by J G Alva
“Yep. Got it here.”
Fin held it up.
“Great. So we look at offices, at garages, at long term storage units close to Chris Masters’ home. There can’t be that many of them. And when we find something that looks good, we show the photograph around. Somebody ought to have seen something. Somebody should know.”
◆◆◆
But in the end they didn’t need to do either.
A small line of garages in a back row two streets over from where Masters lived was the centre of an emergency response circus: a fire engine, an ambulance, and a knot of people all clustered around a smoking ruin.
Sutton and Fin, now on foot, moved toward the pedestrians to ask what was going on.
“Just a fire, I think,” a man said, wrinkling his nose. Disappointed. He was in his late twenties, and had long ginger hair and a large ginger beard. “One of the garages exploded. There were a lot of electrical devices stores inside apparently. The owner went in to try and put it out but got overwhelmed by the smoke. They’re just taking him away now.”
As if on cue, the screen of people parted, and two ambulance attendants wheeled a man on a stretcher into the back of their vehicle and took off with him, lights flashing.
“A couple of other garages caught fire too,” the ginger onlooker said. “The whole line of them was ablaze at one point. They’re so old. They should just tear them down. Who uses them anyway?”
Fin was craning his neck to see past the line of bystanders, but Sutton tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned.
“What?”
“Come on. There’s nothing here. Let’s go.”
Side by side, they walked back to the car.
“Did you catch a glimpse of the owner?” Fin asked, a note of horror in his voice. “The side of his face was all burnt up. It looked nasty.”
“I think we can rule him out as a suspect,” Sutton said.
“What do you think happened?” Fin asked.
Sutton smiled.
“The same thing you do.”
Fin nodded.
“Covering their tracks. But why now? After all this time.”
“I told you: they’re panicking. And their stupid.”
“Let’s hope.”
“We said it didn’t make sense that Chris Masters was The Rumbler,” Sutton said. “I mean, if he was this great hacker who could get into your computer, your phone, your e-mail and use your secrets against you, why wasn’t he driving around in a Rolls Royce? Why wasn’t he living in a mansion? Why was he doing a shitty dead end job as an office flunky?”
“Maybe it was a cover,” Fin suggested. “If he did make all this money as The Rumbler, how could he explain how he got it?”
“But what about the sister.”
“What about her?”
“You said she’s struggling financially. Don’t you think he would have helped her out, if he was making millions blackmailing people?”
“Yeah. It doesn’t quite fit, does it?”
“And where is it?”
“What?”
“The money. Where is it?”
“Yeah.” Fin thought about that, and then shrugged. “In a Swiss bank account somewhere?”
“Or,” Sutton said, holding up a finger, “Chris Masters had a partner. Or partners. And they have the money. You yourself said no one knew if The Rumbler was one person, or many.”
“And you think these partners killed him? Why?”
Sutton shook his head.
“Maybe they had a falling out. Maybe one of them got greedy. And now these partners are covering their tracks. Attacking me meant that they had more time to clean up.”
They were both silent a moment, just walking, lost in their thoughts.
“So now what do you want to do?” Fin asked.
“Go home,” Sutton said. “I’m in no condition to do anything. And you’ve got homework.”
“More homework, you mean.”
“We’ll pick it up tomorrow. If I can still move. You know, there’s something else that is bothering me.”
“What?” Fin asked.
“The Trojan Horse. That Masters had on him. Where was he taking it?”
“You mean, that night?”
“What was he going to do with it?”
Fin thought.
“He was going to see Vicky and Steve,” he pointed out.
“But why? I didn’t see a computer in their flat. Did you?”
“I’ll see if I can find out any more about them,” Fin said, as they reached the car.
Sutton pointed his keys at it and deactivated the alarm.
“Just be careful,” he said, walking around it to the driver’s door. “They’re getting nervous. Which makes them dangerous. If I come round, I’ll give you the secret knock. Otherwise I’ll call.”
“Gotcha.” Fin frowned. “What’s the secret knock again?”
Sutton smiled.
“I bang on the door and shout through the letterbox.”
◆◆◆
After dropping Fin at his flat, Sutton returned home, weary and in pain.
When he opened the door, his landline had already started to ring. He hastily shut the front door and hobbled into the lounge. The handset was on a small side unit in the corner by the kitchen door. Before he could get to it, the phone rang off. Typical.
He had just turned toward the kitchen when the phone rang again.
Sutton picked it up.
“Hello?”
A shuffling, but muffled, as if the caller’s phone was in someone’s pocket. Fin. He had done this before: accidentally rung him from an unlocked mobile in his satchel. Last number redialled.
“Hello?” Sutton said again, but was on the point of hanging up.
A scratching sound, and then a distorted voice. He didn’t recognise it. After the voice had begun talking, he assumed that was the point.
“Don’t trust the girl,” the voice said.
Definitely male. Other than that, he had no idea who it might be.
“What?”
“The girl. The sister. She’s a set up.”
“Who is this?”
“I owe you. From a long time ago. DON’T TRUST THE GIRL.”
Then the line went dead.
Don’t trust the girl.
Which girl?
The sister.
Which sister?
Diane Abbott?
Sutton had no idea…and that was what worried him.
◆◆◆
CHAPTER 13
Sunday, 5th June
David Altman lived in a modern development in desirable Coombe Dingle, a smaller suburb of Bristol.
The houses were large – easily five bedrooms. There was a wide gravel driveway out front, surrounded by a screen of foliage. Another track wound its way to a separate garage around the side. A yellow Mini Cooper sat on the drive, all four doors open. A young girl of about six came down the steps from the front door and loaded her bags into the back. Daytrip. She bounced happily back up the steps and into the house.
Sutton parked on the road on the opposite side of the street and struggled out of the car. A night’s sleep hadn’t been able to eradicate his injuries as he had hoped. He was still mobile at least, but he felt fragile. Still, he was able to hide the worst of it, at least to the casual observer. He crossed the street to the Altman residence, and was about to go up the steps to knock on the front door when a man appeared.
“Hello?” The man enquired. He was carrying a cooler. Tall, good head of dark hair, late thirties. Reasonably fit. An accountant who looked after himself. “Can I help?”
“Yes,” Sutton said. “I’m looking for a Mr Altman?”
“Yes, that’s me,” the man said, putting the cooler on top of the car. He shuffled in his pockets for the keys and opened the boot. “What can I do for you?”
“I understand you were a victim of an online blackmailer,” Sutton said. “I just want to confirm if that blackmailer
was someone the authorities refer to as The Rumbler.”
A brief pause.
Finally, the cooler went into the boot.
“Yes, that’s correct.” The boot was shut.
“It was The Rumbler?”
“He didn’t identify himself,” Altman said. “I found out later.”
“Apologies, I’m working on behalf of my client, who has also, unfortunately, become a victim of this Rumbler character.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Daddy!” The young girl called, distracting him. She came running down the steps. “You forgot your wallet!”
She came to him, holding the wallet up proudly.
He took it from her.
“Please assure Daddy that you haven’t taken any money out of his wallet,” he said, with an amused glance at Sutton. Including him in on the joke.
“No, Daddy. I wouldn’t!” The girl professed loudly.
“Good girl. Is Mummy ready yet?”
“No. She doesn’t know what shoes to wear.” The girl turned to Sutton. “What happened to your eye?”
“Susie, honey…” Altman was embarrassed.
“It’s fine,” Sutton said, with a smile. “I fell over. I’m clumsy.”
The girl – Susie – stared, transfixed.
“Well,” Altman said. “Why don’t you go and help Mummy with her shoes. Daddy just has to talk to this nice gentlemen, and then once Mummy has her shoes, then we can go.”
The girl clapped her hands and ran back into the house.
“You have a lovely daughter,” Sutton remarked politely.
“We’re having a picnic on Brean Down.”
“Well.” Sutton looked up. “You have the weather for it.”
Altman looked at his wallet a moment, before slipping a card out of it and then putting his wallet away in a trouser pocket. Deciding something, Sutton thought. He didn’t offer the card, but held on to it. He sighed.
“If your client got hit by The Rumbler, then he has my sympathies,” he said finally.
“Thank you.”
“But there’s not much I can do to help. I don’t have any details, any clues. I don’t even know why he picked on me. Maybe he thought I could spare the money.” He shook his head. “Anyway. Your best bet is to talk to the Dunbar Group.”
“The Dunbar Group?”
Finally, the card was presented to Sutton. He took it and looked at it.
Michael Dunbar. Chief Executive Officer. MSD Group Plc.
“It’s a working group,” Altman explained. “Dunbar himself was a victim – or at least, one of his subsidiaries was – and with other interested parties, they set about trying to track down the identity of this Rumbler person. They asked me a lot of probing and – some might say – dubiously personal questions, but as far as I’m aware, they’re no closer to discovering who this abominable person is. Neither are the police. Still. They should have everything you need.”
Altman smiled…but behind his eyes was a ghost of that old worry. This had affected him deeply.
“Can I just ask,” Sutton said, stopping Altman from returning to his house. “How did he get to you? The Rumbler?”
Altman took a deep breath, and then looked at the house.
He said, “you know those things you get, that you can talk to, like the Amazon Echo? That tell you what the time is and what the weather’s going to be like and all that?”
Sutton nodded.
“He hacked that. I don’t know how. He used it to record conversations…sometimes very private conversations. I do some business at home too. He’d been listening for months. Transactions, negotiations, he had it all. Plus some…sensitive family information.”
Sutton automatically wondered what that meant. An affair? A skeleton in the Altman family closet?
Altman continued.
“He threatened to leak everything, all the relevant things, to business associates and friends alike, unless I paid. Of course I paid. I don’t know you, but try to imagine – if you will – the possibility of every lie you have ever told exposed, or every secret you’ve tried to keep hidden unearthed, to friends and family. You’d pay. You’d pay in a heartbeat.” Altman looked bitter then. “But he leaked it anyway. That’s how you found me, right? I’m the only public victim of The Rumbler. You probably found me online. That man – whoever he is – is a psychopath. He had no right to do what he did. No right. If they ever find him, if I ever see him face to face…” Altman shook his head. “Maybe it’s best that I shouldn’t. I don’t know what I’d do. I’m lucky, I suppose, in some ways. My wife decided to stand by me. We still have some money. But others weren’t so lucky. You talk to the Dunbar Group. They’ll tell you. This Rumbler is a fucking monster.”
Sutton could see Altman was angry.
But was he angry enough to kill The Rumbler, if he knew who he was? Had he found out? Sutton didn’t know.
“Can I ask where you were May 3rd?”
Altman frowned.
“May 3rd? I don’t –“
“It was a Wednesday.”
“Why do you need to know?”
Sutton smiled disarmingly.
“I’m trying to uncover a pattern. That’s all.”
Altman paused to think. He seemed relaxed, at ease, a family man trying to help out a stranger. Sutton was already convinced that Altman had nothing to do with Masters’ death even before he answered…but just in case he paid attention to the answer. He had been fooled before.
“I believe I was at a conference in Birmingham,” he said. “Yes, I think that’s right. It was a three day training course on anti-bribery. How does that help you?”
Sutton smiled again.
“Just ticking all the boxes. Enjoy your day out on Brean Down.”
The girl was on the doorstep, watching them both. Sutton waved to her as he walked away.
◆◆◆
Sutton parked his car on Saville Road. The Downs was to his left, that little oasis of green at the top of the hill. Students and assorted young people were playing games in groups here and there; throwing Frisbees, kicking footballs, flying kites. The well-adjusted world…or the illusion of it. The sky was a flat clear blue, and the sun winked and flared off the parked cars. It brought to mind Gainsborough. There is something eternal about the English countryside, even if the price of longevity is a ceaseless fight against an ever encroaching technological advancement.
He had to ponder on it. He supposed it made sense that, if the Rumbler was targeting people in a particular tax bracket, that they might cobble together with their considerable resources to try and find him. And they wouldn’t want the police involved. There would be too many secrets that could potentially ruin them if the police got to the infamous blackmailer first.
He looked at the card again.
Michael Dunbar. Chief Executive Officer. MSD Group Plc.
They would have their own agenda. And, more than likely, it would involve prioritising their interests over any moral good. Not that he was tarnishing the more affluent with a certain brush…but as a rule making and keeping money was their first priority. All other considerations were secondary to that prime directive.
Michael Dunbar.
He didn’t know anything about the man, who he was, where he had come from, or if he could be trusted.
Still. Sometimes you have to speculate a little, to accumulate a little.
He dialled the number on the card and then waited while it rang.
Eight rings later and he assumed no one was home – it was Sunday after all – but just as he was about to hang up, someone answered.
“Hello?” A female voice. A secretary perhaps. Or a Personal Assistant.
“Hello, yes. I was wondering if I could speak to Mr Dunbar please.”
A lengthy pause. On the Downs, a round of applause greeted some youth as he performed an impressive athletic feat. Sutton saw the boy’s head raised above the crowd surrounding him; he couldn’t see what he had done to deserve such
accolades.
“Unfortunately, Mr Dunbar is currently unavailable.”
The pause would seem to indicate he was available, but disinclined to speak to a stranger…as if the assistant had stopped to consult him sitting across the desk from her.
“When will he be available?” Sutton asked.
“How did you get this number?” The voice asked.
“I’d rather not say –“
“Then there is no reason for us to continue this conversation.”
She was about to hang up. Better get her attention.
“I have some information about The Rumbler.”
No response.
The line was still active.
She hadn’t hung up yet.
“If such generosity could be reciprocated,” Sutton added.
“What information?” She asked eventually.
“Perhaps I could meet Mr Dunbar and explain it to him. Face to face.”
“As I’ve already explained, Mr Dunbar is currently unavailable –“
“Listen,” Sutton said, interrupting. He could feel himself getting annoyed. “I know it’s your job to throw up enough static to keep the tentative and exploitive at bay, and the lampreys from ever getting in the door, but I don’t have the time. I know who The Rumbler is. If you’re interested, then call me back on this number. Or don’t. I don’t care.”
He was about to hang up but heard her say, “wait. Wait.”
He put the phone back to his ear. He waited.
A pause, and then a gruff male voice said, “yes? This is Michael Dunbar.”
Finally.
“Mr Dunbar, my name is Sutton Mills,” he said. “I have a client involved in…something else. The identity of The Rumbler fell out in the subsequent tree shaking. But if I’m going to know it all, then a generous offering of your information would go a long way toward that end. Seeing as you probably have more resources and people at your disposal.”
“You’re just one man?”
“I’m just one man.”
A pensive moment.
“Alright. Come to my shipping company in an hour. Elemental Distribution. It’s in Avonmouth. Do you know it?”
“I can find it.”
“Good. We’ll see what you have to offer.”