Snared (17 page)

Chapter Fifty-One

C
onsidine eased his Subaru onto the Tay Road Bridge, electronic dance music playing at a low volume.

Vicky watched the wide river foaming beneath them, a few small boats bobbing in the brown water beneath the dark clouds. The car juddered as it powered over the long bridge punctuated with tall lights, its sister rail bridge curving away to the left. Dundee sprawled on the hill at the end, the high-rises of her youth now replaced by dockside developments. On the hill to the left, the new Wellcome and uqTech buildings flanked the older university tower. “Seems like every year there are less multis.”

“You mean fewer.”

“Fewer?”

“Fewer multis. Less doesn’t apply to numbers. It’s like it’s less cloudy, but not there are less sheep on the hills. There are fewer sheep. There are fewer multis.”

Vicky raised an eyebrow. “Maybe I’ve misjudged you, Stephen.”

Considine shrugged.

“So anyway, there are
fewer
multis every year in Dundee.”

Considine nodded. “And that’s a good thing. Pain in the arse having to climb the stairs to the top of one of them when the lifts are knackered — and they’re
always
knackered — only to find whichever scumbag you’re after isn’t even in.”

Vicky chuckled as she tugged at her ponytail. “I took Bella to see them get torn down last year.”

“Felt good to see them demolished, didn’t it?”

“Made me feel a bit better about Dundee. The number of times I did that in the arse end of the Hilltown when I was in uniform . . .”

The car stopped vibrating as they crossed to the Dundee end of the bridge and descended to street level.

Considine glanced over. “So, do you think these cases are linked, Sarge?”

“Almost certainly.”

“I knew it when we went over last week.”

Vicky scowled at him. “Why didn’t you say?”

“Not my style. Besides, that Reed guy’s a total fanny. You need hard evidence to use against a prick like him.”

“And you’ve got this evidence now, have you?”

“Feels like we’ve got more evidence in the last two hours than he’s stuffed in that big case file of his.” Considine shook his head as he stopped at the lights outside the train station. “Useless wanker.”

Vicky’s phone rang — Karen. “Hi, Kaz.”

“Hey, Vicks. You seen MacDonald?”

“You were at the briefing, weren’t you?”

“Aye.”

“Well, if you’d been listening, he and Forrester have gone to Livingston to speak to some farming cops or something.”

Karen tutted. “Right, that’s where they’ve gone.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“It’s these cages. That guy’s just left. Reckons there’s only one supplier in the UK. I’ve called them and got a credit card number. No joy with it, I’m afraid. Card was stolen. Happens all the time.”

Vicky swapped the phone to the other hand. “Go on.”

“Turns out they delivered the cages to the building on
Dryburgh
Industrial Estate, though.”

“When?”

“Last Monday morning.”

“Did they use a courier firm?”

“Aye. A local one.”

“Thank God. I was expecting someplace in Edinburgh or bloody Glasgow. Where are they based?”

“West Pitkerro Industrial Estate.”

“Just behind Sainsbury’s, right?”

“Right. Will I meet you there?”

Vicky stared through the window at the familiar mill buildings of the Marketgait to her left. “I’ll see you in the car park. We’re just about back at the station now.” She glanced at Considine and spoke louder. “I’ll get DC Considine to drop me off. He’s got a fair amount to write up after our visit to Fife.” She ended the call and noticed a text from Forrester.
Can u stay on tonite? Back@5ish. DF
Not a mention of the five missed calls from her. She put her phone away, glad she could actually stay late-ish for once.

“Can’t I come to the courier firm, Sarge?”

“You’re getting good at listening to half a conversation.”

“It can help.”

“No. I want that statement written up and I want you to go through the file in detail. I don’t trust what Summers has done with it.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

S
cott Keillor?”

The man in a brown and orange uniform stopped loading stuff into his van and looked Karen up and down. His goatee was streaked with white hairs. “Aye. Who’s asking?”

She showed her warrant card. “Police Scotland. DC Karen Woods and this is DS Vicky Dodds. Your manager said we’d find you here.”

Keillor’s lip turned up. “Right, so this is why I got called back in from my round?”

“I did offer to meet you elsewhere.”

“Did you, now?” Keillor flashed a smile. “Okay. How can I help, ladies?”

“We prefer ‘Officers’, if it’s all the same.” Karen put her card away as her face tightened. “We’re investigating a kidnapping and we understand you delivered an animal cage to unit seventeen at the Dryburgh Industrial Estate. Is that correct?”

Keillor frowned. “When would this’ve been?”

“Last Monday. The twenty-fourth.”

“Right. Give me a sec.” Keillor reached into his van and retrieved his PDA, stabbing the stylus against the screen. “Bloody thing.” He stabbed harder. “Right, here we go. Aye. Delivered it in the afternoon.”

“Was it signed for?”

Keillor stabbed at the PDA again. “Aye.” He handed it to Karen.

She inspected the device. “This is just a squiggle.”

“That’s one of the better ones, believe me.” Keillor prodded the screen with the stylus. “You recognise that name?”

Karen returned the device to Keillor, eyes on Vicky. “It’s sent to Paul Joyce.”

Vicky groaned. She nodded at Keillor. “Can you remember who signed for it?”

He took a deep breath, arms folded and staring at the ground, kicking at the loose grit. “Can’t remember much, no.”

“Mr Keillor, this is a serious case we’re investigating. Anything you can remember would be helpful.”

Keillor rubbed at his goatee for a few seconds. “I
think
it was some bloke in a hoodie. Had a scarf on, too. One of those Take That ones, you know, all tied back?”

“So you didn’t see much?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“You didn’t think it odd you couldn’t see his face?”

“It was cold. Dundee in March is like that. I didn’t think much about it, no.”

“What about height and weight?”

“Sorry. You wouldn’t believe how many people I see every day.”

“Was it definitely a man?”

Keillor shrugged. “Could have been a big lassie, I suppose.”

“So they were tall?”

“Aye, five eleven, maybe six foot.”

Karen handed him a card. “Thanks for your help, Mr Keillor. Should you remember anything, please give me a call on either of those numbers.”

Vicky led them back to Karen’s car. “Think you’re in there, Kaz.”

“Shut up.”

“You should make it harder to get your number.”

“I’m a married woman.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Says the woman who’s meeting Mr PE Teacher tonight.” Karen turned the key as she did up her seatbelt.

Vicky bit her lip. “Aye. I’m having another crisis of confidence about it.”

“You mean you’ve not thought about it all day?”

“Except for when you remind me, no.” Vicky sighed. “Do you honestly think he’s interested in me?”

“He’s called you, hasn’t he? Well, texted.”

“Yeah, does that mean something, though? Surely if he was interested he’d have called?”

“You’re quite intimidating.”

“Am I?”

“Aye.”

“Bloody hell.” Vicky’s phone rang. Forrester. She tugged her seatbelt on before answering it. “Afternoon, sir.”

“Can you do me a favour? Been stuck in bloody Livingston all afternoon. Just got back in the car and my phone’s filled up with messages. There’s a journalist in the station needs speaking to. She’s been there a few hours.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

I
’ve been here for over two hours. You do know that, right?” Anita Skinner folded her arms, her wristwatch sliding up to the middle of her forearm. She was mid-thirties, tall and athletic. Her green eyes seemed to shimmer in the lighting of the interview room. “Can you just get on with it?”

“Okay. That shouldn’t have happened. I can only apologise.” Vicky smiled, trying to disarm her. “I need you to take us through your story from the start, please?”

“Okay.” Anita took a deep breath, eyes closed. “I’m a freelance journalist. I’ve done work for all the nationals. I was at your press conference this morning, doing work for the
Record
. Just after that, I received an email linking to some video footage relating to the case you briefed us on.”

“It just fell into your hands? That’s very convenient.”

Anita reached across the table, pawing at her laptop in front of Considine. “Are you implying I’m involved in this?”

“Are you?”

“I swear I’m not. Look, why would I come in here voluntarily if I was involved in this?”

“A diversion?”

“Come on.” Anita rubbed at her forehead. “If you’d just look at my laptop . . .”

Vicky leaned back in her chair, scowling at Anita. “What I want to know is how a journalist managed to come by footage from the darkest corner of the internet.”

Anita grabbed a fistful of her hair and tugged at it. There were streaks of silver in the dark brown. “I’ve
told
you, I was sent the links in an email.”

Vicky folded her arms. “Anita, I don’t know you from Eve, but you’re really in trouble with this, okay? We’re investigating anyone who’s accessed those videos or been active on that forum. The fact you’ve volunteered yourself is immaterial. It might hold some sway with a jury, but not me.”

“And I’ve told you. Someone just sent me the links. If you look at my laptop, you’ll see.”

“Would you click on anything you received?”

“Of course not.”

“The site you were on is a haven for child pornography. If you’d clicked on anything else, we’d be charging you with some pretty serious crimes.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Really?”

“I swear. I shouldn’t have clicked on the link.”

Vicky stared at her before glancing at Considine. “Constable, can you power up the laptop, please?”

“Sure.” Considine snapped on a pair of nitrile gloves. He opened the evidence bag and took out the laptop, a black machine looking a good few years old. He pressed the power button, eyes locked on the screen as the machine whirred. “What’s the password?”

“It’s ‘Anita two thousand’ with a four at the start instead of the
A
and an exclamation mark instead of the
i
. The two thousand is letters — zed, oh, oh, oh.”

Considine tapped at the keys. “We’re in.” He drummed his fingers on the case. The plastic near the spacebar was rubbed smooth. “Which email is it?”

“I got it yesterday afternoon at the back of five.”

Considine worked at the machine for a few seconds. “Right, got it.”

Vicky swivelled the machine round and checked the email. She frowned. “There’s no sender.”

“I know.” Anita rubbed at her left shoulder. “That’s one of the things that made me suspicious.”

“Not enough to stop you clicking on it.” Vicky scowled at Anita. “Did you send it to yourself?”

“No.”

“Get Zoë on it.” Vicky handed the machine back to Considine. “Why did you open an email that wasn’t from anyone?”

“Look at the subject.” Anita leaned forward, forehead almost kissing the desk. “
‘Rachel Hay’s crimes’
. Are you telling me
you
wouldn’t open that?”

Vicky stared up at the ceiling. A couple of the beige tiles were missing in one corner. She looked back at Anita, who was squirming in her chair. “Ms Skinner, clicking on the link is one thing. That would’ve put you right on our radar anyway. My IT analyst is looking into this. She’ll trace your IP address to the site’s access logs. If you’ve been up to anything else on there, you need to tell us now. And I mean
everything
.”

“I just clicked that link.”

“We will find out.” Vicky took a breath. Move on. “Now, have you done anything with this?”

“Maybe.”

Vicky shut her eyes. Great. She opened them again, glowered at Anita. “What have you done with it?”

“I published the story on my blog.”

“Your blog?”

“Aye, it’s a Dundee news site. My take on news stories.”

“What did you publish?”

“The truth.” Anita pointed at her laptop. “That video and what was in it. You’ve been hiding that video from people — it happened last Thursday, for crying out loud.”

Vicky rubbed her tongue across her teeth. “How many people read your blog?”

“A couple.”

“So two?”

“Maybe more. Not more than ten, anyway.” Anita rubbed at the sleeve of her t-shirt. “They’re all journalists and editors, though. And it publishes onto Twitter and Facebook automatically.”

“Christ.” Vicky looked back at the ceiling, noticing a flicker from the dull strip light. “So you decided to publish the video despite the clear message at the press conference this morning not to disseminate any information?”

“Yes.”

“Why would someone not involved in the crimes do that?”

Anita stabbed a finger in the air at Vicky. “Because you lot are hiding something.”

“What are we hiding?”

“The messages. You’re trying to deny any animal cruelty angle to this. You’re treating it as a kidnapping.”

“We are, are we?”

“Look, I’m a journalist. I’m just looking for the story here. If you’re burying something, that’s a story.”

“We’re not burying anything, Anita. We’re protecting people.”

“I need to be sure of that.”

“Seems to me if someone was involved, publishing the message would be exactly what they’d do.”

Anita held her gaze. “I’m not involved.”

“So why publish the story?”

Anita held her head in her hands. “I’m trying to make a name for myself. It’s really hard out there these days. Papers are sacking people left, right and centre. My blog’s the only thing I’ve got since I got made redundant. My hits went through the roof when I posted it. My phone’s ringing constantly.”

“Thought you said you only had ten people reading it?”

“Normally. My hits were over fifty when I last checked.” Anita looked up at them again. “Listen, I thought if I got myself known to other journalists, maybe on the TV, it might have —” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Sounds a bit like a fairy story to me.”

“I swear it’s the truth. I’m going to get chucked out of my flat. I can’t afford my rent.”

“So why come in here?”

“One of the people I spoke to was a guy from your press office. He advised me to speak to you. Reckoned I’d not made myself popular with you lot.”

“You know what you’ve done here, don’t you? You’ve let the world know about these videos.”