Wicked Leaks Read online

  Praise for Wicked Leaks

  “Bendoris does it again in this swift-moving conspiracy thriller with an explosive plotline, sparky dialogue and a dash of controversy.” Douglas Skelton

  Praise for DM for Murder

  SHORTLISTED, Bloody Scotland Crime Book of the Year, 2015

  “Riveting.” Peter May

  “A real page turner that draws you in from the first sentence. Excellent story telling.” Lorraine Kelly

  “Tracking their quarry through Glasgow’s mean streets like a dysfunctional Holmes and Watson, Presley and Lavender must surely be the hottest contenders for Scotland’s next big TV crime series.” Alex Norton, star of Taggart

  “A murder mystery for the digital age – #GreatFun” Mason Cross

  “With plotting tight as a tweet, yet funny enough to have me LMAO, this fast-paced read will generate hordes of followers.” Douglas Skelton

  “Great characters.” Diana Gabaldon

  “Read DM For Murder on hols... very good.” First Minister Nicola Sturgeon

  Praise for Killing with Confidence:

  “A gritty yet compelling read. I would recommend it to anyone.” Alex Salmond

  “Quite simply the best piece of crime fiction I’ve ever read. A new star is born.” Mark Millar, Hollywood writer/producer

  Also by Matt Bendoris

  DM for Murder

  Killing with Confidence

  Wicked Leaks

  Contents

  Praise for Wicked Leaks

  Also by Matt Bendoris

  Wicked Leaks

  Prologue

  1: Sausages

  2: Sleep, glorious sleep

  3: Back off

  4: Mad Malky

  5: How the mighty have fallen

  6: Beast Shamer

  7: The heist

  8: A familiar face

  9: The Ripper

  10: Fishy

  11: Full moon

  12: The fantasist

  13: The Lottery

  14: You’ve got to be kidding me?

  15: Crystal meth

  16: The long arm of the law

  17: Photo evidence

  18: Regrets

  19: Normals

  20: Meltdown

  21: Doctor who?

  22: The casual racist

  23: The ‘S’ word

  24: The rival

  25: Numb

  26: A healthy breakfast

  27: The thin blue line

  28: Providing a service

  29: The phone box

  30: Headlines get you hung

  31: Luncheon

  32: Personal record

  33: Disappeared

  34: An email

  35: The book

  36: Safe house

  37: The North

  38: A–Z

  39: The chef

  40: Bedtime

  41: Forgiveness

  42: Hardware

  43: Busted

  44: A whore’s bath

  45: Translation

  46: Boulder

  47: Loose woman

  48: Nurse Drury

  49: The hunt

  50: A guardian angel

  51: The snatch

  52: The tribunal

  53: Hips

  54: M74

  55: Never judge a book by its cover

  56: Smash and grab

  57: Big Fergie

  58: Red jacket

  59: Chandelier

  60: Disabled space

  61: Fat bastard

  62: Scotch Corner

  63: What’s it like?

  64: Barefooted Bond

  65: Simples

  66: Retrieve

  67: Big Foot

  68: The truth

  69: I.D.

  70: The Mad Bat Society

  71: Tak-Ma-Doon

  72: Stolen goods

  73: Home

  74: Looking for Lucan

  75: Phone home

  76: Targeted

  77: Hobnobs

  78: Highest bidder

  79: Dee-lays

  80: Anya

  81: Precision

  82: Attack

  83: A voyage of discovery

  84: Inferno

  85: Cruising

  86: Wessel

  87: Bayushki

  88: Verification of Death

  89: Censored

  90: Nanny-cam

  91: Double-crossed

  92: Romeo

  93: Plop

  94: A new beginning

  95: The tap

  96: Growler

  97: Bothans

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To my wife, Amanda;

  children, Andrew and Brooke;

  my courageous mum, Annie;

  and my brother, Sean.

  Finally, this book is in memory of

  my uncle, Allan McIntosh.

  Prologue

  Monahan took one look at the mangled features of one of the world’s most famous and loved female icons, and knew instantly it was mission accomplished. What seemed like an improbable set of circumstances leading to a tragic road ‘accident’ had, in fact, been carried out with military precision: Monahan’s attention to detail was legendary. Like a chess player he could work out in the blink of an eye every permutation, ten moves ahead of any opponent.

  Her chauffeur had taken off like a Formula One driver from the Hôtel Ritz Paris, with the paparazzi in hot pursuit. The Mercedes she was travelling in could easily outrun the cameramen on their mopeds, but one powerful black motorcycle kept pace, switching from side to side with the car, like a lion harrying its prey, goading its driver to go faster and faster. All the time the bike’s pillion passenger was taking pictures, the flash from his camera briefly illuminating the occupants even through the vehicle’s darkened glass. Monahan saw a male passenger remonstrate with the driver, presumably telling him to lose their paparazzi pursuers.

  Exactly at the moment the chase entered the Pont de l’Alma tunnel, the motorbike rider suddenly accelerated in front, with the pillion passenger throwing a switch on his camera. The next flash was an intense white light that momentarily blinded the Mercedes driver, who recovered his sight in time to see he was about to plough into a white car directly in front of him. He took evasive action, clipping the rear of the Fiat Uno, before losing control.

  When the large, German-built vehicle struck a concrete pillar head-on inside the Parisian tunnel, it was travelling at nearly 80mph. There was just one survivor, a bodyguard – the only occupant wearing a seatbelt.

  The Princess rarely wore hers. Monahan knew that.

  He stood over the dying woman as she took her last breaths, watching impassively as her body shut down before his very eyes. He casually flipped back the switch on his camera and fired off a few frames of his eliminated target, this time using the normal flash once again.

  Hearing the mosquito-like buzz of the real paparazzi approaching on their mopeds, Monahan jumped on the back of the motorcycle, which roared off into the late summer night – unseen and untraceable, just like the Fiat Uno, which had been driven by one of Monahan’s men.

  It didn’t matter to Monahan who the target was, or the reasons given, as there rarely were any. It was just another confirmed kill in the long, lethal career of Mad Malky Monahan. The entire operation had gone like
clockwork, perfectly predicted by a man who left nothing to chance.

  But life had a very different plan ahead for Monahan – one that he had been unable to foresee. As the twentieth anniversary approached of the death that shocked the world, the Princess’s assassin would be fighting for his own life...

  1: Sausages

  April had arrived extra early at her favourite café, the Peccadillo, to enjoy a full fry-up in peace, without the usual barbed comments about her dietary habits from her younger colleague, Connor ‘Elvis’ Presley. April truly loved her food, and liked to eat without being judged, so she was slightly miffed to see Connor already sitting at their regular table. Then she caught sight of the café’s waitress, Martel, wearing a skimpier skirt than usual.

  That’s when it dawned on her...

  April ordered her morning mountain of the various salty and high-fat foods that pass for a traditional British breakfast before Connor said, ‘Actually, that sounds good. I’ll have the same.’

  In all their years dining at the Peccadillo, April had never seen the fitness-conscious Connor order a fry-up. The waitress was just as stunned.

  ‘Really? Okay then, how do you like your eggs?’ Martel asked.

  ‘Unfertilised,’ April smiled, as the waitress’s face turned scarlet, before she scuttled off in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘Miss Lavender, I do believe you made a young lady blush.’

  Connor and Martel had an on/off relationship. April figured they must be having an ‘on’ phase. Not much got past her.

  ‘So, long night?’ she asked mischievously.

  ‘You should know I never kiss and tell, but yes, five times if you must know.’

  ‘No wonder you’re hungry. It’s Martel I feel sorry for.’

  ‘And how come? She got to spend the night with one of Scotland’s top journalists,’ Connor said loftily.

  ‘Sure, but she’s still got to serve us our fry-ups. I’d have thought she’d seen enough sausage.’

  April enjoyed the moment, as it was normally Connor and Martel who took the mickey out of her. It was something she had got well used to, having developed a very thick skin after three decades in the rough and tumble world of newspapers.

  ‘I think there’s another round of redundancies coming,’ Connor said gloomily, moving the conversation on to work.

  The pair had become all too familiar with job losses over the last few years as their old-fashioned print industry continued its terminal spiral into oblivion. Online subscriptions had been a disaster, failing to replace the lost revenue that had fallen away with the plummeting circulation and advertising revenue. All of their rival publications were in the same boat. It was simply a case of who would sink first.

  ‘Think this will be it? A tap on the shoulder?’ April asked. A ‘tap on the shoulder’ was literally what happened to journalists before a senior manager told them they were at risk from redundancy.

  ‘Could be. I’m told they’re going after the high-earners this time.’ They both fell into that category. ‘So you work your arse off to get some causal shifts, then graft and beg and plead for a staff job, then work even harder to keep it. Show loyalty by staying with the company for decades, then end up a redundo target because you now earn too much,’ Connor moaned.

  ‘God, how times have changed. Remember the days of taking a flyer? Paraphrasing?’ April recalled fondly.

  ‘Yeah, then the News Of The World screwed it all up with their bloody phone-hacking. Idiots,’ Connor seethed.

  ‘Then there were the hospitals. Some journalists made a career from getting hold of medical records. Now they’d be locked up,’ April said.

  ‘I know. Shit, isn’t it?’ Connor replied with no hint of remorse.

  They sat in silence until their breakfast was served. Martel instantly lightened their mood as she had playfully arranged Connor’s sausage and two fried eggs to look like a cock and balls.

  ‘I’d have thought a chipolata would have done?’ April teased.

  ‘She should have arranged yours into an old boot,’ Connor retorted.

  ‘I hope he’s more charming in bed, love,’ April said, directing her attention to Martel.

  ‘Oh yeah, he’s stopped holding my head under the covers when he farts,’ the waitress smiled back.

  ‘Jeez, you do that once and you never hear the end of it,’ Connor said as he stabbed right into the sausages, fat and juice oozing around his fork’s prongs.

  The pair tucked into their breakfast, which contained at least half the daily calories required by an adult, and exceeded the recommended salt and fat intake probably for a whole week.

  ‘See, this is the problem with healthy living, nothing tastes as good as this heart-attack-on-a-plate,’ Connor said after finishing everything bar the fried tomato, which looked like a blood clot.

  ‘Yet you’ve left the healthiest thing on the plate,’ April observed through her customary mouthful of food. ‘If you’re not having your tomato...’ And without waiting for an answer she scooped the slimy, red blob onto her plate.

  Connor was always amazed at just how much April could shovel away. She adored eating and had hips ‘wide as the Clyde’ to prove it.

  They had worked for the same newspaper, the Daily Chronicle, since the early Nineties, but had only been thrown together in the last few years to head up the special investigations desk, from a windowless, converted broom cupboard, which passed as their office. The news editor at the time had hoped they would crash and burn so he could free up their salaries for new, younger and cheaper staff. But, much to their own surprise, they had worked wonders on a string of high-profile cases, including the murder of a jewellery tycoon, Selina Seth, and the death of the US television presenter Bryce Horrigan, which had seen them both involved in the thick of the action in America and Scotland.

  Connor had just turned forty, while April was old enough to be his mother at fifty-eight. He loved his social media and techie boy’s toys, while April would break into a cold sweat even thinking about them.

  ‘Another lord named,’ Connor said, scrolling through some website on his iPhone.

  ‘Named what?’

  ‘On this site, beastshamer.com. It’s like Wikipedia for paedophiles. They should call it Wikipaedo. They’ve just outed another judge. Lord Geoffrey Delphina. A particularly pious old bastard. Always liked to lecture about true family values in court.’

  ‘How can they do that? Where are they getting their information?’ April asked, finishing off Connor’s unwanted fried tomato.

  ‘They’re apparently based in Russia. Some of it’s stolen data from official files, others from survivors’ testimonies, I guess.’

  ‘Then why don’t we just print it? Publish and be damned and all that.’

  ‘Oh, we’re very brave once they’re dead. But otherwise we’re scared shitless. Even retweeting just a hint of these allegations and they’ll sue you. You are basically taking on the establishment.’

  ‘If only there was solid, cast iron proof. Something to nail them before they die,’ April seethed. She had interviewed enough victims throughout the years to know the utter devastation that sexual abuse can cause: broken and shattered lives.

  ‘Yup, if only. Right, I’ll pay for this. My Help The Aged good deed for the week,’ he said as he settled up with Martel, giving her a cursory peck on the cheek and a promise to call her later. The truth is he rarely did, hence why their relationship was always in a constant state of flux. For Connor was a reporter first and foremost. Everything else came a dim and distant second in his life, as Martel had discovered.

  April knew it too. ‘I may be an old technophobe. But you’re definitely a commitment-phobe,’ she remarked as they walked the short distance to their office in Glasgow’s city centre.

  2: Sleep, glorious sleep

  Kelly Carter arrived home at half eight
in the morning, beyond tired. She had briefly fallen asleep behind the wheel yet again, only to be woken by the rumble strip when her car had drifted off the main carriageway onto the hard shoulder. She had wound the window down, with the cold, icy blast of air enough to keep her awake for the final stretch home. She pulled into her drive to see her front door was already open, with her mum taking her children, William and Beth, to school.

  ‘Morning, Mum,’ Beth said, rushing to embrace Kelly. Her daughter was just nine and still free and easy with her hugs, but William had recently turned twelve and held back a bit, especially in public. ‘Too cool to give your mother a kiss?’ Kelly asked, gently chiding her son as she hugged him tightly.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ William said, his cheeks reddening slightly.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ Kelly mocked. ‘Your voice is getting deeper. Oh no, I’ve got a tweenager!’ she said, ruffling his hair.

  ‘Mum, I’ve just brushed it,’ William said, patting it down again.

  ‘Worried in case one of your little high school girlfriends thinks you’re a scruff?’

  ‘Bye, Mum,’ William said, his face now properly red.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Kelly asked her mum, Caroline.

  ‘Yes, dear, they slept while I put the washing on and emptied the dishwasher. Now off you pop to bed,’ she replied, giving Kelly a cursory peck on the cheek.

  Kelly didn’t need to be told twice. After a quick shower, she would be sound asleep before the clock struck 9am, giving her precisely five and three-quarter hours of glorious sleep before her alarm went off, and she would pull on a pair of joggies to go and retrieve Beth from the school gates, feeling like a total slob amongst the other well-heeled mums. Then it would be snacks before she cooked the evening meal and afterwards hopefully she would grab a nap in her living room chair. Although it would be a short snooze, it was essential to get her through the twelve-hour night shift that lay ahead. William and Beth knew better than to wake her. On a good night Kelly could sometimes manage a whole hour and a half of shut-eye while her two ate their dinner. But the cacophony of noise would steadily rise along with their blood sugar levels as their food was digested. Kelly often thought that was the fundamental difference between ‘them’ and ‘us’. While adults wanted to kick back and relax on a full belly, kids wanted to climb the walls.