‘But I don’t think you can just ignore your feelings for Richard,’ Karen went on. ‘You can try, but it won’t work. You have to do what you think is right. No one else can tell you what to do; not me, not your father, not Sorenson. Trust your own judgement. I do.’
‘Thanks. That helps.’ And it did.
‘How are you coping?’
‘OK.’
‘Is it difficult being up there?’
‘Yes, it is. In a way, it feels good to be surrounded by all Richard’s things. By his life. But it makes his death more real. Unavoidable.’
‘Do you think it’s a good idea to stay in his house?’
‘Yes, I do. I’ve got to face up to the fact that he’s gone. I can’t hide from it.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said. ‘Be strong. I miss you.’
‘I miss you too.’
I put the phone down, and looked around me. What I had told Karen was true: it was good to be in Richard’s house. It hurt, but it was the right place to be.
I was stumped in an armchair in Richard’s sitting room. The room was basically the way I had found it. The copy of Hard Drive was still lying face down on the sofa, Bill Gates’ teenage face staring petulantly up to the ceiling through huge glasses. I still felt awkward in Richard’s house. I had tried not to disturb anything; I kept all my stuff in the spare room upstairs.
An old writing-desk stood next to the window. He had inherited it from our mother. I had no idea where she had got it, probably from a second-hand furniture shop in Oxford. It hadn’t quite crossed the line from being simply old and beaten-up to being an antique. A few more years.
Curious, I began to look through the drawers. I discovered all kinds of little things that I wanted to dawdle over. Not much in themselves, just reminders of him. Letters from an old girlfriend, his thesis from Edinburgh, an exercise book from prep school.
I came across an instruction leaflet for the MITS Altair 8800 microcomputer. It was covered with notes in Richard’s scrawny handwriting. Dad had brought the computer over from America in kit form, and Richard had spent hours in his bedroom putting it together. At that stage in his life, it all had had to be done in secret. Richard was a cool kid, and he couldn’t let his street credibility be damaged by too close an association with computers. At fifteen, Richard was good-looking and witty, and was becoming very popular with the local school-girls. He made the most of it. I smiled when I remembered the look he gave me when I offered to show one of them his new computer. His popularity never quite recovered.
I suddenly felt very tired. I sank back into the armchair, holding the leaflet loosely in my hand. I stared ahead, my eyes unfocused.
Why had Richard died? What was the point of his life? Why had he put all that effort into FairSystems for it only to go bust months later? Why had it fallen to me to sort out this situation?
I had no answers. There was no point in answering these sorts of questions. I didn’t have the emotional energy to do more than ask them.
I needed to get out. I changed into jeans and a jersey, grabbed a ten-pound note, and set off for the pub.
The Inch Tavern was only a hundred yards or so farther up the burn. It was warm and cosy. It had low beams, brass knick-knocks, an open fire, and a welcoming atmosphere. There were about half a dozen men and one woman spread along the bar, indulging in a general conversation about someone called Archie. Whoever he was, he roused strong passions.
The barman was a big man with a beard and a heavy check shirt over a light jersey. That seemed to be a bit of a uniform in Kirkhaven: two men at the bar wore a similar outfit, with thick warm trousers. I assumed they were fishermen. All of them, including the barman, had big round shoulders. Strong men.
‘What can I get you, Mr Fairfax?’ the barman asked.
For a moment I was surprised he knew my name. But, of course, the whole of Kirkhaven must have known my name. Richard’s murder would have been discussed and dissected at this bar for hours on end.
‘A pint of IPA,’ I said.
The barman pulled my pint, I paid and sat down at a small table a few feet from the bar. I took a long gulp.
The conversation had dropped off for a minute to allow everyone to get a good look at me, but it soon started again. As I sipped my beer, and sat back in the warm tavern listening to the unfamiliar rumble of Fife voices chatting about this and that, the depression I had been feeling began to wear off. I, too, began to relax. I tried to let my mind wander.
I thought about Karen. I remembered the first holiday we had taken together, cross-country skiing in Norway the year before. Karen was an athletic skier, and fit. I could see her now, pushing her long legs rhythmically through the glistening snow ahead of me. I thought about her naked in the firelight of a small cabin we had stayed in one night. My heart beat faster as I remembered the passionate intensity of our lovemaking. We had both returned from that holiday exhausted. I smiled at the bubbles in my beer.
I drank down the last of my pint, and went to the bar to get another one.
‘I’m very sorry about your brother,’ said the barman, as he refilled my glass. ‘He was a good man.’
‘He was,’ I said.
The barman wiped the beer from his hand with a towel and extended it. He had a friendly smile. ‘The name’s Jim Robertson.’
I shook it. ‘Mark Fairfax,’ I said.
I lingered at the bar, taking a sip from my pint. ‘Did you know Richard well?’
‘Just a little,’ said Jim. ‘He used to come in here for a pint and a drop of whisky once in a while. We would chat occasionally. He had a nice way with him. He used to sit over there and read magazines. You know, science magazines.’ He indicated a small table and chair by the window on the far side of the bar. ‘For a boffin, though, he was quite human. In fact, he came in here the night before he died.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye. He was in here with a Chinese man.’
‘Chinese?’
‘Chinese or Japanese. I didnae see them myself. But Annie did.’ He nodded to the group at the bar.
The conversation at the bar had died down as everyone listened to Jim and me. The one woman in the room, a middle-aged lady with dyed blonde hair, put down her white wine and interrupted. ‘Aye, I did. He was only here a couple of minutes. He came in, saw this Japanese man sitting there, and walked right up to him. He was angry.’
‘Could you hear what he said?’
‘No, I couldnae hear anything clearly. But he was upset about something. The wee Japanese man looked surprised. And then he was gone. The Japanese man drank up and left soon after him. He looked bothered about something.’
‘Had you seen him before?’ I asked, interested.
‘No, never been in here before. At least not while I’ve been here.’ Looking at her puffy face, and the easy way with which she took her place at the bar, I could imagine that that covered much of the time that the pub was open.
‘Can you describe him?’
‘Not really. He was youngish. Not a kid, a young man. Apart from that, he looked, well, Japanese. Or Chinese, maybe.’
‘What was he wearing? A suit?’
‘No. It was casual, but smart, ye ken. A blue jersey and smart trousers. The sort of thing tourists wear round here to play golf.’
‘Have you told the police this?’
She let out a tipsy laugh, which was taken up by the rest of them round the bar. Jim explained. ‘The polis have been very thorough. I think everyone over the age of two has been interrogated. They asked us all about him.’
‘Have they identified him?’
‘Not that I know of. But why don’t you ask him?’ He nodded over to the door where a small neat man with a moustache was walking in. It was Sergeant Cochrane. He wore a blue anorak, and red v-necked sweater, every inch an off-duty policeman.
Cochrane gave me a smile of genuine friendliness. ‘So, you’ve found your way in here, have you? Well, I pity you. A pint of Special, pleas
e Jim. Can I get you another?’
‘I’m all right with this one, thanks,’ I said. ‘They’ve just been telling me about the Japanese man they saw in here the night before Richard was killed.’
Cochrane laughed. ‘We’ve got the sharpest criminal investigation brains in the country right here, round this bar. I’m surprised we haven’t had the murderer banged to rights already.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’ I asked.
‘It’s very difficult for me to say,’ he answered. ‘Superintendent Donaldson likes to keep things close to his chest.’
‘I can believe that. I almost thought I was a suspect myself this morning.’
‘Everyone is in Donaldson’s mind,’ said Cochrane. ‘But that’s no bad thing in a murder investigation.’
‘I suppose you’re right. I bet it’s kept you busy.’
‘It has that. We’ve spent days interviewing almost everyone in Kirkhaven.’
‘Any answers?’
‘No one saw anything here. It was raining hard, so people were indoors and no one was looking outside much.’ Cochrane took a sip of beer. ‘One thing I’m sure of, the murderer wasn’t anyone from around here. I know what goes on in my patch, and I’d soon find out if anyone local was involved.’
‘Have they identified the man Richard was talking to in here?’
‘Sort of. They had a Japanese man staying at the Robbers’ Arms that night. Hiro Suzuki. But that’s the Japanese equivalent of John Smith. And he didn’t leave any address.’
‘So you’re a bit stuck, then?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said Cochrane. ‘Donaldson still has lots of questions to ask. We can carry on until something turns up. He’s very patient, and he has a good track record.’
‘So he’ll find the killer?’
‘I didn’t say that, laddie. I didn’t say that at all.’
9
I was walking along the stretch of sand beneath Inch Lodge. An empty bottle rolled against the shore, buffeted by the gentle waves. I ran towards it. There was a message inside. It was in Richard’s handwriting, but it was impossible to read. It was smudged, and water droplets on the inside of the bottle made the message almost legible, but not quite. I knew the message was important, but try as I might, I couldn’t make it out.
Suddenly the wind got up, and the waves became bigger, crashing loudly against the shore. I stretched to seize the bottle, but it was carried out of reach of my fingers by the agitated sea. If only I could read that damn message!
I woke up. I propped myself up on my elbow, and looked around the tiny room trying to work out where I was.
Two things hit me at once. I was in Richard’s house, and the noise I could hear wasn’t the sea.
I leapt out of bed and over to the window. The noise was coming from the boathouse just below. I could see smoke in the cold night air. And I could just catch a glimpse of dancing orange.
I grabbed my dressing-gown and ran downstairs. I picked up the phone and dialled 999. Then I ran outside to look. The fire had definitely taken hold at one end of the boathouse. I thought about fetching buckets and trying to put it out, but it looked to me as though it was already too late.
Could I save anything? In my mind I ran through what was in there. I had no idea how valuable the jumble of equipment was, or how easily it could be replicated. Then I remembered Rachel asking me about Richard’s computer. The information on that was definitely worth saving.
The fire was still at one end of the boathouse. There was a door at the side. Richard’s computer was opposite. It shouldn’t take me long.
I grabbed the key from the hallway, and ran to the door of the boathouse. The flames were clearly visible now, and were beginning to move along the roof. I unlocked the door. It was dark inside. A jumble of metal and plastic objects were illuminated by the flames. It was hot. I smelled burning wood, and something else pungent.
Petrol. Christ, what was petrol doing in there? If that ignited the whole building would go up.
I thought about stepping back outside. But I could see Richard’s computer silhouetted against the window. It was only two strides away.
I took them, swept the screen off the top of the computer, and gave the machine a good yank. One cable popped out, but another attached it to something immobile.
Damn!
The flames were licking along the roof. They had almost reached the rafters above me, although the floor was clear. Suddenly smoke was everywhere, shrouding the computer and the doorway. I coughed but I could still breathe. I stood rooted to the spot for a second, debating whether to run.
It would only take five seconds to free the cabling. God knows how much time had been put into developing what was on that hard disk. With Richard gone, it was probably irreplaceable.
I felt behind the computer for the cable. I pulled. It didn’t come out. I felt for screws. If it was screwed in I would never get it undone in time.
No screws, just a wire clip. I knew how they worked, I had one on my machine at Harrison Brothers. I fumbled in the dark and smoke, trying to get a good purchase with both fingers.
This was taking much too long. Click! One side out. Click! The other side out. I picked the machine up off the desk and ran for the door. I tripped over something hard and metallic, and fell, still clasping the computer to my chest.
There was a terrific whoosh, as though a hurricane had just been let into the boathouse. Flames rushed along the length of the roof. The whole structure was on fire. The heat suddenly became intense, stinging my face and my hands. The sound of the flames turned up from a loud crackle to a roar.
I pulled myself to my feet.
I was only halfway up when I felt a heavy blow to my back. It threw me spread-eagled back on to the floor. The breath was knocked out of me. I gulped for air. Instead my lungs filled with smoke.
I struggled to get up, trying to lift my body and the dead weight on top of it off the floor. It was like doing your fortieth press-up, when the thirty-ninth was absolutely and definitely the last you had strength for.
I couldn’t do it. I gulped and somehow swallowed air not smoke. My back hurt like hell. The heat was searing, tearing at the exposed skin of my face and hands.
I was only going to live a few more seconds.
I threw my body about on the floor, wriggling and writhing, kicking, trying anything to get myself out from under the beam.
Suddenly, miraculously, I felt the weight on my back ease off just a little. I heard a voice shout, ‘Get out will ye!’
I didn’t need to be told. I started a coughing spasm that seemed to have no end, and my vision was going black around the edges, but I pumped my legs until I had wriggled out from beneath the beam, somehow got to my feet, and grabbing the computer, threw myself through the open door. Strong hands picked me up and pulled me away from the heat and noise and smell.
I gasped, and felt the cold sweet air work its way into my lungs. I was laid down on my back, my chest heaving in front of me, my body overwhelmed by the heat, pain, grime and the large doses of adrenalin that were pumping round it.
Jim Robertson’s face loomed above me. His beard was black, his hair singed, his face covered in soot and sweat.
‘Is he all right?’ he asked.
‘Aye, he’ll live,’ said a voice.
I lay my head back on the grass, closed my eyes, and let shock do its work.
The next few hours were a jumble. Fire-engines came, and an ambulance. I was taken to the casualty department of a hospital, and soon found myself in a crisp clean bed. I fell asleep immediately.
I awoke mid-morning, feeling very tired and stiff, but still in one piece. My left hand was bandaged, and it stung. A burn. There were no other bandages on me. Nurses clucked around me, and brought me some tea and toast. I lay there for an hour or so, my strength seeping back. I tried to get out of bed, but I was told to wait until a doctor had seen me.
Finally, she came. She looked a couple of years youn
ger than I. She was busy and tired, but friendly.
‘Well, Mr Fairfax, I hear you had a lucky escape,’ she said, looking at my chart. ‘You should be fine. The burn on your hand should heal in the next few days, and I don’t think there is any serious damage to your back. If it gives you any trouble, just go and see your GP. You can leave when you’re ready. There’s a woman waiting to meet you.’
For a moment I thought that Karen might somehow have heard about what had happened, and made it up to Scotland to see me. I was disappointed when I saw Rachel pacing up and down in the waiting area.
‘How are you?’ she asked.
‘OK, I suppose. A bit shaken.’
‘I’m glad you rescued the computer. Thanks.’
She gave me a half-smile. Risking my life for a computer had put me one notch up in her estimation. She had clearly thought I didn’t have it in me.
Personally, I couldn’t believe how stupid I had been.
‘Did you recover all the information?’ I asked.
‘Ah ha,’ she said. ‘It’s all there. Eight hundred megabytes’ worth. If we had lost that, it would have set us back months.’
‘Wasn’t it backed up?’
‘Sure it was. Richard would have backed it up every night. But on to a tape-streamer that he kept beside the machine. That burned in the fire.’
Somehow it didn’t surprise me that FairSystems had no proper system for keeping vital information safe.
I squeezed into her car, a bright yellow Citroën 2CV. Rachel drove me all the way to Inch Lodge. There was a group of police vehicles parked outside the house. We walked round to look at the boathouse. The brick walls were still standing, although the whitewash was heavily streaked with black. The roof had disappeared, apart from one charred beam pointing upwards. A police cordon was set up around the building and half a dozen men were picking through the remains, inch by inch.
‘Mr Fairfax?’ I heard my name shouted and turned round. There was Kerr, followed by Sergeant Cochrane. ‘Can we have a word?’
‘Yes, fine. But can I look at the damage, first?’ I asked.
‘Certainly,’ said Kerr. ‘Just make sure you don’t touch anything.’
Trading Reality Page 12
