by Stav Sherez
LOOKATYOU: ££
PANOPTEASE: How do I even know you’ve got what you say you’ve got? How do I know you didn’t rip those clips off some other site? You’re lying. Don’t waste my time. Don’t think you can outsmart me. You’ll never be alone again. If you use a phone or computer or TV, I’ll be there with you.
Carrigan smiled. Neilson turned to one of the other computers and told Singh and Roth to get ready, then switched on their feeds. Roth was quietly eating dinner on the sofa, feet up, a short skirt revealing long legs. Singh was typing and biting her lips.
‘He’s watching them,’ Neilson confirmed.
Roth was the better actress, Carrigan could tell. She was teasing PANOPTEASE with the way she sat, the way she moved, the way she got up and took off her sweater. Neilson cut the feed at that exact moment.
They sat back and waited. Seven minutes later, text appeared in the blue box.
PANOPTEASE: How much?
Neilson silently punched her fist in the air. Carrigan and Geneva looked at each other. They hadn’t thought the RAT trap would work – most criminals were too cagey and paranoid to fall for something like this – but Neilson had understood their prey better than they did.
LOOKATYOU: 20 each. You get access codes exclusively.
PANOPTEASE: Okay. Bitcoin.
LOOKATYOU: No. Don’t trust Bitcoin. Silk Road, duh? C/C only. Use secure Tor site.
Neilson keyed in a long string of commands. There was no reply for a while. She explained to Carrigan and Geneva that the electronic currency favoured by most hackers, Bitcoin, had taken a series of blows when sites such as the drug marketplace Silk Road had been shut down, resulting in millions of Bitcoins being wiped off the map. Many still preferred to use credit cards on untraceable sites. It was how most child porn was funded. Done through Tor, the onion routing network, it was completely untraceable.
‘If that’s the case, how are we going to trace him back to a real-world person?’
‘I said the pay sites were untraceable. I didn’t say the one PANOPTEASE will pay us through is. We’ve been developing fake sites for the last two years. What’s called phishing in the hacker world. You go to a site that looks identical to your Barclays one but it’s actually a copy set up to harvest passwords. Same here. We have a site that looks and reads identical to the one they use. By now he’ll be too impatient to get the goods. He won’t bother to run proper checks, too time-consuming. And as soon as he puts his credit card details into the site, we’ve got him.’ Neilson allowed herself a smile as she typed into the blue box.
LOOKATYOU: You want to buy? I have others expressing an interest.
PANOPTEASE: I’ve warned you.
PANOPTEASE: Last chance.
PANOPTEASE: Okay.
40
They had a name, an address, an occupation. They knew where the killer lived, the type of car he drove and what he spent his money on.
PANOPTEASE had entered his credit card details into Neilson’s fake site. Neilson punched the numbers into a reverse directory. The credit card was registered to a Michael Hart. Geneva put the name into the PNC as well as council and inland revenue databases.
‘No hits on the PNC,’ she told Carrigan. ‘He’s clean.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything,’ Carrigan replied. ‘Everyone’s clean until they’re not.’
Geneva and Neilson exchanged a glance, then Geneva switched tabs and resumed her search. ‘Now, this is much more interesting.’ She tilted the screen towards Neilson. ‘Hart teaches at an all-girls’ school in Camden. Been there fifteen years.’
They looked at each other. In the post-Savilian age, anyone whose job gave them unsupervised access to children was immediately suspect. Carrigan skimmed the scant facts on offer. He couldn’t help but think how useful InfoCatcher would have been right now.
Hart lived on Highland Avenue, a narrow and extremely exclusive street cresting the heights of Holland Park. Carrigan studied the house on his computer screen. As soon as they’d got the address they’d plugged it into Street View and surveyed the area. The road climbed up towards the park at a steep angle, unusual for London, a city of mainly flat plains and low hills. Trees striped the street in shadow and hid the houses from casual scrutiny. Hart’s house was huge and set back from the road, ringed by high hedges and tall oaks. A small drive jutted out from the property and a shiny black BMW stood idle on the flagstones. They used Street View to check all angles of approach and escape. There was no need to do preliminary surveillance. All they needed for the task was right here on screen. Carrigan had already notified Branch. The warrant would be ready by morning.
‘Zoom in there.’ Carrigan watched as the front door of the house filled the screen. A silver security camera sat perched gargoyle-like above the lintel. ‘He’s going to see us as soon as we make the gate,’ Carrigan said. ‘We don’t know what weapons he might have in there with him. We do know, from everything we’ve learned about him, that he will have prepared for this eventuality. We’ve got a surveillance team watching the house. If he makes a move during the night, they’ll grab him. If not, we’ll pay him a visit nice and early. Either way, we end this tomorrow.’
41
The back-up team were suited up in black, with dark visors shielding their faces, looking more like a futuristic army fighting on another planet than a group of public servants deployed in one of the leafier parts of the capital. They made their way to Holland Park in the pre-dawn blur, approaching the house from three directions to triangulate their target. The street was quiet and deserted, the first rays of sunlight bleaching the eastern sky. Birds perched on telephone poles, slick with last night’s rain. Carrigan watched as heavily laden figures scurried through the underbrush, a few birds exploding out of the road in stark surprise. He signalled them to wait. They were only to be deployed if needed. Carrigan hoped that words, not guns, would secure Michael Hart.
The BMW was parked in the drive. Carrigan put his hand to the bonnet but it was cold. His skin chafed against the bullet-proof vest and his head was pounding. He hadn’t taken any pills this morning – had actually got to the point where he was about to swallow them when he remembered his vow and reluctantly put them back in the drawer.
He was approaching the front door when he heard the sound of someone running. Carrigan turned to see Hoffmann coming up the drive, in a half-jog, his forehead mottled with sweat and his breath short and snatched.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
Hoffmann wiped his brow. ‘I’ve been going through the transcripts all night,’ he said. ‘And I think I was wrong.’
‘You think you were wrong?’
‘But I’m not sure, which is why I want to sit in for this. I have a theory.’
‘Are you going to share it with us?’ Carrigan said, a snap entering his voice.
‘No,’ Hoffmann replied. ‘It’ll influence your questions. And, as I mentioned, I may be wrong.’
‘That’s good to know.’ Carrigan wanted Hoffmann gone but there was no point in arguing. The longer they stood outside the house, the more likely they were to tip off Michael Hart to their presence. ‘Just make sure you stay behind us. We don’t know what he’s got in there or how hard he’s prepared to fight.’
Carrigan pressed the buzzer. There was no answer and he was about to press it again when the door opened, releasing a wash of heat and steam.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’
The woman was wearing a large red bathrobe, a towel cinched around her waist. She was tall and slim, streaks of white snaking through her hair, her face sharp-boned as a bird.
‘We need to speak to Michael Hart.’
‘I’m Valerie Hart. His wife. You can speak to me.’
Her tone brooked no argument, a woman used to getting her way, Carrigan thought, not scared by the sight of policemen at her door in the early morning. He handed her the warrant. She squinted and brought the paper closer to her face.
‘You can read it when
we’re inside.’
Her eyes shot up. ‘No. Let me finish. I know my rights.’
‘Good,’ Carrigan replied. ‘Then I don’t need to explain that you have no choice but to let us enter.’
She continued reading, and when she was done, she turned and without a word disappeared back into the darkness of the hallway. Carrigan, Geneva, Hoffmann and two officers from the search team followed her in.
‘What do you want with my husband?’ Valerie Hart lowered herself onto an overstuffed Chesterfield, the robe tight around her waist, her eyes watching their every move. In the corner, reading a book, sat a skinny boy, fourteen or fifteen years old, with black hair neatly parted at the side. He wore a button-down shirt, khaki slacks and serious shoes. He glanced at the policemen for a moment, then went back to his book. Above him hung a painting of the crucifixion, except that Jesus’s face had been replaced with Che Guevara’s. Carrigan couldn’t tell whether it was meant to be ironic or not. He sat down on a chair directly opposite the Chesterfield. ‘Your husband teaches at The Camden Girls’ Boarding School?’
‘Yes, but you already know that.’
‘What’s his subject?’
‘History and Technology. How the computer changed the twentieth century.’ Valerie Hart looked up, a sudden animation in her expression. ‘Imagine the Second World War without Turing and Enigma? How do you think we would have fared? Or imagine how hot the Cold War would have been without the threat of mutually assured destruction?’
Carrigan nodded politely. ‘That’s all very fascinating, Mrs Hart, but I’d rather hear it directly from your husband.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What do you think I mean? He’s not here, in the house – do you understand that?’
‘But we’ve had surveillance throughout the night. No one saw him leave.’
Valerie Hart smiled. ‘That’s because he doesn’t use the front door. His bike’s out back and that’s how he always goes to work.’
‘Shit.’ Carrigan looked down at the coffee table, immaculate and smudgeless and so unlike his own. He checked his watch. ‘He’ll be at school by now?’
Valerie Hart smiled. ‘No. Not today. He left early because they’re taking the girls on a trip.’
‘Where to?’ Geneva asked.
‘Somewhere in the north of Scotland. They caught the train this morning.’
‘How long is he away for?’
‘Six days.’
‘Fuck.’
Carrigan heard Geneva swear under her breath. Their main suspect was on a train heading to the remote north of the country with a group of young women. It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘What is it you’re blaming him for now?’
The question surprised Carrigan and he had to fight the urge to glance over at Geneva. ‘You say that as if he’s no stranger to trouble?’
Valerie Hart’s smile turned off as if a switch had been flicked. ‘He’s a schoolteacher, for God’s sake. Don’t you have better things to do than harass people whose thinking you don’t agree with? His politics have nothing to do with you.’
‘I’m not here about his politics.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, but somehow it always comes down to that. You’d think we live in a totalitarian country the way you lot go on. He warned me this day would come.’
‘He did?’ Geneva said.
‘He said one day you’d be smashing down our door. Ever since that protest march last year. He told me all about the lists.’
Carrigan looked over at Hoffmann but could not read his expression. ‘Lists?’
‘Don’t play ignorant. There are always lists. All the meetings and protests he goes to. All the petitions he signs. He knows you guys film everyone who attends, tap phones of anyone whose thinking you don’t agree with.’
‘I’m afraid they keep all that stuff from me,’ Carrigan replied. ‘I don’t think they trust me. But I’m not here about that. I haven’t got the slightest interest in his politics.’
Valerie Hart blinked twice. ‘This isn’t about Saturday’s march?’
‘No,’ Carrigan said. ‘This is about Friday night. Do you know where your husband was between 7 p.m. and 10 p.m. last Friday night?’
‘He was right here with me.’
‘Anyone else who can verify that?’
Valerie Hart shook her head.
Carrigan thought about how close Holland Park was to Queensway and the alley where Anna had disappeared. ‘How proficient is your husband with computers?’
‘I told you, he teaches Technology.’ She looked at him and Carrigan thought he saw something new in that look, a slight stumble of recognition, the growing disorder in the weave of her past.
‘Has your husband been to Bali in the last twelve months?’
‘Bali? No, of course not.’
‘We’re going to need his computer, both laptop and home. His phones, too.’
‘His computer?’ Something struck her and she looked away. ‘Why would you want those?’
‘Because they’re in the warrant,’ Carrigan replied. ‘And because your husband’s credit card was used in an illegal transaction last night.’
‘Anyone could have done that. You read about ID theft all the time.’
‘You do, indeed,’ Carrigan said, watching Hoffmann out the corner of his eye. The profiler had sat up, suddenly animated, something in the conversation sparking connections in his brain. ‘Which is why we also checked the IP address the credit card was used from and it originated here.’
‘You’re out of your mind.’
‘These are facts, Mrs Hart. It has nothing to do with me or my mind.’ Carrigan turned to Geneva. ‘We need to stop that train. Once he’s in Scotland—’
‘Don’t bother.’ Hoffmann got up from his armchair, his eyes bright and alert. ‘It’s not the train we’re after.’ He took a couple of steps forward, briefly looking over at the boy. ‘Mrs Hart, I was wondering whether your husband’s ever taught Classics?’
‘What? No.’ The question seemed to unsettle her and Carrigan could see how the profiler’s presence was working to their advantage.
‘Perhaps . . .’ Hoffmann continued, the words trailing off. ‘Perhaps he studied it at university?’
‘He studied History. That’s why he teaches History.’
‘I understand that, Mrs Hart.’ Hoffmann looked over at the boy again. ‘But surely he’d have a basic understanding of, say, Greek mythology? The Greek pantheon? Figures like Zeus, Panoptes, Poseidon?’
‘What? I don’t understand?’
Hoffmann smiled. ‘No, I don’t believe you do, but I think your son does.’ Hoffmann turned to the far corner but the boy was already up and running.
He almost made it to his bedroom. He was opening the door when Geneva reached him. He looked up at her, something in his brain clicked and his shoulders slumped.
‘How did you know?’ Carrigan stopped Hoffmann at the top of the stairs.
‘I was watching him,’ the profiler replied. ‘His eyes weren’t moving across the page. He was only pretending to read while he was listening to us. And every time you mentioned computers, he gripped his book a little tighter. He also fits the profile better than his father does.’
Carrigan thought about it but there wasn’t much to think about, the boy’s flight had confirmed Hoffman’s theory.
‘You shouldn’t have run,’ Carrigan said as he entered the room. ‘It would have taken us a few hours to have chased up that train and work out you used your dad’s credit card and by then who knows what you might have been able to erase from your hard drive?’
‘You can’t talk to him like that.’ The woman grabbed Carrigan by the elbow. ‘How dare you?’
Carrigan pulled himself free. ‘Your son’s been up to things he shouldn’t have been up to. Maybe you ought to ask him why we’re here?’
She glanced at Geneva and sighed theatrically. ‘This is typical of you lot. Just b
arge in and bully and intimidate everyone. I’m going to call my solicitor.’
‘Please do that,’ Carrigan replied. ‘Your son will need him.’
The woman’s expression shifted as she looked over at her son. Nothing was said for a few moments. Carrigan kept his mouth shut.
‘What did you do, Hugo?’
‘Nothing, Mum. I wasn’t doing anything.’
The woman turned to Carrigan. ‘You need to leave before I get in touch with your boss.’
‘I’m not leaving without your son or his computer.’
‘He’s only fifteen, for God’s sake. What can he have possibly done?’
Carrigan turned to Hugo. ‘Show her. Show her what you’ve been up to.’ When the boy didn’t respond, Carrigan added, ‘Show her or I will.’
Hugo blinked. Carrigan waited, giving the boy a chance, and then nodded to one of the techs. The tech swiped the mouse and the monitor came to life.
‘Oh my God!’ Hugo’s mother put her hand up to her mouth as she took in the screen. It was divided into twelve squares. Each square held a live feed, three-quarters of them populated by young women staring back out. ‘What . . .?’
The girls onscreen typed, or hummed, or did their hair. Hugo tried to disappear into his chair.
Hugo’s mother frowned. ‘Tell me this has nothing to do with you?’
Hugo didn’t reply.
She turned to Carrigan. ‘You did this. You set this up, didn’t you?’
Carrigan glanced over at Hugo. ‘Perhaps you should tell your mother what username you go by, show her some of your comments?’
IV
42
‘Your suspect is fifteen?’
Branch was standing in front of the whiteboard, his bulk blocking out the photos of the missing women. A thin line of sweat glossed his forehead as he used his pipe to stab punctuation marks into the air. ‘I sincerely hope this is some sort of practical joke because, otherwise, it suggests an incompetence that is staggering and exactly the kind of thing we don’t need at this particular time.’
