by AD Davies
Daggers from everyone indicated the nice-guy win from his drinks run had been wiped.
Alicia said, “The point, Bobby, is when criminals want conspirators they cast their net wide. They don’t go out asking for murder partners, but they test the water. This is possibly an organised gang, or even a cult, but in order to snag the people willing to kill, willing to absorb this ‘courage versus fear’ business so completely, the net has to be very wide indeed.”
Stevenson nodded. “So it’s pretty much the same as my theory.”
Murphy sat up as if hearing him for the first time. “And which one is that?”
“The one I told you as soon as we left the interview. They report in to a fundamentalist. Someone with a goal in mind: to bend the world to his will.”
All stared at him a moment.
“Alicia?” Murphy said. “What do you think?”
Stevenson’s jaw tightened, but sometimes it’s better to let them talk.
“There is a pattern here,” Alicia said. “It’s nagging my brain. Perhaps there is an end target.”
Cleaver said, “They’re all kind-of political.”
Ndlove spoke up for the first time. “The gay execution, the Islamist attack, police brutality against black people.”
“Plus the protests,” Murphy said.
Stevenson produced his notebook. “Which brings us back to timing.”
Alicia clapped her hands daintily. “Ooh, you have some data to share! Excellent. Everyone listen to Louis. I mean Bobby. Sorry.”
He crunched the timeline before hitting the canteen, which was why he took so long. “Mitchell Vaughn killed the four men, Pete, Phil, Walter, and Marcus, shortly before twenty-one-hundred hours on Friday the 5th of August. My phone chimed at oh-nine-hundred on Saturday morning informing me I’d been added to a Facebook group called ‘Togetherness Wins.’ Someone added me but I didn’t look at it, and now I can’t find who. At noon that day, a round robin email to members of the group came through on Facebook Messenger to detail the march planned to the restaurant at seventeen-hundred hours, and called for a community show of solidarity. My fiancé and I attended the march, which was interrupted only briefly by some dickheads from one far-right group or another. Waving crosses, that sort of thing. Maybe a dozen. From what I recall, there were hundreds of us, and no one paid them any mind.”
“And the press release?” Alicia said. “Was it announced ahead of time?”
“Yes, West Yorkshire Police’s press office confirmed to journalists an announcement regarding the shooting deaths of four men the previous night would be made at eleven a.m.” Stevenson closed his notebook. “It was delayed so Graham Rhapshaw could deliver it personally, and he was stuck in traffic. It went out at half past twelve.”
All fell silent. Shuffled a little, digesting the timings.
Group set up at 09:00 a.m.
Invite at midday.
Press release at half-past.
“He made a mistake,” Cleaver said.
Everyone looked at him.
He said, “I’ve been dating a tech-head.” A glance at Murphy meant the rumours surrounding Murphy’s niece and DS Cleaver were probably true. He went on, “Everything’s automated these days. You can buffer a hundred tweets, a month’s marketing set up in a matter of hours. No reason you can’t set a delay on a bunch of other messages if you’re coordinating. Did it go out at exactly noon?”
Stevenson didn’t need to look back. “Twelve oh-seven.”
“Right. Enough time for the press release to go out on live news. Your fiancé, when did she get her message?”
“He.”
“Err, okay. He, whatever.”
Awkward response, but hey, progress is progress.
Stevenson said, “Callum and I received our messages at the same time. We were sampling cake. But then that’s normal for a round-robin message, automated or not.”
Murphy gave a curt nod, his hands steepled on his desk. “So someone knew the victims were gay ahead of the press release, and timed the organisation of a protest—or community gathering—shortly after. But he thought the events were all set, and automated the message release.”
Stevenson couldn’t quite see the energy uniting the room, but the crackle of a minor breakthrough made the hairs on his arms stand on end. “I bet if we go back to the others—the anti-Islam group from this morning, the all-police-are-racist folk—there’ll be someone rousing them. Another group, maybe.”
“A common IP address,” Cleaver said.
Alicia moved for the first time in a while. Stood forward, arched her back. “I’m on board, except for one thing.”
Everyone focused on her so she was the centre of attention again.
She said, “Two potentially-violent protests, one peaceful. Each protest saw counter-groups. The cross-wavers at Bobby’s gathering, the anti-fascists opposing the anti-Islam brigade, and those supporting the police in Leeds Central. It’s not three protests. It’s six.”
Murphy nodded agreement, and Stevenson saw nothing to argue about.
“Want me on it?” Cleaver asked.
“You and Ndlove crunch the timelines,” Murphy replied. “Alicia, can you requisition people from your Cyber team? SCA might have the intel already from the government’s Big Brother remit.”
“I’ll do it,” Stevenson said.
Heads turned to him. It was starting to feel like a tennis match.
He said, “It might mean a bit of travelling and that can’t be comfortable. Plus, if the case goes beyond Friday, I’ll have continuity with the Cyber guys.”
Murphy and Alicia exchanged a glance. No other gesture Stevenson could see, so he guessed his nice-guy points were back.
Murphy said, “Okay, but keep us in the loop. Set up a shared chronology file. Soon as anything comes in, I want us all to have it. What are we looking for specifically?”
“Political groups,” Alicia said. “All these killings are political, or motivated to generate unrest.”
“Or a cult,” Stevenson said.
Murphy steepled his fingers again, this time pressing them to his lips. “Cult?”
Alicia said, “A cult doesn’t have to be orgies and chanting, just a shared spiritual ideology or goal, but this has the ring of hatred, not philosophy. Let’s not focus on any one thing. Cult, political group, an individual. Especially those with grudges. Criminal history most likely, although probably not as severe as murder. Open minds, folks.”
That chimed with the others, so although it was clear one-upmanship on Alicia’s part, Stevenson had no comeback. He’d started the day planning to bring her down a peg or two, but if he stepped back to think logically, all he needed to do was act professionally, make sure he wasn’t making her look bad in front of her buddies, and when he took over at the end of the week, her presence would soon be forgotten.
It’s the little things.
That’s what Callum told him when he confessed to his worries about backfilling for such a well-respected officer. So he would concentrate on those little things this week. Bring the coffee, agree with her, and only undermine her in little ways. Use her words and take credit for the legwork. If he could pad this case out beyond Friday, it would be his name on the reports, his name on the arrest bulletins, him in court swearing to tell the whole truth.
His result.
Murphy was looking at him, eyebrows raised. “I’m sorry, are you waiting for something?”
“No,” Stevenson replied, opening the door, “I’ll report back ASAP.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sometimes, things move slowly during investigations. When a suspect is obvious, they slow down further. The fear of losing a case due to an admin oversight or infinitesimally-small legal faux-pas often delays decision making or acting against groups or individuals, simply because playing your hand too soon can mean going bust before the Crown Prosecution Service.
But early on, when there are no wrong answers, with no one from the CPS breathing do
wn the detectives’ necks, the momentum is often breakneck. This Tuesday afternoon was especially fast-paced.
* * *
Using a hands-free Bluetooth kit in his car, DS Robert Stevenson relayed the parameters to Shahena Badawi in the Serious Crime Agency’s Cyber Crime division. Shahena took notes, asked for a crime number to log it against, then said she’d get right on it. Stevenson then reported in to Chief Superintendent Paulson to explain their direction and that he’d commandeered a body for at least the rest of this afternoon. Possibly tomorrow if the data wasn’t already stored on the servers. He prepared himself for a chewing out.
She surprised him.
“If it isn’t there, call me anytime. Day or night. I’ll authorise deep digital surveillance if needed.”
It shouldn’t really have surprised him, but Stevenson battled often with senior officers regarding snooping on private communications. So while Paulson gave few lectures, rumours did suggest she favoured a more invasive approach to the internet, and Cyber Division might do far better out of her recommendations to the Home Office than people like Stevenson.
And Alicia.
So for now, Stevenson thanked the paranoia and all-encompassing fear promoted by a generation of IT-literate terrorists, and turned up the radio as he disconnected his phone, and sang along to some U2 all the way to Wakefield.
* * *
Although it was seen as his specialty, Cleaver found crunching numbers quite dull. But being called upon in situations like this outweighed any boredom the activity might present. DC Rebecca Ndlove on the other hand was still new enough to speed up her speech patterns and shift hastily between files and computer terminals. He worried it might cause her to miss things, though, so an hour in to their research mission, the older man ushered her aside with a herbal tea each.
She sniffed the brew. “This smells like nettles.”
“How many plates do you have spinning?” Cleaver asked.
“Plates?”
“We’re looking at parolees, people with convictions for violence, and preferably connections to groups either banned or on our watch list.”
“I know,” Ndlove said, sipping. “This isn’t actually bad. Maybe some honey—”
“And right now, you have six piles.”
She had cleared hers and Cleaver’s desks entirely, using a vacant space beside them to set up the two laptops.
“Right,” she said. “I’m arranging them for clarity.” Indicating each set of manila files in turn, she said, “These are recently-released, violent offenders who were associated with protest groups or political lobbying prior to their incarceration. A three-month window. This next group were released in the past twelve months but are still on probation, and then we have those whose sentence expired within the past five years.” She shifted to the thinner piles. “From them, I’ve narrowed down some juicy contenders. These people have recently been cautioned or appeared on a watch list. This fifth group are those awaiting trial for new crimes committed after release but are out on bail. And finally, this group, the thinnest of all, were violent offenders, but have since been released from prison and joined groups, again on current watch lists. There are five people here. I’d suggest looking at them first, then work back to the others.”
Cleaver hadn’t tried his tea yet, mesmerised by the speed with which Ndlove organised her thoughts. And his, for that matter.
He let out a deep sigh and literally patted her on the back. “Good work. But let’s make sure we log everything.”
And as he sat beside Ndlove, a welcome tiredness swamped him. The tension of the afternoon, the pressure to find something, anything, to push them forward, it all rushed out of him as he turned over the first file.
Because this was why he enjoyed being the guy who specialised. It produced results. And, usually, he would be at the centre of it all when it concluded.
* * *
Alicia, meanwhile, resorted to her current assignment: admin chick. Not quite a 1950s secretary, but while not the best use of her time, it was better than nothing. Plus, she might spot a connection others would miss. Not that she’d been the sharpest blade in the bundle recently.
She called it “baby brain.”
Or rather one of the other expectant mums at her Yoga-for-Fat-Bitches group (the real name) called it that, and Alicia adopted it for herself. It covered any number of mental sins—forgetting her pass, forgetting to salute a senior officer whose name also alluded her, getting a simple sum wrong—so she played it up whenever she felt the need.
It was another reason she secretly understood the need to side-line her. Sure, data entry wasn’t “fun” and she learned it wasn’t exactly as easy as she expected—there’s a real skill to it—but it did allow her to concentrate on a single train of thought, and not allow herself to become distracted by the prospect of loneliness and raising a child with no father. It sure as hell beat those prenatal classes where at least three-quarters of pregnant ladies brought their partners along, and the others made teeth-smiling excuses of work or some-such, and a promise to bring them next time. And, sure enough, the dads would usually make an appearance, proving to the other mums-to-be that they were a happy modern family, while Alicia made her own excuses.
No, my baby’s father was unable to make it.
Why?
Oh, because he’s a serial killer.
And he’s in a coma.
“Didn’t stick around,” she told them over a session of decaf tea and coffee. “One nighter. Naughty me.” She slapped her own wrist, and the mommy group backed away as if she was radioactive.
She switched groups after that, attending NHS sessions closer to work, at which she declared herself a lesbian and persuaded Roberta to accompany her one time to prove it. She was popular at that group, pretending to be someone she was not. Still, it earned her an invite to the pregnant ladies’ yoga group, which kept her sane.
So sure, she wanted to do more than transcribe interviews and fire off the odd note to the investigating officers, but this, here, in the thick of figuring something out … this was what made a difference. This was what brought everything into sharp focus.
As she filtered Cleaver and Ndlove’s profiles into her own mini-computer—her brain, that is—and backed it all up on the SCA database via Murphy’s terminal, she cross-referenced it with the acquired intel from various internet service providers, and copy-pasted the IP addresses relating to those groups.
“What’s an IP address?” Murphy asked, having dragged in a larger chair to sit on.
Alicia stared, waiting for him to crack a smile. He didn’t. Instead, he waved the iPad on which he was reading through the collated data.
“Well, it’s … one second.” She attended to some important business on the computer, its screen facing away from Murphy. “An internet protocol address is a numerical label assigned to each device. It serves two principal functions—”
“Wikipedia?” Murphy said.
“Hm?” Alicia closed the browser on-screen.
“I know what an IP address is and how it works. I wanted to know if you did.”
“It’s a computer ID thing.”
“I’ve had a few lessons from Darla. She insists on me hanging out with her and Cleaver occasionally.” Murphy again waggled the iPad. “But she explained a few things. An IP address identifies a specific computer. Each internet service provider—Virgin Media, BT, Sky, whoever—sees it and the online activity is tracked. But it isn’t illegal to mask your IP address. You can use a VPN, or ‘virtual private network’.”
He paused to sit himself a little more openly. Usually it was Alicia giving the lecture, but hey, let him have this one.
He said, “A VPN is a bunch of computers hiding behind a different IP address. So the internet service provider still sends you the porn or illegally-transmitted football game, but can’t see what you’re watching. They see—and log—the VPN’s IP address instead.”
“Thank you,” Alicia said. “I feel far
more intelligent now.”
“My point is … this.” He handed her the iPad, having highlighted several entries. “This is a VPN address, but the activity corresponds to the groups we’ve been looking at. The timing is right, activity increasing ahead of every murder, and again afterward. The entries on these forums have been wiped, and the servers are in countries we can’t get warrants for but it gives us something.”
Alicia would have bounced for joy a few months ago. She settled for a clap of the hands. “It does give us something. It confirms our theory.”
“I’ll share it with Backfill Bobby.”
* * *
At 7:00 p.m., Stevenson returned in person to DCI Murphy’s office in Leeds, although since they lived in the 21st century he didn’t quite understand the necessity of travelling at taxpayers’ expense yet again when he could have conferenced in. Forced to cancel the viewing of a village hall, an exciting prospect for his and Callum’s reception, he mentally prepared himself to regulate his tone and to walk calmly instead of barrelling into the office.
They were waiting for him.
He loosened his tie, hoping they would take the hint that he didn’t particularly want to be there, and when Murphy asked him if he knew what an IP address was, he frowned and said, “Of course.”
“So here is what we have.” Murphy, like the others, stood. “We have identified a VPN present on forums frequented by the anti-Islamic group who stirred up trouble this morning, the police brutality campaigners, and the community support group for gay people that approached a number of profiles on Facebook. This same VPN contacted the Church of Latter Day Patriots. They’re a small congregation linking Christianity to keeping Britain British. Same story with the anti-fascist brigade who opposed the anti-Islamic people this morning, and the agitators who seem to deliberately misunderstand the Black Lives Matter movement. Thanks to Stevenson and his Cyber friends, although we couldn’t access the servers of these forums and email groups—”
“Meaning we can’t see what was actually said,” Stevenson interrupted.
