Ian Rankin - Westwind

‘No, really,’ he said. ‘This is what makes it all worthwhile.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Hepton. The man had introduced himself as Graeme Izzard. Thommo had assured them that he was the best ‘pictures’ man in the business.

‘I work mainly for Special Branch,’ Izzard told Hepton. ‘Serious Crime, that sort of thing. You know, someone walks into a building society and shoots dead a teller. They capture the whole thing on camera, but the image is too blurred to be recognisable. I clean it up until it’s sharp from arsehole to breakfast time. Which reminds me...’ He looked at his watch, then turned to Sanders. ‘There’s an all-night caff, just up the road and turn right. You can’t miss it. There’ll be about a dozen cabs outside. It’s where the drivers go for their break. Get us, let’s think, something hot, a sausage sandwich, something like that. Plus some cold sandwiches for later, corned beef or salami. And tell Alfie, the man behind the counter, that Izzard says he’s to give you a flask of tea. Got that?’

Sanders looked devastated. He had been demoted to tea boy by a man if anything a year or two younger than himself, with straggly shoulder-length hair and a T-shirt advertising a heavy-metal band. This was the third blow of the evening.

Hepton’s first impression of Izzard had been similarly coloured by his youth — he looked no more than twenty-six or twenty-seven — and his clothing. He had a London accent, too, harshly grained, the sort of voice heard at market stalls and football matches. But there was no doubt that he had a certain swagger that told you not to muck him about or underestimate him.

He offered Sanders a five-pound note from a wad pulled from his jeans pocket, but Sanders shook his head and stumbled away, still shell-shocked. Izzard watched the door close behind him.

‘Stuck-up sod,’ he said. ‘I hate bloody SIS. Mind you, the other lot are no better. Give me Scotland Yard every time. Their heads aren’t in the clouds. A bit more down-to-earth, you know?’

Hepton nodded, unable to think of any reply. Izzard had brought them into a large warehouse of modern corrugated construction. There were crates neatly stacked against one of the high walls, but this was no ordinary warehouse. Much of the floor space was taken up by another, smaller building of more solid, prefabricated construction. Izzard went to the door of this smaller building and unlocked it. An alarm sounded, and he switched on the lights before finding another key on his heavy chain and turning it in the alarm box, cancelling the ringing. He looked satisfied. They were in a small antechamber. On another door was a numerical keypad and a tiny keyhole. Izzard pushed five digits and turned a slender key in the lock, and the door clicked open.

Inside this room, there was an air-conditioned chill. Izzard swung an arm around proudly. ‘The lab,’ he said.

Hepton, used to technical labs, nodded, impressed. There was hardware aplenty: computers, monitors, video cameras, recorders, a huge studio-style machine for editing and splicing film, projectors, and workbenches covered in all manner of electrical instruments, bits of chopped film, broken-open cassette cases. The place was a mess, evidence that a lot of work was done here.

‘All this Russian-doll stuff, a box within a box within a box, it’s really to cut down vibration from outside more than anything,’ Izzard explained. He bounced on the floor in his Dr Martens shoes. ‘Decoupled from the rest of the building,’ he said proudly. ‘That was my design, actually.’

‘This is incredible,’ said Hepton. He had been attracted to the computers, and stood over one now. He frowned. ‘I don’t recognise—’

‘That’s my design, too,’ said Izzard, running a finger over the keyboard. ‘We do our own software and, in this case, hardware. It’s just a number-cruncher, really. Do you know about computers?’

‘I work in a tracking station,’ said Hepton.

Izzard looked impressed and pleased. His face became more boyish than ever. ‘You track satellites?’ Hepton nodded. ‘I love all that stuff. Signals intelligence, comms intelligence.’

‘That’s what’s on these tapes,’ said Hepton, brandishing the bag. Izzard looked like a child offered sweets.

‘Yes?’ he said, reaching out a hand. ‘Well then, let’s put them on the machine and take a look.’ His tone became more serious. ‘What is it that you want exactly?’

‘I want to examine the pictures,’ Hepton said, following Izzard to one of the benches. ‘Side by side if possible.’

‘Very possible.’

‘And then maybe concentrate on a few shots.’

‘I can put them side by side on the same screen.’ Izzard turned to him. ‘If you like.’ Hepton smiled and nodded.

Izzard brought the tapes out of the bag. There was a note inside one of the boxes. You owe me a beer, Vic! He handed it to Hepton, then turned his attention to the tapes themselves.

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘High-resolution tape, and plenty of it.’ Even Hepton could see that there was a good deal of tape on each spool: perhaps as much as a couple of hours’ worth. Yes, he owed Nick Christopher a beer.

He noticed that he had rested his hand on a small modem. He tapped it.

‘Ever done any hacking?’ he asked.

Izzard’s face lit up again. ‘Yes, years ago. I used to love it. What about you?’

‘I’ve done a little.’

‘I got into a couple of big companies’ systems,’ Izzard said, warming to his tale. ‘Left messages there for the staff. Stuff like: “Do you know what your wife’s up to right this second?” Childish, but still a lot of fun.’

Hepton smiled. ‘Wasn’t it difficult working out the code words?’

‘Hellish difficult, yes.’ Izzard had put down the tapes. ‘Typing in everything from aardvark to zygote.’

He went to a large steel cupboard and opened it. There were bits and pieces of equipment arranged along the shelves inside. He found what he was looking for and brought it out, closing the door again. It was a small black box, the size of one of Nick Christopher’s crossword dictionaries. Built into its top surface was what looked like an old-fashioned LED pocket calculator.

‘It was difficult,’ Izzard said proudly, ‘until I made this.’ He handed Hepton the box. Hepton examined it, but without success. The several home-made switches and push-buttons were unmarked.

‘I give up,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s another number-cruncher of sorts,’ Izzard explained, pleased that Hepton hadn’t known. ‘Some of the companies use long numerical codes, and those were the worst to crack. All I needed to do was plug this box into my modem and it did all the work for me.’

‘Ingenious,’ said Hepton, examining the box more carefully.

‘No,’ said Izzard, ‘what’s really ingenious is that I cooked up a chip that put the other computer on hold while my computer was pumping the code numbers into it.’

Hepton saw the implications at once. ‘So you didn’t need to sign off and try again every time you got the code wrong?’

Izzard nodded his head vigorously, then gave a childish, high-pitched laugh.

‘Brilliant,’ said Hepton. ‘I hope you took out a patent on it.’

‘No,’ said Izzard, calming a little. ‘But I sold the idea to the military for fifteen thousand pounds.’ He lifted the black box out of Hepton’s hand and returned it to its cupboard. ‘God knows what they wanted it for,’ he said with finality.

As he closed the cupboard, a buzzer sounded. ‘That’ll be our spy,’ said Izzard, ‘wishing to come into the cold.’ He pressed a button on the wall, and the door clicked open again, admitting Sanders.