getting exposed, getting caught?’
‘With the guy I use? Nil.’
‘That sounds rather optimistic,’ I said carefully.
‘It’s the truth.’ Farmer shrugged. ‘There’s discreet low-level penetration of government networks on a weekly basis. They’re inherently leaky. As long as we don’t tread on any toes among the big security agencies no one’s going to have the time or the inclination to chase down every penetration to its source. And even if they did, my guy bounces his activity through a dozen servers worldwide, so his trail is basically impossible to follow.’
I considered his answer, surprised at how little I actually cared about the legal niceties.
‘So what’s the catch?’ I shifted in my seat. ‘Besides it being illegal, I mean.’
Farmer didn’t smile, didn’t blink. He didn’t react at all. ‘This level of service is not included in the package you’ve paid for,’ the investigator said. ‘It’s a highly skilled operation, and my guy is in very considerable demand for the services he can—’
‘How much more is it going to cost me?’ I said bluntly.
‘For this level of service, it would be another three thousand, on top of the retainer and service fee already agreed.’
‘Three thousand is a hell of a lot of money.’
‘True,’ Farmer nodded slowly. ‘But I guarantee you – if there is something more out there, my guy will find it. He’s one of the best in the business.’
I could find the money. That wasn’t the problem – although it would use up most of the severance payment I’d just had from work. The issue was whether this offer was for real, whether Farmer’s hacker could do what was promised. Or was I being scammed? Was that what this was? Stalled with the promise of more juicy information, teased with the prospect of digging deeper than might otherwise be possible, all with the purpose of extracting more money from a gullible client?
But if it was a scam, if he couldn’t actually deliver what he was promising, then why go to the trouble of having this meeting here? If it was fake, why not just give me the spiel in the office and take my money there?
Because it made it look good, I supposed. Mysterious and weird and just enough Tony Soprano to appear to be the real deal. Because every conman knew that the first step to separating a mark from his money was a convincing set-up.
So what were the chances of this offer being legitimate?
Perhaps 50/50, I calculated. A coin flip.
But Abbie deserved to know the truth. And was there anything more important than her safety and happiness? I just needed to pull on one loose thread and see what started to unravel.
‘How long will it take?’ I said.
‘The guy I use is in heavy demand but once he schedules your work in, it will be five to seven days. You’ll receive everything collated, analysed and delivered to you in a full written report.’
‘I don’t have seven days.’
‘When’s the wedding?’
‘Monday. Less than a week.’
Farmer sucked in air through his teeth.
‘That’s going to be tight. I’ll see what I can do to speed things along, but like I said, my guy’s seriously in demand. He has a very particular skillset, as they say.’
I looked up at the pub’s grimy ceiling, trying to work out – with my sketchy knowledge of workplace law – what the criminal charge might be for paying someone to hack a confidential database. Soliciting an offence under the Computer Misuse Act? Something under the Data Protection Act?
The music stopped and there was a scattering of applause from the audience.
Screw it. I had come this far. And I’d do anything for Abbie. Anything.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Let’s do it.’
36
WEDNESDAY
Five days until the wedding
‘And what does this prove?’ Claire said, folding her arms.
I had wrestled all day with the little scraps of information that Farmer had given to me the night before, wondering whether to share them with my wife. But as soon as I started telling her, I realised it had been a mistake. We stood facing each other across the kitchen, her frown deepening with every word I said.
‘Well, he may not have been born in the UK for a start,’ I said. ‘And he might have changed his name at some point in the past. Why would a person do that?�
��
‘So what?’ she said, her voice full of the brisk, slightly-too-loud tone that she only used when she was really pissed off with me. ‘What difference does it make?’
‘And he might have been in prison.’
‘What proof do you have? Actual proof?’
‘None. Not yet. But we should ask Abbie to postpone the wedding, at the very least.’
She shook her head at me. ‘Don’t you dare, Ed.’ Her voice rose further. ‘Don’t you dare.’
‘I’m really worried about her. About him.’
‘I’m worried about you, Ed. Have you gone mad? Have you really lost it?’
‘We need to get her to put the brakes on this thing for the time being.’
She took an angry swig of white wine from her glass on the counter. ‘Are you going to tell me how you know this stuff?’
I swallowed, looked away. ‘I . . . asked someone to take a look at Ryan. A professional.’
She shut her eyes, a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh my god,’ she said, enunciating each word. ‘What have you done, Ed? What’s happening with you?’
‘I need to tell Abbie.’
Her eyes snapped open. ‘No, you don’t.’
‘She needs to hear it. If you don’t tell her, I will.’
‘Not you,’ my wife said forcefully. She sighed and shook her head. ‘Let me do it.’
*
I was about to log into the GPS tracking portal for the fifth time that day when the front door shut with an explosive slam and my daughter stalked into the lounge, flinging her handbag down on the sofa.
I locked my phone and slipped it quickly into my pocket.
‘Hi,’ I said brightly. ‘Didn’t know you were joining us for dinner.’
She stood in the middle of the room, eyes blazing, fists clenched by her sides like a boxer inviting an opponent into the centre of the ring.
‘Mum told me,’ she said, her voice wavering. ‘Everything.’
‘About Ryan?’
‘Yes, about Ryan!’ She spat. Her cheeks were already flushed red, as if she’d been building up to this. ‘You’re unbelievable, Dad, you really are.’
‘Let’s just rewind a bit, can we? Why don’t you sit down for a minute?’
‘I don’t need to sit down.’
‘Let’s just talk about—’
‘IT’S NOT FOR YOU TO DECIDE, DAD!’ She pointed an accusing finger at me. ‘It’s my life, my choice, my wedding! I can’t believe you’ve been snooping around after Ryan! What did you even think you were going to find?’
‘I was only trying to protect you. And I’m asking you to take a little bit of time before you go through with the wedding.’
She threw her hands in the air. ‘Why not just get me signed up to join an order of Carmelite nuns? That would make you happy, wouldn’t it? Locked away in an abbey somewhere? A lifelong vow of celibacy?’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Look, I’m sorry that you’re—’
‘No you’re not!’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Did Mum know you were doing it?’
‘No. She’d have tried to persuade me out of it.’
‘Of course she would have! God, apart from everything else this is so bloody embarrassing! Having your psycho-dad stalking your fiancé and paying a private detective to dig for dirt on him. I thought you were being weird these last few weeks but this is just . . . this is off the scale. It’s my life, Dad, not yours! Stop trying to live it for me! If you ever try anything like this again with Ryan, I will never, ever forgive you! Ever! Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Never,’ she said again. ‘I mean it. Do you promise?’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, Abbie.’
She stormed out of the lounge, her footsteps clicking angrily across the hall. Her voice loud and angry in the kitchen, Claire soothing, trying to calm the situation. The front door slamming again a few moments later.
I found Claire in her study, typing an email. She wouldn’t meet my eye.
‘Apparently,’ I said, leaning against the doorframe, ‘I’m a psycho-dad.’
She stopped typing. ‘What were you thinking, Ed?’
‘I was just trying to do the right thing, trying to help her.’
‘I think you need to have a word with yourself.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘I can’t believe you kept all this from me, you just went ahead and did it. How could you get involved in our daughter’s personal life like that?’
‘Suppose it looks a bit mad, with the benefit of hindsight.’
‘It certainly does. Hindsight or not.’
‘Abbie seems pretty pissed off.’
‘To be honest, I think she’s let you off lightly. I’m so bloody angry I can hardly bear to look at you.’
I paused, hands in my pockets, trying to decide whether I should cut my losses. Walk away from an argument I couldn’t win.
‘What if I’m right, though?’ I said.
Claire put her glass down so hard on the desk that I thought I heard the stem crack.
‘Oh my god,’ she said under her breath. ‘You haven’t listened to a word either of us have said, have you?’
‘Have you ever stopped to think about that, though? That I might be right, even if it’s only a one in a hundred chance?’
‘Ed, you need to—’
‘I mean, just hypothetically, how do you think psychopaths come into our lives? Do you think they come staggering out of the shadows, wild eyed? Of course they don’t – they look just like you and me, they sound just like you and me.’
She sighed as if she was long past caring about this conversation.
‘You’re saying he’s a psychopath now, are you?’
‘I’m just asking a hypothetical question.’
‘And I suppose you can tell the difference, can you?’ she said. ‘Between a psychopath and a regular person?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘How?’
‘I can’t explain it,’ I said quietly. ‘I just can.’
37
SATURDAY
Two days until the wedding
I jerked awake. My head throbbed with fatigue and my eyes felt gritty and raw. In snatches of sleep, the dream had come again: Abbie in the prow of a small boat, drifting away from the shore into deeper and deeper water.
There were barely forty-eight hours left to find out who Ryan really was.
Claire’s side of the bed was empty. We had both been busy, these last few days, helping Abbie with preparations for the wedding. Claire’s trip to Ireland and Scotland was also looming, a twelve-venue tour with her theatre company. There had been a tense, charged atmosphere between us since Wednesday evening, each of us avoiding the issue of Ryan in the hope that a ceasefire could be maintained.
I pulled on my old towelling dressing gown and padded downstairs barefoot, yawning and rubbing my face. Claire sat at the breakfast bar in her tennis gear, an empty coffee cup in front of her, beside a letter and a torn-open envelope.
‘Hey,’ I said. ‘I thought you’d have left for tennis by now?’
She turned and glared at me. ‘What?’ I said. ‘What is it?’
‘Perhaps you can explain this?’ She indicated the letter, pointing at it as if she didn’t want to touch it again. ‘It came this morning.’
I looked closer. It was a formal letter, the crest of Nottinghamshire Police in the top corner, the words FORMAL WARNING in heavy red capitals. A shiver of concern crept up my spine.
‘What is it?’
‘Have a look. It was addressed to the householder at this address, so I opened it.’
I turned the sheet towards me and read the first few lines, feeling my stomach drop. At the top was the make and registration of my Peugeot.
You are receiving this notice because a vehicle registered at this address has been recorded as being involved in possible offences of kerb-crawling.
A police officer recorded details of the above vehicle in the red-light area of Forest Road West
, Nottingham. The vehicle was sighted in that area on 10th June and a police officer stopped you as the driver of that vehicle and spoke to you.
I would advise you that this particular location is currently the subject of concentrated police activity to eliminate street prostitution. I would further advise you that there is a significant risk of prosecution relating to this offence, not to mention the highly detrimental effect that seeking sex workers has on the locality as well as the wider issue of the welfare of the workers themselves.
Having sex with multiple partners increases your risk of catching or spreading sexually transmitted diseases. Enclosed is a leaflet for your information.
Any further sightings of the vehicle in this area will result in prosecution, using the CCTV and other evidence gathered.
Claire’s eyes burned a hole in me.
‘What the bloody hell, Ed?’ she said, waving the letter. ‘This is a lovely surprise on the eve of our daughter’s wedding! You’re kerb-crawling now, picking up prostitutes?’
‘Of course not,’ I said.
‘At least it explains why you keep switching your phone off and ignoring my calls.’
‘It’s not what it looks like.’
‘Is it true? Were you there, or not?’
Shit.
‘Yes, I was there. But not to pick anyone up.’
‘Why, then?’
‘Because . . .’ I fumbled for a plausible excuse but could think of none. ‘I was . . . following Ryan.’
Claire shook her head in disbelief. ‘Oh my god. You’re still doing it?’
‘Not anymore.’
‘Jesus! I was worried you’d done something stupid, something really, really stupid, and now it looks like you have. I don’t know which is worse, kerb-crawling or stalking.’
‘I wasn’t kerb-crawling. I went there because Ryan had been there, and I wanted to know why. I was trying to see why he would go to that area and I was unlucky enough to go there on a night when the police were running a sting operation.’
She thought for a moment. ‘He was visiting the hospice, doing his volunteering.’
‘But that’s just it!’ I said, sitting down on the stool next to her. ‘The hospice is just a cover story, another one of his lies. I’ve been there and guess what? They didn’t know him! He doesn’t really go there, but it happens to be close by Forest Road West, where he goes to pick up—’
