The moment the door swung open I could see why the architects had chosen that particular office. The place was incredibly bright. Even at that time, the late afternoon sun was flooding in through a huge rectangular light well in the ceiling. Four draftsmen’s desks were arranged beneath it, to take full advantage of the natural light. Six tall document cupboards, large enough to hold full-sized plans, were lined up along the left-hand wall. Regular desks and filing cabinets filled the space to the right, with one at the end reserved for a giant printer and photocopier. The area straight ahead was divided into three glass-fronted offices. There was a fair selection of the usual office paraphernalia lying around—phone chargers, pens and paper, coasters with advertising slogans on them—and lots more specialized items like containers full of rolled-up plans and piles of half-finished plastic foam building models. But there was one kind of thing that was conspicuously absent. The thing I’d specifically come to find. Their computers.
Except for one.
I stepped back into the foyer, jogged the mouse that was lying on the countertop, and the receptionist’s screen sprang back to life. The desktop picture showed a bloated ginger cat curled up on a floral sofa. That wasn’t a promising sign. I did my best to ignore it, and clicked on the Internet Explorer icon instead. The cursor gave way to an hour glass, and I had to wait for what seemed like an hour until a little box appeared in the center of the cat’s stomach.
You are not connected to the Internet. Would you like to
launch the Network Connection Wizard?
I clicked on “No,” pulled out my phone, and called Fothergill.
“I need another address,” I said.
“Why?” he said. “Couldn’t you get in?”
“Of course I could. I’m inside now. But their computers aren’t here. They must use laptops, and have taken them home.”
“The people aren’t there?”
“No. The place is empty.”
“Damn. I hadn’t expected that. OK. Let’s think. What else can we do?”
“Is there any way to trace the computer McIntyre’s contact was using? Can you talk to the IT guys? See if they can trace it, if it’s gone online from another location?”
“I’ll talk to them. I don’t know if that kind of trace is possible, though.”
“I don’t either. But this place is a wash, otherwise. And it might be too late if I have to come back tomorrow, when they’re back at work.”
“Tomorrow could well be too late.”
“What about their home addresses? Could you track any of them down? Starting with the partners. I could pay a couple of them a visit. See if I can’t loosen some tongues.”
“That’s a good thought. I’ll get the boffins on it, right away. But depending on where they live, it might not be quick. There might be a lot of running around involved, and these guys might not even be home. So before we go down that road, are you sure there’s nothing at your end we could use? Already in the office?”
“Maybe. I’ll nose around, see if I can find the personnel files.”
“No. I wasn’t thinking about addresses. I was thinking about these guys’ jobs. If they’re trying to buy this gas, there’s a chance it’s related to something they’re working on.”
“It could be. Or it’s just as likely that whatever pie they’ve got their fingers in is completely separate.”
“It could go either way. But we know that someone who works there is the linchpin. The only one left who can connect us with Tony and the gas. So while you’re there, it makes sense to take a thorough look, doesn’t it?”
“I want to find that computer. And the guy who was using it.”
“I understand. But here’s how I see it. The guy’s computer is what led us to that office, but it doesn’t follow that the information we need is on it, too. The key could be right there, on a desk, in a drawer, on the wall, who knows?”
“Maybe they signed a confession and left it in a sealed envelope?”
“I’m serious, David. This used to be my specialty. Residual Analysis. You can always tell what someone’s up to by what they leave behind.”
“If they leave anything behind.”
“You’re right. Sometimes they leave nothing. Sometimes you figure it out by what’s missing. But either way, the clues are always there. You just need to know how to find them, and how to put them together. And the starting point is always careful observation. So come on. Let’s try. Is it a large place?”
“No.”
“OK. Why don’t you walk me through it. Start with the shared areas. For some reason people are always more careful in their personal spaces. We’re looking for something current, not lost in the mists of time. And something big, if they need multiple canisters of this gas to poison it with.”
I did what he asked, and as I made my way from desk to desk I found the firm was keeping itself pretty busy. It was involved with all kinds of diverse projects. High-end housing developments. New build, as well as conversions. Boutique-style shop renovations. And interior design, for a couple of fancy restaurants and cafés. With some of the buildings, they were handling the design from scratch. With others, they were supervising the work the contractors were doing. And in one case, they’d been hired to validate the structural calculations another practice from out of state had come up with.
The hardest part of assessing the threat came from the inherent versatility of the gas. Houses are small. They hold five or six people at most. You’d think an apartment building would make a better target. Or an office. But houses are rarely built on their own. Especially in the suburbs. Factor in wind patterns and climatic conditions, and one residence could be used as a springboard to infect hundreds of others. Or maybe thousands. Which meant that several of their projects could be suspicious. Or none of them. A number of schemes had the potential, but nothing really stood out. And most of them were still in the “possible” pile when we reached the final item. It was the only thing I hadn’t been able to identify right away. One of the plastic foam models. It didn’t look familiar, and at the same time it didn’t look finished. Fothergill seemed suspicious. It was like his internal antennae had picked up on something, and he just wouldn’t let it drop.
“Describe it to me again,” he said. “I’m just not getting it.”
“It looks like the cross-section of a room,” I said. “It’s rectangular. There’s nothing inside. One of the long walls is missing. The two shorter walls have floor-to-ceiling windows. But the other long wall is where it gets strange. Three boxes are sticking right out of it.”
“Boxes?” Like cardboard boxes?”
“Right. Like the kind you get at arenas and stadiums. Only smaller. They look like they can move, in and out. And they’re transparent.”
“Transparent? Like they’re made of glass?”
“These are plastic. I have no idea what the real ones are made of. But glass wouldn’t be impossible, I guess. If it was properly strengthened.”
“And the place, itself. Is it definitely just a room? Or could it be a whole floor?”
“Not a whole floor, I’d guess, since one of the walls is missing. Maybe a third of a floor. Perhaps a quarter.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Then, yes. It probably represents a whole floor.”
“Is there any way to tell how high up a floor it is?”
“No.”
“Is there anything attached to the top? Like aerials? Ventilation equipment? Anything to suggest it could be a roof?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame. It would make things clearer. But David, I think I’ve got it. I think I know what we’re talking about.”
“I’m excited. Did you ever think about the stage? You could be one of those illusionists who resurface every Christmas. I saw one for real, once, at a ball. He was called the Regurgitator. I bet you can’t guess what his act involved.”