An Inspector Calls

Not really an Inspector, just a friendly pair of policemen who looked at the mess, asked for a list of missing items and called a locksmith out to secure the flat for the remainder of the night. In the morning I chased the landlord's agents for the cc tv coverage of the front hall (which later proved to be of such poor quality that the two suspects could have been French and Saunders or Brown and Darling), bought a new laptop and received a very worrying phone call from the helpful boys at Macace, my ISP, who suspected someone had been attempting to hack into my accounts.

It was a horrendous day: changing the passwords on everything from bank accounts to British Airways' exec club; notifying the Passport Office; clearing up the mess of papers and checking for more missing items whilst feeling oh so vulnerable with the memory sticks in my jeans pockets. I was fairly confident that the burglars had not got what they were looking for, which meant they would be back. James was adamant that for strategic negotiating reasons we should not reveal what we have on Vijay's transactions to LRI at this stage, so we could not preempt further attempts to seize the evidence  by simply sending the documents to LRI's Board, the press and anyone else we could think of, which was my first reaction.

James called in his firm's security advisors and his offices were swept for bugs. Then they came to my flat. They found two rather obvious bugs and a more subtle third. I was warned off using my mobile phone in the flat, or talking on the landline near the windows or using any nearby phone boxes. I could feel my stress levels rising and a sort of unarticulated panic. When I went out of the flat, I was constantly glancing over my shoulder; the skin between my shoulderblades burned from the pressure of unseen eyes; my ears were so tuned to footsteps behind me that I could not concentrate on conversation with shopkeepers. All I could think of was that 'they' must be watching me and 'they' would return.

By teatime I was in quite a state; I neither felt safe in the flat nor out of it and I thought wistfully of the peace of the past few days in the sunny woods increasingly flushed with spring. As darkness fell I packed, called a cab and raced down the stairs, certain I was under observation. By changing cabs three times, I made an erratic way to the mainline station and jumped on the first train heading in the right direction. After a long walk from the last bus, I wriggled through the gorse tunnel just before midnight.

The clearing was peaceful and the quavering hoots of tawny owls backwards and forwards across the fields were the loudest sounds. Moonlight feel on the tent which looked untouched, the inside zipped up as I had left it. I wondered where Stalky was. The biscuits I had left for him, expecting to be back within twenty-four hours, had gone and the 'porch' of the tent was untenanted. I crawled into my sleeping bag almost fully clothed and fell into sleep as densely as a smooth stone slipping into a pond.

The temptation of fate

The last time I posted, it seemed like the initiative was returning to me. My lawyer had prised a promise from my employers and for the first time in days I relaxed and began to look forward to the summer. 

For the next couple of days, James and I waited for the promised letter and with each hour of its failure to materialise, the tension rose. After 24 hours James lost patience and rang the head of HR, only to be told she was not available. Emails went unanswered, the head of the legal department did not return his calls. Things suddenly started looking very bad and I could hear in James' tone that he was worried as well as annoyed. After two days of the runaround from LRI, James started to put the pressure on with a threat of a claim on my part. In his letter he alluded to certain documents in my possession which were highly discreditable to LRI. "That should do it." He told me over the phone as I waited anxiously in the London flat. It certainly did.

When I returned from dinner with friends that night, the door of my flat had been forced and the flat ruthlessly searched. My desktop computer and the Asus mini laptop I have been using on my camping adventures were gone; filing cabinet broken open; cds and backup hard drive missing as well. My passport had been taken, yet the jewellery in the same drawer was untouched. Standing in the paper strewn mess of my office I rang James. His mobile number was engaged and I found out why when he returned my call a few minutes later. Security at his plush offices had just alerted him that his office had been similarly turned over. "Where are the LRI docs?" we asked simultaneously. His copies were in his office strong room which the burglars had not breached. Mine were on the USB drives which I have been carrying on me ever since I left London.

"It can't be a coincidence," I said, hoping he'd contradict me, "both of us being burgled at the same time." And then, "Where are you? Are you at home?" 

"Yes," he replied, "And it's all right, they haven't been here ... yet."

"Should I call the police?" 

There was a pause; finally James said "Yes, that's the right and proper thing to do. Besides, your passport has been stolen and that has important implications for the security of your identity. Call the police now and insist that they come round."

"How much should I tell them?" A longer pause this time. 

"You're shocked, frightened, confused. Your computers have been stolen and your passport. The burglars must have been interrupted because they didn't have time to  take anything else. We should talk about this tomorrow morning. I'll drop by on my way to work." As I said goodnight I caught the message in his words - my burglars might have left something as well as taking something - or perhaps my flat or phone had been bugged earlier. The feeling of security of the last few days had evaporated.