Death in the Black Wood, Oliver Davies [short story to read TXT] 📗

like, but the danger of being noticed was far greater now, and he knew it.

It was at about ten thirty on Tuesday morning that Shay finally struck possible gold.

We were sharing my desk, side by side, where we could look across at each other’s screens without having to get up and move. His slight change in position alerted me to the fact that something had caught his intense interest, like a cat that had noticed a rustle of movement in the undergrowth. Or like his namesake hawk, patiently perched, waiting for just such a sign.

“Got something?” I asked after giving him a few minutes to read through the various windows he was pulling up at a pace I couldn’t possibly match. He tapped a key and brought up one of his driving licence photos.

“A strong candidate, yes. Mr Brady O’Hara, aged twenty seven. His parents both died in a car crash, nearly a year and a half ago. As their only child, he inherited a good lump from them, as well as selling the family home and collecting on their life insurance policies. He pocketed over two million, after taxes, then quit his job and, according to his social media, decided to move to New Zealand last August. He hasn’t posted anything on that account since. Not many ‘friends’ on there either. It looks like he’s cut off all contact with them since then.”

“Where was he living before that?”

“Edinburgh, since he turned eighteen, but he grew up in Fort Augustus. The father was a modestly successful lawyer. Nice home in a nice neighbourhood.”

“So what’s your next move?”

“I need to start digging into his finances, see what sort of activity there’s been on his bank accounts since then. I want to check through what the solicitor who handled everything for him has too. He might have used the same firm to buy a new place. Medical records too.” He was typing away busily as he talked. “This looks good Conall.”

I was trying not to place too much hope on it, yet, but it really did.

“Send me the licence over please. I want to blow up that photo and get a good look at him.”

I printed a copy out and compared it to Fisher’s sketch. The eyes were a little closer together and a little smaller, the nose and chin wider, the cheekbones less pronounced. Even so, it was an incredibly good likeness, drawn from the memory of a man who’d seen that face only briefly. Biometric facial recognition software did not work on ‘similar’ though. It used precise mathematical measurements to decide if two faces were the same. Allow that software any significant error margin and, as I now knew, you could drown in the resulting ‘matches.’

“How many versions of this face have you tried so far?” I asked curiously.

“Ninety-three, with a one per cent error margin on different features each time I ran them.” Shay’s fingers barely slowed as he remained focused on his screen. “This is going to take a while.” Meaning that talking wouldn’t speed it up.

Well, I should probably go and check on my team, anyway. I could grab a coffee while I was out there and bring a tea back for him. I couldn’t see Shay tearing himself away from his laptop any time soon, not now that he finally had a promising scent to follow. By lunch time, my cousin had some further news for me.

“Our Mr O’Hara transferred almost all of his funds to an offshore bank account at the end of August, two weeks after receiving the last of the payouts he was waiting for. I’m going to have to follow the money trail to get anything from there. That could take a couple of days, depending on how many times he bounced it around before deciding he’d hidden it well enough. He didn’t use the same solicitor to buy any property after that either.” The financial manoeuvrings were encouragingly suspicious, but ‘a couple of days’ was an unwelcome delay.

An hour later, we were sure that Brady O’Hara was our killer. Among his medical records was a note from one GP who’d asked about an old burn scar on the child’s right hand. The mother had explained that Brady, as an active toddler, had managed to reach up and wobble the ironing board enough to tip the iron over when she’d turned her back for a second. The tip had burned his poor little hand.

He’d been an accident prone kid, according to the records Shay found. A respectable family like that, with a nice home in a nice neighbourhood, why would anyone suspect otherwise? Children were always giving themselves scrapes and bruises, falling off bikes or out of trees, tumbling downstairs, tripping up, sometimes breaking a bone or two in the process. Little Brady must have been well tutored and very convincing, the few times his mother had actually taken him to A&E.

It was time I called McKinnon.

“We've just identified our suspect, James,” I told him. “Our man grew up in Fort Augustus. His name is Brady O’Hara, but it looks like he changed his identity last year. Shay’s following the money trail now. It might take a few days to unravel and get the new name, but we should have an address too once he’s done with it. I’ve just emailed you O’Hara’s latest UK driving licence.”

“Aye, I’m looking at it now. You’re sure it’s him?”

“Ninety-nine-point-nine per cent, allowing for coincidence. Brady has a burn scar from an iron on his right hand. No criminal record either.”

There was a brief pause.

“You just go ahead and give your cousin a kiss on that brilliant little head of his from me, will you, Conall? That’s the best news I’ve heard in months. What do you need?”

“We know the earliest he could have moved now. I’d like Philips’ team to start looking into property sales and long-term rentals. Anything from the end of last August onwards that matches the kind of place we’re looking for.