She swore under her breath.
Andrea looked at her sideways. “You’ll understand that I’m going to have to take this laptop. I can’t let you have it, not after seeing this.”
“Hang on, what mad conspiracy theory are you cooking up? Do you think I’d have gone to Giles, and got you involved, if there was something going on here?”
“Maybe not. But you know ‘maybe’ isn’t good enough. Once we’ve taken a look around, we’ll determine how to proceed, and if everything’s kosher I’ll read you and Giles in.”
“Ten — sorry, Mr O’Riordan — was a serious hacker, remember. Does Five have anyone good enough to crack into that thing?”
Andrea stifled a laugh. “I’m going to assume that was sarcasm.”
“Hey, I’m trying to help. Just…try ‘ponty’ for the login password.” She spelled it out, without explaining the joke. “It’s my online handle. You never know.”
“First thing I’ll do when I get back to the office. Now, I think we’ve seen enough.”
“Not yet,” said Bridge, looking again at the newspapers. “There’s something about these newspapers. This isn’t obsessive everyday purchasing, but it’s not random either. They’re piled in groups, all from the same day, all with crosswords partially completed.”
“Is there a pattern to the dates? Same day every week, or month?”
“No, the distribution seems random. But Ten was methodical, tenacious. There has to be some kind of purpose to it.” She took sample pictures of the dates and crosswords on her work phone. “And we need to check with the pathologist, see if they found his phone. I think it was an HTC.”
“Asked the Inspector when I went to grab the lappy. No phone or wallet on the body, and yes, he was definitely stabbed before going into the river, although they’re not releasing that information yet. They’re still assuming a mugging, to be honest. This,” she gestured around at the forensic teams, “is all belt and braces.”
“Mugging, my arse,” Bridge snorted. “Whoever he went to meet last night killed him, and probably because he solved those ASCII art puzzles.”
Andrea smiled. “Now who’s wearing the tinfoil hat?”
“But nothing else makes sense. It has to be connected.”
“Why? What’s in those puzzles?”
“I don’t know yet. Ten was going to tell me when he got back from the meeting. But whatever it is, somebody killed him over it.”
Bridge shielded her eyes against the sudden bright sunlight as they exited the house. The SOCOs were finishing up, and the few reporters still hanging around stood on the other side of the street, recording to camera with the house as a backdrop. She and Andrea made their way to the back of the forensics van to remove their booties and gloves.
“I’ll get our people looking over the laptop,” said Andrea. “Meanwhile, see if you can figure out those puzzles. You might want to call on GCHQ. Maybe they can help.”
“Monica in our unit used to be a Doughnut. If I can’t crack it myself, I’ll see what she suggests.”
“Just try not to get yourself stabbed, OK? Unless you do turn out to be a filthy traitor, anyway. Then you can burn in hell for all I care.” Andrea winked, and commandeered the nearest police car to take her back to Thames House.
Bridge took one last look at the house, then walked back to Catford station.
17
Whenever Henri Mourad came to Toulouse, it was raining. Practically in Spain, for heaven’s sake, and yet here he was stepping off the train to the sound of a watery drumbeat on the station roof, and the smell of fresh rain on hot pavement. He’d neglected to bring an umbrella. Instead he turned up his collar, hunched his shoulders, and walked out of the station toward the old town.
After ten minutes he was thoroughly soaked, but found his destination; a small café on a narrow street in the ‘pink city’, the maze of old terracotta buildings at the heart of Toulouse. He entered, shook out his coat, and found a table against a wall. There were two other patrons, but neither of them was the man Henri had come here to meet. He ordered a beer and waited.
Two sips later the door opened, and Henri’s contact poked his head inside. “Viens, viens,” he hissed, beckoning to Henri and wafting smoke from his cigarette inside the café in the process. One of the other customers coughed and glared at him, but he scowled back as if daring them to complain. “Vite!”
Henri sighed and gathered his coat. He left several Euros on the table, enough for the beer and a tip, and shrugged in apology to the waiter as he left. Outside, his contact hurried along ahead of him. “It’s pissing down, Marcel,” Henri said in French. “Can’t we sit somewhere dry?”
Marcel scowled in reply, pulling on his cigarette. “Those men could have been listening. Out here, nobody can eavesdrop.”
“No, because they’re all sensible enough not to walk around in this weather.” But Henri had to admit that, paranoid as he was, Marcel had a point. They were the only people on the street, and the noise of the rain would mask their voices from any long-range listening devices. Henri didn’t expect anyone was listening — he travelled under a fake ID, and nobody had reason to think his leaving Paris was suspicious — but it paid to be careful. “So what do you have for me? What couldn’t you tell me over the phone?”
Marcel walked alongside Henri, close enough to lower his voice but still be heard above the rain. It couldn’t mask the smell of beer and sweat emanating from Marcel, though, and Henri wrinkled his nose as the man drew closer. “Three days ago, two men. Not local, they had Portuguese accents. Looking for someone to supply forged documents. French passports, ID.”
“OK, passports means
