knew. They used nicknames and mixtures of letters and numbers even when they had nothing to hide. Her own personal email address was a combination of her surname and the last four digits of a previous phone number because, when she’d signed up, ‘caroljordan’ had already been taken. ‘OK. You didn’t know the identity of the sender. So what was his email address?’
He spread his hands. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t pay attention. I just wiped the whole thing. The email and the attachment.’
‘Presumably it was someone who had sent you things before?’
‘I’d advise you not to answer that, Ron.’ Scott laid a hand on his arm again.
Carol glared at the lawyer. ‘You seem to be losing sight of what’s at stake here, Ms Scott. A child is missing. We both know the chances are he’s dead. I’m trying to find out what happened to him, and that’s all I care about.’
‘Very commendable, Chief Inspector. But my concern is my client’s best interests. And I will not sit quietly by while you draw him into potentially incriminating statements.’
Carol gathered herself together and turned her attention back to Alexander. ‘Ron, can you remember anything that might lead us to the person who sent you this picture?’
He shook his head. ‘Honestly, if I knew anything useful, I’d tell you. I want to help, I really do.’
‘OK. Let’s try a different tack. Why do you think he sent it to you? Why would he have thought this was the kind of thing you might like to see?’
‘I don’t think…’ Scott began.
‘It’s all right,’ Alexander said. ‘I don’t know the answer to that either. Everybody gets unsolicited email. Spam blockers don’t get rid of it all.’ He sat back in his seat, clearly more relaxed now he’d figured out how to play the game.
Carol felt irritation rising. ‘Fine. If that’s how you want to play it, Mr Alexander, that’s the way we’ll go.’ She pushed her chair back. ‘This interview is over. But I should tell you that we’re going to be trawling every byte on your hard disk. We’re going to follow your footsteps round the web. You may think you’ve cleaned up your computer, but our technicians are going to demonstrate just how misguided you are. You’ve had your chance, Mr Alexander. And you just blew it.’
Carol marched out of the interview room and headed back to her office, not even bothering to check if Paula was following her. ‘Stacey? My office, now,’ she said as she crossed the squadroom. Paula and Stacey arrived together. ‘What did we get from the techies on Ron Alexander’s computer?’ Carol asked Stacey, waving a hand to indicate they should sit down.
‘Not as much as they’d hoped for,’ Stacey said. ‘People are so dim about this stuff. Alexander thought he’d erased everything from his hard disk. He probably panicked when he saw the earlier newspaper reports about Operation Ore. But like most people, he thought if he just deleted them then emptied the Recycle Bin, they were gone for good. And like most people, he never bothered to reformat or even defrag–’
‘Defrag?’ Paula asked faintly. Stacey rolled her eyes. ‘It’s when you–’ ‘Never mind,’ Carol said. ‘So there was still stuff lurking there?’
‘Well, yes, of course there was. File fragments, some complete files. Like the photo of Tim Golding.’
‘And can we find out where that came from?’
Stacey shook her head. ‘Not a trace. It’s an orphan.’
Paula opened her mouth but before she could speak, Carol said hastily, ‘Never mind, Paula, we get the idea. That’s a blow, Stacey.’ She rubbed the bridge of her nose between her fingers. The lead that had seemed so promising the day before was turning into another dead end. ‘What about his email service provider? Any chance they could help?’
Stacey shrugged. ‘Depends when he got the email. They’re not really techies, ISPs, just bean counters,’ she said disparagingly. ‘They’re only interested in billing, not in keeping records of traffic. Most only keep detailed records for a week. Some for a month. If he got that attachment more than a month ago, we’ve got no chance. And we’d need a court order before they’d hand over the information anyway.’
‘So we’re screwed.’ Carol’s flat statement hung in the air.
Stacey pushed her hair behind her ear. Her self-satisfied smile and her dark almond-shaped eyes made her resemble a cat. ‘Not necessarily. Images like this, there’s more to them than meets the eye. Literally. You sometimes get other information encoded in them.’
Carol perked up. ‘Like the sender’s details?’
Stacey’s sigh fell just short of obvious exasperation. ‘Nothing that straightforward. You might get the serial number of the camera that took the picture. Or the registration number of the software the photographer used to process the image electronically. Then it’s a matter of contacting the manufacturer or the software licence holder and seeing what information they can provide.’
‘That’s scary,’ Paula said.
‘It’s bloody good news,’ Carol corrected her. ‘So what are we waiting for?’
Stacey stood up. ‘It’s going to take time,’ she warned.
‘Doesn’t everything?’ Carol leaned back in her chair. ‘Anything you need, Stacey, just let me know. Paula, find out who Ron Alexander’s ISP is and see what they can tell us. It’s time we brought Tim Golding home.’
The doorbell came as a welcome relief. Tony pushed aside the philosophical text on the mind/body problem that had been stretching his brain and hurried down the hall. He opened the door to find Carol leaning against the porch, a bulging plastic carrier in one hand. ‘You ordered a takeaway?’ she said.
‘You took your time. It’s at least twenty-two hours since I placed my order,’ he said, stepping back and following her down the hall. ‘The kitchen’s straight ahead.’
Carol looked around, taking in the pine units and the tiled breakfast bar. ‘Very eighties,’ she said.
‘Is it? You think that’s part of the reason I got it so cheap?’
She smiled. ‘Could be. It looks in good nick, though.’
‘All the drawers work, which is a definite improvement on anywhere I’ve ever lived before. Now, do you want to eat first or tour the cellar?’
‘What I’d really like is a glass of wine. It’s been a frustrating day.’
‘OK. Wine we can do.’ He reached for an opened bottle of Australian Shiraz Cabernet and poured them each a glass. ‘Here’s to…I don’t know, what should we drink to?’
‘An end to frustrations? For both of us?’
Tony raised his glass and chinked it against hers. ‘That’s as good as anything. An end to frustrations.’ He watched her drink, noting the dark shadows under her eyes and the wariness in her body language. She was, he thought, a long way from herself. ‘So, would you like to see the cellar–sorry, basement flat?’
Carol
