by Ian Rankin
Siobhan was forced to admit she hadn’t. Or rather, Grant hadn’t known it could be done.
Bain sighed and got to work on Flip’s PC. It didn’t take long. Soon they were staring at a list of deleted messages, both from Flip and to her.
‘How far back do they go?’ Siobhan asked.
‘Just over two years. When did she buy the computer?’
‘It was an eighteenth birthday present,’ Siobhan said.
‘Not bad for some.’
Siobhan nodded. ‘She got a flat, too.’
Now Bain looked at her, shook his head slowly in disbelief. ‘I got a watch and a camera for mine,’ he said.
‘Is that the watch?’ Siobhan pointed to his wrist.
Bain’s mind, however, was elsewhere. ‘So we’ve got e-mails stretching right back to when she first got started. He clicked on the one with the earliest date, but the computer told him he couldn’t open it.
‘Need to convert it,’ he said. ‘The hard disk has probably compressed it.’
Siobhan was trying to study what he was doing, but he was going too fast. In no time, they were reading the first e-mail Flip had sent on her machine. It was to her father at his office:
Just testing. Hope you get this. The PC’s super! See you tonight. Flip.
‘I suppose we need to read them all?’ Bain guessed.
‘I suppose,’ Siobhan agreed. ‘Which means converting them one at a time?’
‘Not necessarily. If you can fetch me a tea – white, no sugar – I’ll see what I can do.’
By the time she got back with the drinks, he was printing out sheets of messages. ‘This way,’ he said, ‘you can be reading them while I’m preparing the next batch.’
Siobhan started chronologically, and it didn’t take her long to find something more interesting than gossipy exchanges between Flip and her friends.
‘Look at this,’ she told Bain.
He read the e-mail. ‘It’s from Balfour’s Bank,’ he said. ‘Someone called RAM.’
‘I’m willing to bet it’s Ranald Marr.’ Siobhan took the note back.
Flip, Great news that at last you are part of the virtual world! I hope you have a lot of fun with it. You’ll also find the Internet a great research tool, so I’m hoping it helps you with your studies … Yes, you’re right that you can delete messages – it makes space in the memory, and allows your computer to work more quickly. But remember that deleted messages are still recoverable unless you take certain steps. Here’s how to delete something completely.
The writer went on to explain the process. At the end he signed himself R. Bain ran a finger down one edge of the screen.
‘Explains why there are big gaps,’ he said. ‘Once he’d told her how to fully delete, she started doing it.’
‘Also explains why there are none of the messages to or from Quizmaster.’ Siobhan was sifting through the sheets of paper. ‘Not even her original message to RAM.’
‘And none afterwards either.’
Siobhan rubbed at her temples. ‘Why would she want everything deleted anyway?’
‘I don’t know. It’s not something most users would think to do.’
‘Shift over,’ Siobhan said, sliding her chair across. She started composing a new e-mail, to RAM at Balfour’s Bank.
DC Clarke here. Urgent that you get in touch.
She added the St Leonard’s phone number and sent the message, then picked up a telephone and called the bank.
‘Mr Marr’s office, please.’ She was put through to Marr’s secretary. ‘Is Mr Marr there?’ she asked, her eyes on Bain as he sipped his tea. ‘Maybe you can help me. It’s Detective Constable Clarke here, CID at St Leonard’s. I just sent Mr Marr an e-mail and I was wondering if he’d received it. Apparently we’re having some sort of problem at our end …’ She paused while the secretary checked.
‘Oh? He’s not? Could you tell me where he is then?’ She paused again, listening to the secretary. ‘It really is quite important.’ Now her eyebrows went up. ‘Prestonfield House? That’s not far from here. Is there any chance you could get a message to him, asking him to drop into St Leonard’s after his meeting? It’ll only take five minutes. Probably more convenient than having us visit him at work …’ She listened again. ‘Thanks. And the e-mail did get through? Great, thanks.’
She put the phone down, and Bain, cup drained and binned, applauded silently.
Forty minutes later, Marr arrived at the station. Siobhan got one of the uniforms to escort him upstairs to CID. Rebus was no longer around, but the suite was busy. The uniform brought Marr to Siobhan’s desk. She nodded and asked the banker to take a seat. Marr looked around: there were no spare chairs. Eyes were studying him, the other officers wondering who he was. Dressed in a crisp pinstripe suit, white shirt and pale lemon tie, he looked more like an expensive lawyer than the usual visitors to the station.
Bain got up, dragging his own chair round the desk for Marr to sit in.
‘My driver’s parked on a single yellow,’ Marr said, making a show of looking at his watch.
‘This won’t take long, sir,’ Siobhan said. ‘Do you recognise the machine.’ She tapped the computer.
‘What?’
‘It belonged to Philippa.’
‘Did it? I wouldn’t know.’
‘I suppose not. But you sent e-mails to one another.’
‘What?’
‘RAM: that is you, isn’t it?’
‘What if it is?’
Bain stepped forward and handed Marr a sheet of paper. ‘Then you sent her this,’ he said. ‘And it looks like Ms Balfour acted on it.’
Marr looked up from the message, his eyes on Siobhan rather than Bain. She’d winced at Bain’s words, and Marr had noticed.
Big mistake, Eric! she felt like screaming. Because now Marr knew that this was the only e-mail they had between himself and Flip. Otherwise, Siobhan could have strung him along, letting him think they had others, seeing whether that bothered him or not.
‘Well?’ was all Marr said, having read the message.
‘It’s just curious,’ Siobhan said, ‘that your first ever e-mail to her should be all about how to delete e-mails.’
‘Philippa was very private in many ways,’ Marr explained. ‘She liked her privacy. The first thing she asked me was about deleting material. This was my response. She didn’t like the idea of anyone being able to read what she’d written.’
‘Why not?’
Marr shrugged both elegant shoulders. ‘We all have different personae, don’t we? The “you” who writes to an aged relative isn’t the same “you” who writes to a close friend. I know that when I’m e-mailing a war-gamer, I don’t necessarily want my secretary to read it. She would see a very different “me” from the person she works for.’
Siobhan was nodding. ‘I think I understand.’
‘It’s also the case that in my own profession, confidentiality – secrecy, if you like – is absolutely vital. Commercial subterfuge is always an issue. We shred unwanted documents, delete e-mails and so on, to protect our clients and ourselves. So when Flip mentioned the delete button, that sort of consideration was uppermost in my mind.’ He paused, looked from Siobhan to Bain and back again. ‘Is that all you wanted to know?’
‘What else did you talk about in your e-mails?’
‘We didn’t correspond for long. Flip was dipping a toe in the water. She had my e-mail address and knew I was an old hand. At first she had lots of questions to ask, but she was a fast learner.’
‘We’re still checking the machine for deleted messages,’ Siobhan led blithely. ‘Any idea when your last message to or from her would have been?’
‘Maybe as much as a year back.’ Marr started getting to his feet. ‘Now, if we’re quite finished, I really must …’
‘If you hadn’t told her about deleting, we might have him by now.’
‘Who?’
‘Quizmaster.’
‘The person she was playing this
game against? You still think that had something to do with her death?’
‘I’d like to know.’
Marr was standing now, smoothing his jacket. ‘Is that possible, without the help of this … Quizmaster?’
Siobhan looked to Bain, who knew a cue when he saw one.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said confidently. ‘It’ll take a bit longer, but we’ll trace him. He’s left enough bits and pieces for us along the way.’
Marr looked from one detective to the other. ‘Splendid,’ he said with a smile. ‘Well, if I can be of further assistance …’
‘You’ve helped us enormously already, Mr Marr,’ Siobhan said, fixing her eyes on him. ‘I’ll have one of the uniformed officers show you out …’
After he’d gone, Bain pulled his chair back around to Siobhan’s side of the desk and sat down next to her.
‘You think it’s him, don’t you?’ he asked quietly.
She nodded, staring at the doorway through which Marr had just left. Then her shoulders slumped. She squeezed shut her eyes, rubbed at them. ‘Truth is, I haven’t a clue.’
‘You also don’t have any evidence.’
She nodded, eyes still closed.
‘Gut feeling?’ he guessed.
She opened her eyes. ‘I know better than to trust it.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ He smiled at her. ‘Some proof would be nice, wouldn’t it?’
When the phone rang, Siobhan seemed in a dream, so Bain answered. It was a Special Branch officer called Black. He wanted to know if he was speaking to the right person. When Bain assured him he was, Black asked how much he knew about computers.
‘I know a bit.’
‘Good. Is the PC in front of you?’ When Bain said that it was, Black told him what he wanted. When Bain came off the phone five minutes later, he puffed out his cheeks and exhaled noisily.
‘I don’t know what it is about Special Branch,’ he said, ‘but they always make me feel about five years old and starting my first day at school.’
‘You sounded okay,’ Siobhan assured him. ‘What do they need?’
‘Copies of all the e-mails between you and Quizmaster, plus details of Philippa Balfour’s ISP account and user names, plus the same for you.’
‘Except it’s Grant Hood’s machine,’ Siobhan said, touching the laptop.
‘Well, his account details then.’ He paused. ‘Black asked if we had any suspects.’
‘You didn’t tell him?’
He shook his head. ‘But we could always send him Marr’s name. We could even provide his e-mail address.’
‘Would that help?’
‘It might. You know the Americans can read e-mails using satellites? Any e-mails in the world …’ She just stared at him, and he laughed. ‘I’m not saying Special Branch have that sort of technology, but you never know, do you?’
Siobhan was thoughtful. ‘Then give them what we’ve got. Give them Ranald Marr.’
The laptop told them they had a message. Siobhan clicked it open. Quizmaster.
Seeker – We meet on completion of Stricture. Acceptable?
‘Ooh,’ Bain said, ‘he’s actually asking you.’
So game isn’t closed? Siobhan typed back.
Special dispensation.
She typed another message: There are questions need answering right now.
An immediate reply: Ask, Seeker.
So she asked: Was anyone playing the game apart from Flip?
They waited a minute for the response.
Yes.
She looked at Bain. ‘He said before that there wasn’t.’
‘He was either lying then, or he’s lying now. Fact that you asked the question again makes me think you didn’t believe him first time round.’
How many? Siobhan typed.
Three.
Pitted against each other? Did they know?
They knew.
They knew who they were playing against?
A thirty-second pause. Absolutely not.
‘Truth or lie?’ Siobhan asked Bain.
‘I’m busy wondering if Mr Marr’s had enough time to get back to his office.’
‘Someone in his profession, wouldn’t surprise me if he kept a laptop and mobile in the car, just to stay ahead of the game.’ She smiled at the unmeant pun.
‘I could call his office …’ Bain was already reaching for the phone. Siobhan recited the bank’s number.
‘Mr Marr’s office, please,’ Bain said into the receiver. Then: ‘Is that Mr Marr’s assistant? It’s DS Bain here, Lothian Police. Could I have a word with Mr Marr?’ He looked at Siobhan. ‘Due back any minute? Thank you.’ Then an afterthought. ‘Oh, is there any way I could contact him in his car? He doesn’t have access to e-mails there, does he?’ A pause. ‘No, it’s okay, thank you. I’ll call again later.’ He put the phone down. ‘No in-car e-mails.’
‘As far as his assistant knows,’ Siobhan said quietly.
Bain nodded.
‘These days,’ she went on, ‘all you need is a phone.’ A WAP phone, she was thinking, just like Grant’s. For some reason her mind flashed to that morning in the Elephant House … Grant busy on a crossword he’d already completed, trying to impress the woman at the next table … She got to work on her next message:
Can you tell me who they were? Do you know who they are? The reply was immediate.
No.
No you can’t or no you don’t?
No to both. Stricture awaits.
One final thing, Master. How did you come to choose Flip?
She came to me, as you did.
But how did she find you?
Stricture clue will follow shortly.
‘I think he’s had enough,’ Bain said. ‘Probably not used to his slaves talking back.’
Siobhan thought about trying to keep the dialogue going, then nodded her agreement.
‘I don’t think I’m quite Grant Hood’s standard,’ Bain added. She frowned, not understanding. ‘In the puzzle-solving department,’ he explained.
‘Let’s wait and see about that.’
‘Meantime, I can get that stuff PDQ’d to SB.’
‘AOK,’ Siobhan said with a smile. She was thinking of Grant again. She wouldn’t have got this far without him. Yet since his transfer he hadn’t shown the least curiosity, hadn’t so much as called to find out if there were some new clue to be solved … She wondered at his ability to switch focus so completely. The Grant she saw on TV was almost unrecognisable from the one who’d paced her flat at midnight, the one who’d lost heart on Hart Fell. She knew which model she preferred; didn’t think it was just professional jealousy. She thought she’d learned something about Gill Templer now. Gill was running scared, terror of her new seniority causing her to dish it out to the juniors. She was targeting the keen and the confident, maybe because she lacked confidence in herself. Siobhan hoped it was just a phase. She prayed it was.
She hoped that when Stricture came through, the busy Grant might spare a minute for his old sparring partner, whether his new sponsor liked it or not.
Grant Hood had spent the morning dealing with the press, reworking the daily news release for later in the day – hopefully this time to the satisfaction of both DCS Templer and ACC Carswell – and fielding calls from the victim’s father, angry that more broadcast time wasn’t being given to appeals for information.
‘What about Crimewatch?’ he’d asked several times. Secretly, Grant thought Crimewatch was a bloody good idea, so he’d called the BBC in Edinburgh and been given a number in Glasgow. Glasgow had then given him a number in London, and the switchboard there had put him through to a researcher who’d informed him – in a tone which said any liaison officer worth their salt would already know – that Crimewatch had ended its run and wouldn’t be back on air for several months.
‘Oh, yes, thanks,’ Grant had said, putting down the phone.
He hadn’t had time for lunch, and breakfast had been a bacon roll from the canteen, almost six hour
s ago. He was aware of politics all around him – the politics of Police HQ. Carswell and Templer might agree on some things, but never on everything, and he was poised somewhere between them, trying not to fall too fatally into either camp. Carswell was the real power, but Templer was Grant’s boss, she had the means to kick him back into the wilderness. His job was to deprive her of motive and opportunity.
He knew he was coping so far, but only by dint of forgoing food, sleep and free time. On the plus side, the case was now garnering interest from further afield, not just the London media, but New York, Sydney, Singapore and Toronto. International press agencies wanted clarification of the details they had. There was talk of bringing correspondents to Edinburgh, and would DC Hood be available for a short broadcast interview?
In each case, Grant felt able to answer in the affirmative. He made sure he jotted down the details of each journalist, with contact numbers and even a note of the time difference.
‘No point me sending you faxes in the middle of the night,’ he’d told one news editor in New Zealand.
‘I’d prefer an e-mail, mate.’
So Grant had taken those details down, too. It struck him that he needed to get his laptop back from Siobhan. Either that or invest in something more up-to-date. The case could use its own website. He’d send a memo to Carswell, copy to Templer: stating his case.
If he ever got the time …
Siobhan and his laptop: he hadn’t thought of her in a couple of days. His ‘crush’ on her hadn’t lasted long. Just as well they hadn’t taken things any further really: his new job would have driven a wedge between them. He knew they could play down that kiss, until it would seem as if it had never happened. Rebus was the only witness, but if the pair of them denied it, called him a liar, he’d start forgetting, too.
Only two things Grant felt sure of now: that he wanted Liaison permanently, and that he was good at it.
He celebrated with the day’s sixth cup of coffee, nodding to strangers in the corridors and on the stairwell. They seemed to know who he was, wanting both to know him and be known by him. His phone was ringing again when he pushed open his door – the office was small, no bigger than the cupboards in some stations, and there was no natural light. Still, it was his fiefdom. He leaned back in his chair, taking the receiver with him.