‘No. But the wife’s password got me into all areas of their home computer. They had a bit of money in their joint account — but not enough. I filched some useful info from her correspondence and used it to hack into the Safe Hands network. It took a while, but I have software that will crack just about any password, given enough time. I was able to designate myself as system manager, which meant I could do pretty much what I wanted with it.’
Foster saw a gleam of pride in her eye.
‘Then she let slip who her husband was.’
She fell silent, and Foster saw her working through some memories she evidently found painful. ‘I got Doran’s password, which gave me access to his business account — again, only piddling amounts. So I went back to their home computer and tried his password.’ She smiled. ‘It opened the strong-room.’
‘Secret accounts?’ Foster said.
‘Three.’
‘And how much was in them?’
Her smile broadened. ‘Substantial sums.’
‘So, what are you offering us?’ Foster asked, ‘A nasty case of tax dodging? I thought you were gonna give us a murderer, Megan.’
She tilted her head. ‘It’s how the FBI got Al Capone . . .’ Neither Foster nor Hart so much as smiled.
She sighed. ‘All right. I riffled through his document folders, as well. He deleted most of the incriminating stuff, but even deleted files leave a trace. I discovered copies of incriminating documents ghosted on his disk.’
‘And you brought proof with you.’ It was a question.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘You guys are greedy. I have copies of the data, stored safely. What I’m here for tonight is the card.’
‘And all you’ve given us so far is hints and suppositions. We know you tell a good story, Megan,’ Foster said. ‘That’s why you’re such a good con artist. But we’re cops.’
‘What he’s saying is, it takes more than a good story and a bit of sleight of hand to impress us,’ Hart added.
Megan flushed a little in annoyance and her eyes darkened.
‘Tell us what’s on the card, then you’ll get your look at it,’ Foster said.
Megan took a breath and exhaled in a rush. ‘I found over a million pounds in his secret accounts. Now I have it.’
‘But, you don’t, do you?’ Hart said quietly.
‘Okay,’ Foster said. ‘This is foreign territory for me. So, you can do the translation anytime you like.’
Hart kept her eyes on Megan as she spoke. ‘She set up new accounts and moved the cash across, but the account numbers and passwords are encrypted on the card. And she can’t get at the money without them.’
Foster looked at her. ‘You understand the deal, yeah? You give us what’s on the card. You walk away.’
Her eyelids flickered almost imperceptibly. ‘For Sara.’
For while nobody spoke. Foster knew it was his call, and he knew there were risks involved — if Megan destroyed vital evidence on the card, they were in deep shit. Megan still looked angry, but was that because they were suspicious of her motives, or because she still hadn’t got her hands on the card?
‘How will you read what’s on the card?’ he asked at last.
The release of tension in the room was palpable. Megan reached inside her shoulder bag and took out a small grey device. It just about fitted on the palm of her hand. It was hinged and folded flat, like an electronic alarm clock; she opened it up, pressing a switch as she did so.
‘This is a card-reader,’ she said. ‘I swipe the card, type in a password and it will bring up the sort codes, account numbers and passwords on the screen.’
The screen was maybe five centimetres-by-ten, and Hart said, ‘We’re going to have to get really cosy in that case,’ she said. ‘’Cos I want to see everything you’re doing.’
Chapter Twenty-seven
The main restaurant at Five Star was beginning to wind down. The clatter of plates and the clamour of conversation softened by degrees as diners finished their final courses and coffees and slipped out into the night, bound for clubs or hotels or home.
Five Star belonged to John Warrender’s brother, the name a joke because he said he didn’t intend to wait for Michelin to get around to awarding what he already merited. In the early days, it was the name that drew custom, but the food and the atmosphere of the place had ensured its continued popularity.
Patrick Doran was seated in the function room upstairs. Usually reserved for corporate bookings and weddings, tonight it was empty, the tables waxed to a honey gold, the lights dimmed, so that the voices of the customers downstairs sounded like ghosts at an ill-fated feast.
If Bentley was being watched — with or without his knowledge — Doran didn’t want him leading the police to Safe Hands Security. Warrender had suggested one of the sites they were guarding, but Doran wanted somewhere neutral, a public place he could enter and leave without being noticed. He sipped a brandy and listened with half an ear to the rise and fall of conversation, as one listens to the rhythms of a foreign language, or the suck and hiss of surf on shingle, allowing the diminishing murmur of voices and the warmth of the liquor to soothe him.
The bars and restaurants of the Cavern Quarter were emptying and the street below had the spirit of carnival: loud, colourful and brash, with an undertow of menace rippling just beneath the surface. Doran felt a tinge of recognition, a wistful longing to respond to its tidal pull.
* * *
Jake Bentley strode through the narrow winding streets towards his destination confident that the crowds would part and flow around him as a river flows around a boulder. His height was an advantage: he could look over their heads, only occasionally lighting on a pretty girl, and only if she was unaware of his scrutiny.
He wore loose-fitting cream chinos and a black T-shirt with a sports jacket over it. It had taken some time to decide on the right combination: smart, respectful, but not over-formal. He thought he had got the balance just right. He hesitated for a second outside Five Star, then shouldered though the steel-frame doors and waited just inside. A smiling waitress came towards him, already composing her apologetic face to let him know that they were finished for the night. A man intercepted her and said a few words; she nodded and went back to clearing tables.
‘Mr Bentley?’ the man said. He was a few inches shorter than Bentley and a little soft around the middle. Bentley nodded and the man gave him a practised, professional smile. ‘This way.’ His voice was rich and clear, pitched to make himself heard above the hubbub of restaurant noise. He led Bentley to a spiral staircase at the rear of the restaurant and removed a rope barrier to allow him access.
He climbed the stairs into the gloom of the empty function room, and stood still for a few seconds, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. Two men watched him quietly from the other side of the room. He recognised Mr Doran immediately. He was small, but strong; a kick-boxer’s build. He knew that Mr Doran had a gym at home, and that he ran ten miles a day on the treadmill.
He crossed the room in a few strides, trying not to look self-conscious. When he reached the table, he held out a hand.
‘Jake Bentley,’ he said.
Doran glanced at the offered hand with little interest and Bentley jammed it in his pocket, hoping that the lack of light would hide the angry rush of blood to his face.
Doran lifted his chin, indicating the man seated at the narrow edge of the table. ‘John Warrender, my head of security.’
‘We’ve met,’ Bentley said. But that sounded cold. Stop it, Jake, he told himself. This isn’t about last autumn — last autumn all you had to offer was muscle. Now you’ve got something Mr Doran needs. He started again. ‘Last autumn. You probably don’t remember, Mr Warrender, but I applied for—’
‘I remember,’ Warrender said, cutting him short.
‘Sit down, Mr Bentley,’ Doran said.
Warrender shoved a chair out from under the table with the toe of his shoe and Bentley sat facing Mr Doran, and with
the security chief’s gaze hot on the side of his face.
‘How did your interview go with the police?’
‘Great,’ he said, then corrected himself, ‘I mean, you know — it was okay. I offered to do the ID parade, like you said. The old lady has withdrawn her statement.’ Neither man spoke, and he continued, trying to find some common ground. ‘Mr Jago was fantastic — he knew exactly what to say.’
‘I’ll be sure and tell him. He’ll be made up,’ Doran said.
Talking too much, Jake, he told himself. Shut up and listen, for God’s sake. ‘So, I’m all in the clear,’ he said, unable to stop himself. ‘Except for the stalking charge. But now Sara’s, you know . . .’
‘Dead,’ Doran said, his eyes not wavering from Bentley’s face for a second. ‘No complainant, no witnesses — you’re laughing, aren’t you?’
Bentley looked at his hands, clasped in his lap, unable to bear Doran’s penetrating stare any longer. ‘I never meant nothing by that. I was just—’
‘Making conversation.’
The way Mr Doran kept finishing his sentences was unsettling. ‘Well, yeah,’ he said, bewildered.
‘So,’ Doran said. ‘I’m thinking we’re done here. You got what you want, and now we’re finished.’
‘Oh,’ Bentley said, disappointed, not quite grasping the reason for Mr Doran’s hostility. Then in a flash of understanding, he did. ‘Oh! You think— Mr Doran, I wasn’t trying to pull a fast one on you, I swear. It’s just — I’ve always wanted to work for you.’
‘Always?’
‘Since I got into the business.’
‘And what business would that be?’ The latent threat was always there, like a moving shadow, restless behind Doran’s eyes.
Bentley frowned. ‘Security.’
Doran and Warrender exchanged a look.
‘Whose security?’ Warrender asked.
Bentley kneaded the knuckles of his right fist with his left. ‘I don’t know — whoever I’m supposed to be protecting.’
Doran narrowed his eyes.
Oh, God, this is going so bad. He thinks I’m trying to blackmail him. ‘Mr Doran,’ he said. ‘I’m not so clever with words. If I gave the wrong impression, I apologise. I’m just trying to tell you how much I admire you.’
Doran folded his arms. ‘Well, if it’s a fan-boy thing, maybe you should contact me via the website.’
Bentley flinched. He didn’t have to be so mean.
‘Tell me what you want, Bentley.’
‘I want to help — really I do.’ Bentley. He called me Bentley. I’ve pissed him off and now he’s calling me Bentley. He was sweating and fearful and sick that he had so badly misjudged the situation. ‘I’ve got these photos, you see,’ he blurted out.
Doran lifted his hand to silence him. At the same time, Warrender stood, gesturing for Bentley to do the same. For a while the sound of voices in the restaurant below was drowned by the roar of blood in his ears. Warrender patted him down, removed his mobile phone from his jacket pocket and switched it off, then turned to Doran.
‘No wires,’ he said.
Bentley blinked, shocked and upset. ‘A wire? I wouldn’t — honest to God, Mr Doran, I—’
‘What photos?’ Doran interrupted.
He blinked again, swallowed. ‘Of Megan Ward.’
Both men relaxed visibly. Oh, shit! You moron, Jake! They thought you had shots of the murder. He had a horrible recollection: the photographs. Two or three he had reeled off without thinking as the men approached Sara’s house; the one they called ‘Cap’ and another he didn’t recognise.
He stared, horrified at Mr Doran. He knew how it would look if he admitted that he had photographed Doran’s men. It would look like a set-up. It would look like he’d taken the film to the police and now he was trying to extract as much information from them as he could.
‘Who is Megan Ward?’ Doran asked.
The question threw him. They don’t know? But they must know — otherwise why did they go to Sara’s house? Wasn’t it on the news? Sometimes the stories in his head bled into the real world and he wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began. ‘Megan was Sara’s tenant,’ he said. ‘She a bit of a computer freak — always in that office of hers.’
Doran looked at Warrender.
‘There was no computer,’ Warrender said.
‘The police took it.’
This time there was no eye contact between the two men, but Bentley knew he had said something important.
‘You were arrested for stalking, Mr Bentley,’ Doran said. Bentley took the reintroduction of his title as a good sign. ‘The police must have confiscated your photographs, camera, film — the lot.’
‘They did,’ Bentley said. Careful, Jake. ‘I had a roll at the photolab.’ He had said it. Now there was no going back. Maybe it was the adrenaline, he couldn’t be sure, but something was making him think a little faster that evening. The shots of Cap and the other man were near the end of the roll. I’m sure of it. I can just take them out and nobody need know.
Again, Doran glanced at Warrender.
Warrender shook his head. ‘The police would’ve checked with the photolab.’
‘I didn’t go to the normal one, though,’ Bentley said. ‘I went to see my mum, and I found a couple of rolls in my pocket. She was going out to the shops and I asked her to drop them in for me at the chemist.’ He shrugged. ‘They’re still there, waiting for me to pick them up.’
Doran left a brief silence. ‘And what do you want for this film?’ he asked.
‘Please don’t take this the wrong way, Mr Doran.’ Bentley glanced anxiously at Warrender. ‘I just want a job.’
Doran eyed him for a long moment. ‘A job,’ he repeated.
‘Something with prospects. I’m sick of handing out towels to flabby businessmen down the gym.’ He had pandered to middle-aged men and their pampered wives for two-and-a-half years, and that was two years too long.
Something flashed in Doran’s eyes. Amusement, perhaps, and then he fell silent until Bentley began to squirm in his seat. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘But while we wait for your photographs, I want a description of Megan, and anything else you know about her.’
Dismayed, Bentley struggled to think of something. ‘There wasn’t nothing. Just the computer, really. She didn’t go out much. Oh!’ he exclaimed, remembering. ‘The car.’
He gave Warrender details while Doran went to the window and looked down into the street at the crowds, jostling, some singing, more than a few staggering out of the bars.
When Bentley left, Doran turned back to Warrender. ‘I want him followed. Until we meet tomorrow night, I want to know his every move.’
‘You’re not actually going give him a job?’ Warrender asked.
‘Depends how useful he is,’ Doran said.
‘And if he isn’t? Useful, I mean?’
‘Like I said before, we’ll deal with it.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
Megan Ward directed them to a double-fronted Georgian house in Rodney Street. The road was quiet this time of night, the doctors’ surgeries and the clinics specialising in everything from laser treatment to liposuction were closed, and the one small restaurant had long since disgorged its diners into the night.
Faux-antique streetlamps cast a pinkish glow on the drying pavements, and the traffic lights at either end of the road changed from green to red and back to green without a single car passing through them. During the day, parking was pay and display only, though the machines were frequently vandalised by rebellious locals unwilling to pay the tariff. After six p.m., parking was free, and Foster was able to find a spot right outside.
The front door, painted deep blue, gave onto a gleaming hallway with several brass-plated doorways: surgeons, dermatologists, Ophthalmologists. They took the stairs to the second floor to a low-framed door with a crooked lintel.
‘Servants’ quarters,’ Megan said, unlocking the door. ‘You’ll need to watch your
heads.’ Both Hart and Foster had to duck to avoid the lintel, but once inside, the flat was roomy, though the boards were a little bowed and the accommodations not quite as airy as the offices on the lower floors. The sitting-room was furnished with a sofa and one easy chair in cream linen, a large stone-coloured rug in the centre of the floor, coffee table, mirror over the fireplace, blinds on the windows, no pictures.
‘Why this place?’ Foster asked.
‘It’s central,’ Megan said. ‘Views over the front and back of the house. People coming and going all the time during the day — new custom, new faces.’ She lifted one shoulder. ‘Effective invisibility.’
Hart explored the doors off the main room. ‘Bathroom,’ she said identifying each room as she came to it, ‘galley-kitchen . . . bedroom . . . And another bedroom.’ The larger of the two rooms had been made up. ‘Neat as a prison cell,’ she remarked. There was a second door on the far side of the room. ‘Where does that door lead?’
‘Fire escape,’ Megan said. ‘Another reason for choosing this place.’ Foster noticed she hadn’t said ‘renting’. He suspected that Megan was not officially occupying the flat at all.
‘Good choice,’ he said. ‘I doubt if witness protection could stretch to these rents, though.’
‘They haven’t the imagination to find a place like this,’ Megan said disparagingly.
‘You don’t have much faith in the Witness Protection Programme, do you?’ Hart said.
Megan turned her gaze on DC Hart. ‘It’s an under-funded government con — fooling people into coming forward on the pretext they’ll be safe.’
‘Talking from personal experience?’ Foster asked.
She didn’t answer, only stared at him for a few moments as though trying to figure him out.
Foster continued his evaluation of the accommodation. ‘Bit low on comforts,’ he said, ‘But not bad as a bolthole.’
‘Home from home, eh, Sergeant?’ she shot back.
Foster clasped a hand to his heart as though wounded.
‘I haven’t had time to nest,’ Megan went on. ‘How long have you been in your place?’
‘It’s a — thing,’ he said, feigning offence. ‘Minimalist, I think they call it.’
SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2) Page 18
