Cherringham--A Fatal Fall by Matthew Costello Read Free Book Online Page B

it.
    She took a deep breath, walked over, and pushed it open.
    Empty.
    Relieved, she went back into the office, put her handbag on her desk, and sat down in her chair to think this through.
    Someone had been in — there was no doubt about it.
    She took out her phone and rang Grace.
    Grace answered straight away. She was still at home but wouldn’t be long.
    And no, she hadn’t popped in early to the office this morning — why?
    Sarah explained and Grace said she’d be over as soon as she could.
    Sarah looked around the office again. Whoever had broken in had been a professional. Nothing had been moved, nothing damaged.
    She turned on her computer and went straight into the operating system. Years back when she’d been going through her divorce she’d been taught some of the dark arts of hacking by a detective she’d hired to track down her husband’s shenanigans.
    And since then she’d always made sure that her own systems were doubly protected.
    Her defences were rock solid — better than many she’d encountered working with Jack.
    And now she could see that at some point in the night someone had tried to access her server. The trail of attempts was clear …
    For more than an hour according to the log. And when they’d failed to get through her firewall, had someone actually come to her office to see if they could find the passwords?
    No such luck here for them either.
    Sarah and Grace knew better than to leave written passwords around.
    She breathed a sigh of relief.
    But it was all still scary. She picked up her phone to ring Jack and warn him.
    She thought: someone’s trying to find out what we are learning.
    *
    Jack parked his little Austin Healey Sprite in the lane by the entrance to Iron Wharf and casually walked in to the yard, hands in the pocket of his big winter coat.
    Jack knew the old wharf well: whenever he had work to do on the Grey Goose he’d always come up here first for parts or advice.
    A busy boatyard in the summer, used by locals and working boats, but now on a cold winter’s day the place was deserted.
    As he strolled across the yard, he looked around at the ramshackle mess of old huts, sheds, piles of timber and rusting metal, winches, masts, railway sleepers, abandoned cars, and upturned boats.
    He was looking for a caravan — Dylan McCabe’s caravan.
    The yard owners often let people park their trailers or vans down here in the winter for a few quid a week. There were water standpipes dotted around — and an old toilet block which looked like it dated back to the steam age.
    One of the boat owners emerged from a moored barge and passed by. He nodded to Jack and Jack nodded back.
    But otherwise there was nobody about.
    Jack passed a familiar caravan, its curtains shut, but a tell-tale trickle of smoke coming from an old tin chimney sticking out of its roof.
    He remembered who owned it …
    Terry Hamblyn, one of Cherringham’s dodgier characters, and who had crossed Jack’s path more than once.
    Jack walked further down the wharf until finally, tucked away under a couple of trees at the very end of the yard, he spotted the caravan he was after, curtains drawn and next to it a white Ford Transit that matched the description Kevin had given him.
    He walked straight over to the caravan, took the keys from his pocket, opened the door, and went in.
    It took a few seconds for Jack’s eyes to adjust to the dark and when they did he wasn’t prepared for what he saw.
    He’d expected a mess: dishevelled bed, washing up left in the sink, beer cans, food, McCabe’s clothes left lying around.
    But amazingly the caravan was clean and tidy. Sink clear. Clothes folded neatly.
    Jack looked carefully at the surface of the table: it had been wiped clean and smelled of bleach.
    What was going on? Dylan had no family, he lived here alone and Kevin had the keys.
    Jack opened the door and went over to the van. He opened the double doors at the back.
    Nothing — no timber, no tools, no dirt,