the contract every three years. If everything’s up to scratch, nothing changes. Or if another company offers a better deal than the current outfit, that’s taken into consideration at the review. So we have to perform!” He laughed. Murnau laughed, too. Stage laughter, I thought. “We have a total of a hundred and two cameras in the central city area, and thirty-six in the suburbs, another thirty-six in local villages—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, pulling a notebook from my bag. “This is exactly the kind of thing we need our readers to know. Peace of mind, and all that.” I scribbled down the figures.
“—so we have a total of one hundred seventy-four cameras operating in public areas. All of these cameras are highly visible. That’s a requirement in the guidelines. No hidden cameras. Part of the point of them is to deter crime, as well as detect it. So visible cameras are part of the plot. Your criminal sees the camera and thinks again. Your criminal knows he’s being watched. The knowledge that the cameras exist is enough to deter crime, at least in the first instance. Another part of the plot is that we don’t want the surveillance to be seen as a covert, Big Brother–style operation. The cameras are friends to the law-abiding. It’s your criminals who need to worry about them.”
He laughed again. He was an irritating guy, self-satisfied and smug. With a wet handshake. I carried on scribbling in my notebook. I noticed Murnau straining to read what I was writing without seeming to.
“One of the cameras’ sidelines is that they look out for each other, too. Each camera is sited so that I can check the status of its neighbouring device.”
I was beginning to feel bored. I let the lecture drift on, occasionally nodding or making an appreciative noise. I kept on writing in my book. I knew all this anyway. Standard surveillance industry crap. Everything was smothered in layers of assurance that it was all for the public good. Old-fashioned crime-fighting Dixon-of-Dock-Green sweet-talk. I thought I might as well throw a small spanner into his spiel. Test out a little suspicion of mine.
“So how much money does KHS earn from the contract?” I asked.
“I’m afraid that information is classified,” butted in Murnau. He looked at me sharply. “Standard business practice, of course. A company is under no obligation to reveal its finances to anyone other than the Inland Revenue.”
“Of course,” I concurred. Interesting. Murnau had responded quickly, but perhaps too quickly to notice exactly what I had said.
“Well, that’s the background. Anything specific you’d like to ask?” said Robinson.
“That seems to have covered almost everything I need for the article. But I would like to see the cameras in action from here. Would that be possible?”
“Certainly. Take a seat.” Robinson got up, while Murnau shifted, uncomfortably I thought, from foot to foot in the shadows. “Now, just take a look at that monitor there. General view down this street, one of our prime retail areas. Okay. Let’s just zoom in . . . .” The view on the monitor barrelled down the street, to focus with astonishing clarity on a man standing at a junction at the end.
“That’s incredible,” I said. I meant it. Apart from the fact that for once it wasn’t raining. The camera had zoomed in on a face maybe two hundred and fifty metres away. You could see the guy’s moustache. His glasses. You could practically tell how long ago he’d shaved his chin.
“And watch
this
,” gushed Robinson. He was proud of the hardware. “I’ll just take a still . . . .” There was an audible click from somewhere inside the control desk, and the image froze. “Now what we can do is check this bloke’s face on our database . . . .” Faces scrolled down the screen impossibly fast, dozens and dozens of them. Hundreds. Thousands. In just a few seconds the original still returned with the words NO MATCH emblazoned over it.
“Excuse me,” I interrupted, pulling a notebook from my bag. “This is exactly the kind of thing we need our readers to know. Peace of mind, and all that.” I scribbled down the figures.
“—so we have a total of one hundred seventy-four cameras operating in public areas. All of these cameras are highly visible. That’s a requirement in the guidelines. No hidden cameras. Part of the point of them is to deter crime, as well as detect it. So visible cameras are part of the plot. Your criminal sees the camera and thinks again. Your criminal knows he’s being watched. The knowledge that the cameras exist is enough to deter crime, at least in the first instance. Another part of the plot is that we don’t want the surveillance to be seen as a covert, Big Brother–style operation. The cameras are friends to the law-abiding. It’s your criminals who need to worry about them.”
He laughed again. He was an irritating guy, self-satisfied and smug. With a wet handshake. I carried on scribbling in my notebook. I noticed Murnau straining to read what I was writing without seeming to.
“One of the cameras’ sidelines is that they look out for each other, too. Each camera is sited so that I can check the status of its neighbouring device.”
I was beginning to feel bored. I let the lecture drift on, occasionally nodding or making an appreciative noise. I kept on writing in my book. I knew all this anyway. Standard surveillance industry crap. Everything was smothered in layers of assurance that it was all for the public good. Old-fashioned crime-fighting Dixon-of-Dock-Green sweet-talk. I thought I might as well throw a small spanner into his spiel. Test out a little suspicion of mine.
“So how much money does KHS earn from the contract?” I asked.
“I’m afraid that information is classified,” butted in Murnau. He looked at me sharply. “Standard business practice, of course. A company is under no obligation to reveal its finances to anyone other than the Inland Revenue.”
“Of course,” I concurred. Interesting. Murnau had responded quickly, but perhaps too quickly to notice exactly what I had said.
“Well, that’s the background. Anything specific you’d like to ask?” said Robinson.
“That seems to have covered almost everything I need for the article. But I would like to see the cameras in action from here. Would that be possible?”
“Certainly. Take a seat.” Robinson got up, while Murnau shifted, uncomfortably I thought, from foot to foot in the shadows. “Now, just take a look at that monitor there. General view down this street, one of our prime retail areas. Okay. Let’s just zoom in . . . .” The view on the monitor barrelled down the street, to focus with astonishing clarity on a man standing at a junction at the end.
“That’s incredible,” I said. I meant it. Apart from the fact that for once it wasn’t raining. The camera had zoomed in on a face maybe two hundred and fifty metres away. You could see the guy’s moustache. His glasses. You could practically tell how long ago he’d shaved his chin.
“And watch
this
,” gushed Robinson. He was proud of the hardware. “I’ll just take a still . . . .” There was an audible click from somewhere inside the control desk, and the image froze. “Now what we can do is check this bloke’s face on our database . . . .” Faces scrolled down the screen impossibly fast, dozens and dozens of them. Hundreds. Thousands. In just a few seconds the original still returned with the words NO MATCH emblazoned over it.
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