by BRM Stewart
‘I assume he got his money’s worth.’
‘Oh yes. Not just cash down the line: access to these computers gave him power, potential. Once he had enough – not just from us, of course – he could blackmail people, threaten them with denial of service.’ Colin shrugged and sipped at his gin. ‘I always felt threatened by Gregorius, somehow. I was glad when I got out of the business.’
‘Has he contacted you since?’
‘He doesn’t know I’ve left B&D.’ Colin turned to look at me. ‘He will be under the assumption that you are me.’
I took in the implications of that. ‘So what would happen if I left?’
There was another deep breath and a gulp of gin. ‘I don’t know, Martin.’
Chapter 12
Glasgow– the early 90s
Frank and I were hunched over a PC as we heard Charlie breeze into the front shop. ‘Hi gorgeous!’ and a squawk from Sam as he grabbed her – he usually gave her a squeeze and a grope, but she didn’t seem to find it appealing any more. He had moved on.
‘What’s happening, guys?’
Charlie was wearing an Armani suit, a big gold watch, gold cufflinks. As he came through the back he waved a set of car keys. Frank and I couldn’t avoid looking at them.
‘Fuckin’ bimmer, boys.’ We looked blank. ‘BMW 3-series – the 325is.’ His mouth dropped open as we didn’t react. ‘You poofs no interested in cars?’
Frank shook his head, and I said: ‘I don’t even drive, Charlie.’
Charlie appealed to Davey, who shook his head also.
‘Aw, for fuck sake.’ He put his keys away. ‘So, anything new?’ He poured himself a coffee from the big jug on its heated stand and pulled over a chair to look at the monitor.
Frank nodded and mumbled something. Charlie frowned at me.
‘The world wide web,’ I said.
Charlie, for all his cash and posturing, wasn’t entirely stupid. ‘I’ve heard about it.’
‘Computers can communicate over the phone lines – the network is called the Internet, and it’s been around for years, mainly used by the US military and universities. But now there’s the World Wide Web, which makes it easy to share content.’
‘It’s early days,’ Davey cautioned.
‘There’s a lot of fun stuff going on – people discussing weird TV programmes and computers – ‘ Davey nodded seriously: he was an avid user of this, and wouldn’t have thought of it as being frivolous. ‘But,’ I went on, ‘businesses are beginning to see the potential. Some banks are allowing you to do your banking online, travel firms are doing bookings, some wee shops are starting to sell stuff online. And more people are using email: you can send messages, instantly. It hasn’t been mentioned all that much on mainstream news because none of the reporters can understand technology properly, but it will change the way we all live.’
Charlie sat back with his coffee. ‘Where do we come in? How can we make money out of it?’
I got myself a coffee too.
Davey chipped in: ‘We need to push modems – the things that connect to the phone lines – as part of the PCs we sell, and help people get onto the web.’ He still looked down when he spoke, but it was less of a mumble. Even Frank was known to speak occasionally.
I nodded. ‘There are loads of big companies out there who can build and sell PCs cheaper than we can. We’re making money just now because Microsoft’s programming is basically shite: they design their software on huge, fast mainframes, which causes problem on PCs, even when they’ve got as much as 256K of memory and maybe even a fast 500 meg hard drive. So we’re getting the premium by sorting out all the software problems, and selling additional hardware that customers didn’t know they needed, like the hard drives we fit. But we’re still really hitting the home computers, the hobbyists, with only the occasional business. We need something better.’
Charlie grimaced as he reached the end of his coffee. ‘So, what’s the idea?’
‘Instead of selling a little hardware, and software, and fixing stuff they’ve bought elsewhere, we can do an all-in-one service. We talk about what they need for their home or their hobby or their small business. We put together their perfect hardware and software package – maybe buying in basic PCs and selling them on with all the extra bits and peripherals they really need. We install their software and guarantee to keep it running, for some kind of on-going fee. And we train them to use the software – either ourselves or buy in some lecturer from the college, or a school even. We fit anti-virus software too, to keep them safe.’ Viruses were becoming more common, and a complete pain in the backside. I’d been researching them, and had even written one myself as an exercise, horrified at how easy it was and what it could do.
Davey cleared his throat. ‘We sell a complete working system, train them to use it, and sort out problems that come up.’
Charlie was nodding. ‘So, we charge a premium for the hardware and software, because we’re tailoring a package, and we charge a fee to keep it all sweet. Sounds good.’
‘We can also design websites for people.’ I’d done some work on this too: it wasn’t difficult. ‘But we also need to expand to do all of this.’
Charlie looked round the crowded workshop. ‘Yeah, it’s a bit tight.’
‘And not just that. This place has all the air of a hobby computer shop. If we want to attract proper business people we need a different place, with desks and PCs on them, so we can show them what we can do. OK, we can make and install stuff here, but we need a better image. Another shop, bit more flash.’
‘Close by?’
‘Not necessarily. It might be useful for us to go back and forth, but there’s really no need. Somewhere a bit more upmarket might be better – Byres Road, or in the centre of town even. But the overheads there would be higher, I think.’
‘OK. Right, could you boys write all of that down, and I’ll speak to dad, Sandy and Tom. Then we can all meet and work out the details. Oh look!’ He had spotted a blocky photograph appearing on the screen, slowly building up and resolving, and was grinning like mad.
We worked on our main jobs through the day, and then in the middle of the afternoon Davey and I put together the plan for the new part of the business, including what the new place would have to look like, and thoughts about staffing. Frank listened, and softly suggested the occasional idea. We printed off three copies for ourselves to think about overnight, and I phoned Sandy to organise a meeting the next day, at lunchtime – typically, Charlie hadn’t yet got round to mentioning it to him. Davey left – he and Jane were going to the pictures – and eventually Frank left too.
I drank coffee and played with my new software that could display text and photographs from computers faraway, and let myself dream of what this could all look like in the future, what the potential might be.
I had to put the lights on after a time, and then I sat in the one soft chair we had, and stared into space. The future was strange, unknown. I looked at my watch: Fiona had an appointment with her GP. She was still losing weight, and was tired all the time, but insisted it was the after effects of the miscarriages. She’d been for blood tests, and the doctor had asked her to come in as soon as possible to talk about the results.
The phone interrupted my thoughts, and Sam answered – then waved urgently to me. I went over and took the receiver from her.
It was the doctor. She had phoned an ambulance for Fiona, because she’d collapsed while he had been examining her.
‘Christ,’ I said. ‘But nothing serious. Is there?’
She hesitated. ‘There are some issues with your wife’s blood tests. She’s on her way to Gartnavel Hospital, ward 5B. If you get there and report to reception, they’ll fill you in.’
My mouth was dry. ‘What is it? Tell me something.’
She took a deep breath. ‘We think your wife may be very ill. The hospital will tell you more.’
‘What’s wrong with her? Tell me.’
The voice went soft. �
��I shouldn’t say anything over the phone, but we think your wife has ovarian cancer.’
‘Is it operable?’ My heart was slowly thudding, and I could feel my head growing light.
‘I hope so. They’ll do what they can. You need to get over there as soon as possible. You need to be positive for her.’ And then the deadly coda that I can remember to this day: ‘But you need to prepare yourself for what might happen.’
Sam took the phone from me, and I sat down before I could fall. ‘Could you get me a taxi?’ I asked her. I looked around in despair, and then the tears came.
*
I can still recall those short few hours: the taxi driver wittering on about the football; me stumbling through the hospital, trying to find my way; the talk with the nurse in the fluorescent-lit empty day room; the waiting while they operated on Fiona – I hadn’t had a chance to see her. Someone told me where the coffee machine was, suggested I go for something to eat.
Davey appeared from somewhere, at some point: he seemed to know what was happening. He brought me a sandwich and a drink, and went back and forth to talk to the nurse, and a doctor. He was suddenly in control, while I sat gazing at the pale green wall, miserable, trying to come to terms with what was happening to me. My wee brother, my dad – and now my wife. What had I done to deserve this?
Two guys appeared, men hardly any older than me, and sat down beside me. They introduced themselves: they were doctors. In quiet voices, they told me the story: the cancer had been very well developed, but they’d made the decision to operate, to try to excise them, to give her a chance because there would have been none otherwise. But it had been too much: she’d had heart failure on the operating table, and because of the cancer and the tissue they’d cut away they’d known it was hopeless: they had tried to resuscitate her for a short time, but given up.
She’d passed away. Peacefully. She was gone. Just like that.
‘Would you like to see her?’
‘No,’ I said at once. It wasn’t her. She was gone.
I gazed at the world around me: all different, everything I had wanted gone, the love of my life gone. I gazed at Davey, and the greyness around me. Tears flowed down my face.
*
Planning the Catholic funeral – well, Fiona’s mum did it; I just nodded to everything – and then sitting through it, numb, eyes open and cursing a God I didn’t believe in, was rough. The funeral was almost the same as the wedding, such a short time before – same people, same priest with his fatuous condolences, Fiona’s sister Janine in a short black dress, a black veil over her face.
The weeks and months after that were the worst ever, a descent into a lonely hell. I started drinking a lot. The flat was empty, Fiona’s absence like a vacuum, following me around. The world was flat grey. There was no end to the misery, and something cold settled in me.
Chapter 13
This spring - Glasgow
I got back from Spain to a chilly, gloomy Glasgow, with a feeling of certainty in my gut of what I wanted to do and how to do it. The only uncertainty was around Helen and her mood towards me.
Andrew phoned and gave me a name and a number. ‘This guy is a private detective in Glasgow. For £200 he’ll get you the name of a policeman working on Operation Lockdown who will talk to you about what they’ve found out about Ken Talbot’s business interests.’
‘Just like that.’
‘Just like that. If you give me the nod, I’ll organise the payment and then text you the contact details. After that it’s down to you. You just give me anything you get from the police.’
‘What if the information is rubbish?’
‘That’s the chance you take.’
‘OK, Andrew.’ I flipped through options in my head. ‘Go ahead.’
An hour later I had a mobile phone number and a name: Detective Sergeant Amanda Pitt, working out of Stewart Street police station up in Cowcaddens. I sat looking at the text, and then went to get a coffee and brought it back to my desk.
I started searching online for information about her. She was in her mid-thirties, single. I found a photograph: a slim, severe-looking woman with short brown hair. Her Facebook account wasn’t well protected – she’d obviously missed all the changes to security settings over the years – and I found other photographs, many with her smiling, some with her in bars with an arm round someone, always another young woman.
I scanned her newsfeed: comments on TV, asking for advice on a planned holiday to New York, and a host of responses to that. Messages to and from a ‘Rose Brown’, but no pictures or details: her Facebook account was locked down, with not even a profile picture. It sounded like they were an item, but keeping it very low key. As I watched, Amanda sent a private message to Rose Brown to say she was just heading down to the GFT – the Glasgow Film Theatre – for coffee. The reply came immediately: a triple kiss.
I sat still, counting the seconds, wondering if I dared go through with this. She would walk, I was sure. So I gave her a minute or so to get clear of the police station, and then I took a deep breath and phoned her mobile, withholding my own number.
She answered, the voice cautious, traffic noise in the background: ‘Hello?’
‘Hi there,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm. ‘Is that Detective Sergeant Amanda Pitt?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’ Her voice was level, but wary, her breathing deep as she walked.
‘I’d really like to have a chat with you,’ I said, ‘about Ken Talbot.’
And it was obvious the name meant something to her. Good. ‘Where and when can we meet?’
Shit – I hadn’t thought that far ahead, had expected to have to persuade her. Somewhere quite busy, but not too busy. ‘How about the foyer of the Hilton – the one up from Anderston Cross?’ And I cheekily decided to rattle her a little. ‘In about an hour – once you’ve finished at the GFT?’
I heard the moment’s hesitation as she caught the implication of what I’d said, then smoothly ignored it. ‘See you there.’ And she hung up.
I sat back. Did I really want to go through with this? She might simply arrest me, get what I knew out of me in an interview room. I was sweating suddenly. I sat still, letting the time pass, trying to decide, my fingers trembling.
I told Claire I was going out, and headed into the stale city air, and down the hill towards the Hilton, by the M8. I walked round the corner, and up into the wide lobby and over to the bar to get myself an over-priced lager. I sat at one of the low tables across from the wide reception desk, and watched people come and go.
A woman came in and sat on a low chair at the other side of the foyer, taking out her phone, checking it, looking round. I was pretty sure it was Amanda Pitt, but she looked different from her Facebook photos: an angular face, a neat figure in a dark trouser suit with a white blouse under it. Her hair was mid-brown, with blonde highlights. I phoned Amanda Pitt’s mobile, and the woman across from me answered: ‘Hello?’ At the same time, she looked across, and I gave her a wave. She switched off her phone and came over to sit beside me, shaking hands with me as I half-stood and bobbed my head. She put her handbag on the floor at her feet, and brushed her hair back from her face with her hand. Then she sat composed, hands loosely clasped on her lap.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’ Her voice was low and calm.
I thought of all the things I could say, but simply said: ‘My name is Martin McGregor.’
She nodded. ‘How did you get my mobile number?’
I took a deep breath, wondering what her reaction would be. ‘I got your number from a private detective – I don’t know his name, but he claims you’ll be willing to give me information about Ken Talbot, what you know about his operations. Is that right?’
She pursed her lips. ‘And how did you know I was on my way to the GFT?’
‘I found you on Facebook: you haven’t done your security settings properly. I saw the message from Rose Brown’
She nodded, with a brief closing of her eyes.
‘OK. So… Who are you?
‘Would you like a drink?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘No. Who are you, Martin McGregor?’
I took a deep breath. ‘I’m a senior manager in two computer companies in Glasgow, B&D Software Solutions, and also Bytes and Digits. They’re both connected to Ken Talbot – he really sort of set them up and financed them.’
She nodded. I could see she either knew of them or understood exactly the purpose of them. ‘So why are you talking to me?’
‘I’d like to know the extent of Ken Talbot’s business interests. I’d like to know what you know – assuming he’s one of the people under investigation in Operation Lockdown.’
‘Why?’
I gave a cough and had to look away briefly from her steady gaze, her complete lack of emotion. ‘I have shares and interests in a lot of these companies. I want - ’ and my voice stumbled. I looked at her and then away again. ‘I want to get out of the situation I’m in, get away from Ken Talbot.’
‘Taking as much as you can,’ she said.
I squirmed. ‘I suppose so. Yes.’ I cleared my throat again and tried to sound more assertive: ‘Much of that money is legitimately mine. I’ve worked hard all my life.’
Now she raised an eyebrow. ‘For criminals, helping to launder money from theft, smuggling and drugs, and prostitution.’
I shook my head. ‘I didn’t do any of that.’
‘But you knew it was going on.’
‘No. No I didn’t. Not till relatively recently.’
She held me in the cold stare, her brown eyes boring into me. ‘So what are you offering me?’
‘I can give you money. Or information about more of Talbot’s interests. There are probably things that you don’t know about.’
‘Such as what?’
‘There is some online criminal activity going on.’
Her expression changed subtly. The eyes narrowed, and the mask of indifference slipped. ‘OK, let’s say we make a deal. How much information? How much money?’
I began to worry that this was an elaborate sting, entrapment. I felt a shiver run through my body, my confidence dribbling away. I wished I hadn’t made the call. ‘Everything I know for everything you know. And name a price.’
