Lisa Stone - Stalker

Five minutes later he entered Coleshaw High Street. Full of shoppers and office workers during the day, the shops and offices were closed now so he was able to park right outside the bank. Switching off the engine, he lowered the kickstand and removed his helmet and gloves. A couple were already at the cash machine and as he waited for them to finish he looked up towards the bank’s CCTV camera, aware it would be picking him up very clearly. Evidence, should he ever need it later. He didn’t think Paul would do the dirty on him but life had taught him that you could never be sure. If Paul did decide to make trouble for him, he now had some evidence that he was blackmailing him.

The couple finished and walked away, and Derek crossed the pavement to the cash dispenser. Unzipping his leather jacket, he took out his platinum debit card of which he was proud and inserted it into the cash dispenser. The screen showed what he already knew – that although he was allowed to withdraw £1000 in 24 hours, the maximum single transaction was three hundred pounds. He withdrew the maximum three times and then a hundred pounds to make it up to a thousand.

In full view of the bank’s camera he took two envelopes from his inside jacket pocket on which he’d already printed Paul’s full name and address. He carefully divided the money between the envelopes, counting five hundred pounds into each, and tucked them into his jacket pocket. He placed the receipts in his wallet and put that into his jacket too. Donning his helmet and gloves he returned to the bike, revved and pulled away, trusting it was all recorded on the bank’s CCTV.

Using the back streets Derek knew so well, he headed towards Paul’s home – about ten minutes away. When Paul had first applied to work for him Derek had spent some time viewing where he lived on Google Earth and Street View. Then once Paul had begun, he’d made a point of collecting him from home once to take him to a job. He’d done this with all the lads he’d employed so their family could see his work van with the name of his company emblazoned on the side and back doors. It helped reassure them that his was a reputable company and their son would be in safe hands. Most of these lads were straight from school and still wet behind the ears and their parents – especially their mothers – fretted about them in a way his own mother never had. He’d had to go to work when his father had left and that was that.

Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he cut the engine as he entered Paul’s road and cruised noiselessly to a halt, parking under a tree a few houses from where Paul lived. The street was quiet and the last vestige of daylight had gone. Derek raised his visor and checked the time. It was now 7.55. He remained astride his bike and waited. Paul had said to post the money through his letterbox at exactly eight o’clock and he would be waiting for it on the other side of the door. Derek assumed that was so none of his family got to the envelope first and began asking questions.

A man walked by with a dog and Derek kept his head down, pretending he was checking his phone. At 7.58 he removed one of the envelopes from his inside jacket pocket and, dismounting the bike, walked the short distance to Paul’s house. Dressed all in black with a black helmet, he blended into the night.

There was no front gate, just a gap in the small brick wall marking the boundary line. Derek went silently up the short path to the front door. The lights were on in the hall and front room. It was now exactly eight o’clock. He gingerly lifted the letterbox with one hand and posted the envelope in with the other. As he did he felt the tug of it being taken on the other side.

He returned to his bike and to be on the safe side texted Paul: Please confirm you got the £500 just posted through your letterbox.

Yes, got it came the immediate response. Then : I want the other £500 as soon as I’ve spoken to the police.

Perfect, Derek thought. If ever he needed a bit more evidence that Paul was corrupt and happy to lie to the police he had it in that text. First thing in the morning he’d email Paul’s contact details to that police officer, just as she’d asked him to.

‘Interesting,’ Beth said, thinking aloud.

It was the following morning and she was at her desk viewing in more detail what Matt had found on the Police National Computer after they’d left Derek Flint’s office. Matt was sitting opposite, engrossed in his computer screen and not really listening.

‘So he was questioned seven years ago about a break-in at a garage where he’d installed the CCTV,’ she continued. ‘Not charged though. Someone jumped the cashier at closing time as they were cashing up, having hacked the system’s website. Little wonder Flint was edgy when we spoke to him with this and that other incident on file.’

Matt mumbled an acknowledgement but kept his attention on his monitor.

Beth read to the end of the report before closing the file and returning it to the archive. ‘I wonder how common hacking into CCTV websites is,’ she said, and entered the question into a search engine.

A few minutes later she had her answer. ‘Struth! Very common. Matt, did you know it’s estimated that fifty per cent of the population never change their default password – on their phone, Smart TV, tablet, router or home security? And before you ask, yes I have changed mine, and so did the Osmans and Khumalos. Derek made a point of telling them to. I guess he’d learnt his lesson from the business at the garage, but it doesn’t really advance the investigation.’ She glanced up at Matt and he managed a nod.

‘The forensic report from the Khumalos’ house is back. Have you read it?’

Matt shook his head.

‘No fingerprint or DNA match coming from the house or the voodoo doll, so whoever entered the premises and made the doll doesn’t have a criminal record. Eight different DNA samples were lifted from the doll itself with three standing out as much stronger – those likely to have been responsible for actually making the doll and handling it once assembled. It wasn’t factory made. All are thought to be Caucasian. The cloth the doll was made from was originally sourced from India but then most of our cloth comes from abroad. All the other materials – the stuffing, the string for the hair and buttons for the eyes can be bought in the UK. So it seems that at least three people in this country didn’t like Mr K enough to be involved in making the doll. But as he said, what business person would resort to leaving a voodoo doll?’

‘Unless whoever he upset paid someone else to do it?’ Matt suggested, finally taking his eyes from the screen.

‘So you have been listening,’ Beth said and he grinned. ‘Paid them to put the frighteners on Mr K? I’m sure he knows who’s behind this and he’s probably already on to them.’

‘Remind me again what line of business he’s in?’ Matt asked.

‘Mining and African real estate mainly.’

‘I would think there’s plenty of dodgy characters tied up in that.’

Beth nodded. ‘So unless something fresh comes in I’ll be putting this to bed.’ She continued through her inbox opening and closing the attachments. ‘Nothing new on the stabbing at U-Beat nightclub then, but on a positive note Flint has emailed the details of his last apprentice, Paul.’ She fell silent. The minutes ticked by.

‘And? What is it?’ Matt asked at length. ‘The silence is deafening.’

Beth sat upright. ‘According to Flint’s national insurance contribution record he has employed eighteen apprentices in the last ten years and none has stayed longer than seven months. That’s a high turnaround when apprenticeships are expected to last from between one and four years.’