Read Online Thunder in the Blood by Graham Hurley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Graham Hurley
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Exactly?’
Stollmann ducked his head a moment. ‘I just wondered how you got on, that’s all, you know…’ He was uneasy, even embarrassed. ‘Chemistry? Would that cover it?’
‘Did I like him? Is that what you’re asking?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘More or less.’
I stared at him a moment, remembering the touch of Priddy’shand on my arm, the way he modulated his voice for certain questions, an interest all the more insulting for being so obvious.
‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I thought he was ghastly.’
Stollmann looked briefly pained, then reached for the phone. His eyes went to the door, indicating that our little chat was over.
I got up again, watching his finger stabbing at the grid of buttons. ‘Do you want a formal report?’ I said. ‘About Beth Alloway?’
Stollmann shook his head, not bothering to look at me. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing on paper, thank you.’
I spent the rest of the month back at my desk. I couldn’t get Beth Alloway out of my mind, the photo on the mantelpiece, the pair of them outside the registry office, her face years later, the look of total bewilderment. Twice I tried to talk to Stollmann again. I wanted more detail. More background. The first time, he refused to see me. The second time he told me we weren’t a branch of the social services. I took the latter comment as an insult and told him so. Then I returned to my computer. If Stollmann wouldn’t tell me any more, I’d have to find out for myself.
By now, I knew a great deal about Registry files. I knew the way they were organized, what the experts call ‘the architecture’ of the system. I knew the strength of the internal walls they’d thrown up, insulating one file from another, the ditches they’d dug, impossible to cross without the right access codes. I knew, as well, about the other precautions they’d taken, the tricksy little electronic tags they’d attached to this section or that, the priority classifications they’d given to particular entries, the lengths they went to protecting special sources. It was a maze, impenetrable to outsiders, and even to people like me, only accessible on a need-to-know basis.
But it didn’t end there, because the Curzon House system formed part of a larger network, serving every department in Whitehall, a wholly logical arrangement which put a great deal of information at our fingertips and saved a fortune in time and money. But access to these ‘daughter-systems’, likewise, needed codes, and they were issued only on a case-by-case basis. To acquire a particular code you needed proper authority, and onceyou’d laid hands on the code your problems weren’t over because they changed them every week. In this sense, the codes were a bit like railway tickets. What I really needed was a rover ticket, taking me everywhere. But the best I could hope for, given the proper authority, was a series of day returns.
I thought about it a great deal: where I’d look, what I was trying to find.
If Alloway was selling to the Iraqis, he’d need DTI export certificates. Without these, the stuff wouldn’t get past the docks. But DTI certificates were only issued in compliance with certain guidelines. In the case of Iraq (and Iran), the government had banned the sale of something they termed ‘lethal equipment’. According to Stollmann, this was precisely Alloway’s line of country. How, then, had he got round the government’s embargo?
Part of the answer would lie in the DTI files. They’d have copies of the export certificates. Alloway might also have been using the Export Credit Guarantee Scheme, a form of government insurance in case businessmen had trouble getting paid. They, too, might have documentation.
I began the search by tapping into Central Registry, poking around our own files, checking whether we might have anything on the shelf. Even this exercise could be risky, and when my supervisor paused behind me and enquired what
Stollmann ducked his head a moment. ‘I just wondered how you got on, that’s all, you know…’ He was uneasy, even embarrassed. ‘Chemistry? Would that cover it?’
‘Did I like him? Is that what you’re asking?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘More or less.’
I stared at him a moment, remembering the touch of Priddy’shand on my arm, the way he modulated his voice for certain questions, an interest all the more insulting for being so obvious.
‘No,’ I said quietly. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I thought he was ghastly.’
Stollmann looked briefly pained, then reached for the phone. His eyes went to the door, indicating that our little chat was over.
I got up again, watching his finger stabbing at the grid of buttons. ‘Do you want a formal report?’ I said. ‘About Beth Alloway?’
Stollmann shook his head, not bothering to look at me. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing on paper, thank you.’
I spent the rest of the month back at my desk. I couldn’t get Beth Alloway out of my mind, the photo on the mantelpiece, the pair of them outside the registry office, her face years later, the look of total bewilderment. Twice I tried to talk to Stollmann again. I wanted more detail. More background. The first time, he refused to see me. The second time he told me we weren’t a branch of the social services. I took the latter comment as an insult and told him so. Then I returned to my computer. If Stollmann wouldn’t tell me any more, I’d have to find out for myself.
By now, I knew a great deal about Registry files. I knew the way they were organized, what the experts call ‘the architecture’ of the system. I knew the strength of the internal walls they’d thrown up, insulating one file from another, the ditches they’d dug, impossible to cross without the right access codes. I knew, as well, about the other precautions they’d taken, the tricksy little electronic tags they’d attached to this section or that, the priority classifications they’d given to particular entries, the lengths they went to protecting special sources. It was a maze, impenetrable to outsiders, and even to people like me, only accessible on a need-to-know basis.
But it didn’t end there, because the Curzon House system formed part of a larger network, serving every department in Whitehall, a wholly logical arrangement which put a great deal of information at our fingertips and saved a fortune in time and money. But access to these ‘daughter-systems’, likewise, needed codes, and they were issued only on a case-by-case basis. To acquire a particular code you needed proper authority, and onceyou’d laid hands on the code your problems weren’t over because they changed them every week. In this sense, the codes were a bit like railway tickets. What I really needed was a rover ticket, taking me everywhere. But the best I could hope for, given the proper authority, was a series of day returns.
I thought about it a great deal: where I’d look, what I was trying to find.
If Alloway was selling to the Iraqis, he’d need DTI export certificates. Without these, the stuff wouldn’t get past the docks. But DTI certificates were only issued in compliance with certain guidelines. In the case of Iraq (and Iran), the government had banned the sale of something they termed ‘lethal equipment’. According to Stollmann, this was precisely Alloway’s line of country. How, then, had he got round the government’s embargo?
Part of the answer would lie in the DTI files. They’d have copies of the export certificates. Alloway might also have been using the Export Credit Guarantee Scheme, a form of government insurance in case businessmen had trouble getting paid. They, too, might have documentation.
I began the search by tapping into Central Registry, poking around our own files, checking whether we might have anything on the shelf. Even this exercise could be risky, and when my supervisor paused behind me and enquired what
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