“How did they get on there then? Maybe you downloaded them from Amy Lane’s server?”
Owain shook his head silently, which the second detective dutifully intoned for the record.
“Then there’s the cocaine.”
Fuck that little bag of white powder. Bryn couldn’t care less what Owain got up to at weekends if he was able to do his job come Monday, but it wasn’t any old coke, was it?
“Near identical to samples linked to Stuart Williams’s gang.”
Bryn had heard enough. There was no way Owain was guilty of hacking the police van, aiding and abetting murder. He just had to prove it.
He stormed out of the room and collided with Sebastian.
“Easy, Hesketh. It’s that bad?”
Bryn ran a hand through his hair and looked at Sebastian in despair. He remembered then that Owain had been his partner too, however briefly. But while Sebastian could only view it as a betrayal, Bryn knew it to be a miscarriage of justice.
“We know he didn’t do it,” Sebastian said in a low voice. “The evidence will bear it out. And when Carr is caught, he’ll confess to his partner in crime.”
It had been over forty-eight hours since Jason had escaped and with every passing hour, the chances of finding him grew slimmer. Roger Ebbings’s armed police were combing the countryside but doing little more than scaring farmers’ daughters. One had even managed to shoot a prize bullock. It was a farce, and when the press got hold of the news that another police officer had been arrested in connection with gangs, they were going to have a field day.
“I hope so, Bas.” Bryn clapped Sebastian on the shoulder and headed back to his desk, trying to ignore the stares and whispers he was attracting. First, his associate; then his informant; now his partner. The vultures were circling.
Bryn picked up his phone, then hesitated. Was he doing the right thing in calling the girl? But if anyone knew what he’d been up to, it would be her and she’d be as eager to clear his name as her brother’s.
But if he was caught talking to Cerys... Bryn slammed down the receiver. They would think he was in on it. And if Owain Jenkins, the golden boy, could have his reputation blackened in one afternoon—
The phone jangled under his hand, starting him to life. “Hesketh.”
“Bryn, it’s Mitch from Barry here.”
The familiar Valleys accent of the police sergeant washed over him and Bryn felt a little bit better. “Mitch, my boy. How’s Barry keeping?”
“It was a bit better before this afternoon. Listen—your boy Owain? He put out that Missing Persons, right?”
Bryn’s heart sank. Anything with Owain’s name on it now meant potential trouble. “Refresh my memory,” he said, trying to be casual. “We get a lot of missing lasses up here.”
“This one ain’t no lass. It’s one of your detective sergeants.”
Bryn’s eyes scanned the room, alighting on each and every head in the room. All present and correct, save two. One was sitting in the interrogation room, and the other...
“You found Rich Porter?”
“Not me, Bryn. Some fishermen...they found him.”
Bryn’s world narrowed to the phone in his hand and his heartbeat throbbing in his throat. “Fishermen?”
“I’m sorry—they just pulled him out of the Bristol Channel.”
* * *
Sebastian had insisted on driving, which left Bryn time to brood. The clouds were coming over by the time they arrived at Barry Docks, the air sodden with spring rain, and most of the onlookers had sloped off to seek shelter.
Rob Pritchard was standing in front of a large van, decked out in his SOCO whites, while Indira wore only gloves and booties as she held an umbrella over him.
“You’re wasted on that, love,” Sebastian said with a grin.
The look Indira gave him could freeze steam. But Bryn didn’t have time for Sebastian’s games.
“Is it him?” Bryn looked over Rob’s shoulder to the lump of orange plastic visible in the back of the van.
Rob nodded curtly, before gesturing towards the gloves and stepping up into the van.
Bryn yanked the gloves over his damp fingers, cursing as the plastic stuck in all the wrong places. Sebastian jumped up ahead of him, as Rob turned on the lights inside the customised forensics transport.
Inside an oversized black body bag, an orange dinghy was laid out in the centre of the van. Beneath a clear plastic bag tied at the throat, Rich Porter’s face was grey in slumber. The detritus of the Channel was draped over both body and boat, and something living stirred by Rich’s left foot.
Rob swiped at the foot with a net, capturing a small crab. “The Marine Unit are taking samples and swimming the grid, but anything found in the dinghy is currently in this van.”
Indira produced a specimen jar, its contents shifting and clicking, and Rob tipped the crab in with the rest.
“Here are the main finds,” she said and held up a plastic crate with individually bagged items.
Bryn scanned them quickly: a bottle of cheap whiskey, empty; a syringe and needle, also empty; and a small black plastic device.
“That’s a GPS tracker,” Sebastian said, leaning over Bryn’s shoulder.
“How the hell do you know that?” Bryn asked, squinting at it. He thought it looked like a stopwatch, but then he wasn’t familiar with GPS.
“Miss Bharani, you have the sailing background here,” Sebastian said. “What do you make of it?”
“It could be, I suppose,” she said. “But the saltwater has corroded the battery compartment. We’ll need to dry it out and clean it before attempting to discover its function.”
“What was in the syringe?” Bryn asked, fearing to learn the answer.
“It was diluted by the sea, but there was a trace of heroin in the needle shaft.” Rob scowled. “Not enough to compare to a reference sample.”
“Like from the Splott drug den.” Bryn hated admitting Jason was right on a good day, but when the boy was missing and wanted for murder, he loathed it. Unless it ended up working out for both Owain and Jason, and then maybe he would just grin and bear it.
“You think Rich is mixed up in this Splott mess?” Sebastian was incredulous, and Bryn belatedly remembered that Rich had been Sebastian’s partner.
“Jason Carr said—”
“Well, fuck Carr!” Sebastian exploded. “That’s my partner lying dead and you’re taking the word of a bloody murderer!”
“Look at him, Bas!” Bryn snapped, temper taut as piano wire. “Your partner is full of smack.”
Indira tried to interject. “We don’t know that until—”
“What if someone did for him, eh? What if this is murder?” Sebastian was seething, veins throbbing in his forehead and cheeks scarlet with anger.
“I wish we could say it was, Bas. But I don’t think so.”
All eyes turned to the back of the van, where Roger was standing. He looked down at Rich Porter’s body for a long moment. “Poor boy.”
Bryn started to life after a moment. “Roger, what are you doing down here?”
“You should’ve called me, Bryn,” the superintendent scolded. “One of our boys is dead and you didn’t think I should know?”
“We were confirming identity, sir,” Sebastian said with barely controlled fury.
“You were having a slanging match,” Roger corrected. “I won’t have that none of that, not with an officer lying here. Especially if he was driven to taking his own life.”
“How can you be so sure?” Sebastian’s voice was pleading, desperate.
“Because I called him.” Rob carefully lifted up a clear-covered plastic tray, his hands steady like a child carrying a birthday cake.
Bryn peered at the piece of paper within, weighted at t
he corners as it dried. He bit back a cry of dismay, felt Sebastian and Roger at his shoulders. The ink had run, the paper soaked through, but the words were still obvious: I’m sorry.
“I need a smoke.” Sebastian vanished out the back of the van, followed swiftly by Roger, calling after him.
Rob set down the tray, his usual arrogant swagger muted. “I’d better check on the Marine Unit,” he muttered and left Bryn alone with Indira.
Bryn was lost in his own little world, contemplating the empty bottle of whiskey and the empty syringe. From what he remembered of Rich Porter, he’d been a lightweight, starting fights after a handful of pints. Maybe some would call that hidden depths.
Alcohol and heroin—it was the same cocktail they found on Jason’s drug screen. But then they were popular escapes, and without the reference sample, it was all conjecture.
“Oh, Bryn, I sent Owain the forensics report he requested on the prison van. Not much to tell, I’m afraid.”
Bryn stiffened. “You haven’t heard?”
Indira looked at him blankly. “Heard what?”
“Never mind.”
Owain didn’t need another nail in his coffin, poor lad. And if it was instead in the hands of his least favourite computer hacker, then it wouldn’t do any harm there either. Bryn was realising that Amy was all he had, God so help him.
He turned to leave but caught sight of the deep frown on Indira’s face. “Something wrong?”
Indira paused for a long moment. “It doesn’t add up.”
She gestured towards the laptop displaying a gallery of underwater photographs from the Marine Unit. She brought up three photographs—the partially submerged dinghy, one end anchored on a rock. A wider angle showing the dinghy on the rocks at the base of a headland with two bays sweeping away either side. And a close-up of a great tear in the dinghy, which looked to be the same bit that had been impaled on the rock.
“The dinghy was sighted by a fishing expedition as they rounded Nells Point.” Indira pointed at the wide photograph, and Bryn nodded along like he understood exactly where that was.
“They made their discovery about three o’clock, at the beginning of the flood tide. Before the lifeboat could reach him, the dinghy had filled and all the evidence was submerged.”
Indira rounded on Bryn like a schoolteacher who had caught him napping. “Now the question is this—how did the dinghy get under Nells Point without being seen by the NCI lookout station?”
Bryn must’ve looked caught out, because Indira took pity on him and answered her own question.
“The National Coastwatch Institution tower is only manned in daylight hours. Therefore, we must assume that the dinghy hit the headland during the hours of darkness. As it was already under the NCI building, they were unable to see it.”
Bryn nodded. “Okay, makes sense. So he was out on the water for a bit before he ended up smashed into the rocks?”
“Correct. As we know exactly what time he was submerged, thanks to the lifeboat, we can be fairly confident about time of death.”
Indira crossed to the body and carefully guided Rich’s soaked shirt away from his body, revealing a greenish discolouration across his lower abdomen.
“Is that bruising?” Bryn asked.
“The early signs of putrefaction. Given that he’s just falling out of rigor and how bloody cold it’s been for the past few days, I think Rich Porter has been dead two to three days.”
Bryn stared at her incredulously. “Then how come he only just crashed into the shore?”
Indira was practically bouncing. “My point exactly. Are we to believe that Rich floated around Barry Island for two or three days—without being spotted by the lookout or a single pilot boat? Or did he, in fact, come in a considerable distance to shore?”
She shucked the glove off her right hand and called up a tidal chart on the laptop. “High tide was just after eight this morning, in full daylight. The flood tide before that was quarter to eight last night, but there was a lot of cloud cover—I think that’s when Rich hit the headland. It was a very high spring tide and it brought him a way up the rocks, which is why this morning’s flood tide didn’t sink him.”
Bryn halted her before she got carried away with her nautical geekery. “How sure can we be that he came in from the Channel? He could’ve launched somewhere else, surely?”
Indira cocked her head to one side. “If he launched from Sully Sailing Club to the east, the flood tide would’ve carried him eastwards into Sully Island. If by some chance he came west, that course would’ve taken him across the breakwater, and I don’t see how he would’ve avoided being seen. From the west, he would’ve hit Friars Point before he got to Nells. I’m ninety percent certain he came in from the Channel.”
Bryn’s expression darkened. “Which begs the question, how did a man full of whiskey and heroin row himself out into the middle of the Channel?”
“He didn’t.” Indira’s large sad eyes looked over the body of Rich Porter. “Somebody put him out there to die.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight: She Ain’t Heavy
When Amy stuttered out what had happened in the hallway, Jason struggled to believe it. They sat in their living room together, as Jason couldn’t stay cooped up in the attic any longer, taking comfort in lukewarm tea and the custard creams Owain had bought.
“Owain?”
“Owain. He sent you to general population. He had cocaine.”
“A lot of people do cocaine—”
“Police officers?”
Jason grimaced. “But Owain—”
“He wouldn’t tell me why he was in Butetown. And he has the skills—he’s always been into what I’m doing. Given time and a little guidance, he could hack that satnav system.”
“It’s not evidence though, is it? You wouldn’t put it up before a court.”
Amy turned to look at him. “Why are you so eager to defend him?”
Jason shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure on his ribs. “Because I know what it’s like to suddenly find yourself accused of a crime.”
Amy frowned. “You think someone’s trying to frame Owain? But why?”
Jason shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. I still don’t know why anyone would want to frame me.”
Amy steepled her fingers in front of her. “We need to prove conclusively who hacked the prison van. That will say whether it was Owain or not.”
“Can you access his computer?”
“At his house? I don’t think breaking and entering is a good idea right now.”
“What about the laptop he had with him?”
“Police issue. They don’t let you use your own computers for that kind of work.”
“It wasn’t police-issue cocaine though, was it?”
Amy got up and started to pace. “The laptop was a Windows machine—Owain has a Mac. I can try running a backtrace from his personal email, but that will take time and he probably doesn’t have his computer on right now.”
“But they won’t hold him on a possession charge, copper or not. He’ll be bailed and—”
“Then he’ll turn on his computer. If they don’t investigate him for corruption.”
Jason tried to follow her haphazard pattern across the floor before looking away. She was making him tired just watching her. “That only helps us if he did it.”
“My friend thought she might have a sniff of someone who had asked about hacking a satnav system like this. I can chase her up. That’s our only lead.” Amy was increasingly frantic, pacing in ever-decreasing circles. “The IT professionals are dead ends, all of them. Bryn’s shut me out. What can we do? How can we prove you didn’t do this?”
Jason caught Amy’s arm. “Slow down. You’ll think of something. You always think of something.”
A
my looked at him, really looked at him—meeting his eyes in a rare display of openness. He saw the pleasure of surprise in her green eyes, but also fear. “You have so much faith in me. Do you know what a terrible burden that is?”
“It’s not faith,” he said. “It’s knowledge.”
He heard the scrape of metal across wood only a second before the voice, the anger:
“Let go of her.”
They both turned, startled, and Jason leapt to his feet, keeping Amy behind him as his body screamed in agony at the sudden movement. “Who the fuck are you?”
The tanned blonde scowled, her face screwed up in ferocity as she brandished her weapon of opportunity—Amy’s katana. “I know who you are, murderer.”
To his horror, Amy shoved past him and stared down the intruder. “Put the sword down, Lizzie.”
The name slowly registered and he took his eyes off the woman just long enough to glance at Amy. “Lizzie...? Your sister?”
“Not if she keeps waving that sword in your face,” Amy said, with a bitter strength of feeling.
Lizzie looked at Amy incredulously. “You’re going to pick this murdering bastard over your own family?”
“After you betrayed me to go running to our parents? Fuck off.”
“We drank tea and made up!”
“That was before you threatened my assistant.”
Jason had the distinct feeling he was in the middle of a tense family spat complicated by a samurai sword and his supposed criminality. “No chance I can just leave you to it?”
The sword wavered closer. “You are going to stay put until I can call the police.”
She reached for her pocket, just as Amy stepped in front of Jason, a human shield. “If you call the police, you are dead to me. I will carve you out of my life in every way—no more contact, no more money, no more name. If you want to side with our parents that badly, you can be their daughter again. See how that works out for you.”
There were so many questions that sprang to Jason’s tongue, but his main priority was Lizzie brandishing a sword inches away from Amy’s delicate neck. “The cops won’t be too happy about Amy harbouring a fugitive either. How about we work this out over a cup of tea?”
Code Runner (Amy Lane Mysteries Book 2) Page 21