“What’s that folder?” Fletcher leaned over my shoulder to point at a folder tucked down in the bottom corner of the desktop, almost falling off the screen so that its name wasn’t visible.
I double-clicked on it and opened it up, but a small pop-up window flashed onto the screen, demanding a password. I tried the administration override Walsh had given us, but the box shook and rejected it, the outline flashing red.
“Don’t try anything else,” Fletcher said. “I’m willing to bet that the data will delete itself if we guess wrong too many times.”
I pulled my fingers well away from the keyboard to make sure that I didn’t accidentally click anything, and Fletcher and I stared at the screen and its impenetrable pop-up window. “Maybe she wrote the password down somewhere?” I suggested. “I know I’m the worst at remembering passwords. I always use the same one.”
“You really shouldn’t do that,” Fletcher said, and I shrugged. “She worked with tech. She’s probably great at remembering passwords.”
“Unless she has to keep track of way too many of them. She might keep a record to make sure she doesn’t use the wrong one and wipe any sensitive information.” I grabbed the messenger bag I’d found the laptop in and rifled through it, coming up empty. I stood, cracking a couple of my knuckles. “Let’s take another look around.”
“If she does keep a password notebook, it’ll probably be in her room,” Fletcher said, and she led the way towards the stairs.
“What about her mobile?” I asked, but Fletcher shrugged. Adams stepped into the house just as we were mounting the staircase, so I paused and snagged her attention for a moment. “Hey, Adams, do you have Skye’s phone?”
“Missing,” Adams answered.
Just like Jacob’s was. Clearly, there was something on them that the killer didn’t want us finding. I wondered if Martin could track them. IPhones had that Find My Phone feature, and there were plenty of ways to locate non-iPhones as well, none of which would work if the phones were turned off or destroyed. It was worth a shot at least.
I texted Martin, asking him to see what he could do, as we entered Skye’s bedroom. It was warmly decorated in red and orange, the bed unmade, the desk a site of organized chaos. My boots sank into the thick carpet as I walked over to the wardrobe that spat half of its contents onto the floor. It would be easy to hide something in this room.
Fletcher poked around the desk, rifling through notebooks and opening drawers, while I opened the wardrobe door wider. Half of it was clothes, and the other half was storage for random junk--old school supplies, stuffed animals she’d never had the heart to get rid of, a jumbled box full of old-school Nintendo games. I carefully nudged my feet into two clear patches of floor and eased myself into the wardrobe. I shook out books, looking for loose papers, and flipped through notebooks, most of them filled with looping handwriting, clearly homework from a wide variety of subjects, and I even turned a few of the stuffed animals over, looking for loose seams.
“I think I’ve got something,” Fletcher said, and I set the bear down, tripping over a shoe on my way out of the wardrobe.
Fletcher tossed a palm-sized notebook my way while I was still off-balance, but I managed to catch it with both hands. When I cracked it open, it was filled with paired usernames and passwords, labelled with only one or two keywords, all written in Skye’s neat hand. The ones no longer in use had been scratched out. I turned to the last page, but the most recent entry had something to do with online shopping. I flipped quickly through the rest of the book, letting the pages slip past my thumb, and something caught my eye about halfway to the back. I found the spot again, the paper almost slippery against my fingers.
The writing was hasty, much larger and messier than the rest of the lines, the words slanted across the page. Both the username and password were random combinations of numbers and letters, capitalization scattered throughout.
“I think we’re in luck,” I said, turning the little notebook around so Fletcher could see the page.
In no time, we were back downstairs, seated before Skye’s work laptop. I logged back in. The pop-up window was still open, waiting for us. Fletcher read me the username and password slowly and carefully, and we checked everything over three times before I finally hit enter.
The laptop thought about it for a long moment, a wheel spinning within the little window. I didn’t breathe until it finally went away and opened up the folder that we wanted. It was titled ACTIVE EYE and there were only three documents inside. The first was labelled CODE and was filled with just that when I clicked on it--lines and lines no doubt copied from Jacob’s computer. I didn’t understand any of it. The second document contained the official brief for the Active Eye Project. It was supposed to be an upgrade to the facial recognition software on phones, expediting log-in, purchasing, and even advertisements.
The final file was marked FOR HAMISH and was a report, written by Jacob and Skye, on what they had discovered. While working on the code, Jacob had apparently figured out that the program used data mining software to collect and store information on everything a person did on their phone, from social media, to banking information, to online shopping, to the stupid games people played. Jacob had gone to Skye for confirmation of the implications he’d found within the code, and the two of them had determined that the Active Eye project would mean a massive invasion of privacy on a national scale.
So the two of them had decided to blow the whistle, but clearly, whoever stood to gain from this software had decided to kill them before they could. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any mention of who might have that vested an interest in the project, aside from New Wave Industries, of course. Had the CEO found out what they were doing and put a stop to it? But he had to know that getting caught would sink his new company even faster than this scandal would.
“Who’s Hamish?” Fletcher asked. We’d been sitting in silence for a long time, digesting the information on the screen. “They were obviously planning on passing information along to someone. A journalist, maybe?”
A journalist. The thought wiggled at the back of my mind, but jumped away before I could get a lock on it.
We took the laptop with us and returned to the station to put in another hour or two before we called it for the night. The vigil had broken up when we arrived, and the car park was empty for the first time since the incident. Someone had drawn a large chalk portrait of Cameron Houser in the centre of the pavement, candles arrayed around it, some of them still flickering weakly. Fletcher and I made sure not to step on any of the colourful lines as we headed for the front door.
Fletcher immediately went to work on the Townsend case, still trying to sift through the box of his old case files, and I took the laptop down to Martin just in case there was anything else he could pull off it. He’d gone home for the evening, though, so the lab was dark and more than a little eerie, the metal tables and cloth-covered equipment hulking shapes in the dark. I crept across the floor to place the laptop on Martin’s desk along with a note explaining what it was, and then snuck back to the lift on tiptoes, holding my breath as if I was worried I was going to disturb something slumbering within the lab.
I made a pit stop at evidence lockup before I went back to my desk. Fletcher would be coming here soon enough to look at the heroin seized by Townsend, and it was long past time for her to be indoctrinated fully into the Inverness Police. As her partner, that duty fell to me.
“It’s time to wake the Rabbit,” I said to the constable manning the desk. He tapped the side of his nose with his finger and let me through.
We kept the Rabbit at the very back of evidence lockup, secured in its very own trunk just in case it decided to get up and walk about like some kind of animal Chuckie. The Rabbit was a deformed and demented version of Peter Rabbit, used as the station’s comfort toy for kids before it became far too horrifying to ever be seen by the public eye again.
I opened the latch on the trunk Reilly and I had bought to cont
ain it and picked it up by the colourful toy grabber in case we ever needed to transport the thing. I shuddered a little to look at it. The Rabbit had one normal eye and one blood-red button eye, its whiskers rubbed away, and its fur worn down to reveal the canvas fabric underneath like some kind of undead fiend that had lost large swathes of skin along the way.
I held the thing at arm’s length as I carried it down the aisles until I found the box containing the evidence from the case Fletcher was looking into. I set the Rabbit in the shadows just behind it, its head flopping unnaturally to the side so that only the red button eye would be caught in the light when Fletcher pulled out the box.
I grinned as I put the toy grabber away. As far as initiation pranks went, I thought it was a pretty good one. Reilly and I had come up with the trick, and after we used it to scare Dunnel, it had caught on throughout the station. Of course, he had suspended us for three days, but it was completely worth it, and we returned as heroes at the end of our sentence.
I was setting the toy grabber down when I suddenly remembered why the name Hamish was so familiar. I had no idea why it hit me right then when it had been just out of reach not an hour before, but there it was, blazing at the front of my mind like a neon sign.
I ran from the room, startling the desk clerk as I slammed the mesh gate open and raced for the stairs. I burst out onto the main floor and speed-walked towards Fletcher’s desk, not wanting to bowl anyone over in my haste. Fletcher saw me coming and looked up from her box of files, eyes caught by the sharp movement of my legs across the floor, cocking a brow.
“I know who Hamish is,” I said panting a little. “We need to go now.”
Fletcher immediately jumped into motion, shoving all the folders back into the box, cramming the lid on top, and shoving it under her desk. “Who is it? How do you know?”
“He works at the Inverness Courier,” I explained as we high-tailed it towards the front door. “I went there to correct the article on Jacob’s death, and I heard them talking about how Hamish hadn’t been in.”
“You think it’s the same person?” Fletcher yanked the door open, and we stepped out into the gathering dusk, the wind cool against my face.
“It’s the best lead we’ve got.” I clicked the button on my keys, and my car flashed as it unlocked.
“Do you think he’s still alive?” she asked.
“If our killer sticks to their pattern, maybe,” I said. We climbed into the car, and I twisted the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life. “It seems like they’re moving in order of who knew about it when. Jacob, then Skye, now Hamish.”
“Unless they decided the journalist was the most dangerous of the group because of his ability to distribute the story to the public,” Fletcher said.
She had a good point. Which was why we had to move fast.
“Call this number.” I took Fisher’s business card from my pocket. He’d written his personal mobile number on the back, and I passed it to Fletcher that side up. “His name is Mark Fisher. He should be able to give you Hamish’s address.” I didn’t pull out of the car park yet, not wanting to set off in the wrong direction.
Fletcher dialled the number and put her phone on speaker. It rang so long I was sure it was going to go to voicemail, but then Fisher picked up. “Hello?” he asked tentatively.
“Mark Fisher? This is DI Fletcher. I work with Callum MacBain?” Fletcher spoke firmly but quickly, and I heard Fisher drop something on the other line.
“I--um--yes. What does he want? I reprinted the article, just like he asked. If this is about my source within the police, I already told him I don’t know who it is.”
“We need to know where your co-worker Hamish lives,” Fletcher interrupted before Fisher’s mouth could speed away.
There was a beat, then Fisher asked, “Hamish Murray?”
“Yes,” Fletcher said, though we didn’t actually know this Hamish’s last name. “We need his address. Now. We believe he’s in danger.” She added that last part to forestall Fisher’s next run of questions, and it worked because whatever he’d been about to say next cut off before it even started.
“Of course. Give me just a second to find my address book.” I could hear him rustling around as he hunted down the information we wanted. “What’s going on? Is there any way I can help?” he asked.
“Finding that address will be help enough,” Fletcher said. She purposefully didn’t answer his other question.
“Okay. Here it is,” Fisher said. Fletcher put her phone in the cupholder speaker side up so she could pull out her notebook and take down the address as Fisher read it off. “23 Maple Court Drive. Do you think Hamish is okay?”
“When was the last time you saw him?” Fletcher asked as I put the address into my phone’s navigation app and backed the car out.
“Thursday. But he does that sometimes--disappears while he’s chasing after stories. I thought it was normal.”
“Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. We need to check in on him. Thank you for your help.” Fletcher hung up before Fisher could get his reporting cap on and ask any more questions.
The address Fisher gave us was a twenty-minute drive from the police station. Dusk gathered its skirts all around us as we crossed the city until it was nearing full dark, the car’s headlights slicing through the shadows. I parked outside Hamish’s townhouse and turned off the engine. There was a light on in one of the upper windows, and a few slices of yellow made it through the living room curtain as well.
I sighed with relief as I climbed from the car. It looked like Hamish was okay.
Almost as soon as the thought crossed my mind, there was a great crash from within the house, followed closely by a panicked shout. I glanced at Fletcher, and the two of us broke into a run, racing for the front door. “Police!” I shouted as I jumped up the front step, but there was no answer.
I tried the door handle, but it refused to turn in my hand, so I reared back and kicked the door as hard as I could. The wood around the lock splintered, the door flying open, and I leapt into the hall.
“Police!” I yelled again.
This time, I got a panicked gurgle in reply. It sounded like it came from the kitchen, so I gave Fletcher a look and flicked my eyes towards the doorway at the end of the hall. She nodded and I ran through the living room and into the adjoining kitchen at the back. The sliding door was open, letting a chill breeze into the small room as the blinds flapped and clanked against the glass.
A man in black stood over a form on the ground, a still dripping knife in his hand. His broad shoulders shifted as he glanced over his shoulder at the sound of our approach, his face hidden beneath a ski mask and the deep fold of his hood.
“Police, don’t move!” I shouted but he took off like a shot out the back door. I went after him, out into the dark garden enclosed by a three-foot fence, just in time to see him climb from a wooden water butt to the top of the shed tucked in the corner. He didn’t even look back before he jumped off the roof and over the fence, the wide, wood panels hiding him from view. I threw the latch on the gate, but it spat me out into the warren of narrow stone alleyways that connected the rows of townhouses, and the man was nowhere to be seen.
“Callum!” Fletcher called me back before I could start my search for the man amid the labyrinth, and I reluctantly pulled back inside the fence, realizing that I didn’t want to meet this man alone and in the dark.
I returned to the townhouse to find Fletcher kneeling beside a body on the ground, holding its hand. A pool of blood spread further and further away from the upper half, and there was a footprint captured perfectly in the red ink, a half track leading out the glass door before being swallowed up by the darkness. I snapped a picture of it with my phone as I approached.
I realized with a start that the man was still alive. I could see his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts, and his eyes were locked on Fletcher’s face, skin pale against the flecks of blood there.
“I call
ed an ambulance, but…” Fletcher shook her head slightly.
I dropped to my knees beside her. Hamish Murray was older than his partners in whistleblowing, but still far, far too young to meet with such a grisly end, or any end at all. He was in his mid-thirties, his salt and pepper hair curly and stuck to his face by sweat. He’d been stabbed in the stomach twice, each wound pumping dark, glossy blood into the stained fabric of his jumper. His eyes were wide and glassy, flickering with pain and fear as he locked eyes with Fletcher, fingers struggling to keep hold of her hand.
“You must find…” He coughed, spraying blood across his chin, chest jumping.
“Don’t talk,” Fletcher said. “Help will be here soon.”
We all knew that help wouldn’t arrive in time. Hamish shook his head weakly, face contorted into a grimace. “You must find… her.”
“Find who?” I asked, leaning forward. “Who did this to you?”
He tried to answer, he really, truly did, but his throat began to spasm, pain wracking his entire body until his eyelids fluttered and finally went still, his limp fingers sliding from Fletcher’s grasp. Fletcher stared down at him in horror, and I felt my own chest go numb. Hamish looked deflated, lying on the tiled floor in a pool of his own blood, as if his spirit or soul or whatever you wanted to call it had filled out much of his form, but now that it was gone, he was sinking in on himself like a balloon animal left out too long. I knelt so close to him, that his blood had reached my knees, soaking into the fabric of my trousers, slick and rapidly cooling to the touch. Fletcher’s knees were encased in blood as well, though she didn’t seem to have realized it yet. She didn’t let go of Hamish’s hand.
She turned her head to look at me, her eyes too wide in her pale face. “We were too late,” she said.
I didn’t know what I could say to comfort her.
We knelt there until the ambulance arrived five minutes later, Hamish’s blood congealing around our knees and his own body. The red and blue lights flashed through the still-open front door, and I stood as the paramedics came crowding into the kitchen, my hand on Fletcher’s shoulder to help urge her to her feet as well. Wet beads oozed down my shins, squeezed from the fabric of my trousers as I moved. Fletcher placed Hamish’s hand carefully on his chest before she rose, dashing tears from her face with the fingers that weren’t red.
The Hidden Eye Page 16