Terminal (Major Crimes Unit Book 4)

by Iain Rob Wright

  A quarter of the way down the page, a row of images featured a horrific plane crash. Oliver hadn’t even known where the plane had landed until he clicked on the first link and brought up an article from the Times.

  700 people confirmed dead in Watford.

  I killed seven hundred people.

  Oliver lurched forward over the desk and vomited. His stomach was empty, but the entire pint of water he’d drunk when he’d arrived at work flooded the floor on the customer side of the desk. He tried to get up off his stool but collapsed onto the floor and vomited again – acid and bile. His stomach continued to purge itself until his seizing diaphragm put a stop to it. He lay there on the floor, moaning miserably.

  This morning, he’d been screwing around on his computer as normal, hacking into air traffic control to see how deep he could get before the firewall booted him out. It was a game, one he had started when flight simulators and dogfighting games had ceased providing enough in the way of thrills. The enjoyment came from the challenge, in seeing how deep he could get. At first, he had hacked lightly secured feeds – chatter between pilots and radio towers – but then he had learned how to hack into airline passenger manifests and stored payment details. Recently, he had even hacked individual planes, breaking into their onboard Wi-Fi and accessing the personal devices connected to it. The thrill he got, downloading passenger’s raunchy pictures, private emails, and account passwords, was awesome, and he barely believed he was doing it, but when the fun ended, he disposed of everything. He was no criminal. He didn’t steal or blackmail. The game was never about hurting anybody. It was only about proving he could do it.

  Then, at eleven this morning, he had gone deeper than ever before. He hacked into a plane’s Wi-Fi, as he had done a dozen times by now, and then broke into a random android device connected to that Wi-Fi. The device obviously belonged to the pilot, because many of the images in the camera roll were of planes, cockpits, and various flight crews. Aside from wanting to be the world’s best hacker, Oliver often dreamt of becoming a pilot, so the man’s private life intrigued him enough to keep digging. The last thing he did – before the Wi-Fi went dead and air traffic control started panicking over the airwaves – was brute-force his way into an app that he didn’t recognise. It had a high level of protection, which had only made him more determined.

  Then the plane had crashed.

  Somehow, an application on the pilot’s phone had brought down the plane.

  Because I messed with it. Because I messed with something I shouldn’t have.

  The bell above the front door jingled. A customer stepped inside.

  “We’re closed,” Oliver moaned, still lying on the floor beside a pool of his own stomach acids. “I can’t help you!”

  And nobody can help me.

  The address Jessica had provided led Sarah and Mattock to an average middle-class housing estate in the town of Ipswich. The tedious drive left Sarah’s body tingling with a desire for action, but when they arrived, their destination felt wrong. If someone had asked earlier where one might expect to find a cyberterrorist’s lair, Sarah would’ve pictured an abandoned factory or a secret set-up in the backroom of a dingy shop. She most definitely would not have pictured a semi-detached house in a leafy suburb.

  Mattock positioned the Range Rover across the property’s short driveway, blocking a nearly new Volkswagen Touareg parked in front of a single garage. He put a call through to Thomas and updated him on their location, but Sarah got out and peered through the Volkswagen’s tinted rear windows, hoping to see a boot full of sophisticated electronics. Unfortunately, it was impossible to make out anything besides vague shapes.

  Mattock joined her on the driveway a minute later, a frown upon his face. “Nice gaff, aye?”

  “You sure this is the right address?” There was a cute little cement turtle in the front garden with daffodils growing out of a hole in its shell. “I’m not getting alarm bells.”

  “Trust in thy satnav, lass. This is the address Bennett gave us.”

  Mattock knocked on the front door – a piece of white moulded PVC with a stained glass panel at the top. Its brass handle was badly burnished. A shadow appeared behind the glass panel a few seconds later and the door opened. A woman in her early fifties appeared, hair tied back in a high ponytail and skin gleaming with moisturiser. She was wearing pyjamas, but that didn’t seem to embarrass her. She appeared startled to see them, which was a fair enough reaction considering Sarah’s grizzly scars and Mattock’s grizzly everything.

  “Um, hello? Can I help you both?”

  “Yes, good afternoon, ma’am,” said Sarah. “We’re with the MCU. Agents Stone and Mattock. Is this the Simpson residence?”

  “Yes, I’m Mrs Simpson. What on earth do you want?”

  “Do you use a computer at this address?”

  Mrs Simpson frowned. “Of course I do. Who doesn’t use a computer?”

  “Good point. Can we come inside for a moment? We’d like to talk to you about a delicate matter.”

  “Well, I’m not sure about that. Do you have any ID? You look like a pair of bailiffs.”

  Mattock chuckled, and he peeled the badge from the breast pocket of his shirt that also held his red bandana. His entire uniform was made up of pockets, but at least he had left his weapons and rigging inside the lockbox beneath the Range Rover’s boot shelf. “Sorry about our appearances,” he said, holding up his ID, “but I promise our manners are better than our looks.”

  Mrs Simpson gave a subtle smile, charmed by Mattock’s gruff yet friendly accent. “I suppose you’d better come in then. I was about to get dressed and rush out to the gym, so make it quick.”

  Sarah nodded. “Of course, ma’am. We’ll clear things right up.”

  They entered the hallway, which was immaculately tidy, with a posh anthracite shield over the radiator and a bejewelled mirror above. The floor was some kind of wood-effect vinyl, clunky under foot and possibly in need of relaying.

  Mrs Simpson led them into a modest country-style kitchen and then pointed to an adjoining dining room. “Take a seat.”

  Sarah thanked her, and she and Mattock sat down on cream chairs arranged around a circular table with a vase full of fake purple flowers in the centre.

  Mrs Simpson remained standing in the doorway, arms folded, posture guarded. “Now, what exactly does the MCU want with me? You’re the terrorist people, right?”

  Sarah clasped her hands together on the table and nodded. “We’re here because our cybersecurity team flagged this address in a recent investigation. Do you know why that might be?”

  “I have utterly no idea. Cybersecurity? Are you talking about illegal downloads or something?” She raised her hands in the air. “I admit it. I’ve downloaded the odd dodgy film in the past, but it was never worth it. The Greatest Showman filmed on a mobile phone isn’t so great.” Sarah and Mattock frowned and remained silent. Mrs Simpson put her hands down and tutted. “I’m joking. Look, whatever you’re investigating has nothing to do with me. My husband and I own a chip shop in town. We sell saveloys for a living. You have the wrong house.”

  “Love me a saveloy,” said Mattock, licking his lips.

  “Well, drop by some time. They’re on me. Now, can I get going, please? This is a little ridiculous, to tell you the truth.”

  “Mrs Simpson…” Sarah chose to be blunt. “Our investigators have connected this address to a recent cybercrime. I’m talking about hacking, breaking into secure systems, that kind of thing.”

  Mrs Simpson snorted and covered her mouth. “You’re off your trolley. I can barely open my emails. Ha! You must be having me on. Is this a joke?”

  Sarah had dealt with domestic terrorists before – the Fosters being the ones who came to mind – but Ms Simpson was displaying no obvious signs of duplicity. In fact, she appeared genuinely nonplussed. You could never tell for sure, but the woman seemed genuine.

  Jessica wouldn’t have passed on bad intel. If the hive flagged th
is address, it’s for a reason.

  “Mrs Simpson…”

  “Rebecca, please. You’re making me feel old.”

  “Rebecca. You said you and your husband live here. Can we speak with him?”

  “He’s gone out to play snooker with a friend before work, but he’s no more technical than I am. Our son calls us a couple of cavemen.”

  Sarah leant forward, knocking the table with her elbow and causing the vase of fake flowers to wobble. “You have a son? Does he live here with you?”

  “Well, yes, but I assure you that Ollie has done nothing wrong. He’s never so much as shoplifted.”

  “Is he here now?” asked Mattock, sitting straight and craning his neck towards the kitchen.

  “No, he’s at work. But I told you, he’s done nothing.”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow at the woman. “Does he use a computer?”

  “Of course he uses a computer – he’s seventeen. He’s glued to screens like every other teenager.”

  Sarah stood up and stepped away from the table. “Do you mind if we look at his computer, Rebecca?”

  Mrs Simpson unfolded her arms. “Now, see here. I won’t allow you to come inside my home and start invading my son’s privacy. What is really going on here? I’m getting annoyed.”

  Sarah sighed. A mother’s ferocity knew no bounds, so it would be unwise to play hardball. She chose her words carefully. “For whatever reason, our investigation has led us here, Rebecca, and the matter won’t go away unless you cooperate with us. If your son is innocent, as you say, then his computer will prove that. If this is a false alarm, we would sooner deal with it quickly and move on.”

  “I’m not comfortable with this.” She shook her head. “People get all kinds of things on their computers without knowing it. I’m not having you arrest Ollie over something silly like… like…” She covered her mouth. Her hand trembled. “Please, tell me this isn’t about porn. Are you saying Ollie downloaded something horrible? I think… I think I need you to leave. You’re not going to—”

  Sarah put a hand up. “Rebecca? I can’t go into detail about what we’re looking for, but I will say, categorically, that we are not looking for indecent images. This is something else. And quite frankly, I’m hoping we do indeed have the wrong address. If you don’t let us check Ollie’s computer, we’ll be back with a dozen police officers and a warrant. That might sound like blackmail, but it’s a simple fact. Work with us here, Rebecca, and if your son has done nothing wrong, we’ll be out of your hair right away. You have my word.”

  Mrs Simpson looked close to tears. No mother wanted to suspect their child of wrongdoing, but in this day and age it was easy to live a secret life. Teenagers could get into all kinds of trouble without their parents suspecting a thing. Right now, Mrs Simpson was probably imagining a hundred devastating scenarios.

  “Ollie’s bedroom is the first at the top of the stairs.” She swallowed loudly and licked her lips. “I’ll wait here.”

  Mattock stood up and put a hand on Mrs Simpson’s elbow. “Make yourself a cuppa, love. Hopefully, we’ll be gone by the time you finish it.”

  Sarah started up the stairs in the hallway. A large window spilled weak sunlight over the bend, and a magpie flew past outside. It reminded her of the downed plane in Watford and the hundreds who had died onboard. This really didn’t feel like the home of a mass murderer. It was a little too neat, and at the same time slightly dilapidated, but aside from that, it was a warm, welcoming place.

  As Mrs Simpson had said, Ollie’s bedroom was the first at the top of the stairs. It was a typical lad’s room, with superhero posters on the wall and an unmade single bed. Shelves on the wall held Star Wars toys and other colourful knick-knacks. A desk in the corner played host to a mess of wires, hardware, and a large wraparound monitor.

  “That looks like a pretty expensive rig to me,” said Mattock, pointing to an oversized PC tower underneath the desk. The side panel was made of glass, displaying a maze of cables and components within. The unit was currently switched off, which caused Sarah to speculate. Wouldn’t someone seriously into their tech prefer a computer to go to sleep than to switch off? Give the mouse a nudge and you’re back in business, no waiting around. Just to be sure, she nudged the mouse to see if it brought anything to life. It didn’t.

  Did Ollie switch the computer off in a panic? Did he fear being traced?

  She pressed the computer’s power button, a silver disc on top of the case, and the fans whirred. The system booted quickly and quietly. The monitor came out of standby and displayed a crisp login screen. Sarah lacked the skills to break into the computer, but she noticed something of interest without having to. Although the background image was blurred by the login overlay, it was obvious what it was – a fuzzy grid of green text against a black backdrop like a scene from The Matrix. It was the type of thing a hacker might conceivably choose for desktop wallpaper. It was nowhere near evidential, but Sarah’s doubts about this being the wrong address began to evaporate.

  “You think this is our kid?” asked Mattock. He was shaking his head and grimacing. “Shit, could it really be a kid?”

  “I don’t know,” said Sarah, “but kids today know more about computers than we can even fathom. We need to get a team working on this PC. We won’t know anything until—”

  Sarah froze.

  Mattock frowned. “What’s wrong, lass?”

  She nodded past him to a small side table at the foot of the room’s single bed. Several toys took up space on it, but only one of them interested her. The die-cast passenger plane was perched on a slender stand, pointing towards the sky. “Ollie has a fondness for airplanes,” she said. “Or maybe a love of watching them fall out of the sky.”

  Mattock swore under his breath. “We need to bring this kid in, don’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs Simpson clearly hadn’t wanted to give up her son’s location, but when Sarah had faked putting out an alert for Oliver’s immediate arrest, the mother finally complied. The address she gave was yet another red flag – Oliver Simpson worked part-time at a computer repair shop. Based on that, and the custom-built rig in his bedroom, the kid was clearly tech savvy. The question was, how tech savvy?

  Sarah had a bad feeling.

  Could a kid really have done this?

  The computer repair shop was less than two miles away, so it took no time at all to reach it. Despite the brief journey, Thomas had been on the radio twice, wanting to know her every move and sounding stressed. That was understandable, considering his position. It was his arse on the line if they failed to catch whoever was behind today’s tragedy. It was the worst single-cause death toll in the UK’s peacetime history.

  Mattock parked the Range Rover in a parallel bay at the side of the road, directly in front of the computer shop. The window was plastered with posters for upgrades, repairs, and component sales, which made it next to impossible to see inside, but from first inspections, it appeared to be a legitimate business.

  Sarah exited the Range Rover and stepped out onto the pavement. She glanced up and felt a slight drizzle against the unscarred side of her face. There was electricity in the air, the promise of a storm.

  Mattock got out and locked the car. “We going in easy? Or should I arm up?”

  “I have my Sig, but let’s leave the big toys in the boot. Don’t want to frighten anybody unnecessarily, do we. It’s just a kid and we’re in a built-up area.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  It wasn’t true, as she and Mattock shared equal rank, but she appreciated his faith in her. More and more, Mattock had become like a kindly uncle, always watching over her but never interfering.

  Sarah pushed on the glass and aluminium door and entered the shop. Her boots came down on a spongy laminate floor, and a bell jingled overhead, heralding her arrival. Variously sized plastic packets hung from pegs on the wall and colourful boxes perched on shelves. A single desk occupied the shop floor, but no one stood behin
d it. A subtle miasma of vomit and citrus hung in the air without a visible cause.

  Did someone chuck their guts up in here?

  “Hello?” Mattock searched left and right. “Service?”

  A young man appeared from an open doorway behind the desk dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. He was pale, with puffy eyes that made it appear as if he’d been crying. His floppy blonde hair needed a wash. When he saw them standing on the shop floor, he froze.

  “H-Hi there. What can I help you with?”

  “Need a printer cable,” said Mattock nonchalantly. Sarah immediately understood what he was doing. If they asked to speak with an Oliver Simpson, the kid might bolt out the rear exit or even grab a weapon. Better to progress things cautiously.

  The young man visibly relaxed. He stepped out from behind the desk and pointed. “Oh, yes. I can get you one of those. What you need is an A-to-B USB cable, most likely. We have them over here.” He walked to the left-hand side of the shop. Sarah instinctively moved towards the desk, making sure she was closer to the rear exit than he was.

  Mattock smiled amiably, which was miraculous considering the tapestry of scars crisscrossing his shaven skull. “What’s your name, lad? Feel like I know you from somewhere. Tom, right?”

  “No. No, my name’s Oliver.”

  “Ollie, for short, I’d bet?”

  The kid nodded. He was jittery, like he’d drunk too much coffee – or was nervous about something. “Y-You don’t sound like you’re from around here, sir.”

  “Manchester born and bred. I’m a travelling salesman, and I’ve gone and left me printer cable at home, ain’t I? Bloody forget me head, I would.”