Perfect Prey

by Helen Fields

  ‘I’d assumed you’d wait for me outside,’ Callanach said to Ben, who was typing furiously into a laptop that he’d attached to the journalist’s machine.

  ‘I’d rather not be left hanging around on street corners, if you don’t mind,’ Ben replied as Callanach opened a bottle of beer. ‘And I thought you didn’t want to be seen with me. Or is there something else going on here?’

  Callanach offered Ben a beer which he accepted but put down without drinking from it.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Callanach said. ‘What else do you think is going on?’

  ‘I need your email password!’ Ben shouted to Lance who was clattering in the kitchen.

  ‘Mooncat129,’ Lance replied on his way into the lounge. ‘I take it I can trust this man, Inspector, only I’ve just given him the key to my online chastity belt.’

  ‘I’m in,’ Ben said. ‘It’ll take a while to transfer the files to my machine. So tell me, Callanach. Why me? I mean really. That had to be more than a quick hunt through CyberBallista’s website.’

  ‘It was exactly that,’ Callanach said, piling a plate with noodles and tipping unidentifiable protein strips over the top. ‘CyberBallista is supposed to be the best in Scotland for this sort of thing. How did a boy from California end up here? I’d have thought Silicon Valley would have offered better career prospects, not to mention the weather and the cars.’

  ‘Do I need to record this conversation as well, DI Callanach, or shall we just get on with the business at hand? And by the way, this laptop is clean. There’ll be nothing on here except this project. No access to anything else of mine,’ Ben said, one hand poised on the lid of his laptop as if preparing to close it.

  Lance interjected. ‘DI Callanach, may I call you Luc? You seem to have a policeman’s knack for asking too many questions. This young fellow seems to want to help, so why not stick to discussing the price of eggs? I still have very little idea what’s going on. Would anyone care to enlighten me? And that favour you promised isn’t going unforgotten.’

  ‘I’m backtracking the path the email took to reach you,’ Ben said.

  ‘Surely that’s something the police have already tried,’ Lance noted. ‘Not that I don’t appreciate being part of the action, but didn’t your boys seize my hard drive for precisely that reason?’

  ‘Between us, they did and they failed. I figured it was worth another go. Was I right?’ Callanach asked Ben.

  ‘Your in-house team wouldn’t have had a hope in hell,’ Ben answered, laughing. ‘Did they outsource it?’

  ‘Some company in London had a try. They got further, but said finding any firm information was impossible because of the number of times the email had bounced around the world. I asked for more funding and it was made clear that I was wasting my time.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as impossible in computing,’ Ben said. ‘It’s like saying that numbers can be finite. There’s always one more. This has been wrapped up tight though, no doubt about it.’

  ‘I love this stuff,’ Lance announced, abandoning his plate and sitting down next to Ben. He leaned forward staring at the screen as if the answers were about to appear. ‘Explain what you’re doing.’

  ‘You can’t print my name,’ Ben said. ‘Not who I work for, nothing. You get it?’

  ‘Let me get this right,’ Lance said. ‘Neither of you are in my house, drinking beer with me, talking to me and conducting this investigation through my computer. And although I’m a journalist you still both somehow thought this was a fair set-up.’

  ‘I’ll leave if it’s a problem for you,’ Ben said.

  ‘Just pulling your leg, son,’ Lance grumbled. ‘You were never here. Help me understand how this works.’

  Ben pressed a few keys and the screen was suddenly filled with scrolling data. He sat back, hands behind his head, as the programme worked its magic.

  ‘Every email comes marked, a bit like leaving your DNA on an envelope when you lick it and stick it. The problem these days is that you can create false email accounts, steal identities, use throwaway phones – everything is disposable and virtually untraceable. But the email itself is ultimately linked to one IP address – an internet protocol number that’s unique to a computer – no matter how many different routes it takes to get to its destination. That’s how we know that certain scams originate from Russia, Nigeria, Ireland or wherever.’ The laptop pinged. Ben disconnected his machine from Lance’s.

  ‘What software are you using?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Nothing you can buy online or pick up nicely packaged in a shop,’ Ben answered. ‘This guy is good. The email was bouncing around the globe a while before it landed in your inbox, Mr Proudfoot. And it wasn’t sent by an amateur. The original sender data was destroyed as soon as the file was opened. Clever trick.’

  ‘Fils de pute,’ Callanach swore. Son of a bitch. ‘So it is a dead end.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Ben said, tapping away on the keyboard again. ‘There may be some geographical markers. I can’t get you any personal details, but it was definitely sent from Scotland.’

  ‘Given that the photos were of a dead girl’s body in Edinburgh, that’s not really news,’ Callanach said, head in hands.

  ‘You mentioned something else. Another lead to follow,’ Ben reminded him.

  ‘Autopsy details were leaked,’ Callanach said. ‘But that could have been anyone, either an insider with a grudge, or a hack.’

  ‘Give me a minute,’ Ben said, typing at a speed Callanach had never witnessed before.

  ‘I can’t give you access to the forensic pathologist’s intranet,’ Callanach said. ‘I’d have to go a long way up the chain of command for that.’

  ‘You seriously think I need permission to get through this pathetic firewall?’ Ben asked. ‘I’m already into their database.’

  ‘Aren’t the files encrypted?’ Lance asked.

  ‘They are, but they’ve used a standard encryption software. That’s the problem. Once a code has been written to break down an encryption, you just have to apply the correct code to it. Takes minutes to get into files like this. Governments are the worst offenders for having sloppy digital guards in place. You should see how much more money private corporations spend protecting their data. Here you go. I can see a list of all autopsy reports for the last twelve months. What’s the name?’ Callanach hesitated. ‘It’s a bit late to be coy now, Detective Inspector. A twelve-year-old with a half decent brain could have hacked in here. Who’s report was it?’

  ‘Helen Lott,’ Lance answered. ‘There were details about her I haven’t seen for any other victims, right Luc?’

  Callanach nodded.

  ‘There’s an access with no username here. No changes logged. It looks like a computer glitch, but that would’ve been the entry point.’ Ben tapped away again as Callanach joined the two men peering at the screen. ‘There you go. It’s not evidence, but it is proof. The same identification destruction has been used here. Follow the trail back and you hit a point where the file wipes itself clean like a booby trap, so you can’t get a user ID.’

  ‘In plain English?’ Lance asked.

  ‘It’s not a coincidence. Programming at a certain level never is. Both the leaking of the photos and the hack into the mortuary reports end in the same way, when you chase the original IP address. There’s a point when the software recognises that it’s being inspected and self-destructs. It’s intelligent design. We pushed the self-destruct button ourselves by following the trail.’

  ‘How many people are capable of designing something like that?’ Lance asked.

  ‘Globally? Plenty,’ Ben said. ‘But in Scotland? You’re looking for a murderer who has the ability or the connections to do this, as well as the desire and motivation to kill. That’s quite some combination. There can’t be that many people who fit the description.’

  ‘I need to speak to DI Turner,’ Callanach said. ‘These two cases were assigned to her this morning. Would you mind meeti
ng with her to explain what you’ve just told me?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Detective Inspector Ava Turner?’ Ben asked.

  ‘Do you know her?’ Callanach countered.

  Ben slammed down the lid of his laptop, took his first and last swig of beer, and zipped up his coat.

  ‘You know, I came here because I genuinely wanted to help. I gave you the benefit of the doubt through all the questions and I checked you out. Interpol, a fabricated sexual assault charge, an understanding of how the system works against the little man. I thought you just might be genuine. But here you go, using the murders of innocent people to help some big faceless suits. Well, good luck with that, Callanach. You can tell DCI Edgar that it didn’t work. I’m not going for a cosy chat with his girlfriend and I’m done being drawn in. You’ll have to find a different way. And I have a member of the press to back me up if you start getting creative with anything I’ve told you tonight, so good fucking luck using that in court.’

  He stormed out, banging the door behind him, leaving Callanach and Lance with their mouths gaping. Lance reached for a fresh bottle of beer and popped the top.

  ‘That’s quite some talent for pissing people off you have, Luc,’ Lance said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Callanach drove directly to Tripp’s address, needing to ask a question he couldn’t put into words. More importantly, he needed Tripp not to attempt to answer it.

  It was after ten when he arrived. The door was answered by a man in his early twenties, maybe a year or two younger then Tripp.

  ‘Good evening, I’m Luc Callanach …’

  ‘I know who you are,’ the man said. ‘You’d better come in. Max! Your boss is here.’

  Tripp dropped something loudly in another room, looking sheepish as he emerged.

  ‘Sir, is something wrong? I didn’t know you were trying to get in touch with me. I’m sure I left my mobile on.’

  ‘I didn’t call. I apologise. To you both,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Oh, this is Duncan. I normally flat-share with my brother but he’s away on business so Duncan’s staying a while.’

  ‘You don’t have to explain. I have no right to intrude.’ Callanach looked over at Duncan who was watching protectively. ‘And I apologise for asking this, but could I please talk with you privately?’

  ‘Of course. Duncan, sorry, could you?’ Tripp asked.

  ‘Headed for the kettle,’ Duncan said. ‘Do you want anything?’ He looked at Callanach.

  ‘No, but thank you.’ Callanach paused while Duncan left then looked straight at Tripp. ‘You warned me not to talk to anyone from CyberBallista, only I was too busy worrying about the murders to consider the reasons behind your warning.’

  ‘You mustn’t, sir. It’s a very close-knit industry and any approach by the police would get around …’

  ‘Ben Paulson,’ Callanach said. Tripp’s eyes widened briefly. Callanach knew the name was exactly the one his detective constable had been hoping not to hear. Tripp began to stutter. Callanach held a hand up to stop him. ‘Not one word. You’ve done nothing wrong. I just had to know. I haven’t asked you anything and you’ve said nothing except that I should stay away from CyberBallista. If there’s a backlash, it’ll be mine alone.’

  ‘Sir, I might be out of line here but DCI Edgar’s a balls-aching bastard. If he finds out you’ve made contact …’

  ‘I’ve done nothing, Max,’ Callanach said. ‘So don’t worry about DCI Edgar. Forget I was here and apologise to Duncan for me. I’ll see myself out.’

  Callanach drove slowly, considering whether it was better to go home or detour to Ava’s and explain what had happened, risking seeing DCI Edgar. The see-saw landed in favour of keeping Ava out of it, not least because it seemed unlikely he’d get a sympathetic hearing. The slap she’d delivered earlier had been more than justified. He hadn’t meant what he’d said. Edgar was just one of those people who wound him up and he’d taken it out on Ava.

  Back in his apartment, Callanach kicked off his boots and opened a bottle of wine. He’d had to stick to a driving-appropriate amount of alcohol at Lance’s, but not now. Enough was enough. He’d stumbled into the middle of Scotland Yard’s hacking investigation, requesting help from the very man the Cyber Crime Unit had pinned as their prime suspect. Tripp’s face had made that abundantly clear. More than that, Ben Paulson plainly knew all about it, however clever and quiet Edgar and his squad thought they’d been. Ben was keeping tabs on both the investigation and DCI Edgar, extending to his newly rekindled relationship with Ava. Callanach wondered how much Ben knew about it that he didn’t. Had he hacked their emails, their texts? Could he listen to their telephone conversations?

  Callanach’s mind began to wander, bringing up images of Joe Edgar with Ava. He pushed the thoughts away. It was none of his business what Ava did, or who she did it with. Even if Edgar was the last person on earth he’d have chosen as his friend’s partner, that was her business. Callanach downed the glass of wine and poured himself another, halfway through it he heard the voice calling.

  ‘Luc! Are you in? It’s Bunny. I thought I heard your door slam, only I’ve got a package for you.’

  Callanach gritted his teeth and opened the door. Bunny was wearing shorts and a T-shirt designed to save on the cost of material. She smiled warmly.

  ‘I haven’t seen you for ages!’ she said, handing over a large brown envelope. ‘I left you a note about a party I had. Sorry you couldn’t make it.’ She looked over his shoulder into the apartment. ‘Have I called at a bad time?’ she asked. ‘I saw you on the news tonight. I felt awful for you with those reporters giving you a hard time. Honestly, they’ve no idea how hard you must be working. Did you eat? Only I could fix you something in a couple of minutes. It’s no bother.’

  ‘I was just off to bed,’ Callanach said. ‘Perhaps another time.’

  ‘I’ve got no plans tomorrow night,’ Bunny said, leaning against his doorway. ‘And I don’t mind cooking. What’s your favourite? I do a mean steak and chips.’

  ‘I can’t make plans in the middle of an investigation,’ Callanach said, glancing at his watch, wanting only to go back to his wine. ‘I never know what time I’ll be home. Maybe when this is over.’

  ‘Sure, that’s more sensible. But if you need anything, I can always grab you a few bits from the supermarket, or put the vacuum round for you. You can leave a key at mine if you like.’

  ‘I prefer my privacy,’ Callanach said. Bunny’s cheeks reddened. It had come out as a reprimand and he was in no mood to bother trying to retract. ‘Thanks for the package. I’ll see you some time.’

  He took a step backwards and shut the door. A couple of seconds later he heard Bunny’s slow footsteps as she went back to her own apartment. He dialled Ava’s number, thought better of it and cut the call off, then grabbed the wine bottle and took it to his bedroom. However much he tried to drink his memory blank on the subject of his clash with Ava, alcohol wasn’t a strong enough drug. Remembering it was Natasha’s birthday, Callanach did the next best thing to speaking with Ava herself and called Natasha instead.

  The dialling tone wasn’t what he’d expected. Too late he realised he was phoning her in New Orleans with absolutely no idea what time it was in the southern USA.

  ‘Luc?’ Natasha said. ‘What’s happened? Is Ava okay?’

  ‘How did you know it was me?’ he asked, wondering why it was such an effort to speak and sit up straight.

  ‘Your name came up on my mobile. I’m pretty sure yours works the same way,’ Natasha laughed. ‘It’s 11 p.m. in Scotland. Are you all right?’

  ‘Just wanted to say happy birthday,’ he said, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘You’re slurring. Are you drunk? Is Ava with you?’

  ‘No,’ Callanach said. ‘Ava’s with Detective Chief Inspector Dickhead, did I say that right?’

  ‘Your Scottish swearing has improved, then,’ Natasha said. ‘I’d forgotten Joe was around. You’re not a fan?’

>   ‘I hadn’t even noticed him,’ Callanach said, finishing what little was left in the bottom of his glass.

  Natasha sighed. He could hear her taking in a slow breath.

  ‘Have you spoken to her, Luc?’ she asked.

  ‘Not since she slapped me this morning, no. I don’t think she’s in the mood for me right now.’

  ‘She’s under a lot of pressure at the moment. I think this thing with Joe is just a symptom of that.’

  ‘Four dead bodies, Tasha. Terrible murders. Ava’s right, I’m glad you’re away from here too. I just called to wish you a happy birthday.’ Callanach let himself fall back onto the pillow. He was finally ready to sleep.

  ‘You already said that, but you need to listen to me. I can’t speak for Ava – she’s very private about what goes on in her life. Give her some time. She needs you, Luc. And I know how you feel about her.’

  ‘Doesn’t need me any more, made that totally clear today. Forget it. Stay away until this is over. The city’s not safe.’

  ‘I appreciate the concern, but I’m more worried about you. Shall I speak to Ava? She’d hate it if she knew you were this upset,’ Natasha said.

  ‘No,’ Callanach murmured. ‘There’s nothing to sort out. I’m glad she’s found someone.’ He ended the call, threw his mobile onto the floor and rolled over. Next to him on the bed was the envelope Bunny had delivered. Yet another apology he’d need to make tomorrow. He was amassing enemies much faster than he was making progress on the case.

  Ripping the paper apart, he pulled out a slim cardboard box, inside which was a plastic and foil press-out board containing long blue pills. He pitched them against the wall and closed his eyes. The tablets that were his last-ditch attempt at overcoming his impotence had finally arrived, and he had absolutely no idea why he’d ever bothered ordering them.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning brought little relief from the media storm and public pressure. A man seen pulling a young woman into a car had been badly beaten by vigilantes, his injuries not life-threatening but serious. On arrest, his attackers claimed the man fitted the description of Emily Balcaskie’s murderer and that they were thwarting another killing. To be fair, at 6’3” and heavily built, the man did fit the general description released by Police Scotland to the press. What his attackers didn’t know, was that the man in question was pulling his incredibly drunk, underage daughter into his car before she disappeared off for the night with a man twice her age, who was a known pimp. Callanach suspected there would be a reasonable amount of post-incident discussion between the victim and his daughter once he was fit enough to talk again.