The Insider

The Insider
Ava McCarthy

A cutting-edge international debut thriller set in the world of hackers, techno-thieves and inside traders, for fans of John Grisham.Henrietta 'Harry' Martinez lost her investment banker father, Sal, at a young age. He taught her everything he knew – about taking risks and calculating odds. But Sal made a bad gamble when he went into business with 'The Prophet', an anonymous trader who claims Harry owes him, now her father's jailed for fraud.It's twelve million euros. Or her life.With no money and little time, Harry must track down Sal's crooked partners and escape the people on her trail – journalists, police and hired killers. But Harry has her own skills, honed by her father, skills her enemies haven't anticipated. Now, from the London Stock Exchange to the casinos of the Bahamas, the chase is on. The stakes are high. And the bets are off…

AVA McCARTHY

The Insider

For my parents, Jim and Marie Halpenny, who sadly passed away while I was writing this book. Thank you for your unquestioning love and support always.

Contents

Title Page (#u5c12baca-c5fd-5597-84df-7e174b3e6a3b)Dedication (#u2c9d6eeb-691d-593b-9de1-964228e1012d)Chapter One (#ub3b230c6-067e-5511-8d9f-dd79e1d7b5c7)Chapter Two (#uddaa7fb2-d8ee-58ad-addd-464242170e4c)Chapter Three (#u1341d799-f7f2-5a41-bd02-f88f5da5e118)Chapter Four (#u33491908-63d7-5aa0-9bb4-effe0fa2274a)Chapter Five (#u5d7c1da3-992a-5a2a-9f6b-e1420f0909af)Chapter Six (#u1aa67683-cd61-54b3-a538-9d2d84543a5b)Chapter Seven (#ub951b717-13f2-5a4b-9c9d-3aad45d3ff39)Chapter Eight (#u79a7255e-7448-52c1-8095-53072d517a05)Chapter Nine (#ued23319e-9621-580f-90a9-64ad6d7eeb15)Chapter Ten (#ub8bf6e95-474e-556d-a662-42d62a7ca6c5)Chapter Eleven (#u3a92686b-dff2-5d36-9ce2-1ade1283858d)Chapter Twelve (#u2b65a004-88a0-5ef2-853f-d1a2a05e0ea8)Chapter Thirteen (#u627d2bd5-59a1-5d3a-b0e5-f5e459c6dfb0)Chapter Fourteen (#u79f30317-3662-5a3e-bb5a-82db3f8d7d75)Chapter Fifteen (#u9669fd6e-7dea-5e04-8fcb-0869b981fb97)Chapter Sixteen (#u23d62b9a-9cb6-50f5-91aa-29de85915a17)Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Twenty Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Thirty Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Six (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Seven (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Eight (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Forty Nine (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty One (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty Two (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty Three (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty Four (#litres_trial_promo)Chapter Fifty Five (#litres_trial_promo)Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

1 (#u3b73707e-90e5-5479-9343-230970466da0)

Harry was about to do something that could put her in jail. This wasn’t unusual in her line of business, but it still made her palms sweat.

She pushed her coffee away and stared at the glass doors of the building across the street. Her eyes watered in the April glare. The first time she’d tried anything like this had been sixteen years ago when she was just thirteen, and she’d almost been arrested. This was different. This time she was going to get away with it.

The doors across the street swung open and she jerked upright in her chair. It was just the motorbike courier coming back out. He’d been the only visitor in the last twenty minutes. Harry shifted on the hard aluminium seat, certain she’d be left with stripes like Venetian blinds chiselled across her backside.

‘D’you want anything else?’

The café manager stood in front of her, squat like a bulldog, his arms folded across a stained apron. The message was clear. It was lunchtime, and she had occupied the pavement table for almost an hour. Time to go.

‘Yes I do.’ She flashed him her best winsome smile. ‘A sparkling water, please.’

He dumped her cup and saucer on a tray and slouched back inside. The doors across the street swung open again and five young women stepped out in a bunch, all wearing the same navy-and-green uniform. They strolled along the pavement, passing around a single cigarette, sucking on it like deep-sea divers sharing out their last canister of air. Harry squinted at their faces. They were all too young.

She sat back and uncrossed her legs. Her tights prickled under her navy suit and her feet had started to cramp. It had been a toss-up that morning between plain flat shoes and the kitten heels with gold buckles, but as always she’d been a sucker for anything shiny. She hoped she wouldn’t have to make a run for it any time in the next forty-five minutes.

Harry flexed her feet and listened to the clang of beer barrels being unloaded down a nearby laneway. She could smell the stale lager from the open pub doors, musty like decaying fruit. A bus lurched to a halt right in front of her and blocked her view of the doors.

Shit, she should have noticed the bus stop before she sat down. The engine throbbed as one by one the passengers spilled out. The air quivered with hot diesel fumes, the bus and the building beyond it rippling like a mirage. She drummed her fingers on the table.

Jesus, was the whole of Dublin on this bus?

She tried to see past its dusty windows to the office building beyond, but could only make out the top of the doorframes. Sunlight flashed off metal as the doors opened again, but Harry couldn’t see who had come out.

She scraped back her chair and sprinted a few yards up the street until she had a clear view of the entrance again. The pavement was deserted.

Harry checked her watch. It was getting late, but she couldn’t risk making her next move. Not yet.

The bus revved up its engine and barged back into the traffic. Harry clenched her fists, waiting for it to move on. Then her view cleared, and she spotted a woman halfway down the street, marching in the opposite direction to the other girls. She was older than they were, in her late forties maybe, and she was alone. She stopped to cross at the kerb, and glanced back up the street.

Harry’s fingers relaxed. The woman’s blonde streaks were new, but otherwise she looked just like her photograph on the website.

She waited till the woman had disappeared. Then she flung some coins on the table and crossed the street.

It was cooler and quieter on this side of the glass doors. Harry strode up to the receptionist, checking out her surroundings as she went. A low table with business magazines stood against one wall. To her left was a set of large double doors, and another to her right. Her only escape route, should she need one, was back out the way she’d come in.

Harry selected another smile from her repertoire, the grimace of an uptight businesswoman with no time for fooling around.

‘Hi, I’m Catalina Diego,’ she said to the girl behind the desk. ‘I’m here to see Sandra Nagle.’

The girl kept her gaze fixed to the computer screen in front of her. ‘She’s just gone to lunch.’

‘But I’ve an appointment with her for twelve thirty.’

The girl chewed on the end of a pencil and shrugged. Her lips were a sticky mess of pink lip-gloss, and some of it had strayed on to the pencil.

Harry leaned in closer over the desk. ‘I’m here to run the training course for the helpdesk. Just how long is she going to be?’

The girl shrugged again and clicked the mouse on her computer. Harry wanted to snatch it out of her hands and rap her on the knuckles with it.

‘Well, I can’t hang around,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll have to start without her.’

She turned towards the doors on her left, as though she knew where she was going. The receptionist half stood from her chair, her pencil clattering to the desk.

‘I’m afraid I can’t let you in there without Mrs Nagle’s permission.’

‘Look –’ Harry turned back and peered at the girl’s name badge ‘– Melanie, this course has taken a month to arrange. If I leave now, it’ll be another month before I come back. Do you want me to explain to Sandra just why I couldn’t get started?’

Harry held her breath and braced herself. If someone had tried to bully her like that there’d have been quite a backlash. But Melanie just blinked and sank back in her chair. Harry didn’t blame her. She’d talked to Sandra Nagle for the first time that morning when she’d called the bank with a bogus customer complaint. She’d found her name and photograph on the bank’s corporate website, in the section that boasted of its unrivalled customer service. After two minutes’ conversation with her, Harry had the woman pegged as a complete bitch, and it looked as though Melanie agreed with her.

Melanie swallowed and shoved a visitor’s book across the desk. ‘Okay, but you’ll have to fill this out first. Name and date here, sign there.’

Something flickered in the pit of Harry’s stomach as she scribbled in the details. Melanie handed her an identity badge and pointed to the doors on Harry’s left.

‘Through there. I’ll buzz you in.’

Harry thanked her and gave herself a mental high five. She remembered the high fives her father used to give her whenever her poker bluffs paid off. ‘Nothing like the rush that comes from winning with an empty hand,’ he’d say, winking at her.

Empty hand was right. She clipped the badge to her lapel and stepped over to the doors. The safety lock clicked and a green light blinked on the wall panel. She straightened her shoulders and pushed open the heavy doors. She was in.

2 (#u3b73707e-90e5-5479-9343-230970466da0)

Leon Ritch hadn’t heard from the Prophet in over eight years, and had hoped to Christ he’d never hear from him again. He scratched his two-day-old stubble and read the email again.

Maybe it was a hoax. After all, anyone could sign himself ‘The Prophet’. He checked the sender’s address. It was different from the last time, but just as obscure: an763398@anon.obfusc.com. He thought about trying to trace it but knew it wouldn’t do any good. They’d tracked the Prophet’s last address to some anonymous re-mailer system. A dead end. Whoever he was, he knew how to conceal his identity.

Apart from himself, only three other people knew about the Prophet. One of those was in prison and another was dead. That just left Ralph.

Leon dialled a number he hadn’t used in a long time.

‘It’s me,’ he said.

‘Sorry, who’s this?’