by Casey, Jane
‘Which photographs?’
He cast a look in Derwent’s direction, appealing for help. Derwent pulled a face. ‘Not the kind of photos you show your mother. Some of the ones Swain took.’
‘Just for research,’ Charlie said quickly. ‘I didn’t look at them.’
‘Forget it. I try to,’ I said lightly, though I minded. I minded a lot.
‘Have you got your phone on you?’ Charlie asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Both of you? Give.’ He held out his hand to me and I gave him my phone after a nod from Derwent, who put his down on the desk.
‘Got a tin-foil box ready?’
Charlie glowered at him briefly. ‘That wasn’t my plan. But as it happens, if you ever need to make your own Faraday cage you can start off with tin-foil and a wooden box. It’s not as mad as it sounds.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
Faraday cage? I was lost already.
Charlie fiddled with my phone, switching it off. ‘I’m going to put them in DFU mode. DFU means device firmware upgrade.’
‘That means nothing to me,’ Derwent said.
‘You don’t need to understand it.’ Charlie put my dead phone down and picked up Derwent’s. ‘Basically, if you have malware on your phone that makes it look as if it’s powered down when it’s still active and vulnerable to remote tampering, this stops it from working.’
‘Remote tampering,’ I said. ‘Like what?’
‘Switching it on again secretly? Using it as a microphone to hear your conversations? Using it as a GPS locator for you? Your phone is constantly shedding information about you and your whereabouts. Generally, that’s useful. There are good reasons for having GPS active on your phone. It’s just a matter of stopping anyone else from getting that information.’
‘How do I do that?’ I asked. I was fairly sure I’d just found out how Chris Swain was bugging me and it made me feel sick.
‘Switch to a phone without internet capability? Like a vintage one? But that only works for calls and text-only SMS.’
‘Not appealing.’
‘I can install anti-virus software on your phone that will keep track of any nasties and get rid of them for you.’
‘If that’s what you want,’ Derwent said to me. ‘I know you want to get Swain out of your life but letting him know where you are is the point, isn’t it?’
I nodded, feeling sick. My phone sat on the desk, looking like a threat. There was nothing in my life that Swain hadn’t touched in some way. He was like dog shit on a shoe, smearing everything, impossible to get rid of.
‘Are we safe now?’ Derwent demanded. ‘Can we talk?’
‘Yeah. Sorry.’ Charlie swivelled on his chair and threw Derwent a charming smile. ‘Safety first. Especially given who we’re talking about.’
‘What do you know about Chris Swain?’ I asked.
‘I’ve been following him around the internet for Mr Derwent here.’
‘Since when?’ I looked at Derwent who had a shifty expression on his face.
‘A few months.’
‘A few months,’ I repeated. ‘And I didn’t know about it.’
Derwent shrugged. ‘The Met weren’t making much progress in tracking him down. Seemed like it was worth getting Charlie on the case.’
A grin lit up Charlie’s face. ‘It was no hardship, because Swain is a legend. His online name is Aktaion.’ He said it as if it was supposed to mean something to me, as if it was the equivalent of Shakespeare or Darwin. ‘He’s the man. He’s a total hero to hackers, cryptographers, cypherpunks – anyone who knows about how the internet works. He used to run a few forums before he dropped off the face of the earth and they were immense. I mean, key. They were a place where people could come together and make history, and I’m not exaggerating. Like, one of the main projects was developing a fully encrypted micro-blogging site that was going to be a game changer globally, completely independent of government control, completely safe to use. And then, nothing.’
‘I believe that was her fault.’ Derwent smirked at me.
‘It was his own fault. No one made him bug my flat and drug me and try to rape me.’ I frowned, shaking my head. ‘Look, I understand about one word in ten of this. He was a computer genius. That much I knew. Are you saying he disappeared on the internet as well as in real life?’
Charlie nodded. ‘There were rumours that he was back from time to time. He was supposedly living in Ibiza for a while with a lot of other hackers. Then he went to Morocco, they say. There were hundreds of people pretending to be him at one time or another – Son of Aktaion, The Original Aktaion and that kind of thing. But they weren’t him. He was using a different identity and no one’s come close to doxxing him.’
‘Which means?’
‘Sorry. Identifying who he is in the real world.’
‘How did you know it was him?’
‘I’ve been following him ever since Mr Derwent asked me to find him.’
‘I thought it was impossible. I asked the Met’s computer guys and they said—’
He gave me a pitying look. ‘Yeah, he’s technically untraceable. For them. For starters, the places he hangs out online aren’t on the surface web.’
‘The surface web,’ I repeated.
‘Oh. You don’t know what that means.’ He took a deep breath, obviously trying to reach back to the most basic way of explaining it, as if to a child. Or maybe a pensioner. I was feeling more ancient by the second. ‘If you go looking for something on the internet where do you start? Open Safari or Internet Explorer and then use Google or another search engine?’
I nodded.
‘That’s only going to give you results from the surface web. Anyone can see it, anywhere. But if you look with an encrypted browser like Tor, you’re going to see a whole different set of results. Websites, blogs, forums – all hidden from your average internet user, all encrypted, all untraceable.’
‘Except by you.’
Charlie gave a modest shrug. ‘Not everyone is me.’
‘Is it illegal?’
‘Not at all. Tor is funded by civil liberties groups and the US government, if you can believe that. Anyone who knows about it and downloads it can use it.’ He took a quick slurp of coffee and set the mug down on the extreme edge of his desk. ‘There are huge, boring arguments about people’s right to privacy on the internet that I can’t even be bothered to start explaining but it’s legit. And to be fair, a lot of the stuff on there is perfectly legal. If you’re a political activist in a state that targets dissenters, you’d be bloody glad there was a way to communicate with your allies without being seen.’
I could see the point. ‘Why doesn’t everyone use it?’
‘People are idiots. They give away information about themselves every time they touch a device that connects to the internet and they don’t have a clue. They use social media to tell the world what they want to buy, where they are, where they’ve been. If I was interested I could give you your home address in about a minute.’
‘Just by knowing my name?’
‘Not even.’ He rummaged on a shelf and produced a small black box. ‘This is something I made from a few bits and pieces that are widely available. It cost me about thirty quid, and it was easy. It read your phone as you passed. It’s got a list of all the WiFi networks you’ve ever visited. The most popular ones will be your work network and your home. Your phone connects with them daily, or close enough. I can tell you where you get your morning coffee. I can tell you how you travel to work. I can get your email address. I can probably get a picture of you too if you’re on Facebook or Instagram. And you have no idea. I just have to be close enough to be able to read your phone and pick out your information from everyone else’s.’
‘It’s that easy?’
He nodded. ‘I mean, being able to skim people’s data has useful applications beyond stalking. You guys would love it. You don’t generally believe anyone has the right to privacy.’
Charlie ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Well, I mean that’s a whole other argument about what the police should and shouldn’t be allowed to control.’
‘Everything. We should be allowed to control everything.’
‘Can we get back to Swain?’ I was hugging myself. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Not to the nearest mile. But I know he’s in London. Or somewhere nearby. He’s here a lot.’
I’d known it already but it still hit me hard. ‘God.’
‘I don’t know why he’s come back to London. Everyone knows he’s wanted by the cops. He must really need to be here.’
Every word hit me hard. ‘I imagine he has his reasons.’
‘Does he ever contact you by email or text?’
‘He writes letters. By hand.’
‘Old school,’ Charlie said, admiring. ‘Not much we can do about that.’
‘So what can you do?’
‘Well, Mr Derwent said you were prepared to let him come to you.’ He looked nervously at Derwent. ‘Is that right?’
‘I wish he would,’ I said with controlled violence. ‘I want this to be over, one way or another.’
‘There’s only one way it’s going to end,’ Derwent said. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
‘So we can’t get at his phone or electronics, but we can use yours. He’s probably watching what you put on your phone but I’ve got surveillance programmes he won’t spot. I can put the monitoring software on Mr Derwent’s phone.’
‘So you can see everything I do with my phone?’
‘And where you go.’ Derwent raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that all right?’
‘What if I lose my phone? What if he takes it away or turns it off like you did?’
‘Thought of that.’ Charlie held up something that looked like a USB memory stick. It was about the size of a pack of chewing gum and plain black, without markings. ‘This is a Chameleon. It’s a nice small GPS unit. If I text it, it sends back your location. Keep it on you, in your bag or your pocket. If you’re worried about having it taken away, get some wig tape and stick it somewhere invisible.’
‘I’ll help.’ Derwent’s grin went ear to ear. ‘I can think of a few places to try.’
I glowered. ‘You can’t help yourself, can you?’
‘To be honest, I don’t try,’ he admitted.
‘Leave me your phones and I’ll install what I need to,’ Charlie said.
‘Do you need my password?’ I asked and got raised eyebrows in return. ‘Oh.’
‘How long do you need?’ Derwent asked, checking his watch.
‘Not long. Half an hour? You can wait downstairs. Watch TV, have a cuppa, make yourselves at home. You won’t be in anyone’s way. No one else is up yet.’
‘How many of you live here?’ I asked, curious.
‘There’s seven of us. Proper little commune.’ He grinned. ‘We still haven’t worked out whose job it is to clean the bathroom.’
‘I’m not volunteering,’ I said. ‘Even to say thank you for helping me.’
Charlie ducked his head, embarrassed. ‘I’m just good at this stuff. I do this kind of thing for Mr Derwent because I like helping people. I like to give something back.’
‘I’m grateful,’ I said, glancing at Derwent so he knew he was included in the thanks. And I meant it.
Chapter 22
AFTER OUR SIDE trip to Charlie Brooke’s house, Derwent drove north of the river, to the hospital.
‘I want to see what’s happening with Becky Bellew. All they told me on the phone was that she was still in intensive care, which is hardly surprising. I want to know if she’s improving or not. And I want to have a word with Carl Bellew if he’s there. I still haven’t got to the bottom of what that family do for money and I think it’s important.’
I nodded. ‘I’ll have a word with Debbie again. She might be more forthcoming now she’s had a bit longer to think about it.’
‘And I want to see Melissa Pell.’ He said it so smoothly someone who didn’t know him might have thought it was casual.
‘Why’s that?’
A one-shouldered shrug and he swore under his breath at the driver in front who had braked suddenly.
‘I suppose you want to know when she’ll be released from hospital so you can go home,’ I said.
‘There’s no rush.’
‘Because she’ll be leaving London, more than likely. Going off to live with her mother for a while. Where’s she from? Lincolnshire? That’s quite a long way, isn’t it?’
‘My only interest in her is because she’s part of this case.’
‘So, nothing to do with her being beautiful and needy.’
Derwent reached over and put the radio on, turning the volume all the way up so it drowned out my voice. I turned it back down again.
‘Okay. All right. I’ll stop.’ Safer subject. ‘How did you find Charlie Brooke in the first place?’
‘Long story. I did a favour for him once.’ Derwent’s mouth curled up at the corners, remembering, and I decided I didn’t want to know what the favour had been. It was safe to assume it had been semi-legal, if not out and out against the law. ‘He’s a good person to know. You’ll never meet anyone else that clever.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Twenty-one. He’s got a doctorate already.’
‘He seemed so normal,’ I said. ‘Just an ordinary kid.’
‘Anything but. He owns that house. Bought it himself.’
‘Huh.’
‘And he bought a house for his parents.’
‘That must have been nice.’ I thought of my parents, who had just about finished paying off the mortgage on their small, modest south London house, a house they’d never liked, a house that my mother occasionally looked at and said, in a lost and baffled way, I never thought we’d stay here for ever. I’d never understood that. I’d always thought they made their own choices, and so they had, now that I was grown up I realised those choices were limited to what was possible. Going back to Ireland wasn’t – not really. Not when they had had jobs in London. And even now, when they were retiring, they couldn’t go without leaving their own family behind. I wondered what they would say if I gave them a house in Ireland. Knowing my mother it would be something like, are you trying to get rid of us?
‘We’re never going to be buying houses for anyone, are we?’ Derwent’s thoughts had been parallel to mine.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘With the amount of overtime you make me do, I should be a millionaire.’
‘What else would you do with your time?’
I thought for a second and came up with nothing. ‘I don’t know. Clear out the fridge? I should really get a hobby.’
‘Why bother? Nothing’s going to make you happier than working, believe me.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you’re happy?’
He shrugged. ‘As happy as I get.’
‘Wow. That’s really sad.’
The car turned into the hospital multi-storey car park and Derwent leaned out of the window to rip the ticket out of the machine. He threw it at me without looking. ‘Parking’s on you.’
‘Temper, temper.’
He braked, hard, by the doors that led into the hospital’s reception. ‘Get out.’
‘Oh, come on.’
‘I have to look for a space. No point in you coming too. Especially if you’re going to be annoying.’
‘Me? Annoying?’ But I did as I was told. There was a time to push Derwent and there was a time to back away slowly. This was definitely the latter. ‘I’ll try to find Debbie Bellew.’
‘Text me when you track her down.’
I slammed the door and watched him drive off, the tyres complaining as he took the t
urn to the ramp too fast. Any traffic officer would have pulled him over for driving like that. I was tempted to do it myself. Then again, if driving while angry was an offence, Derwent would be on a permanent ban.
I was halfway across the reception area when I noticed a bald head I recognised: Young Kevin. He was sitting on a low chair, his head in his hands. I went over to him.
‘Sorry, I hope you don’t mind me asking if everything is all right. Is Mrs Hearn okay?’
He lifted his head to show me eyes swimming with tears. ‘What?’ He seemed dazed and there was no recognition in his eyes.
‘I’m the police officer who spoke to Mrs Hearn yesterday. Is she all right?’
‘She’s had a stroke.’
‘Oh no.’ I sat down on the chair beside his, genuinely upset. ‘When?’
‘Last night. I’ve only just found out. I came to see her and they said I couldn’t at the moment because she has to go for a scan. They’re doing tests …’ He trailed off and shook his head. ‘I don’t even know. I don’t understand half of the words they used. And they won’t tell me much anyway because I’m not family, although you’d have a job to find anyone closer to her than me.’
‘I remember,’ I said. ‘But she’ll be all right, I’m sure. She’s in the best place, isn’t she? Quick treatment helps a lot with a stroke, as far as I understand it.’
‘She can’t talk at the moment. They don’t know if she’ll be able to speak again. They said it was maybe the stress from the fire, or it could have been something that was going to happen all along.’ He wiped his eyes again. ‘At least she wasn’t on her own in her flat. Who knows when she’d have been found? Small mercies.’
‘Absolutely.’ I patted his arm consolingly. ‘You know, I’m sure she’ll recover very quickly. I’ll find out what I can for you when I’m upstairs.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’ He gulped. ‘It just hit me so hard. Reminds me of my own parents all over again.’
I looked up to see Derwent striding towards the lifts. He was taking the quickest possible route to Melissa Pell’s room, I thought. There was tension in every move he made. ‘Look, I have to go. Will you be here for a while?’