Captcha Thief (Amy Lane Mysteries) by Rosie Claverton Read Free Book Online Page B

chuckled, quieter so they didn’t draw too many eyes. ‘Nah, butt. The Oxford boys made for Liverpool. Same way the drugs go – in and out on the boats.’
    ‘Good job we’re a landlocked country in the middle of Europe,’ Jason quipped. ‘Any idea where to start?’
    Lewis subtly glanced left and right, checking out their immediate neighbours.
    ‘The boy in the know? He’s a Gog.’
    Jason didn’t ask further, though he wanted to interrogate Lewis about which part of North Wales he was from and where along that vast coast to begin. But they had been talking in hushed tones for too long and the last thing Jason needed was to be suspected of a conspiracy or for Lewis to be fingered as a snitch.
    They chatted about the Autumn Internationals, their mutual friends on the inside and out in the world, and how Cerys had mutated into a sensible proto-cop with a copper boyfriend. When their time was up, they embraced with a slap on the back and the promise to email.
    And the old guilt burned in Jason again, the knowledge that the clouds hanging over his head would soon dissipate to reveal blue skies but Lewis had yet more time to serve under the cosh. Time they should be sharing, together.
    He should’ve been at the gold exchange that day, standing beside his best mate as they robbed an old man blind. But he had been arrested one week before for stealing their getaway car. For years, Lewis hadn’t been able to forgive him for that abandonment, the reason their plan had fallen apart. If he’d been there that day, maybe they’d still be leading a life of crime, or retired rich somewhere hot and sunny. Instead of Jason visiting his mate in prison.
    He went out the gates and it started to rain, a typical Welsh absolution, the chains dissolving into the puddles, and Jason walked away, free in body if not in mind.

Chapter 9
Knucklebrained
    Her unvented anger had exhausted her and Amy slept late, her bed more inviting than the case. She drifted in and out of broken sleep, repeatedly sucked back into obscure dreams of shadows and a hundred false awakenings.
    When she finally rose, it was gone midday and the house was empty. Amy recalled Jason saying something about visiting Lewis this weekend – perhaps he had made an early start. She made some toast and tea in her dressing gown, before gravitating towards AEON to check for overnight developments.
    Indira had uploaded her preliminary autopsy report, including possible connections and disparities from the evidence collected by the scene of crime officers. One report compared trace found all around the body to that recovered from the deceased’s clothes and shoes. One entry stood out: ‘silica and particulate organic matter consistent with natural beach sand’. No such sand was found on Paul Roberts’ shoes, which meant the killer probably brought it with him. Like breadcrumbs, the trail of sand would also give a cunning Scene of Crime Officer confirmation of the entry and exit points that the killer used. Amy put another mark in the amateur column.
    She checked the results of Paul’s social media search. The results were sparse, a forgotten Facebook profile amongst a slew of older, mothballed networks that hadn’t seen use in years. Who still had a Friends Reunited account?
    She would need access to his home computer or his work account to get a better picture of his browsing history, his interests, his connections. She fired off a quick email to Bryn with her modest requests, before looking for a distraction while waiting for new information. Why hadn’t they thought of this before now? How was she supposed to work without data?
    Bryn had been getting sloppy about evidence provision recently. She’d had to ask on more than one occasion for the files and access she needed since returning to work after the accident. At first, she’d thought Bryn didn’t want to overburden her after her injuries but she’d been recovered for weeks now. He had no excuse for his continued