‘Megan’s involved, all right,’ Rickman said.
‘You seem pretty sure.’
‘Sara Geddes leads an uneventful life, work, home, odd theatre trips,’ Rickman reasoned. ‘She’s respected by her colleagues and superiors, spends her free time painting — which is hardly what you’d call a high-risk hobby. Megan Ward comes into her life and suddenly she’s being stalked, getting silent calls. Then Megan disappears without trace and, within six months of her arrival on the scene, Sara is dead.’
‘When you put it like that . . .’
‘I’m not saying she’s guilty, Lee, but there’s got to be some reason for all of this, and the only thing that changed in Sara’s life is Megan.’
‘You think she’s on the run from something?’
‘In one form or another.’ The rootlessness, the craving for anonymity pointed towards something, and it couldn’t be good.
Chapter Fifteen
Fay Doran watched her boys from the corner of her eye. They were engaged in a game of endurance, kicking each other under the table — the challenge was not to cry out. They were managing quite well, eating their cereal and supping weak tea with barely a flicker of the eyelids to show how much pain the one inflicted upon the other. She suspected Declan had the upper hand — he was precisely twenty-seven minutes older than Frankie, and the more assertive and aggressive of the twins, though few could tell the boys apart. For the moment, Fay let them be; she had more important things on her mind.
She toasted bread and plonked it in front of them, then set to work preparing their sandwiches for lunch. Occasionally her gaze would flit to the kitchen door, half expecting Patrick to appear. He hadn’t been home in five days, except to shower and change. Then last evening, without any explanation, he was at the front door, his key scratching in the lock as though he was drunk. He stumbled in and went straight to his study, refusing food and drink, refusing even to talk. She cooked an omelette and brewed a pot of tea despite his refusal. He waited for her to leave before opening the door to take in the tray of food.
She hadn’t seen him like this in nearly twenty years. That time, he had come to her and wept in her arms like a child, but he had grown tougher since, and she rarely knew if there was trouble at work.
Just after midnight, she had heard a car pull into the drive. She hurried into the hall: if the doorbell rang at that time of night, they would wake the whole house, and once the boys were awake, there was no persuading them that it wasn’t time to get up. Patrick came out of his study and waved her away.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said.
She didn’t argue, nor did she leave.
Two men came through the door, one she didn’t recognise, the other was John Warrender. Her breath caught in her throat and she glared at her husband.
He let the men go ahead. ‘Please,’ he said, placing his hands on her shoulders. ‘Not now.’
She stiffened under his touch. ‘You let that man into our house, and you’re telling me “not now”?’ Her west-country Irish accent was exaggerated by her anger.
‘I have no choice, Fay.’ His voice cracked a little and she felt as if someone had slipped a knife under her ribs, into her heart. They hadn’t spoken since, and as far as she knew, Patrick hadn’t slept.
The kitchen door opened, and Fay turned from the counter, a buttery knife in her hand and anxiety etched in the lines of her face. She exhaled loudly when she saw it was Maura. ‘Hurry up,’ she said. ‘You’ve barely time for breakfast.’
Her daughter flicked a long hank of jet-black hair over her shoulder. Maura was like her in many ways: the glossy black hair and the blue-eyed Irish complexion — pale, and given to pretty blushes, but also prone to flush hotly when she was crossed.
‘I’ve got guitar class after school,’ Maura said, as though her mother hadn’t spoken. ‘We’ll grab a pizza then go on to band practice. It won’t finish till late, but Gray said he’ll give me a lift home.’
Fay raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. ‘Gray of the Celtic tattoos and body piercing?’ she said. ‘Gray of the monstrous motorcycle?’
‘It’s a Kawasaki.’
‘Kamikaze, did you say?’
Maura huffed. ‘You’re so judgemental.’ When she saw that contempt wasn’t working, she tried wheedling, instead: ‘He’s really careful . . .’
‘Nineteen-year-old boys are rarely “careful” on their motor bikes, Maura. One of us will pick you up — ten o’clock sharp. It’s a school day,’ Fay added, seeing her daughter roll her eyes. ‘And you should eat something before you go.’
Maura glared at her mother, and the boys stopped kicking each other, a bloodier sport seemingly in the offing. This was becoming a daily battle, but one Fay was determined she would win. She poured tea into a mug and placed a slice of toast on a plate for Maura.
The door opened again, and Patrick stood on the threshold as if uncertain of his welcome. Suddenly, Maura was all smiles.
‘Daddy!’ She ran to him, flinging her arms around his neck.
Patrick Doran hugged his daughter, holding her to him as if he feared she might fall.
She pulled away from him almost immediately. ‘Gross!’ she exclaimed. ‘Your chin’s all scratchy.’
He lifted a skein of cool glossy hair and smoothed it over her shoulder. ‘Go and eat your breakfast, darling,’ he said, staring past her at Fay.
Maura almost danced to the table, pausing only to tweak Declan’s earlobe.
‘Stop kicking your brother,’ she said, transformed from sulky teen to responsible older sister by her father’s presence.
Fay stared into her husband’s face. He looked ill; pale as parchment. Every line around his eyes and mouth looked as if it had been etched five years deeper in the last five days. His eyes, hollow and shadowed, glittered with feverish intensity. He gazed into her face, his hands limp at his sides. That look made Fay afraid for them all: over the years, she had seen Patrick in many moods — elated, happy, excited, anxious, sad, drunk, angry, and sober, but she had never seen him despair.
‘I need a cheque for my guitar lessons,’ Maura said, cheerfully munching her toast. ‘And there’s a letter in my bag about the foreign exchange trip. I forgot about it.’
‘I’ll write you a cheque tomorrow,’ Fay said, her eyes still locked on Patrick’s. ‘Get your things, boys — your sister will walk you to school today.’
All three turned to her in dismay. ‘Mum!’
‘No arguments,’ Fay said.
‘But I’ve got my guitar lesson — and it’s going to rain,’ Maura protested.
‘That’s what the case is for,’ Fay said. ‘Please, Maura, just do it.’
‘I don’t see why we have to walk!’ Maura exclaimed, swinging back to petulance in an instant.
‘Maura.’ The edge to her father’s voice silenced her immediately. She looked at him wide-eyed. ‘I need to talk to your mother,’ he said more gently. ‘Can you do this?’
She stared at the boys, her resentment at being asked to child-mind still evident. Then she raised her shoulders and let them drop. ‘Let’s go, you two monster-munchkins,’ she said, taking Frankie’s hand.
They listened to the children arguing quietly in the hallway, heard the slam of the cloakroom door, the scuffle as Maura got them into coats and shoes, and organised bags. They heard the muted clang of chords as she bashed her guitar on the door jamb on the way out, her soft curse and the final jostle as she shoved the boys through the front door without calling goodbye. Doran waited for the clank and drone of the electric motor which opened the gates to the driveway, then he gave a long, shuddering sigh.
‘God, Pat, what is it?’
Tears filmed his eyes.
He led Fay through to his office. She balked seeing that Warrender was still there but, feeling the gentle pressure of Patrick’s hand on her back, she stepped inside against her will — against her better judgement. She greeted the head of security with a curt, ‘Mister Warrender.’ He acknowle
dged her with a nod and she felt his cold appraisal. Offended, she held his gaze until he looked away; she would not be intimidated in her own home.
Her husband introduced the second man as David Manning. His handshake was warm and firm. He had a round face, made for smiling, though he wasn’t smiling now.
‘Mr Manning is a technical forensics expert,’ Patrick said.
Fay was puzzled: they had already tracked the hacker down, hadn’t they? Warrender and boy who ran the computer system — she never could remember their names, didn’t want to get to know the shy, obsessive boys Patrick employed to manage his computers; after the first one, she had made an effort not to get to know them.
Warrender asked, ‘Do you know what a technical forensic expert does?’ That was his style — every conversation an interrogation.
‘Forensic and technical,’ Fay said, replying to his patronising tone with waspish sarcasm. ‘Let me guess — one of the computers died.’
Patrick looked at her sharply. Warrender puffed air between his lips and looked away, the contempt on his face made her want to slap him.
‘I investigate computer crime,’ Mr Manning said. His glance into her face was kind and respectful. ‘Fraud, hacking, identity theft . . .’ He left the last two words hanging and Fay’s gaze strayed once more to her husband.
‘Mrs Doran, we think that the hacker got access to your husband’s business system via your home computer.’ Mr Manning’s slate-grey eyes searched hers.
Fay frowned. ‘That’s impossible — we’re not — connected?’ She didn’t know the correct term.
‘Networked,’ Mr Manning said, ever helpful. ‘But there are other ways of gaining access.’
‘Oh?’ she said, a little on the defensive, now.
Mr Manning looked embarrassed. He glanced quickly at her husband, then back to Fay. ‘Did you—?’ He tried again, ‘Is it possible that you—?’
‘Have you given out your online or phone banking username and password to anyone?’ Warrender asked, barely deigning to look at her.
‘No,’ Fay said evenly, ‘I’d have to be an idiot to do that, and since I’m not—’
‘Nobody’s saying you are, Mrs Doran,’ Mr Manning said, taking charge again. ‘And I’m sorry to question you like this, but if you can bear with us, it really would help, if only to rule out certain possibilities.’
Fay looked at her husband. He stared back as though he didn’t see her. He was dishevelled, his face coarsened with fatigue and beard stubble. Seeing no help from that quarter, she came to a decision. After all, wasn’t Mr Manning only trying to do his job? ‘Ask away,’ she said.
‘Have you ever visited an internet chatroom, or maybe given your email address to someone you later felt . . . uneasy about?’
She bridled immediately. ‘My teenage daughter visits chatrooms, Mr Manning.’ At such times, her soft Irish tones became clipped even prim. ‘I, however, have been all grown up for some time.’
Mr Manning smiled apologetically. ‘You’d be surprised — there are specialist message boards for every kind of enthusiast. Every age.’
Fay had the sense that she had hurt his feelings and she was sorry for that: he seemed a nice enough man, and she didn’t think he was trying to catch her out.
Warrender had an amused look on his face, overlaid by contempt and Fay realised that she was right — she had hit too close to home. She had a sudden instinct to protect Mr Manning from Warrender’s cold scrutiny.
‘Would it help if I told you how I use the computer?’ she asked.
Mr Manning seemed relieved. ‘That would be very helpful.’
‘Business letters,’ she said. ‘Flights bookings, rail tickets, holidays — that sort of thing. I email my sister in New Zealand and my family in Ireland. I’ve bought DVDs for the kids, electrical goods for the house — and I look things up with the kids for their homework.’ She hesitated, knowing that Patrick wouldn’t like what she was about to say, and Mr Manning nodded encouragement.
She sighed. ‘I . . . occasionally buy collectables from eBay.’ She focused on Mr Manning, not wanting to see her husband’s disapproval.
He didn’t smile, exactly, but a corner of his mouth twitched, as though he was pleased that she too had secret passions. ‘How do you pay?’ he asked.
‘PayPal or banker’s draft.’
He nodded. ‘Ever had any problems?’
‘No . . .’ a troubling thought crossed her mind. ‘No,’ she said again. ‘Not with PayPal.’
The tension in the room wound up a notch. She sensed latent violence in Warrender and even Patrick seemed to be trying to subdue something volatile and dangerous in himself.
‘It’s not like I lost any money,’ she said, on the defensive.
Mr Manning said, ‘Why don’t you just run it past me — I can decide if it’s relevant.’
‘I collect Guinness memorabilia,’ she said. ‘I saw a Royal Doulton toucan on eBay.’ She stole a guilty glance at her husband. ‘I contacted the dealer. He seemed a really nice guy — we had a lot in common.’ She was blushing now. ‘He didn’t want any money up front — just asked me to set up an account with him so I could check the progress of the delivery. I could pay him if I was satisfied with its condition on arrival.’ She shrugged. ‘It seemed I couldn’t lose.’
‘But the toucan never arrived?’
‘No. I mailed him a few times after a couple of weeks went by, but I never got a reply.’
‘Mrs Doran,’ Mr Manning said, ‘how did you set up your account?’
‘I gave my name and address, of course. A username and password, and I had to answer a couple of standard questions . . .’ A creeping dread began to assert itself and she faltered.
‘What were these “standard questions”?’ Mr Manning asked. ‘Mother’s maiden name? First pet’s name?’
She nodded, twice, her neck stiff on her shoulders.
‘And the username and password?’
Her eyes widened with the horror of what she had done.
‘Bloody hell!’ Warrender exploded. ‘She gave her personal username and password!’
Anger flared in Fay’s gut and she turned to her husband. ‘I’d prefer if he wasn’t here.’
Patrick looked weary, barely able to stand. ‘He needs to know, Fay.’
She gritted her teeth and focused on Patrick’s gaunt face. ‘Then tell him later.’
After a moment’s hesitation, Patrick said, ‘Wait outside.’
‘Outside the house,’ Fay said, still holding her husband’s gaze. There was a brief moment of silent struggle, then Patrick Doran lifted his chin, acquiescing.
Fay felt Warrender’s eyes on her as he walked past her to the door. She waited until he closed the front door behind him before speaking. ‘He got to you through me, didn’t he?’
Doran nodded, sinking at last into a chair as if his legs would no longer carry the awful weight of circumstances. She had given this destructive force a way into her husband’s place of work, into his business accounts, his records, their lives.
‘I don’t understand how,’ she said. ‘Patrick doesn’t use my password on his system, and we’re not—’ She frowned, irritated to have forgotten the term again.
‘Networked,’ Mr Manning said.
‘Your password—’ Doran began, but he couldn’t go on. He covered his mouth with one hand and gestured for Mr Manning to take over.
‘Your username and password gives access to correspondence, emails and so on. Does Mr Doran send you emails when he’s away on business trips?’
‘Yes.’
‘An email would carry information about the office system. It might be something as simple as how you configure email addresses: [email protected], for example. Some businesses use first name addresses, so [email protected] might be an alternative. If he knows how they’re structured, a hacker can create an email address for himself on the business system, then import viruses or Trojans to help him gain higher acces
s.’
‘Which is how he got into the business current account,’ Fay said, feeling sick with regret.
Mr Manning nodded. ‘Then he backtracked.’
Fay frowned. ‘Backtracked? To our home computer? What would be the point?’
‘With bank account details stolen from correspondence to your bank he could do a lot of damage.’
‘Oh God.’ Fay sat on a chair opposite her husband and reached out her hand, then took it back again, appalled and half-afraid.
‘How much did you have in your personal account?’ Mr Manning asked.
For a second or two he sounded like background noise, barely audible over the buzzing in her head, then Fay realised he had asked the question of her and she blinked, trying to concentrate. ‘I don’t know — ten thousand?’ She tried to block him out, to focus on her husband. He was too still, too quiet. ‘Thereabouts.’
‘The account is now two thousand pounds in debit,’ Mr Manning said.
Fay felt sick and weak. What had she done? What had she done?
‘He seemed so plausible,’ she said. ‘So pleasant — he didn’t even want money. He just seemed to enjoy—’ She shrugged helplessly, knowing how pathetic it sounded. ‘He seemed to enjoy talking to me.’
Doran’s eyes flickered and he looked up slowly like a man waking from a terrible dream, ‘Are you saying that we’ve been stripped of all our assets because of a bit of internet flirtation, Fay? Is that what it was?’ He sounded bitter and sick with fury.
‘No! It was . . .’ She looked to Mr Manning for help, knowing that Patrick was right — she had been lonely and frustrated after weeks of him working eighteen hours a day, and she had been flattered by the attention.
‘You need some time alone,’ Mr Manning said. ‘I’ll make a few calls, maybe brew some tea.’
Doran laughed; the sound dangerous and high. ‘Yes, that ought to help. Let’s all have tea.’
SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2) Page 9
