Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries)

by Rosie Claverton

  Amy had never had a best friend before. She had retreated into the house during her early teen years and never really left. She had friends in every corner of the globe, connected to them via various different threads of communication, but nobody who knew her. Not like Jason knew her.

  It was for him that she had agreed to venture beyond the front door. If she had a couple of diazepam, she could just manage it. Not claw the car door apart or start screaming incoherently. She had coped before, she told herself – it would get easier. The car doors were still intact, at least.

  She brought up the BBC News website to see if she could work out their case from the local headlines. But she didn’t have to go further than the front page, the robbery and murder at the National Museum of Wales the top story after some agitation in Eastern Europe. A dead security guard and a missing masterpiece had earned Cardiff a spot on the national stage, although the city was probably sick of murder-tinged publicity.

  She felt the thrum of curiosity in her blood, her mind already leaping away to all the possibilities, the theories. Her fingers danced of their own accord, the data singing to her as she threw herself out into the streams.

  By the time Jason came home – home – she would know ‘The Blue Lady’ inside out. He was always so impressed by the way she found things out, how her mind deciphered all the pieces of the puzzle until they formed a cohesive whole.

  He inspired her to be better. She wanted so desperately to be better for him.

  Jason headed down to the security office with Owain and took the CCTV footage into his custody. He left Owain to ask some follow-up questions and was heading back down the corridor to the front entrance when he heard a woman crying.

  He stepped through an open doorway into a workshop with various works of art dotted around the benches. Everything from canvas to pottery to jewellery was included in the collection, in different states of restoration or cleaning. Some works were protected from prying eyes, shrouded in heavy dust covers against the walls. Beneath an elegant scabbard from which an antique sword handle protruded, the crying woman sat at a desk, sobbing into her handkerchief. Her bobbed black hair covered one half of her face entirely, but from what he could see, she looked East Asian, in her late-twenties, and wore a white smock covered in smudges of paint.

  ‘You all right, love?’ he asked, which was a stupid question, because clearly she wasn’t.

  She jerked upright and waved the handkerchief in front of her face. ‘I’m fine. It’s nothing.’

  He perched on the bench beside her. ‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me. Did you … did you know him?’

  She started crying again and scrubbed at her eyes desperately. ‘You will think me so heartless. I didn’t know him.’

  Jason didn’t know what to make of that – until he recognised the painting behind her as another of those particular oil paintings, the ones with the splodges that looked like the artist was in a hurry. Like Water Lilies and the missing blue lady, around which this woman’s world was built.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘We’ll find the picture.’

  She looked painfully grateful for his understanding. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Soo-jin! No visitors allowed in the workshop.’

  The owner of the voice had a tumble of dark curls, loosely tied close to her neck, and darker eyes. She had one hand on her hip, the picture of indignation in a paint-stained white coverall, and was shadowed by a skinny man with an artful three-day stubble and a smock similar to Soo-jin’s.

  Jason stood up to greet them properly. ‘I’m with the police.’

  The woman snorted like a hog. ‘The police? Don’t be absurd. Get out before I have you arrested.’

  ‘I’m a police consultant,’ he tried to explain, even though it was a little white lie.

  But she wasn’t buying it. ‘You’re a hack, don’t deny it. Playing on Soo-jin’s naïveté.’

  ‘Talia!’ Soo-jin protested, but it fell on deaf ears.

  ‘I am counting to ten. If you’re not gone by then, I will scream and bring all those nice uniformed officers down on you.’

  Jason drew a business card out of his pocket and handed it to Soo-jin. ‘If you need anything,’ he said, before walking past the angry Talia and back out into the museum.

  He bumped into Owain in the atrium and they silently walked out together towards the Harley.

  ‘Right odd lot, they are,’ Jason said. ‘One woman crying over a picture and another paranoid that I’m a journo.’

  ‘That’s the price of being a genius. Just look at Amy.’

  Jason thought Amy’s oddities were more tied to her volatile anxiety than her oversized brain, but he didn’t correct Owain. He spent most of his waking hours with Amy – she took time to decode, and he wasn’t surprised that most others didn’t have her figured out.

  ‘Give my love to Cerys,’ Owain said, as he opened his car door.

  Jason paused before putting on his helmet. ‘You’re seeing her tomorrow, aren’t you?’

  ‘Can’t now, can I? Not with a case like this on the books.’

  Jason had seen precious little of his sister since she’d started police training, and the weekends she wasn’t studying were more likely to be devoted to Owain than anyone else. Jason didn’t mind the cop dating Cerys because he was a good bloke, but he didn’t like her being messed around.

  Owain shrugged helplessly and got in the car. Jason watched him drive off, bemused. For him, family always came first. If his mam or sister needed him, he would drop everything in a heartbeat.

  But then he also worked for his best friend and she would always need more looking after than Gwen and Cerys combined. Other people had jobs they left at the door, but acting as Amy’s live-in assistant demanded everything from him. Friday was technically his day off, but he’d chosen to answer Bryn’s call. Chose work over hanging out with his mate Dylan at his garage, tinkering with dodgy motors and dodgier parts, or going out for a few pints. Maybe that meant he was finally growing up.

  Or maybe he had caught the mystery bug and couldn’t walk away.

  Chapter 4

  Mad skillz

  By the time Jason arrived home, Amy knew everything about La Parisienne.

  The artist was a renowned Impressionist painter – so famous even Amy had heard of him – and the model a theatre actress. Demure and ladylike by today’s standards, she had been a sexual provocateur in her time. And now she had been stolen.

  ‘How did you find that?’ Jason asked.

  ‘I turned on the news.’

  Amy suppressed a thrill at the pleasant surprise in his voice. She liked to surprise him.

  ‘Here’s the CCTV.’ He offloaded a couple of CDs on the desk. ‘Indira’s going to email you her report when she’s done.’

  ‘This is going to be a very different murder.’

  ‘Why’d you say that?’ His voice carried from the kitchen and Amy could hear the kettle rising to the boil.

  ‘The victim wasn’t chosen. He was unlucky. The crime worth investigating is the theft.’ Amy paused, her imagination kicking into gear. ‘Unless the killer stole the painting to cover up the murder. Maybe Paul had made enemies among the museum staff and they plotted together to kill him in the night, make it look like a robbery.’

  ‘The security card was stolen.’ Jason placed a mug of tea at her elbow, traditional chocolate digestive balanced on the rim. ‘And it’s a lot of trouble to go to just to kill a guy.’

  ‘There are simpler explanations.’ Amy tapped the digestive against the side of the mug, leaving a chocolaty smudge. ‘I should do a social media check just in case.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Jason asked.

  It was a dangerous question, when he was looking at her like that in the reflection of her blank third monitor. But Amy knew the way he meant it – the only way he
meant it.

  ‘Do you know anyone who deals in fine art?’

  Jason burst out laughing, which was unexpected and unnerving. Amy felt a prickle of heat on her neck and shoulders, anxiety rising.

  ‘What? What’s so funny?’

  ‘You and Bryn have strange ideas about Cardiff street life.’

  Amy’s fear died away. ‘What about Lewis?’

  Jason’s childhood friend was currently locked up in Swansea Prison, which was where Jason would be – if he’d made it to the gold heist. His best friend Lewis had been resentful for a long time and it had taken a family tragedy to bring them back together, brothers once more. Amy was pleased that Jason had friends, even if they were notorious felons.

  ‘I can ask him,’ Jason said. ‘I’m heading over tomorrow anyway.’

  ‘I’ll search from this side.’

  Finding the secret dealers of priceless artefacts would be more than difficult. When your client had enough money to splash out on a liberated museum piece, he had enough money to hire bad guys to come after you if it all went pear-shaped. Security was the highest priority, and anonymity the next.

  ‘Bryn says be careful.’

  Amy made a vague humming noise, only half listening as she clicked on another link about Henriette Henriot, the actress in the missing painting.

  Jason kept talking. ‘Guess you don’t just type “missing Renoir for sale” into Google.’

  ‘That was almost funny. Have you been practising?’

  Her remote connection to Bryn’s desktop at Central Police Station registered a new glut of evidence, which she greedily downloaded. She scanned the preliminary crime scene report and then reached out to smack Jason on the arm.

  ‘You didn’t tell me Owain was back.’

  ‘Owain’s back.’

  ‘How does he … look?’

  Her right leg twinged as she asked, a phantom pain that was all in her head. Like so many things that ailed her. She and Owain had barely escaped their last major case with their lives, and the memories lingered even if the scars were fading.

  She could’ve reached out to him, let him know that the nightmares were normal and soon he would feel able to face life again. Except that had never been true for her, and this latest haunting was no better or worse than those that had preceded it. From a simple childhood embarrassment that had crippled her to fighting for her life, the result was always the same: more anxiety, more nightmares, retreating into the darkness beneath her duvet.

  But she had Jason now. And the work, the mysteries that made it worth getting out of bed and facing her fears. Most days.

  ‘All right,’ Jason said, giving nothing away before changing the subject. ‘Cerys is free this weekend. Might have her over for dinner one night.’

  Amy noticed how he had given up asking her to join them at Gwen’s house, knowing she would always say no. She couldn’t handle the anxiety of even thinking about entering a place so foreign and remaining trapped there all evening, away from her sanctuary.

  She reviewed the rest of Bryn’s evidence – a few crime scene photos, but fingerprints and DNA still processing – before digging out her old DVD drive to transfer the CCTV to her server downstairs. After the police had poked around in it, she had spent the whole summer refitting it with Jason’s assistance. It was hot work, even with the air conditioning working at full power, and Jason had removed his shirt on a few occasions.

  She needed to find an outlet for this tension before it became unprofessional. It might be time to review the Ann Summers catalogue for the fifth time since Jason had started working for her.

  Amy had always considered herself focussed and dedicated, when her depression was bearable. But her attention was waning, more intent on watching her assistant than keeping an eye on the evidence. Though he was an attractive man, it went deeper than that – she depended on him. He was vital to her.

  ‘You all right?’

  Jason’s voice brought her back and she realised she was holding the CD over the open drive, staring off into space.

  ‘Tired.’

  It was her default excuse. The one that would prevent further questions from him. Stop him guessing the real cause of her absent-mindedness.

  Processing the discs took a few minutes, so she looked over the crime scene photos, forcing herself to look, really look. But nothing was going in and Jason leaning over her shoulder in his customary position wasn’t helping.

  ‘It’s a funny choice of weapon,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe it’s all he had.’

  ‘For a pro? Your backup plan for a job gone wrong isn’t a hammer to the head when a gun pressed against his back would do the job, or even something gun-shaped if you can’t get hold of the real deal. Why risk the time for GBH or murder when the threat works better anyway?’

  At moments like these, Amy was abruptly reminded of Jason’s past. She didn’t ask exactly what he would choose, or whether his experience was practical. Some things were better left in the dark.

  AEON, her loyal computer, beeped to let her know the CCTV transfer was complete, and Amy cast a look over the files.

  ‘Only the past twenty-four hours. I’ll need at least a week to look for the reconnaissance men.’

  ‘I’ll get you the rest tomorrow.’

  To Amy’s ears, he sounded bored, distracted. She glanced back at him and saw the phone in his hand.

  ‘Text?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said and put the phone away.

  Keeping secrets. Probably another woman, as per usual. Amy had lost count, though she kept the background checks saved in a private corner of her server. He was her assistant and it was in her interest to protect him. Or so she told herself.

  Amy pushed her thoughts to one side and opened up the CCTV. She chose to examine the murder window first. The first disappointment was that the footage was in greyscale, silent, and not infrared-enabled. However, they had placed a camera directly on their masterpiece.

  ‘There he is.’

  Jason had returned his attention to the monitor, as a person dressed all in black and wearing a balaclava entered the room. He made a beeline straight for the painting – and did nothing. He seemed in awe of it, taking in every inch of the picture. He then examined the frame, looking but not touching, patient and thorough.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Jason voiced both their thoughts as Amy tried to detect the method in his madness.

  ‘He’s looking for the alarm triggers?’ Amy hazarded a guess, but she had no idea.

  After this continued for several minutes, he withdrew something from his pocket and started tapping tentatively at the frame.

  And then he dropped it.

  He froze, listening. Slowly crouching, he tucked his gloved fingers under the hammer and attached it to a belt. Returning to the picture, he withdrew something else from the belt and suddenly slashed along the top of the frame. He started drawing the knife down the right-hand side – and stopped.

  He moved away from the picture, out of frame, and a few moments later, another man ran into the shot. He approached the painting and stared.

  ‘The security guard,’ Jason said.

  The attack was swift. The man in the balaclava leapt in and knocked Paul Roberts over the head.

  ‘He’s short. Look at how he hit him overhead like that. A whole head shorter than the guard.’

  Jason’s commentary broke the spell of the gruesome film, the victim falling forward to head-butt the canvas. His legs collapsed beneath him and he fell on his face in front of the painting.

  The body’s legs twitched and then lay still. The man in the balaclava stood over him for a long moment before reaching down and removing the hammer from his head. He wiped it on his own trousers and returned it to his belt, before standing over the security guard’s body and continuing to cut.


  ‘Fuck, that’s cold.’

  ‘He wiped the hammer on his clothes,’ Amy wondered, stuck on that detail. ‘Specific evidence that links him directly to the crime. How could he be so stupid?’

  ‘He killed him instantly. Must be a professional.’

  ‘On his trousers! Surely an amateur.’

  They looked at each other, Amy not quite meeting Jason’s eyes. She was torn between demurring to him, placating him, and standing her ground, acting like his boss. Instead, she said nothing.

  The footage played on. The thief and murderer cut free ‘The Blue Lady’, reaching above his head to finish the left-hand side, and rolled her up. He walked away with the painting tucked under his arm, leaving the dead man in his wake and never looking back.

  ‘We have an unshakeable witness to this murder and yet we have no idea who did it.’ Frustration burned in Amy’s veins. The evidence was forensically perfect, yet next to useless.

  ‘We have the weapon, the motive and the opportunity,’ Jason said, his voice echoing her quiet fury. ‘But the suspect list could be infinite. That painting must be worth millions.’

  ‘Forty million. And hundreds of private collectors willing to pay at least that to possess her.’

  ‘Her?’ Jason sounded amused. ‘It’s a picture of a lady, not a real one.’

  She was real once. Amy held her tongue, because she knew how ridiculous that sounded. She didn’t know why the theft of a picture should affect her like this. It was a lifeless thing.

  But it wasn’t, was it? The unspeakable blues of that dress paled in comparison to her flawless skin, the sparkle of mischief in her eyes, the knowing smile. To Amy, she was a missing woman akin to a kidnap victim.

  Amy cycled through the feeds and noticed a conspicuous absence. ‘That’s strange. The laboratory area has no cameras.’

  ‘Makes sense – cover the expensive stuff with the best money can buy, but leave the back rooms with nothing.’

  ‘Not if you want to uncover a thief’s exit strategy.’

  Amy picked up the feeds from the external cameras, each guarding one of three exits from the museum, and waited. After fifteen minutes, she set the footage to fast forward, speeding through the minutes and hours until the image lightened with the dawn. As the time stamp rolled over to 08:30, a female security guard approached the side door and opened it with her swipe card.