Gatecrasher

  'Deep breath,' he told himself and took one and then swore loudly anyway. He lifted a hand to his face, covered his eyes and started to shake his head. Swearing again he turned to the cupboard under the sink and pulled out the dustpan to begin cleaning the mess away. He had lost his appetite completely now as he stared at the steaming mess of yellow, brown and red and decided to bin it and sit in front of a noisy, mindless blockbuster of a film.

  On his knees with a wet cloth Campbell found himself again cleaning a large patch of lino with a headache and the smell of alcohol in the air which had still not quite cleared and he was glad at least that this time it wasn't blood. Judging by the price of the frozen lasagne in fact, he wasn't sure it was even meat.

  He noted that the sauce had splattered up over the door of the oven and he leaned over to wipe that too when he spotted something in the inch or so gap between the oven and the floor.

  He stared for a minute, frowning. Why hadn't he noticed that on Sunday when he'd last been down here cleaning? Too hungover probably. Or still drunk.

  It looked from his angle like a large key fob. It was black, inch, inch and a half long and looked clean and grease free, unlike the other detritus down there.

  He reached his fingers in gingerly, the heat from the oven making him cautious and he tried to drag it but it stuck where it was. He shifted around and worked his hand a little flatter so he could reach in further and this time his fingers got purchase and it began to slide out toward him.

  Picking it up, he examined it. Dark rusty smears across the plastic left no doubt who had left this here - must, in fact, have hidden it he realised. There was a logo on it identifying the manufacturer and the end of it slid off to reveal a USB key. This was a memory stick.

  16

  Tuesday. 2.45 pm.

  Sarah Knowles sneezed again. The dry dusty air in this room was playing havoc with her sinuses.

  She looked back down at the stack of papers in her lap and started flicking through each document in the dwindling pile that had yet to be checked. Almost done, she thought.

  Nearly two days she had been stuck in this musty cupboard pulling files off shelves and leafing through each one and what had she found? Nothing. Not one piece of paper out of place, not one single document missing. Of course there wasn't, she had filed this lot herself years ago. As thorough a job as you might find anywhere. She knew that everything in here would be in order.

  She got to the end of the final stack and returned the papers neatly to the box file they had come from and slid it back into place on the shelf.

  Finished.

  Looking at her fingers, she noticed that the skin was peeling at the tips. The dry paper had leached all the moisture out of them over the last few days. Going to need some hand cream, she thought to herself. Going to need some hand cream, a long hot bath and about a pound of chocolate.

  Closing the door to the storeroom behind her she strolled wearily along the corridor toward the lift. As the doors slid open, she scowled at the mirror inside and turned her back on it as she stepped in but she'd seen the state she was in. Hair a mess, clothes smudged and dirty from the dust and the print. She sighed and hit a button.

  Upstairs she walked briskly through the office, keen that nobody get too good a look at her. She was going to report in and then ask to be excused for the day and intended to make it pretty clear that she would be going home anyway so she might as well be excused.

  Stopping at the door she resisted the urge to barge straight in and knocked, perhaps a little too firmly.

  'Come.'

  She raised her eyebrows at the closed door and mouthed the word 'come'. Typical of her boss, she thought, trying to sound so imperious. She opened the door and walked in. Andrew Griffin had the phone to his ear and was telling someone to hold on for a moment.

  'Sarah.'

  She shook her head. 'Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing's been touched, nothing's been moved, nothing is missing.'

  He nodded but his expression remained stern. He didn't appear to care what she had found. Or not found.

  'OK. OK then.'

  She stood still for a moment, a little surprised after all her effort, after being cooped up in the store room for two days, after the secrecy and the 'don't go telling everyone about this' from Griffin himself and now she wasn't even sure he was listening. Anger began to flare up in her.

  'I've pretty much had it with that lot Andrew,' she said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. 'Is it alright if I take off early? Shower, change - I'm covered in dust and ink?'

  Griffin looked distracted. Sarah began to back out of the room. 'That OK?'

  He nodded and seemed to snap to his senses. 'Sure. Great. Definitely. Take yourself home, stick your feet up. Absolutely. Thanks for your help Sarah. Really appreciate it.'

  Confused she left and pulled the door shut and then stood staring at it momentarily. Then she turned and walked quickly for her desk to grab her handbag and coat. Better get out whilst the getting's good, she thought.

 

  *

  In his office, alone again with no-one to hear, Griffin had taken the phone off mute and began speaking again, his voice low, cautious.

  'So something definitely was taken? Can you tell me what exactly? I mean can you find out?' He nodded as he listened to the reply, only partly understanding. Something about the server, a log, keystrokes. 'Right, sure, ok. Well whatever it takes, but I don't want anybody else on this. Just you. And I need it soon. Really soon.'

  17

  Tuesday. 3pm.

  'Cheers Steve,' Campbell said and set the huge take-out Starbucks cup down on his desk and began tearing sugar sachets open. He had just cajoled a colleague into doing a coffee-run for the four people that sat on his bank of desks.

  The bags under Campbell's eyes had done as much to convince his colleague to go as his promptings had. 'You'll be needing the Uberlatte then Dan?' he'd said refusing Campbell's proffered tenner.

  Another unproductive day was passing and the feeling of despondency and self-pity that had characterised his previous morning was being overtaken by worry and a creeping fear.

  His first instinct the night before, looking at the blood smeared plastic memory stick, had been to call the police. DC Samuel had left a card; let him do his job. But Campbell's mind would not be still and he had sat in silence in his living room, his attention shifting between the memory stick and the empty space in front of him that he stared blankly into for a long time.

  There was clearly, undeniably, a link to the break-in he'd read about in the local paper. It was no great leap of logic to realise this was what had been stolen in the break in, or at least that it contained whatever had been stolen. Which meant data. Which meant industrial espionage.

  That, to Campbell's mind, meant something serious.

  The fact it was tucked right under his oven, near where the man was lying and smeared in his blood didn't allow for chance or coincidence. The gatecrasher had pushed it in there to hide it. And if that was true, then it naturally followed that it must be something worth hiding.

  And, in turn, that there was someone worth hiding it from.

  So why not call DC Samuel? Why not run straight out of his front door to the local police station and get rid of the thing?

  Because they knew where he lived didn't they? And, more to the point, they knew that he had it. Because they'd come looking for it.

  They. Who the hell were they? Campbell thought of a million possibilities but had no real idea. His gatecrasher had obviously known who they were though since how the hell else would he have got hold of this USB? And if he had gone to the effort - when he could barely even speak or open his eyes - to actually hide this, then he must know how much they wanted it back and what they would do to get it.

  No, Campbell thought. I can hand this over and leave it safe in the police station but I can't hand myself in can I? No. And then what? Who knows who might come knocking. Setting the police on their trail might
just make them angry. Them. They.

  All these things he ran through again as he sipped his coffee and tapped at his keyboard absently.

  The USB now sat where he had found it, having tried various hiding places and discounting them all, along with the idea of carrying it with him to work, the thought of which terrified him. He had decided that its original hiding place was the best one - certainly it had eluded whoever had come looking for it that Monday morning.

  But what to do now? Campbell had slept poorly again as the idea that they might come back had occurred to him. Every noise was a footstep, a lock being picked, a door creaking open. Campbell had given up on trying to sleep for a second night and left for work early, almost hurrying out of the flat where he couldn't escape a creeping sense of vulnerability.

  He had to do something, he decided. Sitting here worrying about going home again was no good at all. Maybe he was being silly. Maybe the drinking and the lack of sleep and the stress of the last few days was making him think and act strangely. Of course. Perhaps he'd just check up on this himself first, set his mind at ease and then hand over the USB to the police after all. It would probably be a bloody florist or something. A toy shop.

  Campbell felt himself relax slightly for the first time in days. What did he know really? Sure, this seemed sinister enough in the absence of anything but his own paranoid speculation. The problem he had was there were too many questions without answers. What he needed to do was some simple research. That was his job after all.

  18

  Tuesday. 3.15 pm.

  Sarah Knowles sat feeling a little self-conscious at her desk as she sorted through the emails that had accumulated in her absence.

  She was uncomfortably aware of her shabby appearance and though she knew she probably felt worse than she looked she still thought that people were looking at her. As well as that she was about to stand up and walk out at least two hours before most other people would and she knew that would not pass without comment. People would feel put out if they thought that Sarah was getting special treatment from the boss. Fat chance, she thought to herself.

  Sarah sent a few quick replies to friends who had been gossiping and joking over email about what they had all got up to on their girls night out the previous Saturday. She had not been able to make it. She hated missing out on anything but at least she felt a little more involved with the girls copying her in on the banter.

  The phone on her desk warbled. She hesitated a moment but then realised that she hadn't altered her voicemail message to say she was out and in any event it might be urgent. It was only one call, she thought, and then she could go home.

  'Good afternoon, Griffin Holdings. Sarah Knowles speaking.'

  'Hi there. Good afternoon.' It was a man's voice, slightly hesitant sounding, which pricked her attention. But young, she thought and a nice voice, friendly. 'I, uh, I wonder if you can help me. I'm just after some information about your company.'

  'Yes? What kind of information were you after?' she replied trying to sound friendly back.

  'Oh, you know, just general company information. Structure, brief sort of trading history, what it is you do there. That sort of thing.' The voice was trying to sound breezy and as if this were an everyday sort of request. It wasn't and Sarah found herself frowning.

  'That's a little, uhh... vague sir,' she said. 'What is it you are trying to find out exactly?'

  There was a pause but before he could answer she cut in. 'I'm sorry, where did you say you were calling from?'

  'Oh, sorry. Yes of course. I, uh? I'm calling from a local paper. Just a little thing really, doubt you know of us. But I heard about the break-in the other night and I'm looking into it.'

  'I see.' She wasn't convinced by that. He seemed to be talking a little too fast, trying to speed her into a response before she could ask any more questions.

  'Well, my editor wants me to. You know. Doing what I'm told really.'

  'Sure.'

  'Odd business though.'

  'I'm sorry Mr??

  Silence. She continued regardless. 'I'm sorry, I don't want to be rude as I'm sure you're just doing your job but the company has released a short press statement regarding this matter. I can refer your enquiry to Mr Griffin if you'd rather but I'm not in a position to say anything further.'

  'Of course, of course. No need to trouble Mr Griffin. I wonder though if you could pop something in the post for me? Some sort of company brochure? Corporate literature?'

  'I should think that would be OK. Can I get your name and address then?' Sarah tried a different approach, still suspicious. Something was odd.

  'And perhaps a copy of the press release?'

  'Statement. Of course. Your name and address?'

  'Well let's see. I work from home a lot so may as well send it there - second thought, where are you based exactly?'

  Sarah told him.

  'Right. That's not too far away actually. Why don't I just drop in there and pick it up?'

  She paused for a moment before answering, intrigued. She didn't believe the story he was telling. Sarah felt that she had a good antennae for liars and all the pauses and the umms and ahhs and the well-nows that gave people away were too obvious in the reporter's voice. He was definitely being evasive.

  'That should be fine. Just pop into reception and ask for me. My name is Sarah Knowles. And you are?'

  'Owen,' said the voice. 'Michaels.'

  'Sorry? Owen Michaels?'

  'Right.'

  'OK. When would you be planning to drop by Mr Michaels? It's just that I was due to finish shortly?'

  'Oh I see. Well, maybe half an hour, an hour.'

  She didn't answer for a minute and considered leaving an envelope on reception for him and getting off home. But something stopped her and she shrugged and decided to sit it out. Might only be half an hour. 'Alright then Mr Michaels. I'll see you then.'

  She had gone as far as filling an envelope with the paperwork, writing his name on it and putting it to one side on her desk before it dawned on her that he hadn't actually told her which local paper he was calling from.

  19

  Tuesday. 3.20pm.

  'You look awful Daniel.'

  That knocked Campbell off balance and it took a moment before he spoke. He was standing in the corner office of his boss about to ask if he could leave early and working up to a convincing performance but the other man had beaten him to the punch.

  'Yeah. Not doing well at all Trevor.'

  'Rough couple of days.'

  'Could say that. Look I've not slept very well the last couple of nights and I'm pretty stressed what with everything so it would be good if I could take off early. I'm all over the place.'

  'Sure. You're probably not doing me much good in here in that state anyway. You alright?'

  He nodded weakly in response.

  'No, not really,' said his boss. 'Listen, maybe you should take a day off. Get some sleep and rest up a bit.'

  Didn't see that one coming either. 'Probably a good idea actually. Maybe I will,' he replied, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. 'I'll call in tomorrow morning to let you know - if that's ok?'

  'No need. Just get a good night's sleep mate and don't worry about getting up early to call in. Bye.'

  'Thank you.'

  Striding out the door and swinging his jacket onto his shoulders Campbell caught his reflection in a window in the hallway and saw what his boss meant. He did look terrible. His eyes were ringed and dark and there was no colour in his face.

  Inside forty minutes he was staring at a notice board in the reception of an office building where he finally found the name he was looking for and headed for the lift. Stepping out into another smaller reception area Campbell approached the desk purposefully, trying to mask his nerves with bravado.

  'Good afternoon. I'm here to see a Sarah Knowles,' he announced with a smile.

  'Is she expecting you?'

  'Yes. In fact she may have left me something he
re for me to collect?'

  The receptionist shook her head as she looked over her empty desk.

  'OK. Well I guess she is still here then. I hope I haven't held her up too much. Said she wanted to get off.'

  The receptionist nodded politely but looked a little puzzled as to why he was telling her all this.

  Talking too much again, he thought, but he didn't want to have to tell another lie in case he gave himself away. The look on the receptionist's face told him that he had no choice however.

  'Owen Michaels.'

  'Certainly sir.' She tapped the numbers into the telephone and informed Sarah that a Mr Michaels was in reception. 'She'll be right out,' she told him and then turned back to reading a magazine.

  Campbell looked around and found a seat but his backside had no sooner touched the cushion than the door was opening and a young woman stepped out and looked at him.

  'Mr Michaels, hello. Sarah Knowles.'

  Campbell was up straightaway and thrusting his hand out to shake hers. Suddenly he felt very conscious of his appearance, certain that his hair was a mess, his pallid skin and sunken eyes obvious to see. He found himself wishing that he'd stopped at home first to shower and change.

  'Miss Knowles. Thank you very much for waiting for me,' he said as she took his hand and he found that he had no words to say momentarily as their fingers slid together.

  'That's OK. I had a few things to tidy up anyway,' Sarah said and smiled at him with her eyes. She held an envelope in one hand and was tucking a lock of her dark hair behind her ear with the other. Her eyes were locked onto his and for a brief second neither of them said anything.

  'I take it that's what I came for,' Campbell stuttered and dropped his eyes to the envelope at her side. Moving his eyes down allowed him a chance to appraise her more fully and he leaned back as he noticed that they were still standing close from the handshake.

  She wore black leather shoes with a small heel and he guessed that she must be about five nine in her socks. She wore tights and he noted the smooth curve of her calves as they disappeared into the knee length black skirt she wore which sat delicately on the sweep of her hips. A white blouse was buttoned one off the top suggesting at a cleavage where his eyes lingered a moment longer than they should.