The Hack

by Will Patching

  The Hack

  International Crime Thriller

  (Hunter/O’Sullivan Adventure #1)

  by

  Will Patching

  ***

  Copyright 2015 Will Patching

  The right of Will Patching to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, and incidents in this publication are the product of the author’s imagination. Real organisations and places are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ***

  Publishing history

  Previously published in paperback in 2006 by Timeframe Books, Bangkok under the same author’s name with the title:

  The Death of Innocence

  The original story is no longer available in print but has been revised, updated and edited based on reader and professional editor feedback. It is now available in eBook and print editions under its current title:

  The Hack

  Proofread by James Jones 2016:

  www.proof-edgb.com

  Any remaining errors are entirely the author’s.

  ***

  By the same author:

  The Remorseless British Crime Thriller Trilogy

  (Doc Powers & D.I. Carver Investigate)

  ‘British crime writing at its best!’

  Three gripping self-contained novels for lovers of hard-hitting British crime thrillers!

  Remorseless and Mutilated are available in eBook and Paperback formats -

  Gaslighting, the third in this powerful, disturbing trilogy, is due out in May 2107.

  Join Will’s Readers Group to obtain your complimentary copy of Remorseless!

  ***

  Table of Contents

  Hack – Dictionary definition

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Author’s Comments

  Free Stuff – Join Will’s Readers Group for notification of giveaways, promos etc

  Remorseless – Read the opening pages of the first in this gripping trilogy by the same author...

  The Hunter – Coming in late 2017! The sequel to The Hack...

  ***

  Hack

  hack [hak] noun

  A heavy cut, blow, or stroke

  A journalist who writes mediocre material to order

  Abbreviated form of hacker (computer jargon)

  ***

  Chapter One

  George Simm’s shirt was damp and rank with body odour. He could smell his own rancid musk as he mopped some drips from his multiple chins with his sleeve. He registered a flicker of disgust in the brown face of the man sitting opposite, and decided to screw the cheeky bastard.

  ‘I’ll give you one hundred US – final offer.’ He sipped his iced beer and grinned at the slim oriental. ‘Take it or leave it, Fan. I’m bringing a lot of business to Thailand and there are plenty of other suppliers just waiting to take your place.’ Simm took another gulp of Singha.

  ‘We have agreement, Khun Simm. Two hundred.’ Fan’s eyes narrowed as he spoke and Simm decided he was trying to look menacing. It was not working.

  The local word for ‘mister’ bugged him too as it sounded like ‘coon’, and he did not like that one bit. He had been quite prepared to pay the full amount but this Thai spiv was getting on his nerves, with his bad English, his foul breath and stained teeth. This was a dangerous business and Simm felt highly exposed out here in this third world country.

  Time to wrap things up.

  ‘Take it or leave it. I didn’t get rich by throwing money away.’ He finished his beer and motioned the waiter for the bill. ‘If that’s not enough, well, see ya around pal.’ He started to rise but Fan grabbed his arm.

  ‘You do business? Like this?’ His face flashed anger then melted back to a big Thai smile as he saw the look in Simm’s eyes.

  ‘Just keep your filthy paws off me.’ Simm shrugged the hand off. ‘Deal or no deal?’

  ‘Sit... Please. Talk more.’ Fan nodded at the chair. ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ll sit, if we agree the price. One hundred. Or I’m out of here.’ He let his eyes follow a speedboat carving through the bay, a tourist dangling from a parachute towed behind, a gaudy flash of colours against the cobalt sky. ‘There’re other things I could be doing right now. I’m supposed to be on vacation.’

  Fan lashed out in frustration, the back of his hand cuffing the pretty young boy sitting at the table with them. The emaciated lad rocked on his seat as knuckles landed on his high cheekbones, the loud crack piercing the air, but he made no sound. Tears crept from the corners of his russet eyes, but he kept his head down, inspecting his bare toes.

  As the waiter brushed by to serve the only other customer – a lone tourist at a corner table, well out of earshot – Fan called to him in Thai. ‘Another two beers. The fat white pig will pay.’ He jerked his scraggy goatee in the American’s direction, then continued in English to Simm, spitting words in anger but his voice low. ‘Okay. We do business. This first one I give big discount. Fifty percent.’

  Simm grinned, and dropped back in his chair. ‘That’s more like it. If you can supply my guests with the right quality merchandise in the numbers I need, then we’ll have a long and lucrative relationship.’ He opened his wallet and slid a note across the table.

  The bill disappeared into Fan´s pocket before the American had finished speaking. ‘No damage. No blood. Or you pay more.’ His hand slid to his belt buckle and Simm heard a faint click as a two-inch blade appeared to sprout from Fan’s fist. ‘Much more.’ He made a slicing gesture at his throat with the stubby dagger and added, ‘Remember, this Thailand. You just farang here.’ The weapon disappeared back into its secret home.

  Simm disliked the Thai word for foreigner too. It sounded like an insult. He sat back and took stock of the man. He could hardly believe this runt was threatening him, but he had already paid so had to let it ride. It was probably bluster and bullshit anyway. ‘No problem.’

  ‘Nine o’clock, here, in morning. Bring back in perfect condition. Enjoy. Sawadee Khap, Khun Simm.’ Fan’s greasy ponytail bobbed as he mock bowed before strolling on to the white sand beach.

  The American shook his head as he realised they even used the same words for hello and goodbye. Fucking simpletons! And they call it The Land of Smiles – what bullshit. The land of the crooked grin more like.

  He chugged his beer, thinking how stupid the locals were. How easy it was to fuck them over. Like taking candy from a baby.

  Or a baby from a candyman.

  The thought twitched a wry smile on his lips.

  He ordered another beer and forced himself to relax, to let his tension bleed away. As the red sun shimmered and started to melt into the turquoise sea he decided that life could not get much better. It was a beautiful spot, he had seven days to enjoy, and he planned to indulge himself to the full.

  He rose, dropped a thousand baht note on the table, and smiled at the waiter. He was cooler now, his shirt dry.

  A happy man.

  Here he was, just one day in paradise and the first deal was done. So simple.

  And so cheap.

  He stood, touched the little boy’s shoulder, and led him away.

  ***

  The only other customer in the beach bar was also American, lounging at a nearby table apparently engrossed in a Lonely Planet guide. His attention was not on the book – his exceptional hearing had allowed him to eavesdrop on enough of the conversation between his compatriot and the skinny Thai to clench his guts and set his teeth grin
ding.

  He also knew his extended vacation was at an end.

  He rose, his face a rigid mask, his attention focused on the fat middle aged man and his ‘purchase’ as they made their way down the beach.

  The waiter appeared at his elbow, apparently worried that he might leave without paying his bill. The man was not surprised as his carefully cultivated appearance was that of an ageing hippy, a scruffy backpacker in desperate need of a shower. As he left he shoved a wad of notes into the waiter’s hand and got a wide grin as thanks for the unexpected tip.

  He trailed the odd couple, blending in with the other tourists and travellers strolling along the palm fringed beachfront, keeping some hundred metres behind his target, his attention never wavering.

  ***

  Later that night in Simm’s hotel room the local Chief of Police, Major General Lee, struck the concierge with an open palm and left angry finger marks across the man’s chubby cheek. A feeble arm was raised in defence way too late, ensuring the blow had the desired effect, loosening the reluctant tongue.

  ‘I remember now. There was a boy... I think he was with him, sir. A street child. Just a beggar. I thought nothing of it.’ He nursed his cheek and flinched as the policeman drew back his arm, ready to strike again. The concierge hunched and jabbered. ‘The boy waited by the lift while the big American came to the desk for his key.’

  ‘So you did nothing? An urchin? A possible thief? Maybe a murderer? In the foyer of this grand hotel,’ Lee gestured the suite, luxurious by any standard, ‘and you did not throw him out?’

  The words tumbled out now, eager to avoid more punishment. ‘I was alone, the bellhops busy. The young boy disappeared when the man entered the lift... He went with the American I think – but I did not see. Another customer came in and – ’

  The policeman nodded as he interrupted. ‘The boy. You saw him leave?’

  ‘Yes. About fifteen minutes later he came screaming down the stairs, running for his life. His back and shoulders, they were covered in blood.’

  The concierge had been avoiding eye contact, but now glanced up at Lee. The policeman, perched on an impressive teak desk, leaned forward, bringing his face level with the man’s shifting eyes.

  The concierge squirmed, as if something was branding his buttock through his seat. A movement noted by Chief Lee as he hissed, ‘Continue.’

  ‘Sir. I was concerned for the American and immediately came to the man’s suite. The bedroom door was open. I... I did not... I could not go in...’ He waved towards the room, eyes everywhere but there. ‘I returned to the front desk and called the police. I swear I never saw this boy before.’ He rushed on, but the Chief did not miss the deception. ‘Maybe the taxi drivers outside saw him flee, sir.’ He licked his lips, eyes flitting over the policeman’s face and then desperately darting away. Fear drenched his voice again, as he pleaded, ‘Sir... My family. This job is our livelihood.’

  The policeman’s eyes missed nothing as the concierge wriggled his rump once more, obviously close to soiling himself with terror.

  Lee pushed himself off the desk and stepped behind the man’s chair. With his lips brushing the concierge’s quivering ear, he whispered, ‘If you’re lying to me...’

  At that moment, the door slammed open and a portly man wearing an immaculate Versace suit stormed in. Spittle flew as he barked at the policeman.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Lee? Your bloody men are all over my hotel. My fucking five star hotel full of rich farang tourists. Have you lost your mind? This will cost me a bloody fortune in lost trade!’

  The concierge shrank into his chair, thankful for the respite.

  Lee’s nose twitched. Over-strong perfume on a man. Something else he did not like. Along with being bawled out by a civilian. Especially a spoilt rich kid, a privileged luk krung – a mongrel, half Thai and half farang.

  ‘Sorry Chief,’ Lee’s driver spoke from the doorway, ‘I tried to stop him coming up.’ The man was panting from exertion. ‘And I’ve just had a call, the Commissioner’s at your office – apparently he wants a word, sir.’

  Lee nodded, dismissing the sergeant before addressing the hotel proprietor. ‘Mr Hughes, I’m afraid my men will be some time.’ He raised a hand as the owner’s mouth curled in preparation for another outburst. Lee continued, silk suit smooth, ‘You see, I’m afraid one of your rich American tourists appears to have swallowed his own penis.’

  The hotel owner frowned, deflated, his anger replaced by confusion. ‘What the hell – ?’

  Lee interrupted, explaining, ‘In that room.’ He nodded toward the door to the master bedroom. ‘He’s dead.’ Lee allowed himself a moment, savouring the other man’s discomfort. ‘And I’m afraid your hotel is now the subject of a major international murder investigation.’

  His lips stretched into a mirthless smile as he watched Hughes slump on to a sofa. There were already three police cars and an ambulance outside the hotel entrance and Lee knew the man would be infuriated – he was always quick to anger, the result of hot farang blood coursing through his Thai-American veins. A very rich man and the type who thought he could get what he wanted with bluster, bullying and bribery. A common theme among the exceedingly wealthy everywhere, but more so in the developing world, where corruption thrived.

  Lee could see the puzzlement in the hotel owner’s eyes as he glanced from the bedroom door back to the detective, then a spark of hope. ‘How can you be sure it was murder at this stage? Perhaps a contribution to police funds would help your investigation reach a speedy conclusion...’

  ‘His throat was cut. So deeply his head was almost severed.’ Lee’s voice hardened as he added, ‘We’ve ruled out suicide Mr Hughes, so don’t even think of asking. I don’t care about your hotel’s reputation. I only care about the truth.’ He strolled to the door. ‘So, my men will be interviewing all your guests and staff.’

  Hughes groaned and put his head in his hands.

  Lee gestured to a constable waiting outside. ‘The bedroom is to remain sealed until the Medical Examiner arrives.’

  ‘Lee?’

  He paused, one hand on the door, turning to Hughes, suddenly sickened by the perfume and overstated opulence.

  ‘You said he swallowed his own penis?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He compressed his mouth into a lipless line. ‘You see, his genitals were hacked off and stuffed down his throat.’

  ***

  ‘Sis?’

  ‘Jesus Johnny, it’s after 2am. Don’t you ever sleep?’ Kate O’Sullivan pushed the phone between her ear and the pillow, closing her eyes again.

  ‘Oh, is it? Er... Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been reading some news and stuff from Thailand. You know that guy you were doing the article on?’

  ‘Uh? What?’ Her brain started to fire up, though her eyes still rebelled, remaining shut tight.

  ‘Simm. The internet guy. Big businessman you asked me to look into.’

  Her brain sparked into life. Her eyes now open, she was almost fully alert.

  ‘He’s dead, Sis.’

  Wide-awake now.

  ‘Dead?’

  Shit.

  ‘Yup. Murdered. Looks like you lost out. Is all your work down the drain?’

  Kate thought for a moment and sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. ‘Oh, I dunno Johnny. Can I come over and see what you’ve got?’ It would only take her ten minutes driving on the city roads at this time of night.

  ‘Sure thing.’ She could hear his willing smile on the phone, and loved him for it.

  ‘Give me twenty minutes. And Johnny – see what else you can find.’

  Maybe. Just maybe.

  If she was quick she might salvage her story. Possibly a special obituary rather than the pre-prepared file copy if she could get it to the Financial Times before anyone else. She hurried to dress, her brain sparking and jumping as she tested angles, themes, the words bubbling in her head.

  Bad news?

  No, she thought.
There’s no such thing for a journalist – other people’s misfortune paid the bills. She perked up as the thoughts buzzed, giving comfort as her ancient Beetle fired into life.

  Kate hummed to herself as she set off round London’s South Circular, on the road that would lead to pain, misery and death.

  ***

  Police Chief Lee straightened up from the washbasin, water dripping from his face. He rarely inspected himself, but this morning he could not help but notice the deep lines and dark bags sagging below his eyes. His skin was yellow tinged and he looked sickly under the harsh fluorescent light.

  Two shifts, back to back, and no end in sight. Twenty hours solid already. Several hours ago he had been about to leave after the usual frantic runaround that was his life with the Royal Thai Police.

  And then a fat American tourist almost lost his head and the shit-showering fan went into overdrive.

  First off, there was his boss, the Commissioner. An over-promoted moron.

  Then his boss, the politician. An incompetent moron.

  As if that was not enough, the Americans saddled up.

  Just before midnight the head of the local Consulate rode in, dumped on him, screaming about inadequate policing, appalling hotel security, ongoing threats to US nationals and how the Thai tourist trade would ‘dry up over-fucking-night’ unless Lee got his ‘ass in gear’. He wanted answers, a report, right now, no excuses.

  And of course, they had appointed an adviser to ‘liaise’ with him.

  CIA? FBI? Special forces? Another overweight American who had impressed Lee with his deeply insightful comments on Thai policing – brutal, corrupt and prehistoric summed up the man’s considered opinion.

  Truly a diplomat.

  Lee had taken it all and, alone at last, the ‘adviser’ having left for his beauty sleep, he had let go a sigh, relieved to see the man swagger out of his office – just as the Minister for Tourism had launched himself in, snapping and yapping like a mad dog.

  With so little sleep, the politics dragging hard on him, Chief Lee finally lost it. He stood, slammed the Simm file on his desk and bellowed back at the startled politician, ‘If you would just let me get on with my job I’ll get some results! I know how important this is but I need some time and space to do effective police work.’