Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries)

by Rosie Claverton

  Rossetti. The artist behind the flame-haired woman. Amy pasted the lines into a plagiarism analyser she’d been tinkering with last summer, a project for an exasperated professor of theology, and let AEON cross-reference it to common sources. She identified the poems in seconds, spitting out the titles for Amy’s perusal.

  ‘The first one references her handle,’ Amy said, referring to ‘Valentine – For Lizzie Siddal.’ ‘Maybe the choice was vanity.’

  ‘Then why not Siddal’s poems? That first line is the best evidence there is for a code – the fifteenth of February, or one-five-oh-two, one-five-two, something like that. It could be a catalogue reference.’

  ‘Why all the interest in La Parisienne?’ Amy said.

  The concentration of suspicious persons had been around that painting – now most likely to be other geocachers. Amy belatedly recalled that she was meant to be solving a murder, not a geocache. Though perhaps the two were connected?

  Corelia, however, laughed at the question. ‘Some idiots think that the water in line two must refer to the dress and that the last line is a coded reference to Renoir – “night yield once more,” again night, re-noir. I think it’s a bit of a stretch. Course, we’ve been assuming LizzieSiddal knows what she’s doing but maybe it’s just a really bad clue. And she won’t answer any PMs.’

  Amy pulled up LizzieSiddal’s forum account. Last login was Saturday morning – a few personal messages read and the UK Treasure Hunt thread checked without commenting. The email address was standard Gmail and no other social media profiles were linked. Amy checked the IP addresses on the forum posts and ran a trace.

  ‘She likes to keep us guessing,’ Amy said. ‘I think you’re right about Rossetti, but I guess you’ve searched around Fair Rosamund?’

  He only had one painting on display at the museum, the one that had so captivated Amy on her browsing. She would almost be worth a trip to the museum, to see her in the flesh.

  But the thought alone set her heart racing, the thought of venturing outside covering her in a wave of sickness. She took a deep steadying breath, grounded by Jason’s hand on her shoulder, and sank her anxiety deep down.

  ‘Top to bottom. It’s definitely not there – unless some bastard stole it. But why not claim you found it then? And surely LizzieSiddal would check on it?’

  From a quick glance at the rules, the hider was meant to maintain the integrity of the geocache, ensure that it was still findable. Of course, geocachers also took holidays, but right after they’d planted a piece in a national contest? This seemed unlikely to Amy. These people appeared to have the same obsessional interest in their hobby as she had for hers.

  ‘When the gallery reopens, we’ll take another pass. I have a portable metal detector.’ Amy lied easily, her low, disinterested voice difficult to suss out. Only Jason could catch her in deceit.

  ‘Really? All right, Ada, I can live with that.’

  The promise of a gadget had won Corelia’s heart and Amy smiled at how similar they were. Though Corelia was standing in the sunshine outside her school, whereas Amy was locked down in the dark.

  Amy hung up as AEON beeped the completion of LizzieSiddal’s IP trace. Amy brought up the results, a neat green dot in Cardiff town centre.

  Right over the National Museum of Wales.

  Something had gone wrong.

  Truth had waited all night – and nothing. And no courier had come to fetch the carefully packed crate in the morning, leaving her agonising over why. How had her meticulous plan fallen to pieces?

  Once more, she was left with nothing but the painted harlot, the last thing she wanted, a reminder of her permanent place in the shadows. Truth’s anger erupted like a volcano, the long-maintained façade splintering. She seized the bunch of flowers on the side table and yanked them from the vase, throwing the faded roses to the floor.

  She wanted to scream, to rage, but the door was ajar, the bed’s occupant slumbering despite the noise burbling up from the corridor beyond. Truth carefully picked up every last stem and petal, mopped up the water and neatly threw them away before anyone saw.

  The mask back in place. The good daughter once more.

  She retook her seat by the window, folded her hands calmly in her lap. Took a deep breath. She had to remain calm, in control. Her discipline was all she had. The only chance she had to appease the forces of life and death.

  It was clear that her demands were not being taken seriously. Truth was not being taken seriously. She had thought she held all the bargaining tokens, but it turned out she held nothing at all. She needed to retake control of the game, and the first step was targeting the one who had betrayed her, forced her hand to theft and murder.

  Truth was not a little girl now. She was going to prove that – to everyone who would push her down, and to the mediator who would try to trick her when she should fear her. She would return to her original plan, except she would not listen to excuses this time. She was the one in control.

  She took out her tablet and opened up her email, an anonymous service that guaranteed safety to political activists and women in hiding. Nothing new – no explanation, no new promises.

  The bitch would respond. She would respond or she would be shown, in front of everyone, exactly what happened to those who dared to defy Truth’s wishes.

  The security guard had paid the price. And so would she.

  Chapter 31

  Symbiosis

  Amy ordered pizza, leaving AEON to puzzle out the riddle of the geocache. Tomorrow, Jason would go down to the museum and demand answers, but tonight was for what Amy called ‘debriefing’. Jason steeled himself for an interrogation.

  ‘How did you lose your helmet?’

  The first question was revealing. Jason had wondered where exactly she had planted her tracking devices, and she had showed her hand there. He silently objected to being tagged like a lab rat, of course he did, but he didn’t exactly live a quiet life of knitting and bridge.

  ‘I had an accident,’ he began.

  Amy sat on the sofa beside him with a slice of pizza halfway to her mouth as she listened in mounting horror to his story. It was easier to confess when he was sitting in front of her, presenting evidence of his wholeness, wellbeing.

  ‘In a lake? Where the fuck was Frieda?’

  Knowing the NCA agent’s lack of sympathy would earn her negative brownie points with Amy, Jason attempted to sidestep the issue. ‘Arresting the lorry driver. I got out by myself.’

  ‘You could’ve died.’ Amy replaced the pizza slice in the box, her mouth twisted unhappily.

  ‘But I didn’t.’ He reached out to cover her wrist with his palm. ‘Just got a bit wet.’

  Amy let out a shuddering breath. ‘You got to Bangor?’

  ‘We interrogated the driver and he was involved in … moving girls, through Wales to Ireland. He told us about this smaller operation, like a courier, between north and south. We tracked one of the guys to a pub and…’ Jason trailed off. Was there a good way to tell Amy he’d offered himself up like a sacrificial lamb?

  ‘You volunteered, didn’t you?’ Amy asked wearily. ‘Someone needed to put themselves in danger and that person had to be you.’

  Jason thought that was a bit harsh, but it was essentially true. He had been sick of feeling like a lackey, an errand boy, pushed and pulled around for Amy and Frieda’s personal convenience. And he was in his element with boys like Jonah Fish, knew what made them tick, how to nudge at them just right to make them squeal.

  He had been the man for the job. And if there was a bit of danger involved, that was no bad thing. How did you know you were alive unless you felt something?

  ‘I made contact,’ he said, thinking of the way Jonah had crashed into the floor, rising with a bloody nose and fear in his eyes. ‘Arranged to meet him in the evening, so I could do the run in his place.’


  ‘So, you spent the afternoon making arrangements,’ Amy filled in. ‘You called me.’

  Jason’s tongue caught, unpleasant warmth creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks. He should tell Amy that Frieda had protested, told him not to go, railed against his choices. But that scene had ended with her … He didn’t want to tell Amy that.

  He was aware that he hadn’t moved his hand, that his palm rested over her slender wrist, as she watched him with rapt attention. No computer between them, nothing except a pizza box on the table that both of them had forgotten. He had wanted to see her, across from him, in that moment and here she was.

  He closed his eyes, mounted his courage, and—

  ‘Are you all right?’

  Her concern broke the moment, her hand coming up to ghost across the bandage at his temple.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, voice steady but only just. ‘Just tired.’

  ‘We can finish up tomorrow.’ Amy stood, gathering up the pizza box to stuff it in the fridge, her concession to domesticity.

  Jason fought for control, berating himself for being so stupid. It was the exhaustion, he told himself. Amy was off-limits, his boss, and she needed a level of careful handling that he, tactless oaf that he was, couldn’t aspire to. He needed to shake this crush before it ruined something precious between them.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ he called out, slipping away before he could see her again. The air was too full of possibility, and he had to escape before his resolution failed him.

  ‘Should I change…?’

  Amy returned to an empty living room, her assistant vanishing as if he’d never been there. For a moment, panic clawed at her throat – had she imagined him? Was he lost, alone, in need of rescue?

  But, no, his empty mug was still precariously balanced on the arm of the sofa, his jacket slung over the back. He had been here. Why then had he fled for the hills?

  They’d only been talking about Bangor, an innocuous retelling of his adventures in the north. She had reached yesterday afternoon in the story, a lull between the major events of the tale – why should that provoke such a reaction? Unless…

  Unless something had happened that afternoon. Something he wanted to keep from her. When he had been alone with Frieda in a hotel room with nothing but time, about to part, to put himself in danger and not see her again for days.

  An uncomfortable suspicion lodged itself in her stomach, the pizza threatening to make an abrupt return to the light. Had Jason and Frieda had an … encounter in North Wales, a tryst? She would be the latest in a long line of women that Jason had picked up and put down without thought, taking his pleasure and then casting them aside.

  But Frieda was different, wasn’t she? A professional woman, an investigator, not a random student or girl from a bar. He had followed her to North Wales on a whim, preferring her demands over Amy’s. What does she have that I don’t?

  The answer was blindingly obvious, of course. Confidence, poise, urbanity, worldliness – and a brand new motorbike, even if it was now ruined beyond repair. Amy enjoyed a moment of spiteful joy at that fact, but it didn’t last.

  He had come home to her, but for how long? When Frieda returned to Cardiff, would he beat down her hotel room door, take her in his arms and … leave for London?

  The idea was preposterous. Jason Carr was Welsh, born and bred. His family were here, his mam and his sister. His friends, on the inside and out. She couldn’t imagine him in any other place or time, though his music drifted him back to the eighties, surrounded by memories of his father.

  But stranger things had happened. Cerys had run with gang boys, dated notorious criminals, clawed her way through fights and set innocent property on fire for nothing but fun. And now she was training to be a police officer, dating one.

  If Frieda Haas had enough power over Jason after one day to summon him to North Wales, what would she be capable of now? She would only have to click her fingers and he would come running.

  What was that phrase? ‘If you love him, let him go.’

  She didn’t know about love, had never tasted it, but the pain in her chest at the thought of losing him was a cut as devastating as if she’d been stabbed.

  But she would let him go. He deserved better than her. She had nothing to give him except murder, and one of them deserved the chance to live free from horrors.

  Chapter 32

  Masquerade

  When Jason got up the next morning, half-remembered dreams lingering on his mind, he was surprised to find Amy showered, dressed and finishing breakfast.

  ‘Bloody hell, what happened to you?’

  Amy didn’t turn, her thin smile reflected in her blank monitor. ‘I managed while you were away, didn’t I?’

  Jason conceded that she had, though the idea made him uneasy. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Amy to grow in her life skills, her confidence, but if she emerged as a competent butterfly, what need would she have for an assistant?

  He was under no illusions about who was the brains of the outfit, or exactly how far she was willing to trust him, and his legwork became redundant if Amy could just take a bus into town and do it herself. He fancied himself useful to her – how long would her interest in him last if he was no longer useful?

  ‘What are we doing today?’ He emerged from the kitchen with fresh mugs of tea and tried to insinuate himself back into her investigation.

  ‘I’ve confirmed that LizzieSiddal is inside the museum, but a generic login was used to connect to the forum.’ She handed him a USB stick over her shoulder. ‘Insert this into any free slot in a museum computer for two minutes. It will give me a remote connection into their system and I can monitor the network in real-time.’

  Her voice had that slightly posher ring to it that she unconsciously adopted when she’d been speaking to her sister, as if she triggered remote memories of a time when Amy had spoken with a plum in her mouth. Jason’s harsh Cardiff accent always thickened in response, until they drifted back to their natural tones.

  ‘You want me to ask questions?’ he asked.

  ‘Can’t hurt. Cerys is meeting you there in an hour.’

  Jason’s stomach twisted. Since when had Cerys become part of this operation? ‘She’s got police stuff,’ he protested.

  ‘Bryn said he would put in a word for her. I’d ask you to look into the possible secret entrance, but I’m still flying without data.’

  Jason wanted to demand answers, to shake her until she gave them up. Why was his competence being called into question? He could just about understand Amy’s logic with the school, but he was perfectly capable of investigating the museum by himself. Didn’t she trust him at all now?

  Or was this some bizarre punishment for running away with Frieda? She was telling him he was expendable, that she had a replacement waiting in the wings. Would his sister really do that to him?

  Jason tried to shake off his absurd thoughts. Of course she wouldn’t – she wanted to be a copper, a proper detective with the badge and attitude to match. She wouldn’t just take his place.

  But how many people would leap at the chance? Amy could put a call out for an assistant on one of her forums, and her online minions would all leap at the chance, to work with the great @d@l and her high-profile investigations.

  And they would be knowledgeable, in computers and in the world outside the backstreets of Cardiff. Jason might be her first assistant, but maybe she thought it was time for an upgrade.

  ‘The organ smuggling was on the news this morning,’ Amy said. ‘No mention of you.’

  ‘Good,’ Jason said, with feeling. His face had been on the news enough for one lifetime.

  ‘Apparently it crosses at least four countries, and Interpol are very pleased. They interviewed that NCA agent.’

  ‘Frieda’s back?’

  His stomach lurched. The last thing he want
ed was to see the NCA agent, for a cold shoulder or another amorous mistake. He had hoped she’d stay in North Wales a little longer.

  ‘No. The man.’ Amy’s voice was flat, without a trace of emotion. Too controlled.

  Jason realised he’d been baited. Amy was fishing for information about Frieda and he’d made it look like he gave a damn. Fucking manipulative women.

  ‘I hope she stays away,’ he said, voicing his thoughts. He knew Amy wanted to hear how he felt, even if she would never ask outright. ‘Cares more about her precious bike than my skin.’

  Amy mumbled something under her breath that was indistinguishable over the rim of her mug, but Jason thought he heard ‘run off’ in there. He was going to be in the doghouse for weeks over his little trip up north, he could tell. As long as she kept him around to be mocked.

  The Micra was still parked up outside Dylan’s, along with his motorbike, so he walked the short distance into town. The area around Cardiff’s main hospital was quiet, the majority of students not yet returned from their long summer break, but the schools all back for term time. The first leaves of autumn drifted across the pavements, damp from last night’s rain. The air was close, too warm for September, as the overcast, pregnant sky threatened to birth a storm at any moment.

  The smells from Whitchurch Road’s many eateries proved too tempting and he picked up some Indian street food to eat on his way to meet Cerys. He wiped the last crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand as he turned down the approach to the main university campus.

  The storm broke just as he passed between the Students’ Union and the university Main Building, breaking into a run as he hauled his leather jacket up over his head. Cerys was waiting at the top of the stairs in her uniform, between two pillars, in the shelter of the lintel.

  ‘So, you’re here on official business?’ Jason asked.