Chris Ryan - Who Dares Wins

‘What’s the matter?’ Sam demanded.

Patrick pretended not to hear. He just stared intently at the screen.

And then the light returned, illuminating his acne-ridden face just as it had done before. He smiled, then turned to the two adults sitting on his bed.

‘Done it,’ he announced.

He tried very hard not to look pleased with himself as he stood up and nonchalantly handed the laptop back to Sam.

The screen was blue. A couple of familiar icons shone in the top left-hand corner. One of them was yellow and shaped like a folder. Underneath, in rounded white letters, were the words RED LIGHT RUNNERS.

The two adults exchanged a look.

‘What was the password?’ Sam asked distractedly.

‘“Max”,’ the kid replied.

Sam’s stomach knotted.

‘Not a very good password. Should be longer, have a few numbers in it…’ Patrick looked offended that nobody seemed to be listening to him.

‘Let’s go,’ Sam said, closing down the computer and standing up. As he walked to the door, he was aware of Clare fishing in her bag and pulling out a tenner.

‘Give my love to your mum,’ she said, handing the note to her nephew. Patrick grunted. He didn’t show them out.

Sam didn’t speak until they were on the street. ‘We need somewhere private,’ he said. ‘Somewhere to read this. Is there a hotel near?’

Clare shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably.’

They hit the pavement, Clare having to trot in order to keep up with Sam. It didn’t take them long to find a hotel – the Abbey Court in a residential road called St James’s Gardens, a shabby, converted house with rooms to rent which reeked of curry. They were eyed suspiciously by an immensely fat Pakistani woman who demanded payment for the night in advance and clearly didn’t believe the pseudonym that Sam gave off the top of his head. The room itself was far from comfortable. A TV in one corner, a lumpy bed with a floral bedspread in the middle. As a hotel room, it was the pits. For their purposes, it was absolutely fine. They sat together on the edge of the bed as Sam cranked up the computer. Using a single finger he entered the password to be greeted once more by the blue screen. He directed the cursor on to the folder, then double-clicked.

A window opened. It contained more icons, perhaps twenty. Each one was labelled with a name. Sam stared blankly at it. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, more to himself than to Clare.

Her hand brushed against his as her fingers searched out the mouse. She directed the cursor to one of the icons at random, then clicked it. A short pause and a grinding from the laptop’s innards. Then a document appeared.

There was a photo at the top, a young man with shoulder-length blonde hair. Beneath the photograph, laid out neatly and stretching far beyond the bottom of the screen so that Clare had to scroll down to see it all, was a startling array of personal information. His name, of course – Paul Harrison – and his address. But also his sexual orientation and a list of known previous girlfriends. His parents’ address and telephone number. His national insurance number. A list of three official police cautions. Parking fines. His Tesco Clubcard number. His likes and dislikes. Every car he had ever owned. Every job he had ever had, and the wage he had been paid. A graphic of his signature. His closest acquaintances – their names and addresses. A link to his Facebook profile and a list of all his ‘friends’. His credit card numbers and certain purchases that he had made. His bank account numbers and security details. Three e-mail addresses and their passwords. The IP address of his computer and the most popular websites visited from that address. Films he had seen, TV programmes he had watched. Music he listened to.

The list went on. Sam and Clare read it in silence. Neither of them commented out loud on the one word that had screamed out to them more than any other. It was written in brackets just beside the subject’s name. It read ‘DECEASED’.

Clare got to the end of the document long before Sam and impatiently closed down the window, immediately opening another. A different picture, different details. Still the same ominous label after the name: ‘DECEASED’. She browsed through more of them, spending less and less time on each one, until finally she brought up a document that made her catch her breath.

‘ Bill ,’ she whispered in shock. ‘ It’s Bill .’

The photograph of Clare’s contact stared out at her. He had black skin with patchy, tightly curled stubble and a gappy smile. Like all the others, he was deceased. But they already knew that.

Sam stood up. He didn’t know what to say or what to think. Jacob was something to do with these red-light runners, he accepted that. But what? And if they were dead, what did that have to do with his brother?

They’ll tell you things, Sam. Things about me. Don’t forget that you’re my brother. Don’t believe them.

But he didn’t know what he should believe. He stared out of the window. It was beginning to rain and the drops slid down the pane, lit up by the streetlamps beyond.

‘Sam.’ Clare’s voice was unsure of itself. ‘I’ve found something else.’

He turned and approached her.

‘Look at this,’ she continued, spinning the computer around on her lap so he could see it. ‘His e-mails. He’s only sent them to one address, each time with one of these documents. There’s only one contact here – the person he’s sent them to.’

‘What’s his name?’ Sam demanded.

‘Alexander Dolohov.’

Sam’s brow furrowed. He had never heard the name before. ‘Any more details on him?’

She turned the computer back towards her and started fiddling, but as she did she shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she murmured. ‘His name and his e-mail address. That’s all.’ She looked up, bright eyed. ‘You could e-mail him!’

Sam shook his head. ‘No way. If I want to talk to this guy, I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.’

‘What if he doesn’t want to talk to you?’

Sam sniffed. ‘I guess I’ll just have to turn on the charm.’ Clare clearly heard the tone in his voice and didn’t reply. Sam looked at her with his eyes narrowed. ‘Can you get someone to track him down?’ he asked. ‘Someone from your paper?’

‘I could do it myself,’ she said.

Sam shook his head. ‘The Firm are on to both of us,’ he said. ‘If we start sniffing around we’ll alert them. Nobody but us knows about this laptop. Let’s keep it that way.’

‘I could ask someone, I suppose…’ She sounded uncertain as she pulled out her mobile.

‘Not with that. There’s a phone downstairs, in reception. If you’ve got someone you can phone, do it from there.’

Clare appeared to think for a minute. ‘All right,’ she decided finally and with a heavy sigh. ‘All right, I’ll do it. Wait there.’

‘No,’ Sam replied. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘I’m not going to do a runner you know.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

She shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

They were eyed by the suspicious receptionist as Clare made her call. Sam hovered nearby, just out of earshot as she mumbled privately into the phone to some faceless colleague, then left the number of the hotel. The receptionist was clearly trying hard to listen to the conversation, but Clare was talking too discretely for that. ‘It’ll take an hour or so,’ she told him as she hung up.

Sam nodded. He turned to the receptionist. ‘Let us know if we have a call,’ he instructed and was repaid with a nondescript gesture. Sam considered being more forceful, but decided against it. ‘We’ll be in our room,’ he said brusquely.