Doran smiled broadly. ‘You got the fucker. It took a while, mind, but—’ He laughed and slapped Nathan on the shoulder.
Something flashed on the nearest monitor, capturing Nathan’s attention. He looked back and saw an animation: a sinewy figure, old, dressed in sub-Celtic tunic and cloak. The Warlock smiled and turned, the cloak swirling fluidly behind him.
‘Uh-oh.’ Nathan grabbed the mouse.
‘What. The fuck. Does that mean?’ Doran’s eyes bulged slightly as he spoke.
Nathan tried to access the applications folders. ‘Stay still, you fucker,’ he muttered. ‘Just stay still one lousy—’ Warlock vanished again. ‘Shit!’ He clasped his hands behind his head, his hands shaking. He tried switching identities, hoping to sneak up on Warlock from an unexpected location on the system, but this failed, too.
‘This is nightmare on friggin’ X-Box,’ he said, his voice low and fast.
‘Nathan,’ Doran said. ‘Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.’
At first Nathan thought that Doran was part of a hallucination, a disembodied voice adding to the complexity of the problem, so when he looked away from the monitor it was a shock to see Doran’s face, level with his; Doran’s blue eyes staring at him, bloodshot, angry.
‘You’ve got to let me shut down.’ He heard the pleading note in his voice and hated himself for it.
‘Shutting down is not an option,’ Doran said. ‘Finish it, Nathan. I want this parasite out of my system.’
Nathan laughed, feeling hot and flushed and near hysteria.
Doran looked past him to Warrender. ‘Has he finally flipped?’
‘I may be a bit crazed,’ Nathan said. ‘But I’m not crazy. These guys don’t live by your rules, or mine — shit — they make their own rules.’ The shaking was worse, it took hold of his entire body, convulsing in a series of spasms he couldn’t control it. ‘They can rewrite whole programmes to fit their own friggin’ rules,’ he went on. ‘You can’t control them, and you can’t intimidate them.’ He gave another shaky laugh. ‘Because they don’t exist. They’re phantoms. Shape-shifters.’ With growing horror, he saw that the transparent cyber-bugs were back, too, crawling over Doran’s desk, flowing over the computers ranged on it. He blinked, flinching from them.
‘What is this crap?’ Doran straightened up and spoke to Warrender with absolute contempt. ‘He’s off his face.’
Warrender lifted an eyebrow. ‘That’s how these geeks function,’ he said.
‘Yeah? Well he isn’t, is he? Functioning, I mean.’
‘Oh, God . . .’ Nathan abandoned the mouse and tapped commands in on the various keyboards, his eyes flitting from screen to screen.
‘What is going on?’ Doran demanded, grabbing him by the shoulders and forcing Nathan’s chair around to face him.
‘I think I’m locked out.’
‘Locked out? What does that mean, you’re locked out?’
Nathan could have used the analogy of the burglar again, only this time he would have to admit that their hypothetical burglar had broken every passcode and had changed the numbers on every hypothetical combination lock in the building. One look at Doran’s face told him that would be a stupid idea. He decided to go technical.
‘He’s got the Root usernames and passwords,’ he said, ‘Root is the highest level of access permissions. He’s got mine, yours, Mr Warrender’s — all of them — and he’s changed them.’ He shot a frightened look at Doran. ‘He’s booted us off the system.’
‘Well, you’d better just find a way back in,’ Doran said.
Like it was that simple.
Nathan clenched his teeth. He looked up at Doran for as long as he could bear the man’s hostile stare. ‘I can’t tell what he’s doing to the system while I’m locked out. Jeez, he could be doing anything.’ He pushed his chair away from the desk and stared at the computers as if they were possessed by demons.
‘He needs to take an hour off,’ Warrender said. ‘Clear his head.’
‘I’ll sort him out,’ Doran said. ‘You’ve got an address. Find this fucker, Warlock, or whatever he calls himself. Bring him to me.’
As Warrender left, Doran slapped Nathan hard across the face.
No pain . . . Nathan thought. No pain, no fear. He knew it wasn’t right, but he wouldn’t have wanted to do anything about it now, even if he could.
What he needed was eighteen hours of drug-free sleep. What he got was a thirty-minute break and his smart drugs confiscated. It wasn’t enough. It was nowhere near enough.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Naomi?’
‘What’s up, Sarge?’ Naomi Hart sat cross-legged in front of her TV set, the lights turned low, the heating turned up, a glass of wine at her side. She kept one eye on the TV screen as she spoke into her mobile phone.
‘Am I interrupting something?’ Foster asked.
Hart glanced wistfully at the bowl of popcorn in her lap: a question like that from Foster, you knew he was about to. Terminator 2 was running on the DVD, Sarah Connor was trying to break out of the insane asylum, while the latest in a line of evil robots was in the process of breaking in. Naomi clicked the ‘mute’ key on the remote. ‘It’ll keep,’ she said.
‘It’s Sara Geddes,’ Foster said.
Hart’s shoulders slumped. ‘What now? I told her I’d contact her if—’
‘She’s dead, Naomi.’
For a long moment, Foster’s words made no sense. The images on the TV merged into meaningless colours, as amorphous and abstract as one of Sara’s paintings.
‘Naomi?’
‘I’m still here,’ she said. ‘What happened?’
‘Dunno, yet. Police surgeon is here, and the Home Office pathologist is on his way. He wants the body left in situ — his words, not mine.’
Again, Hart had trouble grasping the reality of it: ‘Sara’ and ‘body’ — it didn’t seem feasible, somehow. She clicked the TV’s off-switch and frowned in concentration. ‘Where is she?’
‘Her place.’
‘You want me there?’ She was already up and searching for her keys.
‘There’s enough of us here to police a home derby,’ he said. ‘I’ll meet you at Edge Hill in an hour.’
* * *
The murder scene was awash with red and blue light, strobing incessantly from three patrol cars and an ambulance. A coroner’s van was parked at a discreet distance away, next to the CSIs’ van. A cordon had been drawn two doors either side of Sara’s house on both sides of the street. Bursts of radio transmission broke into the quiet hum of shocked conversation from onlookers, staring in fascination from the borders of the tape.
Sara Geddes lay on her side. A pool of blood, black in the lights of the emergency vehicles, seemed to flicker like a dark halo around her head. Two CSIs kitted out in white all-in-one suits and wearing plastic overshoes paced the area. Two more had begun erecting a tent to shield Sara from the curiosity of her neighbours and to provide some cover from the weather. The wind was cold and gusting, and squally April showers threatened to wash away any evidence before the CSIs were able to collect it.
Rickman parked behind one of the patrol cars and scanned the people on the other side of the tape. Foster had already arrived. Good. He could take on the majority of the organisation. Rickman braced himself. He walked to one of the uniformed officers at the tape, dipping into his inside pocket to retrieve his warrant card as he identified himself.
‘DS Foster’s expecting you, sir,’ the young constable said. Foster noticed him and came over, one hand in his trouser pocket. He nodded in greeting and waited for Rickman to be allowed under the tape.
‘We’ve got to stay on the boundaries till the CSIs have finished,’ he said, leading the way to a closer view of Sara’s body.
Rickman’s jaw worked.
‘You all right with this, Jeff?’
‘Yeah,’ Rickman said. ‘I think — yeah. I’m okay.’
‘Neighbours heard a disturbance, dialled triple nin
e.’
‘What did they see?’
‘Depends who you talk to. Either Miss Geddes ran into the street, followed by one or two assailants, or she confronted a man on her doorstep. Either way, there was a struggle, she fell, he — or they — ran off.’
‘Description?’
‘Nothing to hang your hat on. “Tall”, “Dark clothing”, “It was too dark to see” — the usual. Her neighbour opposite is a bit more specific. Says she saw a stocky guy in a hooded jacket. She says he’s been hanging around a lot.’
‘Bentley.’
‘Who else?’
‘You’ve sent someone to pick him up?’
‘Ten minutes ago.’
A Mercedes pulled in behind Rickman’s car and a large, middle-aged man hauled himself out, using the door frame for leverage; the Home Office pathologist had arrived. He opened the boot of his car and moments later he was squeezing himself into a coverall. When he had slipped on a pair of overshoes, he showed his ID to one of the police constables at the tape.
He nodded to Rickman and then walked over to the body, exchanging a few words with the CSIs and the police surgeon, who was hanging around on the fringes like a groupie at a rock concert.
Rickman’s eye was drawn to Sara once more, and to the corona of flickering ooze around her head. He swallowed and looked away.
‘You don’t need to be here, Jeff,’ Foster said.
In practical terms, it was true — he didn’t. Rickman’s role was managerial; to facilitate and oversee the work of DS Foster and DC Hart — as well as the others who would be drafted in to help now that this had become a murder investigation. But he needed to know if he could do it, despite the awful clenching pain below his heart. He had to prove to himself that he could attend a murder scene and still hold it together.
‘You know, I think I do,’ Rickman said, knowing that Foster would understand how difficult this was for him and his need to be here.
‘I just wish they’d hurry up with that tent,’ Rickman said. It seemed indecent, leaving her exposed to the inquisitive stares of the crowd. He forced his attention back to the task at hand. ‘Okay. The neighbour opposite—’
‘Mrs Langley,’ Foster said.
‘Get a tech over to her to do an E-fit of the attacker. And as soon as we have Bentley in custody, I want a VIPER ID parade set up.’
At last the CSIs finished the tent and pulled the door flaps closed. Rickman felt a huge wave of relief, short-lived, because moments later a small outside broadcast van arrived.
‘Local TV,’ Foster muttered. ‘That’s all we need.’
Rickman exhaled. ‘Can you take this, Lee? I don’t want them drawing parallels, dragging my personal life into this.’
‘Sure.’
Rickman nodded, grateful, then he glanced around the crowd, talking low and fast. ‘If they talk to the neighbours, they’re bound to pick up on the stalker angle. We’re investigating all lines of enquiry. Keeping an open mind — you know the drill.’ He kept his back to the TV crew, who were setting up as he spoke.
‘What about Megan?’ Foster asked.
‘No names — not even Sara’s — until we get a positive ID. They won’t be expecting anything more at this stage. I’ll talk to a few people, see if we can get a team set up by morning. I’ll see you back at the office.’
Rickman slipped away while the TV crew were still preoccupied with lighting and sound checks.
Chapter Fourteen
Jeff Rickman approached the newly designated Major Incident Room with mixed feelings: he felt ready to take on the investigation, but he knew that he would have his work cut out trying to convince some of the team of that. A babble of voices and some laughter pointed to a quick bonding between the team members — essential to an efficient start in the investigation.
The room’s previous use was clear: the label ‘store’ was etched in white lettering on a black background on the nameplate. He’d get that fixed pronto, before some bright spark found an alliterative alternative which included his first name and the word ‘junk’.
He stood in the doorway and scanned the room; the cardboard boxes and broken bits of furniture had been cleared overnight and equipment shipped in from the central store in Mather Avenue. Additional electrical points had been installed and a couple of whiteboards attached to the longest section of wall, opposite the door. The grey tile floor was unpolished, and the faintly musty smell of damp cardboard lingered; a couple of days’ rotation would no doubt replace it with the smell of stale coffee and take-away food.
Rickman recognised many of the faces from the investigation into the refugee murders the previous year. He also noted that they were the co-operative types, the team players. He glanced over at Foster, who was flirting with DC Hart. Foster might play the fool, but Rickman knew that he had hand-picked every detective, matching experience and enthusiasm, balancing steady nerves against the eagerness of the newcomer, and discreetly making sure they were on-side, as far as Rickman was concerned. Hart’s face was slightly flushed and her body was angled towards Foster. She fell silent when she saw Rickman and nodded in his direction.
The noise level dropped as more people noticed him. Some avoided his eye: those who had listened to the canteen gossip, he guessed — maybe even contributed to it. Most, however, seemed keen to make a start, gratified to have been assigned to a major incident, and excited at the prospect of being allowed to show their capabilities.
Rickman made the introductions for the benefit of the two or three strangers among them and explained that this had been DS Foster’s investigation until Sara Geddes was murdered. Then Foster ran through events to date.
‘Bentley is AWOL,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a trace alert with his mobile phone service provider. They’ve tried pinging it, but either he’s switched it off or it’s out of charge.’
‘I want surveillance on his flat,’ Rickman said. ‘Sound out his place of work — see if you think they’d cooperate — give us the nod if he shows up there.’
‘Do we know Sara Geddes was the intended target?’ somebody asked.
‘The honest answer is no,’ Rickman said. ‘I expect you to find out.’ He turned to Foster. ‘What have we got on Megan?’ Foster had, in fact, already updated him; this was for the benefit of the rest of the team.
‘Inland Revenue checks show no record of Megan paying tax, National Insurance contributions or declaring income of any kind.’ His gaze flitted from one face to the next. ‘In fact there’s no work record at all for Megan Ward.’ The catarrhal catch on the word fact emphasised the unusual nature of what he was telling them. ‘She’s got a passport and driving licence, but there’s no record of medical registration, no hospital admissions, no university or college registration.’
‘I did find a school record for her,’ Hart chipped in. Rickman noticed the men in the room studying Hart; her finely made features, the pale fall of blonde hair, her slim figure. Hart, however, seemed oblivious. ‘She attended Tyndale Primary School in Colne from 1985 to 1991, and Colne High School from ’91 to ’97. Then — nothing. It’s like she vanished from public records after that.’
‘Except for the passport and driving licence.’ Chris Tunstall pointed this out. He was a beefy Widnesian who tended to engage his mouth before his brain was fully in gear, but Rickman had cause in the past to value Tunstall’s rather pedestrian approach.
Rickman frowned at him for some moments and Tunstall became uncomfortable, shifting slightly in his chair. ‘Okay . . .’ Rickman said.
Tunstall looked troubled, unsure if he was about to be praised for his sharp insight or criticised for stating the bleeding obvious.
‘Get onto the General Registry Office,’ Rickman said. ‘Ask them to check with ELVIS.’
‘It were just an observation, sir,’ Tunstall said, evidently hurt by Rickman’s unnecessarily heavy use of sarcasm.
There were a few sniggers from the officers who didn’t know Tunstall. His broad Lancashire accent and bi
g rugby-player’s build meant he was often underestimated.
Foster rolled his eyes. ‘ELVIS, Tunstall. It’s a database. Links deaths with birth records, compares them with passports issued.’
‘Oh,’ Tunstall said, his face a blank. Then a few moments later, ‘Oh . . .’
‘Any other comments, suggestions?’ Rickman asked.
‘The DVLA still haven’t got back to us with her photo. They should have it as a digital image,’ Hart said. ‘We could ask them to send us a jpeg — that’s computer-speak for a picture, Sarge,’ she added.
Rickman smiled. Hart had always had a soft spot for Tunstall, and this was her attempt at drawing some fire away from him. It worked.
‘She’s not kidding,’ Foster said, laughing with the rest. ‘I don’t know a jpeg from a tent peg.’
‘I’ll see if I can get them moving on that one,’ Rickman said, when the laughter had died down. ‘Anything from the credit card?’
‘It’s a dummy,’ Foster answered. ‘The number didn’t link to any Visa account.’
‘Yet she hid it in the lining of that box.’ Rickman absently traced a scar on his chin with his thumb. ‘Did you check the magnetic strip?’
‘I ran it through the piece of kit in the custody suite,’ Foster said. ‘It came out with a load of rubbish.’
‘It might be encrypted,’ Hart said. ‘If there’s sensitive numbers on there, and Megan’s a bit of a techie.’ Everyone looked at her, and she shrugged. ‘It’s what I’d do.’
‘Get Technical Support to have a look at it.’ Rickman was fast remembering why he had liked Hart the last time they worked together. ‘If there’s any info stored on the magnetic strip, I want to know.’
* * *
‘D’you think Megan is involved?’ Foster asked.
He was on his way back to his office to pick up Megan’s Visa card. Tunstall had been charged with finding a suitable Exhibits Room, but for now, the shoebox and its contents were locked in the bottom drawer of Foster’s filing cabinet.
He and Rickman walked down the back stairway, their footsteps echoing on the concrete steps. The rest of the team had been deployed on various tasks; Rickman’s was to start costing the investigation, but the prospect of totting up fees for forensic procedures and surveillance schedules, of weighing costs against a woman’s life, was less than enticing, so Foster’s question was a welcome diversion.
SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2) Page 8
