“There is no need.” She blushed and so did he. “Anyway,” she stared at the floor, “what was so urgent that you needed me to come over straightaway?”
Wild broke off some chocolate. ”I have this IT situation and I can’t exactly ask technical support at work.” He sipped more hot tea. “Supposing you wanted to track someone down on Skype, how would you do it? All I’ve got is a Skype ID — and her name of course.” He could see Olsen’s brows knitting furiously, like a grandmother in a handicraft competition.
“If this is some sort of online romance thing . . . only I’m really not comfortable—”
“No, nothing like that. This is genuine police work. Basically, I’m in contact with someone over Skype. She was a potential witness back in London and then she went into hiding somewhere. I’m concerned for her safety and all I have is her ID.”
“Well, why don’t you pass it on to your London contacts and let them deal with it?”
He saw how she scrutinised his face. She really would go far. “It’s complicated. The woman in question, she Skypes me from time to time. She’s a possible lead to a suspect in a case I was working on before my transfer. Call it unfinished business.”
Her eyes widened. “And that’s why they moved you on?”
He bristled. “How do you know it wasn’t my decision?”
She bit into her chocolate. “It doesn’t take a degree in psychology to know when someone’s been press-ganged.”
“You do know that comes from military history?”
“Yeah, I read books too!”
“Come on, Marnie, can you help me?”
He logged into his computer.
She waited for a signal before coming over to help. “I don’t know how au fait you are with computers?”
“I just need it done. I’m not interested in learning how.”
“Out of your chair then and stand back!” Without another word, she disabled his webcam and mic before going into Skype. There was a single contact, inactive but online. “That’s a good start.”
He watched, impressed and vaguely amused. If this was modern policing he belonged with the dinosaurs. He wasn’t quite so impressed when his contact’s status went from yellow to green. A message flashed onscreen in capitals: WHAT’S GOING ON? YOU SAID YOU’D ONLY USE THIS SKYPE ID FOR ME AND WE’RE NOT TALKING TODAY.
Olsen glanced to her left at Wild’s incredulous face and quickly replied: SORRY NEEDED TO LET YOU KNOW MY COMPUTER IS IFFY.
“Iffy?”
“Sshhh, I’m typing.” NEED TO GET IT REPAIRED SO OFFLINE FOR A COUPLE OF DAYS. An icon showed the other party typing, so Olsen used the time to access the full username and then check it on a Skype IP Resolver before the next message came through.
I’LL CONTACT YOU WHEN I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU. DON’T DO THIS AGAIN. I MEAN IT.
Olsen logged off while Wild was still doing a goldfish impression.
He peered at the screen. “Now what?”
“We enter the IP address here.” She tapped in the digits with alarming speed. “Now see.” A small map appeared on the lower half the screen.
Wild was no geographer but even he could tell it was London. “And is that definite?”
“Yes.” She opened a word document and pasted in the Skype username and IP address. “But if she contacts you from somewhere else, the IP address will change because of the location.”
“So, can you zoom in and get the street address?”
She laughed. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“So what’s the bloody point then?”
“The point is that you know she’s in London. More to the point,” she opened another tab on his search engine, “people are notoriously lazy. They’re creatures of habit, so unless she is very clever,” and one look at his face told her that probably wasn’t the case, “she’ll keep that username or something very similar to it for other applications. You know, social media — that sort of thing. I’m assuming you’ve already searched her on the common social media sites?”
“Now and again,” he admitted. “But I try to avoid breaking my part of the deal.”
“And may I ask what information she has provided?”
“Not much really, truth be told. She said Tony — the bloke I’m interested in — was still at large in the London area, so she was keeping a low profile somewhere else. Makes it all the more strange that she’d be Skyping me from the big smoke.” He glanced at his watch. “Not wishing to sound ungrateful, but how much longer will this take? Only I promised DI Marsh I’d get back to the station as soon as possible and I didn’t expect it to be this involved — no offence.”
Olsen rested her mug of tea on her knee. “I’ve got a friend from uni. Unlike me, she managed to get a job in computer science. You know, big data, that sort of thing?” One look at him told her that he was clueless. “Anyway, if you wanted — and no pressure here — I can ask her to do some online searches for similar usernames on all the major online applications and platforms. She can run AI bots to look at variants and key character replacements. It might save some time. I can’t promise anything, mind, but if you wanted I could talk to her.”
“Can she keep her mouth shut?” He cringed even if as he said the words. It was a reflex, born out of the nagging sense that he was very probably pissing in the wind. “Sorry, that came out wrong. I’m sure you trust your friend. It’s just that it’s a sensitive situation and I’m not exactly on the case any more.”
“None taken.” She sipped her tea. “And don’t worry about my friend — she works in the private sector and the firm has a contract with the Home Office. So really this is like an add-on to her day job.”
He stepped back and finished his tea with a gulp. “Okay, ask your boffin friend and let’s see what she comes up with. I don’t want her discussing this with anyone else, and the same goes for you.”
She scribbled away in her notebook without looking round. “Understood.”
He thought she sounded pissed off. He could live with that. Maybe if she came up with something he’d tell her more. It wasn’t as if he had many options left.
Chapter 18
Nathan’s phone buzzed with another text: Have the police spoken to you?
Wild weighed up the odds. Delay too long and the G-man might ring, or suspect the worst. Give too much away and he might do a runner. He kept it short: Yes. Can’t say too much now. Can we meet earlier — six?
Olsen was still getting her coat on as the reply pinged back: Six fifteen. Still Wheatsheaf.
“Marnie, we’re on. Do you want to leave your bike here?”
He phoned DI Marsh to pass on the good news. She sounded less than enthusiastic, although she did assure him it was his call. The way that she showed her ire was to send Ben Galloway over as backup.
The three of them rendezvoused a few streets away from the pub at five thirty.
“What’s the plan then, Skip?” Galloway talked like he’d been binge-watching the Dave channel.
“Nothing heavy.” Wild paused to look at Galloway’s lapdog expression — the heaviest thing about it would be his weight. “We simply want to eliminate him from our enquiries.”
Galloway looked up to some unseen corner of his own mind. “Maybe we should all split up?”
Olsen stared at him, so Wild spoke for her. “Well, yeah.”
Wild studied Galloway’s street map and did his planning on the hoof, surprised to find that he was enjoying himself. It reminded him of cases in London. That camaraderie when all the boys in blue were in it together, like the time CID and uniform had worked for thirty-six hours straight in order to nab a gang of card scammers. Happy days.
Mindful that he thought he’d already seen the G-man in the café courtyard, Wild thought it best to keep his distance. This guy was coming to collect some money so how hard could it be to collar him for questioning? “Tell you what, Ben, you cover the front so you can clock anyone on their way in, once I’ve rung him to come out again.�
� He could see Olsen studying him, awaiting her turn. “Here.” He handed her a fiver. “Find a corner in the bar and make that last. Stay glued to your phone and watch the door. Meantime, I’ll hang about here.” He dabbed a fingernail against the map.
Olsen raised an eyebrow. “In the Crown?”
“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”
Wild pushed the pub door open and stepped into a world he’d known all his working life. Places where people like him found refuge from the pressures of the job and the strains of unhappy marriages. Steph had often remarked on his ability to compartmentalise. He’d never brought the job home, no, he’d kept it company in the pub instead. Conversely, one of the worst insults she had hurled at him before the big bang was that his work could be sloppy. Granted, he hadn’t had her laser-like focus, but he put in the hours and did the right thing — most of the time.
He ordered half a pint at the bar, ignored the sneer and kept the change for himself. No chance of a window seat unfortunately. He kept his phone close, alternating between the blue glow of his screen and an unobstructed view of the window. If he was right and the G-man was indeed the same ponytailed bastard from the café, it was a fair bet he would use the same car park as before. And if that were the case this was one of the routes he might take on his way to the Wheatsheaf.
Wild spotted his phone had faded back to the screensaver, so he woke it up. Galloway’s text: Nothing yet Skip did little to calm his nerves. That familiar tension again. He deliberated for a nanosecond and then clipped a pill into his hand, washing it down with beer. He was on the point of replying to Galloway when a call came through from Olsen. She spoke casually, against a background cacophony of pub chatter, the clink of glasses, and second-rate jukebox music.
“It’s me. Listen, I’m in the pub so I might be a bit late.”
It took Wild a moment to figure out what she was doing.
“No, I won’t stay long. Honestly, it’s fine. I’ve seen another single woman here so it’s perfectly safe.”
He pulled the phone closer. “Does she look comfortable there?”
“Yeah!” Olsen laughed. “Of course. And waiting for someone? Uh huh. That’s easy, two glasses with different drinks. Hold on a second . . .”
Wild heard a chair scraping and then rustling before Olsen’s voice kicked in again, a little distant this time.
“Excuse me, would you like my seat? I’m going off soon and you look like you’re waiting for someone.”
“No, that’s okay.” The other woman sounded nervous.
Olsen’s voice became louder. “No, I said so,” she played the part of a girlfriend under siege. “I’m talking to a girl — oh, for God’s sake.” She delivered her half of the imaginary dialogue perfectly before the sound dipped, suggesting she’d held the phone away from her face again. “My bloody boyfriend. Honestly, sometimes I don’t know why I bother.”
“If everything’s okay there I’ll clear the line for Galloway.”
“Yeah, me too. See you later.” She dropped the call.
Wild stared at the screen, willing Galloway to get his arse in gear and provide an update. When wishing didn’t work, Wild finished his half of lager and returned the empty glass to the bar. As he glanced up at the pub window, a shadowy figure ran past like a bat out of hell, away from the Wheatsheaf. It was a foregone conclusion. By the time Wild made it to the pub door he was left gazing into the middle distance. A younger and fitter cop, maybe someone like Olsen, would probably have been able to chase down the suspect. But Wild knew his limitations, down to the last kilogramme.
It had started raining, pub lights reflecting on the tarmac like a drinker’s mirage. And still no word from Galloway. He took a slow, plodding walk up the street, pondering how best to receive Galloway’s failure. Wild was no expert, but it didn’t take a workshop on body language to realise that Ben Galloway looked shiftier than a burglar who’s just spotted the CCTV.
In the few hundred steps over to the Wheatsheaf, Wild decided to lead the debrief with: “So what the bloody hell happened?”
Galloway stood before him, rain running down his face, as if he were too frightened to leave his post. “I dunno, Skip. I saw someone approach the top of the street and maybe he saw me — maybe I looked too obvious. Anyway, before I could even get a good look at him he turned and started running.”
Wild phoned Olsen and she picked up on the second ring. “One question. Has the woman taken out her phone at any point? Or maybe she left your sight and went to the ladies?”
“No, she hasn’t. Not for a second, thank you very much. As it is, I’m crossing my legs. Why, what’s happened?”
“It’s a no-show. Somehow the suspect got wind that we were there.”
“Well, it wasn’t me. Maybe he saw you at the Crown?” She paused and sighed. “What do you want me to do about . . . you know who? She seems pretty nervous now, keeps looking towards the door. The second drink is still waiting.”
“Stay there. I’m coming in.”
Wild hadn’t planned on making a scene in the Wheatsheaf. On the balance of probabilities, the woman had been sent in advance, though she could be guilty of nothing more than arousing an overeager PC’s suspicions. Galloway followed him in with all the reluctance of a forensic officer approaching a blocked toilet.
Olsen caught his eye straight away and directed him to the woman at the bar. Wild smiled to himself. He thought the voice had sounded familiar: Pauline Henderson, IT woman extraordinaire. She shrank back at the sight of them. As Wild reached her, Olsen pointed to the ladies and made a hasty departure.
Pauline looked first to Wild and then to Galloway.
“Hello again.” Wild kept it informal, conscious that they were in a public place.
A muffled phone rang and Pauline immediately reached into her coat pocket.
Wild touched her arm and applied a light pressure. “Best not to answer that right now. You might want to finish your drinks — we’re leaving shortly.”
Olsen reappeared and, at Wild’s cue, escorted Pauline outside. She stumbled on the cobbles and Wild rushed in to make the save.
“Steady now, Pauline, we only want to have a private chat. Have you ever been in trouble with the police before?”
She shook her head violently, as if she were shaking off a wasp. “No, never. I only sent an email on, that’s all — I didn’t mean any harm by it.”
“Best wait until the interview.”
Pauline brightened a little when she saw Ben Galloway, although he didn’t share the sentiment as he escorted her while Wild and Olsen walked on ahead.
Wild kept his voice low. “Marnie, you’re sure she never touched her phone?”
“Positive, Craig.”
Interesting. Wild pointed along the street in the direction of the car, consumed by three questions: How had the G-man known to do a runner? Where was he now? And why he was so willing to leave Pauline behind if he’d only expected Nathan Porter? Then again, maybe they could use that to their advantage in the interview.
Chapter 19
Wild drove back to Mayberry police station with Olsen and Pauline Henderson on board, glancing periodically at Ben Galloway in the car behind. If it were possible for a police officer, Galloway had a permanent look of guilt on his face. Maybe he had something to feel guilty about. Wild was determined to find out one way or another. When they reached the station, he left Pauline in the care of the constables and zipped upstairs to see DI Marsh. She wasn’t exactly thrilled by the fruits of his labours, more intrigued.
“Ma’am, perhaps you ought to lead the interview with Pauline Henderson? Marnie could sit in with you, given that she was present when we pulled Pauline in.”
“And what, in the meantime you and Ben Galloway get your story straight about who’s to blame for losing the actual person of interest?”
He knew what he should have said: ‘No, as the senior officer I take full responsibility.’ But he fudged it, saying he wanted to get Galloway�
��s perspective and then talk to her about it afterwards.
“I still haven’t made up my mind about you, Craig. You’ve either got hidden depths or you’re playing some game nobody else is in.” She opened the drawer and changed her glasses. “Go on then, I’ll bite. I’ll take Marnie in with me — it’ll be good experience for her. You scoot off and have your little boys’ chat and I’ll see you when I’m done.”
He thanked her on the way out. The changing of the guard downstairs was an awkward affair. Pauline waived her right to a solicitor. Wild figured, as he went back outside with Galloway, that she was probably terrified of getting her employers involved. Not good for business if your boss’s business was the law.
Wild was beginning to enjoy the car park. He stood beside Galloway, surprised to see a lighter and cigarettes emerge from his jacket.
“I didn’t know you smoked, Ben.” He waved away Galloway’s offer to join him at a future chest clinic appointment and waited until Galloway was engrossed in his fag. “Right, shall we cut the crap? The G-man was a no-show, except I saw him running the other way. So, either you stuck out like a sore thumb, or he recognised you somehow, or you warned him off. Because Pauline didn’t even send him a text from the pub.”
Galloway stayed quiet, drawing on his cigarette while he stared at his feet.
An idea came to Wild, as brilliant as it was poisonous. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on, or would you prefer I confiscate your phone and stick it on the kiosk machine to see what calls and texts you’ve made in the past half hour?”
For a committed smoker, Galloway went a funny shade of green and started coughing his guts up. Wild let him get it out of his system.
“Is this going to cost me my job?”
“I dunno, not until you tell me what you’ve done.”
Galloway took out another cigarette, faltered, and then shoved it back in the box. “Alright, so I sort of know this G-man. His name’s Jeb Walsh. He was in the same school, two years above me. He’s basically harmless.”
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