The Borough

by Steve Dockray

CHAPTER SIX

  "Hey Dad, what's this?"

  Winner came out of the small kitchen, where he had been clearing away his breakfast dishes. Toby was sat in front of the computer screen, which was displaying a series of error messages.

  "You can pull out of there if you want to load a game." Winner told him.

  "No, I just wondered what this was. Can't you make it work?"

  Winner looked at his son, a ten year old mini-adult in sweatshirt and jeans with a wild shock of blond hair and a pair of enormous trainers. Why not tell him the truth?

  "It belonged to the man you asked me about. The one in the car crash. It wasn't labelled, so I wanted to see what was on it. There's only one file, a Lotus spreadsheet, but it's password protected, so I've been trying to guess what password he might have used."

  "That's fun. Can I have a go?"

  "If you like, just while I finish off in the kitchen."

  The sound of a rattling computer keyboard floated through the kitchen door as Winner wiped down the counter top. At first, Saturdays with Toby had been a bit difficult, but now that a year had passed he felt he knew his son better than when he had been around all the time. What started out as a chore had become the highlight of the week, so much so that if he missed a week, through illness or a special outing, the weekend would seem empty and rather lonely. Winner supposed he might find another woman to share his life one day, but at the moment Sharmouth seemed a rather un-promising hunting ground. Another bleep came from the living room.

  "It doesn't like you either," Winner called out.

  "Give me a chance, Dad."

  Winner came back into the room. "If you consider that he could have used any one of thirty-six numbers and letters for each of the possible eight characters, then you've got about one chance in three thousand billion of getting the password right by chance. Don't waste your time."

  "Nobody uses odd letters and numbers. It's too hard to remember. Most people use their telephone number or the dog's name. Something like that. I was trying local place names, like Sharmouth."

  Winner smiled, relieved that he hadn't been out-classed. "I was trying his wife's name and his children. I've got some personal details on a bit of paper. I don't know if he had a dog. Come on, let's go out."

  "Can't we stay in? This is good fun."

  "Leave it on. You can have another go when we get back. You know your mother complains if I don't give you any exercise."

  The town of Sharmouth nestled in the shelter of the estuary, but the needs of a growing population had led to a steady expansion onto the surrounding higher ground. From the more recently built part, where Winner lived, it was only a ten minute walk to the cliff top overlooking the Channel. At low tide, a steep path led onto an expanse of pale brown sand that stretched for over three miles along the foot of the cliffs.

  Father and son strode out along the empty beach, the exertion necessary to counteract the cold Atlantic wind that was driving an unending succession of foaming white breakers across the sand. From time to time the sun broke through, sparkling on the white foam. Winner could taste the salt that was being driven in on the fine spray. It was miles better than sitting in a stuffy office. Further along the beach Winner was amazed to see some surfers braving the freezing wind to practise their sport. Hard to believe that even a top quality wet suit gave that much protection.

  "What about sports, Dad?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "For the password. What sports did he do?"

  "I didn't know much about what he did outside work. It's something we could try though. Don't worry about it now."

  Toby ran off, playing chicken with the incoming waves. Winner doubted he'd be able to move if the waves caught him and filled up his trainers. The sun came out again and Winner was glad he'd suggested a walk. Working in an office, daylight was something only seen out of a window from Monday to Friday in November and December. Arriving before nine in the morning it wasn't properly light, and by the time he left in the evening it was pitch black.

  "What are these, Dad?" Toby had found some different shells washed up by the sea. Winner glanced at them.

  "The slipper limpet - Crepidula Fornicata," he told him. A Latin name that had seemed so funny when he first heard it that it had stuck in his mind, a last vestigial trace of seashore studies long ago.

  "You seem to know everything, Dad."

  "Don't test me on too many. Anyway, a question for you. What would you like for Christmas this year?"

  Toby looked out to sea. He didn't like to ask for anything too expensive, but everything he wanted seemed to cost a fortune.

  Winner sensed the hesitation. "If you could have anything you wanted, just supposing the cost didn't matter."

  "A proper computer would be nice. Mum won't let me have a bike yet. Says the roads are too dangerous."

  "We'll have to see what we can do, but if we can't manage it you know you can use mine whenever you come over. We'd better turn back now, or the tide might catch us."

  Some seagulls took off as they approached and flew above them, screaming. Ten thousand pounds. Computers weren't so expensive these days. It wouldn't make too much of a dent in ten thousand pounds. Nothing too lavish, mind you, or Toby's mother would think he could afford more maintenance. Winner realised that he was starting to make a mental shopping list. Sod them all, why shouldn't he keep the money? - Look on it as a bonus, a convenient windfall. Worth trying to find out where it came from, though.

  Lunch was at a pub where the landlord wanted family business and had designated one end as a dining room, though the decor and furnishings were identical. They got the last free table close to the log fire, Winner's favourite place, with or without Toby. The English licensing laws were ridiculous. The pub was full of kids on any weekend lunch-time and it didn't spoil the atmosphere. Winner knew that Lorraine wasn't keen on him taking her son there, but he couldn't see it doing any harm. It had to be a two way thing. They couldn't spend every Saturday doing things just to suit Toby's interests.

  Back at the flat, somewhat overloaded by Chicken Supreme with chips followed by hot apple pie, they sat down together at the computer. Toby stabbed at the keyboard, while Winner made suggestions for passwords from the notes he had taken. When the effects of the lunch-time pint eventually drove him to the bathroom, he took the opportunity to recover the diary from the airing cupboard. It was the first chance he'd had to look through it. There were a number of appointments and notes that didn't seem all that interesting. Winner resolved to go through it page by page when Toby had gone. One of the note pages at the back had some names and figures jotted down, so they tapped them out on the keyboard to see if they would work, but every one returned an error message.

  By the time Toby's mother arrived to collect him, they had tried about a hundred possibilities, but the spreadsheet stubbornly refused to load. Winner turned it off. Another day, maybe. The flat seemed quiet, so he put on a CD and opened up his briefcase on the table. The ledger was a substantial document with hundreds of subtotals and summaries. Winner went out to the kitchen for a mug of coffee, then settled down to an evening of checking and cross checking.