Fly clears his throat. ‘You make it sound as if I was a pirate or something. I’ve never been a black hat, Vero.’
‘Sorry, a hacktivist, do forgive me.’ Vero pats his hand. ‘And he’s been working on something very interesting. Go on, tell us.’
‘OK.’ He swallows his whisky in one big gulp. ‘Back at home I used to play with rootkits a lot. They are a spyware that infects the deepest level of a computer’s operating system. In other words, they break into your computer through the back door and leave that door open for someone to gain total control of the computer. Like, literally everything, from accessing logs or executing files to monitoring what you do.’
‘Executing?’ A cold shiver runs through me.
‘Some files are executable, which means they contain a program. In other words, they can be executed or run as a program. They are different from source files that can be read by humans.’
Did he actually say humans?
‘Do you think those . . . rootkits are inside my computer?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘But I have a Mac. Macs are supposed to be immune to such things.’
‘Unfortunately they are not. It’s quite easy to bypass the cryptographic signature checks in Apple’s EFI firmware update routines.’
‘Sorry?’
He looks at me, as if surprised by my ignorance. ‘You can infect a Mac with a nasty rootkit using the Thunderbolt interface. You must’ve heard of Thunderstrike?’
‘No.’ I have a feeling I’m becoming a digital dinosaur in Fly’s eyes. ‘But what I’m interested in is – can you find those rootkits and get rid of them?’
He makes a face and looks inside his empty whisky glass. ‘Well, it depends on the level of their sophistication. You can track down a simple user-mode rootkit with a special anti-spyware application, but it’s not so easy with kernel-mode ones that work on the same level as the computer’s operating system. So essentially your own OS becomes your enemy. And then there are virtual rootkits and they are practically invisible.’
‘You’ve lost me, Fly.’
‘OK. Remember The Matrix, the Wachowski movie?’
Both Vero and I nod.
‘Imagine that your computer lives inside its own matrix.’ He enunciates carefully, as if talking to a group of preschool kids. ‘So, instead of putting the spyware inside your computer, someone has created a virtual environment around it. If the entire operating system of your computer has been moved into such a virtual machine, your hacker gains total control over everything you do on it. You become a fish inside a fishbowl, with no chance in hell of ever breaking out of it.’
Vero and I stare at him, dumbfounded.
‘But . . .’ Vero says after a long pause, ‘you do know how to detect it?’
Fly sighs. ‘Well, that’s what I’m working on at the moment.’
‘So you’ll be able to help Kristin?’
‘I can try. But I can’t promise it’ll work.’
‘Thank you. Shall I bring my Mac next time I come?’
‘I can access it remotely.’
‘You can?’
‘You’ll just have to enable the function.’
‘Oh, OK.’
‘Great, let’s drink to that.’ Vero jumps up with surprising agility and gets the Macallan bottle from the lounge.
‘So, you’ve been to China.’ Fly smiles at me as we appreciatively sip Vero’s whisky.
‘I haven’t actually, though I’ve always wanted to go.’
‘But your tattoo . . .’ He points at my left arm.
‘Ah, yes, one of the mistakes of my youth.’ I look at the four small, dark-grey strokes just above my wrist. ‘A celebration of a present moment that’s long gone.’
‘It’s hu, it means fire.’
‘So it does.’
‘It’s a very powerful symbol. Its attributes are enthusiasm and creativity, but in excess it brings restlessness and aggression. Just like real fire, it provides heat and warmth, but it can also burn. How did you get it?’
‘Oh, it was a silly pact I made with a friend. We were supposed to conquer the world, bring everyone to their knees with our art . . . Well, it’s better than the word “bacon” or “minge” on your foot . . .’ I shrug.
‘It carries other meanings too. Burn. Anger. Rage.’
‘I suppose the fire’s burnt out.’
‘Maybe it’s just on the other side of the river.’
‘Enough of your Chinese wisdom.’ Vero pours some more whisky into our glasses. ‘I can barely understand it when I’m sober.’
Two refills later, the conversation evolves into gentle reminiscing. Vero talks about her wild early days with Stella, I entertain them with a story of Anton who, after too many bottles of Leffe Blonde, insisted on Tippexing all the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. But our anecdotes fade into insignificance when Fly reveals that he is a sapiosexual.
‘I fancy clever people. Intelligence is sexy and it’s much longer lasting than physical attractiveness. For me a challenging philosophical conversation is a far better turn-on than looking at a pair of boobs. After all, the brain is the largest sex organ.’
Straight-faced, Vero asks Fly whether it’s hard to meet other sapiosexuals. Apparently not, he reassures her, as long as one knows where to look for them. My IQ plummets rapidly after yet another whisky refill and soon I find myself on an ancient sofa in Vero’s study convinced that all my life I’ve been looking for the wrong thing in a man.
25
I wake up in what feels like the middle of the night, my heart pumping madly. I check the time on my phone. It’s 7 a.m. and the house is quiet. Vero and Fly are still sleeping off our Macallan binge. But I can’t sleep. Fly’s lecture did nothing to alleviate my fears. In fact, it has made me feel even more vulnerable. Knowing that a hacker can worm his way into my life without me realizing it and with total impunity is terrifying.
I gather my clothes which are scattered across Vero’s antique Kashan rug, throw them hastily on and head for the kitchen. It turns out I’m not the first up after all. Fly sits at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee next to his MacBook. He is immaculately groomed and smells of some oriental, woody aftershave. His neat appearance makes me feel slovenly in yesterday’s clothes. I self-consciously realize that I haven’t had a shower in a while and I’m beginning to smell. But Fly doesn’t seem to notice as he offers me a mug of fresh coffee. I sit opposite him at the table and watch him type something quickly, his fingers barely touching the keyboard. Obviously sapiosexuals don’t engage in futile chit-chat. There is a small USB stick in designer steel casing plugged into one of the ports in his Mac. Which makes me remember –
Anton’s flash drive!
I put down my mug abruptly and dash out into the hallway in search of my bag. I grab my wallet and return to the kitchen. I spill its contents on the table. Where is it? I do remember slipping it into my wallet when I was tidying up my desk.
‘Yes!’ I spot it among loose change, old receipts and Invader’s little wooden gadget, which I’ve been carrying around as a street-art memento.
I pick the drive up and show it to Fly, who’s been watching me in bewilderment.
‘It belonged to Anton,’ I declare.
‘I see.’ Fly seems to be taking my strange behaviour in his stride.
‘Would you be able to check what’s on it?’ I put it on the table in front of him.
‘Integral crypto-drive. They are usually password-protected.’ He studies the stick without touching it.
‘Yes, I know, I’ve tried to break into it.’
‘How many times?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How many times have you tried to unlock it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘A few. I’ve tried all his favourite words.’
He picks it up and plugs it into his Mac, stares at the screen for a while, then shakes his head.
‘Six times. You’ve tried at least six times.’
<
br /> ‘How do you know?’
‘It automatically erases all data after six failed access attempts.’
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘I’m not. The data and encryption key have been destroyed. It’s empty.’ He ejects it and gives it back to me. ‘Sorry.’
‘Damn.’
I put my face in my hands with a sigh. Every way I turn seems to be a dead end. Even the stupid USB drive.
‘I didn’t know you were a musician.’
‘Sorry?’ I lower my hands.
Fly is turning Invader’s wooden gadget in his slim fingers.
‘Vero said you were a photographer.’
‘I am.’
‘But this . . . oh, did it belong to your boyfriend as well?’
‘It did as a matter of fact.’
‘Was he a violinist?’
‘A what?’
‘A violinist,’ he mumbles, looking at me with round eyes. ‘I thought . . . this is . . . I mean, this is a violin bridge . . .’
I stare at the delicate object in his fingers, mortified.
‘A violin bridge,’ I say at last.
So this is not a replica of a mosaic by the French street artist.
‘Invader, my arse,’ I whisper and Fly’s eyes get even rounder. ‘I’m sorry, Fly. It’s nothing to do with you. It’s me . . . I’m . . . I’m an absolute idiot.’
I grab it from his hand, slide the scattered coins back to my wallet and get up.
‘I have to go. I’ve just remembered I have something on in London this morning. Will you tell Vero I said thanks and goodbye? I’ll give her a call later.’
Fly nods without a word. I grab my bag on the way out and close the door quietly behind me.
I reach Junction 7 on the M2 before realizing I’ve left Pixel at Vero’s. It’s probably the first sensible thing I’ve done for ages. Vero likes cats and he’ll enjoy a break at her little cottage. I’ll have some of his food delivered to her address as soon as I get home. It’s only temporary, I reassure myself. I’ll have him back as soon as . . . as soon as what?
As soon as I find out what’s going on.
As soon as I feel safe.
As soon as I get my life back.
The engine in my old MG is wailing with effort as I push the pedal to the metal, nudging 80 mph. What’s the rush? Where am I going? Slow down. Think. I ease my foot off the accelerator and move to the left lane.
The violin bridge. It was among Anton’s things that PC Singh brought to my place after his death. How did it get there? Anton wasn’t a musical type. He’d probably never held a violin in his life and he certainly wouldn’t know what a violin bridge was. Just as I didn’t. So how did it end up in his pocket?
Scenario One: he picked it up somewhere, without even realizing what it was. But he hated classical music, never went to concerts, and as far as I know didn’t hang out with musicians. Scenario Two: someone gave it to him. The image of the mysterious woman who had sex with him in my loft pops up in my head. She could’ve been a musician. Perhaps it was a post-coital gift. Scenario Three: someone slipped it into his pocket. But why? And who? I shiver as Scenario Four slowly formulates in my mind: someone could’ve put it in his pocket after his death.
A violin bridge.
A message.
A message from the Violinist.
I can’t breathe. I have to get off the motorway right now. I hit the hazard lights’ button and veer off onto the hard shoulder. I’m out of the car as soon as it stops, forcing myself to take deep breaths. A pain in my side reminds me instantly of my bruised ribcage.
I’m still leaning forward, my hands on my knees, waiting for the wooziness to subside when I hear a voice behind me.
‘You all right, madam?’
I straighten up and turn. There is a police car parked behind my MG, its lights flashing. The policeman is big and stony-faced and he means business.
‘The hard shoulder is a dangerous place to stop. Are you aware . . .’
‘I’m so sorry. I felt sick, I had to stop.’
He glares at me. ‘Are you fit to drive now, madam?’
‘I think so.’
He suggests I take a break at Medway service station and follows me all the way there.
Stopping at the service station isn’t such a bad idea. I head straight for Costa Coffee and order a mint infusion. It soothes my nerves and helps me think clearly.
Could the violin bridge really be a message from the Violinist? The idea seems far-fetched, now that I think about it rationally. The Violinist is dead. There’s no way he’s been sending messages from beyond the grave. A vengeful relative? From what I remember reading about him, he was a loner with no family in this country. And even if there was a grudge-bearing relation somewhere in the world, why would they choose me as the recipient of their angry missives? And why now, after such a long time?
No, there must be another explanation for its presence among Anton’s things, probably a totally innocuous one. He used to carry all sorts of weird things with him. Screws, bolts, washers, earplugs, sticky bonbons, why not a violin bridge? He must’ve slipped it into his pocket because he liked the look of it. Maybe he was planning to use it in his art. I take a sip of my mint tea, trying to convince myself that this is the most plausible explanation. Of course it is.
I hadn’t realized how tense my body is. I stretch and square my shoulders, studying the other travellers lounging in service station bliss: a handful of guys in suits poring over their mobile phones, a smattering of elderly couples working through their daily intake of sugar and a group of surprisingly quiet teenage kids, their noses in iPads. I feel a yawn coming and I turn to cover my mouth, when something black on a solitary armchair by the milk and sugar station catches my eye. The yawn instantly dies in my throat.
Perched on the armchair, all slimline and shiny, sits a brand-new violin case. Where is its owner? I look around. I should tell someone. There must be a security guard on the premises. Speak to the staff at the bar. They’ll know what to do. The case is too small to hold a body, but there could be a bomb in it. I have to warn everybody. The girl who served me earlier approaches the station to replenish the milk thermos. Just as I open my mouth to alert her, a young boy appears by the armchair, casually picks up the case and shouts something in French to the group of teenagers. They are getting up, chatting and collecting their scattered belongings. I can see now that they all carry various instrument cases. The boy with the violin case joins them and they pile out through the door to the car park. A white coach pulls up and opens its doors, an Orchestre Symphonique des Jeunes de Haute-Marne logo on its side.
A wave of relief washes over me. Thankfully no one has noticed my little flap, the guys in suits are still staring at their phones and the elderly couples keep devouring their cakes. The barista girl has returned to her position behind the counter. Life goes on as normal.
‘You gonna answer it, love, or shall I do it for you?’ The guy at the next table sounds annoyed.
My phone is ringing.
‘Kristin! It’s Rupert. As in Rupert and Daniel?’
I hesitate for a moment, trying to place the voice and the names. Ah, my hipster friends from the Grand Canal Apartments. I’ve forgotten to email them the drawing of the King’s Cross man. But it doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t think there’s a cyclists’ plot to kill me.
‘Sorry not to have called you sooner, darling,’ he rattles on. ‘We meant to ring you, but we’ve been so busy. Life just takes over, doesn’t it? Anyway, how have you been keeping?’
He doesn’t wait for my answer.
‘The reason I’m calling, do forgive me for getting straight to the point, darling, but we have a bit of an emergency . . . We’re going away tomorrow morning, two weeks in Santorini. It’s absolute heaven, we’ve been going there for years. The problem is our friend who normally looks after Matilda was taken to hospital today with a burst appendix and our other friends . . . well, let’s face it, they are
all herpetophobic. In case you’re wondering, it’s an aversion to reptiles, not the fear of catching herpes. How can you not like Matilda?’
Ah, Matilda the snake, it all suddenly clicks into place.
‘Would you like me to look after Matilda?’
‘Oh, sweetheart, would you mind? You’d be an absolute lifesaver.’
Everything else in my life has been turned upside down, so why not add a python to the mix?
‘I should be home in an hour. Do you want to drop her off at my place?’
Thank goodness I’ve left Pixel at Vero’s. I wouldn’t want him to end up as Matilda’s snack.
‘Oh no, she’s quite comfortable in her vivarium. She doesn’t mind being on her own, so don’t worry about having to keep her company. All you’ll need to do is pop in once, in about a week, and feed her.’
‘OK.’ I instantly have an image of myself filling up Matilda’s bowl with Pixel’s dry food. ‘What do I feed her with?’
‘Peach fuzzies.’
‘Peach fuzzies? I didn’t know snakes ate fruit.’
‘They are feeder mice, darling. We’ve left a whole bag of them in the freezer, just in case. She used to eat pinkies until recently, you know, neonatal mice without a coat of hair, but now that she’s grown she can handle juveniles.’
The whole talk of fuzzies and pinkies is beginning to make me a bit queasy, but I bravely soldier on.
‘OK, so what do I do with it?’
‘Here’s the catch: you have to defrost it at room temperature before you can give it to her. Please, don’t do it in the microwave. Just put it between two sheets of kitchen towel and wait. It shouldn’t take long, an hour at most. It may have a nosebleed as it thaws, but it’s nothing to worry about, it’s quite normal. And once the fuzzie is nice and soft, you just pop it into Matilda’s vivarium and she’ll do the rest. She’s quite shy, but if you’re lucky she might eat it while you’re there.’
Now, there’s a lovely thought.
‘Do you think you can handle it, darling?’ Rupert sounds quite concerned and I have no heart to tell him to stuff his fuzzies and leave me alone.
‘I’ll give it a go . . . Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’
‘You are a star! We’ll bring a nice bottle of Metaxa Private Reserve back for you!’
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