by AD Davies
“And if it is an organised group?”
Alicia piped up, “If it’s an organised group, then we have a prime suspect in IROMOV.”
Cleaver walked in the squad room.
Great timing.
Murphy checked and found Ndlove must have come in ahead of her partner, and four other detectives gathered to watch the show. Word had spread they were treating all three attacks as connected.
“IROMOV are now prime suspects,” Murphy said. “Or someone there is. Who has been threatened in the past by this group? Or ex-MOVs. Let’s work on that. Cleaver, you and Ndlove get on their history. Alicia, with Stevenson out of it, let’s look at online threats. Me, I’ll eliminate the other locations of our VPN sweep.”
“Good,” Paulson said. “Send me the paperwork. I’ll sign off on whatever surveillance you need.”
Paulson terminated the call and the squad went to work.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Cleaver usually struggled with warrants for digital surveillance, what with the negative press brought by Edward Snowden and the other major leaks, not to mention Big Brother analogies all over the press and blogosphere. On the one hand you get the red-tops and gutter press demanding action on crime, on terror, on paedoes, but as soon as the police try to observe their activity online, they throw around insults like “snoopers” and the afore-mentioned Orwell reference, a reference that was, let’s face it, well into lazy cliché territory by now.
So for Chief Superintendent Paulson to allow such leeway lent an added lightness to his step.
The lightness may also have been his new diet and exercise regimen, which left him a stone lighter and took four inches off his waist. It wasn’t only the prospect of dating a younger woman, although that was part of it; meeting her friends, calculating he was closer to her parents’ age than hers, working alongside her uncle … all these things factored into his thrice-weekly personal trainer sessions and his abstaining from alcohol for the past three months. He also thought faster and retained information more readily. Body and mind in synchronisation.
According to Darla, anyway.
The profiles for inmates/residents at the lag institute were easy to obtain, and other detectives made way to pin the twenty-three faces and names to the communal cork board, and while he digested the crimes committed and their records whilst serving time, he arranged them in order of most likely to be their man. Or men.
Although the other detectives had plenty to be getting on with, he couldn’t help but notice their sideways glances at the new avenue. He even removed his jacket to reveal his short sleeved shirt and when thinking he posed touching his chin, allowing his biceps to flex naturally.
Another benefit of his gym sessions.
He fed the intel into the shared Box folder set up to keep track of the various threads, then Ndlove instant messaged a link to the Cyber intel coming through. Sure enough, the VPN was IROMOV’s, not the boarding school or someone in the village, yet they were still unable to identify anything illegal.
One of the summaries snagged Ndlove’s attention.
“The sign-on name Victor2009,” she said. “It doesn’t match anyone else.”
Cleaver started counting but Ndlove beat him to it.
“Twenty-five. There are twenty-five valid log-on records but only twenty-four people who should have access.”
“Right,” Cleaver said. “Twenty three residents plus the lawyer. Victor2009 is listed as an admin alongside Jacob Rocaby and Norman Faulkner. Flag it.”
“Already have, boss.”
“One other problem. You see it?”
She nodded, her eyes dancing over the screen. “The guy logs on, then disappears for a while, then later logs off. What’s he up to during that time?”
* * *
“Two possibilities,” Darla said over a muffin, her usual dour demeanour hiding how happy she was to spend time with Cleaver. At least, he hoped that’s what it was. “But let’s make it quick. We shouldn’t be together like this.”
Cleaver asked to meet her in the IT lab, but she insisted on making it the canteen for a sugar fix.
“Look,” Darla said, “I can’t do much, because I’m not authorised to look at anything obtained under that warrant. But I can tell you…” She bit into the muffin, pointing at the screen on Murphy’s laptop, commandeered from the DCI’s office and brought here. It was faster on Wi-Fi than Cleaver’s five year-old model. She swallowed and said, “Either he’s gone deep into the dark web, or he’s rerouting himself through a foreign server.”
“Can we track it?” Cleaver asked.
“No. You can’t track it.”
Ndlove exchanged a look with Cleaver. She said, “Could a civilian perhaps manage it?”
“They might have someone in Cyber at the SCA who can.”
“Big might. There might be another attack. Today, tomorrow.”
Darla finished the muffin. “I’ll need to pretend I’m you, use your password, or nothing I find will be admissible.”
Cleaver thought for all of three seconds, then swept up the computer and said, “Okay, let’s go somewhere a little more private.”
* * *
At the beginning of December last year, DS Cleaver ended up paired with a guy he knew called Ball. DS Ball. The fatter, bearded detective worked vice and was brought in to help ID what they thought was a dead prostitute, beaten to death with only a cursory attempt to hide her, and such was his scope of connections in the shady Leeds underworld (that’s the scummy, petty underworld, not the mafia) he made a ton of progress, if only eliminating the known hookers and miscreants straight away. However, it turned out the victim was not a hooker. Ball remained on the case because he was already working nights and therefore familiar with the details, and Cleaver was assigned to ensure the man dotted all his I’s and crossed all his T’s. Because men like DS Ball were the reason tenure existed.
Cleaver was a year away from tenure himself.
Because he did not suffer from Ball’s ego, nor his laziness or belligerence, he planned to either be fully prepared to mix things up in uniform, or to get promoted out of that pool. That might have been what pushed his exercise routine as much as his need to feel more confident amongst the younger crowd.
And it was definitely this that prompted him to gather Alicia, Murphy, and—remotely—Stevenson to hear what Darla found, and pass it off as his own work.
Presenting on the squad’s whiteboard via a projector linked to both Stevenson’s transmission and the PC he worked from, he narrated what the multitude of tables meant.
“These IP addresses are foreign. This one is Lithuania, this is Slovakia, this is Russia. They are all used consistently and widely over the past two years. There are three others. China, Ukraine, and Nigeria. They are cloned servers passing through the UK. The same virtual private network we picked up and linked to the IROMOV lot. The Lithuanian one ceased operating on Sunday morning, aimed at that British God Squad place, and at least two end-to-end encrypted messaging services.”
Alicia tilted her head sideways. “So right after the community cohesion people and the agitators revved up?”
“Right. Then the Slovakian one has been silent since Monday night—when the pro- and anti-Islam protests were organised—with that IP’s fingerprints all over the forums we saw wiped, and again through the messaging service.”
Cleaver paused to take a sip of water and steady his nerve for what he expected would be difficult questions.
“Finally, the Russian address. That has been probing away at the Black Lives Matter people in the US, and hooking up with British equivalents. And then comes the encrypted chat service favoured by criminals and terrorists the world over. We can’t get in, we can’t see what’s said. But we know it hasn’t been activated for almost twenty-four hours.”
“And is that unusual?” Murphy asked.
“Yes.” Cleaver nudged Ndlove. It was part of their deal that she keep schtum on the source of intel while Cleaver presented,
as long as she managed some airtime.
She said, “From what DS Cleaver gave me to analyse, that’s right. The foreign IPs were in near-constant use. Scanning for replies to postings, awaiting notifications from the messenger software, that sort of thing. The others—China, Ukraine, and Nigeria—they’re still running through the VPN. We haven’t been able to peek at the Chinese or Nigerian business, but the Ukraine one is a little more friendly. And urgent.”
“One second,” Stevenson said.
Both Cleaver and Ndlove made a “Hm?” and held stock-still, awaiting the inevitable.
“Where,” Stevenson demanded, “is this intel in the case chronology? I can’t see it anywhere. And I’m on top of Cyber right now.”
DCI Murphy stared at his shoes.
Cleaver said, “That’s where things get a bit mysterious, but I think we’ll look at the mystery another time—”
“No,” Stevenson insisted. “I’m not moving on something if it might damage the case.”
“Anonymous tip,” Ndlove said. “But get your Cyber goons to look in that direction, find the same information we have, and slap it in the file. You get the credit for a great hunch, and in the meantime we’ll start looking into why, exactly, this Ukrainian server is hanging around in the private chatrooms of a school for thirteen-to-eighteen year-olds.”
A lot of eyes landed on Ndlove. This wasn’t what Cleaver and she rehearsed. He was supposed to take the anonymous tip on his shoulders, and if it blew anyone’s career, he would be the one thrown out of CID. But at least the brass could avoid a scandal and call it Cleaver’s tenure. He’d be quietly demoted whilst in uniform, and the possible bad publicity would fade.
“A school,” Alicia repeated.
“Excelsior Academy,” Cleaver said. “Just up the road from the Institute for Violent Men. I think that’s the next target.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Holly Costa grew up rich. Okay, it might be a stretch to say “grew up” as she only turned seventeen four months ago. As soon as she was old enough to use one, she received a mobile phone as a gift, and her laptop computers never lasted longer than eighteen months, the average time between releasing a newer and better chipset. At age thirteen, when she commenced her time at Excelsior, she upgraded from PCs to MacBooks, and they seemed to release a new one each year. It was far easier to switch with a Mac, too. The new model downloaded her old profile from the cloud, and synced with her iPhone and iPad, so she was rarely without every morsel of information she could possibly need.
She accessed her living allowance via credit card by withdrawing cash or charging directly, on which she could spend up to a certain limit before her dad cut her off. The balance was cleared down on the 28th of each month, so providing she was prudent she lived largely as she wished, be that when at home in London, or at the highly-accredited boarding school in the north. New shoes, clothes, hair styling, the cinema, meals out, whatever; she had an image to maintain amongst her friends.
Away from such friends, though, she kept two secrets.
The first was her love of exercise. Everyone did Pilates and ate well—the boys and the girls—because no one could conceive the notion of maybe, perhaps, one day, getting fat. Everyone jogged, everyone did weights, especially the guys, and everyone wanted the perfect six-pack. Again, especially the guys. Competition was considered boring, though, so there were no races or team games involved. It wasn’t so much winning that motivated her (and her generation as far as she knew), but achievement. They were two different things.
Winning puts others down.
Achievement builds yourself up.
And so it was this first secret that sent her climbing up almost-sheer rock faces each Monday and Thursday. To make her excuses, she said she was with a detox guru, ultra-spiritual and publicity-shy, who only took private clients. Unfortunately, he was fully subscribed so, like, sorry. She’d tell D’Arcy and Rhi-Rhi when there was an opening. Why she lied she wasn’t sure. Could be because she was embarrassed at the base nature of the activity, or the way she wanted to spend every waking moment watching the married father-of-four who instructed the group. In honest, self-aware moments, though, she knew why she lied: the group was mainly made up of poor people.
Jeff Baxter led a mix of young offenders, “at-risk” youths, and paying customers. He maintained a perfect five o’ clock shadow at 10:00 a.m., and spoke clearly and knowledgeably on pretty much everything relevant to the session. Although Holly was a superstar at the climbing walls back home, the real thing was a rush, and it was dangerous, and she felt so, so safe with Jeff. She told him she was nineteen and he didn’t check her background, but she would never make a move on him due to the wife-and-kids situation. She wasn’t a bitch, after all. Of course, if he made the first move, that made him the bastard and maybe she’d give it up to him. Here, up against the main crag at Arms Cliff, around the side for privacy. Gently at first, his stubble on her neck, his lips soft but firm, holding her under one thigh as he pressed against her, holding her in his strong arms—
“Okay?” he said as they packed up for the day.
“Great,” Holly replied, winding a rope into a perfect loop. As Jeff had shown her. “Same time Thursday?”
“Thursday’s an evening session.”
He addressed the whole group, the three fifteen year-old white kids serving community sentences for being arseholes or something, two younger black lads who’d been picked up associating with known gang members but not arrested, and the older white lady—thirtyish, Holly thought—who sagged like she’d birthed a million kids.
Holly, meanwhile, was the expert in the group. Not officially an instructor, Jeff often deferred to her with a newbie who might need a few pointers, and she was happy to help. The offenders rotated often, but one kept turning up, one who stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. And why not? Holly was blonde, five-five, with B-cup boobs that she knew how to present as a C, and a fine backside. Add to that her athletic build and zero self-consciousness at wearing vests and short-shorts in summer, and hey-presto: she became a permanent entry in some poor kid’s wank-bank.
But that wasn’t her only contribution to keeping them on the straight and narrow. Three months ago, Jeff’s group received an anonymous donation of fresh new equipment. It wasn’t quite enough to make her feel good about herself, though. It wasn’t enough to simply pay her dues to a group of climbers, pay to maintain their equipment, and keep her hands off an attractive married man. These people were victims. Victims of a system designed to empower people like Holly, and suppress the proletariat into blind obedience. Sure, some acted out, like the recurring kid asking for a photo with her, but mostly they bowed their heads and marched sheep-like into the dark.
She asked Jeff to snap the pic of her and … Craig, that was his name … full-body rather than a shaky selfie. Leaning on Craig’s shoulder (he was shorter than her) she made sure a subtle but clear degree of cleavage showed front and centre, one knee bent over the other to add a little curve to her hips. No kiss; that would be slutty. Craig thanked her, holding the phone in two hands, grinning from ear-to-ear.
A few moments of happiness awaited him, thanks to Holly.
A few moments of happiness in an impossibly futile life.
Yes, this kid was doomed. The powers-that-be wished to remain all-powerful, and would not allow one iota of power to cede to the majority. Even when the super-wealthy fall from grace in scandals or caught in crimes that would end the life prospects of most, the elite go on holiday until the public moves on to the next big story, then make a handful of phone calls and pick up where they left off. Her dad was a prime example: after three years supporting them as venture capitalists, he and his partners sold their shares in a mobile phone start-up to one of the bigger companies before it could float on the stock market. They made a 3000% profit, and condemned forty people to redundancy with no payoff. Dean Costa was the face of the sell-off, so it was Dean Costa who appeared before a parliament
ary select committee to answer for his “crimes”, but of course what he did was not officially a crime, so got away Scott-free. Sure, he resigned his position as CEO of Costa Finance Initiatives, but after the hoo-ha died down, his partners liquidated the company, set up Costa Investments Environmental, and turned over a whole new leaf.
Not.
While her dad wasn’t pure evil like some of them, he was part of the problem.
Even the headmaster of Excelsior was an ex-member of parliament, forced to stand down because he made a motion to privatise cancer care in the NHS mere days after accepting a non-executive (but flush with share options) directorship from a massive American company. Now he ran a school so prestigious it only paid lip-service to the National Curriculum, and scheduled its holidays to the parents’ whims rather than the usual term times imposed upon comprehensives. It allowed more time off over Christmas (for skiing, duh) and guaranteed jaunts to Spain or the Caribbean would not be sullied with “normal” people having fun.
Parasites, all of them.
Which was what brought her to her second secret: her Saviour.
She did not know who he was, or even if he was a man, but he sounded like a man whenever they communicated. They met on a suicide board, her last resort before slitting her wrists to end the pain and guilt of her existence. He asked her to give him seven days. Seven days to save her life. Seven days to make her want to live. If after those seven days she still wanted to die, he would fade away.
He granted her access to his private chat groups, and recommended a number of activities and small acts of kindness to make her feel warm and fuzzy, to make her see the future was bright after all. It was his suggestion she give this rock climbing group a go, get involved, find something that rescued her from the hermetically-sealed world of perfect nails and luxury motorcars for teens.