Val Mcdermid - Blue Genes

The door opened suddenly and, caught unawares, I tipped forward. I almost fell into Gizmo’s arms. I don’t know which of us was more appalled by the prospect, but we both jumped back like a pair of fifties teenagers doing the Bunny Hop. ‘You don’t believe in office hours, do you?’ Gizmo demanded belligerently.

‘No more than you do. You going to let me in? It’s pissing it down out here,’ I complained.

I followed him back upstairs to the computer room, where screens glowed softly in the dim interior and REM reminded me that night swimming deserves a quiet night. ‘Tell me about it,’ I muttered, shaking the raindrops from my head well out of range of any hardware.

‘Gimme a minute,’ he said. There were only two chairs in the room, both of them leather desk chairs. I sat in the one Gizmo wasn’t occupying and waited patiently while he finished whatever he’d been in the middle of doing. After ten minutes, I began to wish I’d brought my own games software with me. I cleared my throat. ‘Be right there,’ he said. ‘This is crucial.’

A few more minutes passed and I watched the headlights on Stockport Road sneak round the edge of the blinds and send slender beams across the ceiling, an activity that could give counting sheep a run for its money. Then Gizmo hit a bunch of keys, pushed his chair away from the desk and swivelled round to face me. He was wearing an elderly plaid dressing gown over jeans that were ripped from age not fashion and an unironed granddad shirt. Eat your heart out, corporate man. ‘Got some work for me, then?’ he asked.

‘Depends. You found another job yet?’

He snorted. ‘Come round to take the piss, have you? Like I said, Kate, I’m too old to be a wunderkind any more. Nobody believes in you if you’re old enough to vote and shave unless your name’s Bill Gates. No, I haven’t got another job yet.’

I took a deep breath. ‘You make a bit of money on the side, don’t you? Doing bits and pieces for people like me?’

‘Yeah, but not enough to support a habit like this,’ he said wryly, waving a hand round at the computers and their associated software and peripherals.

‘But you’re good at finding the weak points in systems and worming your way in, aren’t you?’

He nodded. ‘You know I’m the best.’

‘How do you fancy working the other side of the street?’

He frowned suspiciously. ‘Meaning what, exactly?’

‘Meaning going straight. At least in normal working hours. Meaning, coming to work for me.’

‘Thought you had a partner who did all the legit security stuff?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t want charity, you know. I either want a proper job or nothing.’

‘My partner is taking early retirement due to ill health,’ I said grimly.

‘What’s the matter with him?’

‘Delusional psychosis. He thinks he’s in love and wants to live in Australia.’

Gizmo grinned. ‘Sounds like an accurate diagnosis to me. So what’s the job description?’

‘We do a lot of corporate computer security work, liaising with their software engineers and consultants to make their systems as unbeatable as we can get them. We also work with people whose systems have been breached, both plugging the holes and trying to track what’s been raided and where it’s gone. We’ve done a little bit of work with banks and insurance companies tracking money that’s been stolen by breaching Electronic Fund Transfers. I know enough about it to pitch for the business, but not enough to do the work. That’s where I’m going to need to replace Bill. Interested?’

He spun round on his chair a couple of times. ‘I think I might be,’ he said. ‘Are you talking a full-time job or ad hoc consultancy?’

‘I’ll be honest, Giz. Right now, I can’t afford to take you on full time. Initially, it would have to be as and when I can bring the work in. But if you’re as good as you say you are, we’ll generate a lot of word-of-mouth business.’

He nodded noncommittally. ‘When would you want me to start?’

‘Mutually agreed date in the not-too-distant?’

‘Dosh?’

‘Fifty per cent of the net? Per job?’

‘Gross.’

I shook my head. ‘Net. I’m not a charity. Shelley has to put the pitch document together and she has to do all the admin. Her time comes off the fee. Plus phone expenses, faxes, photocopying. Most jobs, it’s not big bucks. But sometimes it starts to run into money. Net or nothing.’

‘I can live with it. Net it is. Six-month trial, see how we both go on?’

‘Suits me. There is one thing though, Giz…?’ His red-rimmed eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Well, two things,’ I continued. ‘A haircut and a smart suit.’ I held a hand up to stem the protest I knew was coming. ‘I know it breaks your heart to spend money on a suit that could be better spent on a new genlock adapter. And I know you think that anything more sophisticated than a number one all over once a year is for girlies, but these are deal breakers. If you like, I’ll even come with you and make the process as painless as possible, but it’s got to be done.’

Gizmo breathed out heavily through his nose. ‘Fuck it, who do you think you are? I’ve managed to avoid that kind of shit working for Telecom, why should I do it for you?’

‘Telecom have just fired you, Giz. Maybe corporate image had something to do with it, maybe not. Bottom line is, Telecom were a necessary evil for you. Working for me is going to be fun, and you know it. So get the haircut, get the suit.’

He scowled like a small boy who’s been told to wash behind his ears. ‘Yeah, well,’ he growled, scuffing his heels on the floor. ‘You drive a hard bargain.’

I smiled sweetly. ‘You’ll thank me for it one day. Let me know when you want to shop till you drop.’

I walked downstairs alone, leaving Gizmo staring at a screen. I still didn’t know where the money was going to come from to buy Bill out. But at least I was starting to feel like it might be possible for the agency to earn enough to pay it back.

Rasul and Lal’s sandwich bar is one of Manchester’s best kept secrets. Nestled under the railway arches at the trendy rather than the glossy end of Deansgate, it produces some of the finest butties in town. They like to name sandwiches after their regular customers, and I’m proud to reveal there’s a Brannigan Butty up there on the board — tuna and spring onion in mayo with black olives and tomatoes in crusty French bread. Strictly speaking, it’s a takeaway, but in the room behind the shop some of us get to perch and munch. I’m not sure of the criteria Rasul and Lal apply for admission to the back shop, but I’ve found myself sharing the privileged space with doctors, lawyers, Equal Opportunities Commission executives and TV technicians. The one thing we all have in common is that we’re refugees, hiding from our lives for as long as it takes to scoff a sandwich and swallow a coffee.

When I arrived in the back shop the following morning, Della was already there. She’d opted for an egg mayonnaise sandwich. I was feeling less traditional, going for a paratha with a spicy omelette on top. There was no one else around apart from the brothers. There seldom is around ten, which was why I’d chosen it for our meeting. This was one time I absolutely didn’t want to be seen publicly with Della.

We gave each other as much of a hug and kiss as our breakfasts would allow. She looked like she’d had more sleep than me, her skin glowing, her green eyes clear, copper hair pulled back into the kind of chignon that never stayed neat for more than five minutes on me when I had the hair for it. On Della, there wasn’t a stray hair to be seen. I couldn’t quite work out why, but Della was getting better looking with every passing year. Maybe it had something to do with cheekbones her whole body seemed to hang from. ‘Mysterious morning call,’ she remarked as we cosied up in the corner between the fridge and the back door.