Anything that Simon Werks was personally involved in which his killing might derail. I would like that monitor with the concealed camera put into the hands of Frank Ludington in the office’s workshop, can you arrange that?’
Doyle pointed to the billionaire’s screen sitting on the chamber’s stone floor. ‘We can walk it around. And before you ask, Lukey Boy’s details are on the grid with GCHQ. All we’ve pulled so far is a false negative flashed on his car’s plates from a speed camera over a flyover in Hull. If he cards, cash-points or pays with plastic we’ll know about it.’
Agatha didn’t look convinced. ‘As an ex-policeman, I would be disappointed if Mister Wilder was so easy a pickup. He has experience of how our trawler casts her nets. Aside from Werks’ twin, is there anyone the victim was close to who we can talk to? Wife, girlfriend? Background information from the usual sources appeared a little sparse.’
Doyle looked meaningfully at the old woman and waved her personnel file at her. ‘Déjà vu, on that one. Pot. Kettle. Black.’
Witchley just smiled. ‘The less privacy the age allows, the more comfortable it feels to embrace the shadows.’ She indicated the vault around them. ‘And there are so many shadows down in the Firehall. But then, perhaps that’s the point; this is where information goes to fossilise.’
‘Saucy Simon didn’t have a wife or a girlfriend. We’ve traced a few payments to a high-class escort agency called Lace Flowers . Last used over twelve months ago, so not exactly a regular punter. I guess the noose and a few good bondage web site subscriptions were all he needed to keep him fluffed up.’
‘His residence is in London?’
‘Owns the penthouse in One Hyde Park.’
‘It will need to be searched,’ said Witchley.
‘Thorson, that’ll be you and Spads. Myself and Miss Marple here will go to interview the twin.’
‘I should see the corpse, before that,’ said Mrs Witchley.
Doyle made a face. ‘What’s looking at Saucy Simon’s stiff going to tell you?’
‘Not as much as listening to the rest of the dead,’ said Mrs Witchley. ‘But, still. Give your friend a nudge, see if the sedative’s been identified yet. Helen, perhaps you could accompany me. And Spads, do deliver the monitor to the workshop and see what Frank has to say.’
If the look on Spads’ face was anything to go by, he was dismissive of the idea. ‘Board swappers. What are they going to tell us?’
‘That sometimes what you run isn’t as important as where you run it,’ said Witchley. ‘Don’t be so supercilious towards the physical. Take the screen around to him and you might be surprised, young man. Not every problem is a coding error.’
***
The office’s workshop lay at the end of a maze of claustrophobic corridors, a doorless stone arch which gave onto a vaulted chamber. Spads poked his head in and glanced around. The room’s walls were mounted with rickety shelves, the clatter from thousands of hard disks removed from their computer casings filling the chamber. Spads realized he was looking at a battery farm for computer storage. Each drive was connected to a reading arm, feeding a slim cable that joined a snake of coaxial wiring bracket-punched into the ancient wall. The drives danced with the sound of a thousand chattering teeth, the shelves they were resting on shaking and vibrating from the spinning media. Down at the other end of the room, surrounded by crowded workbenches and plastic carts full of more hard disks, sat the man he’d been sent to find. Frank Ludington rolled between the benches on a wheeled office chair, his black fingers searching out pieces with a watchmaker’s precision from a litter of equipment scattered across the surface. Mid-fifties with Caribbean-white teeth, an arc of white in the under lit room. Ludington glanced behind as Spads hovered at the entrance, trembling with the heavy flat screen under his arm.
‘Come in,
Doyle pointed to the billionaire’s screen sitting on the chamber’s stone floor. ‘We can walk it around. And before you ask, Lukey Boy’s details are on the grid with GCHQ. All we’ve pulled so far is a false negative flashed on his car’s plates from a speed camera over a flyover in Hull. If he cards, cash-points or pays with plastic we’ll know about it.’
Agatha didn’t look convinced. ‘As an ex-policeman, I would be disappointed if Mister Wilder was so easy a pickup. He has experience of how our trawler casts her nets. Aside from Werks’ twin, is there anyone the victim was close to who we can talk to? Wife, girlfriend? Background information from the usual sources appeared a little sparse.’
Doyle looked meaningfully at the old woman and waved her personnel file at her. ‘Déjà vu, on that one. Pot. Kettle. Black.’
Witchley just smiled. ‘The less privacy the age allows, the more comfortable it feels to embrace the shadows.’ She indicated the vault around them. ‘And there are so many shadows down in the Firehall. But then, perhaps that’s the point; this is where information goes to fossilise.’
‘Saucy Simon didn’t have a wife or a girlfriend. We’ve traced a few payments to a high-class escort agency called Lace Flowers . Last used over twelve months ago, so not exactly a regular punter. I guess the noose and a few good bondage web site subscriptions were all he needed to keep him fluffed up.’
‘His residence is in London?’
‘Owns the penthouse in One Hyde Park.’
‘It will need to be searched,’ said Witchley.
‘Thorson, that’ll be you and Spads. Myself and Miss Marple here will go to interview the twin.’
‘I should see the corpse, before that,’ said Mrs Witchley.
Doyle made a face. ‘What’s looking at Saucy Simon’s stiff going to tell you?’
‘Not as much as listening to the rest of the dead,’ said Mrs Witchley. ‘But, still. Give your friend a nudge, see if the sedative’s been identified yet. Helen, perhaps you could accompany me. And Spads, do deliver the monitor to the workshop and see what Frank has to say.’
If the look on Spads’ face was anything to go by, he was dismissive of the idea. ‘Board swappers. What are they going to tell us?’
‘That sometimes what you run isn’t as important as where you run it,’ said Witchley. ‘Don’t be so supercilious towards the physical. Take the screen around to him and you might be surprised, young man. Not every problem is a coding error.’
***
The office’s workshop lay at the end of a maze of claustrophobic corridors, a doorless stone arch which gave onto a vaulted chamber. Spads poked his head in and glanced around. The room’s walls were mounted with rickety shelves, the clatter from thousands of hard disks removed from their computer casings filling the chamber. Spads realized he was looking at a battery farm for computer storage. Each drive was connected to a reading arm, feeding a slim cable that joined a snake of coaxial wiring bracket-punched into the ancient wall. The drives danced with the sound of a thousand chattering teeth, the shelves they were resting on shaking and vibrating from the spinning media. Down at the other end of the room, surrounded by crowded workbenches and plastic carts full of more hard disks, sat the man he’d been sent to find. Frank Ludington rolled between the benches on a wheeled office chair, his black fingers searching out pieces with a watchmaker’s precision from a litter of equipment scattered across the surface. Mid-fifties with Caribbean-white teeth, an arc of white in the under lit room. Ludington glanced behind as Spads hovered at the entrance, trembling with the heavy flat screen under his arm.
‘Come in,
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