Mike’s going to have a look at it tomorrow, but it’s all anonymous servers and routing through overseas accounts. Way over my head.

MacBride swivelled his laptop around to reveal the screen. “Um, actually,” he said, “there was something might explain that, sir. “I was trying to find a leak. You know, to explain how a copy-cat could know so much about Smythe’s murder when we’ve not told the press anything.

“Well, it occurred to me that SOC photographs are all digital now.

“It’s easy to make electronic copies.

“You can fit thousands of photographs on a card the size of a stamp.

“But I couldn’t exactly walk into the SOC offices and ask them, and I couldn’t think what anyone would want with copies if they weren’t going to sell them to the papers.”

“They’d get good money for them in Brazil.” “What?”

“It’s a part of the culture over there, death. They have newspapers that specialise in publishing pictures of fatal accidents.

“Sometimes the photographers are there before the police and ambulances.

“You can buy the papers from street vendors. Images like this would be very popular.”

MacBride shuddered. “How do you know about this stuff, sir?”

Expensive

“Benefits of an expensive education. I know a little bit about a lot of things.

“That and the Discovery Channel, of course. “Anyway, you were telling me about Smythe and his pictures.”

“Was I? Oh, aye. Well, I figured if they were selling them, they’d be doing it online.

“So I went looking for dodgy photos.”

“On a station computer? That was brave.”

“It’s all right, sir. Mike gave me this laptop. It’s outside the main tech monitoring loop.

“Otherwise I’d have had to ask Dagwood to sign a waiver form, and you know what he’s like.”

“The pictures, constable.” McLean pointed back at the screen.

“Yes, sir. Well, I found lots. Crime-scene photos, car accidents.

“I guess some of that Brazilian stuff you were mentioning, though I couldn’t understand the language. It was like Spanish only different.” “That’s because they speak Portuguese in Brazil.” “Portuguese. Right.

“Anyway, eventually I found this newsgroup tucked away behind some serious security.

“And there was all this stuff there. Smythe’s crime scene, Buchan Stewart, Jonas Carstairs. Even those two suicides.

“There’s loads of other stuff up there too, but the pictures I recognised were all posted by someone calling themselves MB.”

McLean clicked the thumbnail page. Scrolling down, he counted over a hundred pictures, and there were dozens more pages like it.

“Whoever’s doing this must have access to every photograph we’ve ever taken,” he said.

“How many SOC photographers are there?” “About a dozen specialise in it, but they’re all trained to use the cameras.

“And I guess the technicians and support staff might have access, too.

“But it could be a police officer just as easily, sir. We all have access to these photographs.”

“Can we track this MB person back from this site?”

Anonymous

“I doubt it, sir. Mike’s going to have a look at it tomorrow, but it’s all anonymous servers and routing through overseas accounts. Way over my head.

“But it does explain how someone might know the details of Smythe’s murder.

“And I guess if you get your kicks from looking at this kind of thing, it’s only a matter of time before you escalate.”

Damn. He’d been so sure. Was still sure. But this was too much to ignore.

“That’s good work, Stuart. Get a report typed up as soon as and I’ll make sure the chief superintendent knows who did all the work.

“Meantime, I still want to work on the theory we’ve got our sixth man still out there and he’s doing everything he can to make sure we don’t find him.”

“Did I hear someone mention my name?” McLean looked around to see the chief superintendent standing in the doorway.

MacBride leapt to his feet as if someone had just zapped him with a stun gun.

Grumpy Bob nodded and, in his own time, took his feet off the desk.

“I asked Constable MacBride to look into the crimescene leak. I rather think he’s found it.”

McLean gave McIntyre a quick rundown of what he’d just himself learnt.

She fidgeted throughout his short presentation, like a young girl needing to be excused but not knowing how to ask.

“That’s top work, constable,” she said when they were finished.

“And Christ only knows, we could do with some good news.”

Unsure

And now McLean could see what was coming. It was written all over her face.

“Do you want me to . . . ?”

He motioned towards the door.

“No. It’s OK, Tony. This is my job.

And I thought it only fair I tell you myself. Tell all of you.”

McIntyre straightened her uniform jacket, momentarily unsure how to go on.

“It’s Constable Kydd. She took a turn for the worse. The doctors did their best, but she was too badly injured.

“She died about an hour ago.”

More tomorrow.