‘I’ve heard of you,’ Siobhan admitted. ‘Don’t they call you “Brains”?’
‘Sometimes, but to be honest I prefer Eric.’
‘Eric it is. Make yourself comfortable.’
Bain pulled over a chair. As he sat, the material of his light blue shirt stretched, opening gaps between buttons at the front, exposing areas of pale pink skin.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what have we got?’
Siobhan explained, while Bain gave her his full concentration, his eyes fixed on hers. She noticed that his breath came in small wheezes, and wondered if there was an inhaler in one of his pockets.
She tried for eye contact, tried to relax, but his size and proximity made her uncomfortable. His fingers were pudgy and ringless. His watch had too many buttons on it. There was hair below his chin which the morning’s razor had failed to find.
He didn’t ask a single question throughout her speech. At the end, he asked to see the e-mails.
‘Onscreen, or printed out?’
‘Either will do.’
She took the sheets from her shoulder-bag. Bain moved his chair even closer so he could spread them out on the desk. He made a chronological line, working from the dates at the top of each one.
‘These are just the clues,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘I want all the e-mails.’
So Siobhan booted up the laptop, connecting her mobile while she was at it. ‘Shall I check for new messages?’
‘Why not?’ he asked.
There were two from Quizmaster.
Game time is elapsing. Do you wish to continue, Seeker?
An hour later, this had been followed by:
Communication or cessation?
‘Knows her vocab, doesn’t she?’ Bain stated. Siobhan looked at him. ‘You keep saying “he”,’ he explained. ‘Thought it might help us keep an open mind if I...’
‘Fine,’ she said, nodding. ‘Whatever.’
‘Do you want to reply?’
She started to shake her head, then changed it to a shrug. ‘I’m not sure what I want to say.’
‘Be easier to trace her if she doesn’t shut down.’
She looked at Bain, then typed a reply — Thinking about it — and hit ‘send’. ‘Reckon that’ll do?’ she asked.
‘Well, it definitely ranks as “communication”.’ Bain smiled. ‘Now let me have those other messages.’
She hooked up to a printer, only to find there was no paper. ‘Hell,’ she hissed. The store cupboard was locked and she’d no idea where the key was. Then she remembered Rebus’s file, the one he’d taken with him when they’d interviewed Albie the medical student. He’d made it look intimidatingly thick by padding it with sheets from the photocopier. Siobhan walked to Rebus’s desk, started opening drawers. Bingo: the file was there, the half-ream still tucked inside. Two minutes later she had the history of Quizmaster’s correspondence. Bain shuffled the sheets so that everything could fit on her desktop, covering it almost completely.
‘See all this stuff?’ he asked, pointing to the bottom halves of some of the pages. ‘You probably never look at it, do you?’
Siobhan had to admit as much. Beneath the word ‘Headers’ lay more than a dozen lines of extra materiaclass="underline" Return-Path, Message-ID, X-Mailer... It didn’t mean much to her.
‘This,’ Bain said, drawing his lips into his mouth to moisten them, ‘is the juicy stuff.’
‘Can we identify Quizmaster from it?’
‘Not straight away, but it’s a start.’
‘How come some of the messages don’t have headers?’ Siobhan asked.
‘That,’ Bain said, ‘is the bad news. If a message has no headers, it means the sender is using the same ISP you are.’
‘But...’
Bain was nodding. ‘Quizmaster has more than one account.’
‘He’s switching ISPs?’
‘It’s not uncommon. I have a friend who’s averse to paying for Internet access. Before the freeserves came along, he’d sign up with a different ISP every month. That way he took advantage of all those “first month free” deals. When time was up, he cancelled and went looking elsewhere. One whole year, he didn’t pay a penny. What Quizmaster is doing is an extension of that.’ Bain ran his finger down each list of headers, stopping at the fourth line. ‘These tell you his ISP. See? Three different providers.’
‘Making him harder to catch?’
‘Harder, yes. But he must have set up a...’ He noticed the look on Siobhan’s face. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘You said “he”.’
‘Did I?’
‘Would it be simpler if we stuck to that, do you think? Not that I don’t appreciate your idea of keeping an open mind.’
Bain thought about it. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘So, as I was saying, he — or she — must have set up a payment account with each one. At least, I’d think so. Even if you’re on a month’s free trial, they’ll usually ask for some details first, including a Visa card or bank account.’
‘So they can start charging you when the time comes?’
Bain nodded. ‘Everyone leaves traces,’ he said quietly, staring at the sheets. ‘They just don’t think they do.’
‘It’s like forensics, isn’t it? A hair, a fleck of skin...’
‘Exactly.’ Bain was smiling again.
‘So we need to talk to the service providers, get them to hand over his details?’
‘If they’ll talk to us.’
‘This is a murder inquiry,’ Siobhan said. ‘They’ll have to.’
He glanced in her direction. ‘There are channels, Siobhan.’
‘Channels?’
‘There’s a Special Branch unit deals with nothing but high-tech crime. They concentrate on hard-core mostly, track down the buyers of kiddie porn, that kind of stuff. You wouldn’t believe the stories: hard disks hidden inside other hard disks, screen-savers which hide pornographic images...’
‘We need their permission?’
Bain shook his head. ‘We need their help.’ He checked his watch. ‘And it’s too late tonight to do anything about it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s Friday night in London too.’ He looked at her. ‘Buy you a drink?’
She wasn’t going to say yes: lots of excuses ready to use. But somehow she couldn’t say no, and they found themselves across the road in The Maltings. Again, he placed his briefcase on the floor next to him as they stood at the bar.
‘What do you keep in there?’ she asked.
‘What do you think?’
She shrugged. ‘Laptop, mobile phone... gadgets and floppies... I don’t know.’
‘That’s what you’re supposed to think.’ He hefted the briefcase on to the bar and was about to snap it open, but then paused and shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Maybe when we know one another a bit better.’ He placed it back beside his feet.
‘Keeping secrets from me?’ Siobhan said. ‘That’s a fine start to a working relationship.’
They both smiled as their drinks arrived: bottled lager for her, a pint of beer for him. There were no free tables.
‘So what’s St Leonard’s like?’ Bain asked.
‘Much the same as any other station, I suppose.’
‘It’s not every station has a John Rebus in it.’
She looked at him. ‘How do you mean?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s something Claverhouse said, about you being Rebus’s apprentice.’
‘Apprentice!’ Even with the stereo blaring, her outburst had heads turning towards them. ‘Bloody cheek!’
‘Easy, easy,’ Bain said. ‘It’s just something Claverhouse said.’
‘Then you tell Claverhouse to stick his head up his arse.’
Bain started laughing.