Looking Good Dead

A hand, like a vice, gripped his throat.
    Something was pressed over his mouth and nose, a damp cloth with a sharp, sour reek. He felt an instant, blinding headache, like a cheese-wire slicing through his brain.
    Behind his eyes it was as if a television had been switched off: one small diminishing pinprick of light, rapidly fading to black.

69
    The next Sussex police officer to get an early-morning call was Detective Sergeant Jon Rye of the High Tech Crime Unit. His alarm clock showed 2.43 a.m. as his mobile began to ring, and he cursed not having turned the damned thing off.
    His wife stirred but didn’t say anything as he snapped on the bedside light, waking up fast, looked at the caller display and saw only Private number calling. Almost certainly to do with work, he thought.
    It was the SIO of the Janie Stretton case on the line. Rye glanced at his wife, asked Roy Grace to hold for a moment, then pulled on a dressing gown and hurried downstairs into the kitchen and closed the door.
    ‘Sir?’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’
    ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ the Detective Superintendent said. ‘I need to ask you something urgently. Last night you logged an incident on the system – a “War Driving”.’
    Oh shite, Jon Rye thought blearily. He’d only logged that bloody phone call from that Swiss engineer out of cussedness. More as a joke than anything, really. Talk about something coming back to bite you!
    ‘You put down the registration details of a white Ford Transit van. That van was outside a crime scene the previous night, and it has been involved in an accident following a high-speed pursuit tonight.’
    ‘I see,’ the head of the High Tech Crime Unit said.
    ‘I’ve never heard of this expression, “War Driving ” , before. What did you mean by it?’
    Rye explained.
    When he had finished, Grace said, ‘OK, if I understand correctly, you are saying that people with Wi-Fi – a wireless internet connection – can log onto any system that is not password-protected?’
    ‘Correct, sir. The wireless router – a small bit of hardware that costs about fifty quid – puts out a signal, and anyone with Wi-Fi who’s withinrange can log on to the internet through it, if they are not locked out by a password request.’
    ‘So they can get a free high-speed internet connection doing this?’
    ‘Exactly, sir.’
    ‘Why would they bother?’
    ‘If you are out and about, wanting to pick up or send emails, it can be just out of convenience. I’ve done it myself.’ Rye, wide awake now, stepped over to the kettle, checked it had water and switched it on, deciding to have a cup of tea.
    ‘You’ve done it yourself? How do you mean?’
    ‘I’ve been a passenger in a car in Brighton, stopped at lights, with my laptop open, and suddenly I’ve realized I’m online – my Wi-Fi’s picked up a signal from a wireless router. In a few seconds you can download and pick up a lot of emails – and web pages.’
    Grace was quiet for a moment, digesting this. ‘So Mr Seiler, who made the complaint, was angry about a man in a white van outside his house, connected to his wireless router by his Wi-Fi.’
    ‘That’s what it sounded like to me, sir.’
    ‘But why would Mr Seiler have been angry? Would it have mattered?’
    ‘Yes. If he’d been trying to send or download email, in particular large files, it would have slowed his connection speed down.’ Rye searched for an analogy. ‘If you imagine in your house you turn on every tap at the same time, water’s going to come more slowly out of each of them than if you had just one running. It’s not a perfect analogy.’
    ‘So this man in the van realized he had found a good spot to surf the net from?’
    ‘Yes, sounds like it; it’s a way to use the net without paying.’
    The Detective Superintendent was quiet for some moments. ‘But the charges are pretty small now. Could there be another reason?’
    The kettle was hissing, coming to the boil. It was pitch dark outside. On the fridge door was a crayoned drawing of a spindly man in a cap, in a boxy little car with four uneven wheels, and the word DADDY beneath it. It had been drawn by his daughter Becky a good ten years back, when he had been in Traffic; she must have been about nine.Strange what tiredness did to you, he thought. He probably hadn’t looked at that drawing for the best part of a decade.
    ‘Another reason?’ Jon Rye said. ‘Yes, if you had emails you wanted to send or receive that