Truth and Lies

by Marguerite Valentine

  So Makepeace had lied to the police. He’d presented the assault as a random attack. Hadn’t it occurred to anybody, how strange it was that he was alone in the dunes with a young girl and she wasn’t a relative?

  But wouldn’t the police have called round on her father? But even if they had, how would he have responded? Defensively, most probably. He could write the script. He’d deny all knowledge of what his daughter got up to, where she was, or who she was with. He’d say at the time he was in bed with his girlfriend and he could offer no further information. The truth was Imogen’s father didn’t give a damn about his daughter’s welfare. He was indifferent, neglectful, and had no interest in protecting her. Which meant it was highly likely Imogen was still being groomed by that bastard Makepeace. He was the type of bloke that didn’t give up easily and had little or no respect for the laws that governed the ‘ordinary’ members of society. He was above all that, laws didn’t apply to him.

  In frustration, Seb kicked open the kitchen door, walked across to the fridge, and pulled out a beer. He sat down, breathing heavily, contemplating what, if anything, he could do. It would give him the greatest of pleasure to tell the police what he’d seen in the dunes, but that was impossible. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t tell them anything. More questions would be asked and his undercover work would be blown apart.

  But why the police weren’t suspicious, continued to puzzle him. Was it possible that the police did know something, but were waiting to get enough evidence? He’d kicked the shit out of Makepeace, so maybe it was a matter of time until everything came out. He had to be patient and with luck, what would come out, wouldn’t just be about Makepeace, but about the whole fucking lot of them. Moodily he walked across to the window and gazed out though the net curtains. It was almost dark. The street was quiet with few cars.

  Someone caught his attention. A man, standing on the other side of the road, staring intently at his flat. He moved away from the window. Casually dressed, in his mid-thirties and wearing a cross-body messenger bag, he seemed to be monitoring his flat, but strangely, made no attempt to hide his presence.

  Unsettled, he returned to watching the television. Ten minutes later he went again to the window to check whether the man was still there. He’d moved further away down the road and was looking at his mobile phone, the light from the mobile’s screen glowing as he held it to his face. Evidently speaking into the phone, he glanced again towards Seb’s flat, before walking rapidly away.

  On three further occasions in the same month, Seb saw him. Each time he made little effort to hide himself. Once, he followed him to the tube, sat down in the same carriage and, avoiding Seb’s eyes, studied his mobile. Another time, he walked behind him along Seven Sisters Road, and later the same day, as Seb was about to enter his favourite coffee shop, he saw he was inside reading the Telegraph.

  He was getting under Seb’s skin. By now, he could recognise him a mile off. He was tall, in his thirties, with sandy coloured hair cut short, and eyes set close together, like a fox, but other than that, he was unremarkable in every way. Casually but well dressed, with his cross-body messenger bag, he could have passed as a North London architect, a designer, or someone in the media. Maybe it was coincidental that this man kept cropping up, but whether it was or not, he was rattled.

  It felt like harassment and Seb was becoming increasingly paranoid. He took to glancing over his shoulder and changing his routes to meetings. Once on his way to Nixie he’d stopped to look in a shop window and glimpsed him some way behind. He waited for him to catch up, thinking he might confront him, but the man took off in the opposite direction.

  He told Gimp, who said it came with the territory. He seemed unconcerned, but advised Seb to continue monitoring when and where he was followed. Seb said nothing to him of his double game, of his role as a whistleblower, or of beating up Makepeace. He couldn’t. For one, he was acting well out of his professional remit which, if it came to Gimp’s attention, wouldn’t go down too well. Knowing he’d tipped off the press about his father, beaten up Makepeace, and played head games with Nixie’s mother: any one of these could result in the end of his career and he wasn’t ready for that. Besides it would have implications for his relationship with Nixie, which for the moment, both on a professional and personal level, preoccupied and amused him. Somehow he had to deal with it himself.

  His mind ranged over who could have set this up. It was a form of psychological warfare, with an unknown enemy. Was it his mind playing tricks? His father, Makepeace, even Nixie’s mother; any one of them would have a motive, although Nixie’s mother was less likely to be in the frame. He didn’t know her reaction to the giraffe and the letter he’d left in the farmhouse and ‘not knowing’ how she’d responded, and thinking about that only added to his sense of being hunted by a person or persons unknown. He could also have come to the attention of other undercover agents working for the Met or MI5, and they might assume that since he was a member of Grassroots, he was a potential threat, and should be watched.

  But whoever this man was working for, they’d succeeded in their aim. He was well and truly rattled, constantly and obsessively checking that no one was outside watching his flat.

  One evening, driven by these persecutory feelings, he decided to make an unannounced visit to Nixie, hoping she might say something which would give him a clue who it could be. After a final check to see if anyone was hanging around outside, he left his flat, slamming the front door behind him and driven by nervous energy walked rapidly along towards Nixie’s block of flats.

  He took the external stairs two at a time and had reached the beginning of the long corridor running along to Nixie’s flat, when he came to a halt. Mike was standing outside. It looked as if he was chatting to her. He took several steps back and stood out of sight, while he reviewed what he should do.

  Mike was the last person he wanted to see. Since that first meeting in the pub, he’d disliked him. He didn’t like his style, his self-confident aggression and he didn’t trust him. He swore softly to himself. He had to avoid him. He looked around. Under every flight of stairs was a stairwell. He’d conceal himself by standing in one of them. Five minutes later, Mike passed. He was whistling and sounded so pleased with himself, Seb felt like punching him. When he was sure he’d gone, he walked back to Nixie’s flat, rang the doorbell and stood waiting for her to answer.

  She wasn’t wearing her usual jeans; instead she wore a short, straight denim skirt and a white linen shirt. It wasn’t her usual style.

  Her eyes widened. ‘What are you doing here?’ Without waiting for an answer, she stood to one side and gestured to him to come in. He stood looking at her. Why was she surprised to see him? Was something going on between her and Mike? Maybe they’d had sex. The thought annoyed him.

  He walked in, pushed the door behind him with his foot, but remained standing in the small hallway. Folding his arms, he said, ‘I saw Mike leave.’

  ‘And?’ she said, responding in an equally hostile manner.

  ‘What was he here for?’

  ‘What’s it to you? Jealous?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe just interested.’

  ‘Well, he had an idea he wanted to tell me about – to do with Langhithe.’

  ‘What was it?’

  She turned and walked into the kitchen. ‘I’ll tell you, if you take that scowl off your face. You could help. It’s right up your street.’ He didn’t answer. She laughed. ’Hey, you are jealous, aren’t you?’ He stared at her, and then looked away. ‘Well, you needn’t be.’

  She walked over and standing close, she looked up at him. The top two buttons of her shirt were undone. She smiled. It was intimate, a knowing smile, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. He felt a flash of annoyance. She was behaving like Carol used to when she wanted to seduce him − coyly. He’d rather not have been reminded of her and his past sexual experiences.

/>   ‘You remind me of somebody.’

  ‘Someone nice?’

  ‘No. Someone who got in my face.’

  ‘That’s fighting talk. An ex?’

  ‘Yeah. How did you guess?’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’ She took a step back. She wasn’t smiling now.

  He backtracked. ‘It was only for a split second. You’re nothing like her actually.’

  ‘Tell me about her.’

  ‘Not now. Tell me about Langhithe.’

  ‘After.’

  ‘After? After what?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  She turned away and began examining her fingernails. She glanced at him. He took a step towards her, she smiled again. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Have you missed me?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘Only a bit?’

  Her gaze was challenging, direct, provocative. He took a step back. Could he trust her? He felt unsure, uncertain, and apprehensive. The words of Gimp had come back to him. He’d advised caution. Was she really interested in him, or was she was playing games? How would he know? He glanced at her. In his mind’s eye, she was lying next to him in the tent, totally naked, stroking him. The idea aroused him. He moved away and sat down on a chair someone had placed by the fridge.

  He looked questioningly at her. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing’s going on, except you’re playing games.’

  ‘It’s one you started.’

  ‘I’m not playing games. It’s you. Why move away from me and why sit in that chair? It’s like you’re hiding something from me.’

  He said, ‘I’ll ignore that. I’ll have a coffee please, since you haven’t asked.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Seb. Let’s just cut the crap and get into bed.’

  There was a long silence. Seb continued staring at her, trying to read her. ‘Okay, so you want me. Is that all?’

  ‘I do. What do you mean, ‘is that all.’ What’s the problem? Why don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Maybe it’s Mike. Maybe you’re right and I am jealous.’

  ‘Listen Seb, I need to tell you something.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for the right moment. But I should tell you. I’m poly-amorous.’

  ‘So? Hardly earth shattering. What about it?’

  ‘Well, it means…’

  ‘I know what it means, you put yourself about. Why make an announcement of it? Do you think I care? It’s a posh way of saying you like sex with different people. Most people don’t give it a name. They just do it.’

  ‘Don’t be angry. It’s a bit more than that. Monogamy is for the bourgeoisie and a way of maintaining wealth…’

  ‘Spare me the claptrap. Not interested.’

  ‘Well, you need to know. I have other lovers. Now and again.’

  ‘Good for you. So do I. That explains it.’

  ‘Explains what?’

  ‘ That you, like me, know how to operate. You told me a while ago, you like all men.’

  ‘Not to be taken literally.’ She came across to him, kissed him lightly. ‘You know, I do like you…sometimes I even think I’m in love with you. ’

  ‘Really, so what score would you give me? Say compared with Mike?’

  ‘Seb, stop being so fucking cynical. You’re jealous, aren’t you? That’s why you’re so uptight. Listen, you’ve got no competition. Maybe we should test it.’

  ‘Test it? Test what?’

  ‘I would say that’s fairly obvious.’

  ‘Fairly obvious? Look, this endless verbal foreplay is pissing me off. I want you. That’s obvious. Isn’t it? Or haven’t you noticed?’

  She shrugged. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you.’ Nixie was silent, the expression on her face watchful. ‘What are you thinking?’

  She looked at him straight. ’That you’re a player, and I don’t know why I like you so much, or even whether I can trust you… who knows. The jury’s out.’ She handed him a mug of instant coffee.

  He took a sip, said, ‘Why wouldn’t you? You know, trust me?’

  ‘Dunno. But I’ll do a deal. You tell me about the woman I reminded you of, and I’ll tell you about Langhithe.’

  ‘You don’t give up, do you? Maybe you’re jealous too.’

  ‘Maybe I am, but I still want to know.’ She smiled at him. ‘Come on, Seb, what happened?’

  He sighed. ‘Okay. The woman? Carole. She’s fifteen years older. She took away my virginity. It’s a long story, which I’ll tell you about when I have more time. Which isn’t now.’ He waited for her to respond but she said nothing. ‘You asked and now I’ve told you ─ so what do you think of it?’

  ‘Not good, exploitation of a young innocent adolescent. Is this why you…?’

  He interrupted her. ‘Whatever you were going to say or ask, don’t, because I can guess. It’s the past. She doesn’t matter. Not anymore. And it hasn’t affected my attitude to women.’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘I hate this stuff, it’s not real.’ He glanced at her. He put his coffee down. No matter what games he and Nixie were playing, he still wanted to know about the next project and there was only one way to find out.

  ‘Nixie, you may not be able to be straight but I can be.’

  ‘So tell me.’

  ‘I want you and I’m jealous of Mike.’

  ‘Seb, there’s no competitor. I’m in love with you.’ She walked across, sat on his lap and wrapped her arms round his neck. He was silent. ‘Well, have you got anything to say?’

  ‘I’m surprised.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why?’

  ‘Why am I falling in love with you? Surely it’s not the first time a woman has said she loved you?’

  ‘Look, let’s not talk about it anymore.’

  Their latest idea was ambitious, audacious and if it worked, would cause total chaos. The aim was to hack into Langhithe’s computer system and create a total breakdown of its functioning. It would be dramatic, catastrophic, and, he’d been asked to contribute.

  Initially he’d been enthusiastic, but the more he thought about it, the more problems he could see. It won’t work, Nixie, I was around the City long enough and I’ve studied computer security. All the financial institutions have built a formidable system of firewalls to detect malware. They’ve been constructed to withstand that kind of attack and even assuming one of them was breached, it wouldn’t take long for the software to locate and destroy the virus. Think again. Besides, what’s the aim? You need a propaganda point, otherwise we’ll be written off as a bunch of destructive anarchists.’

  ‘The aim?’ Nixie had said. ‘To give publicity to the cause. That huge EU grant – it’s way out of order. It’ll benefit the construction companies, but no one else, certainly not the consumer and already there’s price fixing. They’re falling over themselves to get their snouts in the trough.’

  The comment reminded him of his father, Fortescue, and Makepeace. It was highly likely that they were involved in some kind of price fixing. The emails in his father’s office had made clear the extent of the ‘kickbacks’ and it was only a matter of time before the police showed their hand. Things had gone quiet since the press had got hold of the copy of the email he’d sent out, but it couldn’t and wouldn’t last. The potential for a dramatic exposé was too great. He came up with an alternative idea; one that would, unknown to Nixie or anyone else, benefit himself as well as Grassroots.

  First, he had to persuade Nixie to put his idea to the Operation’s Group. ‘This is what we do. You’ve heard of computer worms. I propose we insert a worm into their system. It’ll be programmed to access and change all the emails and invoices relating to building contracts. The figures will be a
ltered, the numbers inflated. But not so it’s immediately obvious…’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘The money will be siphoned off into secret bank accounts, and from there the cash distributed to various anti-capitalist groups of our choice. By the time it’s identified, we’ll have creamed off considerable sums of money.’

  ‘They’ll check the bank accounts.’

  ‘We don’t use British banks. We use off-shore accounts.’

  ‘Off-shore? Can’t they check those out?’

  ‘Nope. It’s a system designed by crooks, for crooks, masquerading as legit.’

  ‘Why’s that better than the total black-out? We want to hit the press big time. Your idea is good, but not as good as a nuclear plant black out. Look at the consequences. Chaos and consternation.’

  ‘Not so dramatic, I agree. But there’s also a danger it could turn the public against us. The “slow burn” approach, in my view, is more effective in undermining the system. Think about it.’

  ‘Okay, but how? Who’s going to do it?’

  ‘You mean the techie bit? The worm’s attached to an email or an image. It’ll look familiar or attractive in some way, like porn, something funny, or a scandal. It doesn’t matter what it is. It just has to catch a person off guard. It’s human curiosity. They click it and the floodgates open, security systems are breached and once inside the worm travels through the whole network of computers, breaking into segments as it goes, finding and exploiting every weak point. All the time it’s changing, and that makes it difficult to detect.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘You’ve forgotten. My degree was partly about computer security and when I worked in the City, we got updates on the latest scams.’

  Nixie looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I had forgotten… but don’t we need an insider?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To get the worm into the system.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be an insider, that’s the beauty of it. It’s introduced via an external email. Anyone can open it. They won’t know or think about the possible implications. That’s how computer security systems get compromised.’