“Thanks for taking so much trouble over this,” I said.
He waved a negligent hand. “No sweat. Besides, this is kiddies' stuff, really.”
“I'm sorry if the challenge isn't up to your usual standard. What do you normally do for laughs – hack your way into the Bank of England?” I said in a sarky voice.
He grinned in such a way that I realised he probably did.
“So, where did you get it, this password program?” I asked.
“All my own work,” he admitted modestly.
“You ought to market it.”
He snorted into his cup as he took another slug of coffee. “Yeah, and the profits might just pay enough to keep me one step ahead of the serious fraud squad. Think about it, Charlie, if you need to get into a password-protected computer without the password, you're not exactly on the level, now are you?”
I raised my eyebrows, but was saved from having to think of a reply by the computer itself, which had stopped making noises and was displaying a single seven-letter word on the screen.
“Ah-ha, here we are. Bacchus,” Sam read. “Bacchus? Mean anything to you?”
I trawled through my mental vocabulary and shook my head. “Not a thing.”
“OK, pick a new seven-letter word and I'll over-write it.”
“Pervert,” I said immediately, almost without thinking. He raised his eyebrows, but typed it in anyway. “OK, now let's see just what he's got on here that he didn't want us to see. Hmm, that's odd.”
“What?” I asked.
“There's nothing here to protect,” Sam said. “Of course, he could just have been trying to make life awkward for your pal.”
“What are all those?” There seemed to be a list of files available.
“They're just the system files, the ones that tell this lump of plastic that it's a computer to start off with,” he explained. “I meant there are no actual data files on here. He must have wiped them all off before he handed the machine over.”
“That's a pity,” I said. It could either mean that the guy was perfectly legit, and just didn't want Terry reading his private correspondence, or it could mean that he didn't want anyone to be able to prove the machine had originally belonged to someone else – the New Adelphi Club, for instance.
“Of course,” Sam said slowly, “It just so happens that I can probably retrieve whatever it is that was on there.” I realised by his smug expression that he'd been playing me along, waiting to see my reaction.
“Go on,” I said.
“I've got a utilities program that can un-delete files. I can even retrieve data off floppy disks that have been re-formatted.”
This didn't mean too much to me, but it was obviously an impressive feat. I looked impressed. I was about to thank him for his trouble, but it was clear he loved the challenge of this sort of thing, so I just said, “I just hope when you've done all this there's something interesting on the damn machine to read.”
He drained his coffee cup and stood up. “If you're not busy I'll nip round tomorrow after work and we'll see what we can come up with,” he suggested with studied casualness.
“I'm teaching tomorrow evening, and I've got an interview for a new job sometime this week,” I improvised quickly, “but Wednesday would be OK.” I didn't like the light that had come on in his eyes and I really didn't want the guy getting ideas about me. I like Sam, don't get me wrong, but I just didn't want to lose him as a friend by having to turn him down on a more intimate level.
“What's the new job?” he asked now. “You starting another class up?”
I shook my head. “I broke a fight up at that new nightclub in Morecambe, the New Adelphi, and the boss offered me a job on the doors.”
Sam stared. “Don't take it,” he said bluntly.
I cast him a speaking look. One that said there's a line here, Sam, don't cross it.
He flushed. “Sorry, I know it's none of my business, but you'd be a fool to get into that game, Charlie. A few of the lads from the Uni are into it, and it's shit money for the amount of abuse you have to take. The cops never believe your story over a punter.”
I bridled a little at being called a fool. As far as I'm concerned Sam doesn't have the right to make judgements on what I do with my life. Things like that have a tendency to make me stubborn. And that's when the trouble starts. Sam must have known he was pushing his luck because he changed the subject and, soon after that, he left.
After he'd gone I dug out my old school dictionary and looked up Bacchus. It was only an abbreviated pocket version and it didn't list either Bacchus or Adelphi. Not much help there, then.
With a sigh I put the dictionary down and moved into the kitchen. I put together a rough and ready tea from the freezer. I really must remember to go shopping. I ate listening to the hi-fi and planned an unexciting evening involving a paperback novel and an early night.
***
It wasn't until the following day, when I was gathering clothes together for a darks' wash, and checking through the pockets, that I found Marc Quinn's business card. It was still in the back pocket of the jeans I'd been wearing to the New Adelphi Club.
On impulse, I tried both the numbers. The land line turned out to be the most expensive hotel in the area. Marc wasn't in, so I left my name and number, but no message, with the frighteningly efficient receptionist. I tried his mobile next, but that was switched off. I left a brief message on the answering service, then promptly forgot all about it.
I spent an uneventful day, the calm before the storm. I did the washing, made an initial stab at the ironing. I had a trip round the covered market in the middle of town and stocked up on real vegetables rather than tinned or frozen substitutes. I even finally got round to buying some fresh bread.
In the early evening I went and taught my class at the university leisure centre how to escape from a front stranglehold. I was back in the flat by eight. I must only have been home around half an hour when the phone rang.
I hesitated a moment before picking up the receiver. I suppose I'm just naturally cautious, but a year or so ago I picked up a fascinating gadget that alters the tone of your voice, making it deeper, more like a man's. It was specially made for women who live alone, for fending off obscene calls. I flicked it on and reached for the receiver. “Hello?”
“Good evening, may I speak to Charlie?” A man's voice, the accent neutral. Initially I failed to place where I'd heard it before, but the interesting way he curled my name round didn't incline me to hang up.
“Hang on, I'll get her,” I said. “Who is it?”
“My name is Marc Quinn. She does know me.”
I pressed the secrecy button on the phone and switched off the device. It gave me a moment to think. I hadn't been prepared for him to call so soon.
“Hi, Marc,” I said, speaking undisguised. “I just called you earlier to arrange that appointment you mentioned. I didn't think you'd to get back to me so quickly.”
“Ah, well, when there's something I want, I don't like to wait,” he murmured seductively.
I pulled a face. “In that case, remind me not to have sex with you,” I said waspishly.
He laughed out loud at that. “Touché,” he said with a wry note in his voice. “Not very good at accepting flattery, are you, Charlie?”
“When that's all it is, no, I'm not,” I agreed flatly.
“Hmm, you need the practice, then. So, how soon are you going to come and see me?”
I reached over to the desk and retrieved my diary. It was more of a play for time. I already pretty much knew when my classes were during the week. He suggested a time for the following afternoon at the club. It seemed ironic that the excuse I'd made to Sam was solidifying into reality, even if it was a day late.