Something Hidden (13 page)

‘Internet Relay Chat,’ Jenny replied.

Damian glanced over his shoulder towards her, giving her the quick toe-to-head scan, followed by a nod of approval that presumably doubled as a mating call. ‘Right,’ he said,
focusing back on his laptop. ‘What do you know about it?’

‘Not much. They’re chat rooms that run on their own servers and are separate from the web itself.’

‘Have you ever used one?’

‘No.’

Damian nodded towards the monitor with the scrolling text. ‘That’s an IRC room for the latest Doomslayers game.’ His attention returned to the laptop. ‘In the game
itself, there are moderators who keep an eye on what everyone says or does. IRC is completely separate, plus, because it’s not on the web, it’s largely unregulated. Players go on to
trade items for real-world money.’ He paused, mouth gaping. ‘Hang on.’

On the laptop screen, what looked like a giant green lizard clad in heavy metal armour was walking on its hind legs, carrying a battleaxe. Damian grunted, weaving his head one way then the other
as the lizard buried the weapon in the head of what could only be described as a child-sized squirrel. Blood sprayed the screen as he bashed the keyboard and then clicked the tracker pad
ferociously. Bats swooped down from the dark parts of the screen, making Damian duck in real life as the pixelated lizard hacked at the skies with the axe.

‘Oof-oof-oof. Take that.’

Damian bobbed in his seat as the bats splatted to the floor one by one. When the hack-a-thon was finally over, he guided his character towards the edge of the screen, waiting in shadow.

‘Sorry, I’m on a mission,’ he said, not turning around. ‘I can’t pause, else I’ll lose the credit.’

‘Right,’ Andrew replied.

Kids today. Still, better than going out with an actual battleaxe.

‘Do you play MMORPGs?’ Damian asked.

It sounded like a sexually transmitted disease: I copped off with Sharon out the back of Lidl and she gave me MMORPG.

‘What?’ Andrew asked.

‘Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games.’ Damian risked another glance at Jenny. ‘You?’

‘Not really.’

‘You should. I can teach you.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

Back to the laptop. The lizard was edging his/her/its way through some caves. ‘I’m on a quest to find the haunted sea horn,’ Damian said. ‘When I get that, the
game-makers offer two options – I can either wear it for twenty-five per cent magic protection, or I can sell it at one of the marketplaces for in-game money.’

‘Okay . . .’ Andrew replied.

‘Except that I’m already at level sixty-eight, with ninety per cent magic protection and more in-game money than I can spend.’

Damian paused, as if that was enough information.

For Jenny, it seemingly was: ‘So that’s why you use IRC?’

‘Right. The makers only offer those two options to keep people within their world – but I can work outside of that and sell the horn for actual pounds. Someone on a lower level might
want the magic protection or the in-game money. They PayPal me the actual cash, I wait until it drops in my bank account, tell them where I am on the map, and . . . hang on.’ Bash, bash, bash
on the keyboard. ‘Then I give them the horn.’

Jenny giggled.

Andrew gave her a disapproving glance and then continued watching the laptop screen. The lizard had emerged into some sort of forest and was edging around the trees, axe at the ready.

‘How much could you sell the, er, horn for?’ Andrew asked.

‘Fifty quid, perhaps? It depends on if I put it up for auction, or sell for a set price. It’s why we’re all on IRC. Technically, it’s in the game’s terms and
conditions that you’re not supposed to sell things. If you put something on eBay, or a regular web forum, they’ll shut it down. On IRC, no one knows we’re there. The server is run
from someone’s private computer, so the games company have to find that person to shut it down. With all the proxies, they’d never be able to do that but, even if they somehow did,
people would start a new one two minutes later. It’s not illegal.’

‘How much do you sell in a week?’

‘This is my job. I make maybe six hundred if I take the weekends off, more if I don’t.’

‘Six hundred pounds?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Actual, real-life, UK pounds that you can spend in shops?’

‘Yep.’

What with the hundred-grand cat litters and six-hundred-quid-a-week computer game players, Andrew wondered where he’d gone wrong in life. First cats and now this. What else was he missing
out on? He was lost for words, as if he’d been smacked in the chest.

Meanwhile, the lizard was winning a fight with an oversized pelican.

Six hundred quid!

Damian thrashed at the keyboard, offering his own ‘ooh-ooh-ooh’ sound effects, to which Andrew would’ve felt far more superior if it wasn’t for the fact that they were
probably worth fifty pence per ‘ooh’.

Six hundred quid!

It was Jenny’s amused gaze that finally reminded Andrew what he was supposed to be doing.

‘That’s very impressive,’ he said, ‘but what does that have to do with cats?’

‘One minute.’

After more mouse-hammering, lizard-slashing and pelican destruction, Damian spun to face the main monitor, clicking through a few screens, before returning his attention to the laptop and
talking without looking up.

He pointed at the main computer. ‘That other IRC room is dedicated to Doomslayer – but there are different ones. Look.’

Andrew and Jenny gazed at the monitor. The window was labelled ‘UK Pets FS’, with rows of users along the left-hand column. On the right were long lines of what looked like computer
nonsense.

‘FS means “for sale”,’ Damian said. ‘That’s a list of people selling various animals. The same principle applies.’

Andrew got it: if a person had a standard dog/cat/budgie to sell, he or she would do it on a classifieds website, or somewhere open where the maximum number of people would see it. If a person
had something unusual or, more likely, illegal or stolen, he or she would need another way. Exactly like the Doomslayer room.

Andrew stared at the monitor again, scanning through what he first thought was code.

@Franz123 - 0409: Ylw prrt. £150. NE. DM only.

In context, it made sense. Andrew turned to Damian, who was still facing his laptop screen. ‘So, at nine minutes past four this morning, a user named Franz123 offered a yellow parrot for
sale. He lives in the north east, wants a hundred and fifty quid and you’ve got to message him for the details?’

‘Exactly. Move up to half two yesterday.’

Jenny scrolled up.

@Devilsedge1 – 1429: Bangle. NW. Msg.

‘I figure they can’t spell,’ Damian said.

Jenny was copying details from the page onto a notepad. ‘I can set us up with this in the office and send him a message.’

‘No need,’ Damian replied, flapping towards a Post-it note that was underneath the keyboard. ‘I sent him a message last night asking for details. I thought there might be a
photo or a price – or even confirmation it actually
is
a cat – but all I got was a mobile number.’

Andrew made sure he could read the writing and then pocketed it.

‘Pow-pow-pow-pow!’ Damian leapt from his chair, thumping the space bar with his left hand as he steered the mouse with his right. His lizard was taking chunks from a yeti-like figure
that was fighting back with some fearsome-looking claws. ‘Shiiiiiiiiiiiite . . . come onnnnn. Yes! Boom. Take that.’

The yeti fell, bloody and defeated.

‘Well done,’ Andrew said, unsure if that was correct etiquette. Jenny glanced at him as if he was her granddad. ‘Thanks for the help,’ Andrew added.

Damian, still focused on the laptop, mumbled something under his breath that Andrew didn’t catch. It sounded friendly enough.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Andrew said.

‘Un-huh.’

‘What’s it like with the cats?’

‘Huh?’

‘It looks like your dad is pretty keen on them, if not your mum too. They haven’t got the awards on display all over but your garden’s like a fortress. It must take up time and
money.’

‘I s’pose.’

‘What’s that like for you?’

‘Dunno. I don’t worry about it – I earn my own money. Last year, Dad brought home two pairs of custom-made cat boots from Copenhagen to stop them getting their feet dirty when
they’re in the garden. If that’s what he likes, then fair enough. Seems a bit stupid to me.’

Okay – the games-playing, lizard-controlling, six-hundred-quid-a-week entrepreneur was the sensible one in the family.

Andrew thanked Damian again, said goodbye to Pam, and then returned to the car. As he waited for the windscreen to defrost, he huddled within his coat as Jenny fiddled with her seatbelt.

‘Maybe I should take up game-playing?’ she said.

‘Wouldn’t you get bored?’

‘I dunno. Thirty-odd grand a year, weekends off, working from home. Sounds all right.’ She nodded towards his pocket. ‘Are you going to give that number to the
police?’

Andrew took out the Post-it note and fixed it to the dashboard between them. ‘What do you think?’

‘I get why he didn’t call the police – he doesn’t want them looking into all his chat room activity too closely – but it’s a lead in a potential criminal
case, isn’t it?’

‘Not yet,’ Andrew replied.

Jenny took out her phone. ‘Shall I call? They’ll probably think they can try it on more if I’m a woman.’

‘Put it on speaker, and just . . .’

‘What?’

‘You know.’

Jenny smiled sweetly, as if she’d never contemplated doing or saying anything reckless.

The tinny-sounding ringtone spilled from the phone three times before a man’s voice answered.

‘A’ight. Who dis?’

‘Hi. I got your number from the chat room. I think you’ve got a cat for sale.’

‘You fed?’

‘No, I’m just a normal woman.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Er, okay . . . ?’

‘Cash only, girlie.’

‘How much?’

‘Big one. You bring Jack, I bring bangle.’

‘What does the cat look like?’

‘Huh?’

‘Can you send me a photo?’

‘No, no, no, no. Jack for bangle. Tomorrow.’

‘Where?’

‘Text.’

Jenny started to reply but her phone screen went black as the call dropped. Andrew felt as if he’d been listening in to two people speaking another language.

‘Jack?’ he asked.

‘It’s simple – if we take the money, he’ll bring the cat. He’s going to message us somewhere to meet tomorrow. I think he’s one of those white kids that
thinks he’s a gangster. Either that or he’s got severe brain damage. I guess we’ll find out. I was going to ask him if he had two cats, but it sounds like just the one. Still, if
he’s got one it might lead us to the other.’

Moments later, the text tone sounded on Jenny’s phone. Whether they wanted to or not, the next day they were going to see a man about a cat. One who might or might not have taken a few
blows to the head.

It was the silence that Andrew found disconcerting. A nice bit of peace and quiet would usually be wonderful. Sitting next to the window in his flat, feet up, brew in hand,
watching the world pass by. Lovely. It was much better than watching the television.

Here, it just felt wrong.

Andrew expected prisons to be noisy, with inmates banging on bars, fights over the pool tables and whatever else he’d seen in movies. He was sitting in the large visiting room, where loved
ones would wait for their partners to come down from the cells and have a catch-up under the watchful eye of the guards. He’d had to ask a few people for contacts and, ultimately, favours.
Then he’d had to explain what he was after to too many people and be searched – luckily with his clothes on. He’d also had to drive to Preston, which was an indignity in
itself.

The room had long rows of grey and red tables bolted to the floor, with matching chairs. Steep, barred windows gave intoxicating views of more walls, with lines of vending machines at the back.
Pinned up all around were posters with words like ‘respect’ and ‘think’ in large capital letters.

It was a bit late for that.

From the silence, rain suddenly started to fall, slapping at the windows, creating a cathedral of thunderous noise.

He’d spent the rest of Wednesday doing odds and ends around the office, with Jenny phoning around vets, trying to find out how easy it would be to remove a tracking chip from a cat. The
answer was, apparently, quite easy – with the biggest danger that the cat would scratch to pieces the person trying to cut him or her up. If it was drugged or subdued, all that would be
needed was a scalpel. Someone had removed the chips from the stolen cats but Jenny found instructions on the Internet for how to insert and remove pet trackers. That ruled out Andrew’s idea
that a vet would have had to have been involved at some point.

As for Thomas Braithwaite, they’d dug and dug, finding out as much as they could about him. Sooner or later, Andrew was going to have to decide what he wanted to do. That was where the
trail for the truth about Luke Methodist had led them – but he had to think of his own safety. If Braithwaite was a simple factory owner, there was no problem. If he was more than that,
Andrew would have to tread lightly.

Andrew started drumming his fingers on the table. He’d been brought to the prison’s visiting room almost ten minutes previously and left by himself. As the rain’s tempo
increased from pneumatic downpour to outright monsoon, he wished for the silence of a few moments ago. Noah could’ve definitely come from the north of England. He was probably a
Prestonian.

Barely audible over the storm, there was a thump and footsteps from behind. Andrew turned to see a wedge of a man striding towards him. A pair of prison guards followed him into the room but
stopped to rest against the wall, one of them offering Andrew the merest of nods. Paulie Evans was wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt, his short black hair greased backwards, like he’d
stepped out of a 1950s movie. His chest was puffed out, shoulders wide as he strutted closer, sitting opposite Andrew and splaying his hands on the table to reveal a web of tattoos that weaved from
each of his wrists up to his elbows.