SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2)

by MARGARET MURPHY

  Warrender knew better than to answer.

  ‘Stalkers are obsessive, John,’ Doran said, his voice exaggeratedly calm. ‘They don’t like rejection. Now he’s had what? Six? Eight? months to exaggerate this out of all proportion and develop a colossal grudge against me, the business — whatever. So now I’m wondering if maybe he did set this up. Only he’s such a stupid fucker he got taken by his partner in crime. And now he’s really pissed off and he’s hoping to get some satisfaction from me.’

  ‘Which is why you shouldn’t meet him,’ Warrender said. ‘I’m just thinking . . .’

  Doran resisted the temptation to make a snide remark about Warrender’s reasoning skills.

  ‘We know he’s a witness to—’ Warrender left the rest unsaid. ‘He could be working with the police — getting himself off the hook by putting you on it.’

  ‘If I don’t meet him, how am I going to know?’ Doran asked.

  ‘You don’t need to know.’

  The silence filled the room. Warrender returned Doran’s searching look for a few seconds, then his courage failed him and he looked into the bottom of his glass. They both knew what he was suggesting, and it wasn’t simply to ignore Bentley and hope he went away. Doran had been thinking the same thing. Watching the boys sleeping, hearing his wife’s sobs as they made love, he had wanted to lash out, to break something. To make somebody pay for the hurt to his family.

  ‘And if he’s got useful information about Ward?’

  Warrender looked momentarily confused, then he said. ‘All right, I’ll talk to him first.’

  ‘If Bentley’s got anything on Ward, I want to hear it myself.’ The assertion fell just short of a declared lack of trust. ‘Tell me you’re not pinning your hopes on finding Ward’s address under “s” for swindler in Bentley’s little black book.’

  ‘We traced Ward before,’ Warrender said. ‘All we’ve got to do is wait for her to go online again.’

  ‘Assuming she does,’ Doran said. ‘Only our systems manager has gone off his head, and David Manning isn’t likely to help us trace Megan Ward and say nothing about it to the police now, is he?’ Doran stood over Warrender, the heavy whisky tumbler in his hand a potential weapon, a putative threat.

  Warrender finish his drink, avoiding Doran’s eye.

  ‘Set up the meeting for tomorrow,’ Doran said. ‘I’ll talk to Bentley. If he looks like trouble, we’ll deal with it.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  It was eleven p.m. The majority of the team had knocked off after the eight-thirty debrief, those that remained had been involved in tracing or surveillance ops. Rickman called the few to order: Lee Foster, Naomi Hart, Andy Reid, Will Garvey, as the surveillance team leader — the others he had sent home. They gathered around a TV and video Rickman had filched from the Parade Room.

  ‘This is the CCTV footage of Lime Street Station concourse near the phone booths,’ Hart said. She looked pale and tired. ‘The initial call was made from the call box on the left.

  ‘Megan’s the one in the baseball cap and dark glasses,’ she said, pointing. The image was in colour, and it was clear she wore jogging pants and a matching jacket with hood, but the definition was poor. Megan came out of the booth, keeping her head bowed. The time lapse made her appear to jump from one location to another. At the glass doors leading to the taxi rank, she turned and waved and then she was gone.

  ‘The Scientific Support Unit might be able to get something useful from it,’ Rickman said. ‘Height, maybe. Clothing — although it’s easy enough to change that.’

  ‘She was wearing jeans and a fleece at the rendezvous,’ Foster said.

  Rickman nodded. ‘Anything on Doran?’

  ‘He’s definitely a client of Kieran Jago,’ Hart said. ‘That’s all I’ve got, so far.’

  ‘Mobile phone trace?’

  Reid shook his head. ‘She switched it off as soon as she had eyeball with Foster.’

  ‘What about the service provider?’ he asked. This investigation was a succession of frustrations and disappointments.

  ‘We haven’t traced it, yet — could be she’s using pay-as-you-go, keeping us guessing.’

  Rickman rubbed a hand over his face, feeling stubbly growth on his chin. ‘Garve?’

  Will Garvey rarely gave anything away: he had long ago learned to meet with triumph and disaster and treat those two impostors just the same. Tonight, however, he looked sorely tried. Perhaps he sensed Rickman’s exasperation, and perhaps he was simply exasperated with his own failure.

  ‘We had three cars to cover any one of a dozen ways out, Boss,’ he said.

  ‘Nobody’s blaming you, Garve,’ Rickman said. Putting people on the defensive was never productive. ‘Just tell us what you got.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Garvey said. ‘Nothing is what we got. The woman’s like smoke,’ he added, unknowingly echoing Nathan Wilde’s description of Megan.

  ‘You’re not kidding,’ Foster said. ‘I ran like hell when she walked off and I couldn’t see any sign of her when I got out the park.’

  ‘Did you see where she was headed?’ Rickman asked.

  Foster’s hand went to his hair, as it often did at moments of stress. ‘She walked towards Centreville Road. I ran down to the gap in the railings. By the time I ran back, the road was empty.’

  Rickman reached forward and switched off the VCR. For a second or two, they all stared at the snowstorm of static on the screen, then Rickman spoke. ‘All we can do is wait for her to get in touch. Meanwhile, we check the Doran connection, see if we can come up with something. Lee — why don’t you fill the team in on the offer?’

  ‘I told her I was authorised to give her a look at the card — under supervision — on condition she gives us any de-encrypted info, together with any passwords and the decoder.’

  ‘What’s in it for her?’ Hart asked, puzzled.

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  What Foster actually told Megan was that she would get to be the virtual hero again, but that would take too much explaining, so he said, ‘Justice. For Sara.’

  Hart was incredulous. ‘And she bought it?’

  ‘She said she’d think about it.’

  Rickman had heard the conversation relayed via Garvey’s phone after Foster had re-established the connection as Megan walked away. Foster had pushed harder and harder, finally telling her that they would need further proof of Doran’s guilt.

  ‘You’re the police,’ she said. ‘That’s your job.’

  ‘You’ve got the information we need,’ he countered. ‘We call it information-gathering.’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Find something while you were poking around in his computer, did you?’ he asked.

  The pause lengthened and then she said, ‘Maybe.’

  ‘We want whatever you’ve got.’

  ‘And if I don’t oblige?’

  ‘Our technical support team’ll crack your code sooner or later,’ Foster said. ‘And if we do it, instead of being the virtual hero, you get stuck with the label arch-villain.’

  ‘Nemesis,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The villains — they’re always the nemesis of the superhero.’

  ‘You don’t get out much, do you?’ Foster said. She smiled and he felt they had made a connection. ‘You don’t want to be charged with conspiracy, Megan.’

  ‘Conspiracy?’ She seemed outraged. ‘With Doran?’

  ‘The longer you leave it, the more time Doran’s got to cover his tracks.’ For now, he was content to let her think he believed her accusations against Doran.

  After a few moments, she said, ‘You know I didn’t get hold of this information by looking him up in the companies listings — I’d want some guarantees.’

  ‘Any help you give us would be taken into consideration,’ he said.

  ‘Well sod that—’

  ‘And there’s the witness relocation scheme,’ he added.r />
  She laughed, but there was little humour in it. ‘No thanks. I’ve made my own relocation arrangements.’

  There it was again: Rickman was convinced she’d had some experience of witness protection. And when they discovered that connection, he was equally sure that they would unravel the mystery that was Megan Ward.

  Foster checked his watch. ‘Boss . . .’

  Rickman glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘You need to head off,’ he said.

  ‘Am I still supposed to arrest her?’ Foster asked.

  ‘As long as she’s co-operating, let’s play along with her,’ Rickman said.

  Foster made eye contact with Naomi Hart. ‘Well, come ’ead, if you’re coming.’

  Hart was startled. ‘Where?’

  ‘My place. She’s gonna phone me there.’

  Hart looked around, suspicious that this was a set-up. ‘What d’you need me for?’

  ‘Backup. Chaperone. Whatever you wanna call it,’ Foster said. ‘She wants safe custody and that means twenty-four/seven.’

  Hart wasn’t convinced until she looked at Rickman and he nodded. ‘Sorry it’s such short notice,’ he said.

  * * *

  ‘Short notice?’ Hart complained as they clattered down the staircase. ‘More like none at all.’

  ‘We can stop off at your place on the way,’ Foster said. ‘Pick up a change of clothes.’

  Hart stopped dead. ‘I’m not gonna be stuck baby-sitting overnight?’

  ‘Twenty-four/seven,’ Foster said. ‘It’s kind of an overnight thing.’

  Hart had a two-bedroom flat in a refurbished Victorian warehouse at the top end of Duke Street. She left Foster waiting in her sitting-room, staring at her view of the Anglican Cathedral while she threw a few things in a bag. It seemed he had quickly tired of the view from her window, because when she returned, he was standing in front of her TV zapping through the digital channels.

  ‘Plasma screen,’ he said, without turning around.

  ‘Pioneer, HDMI.’

  ‘Forty-inch?’

  ‘Forty-two,’ she said.

  ‘Every inch counts,’ he breathed.

  She laughed and he said, ‘What?’ He hadn’t been joking.

  ‘Nothing. Can we go now?’

  He flicked the off-switch reluctantly. ‘Have you got a boyfriend?’

  ‘That’s none of your damn business,’ she said, offended. Then, realising the significance of the question, she shook her head in disbelief. ‘Did you think a love of gadgets was exclusive to the Y-chromosome?’

  ‘Nah,’ he said, with an appreciative glance at the rest of the room: hardwood floors, a couple of striking paintings, cosy furnishings, lack of clutter. ‘Just never had you down as a gizmo-geek.’

  * * *

  He felt slightly abashed letting her into his own place. It was smaller and darker and lacked the stylish touches of Hart’s flat.

  ‘Not up to your standard,’ he said.

  ‘It’s clean.’

  ‘Did you think you needed two X chromosomes for that?’ he asked slyly.

  ‘No,’ she replied, without a pause, ‘But most guys I know who have clean houses are either gay or married.’

  He hated to admit it, but even joking, the gay jibe was hard to take, which was why he answered less guardedly than he would normally. ‘One of the first things they taught us,’ he said.

  ‘They? The marines?’

  She was sharp, and he’d given out more than he meant to. He didn’t reply, but instead waved her towards the kitchen. ‘Tea’s in the cupboard over the kettle, if you want a brew.’ He had noticed the red light glowing on his answerphone. He watched Hart walk away, taking time to enjoy the sway of her hips as he pressed the ‘new messages’ key.

  There was a lot of background noise and the occasional clatter of crockery and at first he didn’t recognise the voice. ‘Are you there, Lee? Pick up, you bloody sod!’

  Suddenly it hit him: Stacey — Kieran Jago’s PA. ‘Oh, crap,’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t you dare call me,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t stand to hear your smarmy, insincere apologies.’ The next few words were muffled as she took the phone away from her ear, presumably looking for the ‘end call’ button. But one word was quite distinct before the line went dead. ‘Bastard!’

  He went through to the kitchen and dropped his keys on the work surface. Hart handed him a mug of tea and took a sip from her own. ‘You stood her up,’ she said, looking at him reproachfully over the rim of her cup.

  ‘I was kind of busy,’ he said, on the defensive for a second until he saw the mischief in Hart’s blue eyes and had to laugh at himself. ‘Who cares?’ he said. ‘We know who Kieran Jago’s working for now.’

  ‘First off — that’s really callous,’ she said. ‘And second, you’re assuming we can believe what Megan says.’

  ‘Let’s see what she comes up with, shall we?’

  The doorbell rang and Hart said, ‘Are you expecting someone?’

  ‘Not unless Stacey’s gone all Fatal Attraction on me.’ He placed his mug of tea on the counter and walked down the hall. His flat door opened onto a communal area: Victorian floor tiles and a big front door with stained-glass lights; the figure beyond was obscured by the rose patterning of the glass. He opened the door and Megan Ward walked past him into the main hallway.

  ‘You were gonna phone,’ he said.

  ‘I lied.’

  ‘How d’you get my address?’

  She feigned vagueness. ‘Phone book?’

  ‘I’m ex-directory.’

  She gave him a look. ‘Think you police are the only ones with access to reverse phone books?’ She lifted her chin, indicating his flat door. ‘Through here, is it?’

  He stood at the door a moment longer, lost for words, then followed her, unsure whether to feel irritated or amused.

  Megan headed for the light at the end of his hallway. She wore jeans and the fleece she had been wearing at their first meeting. She carried a square shoulder bag strapped sash-wise across her body. She seemed relaxed, at her ease, but she froze when she saw Naomi Hart. Foster held his hands up as she turned on him. She looked trapped — afraid and angry and ready to fight.

  ‘Before you throw a wobbler, DC Hart is here for your protection and mine.’

  She held back the anger, but he saw it in a rapid tic at the corner of one eye. Sara was right, he thought. Her eyes are grey. ‘You said you wanted protection,’ he explained. ‘DC Hart — Naomi — is here to see nothing . . . untoward happens.’

  She stood side-on, trying to keep them both in her field of vision. Hart raised one shoulder. Take it or leave it.

  Gradually, by degrees, Megan regained her composure. ‘Is this it?’ she said. ‘No more surprises?’

  ‘We were hoping you’d provide the real excitement of the evening,’ Hart said.

  The two women eyed each other coolly. Megan was as dark as Naomi Hart was fair. Megan’s face was long and solemn, a face not used to smiling, whereas Hart, though she had learned the poker face as part of her job, seemed at times to look at the world and perceive it as a huge joke.

  ‘Okay,’ Megan said, ‘let’s get the party going. D’you have the card?’

  Foster patted the breast pocket of his suit jacket and she held out her hand.

  ‘Tell us how it works,’ he said. Hart raised her eyebrows. Evidently, she thought he was pushing it. But Megan was practically salivating — it would take a hell of a lot more to make her turn and walk.

  She looked first at Foster, then at Hart. ‘Not in here,’ she said. ‘It’s claustrophobic.’ She went through to his sitting-room, taking the seat nearest the door, and Foster wondered if she always had an eye for an escape route.

  She waited for them to be seated before she began. ‘This isn’t my usual bag,’ she said, beginning cautiously. ‘But say you wanted to hack somebody’s bank account online . . .’ She was nervous again. ‘This is off the record, right?’

  ‘Look,
Megan,’ Hart said. ‘We want whoever killed Sara. You want whoever killed Sara. We’re focused on that, okay?’

  She took a breath and nodded, smoothing her hair back from her face before continuing. ‘People are incredibly lax about security. They use the same passwords all the time: for email, their bank accounts — and for their online ordering, which is where I come in.’ She glanced at Foster. ‘You said the Fraud Squad tracked me on eBay?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I get my customers to set up an account with me. Name and address, date of birth, and of course a username and password. I sometimes throw in a couple of key questions like mother’s maiden name and important dates — in case they’ve been creative and use different passwords on other accounts — you can usually predict their password choice from personal stuff like that.’

  ‘So you use the password they’ve given you for their order and check if they’ve used it on other accounts?’ Hart asked.

  ‘It’s like trying a key in all the locks in a house. It might be it just opens the front door, but all the other rooms are protected with a different kind of lock. But sometimes . . .’ She lowered her voice and Foster sensed a growing excitement. ‘Sometimes the key opens the strong-room, and you gain access to a bank account.’

  ‘How do you live with yourself?’ Foster asked.

  ‘Quite easily,’ Megan said. ‘I don’t take anything unless they can afford it.’

  ‘And how do you judge that?’

  If Megan heard the sarcasm in his tone, she didn’t react to it. ‘I take a peek at their bank details. If the sums of money are big enough, I monitor their expenditure patterns and add a few outgoings of my own, making it look like the money is going to regular bills or legit. purchases — never huge sums.’

  ‘Next you’ll be telling us it’s a victimless crime,’ Foster said.

  Megan slid him a look. ‘Do we have to have the commentary?’ she asked.

  Foster raised both hands in mock apology and fell silent. Megan continued looking at him for a few seconds longer, before continuing. ‘I got an order from Doran’s wife, set up an account—’

  ‘And she gave you her bank account password?’ Hart said.