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 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.
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?’
‘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 to get things sorted first. I haven’t even got any milk in the 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?’
‘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.
