Eyes of the Innocent

by Christopher Wright

  ***

  Matt nodded knowingly. Here, in the cold light of day in the office of Habgood Securities, last night's episode with the garbage seemed almost funny. "We nearly lost a digital recorder," he said.

  "You nearly lost it," Ken Habgood snapped.

  Matt shrugged. "Me, we, you, it's all the same. What I should have said is Habgood Securities nearly lost it."

  "Matt Rider," Ken said firmly, "you need to learn to be careful with my equipment."

  Matt pointed to the computer -- the new computer that Ken had recently bought under protest when smoke had finally signaled the death of the one Matt said had been used by Queen Victoria to keep count of the number of her children. "I only got a few minutes' sound recording before the waiter cleared the table. The pics from the camera are good. Look at this one of the two men talking together. Couple that with the sound, and our client will be pleased."

  "I'll email the file to him." Ken seemed to be softening a little. Matt was used to his boss's occasional outbursts. He'd been with Habgood Securities for almost five years now -- since leaving the police force in a hurry.

  "Good idea, Ken. I'll make some coffee."

  Ken pursed his lips. "Actually, I'd rather you send the file, Matt. I'm a little busy."

  Matt shook his head slowly. "You don't know how to do it," he said accusingly.

  "Well, I'm not too sure with this new model..."

  "You couldn't do it with the old computer."

  "I could send emails."

  "Not with attachments."

  Ken didn't smile, but he seemed to be taking the banter in good heart. "It's what I pay you for."

  "Like slaves get paid, you mean?"

  "Just do it, Matt. Our client will be waiting."

  Matt checked the file size. Much too large to attach. Ken still had dial-up. "Phone him and tell him there are some photographs, and about eight minutes of useful sound." There were nearly two hours of sound. Most of it sounded like rats scrabbling around in the rubbish, and probably was. "I'll put everything on a CD. We can mail it to him, or he can pick it up from here if he wants it urgently. Let me sit at your desk while I do it."

  Ken moved somewhat reluctantly and Matt brought up their client's email address and wrote a quick note letting him know that the pictures and audio file from yesterday were now on a CD. The photographs showed the two men clearly enough to identify them, and there were several minute's recording of their conversation. Ken said he should have sent the email himself, explaining to the client how 'his man', under his guidance, had managed to get exactly what was wanted.

  Matt said it was too late. The email had already gone.

  Footsteps on the stairs announced an approaching visitor. If Ken invested in a CCTV system they'd know who was coming -- and sometimes be prepared for an angry encounter.

  A friendly voice called out, "Is anyone in?" It sounded American.

  Matt knew the voice even before the man reached the top. Not that he was ever expecting to see him again. It had been more than two years since Simon Urquet had been here. Simon Urquet of DCI. Domestic Chemical International of Switzerland and America. The company had managed to survive, in spite of Matt killing off the top company men. Well, not killing them off exactly. Their deaths were of their own making. That's how the French police saw it at the time, and Matt was happy that they'd never changed their views on that. Simon Urquet had a reassuring way of dealing with the police. Not that he was likely to need Urquet's services again, but it was good to know.

  "Company going well?" Ken asked, going forward to welcome the American visitor. His face beamed. "Any work for us in America?"

  Matt stood too, leaving Ken red captain's chair empty.

  "I came to discuss some sort of reward, courtesy of DCI," Urquet explained, sitting in Ken's chair.

  "A reward?" Ken asked, looking anxiously at his chair, but was obviously unwilling to upset the bearer of gifts.

  "A reward for Mr. and Mrs. Rider," Urquet said. "For Matt and Zoé." He smiled at Matt. "Are you keeping well?"

  "We've got a baby now," Matt told him. "He's nearly a month old. Jack."

  "A boy," Ken explained.

  "I expect Simon guessed that," Matt said, raising his eyes in despair. "Zoé's not feeling at all happy. I think it's postnatal depression."

  Ken looked awkward. "That's women's talk," he mumbled.

  Urquet picked up an empty juice carton from Ken's desk and examined it closely. "This some sort of surveillance device?"

  "How did you guess?" Ken asked.

  Urquet shrugged. "The large hole in the side is a bit of a giveaway."

  Ken looked embarrassed. "You don't see the hole when the camera's in there. Well, not unless you're looking for it. Anyway, that's a prototype. The hole isn't neat. I cut it out with a blunt knife, just to see if the idea would work."

  Matt pointed to the carton. "Not too blunt."

  Urquet examined it closely. "That explains what looks like dried blood around the hole," he said dryly.

  "It's a prototype," Ken repeated. "I asked Matt to develop the idea into a Coke can where we can fit either a digital camera or a miniature voice recorder. Matt got some great results with our cans yesterday. Great idea of mine. It's all on the computer now."

  "You lift it to your mouth as though taking a drink," Matt explained, deciding to let Ken take the credit for the sake of peace. "You squeeze it in the right place, and it automatically takes a digital snap of anyone who's alongside. The sound recorder can be left running in the other can. It's digital so it runs for a couple of hours."

  Ken was not to be outdone. "We got a recording of their voices. Two men met up to share company secrets. It's the sort of work we go in for."

  Matt let it pass. Mostly they seemed to be following errant husbands and wives who forgot they were already married. "You mentioned DCI and a reward," he reminded Urquet.

  More footsteps on the stairs. A woman's shoes, going slowly.

  "That will be our client now, coming for the results," Ken said. "That was quick."

  Zoé appeared, carrying baby Jack.

  "I didn't expect you," Matt said in surprise. "Remember Simon Urquet?"

  Zoé looked too worried to notice their visitor from DCI. "Jack he is ill," she said quietly.

  Matt looked at Jack and was unable to see anything obvious. "A temperature?"

  "It is his eye, Matt." Zoé's French accent always sounded strong when she was worked up.

  "The GP told us not to worry about his eye colors," Matt reminded her. With her depression, Zoé was liable to get upset about nothing.

  Urquet looked closely at Jack's eyes. "One blue and one green. Sure is distinctive. And I really love his hair style."

  "The eyes are certainly unusual," Matt agreed. "It's called heterochromia, but it's harmless."

  "He can always wear colored contact lenses when he's older," Ken added helpfully. "And his hair will keep the sun out his eyes."

  The mass of dark hair growing forward like the peak of a cap was unusual, but not a problem. Gel would fix it back if it stayed like that, but Matt had been concerned about school kids teasing Jack for his eyes, but it now seemed there was something to really worry about.

  "No, Matt, it is not the blue and the green eye. I think..." Zoé paused for breath, and Matt took Jack from her in case she did something careless. "I think it is a very big problem. Retinoblastoma, perhaps. It is a cancer that killed my little niece in Clermont-Ferrand when she was only seven months old."

  Matt sighed. "There's nothing wrong with Jack. You've got to stop worrying, Zoé." The GP had diagnosed postnatal depression. That was what was wrong. Nothing to do with baby Jack's eyes. "Simon Urquet has come to see us."

  Zoé seemed to notice the visitor for the first time. She nodded, then pointed to Jack. "It is serious, I tell you, Matt. I have collected the photos you took yesterday of me and Jack. On three of them the reflection from Jack's left eye is white."

  "Red-eye," Matt
said. "It's the flash. I can fix it on the computer."

  "This is white, Matt. It is not the same -- so you know nothing. Rien du tout." She sounded even more French.

  "What do you want me to do, Zoé?"

  "Go home, Matt" Ken interrupted. "Keep the little lady happy, and have a look at those photos."

  "I'll catch up with you both later," Urquet said. "Nothing's sorted yet, anyway. Just wanted to tip you both off."

  Zoé seemed hesitant. "I need to change Jack," she said quietly.

  Ken shook his head. "Better not do it here, Zoé. I'm not sure our washroom is clean enough for a baby."

  "It is not," Zoé agreed. "I had to use it once."

  Matt got ready to leave. "Zoé isn't using the washroom, Ken. You'd better move. She's about to change Jack on your desk."