Flesh Wounds (38 page)

No, but this was starting to look a lot like one.

Anthony glanced up from the laptop and spotted Adrienne walking along the passage between the first row of desks and the individual offices. He was sure she saw him too, but they were both adhering to the etiquette of pretending otherwise, kidding themselves but fooling nobody. It was ridiculous when he considered how much could be observed from the tiniest glimpse, how few milliseconds it had taken for him to notice movement in his peripheral vision, look up and then positively identify her. Yet here they both were, feigning obliviousness, an absurdity compounded by the fact that they were both polis and supposedly professionals at taking cognisance of their environments. Nonetheless, what anyone chose not to see remained a prerogative that everyone tended to respect.

She knocked on McLeod’s door and then stepped inside her office, still visible through the open slats of the blinds.

He wondered what she was doing in at this time, and felt a tingle of anxiety that a change in the shifts might have them working alongside one another again. He couldn’t say whether the anxiety was piqued by the possibility of this happening, or that it would not.

He was forgetting his own shifts had changed as of today. He had been in here since stupid o’clock and lost track of time as he trawled fruitlessly through Stevie Fullerton’s laptop. He was starting to think he would have preferred to be back in the morgue, having another crack at exhuming the Julie Muir case files. At least down there he knew there was something specific he was tasked with tracking down. The past couple of days had been a soul-wearying exercise in not being sure what he was looking for, and hoping that he’d recognise it if he saw it.

He had begun to nickname Fallan’s computer ‘Procrastination’, as it was the thief of time. It was a Frankenstein’s monster of a PC, a buzzing, humming abomination sporting several different internal hard drives, each of which was partitioned, and each partition of which booted a different operating system. Even a simple search using dates as a filter to bring up recently accessed files had to be repeated multiple times, as certain documents and programmes were only recognised by certain OSs. A perverse part of him wanted to lock some Mac-zealot friends of his in a room with the thing, just to see how long it was before they started to cry.

Adding to the sense of futility was the knowledge that anything worth looking at was probably inaccessible. There were whole areas protected by encryption software that was literally military-grade. Anthony didn’t even dare attempt a password guess in case some blokes in black ski masks came belaying through the windows in response.

Fullerton’s laptop was a simpler affair, but no less frustrating. It was messy but clean: the digital equivalent of an overstuffed suitcase, but so far not one in which anybody had found so much as a smuggled cigarette. There were so many icons on display that it was difficult to see the wallpaper: every add-on, shortcut and useless piece of bloatware it had ever downloaded still sitting proudly on the desktop.

The cache bore testament to browsing habits that suggested he and his wife shared the machine; either that or Stevie was a secret shoe fetishist and commercial tableware enthusiast.

A long, slow scroll down a truly colossal Internet Explorer history did at least throw up a number of search results pertaining to the Julie Muir murder case, but he found no text or other documents with ‘Muir’ or ‘Sheehan’ in the search string. As Paul over at LOCUST had also concluded, Fullerton simply wouldn’t have stored anything sensitive on a machine he shared with the missus. If there was treasure to be found, it was stored elsewhere, on a detachable drive or these days just as likely off site, though the browser history hadn’t thrown up any login pages for FTP or cloud storage.

Anthony recalled that the gunman had taken Fullerton’s phone, so perhaps there was something important on there, but that seemed even less likely than keeping anything compromising on a laptop, as the mobile was more likely to be misplaced or stolen. Nonetheless, there had to be a strong motive for taking it, as a hitman wouldn’t run the risk of tying himself to the murder for the sake of the extra hundred quid he might raise by flogging the handset later.

He was about ready to run up the white flag and tell McLeod he’d struck out yet again. LOCUST could have it back if they wanted, though that desire would probably only last until they realised McLeod had been pulling their chain; and if not it would be parcelled off to be gutted by the division’s IT geeks.

He heard McLeod’s door open and looked up instinctively. Which instinct was that, though? He already knew who was coming out of there, so it wasn’t caution or curiosity, neither of which would, furthermore, demand that his gaze lingered.

Adrienne emerged and looked his way also. Their eyes met for a short moment, both of them managing an apologetic wish-it-were-otherwise smile, then she started to walk away.

She had a background in IT, Anthony remembered. There were maybe things that she would know to do that would never have occurred to him. He wasn’t sure whether he believed this was likely to make much difference to his efforts, or whether it was just a pretext to get her over here. He wasn’t sure whether it mattered either.

Adrienne began to hit her stride, heading back the way she came. She would soon be out of reasonable ‘hey, while you’re here’ range.

He almost waved, almost called.

A couple more paces took her past the point where a wave would catch her attention. He was conscious of the very moment she passed the event horizon, the point when he knew the opportunity had been lost. It was also the point when he realised how much he had wanted it.

He got off his arse and ran, calling her name before she reached the lifts.

She turned around, a little surprised, a little curious, a little apprehensive.

‘Have you got a minute? I’m going mental hunting through a laptop here, and I thought a fresh pair of eyes…’

‘Sure,’ she said.

She didn’t smile but her eyes seemed bright. They both knew what this was.

It was only a matter of yards, but Anthony’s heart was thumping by the time he got back to his desk, as though he’d run up every stair in the building. He sat down in his chair again, Adrienne hovering at the side of the desk.

‘It’s Stevie Fullerton’s laptop. I’m looking for anything linking to Julie Muir or Brenda Sheehan, but I’m at the end of my tether. I was about to jack it in and hand the machine in to PC World.’

By this he meant send the laptop in to the division’s tech geeks. They called it that because the experience was much the same as putting a PC in to the store for repair: it took so long to get results that by the time it came back you had usually done whatever you needed to without it.

‘I suspect if he was using it for anything interesting, then the files are off-site, but I can’t even find links to cloud storage or anything.’

‘If we can find out who he’s got a web storage account with, we can put in a request to the provider, but that’s a message-in-a-bottle job,’ Adrienne replied. ‘If it’s UK-based we’d be in with a shout, although it’ll take months, but if it’s overseas, forget it. It’s not good marketing for IPs and storage outfits if it gets around that the authorities can crowbar open your online vault.’

She wore a rather unhopeful frown, and he thought she was about to walk away. Instead she wheeled over a free chair and took a seat next to him.

‘Budge up,’ she said, her hands falling on the keyboard, her foot brushing his ankle just for a second as she nudged him to move aside.

She opened a control panel and set the machine to compile a list of all installed programmes. It took a while, as it was cluttered with all manner of auto-installed and unnecessarily bundled crap.

‘Okay,’ she said, having apparently seen what she was hoping to. ‘He’s got Firefox installed, but despite there being icons spammed all over his desktop like confetti, it isn’t one of them. It’s not installed where it normally defaults to either. We could be in business here.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘It’s nothing to geek out over. This isn’t IT expertise you’re seeing here, it’s divorcee expertise.’

‘I’m intrigued either way,’ he replied, suddenly aware that he sounded disproportionately excited. It wasn’t about what she was doing with the laptop; it was because they were talking to each other the way they used to.

She began opening system folders, digging her way down to where the Firefox.exe was inconspicuously tucked away.

‘My ex, Phil, did most of his browsing on Internet Explorer. But when I had become suspicious that he was playing away, I had a wee snoop one night and found that he was also running Firefox. Just like Fullerton’s laptop here, you wouldn’t have known the other browser was even installed. I only found it because I was searching unlikely folders for where he might have stashed photos or whatever.’

Adrienne clicked on the bookmarks. To Anthony’s disappointment, it displayed the default URLs that came with a clean install. Adrienne nonetheless ran the cursor down the list, hovering briefly over each entry.

She smiled, but he couldn’t see why. She pointed to the bottom corner, where the corresponding address was displayed, so that the destination could be seen without clicking.

‘You can give a bookmark any name,’ she said. ‘No matter what the URL actually points to.’

Adrienne clicked on Help and Tutorials in the Mozilla sub-menu. A moment later they were looking at the login screen for ‘E-Vault Back-up and Storage’.

Her smile grew wider and Anthony simply gaped as he looked at the login fields. Fullerton’s username appeared in the top one, above a line of black bullet points, the ‘Remember Me’ box ticked by default underneath.

‘Same as Phil. He hid the car where nobody would look, but left the keys in the ignition for convenience.’

She clicked the login button.

Catherine looked at the two different printouts, carefully laid side by side, page for page, for the purposes of comparison. At a glance they were identical: same headers, same layout, same logos, same tagging. You would really have to know there was something missing before it would even occur to you to look for it, which was why it never struck anyone to be suspicious of the original.

She had asked Intell to send Stevie Fullerton’s phone records a second time; or rather, Adrienne Cruickshank had asked on her behalf, as Adrienne had a good contact over there who could fast-track the request and, just as crucially, make sure it came to Catherine and Catherine alone. To that end, the new file came in by email rather than on a flash drive. Catherine had expected its predecessor to arrive that way too, but somebody had gone to the trouble of making sure that didn’t happen.

She wanted to be absolutely certain before she confronted Abercorn: wanted the evidence to be right in front of her, indisputable. Not that evidence being right in front of her was any kind of guarantee around here, she reflected, casting a glance towards the CCTV stills that mocked her from elsewhere on the desk.

Every year, at the squad’s Christmas night out, she announced the Wood for the Trees Award, for the piece of evidence that it took them the longest to realise was staring them in the face. It was a good-humoured exercise, focusing on the article of evidence itself rather than pinning blame on anybody. The purpose was to remind them all how easy it could be to miss what was three feet in front of them when their focus was on the minutiae.

Last year it had been an apparent suicide, the victim having slashed both her wrists in the bath. It had taken an embarrassingly long time for anybody to wonder how she had managed to grip the knife for the second cut, having severed all the tendons in her other arm.

There were a few weeks left before Christmas, but it would be fair to say that the Land Rover had this year’s title in the bag.

She took a pink highlighter pen and put a thick stroke through each entry displaying Gordon Ewart’s phone number. They had been carefully deleted from the version Abercorn passed on to her, though as it was an Acrobat document this couldn’t have been straightforward. The original subscriber check must have been Photoshopped and then the adulterated image saved as a PDF again.

A bit less of a giveaway than a big black marker, but he’d been caught nonetheless. And now she was going to nail his balls to the wall.

He appeared at her door within an hour of being called: new league record. Abercorn seldom responded to the first or even fourth request to talk, but she had been a little disingenuous in her summons. Rather than phone him up and say she needed a word, she had got Beano to phone Paul Clayton and let slip that they had unearthed something LOCUST had missed on Stevie Fullerton’s laptop. When, inevitably, Paul had begged Beano to say what it was, he had claimed it was now out of his hands and that the laptop was irretrievably in Catherine’s possession.

As far as she knew, Beano hadn’t found anything. In fact, he had apparently spent yesterday lost in the labyrinthine hell that was Fallan’s PC, and was only getting around to looking at Fullerton’s laptop this morning. Nonetheless, merely the suggestion that he had unearthed something tasty proved irresistible LOCUST bait.

‘I’m told you put in your thumb and pulled out a plum,’ Abercorn suggested with an eager smile, rapping on the inside of her door-frame. His winning manner was intended to disguise the fact that he was (a) crapping himself and (b) livid about the prospect that something damaging had fallen into Catherine’s hands.

She watched his eyes gobble up the room, scanning anxiously for the laptop.

‘I’ve discovered an interesting file, yes,’ she said.

‘On Fullerton’s laptop?’

She feigned confusion.

‘No. On a USB stick that you gave me. You’ll remember: it was accidentally sent to LOCUST.’

Abercorn looked wary. He could sense the ambush coming; he just didn’t know from where.

‘I got Intell to send me the same subscriber check this morning and I’ve been playing a wee game of spot the difference. Maybe you’d like to join in. As a wee hint, the redacted phone numbers are in pink.’