Binary Witness (The Amy Lane Mysteries)

by Rosie Claverton

  “I’ll run it against the university employees,” Amy said, breaking his reverie.

  “Students too,” Owain said. “Dr. Deaver thinks the murderer could be a mature student.”

  “Who’s Dr. Deaver?” Jason asked.

  Bryn huffed at the name. “The mighty London profiler. Though she is impressed with you, Amy. She thinks you’re pretty good at this.”

  “I am good at this,” Amy said distractedly, already running the search. “Do you have anything else for me?”

  Bryn held up a battered iPhone in a plastic bag, a new model with a purple glittery case. It looked like it had been caught in the rain and a string of weed was clinging to it. Amy regarded it with interest and took it off him.

  “We pulled it out of the reservoir with Kate and Melody,” Owain said eagerly. “The techs said it was unsalvageable, but I thought you could probably do it.”

  Jason smothered his grin at Owain’s obvious case of hero worship, aware that he himself thought Amy’s work was very like magic at times.

  “It’s Melody’s.” Amy handed the bag to Jason. “Put some rice in with it and put the bag in the airing cupboard. Remind me about it tomorrow.”

  Jason clutched it in his clumsy left hand and shuffled towards the kitchen.

  “I can do it,” he heard Owain call, but Jason ignored him, getting out the rice he’d added to the weekly shop. Good food, rice. Simple, filling. Seemed a shame to waste it on a mobile phone, but it wasn’t expensive and if Amy thought it would work its voodoo magic on the tech, then it was worth it.

  “How do you know it’s Melody’s?” Bryn asked.

  Amy just shrugged. “Kate has a Samsung. And, given the state of Melody’s laptop, she would cover her phone in something that sparkles. It may not help us—the water in the reservoir is foul.”

  “We drink that water,” Bryn said, as Jason bore the phone to its resting place amongst the towels and bed linen. “You drink that water, Amy. Every day.”

  “Jason boils it. That is sufficient for my immune system.” She had that blog open again, but it hadn’t been updated since the day of Carla’s disappearance. “He doesn’t need to write to her anymore.”

  Jason felt a shiver go down his spine. Of course not. He had her right where he wanted her—by his side.

  Chapter Forty-Three: Goodbye, My Lover

  Bryn tried to insist he stay behind and rest, but Jason would be damned if he’d upset his mother just to sit on the sofa. Amy’s list of errands would keep him busy most of the day.

  His battered little Micra had been stood outside Amy’s since he’d returned to her employment, but he was in no fit state to drive it. He started the engine and it turned over first time, proving its worth once again. Jason longed to update it, get something with a bit of speed, but he knew he wouldn’t get something half as reliable at the price.

  While the engine was warming through, Jason popped open the boot and took a deep breath. He’d hoped he’d never have to use this, but he couldn’t defend himself with his fists. He couldn’t risk being caught out by the killer. Or Stuart’s boys, out to revenge their leader in the nick. Or Damage, looking for someone to blame for his brother winding up in Swansea for ten. Jason decided that his New Year’s resolution would be to acquire fewer enemies next year.

  Careful that no one was looking, Jason slid his dad’s old Beretta out from where it had been concealed in the spare tyre well. He’d never known why his dad owned the gun or how he’d come by it, but his mam had locked it away in the trunk with the rest of his things when he died. Sixteen-year-old Jason had discovered it one day, and him and the lads had shot at tin cans in the park. As he stowed it in the pocket of his messenger bag—one belonging to Amy’s sister, with a gothic pony emblazoned on the side—he hoped he never had to use it. The police hadn’t found it when he’d crashed that old lady’s car, and he had no desire for them to find it now.

  Jason headed towards the hospital on foot to fetch the last three months of recordings from the switchboard. The walk tired him out, but he needed time to think. And, on the way, he had to see Teresa.

  Owain had been dubious about the sanity of that idea, but Jason had told him that he was on it, ta very much, and Owain had wisely shut up. Jason needed an excuse to go and see her, clear the air between them. He’d lied to her and she’d sold her story to the papers. Jason liked to think that neither of them were innocent in this.

  Jason approached Teresa’s door and rang the bell. “Who is it?”

  He hesitated, but decided that she’d only be angrier if he lied. “It’s Jason.”

  There was a long silence and Jason thought she might not let him in. Then he’d have to run back to Owain with his tail between his legs and Teresa would sue him for harassment. But, against all odds, the door opened and he stepped inside, relieved.

  The stairs took him longer than usual and by the time he reached the top, she was tapping her foot impatiently. Her expression softened slightly at the fact he looked like a war veteran and she reluctantly let him in. “You’re got a nerve,” she said, coldly.

  “I’m here on business,” he said lamely, and she grew hostile again, standing in the middle of her living room and pointedly not offering him a seat. He withdrew his copy of the sketch from his pocket, shaking it out with his left hand.

  She took it from him and her face blanched, with high spots of colour on her cheek. “Is this him?”

  “Do you recognise him? He might be someone from uni, or hanging around your house.”

  But she shook her head. “No, I don’t. Mel didn’t know anyone like this. And the street was okay, no one shady hanging about.” She looked at him pointedly. “Apart from you.”

  Jason winced. It had been a long shot anyway. As he reached for the paper, she touched his hand.

  “I’m sorry. For talking to reporters.” She stared at her feet. “They didn’t write anything like what I said. It was embarrassing.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was,” Jason returned, feeling a weight lift off his chest. “But...that’s not why we... I didn’t sleep with you because of this.” It was his turn to blush, shift uncomfortably. “I did it because I liked you. Like you.”

  Teresa dropped her hand from his, an unreadable expression on her face. “You’d better get going.”

  He folded the page and put it safely back in his pocket. “See you around,” he said, knowing that he probably wouldn’t and that was okay. As long as she didn’t hate him. He’d never meant to be the bad guy.

  * * *

  Carla listened to the radio and wondered why no one had found her yet.

  She’d found the ancient machine in a bottom drawer under thick winter blankets and was surprised when it hissed to life. The reception in the basement was awful, but if she placed it on the windowsill, she could just about get Radio 1.

  They were looking for her. That knowledge alone filled her with hope, and she was determined that she would survive this. They even had a sketch of the guy, so someone would soon recognise him and then she would be rescued. She only had to wait it out.

  Her abductor had given her water and sandwiches, but he’d always come down with a hammer and a look in his eye that told her he might just bash her head in. She’d realised then that another escape attempt was futile, that he didn’t trust her and that provoking him would only make her situation worse.

  She could hear his footsteps on the stairs and she quickly turned off the radio, stuffing it under her pillow. If she didn’t have that connection to the outside world, she thought she might go completely insane. And now she’d seen what that looked like.

  He opened the door, holding the hammer warily, but then saw her on the bed and relaxed. “Freebird, I have a surprise for you. We’re going on a trip.”

  Suddenly, all her resolutions flew out o
f the window. She wouldn’t go anywhere with him. Not to the reservoir where he’d dumped those girls, not to a remote village where no one would know her. Not in the boot of a car on a ferry to vanish to somewhere in Europe where she couldn’t find her way home.

  Carla flew at him, seizing his wrist and slamming it against the door frame. He yelled, dropping the hammer. She grabbed for it, but he tore at her hair, yanking her up and throwing her against the wall. She was dazed, barely holding her own weight, whimpering like a child.

  “After all I’ve done for you,” he spat—his hand at her throat, thumbs digging in.

  She couldn’t breathe. Her hands came up to claw at him, but his grip was a vise around her neck, crushing the life from her. This is how the first girl was killed, her brain supplied numbly. This is how he did it.

  Her arms grew weak, cramping, tingling. A black curtain crept across her eyes, like the end of an act, the play half-done. Don’t let it end, she thought—and then thought nothing at all.

  Chapter Forty-Four: See No Evil, Hear No Evil

  She slept.

  He stood over her, clenching and unclenching his fists. She made him so angry! Didn’t she know what was best for her? He was her life! Why did she have to provoke him like that? He’d had no choice but to take the matter in hand.

  Placing a hand on her chest, gentle, reverent, he felt her heart beat and smiled. Everything was ready for their departure. He’d packed a bag, and he’d bought her some new things to wear. It was like the newspapers were announcing their engagement, placing their pictures together like that. He’d thought of the perfect place, where they could be together without people interfering. They’d be happy there.

  They’d be alone.

  * * *

  “You took your time.”

  Amy held out her hand for the recordings, not even looking at him. She couldn’t afford to be distracted—she was manually reviewing the potential matches from the sketch of the killer. So far, there were three maybes out of 274 possibilities, but she wasn’t all that convinced. For a start, one of them was on secondment in Toronto.

  “I had to make a stop on the way,” Jason said and she heard him settle into the sofa with a pained sigh. “Have you got anything for dinner?”

  “Isn’t that your job?” she shot back and he grumpily got back off the sofa and went to explore the kitchen. “There’s codeine in the cupboard,” she added. “Above the washing machine. Don’t touch anything else.”

  “God, you could start a pharmacy.”

  She wondered if he’d comment on some of her more...interesting tablets, but Jason was a man of the world—a few prescription medicines with the wrong label were unlikely to excite him.

  The smell of frying onion started drifting through to the living room. In theory, aerated vegetable fat would be bad for AEON’s systems, but the scent made her salivate. The rich scents of cooking meat and sweet tomato infused her workspace and she was unable to think of anything beyond the heady aroma and the gnawing emptiness of her stomach. When had she last eaten? Had she had a biscuit today?

  “It’s ready!” Jason called.

  Amy pushed back from the computer, waiting for her food. A long minute passed and nothing appeared. Another minute. She frowned.

  Jason stuck his head round the doorway. “Aren’t you coming? It’ll get cold.”

  “I can’t stop to eat. I need to work.”

  “You’ll spill sauce on Ewan. He won’t like that.”

  He had a point. Reluctantly, she got out of her chair and made her way into the kitchen, where the rickety little table was set for two. There were two glasses half-full of red wine, and Amy wondered if she’d stepped into an absurd romantic comedy.

  “Do we have time for this?” she asked tetchily, the smell stronger in here. “And her name is AEON—A-E-O-N. Not Ewan.” Her stomach growled and she had already sat down, completely negating her complaints. It seemed her body would have her eat, ganging up on her with Jason, whether she wanted to or not.

  “You’ll work better after you’ve eaten.” Jason placed a plate of spaghetti bolognaise in front of her.

  She didn’t stop to wait for him, already shovelling it into her mouth, spaghetti hanging from her lips and sauce splattering over Booster Gold’s grinning face on her T-shirt.

  Jason laughed and she scowled around her spaghetti, but he seemed just as enthusiastic, though slowed by his injured arm. When had she last had a proper meal like this? It was usually whatever she could make with the kettle and the microwave. The oven had stood idle since Lizzie left.

  “Vegetables,” Jason said suddenly, “should be picked by hand. The onions were all half-rotten.”

  Amy didn’t think they tasted all that rotten, but maybe Jason was a better cook than she’d given him credit for. She didn’t think a quick course in prison would lead to any degree of competency but maybe she needed to have more faith in the justice system.

  “You need your own credit card. I’ll order one for you.”

  Jason looked at her as if she’d just turned into an onion.

  Amy frowned. “So you can pick vegetables. And buy me...things.” She wasn’t entirely sure what else she might need that wasn’t online, but she had never considered that internet-obtained vegetables would be inferior. There was clearly a lot to learn here.

  “You’re honestly going to get me a credit card? The bank won’t give me one.”

  Amy waved her hand dismissively, and washed down her last mouthful of mince with her wine. “Use my name and address. It’s not my real name, and the address is registered as business premises. They never ask many questions with my bank balance.”

  Amy stood up, deciding to risk AEON’s fate to her glass of wine. Jason finished loading the dishwasher, and then followed her through, watching as she started transferring the switchboard CDs to an external hard drive.

  “Amy’s not your real name?” He sounded hurt.

  She wanted to say that thing to him—what was it? “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Probably Shakespeare. People used his words a lot, though she had never read or seen his works. Books were boring. So...papery.

  “Amy is my name,” she said finally, deciding he could be trusted with that much. “Lane isn’t our surname. I chose it when I made our new identities. It was suitably boring.”

  “Yours and...your sister’s?” Jason said slowly, and she nodded, deciding she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. There was only so much he needed to know right now and she didn’t like talking about her past. New Amy, new start.

  “Why are some of these entries marked?” she asked, referring to the entry log from the switchboard.

  He peered over her shoulder, resting his arm on the back of her chair. She quite liked him standing there, hovering over her while she worked. It was vaguely comforting.

  “They’re the ones they know for certain are him,” he said, and she looked up at him questioningly. “Apparently, he’s been giving them the creeps for weeks now.” A note of frustrated anger entered his voice. “Not that they bloody well told anyone.”

  She nodded, opening up one of the sound files. “University Hospital.”

  There was a pause, and then the killer spoke: “Theatres please.” Not a local accent. Southern England, perhaps.

  “Who’s calling?” The operator already sounded suspicious. The line went dead. Of course, they would remember the calls where they’d recognised him and hadn’t put him through. They needed the calls that switchboard had missed.

  “These are all from withheld numbers.” She skimmed over the starred entries. “We should eliminate the other entries.” She placed the paper in the scanner, so she could modify it digitally. Striking something through with a pen was absurd—what if she lost the paper? She wasn’t even sure she had a working pen.

&
nbsp; “What if he slipped up?” Jason countered. “Then we’d miss his number because we ignored them.”

  He was right—they couldn’t afford the risk if it turned out that the killer was stupid. “We have to listen to all of them.” She despaired of such manual work. Was there no way to condense the data into a manageable workload?

  “Do you have...whatsit? Voice recognition?” Jason asked, and Amy pulled up her sound analysis suite. They didn’t have enough references to make a profile for his voice, but they could eliminate voices that were nothing like his. High pitch, heavy accents—she could remove those outliers and make their job marginally easier.

  AEON scanned the files, groaning under the strain of yet another search. She’d have to treat her to a deep cleanse and defrag after all this. The first build of AEON was getting on for ten years old; Amy was sure there wasn’t an original part left now, but the essence of AEON remained. In the world of computing, she was an elderly veteran.

  Amy went back to her profiles, looking through the photos of university employees and students. She was getting faster, deciding for or against within seconds. She eliminated a further fifty while Jason made coffee and before AEON announced that her filtering was complete. Amy had added the “Theatres please” rider to the search on the off-chance AEON did pick him out from the crowd. To her surprise, the computer had marked fifty-three files as possessing that tag.

  “That can’t be right,” she muttered, listening to the first file, dated August 18.

  “University Hospital.”

  “Theatres please.”

  “Theatres—putting you through.”

  His voice sounded exactly the same—same tone, same inflection, perfectly calm and detached. Amy had expected breathy excitement, heady with the anticipation of speaking to his love. Not this precision monotone.