by N Williams
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Rachel, the woman who was killed, sent me a disc with some password protected files. She also included a video of herself. She looked really scared and told me not to involve the police. I wondered whether you’d be able to crack it open for me?’
‘Depends on the complexity of the system she used. Most basic encryptions can be broken remarkably easily. Many people don’t realise that the file encryption key isn’t even needed if you copy the file from an NTFS system onto a FAT32, the system does it without being prompted. So the whole thing becomes redundant. There are ways to prevent this from happening but, unless this friend of yours is a techie, I would doubt that she’s done that. There’s only one way to find out. Come up and bring the thing with you. I’ll have a look at it.’
After the call, Zac plugged in the earphones of his iPod and pressed random select.
Why would anyone want to kill Rachel? Could the contents of the disc be the reason for her death? There were so many questions, and the only thing he could assume was that the disc was connected in some way. It had to be.
CHAPTER 13
Zac drove his X-type along the winding country road, turned off to the right and down over the little river bridge. The road rose up along the side of the valley to what was left of the old village of Penwyllt. The sun was beginning to slip down into the base of the broad u-shaped valley. Little glints of light sparkled off the buildings littering the valley floor nearly thirty miles away. That was the only good thing about living up here that he could think of; you could walk around the village to several vantage points where you could see for miles in all directions. But the place was desolate. The once thriving community of quarry workers had dwindled to a handful of isolated cottages.
He had been born and brought up just a few miles down the road and knew the area well. This was all part of his childhood stomping ground. The steep hill was particularly exciting when hurtling down on a Chopper pedal cycle at breakneck speed, weaving between the quarry lorries trundling up and down the narrow road.
The newspaper report of the murders of Ben Perkins and Rachel had been gruesome. The street below Rachel’s house was still buzzing with police activity. A tent had been erected over the place her body had been found. No one was saying anything at the scene other than that the officer in charge was up at Ben’s cottage. It was now nearly three days since the killings and Zac was surprised the scene hadn’t been cleared already.
He decided to take a run up to the old man’s place. It had been years since he’d been there, and he wondered if he’d still recognise the house, but then there hadn’t been much of a village left the last time he’d been there. It was unlikely that the dying village had been resurrected after all these years.
He slowed the car as the road rose to the top of the valley and glanced to his left. Nestled in the trees way below was Craig-Y-Nos Castle. Zac’s grandmother had died there forty years before. It had been a hospital until the mid-eighties.
He stopped, double checked the handbrake and walked around to the road’s edge. His grandmother had died of cancer. She had died before he had the chance to visit her in hospital, something he still felt guilty about. He had been out enjoying himself on a mountain adventure the day she died.
Hands on hips, he scanned the picturesque valley and breathed in the fresh air. The upper valley had been a fantastic place to grow up, clean air and relaxed pace of life. It was even a good place for casual work. The show-caves, just a little further along the main road north of the castle, had also played a significant part in his teens, providing pocket money through school for his efforts as a tour guide during the holidays. This was an area that held many memories. He had forgotten how much he had loved the place.
Ben’s cottage was only a hundred yards or so further up the hill, and Zac decided to walk the rest of the way. He could see a cluster of white police vehicles outside the first house on the left and a large grey Mercedes saloon was parked near the old abandoned railway station further along.
Zac had only been to Ben's home once. He had called up to see him shortly after he and Rachel broke up. He had liked old Ben, and he had the impression the feeling was mutual. Back in the early eighties Ben had looked like an old sea dog, a bit like Del Boy’s uncle Albert - without the medals and the salty tales. He had been one of those people who had always seemed to look old.
Blue and white diagonal-striped tape had been tied to a patrol car on one side of the road and a lamppost near the front gate of the little cottage.
A uniformed officer stepped from behind the car and held up his hand. ‘Sorry, sir! You’ll have to turn around and go back the way you came.’
Zac stopped and reached inside his coat for a warrant card, which was no longer there.
‘Sorry, I’m a friend of the family,’ Zac explained. ‘Ben was my girlfriend’s uncle.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but I still can’t let you through. If you’ll wait here just a second, I’ll call my superior...’
‘You call your SUPERVISOR,’ Zac corrected. ‘He’s not your superior.’
The young officer smiled and straightened his back and shoulders. ‘Won’t be long, sir.’
The officer walked quickly over to the front door of the cottage and leaned through the open door. He quickly stood aside as a small stocky man with short cropped dark hair and wearing a white crime scene coverall walked out of the house towards Zac.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Nigel Boyce. I understand you knew Mr Perkins?’
Zac held out his hand, but the short man ignored the offer and folded his arms across his chest.
‘I did know him, yes...many years ago,’ Zac added. He didn't want this officious-looking policeman thinking he was directly connected to him at the time of the murder. That could raise too many questions. ‘He was the uncle of an old girlfriend who was killed in Ystradgynlais.’
The short man straightened. ‘You mean the curator of the Cardiff museum?’ The man took a small black cover book from his pocket and pulled the top off his pen with his teeth, keeping his eyes fixed on Zac.
‘When did you last see Mr Perkins and Ms Powell?’
‘Probably thirty years ago.’
The detective stopped writing and looked straight into Zac's eyes. Whatever he saw there was enough for him to realise he was wasting his time.
‘I'd better take some details off you, just in case I need to speak to you again...not that you're going to be much use to me. What’s your name?’
Zac felt like telling the guy to ease up with the attitude but thought better of it. He was only doing his job.
‘My name is Zac Woods. I recently retired as an inspector from the South Wales Police.’
The short man bristled. ‘I see. Well, as you’re not a direct relative of Mr Perkins I’m not actually at liberty to say anything at the moment, not until we contact his relatives.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll be wasting your time. Ben didn’t have any other family. Look, I’m probably the nearest thing to a friend or relative. Is there anything you can tell me? I know the score, but I'd be grateful for anything...’
Boyce considered his options for a moment before deciding there was no harm in telling Zac the little he already knew; facts that were probably going to be common knowledge soon anyway. ‘We’ve had reports of a helicopter in the area at the time Mr Perkins was shot into little pieces. It wasn’t a pretty sight.’
‘That’s dreadful! Poor Ben.’
‘Yeah. It's like some sort of rubbish movie. Why would some professional killers blow an old handyman away? This is South Wales, not South London or the Bronx.'
Zac shook his head. ‘It just doesn't make sense.’
‘Well I’d be grateful if you’d keep all this to yourself, Mr Woods.’ Boyce handed Zac a small printed card and offered his hand. Zac accepted the gesture and began to walk back down the hill to his car.
‘Ahem! Excuse me,’ a voice behind him called.
&nbs
p; Zac turned to see a smartly dressed man close the driver’s door of the Mercedes and walk down the hill towards him, arm held up in greeting.
‘Excuse me. I’m sorry, but I wonder if you can help me?’
Zac waited for the man to reach him.
‘My name is Farrell. Bradley Farrell. I’m the manager of Craig-Y-Nos castle. Ben worked for me as a handyman.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘This is a dreadful business.’
Zac nodded.
‘I saw you talking to the police. They wouldn’t tell me anything about what happened,’ he continued, his expression expectant - fishing for information.
‘They’re always a bit reluctant to speak to anyone at the scene,’ agreed Zac.
‘Do you know what happened?’
‘I don’t honestly know anything other than the fact Ben was shot,’ said Zac.
The man looked shocked and nodded his head. ‘I head that much on the news. My God! Why would anyone want to shoot Ben?’
‘Good question.’
‘Are you a friend or relative?’
Zac shook his head. ‘No, I was a close friend of his niece.’
‘I see. Terrible business.’
Farrell fished a business card out of a wallet stuffed with bank notes. ‘If I can be of any help, please don’t hesitate to call. If you’d pass on my commiserations to his niece and tell her that I’d be glad to help out with the funeral costs, I know Ben was struggling to make ends meet. That’s why I had him help with the renovations. He was a hard worker for his age.’
‘Thank you! That’s remarkably generous of you. I don’t know who’ll be expected to make arrangements. His niece was also murdered pretty much within an hour of Ben.’
Bradley Farrell looked horrified. ‘The other murder? I guessed they must be connected. What’s going on?’
Zac tucked the business card into his back pocket. ‘I wish I knew.’
CHAPTER 14
The museum had been closed an hour and Peter Bernard was checking his email in his office at the top of the building when two men burst into his office.
‘Excuse me! This is private! You’re not allow...’ the sight of the handgun stopped Bernard mid-rant.
The hard steel of the barrel pressed into his temple whilst the big man grinned like some sick demented Cheshire cat.
‘You will ring Sally Walker and ask her to come to the office immediately. You will explain to her that her job will be in jeopardy if she doesn’t bring in the items she was sent by Ms Powell. Do you understand me?’ There was no mistaking the menace.
Bernard was amazed at how calm he had sounded on the phone; his life had depended on it. No sooner had he made the call and hung up, than tape was slapped onto his mouth, and a sudden and excruciating pain in his chest took his breath away. In a little under ten seconds, Bernard was dead.
*
Bourse smiled at the sight of the museum man in his death throes. It had saved them the bother of doing it; this was far less messy than the method he had in mind.
The two men had waited in the director's office for over two hours. They were well prepared with a flask of coffee and egg and cress sandwiches. Bourse liked to be comfortable.
‘Would you like one?’ Tourrain offered.
Bernard was still taped to a chair. Another strip of duct tape had been stuck across his mouth, and the smaller man had thought it amusing to write "Oh Shit" in marker pen across the dead man's mouth. Bernard’s lifeless eyes were still staring in terror at the office door where the two men were expecting Sally Walker to enter at any moment.
*
Sally Walker had taken the call from the acting director of the museum, Peter Bernard, to bring all of Rachel’s research notes for him to review.
It was Sally’s day off. Each member of staff had a day off in the week to make up for working on the weekends, and Sally had chosen a Wednesday, mainly because Wednesdays were the days that most schools came to the museum, and the chaos was maddening.
She reluctantly agreed to meet Bernard in Rachel’s - his office and gathered the bits and pieces of Rachel’s research she had already collected. He’d get everything except the disc. Her friend’s instructions had been clear.
She couldn’t help wondering if Bernard knew about the disc? Was the disc the item Bernard was after? It just seemed strange, a weird coincidence perhaps.
Sally suddenly felt belligerent. Fuck Bernard! She wasn’t going in on her day off. She made a call to Olive, the research student on attachment to the museum. She had most of the work they had been ‘officially’ working on over the last month or so, anyway.
She briefed Olive over the phone.
Glad to help, she didn’t like Bernard and knew that he worked until ten thirty in the evening. He was a sad bastard with a long-suffering wife who was probably glad he worked late. Olive told Sally that she’d make the old tosser wait until she’d finished her shopping.
Sally laughed. She liked Olive, even though she had initially been too keen to make friends with Sally, a little clingy, even styling her hair the same way and wearing similar clothes. Still, Olive was turning out to be a good addition to the team.
*
Olive Preston had picked up her shopping after meeting briefly with Sally. Her boyfriend was waiting at home for her and had promised to make dinner.
She parked her beaten Mini in front of the museum’s main entrance. The place was normally deserted. Bernard’s clapped out Astra was parked in the director’s space, and a black Porsche Cayenne 4x4 was parked nearby.
Ringing the night bell, she waited. It normally took a few minutes for someone to get to the door from the offices at the far end of the building.
Two minutes later she heard the bolts being slipped back and the key turning in the lock. The door opened, but the foyer of the museum was in darkness as she stepped inside.
The door slammed shut behind her. A big bald-headed man with a stupid and scary grin on his face stood before her.
It took Olive a moment or two before she realised that she was in trouble. It dawned on her when she saw the hulking tattooed hand close around her throat as she was shoved roughly back against the doorframe.
‘Where is the diary, bitch?’ he snarled.
Olive struggled against the hand. She couldn’t get air into her lungs. Her constricted throat throbbed in time to her racing heart, and it felt like her eyes and head would explode.
The man’s face was close to hers, and she could smell stale tobacco on his breath.
Holding up the folder, she flapped it wildly in front of the big man’s face, and used her eyes in a desperate attempt to direct his attention to the notes.
The big man smiled but didn’t let go of her throat. With his free hand, he snatched the folder.
‘Smart girl, Sally Walker.’
Olive realised that the brute had mistaken her for her colleague. This wasn’t right. All she did was bring the notes. Why was this man attacking her? Olive felt the tears of frustration and fear roll down her face.
Her head was swimming. Lights flashed in her eyes; bursting like fireworks. She knew she couldn’t hold on much longer, and her situation became critical when the monster lifted her off her feet.
A quick twist of his hand and the last thing Olive registered was the cracking sound as her neck broke.
CHAPTER 15
‘How many more cock-ups are you going to make? I was told you were good?’ The voice was tense but still in control. Bourse grimaced. He would like to rip this bastard’s head off, but he also knew that the man had a right to be upset. ‘I’m confident we can rectify the situation,’ he said.
’Rectify? There should be no reason to rectify anything. You were paid to do a job, and I expect that job to be done.’ Bourse held the cell phone from his ear so that Tourrain could hear the rant.
Tourrain smiled, made a circle with his thumb and fingers and shook his hand. Bourse sniggered silently and nodded. ‘Of course, sir! We’ve picked up Sally Walker’s ca
r and are behind it as we speak. We’ll see where she goes and intercept her on her return.’
‘I would suggest that it’s unlikely that she has the items on her. I would think that even a small child would realise that the next logical step would be to search her house.’
Bourse had had enough of the insults but remained calm. ‘Yes, sir. We’ll follow her to find out where she’s going and then check out her flat. We have it all under control.’
‘You’d better! You are being paid more than you probably deserve for this job. The police will be all over the museum by now and the more you fuck up like that the more likely it is that Sally Walker will go to ground. Sort it out tonight!’
Bourse clicked the off switch and threw the phone onto the backseat of the Cayenne. ‘Bastard! I’d like to take that fancy-arse tosser and burn him with the fucking diary.’
Tourrain shrugged. ‘Well, what do you expect? He’s bound to be pissed.’
‘He’ll be pissing through a new hole if speaks to me like that again.’
Laughing, Tourrain followed the little Ford Ka onto the M4 off-slip towards Swansea.
‘Perhaps we should have just searched her flat?’
Bourse shook his head. ‘There’ll be time for that. If the things are there, we’ll find them. I want to see why she’s heading to Swansea. Sally Walker and Zac Woods were the names on the paper found in the bag. I think she’s heading to meet up with Woods. If she does we might be able to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.’ Both men laughed.
*
Holder slammed the phone onto the cradle and poured a shot of Vodka into a crystal glass. The two thugs had come highly recommended from his contacts but were proving to be less than efficient. They had cost a fortune; the helicopter hadn’t been cheap but at least the rewards promised to be more than sufficient to cover all costs and make him a very wealthy man. But this job was worth more than just financial gain. The Alliance had played its hand extremely close to its holy chest, but he was certain that the relics were more than just religiously sensitive - why else would the others be after them? He picked up the phone again and made another call.