“Yes, well, it’s always been a popular seller, KerrSter,” Sandra gabbled. “I suppose our customers haven’t seen the stories.”

“I’d have thought Kerrchem would have recalled it,” I went on. For some reason, talk of KerrSter was making Sandra Bates twitchy. Rule number one of interrogation: When you’ve got them on the run, keep chasing.

“They recalled one batch,” she said, regaining her composure.

“Still, I wouldn’t buy it,” I said. “I’m surprised one of their competitors hasn’t tried to exploit the situation. In fact, I’m surprised a small company like them outsells the opposition so comprehensively.”

“Yes, well, there’s no accounting for customer preferences.

Now, if there’s nothing more you’d like to know about the shelf stacking, I have got a lot on my plate,“ Sandra said, getting to her feet and waving vaguely at the paperwork on her desk.

I was back on the street inside a minute. Being hustled twice in one morning was bad for the ego. Olive Abercrombie I could understand. But the mere mention of KerrSter had shifted Sandra Bates from cooperative sisterhood to the verge of hostility. Something was going on that I didn’t understand. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s things I don’t understand.

13

I’M NO CYBERPUNK, BUT I KNOW ENOUGH ABOUT HACKING TO know that I couldn’t get into Filbert Brown’s computer network on my own. I knew they had to have a central computer that dealt with all their individual branches. Via that it should be possible to crawl back inside Sandra Bates’s data. Way back in the mists of time-say, around 1991-I could probably have reached first base. Bill has a program that dials consecutive phone numbers till his modem connects with another computer. I could have set that to run through all the numbers on the same exchange as Filbert Brown’s head office. It would probably have taken all night to run, but it would have got me there in the end.

However, the powers that be have decided that darkside hackers like us need to be cracked down on, so now they’ve got their own sophisticated equipment that picks up on sequential dialing like that and traces it. Then the dibble comes and knocks on your door in a very user-unfriendly way. Besides, getting the computer’s number was only the start. I’d need a login to get through the front door, and a password to get any further. Ideally, I needed the password of the sysman-the system manager. Most people who are authorized users of a network system have logins which allow them only limited access to the part of the system they need to work with. The sys-man is what computerspeak calls a superuser, which means he or she can wander unimpeded throughout the system, checking out each and every little nook and cranny. With Bill’s help, I might just have managed it to achieve sysman status on the Filbert Brown network. But Bill was on the other side of the world.

That only left Gizmo. I tried his number, and got lucky. “Wozzat,” a voice grunted.

“Gizmo?”

“Yeah?”

“Kate. Did I wake you?”

He cleared his throat noisily. “Yeah. Been up all night. What d’you want?”

I told him. He whistled. “Can’t do that one for the usual,” he said.

“But can you do it?”

“Sure, I can do it,” he said confidently. “Getting in shouldn’t be a problem. But if you want sysman status, that’ll cost you.”

“How much? ”I sighed.

“One and a half.”

Trevor Kerr could stand another hundred and fifty quid, I decided. “Done deal,” I told Gizmo. “How soon?”

He sniffed. Probably on account of the whizz he’d have snorted to keep him awake all night. “Few hours,” he said.

“Sooner the better.”

Back in the office, routine awaited. A stack of background information had arrived in the post that morning. I’d been waiting for it so that I could complete a report for a client on the three candidates they’d short-listed for the head of their international marketing division. One of them looked like he’d have a promising career writing fiction. The candidate’s degree from Oxford turned out to have been a two-year vocational course at the former Poly. His credit rating was worse than the average Third World country’s. And one of his previous employers seemed to think that his financial skills were focused more in the direction of his bank account than theirs. All of which would make the selection panel’s job a bit easier.

It was just after four when Clive Abercrombie rang to tell me the buckle was ready and waiting. I worked for another hour, then collected it on the way home. Olive’s jeweler had done a good job. I was looking for the bug, and I couldn’t see it. No way would the fence spot it in the middle of a motorway service station. Back in the car, I checked if the receiver was picking it up. Loud and clear.

When I got in, there was a message from Gizmo on my machine. “Hi. I’ve got your order ready. I think you should collect it in person. I’ll expect you.” I sighed and got back in the car. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. In Gizmo’s case, I thought it was a small miracle the hacker crackers hadn’t already kicked his door in. In his shoes, I wouldn’t trust the phone lines either.

I hit the cash machine on the way, taking myself up to my daily limit. I parked round the corner from his house, just in case he really was under surveillance, and wishing I’d remembered to do the same on my earlier drop. I rang the bell and waited. Nearly a minute passed before the door cracked open on the chain. “It’s me, Giz,” I said patiently. “Alone.”

He handed me a piece of paper. I handed him the cash. “See you round,” he said and closed the door.

Back in the car, I unfolded the paper. There was a telephone number, FB7792JS (the login), and CONAN (the sysman’s password). I’d bet it was Conan the Barbarian the sysman had in mind, not the creator of the world’s first PI. Yet another wimpy computer nerd with delusions of grandeur. I drove home via Rusholme, where I picked up a selection of samosas, onion bhajis, chicken pakora and aloo saag bhajis. I had the feeling it was going to be a long night, and I didn’t know if I could rely on Richard to come home with a Chinese.

I brought the coffee machine through to my study and sat down at the computer with the Indian snacks and the coffee to hand. I booted up and loaded my comms program. Dialing the number on the paper brought me a short pause, then the monitor said, “Welcome to FB. Login?” I typed the digits Gizmo had given me. “Password?” the monitor asked. “Conan” I typed. “As in Doyle,” I said firmly.

The screen cleared and offered me a set of options. The first thing I had to do was to familiarize myself with the system. I needed to know how the different areas were arranged, how the directory trees were laid out, and how to move round to remote terminals. Somehow, I didn’t think I’d be having an early night.

By nine, I’d got the basic layout clear in my mind. My mind and a sheaf of scribbled maps and diagrams that strewed my desktop. Now all I had to do was find Sandra Bates’s terminal and start sifting her data. Doesn’t sound much, does it? Imagine trying to find a single street in Manchester with only the motorway map as a guide. I took a screen break in the shower, brewed another pot of coffee and settled down to do battle with Filbert Brown’s computer.

When the phone rang, I jumped a clear inch off my chair. I grabbed it and barked, “Hello?”

“It’s me,” Dennis’s voice announced. “Sorted.” Dennis is another one who doesn’t like confiding in the phone system.

“Great. When?”

“Tomorrow. Half past three, eastbound at Hartshead Services.”

“How will I know him?”

“He drives a metallic green Mercedes. He’s about forty, five ten, bald on top. Anyway, I told him to look for a tarty-looking little blonde.” Dennis couldn’t keep the triumph out of his voice.