Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries)

by Rosie Claverton

  He liked the work, he couldn’t deny that. But he liked Amy. He liked living among her chaos, trying to make sense of it, hold it all together long enough for her to settle, to smile at a job well done.

  But, beneath all that, were they friends? He had been her cleaner, and now he was her assistant. All contractual, paid for services rendered. He wasn’t her carer or her relative – he was the help. With her words, Amy had made her feelings clear on the matter.

  Not that we have a relationship. He had imagined an intimacy where none existed.

  It was the absence of the sound that told him something was wrong, the keyboard silent, the mouse unclicked. Amy was staring at a document on the screen, totally focussed on the bullet points. But she didn’t scroll down, didn’t even reach for the mouse, and he realised her whole body was trembling.

  ‘Amy? What’s wrong?’

  His grievances vanished in the face of her distress, as he placed his hand on her shoulder and looked at the screen. It seemed like an innocuous report on Paul Roberts’ computer – something about a failed login, but nothing particularly shocking.

  ‘Amy?’ The heel of his palm pressed into the tense muscle of her shoulder, trying to rouse her from her stupor.

  ‘Owain wrote this.’ Her voice was quavering, full of unshed tears.

  Jason still didn’t understand. ‘Owain…’

  She pointed at the screen, the tip of her finger leaving a greasy smudge on the monitor as it shook with the intensity of her feeling.

  He read the words but they meant nothing to him. ‘Cyber Crime Unit?’

  ‘South Wales Police Cyber Crime Unit,’ she said thickly. ‘A new computer forensics department, headed up by Owain and that bitch Catriona Aitken.’

  Computer forensics. The implications suddenly hit him and he felt that same lurch of his whole world shifting further out of alignment. ‘They’re replacing us?’

  ‘Me. They’re replacing me.’

  The tears came then, an outpouring of grief, and Jason swung the chair round to face him, gathering her into his arms to offer some comfort. Those fucking bastards. How could they do this to her? When she had calmed down, he was going to call Bryn up – no, he would go round there and…

  And what? Punch a detective inspector in the face? Cause a scene down the police station? How was that going to help Amy?

  At least he’d figured out why Owain had been sniffing around Amy. The weasel had been stealing her ideas, learning her tricks of the trade before setting up his own stall. Shutting her out of the police work that kept her sane. Had Cerys known about this? The idea of his sister turning traitor left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  But his priority right now was the woman in his arms, her shakes and sobs subsiding to muted sniffles against his shoulder. His palm cupped the back of her head, digging his fingers into the tangles that she could never be bothered to brush out. With her pressed against him, her scent filled his nostrils, that balm of familiarity putting a lid on his anger – for now.

  But when he saw Owain…

  Amy leaned back and away from him, scrubbing at her eyes with her hoodie sleeve, and Jason tactfully retreated to the kitchen, making a pot of tea and digging out the posh biscuits with the extra dark chocolate.

  But when he returned to the living room, Amy was back at the computer, code over all three monitors, as she typed like lightning.

  ‘Are you—?’

  ‘We may get the data second-hand, but I won’t be shut out.’

  Amy stabbed at the enter key triumphantly and the code vanished, replaced by a simple set of windows with a menacing black skull and crossbones logo.

  ‘That doesn’t look friendly,’ Jason said, trying to sound neutral as he placed the biscuits beside the mouse.

  ‘A mod of one of my Trojans – one of my minions has outstripped me in avoiding detection, but he has a flair for the dramatic.’ She gestured towards the skull.

  ‘And that Trojan is where exactly?’

  ‘Looking for Owain’s new computer, particularly focussed on the Cyber Crime evidence folders and his analysis – such as it is.’ She tutted like a disappointed teacher.

  ‘Amy, are you okay?’

  She had switched from sobbing on his shoulder to acting like a detached military spy, but she did not answer his question.

  ‘What he’s failed to realise is that the intruder typed exactly the same password three times. Exactly. No variation in the numbers, capitals – nothing. So they were pretty confident in the password’s accuracy, but they probably weren’t the originator. Which makes sense, because Paul Roberts was already dead.’

  ‘Hold on, you’ve lost me.’ Jason was still reeling from Amy’s emotional whiplash, but he also wasn’t sure she was making sense.

  ‘If your password is rejected, what do you do?’

  Since Amy had taken an interest in his passwords and started changing them monthly, Jason commonly had this problem. ‘Uh … try a different one?’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Try different capitals or vary the date with the name.’

  Amy’s password combinations hinged on significant information already in his life – from his mam’s maiden name to the year he’d passed his driving test. It was just remembering which bits went together that flummoxed him.

  ‘Yes, exactly. You don’t type the same thing over again – well, maybe once, if you think it’s a typo, but three times? I think the intruder only knew one password, so they must’ve taken it from somewhere.’

  ‘Did they guess it?’

  ‘Unlikely. I don’t know what it means – DGRES230560. The six digit format suggests a date, but it’s not his birthday. What was special about May 1960?’ Her fingers flew over the keyboard, scrolling through Wikipedia pages in quick succession. ‘Unless he was interested in Nazi war criminals, tsunamis or American church mergers, it’s nothing particularly famous.’

  ‘What about art?’ Jason asked. ‘He had a thing about art, didn’t he?’

  Amy stopped typing, her fingers hovering above the keyboard. ‘What if it’s not 1960? What if it’s 1860?’

  Her fingers flew again, like sparrows darting from berry to berry, alighting only for the barest hundredth of a second before hurrying away to the next, and the next.

  ‘No, that’s too early for the Impressionists. But it’s right in the middle of…’ She trailed off, before turning to him with a sudden smile. ‘DGR and ES!’

  Jason was still lost, but Amy had clearly seen the light. She hauled up a Wikipedia page before crowing triumphantly.

  ‘Ah-ha! Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Elizabeth Siddal were married on 23rd May 1860.’

  Jason still felt several steps behind. ‘But this is Paul Roberts’ password. Not Talia’s.’

  Amy held up one hand, while she continued to type with the other, only fractionally slower than when she used both. ‘I’m checking their logins at the museum now. And…’

  She sat back, admiring her work. ‘It is Paul Roberts’ password.’

  ‘So … did he have a thing for Talia? Playing Dante-whatever to her Lizzie?’

  Amy brought up the security guard’s browsing history, long lists of websites visited, logins used. ‘No, his recently visited sites are art forums, NFL sites, and … geocaching.’

  She clicked on a link and the Cardiff Geocaching Society site appeared.

  ‘Look – look at the login.’

  ‘LizzieSiddal,’ Jason read.

  ‘Talia isn’t LizzieSiddal – Paul Roberts was.’

  ‘And so the Welsh geocaching clue…’

  ‘Died with Paul Roberts.’ Amy’s mouth settled in an unhappy line. ‘We have nothing to give the blackmailer. And neither does Talia.’

  Chapter 35

  Blind date

  Talia walked in to the cocktail bar, scanned the mostly
empty tables, and scowled.

  She stalked angrily over to the table and threw down her bag. ‘I suppose you think this is funny.’

  Jason held up his hands. ‘I didn’t think you’d come otherwise.’

  Talia waved her phone towards his face. ‘Impersonating an NCA agent – isn’t that a crime? Won’t you and your boss have more trouble?’

  ‘We only suggested you might be meeting Frieda. We never actually used her name.’

  It wasn’t a plan without risk, though Talia hadn’t stormed out yet. The message had been carefully composed, to tell just enough without giving them away: The police are on to you. Meet me and I can protect you. Fat Cats @ 8pm.

  ‘And the rest was to lure me here? Pathetic. I will tell Frieda what you have done.’ She grabbed the handles of the bag and made to leave.

  Jason had only one chance to stop her. ‘We know you’re not LizzieSiddal.’

  Talia hesitated, buying him an extra few seconds.

  ‘Why have you stolen Paul Roberts’ identity?’ Jason decided to make another leap. ‘And why did you break into his flat?’

  Talia sat down hard. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It wasn’t difficult,’ Jason said, dodging the question and continuing his bluff. ‘But I don’t understand why you did it – pretended to be Paul. What did it bring you except grief?’

  Talia leaned in, her face taut, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘You’re independent, aren’t you? From the police? The thief, he said no police.’

  Jason leaned in, all ears now. ‘This is between us. No police.’

  Amy had made it very clear they were divorcing from Cardiff’s finest, which would make their next family dinner more than a little awkward.

  ‘There was a note left on my desk, before they found Paul. I had arrived early – I thought the bus would take longer, and my car was in the garage. Because of the window. Sorry, where was I?’

  ‘The note,’ Jason prompted.

  ‘Yes. It said something like “I have her. No cops. I will email the instructions.” It was addressed to LizzieSiddal.’

  ‘On your desk? So, the killer already thought you were Lizzie?’

  Something about this story didn’t add up. But before he could press further, the waiter came over for their order. Talia asked for some exotic spirit-filled cocktail, while Jason earned the man’s disdain by ordering a beer. When he had finally left them, Jason opened his mouth to question further, but Talia slipped off her coat, made herself comfortable. Settling in for a long story.

  ‘When he entered the national treasure hunt, there was some press interest. Paul was very shy and he asked to use my photograph, and I agreed. That was all.’

  ‘You were close?’

  The evidence retrieved from Paul’s flat made sense now in light of his geocaching, but they hadn’t found any signs of a lover.

  ‘Friends. We were both interested in the geocaching. His enthusiasm was infectious – others in the lab also started playing the games. It became a little competition.’

  Their drinks arrived and she took a large gulp of the multi-coloured liquid, ignoring the straw.

  ‘When the emails came, I panicked. I was afraid for “The Blue Lady”. So I went to his place and I tried to use his computer, but I could not get in. I thought he might have left a clue there, about the cache. Where it is.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘He was very keen on the secrecy. Because of the contests. He didn’t want to give anyone an advantage, liked to give only small hints. But with this treasure hunt, he would not give any. He was very fair.’

  ‘Why didn’t you respond to the blackmailer?’

  ‘I wish I had.’ Talia appeared agonised, genuinely distraught. ‘I would do anything to protect the painting, anything. What do I care about this silly geocache now? Paul is dead and the painting ruined!’

  It was hard to work through the pain in her chest, but Amy couldn’t escape the feeling that if she stopped, she would never start again, like a clockwork monkey running down and slumping to a stop.

  The questions of how Bryn had let this happen, why Owain had used and usurped her – that all had to wait, for a time when she could detach herself from the grief lodged in her throat, threatening to choke her.

  She had to carry on. She checked the geocaching forums, out of habit as much as investigative intent, and saw five new PMs from Corelia. She scanned them all, but found nothing but nagging and impatience. She fobbed her off with another set of excuses, stalling her a little longer. She could still be useful.

  They had set up the meeting with Talia to confirm what she knew, but Amy didn’t expect much. If Talia had the key to the geocache, she would’ve handed it over readily before seeing poor Henriette Henriot lose her toes. At least they now had an explanation for Talia’s suspicious behaviour.

  LizzieSiddal’s online life was rich and explained Paul Roberts’ lack. From art forums to an online dating site dedicated to transvestism, the redheaded painted lady did get about. Amy checked the evidence log for Paul’s apartment, but no women’s clothing had been found. Perhaps he had a secret garage somewhere? Or maybe the Cardiff forensics team hadn’t been particularly interested in his wardrobes.

  She made a note, but it didn’t seem relevant. It was unlikely that the killer knew Paul was LizzieSiddal – why ransom a painting when you can threaten him for the clue? And why kill him if his secret dies with him? No, the killer couldn’t have known LizzieSiddal and Paul were one and the same. Any clues about Paul would only be useful in answering a very different question – where was the Welsh geocache?

  Amy opened up the riddle again, but knowing the real-life identity of LizzieSiddal didn’t add any meaning to the words. Why had Paul chosen those particular poems?

  Maybe the answers went deeper than that. Or perhaps she was starting in the wrong place. The real enigma here was not why Paul had picked out these Rossetti poems for his clue, but why he had chosen the handle of LizzieSiddal in the first place.

  If his passion was for the Impressionists, what was it about this nineteenth century Pre-Raphaelite model and artist that compelled him to become her? Looking at her own experience, Amy had chosen Ada Lovelace for her online pseudonym because she was the first computer programmer and she had done everything possible to distance herself from her father’s lifestyle, shunning the reckless Lord Byron for the comfort of mathematics.

  What, then, was there to Siddal that drew Paul in? From what they knew of him – which was, admittedly, very little – he had a deep passion for art, but did not paint himself. Nor had they found any works of poetry. He had not been mentored by any great artist, nor sponsored by a rich patron. He had never taken an art class, though he attended many lectures on Monet.

  Was it her personal life that intrigued him? Married to Rossetti, but spurned for his many mistresses – but Paul had never been married and his few interactions on the dating site were short conversations, arrangements to meet. Amy had no evidence he had ever been in a serious relationship. And he had not given birth or lost a child, though Amy made a note to check the local registries.

  Siddal was addicted to laudanum – could Paul have shared her vice? Perhaps alcohol or opiates separately, but the police search of the flat hadn’t found bottles, pills or needles, and his internet ordering habits didn’t reveal any pharmaceuticals.

  Thinking about her medicine cabinet made her twitchy. Amy had swallowed down a couple of tablets after Jason left, but she wasn’t mellow enough to resist a second calling. She drifted, zombie-like, into the kitchen, boiling the kettle while she took another one, two, three for luck. Tea would help, calm her, soothe her. Until Jason got back.

  Amy returned to AEON with her tea in hand, watching the colours of Rossetti’s Beata Beatrix blur together into a pleasant, Impressionist-like sea. She was grateful to Paul Roberts, for
dying to introduce her to this beauty. It was very generous of him. But he wasn’t a genius, was he? Not like Amy, who was heralded as such by her online sycophants and Jason’s quiet wonder. Her parents had never recognised her talents, but then they’d never really known her at all. And she would rather keep it that way.

  So, if she was a genius and Paul was not, she should be able to crack his geocache with ease. If she applied herself. And why shouldn’t she? With the police throwing away her expertise, she was free to show them exactly what she was capable of, without the burden of their legal qualms.

  If they would not engage with the blackmailer, then she would.

  She opened LizzieSiddal’s email account and brought up the latest message. Altering the metadata to suggest Talia was sending from the museum system, Amy composed a short message to the thief, a proposition:

  The clue is lost. But I can solve it if you return her.

  Amy triumphantly hit Send and slumped back in her chair. How could the killer resist? She opened up her remote connection to the police database, idly searching for Owain’s files but unable to find a networked drive that fitted the bill. He must have a separate uplink – clever, but not enough to outsmart her. She placed a monitor on Owain’s email account, sure he would access that through his privileged connection without thinking and then she would have unfiltered access.

  AEON beeped, displaying a new message from the blackmailer in LizzieSiddal’s account. The body was blank, the subject line reading: WHO ARE YOU

  Amy scowled. How had she been made so easily? No matter. If she could prove her offer was genuine, the killer could bargain directly with her instead of Talia. And she could shift the power balance in this hostage negotiation. She replied:

  A concerned third party. I will trade my knowledge for the painting. This is a one-time offer. If you do not agree, you will never find the cache.