It was just as Carr had described. The road swung round the corner and a line of trees gave way to a two-metre-high chain-link fence behind the wall. A camera was mounted on its corner, with others visible along the perimeter. Behind the fence there was more coarse moorland grass which grew right up to a cluster of traditional grey stone buildings. As they grew closer, Ambrose identified the farmhouse and two big barns. Even from the road, he could see that one barn had steel doors and extractor units on the roof. They pulled off in the gateway where a sign simply said, ‘DPS’ and identified themselves over the intercom.
‘Hold your ID out of the window so the camera can pick them up,’ a crackly voice said. Ambrose handed over his warrant card and the aide brandished them at the lens. One gate swung open and they drove inside. A woman emerged from the steel doors, which swished shut behind her. She waved them over to the farmhouse and joined them as they got out of the car.
Ambrose sized her up as he introduced them. Somewhere around forty, five five or six, slim and wiry. The kind of sallow skin that would tan well. Dark hair brushing her shoulders. Brown eyes, button nose, thin-lipped mouth, dimples that were starting to turn into deep lines. Black jeans, tight black hoodie, black cowboy boots. A pair of glasses hanging round her neck on a fine silver chain. Right from the off, she seemed to be buzzing with energy. ‘I’m Diane Patrick,’ she said. ‘Half of DPS. Which stands for Davy Patrick Security or Data Protection Services, depending on how I’m planning to pitch you.’ She smiled. ‘How can I help you, officers?’
‘You take your security pretty seriously,’ Ambrose said, wanting to play for a little bit of time. Sometimes his gut instinct told him to ease into things, not go straight to the point.
‘We wouldn’t be a very effective data-storage facility if we didn’t,’ she said. ‘Is this to do with one of our clients? Because I should warn you, we take the Data Protection Act very seriously here.’
‘Can we talk inside?’
She shrugged. ‘Sure, come on in.’ She unlocked the door and led the way into a typical farmhouse kitchen. An Aga, scrubbed pine worktops, a big table in the middle of the room with half a dozen matching chairs. Money had been spent here, but not recently. It had the comfortable, lived-in feel of a home rather than a showpiece. The table was littered with magazines and newspapers. A webbook sat open in front of one of the chairs, an open packet of chocolate digestives next to it. Diane Patrick’s boot-heels rang out on the quarry-tiled floor as she made for the kettle sitting on the range. She put the kettle on to boil and turned to face them, her arms folded over her small breasts.
‘We’re looking for Warren Davy,’ Ambrose said, scanning the room and taking in every detail.
‘He’s not here,’ she said.
‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘I don’t. He’s in Malta, setting up a new system for a client. He’ll be there as long as it takes.’
Ambrose was disappointed. ‘When did he leave?’
‘He flew out of Manchester a week last Friday,’ she said, puzzlement drawing a pair of lines between her brows. ‘Why are you looking for him? Is there a problem with one of our clients? Because if it is, I can maybe help.’
‘It’s to do with his car,’ he said.
‘What about his car? Has it been stolen? He always leaves it in the long-term parking at the airport.’
‘We just need to ask him some questions about his whereabouts a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Why? Was he involved in an accident? He never said anything to me.’
‘If you don’t mind, I’d rather wait till I can discuss it with Mr Davy.’ It was clear from his tone that there was no room for discussion.
She shrugged. ‘Since you’ve come all the way out here, the least I can do is offer you something to drink.’
Both officers opted for tea. While she brewed, Ambrose took the opportunity to ask her about the business.
‘There’s two parts to it, really,’ she said absently, as if she’d gone through it so many times she could do it on autopilot. ‘We set up on-site security systems for our customers. Sometimes, like Warren’s doing in Malta, we literally build the kit for them. But most of what we do is about providing secure off-site data storage. Companies can either upload their data to our secure servers at preset times every day or every week, depending on their needs. Or they can opt for the Rolls-Royce option, which is a real-time back-up of every keystroke on the system. That way, if their building burns down, they don’t lose a thing.’ She poured boiling water into the pot and replaced the lid.
‘Is that what’s out in the barn?’ Ambrose asked.
She nodded. ‘That’s our storage facility. The walls are two feet thick. No windows, steel doors. The actual servers and the data blades in their chassis are held inside a climate-controlled inner room with reinforced glass walls. Only Warren and I can gain entry.’
‘You’re really not kidding, are you?’
‘Absolutely not.’ She handed them each a mug of tea and sipped from her own.
‘Can we see it?’
Diane bit her lip. ‘We generally don’t let people in. Even clients only see it when they first sign up for the service.’
Ambrose gave her his best smile. ‘We’re not going to misbehave. We’re the police, after all. It’s just that I’ve never seen anything like that before.’
‘I don’t know. Warren’s pretty strict about it.’
Ambrose spread his hands. ‘Warren’s not here, though. Go on, satisfy my curiosity. I’m just a big kid, really.’ He wasn’t sure why he was so keen to see inside the data-storage barn. But her reluctance only sharpened his curiosity.
She sighed and dumped her mug on the table. ‘Oh, all right. But you have to leave your tea here. No liquids in the control area.’ Having decided, she didn’t hang about, bustling out of the house and across the yard.
Ambrose watched keenly as Diane placed her finger on a glass plate in the lee of the doorway. ‘How does it work?’ he said. ‘Is it fingerprints?’
‘No, it’s vein pattern analysis. Apparently, it’s as unique as a fingerprint but the beauty of it is that it only works if it’s still attached to a blood supply. In other words, you can’t just chop off my finger and use that to get in, the way you can with fingerprints. ‘ The door slid open and they followed her into a mantrap that was barely big enough for all three of them. They emerged in a small control room where half a dozen monitors continuously scrolled data past their eyes. Lights blinked and twinkled around them.
Beyond the monitors, a glass wall separated them from twenty metal towers, each of which had between a dozen and twenty dark red plastic handles protruding from them. ‘Every one of those data blades holds more than a terabyte of data. Which is bigger than I can readily explain to you,’ Diane said.
Ambrose was taken aback. ‘It’s amazing.’
‘Especially if your only experience of computers is desktop and laptop systems,’ Diane agreed, her voice softening. ‘It’s a bit like something out of Dr Who or James Bond - a fantasy come to life.’
Ambrose gave a little laugh. ‘I don’t even know what questions to ask.’
‘Most people don’t. Come on, let’s go and finish our tea while it’s still hot.’
Back in the kitchen, Ambrose asked for details of the client in Malta.
For the first time since they’d arrived, Diane Patrick looked discomfited. ‘I don’t actually know.’
‘That seems kind of strange to me,’ Ambrose said.
‘I can see why you might think that. But mostly we each have our own clients. We only bother with the details of the other’s accounts when for some reason we have to deal with them. Like this last week. I’ve had to make a couple of site visits to one of Warren’s clients because he’s out of the country and they’ve needed something physical taken care of. So Warren asked me to step into the breach, the same way I’d ask him if I was off the grid.’