‘What? Why? You can’t be sure they won’t work.’
‘Yes I can be. Ninety-nine-point-nine per cent. What’s worse, it will leave a trace. You try to log in, the system locks you out, then moments later someone is trying to hack their way in. You don’t need to be a computer expert to work that one out.’
‘Okay,’ says Mandy. ‘I get it. Try these.’ She hands Yev the details supplied by the Turtle.
‘These can’t be associated with you?’
‘No,’ she replies, her voice more confident than she feels.
‘Okay. Let’s have a crack.’
‘Before we do, can the attempt be traced back here?’
‘No. We’re cloaked. This is all being routed through VPNs.’
‘So it’s risk-free?’ she asks.
‘More or less.’
Yev enters the details. There’s a circle, whirling spokes, and then the access screen dissolves into another, a welcoming page with links to various departments and files. It’s been updated, but Mandy recognises it nevertheless.
‘That was easy,’ says Yev. ‘Where do you want to look first?’
Mandy points to a link. ‘Let’s check the email. Find out whose account this is.’
Yev hits the link, moving through to email. ‘Nothing here. You recognise this user?’
Mandy doesn’t see it at first, but when she does it jolts her. The account owner’s name is at the top right of the screen. Clarity Sparkes. ‘Shit,’ she says.
‘What is it?’ asks Yev, but before he can say anything else, the computer starts emitting a soft beeping. ‘That’s strange.’ He moves the cursor to the other screen, opens software, starts typing, more and more quickly. ‘Hell.’
‘What is it?’
‘Someone is trying to track me.’
‘I thought that wasn’t possible.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Oh no. Look,’ says Mandy. On the right-hand monitor, superimposed over Clarity Sparkes’s email home page is a smiley face, taunting them. Then, as she watches in horror, it flickers away, only to be replaced by a dick pic. Mandy’s mouth falls open; she’s frozen to the spot.
Not Yev, he’s moving fast. He’s off the chair and onto his knees, under the desk, yanking power cords, crashing his computer, the screens flickering off, the speakers popping. He gives himself a moment, breathing heavily, before crawling back out.
‘What just happened?’ Mandy whispers.
‘You saw. They knew we were there.’
‘They were waiting for us?’
‘Yes.’
‘But they can’t trace us?’
‘No. I think it was trying. That or more malware. That’s why I pulled the plugs.’
‘Quick thinking.’
‘I have not done that for ten years.’ Yev sounds like he’s talking to himself. ‘I had no choice.’ He’s staring at the dead screens, as if he’s inflicted pain on a favoured pet.
‘The phones,’ Mandy says. ‘They could track the phones.’ ‘Not anymore.’
‘No. Not now. But before you cleansed them. They would know Martin and I came here, both of us, that we were here for some time. And then the tracking stopped, the malware was deleted. At a computer store.’
‘What are you saying?’ asks Yev, although the look on his face tells her he knows the answer.
‘We need to leave,’ says Mandy. ‘Immediately.’
‘Yes,’ says Yev, but instead of heading to the door, he’s back on his knees under the desk.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting the hard drives.’
‘Leave them. It doesn’t matter.’ She can hear the panic in her voice, the rising tide, the rational part of her mind being inundated. ‘Where’s Lena?’ She rushes back to the counter, looks around. She can’t see Lena, just a middle-aged woman examining her wares.
‘Here.’ Yev is emerging from under the desk, two slim drives in his hand. ‘My files. Max Fuller’s files.’ And he smiles. Mandy smiles back.
And then their smiles fall away. Two men have entered Ichiban Computers and Scarvery.
‘This way, madam. Police. Please leave,’ Henry Livingstone says politely to the middle-aged woman, displaying his counterfeit badge. ‘We’re closed.’
Joshua Spitt escorts her out and locks the door behind her.
‘Good morning,’ says Henry Livingstone, walking over to the scarvery. ‘Nice cravats.’
chapter thirty-three
Martin is approaching the police station when his phone chirps with a WhatsApp alert. A message to their group from Mandy:
Finished here. You won’t believe what we’ve got. Where can we meet? Where are you?
Give me an hour, he replies.
Where are you?
He doesn’t have time to respond: he sees Morris Montifore out the front, hands in pockets, squinting against the smoke, waiting for him. If anything, the haze is getting thicker. Martin puts the phone back in his pocket. Yev has installed the tracking app; they can use that.
‘Morris?’
‘It’s almost lunchtime, thought we might grab a bite to eat.’
‘Off the premises. Off the record?’
The policeman smiles. ‘Something like that.’
They walk two blocks, come to a street cafe, a hole-in-the-wall place with a few tables scattered outside. ‘We can grab a coffee here,’ says Montifore.
‘Thought you were hungry?’
‘I am,’ he replies, checking his watch. ‘But we may not have time. Grab a table. What do you want?’
‘Flat white, thanks.’ Martin does as he’s been asked, occupying a free table. It’s not hard to get one; the smoke is forcing anyone with half a brain inside to rest their lungs. At least it offers them privacy. Goffing returns with the drinks and a face lined with unease and insomnia; even the filtering smoke can’t soften it. He hands Martin his coffee, places his own on the table, sits and stares at him. He’s still squinting, but it’s hard to know if it’s from the smoke or from concentration.
‘What?’
‘I know you’ve been conducting your own investigation into Max Fuller’s death.’
‘His widow isn’t satisfied with the official inquiry.’
‘Yeah. Tell me about it.’
‘Is that what this is all about? You’ve come to tell me to back off, pull my head in?’
‘No. I already tried that, remember? Warned you and your girlfriend to get out of Sydney.’
‘And?’
‘And it didn’t work.’
Martin takes a sip of his coffee. The barista has burnt the milk. When did Sydney forget how to make the universal beverage? ‘So what is it, Morris? What do you want to ask me?’ He tries another sip; maybe it’s the smoke he’s tasting.
‘Have you ever heard of a man called Harry Sweetwater?’
Martin almost chokes on
