Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries)

by Rosie Claverton

  ‘Where is Frieda?’

  She hadn’t meant the question to be so abrupt, but when she’d thought it, she had to know immediately. But the real question lurked beneath the surface of her words. Why wasn’t she with you?

  ‘Still in North Wales, I guess. Matt’s going to fill her in.’

  ‘Who’s Matt?’

  Amy guessed he was the man Bryn and Owain had picked up at the Hilton, but even she needed more than a first name and a blurry CCTV image to identify a person.

  ‘NCA agent. He turned up to run things down here while Frieda was up north.’

  ‘So that was his operation, last night?’ Amy had found a new target for her anger.

  ‘I guess so. I think it was a bloody mess by the end.’

  Amy chewed on her tongue, suppressing the urge to rant about how he’d been shot in the head – as if he didn’t know. ‘It was clever, what you did with the fire. What did you throw?’

  ‘A-Z.’ Jason wore a self-satisfied smirk.

  At least it had gone better than his last piece of arson, but Amy kept that thought to herself. He didn’t need reminding of the fire that had almost cost Amy and Owain their lives, flames that still haunted them now.

  ‘You need to rest,’ she declared. ‘And then you can debrief.’

  ‘I do need a shower,’ he said.

  It took her a moment to make the connection, before her cheeks flamed scarlet. ‘About your trip!’

  Jason grinned, the long tail of tape beside his right eye crinkling at the motion. ‘I know what you meant,’ he admitted. ‘Just like to see you blush.’

  ‘No one likes that,’ she muttered darkly, sure her face had come over all splodgy and pink, like a blancmange.

  ‘It’s pretty on you,’ he said, before heaving himself off the sofa and heading for the bathroom. ‘I’m gonna nick your shower cap.’

  Amy watched him go with a slack jaw. Pretty? No one had ever called her pretty, not when there was Lizzie beside her, with her blonde curls and perfect smile.

  If Jason thought her pretty, did that mean…?

  She pushed the thought aside and returned to AEON. He had been hit by a bullet, she reminded herself. He wasn’t in his right mind.

  But a feeling of warmth curled in her belly, delighted beyond words. With a new-found enthusiasm, she returned to her case files, collating all the evidence from last night and adding it to the records.

  Now Jason was beside her again, they would be able to make sense of this. She had a feeling it was all coming together for them. Any minute now, Bryn would ring with the news that the painting had been found and they were only one step away from the killer.

  Chapter 29

  Secret admirer

  ‘They know nothing about the painting.’

  Bryn snorted. ‘Of course they’d say that.’

  ‘Except they’ve happily confessed to human trafficking, drug smuggling and the organ trade.’ Matt counted the list off on his fingers. ‘Why cover up the theft of one painting?’

  ‘The price tag?’ Bryn hazarded, but it sounded thin even to his ears.

  At least the press officer had something positive to spin on a dreary Monday morning, even if they were no closer to finding the damn painting or their killer.

  ‘Where are we on Paul’s possessions?’

  ‘Lab’s still processing,’ Owain said.

  Bryn spared a glance at his detective sergeant. He’d tried to keep him at home, get him to take the day off, but Owain insisted on returning. Even after a shower and fresh clothes, the smell of burning diesel hung around him. Too close.

  Matt sighed, as if he had momentarily forgotten he was working with Cardiff’s finest and not some fancy twenty-four-hour London lab. ‘Then what do we have?’

  Bryn’s sleep-deprived brain informed him that Amy had never replied to his text last night, but then she had spent most of that evening fretting over her assistant. Maybe he should give her another nudge.

  ‘Bryn?’

  He snapped back to the room, as the chief constable lurked in the doorway.

  ‘A word?’

  Bugger, he couldn’t avoid him any longer. Bryn followed, meek as a lamb, his brain struggling to think of excuses why he couldn’t accept a promotion. But the fog in his brain proved to him exactly why he should take the job – he was getting too old to go haring about in the predawn hours before working a full shift of a Monday. And his daughters would sleep easier at night knowing Daddy was home and only going to a desk in the morning.

  ‘Bryn,’ the chief said, pressing a plastic cup of machine-made tea into his hands, ‘I think you’re the man for chief super.’

  No beating around the bush here. Bryn decided to be equally candid. ‘I’m not sure I am, sir.’

  The chief tsked softly. ‘Don’t play coy now. The budget’s protected for another year, after the special measures, and you can pick whoever you like for the four new detectives.’

  Bryn was surprised at the numbers. ‘Four?’

  ‘Well, naturally we’ll cover Jenkins and Aitken after they move over to Cyber Crime. On top of the two vacancies, that makes four.’

  Bryn froze. Cyber Crime. That was why Owain had been so keen to hang about with Amy, had spent all those hours with the new equipment. Why he’d been ordering Catriona about as if he were her boss. Why he’d protested so strongly against Amy’s further involvement in the case.

  ‘Everything all right, Bryn?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Fine. I’ll think about it.’

  But his mind was elsewhere, reeling at the betrayal. Owain had never said a word to him. And Bryn knew exactly why.

  The chief’s smile was tight, superficial. ‘Think fast. I have fellows from all over asking after the job, DCIs of five years or more. I won’t be able to hold them off forever.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Bryn made his exit, his tea slopping over the edge of the plastic cup in his haste to get away.

  But he couldn’t go back to the office, couldn’t look Owain in the eye when he felt so wounded. He resolved instead to go to the museum, walk the galleries, speak to the experts again. Catch Talia and ask her about Frieda Haas.

  He dumped the cup into the nearest bin, still full, and walked out into the rain without his coat. He was soaked through by the time he made it to the museum – only to find it locked up. A small sign declared they were closed on a Monday.

  He went round to the side door, but security declared no one was at home and wouldn’t even open the door. Instead, he walked into Cathays, towards a collection of mostly deserted cafés and pubs holding their breath in anticipation of the students’ return.

  Bryn drank his tea slowly, ignoring the buzzing of his phone, sure he would see Owain’s name on the screen and not wanting to deal with that. What could he say to him? The immediate feelings of anger had died away to be replaced by confusion, guilt. Had Owain been trying to tell him something and he hadn’t paid attention? Had his injuries affected him so badly that he now no longer wanted to be part of the street work?

  Owain had always liked the scientific side of evidence, particularly computer forensics, and he was rapt with attention for Amy when she explained how she had dubiously obtained this titbit or that. But to spearhead a new investigation division, without saying a word?

  Bryn knew it wasn’t personal, not to him. Owain hadn’t said anything because of Amy. Because an official police Cyber Crime Unit would end their work with her and leave her bereft. He remembered how passionately Jason had argued for her inclusion on this case. What would this do to her?

  It might also explain Owain’s coolness towards Cerys, this sudden desire to avoid her, fob her off with work excuses. It would be hard to explain to his girlfriend how he’d put her brother out of a job.

  Jason would go spare. Bryn started planning how he might break the news, and
then stopped. This was Owain’s mess – let him deal with it. Their partnership was on the way out and Bryn would no longer be his direct superior officer, no longer responsible for him except as a friend.

  If a friendship could survive a betrayal like this.

  Jason woke in the middle of the afternoon, tangled in the blankets of Amy’s bed.

  He lurched upright, completely disorientated. How had he ended up here? Had Amy invited him? Had they…?

  But the memories trickled back in around the pounding in his head. After his shower, he’d been asleep on his feet. Amy had helped him from the sofa to her room, not wanting him down in the basement where it was harder to keep an eye on him. He’d put up a token protest before letting her tuck him in and falling straight to sleep.

  He had a couple of missed calls – one from Dylan and one from Bryn. The bike could wait, as he was in no fit state to ride it and he’d need to buy a new helmet to replace the one at the bottom of a mountain lake. And he hoped Bryn had reached Amy without his intervention, though they both often failed to get through to her.

  Blanket over his shoulders like an old woman, he shuffled into the living room, glad for once of the muted light filtering through the closed curtains. Amy twisted in her chair and smiled at him, video playing on her third monitor as she worked with pictures and a spreadsheet on the other two.

  ‘You’ve only been down for a few hours,’ she said, checking her clunky wristwatch. ‘I’ve got this.’

  Jason ignored the hint to go back to bed and shuffled closer to the monitor. What he’d originally thought was CCTV was actually a full-colour live broadcast from Amy’s badge-sized camera. After he’d lost the last one, she’d made its successor out of a gaudy plastic daffodil, which he hated wearing in public.

  But who the hell was wearing it now?

  ‘Just heard the bell. Hopefully out in five.’

  Cerys’ voice rang out from AEON’s speakers and Amy turned back to the monitor.

  ‘What’s she doing?’ Jason asked, caught between curiosity and irritation. It had only taken two days of absence for Amy to replace him in the field.

  ‘Checking out a lead at a school.’

  ‘You could’ve woken me,’ he protested. He was home now and Cerys had probably missed some lectures to run around for Amy.

  ‘You’re too old to be at school.’ Tact was not Amy’s strong point. ‘And you have a massive bandage on your head. I only need her to confirm a meet-up and then I can work remotely.’

  ‘Why are you even looking at a school?’ He’d missed a lot in forty-eight hours, it seemed.

  ‘One of the girls was acting suspiciously at the museum. I found a boy who took a picture of her and sent him a message from her to meet after school.’

  ‘You impersonated a teenage girl to the boy who fancies her?’

  ‘Yes.’ Amy looked up at him. ‘Problem?’

  ‘You don’t think this might … have some consequences?’

  Amy existed in a world of data and investigations. Sometimes, she seemed to have no concept that her techniques might have an impact on the people involved in her machinations.

  ‘They might hook up. That would be nice. Unless she does turn out to be a criminal mastermind. Then not so much.’

  ‘Amy Lane, matchmaker,’ he teased.

  ‘Hooking up gang spies and introverts since 2014.’

  Pupils were pouring out of the school now, and Amy fiddled with something on Cerys’ microphone feed to filter out the background noise.

  ‘I’ve made the suspect. Eleven o’clock.’

  ‘She’s as bad as you,’ Jason muttered, as Amy tagged that region of the video feed.

  ‘There she is,’ she said, after a moment, pointing out the girl with her mouse. ‘On her own, as I suspected.’

  Cerys slowly turned, as the girl came closer, watching her approach the main gate.

  ‘This should be it,’ Amy said, a white-knuckle grip on her mouse.

  Suddenly, a girl bumped into Amy’s suspect, grinning awkwardly and holding up her phone.

  ‘Damn! Get out of the way!’ Amy yelled at the screen.

  But the girl didn’t move, trying to engage their suspect in conversation, though the target regarded her suspiciously.

  ‘Cerys, get closer,’ Amy said, suddenly, even though she had no way to hear her. She typed on her screen, sending a text, and heard Cerys’ phone buzz through the speakers.

  ‘Right you are,’ Cerys mumbled, and moved in.

  Not that her proximity helped any, because they were both speaking in Welsh and Cerys’ command of the language was as bad as Jason’s. However, the word ‘Instagram’ featured heavily.

  ‘Gotcha,’ Amy said, opening up another window. ‘Now let’s grab our suspect’s number.’

  ‘How can you do that just by looking at her?’ Jason asked, incredulous.

  ‘Because I have the phone number of that girl talking so earnestly to her. Our little Instagram fanatic. Phones make a connection when they come into close contact and so … ha!’

  She copied and pasted the new number into her text app and typed a message. Jason leaned over to read:

  she likes you. be kind. @

  Their suspect withdrew her phone from her pocket and stared at it. Then looked about her as if searching, as her admirer struggled to hold her attention. And looked right at the camera.

  ‘Think I’m made,’ Cerys said and started to move.

  ‘Hold position,’ Amy said, then texted the command to Cerys. She was too used to the headset communication, Jason realised. How they worked together. This was an improvised op from the beginning.

  The suspect extricated herself from the photographer with difficulty, and marched over to Cerys, waving her phone in her face.

  ‘Is this you?’ she demanded to know, thick North Wales accent full of indignation.

  ‘Um … I guess…’ Cerys said, hesitantly.

  ‘Are you from the geocaching forum?’

  Jason stared at Amy in bemusement. ‘Amy…’

  ‘What the fuck are you doing at my school?’

  Chapter 30

  Rhyme and reason

  After Cerys awkwardly explained that she was just a go-between, the girl insisted on speaking with Amy by phone. Cerys handed over her own mobile and the girl ducked her face away, from Cerys and the camera.

  ‘How did you get this number?’

  She was pissed off, and perhaps a little afraid. Amy didn’t want to come across as a creepy stalker, but if she had to lose face to solve this murder, she was prepared to take the risk.

  ‘I found your picture on your friend’s Instagram account and asked her to meet you.’

  ‘She’s not my friend. We only met a few days ago. Why are you following me?’

  Amy decided to bluff. ‘Confirm your forum handle. I need to know I can trust you.’

  ‘Corelia. Who are you? What’s this all about?’

  Amy had a vague idea what geocaching was – hide a thing, leave clues, someone finds it – but she needed more. She searched for local geocaching groups, finding the Cardiff Geocaching Forum and quickly searching for Corelia’s posts as she kept her talking. ‘What’s going on at the museum?’

  Corelia turned back to the camera for a moment, a smug smile spreading across her face. ‘You want my help with the clue.’

  The posts appeared on her screen. All Corelia’s latest contributions had been centred around her frustrations with the Welsh cache in the UK Treasure Hunt.

  ‘Yes,’ Amy said, distractedly, trying to skim through the information. ‘I’m … I’m Ada, and we can help each other.’

  ‘And who are you then? Her sidekick?’

  As Cerys tried to field Corelia’s questions, Amy looked into the UK Treasure Hunt. It appeared to be a national competition, with fif
ty separate caches spread around the country. The UK Treasure Hunt required cache hunters to prove their find by inputting a ten-digit code. This might be scrawled on a piece of paper, embossed on an item, or loaded on a chip that needed scanning. The first person to find all fifty caches could claim a ridiculous prize of £100,000, with smaller prizes for the ‘first finder’ of each cache. If Amy wasn’t sitting on a stolen fortune, she’d be tempted to try her luck.

  The forum thread was nearing one hundred replies, as everyone complained it was too hard and begging a user called ‘LizzieSiddal’ for a clue, someone who sounded like a very experienced geocacher. Why was that name familiar?

  ‘Oi, are you listening?’

  Amy tuned back in, concentrating again on the phone conversation.

  ‘I think we can solve it if we work together,’ Amy said.

  She brought up the Welsh cache’s details. The starting location was definitely on the edge of Park Place and the museum the most likely building. The page counter stated it was yet to be solved, one of only two in the competition.

  Amy studied the riddle with her mystery-solving eye:

  Yesterday was St Valentine

  Water, for anguish of the solstice: —nay

  Oh! May sits crowned with hawthorn-flower

  And day and night yield one delight once more?

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ Jason said, peering over her shoulder.

  Yet something about the words nagged at the back of her brain. She had read some of them before, but where?

  ‘Isn’t that cheating?’ Corelia said suspiciously.

  ‘There are forty-nine other clues,’ Amy reasoned. ‘Collaborating on one won’t hurt. And you can have first find.’

  The coveted position and prize of ‘first find’ seemed to sway it for Corelia. ‘All right. Though I’ve searched the galleries every day for the past week and found nothing. And now they’re bloody well closed.’

  ‘Talk me through your reasoning so far,’ Amy said, hoping Corelia wouldn’t catch on that this partnership was rather one-sided.

  ‘Well.’ Corelia pulled out her phone, scrolling through some notes. ‘Everyone’s arguing over whether the lines should be taken literal, or if they’re symbolic. Or maybe there’s a code in it. Me personally? I reckon it’s hid by a Rossetti painting – they’re his poems, after all.’