The Codex File (2012)

by Miles Etherton

  She knew industrial espionage was a dirty game, but this was beyond anyone’s worst nightmare.

  And now she realised why the man looked familiar. She had a vague recollection of meeting or seeing him at an industry event the year before. He’d been making a presentation on advancements in…

  The answers and images in her mind faded instantly as the stocky man approached the bed again. This time the knife was replaced by a long length of rubber tubing and a large white plastic container. Her eyes flicked rapidly from the man to the plastic container, desperately trying to read the words on the label.

  The rubber tubing was roughly forced through the slit in the tape across her mouth, in between her swollen lips, and she caught sight of the label.

  White Spirit. He’s trying to pour White Spirit down my throat and burn out my fucking insides.

  She clenched her mouth firmly shut, shaking her head from side-to-side. The rest of her body continued its losing battle to break free from its restraints.

  Within seconds the fist which had first greeted her at the front door had smashed viciously into her face three times. She was barely aware of her nose being smashed, her septum splitting, or the teeth breaking as unconsciousness began to consume her. If she’d been able to think clearly she would have probably welcomed it rather than face what was coming.

  As she finally succumbed to the black unconscious she never felt the rubber-tubing slide into her throat.

  The lightbulb for the porch was missing. It was the first thing Michael Robertson noticed as he approached his front door. Frowning, he reached into his jacket pocket for his door key, groping about in the darkness, sure in the knowledge the bulb had been there the night before. Perhaps it had broken that evening and Colette just hadn’t got round to replacing it yet he wondered.

  Another thought crossed his mind, one he hoped was too petty to be possibly true. Was Colette still sufficiently pissed off with him to have removed the bulb just to annoy him when he arrived home from his work’s annual dinner?

  Dismissing the idea, Michael exhaled noisily, hoping the bunch of red roses and bottle of Lindemans Bin 65 Chardonnay, one of Colette’s favourites, would help smooth over their fight at breakfast. Even now he couldn’t help but feel Colette was being a little hypocritical at making a fuss about him attending. How many meetings, conferences and overnight stays had she been on in the last few manic months for her job?

  Trips to London for emergency meetings at virtually no notice were almost as commonplace as her going into the office. There were some weeks he’d barely see her at all, and not once had he made a fuss, or made her feel guilty about it and the fact that their eight-year-old daughter Clare missed her dreadfully when she was away.

  Although, as Colette had been keen to point out, none of those meetings had taken place on their wedding anniversary. And not only was it their anniversary, but she’d got a nasty cold, or maybe even the start of flu, and needed looking after. If she did have flu it wouldn’t be entirely surprising given how hard he knew she’d been working. Being a bit run down was all too likely the reason for her picking up something.

  He knew the timing had been dire, but there was nothing he could do about it. The Managing Director had made it clear a dim view would be taken if all the senior insurance brokers didn’t attend the annual dinner. And he’d duly obliged, incurring Colette’s wrath in the process.

  Sliding the key into the lock the front door opened up onto the dark hallway. Glancing at his watch, lit-up by the full moon, the time was a little after eleven. Normally Colette would still have been awake at this time, probably working at her laptop, but instead all the downstairs lights were off. The only illumination came from the upstairs landing.

  Flicking the hall light on Michael’s gaze dropped to the assortment of letters strewn across the carpet, just beyond the doormat. Colette prided herself on her tidiness, and the letters and bills that needed responding to where always stacked neatly on the side of the hall table, not lying in a mess on the floor. Maybe Harry, their cat, had taken a walk across the narrow table he thought, closing the door gently behind him.

  For a brief second he thought about calling out to Colette, but rejected the idea in case she’d gone to bed. Despite the recriminations at breakfast he hoped she was still awake and they could enjoy some of the remaining evening together with a pleasant glass of wine.

  Placing his keys on the hall table Michael headed in the direction of the kitchen to retrieve two wine glasses. Before he reached there he stopped, his gaze honing in one of Colette’s slippers, discarded on the bottom step of the staircase. Several steps further up, one of her gold encrusted earrings, a present from their last wedding anniversary, lay unattended.

  A quizzical look crossed Michael’s face as a slight frown formed before he turned and slowly began to climb the stairs. Even when she was ill, Colette wouldn’t just dump things on the stairs, especially not her favourite jewellery.

  With the roses in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other, Michael gently walked up the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky step at the top.

  The upstairs of the house was just as quiet as downstairs. Eerily quiet. There was no sound of life from the bedroom. No quiet mumblings from the television. Not even the quiet whistling of the wind coming in through the bathroom window which was always open, even in winter. And no sign of their cat Harry keeping guard at the top of the stairs which was his nightly ritual.

  Reaching the landing one more thing wasn’t as it should have been. Their bedroom door was closed. They never closed it, just in case Clare ever needed something in the night.

  Without further thought Michael turned the door handle to his bedroom. The room, like the rest of the upstairs of their house was in darkness. But there was something else he wasn’t prepared for. The smell. A metallic chemical cocktail hung in the air, invading his senses as he grappled to decipher what it might be.

  His heart began to pound and he could feel himself starting to perspire. Something was wrong, and as he reached for the light switch his sense of dread was rising by the second.

  He felt the air being sucked from his lungs as artificial light bathed their bedroom. For a few long moments he stood, staring, unable to move, a sea of blood filling his vision as he looked at what had once been their bed.

  Even as he stared at the sight before him, his confused thoughts couldn’t process what he was seeing. The duvet was on the floor at the foot of the bed. The sheets were stained crimson, barely a spot of white remaining. Colette was bound to the bed, her wrists fastened to the bedstead, her ankles taped together.

  Michael could feel numbness and nausea creeping through him simultaneously as he took in every detail of the horror before him. Bloodied duct tape was pulled over Colette’s mouth, and what looked like a piece of rubber tubing was hanging limply from her swollen lips. On the floor next to the bed was a discarded white plastic canister. The words ‘White Spirit’ were just visible from where the container lay on its side.

  Beginning to shake, the acidic taste of bile burnt the back of his throat as his gaze dropped to Colette’s exposed chest, her shirt torn open and crumpled beneath her. Savage markings and lacerations had been cut into her pale flesh, the blood now dried into a gruesome message that made no sense.

  ‘Fuck the net’.

  And on the wall above the bed, more blood, smeared in large letters, spelling out another message.

  ‘Reclaim the world’.

  Unable to hold back the nausea any longer Michael vomited onto the floor in front of him before beginning to hyperventilate.

  “That can’t be Colette,” his mind was pleading.

  But he knew it was as his eyes traced the lines of blood running from the wounds in her chest, matting portions of her long brown hair together where it had got in the way of the blood flow.

  And as unconsciousness crept up on him, and he slumped heavily to the floor, one more terrible thought filled his head.

 
Where was his daughter?

  CHAPTER TWO

  The shadows were beginning to lengthen as the dark blue Mercedes gently ground to a halt alongside the deserted playground. Two men quickly exited the car, following the path running round the edge of the play area. One wore a smart black suit, the other in dark combat trousers, a thin jumper and carrying a black holdall.

  Creaking swings rocked gently in the breeze as they turned onto a narrow path running along the back of the houses on the small, quiet estate. Vincent Trevellion looked quickly around him, ensuring no-one else was on the path. There was no-one. The only sound was the gentle crunching as their shoes trod down on the gravel.

  Walking purposefully up the quiet path Trevellion counted the houses, making sure they reached the back of their intended location. Conservatory after conservatory loomed up over the tall fences, the wooden structures decorated with a mixture of trellises and climbing plants, all backing onto the path.

  At the seventh house, Trevellion stopped counting. They’d reached their destination.

  Above the fence they could see the upstairs of a large mock Georgian house. A vast conservatory ran along the entire back of the building. In front of where they stood was the back gate of the garden, shrouded in ivy hanging down from the bricked arch above.

  Moving to one side Trevellion watched as his stocky accomplice, John Kennedy, prised open his holdall. Pulling two pairs of white rubber gloves from the material bag, he passed one pair to Trevellion. Silently, the two men pulled on the gloves.

  Reaching back into the holdall Kennedy slid out a well-used crowbar. Checking they were still alone on the path, and confident the high fences obscured any view of their activities, he inserted the crowbar in between the gate and its wooden frame and leant heavily on the tool. The lock creaked and buckled before giving way to his weight. The gate swung open, revealing an immaculately manicured garden. The vibrant mixture of flowers and shrubs subdued by the twilight.

  Closing the gate behind them, and propping a nearby shovel against it to hide evidence of their entrance, the two men stole up to the back door of the house. Kennedy still gripped the crowbar tightly in his right hand. Raising the tool to the glass Trevellion nodded as it punched a jagged hole through the glass above the door handle.

  Dropping the crowbar back into the holdall Kennedy slid his hand through the hole in the glass, turning the key lodged in the lock.

  A thin smile crossed Trevellion’s normally sombre expression as they entered the empty house. They both knew the owner would be back soon.

  Trevellion looked around the large galley-style kitchen until an item on the tiled wall opposite caught his eye.

  “This should be very persuasive,” he said menacingly, lifting the meat cleaver from its hook on the wall and passing it to Kennedy.

  The meat cleaver glinted from its newness and Trevellion doubted it had ever been used. He smiled as he studied its reassuringly sharp edge as his able assistant grasped it tightly in his right hand. Eight inches of metal so sharp it could slice a wrist off in one vicious strike.

  Everything seemed to sparkle in the kitchen. Pristine clean work surfaces. A well stacked wine rack with its excellent vintages. And shards of glass, decorating the polished wooden floor from where they’d forced entry.

  Armed with the meat cleaver the two men passed silently from the kitchen into the study. The meticulously tidy room contained what they were expecting - a touch-screen computer, securely mounted at 45 degrees, and shelf upon shelf of paper files, computer disks, DVD-ROMs and flash drives. Almost a lifetime’s work of a man dedicated to developing computer technology.

  The bookcase along the adjacent wall was carefully stacked with manuals on advanced programming techniques and the online world into the 21 century. A filing cabinet sat beside the bookcase. This surely held more technology secrets Trevellion thought as his gloved hand delicately stroked the top of the storage unit. The contents of the room were what they were looking for.

  The sound of the 7 Series BMW pulling into the luxurious gravel drive filtered through to the two men and Trevellion cast a glance at his watch. On time as usual he thought knowingly as the second hand moved on to 7.10pm.

  Kennedy placed the meat cleaver down on top of the bookcase before slipping his hand into the pocket of his combat trousers. Silently, he pulled out a length of thin rope, about a metre long. As the key in the front door turned Kennedy wound the thin rope tightly around his fingers. Moving just inside the doorway to the study they both waited and listened.

  As the front door opened the sound of creaking hinges filled the quiet house. David Langley trudged into his darkening hallway, dropping his heavy briefcase onto the thick pile carpet with a dull thud.

  A sickly odour of stale aftershave and a day’s sweat permeated the hallway. Closing the front door he tossed his keys onto the wooden table inside the door. A hoarse asthmatic cough echoed in the hallway. Pausing for a second to catch his breath he reached into his pocket for his ventolin inhaler. Carrying the heavy briefcase from the car had stirred up his asthma yet again.

  Pumping the inhaler twice between his lips he looked down at his stomach. A mountain of flesh hung flabbily over his waistband. A puddle of sweat stained his Yves Saint Laurent shirt where it clung to his skin. He really ought to lose weight he thought, replacing his inhaler back in his jacket pocket.

  Wiping the perspiration from his face he exhaled loudly. Bending over to reach for the post congregated on his doormat he began to gasp for breath yet again. The thin rope bit into his flesh and tightened around his windpipe. Duct tape was quickly wound round his head and over wide, fearful eyes as struggled from where Kennedy was restraining him.

  “Oh my God, if it’s money you want I can get you money,” Langley gasped, his voice rising in panic, the rope constricting his windpipe further.

  “Shut the fuck up fat man,” Trevellion said calmly.

  His clenched fist smashed into the man’s right kidney. Through a stifled cry Langley crumpled as his legs gave way beneath him. For a brief moment he was suspended like a limp puppet as he hung from the rope cutting into his throat.

  As Kennedy’s grip loosened the man slumped to the floor. Lying motionless his reddened face gradually began to turn blue.

  “Great, where’s his fucking inhaler?” Trevellion snapped, his neatly polished shoe thudding viciously into the man’s back.

  Bending down, but still with a grip on the rope, Kennedy quickly rummaged through Langley’s suit pockets. His searching stopped as his fingers wrapped around the inhaler.

  Winding the rope tighter for more leverage Kennedy quickly yanked Langley into a sitting position before loosening his grip. The man’s face had turned to a darker blue as he fought for every precious breath. Shoving the inhaler roughly between his quivering lips Trevellion pumped five rapid squirts into Langley’s mouth.

  You’re not allowed to die yet fat man.

  The man spluttered for a few seconds before his colour gradually returned.

  “On your feet,” Trevellion snapped as Kennedy roughly hauled Langley into a standing position.

  “Look, what do you want?” he panted, sweat oozing from every pore.

  “I’ll ask the questions,” Trevellion replied caustically.

  The man was bundled into his study and pushed roughly into the swivel chair. Temporarily he sank into unconsciousness as Trevellion ripped a vicious blow across the side of his face with the outside of his fist.

  Kennedy rapidly wound the strong, silver duct tape around Langley’s ankles, fastening his chubby arms and wrists to the thick wooden armrests. Kneeling beside the right armrest he spread the man’s fleshy fingers, taping each digit tightly to the chair.

  Trevellion stood close by, looking down at the fat, balding middle-aged man before him. His face was bright red, sweat congregating in his furrowed brow. His stomach, which hung over his neatly pressed trousers, rose and fell rapidly.

  “Look who are you? What do you wa
nt from me?” he managed to blurt out.

  Trevellion didn’t reply. Instead, he walked nonchalantly to the bookcase, picking up the meat cleaver.

  “I want access to ACE Solution’s records relating to the state network tender and what’s currently in your company’s R&D pipeline.”

  Trevellion approached the chair, passing the meat cleaver to Kennedy.

  “You must be bloody joking. I can’t give you that,” Langley replied incredulously. “I don’t even have access to all that data.”

  As he finished his sentence Trevellion roughly brought his hand over the man’s mouth as Kennedy brought the meat cleaver down. Langley struggled in his chair as his little finger shot two feet in the air, blood gushing from the gaping wound.

  Trevellion pulled his hand away as the man began to whimper.

  Langley began to feel the nausea well up inside him. The smell of his sweat and the metallic odour of his own blood filled his nostrils. His shirt was drenched in perspiration as he writhed in vain against his restraints.

  “Oh Jesus, oh fuck. I’m going to bleed to death. Oh God, no.”

  Winding the thin rope back round Langley’s throat, Kennedy pulled tightly.

  “Don’t fuck with me fat man. It’s only going to get worse if you don’t work with me,” Trevellion snarled.

  He paused, looking down at his polished shoes. The fat man’s wound had dripped blood onto the Italian leather. Disdainfully, he wiped his spattered shoes on Langley’s trousers.

  “Listen very carefully. I know you’re the project manager for the state network tender at ACE Solutions. That means you have access to the project information and the R&D pipeline. Tell me where it’s stored and this will soon be over.”

  “I can access some of our network through a secure VPN connection from my computer here. But I don’t know where the rest of it is stored,” the fat man lied unconvincingly.

  The meat cleaver whistled satisfyingly, slicing through the air, severing the man’s thumb at the knuckle. The sickening sound of metal ripping through flesh, tendons and bone was drowned out as the fat man screamed.