Trading Reality (16 page)

The fire was still at one end of the boathouse. There was a door at the side. Richard’s computer was opposite. It shouldn’t take me long.

I grabbed the key from the hallway, and ran to the door of the boathouse. The flames were clearly visible now, and were beginning to move along the roof. I unlocked the door. It was dark inside. A jumble of metal and plastic objects were illuminated by the flames. It was hot. I smelled burning wood, and something else pungent.

Petrol. Christ, what was petrol doing in there? If that ignited the whole building would go up.

I thought about stepping back outside. But I could see Richard’s computer silhouetted against the window. It was only two strides away.

I took them, swept the screen off the top of the computer, and gave the machine a good yank. One cable popped out, but another attached it to something immobile.

Damn!

The flames were licking along the roof. They had almost reached the rafters above me, although the floor was clear. Suddenly smoke was everywhere, shrouding the computer and the doorway. I coughed but I could still breathe. I stood rooted to the spot for a second, debating whether to run.

It would only take five seconds to free the cabling. God knows how much time had been put into developing what was on that hard disk. With Richard gone, it was probably irreplaceable.

I felt behind the computer for the cable. I pulled. It didn’t come out. I felt for screws. If it was screwed in I would never get it undone in time.

No screws, just a wire clip. I knew how they worked, I had one on my machine at Harrison Brothers. I fumbled in the dark and smoke, trying to get a good purchase with both fingers.

This was taking much too long. Click! One side out. Click! The other side out. I picked the machine up off the desk and ran for the door. I tripped over something hard and metallic, and fell, still clasping the computer to my chest.

There was a terrific whoosh, as though a hurricane had just been let into the boathouse. Flames rushed along the length of the roof. The whole structure was on fire. The heat suddenly became intense, stinging my face and my hands. The sound of the flames turned up from a loud crackle to a roar.

I pulled myself to my feet.

I was only halfway up when I felt a heavy blow to my back. It threw me spread-eagled back on to the floor. The breath was knocked out of me. I gulped for air. Instead my lungs filled with smoke.

I struggled to get up, trying to lift my body and the dead weight on top of it off the floor. It was like doing your fortieth press-up, when the thirty-ninth was absolutely and definitely the last you had strength for.

I couldn’t do it. I gulped and somehow swallowed air not smoke. My back hurt like hell. The heat was searing, tearing at the exposed skin of my face and hands.

I was only going to live a few more seconds.

I threw my body about on the floor, wriggling and writhing, kicking, trying anything to get myself out from under the beam.

Suddenly, miraculously, I felt the weight on my back ease off just a little. I heard a voice shout, ‘Get out will ye!’

I didn’t need to be told. I started a coughing spasm that seemed to have no end, and my vision was going black around the edges, but I pumped my legs until I had wriggled out from beneath the beam, somehow got to my feet, and grabbing the computer, threw myself through the open door. Strong hands picked me up and pulled me away from the heat and noise and smell.

I gasped, and felt the cold sweet air work its way into my lungs. I was laid down on my back, my chest heaving in front of me, my body overwhelmed by the heat, pain, grime and the large doses of adrenalin that were pumping round it.

Jim Robertson’s face loomed above me. His beard was black, his hair singed, his face covered in soot and sweat.

‘Is he all right?’ he asked.

‘Aye, he’ll live,’ said a voice.

I lay my head back on the grass, closed my eyes, and let shock do its work.

The next few hours were a jumble. Fire-engines came, and an ambulance. I was taken to the casualty department of a hospital, and soon found myself in a crisp clean bed. I fell asleep immediately.

I awoke mid-morning, feeling very tired and stiff, but still in one piece. My left hand was bandaged, and it stung. A burn. There were no other bandages on me. Nurses clucked around me, and brought me some tea and toast. I lay there for an hour or so, my strength seeping back. I tried to get out of bed, but I was told to wait until a doctor had seen me.

Finally, she came. She looked a couple of years younger than I. She was busy and tired, but friendly.

‘Well, Mr Fairfax, I hear you had a lucky escape,’ she said, looking at my chart. ‘You should be fine. The burn on your hand should heal in the next few days, and I don’t think there is any serious damage to your back. If it gives you any trouble, just go and see your GP. You can leave when you’re ready. There’s a woman waiting to meet you.’

For a moment I thought that Karen might somehow have heard about what had happened, and made it up to Scotland to see me. I was disappointed when I saw Rachel pacing up and down in the waiting area.

‘How are you?’ she asked.

‘OK, I suppose. A bit shaken.’

‘I’m glad you rescued the computer. Thanks.’

She gave me a half-smile. Risking my life for a computer had put me one notch up in her estimation. She had clearly thought I didn’t have it in me.

Personally, I couldn’t believe how stupid I had been.

‘Did you recover all the information?’ I asked.

‘Ah ha,’ she said. ‘It’s all there. Eight hundred megabytes’ worth. If we had lost that, it would have set us back months.’

‘Wasn’t it backed up?’

‘Sure it was. Richard would have backed it up every night. But on to a tape-streamer that he kept beside the machine. That burned in the fire.’

Somehow it didn’t surprise me that FairSystems had no proper system for keeping vital information safe.

I squeezed into her car, a bright yellow Citroën 2CV. Rachel drove me all the way to Inch Lodge. There was a group of police vehicles parked outside the house. We walked round to look at the boathouse. The brick walls were still standing, although the whitewash was heavily streaked with black. The roof had disappeared, apart from one charred beam pointing upwards. A police cordon was set up around the building and half a dozen men were picking through the remains, inch by inch.

‘Mr Fairfax?’ I heard my name shouted and turned round. There was Kerr, followed by Sergeant Cochrane. ‘Can we have a word?’

‘Yes, fine. But can I look at the damage, first?’ I asked.

‘Certainly,’ said Kerr. ‘Just make sure you don’t touch anything.’

We went inside the shell of the small building. Everything was black and wet. The plastic casings of the electronic equipment had melted and twisted. There was paper ash everywhere. Some things had survived, especially at the end furthest from where the fire had started. Some of the files strewn all over the floor were charred but still legible in places. A shelf of books seemed still to be intact. The smell of burned wood and plastic was everywhere.

I sighed. Another part of Richard’s life destroyed. I gestured to Kerr and Cochrane to walk with me to the house. Rachel followed us.

‘Tea?’ I asked.

‘You look as though you need something a bit stronger,’ said Kerr.

He was right. I found a bottle of Richard’s whisky, and poured myself a glass.

‘Want some?’ I asked Kerr.

‘Just a wee one.’

Cochrane shook his head.

The whisky felt good. I was shaken and tired, but I wanted to know what had happened.

‘Well, it was definitely arson,’ said Kerr, sipping his drink. My eyes rested on his red nose, criss-crossed with flecks of blue. ‘But so far we haven’t found anyone who saw anything. The fire started around three o’clock. Everyone was tucked up in bed. It would have been easy for someone to creep up to the house in the shadows of the rocks along the shore. The tide’s been up since then. No footprints.’

‘And everything was destroyed in the fire?’

‘Not quite.’

He held up an orange folder. It was wet, and black at the edges. But the papers inside were clearly legible. The title of the folder was in smudged black felt-tip pen. I could just make it out.

‘Look at the top sheet,’ said Kerr.

‘Jesus!’ she said.

‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ said Kerr. ‘Did you know about this accident?’

I explained what Willie had told me about the letter from the Bergeys’ lawyer promising to sue FairSystems, and the later letter withdrawing the threat.

‘So, this looks like blackmail,’ said Kerr.

‘It does.’

‘Have you heard from Doogie Fisher since Richard died?’

‘No, I haven’t. In fact, I know nothing at all about him apart from what you and Superintendent Donaldson told me.’

Kerr looked at Rachel. ‘Did you know about this?’

She shook her head, still staring at the letter. ‘No, Richard never mentioned it. But I’m not at all surprised Doogie would do something like this.’

‘Neither am I,’ said Kerr taking the folder back. ‘We’ve already had words with Doogie Fisher. It looks like another wee chat is in order.’

‘Did you find anything else in the boathouse?’

‘Not yet. Most of the papers have been destroyed, but it’s amazing what documents we can recover these days.’ He scowled. ‘We shouldn’t have missed this first time round. It was in among a wad of technical stuff. We’ll go through every scrap of paper this time, don’t worry.’

I thought for a moment. I knew very little about Doogie Fisher, or BOWL, but I wasn’t too keen on him publishing details of the motorcycle accident. It wouldn’t do FairSystems’ reputation any good at all. Indeed, it would be bad for the whole virtual reality industry.

‘Can you go easy on this man Doogie?’ I asked. ‘At least until I’ve had a chance to talk to him. I wouldn’t like him to publish this letter.’

‘No way, pal,’ said Kerr. ‘We’ve got a murder investigation under way here. I won’t let some petty blackmail slow it down. I’m going to have a word with our friend Doogie right now. And don’t try and talk to him first.’ He looked at me sternly.

‘Do you think this might represent some sort of motive for Richard’s murder?’ I asked.

‘It’s difficult to see how, directly,’ said Kerr. ‘But it’s clear that your brother and this Doogie were pursuing some sort of vendetta. They could have met at the boathouse to discuss this note, and had an argument that got out of control. Who knows? But I’m going to find out.’

With that, he left, leaving Cochrane to join the group picking through the charred shell of the boathouse.

As I shut the door on them, I turned to Rachel. She was sitting at the kitchen table, thinking.

With all that was going on at FairSystems, I hadn’t had time to ask her about BOWL. Suddenly, I was very interested in it.

‘So, tell me about Doogie Fisher,’ I said, sitting down opposite her.

She stirred, and her eyes focused on me. ‘Doogie used to work at FairSystems,’ she began. ‘I first met him when I was at Edinburgh University. He was with Richard and me in the Department of Artificial Intelligence. He was brilliant. Obsessive. He would work flat out on a problem for weeks on end until he solved it.

‘Then he kind of dropped out. He became a full-time political activist. He was involved in all the demos, against the poll tax, against the BNP, or just against the police. When the press talked about agitators from outside an area coming in to stir up trouble, Doogie, as often as not, was one of them. As you can imagine, the university wasn’t too impressed.’

‘Did this happen suddenly?’

‘Oh, no. He’d been a member of the Socialist Workers Party since school. His father was a steel worker at Ravenscraig until he lost his job after an accident. Doogie was convinced it was the company’s fault. He broke the legs of the manager he thought was responsible. He did two years for that. He’s a bitter man. He hates the way the country is run. He thinks the Tories are out to shaft the workers and the unemployed for the benefit of the English middle class.

‘Then, about four years ago, Richard tempted him to join us at FairSystems. He said yes.’

‘Why would Richard have done that?’

‘Doogie was special, and Richard recognised that. There are very few people in the country with Doogie’s intelligence, and his understanding of VR. We needed him. And it turned out very well at first. A disrespect for authority is healthy in programming, and Doogie had lots of that. He was also hardworking, he had a real passion for what he was doing. He threw everything into VR; he would usually work a seven-day week.’

‘Just like you,’ I interrupted.

Rachel smiled. ‘Even worse than me. He became interested in the psychology and philosophy of virtual reality; what it really means to spend long periods of time in a virtual world. And I think some of his conclusions disturbed him. I remember him saying that VR would just become another way for the Establishment to manipulate the masses. Here is a new technology that he believes in, and suddenly it turns out to be just another means of social control. When he originally joined Richard, FairSystems was no more than a small team working on a scientific problem. He began to realise that if it all worked out well, FairSystems would become a large profitable company, just like those that he had always hated. It depressed him. That’s when he joined BOWL, the Brave Old World League. Have you heard of it?’