Chris Warwick was down Parkgate, looking at a new motor. He had this Fiesta, bit of engine work done on it, so it’s a good drive but Waxman – that’s the boss, editor at the Globe – had got him out in the suburbs covering arguments between dead posh neighbours and scratching up stories about footballers’ wives. So he needed something a bit more classy and his mate, Jim Farrell, worked down there as a salesman.
He was having a moan about Waxman to him. “Not a real editor. Means well but he’s a bit of a prat and he’s never worked on a real newspaper. Joined the Globe as a post boy, age fifteen, and there ever since. His idea of a good story would be a Man-U player getting bladdered at a charity do in Southport. Stick one to the Mancs and get the locals to buy copies.”
Jim’s only seemed interested in flogging his car. Three series BMW. “It’s got the V6 motor. Sixty thousand miles in only four years, so all motorway.”
“Waxman’ll change that. With the stuff he gives me, I’ll be crawling round local housing estates ’til I retire – or die of boredom. I need something meaty if I want to move down South. They don’t give a stuff in London about what happens round here. And if, like, by a miracle some footballer gets caught with his pants down he’ll pass it to somebody else. The only favours he does are for his Everton heroes.”
“Don’t let him get to you, Chris. You’ve got to keep a look out. Grab what comes and run with it.” Jim, pointed at the car. “Like this. You see, leather interior, virtually new. You’ve got to spot the right deal. That’s the trick in my game and it’s the same for you.”
“Says eleven grand on the sticker. You’ll have to do me a deal. What’s your best for me?”
“Depends. You want me to take the Ford off you?”
“Hang on a sec.” The phone started buzzing in Chris’ pocket. The office. A lecturer at the uni had been arrested for writing computer viruses. He got a number to ring. “Sorry mate. I’ll have to come back later about the car. They’re about to lock up some boffin and I need to be there.” He went back to the old Fiesta and dialled the number as he turned into the road.
“Hello. May I speak to Mr Fielding, please?” Best queen’s English. “Chris Warwick from the Globe.”
Turning left onto the A540 to Heswall, he showed the finger to a bus driver who hooted as he filtered in. Don’t they realise some people have got an important job to do?
“Yes. Half an hour or so. Do you know the Lyceum Post Office Bar? Yes. Bold Street. How will I recognise you?” He ended the call as he accelerated onto the motorway at Clatterbridge and headed for the Wallasey tunnel.
Exactly twenty seven minutes later he made his way through the shoppers in Lord Street. A glance at his watch and there’s time to pop into Primark and watch the shopping totty. Better to arrive second and let Fielding wonder if he’s being stood up. Gave him ten minutes and then he walked down the road and in through the side door – the restaurant section not straight into the bar. The girl on the desk looked up.
“I’m meeting a friend. Mind if I take a look?” The room was circular so he walked round to the right and looked through the doorway into the bar. A shortish, sandy haired feller – about thirty – stood by the counter watching the main entrance. Chris watched him for a couple of minutes without being seen. The bar was crowded and the booths were full but there was a table free against the wall on the balcony upstairs. Finally he walked across to the bar.
“Mr Fielding? I’m Chris Warwick. What are you drinking?”
“I’m OK, thanks.” Fielding points at the remains of a half pint of beer.
“Same again then.” Chris catches the barman’s eye. “A diet coke please. And another pint of that.”
“But I’ve—”
“Sorry to keep you. You know what it’s like. I was down on the Wirral interviewing a footballer’s missus. Could be a juicy divorce coming up.”
“Oh no.” Fielding protested as the barman came back with a full pint of Caines. Chris ignored him.
“Right. Let’s go up where we can talk.” Fielding gulped down the remains of his half and picked up the fresh pint. Chris led the way up the staircase and grabbed a seat with his back to the wall where he could see down and across the bar below.
“So. One of your colleagues has been a naughty boy, has he?”
“Your editor said you wouldn’t need to mention my name?” Wonder why he sounds nervous?
“You know a journalist has to protect his sources.”
“You must understand my position. My loyalty is to the University and its reputation. And obviously, er, I don’t have access to all the details of the case. We have to make sure people who jeopardise the security of the Internet... People who put public confidence in the whole structure at risk must be seen... not to profit by it.”
Chris nods and says nothing. Why so jumpy? Could there be more to this than meets the eye?
“As I say, there’s definitely nothing personal in this,” Fielding went on in a rush, “This case concerns one of our researchers, Dr Steven Corby. He was turned down for funding on a research project and he decided to take revenge by introducing some sort of virus into the University computer network.
“Fortunately he was detected and I could prevent any significant damage. But the police clearly had to be called in and this morning Corby was arrested and taken down to headquarters.”
“No damage, you say?” That was a bit of a let down. “What was he trying to do?”
“He may’ve been trying to destroy the entire data centre but I caught him early. There was a loss of data on at least one system. But, as I said, we controlled the damage before it brought the whole place down.”
“And it could have done that?”
“Certainly. A virus can bring a whole network to its knees if it isn’t contained.”
“Interesting.” Chris took out his notebook and began taking down the details. “But if I can’t attribute this to you, how can I write up a story?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t mind giving you a statement on the record.” Fielding was more relaxed now. “You need to speak to the police first. Talk to Detective Sergeant Jackman, he’ll fill you in on the police side of the story and put you in touch with me officially.”
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