The Career Killer

by Ali Gunn

  ‘Sit down then, Detective Mabey. Tell me what it is I can do to get rid of you. If it is in my power then I shall consider granting it.’

  How magnanimous of him, Elsie thought as she sat down, to consider what she had to say. He looked as pleased as punch as if he had handed over the keys to the kingdom.

  ‘Your app,’ Elsie said. ‘How many users has it got?’ This wasn’t something they advertised online. Knowing the total user count would help establish whether the victims’ use of the app could be mere coincidence.

  ‘In London? Just over a million. Six hundred thousand women, five hundred thousand men. All of them under forty – our cut off age – and none under eighteen of course.’

  Elsie knew there were about eight million Londoners, and a third of them were in that eighteen to forty age bracket. Assuming there weren’t too many fake accounts, Adelrick had managed to get almost half of all the eligible Londoners to use his app.

  ‘How do you stop under eighteens using the app?’

  ‘You ought to know. You’re one of our users, aren’t you? We ask everyone for a passport or driving licence scan. They’re not easy to fake.’

  ‘Do you run the identifiers?’ Elsie asked. Both passports and driving licences had unique identifiers printed on them to prevent fraud.

  ‘No,’ Adelrick said. ‘We check each document by eye much like a bouncer at a club would. Our goal isn’t to make it impossible to cheat. We simply aim to make cheating too hard to bother trying. That is more than we’re required to do, you know.’

  He was keen – too keen – to suggest that everything was above board. He desperately wanted to come across as offended by the mere possibility of impropriety.

  ‘So, you’ve never had any cases of age fraud? Or gender fraud?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘No comment? Sounds guilty to me.’

  He poked a finger in her direction. ‘You’re here as my guest, Detective Mabey. I suggest you keep this cordial.’

  ‘I am, Mr Melrose. Tell me something else then. How do you get more women than men on your app? Aren’t these things usually male-dominated?’

  ‘It’s true. Like clubs, a sausage fest will ensue without proper rules. We allow women six months of free membership. That helps us keep the ratios working well.’

  Not discriminatory at all. ‘Is that legal?’ Elsie asked.

  Adelrick shifted in his seat uncomfortably. ‘I’m not a lawyer, Detective Mabey.’

  ‘But you have a lawyer.’

  ‘This is very tiresome,’ Adelrick said. ‘If you have no more real questions...’

  ‘I need to know who my victims met on your app.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Want me to come back with a warrant?’

  ‘Feel free. It won’t do you any good.’

  ‘You think you’re above the law?’ Elsie made a mental note to check where Better Future Media were incorporated in case that had any bearing on getting a warrant.

  ‘No, I just don’t have the information you’re asking for. Everything is stored on the client end. We only hold heavily encrypted data and I don’t have the decryption keys. If you want to know who your victims were talking to, you simply need to look at their mobile phones.’

  ‘Then I’ll do just that.’

  Chapter 31: Delegation or Derogation

  ‘Matthews! Oi, Matthews!’ Stryker shouted. He was running at a clip down the main corridor of the fourth floor of New Scotland Yard. Staff lurched out of his way to avoid the lumbering behemoth as he bore down on Matthews. He screeched to a halt before her and doubled over, winded and breathless.

  ‘What is it, Seb?’

  ‘I... have... to go... to court. Need... favour.’

  ‘Sure,’ Matthews said. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘This,’ he thrust an evidence bag at her, ‘is Leonella Boileau’s iPhone. I’ve spoken to Ian down in cyber. He says we should just guess the pin. It’s only four digits ’cause it’s an older one.’

  ‘Four digits... Seb, that’s ten thousand combinations.’

  ‘Err, yep, about that. Must dash. Got to be in court in Yorkshire at two and I’m cutting it fine as it is.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll do it.’

  He beamed. ‘Great. One more thing, we’ve got a fella called Vito down in the cells that was about to blab about our first vic on national TV. See what you can do about holding him for as long as possible.’

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Possession – but there’s no chance of success. We just need time to find out if his claims have any merit. Look, I’ve really gotta run. Thanks again!’

  Matthews turned to the phone. There were exactly ten thousand combinations and it would take weeks if not months to enter them one at a time. Before she could say anything, he sprinted back the way he’d come, leaping a backpack that had been left halfway along the hall with surprising agility.

  She held the evidence bag up. It was an ancient iPhone, the kind that got slammed in the press for struggling to make phone calls as a result of the way the antenna had been designed. The screen showed that someone had already tried to break in. The chain of custody log affixed to the outside of the evidence bag read that it was currently in the possession of DI Sebastian Stryker. Matthews quickly rectified that defect, all the while kicking herself that she let Stryker run off without doing it properly. She’d have to get him to countersign the log later to confirm he’d handed it over.

  What Stryker wanted was a miracle. Surely Ian hadn’t really suggested that they enter every single possible permutation manually? Maybe Stryker had got it wrong in his rush to dash off to Yorkshire.

  Ian was only two minutes away. There was no harm in checking with him before she bricked the mobile and lost any evidence that it might contain. She found the department easily before realising that she had no idea which man was Ian. They all looked the same to her. It was as if every member of the Digital, Cyber and Communication Department had been manufactured somewhere like a toy doll, each with sallow waxy skin, greasy hair and the posture of Quasimodo. Each stared gormlessly at an oversized monitor, earphones on and oblivious to her presence. The room hummed with electricity, hard drives spinning and neon lights glaring in the cavernous basement. It was surprisingly warm which didn’t help with the aroma that was a combination of sweaty musk and pot noodles.

  Matthews tapped the nearest man on the shoulder and gestured for him to remove his headphones. He did so slowly as if reluctant to speak to her.

  ‘Ian?’

  A look of relief washed over him. ‘No.’ He pointed over his shoulder at the very back of the room at a man who was somewhat older, more weatherworn, and yet still wore a Superman T-shirt. Matthews stalked over to him and called out his name loudly.

  ‘Do... do I know you?’ Ian asked.

  ‘DS Matthews,’ she said. ‘You know my colleague, DI Stryker.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, we’re tight, we are. I think we’re going for a beer tonight.’

  ‘Are you now?’ Matthews asked. ‘That’s... interesting. Anyway, Stryker said that you know about phones.’

  ‘I do, yeah. This about the one Stryker bricked?’

  Matthews blinked. Ian had to be confused. She had the phone from Stryker in her hand, and it wasn’t bricked.

  ‘Huh? Do you mean this phone?’

  ‘Err...’ Ian looked around as if someone else in the department might come to his rescue. ‘Uh... yeah?’

  ‘You don’t sound sure,’ Matthews said. ‘This phone isn’t bricked. What did Stryker do?’ Please tell me that he didn’t brick Layla Morgan’s phone.

  ‘Stryker? Oh, I thought you said Biker. Different case. What can I help with Miss Matthews?’

  ‘Like I said, I need to get into this phone. How do I do that without bricking it?’

  Ian made a great show of looking at the phone as if he’d never seen it before. ‘It’s an older iPhone.’

  ‘Wow, who’d have known that?’ Matthews s
aid, her impatience bubbling to the fore. ‘Did it take you years of working in digital forensics to learn how to read the back of a mobile phone?’

  It was etched right there on the back, complete with model number. Leonella Boileau had never upgraded past her now-ancient iPhone 4s.

  ‘Alright, no need to be narky, DS Matthews. You’re asking me to help you with a drudge task here. I could make you fill out a proper requisition form, you know, do it all by the book.’

  He had a point.

  ‘Just tell me how to get in.’

  ‘The Darth Null method,’ he said as if this explained everything.

  ‘Right. And that would be...?’

  ‘Usually, these phones make you wait between attempts. Every time you get the pin code wrong, the lockout period gets longer and longer until you’re waiting forever. If you try too many times, the newest phones can be set to self-delete all the data they contain to prevent an intruder just guessing pin codes forever.’

  ‘Like Stryker did with Layla’s phone.’

  ‘Exactly. But... Shit!’

  ‘You’d already given the game away, Ian. Nice try covering up though. Did you forget that I’m a detective?’

  ‘Yeah, a new one,’ Ian muttered.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.’

  ‘Look, he’s my mate, okay? He should have brought me the phone – like you did – but he tried guessing.’

  ‘And then left the older phone with me so if the same happened again, I’d be the one to take the fall. What a friend you’ve got there, Ian.’

  He hung his head. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Then make it right. How do we open this phone?

  ‘What we want to do is enter wrong PINs until it says “disabled for one minute”. The next lockout increment is five minutes. The moment that shows, we need to hard power off the iPhone.’

  ‘What’s a hard power off?’

  ‘So, you know you usually hit the power button, and then slide the red slider over to shut down? That’s a soft power off. We’re going to press and hold the power button and the home button at the same time to force the phone to reset.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We’re going to wait until the Apple logo appears during the reboot, release the power button but carry on holding the home button for about four seconds more. If we do it right, the password screen will reappear but the lockout timer will be gone. Nifty, eh?’

  ‘Very. How on earth did someone figure this out?’

  Ian shrugged. ‘Who knows? It’s the internet. Some people have waay too much time on their hands.’

  ‘Then do it.’

  She handed him the phone. He looked at her nervously but proceeded with the Darth Null method nonetheless.

  ‘Here goes nothing,’ he said as the logo flashed up. ‘One, two, three, four.’

  On four, he released the home button and allowed the iPhone to boot up.

  ‘Yes!’ He beamed at her. It had worked.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now you can try as many times as you like. It won’t lock you out for good.’

  ‘But I still have to try every combination under the sun until I can get in?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  Chapter 32: The Serious Organised Crime Agency

  In the half an hour it took for Knox to return to New Scotland Yard, her contact at the Serious Organised Crime Agency had already commandeered the largest available incident room which was now packed to the rafters with a broad mix of faces, many of them old friends, from SOCA and Forensics, as well as other support personnel. Dozens of chairs faced the front of the room where a projector had been set up with “Operation Broken Chains” staring down at the audience. A beanpole thin man that Knox knew well stood behind a tiny lectern. At the sight of Knox, he smiled and mouthed hi then waved for silence. She settled in at the back of the room, stunned at how many of the Met’s finest had been assembled at half an hour’s notice and over lunch no less.

  Detective Chief Inspector Oliver “Ozzy” Calder waited

  ‘As you all know, the fight against slavery is never-ending. As soon as we close down one trafficking group, another pops up to take its place. There is simply too much money to be made trafficking in human misery.’

  A wiry younger man piped up from the other side of the room. ‘Cheerful way to start, boss!’

  Knox took an immediate dislike to him. He was younger than her, in his late twenties at most. He still had a boyish face with dirty blond hair that flared out which contrasted against a weak, hairless, chin that wobbled as he spoke. It made him look a bit like he had a tousled mop for hair.

  ‘Quiet down, Yohann,’ Ozzy said. ‘We’re not in the business of giving up. This morning Detective Inspector Knox—’

  News hadn’t spread to SOCA of her demotion then. Knox gingerly raised her hand, wondering why on earth she felt the need to be quite so forward. She was acutely aware when the entire room turned its focus on her, dozens of friends and colleagues holding their breath to hear her mumble, ‘Detective Sergeant actually.’

  Ozzy’s eyes narrowed just for a moment, a mixture of confusion and suspicion.

  ‘As I was saying, DS Knox made contact with a woman this morning she suspects to have been trafficked from Thailand as part of an unrelated murder inquiry. We’ve been watching several nail bars including the Katz Klawz nail bar for the better part of a year now and this is our first solid lead.’

  ‘Why haven’t we made any progress in a year?’ It was Yohann again. From the exasperated looks on the faces of the rest of the team, Yohann made a habit of interrupting.

  ‘Simple,’ Ozzy said. ‘They seem to use a cell structure much like a terrorist organisation. Each nail bar is run by an older woman – usually herself a victim of trafficking – and that puts a layer between us and the real criminals. As soon as we go in, they cut and run.

  Yohann piped up once more. ‘Where are they trafficking the victims from? The usual?’

  By usual, he meant Asia and Eastern Europe. The overwhelming proportion of trafficking victims originated from some of the poorest countries the world: Vietnam, Cambodia, and Thailand. Traffickers lured them with the promise of a better life, seized their passports and then press-ganged them into service. The “lucky” ones endured a life of domestic servitude or back-breaking days toiling in fields picking fruit. The unlucky ones ended up in brothels.

  ‘Is it just recruitment driven?’ Knox asked. As well as false promises of employment, traffickers often forcibly abducted their victims, bought them from their families and even seduced them. The last was the hardest to track. So-called “Romeo Pimps” wooed their victims with a surge of romantic affection, grooming their victims so slowly that they were the proverbial frog being boiled alive. Before the victims even knew it, they were isolated from their friends and family, trafficked around the globe, and then forced into prostitution.

  ‘We think this is largely Triad-led,’ Ozzy said. ‘We know they tend to stick to job adverts because it’s low hanging fruit. The poorest victims willingly sign up to be smuggled into Europe or the USA. They often pay for the privilege. Our colleagues on the continent have been trying – and failing – to secure the most porous borders into the Schengen Zone.’

  ‘What’s the plan, boss?’ Yohann asked.

  Ozzy paused and Knox knew he was about to say something unpopular. ‘We have to use the victim Knox met with as bait.’

  Hush fell upon the room. It was the logical way forward but it meant putting a known victim in danger.

  Knox cleared her throat. ‘My victim intimated that she was being forced to work multiple jobs. Her day job is for Katz Klawz but she specifically said her second job was “working in Soho”. I think we all know what that means.’

  Prostitution. The biggest driver of all human trafficking. Victims, almost always women, were dragged to London to service the appetites of London’s deviants. The gangs could charge upwards of a hundred pounds per client with each w
oman seeing dozens of clients every night.

  ‘The plan is simple. Knox is going to return to Katz Klawz for her follow-up appointment to have her nails decorated. When her victim moves onto Soho, we’re going to follow. Yohann, you’ll be posing as a walk-up client.’

  ‘Wired?’

  ‘No,’ Ozzy said firmly. ‘There’s no point building a case against these victims. I want the handlers. We don’t want a tiny win rescuing a handful of women. We want to bring in the madams running the brothels and get them to turn Queen’s Evidence. Today isn’t about convictions, it’s about getting the information we need to stem the flood of victims into the UK.’

  ‘No pressure then,’ Yohann said.

  ‘Between now and then, I need comms watching mobile phone activity in the area. Ian, I want you mapping all the cars that go past the ANPR cameras around Katz Klawz. Cross reference that against the ANPR data from previous surveillance efforts, please. Anything that pops up, let me know.’

  Ian had slunk down so far in his chair that Knox hadn’t even noticed him in the third row from the front. Once again, Knox was struck by how quickly Ozzy had assembled such a diverse group with apparent ease. Was this what it was like working for a competent chief inspector?

  At Ozzy’s request, Ian straightened up and nodded. ‘On it like Fairbanks on chocolate cake.’

  ‘DS Knox, my office, please. We need to get you prepped. Any questions? No? Get to it then people. Time is of the essence.’

  Chapter 33: A Reluctant Return

  It had to be any mother’s worst nightmare. Children were bound to have some secrets. Elsie knew that if she ever had a daughter, she’d be happy to remain in blissful ignorance. She’d never told her dad half the things that she got up to. It wouldn’t have done him any good to know. Perhaps it would have been different if Mam were still alive. Perhaps she’d have listened to Elsie’s stories of boys, sex, bunking off classes at college and sipping vodka and coke in the park. They were the sort of follies that practically everyone enjoyed. The only advice Elsie would ever dish out to a teenager would be practical – wear a condom, don’t drink and drive, and drugs are addictive so if you have to partake stick to the marijuana.