The Intrusions

by Stav Sherez

  ‘But that’s the point.’

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ Patterson said. ‘And you should know better than that. Have you had your head in the sand these past few years? Good men, better policemen than you, are in prison over exactly this.’

  ‘This isn’t the same.’

  Patterson let out a weary sigh. ‘Take a moment and listen to yourself, Carrigan. You sound like any scrote suspect downstairs.’

  ‘The diocese lied,’ Carrigan said. ‘They impeded a murder investigation, a multiple murder of their own nuns.’

  ‘So you and DC Berman thought that justified breaking the law, did you?’

  ‘Berman had nothing to do with this.’

  Patterson smiled. ‘You’re familiar with code? You can hack into a secure system all by yourself?’

  ‘I ordered him to. He had no choice.’

  ‘He had a choice. He could have said no and reported back to us. But we’re not here to talk about him. He’ll get what he deserves, no more, no less.’ Patterson cleared some papers from his desk. ‘Were you aware at the time that unauthorised access into a private server constitutes a crime?’

  ‘Oh, come on . . .’

  ‘Just answer the question. Were you?’

  ‘Yes. I was.’

  Patterson’s lips twitched as he looked down at his sheet of questions. ‘Did your intrusion into the database directly result in the apprehension of a subject?’

  ‘That’s not how it works and you know it. Each piece adds to the puzzle.’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long have you been a policeman?’

  ‘Is that a serious question?’

  ‘It was a rhetorical one, Carrigan, meant to indicate you should have known better. This is a different world from the one you and I came up in. The things we used to get away with, the corners we used to cut – you simply can’t do that any more. Every single action you take is recorded and stored for later analysis. Anyone who doesn’t understand this has no place in today’s Met.’

  Ironically, Carrigan thought, Berman hadn’t left any traces – the leak had come from someone in the room. The weakest link was always the person standing right next to you.

  ‘You do understand why these rules were put in place?’

  ‘I’m not an idiot.’

  ‘Then why behave like one?’

  Carrigan sighed. ‘If you were a proper cop you’d understand – you have to make snap decisions. All this data’s hurtling around your head – facts, speculations, divergent theories, disagreements. You have to do whatever’s necessary to push the investigation forward, to make sure it doesn’t lose momentum and stall.’

  Patterson nodded. ‘Other DIs manage to solve their cases without resorting to breaking the law. Perhaps you should consider whether you’re really cut out to be a policeman?’

  Carrigan laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘I think about it all the time.’

  ‘I’m glad you can find some absurdity in this situation.’

  ‘This entire thing is absurd.’ Carrigan shook his head, got up and slammed the door behind him.

  29

  As soon as she got back to the station, Geneva sought out Berman. The discrepancy between what she knew and what they’d found, or rather not found in the hostel, was bothering her. It didn’t make sense.

  Berman was at his desk, spooning yoghurt into his mouth, his eyes glued to a waterfall of numbers cascading down the screen.

  ‘That some kind of geek Sudoku?’

  Berman blinked twice. ‘Actually, you’re not that far off.’ He laughed, spinning his chair towards her. ‘It’s the seventy-two names of God.’

  Geneva craned her neck and scanned the screen. ‘He has that many?’

  Berman smiled. ‘None of them are His real name but, somewhere in this text, exists an intersection of letters that reveal the true name and therefore nature of God.’

  ‘What? God is a computer program?’

  Berman shrugged. ‘Why not? Take us, for example, our DNA – what is it? Just a string of coded commands that allows the program to run for an indefinite period. It’s like that old joke about boffins spending decades building the perfect computer and when they finally manage it, they realise it’s us – human beings.’

  Geneva stared at the screen, seduced by the calm precision of numbers. ‘Well, I’m sorry to drag you away from theology and back down to earth, but I was wondering what kind of spy cameras people would use these days. What do I need to be on the lookout for?’

  Berman seemed to find this funny. ‘No one uses cams any more. That’s so last century.’

  Geneva sat down. She explained her theory about the women being watched and how they’d searched every part of the dorm but hadn’t found any corroborating evidence. ‘What do they use instead of cameras?’

  ‘Your own computer.’ Berman pointed to the top of his screen, the almost invisible convex camera eye. ‘They turn your own laptop against you. Same principle as a police state. Why bother with elaborate spy devices when you can get the next-door neighbours to listen and inform? Much easier and more effective than installing cameras. Besides, a camera just gives you images – this lets you into every corner of someone else’s life.’ Berman clicked open several windows simultaneously and began typing.

  ‘But they’d still need to get into her room, right? To modify the laptop?’ She was thinking of the weak security and lack of CCTV in the hostel, how easy it would be, but Berman was once more shaking his head.

  ‘You can do it from anywhere. It’s called Ratting.’

  ‘Ratting? Jesus. As in rats?’ A shudder went through the back of her legs.

  ‘It stands for Remote Access Technology or Remote Administration Tools, whichever you prefer. Same as when you’ve got a problem with your computer, call the helpline, and the tech at the other end takes control of your screen to fix it. Except, of course, this is non-consensual.’

  Geneva nodded and made notes. A new world was being mapped out, invisibly and everywhere at all times. Pundits claimed the Internet had freed us but all she could see was a place where people argued and fought and hated. The world was splitting into discrete blocks of enmity. That was nothing new. The ability to do it twenty-four hours a day was. ‘Explain to me how this Ratting thing’s done.’

  Berman spun away from the screen. ‘You have your laptop?’

  She went over to her desk and got it.

  ‘Just start it up and do your usual thing.’

  Geneva opened her inbox and immediately knew it had been a mistake. Her entire avoided and saved-for-later life was lying in wait. The list of unopened emails scrolled below the visible screen. The most recent message was from Jim. She was about to open it when a new email landed in her spam folder. It promised her untold Central African wealth in a fortnight. She deleted it without opening and switched back to the inbox.

  It was gone.

  All her emails had disappeared. The page was empty. She refreshed it several times but nothing changed. She clicked the SENT folder but it too was empty.

  ‘That’s how easy it is,’ Berman said, a wide grin cracking his face.

  ‘Easy for you, maybe.’ Geneva balanced the laptop on her knees. ‘How much tech knowledge would someone need to do this?’

  ‘Not very much. Everything’s on the web in step-by-step guides. From smallpox to IEDs to this. You can download RAT programs off the dark web for free.’

  ‘Lovely.’ Geneva glanced down at her laptop and saw, with a slight slump of disappointment, that her emails had returned. She’d briefly considered using this as an excuse for not getting back to people, but miracles, she found, rarely lasted very long. ‘Be a good way to steal someone’s financial details, right?’

  Berman shook his head. ‘The point of identity theft is the victim doesn’t know it’s happened. The longer they don’t realise, the more can be milked from their accounts. Ratting is the opposite. Ratt
ing is all about intrusion.’

  She stared at the screen, wondering whether for every benefit technology bestowed there was a corresponding evil? Or was it simply that human hearts had the gift of turning everything to their own dark slidings?

  ‘This fits in with the trolling,’ Berman explained. ‘Same kind of tech skills, same kind of pathology – Ratting would be the next logical step.’

  ‘Was thinking that myself,’ Geneva replied. ‘I know I probably don’t want to hear this but what do people use Ratting for?’

  ‘Spying on chicks,’ Berman said, a sardonic twist to each word. ‘The hacking community is predominantly male so victims of Ratting are, predictably, almost exclusively female. The Ratter finds his chosen one’s email address. Easy to do with Facebook, Twitter, all the stuff we pour onto the net every day. It’s a fitting name because that’s exactly what it is – a net – to catch all our secrets and wishes and sell them to the highest bidder. He then sends her an obviously spam email like the one I sent you. She instantly deletes it just as you did. That sets off a worm that lets him take control of the computer remotely.’

  ‘What do they do once they’re inside?’ Even the terminology was making Geneva acutely uncomfortable.

  ‘The most popular use of Ratting is switching on someone’s webcam and filming them. As long as the computer’s on, they can see and record anything occurring within the camera’s frame. Plus, if he’s inside your system, he’ll know everything about you – it gives him untold power and control.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you notice the webcam light?’

  ‘The RAT programs disable it. The Ratters also like to mess with you. They delete emails like I did, or disable programs, change the screensaver, the colour of your desktop. You’ll be on your favourite website and suddenly twenty windows of Lassie porn will pop open.’

  Geneva thought about this and how it slotted in to what they already knew about their killer. ‘And they film the reaction?’

  ‘Exactly. They post the clips on specialised Ratting forums as trophies.’

  Geneva could only shake her head. This was the face of twenty-first-century voyeurism. Technology had made it exponentially worse. The whole world was now witness to your humiliation. ‘We need to have a look at these forums. We need to see if Anna is—’

  Berman was smiling.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Way beyond my capabilities. One mistake and they’d shut everything down and burn the data. You need to talk to someone in computer crime – they deal with these things and might already have an in to Ratting forums.’ He wrote down a number and passed it over. ‘DS Neilson’s a friend. Talk to her. But you should ask yourself whether you really want to do this. I worked in computer crime three months. I saw things I never thought I’d see. That’s why I transferred here. A dead body is easier to assimilate than someone alive in hell.’

  30

  The Last Good Kiss was packed, a heavy pulsating throb of bodies and bass notes trembling the dancefloor. He’d received the bartender’s text ten minutes ago: He’s here. Carrigan approached the bar. Alexi gestured towards a booth up against the far wall occupied by a porcine middle-aged man and a pale young girl.

  Carrigan tried to shut out the screechy music and swirling bodies as he made his way to the booth.

  The girl was even younger than he’d initially thought, eighteen or nineteen, awkward, pimply and puppy fat. Her big blue eyes were captivated by the man sitting opposite her. He had a straggly comb-over, as if someone had painted three horizontal stripes across his skull, a neatly clipped grey moustache and piercing green eyes. He was wearing a double-breasted cream suit which bulged at the middle, revealing a perfectly spherical and enormous belly. Coarse black hair sprouted from his cuffs and spidered his knuckles. Neither he nor the girl noticed Carrigan standing beside them.

  ‘You should find someone your own age to hang out with.’ Carrigan bent down so they could both hear him. ‘They’ll be a whole lot more fun, I guarantee it.’

  The girl looked over at the man. Something passed between them and the man began to rise. Carrigan placed a hand on his shoulder and gently pressed him back down. ‘Not you. You’re staying here.’

  The girl shot Carrigan a glare then picked up her handbag and left. The man’s eyes tracked the sway of her behind as she slalomed across the dancefloor and found a seat at the bar.

  He turned to face Carrigan. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I was just going to ask you the same question.’ Carrigan slid into the seat the girl had vacated. It reeked of cheap perfume. He moved a lipsticked champagne glass out of the way. The man sitting opposite him was drinking orange juice. He tried to slide out of the booth but Carrigan shook his head and flicked open his warrant card.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Farouk.’

  Carrigan took out the photo of Anna and Madison and placed it next to the orange juice. The man looked down then quickly looked back up.

  ‘Do you recognise them?’

  Farouk’s gaze drifted towards the bar, searching for the girl, trying to comprehend how life could so quickly go from that to this.

  Carrigan slammed his fist on the table. The glasses jumped. ‘Stop looking at the girls and look at this.’ He pushed the photo across.

  Farouk glanced down. ‘I don’t know them.’

  ‘Never seen them before, huh?’

  Farouk smiled and shrugged, mock innocence a strange fit on his face.

  ‘That’s funny, because I have someone who saw you trying to chat them up on Friday night.’

  Farouk pushed himself into the booth’s soft leather as far back as he could go. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Carrigan pulled the morgue shot of Anna from his pocket. He laid it next to the other photo.

  The man blinked twice and turned the photo over, his hands trembling. ‘What . . . what is this?’

  ‘I think you know exactly what this is.’

  Farouk scooped up a handful of pistachio nuts from a bowl to his right. ‘I know nothing about this.’

  Carrigan took a deep breath. ‘Anna Becker was murdered. She was abducted from the alley behind this bar on Friday night and I have someone who remembers you trying to chat her up that evening. Who remembers her laughing at you and you cursing her as you walked away. All of which doesn’t look too good for you.’

  Farouk took this in, his eyes shrinking further into their sockets, and when Carrigan was finished he put his head in his hands and exhaled slowly.

  ‘Do you still maintain you’ve never seen them?’

  It took a good few seconds for Farouk to shake his head.

  ‘You come here often to pick up girls?’

  ‘There’s no law against it.’

  Carrigan looked towards the bar. The girl who’d been sitting with Farouk was now laughing at something another man said. ‘What does a girl like that see in someone like you?’

  Farouk’s laughter surprised him. ‘You really have no idea, do you?’ He clicked open a pistachio shell with long curved fingernails. ‘You think we force these girls to come here? There’s a hundred other places they can go, cheaper drinks, better music, but still they come here and they come here for the same reason we do.’ He popped the stripped nut into his mouth. ‘These girls are the ones who understand the world better than their friends. What can a man their age give them? A night in the pub, a film and a takeaway? I can take them to the finest restaurants, restaurants so good they’re not even listed. Or take them shopping, say buy yourself a small gift, whatever pleases you . . . a weekend in Marrakech, a month in Dubai. You think men their age can offer them that?’

  Carrigan looked around the room and saw the same demographic repeated everywhere. ‘And in return they have to sleep with you?’

  ‘It’s their choice what they do.’ Farouk clicked open another shell. ‘Women in this country are free to do what they please, are they not?’
<
br />   Carrigan let that pass. ‘It must have made you furious then, when these two brushed you off? After all, if that’s not what they were after, what were they doing here in the first place, right?’

  ‘That’s not what happened.’

  Carrigan leant forward until he was breathing into Farouk’s face. ‘Either you tell me what happened now or you tell me tomorrow morning after a night in the cells.’

  Farouk dropped the remainder of the nuts onto the table. ‘I saw them come in,’ he said. ‘They looked so young and happy, I thought, why not? I offered to buy them a drink but they said no.’

  ‘And a man like you . . . you didn’t like that, did you?’

  A small vein ticked under Farouk’s right eyebrow.

  ‘They laughed at you in front of everyone. Humiliated you.’

  Farouk shook his head violently but Carrigan continued. ‘It made you feel like doing something to them. Something to make them feel the way they made you feel. Like dirt. Like garbage. Like shit.’

  Farouk’s grip on the armrest tightened. ‘That’s not the way it was. It has nothing to do with that. We had a small disagreement. That’s all.’

  ‘A disagreement about what?’

  ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It matters to me.’

  Farouk looked down at the empty shells. ‘I thought I recognised one of the girls.’

  ‘What?’ It wasn’t what Carrigan had been expecting to hear.

  ‘I was asking them if they wanted to come over to my booth. It was pretty obvious they weren’t interested and that’s okay, there’s plenty more girls, so I’m telling them one last joke and about to say my goodbyes when I recognised one of them.’

  The music and lights and dancing stopped. ‘Which one?’

  ‘Her.’

  Farouk pointed to Anna.

  ‘We were talking and I kept looking at her. She seemed so familiar but I couldn’t tell if I’d seen her on TV, met her here, or if she just resembled some girl I once knew. I said something like Haven’t we met before? but, of course, she thought it was a chat-up line. I kept insisting I knew her from somewhere and that’s when she went crazy. Telling me to back off. Knocking over my drink. Calling me a liar. That girl was not right in the head. A troubled girl. Even her friend was shocked by her outburst, told her to forget it. So yes, I said some words, perhaps not so kind, as I walked off. She didn’t need to be that rude.’