Blood Money

by J M Dalgliesh

  “Sir, I put that surveillance detail on Thomas Grey but it’s not good news,” she said, sounding crestfallen.

  “Why, what’s going on?”

  “We tried to pick him up at his office, then at home but he wasn’t at either,” Hunter explained.

  “Okay, keep looking-”

  “No, sir, you don’t understand,” Hunter interjected. “Uniform found his Discovery abandoned on an industrial estate out towards Clifton Moor. I’m on my way over there now.”

  “And Grey?” Caslin asked, fearful of the answer.

  “No idea, sir,” Hunter stated. “I’ve put out his description but nothing yet.”

  “Send me the address and I’ll meet you there.”

  Chapter 21

  The keyless fob was resting on the central console and the lights of the dashboard display were on. The gearstick was set to the drive position and the logical assumption was the engine had either stalled or switched itself into an idle-mode. Caslin stepped back from the driver’s door, open wide, with the corner wedged into the damp mud of the verge running to the side of the road. Arguably, the door had been opened in a hurry.

  Scanning the road, he saw no rubber residue on the tarmac. Although the falling rain would have ensured there would have been none. Eyeing the length of the car from wing to rear, the paintwork was immaculate without scuff or scrape. In fact, there was no evidence nearby to suggest the car had left the highway involuntarily. Turning his attention back to the Discovery’s interior, Caslin turned his collar up against the elements. The rain was now coming down in a steady drizzle with the light breeze making it feel even colder than earlier in the day.

  “Was the door open when you got here?” Caslin asked over his shoulder, seeing the approaching Hunter.

  “Yes. The traffic officers found it exactly as you see it,” she confirmed, coming to stand behind him.

  Caslin donned a pair of latex gloves and leant inside, casting an eye around the cabin. He looked for the obvious, blood stains or tears to the upholstery, anything that could imply a confrontation violent or otherwise. There were none. The leather, stitched into both the seats and doors, was as pristine as you might expect from such a prestigious marque of vehicle appearing as if it was fresh off the forecourt. A jacket lay casually across the rear seats but aside from a couple of fuel receipts, dated earlier in the week, and a fountain pen left in the pocket of the door, Caslin could see nothing of note.

  “Did you find anything?” he asked Hunter, retreating from the car.

  “A mobile phone. A set of keys, presumably for home and office,” Hunter said. “That’s it.”

  “Anything in the boot?”

  “Nothing. It’s empty.”

  “Any sign of Grey’s security detail?”

  Hunter shook her head, “No. I had the same thought, so I contacted Lisa. You remember, from his office?”

  “Yes, of course. And?”

  “She said Grey turned up to work alone this morning,” Hunter said. “She didn’t know why and he went straight through to his office without a word.”

  “Interesting,” Caslin said, considering the possibilities.

  “She also told me he remained there alone, all day, flatly refusing to take calls and left unexpectedly around two o’clock this afternoon.”

  “Did she know where he was heading?”

  “No. He didn’t say.”

  “Anything happen of note, today?”

  “Apparently not, no,” Hunter stated.

  “And when did uniform locate the car?”

  “Shortly after nine, sir. A member of the public was finishing a back shift and called it in on their way home after finding it apparently abandoned. They thought it odd.”

  “Did they report seeing Thomas Grey or anyone else hanging around? Another car perhaps?”

  Hunter shook her head, “There’s not a lot of through-traffic around here this late in the day.” Caslin surveyed the area. They were standing on the outskirts of an industrial estate with warehouse units in one direction and open farmland in the other. Within a half mile were large out-of-town retail units set alongside a bowling alley and chain restaurants, whereas here, once the businesses shut down for the day there was nothing. Whatever motivated Thomas Grey to come to this location of an evening totally escaped him.

  “Did you take anything useful off the phone?” Caslin asked hopefully.

  “It was locked,” Hunter said, confirming what Caslin already figured to be the case. “Although forensics have green lighted me bagging it and I’ve sent a runner over to Iain Robertson to see what he can do. He’s pretty confident.”

  Caslin nodded approvingly, “Get a warrant for the records. Disturb someone’s evening or wake them up if it comes to it. We need to know who he was talking to and where he’s been in those seven hours. People don’t drop off the face of the earth unless they want to or-”

  “Someone forces them,” Hunter finished for him. There was movement behind them as members of the CSI team arrived to run the forensic rule over the car.

  Caslin addressed the lead officer, “Be thorough. I need help to fill in the blanks and I’ll take whatever you can give me.”

  “Yes, sir,” the lead figure said.

  Caslin turned to see a uniformed constable standing a short distance away trying to get his attention. He looked to Hunter and inclined his head to indicate she should join him. They made their way across the road bracing against the increasing intensity of both the wind and the rain.

  “What do you have?” Caslin asked as they approached her.

  “I’ve found a briefcase up against the perimeter fence over there,” the constable said, indicating behind her towards the edge of an industrial compound.

  She led the way and they stepped up onto the verge which, due to the combination of rain and uncut grass, was rapidly becoming treacherous under foot. Illuminated by the constable’s torch, Caslin and Hunter spied the briefcase. It was open with what appeared to be the contents strewn nearby. Loose sheets of paper, trapped in the sprawling vegetation, were wet-through and proved largely illegible whilst others were being carried on the wind, distributed to a far wider area.

  Kneeling, Caslin inspected the briefcase itself. Without touching it, he eyed the locking mechanism and found neither of the catches had been forced. Whoever had opened it did so with knowledge of the code or the owner hadn’t shifted the numbers in order to secure it. Still wearing his gloves, Caslin lightly checked the remaining contents. The internal sleeves contained several folders and Caslin partially pulled one out, casually thumbing through the papers and clocking the letterheads for Grey’s company. Reluctant to risk their ruin, he quickly put them back where he’d found them. Glancing to Hunter, he asked, “Make sure forensics detail this and then get it back to Fulford Road and go through it.”

  “Will do,” Hunter replied.

  “Good spot, Constable,” Caslin said, standing.

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied.

  Caslin pointed at the briefcase, “It’s a pain in the backside but I want you to walk this stretch of road and retrieve everything that looks remotely like it may have come from that briefcase and pass it to DS Hunter.”

  “Yes, sir,” the constable affirmed.

  “What do you think?” Hunter asked him, falling into step alongside as Caslin reached the highway. He contemplated his answer before speaking. Stopping, he glanced back towards the uniformed constable before looking in the direction of the Discovery, with three CSI officers crawling all over it.

  “Despite his best attempt to appear calm to us, Thomas Grey is hiding something. His behaviour seems somewhat erratic at best since we paid him a visit.”

  “Because of us do you reckon?”

  Caslin flicked his eyebrows up accompanied by a slight shake of the head, “He didn’t surround himself with private security because of us but we rattled him. Of that I’m certain. It’s just that I can’t quite figure out why.”

  �
��And why did he ditch the bodyguards?”

  “Perhaps he came out here to meet someone.”

  “Without his protection?”

  “He met Danika Durakovic without them,” Caslin said, meeting Hunter’s eye.

  “You think she has a hand in this?”

  He shrugged, “And therein lies one of the mysteries here. We were all over Danika’s operation for what, the better part of eight months?”

  “At least,” Hunter concurred.

  “And Grey didn’t pop up on our radar once,” Caslin said. “Considering how well they seemed to know each other, don’t you find that a little odd?”

  Hunter nodded, “We need access to Grey’s phone to see who he spends time talking to.”

  “That’s where I’m headed,” Caslin said. “You get the scene squared away and I’ll meet you back at the station.”

  “The warrant could take a while,” Hunter said, “particularly at this time of night.”

  “I have faith in you, Sarah,” Caslin said with a wink and a smile. He turned and headed back to his car. Increasing his pace, Caslin reached the car and clambered in, happy for the respite from the rain. Such was the volume of water in his hair the moment he leant forward to put his key in the ignition, water ran down his forehead. Shaking his head, he wiped his brow with the palm of his hand before starting the car. The windscreen was already steaming up and he set the blowers to maximum. Reaching for his mobile, he found Iain Robertson’s number and dialled it.

  “I know what you’re going to ask and no, I haven’t accessed the phone yet,” Robertson replied from his laboratory, without the courtesy of even a basic greeting.

  “Please tell me you’re not waiting for a warrant?” Caslin replied, also happy to dispense with the pleasantries. Robertson laughed.

  “The last time the authorities tried to get the encryption of one of these handsets cracked by the manufacturer they fought it tooth and nail. It took months… and they won too.”

  “Yeah, I could do without that,” Caslin said, turning on the wipers to clear the screen in front of him.

  “I figured you wouldn’t have the time for that-”

  “Nor the patience,” Caslin cut in.

  “Indeed. So, I’ve been designing an ingenious hack. Off the record, obviously,” Robertson said with a reassurance that came involuntarily with his Scottish accent.

  “You can crack it yourself?” Caslin asked without meaning to sound sceptical but the tone did so involuntarily.

  “You don’t keep me around for my charming demeanour,” Robertson replied.

  “Your brilliance never ceases to amaze me. I’m on my way. I’ll see you in fifteen-to-twenty minutes,” Caslin said, hanging up.

  Caslin put his mobile down and engaged first gear but as he did so the handset beeped. Taking the car out of gear, he glanced at the screen and saw he’d received a text. The number was unfamiliar to him. Opening it, there was only one sentence. It read - Your new friend is in danger. Caslin sat back, touching the handset to his lips. The message wasn’t signed. Intrigued, he typed out a short response – Which friend… and who are you? – there was a pause that lasted long enough for Caslin to figure he wasn’t going to get a response but just as he was about to set off again, the mobile beeped. He read the reply – Trust me.

  No stranger to the occasional threat over the years, Caslin had to admit this struck him as a little different for he had never received a warning via his mobile before. There was one obvious candidate, the mysterious texter could be referring to but if it was him, Cory Walsh, then this wasn’t new information. After all, the man was a walking advert for paranoia. Caslin pushed for some clarity – And you are…? – he waited for a reply but none was forthcoming. Having let a few minutes pass, he put the mobile down and allowed his mind to wander as to who might be offering him the heads up as well as why.

  ***

  Caslin found Iain Robertson hunched over a table in his lab paying close attention to something in front of him. He’d expected to find him peering into a computer screen in an attempt to hack the passcode to Thomas Grey’s mobile using some kind of self-designed algorithm.

  Instead, Robertson glanced up and met his arrival with a scalpel blade in hand with slivers of what looked like jelly on the table before him, alongside Grey’s handset and pieces of rolled out plasticine. Robertson met Caslin’s quizzical look with a broad smile.

  “It’s more Twenty-First Century than you probably think.”

  “It’d have to be,” Caslin replied, approaching the table. “Any joy?”

  “You timed it about right. I’m not far off finding out,” he replied, turning back to what he was doing. Caslin watched as Robertson peeled out a thumb-sized blob of what looked under closer inspection to be a transparent silicon from a knob of the plasticine. Laying it before him, he then took the scalpel and began slicing a thin portion across the domed lump, taking great care not to break the surface. For some reason, Caslin held his breath, reluctant to speak and risk breaking the obvious concentration. Once Robertson was through, he sat up, the sliver of gelatinous material on the edge of his forefinger and exhaled deeply. “That ought to do it.”

  “Do what?” Caslin enquired. “What is that anyway?”

  “That, young man,” Robertson began, despite him being only three years senior to Caslin, “is how I’m going to get you into this mobile.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite,” Caslin said. “How?”

  “First, one of my techs lifted a decent fingerprint from Grey’s Discovery. The engine start button provided a rather detailed one. Once I had that, I applied a little magic dust to the print…” Caslin eyed him suspiciously. “Okay, I scanned it into my computer at a 300dpi resolution. Then, I mirrored it, shrank it back to normal size and printed it out onto a glossy, transparent slide. Using silver conductive ink alongside standard black, I could produce a fingerprint to fool the sensor.”

  “Ahh… right. That’s more of what I was expecting,” Caslin said with approval. “So, what’s with all the play dough, jelly and stuff? Although, I see you’re missing the glitter glue and farmyard shapes.”

  Robertson laughed, “Problem was, it didn’t work. I’ve seen it done with some brands but this is top of the range and I think the software recognised the fact it was a copy.”

  “How so?”

  “Your biometric sensors pretty much work the same way across the manufacturers. You record your print and it registers your pattern. The handset need only recognise three points of your pattern to unlock the phone, sometimes more but the premise is always the same,” Robertson explained.

  “But that didn’t work,” Caslin confirmed. Robertson shook his head.

  “The poorer systems can be fooled by a photocopy, believe it or not. Whereas the more secure ones are a little smarter. They might require ridge definition on the pad, a raised print for example. However, this model,” he said, indicating Grey’s handset, “goes a step further.”

  “Go on,” Caslin said, genuinely interested whilst suddenly concerned about the security of his own mobile.

  “I’ll show you,” Robertson said, smiling and turning back to his handiwork. He lifted the sliver of jelly and, reversing the handset on the table before him, laid it carefully over the fingerprint sensor. “This system was developed a couple of years ago but is still being applied to the manufacturer’s ridiculously expensive current model as if it’s new tech. The software not only detects the presence of the ridges but also whether there is any heat behind the print.”

  “So, the owner has to be alive?” Caslin queried.

  Robertson frowned, “Do you ever think you’ve worked too many murders, Nate? I was going for ‘present’ and not necessarily still alive. The idea is this will bypass anyone faking a print. I suppose, to follow your train of thought, the actual finger must be used and in theory, would still need to be attached to the owner. Or then again, still warm as a minimum.”

  “Now who’s worked too many crime
scenes?” Caslin said playfully.

  “Possibly,” Robertson agreed. “To get around this problem, I took the print and spayed it with a fine mist of glue. Then, I pressed it into a mould fashioned from the plasticine, ridges and all. I mixed a fast-setting epoxy-resin or crazy-glue, if that helps you to understand,” Robertson said in a condescending, paternalistic tone which caused Caslin to crack a smile, “and poured it in. I’ve allowed it to set, then sliced out the print and here we are.”

  “Is it going to work?” Caslin asked, turning his gaze to the mobile.

  “Let’s find out,” Robertson stated. Reaching forward, he lightly placed a forefinger onto the print he’d so carefully created and pressed down. A split-second later, the phone vibrated and lifting the handset revealed an unlocked screen. Robertson’s face split a broad grin. “Never trust the advertising,” he said with a nod of the head, passing the handset to Caslin.

  “You truly are a magician, Iain,” Caslin stated.

  “I know,” Robertson replied. “Just not fully appreciated within my lifetime.”

  Caslin took the offered handset and set off for CID, already tapping through to the stored text messages and recently dialled lists. In both, he found multiple entries dated for that very day. Already the excitement was building. Reaching the door out of the lab, Caslin paused and turned back to Robertson, already beginning to clear up the mess he’d made.

  “Iain, out of interest. How do I secure my phone?” he asked. Robertson looked skyward for a moment, considering the question.

  “I would argue that if someone is duplicating your fingerprint using 3D printers, epoxy resin or latex copies… then you have bigger problems in your life than securing your mobile phone.”

  Caslin nodded, “Good point.”

  Chapter 22

  Hunter entered CID just as Terry Holt connected the mobile to his laptop. Now, what was visible on the handset was displayed on a projector screen. Caslin acknowledged her arrival and filled her in as she took off her overcoat, shaking off the excess water before hanging it up.