The Boathouse (13 page)

The Phreak Brothers' Computer Shop on Marylebone High Street had a window display crammed full of technical gadgetry and computer parts, along with fake skulls and figurines of bushy-haired rockers wearing dark glasses. The front door was covered with Dead Head stickers and Grateful Dead posters, which made it look more like the second-hand record shop Archer used in Fulham than a computer shop. To the right of the window display, just beneath the start of the raised roller shutter, a neon sign said “Open”. It sparked on and off, as if the power was irregular and it was about to blow. Archer thought it was just another part of the shop's unique theatre.

“Weird-looking shop. Think I'll stick to Apple,” Forsyth said in a superior manner.

“Me too.”

“Strange name. What's all that about?”

“It refers to phone phreaking, which subsequently became computer hacking.”

“I knew you were geeky.”

“I'm not,” Archer replied, a little over-defensively.

“Okay, don't freak out, keep your cool boots on, Chelsea boy.”

“It's a play on words referring to the Freak Brothers comic books from the Seventies. The skinny figurines in the window give that away. Along with all the Dead Head stuff I would say we're looking at a shop owned by a wannabe West Coast hippie who's really into psychedelic comics, loud music and computers.”

“Not too shabby, Sherlock. So, you're not geeky; just a bit of a smartarse then.”

“Just let me do the talking – while you carry on practising the Barbie thing.”

“Ouch! Mean boy. So, let's get our story straight first. What are we going to say?”

“You're really into this planning ahead lark, aren't you?”

“They might not want to talk to you about their customers.”

“So – we'll have to find a way to make them talk.”

“Okay, how will you do that?”

“Play it by ear.”

“You mean wing it.”

“Exactly, it's more fun.”

“So what shall I do?”

“Just go along with it.”

Archer's phone rang. It was Zoe.

“Hey, what's up?”

“Hold on. I'm calling your new BFF as well.”

“Okay.”

Forsyth's phone started ringing, and she answered it on speaker after two rings.

“Hello, this is Zoe from Londinium. I need to ask you some questions, but hold on.”

“Okay.” They were now in a three-way call.

Forsyth frowned at Archer and whispered. “Someone called Zoe from your office wants to ask me questions.” He nodded calmly and pushed the door open, holding it for her as they walked into the darkness. Forsyth cut the speaker and held the phone to her ear before she introduced herself to Zoe inside the weirdest-looking shop she'd ever been in.

It was like the moody film set of a mad professor's laboratory. There were dark murky corners and spotlights focused on objects displayed to great effect. Heavy rock music played too quietly in the background. As they moved, the wooden floorboards creaked loudly, as if amplified like a corny effect in a low-budget horror movie.

A Harley Davidson Fat Boy motorcycle was parked in the centre of the shop beneath film studio spotlights. Its turquoise and white petrol tank and chromework glistened. The shop was stuffed full of computer parts and rock memorabilia. It was definitely wacky.

At the back, behind the counter, were several tables with desk lamps illuminating half-built customised computers. On the wall behind them was a huge, partly torn confederate flag with a black Gibson Les Paul guitar hanging next to it.

A surreal-looking man with wild bushy grey hair and a pale blue paisley bandana was working on a motherboard. A Jerry Garcia lookalike except for the beard. Instead, he wore a thick grey goatee, well trimmed and brushed. Despite the softness of his paunch he seemed tough enough to look after himself if he had to.

He looked up and waved. “Hang on. I'll be there in a minute now.”

Archer watched Forsyth continue her phone call with Zoe as she studied an elaborate piece of equipment in a glass case with an odd combination of valves and transistors which glowed and flashed intermittently. A metal sign stuck on the glass case said “Lie Detector”. Archer paced slowly around the Harley Davidson, admiring the shiny pristine engine.

“How can I help you?” The voice was deep, gravelly, a hint of Welsh rubbed off in LA, like Tom Jones, only lower-pitched and rougher. The man stood like a rock at the counter and looked straight into Archer's eyes. Reading him.

“Hi there, I'm Sean. Great bike. Great shop.”

“Thanks. I like it anyway.”

“Are you the owner?” Archer walked towards the man and the counter.

“I am indeed, for all my sins. I'm Jonesy.” Not another one.

Jonesy looked over at Forsyth. “What's your name, love?”

“Hi, I'm Sarah,” she waved and went back to her call. “Sorry about that …”

Jonesy's face was suntanned. Well lived in, with heavy bags under dark bulging eyes that were surrounded by lots of laughter lines. The man had no earrings, no visible tattoos, but liked his bling – diamond-studded pinkie rings, diamond-encrusted watch and a heavy gold neck chain. Various rock star bangles and hippie beads. Clean manicured hands, more used to tinkering with motherboards and keyboards than engines and bike chains. And a contented beer belly. He clearly liked eating and drinking.

This man obviously had more than enough money to indulge himself in a fantasy world, so he could not be bought.

The fake Customs badge in Archer's pocket would not scare him into submission because he probably paid his VAT and taxes like all sensible business people.

But his fantasy world was definitely anti-Establishment-oriented, so helping the authorities would not appeal to him either.

“I'll be completely honest with you. I'm not here to buy anything and I don't want to waste your time as I can see you have plenty to get on with, but I need your help.”

The men just stared at each other for a while like two wary gunslingers. Muffled power chords and guitar bursts resonated too quietly in the background.

“What sort of help?”

“I need to find someone who's gone missing.”

“Are you with the police?”

“No.”

“Have you called the police?”

“No.”

The owner frowned as he looked even harder at Archer, studying him closely.

“Who are you trying to help?”

“A young woman.”

“And how can I help you?”

“I need to find someone who can help me find her and he bought some specialist equipment from you.”

“What kind of equipment?”

“Two silver laptops with your silver confederate sticker and shop name and address on the chassis. One wired to the internet. The other with a wireless device in a side port.”

The owner's phone rang. He answered it and then laughed out loud and hung up.

“That was the lovely Zoe de la Croix. The only hacker in London better than me. She's the most devious social engineer I know, she's amazing. She says she works with you. So that's fine by me. We can talk. Okay, I remember the young lad that picked those laptops up. It was a few weeks ago. Cash in hand. No receipts.”

“Did he leave an address?”

“I don't have any contact details for him. In fact he paid a premium to have those built in a week. He paid upfront. No questions asked. Job done.”

“Any idea where I might find him?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Did he talk much?”

“He told me he was making a film. He wanted to make the next low-budget movie to hit the big time. He wanted realistic equipment for the ransom calls as the film was about a kidnapping. That's exactly what he said. Voice distortion software just like the movies – he asked me to set it up to sound like the deep mechanical voices they use in Hollywood films when they do ransom scenes. He wanted to make the calls remotely from up to fifty miles away and for the calls to be untraceable. He wanted it all to be completely genuine so he could explain it in the film. So I gave him the real thing.”

“And?”

“I also gave him some disposable mobile phones built just to call the wireless device. One laptop receives the call from the mobile. That's then networked to the other one wirelessly, which is connected to the internet and accesses a server in Bulgaria which bounces the call all over the world to make it untraceable in under two minutes.”

Archer couldn't hide his disappointment at finding another dead end.

“If you can think of anything that could help find him, or if he gets in contact with you again, would you mind letting Zoe know straight away?”

“No problem. For Zoe. I'll help you find him.”

“Thank you. Hey, is the bike just for show or what?”

“No way. I live in Highgate, right by the Flask actually. I ride it here on dry days and park it right there, under the spotlight.” He smiled, looking completely satisfied.

“You've got a good thing going here.”

“You'd better believe it.”

They left the computer shop, crossed the street, and headed back towards the car.

“So now we know how they made the ransom calls like pros,” he said, exasperated.

“They paid a professional geek in cash and we just drew a blank.”

“But we're getting closer. We're on the right track. Let's stay positive.”

“What do we do now? Put a BOLO out for horny hoodies?”

“We focus on finding Hunter. He's our best lead.”

“What about staking the flat out? They have to come back.”

“Do they? Maybe later if we can't find Hunter, but we'll find him – we have to. He's the key to sorting this mess out before Saturday night.”

“But he's off the grid. It's impossible to find him in two days.”

“If anyone can do it Zoe can. What did she want anyway?”

“She was asking lots of questions about Hunter and his old associates. He's probably using a false identity. He could be anywhere. I don't think she'll be able to find him in two weeks let alone two days.”

“But you said he likes London and Italy.”

“Yes, he does, but they're pretty big places.”

“Well his taste for culture may be his downfall. We'll run a GRID profile on him, back at the office.”

“What's that?”

“Specialist software – I'll explain later.”

They turned the corner to the side street. Archer spotted the policeman first and looked at Forsyth. She just smiled back at him without any obvious concern. Her car was still illegally parked with its flashing blue light. It was being studied up close by a young-looking copper with his notebook and radio out.

“Hello officer, everything all right?”

“You shouldn't park here, doctor – have you got any identification?”

Forsyth looked in her bag for her purse and showed him her fake Ministry of Defence doctor's badge. The young policeman looked at it quickly and handed it back.

“Is everything all right? Do you need any assistance?”

“Luckily it was a false alarm. But thank you, officer.”

A dark red BMW M3 stopped in the middle of the road, blocking traffic in both directions. A grey-haired policeman wearing armoured diplomatic protection gear and carrying a light machine gun got out of the passenger side.

“Well, well, well. Sarah Forsyth. Up to her old tricks again. You've got some nerve.”

“Hello, Newman,” she said, with a cold dismissive tone.

“Can't stop to chat. Just make sure you give her a ticket, officer, otherwise you'll be walking the beat down in Brixton this time tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” the young policeman went red and duly filled out a ticket. He handed it to Forsyth before the red BMW moved on. Archer opened the door and got in the passenger seat.

Forsyth got in the car and handed the ticket to Archer. She started the engine, indicated left and headed towards Regent's Park and then turned left down Marylebone Road. Gently cruising west in heavy traffic towards South Kensington, via Hyde Park.

“Put it in the glove box with the others,” she said calmly.

He opened it and saw it was stuffed full of old parking and speeding tickets.

“Do you always get special police treatment like that?” Archer asked.

“A few cops out there don't like me, but they're mostly knuckleheads. It's the criminals you really need to worry about.”

“Why did you leave the Met?”

“Long story. I'll tell you sometime.”

They turned left off Brompton Road and then into the narrow cobbled lane off Walton Road. Forsyth parked in the designated bay marked private and Archer led the way to the back of the building, up the stairs, and into the open-plan office area.

Zoe was busy giving orders to two men in khaki overalls who were setting up a large clear glass screen near her work area.

“Wow, this place is great, lots of screens and space,” Forsyth said a little too eagerly.

“Sarah this is Zoe. Zoe – Sarah.”

“Pleased to meet you, Zoe, nice office.” They shook hands firmly and checked each other out blatantly, up and down, like cold-hearted gladiators about to do battle.

“Likewise, we're just setting the FBI's new smartboard up.”

Zoe went back to her technicians and Archer showed Forsyth around.

“So what do you think?”

“It's huge. How many people work here?”

“Just me and Zoe. We like plenty of space.”

“So those offices over there are what?”

“Meeting rooms.”

Archer visualised the cogs moving into gear inside Forsyth's head.

“Hmm. Nice digs.”

Zoe told the techies to take a coffee break over the road. Once they'd left the office she brought up volumes of information flashing and scrolling on multiple screens. Files and photographs of Hunter and his wife appeared and disappeared all over the place.

“Here's that spike from Sinclair's computer.” Archer put it down on Zoe's desk.

“How come I've never heard of you guys? Don't you advertise?”

“No, we're busy enough with our existing clients and referrals. Our neighbours around here think we're software developers.”

“So what's this GRID thing?”

“It stands for Geographical, Retail, Internet and Digital; it's tracking and profiling software that we developed and use as digital profiling consultants. The Met and the FBI just love acronyms. We use multiple inputs, GPS, phone, credit cards, point-of-sale, loyalty cards, internet, CCTV, ANPR, plus we fully integrate forensic profiling and psychological profiling and then cross-reference all relevant databases.”

“So you just press a button to run it and that's it?”

“No. You need to drive it. Big data trawling can take weeks to run, months even, so the right information needs to be found and analysed and then we apply search algorithms and filters to save time. It's complicated, but it works.”

“So give me an example.”

“Okay, serial killers buy a lot of bleach to clean their crime scenes. They use multiple stores and always pay with cash. We helped find the Midwest Motel Murderer. We used all the available data to narrow down the search and found someone had used a store loyalty card with two cash transactions for bleach inside the target area. Point-of-sale, then CCTV footage and then GPS phone tracks. Busted.”

“Sounds impressive.”

“Hey Sarah, that plastic surgeon from Paris we talked about,” Zoe said. “Well, he has a new name, new credentials all round in fact, and a new London address. He's operating from Harley Street now and he's as bent as a butcher's hook.”

“Greasy frigging frog,” Forsyth muttered. “Sorry, you're not French, are you?”

“Luxembourgeoise.”

“Oui, très bon. He did some work for Hunter a few years ago, then he got into trouble over dodging his taxes and I couldn't find out where he went after that. Probably left the country. Did you manage to get any leverage on him?”

“Plenty: photo, address, client list, price list, tax returns, fake qualifications, fake passport, new wife, and wait for it, estranged wife, because he's not yet divorced.”

“Then it's time for a private consultation with the tax-dodging bigamist.”