To Catch a Rat

by S J Grey

  “That’s sweet, but we’re not allowed in until they’ve cleared the crime scene. It might be a couple of days.” She let her thoughts settle before continuing. “What did you see in there? How many were there?”

  “You’re staying at your mum’s, right?”

  “Yes.”

  He’d ducked her questions. Was he hiding something? The call with Si nagged at her some more. What more would he find? Would it prove once and for all if Mark was telling her the truth? She wanted to believe her boyfriend, even though the evidence was against him.

  Mark yawned. “I’m super tired. Sorry. I can’t keep my eyes open.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She made sure he had a glass of water within reach, and then left.

  As they drove out of the car park, Emma told her father she needed to call into the office for a quick chat with one of her team.

  They agreed he’d drop her off, and come back for her later. He apparently had some errands to run, after talking to Mum.

  Emma was too distracted to ask him for details.

  It was close to seven when she swiped into the building, and it was a certainty that everyone would have left for the day. Apart from Si.

  Like last time, he sat tapping at his laptop, lost in his own world.

  “Si?”

  He lifted his head and met her gaze. “Come and sit here.” He patted the empty chair next to him. “And if anyone comes in, we’re working through the schedule, okay?”

  “Schedule. Got it.” She sat. “What did you find?”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Si tapped and clicked on his keyboard, and pulled up a document. “I screenshotted Brian’s emails into here. I couldn’t stay online too long, in case he came back.”

  “You hacked into his email?”

  Si frowned. “That’s harsh. I happened to access his login, and wanted to see how secure it was. Not very, as it turned out, but that’s beside the point. This is what you need to see.” He gestured at the screen.

  Emma leaned forward and read. It was an email exchange between Brian and Arthur Bridges, the CE. Arthur demanded Emma to be removed from the project. When Brian defended her—as one of his best project managers—Arthur pulled rank.

  When Brian asked how long this would be in effect, the answer was stark. Indefinitely.

  Emma felt sick. This was her career, being dismantled by people who didn’t know her. It was bullshit.

  “I’m sorry,” said Si, his voice gentle, “but I figured you needed to see this. Can you postpone the meeting? They can’t suspend you until you have that interview with HR.”

  “I guess. I hurt my arm today, so I can claim sick leave for a few days or even a week. Is it worth it, though?”

  “Well… it might be. I was perplexed about why Arthur Bridges would want to do this, so I broadened my search a bit. After Brian confirmed your meeting tomorrow was on, Arthur Bridges reported back too. Check this out.” He flicked to another document with a different screen capture.

  This was an email from Arthur to Charles Grade, Minister of Intelligence.

  ~ I can confirm Emma Blackthorne is being suspended, effective tomorrow. This is exceedingly disruptive to a major piece of work I have sponsored, and I urge you to conclude your investigation quickly.

  The reply was chilling.

  ~ We’ll be finished when Ms. Blackthorne hands over the goods.

  The goods? It meant either Joss’s data stick, or Caleb. Or both.

  “Do you have any idea what he’s talking about?” Si asked.

  She looked up, to meet Si’s gaze. “Yes. Or at least, I think so.”

  “Charles Grade is the intelligence minister. It’s fair to say he has access to resources most people don’t.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That if it was me they wanted to put pressure on, I’d fuck off as far away as possible. Buy myself some time and try to get into a better position. Even up the bargaining scales.”

  He made a lot of sense. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you looking out for me.”

  Pink lined his cheeks, and he stared hard at his laptop screen. “It’s not just for you. I was friends with Caleb. I worked for him when he first started up, and he taught me most everything I know. If it wasn’t for him, I’d still be a low-level helpdesk operator.” He drummed his fingers on the desktop, then fixed Emma with a fierce look. “If Caleb comes to you, let me know. I want to help. In any way I can.”

  Emma had worked with Si for two years. He’d shown himself to be trustworthy and discreet over and over, but she was still cautious about anyone that might put Caleb’s freedom at risk. “I doubt he will. He has to know the police are virtually crawling all over me.”

  A memory tugged at her, and she paused, to think about it. “What do you know about remote access Trojans?”

  “RAT’s? Enough. Ask me a question.”

  “If I wanted to make sure my laptop didn’t have one, what could I use to check?”

  “There are a few tools around, but the reality is, unless it’s a common one or an elderly one, it’s impossible to find.”

  “Is there nothing I can do?”

  “Short of wiping your hard drive and resetting to factory defaults, not really. Even then, some malware can hide in the bios, and it’s rumoured on the firmware. I can run some searches for you, if you think it’s a possibility. It’s worth a try.”

  “Right. Thank you. I don’t suppose you found anything more about Mark, did you?”

  “No. Sorry. Still working on that.”

  Emma sat back in her seat, her mind whirling. She wasn’t sure if she bought Mark’s story about Joss’s photos being manipulated, but it had to be a possibility. Now she had something weird going on at work. It was getting harder to focus on what was important—finding Joss’s killer.

  She dragged her drifting thoughts back under control and smiled at Si. “Thanks again, for everything. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. No worries. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”

  Emma was keen to get back to see Caleb and find out the plans her parents were cooking up.

  Dad picked her up as agreed, and they drove up to Reikorangi. Traffic was light, now the evening rush hour was over, and Dad was engrossed in a talk show on the radio.

  Emma took the opportunity to think about everything that happened today. It felt like she tried to connect the pieces together for a giant jigsaw puzzle, but it was no good. There were too many blanks.

  To Emma’s relief, Caleb was still with her mum, helping to sort out a stack of camping equipment in the garage. He was dressed as Louise, and Emma chuckled at the sight of his hairy legs in thick tights. The motorcycle boots set off his outfit perfectly, and she told him so.

  “Yeah, and these tights are itchy as… er… fudge.” He gave her a ghost of a smile. “Awesome disguise, though. Your mum rocks.”

  “Thank you,” said her mother, then spoke to Dad. “Did you get everything?”

  “Yep.” He dumped a large shopping bag on the floor. “We can tell them now. Caleb’s going camping.”

  “Huh?” Emma looked at Caleb, who shrugged.

  “It’s summer, and everywhere you look, there are tourists, taking part in motor biking holidays. He’ll fit in perfectly.”

  “Also, I found that picture,” said Mum. “The one of the race.”

  “You had a copy of it? The original?”

  “Yes. You sent it to me, and you know I don’t delete anything.”

  Did Emma really want to see it? Part of her shied away from knowing, but at the same time, she craved the simple, honest truth. “Can I see it, please?”

  “I printed a copy.” Mum picked up a sheet of paper. “I’m sorry.”

  Emma knew what she was going to see.

  She was right. Caleb with a group of his friends. Mark was not in the picture.

  Shit.

  “I’m sorry,” Mum repe
ated. “This is the same one, right?”

  “Yes.” Emma scrutinised the faces, though what she expected to see was anybody’s guess. “I wanted to be wrong, you know? I wanted proof he was telling the truth. Instead I found the opposite.”

  She glanced at Caleb. “I hoped, really hoped, that you’d made a mistake, but I should’ve known better. I’m sorry for doubting you.”

  “I’d have remembered him,” said Caleb. “He’s lying to you, Em. How do you know he’s not responsible for what happened to Joss?”

  She didn’t. She had no words.

  “What are you going to do?” Mum gazed at her, sympathy clear on her face. “I know what you can do. While you wrap your head around this.”

  “I’ve no idea. I guess I’m going back to plan A, where I break up with Mark.” Where her life would fall apart.

  Harden up, Emma. Her life had been shattered before, and she’d recovered. She would do so again.

  “Why don’t you go with Caleb?” Mum smiled. “It would add strength to his cover story, to be on holiday with his girlfriend, and it would give you some breathing space.”

  “It’s a good idea,” said Caleb. “And I’m not just thinking of me.” He sat down, Minerva snuggled on his lap, purring her head off. She didn’t care that he looked different.

  Time off work wasn’t an issue now, as Emma was going to call in sick. She thought about it. “No funny stuff,” she said to Caleb. “No offence.”

  He huffed a laugh. “None taken. You’re not my type, anyway.” He hesitated. “Are you okay with the idea, though? If the police catch me, you’ll be in trouble too.”

  “In that case, we make sure they don’t catch us.”

  “The first step,” said Mum, digging into the shopping bag, “is getting off the grid. Geoff bought burner phones for each of us, and we’ll get them set up now with our numbers. We only use these to communicate. Emma, you leave your usual phone with me. That way, they can’t use it to track you.”

  “I’ve got cash for you out of my safe. Call it a loan,” said Dad. “Three hundred bucks each.”

  “Caleb, I have a different wig for you,” continued Mum. “And we have a two-man tent, sleeping bags, and everything you need that’ll fit on the bike.”

  “And just to be sure, you can borrow my Triumph Trophy,” said Dad. “It’s registered to me. Take my driving licence and wear the old-guy wig, and if you get stopped in a routine patrol, you shouldn’t have any problems. If you lie low for a week or two, we can work out a longer-term plan of action. Maybe use my passport to travel to Europe, and then just disappear.”

  “Jesus. I can’t do that.” Caleb’s voice was choked. “If the police find out, they’ll throw the book at you. Thank you, but—”

  “But nothing.” Dad was firm. “We’ve always owed you, Caleb Rush. And finally we have a chance to repay you.”

  Part II - Mark

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  To say Mark was pissed off would be the understatement of the decade. Scratch that—of the freaking century. The gigantic fuck up at Emma’s house would come back to haunt him.

  It was a stupid, amateur move on his part that resulted in a stab wound to his thigh and no less than eight stitches. He didn’t expect sympathy from his boss when he made his report, but he also didn’t expect to get a new asshole ripped by the guy.

  To add to the humbling experience, Mark was sitting in a backless hospital gown, his dignity flapping in the breeze from the fan on his bedside locker.

  “These fuckers are two steps ahead of every move we make,” snarled Gordie. The secure phone line was crystal clear. It was hard to believe he was thousands of miles away. “The time for playing nicely is over. If you don’t take Rush soon, he’s going to be skipping the country. Is that what you want? An all-expenses paid trip to Europe while you fail to secure him again?” The venom in Gordie’s tone was controlled, but Mark knew he was liable to unleash it again at any minute.

  “No, sir.”

  “Then find him. Bring the fucker in. I don’t pay you to sit on your ass contemplating the weather, do I?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’ve had over two years to close this. Two years. Twenty-eight months to be precise. And now, when we’re within sniffing distance, the opposition jumps in and undoes all the good work you’ve done. Well, I say good work. That’s what I hoped for. It’s a fucking shambles, and you need to clean it up.”

  He paused, and Mark tried to stop gritting his teeth. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’re not my only option. There are others, chomping at the bit for a shot at this medal.”

  Mark rolled his eyes. He couldn’t help it. Gordie mixed his metaphors with the speed of a barman throwing cocktails together. “Yes, sir.”

  “Close this, and quickly. You have one week to resolve this godawful fuckup, otherwise I’m sending in your replacement, and you’ll be relegated to the shittiest job on my list.”

  One week? Seriously? Gordie was right about Rush being likely to leave the country, though. That’s what Mark would do in his place.

  “Yes, sir. One week, sir.”

  Thank all the gods, the call was over. Mark dropped his newest phone on the bed beside him and leaned back against the pillows. Gordie was incensed when Mark didn’t take down Rush the first time and ended up locked in the boot of his own car. That was humiliating. And this time, Mark had been knifed by the bastard or one of his associates. He was convinced Rush had been one of the three men dressed head to toe in black, with ski masks over their faces, ransacking Emma’s house. It was hard to be sure, but one of them—the one with the knife—had recognised him.

  “You again,” said the guy. It had to be Rush. Who else would it be?

  To add insult to injury, his phone had been smashed in the fight, leaving him unable to call for any kind of backup. Gordie would be well within his rights to pull Mark out and replace him, but Mark wasn’t going to let that happen.

  Mark knew more about Rush than anyone. He’d studied the guy and everything about Rush’s life in microscopic detail. What Mark had to do was start thinking like Rush. Imagine he was a fugitive, wanted on all sides. Who else would he turn to? Who would help him? Who owed him?

  It came down to the same thing as always. The way to Rush was through Emma. At least she was on his side again. Mark was seriously put out when she announced they were over, and it had taken more verbal fancy footwork to convince her to change her mind. The lies were exhausting sometimes, but they were what he did best.

  He’d missed a call while he was talking to Gordie. It was from Emma, and she’d left a voicemail.

  “Hi.” She sounded frosty, and he was instantly alert. “You lied to me. Again. I’ve just seen the original image of the Round-the-Bays race group, and you’re not in it. I can’t believe a word you say, and I also can’t believe I keep listening to you. We’re done, Mark. I really, really don’t want to see you again.” She paused for breath. “Don’t even think about trying to wriggle out of it this time. And don’t bother calling me back. I’m going to stay with friends for a few days. I need to get my head together.” There was a catch in her voice, and Mark closed his eyes, frustration swamping him. “Goodbye, Mark. Or whatever the fuck your real name is. You can take your stuff from the house as soon as the police let you in there.”

  There was silence, and then a beep, to signal the end of the message.

  “Fuck,” said Mark aloud. “Fuuuuuck.” It was tempting to hurl his phone at the wall, but he couldn’t stomach asking for another replacement to be delivered to him.

  Where the hell did she get the original image from? His team changed the one on the Uni website. Caleb or Joss must have emailed it to her. God damn it. He listened to the message again, focusing on exactly what she said. What friends was she staying with? Where was she going?

  Was she going somewhere with Rush? And was she going willingly? The abduction-at-knifepoint incident had aged Mark at least five years.

  H
e dialled her number, and wasn’t surprised when it dropped to voicemail. “Hey, it’s me.” He injected a hurt tone into his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, love. I’m worried about you. Please call me back.”

  Next, he called Sandra. She liked him as a potential son-in-law. She answered on the third ring. “Yes?” She sounded icy. Maybe he wasn’t in her favour anymore.

  “Hi. It’s Mark. I just picked up a weird message from Emma. Is she okay? Is she with you?”

  “I think you mean you picked up a message when she called you out on your lies. I was listening when she left it for you.”

  Well, shit. He needed to move fast. “I know what you think—what you both think—but it’s not true. Someone is trying to paint me in a bad light, and it’s freaking me out that Emma believes it.”

  Sandra gave a snort of laughter. “Try again, sunshine.”

  Suspicion unfurled inside him. “What do you mean?” He could make himself sound as innocent as a choirboy.

  “I already had the picture of Caleb and his friends in their onesies. The original, that is. Not the one you tampered with.”

  Busted. But he wasn’t on the ropes yet. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. When I get out of the hospital tomorrow, can I come and see you? Talk to you?”

  “Nah huh. You’ve upset my daughter, and I don’t like that, and neither does Geoff. He’s very protective of Emma, and he’s itching for a chance to try out his new shotgun. Unless you want him to use you as target practice, I suggest you keep well away.”

  “Sandra”—he was staying calm, but it was hard work—“you’ve no idea how much Emma means to me. Believe me, keeping her safe is my Number One priority. Especially while Rush is on the loose. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  There was a miniscule hesitation, before Sandra snorted again. “Like my daughter, I don’t believe a word you say. Stay away from us, Mark Penney. You’re no longer welcome in our home.” She disconnected.

  This had the potential to become a clusterfuck. Or a goatfuck. Mark wasn’t sure which term was the worst. He had to get out of here.