IMPOSTURE: Hunters become the hunted in this gripping murder mystery

by Ray Clark

  Shona Pearson took over. “These are what we’ve uncovered. We have a Jack Heaton, an Edna Hart.”

  “She sounds like your average librarian,” said Gardener.

  “Conrad Morse.”

  Reilly laughed. “Christ, it gets worse.”

  “And finally, Alfie Price?” said Winter.

  “These names can’t be real,” asked Reilly.

  “Now you know why I said that,” added Winter. “Totally bogus, but it’s no less than we expected. What we did manage to uncover is that the scam appeared to have been engineered by an outfit called DPA, and at the moment that is literally all we know about them – apart from the four bogus names.”

  “I love Conrad Morse,” said Reilly. “Where the hell did he find that one?”

  Winter continued, “The first time anything happened, access was gained through head office in London. The bank’s clientele comprises mainly of footballers but there were other sportsmen and women, as well as musicians, actors and TV personalities – all with lots of money.

  “On that occasion, DPA were simply snooping, but they deliberately left a trail informing head office in London that something was going on, but they wouldn’t be able to figure out what. No money had been taken but a pathway led to the branch in Leeds.”

  “These guys must be good,” said Gardener, “if they’re confident enough to leave a trail without concern of being found.”

  “Oh, they are,” said Shona Pearson.

  “Head office contacted Brian Jennings,” said Winter. “Naturally, he knew nothing about it, and he could prove exactly where he was when it had happened. He was attending a lunch in the Queen’s Hotel in the city centre. Despite being annoyed about it, head office realised they could do very little other than beef up security, but it was supposed to be the best, considering the money that they had paid.

  “Three days later, DPA broke into the system again, this time at the Leeds branch. On that occasion they really disrupted things by moving around lots of money and contacting customers about possible losses. The bank discovered that £350,000 could not be accounted for. The login had come from head office.

  “Brian Jennings called in David Hunter before consulting head office. Despite his obvious embarrassment, Hunter couldn’t offer an explanation. The manager of head office, Bill Patterson, came under suspicion and had been suspended with full pay until the matter was resolved. Hunter had been told to be on his guard for anything else suspicious and, at the same time, maintain the utmost secrecy. He couldn’t tell anyone.”

  Winter continued, “Two days prior to the death of the Hunters, DPA visited both mainframes on the same night using David’s log in, and the infamous Octopus Trojan software. That’s when the ‘anything else suspicious’ came into play. Three million pounds disappeared without trace. As far as Brian Jennings could ascertain, it had David Hunter’s footprints all over it. What he simply couldn’t understand was why.

  “We’ve spoken to Jennings. Hunter had no answers, which caused him some serious concerns. He asked Jennings not to call the police immediately. Firstly, he was not guilty, and secondly, he said he wanted a chance to see if he could find out who was responsible. Against his better wishes, Jennings offered Hunter four hours to provide a solution. After that, head office and the police would be informed. All the money had been transferred into Bitcoin accounts.”

  “So what happened, then?” Gardener asked.

  “We don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” questioned Reilly.

  “Other than the four names you have, do you know anything else about this company?” Gardener asked.

  “No,” replied Winter. “Whoever they are, they’re absolute specialists. Other than what they wanted us to see, they have left no trace of themselves whatsoever. They floated in and out like cyber ghosts. I can’t tell you who they are, where they started, or even where they are located. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  Gardener shook his head, wondering what on earth he was supposed to do about it all.

  Chapter Ten

  “DPA?” repeated Dave Rawson. “What the hell does that stand for?”

  “We don’t actually know, yet,” replied Gardener.

  It was early evening and the team were in the incident room, following a long and demanding – not to mention, unproductive – day. After Gardener and Reilly had spoken to Winter and Pearson, the pair of them had driven to Burley in Wharfedale to speak to Roger Hunter.

  David Hunter’s brother was as amazed as anyone at the revelations of blackmail and cyber crime. They questioned him about any phone calls he’d had with his brother recently, and how he felt about the tone of the conversation. Roger said they were fine and he couldn’t detect any problems David might have been having.

  He went on to explain the only unusual snippet he could recall was talk of a foreign holiday, because they were homebirds who rarely travelled abroad, unlike Roger who seemed to be somewhere other than the UK most of the time.

  He’d never heard of DPA, or the four names they had, nor could he think of anyone with a white 4x4 in the village; but then he didn’t live there. As they were leaving, Gardener could see something was bothering him. When questioned, Hunter had said that for some reason he couldn’t think of, the name Alfie Price rang a bell.

  “Didn’t cyber give you anything to go on?” asked Colin Sharp, sipping a coffee.

  “Other than the four bogus names,” said Reilly, “no. They mentioned a lot of technical shite about Trojans and Bitcoins and God knows what else.”

  “What about a website?” asked Julie Longstaff, smiling at Reilly’s terminology.

  “They don’t appear to have one,” said Gardener.

  “Rubbish,” said Longstaff, and then quickly apologised because the comment wasn’t aimed at her superior officer. “Everyone – especially an outfit of their calibre – has a website these days. It’ll just be very well hidden.”

  “If you’re offering a service, what’s the point in hiding it?” asked Rawson.

  “Depends what the service is,” said Longstaff.

  “Maybe we should google it, Julie,” said Sarah Gates.

  “Good idea,” said Gardener, figuring that if cyber couldn’t find anything he doubted they would, but he knew they were both quite experienced in IT.

  “And other than the four names, we have nothing else to go on?” asked Paul Benson.

  “We don’t even have four names,” said Reilly. “At least not names we can check.”

  “We’ll check them out anyway, sir,” said Gates.

  “I’ve just had a thought,” said Rawson. “We probably have four false names, but it might not necessarily be four different people. Could be one.”

  “Good point, Dave,” said Gardener, “but until we know more there’s not a lot we can do. So there’s another task, continue checking out those four names, see if they do lead us somewhere.”

  “This stuff about the Bitcoins,” said Patrick Edwards, “did they give you any references, or account numbers?”

  Now Gardener actually thought about it, neither Winter nor Pearson did mention anything. Whether or not they didn’t know, he wasn’t sure, but he would follow it up because they had mentioned something.

  Reilly glanced at Gates and Longstaff. “Anything?”

  “Not really,” said Longstaff, glancing up from her phone. “All I can see at the moment is a load of stuff about data protection, and a company who make top end microphones, who are actually called DPA.”

  “Well that’s probably a task for you two ladies tomorrow,” said Gardener. “Stay here, in the IT room, and see if you can figure anything out. It’s possible that a fresh set of eyes and minds on the job might uncover something.”

  Gates nodded but didn’t actually take her eyes from the screen.

  “Until then,” continued Gardener, “we’re going to need more people like Alan Braithwaite who might be lucky enough to stumble across a piece of evidence. That reminds me
, we recovered David Hunter’s computer and his mobile from the house but we haven’t heard anything from IT. There must be something on those.”

  Gardener turned around and made notes on the whiteboards of the actions he had mentioned.

  “Did anyone follow up with Edward Makepeace to see if he has remembered anything else about the night in question?”

  Longstaff raised her hand. “We did but he had nothing new to add.”

  “It’s not surprising,” said Reilly. “We still don’t have anything concrete from the witness statements either. Problem is, it was the wrong time of night – or morning – for people to be out.”

  “That’s true, Sean,” said Gardener, “but there’s always someone who can’t sleep. They get out of bed, head for the toilet and then stand for a few minutes staring out of the window. Surely there must be one witness to all of this carnage. It’s not as if a 4x4 hitting a wall at some speed doesn’t cause a noise.”

  “You’d think not, boss, but we’ve had appeals out in newspapers and on TV and still no one’s come forward.”

  Gardener sighed. “Okay, for want of nothing better to do, let’s try again. House-to-house calls just in case someone remembers something. And let’s check every single house within a short radius of the crash site again for CCTV, although you’d have thought we’d have heard something by now if they have.”

  “What about the people who live at the house with the damaged wall?” Reilly asked. “Do we have a statement from them?”

  “No,” said Rawson. “Neighbour told us they’re in the south of France. They have a holiday place there. It’s warmer.”

  “Okay for some,” said Reilly.

  “But we’ve left word for them to contact us,” said Sharp.

  Another note on the whiteboard before Gardener turned to Benson and Edwards. “So, what about the car in question? Are you lads any further on in your quest?”

  “We’ve compiled a list of all the dealers in the Yorkshire area: north, south, east and west,” said Benson. “We’ve contacted about half of them and asked for a list of all white Overfinches sold in the last three years. Problem is, at the moment we don’t even know how old this thing is. But once we have that list we can start contacting people and hope we strike it lucky.”

  “If that doesn’t produce anything,” said Gardener, “get on to the company and ask for a list of every white Overfinch sold in the UK in the last five years. In fact, do it anyway, let’s cover all bases. I don’t suppose we’ve had one reported stolen?”

  “Not yet,” replied Edwards.

  “Nothing from the breakers, garages or repair shops?” asked Reilly.

  “There’s plenty of them in the area; we haven’t managed to speak to anywhere near all of them, but so far, nothing,” Edwards replied.

  Benson added, “The Overfinch is a bit of a specialist vehicle so the breakers don’t really see them.”

  “Have we managed to go through the traffic cameras within a ten-mile radius of Burley?” asked Gardener. “Just in case this thing was picked up on camera somewhere. A large white Overfinch with a smashed-up front end would stick out.”

  “We contacted traffic,” said Benson, “and asked them if they would go through what they have. They said they’d get back to us if they find anything.”

  “I wouldn’t hold your breath with that one,” said Reilly. “You know what traffic are like.”

  “A law unto themselves,” added Gardener. “Perhaps you should have a word with them, Sean.”

  “Christ!” said Rawson, “they’ll never speak to us again if you let him loose.”

  “Once is all we need,” replied Gardener, updating the board again, before turning and concluding the meeting. “Okay, plenty to keep us going. I know it looks hopeless but keep pressing on. Old-fashioned legwork will be the key to success with this one. I think we should also pay the bank another visit. I don’t know when cyber last spoke to them but there may have been a development since.”

  He added that to the board. “Okay everyone, grab yourselves some sleep and let’s start all over again in the morning.”

  Chapter Eleven

  In his entire career, Gardener could not remember a case so lacking in information. Ten days in and still they had little or nothing to go on.

  Another phone call from the Bradford Two, requesting Gardener and Reilly’s assistance at the cyber unit changed all that.

  An hour later they were sitting in a hi-tech office in the Bradford police station, manned by a CIU officer called Neil Farrah. He was bulky and slovenly, dressed casually in a pair of dark coloured chinos, white shirt and a black sports jacket – no tie. His hair was dark and wild and he had a week’s worth of growth on his chin. Farrah’s skin texture suggested he never saw daylight, which was backed up by the fact that the rumour mill at Bradford reckoned no one saw him arrive or leave, leaving them to assume he lived in the office.

  “Do you know anything about 3D mapping?” Farrah asked Gardener.

  “Not a lot,” replied Gardener, taking a seat. “We’ve never had to use it.”

  Farrah asked them both to move their chairs so they could see the screen. Without even asking he brought them both a drink, one of which was bottled water for Gardener. Despite appearances, Gardener liked him.

  “Clever stuff, this,” said Farrah, taking his seat, with a hi-energy drink. “We stood a camera in the centre of the scene, letting it slowly rotate on the stand. It continuously takes photos of every inch of the scene but it doesn’t do it in the style of a film.

  “We then moved the tripod to all four corners of that scene and did the same again. The program mashes all the pictures together and builds up a full 3D image. It’s accurate to within millimetres of objects and street furniture, such as phone boxes, etc.”

  “And electric boxes?” asked Reilly.

  “Oh yes, we got that. Once it’s completely mapped, you can then do a virtual walk through of the crime scene from your desk, adding or taking things away as you see fit to try different hypotheses on what actually happened.”

  “It all sounds very interesting, Mr Farrah,” said Gardener.

  “We’re currently trialling a new system from a company called White Tile, which does a similar kind of thing but in real time using wearable tech in the form of glasses. The OIC can walk through a live scene, recording everything as they go, and virtually tag the evidence as they process the scene. It has a few bugs but may be the way we go in the future.”

  Farrah continued, tapping more keys. A 3D map of Burley in Wharfedale appeared on the monitor, with a four-wheel drive vehicle parked at one side of the road, which Gardener took to be the park. Farrah hit another button. As he set things in motion, he talked his way through it.

  “They started their journey from the parkland area on Main Street, opposite the row of two-storey cottages. Any further back, they wouldn’t have been able to see the intended target. Judging by all the information we’ve fed in, the vehicle was moving slowly to start with and then somewhere around here” – Farrah pointed to the map of Main Street on the screen – “it picked up speed. Serious speed.

  “From the damage done to the wall we estimate possibly sixty mph. It came to a stop at the railings, but not before removing a speed sign in the process. We’re obviously not sure what happened then but from what you’ve said we know a witness by the name of Edward Makepeace happened upon the scene.”

  Farrah glanced at Gardener. “How have you got on with him, has he been able to tell you anything more?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Gardener. “All of this happened during his walk.”

  “Where did he walk to and from, did he tell you?”

  “Around the village,” said Reilly. “Came out of his house, left the village at one end, walked along the A65 and then came back in at the other end, and saw the mess.”

  “So if the damaged vehicle didn’t pass him, it must have gone towards Leeds and not Skipton.”

  “If it di
d,” Gardener replied, “we don’t have anything to back that up on the traffic cameras.”

  “Yet,” added Reilly.

  “We rely heavily on witness statements and CCTV. There is very little CCTV in the village – or the area – and because of the time it happened, no witnesses. That end of the village doesn’t have any houses.”

  “Must have caused a hell of a racket,” said Reilly, “somebody must have heard it.”

  “We’ve spoken to everybody,” continued Gardener. “One or two did hear a loud bang, but no one went to see what was going on. Most of them were dazed from being woken up, and when nothing else occurred they went back to sleep, thinking they’d dreamed it.”

  “If only they had,” said Farrah. “We had a team filming the road using a digital pressure scanner. It actually managed to pick up the tyre tread pattern when the vehicle was only inching along, which we passed on to one of your lads.”

  Gardener remembered Patrick Edwards sharing that little nugget, which was quite useful. “I don’t suppose you’ve identified the vehicle in the hit and run, have you?”

  “Funny you should ask about the registration plate,” said Farrah, tapping buttons all over the place at an incredible speed. “I think I can finally help you with that one.”

  That comment alone, if it was true, lifted Gardener’s spirits. “How have you done that?”

  “The 3D mapping discovered a CCTV camera, bloody well hidden from the naked eye.”

  “Where?”

  “The people who live at the house with the damaged wall.”

  “How did we miss that?” Reilly asked, of no one in particular.

  Gardener watched the scene unfold on the screen again, with the white 4x4 travelling at speed before crashing into the wall and then swerving away. He was still wondering what had caused the collision. The computer suddenly beeped a few times and zeroed in on an object placed on the trunk of a tree, hidden by branches.

  “There it is,” said Farrah.

  Gardener and Reilly leaned in closer.

  “If those people are still away, how the hell did you get into the CCTV?” asked Reilly.