Gresham stopped pedalling and bowed his head down to rest against the handlebars of the exercise bike. Sweat dripped down from his forehead and ran down his back and his chest. He was trying to work out some of his frustration but he still felt wound up and now he was exhausted too. Where was Slater?
The phone rang a few minutes later as Gresham wandered through to the shower. On hearing the ring he dashed to take the call.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he growled.
‘Sorry George, I — ’ Slater began but Gresham cut him off.
‘Never mind. What’s going on?’
‘Can’t get near him at the moment. He lives in a house that’s been turned into three flats and there’s lots of coming and going — in that house and the ones all around it. Not sure what I could pull without looking really obvious. He doesn’t seem to be acting weird at least, I mean nothing to suggest anything too major has happened you know?’
Gresham grunted acknowledgement.
‘He puts his suit on and he gets on the bus and goes to work and then he comes home and watches TV. Saw him come in with a big carrier bag from Dixons actually,’ Slater chuckled. ‘Must have needed a new DVD.’
‘Shut up Keith. Its worse than you think.’
‘Worse how?’ Slater sounded suddenly apprehensive.
‘I can’t find the USB.’
‘Say that again boss?’
‘I cannot find the fucking memory stick Keith. It’s gone.’
‘Oh shit — How?’
‘I’m not certain but I have a good idea.’
‘Cooper?’
‘Yes, Cooper. He knew something was up straight away. He knew he was in trouble. Maybe Keano even told him. Point is I reckon he had it away before you lot left my place on Saturday morning. Insurance.’
Gresham remembered the four of them racing back to his house in the middle of the night after it had happened, the frenzied negotiating with Drennan, the arguing and sniping and the worry as they sat there thinking it over and over. Cooper had got quieter and quieter the whole time.
Gresham had put it down to worry then but now it seemed more like Cooper had been scheming already. They’d already given Gresham the stick to hold but in the excitement and distraction it had slipped his mind. Only after Warren had called him to tell him that Cooper had turned up dead had he realised that it was gone. His relief turning to fear and panic as he stared at the empty space in his kitchen drawer where it should have been, he had moved methodically through the house trying to think where he might have moved it, if his wife might have done so, if he’d actually put it somewhere else. But all the time he knew that he wouldn’t find it and soon he realised why. Cooper must have taken it back again when he began to understand the trouble he was in. A bargaining chip. Perhaps the only leverage he would have.
‘Oh fantastic. Nice one Keano.’ Slater hissed.
‘Yeah. Well I don’t know if he told him or not.’
‘Well he certainly didn’t do such a good job of sorting him out on Saturday either did he? Even if he did keep his mouth shut.’
‘True.’
‘So what now then? What do you think he’s done with it?’
‘My guess is he had it with him on Saturday. He didn’t have time to come up with a plan by then or find a good place to hide it. If he still had it on him in the Hospital then it would have shown up by now and Drennan would be asking us why it had turned up there.’
‘You spoken to Drennan about this?’
‘No. He wants us to hold onto it anyway so I let him think its safe. He’s more worried about what Cooper did before he died. All I know for certain is that whoever lives in that flat knows something and I don’t fucking like it when other people know more about my business than I do.’
‘Right George. I’ll sort it out.’
21
Tuesday. 6pm.
There was nothing unduly strange about Andrew Griffin leaving the office at the same time as the rest of his workforce. It was true that he would often leave much earlier to pursue some ‘meeting’ which would invariably involve a round of golf or a long boozy lunch with a business associate. Or indeed nothing other than simply going home to his young family a little early, but then that was one of the perks of being in charge. He worked late into the evening just as often as this as well. But sometimes he did the same working day as everybody and joined the rush hour crush to get home.
On this occasion however, though nobody else took any particular notice other than to offer a polite farewell or hold the door as he left, Andrew Griffin felt particularly conspicuous.
He looked smart and immaculately presented as ever, his shoes polished, tie straight, collar and cuffs sharp and crisp. He carried his briefcase at his side with him though it contained nothing other than a notebook and fountain pen, a copy of the Telegraph, some accounting reports and an apple.
In fact there was nothing about Andrew Griffin that stood out at all as he joined the evening throng and began his journey east, away from his Berkshire home. He felt for all the world however, that everyone was watching him, that his mood was obvious, his tension pronounced and visible. He was edgy and tense and thoroughly preoccupied, his attention divided between what he was going to have to say and the tunnel-vision focus of getting through the crowd to his hastily arranged appointment as quickly as possible.
The afternoon had been long and fraught. His personal assistant had confirmed that there was nothing taken from their extensive paper records but of course, all the signs indicated that it was computer data that had been targeted. He had to spend empty hours waiting for confirmation of this as he waited to hear back from the computer technician that he had charged with investigating it.
Then, at last, the call had come. The technician had identified the specific block of data that had been accessed, had confirmed that the machine had “carried out an instruction to duplicate to external media” as the technician had put it. Copied to disk. It was part of the other man’s job to know the codes and references used in the data and what it signified but the names and transactions referred to were beyond his understanding. They far pre-dated his employment in the company and his working remit anyway. He had no reason to know. Best that way.
Griffin had asked that the information be passed to him to examine and had played down its significance, although the tension in his voice may have betrayed him. Checking through what had been stolen he knew that this could, in the wrong hands, bring down more than just him and his lovingly-built company. He knew that the risk needed to be neutralised as quickly as possible and for that there would, inevitably, be a cost.
22
Tuesday. 6.30pm.
Keith Slater hunched his shoulders up higher and drew his head and thick bull-neck down into the collar of his jacket. The autumn felt like it was giving way to winter already. The cold in his car was bitter and he couldn’t turn the heating on without the engine running and that was out of the question.
He peered across the street through the dim evening toward Campbell’s flat and stared again, intent on the house although he could neither see nor hear a thing. Gresham wanted him to make his move and fast, which meant that he was going to have to grab the man or coerce him into the car. Slater was alone and it would be harder to do the job without a second pair of hands. He considered calling Warren to come and back him up but then thought that it could barely look much more conspicuous the two of them manhandling Campbell into the car in front of his well-to-do neighbours. Slater began to see every curtain in the street twitching and every passer-by or car that rolled along the street was staring at him, taking a mental note of his appearance, his car, model, make and number plate.