Dead and Gone

by Bill Kitson

  It was nearly lunchtime when Patricia reached the station. As she waited to board the train, she was conscious that she ought to spend the journey planning for the meeting she was due to attend early next morning. Her client had sent her some information which was now stored on her laptop, and she knew she should use it to prepare her work schedule. However, the disturbed nights had left her too weary, and she had virtually decided to postpone her efforts. If she could get a decent night’s rest, she could set her alarm for early next morning and still have time to do the work ahead of the visit to her client.

  In the event, the decision was taken out of her hands. The train was crowded, almost every compartment being packed solid with football supporters heading for York and a connecting train to an away match that evening. Patricia knew that she would not have been able to concentrate above the din they were making, even if she had been fortunate enough to obtain a seat at one of the tables. She was lucky to get a seat at all. She sank into a window seat at the very rear of the train and sighed with relief. Almost at once, alongside her, the last remaining vacant seat was taken by a man of about thirty-five to forty years of age, Patricia guessed. He was of strong build, the sort of muscular physique that would quickly run to fat if neglected, and his features had a vaguely Slavic appearance.

  As yet more passengers boarded the train with little sign of them being denied access, Patricia wondered if the operating company was exceeding its maximum load limit, or indeed, if such a limit existed. She glanced round at the other occupants of the compartment. Apart from the football supporters, who were talking loudly in a language that bore a slight resemblance to English, the other passengers seemed oblivious to their surroundings, and unaware of the existence of each other. Some were sending text messages in a seemingly endless stream. Were they all to the same recipients or did they really have so many friends, Patricia wondered. Several were listening to music on iPods, their lips moving in sync with unheard lyrics. Would a lip-reader be able to tell the title of the track? Yet more passengers were staring fixedly at the screen of their tablet PC, iPad or smartphone. Only a few were reading. Momentarily curious, Patricia recognized the covers of a vampire story, the adventures of a boy wizard, the latest Ian Rankin thriller, and, despite the efforts of the young woman to disguise it, an erotic romance.

  The journey seemed interminable. It was one of those services that stopped at every station en route, and rarely got up to anything approaching express speed. The compartment had been over-warm when she entered it. As the train continued its snail-like progress it got even hotter, even stuffier. The warmth, her exhaustion and the lack of something to occupy her mind soon combined; Patricia dozed off.

  She began to dream. Instead of being on the train, her dream-scape transported her to home, to the comfort of her sitting room and her favourite armchair. She snuggled deep into the soft cushions, smiling at her partner Julian. He was seated on the floor alongside her, as often happened when they were in a romantic frame of mind. He was caressing her leg, his hands gently sliding over the smooth skin of her knee. As if in response to the implicit invitation in her smile, his hand moved upward, the caress became more vigorous, matching the heat of his growing arousal.

  She awoke with a start as the train jolted to a halt. At first she thought that no one had noticed that she had fallen asleep. But one man all too obviously had. The man seated next to her had seized the opportunity to pay far too much attention to her. She slapped his hand, pushing it off her knee. He smiled, and Patricia felt vaguely nauseous.

  Undeterred by the rebuff, he spoke quietly. ‘Beautiful lady, I would like to know you better. To know you as a man should know a woman.’ He accompanied the words with a gesture as obscene as his smile. The accent was Eastern European, confirming her guess.

  Patricia was well used to admiring glances; used to men staring at her long legs, her trim figure, sometimes even seeing the desire in their eyes. That, she could tolerate, conscious of her beauty without flaunting it, but this was altogether different. This was skin-crawlingly loathsome. ‘Well, you’re not going to,’ she snarled angrily.

  ‘That would be shame, for so much loveliness should be to share, not to keep hidden away. It should be like work of art in exhibition: free for many peoples to enjoy.’

  ‘Listen to me, buster. I share it with who I want, when I want and that certainly doesn’t include the likes of you. So keep your filthy comments, your greasy smile and your oily, sweaty hands to yourself or I’ll pull the communication cord and have you thrown off this train and arrested for molesting me. Understood?’

  He shrugged, which could have been a gesture of defeat, or possibly merely one of acceptance. Either way, she was relieved when he turned slightly away from her and leaned back in his seat. Her relief was short-lived, however, for his movement caused the front of his jacket to part slightly. With fresh terror, Patricia saw what was protruding from his belt. It was the hilt of a knife, the blade protected by a leather sheath. The size of the hilt suggested that it was a large knife: a very large knife.

  Patricia was immensely relieved when, in the distance, she was able to see the towers on York Minster from the train window. Although there had been no further approach from the man, and although she had avoided looking in his direction, she was aware of his gaze reflected in the train window, which had remained fixed on her for the rest of the journey.

  Out of her eye corner, Patricia could tell both by the expression on his face and the way his focus of attention shifted, moving downwards as he examined every curve of her body, that the man was mentally undressing her. She felt her skin crawl at this loathsome inspection. She was desperate to leave the train; to put as much distance as possible between herself and the unwelcome attention he was lavishing on her.

  The last few miles seemed to take forever, but even so, when the train eventually halted alongside the platform, Patricia remained in her seat, waiting for the man to move. When he failed to do this, she grasped the handle of her laptop case and stood up. She stepped past him, taking care to avoid contact with his knees, grateful for the space provided. She paused to lift her wheeled overnight bag from the overhead rack. As she stretched up, the temptation was obviously too much for him. His hand reached up between her legs, causing her skirt to ride up as he moved along her thigh towards his goal.

  All the passengers were facing the other way as they crowded along the aisle, eager to get to their destination, or to a bar before they continued their journey to the football match. Patricia turned, swinging the laptop case. He flung his hands up, instinctively trying to protect his face; but as he did so she switched her target. There was a satisfying gasp of pain as the heavy case struck his groin, and as he bent double in discomfort, Patricia snatched her suitcase and fought her way past a group of protesting supporters as she exited the train at a half-run, halfstumble and marched down the platform, her pace masking the trembling in her lower limbs. As she surrendered her ticket at the barrier, she glanced back, but there was no sign of her assailant amid the sea of brightly coloured scarves and hats.

  She reached the relatively safe haven of a nearby coffee bar, which was all but deserted. Presumably the supporters were aiming for places that sold something more powerful. She ordered a large latte and took the drink to a dimly lit corner from where she had a good view of people passing by. After a few minutes she began to hope that she had shaken off her admirer. She reached into her bag, removed her mobile and pressed a short-code. As the word ‘Home’ appeared on the screen she waited for Julian to answer.

  Julian was disturbed by her account of events. ‘Why don’t you come home tonight? You’re obviously upset, and you can always go to tomorrow’s meeting from here. I’ve to be away early, I can make sure you’re up in time.’

  ‘I’d love to, Julian, but it isn’t practical. The CEO wants to see me at 8.30, before everyone else arrives. To get there in time I’d have to leave home before seven o’clock.’ Patricia hesitated. ‘There is
n’t a train at that time in the morning. Certainly not one that will get me to Netherdale; let alone Bishopton.’

  ‘Why don’t you take your car?’

  It was no good, she’d have to tell him. ‘I can’t; I forgot to tax it before I went away. The tax ran out three days ago.’

  ‘In that case I suppose you’ll have to carry on to Bishopton tonight. Please be careful, though, and be sure and call me from the hotel later on. Is it the Mitre you’re staying at?’

  ‘That’s right.’ She ended the call, drank the last of her coffee and glanced towards the wall clock. As she did so, she was conscious of movement in her peripheral vision. She turned quickly, but all she could see through the window were commuters drifting towards the platforms. She looked back at the clock and saw that it was time for her to move. She had to buy a ticket, and she was aware that the Netherdale train would depart from the most distant platform, which would mean hauling her case up and down steps and across the connecting footbridge.

  She slipped the shoulder strap of the laptop case over her head and gripped the handle of her wheeled suitcase. As she threaded her way between the tables to the door, the man who had been watching her through the window shadowed her movement, making sure there were several passengers between him and his target. He was in no hurry. He had already bought a ticket in case she took the Netherdale train. Ivan was a great believer in forward planning. He watched from a safe distance as she queued at the ticket office. He rather hoped she’d decided to continue working and not go home. That would mean she would have to be disposed of, but Ivan thought he could have quite a bit of fun with her before the time came to kill her. The memory of her soft skin and the idea of what he would do to her was already exciting him.

  chapter eighteen

  Nash spent an hour going through the paperwork surrounding the events at the holiday cottage, Stark Ghyll and the workshop. There were reports for the inquests, all meticulously drawn up by Tom Pratt. Not for the first time, Nash thought how lucky they were to have someone with such expert knowledge to work with them. His brain fastened on the word ‘expert’ as he considered the investigations that were still ongoing, the computer scam being uppermost. They needed specialist technical help – and needed it urgently, not only for the email scam but perhaps they could also look into the B.I.G. case. He remembered what Jackie Fleming had told him about the force’s computer experts. They would not be free for months. By that time the email trail would have gone cold. Or even colder, to be more accurate.

  Mironova and Pearce were in the outer office when Nash emerged. He waited for Mironova to come off the phone. ‘I’m going through to Netherdale tomorrow,’ he told them. ‘I’m not prepared to wait for our own boffins. I’m going to plead with Jackie and the chief for us to hire an outside specialist. Viv, am I right in thinking you’ve done all you can in respect of the email scam?’

  ‘Yes, Mike. I could try to go further, but I’m concerned I might trigger a virus which would affect either our computers or those of the victims.’

  ‘I’ve also got to think about the Linda Wilson murder. I’m convinced it’s connected to the Bishopton fraud, and we could do with some expert help there too.’

  When Nash put his case forward, both the chief constable and Superintendent Fleming listened sympathetically, but Nash could tell by O’Donnell’s face that he was going to be unsuccessful. However, before she could refuse the request, Fleming intervened. ‘I’ve an idea how we could do this, ma’am, and possibly avoid any cost being incurred; or at worst, very little.’

  ‘How do you suggest we do that?’ O’Donnell asked.

  ‘If we hire someone on a commission only basis, we could agree with the victims of the email scam that they would meet the cost of the expert from the funds recovered. A bit like those lawyers in America who take on the personal injury cases on a no-win, no-fee basis.’

  ‘Or those companies that keep pestering me about PPI which I’ve never had, you mean?’ the chief constable retorted. ‘I’d go along with that if it can be arranged. Do you have anyone in mind?’

  ‘Leave it with me. I have an idea, but don’t want to make any promises, in case it doesn’t come off. I feel sure if I can sort something, Mike will approve.’

  On his way back to Helmsdale, Nash wondered about the slightly cryptic nature of Fleming’s final remark and the mischievous smile that had accompanied it. He would have been even more intrigued if he’d known what transpired back in Netherdale HQ.

  Fleming went back to her office and picked out a visiting card from her folder. She dialled the number and spoke. ‘This is Superintendent Fleming. You remember our discussion a few weeks back? Well, I think I have something for you.’

  Half an hour later, she returned to the chief constable’s office. ‘It’s all arranged,’ she told O’Donnell. ‘The computer expert will start work tomorrow.’

  Gloria put her pen down. ‘Go on, tell me about it.’

  Jackie explained, and eventually revealed the identity of the specialist she had hired.

  The chief constable whistled. ‘Now I understand. She’s the young woman Mike met on that case connected with old London mobs. Don’t you think that’s a bit dangerous? She’s highly attractive. Having her work alongside Mike is a bit like lighting a match in a fireworks factory.’

  ‘Nash doesn’t seem at all bothered about women these days.’

  ‘An alcoholic can stay off the booze for more than a year, but I still wouldn’t leave one alone in a brewery,’ the chief said, with a grin.

  ‘I still don’t think he would succumb.’

  ‘Twenty pounds says you’re wrong.’

  ‘I’d take that bet, but how will we know?’

  ‘If the silly grin on his face doesn’t tell us, Mironova’s sarcastic comments will.’

  ‘Right, you’re on. Twenty pounds it is.’

  Later that afternoon, Fleming phoned Nash and told him, ‘The specialist will report to you tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Who is it? Have they been given clearance and identity cards?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, Mike. In view of the urgency I’ve skipped all the usual formalities. Identification won’t be a problem either.’ She put the phone down before Nash could ask for an explanation.

  He had only been in his office next morning for a few minutes when the internal phone rang. ‘Yes, Jack?’

  ‘I’ve Dr Silver in reception for you, Mike,’ Binns told him.

  ‘Dr who?’

  ‘No, not Dr Who, Dr Silver. The computer expert you were expecting.’

  ‘I’ll be right down. Hang on, when you said Dr Silver, is that Tina Silver?’

  ‘You got it.’

  Nash took the stairs two at a time and walked swiftly across to the reception area. ‘Tina,’ he greeted her, ‘this is an extremely pleasant surprise.’

  She took his outstretched hand and shook it. ‘Hello, Mike. A surprise? Didn’t Superintendent Fleming tell you I was coming?’

  ‘She told me to expect someone. She didn’t tell me the name of our expert. I think it was her idea of a joke.’

  Tina let go of his hand and reached for her laptop case. Nash took it from her and ushered her towards the door. He held it open for her. His act of courtesy had no ulterior motive, although it did enable him to admire her legs as she preceded him up the stairs to the CID suite.

  ‘Why don’t you set up your computer in my office? I can work out here with Clara and Viv. That way you won’t be distracted by our comings and goings when you’re working. Whilst you’re doing that, I’ll make a drink. Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee will be fine.’

  Nash was returning with the drinks when Mironova entered the outer office. ‘Morning, Mike. Jack told me the expert is here, but he was a bit mysterious about it. He said I’d know them when I saw them. Who is it?’

  ‘Open my office door and you’ll find out. Here, you take this coffee. I’ll go make another.’

  Clara took the mugs
from him and opened the door. Tina looked up, expecting to see Nash. ‘Oh, hello, Clara.’

  ‘Tina! So you’re the specialist we were expecting?’

  ‘That’s right. Superintendent Fleming arranged it.’

  When Nash returned a couple of minutes later, the girls stopped chatting and Tina informed him she was ready to start.

  ‘In that case, we’d better wait for Viv. Then if you ask a technical question you might get a sensible answer. Without Viv to act as translator, you’ve no chance.’

  Later that morning, when Nash took Tina another mug of coffee, she reported progress. ‘I’ve made a start on the email scam. These are usually quite easy to trace or block, but this guy is a cut above the normal scammers. A few cuts above, to be fair, and I’m going to enjoy doing battle with him. I’ve not met many of his type before.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘The easiest way to illustrate it would be by comparison. You must have people on your books whose work you can recognize by their MO, burglars for instance?’

  ‘There are a few,’ Nash agreed.

  ‘With computer fraud it’s very much the same. The usual ones are those offering recipients lots of money. The best known of those would be the supposed relatives of dead Nigerian generals or politicians who have left a fortune that must be got out of the country.’

  ‘I would have thought everyone knew about those by now – even I do. Surely nobody gets taken in by them anymore.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. However, this one is way more sophisticated than that. The first email offering the saddles for sale was harmless, but the second one laid the trap. Whatever action the victim took, by simply clicking one of the response options, it activated a tracking cookie, but one with a specific objective. The next time the computer went online to view their bank account their login details were recorded and transmitted to the thieves without the victim being aware that anything untoward was happening. Once they were in possession of the codes, the thieves were able to impersonate the account holder and when they accessed their account, they could authorize payment to themselves.’