Unless he took Ken up on his offer of lunch…?

Will grimaced. The idea of having to eat with the slimy little turd was bad enough, but if Smith-Hamilton found out he’d gone back to Sherman House-and she would-the repercussions would be a lot more severe than a couple of days’ enforced leave.

So he made his way downtown instead.

Central Records was an imposing mock-Victorian pile of red brick and sandstone, straddling Cadogan Street. For some reason known only to the planning department, it didn’t have its own shuttle station, so Will had to slog through the rain from Wellington Street, stopping off to pick up a plastic of wine for the evening; this morning’s hangover totally forgotten. He squelched in through the front door, submitted to a geometric scan, and found himself a quiet corner with a private study booth.

The monitor buzzed and crackled into life. He spent a couple of minutes entering convoluted search criteria, before sending the system off looking for old ministerial directives. It didn’t matter if they found anything or not, he just wanted to make sure there was a record of him doing something legitimate.

Rule Number One: always establish your alibi before you do anything wrong.

While the machine plodded away, searching and cross-referencing, Will slipped the cracker out of his pocket and popped open the service panel under the table. He checked to make sure no one was watching, then teased a pair of wires out of the main data trunk and slapped the cracker over them. Then hacked his way into the main system and started doing a little searching of his own.

Three hours later he switched the cracker off and stifled a yawn. Ken Peitai didn’t work for any of the biotech companies, none of the big conglomerates, or any government department. His National Insurance Number didn’t connect to anything-no driver’s licence, passport, or pension. The man was a ghost.

The only record Will could find was a bonus payment made half a dozen years ago in the PayFund database. It was a considerable sum of money, which was the only reason he’d found it: large payments had to be approved by the PayFund Manager, and that meant there were records. It also meant Peitai really did work for the government…or at least he had six years ago.

The payment record was staggeringly short of detail. Will had been hoping for a home address, bank account, phone number, but no joy: whoever Ken worked for back then, they kept their information well away from the main channels.

Will stretched the knots out of his back and checked the time: twelve fifteen. Lunch. Brian wasn’t answering his phone and neither was George, and unless hell had frozen over in the last twelve hours, there was no point calling Emily. It’d be weeks before they were on speaking terms again.

He raised his eyes to the large stained glass window at the end of the records hall. He could hear the rain hurling itself against the multicoloured panes. Still chucking it down…but he wasn’t that far from the West George Street Bluecoat Stationhouse-where Jo worked when she wasn’t at Network HQ. Maybe she’d be in?

That’d be nice. More than nice, actually.

Will ran a hand through his hair and checked his reflection in the study booth’s monitor. He still looked like crap.

Ah well, too late to worry about that now, wasn’t as if he could do anything about it.

OK…

He rubbed his palms on his trousers. No problem. Not like he was asking her on a date was it? Just two work colleagues having lunch together.

He closed his eyes and murmured, ‘Just try not to make an arse of yourself…’ Then he pulled out his mobile, called the Bluecoat switchboard, and asked to be put through to DS Cameron. Three minutes and twenty-seven seconds later Jo’s face appeared on the tiny screen, one eye an opaque, milky grey.

‘DS Cameron, can I help…’ A small crease appeared between her eyebrows. ‘Who is this?’

With a small start Will realized he was sitting there with his thumb over the phone’s camera. She’d be looking at a blank screen. ‘Ah, sorry,’ he moved his hand so she could see his face in all it’s bruised glory, ‘force of habit. It’s Will, Will Hunter.’

The frown disappeared, but didn’t quite turn into a smile. ‘Afternoon, sir. Why the anonymous act?’

‘I’m over at Central Records and I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch.’ He shrugged. ‘Thought you might be hungry.’ He paused. ‘As it’s…er…lunchtime.’ He cleared his throat. So much for not making an arse of himself.

She stared at him for a moment, then said, ‘Where?’

‘Downtown?’

‘When?’

Will did his best to look nonchalant. ‘Look, if it’s a bad time it’s not a problem, I can-’

‘Chiswick’s: fifteen minutes.’ A smile flickered across her face and then it was gone, disappearing into a little grey dot as she cut the connection.

Will put the phone back in his pocket, then caught sight of his reflection, grinning away in the monitor screen like a hormonal teenager. The smile slipped. He’d spent the wee small hours looking for his dead wife’s memory, and now look at him.

Lunch, with a side order of guilt.

Fourteen minutes later he was sitting at a corner table, examining the menu. Chiswick’s was small, cheap, and just close enough to the West George Street nick to attract a handful of blue uniforms.

‘This seat taken?’ There was a bright flash of colour and Detective Sergeant Jo Cameron slid into the chair opposite. Electric Lime and Volcanic Orange: gathered in tight at the waist. The jacket was surprisingly flattering, hugging her chest like a…Will tore his eyes away from the area in question. He’d not been on many dates in the last six years, but he was pretty sure that staring at a woman’s breasts wasn’t the way to make a good impression.

And then she took off her jacket, exposing a fashionably clingy emerald top.

‘Nice bruises,’ she said.

‘Thanks. Picked them out specially.’

She laughed. ‘So what have you been up to today then?’

‘Not much.’ He nudged the plastic of wine in its bag under the table. ‘Just getting a few things in for tonight. You?’

‘Loads. We took your advice and grabbed all the cleaning stuff we could find at the Kilgours.’

‘Lemon-scented bathroom cleaner?’

‘Yup: three partials and one perfect thumb print. They don’t belong to any of the family or the cleaners. We’re ninety-five percent certain it’s our boy.’

‘Any luck on a match?’

‘Not yet.’ She grabbed a menu. ‘We’ve got the system churning through every record for the last twenty-five years. If he’s been tagged we’ll get him. Just a matter of time.’

‘Good.’ He watched her reading the menu, the little pink tip of her tongue poking out between her lips from time to time. That clingy emerald top stretching every time she breathed. Will tried really hard not to stare.

‘See anything you fancy?’

‘I…em…’ He could feel his cheeks flush. ‘Er…whatever you’re having.’

Jo smiled, and Will couldn’t help smiling back. Even if he did feel like an idiot.

She punched their order into the tabletop. ‘What did you do to Brian last night? He’s done nothing but eat pickled onion crisps and swig coffee all day.’

‘Ah, the Agent Alexander patented hangover remedy. We got a bit hammered last night; kind of drowning our frustrations.’ He fiddled with the tomato sauce. ‘Director SmithHamilton’s banned all return visits to Sherman House until things calm down over there.’

‘So we can’t go anywhere with the Allan Brown investigation.’ She scrunched her face up. ‘Arse…’

‘Sorry, Jo.’

‘Damn it. I thought this time we’d actually be in with a decent chance of proving something.’ She sat back in her seat and sighed. ‘Like I said, it’s pretty clear one of the Road-hugger crew did it, but still…Be nice to get closure for a change. How long’s it off-limits for?’