The turnover in CSI technical computer personnel was fast and frequent. Rumour had it that as soon as they reached puberty, they had to be replaced by a younger version. Liam Merchant, however, was at least forty, and Banks had known him for a couple of years. They even had a pint together occasionally after work, and sometimes Liam’s partner Colin joined them. Liam was an opera buff and something of a wine expert, so they had those interests in common. Before working for the North Yorkshire police, he had been a software designer for a successful private company. He was still a civilian, not a police officer.
‘Alan,’ he said, extending his gloved hand to shake. There was something rather perverted, Banks always felt, about the clasping of hands in latex, but he tried not to let it bother him. ‘Your timing is impeccable, as always.’
‘We aim to please. How’s Colin?
‘Thriving, thank you.’
‘Tell him I said hello. So what have you got for me?’
‘Where do you want to start?’
‘Anything on the computers?’
Liam led Banks over to a workbench, on which sat Gavin Miller’s laptop and desktop computers. ‘We’re only just beginning, but first off,’ Liam said, ‘I have to tell you that there’s nothing special about them. They’re your common or garden, on sale at PC World every other week, computers. At least they would have been about four years ago. Still using Windows Vista, for crying out loud. Of course, they’re perfectly adequate for most people, if a bit slow and prone to seizing up every now and then for no reason, but cheap and... well, not exactly nasty, but hardly in the Rolls-Royce or BMW class, either. Not even a Ford Focus, to be honest.’
Banks knew that Liam was as much a snob about computers as he was about wine and opera recordings, but it was worth putting up with an occasional outburst of snobbery for the useful tips that Liam tossed his way. ‘Anything interesting on them?’ Banks asked.
‘Depends what you mean by interesting. No modifications, just the bog-standard factory presets. Not even a few extra modules of RAM, which the laptop could certainly use. On them? Well, the usual. Antivirus and anti-spyware programmes. Reasonable quality, so-so settings, but free software, thus limited.’ He waved his hand from side to side to demonstrate the precarious nature of Gavin Miller’s computer protection. ‘Which is living dangerously when you visit some of the sites he did.’
‘Oh?’ said Banks, interested at last.
Liam grinned. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, old boy. There’s nothing illegal or exciting. No kiddie porn, thank God, nor sheep-shagging or what have you. Is sheep-shagging illegal, by the way?’
‘There are probably laws against it,’ said Banks. ‘Though I can’t say as I’ve ever had to enforce any. The animal rights people might have a thing or two to say about it, mind you. I mean, how would you know if the sheep said yes or no?’
‘‘I thought baaa always meant yes, your Honour? Anyway, I’m all for Sheep-Shaggers Liberation, if there is one. To move on... we have the usual free porn sites — boringly hetero, I’m afraid — and from what I can gather, his tastes run from the so-called normal to the slightly fetishistic.’
‘As in?’
‘Nylons and lingerie. American cheerleader uniforms, or at least professional ladies dressed in said uniforms. Apart from a few MILFs, he seems to like them young, teens and college girls, or what passes for young on these websites. He’s not fussy about type or ethnic origin, quite happy with blondes, brunettes, blacks and Asians, as long as they’re young.’ Liam scratched his chin. ‘There seem to be a lot more Eastern Europeans on these sites these days.’
‘Some of the girls are forced or tricked into it,’ said Banks. ‘Trafficked. It goes in waves. These days most of them are trafficked from ex-Soviet bloc countries in Eastern Europe. It used to be South-east Asia. Africa before that.’
‘Three cheers for good old capitalism, eh?’ said Liam. ‘Opening up new markets all the time. Anyway, you’ll be happy to hear that there are no dwarves or ladyboys. Doggy style, but not doggies. One on one, rather than threesomes or gangbangs. No fisting or machines of ass destruction.’
‘Ouch,’ said Banks.
‘My apologies. I’ve been reading too many American magazines. I have to say, your Mr Miller is disappointingly normal. No leads there. No Internet plots to murder anyone, or buy drugs. Not even Viagra. He certainly didn’t appear to buy any online medications.’
‘Who among us could stand such scrutiny of his computer?’
Liam narrowed his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t mind an hour or two with your hard drive one day, old boy,’ he said. ‘I’ll bet you’ve got a more interesting range of browsing than Mr Miller.’
‘You’d be disappointed, I’m afraid,’ said Banks. ‘It’s mostly music and emails. Sorry.’
‘So you say. Anyway, in my experience, it’s where many people live their secret lives these days, no matter how public it all is. That’s the irony, I suppose. People assume it’s private, but in reality it’s wide open. It’s also easy to hide there, to take on other identities, become anyone you want. You can stalk and slander to your heart’s content. You can praise your own work to the skies and piss on everyone else’s. Perverts and cowards love it. Then there’s Facebook and Twitter, the narcissist’s Elysian Fields. Bloody baby pictures and bad restaurant reviews because the waiter didn’t bow and scrape enough for your liking. It’s worse than those dreadful people who start talking on their mobile phones the minute they take their seat on a train. “I’m on the train, darling. We’ll be leaving in a few minutes. It’s still raining here.” I mean, who bloody cares?’
Banks laughed. ‘So why do you spend so much of your time working with computers then, Liam?’
‘Because I love them! I love their purity, their simplicity. And because it’s just about all I can do to make a living. It’s not computers that’s the problem, it’s people. Not the machines, but the people who build them and run them. By the way, do you happen to be a connoisseur of fine champagne?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far, but I enjoy the odd glass now and then as much as the next man.’
‘The odd glass? The next man?’
‘Stop being so arch, Liam. I like champagne. I just don’t have anyone to share it with as often as I’d like.’
‘Ah... yes, I see. Well, short of introducing you to a friend of mine I think would like you very much, if you think you can find your way to polish off the odd bottle by yourself now and then, without any help from the next man, I have a reliable source of decently priced Pol Roger Cuvée Sir Winston Churchill. Various vintages. The 1979 will be well out of a policeman’s price range, but there are less expensive alternatives, if no parallels. Interested?’
‘I might be. Depends on the price.’
‘I’ll send you an email.’
‘Thanks. Did Gavin Miller have a Facebook page?’
‘No. He did contribute occasional reviews and articles to a number of fanzines and movie fan sites. Unpaid, I should imagine. I suppose you’ve heard of the Grateful Dead, too?’