The Wolf Who Cried Boy

8. Graham

The Harrismith Police Station was only a short distance away from Chateau Cherise. The great imposing building stood in the centre of the little town. I looked up at the building as I approached. It was a rather nice-looking building. Painted an antiquated yellow-cream, it's shape was not gormless like so many modern buildings. And it's size - being a good deal bigger than many of the surrounding buildings - was the only aspect that seemed out of place amongst the smaller buildings and little houses.

But, as I stepped through the glass doors, I realised that looks can deceive. The outside of the building may have looked pleasant enough but the inside was awful. As I walked in, my eye was immediately drawn to the great crack in the glass, a crack that looked sickeningly like a head had smashed into it. I began to imagine that a scuffle had taken place at that door between a police officer and a criminal and that at one stage the criminal was thrown against the glass, cracking his head as well as the pane.

My opinion of the place didn't improve as I took a few tentative steps inside. A florescent light hung over the entrance hall which buzzed incessantly and flickered casting a dangerous glow over the place. And the air smelled pungently of urine - as though some poor soul was so frightened, he wet not only himself but the whole building.

I hurried to look around, hardly daring to breathe. The smell was making me feel sick again. To one side was a set of steps next to a lift with a sign on it that said: "out of order". Opposite the lift was another set of glass doors -these ones still intact, if a bit grubby - with a corridor beyond. And in front of me was a short corridor which stopped in front of a large wooden counter. I read the tiny sign -hanging from the overhang of the counter top - which read "inquires" and hurried to it.

A woman in navy slouched behind the counter, her feet propped up on another chair. I saw no other people anywhere. The woman seemed half asleep even as her eyes rolled up to look at me. "I'm looking for Inspector James Bridget, please," I said, placing the little card he had given me on the counter.

The woman's eyes rolled slowly down from looking at me and for a moment she gazed at the card. "Inspector Bridget," she mumbled dreamily at first. Then something happened. It was as though someone had lit a fire underneath her. She shot up with surprising speed that I would have thought impossible. "Inspector Bridget," she repeated more enthusiastically. "Room 42- straight through the doors, my love," she pointed to the dirty glass doors.

I took the card from the counter and hurried back towards the glass doors. The corridor stretched quite a long way with odd numbers on the right and even numbers on the left but at last I made it: "38... 40... 42."

I knocked on the door. "Come," a voice said tersely. I pulled on the handle, pushed the door and walked into the room.

The room I entered looked as though it had been specially cleared for Inspector Bridget’s use. It was a square room with a window at the far end and another door near the one I had walked through standing to the right. On the opposite side, a stack of boxes that once held packets of printing paper stood, one box perched precariously on top of the other towering over the rest of the office. These boxes and the fact that a desk stood in the middle of the office with nothing but a laptop at one end and a telephone at the other made me think that the true owner of the office had vacated it for the duration of Inspector Bridget's stay.

Inspector Bridget was sat with the telephone cord dangling between the telephone and his ear. He seemed to be listening but as I walked in, he looked up, saw me and beckoned me in with a wave of his hand. I stepped into the room, closed the door and took a seat in front of him. It was then that I noticed that the large, almost square desk was, in fact, two desks pushed together. I sat quietly with my hands folded in my lap, an empty sea beside me.

"Yes, well thank you. Thanks," Inspector Bridget said into the receiver before putting the phone down. Then he looked up at me and smiled. "Miss Chesterton, Rosie," he crooned. "How can I help you?"

I hadn't really though what I was going to say, how I was going to ask the question that was plaguing me. "I – I don't think this has anything to do with your case," I began tentatively, needing him to know that I considered Paul innocent. "But, I need to try and help Paul regain his memory and I was wondering, could you tell me what this number might be?" I took the little piece of paper from my out of my coat pocket and handed it to Inspector Bridget.

He took the scrap of paper and his eyebrows dipped as he scrutinised the number. "Hm," he said after a few moments. "I believe I know someone who can help you." His smile returned. "Graham." He called out then turned back to me. "Rosie, you are about to meet one of the only legal hackers in the world," he said as I heard the door to the right open behind me.

When I had heard the word "hacker", it immediately conjured an image in my mind of a grungy man of large build wearing a baggy shirt that said something geeky on it and a pair of baggy denim jeans. I imagined greasy long hair that hung limpy at his sides and a sallow complexion brought on by nothing other than too much time spent in front of a computer screen and not enough time in the sun.

But, as I turned around in my seat, I was surprised to see a young woman, possibly slightly older than I am. She was wearing a tight pair of denim jeans that hugged her curves and were tucked into a pair of black leather boots. Her boots matched her black leather biker jacket and gave her an edgy sort of look. And rather than the grungy geek tee, she wore a low-cut plum coloured top that matched perfectly with her dark skin. The whole package which was punctuated by her cropped hair that had been flicked out at the ends made me think of a trendy super-spy.

"Rosie, allow me to introduce Sarah Graham, one of the best hackers out there and – as I said one the only few legal hackers." He smiled and we both stood up.

Sarah Graham nodded. "You alrigh'?" she asked and I immediately noted the southern UK accent.

"Graham, Rosie's part of the Valise branch of the Elliot case," Inspector Bridget explained. Sarah Graham stiffened. "She's legit," he responded quickly and Sarah Graham eased again. "But she was wanting know what this number means. I expect you'll probably be able to help better than I can."

He held out the little scrap of paper he'd taken from me and Miss Graham took it. A shadow of concentration passed over her face for a moment, but only a moment, then she nodded knowingly. "Sure," she said and turned back towards the door. Inspector Bridget gestured me to follow her and I did.

I'd expected the office of a hacker to be small, dark and dingy with three computers with blue screens being the only sources of light. I expected to see empty mugs of coffee, boxes of month-old takeaway food and piles of papers littered around the office so that it made walking without standing on something or knocking something over impossible.

But, as I entered Miss Graham's office behind the door, I saw entirely the opposite. The room was bright from the window that let in the cool midday light. It was a large room, almost the same size as Inspector Bridget's office though with less in it. One desk only stood in the middle of the room with two neat piles of paper standing on plastic organisers, one reading "in" and the other "out". Two chairs were placed side-by-side behind the desk. It was a far brighter and more organised room than I had imagined for a hacker. The only aspect of the room I had got right was the three computer monitors standing on the desk, their blue screens subtly lighting up the white wall.

Miss Graham walked over to the desk and sat down, gesturing to the seat beside her. I followed her and sat down beside her. "Right," Miss Graham said business-like. I barely heard her. I was mesmerised as I watched her fingers fly over the key-board – barely touching the keys. She stopped, turned to me and the spell was broken. "I assume you've heard of Swiss bank accounts?" She raised a single eyebrow questioningly and I nodded. "Course you have – in the movies. I'm always telling Inspector B that his American movies are ridiculous."

I stared at her for a moment utterly bewildered and she seemed to realise I needed more. "The point is what most American films call 'Swiss bank accounts'" – she punctuated the air with quotation marks – "are really just secret bank accounts – you know, accounts with no names attached. They don't have to be Swiss. In fact, a few countries have these banks that rely on other methods of account identification."

"That's what this number is, see," she said when I continued to look and feel confused. "Most banks these days use the ten-digit account number system for continuity's sake. It just helps if you need to transfer funds cross-continentally. You key in the number on your bank's internet site, type in the account holder's name, the bank's name and all the other necessary details and you can pay in money – even if you live here and they live in, oh, I don't know, Singapore.

"But, because these secret accounts don't use names, they've got to work a bit differently. Otherwise, it would be easy to mistake one bank account number for another. Sometimes a bank will use codes – a series of digits in a certain order which tells them that the account is theirs. But, more often, they'll add a number of digits extra so that it's easy to see the difference and not so easy to see that it's actually a bank account unless you know about the extra-digit system."

"So, it's a bank account number?" I asked trying to gauge whether I'd understood her explanation. She nodded. "And you can't find out who the account belongs to?"

Miss Graham shook her head. "No, because these accounts have no names attached to them. Rather useful you happen to be a criminal looking to store their ill-gotten gains."

"But, is there any way you can find out what's in this account?" I asked, starting to feel that bubble of rising desperation in my chest again.

"Well," Miss Graham drawled evasively. She turned back to the three computer screens. "I mean, I know what bank this account comes from." Her fingers flew across the keyboard again. "But, it's not all that simple. Like I said, American movies tend to get it wrong. They make it seem like the hardest part is getting the account number. Once you have that, it's easy.

"But, it's not that easy. Obviously, the banks need extra safe-guards other than account numbers. Otherwise, if you gave someone your secret bank account number to pay money in, they could just as easily transfer money out. So, most have a password.”

I blinked. "A password?" I questioned. "But, how would you know the password?"

"Ah, now that's the tricky bit," Miss Graham responded.

She turned the one computer screen towards me. I noticed that she was online on a banking website I had never seen before. Across the middle of the screen in great big letters was the word "password" and underneath it was a series of underscores. I felt that bubble of desperation rise up and morph into a lump in my throat.

"It usually requires a bit of knowledge about the person who owns the account," Miss Graham explained. "Most people make their passwords something familiar to them so that they remember it when they need to." She turned back to another screen. "I can give you a few hints though." Her fingers began to fly across the keyboard in a blur again. "It's eleven characters long. The first five characters are letters and the next six are numbers. The first letter is capitalised. Perhaps a name and then a date? It would be something important."

She turned around to face me as if she expected me to know or be able to guess the password.

I racked my brain. If this was Paul's account, what would his password be? What was important to him? What did he love more than anything else in the world?

"Try P-A-U-L-V-0-2-0-1-9-0," I said, thinking perhaps he loved himself above all else. The number I added on was his own birth date. Miss Graham typed the answer quickly and stabbed at the "enter" key. A green circle sprang into view and spun wildly for a few seconds. Then I heard a chime.

"Nope. That's not right," Miss Graham's words followed the chime. "Let's see," her fingers were a blur again. "The first two zeros are right as is the nine. But the rest is wrong. Uh oh." I sat up straighter as the lump in my chest, which had shrunk somewhat began to grow again. "It looks like there's a three-strike system – three goes to get it right or else the account will be locked and the account-holder notified. You have two more chances to get it right.”

I saw numbers in the right places, leaving the rest of the underscores blank. With the added pressure, I sat thinking again. What did Paul like? If not himself, what was his one love in life? I thought about his parents but not only did the names "Regina" and "Tom" not fit, I didn't think his parents could be his password. He didn’t care enough about them before the accident for it to fit. And the name Valise was too long.

"Try M-O-N-E-Y-0-9-0-7-9-9," I said. My mind had drifted back to the day we had first opened our pet grooming business. It had always seemed from that point forward that Paul's one love had been money. Miss Graham typed the answer and stabbed at the "enter" key again. The green circle reappeared spinning round and round. Then I heard the same chime.

"Wrong again," she said sounding a little disappointed. "But, it seems this time the O is right too."

Again, I saw her key in the right characters leaving the remaining underscores blank. Her fingers were still flying across the keyboard as I tucked my head between my hands, feeling divided. A part of me wanted to get the password wrong just so that I knew that Paul was not behind all this. But, the other part of me felt deceitful and shameful. I wanted to be right, just to avoid Paul ever knowing I had come here, that we had tried to hack into his account.

"Hang on," Miss Graham's voice made me look up. "There's a hint here – in case you can't remember your password. She was staring intently at her screen though her fingers were still blurred. "Makes no sense to me though. Take a look."

I turned my attention back to the screen with the password on it and saw one word: "Rosebud".

It was as though the lump in my throat became a lead balloon and dropped from my throat. My head began to spin a little. I breathed hard and my breath came out in a rattle. "Try R-O-S-I-E-0-3-03-9-5," I said.

I couldn't bear to even look. I tucked my head back between my hands and ran my fingers through my hair. I was feeling sick again now.

The chime rang out again. "We're in," Miss Graham shouted in triumph. I looked up.

The screen with the giant underscores had been replaced by what looked to be a list of names and numbers. "Hm," Miss Graham said peering at the list. "I don't recognise any of these names. Let's see what Inspector B makes of this." I watched as she typed something out then clicked her mouse when a print screen came up. A document printed from a small printer I hadn't noticed before over all the screens. She snatched at the print-out and hurried out the door.

My head was still spinning and I was beginning to feel a sudden heat creep over me. Looking at the doorway that Miss Graham just ran through, I quickly grabbed the mouse and clicked. The little printer spat out another identical-looking document.

I snatched it up and stuffed it in my coat pocket. I then picked up the scrap of paper that still lay on the desk and stuffed that in the pocket too before hurrying to the door.

"I really must be going," I told the two bodies in animated discussion, the one leaning over the other. I backed quickly towards the door. "Thank you so much for all your help." I turned in the passage and began to glide quickly down the corridor and back towards the glass doors. I burst through them, hardly daring to look around and made my way straight for the outside world.

The cold air stung my face but didn't stop the nausea. I made my way home in a daze. One fact bothered me and made me feel strangely uncomfortable. It was something I barely took note of before – something I hardly remembered. When Paul and I were still small and playing together, he liked to talk about my name. I could hear his small voice still. "Rosie, Rosie," he sang. "You know, that's like a small rose, like a rosebud. I'm going to call you Rosebud." From that moment on, he, and only he, had called me "Rosebud". It was his nickname for me. And gradually, "Rosebud" just became "Bud".

It may not have seemed like a big deal to anyone else but that one little memory plagued me relentlessly as I took the trip back to Chateau Cherise. I tried to run from it, tried to forget but it hounded me like a police dog.

It wasn't until I reached Chateau Cherise that my attention was diverted away form my memories. As I pulled into the driveway, I spotted a guy leaning against a bike. I had completely forgotten about the delivery Mum had organised. "I'm really," sorry I told the delivery guy as he thrust a polystyrene box at me.

He grunted. "It's already paid for," he growled then turned back to his bike.

I backed to the front door watching as he forced his helmet back on his head and then slipped quickly into the house. I leaned against the front door, barely breathing, just listening to any noise I could hear. I shut my eyes. Seconds ticked by. It was almost as though the delivery guy was hanging back deliberately. Then the sound of the motorbike engine rent the silence and I heard him zoom off down the road. For the first time since I had arrived home, I breathed out.

Then, thinking again about time, I ran to my room.