Catwalk Criminal (15 page)

“So what went wrong?” Zak asked.

“I'd helped LibertyCrossing launch the hacks on Saturday. I posted suggestions for places to be targeted on hacking websites, different challenges that LibertyCrossing believed would cause maximum disruption across this country and in the United States.”

Zak ignored the sign for the Underground and hailed a black cab. He had to give the driver a wad of cash to persuade him to take them; Henry stunk to high heaven and they all looked rough. Zak checked that the light was turned off in the back, indicating that the driver couldn't listen in, before nodding to Henry that it was safe to continue.

“I guess on the day, it all went to my head. I felt in control for once in my life, instead of being known as the son of someone powerful.” Henry stared out of the window, his eyes vacant. “I hacked the emergency services, the traffic-light systems and virtually every prison in the UK. LibertyCrossing had been quite specific about targeting the prisons and filing a full diagnostics on the firewalls at each. He wanted to discover any flaws in the computer systems. That's when I asked LibertyCrossing for my million dollars.”

“You thought you were the best?” Zak asked. “Even after the hack on the federal bank in the US?”

“That was my idea,” Henry snapped. “Sorry. I mean, it was obvious I was the most useful person. LibertyCrossing had said so in an email, how I'd inspired other hackers to do things they'd never even dreamt of. I knew no one could beat me, even by deadline day. I was the best.”

Jessica coughed. The sense of pride in his voice was nauseating. Didn't he feel any remorse for the mayhem he'd caused that day? People could have died in car crashes or been killed in the prisons because of his hacks. She took a deep breath. It was pointless laying into him; he'd only clam up.

“LibertyCrossing wouldn't talk money?” she persisted.

“He fobbed me off repeatedly, saying he had to wait to see how successful the hack had been on MI6. That really grated. I mean, what hack? We'd never discussed targeting security services before. LibertyCrossing wouldn't tell me who'd done it or how. I was his right-hand man and suddenly I was frozen out and replaced.”

So it was wounded pride, not money, that had made Henry turn against the leader of The Collective.

“What did you do?” Zak asked.

“I lost my temper. I uploaded a new virus I'd constructed that collects personal passwords on to an email attachment and sent it to LibertyCrossing. He was distracted that day, I guess. He clicked it open and immediately tried to close it down, but it was too late. I'd found his IP address – something he'd always managed to disguise before. A bit more digging around the internet and I'd called up the geo-location of the computer. From the traces I ran, it seemed to be the one he used most frequently.”

“You have the actual address of the leader of The Collective?” Zak sat bolt upright in his seat. “That's why you were attacked at school? LibertyCrossing realized you'd discovered where he was based?”

“It was stupid. I should never have gone after him like that.”

“It's good you did because now we can find him and stop him from hurting you again, or anyone else,” Jessica said. “What's the address?”

Henry reeled off coordinates while Zak wrote them on his hand with a biro.

“What's there?” he asked.

“No idea. I was too afraid to look it up and find out. Dumb, I know. Like that could protect me. LibertyCrossing emailed me a message with two words afterwards – ‘Big mistake' – and then cut off all contact. I emailed again and again, apologizing for what I'd done, but heard nothing back. I planned to go into hiding that night when someone came for me. They hit me over the head as I was leaving my room. I didn't get to see their face, before you ask. It all happened quickly.”

“You were lucky,” Jessica said. “You could have been killed.”

“Yes.” Henry paused. “Thanks to you, I wasn't. But my laptop was destroyed, which gave me nothing to bargain with. I knew that LibertyCrossing would set other hackers on me. I thought I could keep them at bay, you know, by threatening to hand my laptop over to the authorities. When that was destroyed, I had nothing. I had to disappear.”

Henry looked from Zak to Jessica. “What happens now?”

She knew what Zak was thinking; he wanted to go to the mystery location straight away.

“We need to get Henry off the street first,” she reasoned. “He can't go back to sleeping rough again. It's below zero tonight.”

“Where will you take me?” Henry asked. “LibertyCrossing has eyes everywhere, believe me.”

“Not everywhere,” she said, thinking fast. “I know a place we can go.”

 

They'd switched taxis to be on the safe side. Jessica had picked a blind spot to flag down another ride, away from the view of CCTV cameras. She handed over the remainder of their cash, in return for the driver taking a long, complicated route to the address she'd hastily scribbled down on a piece of paper.

She was confident they hadn't been tailed; she'd been watching out of the back window throughout the journey while Henry and Zak rested. They'd both refused medical treatment even though the taxi driver had suggested taking them to hospital. Zak's eye was bloodshot and weeping and the gash on Henry's forehead was still bleeding. The driver had dropped them off a short distance away from Everley Road. They walked slowly down the street. Every bone in Jessica's body ached; Zak and Henry had to feel as bad. It'd been one hell of a night.

“Wait here.” Her hand hovered on the gate.

Zak and Henry leant against the wall with their backs to the house as she hammered on the door. The hall light flickered on and she heard the
tap tap
of footsteps.

“Who's there?”

“It's me, Jessica. Let me in?”

The door flew open and Becky peered out, make-up-less and wearing glasses. “Ohmigod. You look awful! Aren't you supposed to be in bed with flu? I thought you must be really ill. You didn't return my texts tonight.”

Jessica fell into Becky's arms. She choked back tears as she inhaled her familiar Katy Perry perfume. She needed a hug. The house was quiet apart from the drone of a TV from the sitting room.

“What's wrong? You're scaring me!”

Jessica stepped back. “Are your mum and dad here?”

“No. They've got theatre tickets and an after-show party. Why?” Becky tucked her black bob behind her ears. “What's going on? You look terrible and I don't mean because of flu. Seriously, you're freaking me out.” She stared down at the large, angry welt on Jessica's hand. “Has someone hurt you?”

Quickly, she shoved her hand into her pocket. “Can we come in? I wouldn't ask unless we were really desperate.”

“We?” Becky raised an eyebrow as Zak and Henry limped down the path. “I'm not exactly dressed for guests, particularly of the hot male model variety.” She glanced down at her blue onesie despairingly. “Seriously? Zak has to see me looking like this?”

“It doesn't matter what you're wearing. We need your help. Please let us in.”

Becky stepped to one side, her eyes widened as she took in Henry and Zak's wounds. Jessica double-checked no one had seen them enter as she closed the door.

“Hi,” Zak said, planting a kiss on Becky's cheek. “It's good to see you again.”

She blushed furiously. “Erm … hello. You too.”

Henry hung back, unsure what to do. He smiled shyly at Becky.

“Are you sure this is going to be OK?” Zak turned to Jessica, wincing. “We can't afford to take any chances.”

She handed him another tissue for his bloody lip. “Becky's my best friend. I'd trust her with my life.”

Zak nodded. “Then I do too.”

Becky turned an even deeper crimson colour. “Why don't you and your silent friend go into the kitchen? I'll make some coffee. It looks like we could all do with a pick-me-up.”

Henry beamed gratefully. Jessica doubted he'd had anything hot to eat or drink for days. Zak followed him into the kitchen, but Becky stepped in front of Jessica, blocking her path. She waited until the door closed.

“I wish you'd given me a bit of warning. I'd have changed.”

“I'm sorry. It was kind of last-minute.”

“So I heard. Jamie was here earlier,” she said, frowning. “He told me you'd gone out with Zak. He was in bits.”

“It was hardly a date,” Jessica pointed out. “I can't believe we've broken up because of tonight.” The words didn't feel real. She and Jamie were no longer an item; they wouldn't text each other every night before they went to sleep or share Saturday brunch again. She doubted whether he even wanted to stay friends. When he left, he looked like he hated her guts.

Becky jerked her head towards the kitchen. “You can't blame him being paranoid when he's competing with Zak.”

“He doesn't need to compete. I promise you, hand on heart, there's nothing going on between us.”

“Not from your side.”

Jessica shook her head vigorously. “No way.”

“You must have noticed the way Zak looks at you,” Becky pressed. “He likes you. Sure, he's charming and friendly when I meet him. I'm sure he's super nice to all the girls. But he doesn't look at me the way he looks at you. I could see it a mile off at our DVD evening. There was a spark between you. I bet you felt it too.”

“No way. We're just friends. We…” Her voice trailed off. In truth, she wasn't sure what they were. They weren't exactly friends, yet she was spending more time with him than anyone else in her life right now. “We work together. Jamie couldn't get his head round the fact that we were hanging out.”

Becky sighed. “It's hardly surprising, is it? You haven't made any of Jamie's gigs recently, you lie about where you go and Zak's hot, hot, hot. Plus, he's got that bad boy vibe going for him, with all those sexy battle scars. Girls go for that sort of thing.
I
go for that sort of thing.”

“Not me,” Jessica said firmly. “I model with him, that's all.”

“That's not strictly true, though, is it?” Becky persisted. “There has to be more to it than that. You lied to me tonight. You don't look like you've got flu; you've all been involved in some kind of bust-up. Whatever happened tonight goes way beyond modelling.”

Jessica stared down at her muddy trainers, figuring out how she could start to explain.

“I recognize the other boy. You do realize that his face is plastered all over the TV and newspapers?” Becky continued. “They're saying that Henry Murray ran away from his boarding school and the police are looking for him. His dad's some kind of high-powered diplomat, but you must know that already.”

She was tired of lying to Becky. She had to come clean – up to a point. “You're right. I don't have flu and I'm sorry I lied to you and didn't return your texts. Mattie thinks I'm staying at yours tonight. I texted to say I was ill because I didn't want you to swing by and scupper my story. I had to help find Henry Murray.”

Becky didn't flinch. “Why have you brought him here?”

“It's not safe for him to return to school. And he can't tell his family where he is for the moment. I know it's a massive thing to ask when I haven't been totally honest with you, but he needs to stay here for a while, without anyone knowing, including the police. Tonight, perhaps tomorrow, until I've figured out what to do.”

“You do know what you're saying? Have you any idea how much trouble I'll be in if anyone finds out I'm hiding him here and didn't tell his school? What about his family? Don't his parents have the right to know he's safe? They must be worried sick.”

“You're the only person I could think of who'd do it for me,” Jessica admitted. “I wouldn't be asking unless there was a really good reason for not allowing him to return.”

Becky didn't skip a beat. “Does this have something to do with your dad's job? Is that why you couldn't tell Jamie the truth about what's going on? You're working on some kind of case with your dad?”

That was the closest thing to the truth she could admit. Becky knew that her dad was a private investigator and that she sometimes helped him out on cases that involved surveillance and planting bugs. She had no idea about his MI6 background or Jessica's involvement with Westwood and that was the way it had to stay. But at least Becky's guesswork wasn't
too
far from the truth.

“His work has to be kept secret, to protect his clients. I can't betray that trust, even to Jamie, however much I may want to. Henry must be kept safe, away from anyone connected to him.”

Becky studied her face for a few seconds. “But why rope in Zak if you can't confide in Jamie?”

“It's complicated to explain, but he has a connection to Henry.”

“Which you can't go into?”

Jessica nodded. “I'm really sorry. I'd tell you if I could.”

“OK,” she said finally. “Henry can stay tonight. I've got some hair dye he can use to disguise his appearance if necessary. I'll tell Mum and Dad he's a friend from the National Youth Theatre who needs a bed. But that's all I can do. They'll become suspicious if he stays any longer than a night or two.”

Jessica hugged her. “Thanks. I knew you'd come through for me.”

“Haven't I always? You're hard to say no to, Jessica Cole. I'm going to change out of this wretched onesie, pretend that I've got a shot with Zak and then I'll help patch you up. You're a wreck, girl.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Are you sure this is right?”

Jessica stared up at the large warehouse situated in the heart of a deserted industrial estate in South London. They'd left Henry at Becky's house after a quick pasta supper and traced LibertyCrossing's coordinates using a map rather than the GPS app on their mobiles. Cutting through the wire fence that surrounded the unit had taken seconds with Zak's laser pen. It also contained a mini blowtorch, which they could use to seal up the fence on their way out.

The warehouse had no signage, but that wasn't particularly unusual. A few neighbouring ones didn't display business names either. Maybe the owners were very private. Was this The Collective's HQ? It was possible that LibertyCrossing had bounced his IP address around different locations to prevent his permanent base from being discovered.

“The coordinates are correct.” Zak slipped on a pair of thermal imaging glasses and scanned the building. He took them off again. “It looks empty. We could have a quick scout around while we're here even if it's just to rule it out. What do you think?”

He hadn't wanted to call the coordinates into Rodarte until he was sure the location was a goer.

“Yeah, let's do it.”

They circuited the building to check for burglar alarms and decided to break in via the back entrance. Zak aimed a shaving foam can at the alarm and sprayed it; a liquid solution jetted out, expanded and covered the yellow box. Jessica's eyes narrowed. Rodarte and Westwood's technology was similar; she'd used a perfume bottle just like it in Paris. She pulled a grip out of her hair and stuck it in the lock, jiggling it about, along with some tweezers, the way her dad had taught her.

“Don't bother. I can laser it” Zak pulled out his pen again.

“No. Hold on. I can do it the old-fashioned way.” She fiddled with the grip and felt the lock spring open. She pulled two torches from her rucksack and opened the door. “Here goes.”

She stepped into the darkness first, flashing her torch around. The faint scent of a pine air freshener filled the air. Zak followed her into the bare, white-walled corridor, halting as the floorboard beneath his feet creaked. Carefully, they moved forward, swishing their feet skater-style instead of walking heel to toe to try and reduce the noise. Zak had said it was empty, but they couldn't afford to take chances. Within seconds, they'd turned right into what looked like the heart of the warehouse. Zak scanned the open space with his torch, illuminating row upon row of sewing machines and racks of fabrics.

“A clothing factory? This isn't the right place.” He didn't bother to lower his voice. “Do you think Henry deliberately tricked us?”

“Why would he?” she said, walking down the aisle. Her torch picked out patterns and trays of multicoloured cotton spread out on the work counters. “He needs our help.”

“Then he must have gotten the coordinates wrong.” His tone was exasperated. “Let's get out of here. It's a waste of time.”

“No. Wait. Look over here!” She aimed her torch at the wall, revealing dozens of sketches of outfits.

“They're just clothes designs,” Zak scoffed.

“They're Ossa Cosway's.”

“Are you sure? How can you tell?” He was already at her side, peering at the drawings of dresses and evening gowns.

“Look at the edging around this jacket and that dress. I recognize Ossa's signature style.” Jessica peered closer, moving along the row of pictures. She shone her torch on one print after another. “Each one is signed O.C. in small letters at the bottom right.”

“So what?” Zak frowned. “What's the big deal?”

She tucked her hair behind her ears. “It's odd, don't you think? Ossa's name keeps cropping up in all this for some reason.”

“Er, how, exactly?”

“Don't you remember? That American reporter, Helen Hamlyn, wore an Ossa Cosway raincoat to the prison when Lee Caplin escaped. The coat I wore to Margaret's prison was also one of his; Margaret even made a point of admiring it and saying how much she wanted one when she was free. Plus LibertyCrossing has used a computer somewhere in this warehouse, which happens to make Ossa Cosway clothes. It all adds up to an awful lot of coincidences, don't you think? You need to call it in, Zak. This place needs a thorough going-over by Westwood – I mean, Rodarte.”

Jessica flinched. It still felt odd not to be part of the Westwood team. Unfortunately, it also meant that Zak was ultimately calling the shots, not her, otherwise she'd be on the phone to Nathan ASAP.

“We don't have enough to go on yet,” Zak countered. “Like you say, it could be an
awful
lot of coincidences. Open any fashion magazine and you'll find a star wearing one of Ossa's designs. That doesn't mean every A-list actress in Hollywood is embroiled in this hacking conspiracy. Unless that's a new theory you care to run past me.”

She scowled. Was Zak being deliberately obstructive because he hadn't been the one to spot a possible link between Ossa Cosway and The Collective himself? He'd shot her down the first time she mentioned the possibility of looking into how Helen Hamlyn had acquired her expensive designer raincoat.

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Let's find the computer that Henry traced.”

Zak nodded curtly.

She brushed past him. Why did he have to be so annoying? There was only one way to go – straight down the aisle, in between the sewing machines. The far right-hand corner of the warehouse was sealed off in plastic sheeting. She made a beeline for it. It was probably designed to protect clothes from dust, but still worth a look. She ducked through the opening in the plastic.

Shining her light around, she could make out the table where dressmakers cut out patterns and fabric, together with a rack of different-coloured threads and a large, industrial sewing machine. A jacket with Ossa Cosway's trademark braiding around the collar hung nearby. A long piece of silver thread trailed down from the lapel, which was half stitched. She shone her torch on the rack of bobbins and pulled out a silver one. This was the thread being used on the unfinished jacket. She picked it up and examined it closer. It looked similar to the one she'd found stuck in the window frame at Henry's boarding house.

Jessica snipped off a sample with a pair of scissors, along with lengths from three more bobbins with near-identical colours. Had forensics examined the thread left behind at the International High School yet? Sure, MI6 had collected it from her house. But she could hardly ring Nathan to ask what they'd done with it. She slipped the threads into the small plastic bag she'd brought for gathering potential evidence and stuffed it into her back pocket. Carefully, she put each reel back in its place and went to find Zak.

He was in the office next to the toilets, his legs up on the desk as he stretched back in a leather chair. Was he deliberately trying to wind her up by appearing so relaxed in the dark? She ignored him and looked around. This was definitely Ossa Cosway's office. A three-piece suit covered in plastic hung from the coat stand, along with one of his hats. It was nothing like his stylish, minimalistic office at Ossa Cosway HQ in central London; this one was purely functional, with a scratched desk, a computer and a large grey filing cabinet. Her torch picked out a date planner taped to the wall, plastered with yellow Post-it notes. Paint peeled from the walls.

“Before you ask, I've flicked through the filing cabinet,” Zak said. “It contains invoices, bills, spreadsheets and the sort of business stuff you'd expect to find. No trace of LibertyCrossing or The Collective, nothing worth reporting to Rodarte.”

“What about the computer?”

“Yeah, right,” he drawled. “It shouldn't be a problem hacking into it, if it belongs to the leader of The Collective, as you seem to think it does. I expect LibertyCrossing – I mean, superhacker Ossa Cosway – left the password on one of these Post-it notes.” Zak flicked on the switch and the computer whirred to life. “Now which one is it?” He glanced at the wall and drew his finger along the yellow notes.

“Ha ha, very funny. You're right. The computer
could
be massively protected if it's the one LibertyCrossing's been using. Alternatively, he could have plugged a laptop in over there to coordinate the hacks.” She nodded at the modem. “Don't you think?”

He rolled his eyes. “You really think that Ossa Cosway could be the leader of The Collective?”

“I don't know what I think exactly. But I've a hunch that something's not right here.”

“Well, I'll come straight out with it. I don't buy it. Why would Ossa Cosway give two hoots about a teenage hacker like Lee Caplin? I've met loads of designers and they only care about one thing – fashion. You're hard-pressed to get them to talk about anything else. World events? What's that? I bet Ossa Cosway's no different. He's probably never even heard of Lee.”

“Maybe. Or fashion could be a good front. I did a shoot for him this week and he was big into the latest digital technology. He'd created a hashtag dress that you could text with messages, which was beyond cool. If he can do that, what else can he do with computers? After all, who'd suspect a fashion designer of being a superhacker? Maybe he feels protective towards a teenage hacker who's landed himself in big trouble.”

“That's a lot of maybes.”

Wow. She'd love to wipe that supercilious smirk off his annoying face by proving him wrong. She swiped his feet off the desk as she strode over to the filing cabinets.

Zak glared at her. “What are you doing now? I told you I've checked them.”

Ignoring him, she put her torch down and went through the drawers until she found the files containing lists of freebies that Ossa's PR department had given away to various celebrities. Her name was one of the few under “C”. Her eyes widened. The document stated she'd received £257,000 worth of clothes as part of her contract with Ossa Cosway Ltd. She flicked through the documents until she got to “H” for Hamlyn.

“Aha. Explain this.” She pointed her torch at a white piece of paper. “Why was Helen Hamlyn, the American reporter, given a free size fourteen raincoat from Ossa's latest collection? She's not exactly going to be featured wearing it in
Hello!
magazine, is she?”

“Let me see that.” Zak jumped up and snatched the paper off her. He studied it for a few seconds before finally speaking. “It's odd. I'll give you that. Helen's a total nobody in celeb land.”

She stared at him as an idea started to dawn. “Do you still have the names of the wealthy people in the US who were targeted by The Collective?”

“Why?” Zak tapped at his iPhone.

“Cut me some slack, why don't you?” She looked at his phone and read out details under the first name on the list. “Victoria Alton, a wealthy, married Hollywood actress, blackmailed for ten million dollars last August. She was trying to prevent details of her affair with an entertainment lawyer being made public.” She leafed through the data and pulled out two pieces of paper, itemizing outfits ranging from trousers to cocktail dresses. “Victoria's a regular customer of Ossa's and buys from each collection he launches. She was also given a hundred thousand dollars' worth of couture gowns to wear on the red carpet at the worldwide launches of her latest movie. Two months later, she was hacked.”

Zak's eyes widened. “Let's try another.” He stared at his phone. “How about this one? Tyler Harper, a dot-com millionaire whose bank account was raided. He lost twenty million.”

Jessica's fingers lingered on the document. A shiver of excitement passed down her spine. Her intuition was right. There
was
some kind of connection between Ossa Cosway and The Collective.

“Tyler Harper's here.” She showed him the itemized list. “His wife, Jo, is also a regular Ossa Cosway customer. She received a gift of free dresses to wear at dot-com conferences four months before her husband's bank account was drained.”

The pair methodically made their way down the list, mentally ticking off the names one by one. Within minutes, they'd discovered every single person on the hacked list was a customer of Ossa Cosway Ltd who'd received a free gift.

“You're right,” Zak said finally. “It's way too much of a coincidence that everyone who gets free Ossa Cosway clothes ends up being hacked, but what's the connection?”

“Ossa could be LibertyCrossing, hacking wealthy people on his customer database. Alternatively, he's working with the leader of The Collective and identifying targets for him to hack through the clothes deliveries.”

“The clothes could be a ruse to get into people's houses,” he admitted. “Ossa or an accomplice could hand-deliver them to a target and then hack the computers once they're inside.”

Jessica rubbed her forehead, trying to make sense of what was unravelling. “When I got all my deliveries, it was just a bloke in a van. He made me sign for the clothes and left them on a rack in the hallway. He wasn't out of my sight for the few minutes he was there and didn't go into the study where my dad's computer's kept.”