by Val McDermid
Next stop, Clive Abercrombie, with a brief detour via the terraced streets of Whalley Range to stuff Gizmo’s used tenners through his letter box. When I got to the shop, Clive was hovering behind a counter, ostentatiously leaving the waiting-on to the lesser mortals he employs to be polite to the rich. When I walked in, he shot forward and had me through the door to the back of the shop so fast my feet didn’t even leave tracks in the shag pile. Obviously, he doesn’t want proles like me hanging around making the place look like Ratners. “In a hurry, Clive?” I asked innocently.
“I thought you would be. You usually are,” he replied acidly. “Now, what was it you wanted?”
I took the buckle out of my handbag. In spite of himself, Clive drew his breath in sharply. “Where did you get that?” he demanded, extending one finger to point dramatically at the twinkling gold lump.
“Don’t worry, my life of crime runs to solving it, not committing it,” I soothed. “It’s not the real thing. It’s a copy.”
If anything, he looked even more disturbed. “Why are you walking around with it in your handbag?” he demanded, giving Lady Bracknell a run for her money.
Knowing Clive’s weakness for anything reeking of snobbery, I said, “I’m doing a job for the Nottingham Group.”
“Should I know the name?” he asked snottily.
“Probably not, Clive. It’s a consortium of the landed gentry, headed by Lord Ballantrae of Dumdivie. Art thefts. Very hush-hush. I’m very close to Mr. Big, and this is a ploy to smoke him out.” I pulled the bug out of my pocket. “What I need is for one of your craftsmen to incorporate this in the piece. Preferably on the outside. I’d thought under one of the stones.” I handed the bug and the buckle to Clive, who already had his loupe out.
He took a few minutes to scrutinize the buckle which was heavy enough to make a useful weapon, especially if it was attached to a belt. “Nice piece of work,” he commented. “If you hadn’t told me it was a fake, I’d have had my work cut out to spot it.” Praise indeed, coming from Clive. He unscrewed the loupe from his eye socket and said, “It’ll take a few hours. And it will cost.”
“Now there’s a surprise,” I said. “Just send us an invoice. Give me a bell when it’s ready.” I turned to go back through the shop, but Clive gripped my elbow and steered me further into the nether regions.
“Easier if you pop out the back door,” he said. Half a minute later, I was in the street. I reckoned I deserved a cappuccino made by someone other than me, so I decided to take the scenic route back to the office. For a brief moment, I toyed with the idea of ringing Michael Haroun and suggesting he play truant for half an hour, but I told myself severely that it wouldn’t help my pursuit of the art thieves to involve the insurers at this stage. They’d only start muttering about doing things by the book and informing the police. I smacked my hormones firmly on the wrist and drove the length of Deansgate to the Atlas Café, where they claim to make the best coffee outside Italy. I wasn’t going to argue. I dumped the car on a yellow line down by the canal basin and walked back up to
I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for. All I knew was that I wanted to find something, anything that would legitimately allow me to postpone or short-circuit the tedious process of doing background checks into all of the redundant staff that I hadn’t been able to eliminate on the phone. On the second read-through, I found exactly what I was looking for.
Joey Morton’s supply of KerrSter came from the local branch of a national chain of trade wholesalers, Filbert Brown. His wife couldn’t remember which of them had actually made the trip to the cash-and-carry when the fatal drum of KerrSter had been bought, but there was no doubt that that was the original source of the tainted cleanser.
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was a place to start. One of the dozens of pieces of normally useless information cluttering up my dustbin brain was the fact that Filbert Brown were a Manchesterbased company. I knew this because I passed their head office and flagship cash-and-carry every time I drove from my house to North Manchester. Suddenly energized, I abandoned the hedonism of the Atlas and trotted down the steps to the car.
It didn’t take long to skirt the city center. It took longer to get through to the customers’ car park at Filbert Brown. They occupied an old factory building just off Ancoats Street. The area was in the middle of that chaotic upheaval known as urban renewal. East Manchester is supposedly coming up in the world; home of the new Commonwealth Games stadium, spiffy new housing developments and sports facilities. Oh, and roads, of course. Lots of them. Virgin territory for the traffic cones and temporary traffic lights that have become an epidemic on the roads of the Northwest. My political friends reckon it’s the government’s revenge because most of us up here didn’t vote for them.
Considering it was the middle of the morning when all of us small business people are supposed to have our noses firmly to the grindstone, Filbert Brown was surprisingly busy. I walked in without challenge and found myself in a glorified warehouse. It
I wandered up and down the aisles for a few minutes, getting a feel for the place. One of the things that struck me was how prominent KerrSter was among the cleansers. It occupied the whole width of a shelf at eye level, the key position in shifting merchandise. Compared with the other Kerrchem products, which seemed to be doing just about OK compared with their competitors, KerrSter was king of the castle.
What I needed now was a pretext. Thoughtfully, I wandered back to the car. I always keep a fold-over clipboard in the boot for those occasions when I need to pretend to be a market researcher. You’d be amazed at what people will tell you if you’ve got a clipboard. I gave my clothes the once-over. I was wearing tan jodhpur-style leggings, a cream linen collarless shirt and a chocolate brown jacket with a mandarin collar. The jacket was too smart for the pitch, so I folded it up and left it in the boot. In the shirt and leggings, I could just about pass. Freeze, maybe, but pass.
I walked briskly into Filbert Brown and strode up to the customer service counter. I say counter, but it was more of a hole in the wall. Customers here clearly weren’t encouraged to complain. The woman behind the counter looked as if she’d been hired because of her resemblance to a bulldog. “Yes?” she demanded, teeth snapping.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” I said brightly. “I’m doing an MBA at Manchester Business School and I’m doing some research into sales and marketing. I wonder if I could perhaps have a word with your stock controller?”
“You got an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not.”
She looked triumphant. “You’d need an appointment.”
I looked disappointed. “It’s a bit of an emergency. I had arranged to see someone at one of the big DIY stores, but she’s come down with a bug and she had to cancel and I really need to get the initial research done this week. It won’t take more than half an hour. Can’t you just ring through and see if it would be possible for me to see someone?”
“We’re a bit busy just now,” she said. “We” was inaccurate; “they” would have been nearer the mark, judging by the queues at the tills.
“Please?” I tried for the about-to-burst-into-tears look.
She cast her eyes heavenwards. “It’s a waste of time, you know.”
“If they’re busy, I could make an appointment for later,” I said firmly.
With a deep sigh, she picked up the phone, consulted a list taped to the wall of her booth and dialled a number. “Sandra? It’s Maureen at customer services. There’s a student here says she wants to talk to you … Some project or other …” She looked me up and down disaparagingly. Then her eyebrows shot up. “You will?” she said incredulously. “All right, I’ll tell her.” She dropped the phone as if it had bitten her and said, “Miss Bates will be with you in a moment.”
I leaned against the wall and waited. A couple of minutes passed, then a woman approached through the checkouts. Her outfit was in the same colors as the rest of the staff, but where they wore red an
d cream overalls, she wore a red skirt and a blouse in the red and cream material. She smiled as she approached, which explained why she’d never get the job in customer services. “I’m Sandra Bates,” she greeted me. “How can I help you?”
I gave her the same spiel. “What I need is a few minutes of your time so you can run through your shelf-allocation principles,” I finished.
She nodded. “No problem. Come along to my office; I’ll take you through it.”
I fell into step beside her. “I really appreciate this,” I said. “I know how busy you must be.”
“You’re not kidding,” she said. “But this business needs more women who can give the boys a run for their money. When I was doing my business studies degree at the poly, it was almost impossible to get any of them to spare any of their precious time,” she added grimly. Thank God for the sisterhood.
She ushered me into an office that was marginally bigger than the room off my office that doubles as a darkroom and the ladies’ loo. Most of the floor space was taken up by a desk dominated by a PC. The desk surface and the floor around it were stacked with files and papers. Sandra Bates picked her way through the piles and sat in her chair. “Give me a second,” she said, staring at the monitor.
I used the time to check her out. She looked to be in her late twenties, about my height, her jaw-length light brown hair expertly highlighted with blonde streaks. She was attractive in a china doll sort of way, pink and white complexion, unexceptional blue eyes and a slightly uptilted nose. Her determined mouth was the only contrasting feature, indicating an inner strength that might just give the boys a run for their money in the promotion stakes.
“Right,” she said, looking up and grinning at me. “What do you want to know?”
“How you decide what goes where on the shelves?” I said. I don’t know why I wanted to know that, but it seemed a good place to start if I wanted to get round to KerrSter.
“The general order of the products in the aisles is ordained from above, based on market research and psychological analysis, would you believe,” she said. “It’s the same way that supermarkets decide you get the fruit and veg first and the booze last. I mean, those of us who actually do the shopping know that your grapes get crushed by the six packs of lager, but I suppose they work on the principle that by the time you’ve cruised the aisles, you feel like you need a drink.”
My turn to grin. “So what decisions do you actually make on the shop floor?”
“What we decide is what goes where within each section. The received wisdom is that items placed at eye level sell better than those you have to reach up for or bend down to. Now, all the
I nodded. It was all terribly logical. “Are there any exceptions?”
Sandra nodded approvingly. “Oh, yes. Lots. For example, when a company brings out a new product, they will often arrange to pay us a premium in return for our displaying it in the most advantageous shelf position. Or if a company’s product has been ousted from its top selling position by a rival, they’ll offer us a loss-leader price on the product for a limited period in exchange for them getting their old shelf site back so they can try to re-establish their old supremacy.”
“Is that what Kerrchem have done with KerrSter?” I asked.
Sandra blinked. “I’m sorry?” she asked, sounding startled.
“I was having a browse round before I asked to see you, and I couldn’t help noticing how prominent the KerrSter was. And with that guy dying after he opened it, I’d have thought sales would have gone through the floor,” I said innocently.
“Yes, well, it’s always been a popular seller, KerrSter,” Sandra gabbled. “I suppose our customers haven’t seen the stories.”
“I’d have thought Kerrchem would have recalled it,” I went on. For some reason, talk of KerrSter was making Sandra Bates twitchy. Rule number one of interrogation: when you’ve got them on the run, keep chasing.
“They recalled one batch,” she said, regaining her composure.
“Still, I wouldn’t buy it,” I said. “I’m surprised one of their competitors hasn’t tried to exploit the situation. In fact, I’m surprised a small company like them outsells the opposition so comprehensively.”
“Yes, well, there’s no accounting for customer preferences. Now, if there’s nothing more you’d like to know about the shelf-stacking, I have got a lot on my plate,” Sandra said, getting to her feet and waving vaguely at the paperwork on her desk.
I was back on the street inside a minute. Being hustled twice in one morning was bad for the ego. Clive Abercrombie I could understand. But the mere mention of KerrSter had shifted Sandra Bates from cooperative sisterhood to the verge of hostility. Something was going on that I didn’t understand. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s things I don’t understand.
Chapter 13
I’m no cyberpunk, but I’m knowledgeable enough about hacking to know that I couldn’t have penetrated Filbert Brown’s computer network on my own. I was sure they had to have a central computer that dealt with all their individual branches. Via that it should be possible to crawl back inside Sandra Bates’s data. Way back in the mists of time—say, around 1991—I could probably have reached first base. Bill has a program that dials consecutive phone numbers till his modem connects with another computer. I could have set that to run through all the numbers on the same exchange as Filbert Brown’s head office. It would probably have taken all night to run, but it would have got me there in the end.
However, the powers that be have decided that darkside hackers like us need to be cracked down on, so now they’ve got their own sophisticated equipment that picks up on sequential dialling like that and traces it. Then the dibble comes and knocks on your door in a very user-unfriendly way. Besides, getting the computer’s number was only the start. I’d need a login to get through the front door, and a password to get any further. Ideally, I needed the password of the sysman—the system manager. Most people who are authorized users of a network system have logins which allow them only limited access to the part of the system they need to work with. The sysman is what computerspeak calls a superuser, which means he or she can wander unimpeded throughout the system, checking out each and every little nook and cranny. With Bill’s help, I might just have managed to achieve sysman status on the Filbert Brown network. But Bill was on the other side of the world.
That only left Gizmo. I tried his number, and got lucky. “Wozzat?” a voice grunted.
“Gizmo?”
“Yeah?”
“Kate. Did I wake you?”
He cleared his throat noisily. “Yeah. Been up all night. What d’you want?”
I told him. He whistled. “Can’t do that one for the usual,” he said.
“But can you do it?”
“Sure, I can do it,” he said confidently. “Getting in shouldn’t be a problem. But if you want sysman status, that’ll cost you.”
“How much?” I sighed.
“One and a half.”
Trevor Kerr could stand another hundred and fifty quid, I decided. “Done deal,” I told Gizmo. “How soon?”
He sniffed. Probably on account of the whizz he’d have snorted to keep him awake all night. “Few hours,” he said.
“Sooner the better.”
Back in the office, routine awaited. A stack of background information had arrived in the post that morning. I’d been waiting for it so that I could complete a report for a client on the three candidates they’d short-listed for the head of their international marketing division. One of them looked like he’d have a promising career writing fiction. The candidate’s degree from Oxford turned out to have been a two-year vocational course at the former poly. His credit rating was worse than the average Third World country’s. And one of his previous employers seemed to think that his financial skills were focused more in the direction of his bank account than theirs. All of which would make the selection panel’s job a bit easier.
It was just after four when Clive Abe
rcrombie rang to tell me the buckle was ready and waiting. I worked for another hour, then collected it on the way home. Clive’s jeweller had done a good job. I was looking for the bug, and I couldn’t see it. No way would the fence spot it in the middle of a motorway service station. Back in the car, I checked the receiver was picking it up. Loud and clear.
When I got in, there was a message from Gizmo on my machine. “Hi. I’ve got your order ready. I think you should collect it in
I hit the cash machine on the way, taking myself up to my daily limit. I parked round the corner from his house, just in case he really was under surveillance, and wishing I’d remembered to do the same on my earlier drop. I rang the bell and waited. Nearly a minute passed before the door cracked open on the chain. “It’s me, Giz,” I said patiently. “Alone.”
He handed me a piece of paper. I handed him the cash. “See you around,” he said and closed the door.
Back in the car, I unfolded the paper. There was a telephone number, FB7792JS (the login), and CONAN (the sysman’s password). I’d bet it was Conan the Barbarian the sysman had in mind, not the creator of the world’s first PI. Yet another wimpy computer nerd with delusions of grandeur. I drove home via Rusholme, where I picked up a selection of samosas, onion bhajis, chicken pakora and aloo saag bhajis. I had the feeling it was going to be a long night, and I didn’t know if I could rely on Richard to come home with a Chinese.
I brought the coffee machine through to my study and sat down at the computer with the Indian snacks and the coffee to hand. I booted up and loaded my comms program. Dialling the number on the paper brought me a short pause, then the monitor said, “Welcome to FB. Login?” I typed the digits Gizmo had given me. “Password?” the monitor asked. “Conan” I typed. “As in Doyle,” I said firmly.
The screen cleared and offered me a set of options. The first thing I had to do was to familiarize myself with the system. I needed to know how the different areas were arranged, how the directory trees were laid out, and how to move around to remote terminals. Somehow, I didn’t think I’d be having an early night.