‘It’s fucking encrypted,’ Dan said, looking around at Zofia. He pulled out Mickey’s little red USB drive from his laptop and tossed it onto the desk. ‘Who’d have thought technophobe old Mickey would know how to do such a thing.’ He gave a deep sigh.
He had hoped the flash drive would provide a nice shortcut to finding out what Mickey had been up to. Instead, he was going to have to do things the hard way, try and follow Mickey’s footsteps as best he could. And it wasn’t as though he had lots of spare time. Two new cases had come in for review and Kristen still wasn’t answering her phone. Did she care about 4Justice anymore? Or was she so wrapped up with the documentary she was shooting – and the fucking French cameraman – that seven years of hard work counted for nothing? Zofia could do an initial analysis and review, but she lacked the experience and he would have to double-check everything himself. How on earth was he going to find the time to play detective? That was the priority. Also, where to start? He had given Mickey the barest of information and had left it up to him. He sighed again with feeling. He’d slept badly, waking up several times worrying about what had happened to Mickey and the police interrogation. Maybe there was an easier way – the right way, his conscience was telling him.
‘I think I should probably hand Mickey’s memory stick over to the police.’
‘You kidding me, Dan?’ Zofia pursed her purple-stained lips.
Her eyes were pale, glassy marbles, her disapproval palpable. It angered him. The fact that they were running fast to barely standstill was not his fault. It was Kristen who had left them all in the lurch without any form of warning. Zofia was young and full of misplaced idealism. She believed that the police were the enemy and, based on her own experience back in Poland, he couldn’t blame her. It was good to be a purist, but there was a time and a place. Sometimes you had to be pragmatic. Sean Farrell’s case was all that mattered and if he couldn’t get access to the information on Mickey’s flash drive, he was sure the police could.
He rocked back in his chair, folded his arms and exhaled loudly. ‘No, I’m not kidding. I shouldn’t have taken it in the first place, or held onto it.’
She shrugged and spread her hands. ‘So what you tell them? How you explain you find it?’
‘I dunno. Maybe that Mickey left it here in the office, or asked me to look after it for him. Something like that. I can’t obviously say I took it from his flat, can I? Not unless I want to be charged with something or other, and thrown in jail. That wouldn’t exactly help Sean, now would it?’
‘Then why you not tell them this morning?’
She had a point there. He wasn’t thinking clearly. The best part of the morning had been spoiled, so far, by his being interviewed by a different pair of brisk-mannered detectives – this time two cropped-haired women, one tall and thin and flat-chested, the other big-breasted and short, both dressed in ill-fitting black trouser suits. They looked like Laurel and Hardy, but without the humour or pathos. They had arrived at the office at nine a.m. and had refused to go away and come back again, insisting, in the intolerant manner of people who got up early and had a lot to do, on waiting right outside his room while he hurriedly dressed. Eve had been right about them. They apparently hailed from Hendon and worked for a murder investigation team. This time he had made of point of putting their cards in a safe place, to give to her later. Maybe she could get more out of them than he could. Like a well-rehearsed double act, they had gone over the same old ground, poking and prodding each detail of his original statement. They had told him bugger all in return. Unlike the previous team, there had been little reaction, either positive or negative, to the idea that Mickey had been helping with the investigation of a cold case. Whatever their view, it would be difficult, after all of that, to explain what he was doing with Mickey’s USB drive.
Zofia folded her arms across her ample chest. ‘You talk to Kristen?’
He sighed. In her eyes, Kristen could do no wrong and he often wondered if she had some sort of schoolgirl crush on her, as he watched her water and feed and nurture the little plant Kristen had left behind on her desk. He had even heard her talk to it, as she wiped the dust off its leaves. She had no concept of Kristen’s failings, but then why should she? All that was good about Kristen, her sharpness, her single-mindedness, her determination, her drive and ambition had made her the success she was. But they were negatives when it came to a romantic relationship, particularly anything long-term. He had played second fiddle for far too long. He supposed it was why he had lost her respect. He wondered why it had taken him so long to see it.
‘I can’t get hold of her,’ he said. ‘She’s not returning my calls.’
Zofia nodded sagely. ‘She’s busy woman. Maybe I know someone who can help.’
‘Who? You mean one of your on-again, off-again Goth boyfriends?’ He pictured a sea of interchangeable, young male faces, of varying nationalities, all with dyed black hair and an attitude. ‘Maybe someone you picked up in a bar, or a club, or on Tinder?’
Zofia smiled. ‘Nothing wrong with Tinder, Dan. You should give it a try.’
‘Maybe.’ At least she had a social life, he thought, which is more than could be said for him. ‘What I mean is, this is someone you know, someone you trust?’
‘Of course. He do favour for me. He owes me. He know what to do.’ She reached for the drive, but Dan shook his head.
‘I can’t let you have it, Zofia. Who knows what’s on it and how important it is. Something may happen to it. Then what do we do? How the hell would I explain that? I’d better hand it over.’
He pushed his hair back off his forehead and wiped his brow. Even as he spoke, he felt sick at the thought, imagining the afternoon unfolding at the police station, with yet more suspicion and questions. Another day gone, no further forward and no other work done.
‘You’d better get on with checking the names on that printout I gave you. If any of them tally with anyone to do with the Westerby racing operation, call me straight away.’
She raised her black-painted brows. ‘You’re bonkers. You really want to call police?’
He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling. The patch of damp from the floor above was getting bigger. Or was it his imagination?
‘Not really.’
She held out her hand again, nodding her head emphatically. ‘I don’t lose it, I promise. I’m sure I get it unlocked. You gotta trust me, Dan.’