Soft Target (20 page)

Moira knocked on the bedroom door. 'Liam?' she said. There was no reply so she knocked again. 'Liam?'

'I'm not hungry,' said Liam.

'I haven't made supper yet,' said Moira. 'I want you to come outside.'

'Why?'

'I just do.'

'I want to stay here.'

'Listen to me, young man, you'll do as you're told. Open this door now.'

Moira heard him slide off the bed and pad across the floor.

He opened the door and looked up at her, cheeks wet with tears. 'It's not fair,' he said. 'Dad always does this. He always says he'll be there and then he's not.'

Moira bent down so that her face was level with her grandson's. 'Your father loves you very much, but sometimes he's busy.'

'He thinks his work's more important than me.'

'No, he doesn't,' said Moira. 'You're the most important thing in the world to him. Now, don't be silly and come out into the garden.'

Liam followed his grandmother down the stairs and out through the kitchen door. Moira took him to the end of the garden where Tom had planted a clump of rosebushes. A light wind blew through the branches of a weeping willow close to the shed.

'What are we doing, Gran?' asked Liam.

Moira wasn't sure, but she'd heard the insistence in her 155 son-in-law's voice and could tell how upset he was. If he wanted them in the garden, then that was where they would be. They heard the helicopter before they saw it, a thudding whup-whup-whup to their right. Moira shaded her eyes with her hand and peered into the sky. There were large cumulus clouds dotted around, as white as cotton wool. She made out a black dot, no bigger than an insect, highlighted against one,

and pointed at it. 'There, Liam, see it?'

Liam jumped up and down. 'Is it Dad?'

Despite herself Moira smiled. 'Yes, I think it probably is.'

The helicopter flew lower and gradually they could make out the rotor and the tail. Then they saw a figure in the open hatchway.

'It's Dad!' yelled Liam.

The helicopter was too far away'for Moira to make out the man's features, but she had no doubt that it was her soninlaw.

It was a grand gesture, indeed, but he didn't seem to understand that being a parent wasn't about making grand gestures, it was about providing security, and being there for your child, day and night. Liam needed a father who helped him with his homework, played football with him in the garden, tucked him up at night, not an action hero who flew in by helicopter to prove how sorry he was.

The helicopter circled the garden, the rotor wash squashing the grass flat. The man waved from the open door. Liam waved back excitedly. 'Dad!'

The man blew a kiss.

Liam blew one back. 'Look, Gran!'

Moira patted his shoulder. 'Yes, I see him.'

The helicopter banked, flew off to the east, towards London. Liam watched it go. 'He does love me, doesn't he,

Gran?' ^

'Oh, yes,' said Moira, quietly. 'He does.'

Norman Baston bit into his cheeseburger and checked his email inbox for the tenth time that evening. There was no reply from Roger Sewell. Baston had tried Sewell's mobile twice and both times it had gone straight to voicemail. Sewell hadn't logged on again. The first time he'd come in remotely:

he hadn't accessed the system from within the company.

Baston wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. The meeting Sewell had missed that morning had been an important one. Baston knew that Sewell was vehemently against Hendrickson's ambition to sell the company. If he succeeded,

Baston would never realise the true value of his share options.

He wanted Sewell to agree to a new contract that would make up for the money he'd expected to get when the firm was sold. It was Sewell's company and Baston had no quarrel with that, but he knew what a crucial role he had played in its success. It was time for Sewell to pay the piper.

Baston knew exactly what was going on at the company.

He had access to the company's computer records and could monitor all internal and external emails. Sewell was fanatical about his staff not talking to his competitors, and he also wanted to know what they said to each other. Every Monday Baston provided him with a breakdown of Internet usage and a summary of the more interesting email traffic. He knew exactly who Hendrickson was talking to, and what he stood to make if the sale went through. He'd seen all the arguments that Hendrickson had put forward in his attempts to convince Sewell to sell. And he'd read all Sewell's objections.

Baston also knew what Sewell got up to in his free time,

how he liked having sex with women he met through the Internet. Sewell used pictures of male models to lure in young women, then offered them money for kinky sex.

Ninety-nine per cent turned him down, but a one per cent success rate was more than enough when he was getting several hundred replies a month. Baston knew where Sewell 157 took the women, what he did with them, and he knew where on the system Sewell stored the digital photographs he took of his escapades. Baston was sure that Sewell would agree to his pay demands. Blackmail was an ugly word. But so was transvestite. And dildo.

Baston took another bite of cheeseburger and slotted a handful of French fries into his mouth. He chewed with relish. It was almost eleven o'clock at night but he was in no rush to go home. Home was a two-up, two-down terraced house in Salford that wouldn't have been out of place in an episode of Coronation Street. He'd inherited it from his parents after they'd died in a motorway pile-up outside Preston on the day before his seventeenth birthday. He hadn't changed anything in the house and still slept in a single bed in the second bedroom. He hadn't been in his parents' room since the day they'd died. He hadn't even opened the door. His father's pipe was still in the ashtray next to the wing-backed chair by the gas fire. Baston never sat in the chair, or in his mother's space on the sofa. He never cooked in the house.

His mother had never let him make so much as a cup of tea,

and all he ate now were takeaway meals and breakfast cereal.

Home was just a place where he slept and ate.

His office was where he preferred to be, working on his beloved computers. He preferred the machines to his colleagues. Computers never lied, or sneered at you because you had spots or because you would rather read a software manual than talk about soccer or women's breasts.The money Baston earned wasn't important, other than as a means of keeping score. There was nothing he wanted to buy. He didn't drive, he didn't drink or do drugs, he had all the clothes he needed and the company paid for all the equipment he wanted. But money gave him status. He had access to the payroll program - he'd designed it, and he knew what everyone in the company earned. There weren't many who 158 I I earned more than he did, only Hendrickson, Sewell and the sales manager, Bill Willis. If Sewell met Baston's latest demands he'd overtake Willis. Then it would be Baston who did the sneering as he walked through the car park and saw Willis climbing into his convertible Saab, dressed in his made-to-measure suit and carrying his calf-leather briefcase.

Willis always said, 'Good evening,' when he saw Baston heading towards the bus stop, and sometimes offered him a lift, but Baston knew he did so only to ram his success in Baston's face. Well, soon the tables would be turned. Baston knew about Willis's affair with one of the secretaries in accounting. He was married and so was she, and Baston had kept copies of all the lovey-dovey emails they sent each other.

One day he'd send Willis's wife an envelope stuffed with hard copies. That would serve Willis right.

Baston checked his inbox again, but there was nothing from Sewell. It wasn't like his boss. Sewell checked his emails every hour or so, and his mobile was rarely off. Baston had sent him half a dozen emails asking him to get in touch either online or by phone. Now he logged on to the company's email system and checked Sewell's mailbox. The mail hadn't been read since Sewell had logged on to the system on Wednesday night. The six emails he'd sent him were all there,

unread.

Baston sat back and stared at his monitor. Sewell wasn't picking up his office email, but he had a personal account,

one he used on his laptop. Baston could access the laptop whenever Sewell was online. A couple of years earlier Baston had put in a keystroke program and set up backdoor access that allowed him to roam through the laptop's hard drive whenever the machine was connected to the Internet. He knew that Sewell would go apeshit if he ever found out, but he'd gone to a great deal of trouble to cover his tracks. His fingers played across the keyboard. Sewell wasn't online.

I 159 Baston took another bite of his cheeseburger and chewed thoughtfully. Okay, so Sewell wasn't online. And he wasn't picking up his emails. But maybe he'd sent emails last time he was online. He wiped his greasy hands on his trousers and tapped on the keyboard. He ran a search program, looking for any emails sent to company employees within the last forty eight hours. There was one, to the head of the firm's legal department, John Garden. Sewell had sent it on Wednesday night and Garden had read it first thing that morning. It was still in his inbox. Baston chewed as he read it. Sewell didn't say where he was or what he was doing. In capital letters he told Garden on no account to tell Larry Hendrickson that he'd been in touch, and asked him to check if there had been any unexpected transfers from the company bank accounts and to send a reply to Sewell's personal email address.

'What the hell are you up to, Roger?' Baston muttered.

He hated mysteries. And Roger Sewell was certainly behaving mysteriously.

Shepherd opened the fridge and groaned when he saw there was no milk. He took a sip of black coffee, then sat on the sofa and phoned Moira. Liam answered. 'I knew it would be you, Dad,' he said excitedly. 'Did you fly all the way to London in the helicopter?'

'All the way.'

'In the clouds and stuff?'

'We flew under the clouds. You can't see where you're going when you fly through clouds so it's dangerous.'

'Can I go in a helicopter one day?'

'Sure you can,' said Shepherd.

'Why didn't you land?'

'You have to stay away from trees and buildings. I'm sorry I didn't pick you up from school today. I was busy. I wanted to, but it didn't work out.'

] 'That's okay.'

'Are you sure?'

'Course.'

'Gran said you waited outside.'

'I was at the gate. Mrs Mowling asked me who was picking me up and she rang Gran. It was okay.'

'But you were cross with me, yeah?'

Liam didn't say anything.

'I'll see you at the weekend, right?' said Shepherd.

'In the helicopter?'

j 'I'll probably drive.'

'And I can come back to London with you at the weekend?'

asked Liam.

'Maybe.'

'You always say “maybe” when you mean “no”. It's not fair,' said Liam.

'If I can make it happen, I will,' said Shepherd, 'but I have a to get things sorted first. I haven't even got any milk in the I fridge so how could I make you breakfast?'

] 'Toast,' said Liam.

'No bread.'

'I don't need breakfast.'

'Most important meal of the day,' said Shepherd.

'Says who?'

'Says everyone. Your gran for a start.'

'I don't care about breakfast. I want to live at home.'

'I know you do, kid. I'm only teasing. Let me get some help fixed up and then you can move back in.'

'Okay.' Liam sounded wretched.

¦ 'I mean it,' said Shepherd.

'Okay.'

'What are you doing now?' asked Shepherd.

'Talking to you.'

'Before I phoned?'

I 161 'Watching TV.'

'And you've done your homework?'

'I did it before supper.'

'Good lad.'

'Dad?'

'Yes?'

There was a long pause. 'Nothing,' said Liam, eventually.

'What?'

'Nothing. See you at the weekend. 'Bye.'The last few words tumbled out and Liam cut the connection before Shepherd could say anything else. He wasn't sure if his son had been about to cry or if he was rushing off to do something. Shepherd thought about ringing back, then decided against it. If Liam was upset, a phone conversation wouldn't help.

When the doorbell rang Shepherd was in the shower. He cursed, grabbed a towel and peered down through the bedroom window. His visitor was a young woman, shoulder length brown hair, raincoat with the collar up. Shepherd frowned, then remembered that Miss Malcolm had promised to send a potential au pair for him to interview. He opened the door and smiled apologetically. 'I'm in the shower - give me a minute to get dressed,' he said. 'Why don't you make us both a coffee?The kitchen's down there.' He pointed,

then padded back upstairs where he finished drying and pulled on a grey turtleneck pullover and black jeans.

As he walked into the kitchen the woman handed him a mug of black coffee. 'I didn't know if you wanted milk or sugar,' she said.

'Black is fine,' he said. 'I'm out of milk anyway.' He sipped the coffee. 'So, where are you from, then?' he asked.

The woman frowned. 'Hampshire, originally.'

'You're English?'

'That surprises you?' she asked.

'It's just that Miss Malcolm said most of the girls in your line of work were from Eastern Europe.'

The woman's frown deepened. 'Who do you think I am?'

she said.

'You're from the agency? The au pair?'

Now the woman's eyes sparkled with amusement. 'You've i i been giving me the runaround for the past week.'

Shepherd groaned. 'The psychiatrist?'

'Psychologist.'

'I'm sorry, but I'm busy.'

'I just want a few minutes of your time, DC Shepherd.'

Shepherd glared at her. 'How long have you been with Hargrove's unit?' he asked. I 'Six months.'

'Okay, first rule of this business, we never use ranks or honorifics.'

'We're in your home.'

a 'It doesn't matter where we are. You get in the habit of I using ranks or saying “sir” and one day you do it in front I of someone who gives a shit and puts a bullet in my head.'