Perfect Prey

by Helen Fields

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Lance looked at Polly who had assumed a pose usually reserved for action movies. Data was streaming onto Ben’s screen as if the computer had taken on a life of its own. Lance risked a brief closer inspection without moving from his position between Polly and the door. Usernames, passwords and emails filled the screen.

  ‘Ben!’ Lance shouted. ‘We’re into the webmaster’s files!’

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ Polly said. ‘Move aside from the door now.’

  Lance looked away from the information flooding the screen to stare at Polly, reaching one hand out to shield the door lock from her.

  ‘Tell me that’s not why you slept with Ben,’ Lance said.

  ‘I instructed you to move away from the door,’ Polly repeated, taking a step forward.

  ‘How could you do that? He really liked you. And isn’t that against the rules when you’re undercover?’

  ‘Since when did journalists concern themselves with morality and abiding by rules? Don’t judge me. You think it’s easy making your mark as a woman in the cyber crime unit? It doesn’t matter if I outperform every man there, they still look at me first when it’s time for someone to make the coffee.’

  ‘If that’s the case, I can’t see how sleeping with a suspect will improve your professional image,’ Lance replied, pulling out his mobile and dialling.

  ‘Whatever gets results,’ Polly said. ‘Now put down your phone and move or I will move you.’

  ‘Can’t oblige, I’m afraid. What we’re doing is more important than any agenda you may have,’ Lance said. He dragged a chair between himself and Polly, ignoring the insanity beyond the door. Callanach picked up. ‘Luc, we’ve got the data,’ Lance shouted against the torrent of noise outside.

  ‘Hang up that phone immediately!’ Polly shouted.

  ‘Lance?’ Callanach said. ‘What’s going on there?’

  A blow from the other side of the door sent vibrations through Lance’s back that would require the help of a physiotherapist. He took half a step forward and closer to Polly.

  ‘Police raid,’ Lance shouted to Callanach. ‘Sem Culpa’s email address is rainhadador@bmail.com.’ Lance spelled it out, straining to be heard over the hammering.

  ‘Put the phone down right now or I will use force,’ Polly shouted.

  ‘Did you get that? Callanach, I can’t hear you!’ Lance yelled.

  Polly launched herself forward to grab the mobile, knocking an elbow into Lance’s side and winding him as he went down. His head hit the side of the desk and the door flew inwards followed by several police officers.

  ‘Secure the scene!’ an officer shouted.

  ‘His system’s up and running, sir,’ Polly said. ‘We’re through security. You’ll be able to copy the hard drive.’

  Ben appeared in the doorway, wrists behind his back, a police officer either side of him. He stared hard at Polly who turned away, focusing on the screen. Lance was being rolled onto his front, his hands in the process of being cuffed. His ankle was the only part of him still moving, circling a cord of wires running between the computers and the extension cable on the floor. Ben shook his head.

  ‘You’ve done enough, Ben,’ Lance puffed as his head was turned to the side and pinned against the floor.

  ‘DCI Edgar, the subject has been secured. Shall we take him down to the van?’ one of the officer’s holding Lance asked.

  ‘Don’t, Lance,’ Ben shouted.

  ‘Would somebody stop those two from communicating and get them the fuck out of here!’ Edgar shouted. The officers either side of Ben dragged him from doorway and into the hall as Lance began writhing on his stomach, banging his head against the floor, and screaming at the top of his voice. ‘I said,’ Edgar repeated, moving across the study to grab Lance by the arms and yank him upwards off the floor, ‘get him the fuck out of here.’

  Edgar gave Lance another massive wrench, hard enough that it should have propelled him over the threshold of the doorway and into the hall. Instead, there was the crunching pop of a dislocated or broken bone, followed by a halo of sparks under the desk and screams from Lance who rolled onto his back, craning his neck for evidence that the agony had been worthwhile.

  ‘Um, sir …’ one of Edgar’s team managed in a small voice.

  ‘What the fuck just happened?’ Edgar asked.

  ‘I didn’t touch anything,’ Edgar’s man said. Even the pain couldn’t stop Lance from grinning at the memory of his own son saying more or less the same words whenever anything got broken.

  ‘Get it back on,’ Edgar snapped, glaring at Lance who was gasping for breath on the floor. Lance winced as the DCI caught sight of his ankle, stuck at an unnatural angle and wrapped in a rainbow of wires, a freed plug dangling uselessly from the end. ‘What did you do?’ Edgar screamed at him.

  ‘Your fault,’ Lance gasped. ‘Foot got tangled when I fell. If you hadn’t pulled me …’

  Edgar’s face went from ghostly to purple. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, failing, making fish mouths with each attempt. In the end he pulled his boot back, took aim and delivered the blow that was the very last thing Lance felt.

  Chapter Sixty

  Salter parked near the ramshackle bungalow, called in to PC Biddlecombe to confirm her arrival, then climbed out of the unmarked car. The address was at the corner of a crossroads at the outskirts of a tiny village, and whoever lived here had given up gardening, window cleaning and any other form of maintenance a good decade ago. The building was a standard two front windows and door set-up, with all the curtains drawn. There was no vehicle on the driveway. Salter saw no sign of foul play at the front, the windows firmly shut and the door properly closed.

  She knocked the door, got no response, then rang the bell, pressing her ear to the door to check it was working. There was the faintest of ring tones, as if the bell itself had had enough of functioning, then nothing.

  ‘Hullo, Mrs Talthwaite, this is Detective Constable Salter. Can you hear me, Mrs Talthwaite?’ There was no reply. Salter wandered around the side of the property, treading with pointed toes through the long grass, avoiding the abandoned tools waiting to trip unsuspecting visitors. The bins hadn’t been put out for collection, she noted, opening one to find a mess of bin bags with flies competing for sustenance. The now regular tightening of her bladder warned her that it had been an hour since her last bathroom stop, and that she hadn’t long before she’d be leaving it too late.

  The back door was also secured, windows intact, and there was still no response to her banging. Salter realised her shift would be over before she could make it back to the station, but she had a few minutes to spare. Just enough time to visit the neighbour who’d reported Gladys Talthwaite missing, before clocking off. It was still a couple of hours until her mother-to-be yoga class and Salter was keen not to miss it. She was making friends, sharing the excitement and fears, and learning all the gross bits no one warned you about until it was too late to change your mind. Determined to leave immediately afterwards, Salter drove the couple of hundred yards to the next property. Mrs Talthwaite’s concerned neighbour was at the front door by the time Salter had made it down the path, and enjoyed the visit and the fuss. By the end of the conversation, Salter was wishing she hadn’t stopped in.

  ‘Right then, Mrs Scott,’ Salter said, edging her way towards the front door. ‘I understand completely. Like I said, there’s no sign of any disturbance at Mrs Talthwaite’s cottage and the bin has been in use, so I think your friend has been there very recently.’

  ‘You’ll go back and check one more time, though, won’t you, dear?’ Mrs Scott persisted.

  Salter sighed. She did her best not to lie to people. It was too easy, and too slippery a slope. Reassure, then disappear. But time was racing and she’d hoped to have tea before her pre-natal class. All she ever seemed to be these days was hungry or in need of a pee. Right now she was both. She sighed. It was hardly too much to ask to go back and knock on the door
one more time.

  ‘Of course I will, don’t you worry,’ she said, smiling through the tiredness that started at her ankles and worked up her spine until she fell into bed at night. ‘And I hope you don’t mind my asking, but might I use your loo? I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Oh, you should have said. Second door on your left.’

  Salter made a dash for the bathroom, dismayed to find that Mrs Scott was standing outside to continue plying her with information even while she relieved herself.

  ‘I wouldn’t make such a fuss normally, you know, only it’s been five days since I heard from her. I did tell Gladys she shouldn’t have gone on that television programme, talking about her time as a lollipop lady. I said, “Now Gladys, you don’t want to give anyone ideas. You may be retired but …”’

  Salter stopped mid-flow, her muscles clamped tight. She threw her hands under the tap as she fought for the right response before leaving the toilet.

  ‘She was a lollipop lady?’ Salter asked.

  ‘Yes, and I thought with all that was happening, you know, and then that other lady whose son kidnapped her …’

  ‘He didn’t actually … never mind. Stay in the house, lock the door and call the police. Tell them everything you just told me. Right now!’

  Salter ran to the car, still fighting her trouser button and fumbling the keys. She was overreacting, was her first thought. Gladys Talthwaite had retired years ago. She recalled seeing her on the television interview now, the name ringing bells too late. It took her only half a minute to cover the stretch of road back to Gladys’ house. She picked up the radio, considered calling for backup, then thought again. She couldn’t be certain yet that anything was wrong and Police Scotland’s resources were already stretched to breaking point. The neighbour would have dialled the situation in. The least she should do was attempt to gather first-hand evidence before mobilising the squad.

  Skidding the car to a halt she ran through the garden, this time ignoring the possibilities the front door had to offer and going directly to the back. She could hear crashing inside now, and swearing. A male voice, guttural and rough.

  Salter huddled close to the ground as she made her way to the kitchen window at the rear, keeping her head down, making sure her radio wasn’t about to screech and give her away. There was a scream, muffled but high-pitched, and the sound of something heavy hitting wood. She risked a quick glance through the window, seeing a tiny elderly woman huddled on a chair, her head resting on the kitchen table. The woman was barely moving, the only sign of life the waving of her wispy hair, up and down, with her rapid breaths. Whatever her captor’s intentions, it was easy to see the woman had very little time left. Her thus far resilient body would take only so much more before ceding the battle. Salter walked towards her car to await backup. Then the back door opened.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Ava watched as Wesley O’Rourke was bundled into a police car and taken to the station for processing. Her mother was being picked up by the funeral home first thing in the morning. No autopsy was necessary given the illness she’d been suffering. A doctor had already signed the death certificate. Ava’s family was gathering to begin the process of mutually supportive grieving and planning, but her place was here. She finally knew it was what her mother would have wanted. Alexina O’Rourke’s life might still be saved. Not that her bastard of a husband was going to give them any information that might help find her. Callanach was on the phone passing over the scant information they’d obtained as officers tore through the house looking for more clues.

  ‘Get Salter on the line,’ Callanach ordered. There was a pause. ‘She’s not supposed to be anywhere but in the incident room.’ Another break as he listened to whatever excuse was being given. ‘Well, you can tell PC Biddlecombe from me that my officers aren’t supposed to be chasing around checking on elderly ladies who’ve missed the local tea party. Get me Tripp right now.’

  ‘Where’s DC Salter gone?’ Ava asked him.

  Callanach covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘One neighbour reported another as missing. Not answering the door, probably a medical situation. There were no other officers available to cover it given the situation in the city.’ He turned his attention back to the phone. ‘Tripp, this is Callanach, I’ve texted you an email address. Cross-reference it with everything else we’ve got on today’s events and see if we can get into Sem Culpa’s emails.’

  ‘No email address for Grom, sir?’

  ‘Apparently not. His name didn’t appear on the data list. We’re no further forward finding him. Get working on Sem Culpa and have someone else check with forensics to see if they’ve got anything else from the elbow skin yet,’ Callanach said.

  Ava watched Callanach firing instructions into the phone. He was utterly decisive in action. Not bossy or overconfident, just focused. He’d been with Police Scotland and working with her for only nine months, yet she’d come to recognise the tiny indicators that he was worried, stressed, tired or amused. The way one side of his mouth twitched slightly before he was about to make a joke, the straightening and flexing of his fingers when he was working out a problem in his head which also meant he was itching to get out a cigarette. She’d long since stopped noticing how attractive he was, seeing it these days only in the reactions of others. Waitresses took longer than necessary checking orders when she was eating with him, people on the street occasionally did a double take. In a bar, he could create a space with just a smile. What she really liked about him was that he was largely unaware of it all. His neighbour Bunny was smitten, if a little bruised at the fact that Callanach didn’t feel the same way. Ava felt herself reddening at the memory of their conversation, the woman having shared much more than Ava had wanted to hear. She’d felt something else, too, during that conversation, having to listen to the description of how Callanach had held her and touched her. A niggling in the pit of her stomach, a sensation she was entirely unused to. Something she wasn’t even prepared to name.

  ‘Ava,’ Callanach said. She realised she’d been caught staring. He put a hand on her shoulder and she flinched. ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Miles away. What’s happening?’

  ‘Tripp’s on it. What’s happening in the house?’

  ‘The IT specialist has arrived to see what we can get from Wesley’s laptop. We should go back in,’ Ava said.

  The IT officer looked about fifteen. O’Rourke’s laptop was wired into both a police computer and a small solid-looking block they were dismissively informed was a hard drive.

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ the IT woman said. ‘I’m firing it up.’

  She switched on O’Rourke’s laptop. Callanach half expected it to explode or begin some sort of Bond-esque countdown. As it happened, there was nothing except a solitary beep and a flashing box asking for a password.

  ‘Shit,’ IT woman muttered, typing crazily, hitting the enter key periodically, and breathing more heavily than was healthy.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Ava asked.

  ‘The password’s not limited by the number of attempts I make to enter it correctly – that I could have cheated. I bet it’s keystroke-based …’

  ‘Meaning?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘Meaning it’ll forgive the odd slip as you type in your password, but starting with the wrong letter repeatedly, for example, will …’ IT woman sighed.

  The screen went black. The fan inside the laptop slowed to silence.

  ‘It’s all on the cloud, right?’ Ava asked. ‘I mean, wherever the website is, the information will still be there. We just have to find another way in.’ IT woman stared at Ava as if she’d suggested that the design of the wheel might work equally well as a square. ‘I take it that’s a no,’ Ava said.

  ‘Ava, I need a favour and it’s a big one.’ He took her gently by the arm and led her away from less understanding ears. ‘Could you speak to Joe? I need Paulson to be allowed access to his computer. When Lance phoned me the polic
e raid at Ben’s was in motion. The last thing he did was give me Sem Culpa’s email address. If Ben got that, the chances are he also got other information. Without Ben, we haven’t got a chance.’

  ‘He’ll be under arrest by now, Luc,’ Ava said. ‘Joe won’t let anyone anywhere near him.’

  ‘Ava, I know this crosses a line but there’s a life depending on it.’

  She thought about it, wondering why it felt such an impossible task. The sad truth was that her instinct was not to be beholden to her fiancé to such an extent.

  ‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘Give me five minutes to make the call.’

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Sem Culpa was rigging the winch. It was heavier than she’d expected and her back was already sore, plus she was having to tolerate the woman blubbing constantly in the background. She was unused to such annoyance. Sim Thorburn hadn’t had time to so much as whimper. Michael Swan hadn’t troubled her at all from the second he’d seen the photo of his precious wife outside their house. Alexina O’Rourke, however, had turned out to be a crier.

  ‘Would you shut up?’ Sem Culpa screamed as she hauled and tied ropes.

  ‘Tell me what you’re doing,’ Alexina sobbed. ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘It’s a gift,’ she smiled as she hooked up the massive rope sack and checked the distance she could raise or lower it using the winch handle.

  ‘I don’t want a gift,’ Alexina dribbled as she shouted, the drugs not quite out of her system yet, rendering her limp on the floor. It saved having to chain her up during the final stages, Sem Culpa thought. Hadn’t stopped her making a noise though, and Sem Culpa was bored of being distracted. She walked over, digging deep in her overalls’ pocket and grabbing a roll of duct tape.

  ‘The gift, stupid, is for me. A little offering to mark my going away. Something to get my holiday started. And you,’ she ripped off a long section of silver tape, wrapping it around the back of Alexina’s head all the way across her mouth and back into her hair the other side, ‘can help get me in the mood for some rest and relaxation, by staying nice and quiet.’