She was already familiar with the front-of-shop layout thanks to Gibson’s briefing and videos, but no amount of poor quality CCTV could convey the ambiance of a site. Nor could a report substitute for interviews with witnesses. It wasn’t what they wanted to tell you that was important—human memory could be disastrously misleading—but what they revealed in response to questioning, the insights they let slip without even noticing. Not that she suspected an inside job, but something about this crew of robbers raised her hackles. She had an uneasy sense that there was more to them than met the eye.
“Hello, I’m Wendy from HiveCo Security. I have an appointment with Mr. Granger.”
The combination of her shiny new HiveCo Security badge and an appointment brokered via the bank’s insurance underwriters got her whisked straight through the armored door without even a pat-down. There was nothing on-site worth dying for, after all: it was only money, and precious little of it at that in banking terms. (Retail branches were in any case insured against robbery.) Professional bank robbers knew this, and in recent decades almost never got violent. It wasn’t worth an extra-heavy sentence. Meanwhile, the mirror-glass and riveted door frames and very visible safe in the back room reassured the customers that their paychecks were safe. It was, in short, security theater rather than effective security.
The smiling clerk (Alicia, according to her badge) led Wendy past an open plan area to the manager’s office. “Nigel’s in this morning and you’re in luck, he was on duty during the incident the other week,” she confided. Pausing at the door she called, “Nigel? Nigel?” (A muffled grunt came in reply.) “I have a Miss Deere from HiveCo Investigations to see you? It’s about the incident.”
Wendy slipped past her and twisted the door handle. “You’ll find there’s an appointment in your Outlook,” she called, then pushed the door open. “Mr. Granger, I presume?”
A second grunt, louder this time, clearly originated from the bald-headed man behind the desk. Wendy pushed past Alicia, who gave a startled squeak: she clearly wasn’t accustomed to being sidelined so easily. Babes in the woods, Wendy thought. Three toddlers armed with paper clips could raid this place. As she cleared the doorway Wendy saw the reason for the wordless grunts. Did nobody teach you not to chew with your mouth open? She smiled tightly at the manager as he hastily swallowed, then placed the uneaten half of his baguette on his mouse mat.
“Ahrm. Hem. Mrs. Darling, HiveCo? Is this about the incident?”
“If by incident you are referring to the armed robbery on the fourteenth, then yes, I’m here to follow up on the investigation. I have some questions that the police report didn’t answer.” Her long glance took in Alicia; the clerk hovered in the hallway, staring at her wide-eyed. If this was her idea of excitement, she’d clearly led a very sheltered life. Wendy pulled out her badge and held it up for the surveillance cameras: “Let me introduce myself properly. Wendy Deere, consulting detective, HiveCo Security. HiveCo has been commissioned by the Ministry of Justice to provide domain-specific support for investigations into transhuman crimes such as your recent incident, and I’m your case officer.”
Mr. Granger cleared his throat. “The MOJ? I thought the Home Office were in charge of policing?”
Wendy smiled. “You might think that, but the New Management disagrees. I have common-law powers of arrest, and a warrant to remand the perpetrators for trial at the Old Bailey, bypassing the Home Office and Met Police bureaucracy. In fact, I used to be with the Met before this role was outsourced.” Misleading, but technically true. “HiveCo Security are paid on commission and we get results. Marketing call it Agile Incident Management, but we’re really just old-fashioned thief-takers.” Her smile widened. “Are you a thief, Mr. Granger?” To his sudden and exaggerated head-shaking, she nodded: “Then you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”
Without waiting to be invited, she took a seat before his desk. “Now.” She held up a USB key loaded with the CCTV video files. “I’ve got a copy of your video recordings from the day in question, and I’d like you to talk me through them.”
Granger looked at her USB stick as if it was a poisonous centipede. “I suppose so?” He glanced at Alicia, then back at Wendy: “Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, please. Milk, no sugar.” She placed the USB stick in front of him.
“We’re not allowed to plug personal electronic devices into company computers,” he said with ill-feigned regret.
“Well then.” Wendy had come prepared. She opened her briefcase and pulled out a tablet: “We can watch it on this, but I’d still like to record your commentary as we go through it.”
Granger frowned unhappily but nodded, clearly not enthused at having to sacrifice his lunch break. Tough, Wendy thought to herself; if your security was worth a bucket of warm spit, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. “First, let’s look at the camera behind the tellers’ windows. Would you mind talking me through what’s going on? In your own words, please…”
“Sure. On the left, that’s Marie. On the right, John’s handling the premier account and forex desk. The middle would be Alicia, but she was on an early break that day so there’s an empty position. The usual SIA Level 2 certified warm body from G4S is on door duty, can’t remember his name but I can look him up if you want. Off-screen to the left are the two in-house ATMs and the two check deposit terminals. Queue for machines on the left, counter service on the right, and Eric is walking the floor looking for personal banking walk-ins and loan appointments. It’s early in the lunchtime rush so the queue isn’t too—”
But Wendy was no longer listening. Because she’d spotted something very interesting indeed on the second screen on Granger’s desk—the one streaming the live camera feed from
