The Codex File (2012) (12 page)

Michael nodded slowly, somewhat surprised and disappointed at Trevellion’s dismissal of his conspiracy theory.

“
Yes, I suppose that’s possible too. I was just hoping talking to you would help me understand better. I think it has to some extent.”

Trevellion nodded and smiled, although his eyes didn’t.

“
Well if they were trying to destroy all of the information to stop the work you’re trying to do at least they didn’t get all of it.”

Trevellion had moved back to the percolator to pour himself another cup of coffee.

“
How do you mean?” he asked politely, but with little interest.

“
Colette had some other files relating to her work. I suppose I ought to return them to SW Technologies. Technically they do belong to them.”

Trevellion’s outstretched hand never reached the coffee jug as he turned slowly to face Michael.

“
It’s probably all out of date by now anyway. Colette always said the IT market never stood still for very long.”

Trevellion grunted in acknowledgement as he returned to his chair, pulling his keyboard towards him.

“
Yes, well I hope our chat has helped,” he said, his tone more serious and formal than before. “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave now as I have a meeting I must go to very shortly. You don’t mind showing yourself out, do you?”

Michael watched as any previous compassion on Trevellion’s face vanished. It was probably being reminded of the horrific events of the past again, he thought. They would be hard for anyone to live with.

Rising from his seat he shook Trevellion’s hand and slipped quietly from the office.

As the door closed Trevellion reached for his phone and dialed rapidly.

“
Put me through to Sebastian Tate,” he said curtly, as a woman’s voice answered.

“
May I ask who’s calling?”

“
Tell him it’s Trevellion.”

The line went dead for a few seconds as the secretary quickly redirected his call.

“
Tate.”

“
It’s me. Something has come up regarding the Robertson women. Something important. When can we meet?”

Michael gently brought his Rover to a halt on the soft gravel of David Langley’s drive, gazing in slight awe at the impressive mock Georgian facade. It was at least six, probably seven, bedrooms he thought as he carefully locked his car. Although his car was probably quite safe he thought, glancing at the opulent houses lining the street.

Opposite Langley’s house a gleaming silver Aston Martin DB9 sat proudly in front of an equally sparkling white Art Deco homage. Straight and curved lines ran round the front of the sprawling house, interspersed with tinted black windows in aluminum frames that doubtless concealed greater luxury inside.

Michael glanced back to his own dulled and muddy car. It definitely wouldn’t be the first target in this safe neighbourhood he thought before activating the central locking. But then David Langley had probably thought it was safe as well. Would the smell of disinfectant and scented air fresheners remove the smell of death more successfully than in his house?

In his own house he still woke in the middle of the night, the rich metallic smell of blood thick in his nostrils, pervading his every thought. But deep down he knew the smell wasn’t really there. He’d woken every night for 18 months in the care home with the same feelings, the same smells.

A short plump woman of about 70 with a red, sagging face eventually answered the door at the fourth attempt, a combination of arthritis and slight deafness Michael soon learnt.

Through using UKCitizensNet’s online user directory he’d quickly found David Langley’s address. Although, the house was now in the name of Vera Langley, his mother.

A quick email asking if he could pay her a visit and who he was had followed. And within a few minutes a soothing voice on his eCitTV had informed him that email from Vera Langley was waiting.

Having used UKCitizensNet and eCitTV a few times he was rapidly appreciating the benefits and convenience of these integrated technologies.

“
Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?” Vera asked, leading Michael into what he expected was one of many sitting rooms.

“
Coffee please, black,” Michael replied as Vera disappeared to whichever wing of the house the kitchen was in.

The house was no less impressive on the inside. Neatly varnished wooden beams criss-crossed the ceiling, meeting in a well-defined apex. An antique clock hung above the ornate wood-burning stove opposite where he sat and looked as if it had been recently used.

Michael had breathed a sigh of relief when he’d entered the house. The familiar malodorous scents of his own home were banished from here. Instead, he’d been met with the smell of succulent roast beef cooking. Freshly cut flowers had decorated the large reception area. It was probably because someone had been living in the house again since David Langley’s murder he’d thought.

Looking around the room again, and from the house in general, it was clear David Langley had been on good money at ACE Solutions. If Vincent Trevellion’s office and wardrobe was any indicator, he was on a similar salary.

Colette had obviously been working for the wrong company he thought. Admittedly she’d been on a good salary, better than his. But nothing on this scale. It was probably why SW Technologies had been close to going into receivership on a couple of occasions, and why the state network tender had been such an important project for them. Redundancies had been looming if they didn’t get the tender he remembered Colette telling him. He never had discovered whether anyone lost their job when SemComNet got the contract.

Michael’s eyes were drawn to a small framed photograph on the walnut table on the other side of the room. Crossing to the table he picked up the photograph. A chubby man, probably in his 40s, was smiling. His arm was around Vera Langley who was smiling back happily.

“
That’s my David,” Vera said proudly.

Carrying a wooden tray laden with two cups of coffee and a plate of chocolate biscuits, she placed it down carefully on the coffee table.

Michael turned to face the woman. A sorrowful look crossed her face as she tenderly stroked the photograph of her late son.

Sitting down in one of the plump floral sofas, Michael said: “Thank you for seeing me Mrs Langley.”

“
Call me Vera.”

“
Thank you for seeing me Vera. I know it can’t be easy having all those memories brought back to you.”

“
What’s done is done,” she shrugged. “Even if they ever catch who killed my David or your wife and daughter it won’t bring them back. What’s done is done.”

“
Were you living here when it happened?” Michael asked.

Vera shook her head as she sipped her coffee.

“
No, I was living in Guildford. My husband, David’s father, had only recently died. David had invited me to come and live with him in his big house. But I said no. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Weybridge, it’s just it wasn’t my home. And what man in his 40s really wants to live with his mother anyway?”

She smiled mischievously.

Michael sighed inwardly as Vera’s tale of tragedy and loss unfolded. Like him, she’d lost her closest family in one fell swoop. Yet she seemed to have coped with it with more strength and humility than he’d ever shown. There was no bitterness or anger in her. And her loss had been as great as his.

“
The house came to me in the will and I didn’t have the heart to sell it. David so loved this house,” she beamed.

“
I can see why,” Michael acknowledged, reaching for a chocolate biscuit.

‘
In the end I sold my house and moved here.”

“
I’m genuinely sorry for your loss,” Michael said quietly.

“
I know you can sympathise.”

“
Yes, everybody’s been very sympathetic. Even my employer.”

“
How so?”

“
I’ve been signed off work on full pay and pension until
I’m
ready to return.”

“
That’s nice,” Vera replied thoughtfully. “David’s employer was very supportive to me as well. I suppose there are some decent people out there after all.”

Michael smiled weakly. Yes, there were some. But still that evil monster was out there as well.

“
Vera, I know this might sound strange, but did David have a computer at home, or keep any files relating to his work here?”

“
Come with me,” Vera said, easing herself up slowly from the sofa.

Following into a hallway and through the drawing room Vera led the way into a tidy study. There was no colour in the room, no recently cut flowers, no life. The room was painted in a pale grey, lacking the style of the rest of the house. Michael feared the worse.

“
I’ll leave you to do whatever you need to do,” Vera said finally.

“
Are you sure you don’t mind me having a look around here?”

“
No, not at all,” Vera replied quietly. But as she reached the doorway she added: “Don’t be too long. It happened in here.”

Before Michael could reply Vera had left and he was alone in the cold, characterless room. A room, that like his own bedroom, had witnessed atrocity.

On the desk was a large touch-screen tablet. On either side were two well-filled bookcases. He carefully studied the assortment of computer manuals, project management guides, and business process methodologies, all crammed on the sturdy-looking shelves. Programming languages and terms he had never heard of ran up the spines in bright lettering. Looking around the room he began to sigh at the lack of hard-copy files in the study.

Sliding open the four drawers of the desk revealed nothing more than stationery, yet another Java manual and a complicated looking calculator.

But still no hard-copy files.

He frowned. Did everything have to be electronic these days? Forever consigned to some corner of cyberspace.

Sliding the desk drawers shut Michael wheeled the black armless swivel chair out from under the desk. Sitting in front of the dusty tablet device he pressed the ‘On’ button and waited expectantly, his pulse racing. Within a few moments a message appeared at the top of the screen.

‘
Unformatted Primary Hard Disk. Please insert System Disk and press Enter.’

His stomach lurched and his muscles began to ache as his tension seeped through him. Feeling that all too familiar sense of dread he leant back in the comfortable chair, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

The computer’s hard disk had been formatted. Just like Colette’s machine.

Were both of these machines robbed of vital information relating to their work? Why not just delete the data from the machine?

Digging into the depths of what was patchy computer knowledge at best, he remembered the few basic lessons Colette had given him on their home computer.

“
Never panic if you accidentally delete a file. Most files can be retrieved one way or another.”

Then had come the warning.

“
Never ever, deliberately or accidentally, try and format the hard disk, you won’t be able to retrieve any information after that. Not unless you really know what you’re doing”

Michael exhaled loudly. If the intention was to irrevocably destroy data on the computer then why not just take a hammer to the hard disk? Why be a butcher to the flesh yet reverential in destroying technology, the proclaimed enemy of the anti-net activists’ cause? It didn’t quite add up.

Michael’s reflections were interrupted as Vera hobbled back into the characterless study.

“
Any luck?” she asked pleasantly, although not really sure what Michael was looking for. She’d assumed he was still trying to make sense of what had happened. And if she could help, then that was fine.

“
Not really,” Michael lied, not wanting to burden her with thoughts that even he really didn’t understand.

“
I dug this out for you,” Vera said, passing Michael several typed sheets of stapled paper.

‘
Minutes of confidential meeting between David Langley (ACE Solutions) and Colette Robertson (SW Technologies), Subject: Potential use of advanced Java applet technologies.”

“
I found it about a month after David died. It was amongst a pile of newspapers in the drawing room.”

“
Did you take this to the police?”

“
There didn’t seem much point. Mr. Trevellion, who was also attacked, had already identified David’s killer. Besides I didn’t want the police going over every inch of David’s house again.”
Michael nodded and half-smiled.

“
You can have it if you want.” Vera continued.

“
Thank you,” Michael said quietly, quickly scanning the content.

The meanings on the page didn’t mean very much to him. But at least it was a little bit Colette. And at the moment, that was all he had.

Vincent Trevellion sat on the uncomfortable wooden chair in the long quiet corridor and reached for his mobile phone. Why did all government buildings look this dull he thought? Long characterless corridors, door after door concealing nameless grey bureaucrats who were one cog in the government wheel.