The Codex File (2012)

by Miles Etherton

  He slumped back in his chair and sighed. Colette’s folder sat in his lap.

  ‘State Network Tender’

  His forehead creased thoughtfully. Very few of the articles he’d forced himself to read made any reference to her company’s work in bidding for the State Network Tender, which was after all the brainchild of the Prime Minister, and the project Colette had taken the lead on and spent so many hours working on before her death. Surely that had been Digger’s motive? The same reason David Langley had been murdered. As his thoughts wandered his gaze fell back on the police profile of Digger.

  ‘Qualifications: 1 O’level - Woodwork’

  His anger receded slightly and he began to flick through Colette’s folders. There were pages and pages of technical diagrams. Intricate samples of computer code and other incomprehensible information.

  Would a man with very little education have the technical knowledge to render Colette’s computer unusable, and possibly steal encrypted information on it? Wouldn’t a hefty Doc Marten boot or a hammer through the hard disk have been sufficient? And what could Digger possibly use any information he’d stolen for?

  Michael looked at the page again. He didn’t even understand it.

  Reaching for his control panel he quickly began to scour the other articles. Some of the news feed and content sources mulled over the possibility of an accomplice. Two headlines leapt off the screen at him, beating at his thoughts:

  ‘Police seek second suspect in Hersham bloodbath case’ screamed tabloid content.

  ‘Robertson murder case investigates possibility of an accomplice’ read a more measured assessment of the evidence.

  But despite the hypotheses, nowhere in the abundance of coverage was a suspect profile to support this as in the case of Digger.

  He stopped browsing the news archive and gathered his thoughts, analysing all that he’d read. Green activists, and especially Digger, had also been implicated for the murder of David Langley, IT Director at ACE Solutions and the attempted murder of Vincent Trevellion, Vice President at SemComNet. But there was no mention about whether information had been stolen from them. Not that he could prove anything had actually been stolen from Colette.

  He rubbed his eyes wearily. He couldn’t get away from that nagging doubt that Green activists angry at technology would have ransacked a computer. Not meticulously format the hard disk. It just didn’t ring true.

  Closing his eyes he began to breathe deeply. Was his paranoia inventing conspiracy theories that simply didn’t exist? Wouldn’t it just be easier to accept, like everyone else seemed to, including the police, that Digger and maybe an accomplice had butchered his wife, daughter and cat?

  But it ran deeper than that, much deeper. He didn’t just need to know who had killed them, although it was his own personal mission to find them. No, for his sanity, to bury his own demons, he needed to know why they were killed.

  Looking up again at the screen, the UKCitizensNet logo emblazoned in the top left corner, his gaze rested on one name. He needed to see Vincent Trevellion.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The telephone conversation had been brief.

  “I’d like to see Mr Vincent Trevellion, please.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Trevellion is unavailable at the moment.”

  “Can I make an appointment to see him?”

  “He’s a very busy man.”

  “I understand that, but it’s very important.”

  “Can I ask what it’s in regard to?”

  “It’s a personal matter.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t schedule an appointment in his diary without knowing the nature of the meeting.”

  “As I said, it’s of a personal nature, which I don’t wish to discuss over the telephone.”

  “I’m afraid without any details I cannot arrange a meeting. I’m sure you understand.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I have to see Vincent Trevellion.”

  “As I said, if you don’t…”

  “You speak to him now, and tell him Michael Robertson wishes to see him, Colette Robertson’s husband.”

  Long pause.

  Distant sound of a man and woman’s voice talking in the background.

  “Would two o’clock on Tuesday be acceptable?”

  “That will be fine, thank you.”

  It was like entering a secret government project where knowledge was shared on a need-to-know basis Michael thought as the burly, unsmiling security guard waved him through the mechanical gate. In the car’s rear view mirror he watched as the security gate descended, sealing off SemComNet’s headquarters once more.

  The road carved its way through the countryside like a snake gliding through long grass. In front of Michael sprawling woodland cascaded down either side of a small hill for as far as the eye could see. The road cut straight through the middle of the thick woods, over the top of the hill and beyond. He gazed appreciatively as the wood enveloped him, forming its own natural tunnel where the trees met.

  Exiting the peaceful woods SemComNet’s headquarters and car park soon came into view. He glanced at his dashboard, the time was a quarter to two. Parking his car close to the main entrance he turned the engine off and sat back heavily in his seat. Taking a deep breath he closed his eyes, fearing the pain of what was to come.

  Getting out of the car he studied the building before him. He’d been impressed with the SemComNet building the moment it had come into view. A tall imposing structure, looking more like a greenhouse than a place of work.

  The modern building, whose construction had been the cause of such controversy because of the protected heathland and forest that was removed to accommodate it, glinted in the sunlight. Its entire width was wrapped in a grid of tinted glass. A distinctive atrium ran through the centre of the building, adding to its splendour, providing the way in. At the foot of the atrium a set of marble steps led up to revolving doors.

  Entering the building he approached the main reception. Having keyed in a few necessary details the attractive blonde receptionist pointed him of the direction of the lift. And he hadn’t been disappointed. No sooner had the doors snapped shut he seemed to be on the third floor. Trevellion’s office had been at the end of the corridor on the right.

  Vincent Trevellion’s secretary was just as he had envisaged after his obstructive telephone call. The metallic name badge on the desk read: ‘Mrs Margaret Martin’.

  She was probably in her late 40s Michael thought, her jet-black hair tied back in an austere ponytail. And her large forehead didn’t betray a single line or wrinkle. She was probably quite a beautiful woman with a smile and her hair hanging loose he thought with little interest.

  His thoughts about Mrs Martin quickly faded as the door to Vincent Trevellion’s office clicked open. The apprehension in his stomach rose to the back of his throat as a tall figure approached where he sat. Rising, he shook the welcoming hand. For a few seconds there was an awkward silence. Hands locked. Gazes fixed.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” he finally stammered.

  Trevellion seemed to smile in response although his eyes remained free of emotion, and Michael was sure his lower lip never actually moved.

  “It’s good to finally meet you Mr Robertson,” was the clipped reply.

  Michael followed him into the office, noticing the plaque on the office door.

  ‘Vincent Trevellion, Vice President’.

  Michael sat in the black leather-bound chair in front of the desk. It was like being sent to the headmaster’s office to receive some kind of punishment. He only felt about three-foot tall as he looked at the files and carefully arranged paperwork on Trevellion’s desk. An impressive-looking computer with a slim black monitor sat on one corner of the surface. Trevellion’s own leather chair pointed in his direction.

  A large sofa in one corner complemented the desk’s leather seats. In another corner an ornate
globe caught his attention. Was that a secret drinks cabinet he wondered or just an expensive ornament? Several paintings hung from the cream walls. He didn’t know much about art, but if the rest of the building was anything to go by they were probably originals. And if he wasn’t mistaken Trevellion was wearing a crisp Armani suit that looked as if today was its first outing.

  He licked his lips, unsure why he was so nervous of Trevellion.

  “Coffee?” Trevellion asked from the table that ran against the adjacent wall.

  He spoke quietly, but with the assured manner of the strictest General.

  Michael nodded, watching as he poured the coffee into a bone china cup. He wished Trevellion would just sit down so he could begin talking and find out what he knew about Colette and Clare’s deaths. He didn’t oblige. As Michael opened his mouth to speak Trevellion eased himself into his chair, lifting his cup to his lips.

  Michael estimated he was probably in his late 30s or early 40s. Although, the neatly trimmed goatee may have added a few years. He was certainly quite young to hold such a senior position in a major blue chip company.

  “So what can I do for you?” Trevellion finally asked, breaking the uneasy silence. A thin smile passed his lips.

  Michael shuffled nervously in his chair.

  “I was hoping you could shed some light on the deaths of my wife and daughter.”

  Trevellion’s authoritative, detached expression remained unaltered.

  “Er.. I mean I was wondering if there was anything else, anything at all you might know which would help me to better understand why they should have been killed.”

  Feeling himself begin to choke he forced back tears, stopping briefly to regain his composure.

  “Just something the police might not have told me.”

  This time he couldn’t fight back his emotion anymore. The tears began to stream down his cheeks.

  Trevellion slid open his desk drawer, pulled out a monographed handkerchief, and handed it to Michael.

  Rising from his chair he placed a placating hand on his shoulder.

  “Just take your time.”

  Within a few moments Michael had regained his composure and sat back in his chair as Trevellion began to speak.

  “I’ll tell you what I know Mr Robertson. Whether it’s of any use, well, I don’t know.”

  He paused, the few lines on his face tightening as he collected his thoughts.

  “Three years ago the government put out to tender the development, establishment and maintenance of our online state network. The only three companies with the relevant experience, R&D pipelines, and sufficient knowledge to make bids were SemComNet, ACE Solutions and SW Technologies. However, a series of militant Green, anti-net activists began protesting when the plans were announced. At SemComNet we began receiving threatening letters. Staff were abused and intimidated. And we were inundated with objectionable items such as mobile devices and flash drives smeared in faeces and the like. Unfortunately not everyone is in favour of technological advancement. Some have to be dragged kicking and screaming into the future. But as we know to our cost, it didn’t stop there. People were killed in the name of the anti-net campaign.

  Trevellion paused, looking Michael squarely in the face, his gaze boring into his own.

  “I was attacked in my own house by one of them with a machete.”

  Trevellion rolled up his sleeve, revealing a well-toned shoulder. Michael’s gaze traced the line of the inch-thick scar that ran from just below the elbow to the armpit.

  “I managed to raise the alarm before my attacker could kill me. You see your wife, David Langley and I, were the respective project leads for the state network tender bids. I was the lucky one.”

  Michael inhaled deeply, pushing his demons to the back of his mind.

  “I was able to positively identify my attacker from police photographs. Davey Wilkes was his name. A veteran Green campaigner. I’ll never forget the name, or his face, as he stood over me with that machete.”

  For the first time since being introduced Michael saw a glint of emotion cross Trevellion’s sombre features as he reflected on his ordeal.

  Trevellion spoke again, but this time more softly.

  “He said he was going to cut out my insides to create a message nobody would ever forget.”

  “Don’t go on. I know how painful it must be for you.”

  Trevellion leant back in his leather chair, a serious expression falling across his face.

  “The police have never caught the man who scarred me and killed David Langley and your…”

  The sentence trailed off as their eyes met knowingly. The images of Davey Wilkes Michael had seen on UKCitizensNet came rushing back. He was still out there, somewhere.

  “I know this might sound strange, but around the time of the attacks was any company information stolen or destroyed.”

  Trevellion looked thoughtful for a moment, crossing his arms as his brow furrowed a little.

  “There was an arson attack on our old premises resulting in some data loss. Although we were able to retrieve it through our disaster recovery protocols. Why do you ask?”

  “I discovered around the time of my wife’s death that SW Technologies’ offices were broken into. Information was stolen, computers destroyed. Of course, I don’t know what it specifically related to. Colette’s computer had also been formatted, wiped clean of all its information. I saw the police profile of Davey Wilkes on UKCitizensNet. Let’s just say he wasn’t’ the sharpest tool in the box. I think the police profile of this man is all wrong. Would he really have the knowledge to expertly wipe all the data from a computer? Why not smash it up with a hammer or something?”

  Trevellion’s expression changed to one of interest.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not sure. I just think maybe this butcher is cleverer than we’re all giving him credit for.”

  Trevellion mulled over the idea for a moment.

  “Perhaps we’re just not giving the police enough credit. I’m sure they only release enough information to the public so as not hamper their investigation.”

  Michael nodded slowly, somewhat surprised and disappointed at Trevellion’s dismissal of his conspiracy theory.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s possible too. I was just hoping talking to you would help me understand better. I think it has to some extent.”

  Trevellion nodded and smiled, although his eyes didn’t.

  “Well if they were trying to destroy all of the information to stop the work you’re trying to do at least they didn’t get all of it.”

  Trevellion had moved back to the percolator to pour himself another cup of coffee.

  “How do you mean?” he asked politely, but with little interest.

  “Colette had some other files relating to her work. I suppose I ought to return them to SW Technologies. Technically they do belong to them.”

  Trevellion’s outstretched hand never reached the coffee jug as he turned slowly to face Michael.

  “It’s probably all out of date by now anyway. Colette always said the IT market never stood still for very long.”

  Trevellion grunted in acknowledgement as he returned to his chair, pulling his keyboard towards him.

  “Yes, well I hope our chat has helped,” he said, his tone more serious and formal than before. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now as I have a meeting I must go to very shortly. You don’t mind showing yourself out, do you?”

  Michael watched as any previous compassion on Trevellion’s face vanished. It was probably being reminded of the horrific events of the past again, he thought. They would be hard for anyone to live with.

  Rising from his seat he shook Trevellion’s hand and slipped quietly from the office.

  As the door closed Trevellion reached for his phone and dialed rapidly.

  “Put me through to Sebastian Tate,” he said curtly, as a woman’s voice answered.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”


  “Tell him it’s Trevellion.”

  The line went dead for a few seconds as the secretary quickly redirected his call.

  “Tate.”

  “It’s me. Something has come up regarding the Robertson women. Something important. When can we meet?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Michael gently brought his Rover to a halt on the soft gravel of David Langley’s drive, gazing in slight awe at the impressive mock Georgian facade. It was at least six, probably seven, bedrooms he thought as he carefully locked his car. Although his car was probably quite safe he thought, glancing at the opulent houses lining the street.

  Opposite Langley’s house a gleaming silver Aston Martin DB9 sat proudly in front of an equally sparkling white Art Deco homage. Straight and curved lines ran round the front of the sprawling house, interspersed with tinted black windows in aluminum frames that doubtless concealed greater luxury inside.

  Michael glanced back to his own dulled and muddy car. It definitely wouldn’t be the first target in this safe neighbourhood he thought before activating the central locking. But then David Langley had probably thought it was safe as well. Would the smell of disinfectant and scented air fresheners remove the smell of death more successfully than in his house?

  In his own house he still woke in the middle of the night, the rich metallic smell of blood thick in his nostrils, pervading his every thought. But deep down he knew the smell wasn’t really there. He’d woken every night for 18 months in the care home with the same feelings, the same smells.

  A short plump woman of about 70 with a red, sagging face eventually answered the door at the fourth attempt, a combination of arthritis and slight deafness Michael soon learnt.

  Through using UKCitizensNet’s online user directory he’d quickly found David Langley’s address. Although, the house was now in the name of Vera Langley, his mother.

  A quick email asking if he could pay her a visit and who he was had followed. And within a few minutes a soothing voice on his eCitTV had informed him that email from Vera Langley was waiting.