Richmond cleared his throat. “Well, yes there is. Actually, there are two ways.”
“Come on, then, lad. Don’t keep us in suspense.”
“We could bring an expert. I mean a real expert, like someone who writes the programs.”
“Aye, and the other option?”
“Well, it’s not much known, for obvious reasons, but I went to a seminar once and the lecturer told me something that struck me as very odd.”
“What?”
“Well, there’s a company that sells by-pass programs for various software security systems.”
“That would probably be cheaper and quicker, wouldn’t it?” said Gristhorpe. “Can you get hold of a copy?”
“Yes, sir. But it’s not cheap. Actually, it’s quite expensive.”
“How much?”
“About two hundred quid.”
Gristhorpe whistled between his teeth, then he said, “We don’t have a lot of choice, do we? Go ahead, order one.”
“I already have done, sir.”
“And?”
“They’re based in Akron, Ohio, but they told me there’s a distributor in Taunton, Devon, who has some in stock. It could take a while to get it up here.”
“Tell the buggers to send it by courier, then. We might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Lord knows what the DCC will have to say come accounting time.”
“Maybe if it helps us solve the case,” Banks chipped in, “he’ll increase our budget.”
Gristhorpe laughed. “In a pig’s arse, he will. Go on, Phil.”
“That’s all, really,” said Richmond. “In the meantime, I’ll keep trying and see what I can do. People sometimes write their passwords down in case they forget them. If Rothwell did, the only problem is finding out where and in what form.”
“Interesting,” Banks said. “I’ve got one of those plastic cards, the ones you use to get money at the hole in the wall. I keep the number written in my address book disguised as part of a telephone number in case I forget it.”
“Exactly,” said Richmond.
“Short of trying every name and number in Rothwell’s address book,” Gristhorpe said, “is there any quick way of doing this?”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Richmond said. “But often the password is a name the user has strong affinities with.”
“‘Rosebud’?” Banks suggested.
“Right,” said Richmond. “That sort of thing. Maybe something from his childhood.”
“‘Woodbines,’” said Banks. “Sorry, Phil, just thinking out loud.”
“But it could be anything. The name of a family member, for example. Or a random arrangement of letters, spaces, numbers and punctuation marks. It doesn’t have to make any sense at all.”
“Bloody hell.” Gristhorpe ran his hand through his unruly thatch of gray hair.
“All I can say is leave it with me, sir. I’ll do what I can. And I’ll ask the software distributor to put a rush on it.”
“All right. Susan? Anything from Hatchard and Pratt?”
Susan leaned forward to make herself heard. Just as she was about to start, Cyril called out their food number, and Richmond and Banks went through to bring back the trays. After a few mouthfuls, Susan started again. “Yes,” she said, dabbing at the side of her mouth with a napkin. “As it turns out, Rothwell was asked to leave the firm.”
“Asked to leave?” Gristhorpe echoed. “Does that mean fired?”
“Not exactly, sir. He was a partner. You can’t just fire partners. He was also married to the boss’s daughter. Mary Rothwell’s maiden name is Hatchard. He was asked to resign. They didn’t want a fuss.”
“Interesting,” said Gristhorpe. “What was it all about, then?”
Susan ate another mouthful of her Cornish pasty, then washed it down with a sip of Britvic orange and pushed her plate aside. “Laurence Pratt was reluctant to tell me about it,” she said, “but I think he knew he’d be in more trouble if we found out some other way. It seems Rothwell was caught padding the time sheets. It’s not a rare fiddle, according to Pratt. And he doesn’t regard it as strictly illegal, but it is unethical, and it’s bad luck for anyone who gets caught. Rothwell got off lucky.”
“What happened?” asked Gristhorpe.
“This was about five years ago. Rothwell was doing a lot of work for a large company. Pratt wouldn’t tell me who it was, but I don’t think that really matters. The point is that Pratt’s father was looking over the billings and noticed that Rothwell had doubled up on his hours here and there, at times he couldn’t have been working on their account because he’d been on another job, or out of town.”
“What did he do? Isn’t there some regulatory board he should have been reported to?”
“Yes, sir, there is. But, remember, Rothwell was married to Hatchard’s daughter, Mary. They’d been together nearly sixteen years by then, had two kids. Old man Hatchard would hardly want his son-in-law struck off and his family name dragged through the mud, which is probably what would have happened if Rothwell had been reported. I also got the impression that it might have been Mary’s demands that set Rothwell padding his accounts in the first place. Nothing was directly stated, you understand, sir, just hinted. Imagine the headlines: ‘Accountant fired for padding books to keep boss’s daughter in the manner to which she was accustomed.’ Hardly bears thinking about, does it? Anyway, Laurence Pratt and Rothwell were quite close friends then, so Pratt interceded and stuck up for him. Rothwell was lucky. He had a lot going for him. And there’s another reason they didn’t want a hue and cry.”
“Which is?”
“Confidence and confidentiality, sir. If it got out to the large company that Rothwell was fiddling, then it would put the partnership in an awkward position. Much better they don’t find out and Rothwell simply decides to move on. Keep it in the family. They’d never question the bills, or miss the money.”
“I see.” Gristhorpe rubbed his whiskery chin.
“It’s something that could have led to a motive, isn’t it, sir? Greed, dishonesty.”
“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “It is that. Which makes me think even more that these secret files might prove interesting reading.” He tapped the table-top. “Good work, Susan. Let’s make Rothwell’s business affairs a major line of enquiry. I’ll get in touch with the Fraud Squad. I’ve heard from the antiterrorist squad, by the way, and they’ve come up with nothing so far. They want to be kept up to date, of course, but I think we can rule out Rothwell dealing arms or money to the IRA. Anything to add, Alan?”
“I think we should follow up on the wadding. There could be a porn connection.”