All that Glitters

by Les Cowan

  “Hey, that’s pretty cool,” he said. “Nobody in my line would have got it, I’ll bet. But there are other ways.”

  “What do you mean?” Gillian asked. “Other ways of what?”

  “Finding out what you want to know. More than 2 billion people online now. Then there’s mobile phone users, credit cards, all that stuff. If you know where to look you can find almost anyone.”

  “Or anything?” Gillian asked, casting a sideways glance at David.

  “Sure, for a price. Sometimes takes a bit of time. But, more or less, long as it’s connected. Anyway, fancy a coffee?”

  “No, I don’t think…” David started to say until Gillian interrupted him.

  “That would be great, thanks. Both the same. Milk no sugar.”

  David shrugged as Spade disappeared.

  “Anyone or anything,” Gillian repeated once Spade had left the room. “D’you not think that might come in useful?”

  It was late by the time they emerged out onto the street. With a couple of coffees and a pile of Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers in front of him Spade had seemed to relax and got talkative. When he had said “not too many visitors”, it might have been more accurate to say none. Ever. Food came in and 1s and 0s went out. That was it. His expedition to South Clerk Street a few weeks previously had been to deliver a set of files even he considered too sensitive to email. Kinda rotten luck going out once a month and getting shot. Other than that, Spade seemed to think life in a digital hermitage completely normal. All those he shared his cyberspace with lived in much the same way. So what? However, given that a couple of stray humans had wandered in, he seemed to be enjoying the change. He told them about the challenge of getting through locked, barred, and bolted doors – digitally speaking. Not just by applying a mathematical sledgehammer to tackle long passwords but by getting into the mind of the target, outguessing them, thinking through the tools they had available, how they might be used, and going one better. Apparently it wasn’t even just computers any more. Now there was “the Internet of Things”. Wireless systems in cars, home security, drones, even baby monitors. Gillian shuddered. You mean someone on the other side of the world could take over a monitor used to check a sleeping infant? More likely some guy just a few streets away wanting to know when the coast was clear for a break-in. They didn’t go into the creepier possibilities.

  Apparently bank accounts were easy-peasy – at which point Gillian gave David another look – government records slightly trickier, military secrets challenging, and GCHQ currently pretty secure. But we’ll get there in the end. Regarding Google he was scathing.

  “They want your data!” he shouted, pounding the desk. “Don’t give it to them. Knowledge for the masses, my foot. We’re giving them the entire shop in exchange for the menu for Pizza Express. Please, please, please, don’t use Google. If you must search at least use StartPage. Google grabs your IP address plus everything you search for, every stonking keystroke. Interests, family, politics, health – the whole lot. And leaves a shed load of cookies on your drive. Today it’s mostly just to shove a bunch of adverts at you. Tomorrow governments will start demanding it, then using it to run our lives. They probably do it already and nobody knows. Fact,” Spade was warming to the theme, “in 2006, AOL accidentally released three months’ data from 650,000 users. It’s still searchable! At least StartPage deletes your data every twenty-four hours.”

  Once the floodgates were open, Spade seemed to be enjoying the audience and was soon telling them about his upbringing in Larbert, university at Heriot-Watt (second-year dropout), and his current “business interests”. Registering with the Revenue and paying tax he considered entirely optional. This year he had decided to pay for the first year in ten. “Got to keep the lights on,” he admitted. By ten o’clock he was asking David what it was like being a minister – a species he’d never come across before. David tried to describe it in a few words, but Spade seemed to want more, until David had gone into greater depth than he would probably have done with anyone from Southside. Then, at last, after eleven – by which time both David and Gillian were absolutely famished having only managed a couple of caramel wafers each to Spade’s constant munching – they managed to get away.

  “What did you make of that?” Gillian asked, heading back up the hill towards Haymarket.

  “Well, I clearly didn’t get off my marks as quickly as you. A man who can find out anything you want to know and thinks bank accounts are easy-peasy… Might come in handy.”

  “Oh look. Fancy something Italian?”

  Gillian pulled in sharply outside Mia, open till midnight on Sundays, and looked at her watch. “We might still be in time.”

  Less than ten minutes later they had two plates of carbonara in front of them and a man with a massive pepper mill adding a bit more bite. The sauce was creamy and the pasta exactly al dente. Their afternoon and evening with Spade had been so full-on they were both content to eat for a while in silence. Some anonymous lounge trio were crooning “Volare” softly over the PA. At least it wasn’t Dean Martin, thank goodness, they agreed. Everything they had heard and seen over the past five hours was slowly being absorbed along with comfort Italian food. David was nearly finished and about to push his chair back when the opening notes of “Moanin”’ by Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers disturbed the peace. He pulled out his mobile and peered at it in the low lighting.

  “Hmm. Sam. I wonder what she’s phoning about at this time? Just a minute. Hi Sam. What’s going on?”

  Almost immediately Gillian saw his expression change.

  “What? When? I can’t believe it. Yes, of course. Absolutely. Don’t tell me any more. I’m on my way.”

  He closed the phone case, laid it in front of him, and leaned forward, elbows on the table and head in his hands.

  Gillian reached out and touched his arm.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “I can’t believe it,” David repeated, bewildered. “It’s Mike. He’s dead. Hung himself in the garage. Police are at the house. Sam says they’ve found child pornography images on his computer.”

  Chapter 4

  THE BUSINESSMAN’S TALE

  Franchising – that’s the key. 100 per cent of nothing is still nothing, but 50 per cent of something big can be plenty. You follow? It’s been the key to million-dollar businesses. McDonald’s, Coke (no pun intended), Hertz: all the big boys plus a million you’ve never heard of. But you have to decide how big you want to be. I wanted to be bigger than just shifting fifty-gram packets on the street. Therefore – franchising, which means recruitment. Of course you can’t exactly advertise in a daily like Zviazda, though I’ve heard that in the West girls with something to sell can even put it in the paper. Or the guys that run them. Franchising again, I suppose. Well, we’re not in the West – yet. Which brings me to Tati.

  We first met in school and even then I could see she was different. Funny, quirky, really quick when it came to anything new. Good at maths, history, English (so important), geography. So it all kind of fitted when she told me when we were just fourteen that there was no way she was going to stay in a country of bandits and peasants. She was going West. She understood our history and what had happened to communism. She said it was like a ship that was well designed and built, but it sank because it was meant to be a passenger ship but the officers thought all they had was cargo. So while they were up on the bridge making all the decisions, the passengers were locked in the hold and expected to feed the boilers. When it became obvious they couldn’t keep up with the capitalist ship alongside they tried letting in a little sunshine to persuade the passengers to work harder, but all they wanted to do was jump overboard. While the officers were trying to stop them they didn’t see the rocks ahead. You see? Tati was a philosopher as well as everything else. Good-looking, smart, ambitious – and leaving.

  But you need money to leave and she didn’t have any. I swear I would have given her some if I’d had it, but back then we we
re both broke – little rats running around searching for crumbs while the gangsters enjoyed the banquet. Actually, they were the same ones who used to be the officers on the ship, but that’s another story. So what do you want to be, I asked myself, a little rat all your life or maybe get your own place at the table? I started buying a little and selling it for a little more. Then I could afford to buy more and sell for even more. It’s not rocket science, is it? Buy and sell what? you might ask. Well, not vegetables, but unlike most of the trade, I never used. It’s my firmest rule. Most of the small-town dealers only do it to pay for their own habit. That’s a hobby not a business. And feeding a habit means you’re not in control. Anyway, things grew nicely till it got to the point I couldn’t handle it all myself – so franchising. Bring in someone you can trust, give them a share of the business. Not working for you – working with you. Then they have no reason to steal and cheat; they’d just be cheating themselves. But who? Then I remembered Tati. We had gone out for a bit at school. I think we both realized we were different. She didn’t want to get married at seventeen and spend her whole life in the same town breeding till her husband got bored, started drinking, knocked her about a bit, and spent the housekeeping on younger models. I didn’t want to run a hardware store selling nails to her husband for forty years until I could afford a dacha in the country. It was just the means of achieving our dreams that was different. She was going to the West; I was going into business. Anyway, I remembered Tati and tried to find out where she was. Maybe we could help each other. Turned out she was a secretary in a town about 35 km away, still saving as much as she could and still watching English movies at the weekend. No husband. No boyfriend. Actually, no friends at all. Everyone thought she was crazy. And she did act a bit crazy. She was by far the smartest, quickest (and best-looking) girl in the office so they didn’t want to sack her, but she was so bad-tempered even the boss had to ask her nicely if there was anything extra they needed done.

  I got in touch. We met; I explained. She understood immediately, as I knew she would. She started working just the weekends to begin with, collecting a package from here and delivering it there. If it needed longer she’d phone in sick. Nobody dared to challenge her. It worked very well. We grew closer. We were still both outsiders, but she wanted to be right outside while I wanted to get right inside – if you see what I mean. So she moved in with me – a partner, in every sense. She was brilliant at the travel, the deliveries, and even the record-keeping. You do need to do that, you know – not for taxes, of course, but information is oxygen. I had a buddy who was an IT wizard who helped us set up the systems and kept an eye on the police computers so he could tip us off if there was going to be a crackdown. Tati loved that side of it and made up all sorts of charts and tables saying how much we’d be making in three or five years’ time. But she always said to me, “Andrei – you know I won’t be here then. You do understand, don’t you?” And I did. Perfectly. But I won’t say I wasn’t sad when I saw her go. She had helped me recruit a dozen other girls and boys to take over her job and grow the business. She was a fantastic judge of character. But I knew she couldn’t stay. Just as soon as she had the $15,000 they said it cost – plus a little more to set something up when she got to England – I knew she’d leave.

  I saw her get into the van that night, just with a little black backpack and big dreams. I don’t know how rain can be so cold and not be hail, but that night it felt like icy needles in my face. I stood by the side of the road with my hood up and my hands deep in my pockets. I took a hand out to wave and I remember she turned just before she got into the van. The wind whipped her black hair across her face as she waved back. She was smiling. She was on the way to her dream. I hope she found it. I haven’t heard from her since she left – over six months now. Every day I hope I’ll get a postcard or something. I know she’s tough and if anyone can make it Tati can. Still, I worry.

  Chapter 5

  SOUTH BRIDGE

  The previous morning Colinton Mains Rise had seemed the very model of peaceful suburbia: respectable villas with neat lawns, trimmed hedges, posh cars, and busy, successful people all minding their own business. Now it looked like a scene from a disaster movie. The road outside the Hunters’ home was jammed with police cars, a doctor on duty’s van, and an ambulance. Fire brigade and coastguard would have made it a full set. Individuals and couples stood out on the street, pretending to walk their dogs after midnight, while, slightly less blatantly, all along the road curtains were twitching. Flashing blue lights added a lurid glow. Gillian had to park fifty yards away, the entrance to the drive sealed off by uniformed officers and yellow tape.

  “Hi, my name’s David Hidalgo. We’re friends of Samantha Hunter.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. This is a potential crime scene. I’m afraid I can’t let you through.” The officer concerned seemed anything but sorry or afraid.

  “She called me half an hour ago. She’s expecting us.”

  “I’m still sorry, sir. I’m not at liberty to let anyone through.”

  “Would it help if I were her minister?”

  “Are you?”

  “More or less. Look, can you at least tell her David Hidalgo’s here?”

  “Wait here, sir. I’ll pass it on.”

  Moments later Sam came out dressed much as the previous morning but entirely different in her demeanour. She saw David and headed towards the tape, walking as if her body still remembered how but her mind had disengaged. She was stopped halfway by a burly figure in a dark suit. They exchanged a few words, then the dark suit came up to the tape.

  “Reverend Hidalgo. We seem to keep bumping into each other.”

  “So it appears. Gillian, this is Detective Inspector Thompson. He was involved in looking for Jen MacInnes last year, then interviewed me after the shooting.” Gillian nodded.

  “And the inspector bit is partly thanks to you – and Raúl Álvarez. So it’s not protocol but the lady is pretty shaken up and she wants to speak to you. Let’s just assume you are her minister.” He hoisted the tape. “Do what you can.”

  Uniformed officers and figures in non-contamination suits were coming and going in the flashing blue light. Sam seemed to be a tiny isolated figure ignored by everyone else and bypassed by the action around her. She was ashen faced and red eyed but not crying.

  “Thanks for coming,” she said. “Hope I didn’t drag you out of bed.”

  “The least we could do,” David replied. “How are you? I’m sorry – that’s a stupid question.”

  “How am I? Not really sure. Running on adrenalin I suppose.”

  “If there’s anything – absolutely anything we can do…” Gillian put in.

  “Of course. I know.”

  “What happened?” David asked.

  “I found him about two hours ago.” Sam nodded towards the garage. “Like I said on the phone. But whatever it looks like, I know my husband, David. Mike did not kill himself. And all that – that stuff on his computer – it wasn’t his. I swear to God.”

  Just then the garage door opened and a wheeled stretcher emerged. DI Thompson came up and whispered in Sam’s ear. She shook her head.

  “No, I’ve seen him. It’s enough.”

  Thompson turned to David. “Reverend Hidalgo, can I just have a word with you?” Sam and Gillian went into the house, leaving the two men standing where they were.

  “This one’s landed on my desk,” Thompson began. “Actually, it’s not unhelpful that you’re around so I’m going to bend the rules and treat you as a fellow professional. Anything you can do to support Mrs Hunter would be really helpful. We’ll have a trained counsellor around in the morning but it would be good if someone could be with her tonight. We’re trying to raise our game for the victims these days.”

  “Of course. We’ll both stay. Am I allowed to ask what happened?”

  Thompson shrugged and pulled out a notebook.

  “By all means – in confidence. Michael Hunter was pronounced dead…
” – he looked at his watch – “about an hour ago. Topped himself, on the face of it. Hanged from a beam in the garage. Mrs Hunter is emphatic that her husband did not take his own life but until we see any evidence to the contrary, that’s the story right now.”

  “Any note, phone call, something?”

  “None so far.” He consulted the notebook again. “Just jumped from a chair in the garage and it’s goodnight Vienna. Pathologist reckons cause of death is cerebral hypoxia – interrupted blood flow to the brain as a result of constriction of the arteries in the neck by a ligature tightened by the weight of the body. Like I said – topped himself.”

  “I was at a meeting here with Mike yesterday morning. There was absolutely no sign of anything that might lead to a suicide.”

  “Ah well, that was before the events of Saturday afternoon, wasn’t it? We got a call into our Oxgangs station yesterday…” – another brief glance at the notebook – “at 16.27. Someone claiming to be a neighbour but wouldn’t give a name. Male. Claimed they had observed Mr Hunter sitting on a bench in the park with his laptop taking zoom-lens photos of kids. The caller claimed they approached Mr Hunter and that a heated discussion ensued, which ended with the caller telling him…” – Thompson flipped the page – “quote, ‘Filth like you don’t deserve to live. I’m going to get you put away where they know what to do with your kind’, end quote. Caller stated he then went straight home and phoned us.”

  “And you came out right away?”

  “No. That sort of call would normally go into the lottery – sorry, ‘the allocation process’ – then out to someone – not necessarily me. Investigation in due course ‘as resources permit’, as they say. We’re here because Mrs Hunter phoned 999 about two hours ago.” He flipped another page. “She says her husband was highly agitated on Saturday evening but didn’t mention anything about an argument. He went to bed about 1 a.m. but got up again in the night – exact hour unknown. When she came down in the morning he was still in pyjamas and looking like he hadn’t slept, and had something on his laptop that she admits he tried to hide. Normally they go to church on Sunday mornings. This week Mr Hunter stayed home and wasn’t about when Mrs Hunter came home at about 1.30. She tried his mobile but it was turned off. Apparently he’d been under a lot of pressure at work so she assumed he might have gone in to catch up on something.”