Yvonne clicked again, then dropped the mouse in surprise as the cursor began to move by itself. She watched it track across the desktop and open the Start menu. It moved to ‘Run’. A dialogue box opened and text appeared as if an invisible set of digits was typing. Her hand went to her mouth as she dithered, wondering what to do. I’m going mad. Then she remembered Malcolm talking about rogue programs that could pass control of your PC to an external operator. Hackers. She watched in fascination as a new screen appeared and began to display data, scrolling automatically from top to bottom. It was all meaningless jumble to her. A new message appeared: Decryption complete. There was a copyright message at the foot of the message box. It flicked on and off in a second, but she was sure it had said: Central Intelligence Agency, US. Then the cursor began to pause at certain words. They didn’t mean anything either: ‘Blackbird’. ‘Red Earth’…
Yvonne backed away from the PC. Why would the CIA want to hack into our — Malcolm’s — computer? She remembered James Potzner, how strange he’d been during his brief visit. She hadn’t felt safe with him. Something about the way he’d looked at her — no, looked into her. She’d felt dirty afterwards, as if some invasion of privacy had occurred without her knowledge or consent. And now one of his people was crawling around inside their computer.
The text disappeared and a diagram took its place. It was — what? A circuit diagram? A plan of some sort? And then another — a type of pyramid? It looked like a picture her younger brother used to spend hours over, a cross section of a naval submarine, with all its compartments and passages exposed like an ant colony in a glass bottle. Yvonne bent over and flicked the printer on. She hit the print key, fished out the A4 sheet and examined it. There was something familiar about the design, but her memory couldn’t place it. She heard a key turn the front door lock. He’s back. Her heart leapt with excitement. A quick glance in the mirror — she didn’t have any make-up on. Never mind.
She took the stairs two at a time and threw herself into the arms of the man at the threshold. Malcolm was pinned to the doorframe, key in one hand, overcoat in the other. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed hard. “Hi. I’ve missed you.”
“Steady.” Malcolm placed his laptop case carefully onto the hall carpet. “Give me a chance to get in the door.”
Yvonne looked at him and smiled. Everything would be fine now. Solid, dependable Malcolm would look after her. She felt a pang of guilt. “I haven’t sorted dinner out yet — I was going to make—”
He placed a finger on her lips. “Don’t worry. I was going to take you out anyway.”
This was just what she needed. But he looked tired. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to drag him out again when he’d only just got in. She opened her mouth to voice the thought, then suddenly remembered the computer. “Come quickly.” She pulled him to the stairs.
“Hang on. I’m not quite ready for that.”
“No, it’s the computer. Quickly.”
She dragged him into the study and pointed at the scrolling screen. “There. Look.”
A change came over Malcolm’s face. He darted to the computer and flicked off the power. Then he turned to Yvonne. “What are you doing on this PC?”
“I’m sorry — I thought it was all right to—”
“I told you to only use the laptop in the lounge. All your mail is accessible from there.” His face had darkened with anger. She had never seen him so furious.
“But it was a — a hacker, wasn’t it? I–I thought you should know.”
“What did you see?” He took a step towards her.
“Nothing. There was a lot of rubbish on the screen, that’s all. Then some weird diagrams.”
He grabbed her arm. “I said, what did you see?”
“Malcolm. You’re hurting me.” Yvonne felt a flutter of panic. This was not like Malcolm. He was looking at the printout she had made.
“What is this?” He picked up the sheet.
“I–I haven’t a clue. Something that was on the screen — I thought I’d print it so you could see—”
He struck her hard across the face. She spun backwards and fell across the small computer station, the one she had chosen with him in IKEA. She was so shocked that no words would come.
“What —?” But he was coming for her again. She backed away and tried to duck under him to get to the door. Her mind was reeling. This can’t be happening. He caught the back of her blouse and she wriggled free, feeling the material tear under his grip. She threw herself down the stairs, but he was surprisingly quick. He caught her in the hall and she felt his arm around her neck.
“Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?” he hissed in her ear.
“I don’t understand. Oh God, don’t hurt me—” She was crying and fighting for breath at the same time as he increased the pressure. She felt a fogginess descending. So this is what it’s like, she thought. I’m going to find out after all. And then there was a distant, heavy noise, like somebody striking a pillow with a hammer. As she drifted into unconsciousness she felt the arm relax its grip. And then she was kneeling on the floor, retching. A hand was on her shoulder, but it had a gentle, concerned touch.
“Mrs Dracup? Are you all right?” She turned and looked into the pinched, greyhound-like face of DCI Moran. Then she was violently sick on the parquet.
Yvonne sipped her tea. It was too sweet, but she didn’t care. Moran was looking at her with an expression of sympathy and repressed curiosity. Malcolm had been taken away a quarter of an hour ago by a pair of very young-looking policemen. Moran assured her he would be charged with assault and remanded in custody. Somehow it didn’t make her feel any safer.
“So,” Moran said. “Do you know what this is?” He held up the print of the sectioned pyramid.
She shook her head. “I haven’t a clue. Obviously something significant.”
Moran was nodding. He looked like a hound that had caught the scent after a long search. “It’s a ziggurat.”
“A what?”
“A ziggurat. A kind of temple the ancients made to worship their gods. Or God.” Moran’s long face lit up with a strange smile. “It has seven levels.”
Yvonne warmed her hands on the hot mug. Her brain was sluggish. She could still feel the arm around her neck, the squeezing. “I’m sorry, Inspector. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Malcolm was a cog — an important cog — in this business from the start. He’s an IT specialist, right? Do you know his area of specialism?”
Yvonne sighed. “I don’t really understand it. Codes? Algorithms or something?”
“Security. Network installation and security. He could break into anything — and my guess is he was contracted to break into a very secure network. But now they’ve finally traced him.”
“The CIA?” Yvonne’s mouth was open in shock.