Читать книгу A Better Tomorrow - D. C. Dalby - Страница 5

Hazel Vernon placed Sid Fuller’s laptop computer on her desk and slowly opened the lid to look at the screen.

“Nice, isn’t it?” said Detective Constable Ruth Bergan, “I considered getting Erica that model.” Erica Bergan was Ruth’s teenage daughter and Hazel’s unofficial niece. Ruth had come over to the crime squad the same time as Hazel. But while Hazel’s background had been in the vice squad, and that hadn’t been a great career move. Ruth Bergan had been poached from the fraud squad. Apparently they had not been too enthusiastic to lose her.

“Is it?” Hazel owned a desktop PC, on which she checked her emails and did some online shopping and banking. The more intricate aspects of the machine escaped her.

“It’s very well specified.” Ruth said patiently, she knew full well the extent of Hazel’s ignorance of computers. Though she preferred to think of it as an indifference to rather than an ignorance of. So she refrained from going into too much detail. “This is a top of the range machine. Was Fuller into computers?”

“He was into women mostly.” Hazel said. “What’s that?” She poked her finger at a small lens like object in the top of the screen.

“That’s the webcam.” Ruth said. “Those things at the side are the speakers and that there is a built in microphone.”

“So you don’t need a headset?”

“Well no, though you could add one I expect. You use the direction keys to move the webcam, but you can buy a separate call control that plugs into the usb port. Those things there….”

“I know what a usb port is.” Hazel said.

“Yes, but you don’t know what it means.” Ruth smiled brightly. “I’ve got it plugged into the net for you. Do you need any more help?”

“I can manage.” Hazel said, “Thanks.” She hadn’t known Ruth for long, perhaps eight months, but women had quickly become friends. Ruth was 42 and cheerfully motherly. Hazel wouldn’t have picked her for the position of a crime squad detective, but wunderkind Detective Superintendent William Church had a slightly annoying habit of knowing who was the best at doing what. Hazel pushed the red on switch, the only coloured key on the board.

“If you do need any help, I’ll be doing some really tedious paperwork.” Ruth said. “I’ll be more than happy to come and help.”

Hazel watched the rotating stylized silver IE of the International Electromatics company as the machine booted up, and the briefer screen to inform her it was using Freemartin 1.7 operating system then she was at the desktop screen.

Rather surprisingly Sid had chosen to use what looked like a computer generated image of the old Luna One spaceship that had taken the first men to the moon back in 1965 as the backdrop to his desktop. There were very few icons on the screen. But then Hazel had very few icons on her computer screen.

She sat back, thinking. Really she hadn’t known Sid Fuller all that well. She didn’t know what his favourite food was, or what beer he drank. Or even if he was skilled with a computer. He’d just been a man who told her things about people who were more criminal than he was.

Maybe he was really interested in the early days of the space program. Before the big private companies took over. Perhaps he liked history.

Hazel smiled. She had his computer, and these days, that was the same as having a person’s whole life laid out before you.

She clicked on the internet icon and waited.

Up came the log in screen. Sid was like Hazel herself, and far too many people in the word. He had ticked box that enabled the machine to remember his password.

She clicked “connect.”

The machine logged on a whole lot faster than her computer could

Ruth, of course, had been right. Top of the range. Hazel was tempted to find out the specifications. Except she had no idea how to. And was well aware if she did know how to she wouldn’t understand what they meant.

She was confronted with a screen that was not unlike the one on her computer. She looked at the top. The….taskbar…

Email. Sid had four emails waiting.

Hazel clicked on the virtual button.

Quickly the machine went to his emails. Sid was on automatic sign in. Which was a great relief. For Hazel, not for Ruth with her paperwork.

Two of the emails were not useful. Hazel opened them, but they were merely adverts for online retailers. One for health foods. The other was for an electronics dealer. Apparently Sid had purchased from them before and the companies were hoping for more business with “amazing deal” adverts.

She clicked on another email.

Apparently whoever sent it hadn’t heard from Sid in a few days and was very keen to see him.

KDFox was the address. The emailer called herself Karen.

Karen Fox. Why did that sound familiar?

“Ruth?”

“If you need to save things you can copy/paste them.”

“Yes, I know.” said Hazel, who didn’t. “Does the name Karen Fox mean anything to you?”

“No.” Ruth said. “Should it?” She came back over. “Who is she?”

“No idea.” Hazel said, “But the name is vaguely familiar.”

“You could run it through the computer.” Ruth said, “Well I could.”

Hazel did know how to run a suspect’s name through the database. Unfortunately she also knew how long it took to get a result. “She’s one of Sid’s women.” She said. “That I know.”

“One of his women?”

“Sid had many.” Hazel said, “He was a popular man.” She opened the other email. That was from someone named Mishal Adams. Who also wanted to know where Sid was.

“Where the hell are you? Turn on your phone and answer your damn emails, you pig.” Ruth read from the screen. “Oh, he’s really popular.”

“He’s also in hiding.” Hazel said, “Why would he do that?”

“So he knew someone was after him? Why didn’t he do something?”

“He did do something. He went into hiding and called me.” Hazel said. “And a lot of good I turned out to be.”

“It’s not your fault.” Ruth said.

“I know it isn’t.” Hazel said, “But that doesn’t really make a lot of difference.” She turned her attention to the rest of the computer. Music. Sid had a wide taste in music, but it tended towards the older songs. Ballads. Old smoothie.

Videos. Hazel had half expected that folder to be crammed with porn. There were only four films that Sid had, presumably, downloaded. They were all Westerns. Hazel wasn’t one for westerns and had no intention of watching them.

She clicked open the pictures folder.

“Oh.” She said.

“Have you found something?” Ruth said.

“Yes, but nothing a married lady should be looking at.” Hazel said.

“Good, I’ll be right over.” Ruth said. Once again she perched herself at Hazel’s shoulder. “You did say he was a photographer.”

“I did.” Hazel scrolled through the images.

“There’s nothing really offensive here.” Ruth said. “Women are all adults. They’re nude, they look a bit vacant, but that’s normal for these kind of pictures. One or two of them border on the artistic.”

Hazel slowly turned her head.

“What?” Ruth said. “You were in the vice squad two years, I bet you’ve seen far worse than this.”

That was true. Hazel’s first ever viewing of a hardcore porn film made her throw up.

“Do you know any of the women?” Ruth said

Hazel shook her head. They were all very similar. Early 20s, aggressively blonde hair. Pumped up boobs. Hazel counted at least a dozen. She closed that sub folder and opened another.

“That’s interesting.” Ruth said.

“RamRods.” Hazel said. The RamRods were an exotic dance troupe….or male strippers if you wanted to be exact. The troupe, with many changes over the years had been going since the 1980s. These pictures didn’t go back that far, but they hardly looked very modern either. These days they worked one of the clubs in Riverside. Hazel couldn’t remember which. “What’s the name of the club they work in?”

“Medusa.” Ruth said immediately. She shrugged, “Friend of mine, her daughter got married four…five…years ago. I got an invite to the hen night.”

“I hope you didn’t take Erica.”

“Erica was nine.” Ruth said. “Scroll back.”

“Hmmm?”

“Scroll back a little.” Ruth said. “There. That picture.” She tapped the screen. “Enlarge it, please.”

Hazel sat where she was.

“Double click on the image.” Ruth said, “It’ll open a picture viewer.”

“I knew that.” Hazel said.

“No you didn’t.” Ruth said pleasantly. “I don’t know why you even own a computer.”

“I wonder that as well.” Hazel opened the picture viewer. “Well, he’s…..”

“Not Jewish?” Ruth said, “A lucky man?”

“Is there any reason why I’m looking at a naked man?” Hazel said.

“I know him.” Ruth said.

“You know him?”

“Well I don’t know him, as such. I don’t know his name or address, but he was one of the strippers at the party.”

“Five years ago?”

“Pictures from about that time.” Ruth said, “He looks the same. I remember the tattoo.”

Hazel shook her head. “Please don’t tell me anymore.”

“We had a really nice night. It was fun.” Ruth said, “Anyway he was one of the dancers. I don’t recognize any of the others. But he was there. Did your friend Sid take pictures for The RamRods?”

“He may well have done.” Hazel said. “I don’t know.” She closed down the subfolder and opened one labeled Portraits.

These were a mix, but mostly women. They at least had names.

Hazel stopped at a head and shoulders picture of a good looking black woman. She tapped the screen where the caption was. “Karen Fox.”

 * *

The two women met for coffee in The Mermaid Café on Riverside. Bernadette McLaren was tall, red haired and green eyed. She wore dark, conservative styled clothes that managed to look very expensive. She also wore a clerical collar and a small gold crucifix.

Camilla Ruthven was a solicitor. A junior partner with Ruthven Varney. Her father being the senior partner. She was a lot shorter than Bernadette. Her hair was also red, but cut short and aggressively styled. She wore a business suit with a long jacket and a short skirt. High heels put her closer to Bernadette’s height when she stood.

“If you ask me,” She was saying, “And as your solicitor you should ask me, the whole thing is pointless.”

“Why is it pointless?” Bernadette said.

“Police corruption is a matter for the police. Or at least for the people who are investigating. We all know the police around here are not the best.” She was referring to the local police who operated out of Elm Street.

“You’d know that. Your pet client is Victor Monk.” Bernadette said. Monk was the local underworld. A reclusive character who managed to make his presence felt even if he was seldom seen,

“Actually I thought you were my best client.” Camilla said. “Not that I have favourites. As far as I’m concerned you are all paying clients.” She paused, “My point was if there’s anything to find out, and I expect there probably is, then it’s best left to the people who know what they are doing. It’s hardly anything to do with us.”

“You know,” Bernadette said, “When one of your main clients is a gangster it’s probably handy to have a local police force that is corrupt and incompetent. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I would say it’s none of our concern and I have been doing. Look, I know why you’re suddenly so interested in what the Elm Street police are doing. They tried to set up one of the women from your shelter. I understand that. I understand your anger.”

“Hannah’s nineteen and they tried to frame her for murder.”

“I do understand and that tame detective of yours has reported it all and no doubt there will be some long and terminally dull investigation that will, eventually, come to some conclusion or other.” Camilla waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t know and I don’t really care. Heads might roll, senior officers will take early retirement, all will go back to normal.”

“Normal is corruption and incompetence.” Bernadette said.

“That’s life and you and I both know it. All right, everyone is sorry about Hannah and how she was treated.”

“You’re not.”

“No, I’m not, I couldn’t care less if you want me to be brutally honest. She wasn’t my client and has nothing to do with me. But I will say this, if you want answers, then talk to her. She can supply you with all the answers you could ever want.”

“I have spoken with Hannah. She doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“I can’t say I’m very surprised.” Camilla said. “Probably best though. Let someone else worry about it, Bernie. Let’s face it, we both know the elm Street police and we both know Victor Monk rather well. I think this is a time for a low profile and little said. “

“Standard lawyers advice? Keep your mouth shut?”

Camilla smiled brightly, “That’s it, Bernie. We all keep nice and quiet and let the investigation, if there is one, get on with itself.”

Bernadette McLaren didn’t return the smile, but she said, “OK. I’ll go along with that.”