The Codex File (2012) (10 page)

The family solicitor conveyed his sincerest condolences. But then who hadn’t? He was writing to discuss the contents of the will.

Michael already knew most of Colette’s estate had been left to him with a few items being left to her parents, sister, and other remaining relatives. Out of respect for him, those named in the will had agreed not to claim anything until he had ‘fully recovered’, as his solicitor delicately put it.

That was a joke. Not after what he’d seen in their house.

Looking up from the depressing letter Michael’s eyes widened a little as he looked at the smooth blank screen of his eCitTV set. The bottom of the screen was changing from its sharply defined black edge to a blurred red colour.

Inside the screen something was bubbling, boiling almost. Michael’s heart missed a beat as a cold sweat enveloped him and his pulse quickened. The vicious red tide lapped feverishly against the inside of the glass screen. His jaw dropped a little as the ebbing mass withdrew from the screen like a wave moving out to sea. Then with thunderous ferocity the bloody tide exploded out through the screen as if it were as brittle as matchwood. The blast cascaded into Michael, whipping up the chair, sending it soaring backwards. Warm blood streaked across his body. Glass splinters tore across his face. Shards of glass embedded in his skin like an overused pincushion.

The back of the blood-drenched chair crashed into the wall, he heard the sound of glass crack. His eyelids shot open. The blood was gone. He was where he should have been, in his armchair. To his left the eCitTV control was lying face down on the expensive glass coffee table, two yawning cracks running in opposite directions.

He frowned, inspecting the damage.

But as he leant over, gleaming globules of sweat dropped from his forehead, spreading on the cracked glass. For a brief instant the eCitTV set was bubbling red again. He was reliving the nightmare that tormented him every night as his heart pounded like a hammer in his chest. Every night it was the same.

Climbing the stairs.

Opening their bedroom door.

Colette tied to the bed.

Blood staining everything.

Nausea.

Clare.

At least he knew when he woke each morning that it had been a dream. But this was the first time he’d had such an experience - a hallucination - whilst awake.

He breathed deeply, pushing his chest out fully as he exhaled. The words ‘fully recovered’ reverberated around in his head.

He would make an appointment to see his solicitor for as soon as possible.

The faded green box file sat on the dining room table. Michael just stared at it, scratching the several days’ stubble on his chin. He thought he knew everything about her. They had no secrets.

He’d been wrong.

He didn’t know the box file existed. And he didn’t know about the Post Office box either.

His visit to the solicitors had been pretty routine to start with. As he’d expected they’d all been ‘shocked’ and ‘deeply saddened’ by Colette and Clare’s deaths. His expression hardened and his forehead creased with tension.

Well they would, wouldn’t they? Gives you a bit more to do. A few more clients to bill.

There had been no major surprises in the will. Colette’s estate had mainly been left to him. Although, some of it would have gone to Clare if she’d still been alive.

Her parents, sister, and some distant cousins had received family items containing sentimental value. There were no surprises until the solicitor handed him the Post Office key that was with the will for safekeeping.

He could still see the embarrassed surprise etched on the solicitor’s face. He wondered how many other times benefactors of a will had been left an item they didn’t know existed.

Reaching out his hand he gently touched the top of the box. It was comforting to know that Colette had once handled it. It was one of the few things left in the house she would have touched he thought sorrowfully, gazing through the ornate patio doors onto the recently mowed lawn.

Since the parents had re-decorated and re-furnished everything was new and fresh, untouched by Colette and Clare. He didn’t know what was worse. Knowing their presence wasn’t there, or having all the ghastly memories to remind him.

He looked around the pristine room and frowned. Everything was just too new. It no longer seemed like his home anymore.

Turning back to the table, and without a second thought, he flicked the box file open. He really had no idea what it might contain.

Or should that be reveal?

In the Post Office when he first discovered the box file he’d clung to the hope that maybe it contained clues to finding their killers. But then reality had struck. How would Colette have known that someone wanted to kill her, to kill Clare? Unless she’d been involved with something more sinister that he didn’t know about?

No, he knew Colette. He would have sensed if she’d been keeping something important hidden from him.

The box file sat on the table. He hadn’t known about that.

Tentatively, he pulled the open box file towards him. His gaze rested on a stack of papers sealed by transparent plastic wallets. Picking up the papers with reverential care he read the titles of each set of documents.

‘
State Network Tender’, ‘Intranet Development Plan’, ‘5
^th
Generation Semantic Web’, ‘Advanced App development’, ‘Cookies’ and ‘Data Storage Devices’.

State Network Tender
.

For several long moments he stared at the plastic wallet, re-reading the title. Sordid newspaper headlines came rushing back to him.

‘
Green activists blamed for brutal double murder’

The familiar numbness he felt when reminded of their murders engulfed him. Firmly closing his eyes he fought back the dark shadows of his subconscious.

Rising from his chair, and clasping the plastic folder tight to his chest, he crossed over to the eCitTV set. As the picture snapped into life he slumped into the dark blue armchair. The new furniture definitely wasn’t to his taste.

As daytime content smothered the screen he reached for the control panel.

Let’s see just how useful and informative eCitTV really is. If Colette was involved in developing this technology it must be pretty damn good.

Pressing the ‘Web’ button on the screen of the console the familiar UKCitizensNet toolbar appeared, clinging to the bottom of the screen. Pressing the ‘Search’ icon the pictures vanished as the red, white and blue logo appeared on a fresh page.

He typed tentatively, his fingers perspiring.

‘
Colette AND Clare Robertson’ the keys spelled out.

Within an instant the search had been completed and the screen blinked again. A pale grey screen advertising various information channels on UKCitizensNet slid down the right side.

‘
Your search has returned 231 matches for
‘Colette AND Clare Robertson’
he read.

The information was split into sections. On the left was an ordered list of ‘Topic folders’. Quickly scanning the folder titles, he ignored the numbness seeping through his body.

On the right of the screen was the entire depressing list of 231 news articles on the murders. All the grisly facts and theories preserved for posterity somewhere in the depths of cyberspace. Or at least in the depths of UKCitizensNet.

One article stabbed at his consciousness first as he read the title.

‘
Green activists implicated in double murder’

The small cursor hovered over the link and within seconds the news story from the Independent Online filled the screen. To the right of the text was a picture of the front of their house. Police tape cordoned off access, preventing the hungry hacks from absorbing the true horror.

Michael read the painful text, his mouth getting drier with every word. He’d selected this particular story because he knew he couldn’t face the crass sensationalism of one of the online tabloids.

The tone of the Independent’s news coverage was far more sombre, and a smiling photo of Colette and Clare taken on their last holiday to St. Tropez accompanied the piece. Michael had no idea how they’d obtained the picture. He’d certainly not provided it to the press.

“
The ongoing investigation into the recent murders of Colette and Clare Robertson in the village of Hersham in Surrey took a new twist yesterday. Initial forensic details released by Surrey Police have revealed the discovery of fingerprints other than the victims at the crime scene. Forensics experts have also taken samples of a distinctive soil type exhibiting particular pH levels and nutrient contents only found in certain parts of Surrey owing to historical farming methods once used in the area.

“
As part of the widening investigation Surrey police are keen to speak to Green activists who have been protesting at the proposed destruction of local woodland in nearby Brookwood to make way for commercial development. The site is to become the headquarters for UK company SemComNet who recently successfully tendered for the new national state network. Colette Robertson prior to her murder worked for rival company, SW Technologies, who had also bid for the same contract. Surrey Police have confirmed that a set of fingerprints found at the crime scene belong to a known Green activist who has been arrested for numerous public order offences in the past. Although refusing to name their suspect at this stage, a warrant has been issued for his arrest.”

Michael’s gaze dropped to the smiling faces of Colette and Clare, and in his thoughts he heard their laughter as pleasant, sun-drenched memories of their holiday came flooding back. When they finally ebbed away Michael re-read the date at the top of the screen. It was well over two years since the warrant had been issued and still they hadn’t caught the butcher. He shook his head, feeling his tears begin to well up again. As they gently rolled down his cheek he steered the cursor to a link at the foot of the article: ‘Related stories’.

With one click the screen blinked and more macabre reminders appeared. The seemingly endless stream of news coverage careered off the bottom of the screen.

He scanned the words, their meanings barely registering.

Why am I torturing myself like this?

His gaze fell on one of the headlines:
‘Profile of police suspect’

The screen changed again. A mugshot of a man taken at a road-building protest at Twyford Down near Winchester some years before appeared. The protest had been about the motorway carving its path through the hills at Twyford Down. To the right of the picture was a history of the man Surrey Police had eventually provided to the media, presumably from previous arrest records.

Name: David (Davey) Wilkes)

Also known as: Digger

Age: c.40

Job history: none

Political affiliations: environmental activist and campaigner - known involvement with environmental protests at road developments at Newbury, Winchester and Leytonstone

Previous convictions: multiple arrests for disturbance of the peace, affray and grievous bodily harm

Custodial sentences: three

Michael held his head and winced. The air in his lungs felt as if it was being sucked away by oppressive force as he exhaled noisily.

Davey Wilkes. Digger. Davey Wilkes.

The name thrashed about in the confines of his mind. The monster had killed his wife and daughter and the police still hadn’t caught him.

He slumped back in his chair and sighed. Colette’s folder sat in his lap.

His forehead creased thoughtfully. Very few of the articles he’d forced himself to read made any reference to her company’s work in bidding for the State Network Tender, which was after all the brainchild of the Prime Minister, and the project Colette had taken the lead on and spent so many hours working on before her death. Surely that had been Digger’s motive? The same reason David Langley had been murdered. As his thoughts wandered his gaze fell back on the police profile of Digger.

His anger receded slightly and he began to flick through Colette’s folders. There were pages and pages of technical diagrams. Intricate samples of computer code and other incomprehensible information.

Would a man with very little education have the technical knowledge to render Colette’s computer unusable, and possibly steal encrypted information on it? Wouldn’t a hefty Doc Marten boot or a hammer through the hard disk have been sufficient? And what could Digger possibly use any information he’d stolen for?