It is my turn and the policeman
asks me for my details. I opt to tell him that I have already been questioned
by the policeman on the roof. He still asks for ID but I have none. In my rush
to help George I left my handbag at my desk. He asks me to stand in the small
crowd.
I stand to one side, glancing at
the lifts for signs of the balding man. I contemplate making a run for it but
realise the folly in this action.
Suddenly there is a commotion in
the line. A t-shirt clad man is objecting to being told to stand to one side.
He has no ID but is adamant that he is leaving anyway. The policeman tries to
talk to him calmly but this simply turns up the dial on the man and he racks up
the volume. The other policeman vetting the line steps over to give a hand. The
policemen stand either side of Mr T-Shirt and face him down. Mr T-Shirt reacts
by twisting the volume switch all the way to eleven. All focus is now on the
developing scene and I see a window of opportunity.
A third policeman leaves the
entrance and joins his colleagues in fronting up to Mr T-Shirt. I slip from the
small crowd and head for the revolving doors. I expect to hear a shout but the
police are pre-occupied
Out on the pavement I head for my
office, clutching the parcel tight against my chest. Every step towards my
office I’m waiting for a call or a hand on my shoulder.
When I get to my desk I slump
into my seat still clutching the parcel. Around me the office continues with
its business as it has done for years. I slip the parcel into my gym bag and
try and get back to my work but it will be a long afternoon. A long, long
afternoon.
The blind man watches the events
unfold from the coffee shop opposite Tyler Tower with mild curiosity. His white
stick rests against the window of the café and his guide dog lies with its head
on his master’s shoes. The dark glasses the blind man wears are made of
mirrored glass and reflect the world back to anyone who cares to look.
Despite the warmth of the café
the blind man wears a shin length overcoat topped of with a rather OTT black
felt Fedora. In front of him a mug of de-caffeinated latte sits cooling. A
newspaper lies on the table next to the coffee. Although folded neatly and
unread it is still a strange purchase for a man who lacks the visual tools to
digest its contents.
The dog stirs and drops its chin
from shoe to floor, yawning as it does so. They have been sitting at the table
for over an hour and the dog, not used to inaction, is bored. It is no more a
guide dog than a million other dogs but when required it has enough training to
look and act like a guide dog and that is all the owner asks of it.
The blind man notes the comings
and goings across the road with an eye for detail that has kept him in his
trade far longer than most of his fellow tradesmen.
When he sees the two suited men
and the vic emerge onto the pavement his interest rises a notch. When they
leave the vic on the ground and run he shakes his head. Unprofessional. It is a
word that he strives to eliminate from his vocabulary.
His reputation is built on a
service second to none and the incident he has just witnessed would dip his
credibility into the toilet. Steps would need to be taken. Reputations were
hard won and easily lost.
He watches for a while longer as
the circus gathers momentum. He watches Simon’s antics as he tries to get a
better look at the vic and he notes the policeman leave with the maintenance
man in tow.
After a while he stands up, picks
up his white cane and encourages his dog to step out in front of him. He leaves
the café and takes a last glance across the road.
Serious shit is going down.
The drive home was a journey from
hell. My head was full of events and headaches. My gut was a mess. I couldn’t
focus on what was important. I had made a call on my mobile - forced to
illegally use my handset rather than the hands free. The bloody system had
never worked properly since it was installed.
I arranged to meet the computer
wizard at my house in one hour. Enough time to shower, change my clothes and
get my crap together. I pulled into my driveway fully expecting to see a police
car parked outside. It could only be a matter of time.
The doorbell rings and I am in a
fresh shirt and jeans. I pop three more headache killers. I look through the
bedroom curtains. A battered black Mini Cooper sits outside. No police car.
I open the door and invite the
wizard in. His name is Quentin Rathbone. You would go a long, long way to find
someone who looks more like a computer geek than Quentin does.
Long dank hair, starting to
recede at the front. His pallor is that of a prison lifer. Flesh hangs from him
like unwanted fat from cooked meat. His eyes are sunk so deep they look like
small lumps of coal. His teeth are crooked, yellowed and cracked. His personal
hygiene is a serious issue. Halitosis, BO, dandruff mixed with (and he tells me
this crap) athlete’s foot, cracked heel and crotch rot. He is wearing the same
t-shirt he has worn since the day I first met him. At one point there had been
a logo on the front but that has long since faded. His jeans are a patchwork
quilt of varying materials. His trainers had once been white but have now
achieved a shade of grey that you rarely see in clothing less than ten years
old.
He carries a World War II issue
haversack in one hand. Over his back a shiny new, high tech backpack sits at
odds with everything else. He shuffles past me and slumps onto my sofa. He puts
his feet up on my coffee table. My African Blackwood coffee table.
I pick up Leonard’s laptop from
the hall table. He doesn’t look up as I drop it in his lap. I exit to make a
coffee.
Twenty minutes later I am sipping
some serious caffeine. Quentin is making mincemeat out of the security settings
on the laptop. I watch in silence.
Once, long ago, he tried to
explain what he did as he went along. I had made it crystal clear that I had no
interest and that was that.
A small punch with a clenched
fist suggests that he has cracked the laptop’s secrets.
‘Wha’ ya lookin’ fur?’
Translated he was asking me what
I was looking for. I tell him. I have no worries about Quentin knowing intimate
details. I had made it my business to have his balls firmly in my hands long
ago. He knows his place. Besides he would be amply rewarded for his efforts. He
knew better than to shit on his own doorstep.
Another quarter of an hour rolls
by. The keyboard is battered to death. He unslings the new back pack and
extracts a printer. He powers it up. A few seconds later sheets of paper begin
to print off. When the printer finishes he passes the paper to me. He switches
off the printer and repacks it.
‘T’ lot.’
Translated that means - ‘That is
the lot’. There are three sheets of paper. Each is crammed with words and
symbols. None of it makes any sense to me.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘Code.’
‘Can you break it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Well?’
‘K.’
He opens his haversack. He takes
out what looks like a kid’s toy laptop. For the next half hour he flips between
the laptops. Then the clenched fist appears again.
‘Wanna details.’
Did I want the details?
It was so tiresome with Quentin
but he was good at what he did. I let him rabbit on for ten minutes. I do my
best to decipher what he is talking about. The gist is as follows.
Far from ‘several strategic
locations’, Leonard had sent the accounts in electronic form to only two
recipients. As far as Quentin could tell there was no reference to who had received
the hard copy that Leonard had referred to. I would get to this later.
Leonard is, or was, a clever
bastard. Each recipient has been sent an encrypted file with a simple set of
instructions. If they suspect any foul play they are to click on an embedded
link on the e-mail. This will send a message to Leonard’s inbox. All they then
do is wait. If within forty eight hours Leonard replies to the e-mail with a
special password then all is sweetness and light and nothing happens. If on the
other hand Leonard does
not
respond to the e-mail within forty eight
hours then the recipient’s inbox will perform two functions. Firstly it will
unlock the file to allow the recipient to read the attachment. Next it will
make a copy of the file and despatch the copy to an unknown address. Quentin’s
best guess is the Financial Services Authority. In this way my dirty little
secrets will be out.
As a safe-guard Leonard can also
send a second password to the recipient. If the recipient opens this e-mail
then a programme gets to work and cleans out the original e-mail and all traces
are zapped. Quentin seems to think this is quite impressive given the current
state of anti-virus software. I don’t care. If, however, the wrong password is
sent then the file is sent to the authorities. All in all a clever piece of
work.
The killer, as far as I am
concerned, is that there are no records of any passwords on Leonard’s machine
and Quentin is fairly sure that it will not be easy to work them out.
‘Min twenty ‘ix chacs. Prob?’
A minimum of twenty six
characters. Probably?
I ask if he could crack this and
he nods but then adds.
‘T four, four eight - no sure.’
Twenty four hours or forty eight.
I’m not sure.
I ask would we know when someone
clicks on the link to send off the enquiry e-mail. He says as long as no-one
interferes with the system then yes. I tell him to get working on the code. I
look at my watch and tell him to inform me when he cracks it or as soon as
someone clicks on the link.
I ask him if we could ID the two
recipients. He shakes his head - both are hotmail addresses and this makes it
tricky. He suggests sending an e-mail from Leonard. The e-mail might force them
to give us some idea of who they are. I reject this. If news of Leonard’s
accident reaches them at the same time as an e-mail then they will almost
certainly pass the e-mail straight to the police. I need the stolen laptop to
stay in the shadows.
I know I can’t rely on Quentin
cracking the code. If Leonard is dead then both recipients could easily pass on
the original e-mail at any point. The files might be encrypted but the police
wouldn’t take long to crack them.
I need the identities of the two
recipients. Then I need to eliminate them as soon as possible.
I tell Quentin to surf through
all of Leonard’s contacts. I tell him to compare names with the hotmail
addresses. He smacks the keyboard. The screen fills with addresses.
The hotmail addresses are a mix
of letters and numbers that have no relation to any name or a company in
Leonard’s address book. I had to figure that Leonard knew the contacts well. I
had to figure that the contacts would be sitting somewhere in the laptop. I
tell Quentin to dig deeper.
After a further half an hour
Quentin has five possibles. All are company e-mail addresses. With a quick
burst on Google all turned out to be local to Tyler Tower.
Three of the companies are
accountants. One is a legal firm. One is a security firm. I ask Quentin how he
has short listed them as possibles? He starts to talk about voids.
After a little translation I get
the idea. Leonard has had regular e-mail dialogue with all five of the
‘possibles’ up to a week ago. Then it had ceased. To Quentin this was
suspicious. He suspected that Leonard had deleted in and out bound records to
the five addresses over the last few days. This was what he meant by a void. I
ask why five ‘possibles’ when only two have been sent the documents. He doesn’t
know. I tell him to get cracking on the code. I take the five e-mail addresses
and retire to my study.
Once seated I open the bottom
drawer on my desk. I remove another Pay As You Go mobile. I hit the power
button. This time I am greeted by a working battery. I dial a number from
memory. An answering machine kicks in. Ten minutes later the mobile rings.
There is no caller ID.
‘I’ve another job I need done.
But after the cock up today I want some assurances,’ I say.
‘the Voice’ informs me that
changes are being made. He assures me that normal service will be resumed. Then
silence. Clearly I am expected to buy this re-assurance. Either that or hang
up. I have no choice. I pass on the five e-mail addresses. I explain what I
need done. Then the phone is dead.
I return to the living room to
find that Quentin had spread out. My sofa and floor are now a mass of laptops,
small black boxes and other assorted paraphernalia. I sigh, swear and leave to
make another coffee.
My next task is to identify the
work colleague that Leonard has passed the hard copy of my accounts to. I am
sure it is going to be one of his office buddies - Christine or Charlie. I
can’t risk going back to their office so I pick up the office phone.
I dial Cheedle, Baker and Nudge.
Bouncy Suzie answers only she isn’t too bouncy. I ask for Leonard. She tells me
that Leonard is not in. She refuses to divulge anything else. I guess she has
been told about Leonard’s ‘accident’. I ask if Charlie or Christine are in. Not
unusual as they sometimes pick up Leonard’s work when he is off. I’m
informed that Christine is on holiday. A bit of digging forces Suzie to tell me
she has been away for nearly three weeks. Charlie is unavailable. I push for
more. She comes up blank. She sounds distraught. I wonder if something had
happened to Charlie. That starts my head spinning again.