by Max Manning
42
Blake took a slug of warm beer and greeted Fenton with a curt nod. It had been his suggestion that they should meet in the Star. An old haunt of his, he knew the Fleet Street pub would be free from the menace of piped music. A table in the cellar bar would have the added advantage of rendering mobile phones completely useless.
Fenton slid on to the chair opposite Blake, cupping a half-full whisky glass in his hands. ‘What’s this about?’ he said.
Blake’s mouth curved with the threat of a smile. He was happy to dispense with social niceties. ‘I take it Leah has already explained what’s going on?’
‘She has, but I want to hear it from you.’
Blake paused before responding and took a look around. He hadn’t been in the Star for more than a year. It hadn’t changed. In fact, it had probably been much the same for a couple of centuries. The lighting was weak, the tables randomly patterned with woodworm holes and the room smelled strongly of spilt beer, stale sweat and testosterone. It was early, but the place was already filling up.
‘Leah wants me to look into her sister’s murder,’ he said. ‘I refused to consider it at first. Thought it’d be better to leave it to the police. But she is very persistent when she wants to be.’
Fenton found Blake’s casual use of Leah’s first name irritating. ‘What exactly did your former girlfriend’s sister do to change your mind?’
‘She convinced me that asking a few questions couldn’t do any harm. That anything I could do to help catch this man would be a bonus. After thinking about it carefully, I agreed.’
Fenton took a sip of whisky and studied the man sitting opposite. Tall and lean, and in his early thirties, Blake wore jeans, a white T-shirt and a brown, needle-cord jacket. His dark hair accentuated an angular face. His eyes were close together, his stare like a hawk’s. There was something unpredictable about him. Fenton wondered whether he’d always been that way.
‘My feeling is that your first thought, the one about leaving it to the police, was spot on,’ Fenton said. ‘The new senior investigation officer still considers you a suspect, especially since the beheading.’
Blake stared into his beer. ‘What about the old senior investigation officer? What do you think?’
Fenton picked up his whisky and took another sip. ‘My gut tells me that they are wasting time and resources trying to link you to these crimes. On the other hand, either this escalation to a beheading is pure coincidence, or someone is deliberately trying to make life difficult for you.’
Blake said nothing and Fenton used the silence to think. If the beheading was designed to point the finger at Blake, then maybe he and his team had been wrong-footed from the start.
‘Do you think it’s possible that the killer selected Lauren because she was your ex-girlfriend? That her murder wasn’t random at all?’
Blake’s expression didn’t change, but Fenton felt him tense. ‘That makes no sense. I can’t think of any reason anyone would target me. Anyway, what about the second victim? Edward Deere has no link to Lauren or to me.’
Fenton had no answer. ‘You’re right. The murder of Deere doesn’t fit in, but maybe we shouldn’t rule anything out.’ He still wasn’t sure about joining forces with Blake, but he was willing to listen. ‘What have you got?’
Blake pushed his glass to one side and leant forward. ‘I’ve already made a few inquiries. Went to Victoria Park to speak to a few people about the day Lauren was murdered. I found out something weird. Something that doesn’t make sense. Leah thought maybe you could explain it.’
Fenton sighed. Everybody thinks they’re a bloody detective. Too many crime dramas on television. ‘She did? So, where is she? I thought she was going to be here.’
‘Something must have come up,’ Blake said. ‘She’ll get here when she can.’
Fenton nodded, more to himself than to Blake. ‘I can’t hang around for long. I’ve got a daughter at home being looked after by a female police constable she doesn’t know. She won’t go to bed until I’m back.’
Blake made a face as if he’d tasted something unpleasant. ‘What I don’t understand is if you had security camera footage showing Lauren going into a café on the day she was killed, why didn’t you use it in the appeals for information?’
Fenton shook his head slowly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The security camera film of Lauren, and possibly the killer, going into Vic’s Café. It doesn’t make sense not to make it public.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You were in charge of the investigation, weren’t you?’
‘You know I was.’
Blake took a moment to consider whether there were any circumstances in which the senior investigating officer in a murder hunt wouldn’t be told about the discovery of such important evidence. The answer was no. ‘The café owner is certain Lauren was on the film.’
Fenton shifted forward to the edge of his seat. ‘You’ve seen it? The footage.’
‘No. It was handed to one of your team. Detective Ince.’
‘Ince took the film?’
‘That’s what I was told.’
‘And you believe it?’
‘Why would anyone lie about it? The café owner, a Perry Lee, said he thought the police hadn’t noticed his security camera. He installed it himself. It’s not part of the park’s CCTV system. He thought your team had cocked up until Ince arrived and demanded the previous day’s footage. Lee checks the film at the end of every day, but he had no idea Lauren was on there until he saw her picture on the news bulletins and recognised her. I assumed you knew all about the footage and had taken a decision not to release it.’
Fenton considered what he’d heard. He found himself thinking the unthinkable. Why would Ince withhold vital evidence? To protect somebody. Maybe even himself? That wasn’t possible. Was it?
The pause in the conversation gave Blake the chance to put two and two together. ‘If this Ince is hiding or has destroyed the footage, then he’s got to be a suspect.’ As the significance of what he’d said dawned on him, Blake clenched his right fist. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘It could be a fucking cop.’
43
Fenton raised a hand. ‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘Let’s not jump the gun. We’ve got to think about this carefully. Not rush into doing anything stupid.’
‘What’s there to think about? Ince is hiding evidence that could have led you to the killer. Especially if the killer is on film as well. Are you saying Ince can’t be the killer?’
Fenton drained his glass. The heat of the alcohol burned his throat. ‘What I’m saying is we have to tread carefully. We’re not in possession of any hard evidence yet. If the killer is someone who works inside New Scotland Yard then the last thing we should do is report our suspicions officially. That could mean the killer, whoever it is, would know we’re on to him. He could go to ground, cover his tracks. Make a run for it even.’
Blake could see the sense in what Fenton was saying, but the prospect of taking things slowly troubled him. ‘While we’re pissing around someone else is going to get killed. We’ve got to do something and we’ve got to do it quickly.’
‘We don’t do anything. I’m a senior police officer. I won’t be one for long if I start interfering in a murder investigation. I daren’t even think about taking a close look at Ince, checking his background, his private life. I couldn’t do any of that, or advise anyone else to do it, without getting into a heap of trouble. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Blake frowned. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’
‘I think you’re a bit touchy.’
Blake wasn’t sure what to make of Fenton. He’d earned himself a reputation as a hotshot detective, and at thirty-four was the Met’s youngest senior investigating officer, but he was coming across as irritatingly cautious. He appeared to be an honest, decent citizen, but Blake didn’t trust him. He’d only known him for twenty minutes and Blake didn’t trust people he’d kn
own for twenty years.
‘If, theoretically, Ince is the killer,’ Blake said, ‘then he has access to all the investigation documents. He’s always going to be several steps ahead of the police.’
Fenton nodded. ‘He’d also have access to the Yard’s computer databases. I think that’s how the killer found out my address and targeted my daughter’s nanny.’
‘How old is she? Your daughter.’
‘Tess is eleven.’
‘How is she?’
‘How do you think she is?’
Blake didn’t know how to respond, so he said nothing. The two men were staring at each other across the table when Leah arrived.
‘I hate awkward silences,’ she said, dragging a stool from a neighbouring table and sitting down in one seamless movement. ‘They can be really, what’s the word? Really awkward.’ She smiled. Fenton smiled back. Blake didn’t. He got up and shouldered his way to the bar. By the time he returned to the table, carrying a pint in one hand and a white wine and a whisky in the other, Fenton had brought Leah up to speed. ‘I can’t believe you’ve got a suspect already,’ she said. ‘I knew you two would make a great team.’
Blake dished out the drinks and sat down. ‘While I was at the bar I had an idea,’ he said. ‘If the detective here agrees, I think we can nail this thing.’ Fenton gave a non-committal nod, inviting Blake to go on.
‘It seems that even if this Detective Ince is innocent, the killer is still someone inside the Yard. He almost certainly has the ability to break through computer security, giving him unlimited access to police databases. I know someone with a talent for getting into networks they’re not supposed to get into. With a bit of cooperation from the detective here, they’ll be able to hack into the Yard’s system, have a good rummage around and tell us who’s been accessing information they shouldn’t.’
Fenton laughed, but the sound was humourless. ‘You want me to help some dodgy geek hack into the Yard’s computer network? You’re crazy.’
‘It’s the only way we’re going to speed things up. We need to catch this killer before he decapitates someone else.’ Fenton flinched. He closed his eyes as he tried to blot out the image of Marta’s bloodied, severed head.
Blake sensed he’d hit a nerve and pressed his advantage. ‘This person has worked for a couple of newspapers on major investigations. He owes me a favour and he’s good. He could probably hack into the system without help, given time. But we haven’t got time, have we? If you give us your password he’ll be in and out in a few hours. He can cover his tracks. He’s done it before and never been caught.’
Fenton turned to Leah, hoping she’d back him up. She shrugged. ‘If this is what it takes to catch Lauren’s killer. To stop him taking another life. Isn’t it worth it?’
‘Of course I want him caught. But I also want a job to go back to when this is all over. I like being a detective.’
Blake and Leah exchanged a glance that made Fenton feel like an outsider. ‘The only illegal thing we’re asking you to do is supply us with your password. We can make sure nobody ever finds out. Any advice, expertise you’re willing to share, then sure, I’ll take it on board. We don’t have to broadcast that either. Any dirty work that needs doing, you can leave that to me.’
Fenton believed Blake, especially his promise that he’d be up for any dirty work. The thought crossed his mind that deep down he had already made a decision. Why else would he have agreed to the meeting? He wanted a chance to finish the job he had started. To put the killer behind bars. Not because that’s where he deserved to be. Not because it was his duty. He needed to do it for Tess.
Across the table, Blake shifted impatiently on his seat. For a moment, Fenton considered stretching out his silence to see how long it took before Blake blew. He picked up his whisky, took a sip and smacked his lips in appreciation.
‘There is one thing I haven’t told you,’ he said. ‘It’s possible the killer has spoken to my daughter. At her school gates, a few days before Marta was murdered.’
Blake and Leah exchanged a look of incredulity. ‘Are you serious?’ Blake said. ‘Please tell me you’re kidding.’
‘Do you think I’d joke about this?’
‘In that case why can’t we just show her a picture of Ince?’
‘She says she can’t remember anything about the man except that he was tall. Tess is small for her age. She’d probably describe any man as tall. Anyway, he made sure she didn’t get a good look at his face. Wore a hoodie, and baseball cap under it for good measure. He gave her a message for me, but I think the real message was that he could get to her whenever he wanted. That I couldn’t keep her safe.’ Leah reached across the table, placed her hand on Fenton’s wrist and squeezed.
Blake shook his head in disbelief. ‘What the fuck is the matter with you? There is a good chance that a killer has threatened your daughter and you’re wasting time wondering whether giving us your password is the right thing to do.’
44
Blake walked briskly along Victoria Embankment, heading towards Westminster Bridge. On his left, the mud brown Thames rolled by. A blue passenger ferry churned a trail of froth as it moved upriver to Hampton Court. He was in a hurry. The person he was meeting wouldn’t hang about if he was late. Jimmy Mouseman never stayed in one place for long.
Jimmy was a hacker for hire. He earned his living hacking into emails, Facebook pages and mobile phone messages. You name it, he hacked it. As long as you made it worth his while. It was a cold afternoon, the clouds low and threatening. Blake zipped his jacket tight and turned up the collar to protect himself from the wind blowing off the water. As he passed Cleopatra’s Needle, he took advantage of a red traffic light to cross the road, jogged past Embankment Tube station and took a right into Northumberland Avenue. At the top of the hill, he crossed the Strand into Trafalgar Square.
Blake considered the place to be the heart of the city and, as always, it was heaving with people. Stepping inside the square’s low boundary wall he turned right. Mouseman was where he said he would be, stretched out on a stone bench seat, his legs crossed, his arms folded, and the oversized hood of his grey top pulled over his face to his chin.
Blake approached stealthily, grabbed the man’s ankles and swung his legs off the bench. The hacker grabbed the edge of the bench to stop himself sliding off and let loose a torrent of swear words. Blake sat down beside him and gave him a nudge with his elbow.
‘Caught you napping did I, Jimmy? You must be losing it. I thought you prided yourself on being on the ball. Ahead of the game.’
Mouseman pulled his hood up until his eyes were visible and gave Blake a look that threatened to freeze his blood. ‘That was uncalled for, mate. Bloody rude as hell. Yer at least a minute late and bloody lucky I’m still here. You wanna do some business then get on wiv it. I ain’t hanging around this shithole much longer.’
Blake had written a feature article on the murky world of hackers and Mouseman had agreed to be interviewed, anonymously of course. People like him lived under the radar, permanently off the grid. Mouseman wasn’t his real name and Blake was sure the appalling cockney accent was fake.
‘Calm down, Jimmy. Can’t you take a joke these days? I’ve got a job for you. A big one. I’ll make it worth your while.’
Mouseman jumped to his feet, tucked his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and scanned a group of Japanese tourists milling around the lion statues guarding the base of Nelson’s Column. The hacker stood as tall as Blake, but under his baggy sportswear he carried a lot of surplus weight.
‘Look, mate, you got a couple of minutes if yer lucky. I got a go soon as. The place is too open. Too many cameras. Too many watchers. It’s making me nervous.’
Blake took a moment to consider his approach. He didn’t want to scare Mouseman off. The hacker made most of his money working for the tabloid press, dodgy lawyers and the odd internet fraudster. In the interview he’d given Blake, he had claimed that he’d never let a client down, and
boasted that he’d never been caught. Hacking into New Scotland Yard’s heavily protected computer system would be a significant step up. A bigger risk. Likely to bring a heap of trouble down on his hooded head if it went wrong.
‘The thing is, Jimmy, we need you to get into the Yard’s system. Have a look around, follow a few trails, see if anybody’s been poking about in places they shouldn’t have. We’ve got one name in particular we want you to look at.’
When Blake stopped speaking, Mouseman turned slowly to face him and yanked his hood back, exposing chubby cheeks and an uneven blond fringe. ‘You’re fucking kidding me, right?’ he said.
‘I’m deadly serious, Jimmy. This is important. And it’s going to be easier than you think. I’ve got a password for you.’
Mouseman’s eyes widened. Blake had come up with the magic word.
‘You did say password?’
‘I did. It’ll make it easier, and safer for you.’
‘I know what it’ll do. What’s this story about anyway?’
‘I’m not doing a story Jimmy. I don’t work for the papers any more. This is bigger than any story. Believe me.’
Mouseman was thinking so hard Blake could feel it. Thinking that maybe it’d be worth the risk. If it was that important he was in a powerful negotiating position.
‘Five thousand pounds,’ he said.
Something about the greedy gleam in his eye made Blake’s skin crawl. ‘Five hundred. That’s the budget for this job. This is important. Life and death. You can use your dubious talent to do some good for once. Think about it.’
Mouseman used both his hands to pull his hood back over his head and stared into space. After a few seconds, he gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Thought about it. Gonna pass on the opportunity to do good. Doing good never got nobody nowhere. Find some other mug.’
Blake hadn’t allowed himself to consider the possibility of being turned down. He didn’t have a Plan B. As the hacker turned away, he reached out an arm, grabbed his left shoulder and spun him around. In one swift, forceful movement, he grasped two handfuls of hoodie material and slammed Mouseman on to the bench.
