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The Suzuki started up first kick. For once I didn't linger to let the motor warm up fully, paddling it backwards out of its space and moving quickly towards the road.

All the while, I could just feel a set of eyes on my back. It might be paranoia, but I couldn't seem to shake it.

I rode straight home, taking the shortest route. On the way I passed Terry's video van parked up on his round. You couldn't fail to recognise that revolting colour-scheme, even in the dark.

When I reached the flat I had just enough time to hurriedly tidy my usual debris before Sam was due to arrive. As I passed the answering machine I noticed that the message light was blinking and I hit the rewind button.

It was Clare. “Hi, Charlie. I've got the details on that, er – story you were after. I can't give them to you over the phone, but if you want to call round, I'll let you know what I've managed to find out.” Her voice sounded strangely solemn as she added, “I hope you've got a strong stomach.”

I almost rang her there and then, but a glance at the clock told me there wasn't time. As it was, Sam rang the bell just after six, armed again with a box of computer disks and a big grin.

He was wearing his usual scruffy bike jacket and battered AGV lid, together with dusty black trousers and trainers. He had a long college scarf wrapped round his neck to keep out the wind, but no gloves and his fingers were white from the cold. I don't know how he stands it.

He presented exactly the sort of image that people like my parents hate so much about motorcycling. The fact that Sam has a very good degree in something to do with computers and could probably be earning a fortune as a programmer instead of tinkering at the Uni has nothing to do with it. A lout in a suit with a sharp haircut would get their vote every time. Even if, when you asked him a difficult question, someone else had to push his chest in and out.

Sam unfolded the lap-top on the coffee table and his fingers started dancing over the keyboard. I put the coffee on and left him to it. I had to admire his concentration. By the time the coffee had filtered and stopped making blocked drain noises, he was still tapping away. He barely turned his head when the mug went down beside him, just murmured his thanks and carried right on.

I was in the kitchen, staring moodily out of the skylight and thinking about Nina when Sam gave a sudden whoop of triumph. I moved back through to find him sitting back and taking a swig of his coffee, looking pleased with himself again. The Cheshire cat would have been a manic depressive by comparison. “OK, we're in,” he said. “What am I looking for?”

“Some clue as to the original owner of the machine,” I said.

Sam put his mug down and scanned the list of files that had appeared on the screen. “Of course, some of these are incomplete, but I should be able to find something,” he said.

“Great.” I hesitated, fought briefly with myself, then gave in. “Have you eaten? I was going to chuck some pasta together if you fancy it? Nothing outstanding.”

“Terrific!” Sam said. “I didn't know you could cook.”

“You shouldn't make rash statements like that until you've tasted it,” I warned and headed back to the kitchen. I dug out the dried tagliatelle, a tin of plum tomatoes, garlic, chilli, and the secret ingredient, a Hot Pepperami sausage. Not exactly cordon bleu, but then, I wasn't out to wow him with my cooking.

I threw the ingredients together quickly. It was my usual stand-by and I could do it in my sleep. I set the kettle boiling for the pasta and went back to see how Sam was getting on.

“I hope you don't mind breathing garlic fumes all over everyone at work tomorrow,” I said.

He looked up blankly. “Hmm?”

I shook my head. “Never mind. How're you doing?”

“Well, not as well as I'd hoped,” he admitted. “The most I seem to be able to get is some of the file names, but the contents might as well be Swahili for all the sense I can make of them. Look.”

He opened a file at random. All I saw was a string of smiley faces and the sort of squiggles that could have belonged to some complex algebra problem. He shut the file down again and tried another, with the same result.

“Here are the file names, if they mean anything to you – delivery dates, stock, distribution, contacts. It just looks like it's been used for standard accounts stuff. I assume they copied everything before they passed the computer on to your mate, otherwise somebody's going to have quite a bit of explaining to do to the tax man.”

“And there's no way of finding out anything else?”

He rummaged in the disk box he'd brought with him. “Well, if it's a very simple file I might have something here that would work, but it's a bit of a long shot,” he said doubtfully.

I heard the kettle click off and went back to the kitchen to pour the boiled water into a pan with the pasta. I stuck it on the hob and returned to the lounge.

By the time I got there Sam seemed to be having more success. “Here's what's in the delivery dates file, but it's not a lot,” he said. “Some of the data at the top of the screen is just totally corrupted. There's not much hope of getting anything out of that. Then we've just got a string of numbers. They could be dates, but it's not much to go on.”

I sighed, disappointed. “OK, Sam, thanks for trying anyway,” I said.

“No problem,” he replied, but didn't sound as though he meant it.

He was still frowning when I left him to go and see to the food. When I came back with two plates Sam had shut the computer down, in disgust presumably, and had left it on the desk. He was sitting on the sofa, chin in his hands, and looking deep in thought.

It didn't affect his appetite, though. He wolfed down the pasta making all the right appreciative noises. He ate with his fork turned round, scooping food onto it and into his mouth. My mother would have fainted at the sight.

Still, at least he was well trained enough to clear the plates away afterwards without being asked. He hadn't progressed past the stacking them in the washing-up bowl stage, but you can't have everything.

It was just after eight-thirty when he left. As soon as he'd gone I rang Terry. I tried his mobile number first. It was switched on and he picked up straight away. I told him we'd managed to get into the computer, and what Sam had found on it. It sounded pretty lame when I laid it out for him, but Terry seemed pleased.

“That's terrific! That should be just enough to worry the bastard!” he said, sounding devious. “Do me a favour and hang onto it for me for a few days, would you? I'll come and pick it up over the weekend. Cheers for that though, Charlie, you're an absolute doll!”

“Oh great,” I muttered as he rang off. “Now I'm inflatable.”.

Seven

Almost as soon as I put the phone down, it started ringing. I picked it up half-anticipating that it might be Terry again.

Even though I'd been thinking about her earlier, I certainly wasn't expecting it to be my mother on the other end of the line.

“Charlotte,” she said. She was trying for friendly warmth, but unease pitched her cultured voice a tad too high. I even thought I could hear the faint rustle of a nervously twisted string of pearls.

For a moment I almost panicked as I opened my mouth and nothing happened. No sounds emerged. I shut it again quickly.

“Charlotte?” she said again, a question this time, sharper. “Charlotte, are you still there?”

I cleared my throat. This time it worked. “Yes, I'm still here,” I said neutrally. “What do you want, Mother?”