Isobel looked shocked. ‘But they were always so nice and helpful, coming out here whenever we needed them.’
‘And feeding in programmes that would keep you needing them, I shouldn’t wonder,’ the expert said with only half-disguised admiration.
‘If you do that to me,’ I said pleasantly, ‘your pants will be off for life.’
He regarded me thoughtfully. ‘I wouldn’t,’ he said, and added, as if safeguarding himself from future accusations of which he would be innocent, ‘Don’t forget the commonest reason for losing all files is pilot error. I mean, you can wipe everything off the hard disk just by typing DEL for Delete, followed by a Directory identification.’
We looked blank.
He said to Isobel, ‘Suppose you typed DEL star full stop star, that’s all it would take. Just as effective as Michelangelo. You’d lose everything for ever.’
‘No!’ She was horrified, predictably.
‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘But people who write viruses see no fun in that.’
‘But why?’ Isobel asked, unhappily wailing. ‘Why do people want to write viruses to cause such trouble?’
‘To show off,’ I said.
The expert’s eyes widened. He didn’t care overmuch for that assessment, I thought. He tended too much to admire the expertise, not despise the self-indulgence.
‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘it’s true a lot of virus-writers sign their names into the programmes. There’s one called Eddie, he’s invented several.’
‘Just put us back in business,’ I interrupted, tiring suddenly of the whole subject. ‘Keep us clean from now on with regular checks. We’ll work out a maintenance agreement.’
‘Delighted,’ he said, the hand doing double time through the hair. ‘You’ll be up and running by tomorrow.’
I left him preparing to go while writing a list (expensive) of what we would need, and went along to my own office to telephone the makers of my safe.
‘An axe?’ They exclaimed, shocked. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I need the safe opened,’ I confirmed. ‘What can you do and how soon?’
They gave me the phone number of their nearest agent. The nearest agent would no doubt send a locksmith to look-see. Thank you, I said.
The nearest agent sounded unenthusiastic and doubtfully suggested a visit the following week.
‘Tomorrow,’ I said.
There was a sharp intake of breath. I could imagine the pursed lips, the judicial shaking of the head. Possibly Friday afternoon, they said. Possibly. As a great favour they might manage it.
I put the phone down reflecting that if I myself let that sort of general back-pedaling unwillingness creep into responses to requests for my services, I’d be twiddling my thumbs in no time. Not only did I myself drive anywhere anytime if I had no other driver available, but often at five minutes’ notice I’d hire an extra horsebox from a rival so as not to turn work down. I’d almost never been unable to get wheels out on the road. It was a matter of pride, of course, but the sort of pride that got things done.
Aziz came into the office to collect the keys of the Fourtrak in order to drive Lizzie to Heathrow. I handed them to him and reflexively asked him to drive her carefully.
‘Slow down for roundabouts?’ he asked, eyes brilliant.
‘Oh, God.’ I felt like laughing for the first time that morning. ‘Yeah. Get her to the shuttle on time.’
When he’d gone, I sat for a while thinking of this and that, and then I phoned the computer expert again. He answered at once, reporting contentedly that he was fixing yet another Michelangelo casualty and assuring me he’d be back with us tomorrow morning.
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘but... er... could you answer a question?’
‘Fire away.’
I said, ‘Can you change the date in the computer? Could you change its internal clock so that March 6th in the computer wouldn’t turn up at all? Could you change March 6th to March 7th?’
‘Sure,’ he said readily. ‘It’s a well-known way of avoiding March 6th. Switch the clock forward to March 7th then switch it back to the right date a couple of days later. Easy, if you know what you’re doing.’
‘And... you could advance or retard March 6th so that it activated on the actual March 5th or on the actual March 7th?’
‘Yes.’ A pause. ‘That would be positive malice. You’d have to know the virus was in there.’
‘But it would be possible? Possible to change the hours, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long would it take you to change the clock?’
‘Me personally? Say a minute, maximum.’
‘And if I did it myself?’
‘Well,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘if someone wrote down for you exactly what to do, step by step, or if you had an instruction book, you’d have to allow maybe five minutes of privacy, because you’d have to concentrate.’ He paused again. ‘Do you seriously think someone changed your clock? Because it’s set to the right date and time now, I’ll tell you.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I just asked.’
‘Anytime,’ he replied. ‘So long. See you tomorrow.’
I was fighting shadows, I thought. Seeing villains behind every bush. The great probability was that my computer, like so many others, had accidentally crashed. And if it hadn’t... then somewhere in its records there must be information I needed for unlocking surrounding mysteries. Information that some foe or other must know I possessed.
To destroy the records, it was easiest to type DEL star full stop star. Yet to do that one had to be present, and the disk failure would be instantaneous. Changing the computer’s clock to activate Michelangelo meant that any future hour could be chosen, like a time bomb going off.
Sandy Smith drove his police car into the farmyard and parked it outside the office window. He came in to join me, taking off his peaked cap and sitting, uninvited but welcome, in the chair across from mine.
‘Jogger’s inquest,’ he said, wiping his forehead.
‘How did it go?’
He shrugged. ‘Opened and adjourned, like I said. I identified him. Dr Farway gave evidence of death. The coroner looked at the photos and he’d read the post-mortem report. He adjourned pending further enquiries.’ Sandy sighed deeply. ‘I’d better warn you he wasn’t happy. I heard it said that Jogger died from crushing and dislocation of the atlas and that there were particles of rust embedded in his skin at the site of the injury.’
‘Rust!’ I repeated, not liking it.
‘There must be rust round the edges of your inspection pit,’ Sandy said.
‘I hope to God there is.’
We looked at each other blankly, still not wanting to put the obvious surmise into words.
Sandy said, ‘The post-mortem put his time of death at about noon.’
‘Did it?’
‘There will be a lot of enquiries.’
I nodded.
‘They’ll want to know what you were doing at the time,’ Sandy said. ‘They’re bound to ask.’
Picking flowers, putting them on my parents’ grave and driving to Maudie Watermead’s lunch. Not brilliant, as alibis went.
‘Let’s go along to the pub for a drink,’ I suggested.
‘I can’t.’ He looked a shade scandalised. ‘I’m on duty.’
‘We could drink Coke,’ I said. ‘I have to go and settle up for Jogger’s memorial.’
‘Oh.’ Sandy’s face looked relieved. ‘All right then.’
‘Can we go in your car? My Fourtrak’s out on an errand.’
He was reluctant to take me and uncomfortable in his refusal.