computer to be equipped with a logic bomb primed to destroy all data if a stranger attempted to access it.
He was right. It wasn’t even password-protected. It was tempting to start opening files, but he knew that would leave the sort of traces Stacey couldn’t fail to notice. But he reckoned he’d be safe enough copying files on to the blank CD-ROMs he’d found in one of the desk drawers.
It didn’t take him long to realize there wasn’t much worth copying, at least from an information point of view. There were thousands of music files; according to Robbie’s iTunes software, it would take 7.3 days to listen to them all. A serious amount of music, but not likely to shed any light on Robbie’s murder. Also unlikely to serve any useful purpose were a few dozen saved game files, further evidence of his recreational software habit. Instead, Sam concentrated on the emails, the photos and a handful of Word files. Even with such ruthless culling, it still took three CDs to download what he wanted for himself.
Then he closed down the machine, confident that he was bomb-proof. Let Stacey play with it as much as she wanted. He had the head start he needed to make sure he was right out in front of the rest of the team.
Satisfied, Sam turned off the computer and returnedto the desk. Now he had something solid to work with, he minded less that he was stuck here when he should be out on the front line interviewing the key players. Bloody Jordan. It didn’t matter what he did, she refused to be impressed. He was going to have to figure out a way to go round her if he was going to make the headway he craved. Sill mildly pissed off, he reached for his cigarettes and lit up. It wasn’t like Robbie Bishop would be back to complain.
Carol stood in the shadows, watching the final act of Robbie Bishop’s tragedy play out before her. Not even the machines could keep him alive any longer. Denby had explained it to her when she’d arrived at the hospital. ‘As I told you before, ricin stops the cells manufacturing the proteins they need, so they start to die. We can compensate for that to some degree with machines, but there comes a point where the blood pressure falls so low we simply can’t get enough oxygen to the brain, and everything begins to shut down. That’s the point we’ve reached now.’
He was, she knew, in no pain. There was morphine to take care of that. And prophanol to keep him asleep. Although he was still technically alive, there was nothing left of what had made Robbie Bishop himself. It was hard to believe that the man she was watching die had inspired his team-mates to a memorable victory only days before. He didn’t look like an athlete any longer. His head was swollen to twice its normal size, his body bloated and distended. Under the thin bedclothes, his formerly beautiful legs looked like twin pillars. Robbie Bishop, sporting hero, idol of millions, looked utterly pitiful.
His mother sat by his side, both hands clutching limp fingers turned black from the lack of peripheral circulation brought on by the very drugs they’d given him in their attempts to raise his blood pressure. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks. She was only in her late forties, but the past couple of days had turned her into an old woman, hunched and bewildered. Behind her stood her husband, his hands tight on her shoulders. The resemblance between him and his son when healthy was striking. Brian Bishop was a living reminder of what Robbie would never become.
On the other side of the bed, Martin Flanagan stood, head bowed, hands clasped in front of him. Carol could see his face was screwed tight with the effort of not crying. After England’s last dismal World Cup exit, Carol had thought it was acceptable for real men to shed tears. Perhaps not for those of Flanagan’s generation, she thought.
As she watched, Robbie’s chest seemed to seize, his body to spasm. All over in seconds. When it was done, the heart monitor’s
He was right. It wasn’t even password-protected. It was tempting to start opening files, but he knew that would leave the sort of traces Stacey couldn’t fail to notice. But he reckoned he’d be safe enough copying files on to the blank CD-ROMs he’d found in one of the desk drawers.
It didn’t take him long to realize there wasn’t much worth copying, at least from an information point of view. There were thousands of music files; according to Robbie’s iTunes software, it would take 7.3 days to listen to them all. A serious amount of music, but not likely to shed any light on Robbie’s murder. Also unlikely to serve any useful purpose were a few dozen saved game files, further evidence of his recreational software habit. Instead, Sam concentrated on the emails, the photos and a handful of Word files. Even with such ruthless culling, it still took three CDs to download what he wanted for himself.
Then he closed down the machine, confident that he was bomb-proof. Let Stacey play with it as much as she wanted. He had the head start he needed to make sure he was right out in front of the rest of the team.
Satisfied, Sam turned off the computer and returnedto the desk. Now he had something solid to work with, he minded less that he was stuck here when he should be out on the front line interviewing the key players. Bloody Jordan. It didn’t matter what he did, she refused to be impressed. He was going to have to figure out a way to go round her if he was going to make the headway he craved. Sill mildly pissed off, he reached for his cigarettes and lit up. It wasn’t like Robbie Bishop would be back to complain.
Carol stood in the shadows, watching the final act of Robbie Bishop’s tragedy play out before her. Not even the machines could keep him alive any longer. Denby had explained it to her when she’d arrived at the hospital. ‘As I told you before, ricin stops the cells manufacturing the proteins they need, so they start to die. We can compensate for that to some degree with machines, but there comes a point where the blood pressure falls so low we simply can’t get enough oxygen to the brain, and everything begins to shut down. That’s the point we’ve reached now.’
He was, she knew, in no pain. There was morphine to take care of that. And prophanol to keep him asleep. Although he was still technically alive, there was nothing left of what had made Robbie Bishop himself. It was hard to believe that the man she was watching die had inspired his team-mates to a memorable victory only days before. He didn’t look like an athlete any longer. His head was swollen to twice its normal size, his body bloated and distended. Under the thin bedclothes, his formerly beautiful legs looked like twin pillars. Robbie Bishop, sporting hero, idol of millions, looked utterly pitiful.
His mother sat by his side, both hands clutching limp fingers turned black from the lack of peripheral circulation brought on by the very drugs they’d given him in their attempts to raise his blood pressure. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks. She was only in her late forties, but the past couple of days had turned her into an old woman, hunched and bewildered. Behind her stood her husband, his hands tight on her shoulders. The resemblance between him and his son when healthy was striking. Brian Bishop was a living reminder of what Robbie would never become.
On the other side of the bed, Martin Flanagan stood, head bowed, hands clasped in front of him. Carol could see his face was screwed tight with the effort of not crying. After England’s last dismal World Cup exit, Carol had thought it was acceptable for real men to shed tears. Perhaps not for those of Flanagan’s generation, she thought.
As she watched, Robbie’s chest seemed to seize, his body to spasm. All over in seconds. When it was done, the heart monitor’s
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