Give The Devil His Due (22 page)

       ‘We don't have the luxury of three weeks Vaughan. Our chance may have disappeared in that time.’ Peachy had gone from being cagey to almost pleading for help. Obviously he knew deep down that serious professional burglary was a craft that took years to perfect.

       ‘I reiterate I will not be back for three weeks.’

       ‘May I make a suggestion?’ Peachy asked.

       ‘You may.’

       ‘I think I can speak for all of us when I say – we must have thought about this thing a thousand times over. I for one have been thinking about it for years.’

       ‘Ah! I take it then that the proposed endeavour is your brainchild Trevor?’

       ‘Yes it is Vaughan, but we’re a team. Regarding your advice, if we go away from here today and discuss the matter once more – just to see if everyone still feels the same after having heard your concerns – and find that none of us has changed our opinion, would you be willing to meet us in London to discuss what we have in mind?’

       Vaughan looked at Neil. It was a sure bet that during the jail time they'd spent together Neil had gone through some pretty low moments. They obviously had a very close friendship, and although Vaughan was advising us all to think carefully, anyone could see it was Neil that he was really worried about. I began to wonder if Neil had suffered a nervous breakdown at some time.

       Having paused for thought, Vaughan turned to Peach. ‘Here is my sister's telephone number. Should she ask why you need to speak with me, you must tell her you are a contractor undertaking work here at the manor, and that you require my approval to purchase some extra materials. I want my sister to have no knowledge of this matter whatsoever.

       ‘On a day of your choosing, I will meet you at Charing Cross railway station. You decide the time, allowing of course three hours for me to travel. One is not quite as sprightly as one would like to be. We shall then relocate to a venue a little more discreet and discuss your project in greater detail. How does that sound?’

       ‘It sounds splendid!’

       ‘Good, then I have a proposition for you. How does a keg of cider and a large bottle of apple brandy sound in exchange for a lift to the railway station?’

       ‘More than fair Vaughan,’ I said.

       ‘Excellent. I tell you what, I'll throw in a double brace of partridge for good measure. The remaining birds I’ll take to Lottie's. My sister has an appetite more akin to that of a mouse than a grown woman, so I doubt if we’d have consumed everything, and one doesn't like to see good food go to waste. I suppose freezing would have been a possibility, but then frozen is no substitute for fresh is it?’

       ‘You're not wrong there Vaughan,’ said Peach.

       As the archivist’s mental cookbook opened up and flicked through to the partridge and Calvados recipe page, we salivated in anticipation of another superb dinner creation.

       After he’d phoned his local taxi company to cancel his booking, Vaughan took great pleasure in showing us around the property. Beautiful could not accurately describe it. The main house was adorned with all sorts of visual treasure. There were the mandatory antiques, fine carpets and paintings that one would expect to see in a residence of this type. Unusual and most astonishing of all were the models. Vaughan had made every single one of them. Almost any kind of seafaring craft you could care to name, from the smallest of ketches to the most magnificent of tall ships, complete with rigging and sails. They may have been miniature, but the detail was breathtaking. Peachy had found a kindred spirit in Vaughan; a devotee who clearly loved boats.

       Aside from the main house, Vaughan gave us a quick tour of the gardens and orchard. He owned several acres, far too much for him to tend, and so an old friend from the nearby village came twice a week to help out. The main thrust of work took place from late summer and throughout autumn when the trees were bearing fruit.

       The property also boasted a number of outbuildings, one of which he used as a workshop, this was probably where he conducted his safecracking research.

       When it was time for us to take him to the station, I was reluctant to leave. It was such an interesting place, and he, such an amazing character. Neil went upstairs to get Vaughan's suitcase. There was no way he could have managed it down the staircase with his bad leg. I suppose if we hadn't turned up to visit he'd have got the local cab driver to fetch it down for him.

       After a short journey, this time being directed by someone who actually knew where he was going, we arrived at the station. Neil grabbed one of the few luggage trolleys that were available. He put the suitcase on it and Vaughan used the trolley in place of his crutches. As we were about to bid Vaughan farewell, something was bothering Peach. ‘Vaughan?’

       ‘Yes Trevor.’

       ‘Are my ears really that noticeable?’

       ‘Don't be ridiculous. Your ears look completely normal.’

       ‘But how ...?’

       ‘Trevor dear boy, Neil told me all about you when we shared a room together! I've known you
like 'em big
for the best part of a decade.’

       He turned to Phil: ‘And you needn't laugh Philip; I am equally well-acquainted with your past.’

       I was glad he hadn't caught me smiling; he'd have probably pulled one of my skeletons out of the cupboard. He had a real old fashioned schoolmaster way about him. I'm sure his university lectures would have been extremely popular just for the entertainment value, let alone their scientific content.

       As we drove back to Bristol, there was a jubilant atmosphere in the car. It felt like we now had a real mentor on board who would guide us through the most difficult part of the mission.

       Apart from becoming the worse for wear on Vaughan's keg, we were treated to another of Peachy's outstanding culinary masterpieces. It was worth being involved in the quest – for the meals, if nothing else.

       Late in the evening when we’d had our fill, my stomach started to murmur, was this the embryonic stage of one serious bout of scrumpyitis? I took evasive action and downed a large glass of water, it was time for bed. Peachy, Neil and I crashed out before midnight and I guess Phil wasn't long after that.

***

I woke up with chronic indigestion, too much cider had a habit of doing this to me. I checked my watch; 2.37 a.m. – time for a visit to the bathroom. Hopefully Phil would have some antacid tablets there. As I crept out of the bedroom, I noticed light coming from under Phil's door. Was he still up? It was then that I heard the gentle tapping of a keyboard. Obviously he was still awake and at his computer. Quietly, I pushed the door open and in a hushed voice asked him, ‘Where are the indi-tabs Simms?’

       ‘I've run out.’

       ‘You are fucking joking?’

       ‘No, I'm serious.’

       ‘I'm doubled up here. My chest is on fire.’

       ‘Do the words
self-inflicted injury
or
it's your own fault
strike a chord with you?’

       Phil had the memory of an elephant.

       ‘Ah come on Phil, don't be like that, you must have some lurking about.’

       ‘Go and get a glass from downstairs.’

       I went for the glass, making as little noise as I could, returning moments later.

       ‘Here have a drop of this.’ He was about to pour me a slug of Vaughan's home made Calvados. I stopped him.

       ‘I thought you were going to help end my discomfort.’

       ‘Why do you think the French call it a
digestif
? Now do you want some or not?’

       ‘Yeah OK, keep your wig on. Not too much though, I've got to drive home lunchtime.’ He tipped a large measure into my glass. ‘Anyway, what are you up to? I saw your light on, didn't know whether to come in or not. I thought you might be having a
J Arthur
or something.’

       ‘What's a “something”?’ He asked.

       ‘I dunno.’

       ‘Try to be specific and then you may have a sporting chance of convincing others that you are not actually subhuman.’

       ‘I'll do that in future – just to please you, although you still haven’t answered my question about what it is you’re up to?’

       ‘Ah well, I'm trying, as I have been for the last three nights, to have a little look around.’

       ‘A little look around what?’

       ‘Charles De Villiers’ computer.’

       ‘Can you do that?’

       ‘As I said, I'm trying. I've got his biog here.’ He showed me the same notes I'd seen in my own bundle.

       ‘Does it tell you how to get into his computer then?’

       ‘No, of course it doesn't you imbecile. I'm using the biog to find clues as to his username and password. Once I can crack those, I can log in and have a snoop, check out if there’s anything that might help us.’

       ‘Surely, if you've already been trying for three nights, and still haven't got it, you're not going to on the fourth.’

       ‘Ah you see, that's where you and I differ. I have intelligence and patience, whereas
you
do not.’

       ‘Ooh you've found me out
Mr Superior-being
. How long have you been at it tonight then?’

       ‘I've been
at it
since you lightweights went to bed.’

       He took another swig of Vaughan's Calvados. I had no doubt that he would get into De Villiers’ computer at some point. Persistence was not something Phil lacked; he had it by the shedload. I could see lots of failed attempt messages on his screen. He'd been using anagrams of De Villiers’ name, combinations of dates and words that I didn’t understand the relevance of (unlike Phil). But then evidently, he'd been through this kind of thing before and knew what he was doing.

       I was curious. ‘I've got a question.’

       ‘Just the one?’

       ‘Yes. Won't he know you're looking at his computer?’

       ‘No.’

       ‘How so?’

       ‘That's two questions.’

       ‘Yes alright Peter Pedantic. You've caught me out again. Can you just answer the question?’

       ‘Mmm ... first, there's a good reason for doing this in the early hours of the morning. The chances of him being at his desk are virtually zero.’

       ‘And second?’

       ‘I'm using what’s called an anonymous proxy server.’

       ‘Speak English please?’

       ‘Imagine De Villiers’ computer is a shop window. You pull up outside in your car looking through the window. Whoever's inside can get a good look at you and your number plate, right?’

       I had the feeling Phil was dumbing down for me. ‘Right.’

       ‘Now imagine you pull up outside the shop window in a car with NATO plates and blacked out windows.’

       ‘OK, so they can't see you and if they ask NATO who that registration belongs to they're told to piss off and mind their own ...?’

       ‘Exactly! That's what the anonymous proxy server does. It guarantees the user confidentiality. Look I'll show you.’ Suddenly Phil started typing on the keyboard and took the PC into a different screen. ‘Bollocks, bollocks …’

       Oh dear, this didn’t sound too good. ‘What's the matter Phil?’

       ‘I haven't checked the box to activate it. Well I have now, but it means for the last couple of hours I've been outside the proverbial shop window sitting in the wrong car.’

       ‘Does that mean he'll know you've been trying to get into his computer?’

       ‘Highly unlikely, as I said: Who sits at their office desk at 3 a.m.? I'm just pissed off that I could’ve got caught with my trousers down that's all. It was going downstairs to get Vaughan's brandy that did it. My usual log-on routine got fucked-up.’

       ‘Do you think you'll get a knock at the door from the cyber police?’

       ‘No, you've been watching too many films.’ It was true, I had sat in front of the goggle box far too much of late.

       ‘What about telling Peach?

       ‘No, I'm saying nothing and you say nothing right? He'll only do his nut – you know what he's like.’

       ‘OK.’ Phil was right. Peach probably would do his nut, if he knew about it. ‘Why don't you switch that thing off now and get some kip.’ Phil rubbed his eyes. The whites had become bloodshot.

       ‘Yeah, I probably should. I'm shagged out.’ Phil swigged the last mouthful of home-made Calvados and shut his computer down. My indigestion had gone. I went back to bed. Tomorrow would be another day.

Chapter 17

London 12.14 a.m.
Ian Walters’ pager had gone off for the third night in a row. After Monday, the first night of an attempted security breach of the chairman's personal terminal, the Head of IT at
De Villiers-Moncourt
had been given strict instructions, from Charles De Villiers himself, that by the time the chairman returned from his trip to New York the following Monday the source of the security threat had better be traced – or else.

       Walters had written a program that alerted him via pager every time there was a subsequent attempt. Now, in the early hours of Friday morning, it had gone off again. Handsomely paid by the company, he could not afford to ignore De Villiers’ wishes. Anyone who ignored De Villiers did so at their peril.

       So far the hacker had eluded him by cloaking his movements. As long as he continued to do this Walters was in an almost impossible situation. De Villiers expected Ian to deliver. If he didn't, he’d soon be replaced with someone that could. It didn't even matter if you knew where the metaphorical bodies were buried. De Villiers was a man who could count on the help of some rather scary people to ensure the silence of any disgruntled ex-employee.

       Above all though, he was a man that wouldn't accept excuses in place of results. Ian had become very taken with the chic two-bedroomed apartment overlooking the Thames and brand new Porsche 911 Turbo Cabriolet that went with the job. Giving them up was not something Ian wanted to contemplate.