‘Okay,’ he said, so offended that he forgot his nerves. ‘I gave an instruction to the firewall not to bother me with every unauthorized attempt to access the system.’
Doran looked ready to rupture something. ‘You did what?’
‘We get fifty to a hundred of these attempts every day, boss,’ Nathan explained. ‘That’s three thousand a month. It’s just me and two computer techs dealing with technical problems, spam emails, archiving, tape backups, repairs, the lot.’
‘Next you’ll be telling me you want a pay rise,’ Doran said.
Now you mention it, Nathan thought, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut.
‘I accept you can’t check every possible contact,’ Doran said. ‘But the firewall is supposed to keep hackers out, isn’t it?’
‘It recognises known hacker strategies and programmes and keeps them out.’
‘So this was an unknown programme or strategy.’
‘Maybe. It could’ve come in via an email, as a Trojan—’
‘We’ve already had this discussion,’ Doran said, his face so close that Nathan could see the dark beard hairs beginning to show on Doran’s carefully shaved cheeks. ‘Plain English only. Okay? You got that?’
He must shave twice a day, Nathan thought. Neanderthal. The insult, though unspoken, gave him courage. He decided to employ the KISS protocol — Keep It Simple, Stupid. And you can kiss my lily-white ass, Mr Doran. ‘Look at it this way,’ he said, keeping his tone even and reasonable. ‘You’ve been broken into.’
‘Well I know that, don’t I?’ Doran yelled.
‘It’s a metaphor,’ Nathan said, feeling a hot surge of answering anger, which he quickly quelled.
‘Oh,’ Doran said, ‘a metaphor . . .’ He placed a hand on his breastbone. ‘You should have said — and there was me, interrupting.’ He did fall silent, however, even went to the big cabinet behind his desk and poured himself a Jameson’s. He didn’t offer one to Nathan or Warrender.
‘An opportunistic burglar would try a door, find it open, raid the petty cash, grab a few portable items and run,’ Nathan went on. He was beginning to feel a lot better, and when he heard himself, it was more or less how he sounded in his head, instead of the messed-up crap he usually spouted when the boss got him rattled.
‘But I think this guy’s more of a planner — a strategist . . .’ He saw that he had Doran’s attention. ‘A strategist would sneak in, do a reccy, unlock a few doors, or maybe leave them on the latch, then get out and come back at his leisure to take whatever he wants.’
‘You’re telling me the little shit who’s ransacked my accounts left a few doors open so he can come back and do some more damage?’ He laughed, and Nathan and Warrender exchanged a nervous glance. ‘This just keeps getting better.’ He took a mouthful of whisky and swallowed it down with a grimace. ‘Damage limitation?’ he asked.
‘The surest way would be to shut down the internet connection and call the cops.’
Doran looked aghast, but he quickly regained control and turned to his head of security. ‘Tell him, John,’ he said.
Warrender folded his arms and stood with his feet slightly apart, as if preparing to give a lecture. ‘Safe Hands is a security firm,’ he said, addressing Nathan like he was a particularly dense woodentop on basic training. ‘If it gets out that we can’t protect our own money, how many businesses d’you think will trust us with theirs?’
Nathan swallowed. ‘Boss, this could be an inside job, or it could be someone thousands of miles away — California or the old Soviet state. They could be anywhere on the matrix.’
‘The Matrix?’ Doran left a silence during which the air seemed to hum. Then he turned away from Nathan and spoke to Warrender. ‘I’ve heard what Neo here has to say. What do you suggest?’ His voice was so tightly controlled that there was a perceptible pause between each word he uttered.
Warrender thought about it for a few seconds. ‘Find out exactly which areas have been breached, change the passwords on all accounts — from yours, right down to the receptionist’s email account. Close any back doors he’s left open and trace the little shit.’
‘Can you do that, Nathan?’
There was no doubt in Nathan’s mind that if he couldn’t, Doran would have no qualms about replacing him. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but not in that order.’ He saw a look pass between Doran and his head of security. ‘We have to trace him first. If I lock him out, he’s gonna know, and he’ll shut down and ship out. He’s not that sophisticated — he’s used a pretty obvious exploit to get in—’
‘“Exploit”. Is that university speak for the bloody gaping hole in my computer security? And if it’s that obvious, how come you didn’t spot it?’
Nathan smelt the whisky, fresh and strong on Doran’s breath. ‘There are sixty-five thousand ways in, if you know what you’re looking for,’ he said. ‘But every time one computer connects with another, they exchange addresses in the form of a code number. He’s probably tried to hide his, but my guess is this guy is relatively new to the game, so he won’t have done it very well. I can trace him, give you a physical location in minutes.’
‘A street name and number?’ Doran said, putting his drink down and looking at Nathan with new respect.
Nathan shook his head. ‘A city.’
‘Fuck.’ Doran snatched up his drink again and sat in the chair behind his desk.
‘The point is,’ Nathan went on, determined to finish. ‘If I have his IP address — his computer code number,’ he corrected quickly. ‘I can hack his computer. That means I can get into every file, folder and document on his system. Like walking into an office with the keys to all the filing cabinets.’
‘Can you get my money back?’
‘Maybe. If he’s used internet banking, I can try to crack his username and password.’
‘Never mind.’ Doran ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Find him for me, I’ll beat the password out of him myself.’
Nathan didn’t doubt it. ‘If he’s left any data on file with a home address on it — an email, a letter, anything — I’ll find him.’
‘You’d better,’ Doran said.
Chapter Three
‘God!’ Sara Geddes slammed into the house, elbowing the front door closed against a gust of icy spring rain. ‘Mr Justice Partington-flaming-Jessop,’ she exclaimed, shedding her briefcase, shoulder bag, gloves, scarf and overcoat in a clatter of noise. ‘I could strangle him with his own sash, I swear!’ In court, Sara was everything that could be expected of a court clerk, respectful, efficient, discreet, low-key; but that was a persona she shed with her dark suit and sensible shoes every evening.
The coffee machine gurgled in the kitchen and the house was filled with the nutty aroma of coffee. She kicked off her shoes, wriggled her toes into the carpet pile, and listened. Faintly, from Megan’s office at the front of the house, she heard music: Fountains of Wayne — Megan’s current musical passion. Sara padded up the stairs, talking all the way. ‘Four hours to empanel a jury, two more discussing evidence the defence weren’t even intending to contest; then he starts the hearing at three-thirty, only to adjourn after barely half an hour. And he wants me to—’
She popped her head around the open door of Megan’s office, her fair hair swinging across her face. The room was empty. The band played ‘Hey, Julie’, a song about an office worker with a tyrannical boss. ‘How appropriate,’ she muttered. Megan’s desktop computer monitor displayed a pretty good imitation of a tropical fish tank; the only other furniture was a sofa bed and a bookcase containing a few computer manuals and paperbacks, science fiction and technothrillers, mostly.
Sara turned and looked over her shoulder as if she might have passed her friend on the landing without noticing.
‘Megan?’ She knocked at Megan’s bedroom door and eased it open, ready to apologise if she was intruding. The bed was made, the room neat and rather blank and bare-looking, as it always was.
The bathroom. Sara walked down the
landing. The door stood open and the room was cool and dry; it looked like it hadn’t been used since that morning. She probably stepped out for some air, Sara told herself. All the same, she felt a shiver of apprehension. The band moved on to a slower, more mournful tune, as Sara hurried downstairs and rummaged through her shoulder bag for her mobile phone, pressing the speed-dial number for Megan’s phone. A recorded message told her that it was switched off. She walked through to the kitchen, hoping to find a note on the kitchen table: perhaps she’d got a lucky break on the story she was researching and had to go out at short notice. The coffeemaker glugged, hissed and spat, then fell silent.
Sara stared at the machine. Freshly brewed for when she got home; it had become a kind of tradition during the six months Megan had rented rooms from her: coffee, chat, then a glass of wine while they made dinner together.
A fresh gust of sleety rain blatted the house, rattling the kitchen door. It swung open, letting in a draught of cold air. Sara steadied herself against a falling sensation. Megan was gone.
Chapter Four
Detective Sergeant Lee Foster was in a good mood. The sun was shining — at least for now. He had a clear desk and a clear head, and all seemed right with the world. He strolled down the corridor, whistling, planning the next evening’s enjoyment.
Detective Chief Inspector Jeff Rickman opened his office door as Foster passed, and invited him in. He was a little more lined and a half-stone lighter than the previous autumn, but essentially the same: quiet, a thinker, an observer.
‘You seem cheery,’ Rickman said, motioning Foster to a chair.
Foster ignored it, folding his arms and leaning against the filing cabinet crammed in one corner of the room instead. ‘Got lucky last night,’ he said, grinning widely.
Rickman looked surprised. ‘Hart?’ Naomi Hart’s determined rejection was a source of real pain to Foster, though he would never admit it.
Foster blew air between his lips. ‘My manhood would shrivel and drop off waiting for the Ice Queen to come to her senses.’ He pronounced ‘my’ as ‘me’, and his scouse accent gave a rasp to his voice. ‘Now that new civilian computer operator is a much warmer prospect—’
‘Spare me the details,’ Rickman picked up a pink flimsy from his desk and handed it to Foster.
‘MisPer?’ he read. ‘What d’you want me to do with this?’
‘I want you to investigate it, Lee,’ Rickman said.
‘She’s only been missing fourteen hours,’ Foster said. ‘Maybe I wasn’t the only one got lucky last night. She probably just stayed the night.’
Rickman traced the line of his eyebrow, pausing at a scar that bisected it. ‘You really don’t think of anything else, do you?’
Foster looked hurt. ‘Fair dooz, now,’ he said. ‘There’s footy and ale — I care about them an’ all.’
‘Megan Ward,’ Rickman said. ‘Twenty-five. Freelance investigative journalist. Tenant of the informant, Sara Geddes, a highly valued official at Liverpool Crown Court. The DCS has already had a call from Justice Partington-Jessop; apparently Miss Geddes is distraught — didn’t turn up for work this morning.’
Foster rolled his eyes. ‘So we’re gonna waste resources looking for some soppy bint who’ll turn up by teatime with a daft grin on her face, just because Justice Hyphen-Hyphen can’t get a decent brew?’
‘You can’t judge everyone by your standards, Lee,’ Rickman said, frowning, though his hazel eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘Miss Geddes says that Megan Ward was being stalked.’
Foster took a breath. ‘Okay, but you could’ve told me that before.’ Since the inception of the Protection From Harassment Act in 1997, accusations of stalking were taken far more seriously. He folded the slip and pocketed it.
‘It’s further complicated by the fact that Miss Geddes says that the police ignored her tenant’s concerns.’
‘Has she put in a formal complaint?’ Foster asked.
‘Keith Norton’s dealing with it. Miss Geddes came in to give a statement earlier,’ Rickman said. ‘I had a quick word with her, and she’s prepared to allow an informal resolution provided the investigation is given due weight from here on in.’ Rickman’s face bore a few battle scars, and his nose had once been broken and never properly reset; at six-four, he towered over some of the newer intake. The hard men of Liverpool’s criminal world were intimidated by him, but women responded warmly to Rickman, reassured by his aura of strength and gentleness. He had laid out the options to Miss Geddes and she had trusted him to do what was necessary to make sure nothing like it happened again.
‘Take Naomi Hart with you,’ Rickman said.
Foster was already out of the door, but he took two steps back, his face a complex mixture of horror and incredulity. ‘You’re winding me up, right?’
‘Stalking, missing woman — Hart might be able to get more out of Miss Geddes than you.’
‘Meaning I’m tactless.’
‘You won’t get any argument here.’ Rickman smiled. ‘But in this instance, it’s insurance. Investigative journalists have been known to pull the odd stunt. You need to be aware that this could be a journo in search of a story: “police insensitivity to stalker victim”, that kind of thing.’
‘Well, okay,’ Foster said with a martyred look. ‘I’ll take Naomi. But she’s gonna smell it on me.’
Rickman raised his eyebrows. ‘You know, it’s a mystery how Hart could ever turn you down — a man of your obvious sophistication . . .’
Foster walked away laughing.
* * *
DC Hart was on her way back to base after attending a house burglary when she got the message. She knocked at Foster’s door as soon as she got in.
Foster opened it with one hand, holding the phone with the other. He had his feet on his desk and a notepad in his lap. He waved her inside, still talking into the receiver. His ‘office’ was a small airless box, but Foster had a fan whirring quietly in one corner.
He finished his call and hung up.
‘All right, Naomi?’
She noted his appreciative look. Hart was a tall, confident blonde, and men noticed her; she was aware of it but didn’t dwell on it — it wasn’t her problem. ‘Aren’t you cold?’ she asked. She’d had to dash across the car park in a sudden hail shower.
‘I’m the outdoorsy type,’ Foster said. ‘I like some air movement. And anyway, it gets fuggy in here.’
Hart found that hard to believe. Foster looked as fresh as usual, his dark hair glossy and sculpted into fashionable spikes. He was smooth-shaven and he smelled wonderful. She couldn’t quite identify the cologne — Cool Water, maybe — light and not too spicy.
‘Thanks for coming straight up,’ he said.
‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘Probably a waste of time and energy,’ Foster said. ‘But it’s the chance of getting the odd interesting bone to gnaw at makes the job bearable.’
‘Never had you pegged as a philosopher,’ Hart said.
‘I’m full of surprises, me.’ He tore a leaf from his notebook, swung his feet off the desk and stood up, folding the piece of paper and slipping it in his pocket, next to the pink slip. Foster was lean and well-muscled, though not exceptionally tall; in her flat work shoes, Hart met him eye to eye. His were a searing cobalt, and many had fallen for his striking baby-blues, but his secret weapon was what women personnel called The Smile. He used it now, though Hart had proved immune for so long that she wondered why he persisted.
‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Naomi,’ he said, reading her mind.
‘That’s kind of comforting,’ Naomi said. The corner of her mouth twitched.
Foster shot her a sharp look, but she caught an amused twinkle behind it. ‘The main thing is, the boss doesn’t think it’s a waste of time,’ he said.
‘Who is the SIO?’ Hart asked. ‘DCI Hinchcliffe?’
‘DCI Rickman,’ Foster said, holding the door for her.
‘Rickman?’
He let
the door swing shut again. ‘What does that mean, “Rickman”?’
Hart heard the note of warning in his voice. This was the time to be careful around Foster. His loyalty to Rickman had achieved almost mythical status, and rumours abounded as to the reasons behind it.
‘Nothing, Sarge,’ she said, unconsciously pulling herself up to her full height. ‘I just didn’t think he was working’ — she shrugged, embarrassed — ‘proper investigations,’ she finished feebly.
‘Think he’s not up to the job, Hart?’
‘I never said that.’
‘But the rumour mill has been running at full production, yeah?’ The crux of most of the gossip was that Rickman had lost it since the previous autumn — and who could blame him if he had? ‘What version have you heard?’ he asked.
Hart avoided his eye. ‘Just that he was doing a lot of committee work — planning and advisory stuff.’
‘Is that all?’ Foster said, ‘Haven’t you heard the one where he was suspended from duty after a drunken brawl with a superior officer?’
Hart flushed, wishing to God she’d kept her big mouth shut.
‘How about the latest? He’s been shoved sideways into education and school liaison?’
‘Sarge, I didn’t mean to—’
‘To what, Naomi? Kick a man when he’s down?’
‘Look,’ Hart said. ‘I’ve got nothing against Rickman. I liked working with him. He’s a good boss, but you’ve got to admit he hasn’t been around much since—’ She’d almost said, ‘Since Grace was murdered’, but changed it to: ‘Since what happened. I didn’t expect to hear his name. That’s all.’
Foster didn’t speak for half a minute, and Hart felt nervous sweat on her forehead. When Foster finally broke the silence, it seemed he had decided that she was telling the truth. He nodded to himself, then said, ‘He took personal leave. Now he’s back. That’s all anyone needs to know.’
On the rare occasions that Foster was serious, Hart found herself liking him. Really liking him — not just as a colleague, but as a man.
She met his gaze. ‘Understood,’ she said.
SEE HER DIE a totally gripping mystery thriller (Detective Jeff Rickman Book 2) Page 2