Philip Kerr - Gridiron

'He's right,' said Helen. 'Everything is automatic. And I mean everything. Let's just say that this is a paperless office enviroment.'

'You mean…'

'That's exactly what I mean. Flushing, by elbow, actuates a warmwater douche and a warm-air drying sequence.'

'Hell, no wonder Nat's taking such a long time in there.' Curtis laughed at the idea of his partner trying to deal with a warm-water douche.

'That's just the half of what happens in there,' said Helen. 'Washroom facilities like these may seem advanced to us. But they are already quite common in Japan.'

'Yeah, well, that doesn't surprise me at all.'

Dukes clicked the mouse to end the search.

Curtis sat on the corner of the desk again, stroking the hard corner of the terminal thoughtfully.

'Why are they always white?' he said. 'Computers.'

'Are they?' said Helen. 'Some are grey, I think.'

'Yeah, but mostly they're white. I'll tell you why. It's to make a lot of people feel better about them. White is a colour that's associated with virginity and innocence. Babies and brides are dressed in white. It's the colour of holiness. The Pope wears a white robe, right? If computers were all housed in black casings then they'd never have made any impact. Did you ever consider that?'

Helen Hussey shook her head. 'No, I can't say I ever did. It's a theory, I suppose.' She paused as she thought about what he had said. 'You said "a lot of people". Not you?'

'Me? I think of white and I think of heroin and cocaine. I think of bleached bones lying in the desert. I think of nothingness. I think of death.'

'Are you always this cheerful?'

'It's the job.' He smiled at her and said, 'Last night. What did you and Gleig talk about?'

'Nothing much. Hideki Yojo's death…' Helen started to nod, knowing what he was thinking.

Curtis grinned. 'See? You can't get away from it.'

'I guess you're right. Anyway, I told him what the coroner's office said. That Hideki died of an epileptic fit. Sam said he had guessed as much.'

'How did he seem?'

'OK. Normal.'

Dukes was nodding in agreement. 'Sam was pretty much like he always was.'

'He didn't sound worried about anything?'

'No. Not at all.'

'Did he always do nights?'

'No,' said Dukes. 'We worked it so that we each had a week of nights and then a week of days.'

'I see. Any family?'

Dukes shrugged. 'I didn't know him that well.'

'Maybe the computer will help,' said Helen. She moved the mouse and clicked her way through several menu options.

PERSONNEL FILES ARE RESTRICTED TO AUTHORIZED

PERSONS ONLY

ACCESS DENIED

'I don't think old Abraham understands about death yet,' she said, typing a note on the end of the personnel directory menu.

NOTIFICATION OF AN EMPLOYEE'S DEATH MUST BE MADE BY

AN AUTHORIZED PERSON

ACCESS DENIED

'I'm sorry, Sergeant. You'd better ask Bob Beech or Mitchell Bryan if they can get Sam's records for you, OK?'

'Thanks, I will. And I'll also want a word with Warren Aikman.'

Helen looked at her watch. 'He should be here soon,' she said.

'Warren's an early starter. Look, this doesn't have to interfere with the building work, does it? I wouldn't like us to fall behind.'

'That all depends. What's down in the basement anyway?'

'There's a small vault, a back-up generator, horizontal LAN, floor protection system, fire-alarm relay, hygiene control unit and some locker rooms.'

Curtis remembered the booths on levels 5-10. 'I was wondering. Those pods upstairs. What the hell are they?'

'You mean the personal harbours? They're the latest thing in office design. You arrive at the office and you're allocated a PH for the day, like checking into a hotel. You just walk in, plug in your laptop and your phone, switch on the air-conditioning and start work.'

Curtis thought of his desk back at New Parker Center. Of the papers and files that lay on top of it. Of the junk that filled his drawers. And of the computer he rarely switched on.

'But what about your stuff?' he said. 'Where do folks put their stuff?'

'There are lockers in the basement. But personal possessions are discouraged in the hot-desk office environment. The idea is that you'll have everything you need with your laptop and your phone.' She paused and then added, 'So will it be OK? For workers to come and go today?

They're most of them working on level 17 right now. Decorating and plumbing, I believe.'

'OK, OK,' said Curtis. 'No problem. Just keep them out of the basement.'

'Thanks, I appreciate it.'

'One more thing, Miss Hussey. It's a little too early to say for sure, but it looks as if Sam Gleig may have been murdered. Now, when the patrol car got here earlier this morning they found the door unlocked. But I had gained the impression that your computer — Abraham — controlled the doorlock. Why would it leave the door unlocked?'

'As I understood things, it was Abraham who called the police. The simplest explanation would seem to be that it left the door open so that your men could get in.'

Dukes cleared his throat. 'There's another possibility.'

Curtis nodded. 'Let's hear it.'

'Sam could have told Abraham to unlock the door. To let someone in. You say Sam got his brains bashed in? Well, I can't see how the guy could have got in unless it was Sam that let him through the door. Abraham wouldn't have locked the door again unless he'd been specifically instructed to do so. By someone who had been TESPAR'd.'

'How many ways in and out of the building are there?'

'Apart from the front door? Two,' said Dukes. 'There's the garage beneath the basement that's also controlled by TESPAR. And then there's the fire exit on this floor. That's controlled by Abraham. It doesn't open unless the fire-detection system indicates that there's an actual fire.'

'Can you think of any reason why Sam Gleig would have let someone in at night?'

Helen Hussey shook her head.

Dukes pursed his lips and looked reluctant to answer for a moment. Then he said, 'I don't mean to speak ill of the dead and all, but it wouldn't be the first time a security guard has let an unauthorized person into a building at night. I'm not saying that Sam ever did it to my knowledge, but on my last job, a hotel, there was a guard who got fired for taking money from hookers to let them bring their clients there.' He shrugged. 'It happens, y'know? Not that Sam struck me as the type, mind, but…'

'Yes?'

Dukes stroked the butter-soft leather jacket thoughtfully.

'But.' He shrugged uncomfortably. 'This is a nice looking leather jacket. I'm sure I couldn't have afforded it.'

It was still early in the morning when Allen Grabel finally made it back to his house in Pasadena. It wasn't easy to persuade a taxi to take you anywhere when you looked like Grabel, and he had been obliged to pay cash up front for the privilege. He lived in one of a group of Spanishrevival bungalows organized around a central open space of grass and pathway.

He still had no doorkeys, so he took off his size 12 Bass-Weejun loafer and smashed a window, setting off the burglar alarm. He climbed through but it was a minute or so before he remembered the numbers of the code, by which time one of his neighbours, a dentist named Charlie, was outside.

'Allen? Is that you?'

'It's OK, Charlie,' Grabel said weakly, opening the front door and feeling that things were anything but OK. 'I forgot my keys.'

'What happened? There's blood on your arm. Where have you been?'

'There was a rush job at the office. I haven't stopped for several days.'

Charlie the dentist nodded. 'Looks like it,' he said. 'I've seen shit in better shape than you.'