“Well now, Inspector…”
Boyd’s soft accent and quiet voice made the words sound like he was speaking to someone he loved, instead of to an arrogant spook who thought he was above real police work.
“I have no doubt that you’re right, sir, and that most of the good folk around here do wish us an early demise, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re bad people.”
He waved a hand around the water stained, grey concrete walkway on which they were standing, as if it was the most beautiful vista in the world.
“Who knows what sad experiences they may have had with people wearing uniforms: meter maids, waiters and the like. But it’s our job to help them past those scars and enable them to help us. And to that end.” He shoved the clipboard hard into Kyle’s chest, apologising inwardly for his baser instincts as he did. “The Superintendent phoned and he’d like you to interview a Mrs Eileen Regent, the dead man’s mother. She’s in Faulkner Tower. Two floors up in number twenty-five.”
A warning frown creased his forehead. “Be nice, mind you, sir. The woman’s just lost her only son.” He turned towards a short P.C. that Kyle hadn’t noticed. “Just to be on the safe side I’m sending along Officer Donaldson here to hold your hand. It’s not that I don’t trust you, sir, you understand, but he’ll be reporting directly back to me.”
He turned to the uniformed constable. “Don’t take any nonsense from the Inspector here, mind. The Superintendent says he gets carried away sometimes and needs to be reined in.”
His cool smile to Kyle was unambiguous, and as the D.I. walked away with Donaldson trailing after him he could feel the sting of Craig’s revenge.
****
It was going to happen in the countryside. She just knew it. No-one would bother to put you in a car-boot and drive for miles otherwise, especially when they could just have shot you in a room where the sound would have been well covered by city noise.
A sudden jolt banged Veronica Lewis’ head against the boot’s lid and a second threatened to knock her out. Her head swam for a moment before she recovered, thankful for the small mercy of the car moving on to a seemingly smoother road. The smoothness continued for what felt like an hour, the steady grinding of tyre against tarmac broken occasionally by the car’s wheels wandering onto some cats’ eyes and the noise of an indicator signalling as they changed lane. They were on a motorway, they had to be.
She broke her relentless anxiety by playing a game of ‘let’s guess where I am’ and miles had passed before she realised it was a pointless pursuit; It would require passer-bys’ voices or traffic stops to yield a clue and she’d watched too many episodes of Criminal Minds to imagine there would be.
The madam found herself dozing for a while and when she awoke she had the sudden urge to kick above her head. Perhaps if she could make enough noise some passing driver might hear her, but her legs had tired before she’d realised the idea had been nonsense anyway. They were going too fast. The only people who might hear her were the men inside the car and it would only serve to anger them. If she had to die she didn’t want to encourage them to make the experience worse.
Eventually she lay back on the boot’s carpeted floor, finding some sort of acceptance. It made the pulse in her head that had been deafening her with its pounding, subside for long enough to hear her captors speak. She listened closely to their words, strangely comforted by having human beings nearby yet at the same time realising the ridiculousness of finding comfort from the men who would cause her death.
One man had a low, warm voice, a voice that she might have found attractive on another day. His words flowed over her, speaking of sport and a concert that he’d been to earlier that week, his companion silent aside from “yes” and “hmm”. Their exchange had a rhythm to it that made her feel sleepy and without trying to the madam felt herself dozing off, only to be woken some unknowable time later by the feeling of rain splattering on her hand, the light seeping through her hood’s fibres saying that it was still day.
First one arm and then the other was grabbed, and she felt herself being yanked wholesale from the boot, and dragged by her assailants across rough, obstacle filled ground. She had no idea where she was. There were birds, she could hear them, and bits of twig snapping underfoot. A garden? A forest? The latter made more sense. Kill her in a remote forest and no-one would know where to look for her body. That’s what The Fox had said months ago when they’d first met. Cross me, Veronica, and they won’t find your body for years.
She hit the ground suddenly with a thud, something that she’d fallen against knocking the breath out of her chest, her captors’ kicks to her torso ensuring its depletion. As she gasped for air, necessary for the renewed pleading she was planning on doing, the pounding pulse in her head made her deaf once again. So deaf that she didn’t hear the footsteps moving away and almost too deaf to hear the car engine starting up, but clearing enough to hear the vehicle pull away and leave her alone. Wrists bound, head hooded, but still alive, biting back her tears of relief in case they choked her still-gagged mouth, and thanking whoever or whatever power had saved her for the sake of her son.
****
The Travis Estate.
Kyle Spence knew that he was unfeeling and he usually considered it a gift. Not for him the shirt-rending, soul-searching pangs of anguish that many of his contemporaries suffered when faced with the worst that humanity could do. He could stare at a victim and walk away, and smile at the dead body of a villain, noting anything that the police marksman might seek to improve upon next time. Not for him the wondering about how they’d embarked upon their criminal path: the bad childhood, the poverty, the influence of the other sad sacks that they’d encountered on their way. As far as he was concerned it was their own stupid fault that their life had ended with a bullet; they should’ve worked harder at school and joined the boy scouts.
So, unfeeling was the order of Kyle Spence’s day. He balked at calling himself callous, carrying as it did the implied urge to seek opportunities for sadism, which he didn’t. In truth, he would far rather be drinking a good wine and seducing some lovely than shooting a man in the head, but he had chosen a job that served his country, so in that light his lack of empathy was a distinct advantage in his book. What the lovelies thought was a different thing entirely, but as he never dated anyone for longer than a fortnight as a matter of policy, and they all knew that going in, no-one could ever cry about their hurt feelings or imply that he’d led them astray.
It was with that same cool detachment that Spence knocked on the door of number twenty-five Faulkner Tower, his clear eyes unburdened by any feelings of pity engendered by the poverty around him: the peeling mustard paint covering the apartment’s narrow door jamb; the dried-out planter on the balcony outside, some futile attempt at brightening the small piece of real estate Eileen Regent called home; the drunken stainless steel five, hanging only its bottom screw at an angle, saying that she lived in number twenty what?
No, the D.I.’s mind was unclouded by sentiment as he listened to the strangely light footsteps of the lady of the house approaching, and it remained unfogged as the snib was turned and the door crept back, threatening only to mist up when a tiny, triangular face appeared several feet below him in the sparsely furnished hall. A face belonging to a small girl, not older than six or seven, her thin, mousey hair clamped flat against cheeks which widened slowly into a hesitant smile.
“Daddy’s not in. Granny’s gone to see him.”
Whether it was her chirpy tone or her innocent opening of the door to a complete stranger, one who was only now showing her his badge, or the high-pitched voice designed by evolution to make adults want to protect her, or the naiveté that said she believed Billy Regent was merely out instead of dead, Kyle Spence didn’t know. But something made him want to pick the girl up and hold her, to tell the young daughter that none of them had been aware Billy Regent had had that everything would be OK, and that same something made a tear form in the unsentim
ental inspector’s eye, and fall unbidden down his pale and normally unfeeling cheek.
****
The C.C.U. 12 p.m.
Craig walked straight past his PA as she waited in front of the squad-room’s double doors, her posture hinting that she’d rushed there as soon as she’d heard the lift. She had in fact, so desperate was she to impart the information that Kyle had just given her, so she was less than impressed when Craig waved her away, with. “Later, Nicky. I need to check something first.”
Nicky Morris was not a woman accustomed to being ignored and Liam decided to capitalise on that fact, as his immediate halt by her side and fake-concerned expression proved.
“You can tell me, you know. Always happy to chat.”
“NO. It’s for the chief.”
He jutted out his bottom lip in a show of hurt but Nicky wasn’t taken in.
“And you needn’t try that one on me. Our Jonny holds the prize for guilting.” She turned on her heel, shooting Craig an annoyed look all the way back to her desk. “But if we’re talking about people offending other people, we’d have to travel a long way to beat him.”
If Craig was aware of the tableau playing out behind his back he pretended not to be, pulling up a chair to sit down at Davy’s desk.
“Have you got Veronica Lewis’ phone records yet, Davy?”
Without looking up Davy waved towards his junior and Craig shifted his chair across to Ash, wondering when the shy EMO analyst who’d once been afraid to speak without being spoken to had become so blasé. Ash’s smooth tenor stopped him following through the thought.
“I’ve got the outgoing calls from her office since January, chief.” He tapped his smart-pad and a list appeared on his computer screen. “The company’s dragging their feet a bit on the details on the incoming ones.” He gestured to the phone. “But I’ll chase them up again.”
“Do that.” Craig stared at the screen. “Anything interesting on the incomings, even without the details?”
“A lot of withheld numbers, just like you’d expect from people calling a madam. We’re working on getting them uncovered, but my bet is quite a few will be from throwaway phones.”
Craig thought about what he’d said for a moment before shaking his head.
“People are lazy. Someone will have used their own phone and just concealed its I.D., and one number might be all we’ll need.” He pointed to the smart-pad. “Particularly if it matches an outgoing call.”
Ash nodded his colourful head. “I’m working my way through those. So far, there are a lot of Chinese takeaways. The girls must have had plenty of free time.”
It didn’t warrant debate.
“OK, what about Lewis’ computers, home and office?”
“Davy’s working on those.”
Craig walked his chair back to the EMO and waited for Davy to raise his brown eyes from his work. When thirty seconds had passed the detective gave a prompt.
“Veronica Lewis’ computers?”
The analyst glanced up as if he didn’t know who Craig was but he regrouped quickly.
“S…Sorry, chief, I was miles away.”
“Something you’ve found?”
Davy’s wrinkled nose said possibly.
“It’s…maybe…” He set down the pen he was holding and sat back. “You’ll think I’ve gone mad.”
Liam’s voice boomed across the floor. “He’s one to judge.”
Craig ignored him and shifted to the edge of his seat, sensing that something significant was about to come out.
“Why mad?”
Davy made another face. “W…Well, because if I didn’t know better I’d say Lewis’ emails were written in code. Take a look.”
Craig moved to read over his shoulder. The email on the screen seemed innocuous. Just Veronica Lewis contacting someone called Elizabeth, arranging an appointment for a facial.
“Where’s the code in that?”
“Well, the appointment’s at a weekend. That’s possible, I suppose, for a beauty place, but the email address doesn’t exist. Well, it exists, but it doesn’t belong to a real person. It’s a s…sock puppet, a false account. Every time I try to trace it, it dead-ends in Korea.”
Both Liam and Ash perked up. “North Korea?” Visions of nuclear holocausts over Belfast Lough filled Liam’s mind, while Ash’s thoughts flew to Barat Dudaev selling the satellite codes to Kim Jong Un.
“South, thankfully.”
While Ash looked almost disappointed that the Belfast madam hadn’t been about to rain Armageddon on their heads Liam’s thoughts diverted immediately to lunch. Meanwhile Craig focused on what they had.
“OK, so Elizabeth and her facial were fake.”
“And the email bounced off several different s…servers on the way between wherever and here.”
“That’s what’s making you think it’s written in code?”
Davy shook his head. “No. Lewis seems to have had a few stock phrases she used, like booking a facial, booking a massage, etcetera. Although I s…suppose they’re common enough things for women to have.” He rolled his eyes. “Judging by what Maggie spends anyway-”
Maggie was Davy’s fiancée.
Craig cut him off. “Or you think they could be euphemisms for different sex acts.”
Liam overheard and snorted. “And we can all guess what a facial is-”
He was silenced by Nicky stuffing a biscuit from her secret stash in his mouth. She kept a tin filled with all things sweet and carbohydrate that she relocated every day to prevent Liam pilfering the lot.
Craig was still talking. “But you don’t think it’s that simple, do you?”
The analyst shook his head. “No. I mean if someone is just booking time with a beautician or one of Lewis’ escorts, why use a fake email address?”
“Unless it’s not Elizabeth booking a facial and it’s really a powerful man who wants their privacy maintained.”
Davy shook his head again, surprising the detective. “I can’t see it, chief. Men that powerful w…wouldn’t write anything down at all.” He gestured at Ash. “They’re probably Ash’s withheld phone numbers. But this.” He tapped the screen. “This is way too elaborate. So elaborate, I don’t think it’s got anything to do with Lewis’ sex or beauty businesses at all.”
Craig had another thought. “Was the email listed under one business or the other?”
“Neither. There’s no reference attached to say which business each email applies to, although the content, facial etc. could refer to either I guess.”
“Do the appointment times coincide with anything else you’ve found?”
“Well, they’re all at weekends in the summer-”
Craig finished the sentence. “And weekday evenings in the winter months.” He nodded to himself, realising what it meant. “The emails are to do with the parties Lewis was organising.”
As he prepared to leave and give the analysts space to work, Davy shook his head.
“I hadn’t finished, chief. The emails might be using some sort of simple code for the s…services, but.” He moved his cursor onto an ornate looking figure four at the bottom of the frame.
“What’s that? Lewis’ business logo?”
“It’s only on emails going to Lewis so I don’t think it belongs to her.”
It was too much for Liam’s curiosity and he wandered across to join them. Meanwhile the analyst had answered Craig’s question by clicking twice on the figure, and as they watched a series of screens flashed by, until the final one appeared containing nothing but numbers.
Ash leapt up, unable to contain his excitement.
“It’s a gateway! Let me at it!”
Davy fended him off with an outstretched hand. “Wait.” He opened a second email to Lewis on his left-hand screen and clicked on the logo again, watching the sequence repeat.
“OK, what we’ve got is steganography. Concealing a file, message, image, or video within another. S…Someone’s embedded information in bland emails
arranging beauty appointments, and no-one would have known to click on that symbol but the recipient-”
“Or you.”
He brushed off the compliment. “It takes us through a series of pages until it lands on that.” He gestured at the numbered screen then turned to his junior. “Have a go at that one if you fancy, but I don’t think you’ll get anywhere. They aren’t algorithms. My guess is it’s a simple Ottendorf Cipher.”
“What’s that?”
“A book code.” To prove the point, he highlighted a section. “The numbers are in groups of four; probably referring to the page, line, word and letter. But the question is from which book? It could be anything from the Huckleberry Finn to the Bible, but both sender and recipient must be working to the same text for the code to make sense. Or… it could lead to a file that only party attendees are given, and by using the numbers they can w…work out where the parties are and when.” He nodded admiringly. “These guys do not want to get caught.”
Liam hadn’t finished. He prodded the figure four that Craig had queried as a logo.
“Does that squiggle on its back mean anything?”
Davy shrugged. “Maybe. It looks occult to me.” He pre-empted the next question with a shake of his head. “Give me time.”
Liam gave a tut of disgust. “I just hope it’s not some sort of witchy coven crap. I couldn’t cope with a Hammer Horror movie playing out in some country house.”
He noticed that Craig had said nothing for a while.
“A quid for them, boss?”
“You tell me.”
The Cabal Page 9