Читать книгу PI Kate Brannigan Series Books 1-3: Dead Beat, Kick Back, Crack Down - Val McDermid, Val McDermid - Страница 19

I dropped the tape off in Shelley’s in-tray and headed home, determined to have some time to myself. I was in luck. Richard had gone to sit in on an Inspiral Carpets rehearsal session. The first time he’d come home talking about the band, I couldn’t believe my ears. Thought he’d finally started taking an interest in interior design. Silly me.

After a languid bath, I booted up the computer. Until I met Bill, I’d always thought people who played computer games were intellectual pygmies. But Bill introduced me to role-playing adventures, so different from arcade shoot-em-ups that I can hardly bring myself to mention them in the same breath. The way the games work is that the player takes on the role of a character in the story, explores locations, achieves tasks, and solves complex puzzles. A really good game can take me up to a couple of months to complete. From there, I discovered strategy simulations, and that was the end of my relationship with the television set. Can’t say it shows signs of missing me.

I loaded up Sierra’s Leisure Suit Larry and spent a bawdy hour as the eponymous medallion man in the white polyester suit, looking for love in all the wrong places, from a whore’s boudoir to a filthy toilet. I’ve played the game half a dozen times, but it’s one of the old favourites I always go back to whenever I want to relax rather than stretch my mind on a fresh set of puzzles. By the time I went to bed, I was feeling more laid back than any carpet, inspiral or otherwise. I almost didn’t mind when the alarm went off at six, catapulting me into another wonderful day of chasing the Smarts. We’d been to Glasgow and back by mid-afternoon, when I abandoned them to the delights of a late lunch in Chinatown and headed back to the office with a takeaway pizza, calabrese with onion and extra cheese. Shelley gave me a filthy look as the smell filled her office, so I skulked off to my own cubbyhole where I tried to type up my surveillance report without getting mozzarella on the keys.

The drive back to Bradford to the strains of Tina Turner almost seemed relaxing after the stresses of chasing Billy and Gary up the motorway. But I couldn’t afford to let myself become too confident. The hardest part of the day still lay ahead. I sat in the car till half-past seven, then walked up the path to the Seagull Project. I rang the bell and waited.

After a few minutes, I heard feet thundering down the stairs and the door was opened by Andy. He looked surprised to see me. ‘I’ve come for the meeting,’ I told him. ‘I know I’m early, but I was in the area, and I thought I could wait inside rather than go to the pub on my own.’ I gave him the full hundred-watt smile.

He shrugged and said, ‘I don’t see a problem with that. Come on in. You can wait in Jude’s office.’ I followed him through and sat down, pulling a Marge Piercy novel out of my bag and trying to look as if I were settled for the evening.

‘Help yourself to a coffee,’ he said, gesturing towards a tray containing all the paraphernalia for brewing up. ‘Someone’ll come down for you when we’re ready. I’m afraid it’ll be about three quarters of an hour at least.’

‘Thanks,’ I said absently, already appearing immersed in my book. I waited till I heard his footsteps reach the top of the stairs, then I counted a hundred elephants. I put my book away and moved quietly across the room. I inched the door open and listened. There was a distant hum of conversation, too low to make out individual voices.

I pulled the door further open and stuck my head into the hall. If I’d seen anyone, I was looking for the loo. But the coast was clear. There was no one in the hall or on the stairs. I crept out of the room, closing the door quietly behind me, and moved quickly across the hall and down the side of the stairs towards the room where the records were kept. I paused outside the door.

My hands were slippery with nervous sweat, so I wiped them on my trousers before taking an out-of-date credit card from my pocket. I’m not bad at picking locks, thanks to Dennis the burglar, but with a simple Yale, the old credit card trick is quicker and leaves fewer traces if you’re an amateur like me. I turned the door handle with one hand, and with the other, I slid the card between the door and the lintel. At first, it wouldn’t budge and I could feel a trickle of sweat running down between my shoulder blades. I took the card out, took three deep breaths, listening all the time for noise from upstairs, then tried again.

This time, the lock slipped back and the door opened. I hurried into the room and closed the door behind me, flipping up the catch to double-lock it. I leaned against the door and found myself panting. I forced myself to breathe normally and took stock of my surroundings. First, I examined the filing cabinets. I soon found a drawer marked ‘Clients. O-R’. It was locked.

Fortunately, the Seagull Project didn’t just hand out charity. It had clearly been on the receiving end as far as the elderly filing cabinets were concerned. With new cabinets, you actually have to pick the locks. But with ones of this vintage, I could forget about the set of lock-picks I’d bought from Dennis. I inched the cabinet away from the wall and pushed the top, tipping it back. Cautiously, keeping it in place, I crouched down and slipped my hand underneath. I groped around till I found the lock bar and pushed it upwards. The sound of the bar releasing the locked drawers was sweet to my ears. I carefully let the cabinet down and pushed it back into place. It had taken me nearly five minutes. I flicked hastily through the files and found a cardboard folder marked ‘Pollock, M’. I pulled it out. It was worryingly slim and when I opened it I discovered why. It contained only one sheet of paper. My heart sank as I read it. ‘Moira Pollock. File transferred to computer 16th February.’

I swore under my breath and turned to the computer. The perfect end to a perfect day. I switched it on and sat down. As I’d expected, it wanted a password. I tried Seagull. No luck. Then Andrew. It’s amazing how many people are stupid enough to use their own names as security passwords. Andy wasn’t one of them. I thought hard. My next try had to be right. Like copy-protected games, most security programs only give you three attempts before they crash. I sat and stared into the screen, desperately racking my brains for inspiration.

Then it came to me. I crossed my fingers, said a swift prayer to the gods of the New Age and typed in JONATHAN. ‘Thank you, Richard Bach,’ I said softly as the menu appeared before me.

Once I was into the program, it didn’t take me long to find Moira’s records. I didn’t have time to plough through them all then and there, but realizing I might have to steal some data from the computer, I’d taken the precaution of bringing a couple of blank floppies with me. I quickly made two copies of the file to be on the safe side, pocketed the discs and switched off the computer. So much for the Data Protection Art. I checked my watch and saw that it was nearly ten past eight. Time to get a move on.

At the door, I paused and listened. It seemed quiet, so I carefully released the lock catch and opened the door. I stepped into the hall with a sigh of relief and pulled the door to behind me. The noise of the lock snapping home sounded like a thunderclap. I didn’t wait to see if that’s how it sounded to anyone else. I raced down the hall and out of the front door. I didn’t stop running till I got to the car.

I didn’t like leaving the Seagull Project minus their new volunteer. But at least I’d managed to avoid the collective meeting. Besides, I figured that now she’d flown the nest, Moira might need my help more than them.

I arrived home just as Richard was leaving. When he saw me, his face lit up in my favourite cute smile and he leapt across the low fence that separates our front gardens. He pulled me into his arms in a comforting hug. Until I tried to relax into him, I hadn’t realized how tense I still was after my burglary at Seagull.

‘Hey, Brannigan!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’d given you up for dead. Come on, get your glad rags on and we’ll go and paint the town.’

It was a tempting offer. I didn’t keep the full range of software at home that we have in the office, and I knew that I couldn’t read the disc I’d copied at the Seagull Project with what I had on my machine. I certainly couldn’t face going into the office this late. Besides, it was Friday night and I felt entitled to time off for bad behaviour. ‘Sounds like a good game,’ I agreed.

I took a quick shower and blissfully pulled on a pair of clean toffee-coloured silk trousers that were my bargain of the year – a tenner in a reject shop. I added a cream camisole and a linen jacket, and half an hour after I got home, I was climbing into the passenger seat of Richard’s hot pink Beetle convertible. I wriggled uncomfortably, then pulled out a handful of scrunched up papers from under me and tossed them on to the rest of the detritus in the back seat.

‘This car’s a health hazard,’ I grumbled as I kicked Diet Coke cans, old newspapers and cigarette packets aside in a bid to find some floor space for my feet.

‘It’s my office,’ he replied, as if that was some kind of reason for driving round in a dustbin.

‘You leave it sitting around with the top down, and somebody’s going to come along and mistake it for a skip. You’ll come out one morning to find a mattress and a pile of builder’s rubble in it,’ I teased him, only half-joking.

Luckily for my eardrums, Richard was having a night off, so we avoided anywhere with live music. We ended up dancing the night away at one of the city’s more intimate clubs. Afterwards, we went for a late Chinese, so it was after three when we finally crawled into bed, hungry for one thing only. And I don’t mean sex.