self-pity that had characterised his previous morning was being overtaken by worry and a creeping fear.
His first instinct the night before, looking at the blood smeared plastic memory stick had been to call the police. DC Samuel had left a card; let him do his job. But Campbell ’s mind would not be still and he had sat in silence in his living room, his attention shifting between the memory stick and mostly the empty space in front of him that he stared blankly into for a long time.
There was clearly, undeniably, a link to the break-in he’d read about in the local paper. It was no great leap of logic to realise this was what had been stolen in the break in, or at least that it contained whatever had been stolen. Which meant data. Which meant industrial espionage.
Which, to Campbell ’s mind, meant something serious.
T hat it was tucked right under his oven, near where the man was lying and smeared in his blood didn’t allow for chance or coincidence. The gatecrasher had pushed it in there to hide it. And if that was true, then it naturally followed that it must be something worth hiding.
And that there was someone worth hiding it from.
So why not call DC Samuel? Why not run straight out of his front door to the local police station and get rid of the thing?
Because they knew where he lived didn’t they? And, more to the point, they knew that he had it. Because they’d come looking for it.
They. Who the hell were they? Campbell thought of a million possibilities but had no real idea. His gatecrasher had obviously known who they were though since how the hell else would he have got hold of this USB? And if he had gone to the effort – when he could barely even speak or open his eyes – to actually hide this, then he must know how much they wanted it back and what they would do to get it.
No, Campbell thought. I can hand this over and leave it safe in the police station but I can’t hand myself in can I? No. And then what? Who knows who might come knocking. Setting the police on their trail might ju st make them angry. Them. They.
All these things he ran through again as he sipped his coffee and tapped at his keyboard absently.
The USB now sat where he had found it, having tried various hiding places and discounting them all, along with the idea of carrying it with him to work, the thought of which terrified him. He had decided that its original hiding place was the best one – certainly it had eluded whoever had come looking for it that Monday morning.
But what to do now? Campbell had slept poorly again as the idea that they might come back had occurred to him. Every noise was a footstep, a lock being picked, a door creaking open. Campbell had given up on trying to sleep for a second night and left for work early, almost hurrying out of the flat where he couldn’t escape a creeping sense of vulnerability.
He had to do something, he decided. Sitting here worrying about going home again was no good at all. Maybe he was being silly. Maybe the drinking and the lack of sleep and the stress of the last few days was making him think and act strangely. Of course. Perhaps he’d just check up on this himself first, set his mind at ease and then hand over the USB to the police after all. It would probably be a bloody florist or something. A toy shop.
Campbell felt himself relax slightly for the first time in days. What did he know really? Sure, this seemed sinister enough in the absence of anything but his own paranoid speculation. The problem he had was there were too many questions without answers. What he needed to do was some simple research. That was his job after all.
18
Tuesday . 3.15 pm .
Sarah Knowles sat feeling a little self-conscious at her desk as she sorted through the emails that had accumulated in her absence.
She was uncomfortably aware of her shabby appearance and though she knew she probably felt worse than she looked she still thought that people were looking at her. As
His first instinct the night before, looking at the blood smeared plastic memory stick had been to call the police. DC Samuel had left a card; let him do his job. But Campbell ’s mind would not be still and he had sat in silence in his living room, his attention shifting between the memory stick and mostly the empty space in front of him that he stared blankly into for a long time.
There was clearly, undeniably, a link to the break-in he’d read about in the local paper. It was no great leap of logic to realise this was what had been stolen in the break in, or at least that it contained whatever had been stolen. Which meant data. Which meant industrial espionage.
Which, to Campbell ’s mind, meant something serious.
T hat it was tucked right under his oven, near where the man was lying and smeared in his blood didn’t allow for chance or coincidence. The gatecrasher had pushed it in there to hide it. And if that was true, then it naturally followed that it must be something worth hiding.
And that there was someone worth hiding it from.
So why not call DC Samuel? Why not run straight out of his front door to the local police station and get rid of the thing?
Because they knew where he lived didn’t they? And, more to the point, they knew that he had it. Because they’d come looking for it.
They. Who the hell were they? Campbell thought of a million possibilities but had no real idea. His gatecrasher had obviously known who they were though since how the hell else would he have got hold of this USB? And if he had gone to the effort – when he could barely even speak or open his eyes – to actually hide this, then he must know how much they wanted it back and what they would do to get it.
No, Campbell thought. I can hand this over and leave it safe in the police station but I can’t hand myself in can I? No. And then what? Who knows who might come knocking. Setting the police on their trail might ju st make them angry. Them. They.
All these things he ran through again as he sipped his coffee and tapped at his keyboard absently.
The USB now sat where he had found it, having tried various hiding places and discounting them all, along with the idea of carrying it with him to work, the thought of which terrified him. He had decided that its original hiding place was the best one – certainly it had eluded whoever had come looking for it that Monday morning.
But what to do now? Campbell had slept poorly again as the idea that they might come back had occurred to him. Every noise was a footstep, a lock being picked, a door creaking open. Campbell had given up on trying to sleep for a second night and left for work early, almost hurrying out of the flat where he couldn’t escape a creeping sense of vulnerability.
He had to do something, he decided. Sitting here worrying about going home again was no good at all. Maybe he was being silly. Maybe the drinking and the lack of sleep and the stress of the last few days was making him think and act strangely. Of course. Perhaps he’d just check up on this himself first, set his mind at ease and then hand over the USB to the police after all. It would probably be a bloody florist or something. A toy shop.
Campbell felt himself relax slightly for the first time in days. What did he know really? Sure, this seemed sinister enough in the absence of anything but his own paranoid speculation. The problem he had was there were too many questions without answers. What he needed to do was some simple research. That was his job after all.
18
Tuesday . 3.15 pm .
Sarah Knowles sat feeling a little self-conscious at her desk as she sorted through the emails that had accumulated in her absence.
She was uncomfortably aware of her shabby appearance and though she knew she probably felt worse than she looked she still thought that people were looking at her. As
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