Perfect Prey

by Helen Fields

  After an hour of staring at paperwork, issuing orders, and going over and over the same ground in his head, Callanach did the thing he’d sworn he’d never do having left France. He picked up the phone and dialled Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon.

  Jean-Paul had been his best friend. During their years together at Interpol, they’d shared holidays, an apartment for a while, more meals than Callanach could count, and a host of memories that ranged from taking down an international paedophile ring in New York to trekking the Sahara as a bet. Then Jean-Paul had arranged a date for him with Astrid Borde and so started a chain of events that ended in a rape allegation. Jean-Paul had slipped away from him, as had so many others. But of all his colleagues and friends, it was Jean-Paul’s disloyalty that had hurt the most. No doubt it had been hard for him, too. His best friend, the rapist. Did people tar them with the same brush? Did Jean-Paul suffer for their association? He certainly hadn’t lost his job or his country as Callanach had. When Astrid had decided not to proceed with the trial, their friendship had been too wrecked to salvage. Now Callanach needed a favour and Jean-Paul owed him a lifetime of them.

  ‘J-P,’ he answered. Callanach hadn’t thought how he might feel hearing his voice. He pushed the memories away and focused on what he needed.

  ‘Hello Jean-Paul,’ he said. ‘This is Luc Callanach.’ He chose to speak English, knowing his friend spoke it equally fluently. Callanach wanted to pretend that it was automatic for him now, but the truth was less noble. He was making a point. This was his new life. Even his language had been stolen from him. There was an audible intake of breath at the other end of the line.

  ‘Luc,’ Jean-Paul said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Busy. We have a situation in Edinburgh. Four murders and we’re bracing for more.’

  ‘I’ve heard,’ Jean-Paul said. ‘So this is an official enquiry?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Callanach replied. ‘After all these years, does it really need to be?’

  There was a long pause. Callanach heard a door slam. He could imagine J-P’s office, his friend with his feet up on his desk, reading or writing notes. If the door had ever needed closing, he had stretched out a foot to kick it. It was as if he was right there in the room with him.

  ‘I can’t do anything without the proper authorisation. You know what procedure is like here.’

  ‘You can if it’s your own research, rather than an intelligence request. You’ll find a way to link the name to one of your own investigations,’ Callanach said, refusing to be put off. He could hear the shame in J-P’s voice. Hopefully that shame would be enough to close the deal on an unofficial background check.

  ‘And if that name also happens to be linked to a major crime in Scotland?’ Jean-Paul asked.

  ‘He’s an international player, not a Scottish national. Ex Silicon Valley. Make it work.’

  ‘Why did you call me?’ Jean-Paul asked. There was an edge of whininess to his voice. Callanach felt a surge of irritation. If anyone deserved to be feeling sorry for themselves, it wasn’t his former friend.

  ‘Maybe I was missing you. Or perhaps I need to get a job done because lives are at stake. Does it matter? I need the background check. Everything. Family, work, education, criminal investigations, known associates.’

  ‘How long do I have?’ Jean-Paul asked. Callanach was relieved that he hadn’t wanted to dwell on the reasons why he should play ball. It was as much recognition as he was going to get that his friend felt some guilt for what had happened.

  ‘Now, on the phone. I have a meeting shortly,’ Callanach said.

  ‘The name?’ Jean-Paul asked.

  ‘Ben Paulson, US citizen currently residing and working in Edinburgh. He may be flagged in relation to cyber crime.’

  ‘Working on it,’ Jean-Paul said. ‘So why is this off the record? It wouldn’t have hurt to come through formal channels. Sounds like a legitimate request. What are you avoiding?’

  ‘The cyber crime is someone else’s investigation. Unfortunately myself and the officer in charge have conflicting interests.’

  ‘You never make things easy, do you?’ Jean-Paul said with a small laugh.

  ‘The easy way was an option I lost when I had to start my career all over again,’ Callanach said. He hadn’t intended to say anything, but there it was – the bitter pill – still in his mouth, after swallowing so hard for so long.

  ‘Luc, I didn’t know what to do. I had no way of knowing what had really happened that night. You never mentioned a thing. How could I have known that you were innocent?’

  ‘How could you ever have believed I was capable of it?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Please, what you went through was terrible, but you have to believe I would do anything to turn back the clock,’ Jean-Paul said. Callanach wanted to believe him, but it was easy for such declarations to be made on the telephone from so far away. And it was too little, too late.

  ‘All I want is information. Find your own way to live with what happened. I have enough to worry about,’ Callanach said.

  There was silence. Callanach could almost see his friend’s face. When Jean-Paul was worried he used to take a packet of tobacco from his pocket and roll a cigarette. His eyes would be closed as he did it, his hands so practised at the motions. Perhaps it was only his imagination, but Callanach thought he could hear the rustle of a cigarette paper beneath Jean-Paul’s uneven breathing. He felt a rift within himself and wondered how it could be possible to feel such fury and such longing at the same time.

  ‘Got it,’ Jean-Paul said quietly. ‘Benjamin Samuel Paulson, born July 29th 1987, believed to be part of an international hacking group. Mother and father both died when he was thirteen. Car accident. Moved school multiple times, lived with various of his parents’ relatives. At fourteen he hacked into the school computer and erased students’ disciplinary files. His IQ was noted to be extremely high but his behaviour was challenging. Arrested aged sixteen in San Francisco during a peace march that got out of hand, but only received a warning. He was taken on by a start-up in Silicon Valley, then fell in with some known Greenpeace activists. No other criminal proceedings on record. Lived in New York for a while, working for tech companies. Looks like Paulson’s at the top of his game in programmer terms. NASA ran a background check on him with a view to offering him a position. He turned them down. Since then he’s worked for a number of blue-chip companies all in the tech sector. There’s mention of a group, The Unsung, but nothing concrete in the files. Someone else ran a background check on him recently – must be the investigation you mentioned. Known associates are other hackers. A couple of them have faced trial, but the charges weren’t proved. They’re left-wing anti-establishment.’

  ‘Do you have anything else about The Unsung?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Some suggestion that they were involved in the British politicians’ expenses scandal last year. There’s a suggestion The Unsung might have hacked into emails, leaked some documents. Nothing confirmed.’

  That was the key, then. Whoever was putting pressure on DCI Edgar to make arrests had their own agenda, and it might be nothing more than simple revenge. A lot of important people still had mud on their faces and it was going to take a while to wash off.

  ‘Any more about Paulson on a personal level?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Not much. He was born in California. Had one sister, but there’s nothing here about what happened to her. Mother was a teacher, aged forty-one when she died. Father was a couple of years older. He was a serving police officer. That may explain why Paulson got away with a warning after the disturbance at the peace rally. Those guys protect their own,’ J-P said, his voice fading away, the irony of his words sinking in.

  ‘That’ll do,’ Callanach said. ‘Thank you J-P. And don’t worry. I have no intention of making a habit of calling.’ He put the phone down.

  Below Par was underground. Not in the hacking, secretive sense of the word, but quite literally. The streets were busy with workers on lu
nch hours, shoppers and tourists, but even so Callanach was careful to check he wasn’t being followed. He walked past Below Par twice, crossing the street and watching from other shops before committing to going in. Callanach walked down some old, stone steps, peered through the dusty, barred window a moment, then entered. The cafe, situated beneath a wedding dress shop, turned out to serve only decaffeinated tea and coffee, an array of herbal options and a variety of organic soft drinks.

  Callanach was stopped at the door by a girl with more piercings than he could count, and an English accent that was all East End London. She looked him up and down before asking what he was after.

  ‘Just coffee,’ Callanach said. The cafe was only half full, mostly occupied by singles staring at screens.

  ‘We’re a bit busy at the moment,’ the girl said. ‘Perhaps one of the larger chain coffee stores would have the sort of thing you’re after.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone here,’ Callanach said, realising he was being bounced by a suspicious twenty-something who was probably half his weight. She was smiling and polite, but it was clear he wasn’t going to be allowed entry. He guessed there was a lot more going on than the service of healthy, carbon-footprint-friendly beverages.

  ‘And who might that be?’ the girl enquired, raising a pencilled eyebrow.

  ‘I’d rather not give a name, if you don’t mind,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Then I’m afraid we’re too busy to seat you.’ She folded her arms.

  Callanach had no idea what to do. He wasn’t about to show his badge, given the circumstances, and the girl had done nothing wrong.

  ‘Look, it’s really important. My friend gave me the name of this place. If I leave now I might miss him,’ Callanach said.

  The girl put her hands on her hips and looked towards a door at the far end of the coffee shop. It opened.

  ‘You can go on in,’ the girl said. Callanach stepped past the counter towards the back of the cafe. ‘Hold on, your mobile stays here. Next time, make sure your friend tells you the rules before inviting you.’ She held out her hand. Callanach paused. There were numbers and details on his phone that shouldn’t fall into other people’s hands. He considered arguing, until Ben poked his head out of the rear door and nodded at him.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Ben said. ‘Polly’s bark is worse than her bite.’ A couple of the other cafe users laughed. Polly ignored them all, took the mobile from Callanach’s hand and slid it into a drawer beneath the cash register.

  ‘Thank you. Can I get you anything to drink?’ she asked, as if none of the previous conversation had taken place and he’d just walked in off the street.

  ‘Espresso, please,’ Callanach said.

  Polly turned round, picked up a jug of coffee, poured a mug and handed it to him.

  ‘Decaff is better for you,’ she said.

  Callanach knew when to give in. He thanked her and made his way to the back of the premises.

  Lance was already there. He and Ben were grinning as Callanach entered.

  ‘You must have a suspicious face,’ Lance said. ‘She let me straight in. No questions asked.’

  ‘Polly’s just looking out for me,’ Ben said as he wired Lance’s laptop into his own. ‘She wasn’t all that keen on the idea of me inviting a policeman for a meeting here.’

  ‘She’s your girlfriend?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Necessary disclosures only, if you don’t mind. Personal questions make me nervous.’ Ben glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve a client consultation back at the office in an hour so I can’t be long. Let me show you what I’ve found.’ He tapped through a series of passwords and logins at a pace Callanach couldn’t follow, and landed on a page with a green flashing tab in the top left-hand corner. The only other graphic on the screen was a tiny yellow bottle at the bottom. The bottle slowly disappeared from sight. When it had gone completely, Ben refreshed the screen and it appeared again.

  ‘What is this?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘This is where the GPS coordinates for your graffiti turned up. I suspect they’re within chat folders, but I can’t get in at the moment, so I can’t give you the context.’

  ‘What’s the website? Can you not just give us the internet address?’ Lance asked.

  ‘It’s darknet,’ Ben said. ‘Like Silk Road, the online drug marketplace the FBI shut down. It’s all encoded. You need the right software and to know how to use it. And most people who try only succeed in getting their own computer hacked. The majority of darknet websites are traps or scams.’

  ‘So there’s no way to find out who’s posting or visiting the website?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘There’s no such thing as “no way” when you’re talking about the internet. It’s just that some hacks take longer than others. This site is set up for specific users who will have been identity-checked by a moderator. The thing is, I can’t find any information on what type of site we’re dealing with. It might be pornography, paedophiles, drugs, even arms dealing.’

  ‘So you need to set up a profile as the sort of scumbag who might genuinely be interested in this stuff? A generally violent, evil pervert,’ Lance said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Ben replied. ‘The problem is that you can’t just create that person from nowhere. A moderator capable of setting up this site would have a new applicant checked out in minutes. A newly faked identity would stand out a mile.’

  ‘Not if he’s real,’ Callanach said. ‘What if we use someone who already exists, whose background I know? Someone who might genuinely want access to this sort of material.’

  ‘That’s identity theft, DI Callanach. We’ll need to give real details. If you have someone in mind, I’ll need to hack them first. Are you willing to take responsibility for that?’ Ben asked.

  Callanach sat back in his chair, hands behind his head. ‘I’m sharing confidential information with a journalist, having lunch with someone who …’ he didn’t finish that sentence. ‘I’m off the record and chasing leads I’m not sharing with my squad. If this gets out, borrowing a criminal’s identity will be just one small charge among the many I’ll be facing.’

  Ben grinned and opened a new page on his laptop. ‘You’ve got someone in mind, I take it?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Callanach muttered, remembering his first case with Police Scotland. ‘Rory Hand. He has previous convictions for some nasty sexual offences. Nothing serious recently, so he’s in the community and will have access to the internet. He falsely claimed responsibility for a couple of murders last year in order to have access to the autopsy and crime scene photos. This is exactly his sort of thing. Identity checks will come back positive and make sense.’

  ‘I’ll need details – date of birth, last known address, passport number if he has one, that sort of thing,’ Ben said.

  ‘Not a problem,’ Callanach said.

  ‘But won’t Rory Hand be sent an access code or password by email?’ Lance asked. ‘Hand will know something’s going on.’

  ‘I can control his emails, like putting a fishing net in front of everything that goes in. Whatever we don’t need, I let go to him. Anything of interest to us he’ll never see,’ Ben said.

  ‘And even if he suspects anything, the police would be the last place he’d go for help,’ Callanach added. ‘He’s on the sex offenders register and still having to report to probation. Hand’s no threat to us. I’m more concerned about the timing. We’re at the mercy of the person in control of the website – the webmaster – as to how quickly he checks Hand out. I’ve got more than one hundred women waiting for a murderer to turn up and I’d sooner meet him or her before one of them does. Is there nothing else we can do to speed things along?’

  ‘One thing at a time,’ Ben said. ‘We need to become Rory Hand, type his email address into the box you saw flashing on the website. Access will be denied, but the webmaster will check out the attempted entry anyway and then we wait for an invitation. No shortcuts, I’m afraid.’

  Polly put her
head round the door, passing in a plate of biscuits and three small cups with a glass teapot containing a green liquid.

  ‘Anything else I can get you, Ben?’ she asked.

  ‘No thanks,’ Ben replied, pouring a cup of herbal tea. Polly remained as Lance began to speak.

  ‘Sorry, but this conversation can only be for the three of us,’ Callanach said, trying not to look at the girl, keeping his voice friendly.

  ‘You’re safe with Polly,’ Ben said. ‘You keep us safe from the prying ears and eyes of the world, don’t you babe?’

  ‘Bloody Americans!’ Polly said, smiling. ‘Think you can call me babe and get away with it. I’ll leave. I know when I’m not wanted.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’re free Friday night?’ Ben called after her as she turned to go.

  ‘Supposing’s for idiots,’ Polly replied, shutting the door after herself.

  ‘So, not your girlfriend then,’ Lance smiled. Ben glared and Lance slurped tea before beginning to speak again. ‘I’ve been thinking – the emailed photos of Emily Balcaskie and leaked autopsy report are about publicity. But the police have kept the details of Michael Swan’s death very quiet.’

  ‘I ordered Swan’s details to be kept offline after Helen Lott’s autopsy report was hacked,’ Callanach said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Lance continued. ‘Which may be why Emily Balcaskie’s murderer had to go to the lengths of taking photos and emailing them himself.’

  ‘We kept the details of Michael Swan’s death quiet for a reason,’ Callanach said. ‘What the killer did is too awful for public consumption. It’ll have to come out if there’s a trial, but for now his family shouldn’t have to deal with any more press coverage.’