Peter James - Looking Good Dead

Then to break the silence – and to see if the man was still on the line – he said, ‘You are speaking to Sergeant Rye in the High Tech Crime Unit. How can I help you?’ I’m not hugely in need of a bridge , he was tempted to add.

‘Yes, thank you. Someone is stealing my internet.’

Rye looked at the clock on his computer screen. Twenty-five to seven. He just wanted to end this call and go home. And the operator might have mentioned the bloody man sounded as if he barely spoke English. ‘ Stealing your internet. I’m not quite sure what you mean. Sir?’

‘I am downloading a blueprint from a colleague from my old company, for a bridge they are designing in Kuala Lumpur Harbour. Then my internet slows down so much that the blueprint does not download. This is happening before.’

‘I think you have a problem either with your internet service provider or with your computer, sir,’ Rye said. ‘You should start by contacting your ISP’s technical support.’

‘Well, I’ve done this, of course. And checked my computer. There are no problems. It is outside. I am thinking it is a man in a white van.’

Now Rye was just a little bit puzzled. And increasingly irritated by this bozo wasting his time. ‘A man in a white van slowing down your internet connection?’

‘Yah, that is right.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr…’ Rye glanced down at his notes. ‘Mr Seiler. I’m a little confused. Where exactly are you?’

‘I’m from Switzerland, but I am here working in Brighton.’

‘Whereabouts in Brighton, sir?’

‘Freshfield Road.’

‘OK.’ Rye knew that area well. An exceptionally wide street, on a hill, with two- and three-storey red-brick houses, many of the larger ones converted into flats. ‘Your internet connection – you’re on broadband?’

‘Broadband, yes.’

‘Do you have a wireless connection?’

‘You are meaning Airport? Wi-Fi?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Yah, I have that.’

Rye grinned to himself, realizing what the man’s problem probably was. ‘Is your wireless network encrypted?’

Hesitantly, the man replied, ‘Encrypted? I don’t think so. I am staying in my son’s flat, you see – this is his computer I am using.’

‘You don’t have to enter a password to use the wireless broadband?’

‘No password, no.’

Without a password, any passer-by with a wireless internet card in their laptop could log on to the internet using someone else’s wireless broadband. Rye had done it himself a couple of times, by accident, sitting in a patrol car with his laptop open. And, he thought a little guiltily, he had never bothered to password-protect his own wireless broadband connection at home. ‘Is the van still outside?’

‘Yes, that is right.’

‘Can you read the registration number?’

The elderly Swiss engineer read it out to him. Rye wrote it down on his pad for no particular reason. ‘My best advice is for you to activate the encryption, and that will lock him out.’

‘I will speak to my son.’

‘Good idea, sir.’

Rye finished the call and hung up. Then, because he was feeling fed up, he decided the rest of the force could know he was still in the office at twenty to seven on a bloody Sunday evening, and he decided to log the call as an official incident on the Vantage screen.

He typed his own name and department, entered the registration and description of the van, vague as it was, and logged the incident as ‘War Driving. Sergeant Rye dealt with by phone.’

Childish, he knew, but it put him in one hell of a better mood.

‘I’ve found a lasagne in the freezer,’ the family liaison officer announced as Tom entered the kitchen, Jessica hanging on to one side of his trousers, Max the other, as if terrified that if they let go, he would disappear like their mother. ‘Would you like me to cook that for your supper?’

Tom stared at WPC Buckley blankly; supper hadn’t even occurred to him. All he could think about at this moment was the expression on Detective Sergeant Branson’s face, when he had pointed out on the CCTV film the dickhead who had been on the train.

The strangely clipped response when he’d asked him if he knew who the man was: Yes. We do.

And then the detective’s refusal to say any more about him.

Turning to the WPC, Tom said distractedly, ‘Yes, thank you, that would be fine.’

‘There are some bits in the fridge – tomatoes, lettuce, radishes. I could knock up a salad.’

‘Great,’ he said.

Lady came bounding in through the dog flap, looked at Tom and barked once, then wagged her tail, right as rain again.

‘Are you hungry, Lady?’ Tom asked.

She barked again, then looked at him expectantly.

‘I don’t like salad!’ Max protested.

‘I only like Mummy’s salad!’ Jessica said in a kind of solidarity.

‘This is Mummy’s salad,’ Tom retorted. ‘She bought it.’

‘But she’s not making it, is she?’ Max said.

‘This very nice lady is going to make it instead.’ Tom picked up the dog’s bowl and began to fill it with dried biscuits. Then he opened a can of her food. The vet had been unable to say what was wrong with the dog – probably just a bug, she thought. The detective had asked her whether she might have been drugged and the vet had responded it was possible. She would need to send a blood sample to the lab for analysis and it would take several days. Branson had asked her to do this.

‘I’ve found some very yummy lemon ice cream in the freezer,’ the WPC said breezily. ‘You could have ice cream afterwards!’

‘I want Mummy’s ice cream,’ Max said.

‘I want chocolate, or strawberry,’ Jessica demanded.

Tom exchanged glances with the police officer. She was in her mid-thirties, he guessed, with short blonde hair, a pleasant, open face and a warm but efficient nature. She seemed like someone who could cope with most situations. He gave her a whatever shrug, set the bowl down on the floor, then turned to Max.

‘It is Mummy’s ice cream. OK?’

Max looked up at him with big round eyes but they seemed completely devoid of expression. Tom could not read them, could not figure out exactly how his son was feeling. Or his daughter.

Or himself.

He desperately wanted to quiz Jessica some more about the vodka she claimed Kellie drank. What the hell was that all about?

‘I don’t like lemon ice cream,’ Jessica said.

Tom knelt and put his arms around her. ‘We don’t have any other flavours tonight. I’ll get you chocolate and strawberry for tomorrow – how’s that?’

There was no reaction from his daughter.

‘Give Daddy a hug, darling. I need a hug.’

‘When will Mummy be home?’

He hesitated for a moment, wondering what he should say. The truth, that he just didn’t know? Or a white lie? The lie was easier.

‘Soon.’ He scooped his daughter up in his arms. ‘Bath time?’

‘I want Mummy to bath me.’

‘She might not be back until quite late, so Daddy’s going to bath you tonight. OK?’

She looked away sulkily. In the living room he heard the volume of the television rise: tinkly music, the sound of car tyres squealing, a high-pitched American voice protesting about something. Max was watching The Simpsons. Good. At least that would keep him occupied until supper – or should he give him a bath, too?

He suddenly realized how little he knew about the kids’ routines, about anything to do with the house. Dark, cold mist and a terrible fear engulfed him from within. Tomorrow morning he had to make a major presentation to Land Rover. Their marketing director was talking about a massive contract. If Kellie did not come back tonight, he just didn’t know how he was going to cope with it.