by David Barry
‘Yes, but supposing he wasn’t on a motorbike,’ I surmised. ‘Suppose he transported the bike in another vehicle - a van, for instance. An old mate of mine used to compete in motocross events, and they would always transport their bikes either on a trailer or in a van, which could easily be unloaded down a ramp. Yes, that has to be what happened.’ I picked up the little black box tracker and examined it. ‘There can’t be many companies in the UK that market this type of surveillance equipment. So Alice has given us the file, which will have the time and date of the murders. What we need to do is find out who bought this sort of equipment back then. And it uses GPS, the same as a satnav, so someone would have to be registered with a company.’
Bill scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘You know, even if we find out who the killer is, it doesn’t tell us who issued the orders. There’s got to be a reason; a motive. Her father either did something illegal, or was involved in some sort of enterprise that could compromise a lot of dangerous people.’
Nicky raised her hand like a schoolgirl. ‘Can I make a suggestion? Why not interview this Ed Warren chap? You might get to learn something about the father from him.’
‘Good idea, Nicky,’ I agreed. ‘We’ll put both those things top of our list. We might find it difficult getting the information about the tracker by telephone, so we’ll make a point of calling in person.’
‘Yes, that way we can offer them an inducement to part with the information,’ Bill said. ‘Let’s hope we get lucky. For all we know, the killer might have used the same company as we’re using to buy this equipment. And as we happen to be good customers, we might get the info gratis.’
‘Not that we need worry our pretty little heads about that,’ I replied. ‘By this time tomorrow we’ll be rolling in it.’
I spotted a glint in Bill’s eye, and he actually parodied Fagin by rubbing his hands together. I chuckled, then asked Nicky to get the names and addresses of all the electronic surveillance equipment suppliers, and to try and make an appointment for us to meet the ex-manager of the software company, while Bill and I went into the office to study the information in the file she had given us.
We agreed that we would start our investigation first thing the next day. I still hadn’t forgotten that I needed to sort out the disturbing internet assault on my daughter’s computer, and I intended to spend the evening searching for a trendy pot-smoking ex-vicar known as Trev the Rev.
Chapter 6
Before going to North London in search of the defrocked vicar, I phoned Michelle and she told me Jackie would be back for dinner, so I stopped off on the way home and picked up a dinner for four at an Indian takeaway.
Olivia felt better about the internet situation, calmer now she had spent the day with Michelle. In the afternoon, after Michelle had successfully negotiated better rates at a new venue for her dance school, they visited Olivia’s comprehensive to explain about the internet problems. The school agreed to have a word with her friends the next day, and bring them in to the office during a break, so that Olivia could show them the emails and the chat room threats.
Over dinner I told them about the ex-vicar I had to find in Tottenham, and then explained about the American on the Isle of Sheppey, someone I could hopefully meet tomorrow night to see if he could help us to eliminate the troll. When they asked me if I’d had a good first day at work and about my potential clients, first I told them about the public school oaf, and they approved of the way I’d kicked him into touch. Then, when I began to describe our next client, I realised I had to play it down, telling them it was a profitable assignment but merely involved some tedious enquiries we needed to make about a software company. I knew if I told them the whole truth, they would worry about the risks it involved in tracking down a ruthless killer.
Not long after dinner I set off for Tottenham, hoping to find Trev the Rev’s homeless shelter without much difficulty. I thought my best bet was to enquire at the police station, and sure enough the uniformed copper at the desk knew where it was and gave me directions on how to find it. Just as I was getting back in the car, my mobile rang. It was an unknown number and it turned out to be Rick, our computer expert. I made a mental note to transfer his number into my phonebook once the call ended.
‘Freddie!’ he yelled, sounding breathless with excitement. ‘I decided I would make this troll of your daughter’s my mission this evening and, guess what? I seem to be getting somewhere. I can’t spend any more time on it tonight but I’ll see what I can do tomorrow and hopefully come up with some answers for you.’
‘That’s great, Rick,’ I told him. ‘But when we know who it is, what do we do?’
‘We can expose the cheeky sod. It sounds like he’s gone too far in harassing your daughter, and he’s making criminal threats. Once I have the info, we’ll have him.’
‘That’s fantastic, Rick. If you come up with anything tomorrow, give me a bell. It might save me a trip to the Isle of Sheppey.’
‘I can’t guarantee anything though, Freddie.’
‘No problem. I’m in Tottenham right now, and just about to find Trev the Rev to get this American’s address.’
‘Give Trevor my regards, will you?’
‘Will do,’ I promised, and cut the call.
***
The street the homeless shelter was in was gloomy and forbidding, with semi-detached council houses on one side, some boarded up, and many with discarded junk in the front gardens, or paved over to make room for cars and motor bikes.
Along the other side of the street was a row of small shops, including a drab-looking hairdresser’s, a squat Asian-run general store, its windows protected by metal shutters, and a Chinese takeaway called Oriental Palace, a name that was ironically inappropriate seeing as no attempt had been made to decorate the premises. The only thing about it that looked pristine was the flashing fruit machine inside the waiting area. At the end of the row of shops was a derelict patch of land with a part-demolished building on it that looked is if it might have been a small public library at one time. Beyond this was the homeless shelter, which may once have been a community centre.
I pulled up outside, careful to avoid a pile of broken glass, although I heard a skeleton rattle and clank as I flattened some discarded beer cans. When I got out of the car I realised the Jag looked ostentatious, which stood out in this street like a doner kebab in a five star Michelin restaurant. And just to prove a point, three youngsters, two white and one black, materialised from the gloom and stood in front of me, barring my way. They couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old, swaggering with the affected pimp-roll of their gangster idols.
‘Couple of quid to look after your car, mister,’ one of the white kids said, a statement rather than a question, giving me little choice other than to acquiesce in this protection racket. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in my mind that if I didn’t comply, when I returned to my Jag there would be a nice juicy scratch across the paintwork. I know I shouldn’t have subscribed to this racket, encouraging youngsters to live unscrupulous lives, but I thought about the quarter of a million heading for our business account, and I really didn’t want my car damaged, so I coughed up. But they didn’t look like such bad kids, and I had to admit this little scheme of theirs was enterprising. If Maggie Thatcher had still been alive she’d have been proud of them.
I took a two-pound coin out of my trouser pocket and handed it to the one who’d made the demand. ‘If you do a good job and protect my car,’ I said, ‘there’ll be another two quid for you when I get back. I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.’
The kid’s eyes lit up. ‘Yeah, thanks, mister. See you later then.’
I made my way along the front path towards the hostel door which was inside a porch under a triangular slate roof. The building was grey and pebble-dashed, and to the left of the door there was a large board on which was painted in bold red
the name OASIS SHELTER, and underneath in black italic lettering were the usual biblical words of wisdom, “Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and today, and for ever”.
I stepped inside the porch and saw there was a speakerphone entry with a push button. I pressed the bell and waited, and then a female voice asked brightly, ‘Who is it?’
‘I’m looking for Trevor Reagan,’ I said.
‘Are you looking for a bed for the night?’
‘No, I just want to speak to Trevor.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘We have a mutual acquaintance.’
‘Who’s that?’
I was becoming irritated by her questions. ‘A man called Ricky Lee Bishop. Just tell Trevor I’m a friend of his and I wish to speak with him, will you?’
There was a pause while I thought she might be relaying this message to the man himself. Then she said, ‘He’ll be with you in just a minute.’
Rick’s name must have carried weight because after a moment the door opened wide and a tall, thin man with dark designer stubble and receding hair greeted me with an outstretched hand. He was in his mid-thirties and wore a voluminous bright red T-shirt which came to halfway down his thighs, with some sort of strange logo on it, what looked like a silhouette of zombies on the march. He wore this underneath a blue bomber jacket in a shiny material, and from his appearance I understood why his young parishioners had nicknamed him Trev the Rev.
‘So you’re a friend of Ricky Lee?’ he queried.
I nodded as we shook hands. ‘Actually, I’ve only just met him. He designed the website for our business. He sends his regards, by the way.’
‘Thank you. But why did he put you in touch with me?’
‘He told me you could help with some problems I’ve been having with an internet troll.’
He frowned and ran a hand over his stubble. ‘I don’t understand. Ricky Lee knows much more about computers than I do.’
‘He said you know an American chap on the Isle of Sheppey who might be able to help.’
His eyes narrowed, perhaps not wanting to be reminded of his disgraced past.
‘It’s my daughter,’ I added quickly, hoping to reel him in with the account of her distress. ‘She’s scared of someone who’s sending her frightening and disgusting messages. And I believe the American guy is a brilliant hacker who might be able to discover who’s doing this to my girl.’
His eyes softened, and his teeth tugged at his bottom lip, displaying genuine concern and sympathy. Then he stood aside and pulled the door a little wider. ‘You’d better come in. We’ll go into the office and see what we can sort out.’
As I entered I wavered slightly, unsettled by the smell, a cocktail of sweat, urine and school dinners. Noticing my reaction, Trevor patted me on the shoulder as he shut the door.
‘I suppose I’m used to the smell. I know how disconcerting it can be on a first visit.’
I nodded and took in the gloomy surroundings. The walls of the building looked solid, painted beige from ceiling to floor, and were covered in posters giving information about everything from how to contact the Samaritans and where to get advice if you had an alcohol problem, although I didn’t think many of the floating population using this hostel would bother with advice on alcoholism. Too late for that.
On a table next to a giant radiator, were piles of leaflets, and two crumpled Special Brew cans. Ahead of me was a door that was slightly ajar, and from this room came shuffling, coughing and wheezing noises, with an occasional gruff voice, unintelligible and loud.
‘This way,’ Trevor said, and I followed him through another door marked Private. This was his office, and I’ve never seen anywhere so cluttered with paperwork. Stacks of folders and files lay in untidy piles taking up a great deal of floor space, and sitting behind a desk, working on a computer keyboard that looked sticky with grime, was a young girl with hennaed hair, large lime-green plastic earrings, and a multi-coloured sweater. Trevor introduced her as Marie and she acknowledged me with a nod and brief ‘Hi!’ before focusing on the computer monitor again, squinting closely at the screen as if she was short-sighted.
Trevor gestured for me to sit in a folding, black metal chair, while he perched on the edge of the desk, looking down on me. There wasn’t another chair in the tiny office, so I knew this was not a classic domination technique.
‘So,’ he began, ‘your daughter’s having trouble on the internet.’
‘That’s right. Some sick bastard’s been hounding her, and the last message that really freaked her out said he admired Josef Fritzl, the man who locked his daughter in a cellar for twenty-four years, the poor girl who became an unwilling sex object for her father. This pervert who’s been pestering my daughter said he’d like to do the same to her.’
Trevor shivered and shook his head as he spoke. ‘Another hateful monster. No wonder you’re worried.’
His assistant stopped tapping the keyboard to comment, ‘Women haters. That’s what they are. Because they fear women, they hate them and want to destroy them, even if it’s only with words.’
‘I think you’re right,’ I agreed. ‘It all boils down to feelings of insecurity. But if I find out who this pervert is who’s targeted my daughter, he’ll really have something to feel insecure about.’
‘The trouble is,’ Trevor said, ‘these trolls can be anywhere in the world; close by or hundreds of miles away.’
‘The email address of this one gives the country as Poland, but I’m told that need not necessarily be the case.’
‘That’s right. I believe a group of computers can share an IP address and be anywhere in the world, but appear to be in another area. I think they’re called proxy servers. Of course, I don’t know that much about them, but...’ He stopped and shrugged.
‘But you know a man who does,’ I concluded.
‘Which is why you’re here.’ He got up and walked to the other side of the desk, slid open the top drawer, took out an address book, leant over the desk, and scribbled on a sheet of A4 paper. As he came over and handed it to me, he said, ‘His name’s Brad Shapiro I’m sorry, but I don’t have his phone number; just his address.’
‘How will I know he’s at home?’
‘You won’t. But he doesn’t usually go very far. His whole life is computing.’
‘Another geek,’ I said.
Trevor smiled. ‘Yes but this one’s the best there is. He’s got a brain ten times bigger than anyone else.’
I returned his smile. ‘And does he have an ego to match?’
‘Haven’t they all. Although when I spent time with him in jail, he was helpful and charming.’
I looked toward his assistant to observe her reaction to the jail disclosure, but she carried on typing and didn’t appear to be listening.
‘It’s all right,’ he smiled. ‘Marie knows about my blunder. And although I’m no longer a part of the church - I haven’t even been in one since I went inside - I think I can still contribute something to society. Hence our small homeless shelter, which relies on the goodwill of others - small donations here and there.’
Not only did I not doubt his sincerity, I didn’t doubt he was hinting for a contribution as well. As I stuffed Brad Shapiro’s address into my pocket, I took my wallet out and gave him three twenty pound notes.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s most generous, and it’ll go a long way to feed some of our unfortunates. Can you believe some of them may not have eaten anything for three or four days when they come in here? So we make sure they get a hot meal. We have a kitchen out the back.’
I thanked him for the American’s address, said goodbye to his assistant, and then he walked me to the front door and we shook hands.
‘Good luck,’ he said solemnly. ‘I hope Brad’s able to solve the problem. If anyone can, he can. And w
hen you see Ricky again, please give him my very best wishes.’
When I got to my car, the kids who were supposed to be protecting it had disappeared. I had been away less than ten minutes and they couldn’t be bothered to wait that long for the other two pounds. So much for enterprise. Maggie would have been deeply disappointed.
Chapter 7
Tuesday 24 September 2013
As soon as we arrived at the office Nicky presented us with a list of companies in the south east who supplied electronic surveillance equipment, including the address of the company we had purchased our equipment from. Most of the security equipment firms didn’t deal with the sort of spy stuff we were searching for, so we were left with a list of four just outside the London area. But it would still take us quite a bit of time, as the company from where we got our equipment was just off the M4 near Reading, another two were just off the M1, near Luton and Hemel Hempstead respectively, with the fourth just off the M25 near Woking. Of course, the sensible thing would have been to split the workload, visiting two firms each. Apart from the fact we hadn’t yet organised a car for Bill, we decided it would be better if we worked together to begin with, especially as we were both new to this game and we could bounce ideas off each other during the journeys.
As we drove along the M4 to our first port of call, Bill was quiet and thoughtful and I asked him if anything was wrong.
‘I don’t know, mate,’ he replied. ‘I just hope we’re not going on a wild goose chase. This killer might be based in Scotland. I mean, there’s plenty of scum in Glasgow who’d do a hit for a few quid. So if the killer used an electronic tracker, it could have been purchased north of the border. And even if it is someone who bought the tracker down south, he ain’t going to purchase it in his own name, is he?’
