‘That’s very impressive.’ Gillard said, coming around to look at the screen.
The young woman pointed at her screen to an immensely complex tangle of threads of constantly changing rainbow colours. ‘It’s a piece of software that sits on top of the switch, or what used to be called the telephone exchange. It searches the movements of millions of mobile phones in real time, looking for parallels in the cell towers triggered, and turns it into a map.’ She homed in on the huge knot, gradually magnifying one part of the screen. ‘This parallel track is quite indicative.’
‘So one of these is the satnav flagging its location?’ Gillard asked.
‘Yes, that’s the base path, the one we know for certain,’ Tracy said, pointing at the screen and further magnifying it. ‘And this track is so close that we can only assume it is from the same vehicle, or perhaps one travelling in convoy. It triggers all the same cell towers at the same time.’
‘What do the colours mean?’ Gillard asked.
‘Ah. This is a probability map, adjusted for route frequency. So, for example, a packed commuter train heading for Waterloo will have hundreds of correlations on the same bits of network many dozens of times a day, so it will be light green, indicating a low probability of significance. Then if, say, six of those commuters get on a bus outside the station, we may move up to dark green or orange. It’s really when the pattern is not only identical in space and time, but on a low frequency path, that the software allocates it high significance.’
‘So if two phone traces travel on a minor road at the same speed and time there is a high probability they are together in the same vehicle.’
‘That’s it, sir, you’ve got it.’
‘So you identified the phone. Was it still in the vehicle when it was parked in the multi-storey?’
Tracy checked the screen and brought up a background map. ‘Yes. Having identified it, we followed the burner phone moving at pedestrian speed for a further ten minutes before it was switched off. However it was on a street which should have CCTV.’
‘That is fantastic work,’ Gillard said. ‘Get me the details, and I’ll get the team onto it.’
* * *
Rob Townsend was daydreaming about Kirsty and the caravan, even as he sat at his computer going through the endless collection of electronic data that had been gathered from the remaining unchecked devices of Harry Roy, Morag Fairburn and Zayan Lal. After the conversation with Gillard, he had concentrated his search on Lal’s laptop and phone. The gold nugget he was looking for was one word: thallium, any mention of the deadly poison in an Internet search or on an email, prior to the death of Mrs Roy.
Lal had clearly been careful. The word did not occur at all at any time on any of his devices, neither in English nor Gujarati. Of course Rob still had to do the full investigation of the Gujarati texts and emails, some of which were encrypted in WhatsApp, to see what else had been said. That would take weeks. It was going to be a long slog and he couldn’t face it right now, so instead he decided to do the same basic keyword check on the accounts of Harry Roy and Morag Fairburn. He looked at his watch. With luck he could do both and still leave at the same time as Kirsty, 5.30 p.m. He set the desktop app searching for the word thallium.
It only took four seconds to flag up a whole series of hits.
Not on Harry’s computers, as he might have expected, but on Morag Fairburn’s home desktop PC. Townsend blinked, and looked again at the seven different searches over a period of four days. It included the Wikipedia page for the metal, a PDF of a pharmacopoeia describing the toxin’s effects on the human body and several other academic references which described real-life cases of thallium poisoning. The search had been conducted on maximum privacy settings, on a newly installed browser, which was then uninstalled at the end of the session. Most incriminating of all was a search for brand names of rodenticides in the Indian subcontinent and retail stockists.
If this had occurred in the last couple of weeks, it could be explained away as an interest in what had actually happened to Mrs Roy, given that the family were told she had been poisoned. But these searches were more than a year old.
The research intelligence officer could think of no conceivable legitimate interest that Morag Fairburn could have had in this knowledge. If it had been her work computer, it could be argued that someone else had used it. But at home?
Townsend picked up the phone and punched out Gillard’s mobile number. It was with regret that he realised he was unlikely to be able to travel home with Kirsty. In fact at this rate, if Gillard needed him to press on with the research, he might not even be able get away with her for the weekend.
Chapter 21
The discovery of incriminating searches on Morag’s home computer made Gillard even more determined to re-interview her quickly. She readily agreed that he and DC Michelle Tsu could come to her home that evening and, when he arrived a little before eight, he was surprised to find that she had prepared a spread of sandwiches and thick, gooey chocolate brownies.
‘I realise you may have eaten already, but I haven’t had chance myself,’ she said. ‘So if you’ll excuse me.’
It was a good try as a disarming tactic, but Gillard knew he could go along with it and still get good answers to his questions.
‘So, how long have you been covering for Harry Roy?’ he asked, picking up a brownie.
‘More years than I care to remember,’ she said, pouring them all mugs of tea.
Michelle let out a soft moan of pleasure from her first taste of brownie.
‘You lied to me,’ Gillard said. ‘Your on-off relationship with Harry Roy was a sham.’
‘Yes and no. I’ve known for decades that Harry was bisexual. Our actual relationship only lasted a couple of years, but I still love him and have been happy to provide what you might call heterosexual cover for him for many years. I always wanted him to come out to his family, but he wouldn’t.’
‘Because he’d lose his inheritance?’ Michelle asked, through a mouthful of crumbs.
‘Yes, certainly while his father was still alive, but mainly because it would kill his mother. And of course in the end it did, just not in the way he expected.’
‘You’ve paid quite a price for it, haven’t you?’ Gillard said.
‘I’m pretty thick-skinned. It’s really only Prisha that was truly horrible. Besides, Harry has been very appreciative of my efforts, and that’s worth a lot.’ Her fingers strayed to the huge emerald ring on her engagement finger, to Gillard’s mind probably only the visible tip of the iceberg of Harry’s largesse.
Gillard then described the travel subterfuge that Zayan Lal had constructed to give him an alibi. ‘The only reason he needed that was to eliminate him the list of suspects.’
‘I’m absolutely shocked at this suggestion,’ she said. ‘He’s the gentlest of creatures, generally. Gets rather theatrical when he is upset.’
‘Do you call clubbing a woman to death with a hand weight theatrical?’ Michelle asked.
‘Obviously not. But what actual evidence do you have that he did it?’
‘We’re not in a position to disclose that at this stage,’ Gillard said. The proverbial locked cupboard with nothing within.
‘He adored Mrs Roy,’ Morag said.
Michelle almost laughed. ‘He would say that, wouldn’t he?’
‘She taught him how to cook, she taught him everything he knew. I promise you, he couldn’t have done it.’ It was as if she could somehow dissuade the detectives of their theory by listing Zayan’s qualities.
Gillard shook his head. ‘The world has a long history of hand-that-feeds-you biters. So you never saw anything suspicious about his behaviour?’
Morag sighed. ‘Well, obviously there were arguments between him and Harry. Zayan was hugely frustrated at having to keep such a low profile, and felt that Harry was stringing him along. They broke up about it a couple of times, but of course they always got back together again.’
‘What was
Harry’s reaction in those rows?’ he asked.
‘Harry was Harry. He just played for time, holding out the hope of all this money for them both. I always thought that was a mistake, actually, and I told him so. Harry loved the money, but Zayan couldn’t have cared less about it. He just wanted Harry for himself.’
‘And where is Mr Lal now?’ Michelle asked.
‘I have no idea.’
‘You told us he had a key to your house. Did he stay here in the last few days?’
‘No.’
‘Where do you think Mr Lal would go?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. But he’ll turn up again in a few days. He’s done this before, running off when upset.’
‘His car was found in Guildford. Do you know who he might know there?’ she continued.
Morag shook her head.
‘Did he stay with you in February last year?’ Gillard asked.
She hesitated. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Did anyone stay at that time? From the third to the ninth?’ he continued.
‘No, it was just me and my son.’ She smiled.
‘Not Harry?’
‘No. We’d got past that particular cover-up routine by then.’
Gillard eyed another brownie, and Morag encouraged them both to take more. ‘Well, Ms Fairburn, that is odd, because we’ve found something very interesting on your Internet search history between the third and ninth of February last year,’ Gillard said, as he took a bite.
For the first time Morag looked nervous. She had to wait a full half minute as Gillard gave the delicious sticky morsel the full thirty-two slow chews that his mother had always told him was required for perfect digestion. Finally swallowing, he said: ‘Your home computer was used to search for details about the toxic metal thallium. Half a dozen references, over a number of days.’ He took another bite of the brownie. ‘These are delicious, by the way,’ he said, gesturing to the crumbs on his plate. ‘Are they home-made?’
Morag licked her lips. It was clearly nothing to do with the prospect of more food. She looked even paler than he had ever seen her, a blueish vein on her temple prominent and pulsing.
‘Did you make those searches?’ His question was no less tricky for being obvious.
She barely hesitated. ‘No, it wasn’t me. And it wasn’t my son either.’
‘So if, as you say, you were here alone, who could it possibly have been?’
She didn’t reply.
Gillard shook his head. ‘It seems that for all of your sweet and accommodating nature, you have become an almost compulsive liar.’ He pointed at the emerald ring. ‘Though you have of course been well rewarded for it.’
‘Harry appreciates my loyalty.’
‘Well, I appreciate loyalty too, particularly to the truth, and I’m entitled to expect it from witnesses. So I’m afraid we’re going to have another interview, this time at a police station. I think you should bring your solicitor.’
She nodded.
He gestured to Michelle Tsu that they were leaving. ‘Thank you for the brownies, by the way. Very tasty.’ They left, hearing her tears begin before they had exited the front door.
* * *
Tweedledum and Tweedledee, a.k.a. DC Colin Hodges and DC Carl Hoskins, were enjoying a full cooked breakfast in Mount Browne’s refectory on the Friday morning after a pulling an all-nighter looking at CCTV of Guildford town centre trying to find where Zayan Lal had disappeared to.
‘My eyes feel like they had sand poured in them,’ Hoskins said, as he sat down with his plate of sausages, bacon, black pudding, mushrooms, hash browns, baked beans and fried tomatoes. Hodges, already tucking into his breakfast, had gone for the double sausage and double bacon, and two extra slices of white toast.
‘Yeah, I feel like I spend my life just looking at screens.’
‘Funny how he just disappeared on us,’ Hoskins said.
They looked up as DCI Gillard walked in and made his way to the counter to order. Mrs Iris announced his order to the kitchen in her beautiful Caribbean lilt: ‘Poached egg and milky coffee for Mr Gillard.’
‘Seems like he’s living here now,’ Hodges said, inclining his head towards their boss.
‘Yeah, but at least he doesn’t look so knackered as yesterday,’ Hodges said. ‘His eyes were like piss holes in the snow.’
Hoskins’ snigger was cut short as Gillard sat down to join them.
‘On a health kick, sir?’ Hodges asked, nodding at the tray, which contained only a yoghurt and a kiwi fruit.
‘I’ve got a poached egg on order,’ he replied, nodding at the counter. ‘So, gentlemen, I understand that our fugitive wandered through the town centre like he owned it, went into Chicken Express, and never re-emerged.’
‘That’s right. He almost certainly went out the back way. When we get back I can show you the map on my screen,’ Hoskins said. ‘Leads to a residential street with parking.’
Gillard took a spoonful of yoghurt. ‘He made a quick phone call about that time, and then he turned his phone off. Since then it’s been a blank.’
‘He’s probably been watching Hunted,’ Hodges said. The detectives were great aficionados of the TV game show, in which contestants tried to escape Britain’s forces of law and order for several weeks for the chance of a big cash prize. Nothing had done more to bring to the public’s attention the ubiquity of Britain’s CCTV network and the power of the state to track mobile phones, cars and card transactions. The show did its fair share of cutting corners in the investigative process, which always brought jeers of derision from watching cops, who in reality were never able to so rapidly access and track data as the show’s investigators seemed to.
Gillard told them about the phone trace. ‘Rob has been doing a great job, embedded with the techies.’
‘Not as deeply embedded as he is in that Kirsty Mockett,’ Hodges murmured, chewing a mouthful of black pudding.
‘Are they an item?’ Gillard asked.
Hoskins nodded. ‘Saw her groping him under the table, just yesterday. Lucky bastard.’
‘He come to work on Wednesday with a grin so wide you could put Crossrail through it,’ Hodges said.
‘Gentleman, I suggest you save your surveillance skills for outside this building,’ Gillard said tartly. Iris brought over his egg and coffee, but before he could start it, he saw a message on his phone.
‘Oh heck. Alison Rigby wants to see me. Catch you later.’ He stood up to leave, and then quickly turned back to the table. ‘If you see DI Mulholland, tell her we’ve got an incident room meeting at noon.’
* * *
It was mid-morning when Rob Townsend gave a comprehensive presentation to the incident room of all the electronic data that contributed towards tracking Zayan Lal, and so quickly discovering his new burner phone. After he finished he was given a rousing round of applause, which was enough to make him blush.
Gillard then took over, and went to a flipchart. ‘These are the possibilities we see for our fugitive. We don’t think now that he is trying to get abroad, but will probably lie low. He doesn’t have any relatives in Guildford, and as far as we know has never lived here. We are going through the contacts on his original phone, but haven’t found anything that links him to this area. He’s made half a dozen calls on the new phone, and sent a couple of texts. We have detected that he’s been using WhatsApp, so we will have an encryption challenge there.’
‘Did anyone go over to Chicken Express?’ Hodges asked.
‘Colin wants a shish special with garlic sauce,’ Hoskins muttered, earning himself a dig in the ribs from his mate.
Claire Mulholland replied: ‘A uniform patrol got over there within ten minutes of us getting the data through from Rob, but the staff claim to know nothing about him. One of the servers recognised the picture, and said a customer like him had gone to the staff toilet, and must have gone out the back way.’
‘We’re not buying that story,’ Gillard said. ‘Lal is presumably short of
cash, because we’ve got his wallet and his cards. Okay, he’s a small-scale dealer, but he wouldn’t have had the chance to get anything much from his own flat. So my guess is that he is chasing up debts, and someone at the takeaway owed him money.’
Claire took up the story. ‘We’ve seized the phones of the staff members who were on duty at the takeaway, and put them through the data kiosk, but none of them show any contact with Lal’s burner phone. We’ve concluded the contact was either a customer or possibly another member of staff we don’t know about.’
There was a knock at the door, and Michelle Tsu went to open it. Kirsty Mockett came in holding a large cake with a single candle aflame in the middle. ‘It’s my birthday today,’ she announced. ‘I thought you’d all like to have a slice of cake with me.’
‘Any time you like,’ breathed Hoskins.
‘How old are you?’ Hodges asked.
Michelle intervened. ‘Colin, it’s rude to ask a lady her age.’
‘I’m twenty-six, and I just like to say thank you for the warm welcome you have all given me since joining Surrey Police.’ Gillard couldn’t help but notice her eyes seeking out those of Rob Townsend. The expressions on the faces of Tweedledum and Tweedledee were far less wholesome. He knew that dealing with lascivious looks must be an occupational hazard for someone like Kirsty.
The young crime scene investigator had come prepared, with a large knife and a dozen paper plates and a latex glove so she could place each slice of the thick Victoria sponge without mess.
‘Home-made?’ Hodges asked through a thick mouthful.
‘Yes, gluten-free, and a dairy-free, cruelty-free filling,’ she said brightly, handing the last and particularly large slice to DCI Gillard. ‘This is for you, for being so kind and gallant as to rescue me so quickly on that first horrific day.’ She kissed him on the cheek, then floated out of the room, leaving them all in stunned silence.
Gillard was not prone to embarrassment, but this was something else. He couldn’t meet the gazes of all the subordinates, which were focused on his face.
The Body in the Snow Page 29
