The website front was simple: black background with a graffiti white tiger, the same design as on the front of the card. She clicked on the tiger and it melted away to reveal a basic shopfront, offering as much cocaine as one could ever desire. There were also a range of designer drugs and semi-legal highs, but it was the coke that had top billing.
Amy tried to purchase a gram of cocaine and was offered the opportunity to sign up to an anonymous cash vendor. “Clever,” she murmured to herself. “Offer your punters some insurance.”
The packaging was guaranteed to be discreet and none of the data was stored—this wasn’t the kind of site that offered loyalty points and a weekly newsletter.
Amy got into the code and tried to source an origin for the website. It was a Dreamweaver build, with all the extraneous tags that entailed, but all the identifying origin data had been stripped out.
Amy interrogated the WHOIS database and tried to ascertain who had registered the domain. It was private, of course, but that had never stopped her before. The address was in Butetown but the name was unfamiliar. “Elin Jones.”
“Dai’s mam?” Jason came up behind her and rested his free hand on her shoulder. Amy had missed the warm weight of his palm while she worked on a case. They could be together in their living room, her drumming away on AEON’s keyboard and him asking her if she needed anything from the shops because he was popping out for milk.
“Used his mum’s credit card to pay for a cocaine-dealing domain.”
“Lewis would box his ears for that.”
Amy marvelled at the strange honour code these street cowboys lived by. The ties of the family were almost Mafia-like in intensity, but so was the desire that their mothers never had to suffer the consequences of their dealings.
But this street cowboy had moved up in the world. He had graduated from small-time gang runner to webmaster for a cocaine empire. The product might be imported and cut in Cardiff but it could be distributed to anyone with a letterbox. And if the police did trace the web domain, all they’d find was a grieving mother and the business would move on, probably with a stolen credit card to pay for the next address.
“This website has been up for about two months, sitting idle. In that two months, it’s received about a hundred hits and all of them have been in the last week. Why wait until now to go live?”
“Mickey needed Stuart’s cocaine,” Jason said, as if it was most obvious thing in the world.
“But why is Damage working for Mickey? The Canton Boys were his life. I don’t see him switching sides.”
“So we’re back to Mickey and Stuart working together.”
Amy spun her chair, dislodging Jason’s hand to look him in the eye. “You overheard their conversation—that was a negotiation between enemies, neither willing to give ground. Stuart wasn’t lending out his runner.”
“Stuart’s lieutenant then. Double-crossing his boss and defecting to Mickey.”
“So this lieutenant of Stuart’s approaches Mickey with Damage’s skill set and says ‘Hey, mate, I can make you rich off online cocaine. Want to change your entire business model to take a chance on me?’”
Jason started to counter, then subsided. “That makes no sense, does it? What’s to stop Mickey just smashing his face in? And if this lieutenant has Stuart’s ear, why not just talk him round to the scheme? Or, if he don’t listen, topple him? He can’t be all that secure after five months behind bars.”
“There is something we’re missing here,” Amy said, mostly to herself. “The person behind this is pulling strings from somewhere, making powerful men sit up and listen. He’s not afraid to change it up and he’s not afraid to kill.”
Jason suddenly seized the arms of her chair. “The laptop!”
Amy looked at him like he was deranged. “What laptop?”
“Owain’s work laptop. The only people with access to that laptop are coppers, right?”
“Or anyone working at the police station,” Amy added, but she was interested as to where he was going with this.
“There was a copper who got me turfed into general population and stitched up Owain twice over. That’s one hell of a pawn the gangs have got. And who do we know who’s got his feet in both camps?”
Amy hated to disappoint him when he was so caught up in his logic. “Rich Porter is off the grid. He disappeared when Damage died.”
Jason scowled. “Fuck. Could he have set it up beforehand?”
“He needed to know your court date. And which transport was allocated.”
“That was privileged information, right?”
“The court date was available to anyone with access to twenty-four-hour news. The transport could’ve been identified through the hack.” Amy sank back in her chair. “We’re no closer to finding him.”
Chapter Forty-Two: Trial Run
Amy finally ran out of steam at 3:00 a.m. and crashed out on her sister’s bed on the other side of the curtain. Jason coughed his way through the early hours, but even that wasn’t enough to keep her awake. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep at dawn and woke up around midday feeling ravenous.
Creeping through the attic, he saw that Amy was still snoring and decided they needed a decent brunch. After throwing away most of the fridge contents, he fried up sausage, waffle and beans, salivating as soon as the meat hit the pan.
While it was cooking, he chucked the rubbish down the chute and started the dishwasher programme, trying to bring some order to the mess in the kitchen. It felt good to be back in his domain, asserting his dominance over the chaos that Amy brought to everything she touched.
He was just about to look for her when he heard her footsteps running along the corridor. She appeared in the doorway, messy hair falling out of her ponytail and her dressing gown hanging off one shoulder. She looked wild-eyed and terrified.
“I woke up and you were gone.”
Jason stepped forward and she threw herself at his chest, hugging him with all her might. She’d never done that before and Jason settled his arms awkwardly around her shoulders before pulling her close to him. “I’m all right. Just making some food.”
As suddenly as it began, it was over. Amy pulled away and retied her hair, avoiding his eyes. “It smells good.”
“Hope it tastes half as good,” he said, watching her carefully. She seemed loosely strung together, as if a strong breeze would scatter her atoms to the wind, and he could hear her nerves jangling from across the room.
Without further words, he dished up and they ate together, silent in their delight at their meagre feast. Jason considered licking his plate clean, but Amy beat him to it, fetching a slice of bread for each of them and mopping up the leftover tomato sauce with gusto.
Sauce splattered with her enthusiasm, the tip of her nose stained orange, and he burst out laughing, sudden in the silence. Amy looked indignant, furiously swiping at her nose to remove the spot and only managing to swipe it across her cheek.
Jason grabbed for the tea towel and reached across to wipe away the smudge. She tensed up like a wild animal, but gentled at his touch, allowing him to wipe away the greasy mark from her skin.
“You need a shower,” he said solemnly.
“You need to wash up,” she retorted, before heading off to the bathroom.
Jason obliged by doing the dishes and then having a quick hoover round the living room. It was satisfying, to take care of things that weren’t beating up gang boys or negotiating prison etiquette. It felt like coming home.
When Amy was out of the shower, she pushed him towards it and he awkwardly managed to wash off the dried blood from his beating and rebandage himself with minimal fuss. Why on earth did Amy have so many medical supplies? Was she stockpiling for the apocalypse?
He emerged feeling closer to human and to find that Amy had made tea—proper te
a, in a pot, with proper milk and coarse brown sugar. He must look a sight if she was spoiling him this badly.
It was almost like it was before, except for that gaping space in the corner where AEON should stand. It felt wrong and the room seemed smaller for the lack of its presence. Jason wanted to march down to Central Police Station and bang heads until they gave it up.
And that was why his little sister was becoming the copper and he was the ex-gang runner who was more suited to a cell.
They sat on the sofa and Jason poured the tea, while Amy fiddled with her iPad. While with anyone else that might mean cat gifs and Facebook stalking, Amy was probably sowing the seeds to take down the government. Or maybe just the Senedd—she wasn’t ambitious.
When he appeared to have lost her for several minutes, his teacup long drained, he nudged her knee with his. “Whatcha doing?”
“Looking at your criminal record.”
Jason leaned over her shoulder, looking down the list of offences. He wasn’t proud of the amount of trouble he’d got into or the grief he’d put his mother through, but these were also memories of times out with Lewis, his youth and his freedom. Part of him longed for those days more than anything. The chance to rescue them all before it went so bitterly wrong.
But then he never would’ve met Amy and that would be a crime.
“I thought my juvie record was erased at eighteen.”
“Mm. It was—I had to go digging for it before, but now it’s all back. And your altercation with...him is down as a charge for assault with a deadly weapon.”
“That was a caution. The CPS never brought the case.”
Amy tapped the screen and the printer in the corner starting spitting out pages. “It seems to me that someone is digging up all your past offences. Either the CPS has changed their minds or someone is tinkering with your criminal record.”
“Could you do that?” Jason asked, then caught himself. “I mean...would it be possible for a hacker to do that? Or would it have to be a copper?”
“It’s theoretically possible for a hacker to do anything. The database is easy enough to alter—it’s the trail that’s important. The edit record would show who had inputted the changes and that person would need sufficient authorisation and be associated with your case.”
“Who’s made these changes?”
Amy scrolled through a number of windows before hesitating. “Apparently, Owain.”
“But we know he’s been set up.”
“These changes were made on the twelfth at about half-six.” Amy paused, a tiny frown appearing in the centre of her forehead. “I called Owain just before that. He was in Butetown.”
Jason felt around for an explanation. “Could he do it remotely?”
“No, they were made from a terminal at Central Police Station. Someone is impersonating Owain.”
“A copper.”
Jason still liked Rich Porter for this, but he’d have a hard time wandering into the police station and altering criminal records.
“What about that laptop?” he said, returning to the subject he’d seized on last night. “There must be a record of who checked it out, right? And who logged into it?”
“The checkout record is likely hard copy.” Amy looked faintly disgusted. She disdained anything on physical media. Jason was surprised she’d printed his criminal record. “And to know who logged on I would need the laptop, and I don’t think Bryn’s likely to hand it over.”
“We could ask,” Jason said. “Where’s the harm in asking?”
“I could ask,” Amy said amused. “I think he’d still have to arrest you.”
Jason laughed and poured another cup of tea. Amy wandered over to the landline and dialled Bryn’s desk number, flicking him to speakerphone. Jason waved his arms desperately but before he could get her to turn it off, Bryn had answered.
“Hesketh.”
“Bryn, it’s Amy.”
“Are you poking your nose into something you shouldn’t?” He sounded tired, but his voice was amused rather than scolding.
“Jason’s criminal record.”
Bryn groaned. “Definitely something you should leave well alone.”
However, Amy was relentless. “His juvenile record is active again. And the incident in November has been upgraded to an assault charge.”
“I’ll look into it. Anything else?”
“It was Owain who made the changes.”
Bryn’s voice grew taut, like a guitar string under pressure, close to breaking point. “Amy, Owain has a lot of shit on his head right now—”
“On Monday, while I was on the phone to him. How could he alter Jason’s criminal record from the station when he was in Butetown?”
There was silence at the other end of the line. Jason frowned at Amy and stood up, miming putting down a telephone receiver. Amy simply shook her head. Stubborn as always.
“Fuck,” Bryn said eventually. “You’re right, girl. Someone is stitching up our boys.”
“Our boys?” she said, looking straight at Jason.
“Yes, both of the idiots.”
It was a little like being at your own funeral, Jason thought, lurking in the background of a speakerphone call when your friend thought you were lost in the wilds of Glamorgan.
“There’s another thing too,” Bryn continued, voice dropping to a murmur. “Rich Porter is dead.”
Well, that destroyed Jason’s theory. He hadn’t liked the odious little twerp, but that didn’t mean he wished him dead.
“Murder?” Amy asked, her voice unconsciously dropping to mirror Bryn’s.
“Official verdict is suicide, but Indira reckons otherwise. If someone wanted him dead, we need to know what he knew. What made him a target.”
“Why don’t you come round here and we can discuss it? All of it.”
Jason flapped his arms and shook his head vigorously. There was getting Bryn to help out and there was asking him to compromise his integrity as a police officer. Jason wouldn’t let him do that for anything. He wouldn’t be any kind of friend if he did.
Amy, however, ignored him. She childishly turned her shoulder so she couldn’t see him dancing around like a tribal warrior summoning rain.
“Owain’s being released in an hour, so I’m going to run him home first and then swing by with some groceries. Social call, you understand?”
“Social call. Absolutely. Before you go, though, might be worth checking the laptop issue logs. Never know who might’ve tampered with it.”
“Right you are. See you after.”
The line disconnected. Jason glared daggers at Amy’s shoulder blades.
“One, speakerphone wasn’t your smartest idea.”
“He heard nothing.”
“Two, what you inviting him round for? You want me to hide in the cupboard and earwig?”
Amy finally turned around. “I want us to investigate this properly. With police backing and by the book.”
“You’re asking Bryn to compromise himself.”
Amy waved her hand. “Just wear a fake moustache and call yourself Han. He can believe what he likes then.”
“Last time I checked, Bryn had eyes in his head. And a conscience.”
“Fine,” she said irritably. “Hide in the cupboard. Bryn and I will sort this out like adults.”
She stalked back to her iPad and curled up her legs, effectively excluding him from the sofa. Jason retreated to his chair and polished off his second cuppa. He’d have to wash up in a minute but yesterday’s fight had taken it out of him. No amount of painkillers could tackle the ache he felt deep in his lungs, and he coughed pathetically in the corner.
“Antibiotics,” Amy said without looking up from her screen.
“Took ‘em,” he retorted, before pr
ising himself out of the chair to check the mail. Maybe there’d be something interesting in the paper.
Except when he pulled it out, there was nothing but his face—an awful mugshot, when he was coming down off the H, and another picture dragged off Facebook of him partying hard with Lewis.
Jason shoved it back in the mailbox and extricated the rest of the letters—a few bills for him and some junk mail. He kept the takeaway menus and binned the rest, opening up the rest of his letters while he waited for Amy to spout forth a revelation.
He was shredding the letters when Amy squeaked. A look of immense glee filled her face, her cheeks red with excitement. “The prison van!”
Jason smiled hesitantly. “What about it?”
Amy stood up, cradling her iPad to her chest with one arm and gesticulating wildly with the other. “Why did Damage hack the prison van?”
“I...don’t know. To get to the other side?”
Amy glared at him. “Funny boy. It was for someone other than you, so if we find out who they wanted out of lockup—”
“We find a connection to our culprit. That’s genius, that.”
Amy preened. “I know. I searched for reports involving prison van escapes within the past year—none of them fit our MO. So then I went looking for the unsuccessful escapes...”
“And?” Jason asked eagerly.
Amy swung round her iPad. “Thomas Morris. A transfer from HMP Liverpool to Broadgreen Hospital. Satnav led the van astray in the Docklands and it was ambushed by two men. But the guards fought back and—this is the best bit—when they chased off their attackers, they found their prisoner yanking at the door. But it was securely locked.”
“Who is he then? Don’t keep us in suspense!”
Amy smiled smugly. “Perhaps I should call him former Detective Inspector Thomas Morris of the North Wales Police.”
Jason wanted to clap his hands in delight. “He’s a bloody copper! I knew it! Done for drugs?”
“Possession with intent to supply, taking bribes, tampering with evidence...”
Code Runner (Amy Lane Mysteries Book 2) Page 24