Free The Strange Death of Fiona Griffiths by Harry Bingham Page B

‘A payroll clerk, someone like that,’ but no words seem to come out, so I clear my throat and try again.
    ‘Yes, exactly,’ he says when he understands me. ‘Exactly.’
    He goes on talking. The current plan is to terminate most of the frauds in what Brattenbury calls a ‘natural’ way. Basically, he intends to nudge the companies’ internal auditors to make the checks that will expose the fraud, seemingly as part of the company’s regular audit process.
    ‘We do, however, want to leave two or three of the bigger scams running. We don’t want the perpetrators to feel they’ve been found out. Luckily, the two biggest scams affect insurance companies, both of whom pay out tens of millions of pounds annually as a result of organized crime, so they’re particularly keen to be helpful. They’ve given us as much systems access as we need. We can see literally every single keystroke, every mouse click on the relevant computers.’
    I nod. I’m not particularly good with computers, but I know these things aren’t particularly difficult. You can get remote monitoring software for twenty or thirty pounds online. If the corporate’s IT staff are being helpful, you can probably achieve the same effect by tweaking a few settings on some admin panel.
    I also know, though, that you don’t break organized crime syndicates by computer monitoring alone.
    ‘We have identified the local moles. That’s not hard, as you know. But we don’t want the moles, we want the people controlling them. And the people profiting from them. And we’ve got nowhere. Nowhere at all. We haven’t closed with the enemy because, the truth is, we’ve no idea who the enemy is.’
    I nod. I don’t seem to have a working voice box, so I stop trying to use it.
    ‘Infiltration,’ says Brattenbury. ‘We want to plant an operative in their camp. Make some identifications. Get some surveillance going.’
    Nod.
    Stare down at the six by tens.
    Brattenbury has, I’m sure, noticed the direction of my gaze before now, but this is the first time he responds directly. He flips the photos over one by one, leaving just a singleton still face down on the table.
    The photos are of people. Mugshots and full length profiles. One of them is of me. I’m wearing something from Next. Pale blue blouse, cardigan, grey skirt, dark court shoes. Bland, safe, officey.
    There are four other photos, all of men. Men in their thirties or younger forties. Short hair. Muscular, or at least tough-looking. Narrow eyes, strong jaws. The men are all wearing jeans. Dark shirts or T-shirts. Casual jackets, one leather, one denim, the two others not far removed from the same denim-leather school of couture. Four men with a whiff of the macho.
    I recognize three of the men: my colleagues. One I don’t, but I assume he’s a copper too, just one I haven’t met. The three men I recognize have all worked undercover.
    I know where this is going.
    ‘I understand you’ve just completed your undercover course.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did very well. An unusually strong performance, I’m told.’
    I shrug. ‘It was a training thing, not a real thing.’ That’s not wonderful English, but at least my voice seems to be working again.
    ‘That’s perfectly true. There’s a huge difference and yet the training is designed for real life. By people who have lived that life.’
    Nod.
    ‘Fiona, we need a payroll clerk. Someone who looks like a payroll clerk. Someone who could do the job of a payroll clerk. We need an outstanding investigator and someone with nerve. Preferably also someone local. We could bring in someone from Birmingham, say, but then they look like someone being brought in for a reason. They’ll be the first person our targets will suspect.’
    Nod.
    There’s a glance between Jackson and Brattenbury. Jackson reaches out and flips the last photo. It’s of Kureishi. His corpse. Not a shot I’ve seen before. This one is full frontal. It takes a moment to notice that he has