Cyber Count: A Kat Munro Thriller (The Kat Munro Thrillers Book 2) Page 4

  “That’s awful.”

  “When I started looking into it, I found out that fifty-six retirement villages in Ireland and the UK have fallen prey to similar schemes in recent months. Retirees have lost hundreds of thousands of pounds. I thought there was a story worth following, and it seems it’s even more prevalent than I initially thought. Online crime is booming. There’s been an exponential increase in crimes relating to online activities across all walks of life in the last five years. Interestingly, this has coincided with the growth of a new style of crime syndicate. They operate a bit like the gangs of the 1970s using extortion, theft and threats; the only difference is that 90% of the crime is carried out online,” Connor said.

  “Cybercrime,” Kat said.

  “Yeah, everything from identity theft, credit card fraud and blackmail is being conducted out of sight. People are being attacked and livelihoods destroyed by nameless and faceless hackers.”

  “We see it more and more. It’s getting harder to track fund movements, especially where the Dark Web is involved,” Kat said.

  “Can I ask how you trace cryptocurrency transactions?”

  “It depends on the coin and where it’s transacted,” Kat said. She picked up her wine glass and took a sip. “There’s a lot of market data available on the more common currencies and organisations that analyse movements on the various blockchains. We have tools that allow us to dig into the more well-known cryptocurrencies. But with the more obscure currencies, there is a definite lack of transparency, making it attractive for criminals. Digital currencies are unregulated, unlike regular currencies, where the banking system controls everything.”

  “The lack of regulation can’t last,” Connor said.

  “The growth of exchanges has legitimised digital currency trading in the last couple of years, which helps. The problems arise with the new crypto assets, which are emerging all the time. They often have ever-increasing levels of encryption and complexity, and very little in the way of anti-money-laundering compliance.”

  “Aye, it’s nigh on impossible to know who’s behind some of these things.”

  “Yeah, it’s suspected that Satoshi Nakamoto, who is credited with founding the first cryptocurrency, Bitcoin, is just a pseudonym. No one knows for sure who’s behind its development or the development of many of the newer crypto coins,” Kat said.

  “It’s crazy, isn’t it? Everyone is worried about the electronic trail that they leave, yet crypto transactions that occur between digital wallets are nothing more than a string of characters, a bit like a bank account number but more complex. Anonymity is guaranteed unless you know who owns a wallet.”

  “Yeah, if you know that, then you can track the transactions, but finding out that ownership is only possible if the owner tells you or lets that information slip in some way. There’s no database of ownership, only a list of transactions associated with each digital wallet,” Kat said.

  “So we can know what transactions occur but not who is doing it.”

  Kat nodded. “The ability to move about the online world with little or no detection is certainly an attractive proposition for anyone committing financial crimes. The general public might be worried about their digital footprint. Yet, the criminals are becoming quite sophisticated at masking their identities. At least, that’s what we see more and more of.”

  “I read recently that one South American country has adopted its own crypto as an official currency of the country. Although they appear to have fallen foul of international trade agreements by insisting on payment in crypto,” Connor said.

  “Even so, I think digital currencies are here to stay,” Kat said. “It’s interesting because the purists at one end of the spectrum espouse the virtues of a truly free market currency with no intermediary or regulation. But there’s no doubt we’ll see more regulation, which will go some way towards thwarting those who want to use them for more nefarious purposes.”

  “It’s usually when the gangs decide to kill someone that they slip up. There have been five unexplained murders in the UK so far this year, all with links to one or other of the crime syndicates that I’m investigating,” Connor said. “Deaths of otherwise upstanding citizens, whose side hustle has brought them into contact with the wrong people.”

  Kat shivered. “It’s a part of life that most of us like to pretend doesn’t exist, right?”

  “Apparently, the National Crime Agency’s biggest area of growth in the last twelve months is cyber ransoms. As individuals have become more aware of phishing attacks, with fewer people falling victim, there’s been an increase in malware attacks on organisations. I’m also working on a piece digging into ransomware crimes, where businesses have been forced to pay to unlock their systems,” Connor said.

  “That’s just plain old extortion, isn’t it?”

  “It is, but again, it’s faceless,” Connor said. “Some businesses that I’ve spoken to have simply paid the money over and not reported the crime.”

  “I thought the NCA and others were encouraging people to report these attacks and not pay up, to mitigate the wider impact.”

  “I’m not certain that’s happening, at least not with some of the companies that I’ve talked to. They have taken their systems down, cleaned up their networks, installed better firewalls and security protocols, and hoped it wouldn’t happen again. Businesses that have expanded quickly and whose IT function hasn’t kept up with the growth have been hit. That sort of weakness makes them an easy target,” Connor said.

  “Makes sense, and I’m guessing the hackers are getting smarter too.”

  “Yeah, they are. The syndicates that I’ve been tracking employ some of the smartest computer techs around, and I’m afraid cybercrime is getting its tentacles further into everyday life in this country. Anyway, it’s not really tantalising dinner conversation,” he said, picking up his menu. “What are you having?”

  ***

  “I really enjoyed tonight,” Connor said as they closed the door of the restaurant. There had been a shower of rain while they’d been eating, and the pavement was damp.

  “Me too,” Kat said and was surprised to find that she meant it. She buttoned her coat up to combat the cool night air. They began walking along the narrow cobblestone street towards the underground station.

  “We’ll have to do this again,” Connor said. “Are you free on Saturday for lunch?”

  “I think so.”

  Connor grinned. “Great, I’ll call...”

  He stopped abruptly as two bulky men wearing dark clothes rounded the corner ahead and came to a stop in front of them, blocking their way forward. The smile slipped from Connor’s face.

  “Connor O’Malley?” said a heavy-set man with a shaved head and a fat, crooked nose.

  “Who’s asking?” Connor replied.

  “This is your last warning,” the man replied before his fist connected with Connor’s face and sent him sprawling into the wall.

  “Hey,” Kat shouted, stepping between Connor and the man.

  He held up his hands. “I don’t hit women, love.”

  “That’s good to hear,” she said, kicking out and catching him on the thigh. He grunted and staggered. The second man, younger and shorter, with a dark beard covering his jaw, reached for her, grabbing her arm. Kat raised her elbow at speed and heard a satisfying crunch as it connected with the soft tissue of the man’s nose. He swore, and his hold on her dropped. She spun back around to the first man who had recovered his balance and had his hand raised, ready to slap her.

  “I thought you didn’t hit women, love,” she said, bouncing on her toes and stepping to the side, back in front of Connor, who was on the ground, holding his jaw and groaning.

  “I think I’ll make an exception for you,” he said.

  Kat jabbed towards his face and landed another round kick to his leg.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” a voice shouted.

  The man looked behind Kat in the direction of the voice. Kat could hea
r footsteps slapping against the wet road, but she kept her attention focussed on the two men in front of her. The man with the shaved head turned to Connor, who used the wall as support and climbed back to his feet.

  “Consider this your final warning, O’Malley. Stop what you’re doing. Next time we won’t be so accommodating and you may not have your girlfriend to save you,” he said before turning his attention to Kat and jabbing a fat finger in her direction. “And you, I never forget a face.”

  With that, the two men slipped back around the corner from which they’d come, and seconds later, Kat heard a vehicle pull away at speed.

  “Connor.” She rushed to his side and inspected his face. “We need to get some ice on that.”

  Their would-be rescuers reached them. “Are you okay?” a young woman in her early twenties asked, stopping to check on Connor.

  “Thanks, you scared them off,” Kat said.

  Her friend kept running past them and looked around the corner for the assailants.

  “Muggers?” the woman asked, looking askance at Kat. “You looked like you were fighting back.”

  “I was trying to,” she said. “Thank goodness you guys came along. I’m not sure how much longer I could have kept that up, they were way bigger than me.”

  “Did they take anything?”

  Kat shook her head and put out her hand to steady Connor as he wobbled and clutched the wall for support. “Come on, let’s go back to the restaurant and wait there for a taxi.”

  “Thanks again,” Connor mumbled to the couple as Kat hooked her arm through his and started to walk back to the restaurant.

  “What was that about?” Kat asked, trying to control the shaking that had replaced the adrenaline surge.

  “Just some thugs who clearly don’t appreciate my literary talents,” Connor said, taking a quick scan of the road behind them.

  “Don’t make light of this, we should call the police,” Kat said, also looking over her shoulder with some trepidation.

  “Nah, too late now,” Connor said. “I have to say, you’re proving to be a useful person to have around.”

  Chapter 8

  The lights of several police cars, parked in front of the abandoned building in East London, flickered on and off. Once an electrical substation, the concrete structure stood at one end of a residential street. It was covered in colourful but pointless graffiti beneath its boarded-up windows. A baby-faced constable was trying to keep a growing crowd of onlookers behind the hastily erected crime scene tape.

  Adam skirted around the edge of the group and showed his warrant card to a second police officer standing guard. The officer noted his details on the crime scene log and lifted the tape to allow Adam through.

  One woman in the crowd, wrapped in a belted towelling dress gown, coffee cup in her hand, called out. “Oi, it’s about time you lot came to sort out those druggies.”

  “This way, detective,” a voice called, and Adam spotted one of the members of the squad’s crime scene unit dressed in white coveralls, beckoning to him from one corner of the building. He climbed through a hole in the wire fencing to join her.

  “Morning, Alice,” he said, noticing the firm set of her jaw. From experience, he knew that it meant either a gruesome crime scene or the body of someone young had been discovered.

  “Adam,” Alice replied and handed him a matching forensic suit sealed in a plastic bag.

  He pulled the coveralls on over his clothes, flicking the hood up to cover his hair. “Bit early,” he said.

  The sunrise was visible in the form of orange streaks gathering in the dark sky and his breath condensed in little white puffs as he spoke.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Alice agreed. “This way. You’ll want these.” She handed him thin blue gloves and disposable shoe covers.

  “Thanks.” Adam stooped, slipped the covers over the soles of his boots and pulled the gloves on before he followed Alice around the edge of the building.

  They proceeded through a disused yard full of straggly weeds littered with all manner of rubbish, from empty takeaway packets to cigarette butts and items of discarded clothing. The area was illuminated by spotlights erected on temporary stands. Another crime scene technician was crouched down beside what, at first glance, appeared to be a crumpled heap of clothing. At the same time, a third stood a little further away, photographing the scene and the surroundings.

  “What do we have?” Adam asked.

  “Young white male, mid to late teens,” Alice said.

  “Overdose?”

  Alice shook her head. “We’ll know more once the forensic pathologist does his thing, but it looks like blunt force trauma. This was no accident.”

  “Dumped?”

  Alice shook her head. “Unlikely, judging from the blood pooling.”

  Adam surveyed the scene for a moment before continuing towards the body, taking care to step on the plates already laid down by SOCO, the scenes of crime officers. It was a desolate spot, overlooked on one side by old warehouses backing onto a disused railway siding and hidden behind scraggly bushes and bent, broken wire fencing on either side of the substation. He raised his eyes to the adjacent buildings. Several of the warehouses had smashed windows and looked derelict from this angle. There appeared to be no security cameras mounted in the vicinity. Further on, a pair of residential tower blocks stood as silent sentinels overlooking the scene. Adam moved down the slight slope to where the body lay.

  “Who discovered the body?”

  “A guy out for his morning run.”

  Alice indicated with a flick of her head back in the direction they’d come. A man in his thirties, wearing a dark tracksuit, was talking to a uniformed officer behind the crime scene tape. The officer had positioned the runner with his back to the tracks and, more importantly, the body. However, the man peered over his shoulder every so often to check that he hadn’t imagined his grisly discovery. The officer’s questions drew his attention away from the body. Adam wondered whether the man would stick to more urban, well-lit routes in the future.

  “ID on our vic?” Adam asked.

  “No wallet or phone, but there was a student card in his back pocket,” Alice said, handing a plastic evidence bag to Adam. The bag contained a small rectangular card with a photo. Adam looked from the image to the victim and back; it appeared to be the same person. Marshall Tyler, a prefect at Sawyer’s Hill Grammar School.

  “That’s the fancy school near here, right?” he asked. Alice nodded. “Time of death?”

  “Again, we’ll know more when we get him on the table, but less than twelve hours.”

  “So, sometime last night,” Adam said. “I wonder what he was doing here.”

  Adam kept to the stepping plates as he followed her around the corpse. It was partially obscured among the weeds, although it appeared that no attempt had been made to hide the body. There were no tell-tale drag marks or trampled areas to suggest multiple attackers. The young man, clad in chinos and a black jacket, looked to have died where he had fallen.

  They waited a moment for the crime scene officer to set a plastic number on the ground beside a half-smoked cigarette butt and continued once the photographer had captured the image. Adam crouched down while Alice lifted a bunch of tight curls, which had flopped across the victim’s forehead, revealing pale, smooth skin, and unseeing blue eyes. Bruising on his cheek and dried blood caked beneath his nostrils suggested that he’d been beaten sometime before his death. The back of his head was misshapen, as though it were a boiled egg that someone had bashed with a spoon. The sandy curls were matted with congealed blood, and a large damp patch on the ground beneath his head was already crawling with insects.

  Adam swore under his breath. He stood. “No phone, you said?”

  “Robbery or drug deal gone wrong perhaps?” Alice said. “Given the debris around here, I’d say this area is well used by the local junkies.”

  Adam shook his head. “I’m not sure. If this was a mugging, they woul
dn’t have left him with those nearly new Air Jordans.” He pointed towards the victim’s feet, clad in pristine white and grey trainers.

  “And that’s why you’re the detective.” She glanced up at the sky. “Where’s TJ with that tent? I expect it will rain sooner rather than later.”

  “Thanks, Alice. I’ll leave you to it. One of my team will be by later.”

  “One other thing, Adam, it looks like we might get something from beneath his fingernails.” She lifted a cold, pale hand and indicated the torn and bloodied fingernails. “I know. I’ll put a rush on it.”

  “Thanks.” Adam left them to the unenviable task of evidence gathering and joined the officer interviewing the jogger. He paused to peel off the gloves and shoved them in a pocket before unzipping the coverall and stepping out of it. He rolled it up and added it to the crime scene team’s gear bag.

  “Morning, DS Jackson,” the officer greeted him as he approached. “Mr Hamilton here has given his statement, and I’ve given him the number for Victim Support.”

  Adam reached out and shook Mr Hamilton’s hand. “Thank you for calling this in. Here’s my card in case you think of anything else. Constable de Santa will drop you home.”

  “Okay, thanks,” Hamilton said. “Officer, he’s so young, someone must be waiting at home for him. Do you know who he is?” His face held a look of anguish.

  “Not at this stage,” Adam said.

  ***

  Adam grabbed a coffee back at the station before setting up a new incident board for the murder investigation between two wall-mounted screens at one end of the main CID incident room. He pushed the whiteboards for the two most recent murder inquiries that the team was currently working to one side and concentrated on the new case.

  At the centre of the board, he added a photo of Marshall Tyler that he’d taken from the student ID card found on the body and printed out as soon as he’d arrived at the station. Marshall gave the camera what could only be described as a smouldering look through his mop of bleach-blond curls. Adam wrote his name and school address beside the photo and the location and approximate time of death.