Digital Investigations

By BRM Stewart

DS Amanda Pitt is on a Police Scotland Major Investigation Team trying to identify the dead young man found by the Forth and Clyde Canal in Maryhill. A newspaper reporter, who is investigating a Glasgow gangster network, trades information with her, and this leads her to the identity of the dead man - and also the fact that his partner is missing. But the newspaper has hired the erratic Dougie Green to help with their investigation, and he finds that Amanda had links to the gangsters.
Martin McGregor runs a successful computer company in Glasgow, and also supports a computer club for teenagers. One of those teenagers finds a credit-card skimming operation, and they start to investigate. When it becomes apparent that their case overlaps with the murder enquiry, Martin and Amanda form an uneasy alliance.
A figure from Amanda's past appears, which both helps and confuses her. And Dougie Green gets closer to the truth about Amanda and also Martin, who worked with those same gangsters in the past.
The race is on to find the missing woman, and to stop Dougie's investigation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BRM Stewart
• Release date: Nov 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005027322

BRM Stewart

BRM (Brian) Stewart lives in Scotland. He was born near Glasgow, lived for a couple of years (with his family) in Hamilton, Ontario, then they moved back to Glasgow and on to Grangemouth, where Brian grow up. He attended Glasgow University then trained as a teacher. He taught in Edinburgh for a couple of years, then moved to Nairn in the Scottish Highlands where he and his late wife raised their family. He worked in various roles in Scottish education before retiring in 2015.A few years ago he and his wife relocated to Dundee to be nearer his grown-up children and his grandchildren.Brian has always written, but took it seriously with his retirement. He has self-published and also been traditionally published.His hobbies include travel, dabbling with gadgets, keeping fit, and trying to play golf and the guitar. He is a very active member of Rotary, and also his local writers' group the Angus Writers' Circle.

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Acknowledgements

In helping with the development of this book, my grateful thanks go to several people: David Fulton for helping with aspects of Scottish police procedures; Jim Oag for clarifying how someone working for IIP would operate; my beta readers Christine Cochrane and Linda Douglas for their invaluable and insightful comments and suggestions. A special mention goes to my late friend Pranav Sinha who hosted us for his birthday weekend in Berlin; I’ve stolen his address and his friend’s name.

And most of all thanks to my wife Sally for her undying support, encouragement and belief. And suggestions for improvement.

Any remaining errors of fact or style are purely my fault.

Author’s Note

This is a work of fiction set in the real world, but I have tried to portray the use of technology very accurately in the book, especially cybercrime.

The characters in the book are fictional, though real characters are referred to. If any of my made-up names actually are the names of real people who look and act the way I describe them, then I do apologise - it is not intentional.

The locations are largely real, though Roasters and Patterson’s Bar are invented. There is no Millar Street in Rutherglen: that’s a family joke. Some organisations – such as the FBI and Police Scotland - are real, but others, including We Protect and Sales Solutions, are fictional. Any resemblance between them and real companies is entirely coincidental.

BRM Stewart October 2020

Cover design by Malcolm McGonigle.

Photograph of the Forth and Clyde Canal at Maryhill by the author.

Other images from Morguefile.

Prologue: The early hours of Saturday morning

‘Fuck, he’s not breathing.’

She almost turned her head, but she really needed to keep full attention on the road, her eyes screwed up against the occasional headlights coming the other way. There was a scream and a wailing from the woman in the back seat.

‘Shut her up, would you?’ She tried to keep her voice calm.

There was the sound of a slap, and another as the screams just got louder. A third slap and then the noises were muffled. ‘What do we do?’ he asked.

‘He’s still not breathing?’

‘No. There’s stuff coming out of his ears. Fuck.’

The road passed a long police station, just a couple of cars parked out in front of it, then ran past a pub, dipped under a bridge, and curved up again. She braked hard and turned off – almost a hairpin. There was a tenement block on the corner to their right, a church with a scaffolded façade ahead.

‘Where are you going?’

‘That was a railway bridge. We’ll dump him down the embankment onto the tracks.’

The wail from the back was silenced with another slap.

The black Range Rover passed a patch of wild ground surrounded by railings, and turned right again, down a road flanked by curved brick walls with white stone markers on top. It stopped and she killed the headlights.

‘We’ll get rid of him here.’

She was out of the car, and helped him get the body out, over a low crash barrier, and across the grass. The other big – silent – man stayed with the woman. There were modern houses further down the road, low-rise flats and the tenement they’d passed behind them. She simply hoped no one was awake at this hour, no one was watching.

‘Quickly,’ she hissed.

‘Oh fuck,’ he said. ‘It’s not a railway – it’s a canal.’

‘Even better.’

They got the body to the edge and tried to roll it into the water, but it was held by the reeds. They tried pushing it, but it was stuck.

‘Leave it,’ she whispered.

They backed away, into the car again. As she started the engine and drove without headlights back to the main road, she thought of the trace evidence that would be on the body.

‘We should have kept going,’ he said from the back. ‘They’re going to find the body straightaway. They’re going to –’

‘Shut up, Tony. Just shut up.’

She clenched her hands tight on the wheel as she drove. From the back came another sigh: ‘Fuck.’

1 - Eight hours earlier

Amanda Pitt had another glance round the kitchen, had another read down the recipe, and then glanced at her watch and took a deep breath. Hosting dinner parties wasn't her thing, and it made her nervous. Claire had texted to say she was running a bit late, but that was OK. Jim and Irene were always late anyway, despite the fact that they lived just two floors below.

She took another deep breath and let it out in a long sigh, and smiled to herself as she reached for the gin and tonic she'd made earlier. She squeezed past the big dining table to look out of the bay window across to the autumn colours in Queen's Park, and had a big sip of her gin. And then another. Her breathing slowed and she smiled at her own reflection.

She stood there quietly contemplating her life until the front door crashed open and Claire rushed in. 'Sorry, darling. Sorry!' Claire stood at the door of the lounge, all red hair and confusion. 'Sorry.'

Amanda followed her into the bedroom where Claire was hurriedly taking off her work clothes, and she stood with her gin, watching her, still amazed that this gorgeous creature was her partner, that the relationship had lasted for so long.

'Sorry, darling,' Claire said again. 'Martin had a meeting with a new client.'

'We've plenty of time. Drink?'

Claire shook her head and reached for her dressing gown. 'I'll jump in the shower.' She embraced Amanda and they kissed, Amanda's hand slipping inside the dressing gown and Claire giggling and pulling away: 'I need to shower. We haven't time!'

Amanda watched the bathroom door close, heard the fan starting up, and she sipped her drink, her face calm.

Her personal mobile rang: Tom Gordon. 'Tom. Hi.' Her tone was neutral: she never knew whether Tom would be calling with something useful or something awkward.

'Hi, Amanda. How are things?' The voice was cheery in that broad Glasgow way.

'Things are great, thanks. How are you?'

'Great, eh? Glad to hear it – every other cop I speak to moans about the job. Low morale, poor reputation, short of manpower, budget cuts. Good to hear you're being so positive.' He laughed.

'Things get distorted in the media, as you know, Tom.' She wasn't about to tell him that she pretty much agreed with everything he'd just said.

'Touché, Amanda. Touché.'

'I've got guests coming round for dinner, Tom, so...'

'No problem - I'll get to the point. It's a quiet night in for us – I've got work to do. We're going out for dinner tomorrow night. Fusion Restaurant, just opposite the squinty bridge. You know it?'

'No. Tom...'

'I know, I know. I'm just calling to check a couple of facts before we finalise Sunday's story.' He cleared his throat. 'Is Police Scotland still investigating Ken Talbot?'

Amanda sipped her gin, suddenly feeling hollow: so, one of Tom's awkward phone calls then. 'Ken Talbot was shot dead a couple of years ago.'

'And his criminal empire broken up, yes. But is Police Scotland still investigating his cronies and partners?'

'I imagine so, but I'm not on any team.' When he didn't respond, she added: 'Why? Is this your story? It's old stuff surely, Tom.'

'We're doing one of our 'gangsters in the sun' pieces on Sunday – Sandy Lomond, Ken Talbot's right-hand man. Is Police Scotland actively trying to find him?'

'I've no idea, Tom, but I imagine so. Somewhere there will be a team on the case. But I imagine the public is more interested in us pursuing current villains and terrorist suspects – god knows there are plenty.'

'So you're not investigating.'

She gave a small gasp of exasperation. 'I'm not investigating, Tom, but someone will be. I'm busy enough with other things.'

'OK, OK. I'm just giving you the heads up, Amanda – I know you're working hard on behalf of Police Scotland to keep us all safe. But I'd be grateful if you'd let me know if you hear anything. And what the official reaction is when we publish on Sunday.'

She almost wanted to apologise to him for her annoyed tone, but didn't. 'Look, Tom, I need to go. Good luck with your story.'

'Cheers, Amanda. I'll be in touch. Give me a shout if you hear anything.'

She put her mobile down. Her drink was finished and she needed another one. Her reflection in the window was suddenly older, less serene. The evening outside was less sunny and idyllic now.

But, when she heard the bathroom door open and she turned to see Claire rush from the steamy interior, dressing gown open and breasts bouncing, her smile returned.

2

Martin McGregor was running late. He sprinted up the stairs at Hillhead as best he could against the rush-hour tide, leaving the sighs of compressed air and the roar of the underground trains behind him, onto a damp Byres Road. Shafts of sunlight escaped through the dark clouds, sparkling on the pavements. He ducked through the crowds, checked his watch, and made his way down towards University Avenue, past a line of delicatessens, cafés and an estate agent, into Roasters.

He checked his watch again and decided he needed caffeine. It had been a long day of meetings, trying to hook a new client – making progress, but it wasn't definite yet. As he queued at the counter he texted Nicola: 'Need to drop into computer club for a wee while – Davey says something is up. Won't be long. Might be late. Sorry. xxxx'

Nicola texted back. 'I'll let Catriona know. Get your skates on! xxxx'

He waited as patiently as he could, looking round at the early evening clientele, everyone on a smartphone or a tablet, one man with a paper notebook, another sketching on a pad. A couple of faces were familiar somehow, but he couldn't remember where from; TV perhaps? His latte came.

'There you go, Martin.'

He went through the door marked Private, and bounded up the open wooden staircase – taking the steps two at a time and holding his latte out to stabilise it – through an anonymous wooden door into a big open room. Here there were unvarnished wooden tables and chairs, lines of power sockets along the walls, and a few teenagers and an adult. Two small groups of boys were working at keyboards and monitors, the tables beside them littered with bare board computers, breadboards, and small trays of electronic components and wires. George Webster – a local schoolteacher from the 1970s, who had set up this club and enlisted Martin's help – waved over at Martin. Martin nodded back.

At the side of the room was a figure in a wheelchair: Davey Collins. Davey turned his chair, and his electronic voice said: 'Hello Martin.' His chair used the same software that Stephen Hawking's chair used, and his voice synthesiser was the same too.

Davey was sat beside another teenager – Michael – who sat at a computer, two large monitors attached to it.

Martin stood by them, sipping his coffee. 'Hi, Davey. What's up?' He looked at his watch again and winced.

Davey rotated back towards Michael, and Martin stared at the monitors and the windows open across them. It took him a moment to fully make sense of what was happening. One window was a web browser, where Michael seemed to be searching for help. At least four other windows were black terminal windows where Michael was typing commands to do whatever he was doing, and another window seemed to show the results of what he was typing. There were two Facebook pages, updating as Martin watched.

He peered closer. They weren't quite complete Facebook pages, but rather someone's idea of what a Facebook page looked like, with messages appearing, sometimes reassembling into a different order. Martin noticed there were also two windows showing Twitter feeds.

Michael typed another command, and leaned forward to look at the screen. Martin followed his eyes. He was reading the web traffic from a website; there were commands and text, groups of alphanumerics, IP addresses.

'So what's happening?'

Michael turned abruptly. 'Oh hi, Martin.' Michael was tall and lean, with dark skin and a beard that was surprisingly well-defined for someone so young. He looked older and wiser than the other acned boys, and Martin had to keep reminding himself that he was only sixteen.

'What have you found?'

'I can see what people are doing,' he said. His accent was neutral – the other kids had very strong Glasgow accents that were often impenetrable – and his voice soft.

'What people? Doing what?'

'People in the coffee bar.'

'Doing what?'

'Everything, Martin.' He swept his fingers across open windows on the screens as he spoke: 'Facebook, twitter, emails.'

Martin looked at the screen and saw that he was right; he could see what people downstairs were doing on their phones, tablets and laptops.

'You nosy bastard.'

Martin of course knew about this: anyone could download software that would monitor traffic on an unprotected Wi-Fi network – you could see what people were doing, and grab their links to Facebook, or their emails, and continue to use them when the person switched off their phone or computer. You could make a nuisance of yourself, or you could start the process of identity theft. If anyone naively accessed their bank on an open Wi-Fi network, well, you were in business.

The Wi-Fi at Roasters was password protected – WEP2 – but customers were given the code. Decrypting the traffic was still very very difficult, but Michael was doing that here, in near real time. Martin didn't know how Michael was doing it, and he was impressed.

But Nicola wouldn't be. Martin glanced down at Davey with a raised eyebrow that asked: Is this it?

Davey said: 'That is not all.'

Michael pointed again. 'That's the traffic from the shop's website.'

Martin saw the text commands, the handshaking protocols, the numbers. 'And?'

'Some of the information is going out twice.'

'Is that a re-send because of an error?' Davey asked.

'They don't need to re-send, not with error-correcting codes,' Martin said. He frowned at the screen, bending closer.

'The information is being sent out twice,' Michael repeated, 'and the second time it's to a different IP address.'

Martin stood up and took another sip of his latte, still frowning as he continued to peer at the monitors. 'What information?'

'It looks like credit or debit card numbers. All the information about the owner of the card.'

'Are they getting the PINs too?' Martin asked.

'There could be a camera somewhere,' Davey suggested.

Martin checked his watch again and groaned aloud. He was going to be seriously late, but he was intrigued. 'Let's go downstairs.' He put his coffee cup down.

'I will wait here,' said Davey. He would have had to go down in the service lift at the back of the building and then round to the front.

Michael followed Martin down the open, wooden staircase and through the door into the busy café. Martin drew him into a gap in the long shelf by the window, and they stood looking round. A new customer came in, and they watched the routine with the card reader. The woman keyed in her PIN, angling the machine away from the guy behind the counter, and giving a brief look round to check no one was looking over her shoulder. She saw Michael and angled it away from him too.

'It's in the ceiling,' Michael said.

Martin turned to shush him, and then his eyes followed the pointing finger before physically pushing Michael’s hand down. Up in the corner was the black hemisphere of the shop's CCTV. Martin scanned the rest of the room and saw another two CCTV cameras, giving coverage of the whole café, but primarily along the counter.

He waited till the woman had moved along to pick up her coffee – she gave him a funny look – and spoke to the tall, skinny young server.

'Hi, Martin.'

'Hi – eh – ' The name-badge was upside down, the name a scramble of consonants. 'Who put in your security cameras?'

The boy spread his arms and grimaced. 'No idea.'

'When was it done?'

'Couple of months ago? Not sure.'

'Could you find out who installed it all?'

'Aye, sure. I'll ask the boss when she's in. She's got your mobile number? I'll ask her to call you.'

Martin nodded, and took Michael upstairs again to sit back down at his computer, with Davey beside them.

'So,' Martin said, with another glance at his watch. 'How do you think it all works?'

'The CCTV is working all the time, but something else in there is triggered by the POS machine being used. A higher resolution camera videos whatever happens and sends it somewhere.' Michael stared at the monitor as he spoke, his voice quiet but firm, his eyes wide.

'Email? Text?'

Michael scrolled back up his screen and pursed his lips. 'Can't see anything. Maybe it's stored and sent out later.' He hunched his shoulders, hands poised on the keyboard, and then he took a deep breath and began to type furiously. 'I'll see what I can find out from this group I'm in...' His voice tailed off and he looked at Martin sheepishly, fingers still.

'It would need to be time-stamped to match with the credit card number.' And how about contactless payments, he wondered.

Michael pursed his lips again, hand on the mouse now to reorganise the windows. 'I can leave this running, check tomorrow.'

'Good.' Martin stood up, grabbed his cup and finished the rest of his coffee. Davey was watching him patiently. 'Look, Michael – don't say anything to anybody about this, OK?'

Michael nodded, eyes fixed on the monitors. Martin turned to Davey: 'I need to go – Nicola and I are meeting people for dinner. I'm late.'

'I will let you know how things develop,' said Davey.

Martin nodded, frowning as he texted Nicola: 'On my way. Sorry! xxxx'

3

Through a deep, deep sleep, Amanda became aware of a mobile phone ringing, and slowly she opened her eyes and fumbled for it in the darkness. It was her police mobile.

She saw the time on the screen as she accepted the call: eight o' clock.

'DS Pitt.' Her voice was dry. She sat up in the bed, pulling the duvet up to her shoulders, giving a shiver and putting her free hand to her forehead. Too much red wine – far too much – and not enough water. Jim and Irene had stayed for more and more 'just one more' drinks, till about three o'clock.

She reached the hand to touch Claire's naked shoulder. 'DS Pitt,' she repeated into the mobile, after clearing her throat. Please god this wasn't an important call: she needed her weekend.

'Hi, it's the duty officer at Specialist Crime Division.'

Oh shit, she thought: this is important. She coughed: 'Yes?'

'We have a suspicious death and are setting up a Major Investigation Team. Are you available to attend the crime scene?'

She groaned inwardly. 'Yes. But I'm in bed. I'll need half an hour to get ready.'

'Can you drive yourself?'

'No, definitely not.'

'I'll dispatch a car to your address –' The voice paused on a query, and Amanda gave a sigh: 'Yes, my address.'

'OK, half an hour at your front door.'

Amanda put the mobile down. She lightly kissed Claire's shoulder and slipped out of the bed, noting the time.

The police car arrived on schedule, and the police driver took her swiftly through the city as it began to wake up this dull Saturday morning.

'What's the story?'

'It's a suspicious death,' the young man said. 'That's all I know.'

Amanda texted Claire: 'Call out. Could be a long time. Get back soon as I can. Love you. Xx.' She sat staring out of the window, trying not to feel sick.

They drove through the tangle of one-way roads under the railway tracks running out of Central Station, over the Clyde, up through a city centre that was coming alive with delivery lorries and shoppers, under the M8. They went out along Maryhill Road, dipping under a bridge that carried the Forth and Clyde Canal, and then immediately right by a tenement building, almost a hairpin bend.

From here a road to the right led down to a group of modern houses, but was taped off. Amanda's driver stopped behind a clutch of police cars, and Amanda climbed out into the grey morning, showing her ID to the PC standing at the taped-off road.

She stepped over to a group of officers, looking for familiar faces. All men apart from DCI Paige, who was speaking. A head turned: Pete McLeod, looking as bad as Amanda felt, giving a nod and then turning to continue listening. Amanda tacked onto the edge of the group, trying to pick up what she could, hands deep in her coat pocket, eyes screwed up against the cold breeze, mouth like the bottom of a parrot's cage and head thumping. DCI Paige noticed her and gave a nod of recognition.

'Right,' Paige was saying. 'Start the door to door, down there and across the road.' She pointed to the five uniformed officers and two DCs, then beckoned to Amanda and Pete. 'DC McLeod, you bring DS Pitt up to speed. Then you both start looking for missing persons and for recent crimes where there may have been a falling-out amongst thieves. Once you get more details about the victim, you'll be able to narrow your search, but for the moment you'll just have to go through everything.' She looked at Amanda. 'DC McLeod will give you what we have so far.'

Amanda shivered and nodded, her jaw tightening on a yawn. She knew Paige – a few years older than Amanda, taller, broad-built – 'mannish' some said in private. Amanda had never warmed to her in any way, but thought she was good at the job.

When Paige had left them, and the others had gone off to their duties, Amanda grinned at Pete. 'Do I look as bad as you do?' she asked.

'Worse. My wife's away on her sister's hen weekend so I cut loose last night. I'm not surprised we're not allowed near members of the public.' Pete was in his late forties and had two teenage boys. He had a face that he described as lived in, and hardly any hair.

'So what have we got?'

Between them and the tenement block was a big patch of waste ground, with bushes and trees, an iron railing all round it. In front of them, across a single-stranded, low crash barrier, short grass stretched to the reedy edge of the canal. This whole area was taped off, and there was a small tent in place at the very edge of the water, looking like it might topple into the canal at any moment.

Pete took her away to the side of the taped-off area. On the opposite bank was a towpath. A small group of people had collected there, most of them taking photographs and videos on their phones.

'The body was spotted by a cyclist from the path over there this morning; it had been pushed into the reeds at the edge of the water there.' He kept glancing round to make sure no members of the public were overhearing or lip-reading

'They should have dumped it further over,' Amanda said. 'Or in that big patch of waste ground over there.'

'Yeah. Anyway, the cyclist had stopped for a couple of minutes and happened to see the body, and he phoned us. A check by uniformed police confirmed that it was indeed a human body and was dead, so they secured the scene and called in the cavalry. The first impressions were that it was a suspicious death, so more CID and police were called.'

Amanda frowned.

'I think they tried to throw it into the canal to get rid of it and it snagged.' Pete shivered and yawned. 'Don't know. My brain hurts.'

'And what do we know about the body?'

'Male, that's all.' Pete said.

'OK.'

'The MIT for this is going to be based in Maryhill Station – it's just down the road. We can walk.' He looked up at the grey sky, frowning.

'I suppose we get down there and hit the computers and waste our time until we get a better description. Hang on.'

A figure in protective overalls had emerged from the tent, and stood stretching. Amanda smiled and stepped up to the tape. 'We're about to do a trawl of missing persons,' she said. 'Can you give us anything to narrow down the search?' She waved her ID.

The young woman pulled down her face-mask, showing young, neat features. 'White male. We're trying to establish how long he's been there, and how long it's been since he died, and whether he was killed here. First guess is that he hasn't been there too long at all – during the night. Certainly doesn't look like he drowned and floated here. We'll get a photograph as soon as we can that you can use. Mid-twenties to early thirties at most. Tall – about six foot. Tanned or swarthy skin, so maybe Mediterranean or maybe just back from holiday. Maybe Italian descent, common in Glasgow.'

'Cause of death?'

'There are some heavy blows to the back of head, but we're not fully convinced they killed him. We're taking it slowly and it's not easy working at the edge of the water. Sorry.'

'No problem – that's a help.'

The woman smiled, and turned away.

'I need a coffee,' Pete said, holding out a shaking hand, palm down.

They walked back to the main road, down under the canal, past a pub and lines of shops and a big Job Centre, on past Maryhill Police Station to McDonalds. They bought a couple of large black coffees and took them back up to the long, dark grey brick police station, where they were shown past the reception desk that looked like a big judge's bench, up to the open incident room. They plonked themselves down at a couple of desks with computers – assuming it was a free-for-all – and sipped their coffees, looking round at the bustle.

Display boards were being set up, and DCI Paige was moving around talking to people, and speaking on her mobile. She looked calm and business-like.

Amanda phoned Claire and told her what was going on. 'I'll be home this evening, I hope. Don't worry too much about the flat – I'll help tidy it when I get home.'

Claire's voice was a low rasp: 'OK. I may still be in bed. I feel awful – haven't drunk that much in ages.'

Amanda laughed. 'Jim's fault, I think. He just kept topping up the glasses.' After she finished the call, she texted Jim: 'Hope you're as hungover as I am! Great night – thanks for coming.'

Pete was looking sideways at her. 'Ready to start?' He pointed at his monitor

'Yes, of course.' She put her phone down, took a gulp of coffee, put the cup down, and logged on to the system. 'How will we split this up?'

Pete looked through the Police Scotland database to identify recent crimes where there was an outstanding suspect who fitted the description such as they had it. Amanda searched missing persons on both police and charity websites.

She quickly came