by T F Muir
If only it were that easy. But being deep into a double murder investigation, when all hands were needed on deck, so to speak, it would not go down well. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, but his heart wasn’t in it.
Maureen picked up on his lack of commitment. ‘How often does your only daughter fly out to Australia?’
‘Twice,’ he said.
It took her a couple of seconds to catch his joke – she was coming back to sell her flat if she and Tom liked Perth – and she chuckled, and said, ‘You’re silly.’
‘I know. But I love you, Mo.’
‘I love you, too, Dad.’
‘Let me know your flight details, and I’ll do what I can to see you both off.’
Back in the Office, he was surprised to see Mhairi still at her computer, and a scruffy young man in a T-shirt and gravity-defying jeans standing by her side. Their attention was so focused on her monitor that they failed to notice his arrival.
‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything.’
Mhairi almost jumped. ‘Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you come in.’ She pulled back from the screen to reveal a close-up of a woman’s bare thighs and black pubic hair. Then she clicked the mouse, and the thighs seemed to shiver as the video fast-forwarded. She looked up at the man by her side. ‘This is Matt Duprey of our IT section. Matt, this is my boss, Detective Chief Inspector Gilchrist, the SIO of this investigation.’
Matt sniffed, ran a hand under his nose. ‘Sir.’
Gilchrist nodded in response. ‘So what’re we looking at?’
Matt leaned forward, took control of the mouse. The thighs continued to shimmer, then shifted all of a sudden as they strutted away from the camera to reveal a naked woman about to sit on the toilet.
The mouse clicked. The screen froze.
‘We started off with SB Contracting’s website,’ Matt explained. ‘From there, we were able to identify the IP address, the Internet Protocol responsible for addressing, delivering and routing all online search requests. But that address is actually assigned to a computer by an Internet Service Provider, and can be static or dynamic. We lucked out in a way, because SB’s IP address is static, which makes it easier to track historical activity.’
‘Can anyone do this?’ Gilchrist said. ‘I mean, track historical activity like that.’
‘No,’ Matt said, as if that explained it all. ‘We have software that interfaces with the transmission control protocol, which is a higher level protocol that runs on top of the IP, so all datagrams passing through that IP address and—’
‘Hold it.’ Gilchrist had his hands in the air. ‘I don’t need to hear the technical mumbo jumbo.’ He nodded at the monitor. ‘What’s this?’
‘One of over seventy voyeur videos we’ve located on SB’s server.’
Gilchrist mouthed an Ah-hah. ‘We suspected Black hid webcams in people’s homes during renovation works. Maybe for blackmailing. We got as far as that. But how does this video of a naked woman help us find him?’
Mhairi said, ‘We’re trying to ID her, sir.’
‘I guessed as much, Mhairi. But how will that help us find Black today, right now?’
Mhairi seemed put out by his rebuke, but Matt said, ‘What I was trying to tell you, sir, is that we’ve uncovered an entire library of webcam videos and more, much more.’
‘Define more.’
‘Other platforms. Other ways of extorting money. Let me show you.’ Matt worked the mouse again, and the naked woman shrank on to the menu bar. A couple more clicks, and another page swelled on to the screen.
Gilchrist leaned closer. ‘Is this Facebook?’
‘It is.’ Matt typed the keyboard, clicked the mouse, and the page shifted to a detailed profile page. Another click pulled up another profile page.
‘You’ve lost me,’ Gilchrist said.
‘These are Scott Black’s alter egos, if you like,’ Matt said. ‘The sites he uses to date women online, and lure them into sending him money.’ He clicked a name, and a message box lifted off the bottom of the screen. ‘This is Anita. She’s online.’ He typed Hi Anita. How r u? then sent it. His message appeared in a blue cloud in the message box, and a few seconds later a reply appeared in a white cloud.
Missing you big guy xx
‘Who’s big guy?’
Matt placed the cursor on the blue cloud. ‘That’s us.’ Then he typed Missing u 2. Got to go. Talk later. He sent the message, and shut the box down.
‘Won’t she know it’s not Black?’ Gilchrist said.
‘There’s no way she’d suspect anything. Certainly not from what I’ve just sent her.’ He clicked on another name – Mary C – and another message box appeared. ‘Mary’s offline at the moment,’ he said. ‘But read these.’ He clicked the mouse, and a stream of messages scrolled down the small window like a waterfall of words, too fast for Gilchrist to read.
Then they stopped.
Matt fiddled with the cursor, until he found what he was looking for.
Then he stood back. ‘What do you think?’
Gilchrist leaned forward.
‘Use the mouse to scroll down,’ Matt said.
Gilchrist took hold of the cursor, and read the messages.
Ta Mary u r a darling
You’re welcome, big guy.
uve no idea how greatful I am
There’s more if you need it.
R u sure
I said I trust you.
Gilchrist said, ‘What’re they talking about here?’
‘About sending him money.’
‘She fell for all his bullshit?’
‘Not just her. Many others.’
Gilchrist eyed the screen. ‘Bloody hell. How much did she give him?’
‘Scroll back a few messages.’
Gilchrist streamed the messages down the screen, looking for the words that would tell him what he needed to know. He thought he found them, and leaned closer to the screen.
U r such a darling I luv u xx
Oh, you’re saying all the right things, big guy.
Lets meet up soon
Just say the word.
I,ll pay u back with interest u no I will
I know, big guy.
Gilchrist backed through earlier messages, then whispered a curse.
It didnt work darling they want a bigger deposit
How much this time?
R u sure
I said I trust you. How much?
I hate to ask u but another 30k
So that’ll be 60k down, leaving a joint mortgage of 340k?
They need ur signature
We should meet.
We will but after 60k is down.
Gilchrist pulled himself upright. ‘Are they purchasing a house?’
Matt gave a twisted grimace. ‘She thinks they’re buying a home together. Meanwhile he’s just banking her money.’
‘You know that for sure?’
‘Earlier messages give her his sort code and account number.’
‘Over the Internet?’
‘Through Facebook.’
Gilchrist raked his hair. ‘For fuck sake. And she’s fallen for it?’
‘Hook, line, et cetera.’
‘Who is she?’
Mhairi said, ‘We haven’t ID-ed her yet, sir. We’re just trying to collect any info we can on him at the moment.’
Gilchrist turned to Matt. ‘You said there were many others.’
‘Best I can tell,’ Matt said, ‘there’s another eight who’ve parted with cash. But it’s early days, and I expect we’ll find more.’
‘So what’re we talking about, money wise?’
‘From a couple of thousand to Mary C’s sixty grand.’
Gilchrist hissed a curse. ‘All to the same account.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mhairi looked at him. ‘But it’s an account that’s new to us.’
‘I thought we had all his accounts.’
‘Apparently not, sir.’
‘Bloody hell,’ he said, and eyed the scre
en as an idea came to him. ‘Is there any way Black would know we’ve accessed his Facebook page?’
‘No.’
‘What about that message you sent Anita?’
Matt took hold of Mhairi’s mouse, found his last message to Anita, and deleted it.
Gilchrist held his gaze. ‘Have you sent any other messages?’
‘Only that one as a demonstration.’
Gilchrist nodded. ‘So, Black doesn’t know we’ve accessed his Facebook account, and he doesn’t know we have details of this new bank account.’
‘No, sir.’
‘So what’s to stop him withdrawing money from that account?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
He squeezed Mhairi’s shoulder. ‘Get hold of the bank’s head office and tell them to freeze that account, and to let us know the instant anyone tries to access it. We’re looking for the location of whatever ATM he tries to pull cash out of.’
‘Yes, sir.’
He turned to Matt. ‘And I want a printout of every single Facebook message on that account,’ he said. ‘How long will that take you?’
‘Could be a couple of hours.’
‘On my desk for seven in the morning.’
He nodded to both of them, then headed for the door, mobile to his ear.
CHAPTER 32
Wednesday morning
Gilchrist jerked awake.
He didn’t move as his mind struggled to push through sleep-laden thoughts and work out where he was. The back of his neck felt stiff, and he lifted his hand to rub it, surprised to find that he was sitting. He turned his head and stared beyond the dining-room window on to the darkness of his winter garden.
What the hell?
He gripped the arms of his chair, and the TV remote slipped off his knee on to the floor. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. He had a vague memory of watching the BBC News, then switching it off. But he must have fallen asleep before he managed to go to bed.
He made it to the kitchen without knocking anything over, but groaned when he caught the time on his microwave – 05.44 – pointless going to bed now. Almost time to get up.
He filled the kettle, and poured a glass of sparkling water from the fridge. It tasted cold and refreshing, but did little to clear the coating of sleep from his teeth and tongue. He popped a couple of teabags into the teapot, then walked to his bedroom and stripped off.
A strong hot shower always worked for him, bringing him awake, jump-starting his system. Today he would find Scott Black wherever he might be, and arrest and charge him with the murders of Kandy Lal and Alice Hickson. The key to accomplishing this was in Black’s Facebook messages, he was sure of that. They would find something in them, some innocent comment that could lead them straight to Black’s hideout. Or maybe this latest bank account had a physical address, one they didn’t currently possess. Either way, Gilchrist wanted to be there at the moment of the man’s arrest, so he could look him in the eye and tell him exactly what he thought of him.
That morning’s briefing was scheduled for 8 a.m. He would distribute copies of Black’s Facebook messages to his team, and ID and locate the women who’d fallen for his romantic extortion. Maybe one of them had met Black in person, or knew something about him that no one else did.
In the kitchen, Gilchrist picked up a carton of cat food, opened the back door and stepped into the cold. He didn’t waste time trying to look for Blackie or befriend her, just scattered pellets into the bowl by the hut, then scurried back indoors.
‘Jesus,’ he hissed. ‘Where’s summer when you need it?’ As he poured himself a cup of tea, his mobile beeped, and he picked it up – a text from Jackie.
New South Wales Police, Australia, confirmed that Alice Hickson is an investigative journalist who has lived in Sydney for 15 years. She has 3 true crime books published, and is well known as an advocate for women’s rights. She is not married, and had a sister, Janice, who lived in Oban and committed suicide 10 years ago. Both parents died in a boating accident in Sydney harbour 2 years ago.
So, Alice was an Aussie. No wonder they’d struggled to ID her. He read on.
Close friends of Alice say she flew to Scotland 2 months ago to find out the truth about her sister’s death. Alice said Janice would never have committed suicide, but all attempts to speak to her husband, James Crichton, have failed. James left Oban after Janice’s death, and has not been in contact with Alice since.
Gilchrist walked from the kitchen to the dining room and stared out the window. In the dark morning shadows he thought he caught the reflective pin-pricks of Blackie’s eyes. But he could not be sure. One second they were there, and the next gone.
He read Jackie’s text again.
James left Oban after Janice’s death, and has not been in contact with Alice since.
Fingers of ice stroked his neck.
Alice said Janice would never have committed suicide.
Did she suspect that Janice had been murdered? By her husband, James? With whom Alice had since lost contact? But if Janice allegedly committed suicide, there must have been a post mortem and a police report.
He texted Jackie back.
I need a copy of the PM and police report on Janice Crichton’s death.
He sent it off, and within seconds Jackie replied.
Already on your desk.
Gilchrist texted her a smiley face and a couple of kisses. Not politically correct, he supposed, but who cared? He’d often told Jackie she was the best researcher in the world, and boy, was she proving it. He took another sip of tea, almost drained the mug, and returned to the kitchen for a refill.
As he tipped the teapot, his thoughts fired alive with questions. What were the odds on Alice visiting Scotland to search for the truth about her sister’s suicide – think murder – only to be murdered herself? Slim to zero came the answer. And once in Scotland, the first thing Alice would have done was locate James Crichton. Why had he never been in contact since her sister’s death? That alone set off alarm bells. But the most intriguing question was, of all the places to go in Scotland, why did Alice Hickson turn up in Fife, on the east coast, in the small fishing village of St Monans?
As an investigative journalist – one of a breed renowned for their relentless tenacity in uncovering the truth behind suspicious events – Alice would have left no stone unturned in her quest for answers. But why turn over stones in Fife?
And why did her path cross with Black’s?
By coincidence? Or intention?
His thoughts turned over.
And over . . .
And arrived at the obvious conclusion.
Jessie placed her mobile phone on the kitchen table, then took a sip of tea.
But her stomach was churning so much, she couldn’t even taste it. She glanced at the Collins & Sons wall clock, a present from Angie, God love her – what would she do without her? – and realised she would have to leave for the Office in the next ten minutes.
But first she had to talk to Robert. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She had to tell him that his operation was not going ahead, and that he would remain stone deaf for the rest of his life. Just that thought had acid nipping her gut.
She had planned to tell him last night when she got home, but she’d been knackered, and just didn’t have the will to face it. Robert had been in his bedroom, on his computer, deep into some story he was developing. From past experience, she knew not to interrupt him. Not that he would be upset, rather she would disturb his train of thought and put him off his writing.
Another glance at the clock.
Oh God. Nothing for it, but to get on with it.
She pushed Robert’s bedroom door open, and breathed in the musty smell of sleep. Curtains hung open either side of the window, the room warm from the radiators. At the far side of the single bed, a laptop sat open on a corner desk. A banker’s lamp brightened the keyboard, casting shadows into the corner.
The night had always been a fearful time for Robert. From a young a
ge he slept with the curtains open, and all the lights on. At first, it had been every light in the room, even the door ajar and the hallway light on, too. But as he had grown older, his need for total brightness had diminished, until only a few lamps had to be left on through the night.
Jessie had never quibbled over that, just accepted that for a child who had been born deaf, the blackness of night had to be a terrifying place, creating the sensory illusion of being deaf and blind.
She entered his room, and squeezed herself on to the edge of his bed.
Just the gentle rocking of the mattress was enough to waken him.
He turned his head, caught her eye, and gave her a tired smile.
Her heart spilled open for her boy. That was what she loved about him. Despite having never heard a sound since birth, he always had a ready smile for her. She pushed her hands through his dark-blonde hair, scrunched it up, thick and soft – when had her hair last felt like that? – and thought it needed a cut.
Robert rolled on to his back, wide awake now, his hands signing.
I’ve written a letter to an agent and I’d like you to read it before I mail it.
Right now? Jessie signed back.
Yes.
Before Jessie could respond, Robert pulled himself from bed – stripped to the waist, boxer shorts on. His body was no longer that of a scrawny teenager, but was developing the toned muscles of an adult. And where on earth did he get his height from? Not from her, for sure. And not from that wee shithead for a father he’d never known.
But as she looked into her son’s hopeful eyes as he handed her a single sheet of paper, the draft letter he wanted her to review, she knew she couldn’t tell him that morning.
She could not break his heart, ruin his day, even his entire life.
She took the draft from him, fighting back the tears that stung her eyes.
* * *
Gilchrist sat at his office computer, spoiled for choice.
Jackie had delivered Janice Crichton’s PM report and a copy of the Oban Office’s police report to his desk. And Matt Duprey had printed out Black’s Facebook messages, which lay before him, as thick as a Ken Follett manuscript.
