The Invisible Assassin(7)

Jake closed down his computer, picked up his briefcase, then waved goodbye to Paul as he headed for the door. Paul was still on the phone and gave him a wave and a thumbs-up back.

Jake knew it would be the wisest thing to just leave the building and go home. Watch a DVD or two. Eat pizza. Take a walk. Do a gallery. But instead he went down to the basement level of the building, to the archives. He showed his pass to the security guard on duty, and then went to the central desk marked ‘Information’. Two librarians were there. One was busy at her computer terminal, too busy to take notice of Jake. The other, a middle-aged man, smiled at him.

‘Yes?’ he asked. ‘Can I help you?’

Jake proffered his pass to the man.

‘Jake Wells, press office,’ he said. ‘I’m looking to see if you’ve got anything on Sigma.’

‘Sigma?’

Jake spelt it for him, and the man typed it in. There was a pause, then the man gave a rueful smile.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Wells, the Sigma files are for Level Four and above only, and as you know, your pass is only Level Two. I’m sure if you talk to your department head, he or she will be able to access whatever information you want.’

Jake was hitting a brick wall. He forced a smile.

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that.’

He half turned to go, and then turned back to the librarian again.

‘Oh, one more thing,’ he said. ‘A different question this time. I had a call from a local paper, the Bedfordshire Times. A reporter called Penny Johnson. Do you have a file on her?’

‘I’ll check.’

Once again the librarian typed a few words in, and this time he nodded.

‘Yes, there is a file,’ he said. He pressed a key on his keyboard, and a small piece of paper rolled off the printer on the desk. The librarian tore it off and handed it to Jake.

‘Take that to the search desk and they’ll hand you the file. But remember, you are not allowed to remove it.’

‘I understand.’ Jake nodded. ‘Thank you.’

He went to the search desk at the other side of the archive library and handed in the slip of paper. The search desk librarian disappeared, then reappeared a few moments later with a slim file marked ‘P. Johnson’. Once again, Jake was instructed that he couldn’t remove the file from the archive library, and he nodded and took it to one of the tables.

There was a lot of information about Penelope Barbara Johnson. Her age, her address, her parents, her schools (even including her pre-school), where she’d studied journalism on a media studies course. Jake made a note of her phone numbers, both at home and at the office of the Bedfordshire Times. There was no note of her mobile phone number. The very last page was the most recent: the incident the previous day at the building site. The details were those written by Jake, detailing the protest at the site, and the transformation of the building worker into a hideous form, with additional material from Algernon Ainsworth about the mass hallucination caused by the leak of toxic gas.

So Algy has put the official spin on it, mused Jake. He turned over the page and saw on the back that someone had written in pencil, Sigma – poss Malichea?

What did ‘Malichea’ mean?

Jake returned the file to the search desk, thanked the assistant, then went back to the information desk and the librarian.

‘Sorry to keep troubling you,’ he said with a smile, ‘but there is one last thing I need to check on. Have you got anything on Malichea?’

‘How do you spell that?’ asked the librarian.

Jake spelt it out and the librarian typed it in, and then gave Jake an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry, that information is also restricted to Level Four and above. You’ll need to talk to your department head.’

‘I will.’ Jake smiled. ‘Thanks anyway.’

‘Jake!’

A familiar voice behind him made him turn. It was Gareth.

‘Jake, still here? I thought you’d be at home by now.’

Jake gave an apologetic smile.

‘There were just a couple of things I wanted to check . . .’

Gareth chuckled.

‘Be careful, Jake, or you’ll be turning into a workaholic. Believe me, it’s not a good thing to be. You never see your kids, your wife thinks you’re having an affair because you’re never at home . . .’

‘I’m not married,’ said Jake.

‘And being a workaholic means you’re never likely to be,’ said Gareth.

He gave Jake a sympathetic squeeze on the shoulder, the second that day. It struck Jake that Gareth had never done such a thing to him before, touching him like this. Was it some kind of secret Freemason sign, perhaps? Or maybe Gareth was gay and this was his way of hitting on Jake?