Car Hacker

by Rosie Claverton

  The Micra drove off, heading towards Canton and Dylan’s garage. Amy fired off a quick warning text to Dylan, who had prepared a fantastical tale of a struggle, shots fired, and him chasing the vehicle down the street armed only with a wrench—before Amy and Cerys had reined him in.

  She also checked in with Bryn and Cerys, hoping they were at their stations in readiness. Bryn had been reluctant to participate at first, citing his more-than-full-time job—made harder by the abrupt absences of three detectives through injury and death. Eventually, Amy had persuaded him, told him he owed Jason, and he could have a share of Gwen’s fine cooking as a reward.

  With her plan in motion, Amy only had one task left on her agenda. She manoeuvred her way into the kitchen, iPad tucked under one arm to monitor the GPS, and regarded the cupboards thoughtfully. She was a master hacker, a solver of mysteries, an invaluable asset to South Wales Police, and a magnanimous boss. Of course she could make a birthday cake. How hard could it be?

  An hour later, with two eggs sacrificed to gravity while chocolate splatter covered the inside of the microwave with the distinct smell of burning, Amy decided to admit defeat. Low on options for culinary assistance, she gritted her teeth and contacted Jason’s technophobic mother by phone.

  “I’ll be over after lunch, love," Gwen said. "Not much for baking, mind. I’d better nip to the Co-op.”

  Despite the anxiety of the phone call, Amy liked talking with Gwen. Amy always felt cosy with her, like she was enveloped in the Carr huddle of warmth, if only for a moment. It felt like family, how she had always imagined it should feel, outside her bickering with Lizzie and trying to understand the slow-dying mind of her grandmother. If her mother had only been half the woman Gwen Carr was, Amy might’ve had a chance.

  Leaving the kitchen bombsite for the time being, Amy made her way back to AEON to check in with her assistant. The GPS feed on the Micra was still outside Dylan’s garage, but the jacket had wandered across Canton and into Splott, where it was now blinking at her from a notorious dive of a pub. What the hell was Jason doing in Splott? He was meant to be on his way to Bryn with the bag of planted evidence!

  Amy tapped out an irate text to Dylan, chastising him for not sticking to the plan and pushing him to move Jason along. Bryn was meant to be taking the boy out to lunch, but they may have to skip that phase of the plan if she wanted Jason home in time for dinner.

  Drumming her fingers on the desk, Amy soon received a reply:

  Not here left car out front.

  That was odd. Why was Jason in the pub without Dylan? Was he really drinking alone on his birthday? Had Amy and her antics driven him to alcoholism on a sunny day in July? Amy fired off texts to Cerys and Bryn, to see if they’d intercepted him, but it was unlikely. That was not the kind of pub Bryn would go near, not if he wanted to keep his face in order, and Cerys was busy running errands for Owain in town.

  Cerys phoned back after a minute and Amy reluctantly answered. Why were the Carr family obsessed with communicating in such an antiquated way? It was anxiety-provoking, and it left no written record. She liked to have certainties in her communications.

  “He’s already wandered off, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Amy admitted, grudgingly. “Where are you?”

  “Just finishing up at the Apple store. You want me to get him to where he needs to be?”

  “Apple store?” Amy scowled. “What are you doing there?”

  “Owain’s Mac is on the fritz. It’s not working right since the police did whatever to it.”

  “I could’ve done that for you,” Amy said.

  “It’s all right.” Amy heard the awkward note in Cerys’s voice. “He’s got to be careful, you know?”

  As in he couldn’t have an infamous hacker meddling with his computer so soon after he’d got into trouble for supposedly aiding and abetting a master criminal via technology. Amy could read between the lines.

  “I’ll text you Jason’s location. Let me know when he’s back on track.”

  “It’s a nice thing you’re doing for him,” Cerys said. “But you could’ve just made him a cake, y’know?”

  Amy looked back at the kitchen ruefully. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Tonight.”

  Amy sent Cerys Jason’s location and searched for her phone’s location to monitor her progress. Surprisingly, she found it off and blocked. She tried to flick the tracker on remotely through the emergency channel, but found something in the way—an app, perhaps, though Cerys must’ve jailbroken her phone to get it to work. Amy had faith in Cerys’s abilities, but she didn’t think she would have come up with the idea by herself. Which meant Owain was trying to block Amy out.

  It wasn’t a complete surprise. His association with her had led to his current state of pain. His career had been balanced on a knife-edge while they sorted through the mess left by the deliberately-botched police investigation, and she had to take some blame for that too — Jason and her both. Except Jason was Cerys’s brother, which gave him a get-out-of-jail-free card when it came to Owain. Amy had no such protection.

  Resigning herself to knowing only Jason’s whereabouts, Amy stared at that little flashing dot, anxiety rising as her little game slowly slipped out of her control.

  Chapter 3: A Man in a Pub

  Tucked into the corner of The Black Sheep, Jason was stunned to see his sister walk through the door.

  She craned her neck, obviously on the lookout for someone, and Jason resisted the urge to sink down beneath the tabletop. How the hell had she found him? Or, if she wasn’t looking for him, what was she doing in a place like The Black Sheep? Cerys had declared herself done with the shadier aspects of her life when she’d applied for police training. Aspects like going to The Black Sheep to score things good girls shouldn’t.

  Her eyes landed on him and she made a beeline across the pub to his table, ignoring the men who tried to get her attention. She was dressed down, T-shirt and jeans, blonde hair shaggy and falling out of its usual spikes. Even to Jason’s eyes, she needed a haircut and a rest from playing nursemaid to Owain Jenkins.

  “What you doing here?” he asked.

  “Could say the same.” She took the seat to his right, leaning against the edge of the table before jumping back as some sticky residue gummed down the front of her T-shirt.

  “I am working,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it.

  “Yeah, Dylan said. Which is how I knew you’d be in a place like this."

  “Why were you talking to Dylan?” he asked suspiciously.

  “What, you thought I was going to skip out on your birthday drinks?” Cerys nudged his arm with hers. “Happy Birthday, loser.”

  “Ta, tart.”

  He avoided the slap only because Cerys didn’t want to draw attention to them, but the look she gave him could melt steel.

  “What do you reckon you’re going to find here then?” she asked.

  “Whatever it is, I’m going to wait ’til you’ve headed off home.”

  “What? C’mon, Jay! I’ve proved myself good, haven’t I?”

  “It’s dangerous and I can handle it.”

  “Yeah, you always handle yourself so fucking well. What are we even looking for?”

  She leaned forward again, scanning the bar like the worst PI from the movies. Jason, sensing his cover was blown anyway, abandoned his pint and levered Cerys out of her chair.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Cerys allowed herself to be shepherded out of the pub and into the side alley. She lit up a rollie and offered Jason one, but he held up his hand. Even looking at them made his lungs spasm. After his bout of pneumonia, Amy had talked him into quitting on pain of pain and dumped his tobacco, papers and filters into the bin. At least she had spared his Zippo.

  “What now then?” Cerys asked, between drags.

  “You go home,” he said, and started walking away from her at speed, turning onto the main road and heading back towards his car.

/>   “Fuck off,” she said cheerfully, keeping pace with his long strides. “You’re trying to find out who’s buying cars, aren’t you?”

  “When did you get so smart?” he muttered.

  “Good genes,” she said. “You got the runty shit.”

  “Ta for that.”

  He nudged her arm and she playfully shoved him back.

  “So, what now?”

  She was damned persistent, his sister. Stubbornness was a family trait, one he knew well, and he knew he couldn’t shake her off now.

  “Owain will kill me if you get into trouble.”

  “Mam will kill you first,” she countered. "I’ve got myself in and out of trouble plenty of times. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “All right, fine,” he said, intending to ditch her at the earliest opportunity. “We’ll head into Grangetown and see what’s what.”

  “Why Grangetown?” Cerys practically spat the word, a part of town that they never visited despite it being only across the river from Bute.

  “That’s where I’ve heard the carjackers are operating.”

  “You don’t think it’s a local thing? Gangs and shit? Dylan said the car belongs to a Splott boy.”

  “You and Dylan are awful close now, aren’t you? Does Owain know?”

  “Shut up. We should go to Splott. If you’re a joyrider—”

  “If you’re a joyrider, you don’t steal a car in the middle of the day and dump your expensive balaclavas. This was for money. And the money’s in Grangetown.”

  Cerys held up her hands. “All right, we’ll go to Grangetown. Hey, shouldn’t you check in with your mistress?”

  “She isn’t my mistress.” Jason felt an uncomfortable blush rise on his cheeks at the word. “If she wants me, she’ll call. She always does.”

  “Lemme get some chips before we go,” Cerys said, diving into the shop without waiting for an answer.

  Jason was still full from breakfast, leaning up against the window while Cerys sought out her grease-soaked treat. But when she emerged five minutes later, she handed him off a battered sausage and he wasn’t going to say no.

  “A lot of places to dump a car in Grangetown, aren’t there?” Cerys said, staring at her phone and somehow avoiding walking into any pedestrians or lampposts.

  “I told you—they’re not dumping it. It’s for sale.”

  “But it’s pretty hot right now, isn’t it? You’d either have to move it fucking quick or you’d want to stash it somewhere for a few days until no one’s looking for it anymore.”

  She had a point, but Jason was always unwilling to admit that to his baby sister.

  “What you got then?” he asked.

  “We could start with these.”

  Cerys showed him her screen, which had three likely sites highlighted with pins. She’d obviously been building up to this since the chip shop, and Jason noted that the sites were exactly the kind he would’ve chosen—low footfall, no cameras, plenty of space to dismantle it or get a van in.

  Jason looked back to the pavement, just in time to avoid falling headfirst over a pushchair. He muttered a quick apology and guided Cerys across the road before the angry mam could hit him with the umbrella looped over her pushchair handles. Like all good Cardiffians, she clearly didn’t believe the forecasters when they said it wouldn’t rain, despite it being the middle of summer without a cloud in the sky.

  They reached the Micra, and Jason made for the driver’s side door.

  “What are you doing?” Cerys asked angrily.

  Jason gestured at the door handle. “Getting in my car?”

  “How many pints have you had?”

  Jason counted up in his head and winced at how far over the limit he probably was.

  “It’s not far—”

  “Don’t be a wanker. Give me the keys.”

  Jason held the keys close to his chest. “You don’t have a licence.”

  “I’m taking lessons. You can supervise me.”

  Jason reluctantly handed over the keys to his precious car. Cerys shoved him aside and got in, adjusting the seat and mirrors from their long-stuck positions.

  Jason shoved back the passenger seat to give himself some more legroom and plucked a long mousy-brown hair off the headrest. He hadn’t had time to clean it since his jaunt with Amy to that ill-fated barn, and the seat still held her faint scent, if he closed his eyes.

  “Are we ready then?”

  Cerys started the car—and promptly stalled it. She shot Jason an embarrassed look. “High clutch?”

  Jason placed his head in his hands. “Happy Birthday, Carr,” he mumbled.

  It was going to be a long day.

  Chapter 4: Movers and Shakers

  When Amy texted that Jason was not on his way to the station, Bryn breathed a sigh of relief.

  Despite his affection for the wayward boy, Bryn didn’t think it was a great idea for Jason to show his face around here just yet. It hadn’t been long since he had been resident in the cells and accused of murder. And, despite all evidence to the contrary, some still blamed him for the three absent coppers in the department.

  Yet Bryn hadn’t wanted to spoil Amy’s plan. It was good to see her enthusiastic about anything at all, not diminished by her broken leg or their misadventures in that field. He wished he could say the same of Owain, still on sick leave, but he knew he had to give the boy time. You didn’t just bounce back from a gunshot wound. It left a mark on a man, and Bryn wanted his boy whole, not a haunted wraith.

  Finishing up his paperwork around lunchtime, Bryn decided to head home to catch his daughters for a few, brief hours, before they all went their separate ways. It was getting harder to tie down the teenagers to any family time at all, but he would remain in denial a little while longer.

  As he was about to leave his desk, his phone buzzed and he reluctantly checked it, in no doubt as to who it was.

  change of plan pls move car to new location @

  A second message came through immediately after, with a series of numbers highlighted in blue and underlined. Bryn tapped at it and it opened up a map on his phone, showing a site in Splott and another in Grangetown. In the bottom right corner was a picture of a blue Peugeot 307, about ten years old.

  Bryn called Amy, armed with half a dozen excuses.

  “Did the map not work?” she said, without so much as a “hi”.

  “The map’s fine, Amy. I can’t be involved in this.”

  “It’s not illegal.”

  Bryn massaged his temples, not entirely convinced that Amy’s grasp of “legal” made her any fair judge of the matter.

  “You can’t get Cerys to do it?” he asked, guiltily passing the buck.

  The youngest Carr was trying to straighten out her life, waiting to hear whether her application for police training had been successful. She’d attended the interview with her whole life falling down around her, but she was a tough woman. You didn’t grow up on streets like these, with a mother like Gwen Carr, without grit and determination for your allies. Bryn didn’t want to put her in another situation that could jeopardise that, but she wasn’t as heavily scrutinised as him. The department had eyes everywhere now, waiting for them to make just one more mistake.

  “Cerys is with Jason and I don’t trust Dylan. Please, Bryn.”

  Bryn groaned internally. He shouldn’t have bothered calling, because there was no way he wasn’t going to agree to her. The woman had some pathetic hold over him, where she could make him feel sorry enough for her to do anything.

  “Fine. Where are the keys?”

  “They’re in the dash. The back window’s smashed, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Bryn felt himself slide down the rabbit hole. “Please tell me the car isn’t stolen.”

  “No, of course not! It just looks stolen.”

  “Amy...”

  “I own the car, Bryn. Trust me—I know what I’m doing.”

  Her plea for trust in this one simple thing w
as so much more. He knew she was feeling terrible about Owain’s injuries, even though she had also been badly hurt, but she couldn’t afford to lose this. If she was without the mysteries, her connection to the police, how could she continue to function?

  She was a very different woman to the frightened little girl he had recruited years before, but she was still fragile in a way that scared him. She was better with Jason, he had no doubt about that, but she still had fault lines that could split open at any moment. Amy didn’t believe enough to save herself.

  So, how could he do anything but run when she called?

  “I’m on my way,” he said.

  * * *

  Amy hung up the phone and checked in with Jason via GPS.

  The Micra was parked at the edge of a scrapyard in Grangetown, with Jason’s dot a few metres away. Amy presumed Cerys was somewhere in the vicinity as well, the itch in her veins to break past the block on the girl’s phone almost overwhelming. Amy resisted only because Owain would surely know she had meddled, and she did not want to burn any more bridges between them.

  They were at the second location on the list of three potential dump sites she had hastily cobbled together after Cerys had reported in Jason’s intentions via text. The remaining site was the one she had sent to Bryn as the destination for the planted car. It was a shame they had to lose the original location, which Jason could’ve painstakingly identified through hair strands that were planted on the balaclavas for medical examiner Indira Bharani to analyse in her laboratory and Bryn to then link to a string of previous criminal convictions. All faked, naturally—one didn’t need real science when one had accomplices who could lie just as easily.

  She had planned for everything—except Jason. He was much more likely to follow his nose than trace forensic evidence. Skulking around pubs and asking questions was much more his style. Owain and Bryn were the ones who would rely on the lab, and Amy who would check cameras and phone records. They all had their parts to play.