Питер Мэй - I'll Keep You Safe

Once inside the house, she slammed the door shut and leaned back against it, fumbling with the latch to do what she never did, and lock it. The warm air in the hall made her realize just how cold she was. Her first instinct was to go and stand below a hot shower to raise her core temperature. But first she went through all the pockets of this jacket she had been gifted. They were empty, and the jacket itself seemed new, barely worn.

She hung it up where she normally hung her parka and ran through the bedroom to the bathroom, wriggling out of her sodden jeans and T-shirt, discarding her underwear, to stand finally beneath the spray of hot water in the shower. Eyes closed. Breathing slowly and deeply. Still shivering, but more from shock than cold. She opened her eyes and turned her head to look at the bruising that already blackened her shoulder. The skin was grazed and broken, but not bleeding. Her parka had protected her from worse injury. She revolved her arm on the axis of her shoulder, and although it was painful she was pretty sure it was not broken.

The full realization of just how lucky she had been broke over her like the water from the shower, and her legs very nearly buckled beneath her.

She staggered from below its powerful spray to wrap a thick towelling robe around her and return to the bedroom, where she sat on the edge of the bed and examined her feet, each in turn. They were bruised and grazed, and she rubbed antiseptic cream into the broken skin before wrapping several of her toes in fine bandaging. She would live.

A tiny burst of ironic laughter escaped her lips. Aye, you’ll live , her mother used to say to her when she cut a knee or skinned an elbow. Right now she was only alive because someone’s attempt to kill her had failed. Because someone else had pulled her from the Minch and saved her from drowning, or worse.

Why had one not seen the other? Or were they both one and the same person? If so, why try to kill her with one hand, and then save her with the other? None of it made sense.

She lay back on the bed, trembling now from neither shock nor cold. But from fear. And she wondered if she would sleep a wink tonight.

Although the library did not open until 10 a.m., Gunn had been briefed that staff would be there half an hour before. He and Braque were standing outside in Cromwell Street and saw that there were lights on beyond the windows. But the door was locked, and the Closed sign turned out.

Brown marble tiles lined the frontage beneath the painted stonework, and Braque noticed that there appeared to be letters missing above the windows. EABHAR ANN read the Gaelic in gold letters fixed to the wall on the left. IBR RY read the English to the right. Gunn banged on the door with the flat of his hand until a young lady with long brown hair came to peer through the glass. He pressed his warrant card up against the window and then waited patiently until the library assistant let them in.

‘Morning, Ma’am,’ he said. ‘We need to speak to the librarian.’

The assistant led them through the empty library to the reception desk, which also welcomed visitors in Gaelic. Failte . And asked them to wait. There were three computers around the desk, and an array of printers and faxes behind it. They were in the heart of the children’s section, bedecked with triangular red and white flags hanging from the ceiling. A row of five computer terminals sat on desks pushed up against the back wall. Braque and Gunn exchanged glances.

Within a minute, the librarian swept through a door at the back. An attractive lady in her middle years, dressed in a grey suit and black blouse, her hair cut short, the colour of brushed steel shot through with black. She spoke with an accent Gunn found hard to identify. German, or Eastern European, perhaps.

‘How can I help you?’

Braque let Gunn do the talking.

‘Ma’am, we’re interested to identify a person or persons who may have used computers in this library to access the internet and send emails.’

The librarian smiled and raised her eyebrows. ‘Detective, we have hundreds of people using our computers.’

‘But you keep some kind of record of who they are?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘So if we provided you with IP addresses for the computers, and the date and times they were being used, you would be able to tell me who was using them?’

‘Only if they were a member.’

Gunn frowned. ‘Of?’

‘The library of course.’ It seemed perfectly obvious to the librarian. ‘A member provides us with their library card, which has a bar code, and a record of use is entered into our system. Name, address, which computer, and when it was being used.’

‘And if they are not a member?’ Braque asked.

‘Then they are categorized as a PC guest, and there would be no record of their identity.’

‘Then let’s hope they were a member,’ Gunn said. He took a sheet of paper from an inside pocket and unfolded it on the desk in front of them. ‘Here are the IP addresses of the two computers we’re interested in. And the dates and times of use. Could you check that for us, please?’

‘Of course.’ She smiled and handed the sheet to her assistant, who was only too keen to sit down and tap at her keyboard to bring up the required information. It took her about thirty seconds.

She looked up and pulled a face of apology. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Guests on both occasions.’

Braque heard Gunn cursing under his breath. He turned towards the row of computers against the wall behind them. ‘I take it these are the computers?’

‘Not unless your user was a child,’ the librarian said.

‘I think definitely not,’ Braque told her.

‘Then it would be these computers over here.’

They followed her to the back of the library where there were fourteen numbered computer terminals lined up along desks among the Reference shelves. Walls were pinned with maps of Europe and leaflets about VAT moving online, and notices warning against eating or drinking or using mobile phones in the library.

‘They are all linked to the main server in the Council offices,’ the librarian said. ‘And there are restrictions on use. Pages that cannot be accessed online. Pornography, for example.’

Braque said, ‘Restrictions that could no doubt be worked around by someone with a little expertise in computers?’

The librarian shrugged defensively. ‘I am no expert on that. You would need to talk to our IT people.’

Gunn said, ‘Can you show me the two computer terminals that we are interested in?’ The emails to Niamh and Georgy Vetrov had been sent from the same computer at the same time nearly three weeks ago. The email to Ruairidh had been sent from a different terminal less than seven days ago.

After a consultation with her assistant, the librarian identified terminals three and twelve. Braque scanned the ceilings and seemed disappointed. ‘Are there no security cameras in the library?’ she asked.

The librarian smiled. ‘I’m afraid not, Security is not really an issue here.’

Again Braque exchanged a look with Gunn. It seemed that they were having no luck at all. Gunn scratched his head thoughtfully, disturbing his carefully gelled hair, and he cocked an eyebrow. ‘A wee thought,’ he said. Then turned to the librarian. ‘Many thanks, Ma’am.’ And he steered Braque back through the library towards the door. ‘You realize,’ he said, ‘that there were at least three folk of interest to us who were on the island when those first emails were sent.’

Braque stopped. ‘Who?’

‘Lee Blunt. Niamh’s brother, Uilleam. And Iain Maciver, the boy Ruairidh caught poaching all those years ago. He’s still living here, at least.’