Tag: Challenge

Writing about writing a book – Day 34

So it seems that Aitchison, the latest addition to the story, has reservations about what’s is or isn’t going on.  Aitchison is in charge of the security, not only the computer systems, but for everyone, and, of course, the first person the police would go and see.

It’s also time to bring in the CEO, a rather elusive character, but one who will have a great deal to do with our main character for a lot of different reasons.  But, for now, all the reader needs to know is that he exists,  and is very elusive for one particular reason.

Halligan is just another incidental character, significant only because he is also dead, and where there are multiple deaths, there had to be a conspiracy.  Aitchison, of course, is not what he seems, not that we know that yet, but for now, is a man with a problem.

 

I looked Aitchison directly in the eye, so he would not think I was lying. “Since the last debacle, I rarely see Halligan, and, when I do, I can assure you the last thing he wants to do is ask for favors. My last visit was to set up a laptop on his desk, not connected to the network. Does the CEO know anything about this?”

The CEO was almost the equivalent of the invisible man. No one could remember seeing him in the office, or when he visited the last time and was rumored to be at his Nevada ranch most of the time where he had an office. I remember setting up video conferencing for him a year or so ago, but I don’t think it had even been used.
But Aitchison was one of a few who had met him personally.

“I put a call in. He’s at a retreat with the American management team, going through some team-building exercises. I’m waiting for his call, but I think I can safely say he will deny everything, and plead innocence.”

“Has the staff members been questioned?”

“Yes. No one had anything constructive to add. But one other interesting bit of information that did come out of that briefing with the Chief Inspector was that Halligan also attempted to log onto this other network. That’s why I asked you about Halligan.”

Something was not right. Halligan was dumb when it came to computers, and only wanted a computer, not connected to the network. Of course, he needed a networked desktop for email, and sourcing documents, and perhaps the peek at a porn site through the internet, but that was the extent of his involvement. His knowledge of networking was solely based on the background papers I wrote for him when he needed information for meetings and conferences. He even had trouble logging into the network at times, because he kept forgetting his password.

I kept that to myself. Aitchison was probably not interested in anything that would refute his belief of what the situation entailed. He was partially wrong, but that was driven by fear.

“What had Halligan have to say about all of this?”

It was an innocent question, but it drew the sharpest reaction and given a sudden ashen look on his face, the catalyst of his fear. The mere mention of questioning Halligan had caused him to turn white.

“He’s dead too, and conveniently cannot answer any questions. The doctor said it was a heart attack.”

“Dead? Where, when?”

“Early this morning, at home. Apparently, his wife is away, overseas visiting relatives, and neither we nor the police have been able to contact her. I only found out when I tried to call him this morning after the news about Richardson broke, and the police answered the phone.”

He poured a splash of whiskey into the glass and drank it down. If it was to settle his nerves it wasn’t working.

“And you don’t think it was a heart attack?”

“Too convenient, far too convenient, especially so soon after the Richardson thing, and in the light of this other network logon episode. The very two people who allegedly knew about this network both dying of innocent causes? Something is going on here, and we have to get to the bottom of it, before the police, Interpol or any forensic experts, if that’s what they are.”

He poured himself another liberal drink from the bottle and offered me one. I declined. Too early, and my nerves were not yet getting the better of me.

A shiver ran down my spine. I was beginning to buy into his paranoia. It was beginning to look like anyone associated with this secret network found themselves on some sort of hit list. No wonder Aitchison was jumpy. He’d obviously come to the same conclusion I did. He’d been making inquiries, and it might be enough to have his name added to the list.

Telling me about it might just be enough to add my name to that same list. I looked at the whiskey bottle and the glass. It might be time for a nerve steadying drink.

Aitchison was still talking, and I just caught what he was saying, “… it’s your network. People will be asking questions.”

If he was trying to scare me, it was working.

He continued, “The police were rather skeptical when I said we didn’t know the network was in place. I’m to be interviewed next. You shouldn’t be far behind. Forewarned is forearmed.”

He turned to look out at the city. The view was magnificent, despite the wintry weather.
After a minute, he said, “At least there is one irrefutable fact. Richardson was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s the only explanation. I don’t believe he was trying to log into anything, but he was the victim of a random key combination or a glitch in the power supply to the system. You’ve seen it happen yourself when the power goes down momentarily and just enough time elapses to trick the computer into thinking it has to log in again. There was a brief power outage last night, during the storm. It might be worth investigating that event, and the effect on our systems.”

That was not a bad assessment, and one I hadn’t thought of.

“Then, there is something else, the Chief Inspector mentioned in passing, and that was one of the employees claims his building pass card had been stolen. Again, convenient, but the police are questioning him, but according to building security, that pass was used last night.”

“The person who killed Richardson?”

“If you put two and two together and get four. The police aren’t saying much, but that’s the inference I’d draw?”

“And the person with the missing card?”

“A janitor, or maintenance worker, not one of our people. He probably has a police record as long as his arm. You should go. And just a thought. If it was a desktop system connected to the in-house network, then one of our servers had to be used as a gateway. Tell me you installed those special log files when I asked you to last week?”

I had been in two minds about implementing that particular request because in part it when against the privacy regulations we had to adhere to.  After reading the relevant legislation and taking to a consulting security company who had advised we were well within our rights to do so, in the end, I did. And it had given several positive results immediately after its implementation, proving beneficial in tracking down people using the network incorrectly. I’m glad he remembered it. In the panic, it slipped my mind.
“Of course! How do you think I tracked down the troublemaker in Distribution?”

“Good. Start the investigation as soon as you bet back to the floor, but be careful to make sure no one knows about it, or what you are doing. People connected with this seem to be suffering from terminal health problems.”

I stood. I was not sure if I felt suitably inspired.

“I’ll let you know what I find.”

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

Don’t you just love those little notes from the editor?

Although it is necessary, it’s almost as bad as marketing.

For instance, I have been toiling over one of my books for a few weeks after my editor sent in back with an overall complaint that continuity needed some work.

Just that!

Continuity needs some work.

OK, I’ll admit that it was a story I wrote in the mid-1970s, and only just dragged it back out of mothballs. A quick read of the 200 odd pages, making corrections where needed, I thought it held together quite well.

Apparently not.

So, I sat down and read it again, and by the end, was surprised I had the temerity to send it to my editor in such a state.

What sometimes happens when working on a book over a period of time, is that unless you read what you’ve amended from start to finish again, you’re going to be in trouble.

And, yes, I’m in trouble.

So, I’ve had to go back to square one and draw up a continuity plan and then start filling in the gaps, and sowing proper seeds that grow into plot lines later.

That was a few months ago, when I was two-thirds of the way through with a 64-page notebook full of notes to keep the story flowing correctly, and inevitably, the book had grown to 436 pages and was likely to be longer by the end of the process.

And I can see it now, before I send it back, with corrections. New editor terse note to me: the book is too long. Cut, cut, cut.

So, getting back to the drawing board, reading and re-reading, adding and subtracting, and putting in the effort it requires, there’s only one part left to write, one that I keep putting off for some obscure reason.

Pity this wasn’t a movie. Cutting is so much easier.

The new first draft, which should probably be called the second draft, is a few pages over 500, but each and everyone is necessary to relate the story properly. I’ve read it twice, and it all makes sense. Let the editor make suggestions, and like always I will take them under advisement.

Enough with the complaining. It’s time to get back to work and get that last part done.

Then I can move on to the next project.

The importance of book reviews

Self-published authors are fully aware that perhaps the easiest part of the writing journey is the actual writing.  Well, compared to the marketing aspect I believe it is.

I have read a lot of articles, suggestions and tips and tricks to market the book to the reading public.  It is, to say the least, a lot harder to market eBooks than perhaps their hard or paper-back relatives.

This is despite the millions of eReaders out there.

Then there is that other fickle part of the publishing cycle, the need for reviews.

Proper reviews of course.

As we are learning, reviews can be bought.  And Amazon is out there seeking what it calls unverified reviews and the reviewers and it had brought with it very strict control over who can leave a review, especially on Amazon.

Another sote where reviews are taken seriously, is the Goodreads website where I have established a presence, and expect in due course, some reviews.

But, all the advice I have seen and read tells me that reviews should not be paid for, that reviews will come with sales.  It might be a difficult cycle, more reviews means more sales, etc.

And getting those first sales …

Therein lies the conundrum.  It is a question of paying for advertising or working it out for ourselves.  I guess if I were to get more sales, I could afford the advertising … yes, back on the merry-go-round!

And yet, the harder the road, the more I enjoy what I do.  It is exhilarating while writing, it is a joy to finish the first draft, it is an accomplishment when it is published, but when you sell that first book, well, there is no other feeling like it.

Writing about writing a book – Day 34

So it seems that Aitchison, the latest addition to the story, has reservations about what’s is or isn’t going on.  Aitchison is in charge of the security, not only the computer systems, but for everyone, and, of course, the first person the police would go and see.

It’s also time to bring in the CEO, a rather elusive character, but one who will have a great deal to do with our main character for a lot of different reasons.  But, for now, all the reader needs to know is that he exists,  and is very elusive for one particular reason.

Halligan is just another incidental character, significant only because he is also dead, and where there are multiple deaths, there had to be a conspiracy.  Aitchison, of course, is not what he seems, not that we know that yet, but for now, is a man with a problem.

 

I looked Aitchison directly in the eye, so he would not think I was lying. “Since the last debacle, I rarely see Halligan, and, when I do, I can assure you the last thing he wants to do is ask for favors. My last visit was to set up a laptop on his desk, not connected to the network. Does the CEO know anything about this?”

The CEO was almost the equivalent of the invisible man. No one could remember seeing him in the office, or when he visited the last time and was rumored to be at his Nevada ranch most of the time where he had an office. I remember setting up video conferencing for him a year or so ago, but I don’t think it had even been used.
But Aitchison was one of a few who had met him personally.

“I put a call in. He’s at a retreat with the American management team, going through some team-building exercises. I’m waiting for his call, but I think I can safely say he will deny everything, and plead innocence.”

“Has the staff members been questioned?”

“Yes. No one had anything constructive to add. But one other interesting bit of information that did come out of that briefing with the Chief Inspector was that Halligan also attempted to log onto this other network. That’s why I asked you about Halligan.”

Something was not right. Halligan was dumb when it came to computers, and only wanted a computer, not connected to the network. Of course, he needed a networked desktop for email, and sourcing documents, and perhaps the peek at a porn site through the internet, but that was the extent of his involvement. His knowledge of networking was solely based on the background papers I wrote for him when he needed information for meetings and conferences. He even had trouble logging into the network at times, because he kept forgetting his password.

I kept that to myself. Aitchison was probably not interested in anything that would refute his belief of what the situation entailed. He was partially wrong, but that was driven by fear.

“What had Halligan have to say about all of this?”

It was an innocent question, but it drew the sharpest reaction and given a sudden ashen look on his face, the catalyst of his fear. The mere mention of questioning Halligan had caused him to turn white.

“He’s dead too, and conveniently cannot answer any questions. The doctor said it was a heart attack.”

“Dead? Where, when?”

“Early this morning, at home. Apparently, his wife is away, overseas visiting relatives, and neither we nor the police have been able to contact her. I only found out when I tried to call him this morning after the news about Richardson broke, and the police answered the phone.”

He poured a splash of whiskey into the glass and drank it down. If it was to settle his nerves it wasn’t working.

“And you don’t think it was a heart attack?”

“Too convenient, far too convenient, especially so soon after the Richardson thing, and in the light of this other network logon episode. The very two people who allegedly knew about this network both dying of innocent causes? Something is going on here, and we have to get to the bottom of it, before the police, Interpol or any forensic experts, if that’s what they are.”

He poured himself another liberal drink from the bottle and offered me one. I declined. Too early, and my nerves were not yet getting the better of me.

A shiver ran down my spine. I was beginning to buy into his paranoia. It was beginning to look like anyone associated with this secret network found themselves on some sort of hit list. No wonder Aitchison was jumpy. He’d obviously come to the same conclusion I did. He’d been making inquiries, and it might be enough to have his name added to the list.

Telling me about it might just be enough to add my name to that same list. I looked at the whiskey bottle and the glass. It might be time for a nerve steadying drink.

Aitchison was still talking, and I just caught what he was saying, “… it’s your network. People will be asking questions.”

If he was trying to scare me, it was working.

He continued, “The police were rather skeptical when I said we didn’t know the network was in place. I’m to be interviewed next. You shouldn’t be far behind. Forewarned is forearmed.”

He turned to look out at the city. The view was magnificent, despite the wintry weather.
After a minute, he said, “At least there is one irrefutable fact. Richardson was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s the only explanation. I don’t believe he was trying to log into anything, but he was the victim of a random key combination or a glitch in the power supply to the system. You’ve seen it happen yourself when the power goes down momentarily and just enough time elapses to trick the computer into thinking it has to log in again. There was a brief power outage last night, during the storm. It might be worth investigating that event, and the effect on our systems.”

That was not a bad assessment, and one I hadn’t thought of.

“Then, there is something else, the Chief Inspector mentioned in passing, and that was one of the employees claims his building pass card had been stolen. Again, convenient, but the police are questioning him, but according to building security, that pass was used last night.”

“The person who killed Richardson?”

“If you put two and two together and get four. The police aren’t saying much, but that’s the inference I’d draw?”

“And the person with the missing card?”

“A janitor, or maintenance worker, not one of our people. He probably has a police record as long as his arm. You should go. And just a thought. If it was a desktop system connected to the in-house network, then one of our servers had to be used as a gateway. Tell me you installed those special log files when I asked you to last week?”

I had been in two minds about implementing that particular request because in part it when against the privacy regulations we had to adhere to.  After reading the relevant legislation and taking to a consulting security company who had advised we were well within our rights to do so, in the end, I did. And it had given several positive results immediately after its implementation, proving beneficial in tracking down people using the network incorrectly. I’m glad he remembered it. In the panic, it slipped my mind.
“Of course! How do you think I tracked down the troublemaker in Distribution?”

“Good. Start the investigation as soon as you bet back to the floor, but be careful to make sure no one knows about it, or what you are doing. People connected with this seem to be suffering from terminal health problems.”

I stood. I was not sure if I felt suitably inspired.

“I’ll let you know what I find.”

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

My cell phone is going off

I’m back to writing, sitting at the desk, pad in front of me, pen in hand.

The only thing lacking, an idea.

It’s 9:03 am, too early to start on a six-pack.

To be honest, the last thing I needed was a distraction, and, having forgotten to put my cell phone on silent, it starts buzzing, indicating there are new messages, or notifications from all those social media sites like Twitter, Facebook, WordPress, Blogger…

Then the advice from all the so-called marketing gurus starts to swirl around in my head, and instead of writing, I’m now fretting over my social media presence.

The more I read the more it bothers me that if I don’t have the right social media presence if I do not start to build an email list, all of my efforts in writing a book will come to naught.

That’s when I start trawling the internet for information on marketing and found a plethora of people offering any amount of advice for anything between a ‘small amount’ to a rather large amount that gives comprehensive coverage of most social media platforms for periods of a day, a week or a month. 

I move on to the people who offer advice for a cost on how to build a following, how to build a web presence, how to get a thousand Twitter followers, how to get thousands of email followers before the launch.

The trouble is I’m writing a novel, not a nonfiction book, or have some marvelous 30-page ebook on how to do something, for free just to drive people to my site.

I’m a novelist, not a handyman so those ideas while good is not going to help me.

Yet another problem to wrestle with along with actually creating a product to sell in the first place.

Except I’m supposed to be writing for the love of it without the premeditated idea of writing for gain or getting rich quick.

What am I missing here?

So should l be writing short stories and offering them for free to drive people to my site?  These would have to be genre-specific so it needs time and effort and fit into a convenient size story that will highlight or showcase my talent.

Some time ago I created a website on one of those so-called free sites, but it’s rather basic and not great. Of course, if I want it to be better, all I have to do is hand over a great wad of money I don’t have to make it better. So much for free!

I don’t think I will have a good night’s sleep again with all of these social media problems I’m having.

Oh well, back to the book.  It’s time to have a nightmare of a different sort!

Writing about writing a book – Day 33

So, it seems there’s going to be a few problems at work.  People are dying and no one really knows why.

Perhaps it has something to do with the computer systems and the network.  In the time this novel is set, networking personal computers was in its infancy and a veritable rabbit hole to go down.

We need to throw in a bit more background and involve others, but to what extent should these other people have influence over the storyline?

This is why there are puzzling aspects of Richardson’s death, and why is Aitchison so interested?

Says Aitchison…

…

“I knew the man better than most.  But even if he was going through a bad patch, and he was a little down, he would not have killed himself, not the way it was presented in his office.  The gun was in the wrong hand, his left hand.  He was ambidextrous to a certain point, left-handed in some cases, right-handed in others.  I knew for a fact he could only shoot with his right hand.  Same as golf.  But most people here would have seen him use only his left hand.”

I let his words sink in for a moment.  How could he possibly know what hand Richardson used for what purpose?  Perhaps golf because it was open to Company employees of any level, but shooting?

It came out of my mouth before I could stop it.  “How …”

“..do I know about his shooting hand?  I ran into him once at the range.  I used to shoot a few skeets back in the day.  Eyesight has gone to pot these days, so it’s been a while.”  The last part was related more for his own benefit.

Good enough answer.  I didn’t know Aitchison was a shooter.  The office grapevine wasn’t as extensively knowledgeable as it purported to be.

“Then is it possible someone here killed him?”

“Like the woman he was supposedly having an affair or her jealous husband?”  He laughed, and it wasn’t a particularly nice one.  “The mystery woman he was spending time with was his daughter.  He asked me to get her a job, but not to let on that he knew her.  Didn’t want her to think he was meddling in her affairs, and that anyone else would see it as favors from the executive to certain employees.”

Aitchison’s voice shook, and he poured another drink to try and steady his nerves.  He was agitated, I could see that.  And he had evidence that the police would need to help solve this crime.  Yet, by the way, he was talking; I don’t think he believed any of what he had just told me would be deemed as relevant.

And I was yet to see a reason why this would affect him so.

“Have you told the police this?

“Yes, but the detective they sent this morning wasn’t interested.”

Perhaps he was writing more into it than there was.  I didn’t know what to say and tried to look noncommittal.  Then he looked at me with a piercing stare, like the thought had just occurred to him.  “You two clashed, heatedly at times.  Did you do this?

Perhaps not quite the question I was expecting from him or anyone.

I was innocent, but I had one of those faces when someone puts a question to you rather abruptly, that reddened, either with embarrassment or guilt.  I had very little control over it.

But to be accused of murder?

I had an alibi; I was home alone in bed trying to sleep.  OK.  It was shaky but the truth.

“No.  Why would I?”

If I was going to kill anyone in this place, it would be Benton, or even Kowalski, another thorn in my side.  Richardson was not on the list, and never would be.  He was just old and pedantic, set in his ways.  He clashed with everyone at one time or another.  In my case, he was just cranky because I replaced his pen and paper accounting with a new application on that computer he refused to use.

He nodded to himself.  “I thought not, but I had to ask.”

He stood and went over to the window and looked out.  Taking time, I guessed, to collect his thoughts.  He remained there with his back to me for a few minutes.  It didn’t seem to be a long time.

Then he said, quietly, “It appears there’s something else going on, something that none of us in the Executive know anything about.”

I was not sure I liked the sound of that or the fact he was telling me.  This was not something I should be privy to.  But that still didn’t stop me from asking, “Like what for instance?”

“The existence of another network.”

“What do you mean?”  Another network?  There was only one.  I had seen it installed, and went through the teething process of getting it up and running, as every bit as hard as bringing a new baby into the world.

I would know if there was another network.  Wouldn’t I?

“Apparently there is supposedly another network of computers running in this office.  I have only the word of a policeman by the name of Chief Inspector Gator, a computer expert, and a consultant from Interpol.  How the hell did this information get to Interpol, of all people?”

I couldn’t tell him.  This was news to me.

“What evidence have they got that this ‘other network’ exists?”

“Intercepted telephone calls reporting a connection error to a network system by the name of Starburst.  There was a log entry on Richardson’s computer referring to it, about the time of a power failure last night.  The computer expert is down in the server room now looking for this other network.”

He swiveled around and looked down at me with a thunderous expression.  “You didn’t set anything up for Halligan, did you?”

“No.”

I was surprised he asked.  We had a discussion some months ago about the fact most of the AGM’s came directly to me to sort out their computer issues.  Halligan was the worst of all of them, using his position to browbeat me into doing work that could only be described as off-book.  Whilst strictly speaking, as AGM – Information Technology, Halligan was quite within his purview to make such requests; it was the security aspects that had to be signed off on before executing such requests.  It added a new level of pain to the approvals process and had made Halligan an enemy of both Aitchison and myself, even though I had nothing to do with it.

The problem was, like all members of the Executive, Halligan was his own worst enemy.  Each of their areas of responsibility was like fiefdoms, and none of them like the others to encroach on their territory.  Halligan’s was the only area that had a shared responsibility with security.  Soon after the new arrangements were put in place, and the fact I had been left off the list of people to be informed, Halligan had asked me to do some work, and not aware of any change in procedure, did it.

Then, playing the usual game of one-upmanship, Halligan told the Executive of the new initiative and left a smoldering Aitchison in his wake.  In the end, all it did was cause me trouble, a severe reprimand, and no apology for being left off the distribution list informing of the new arrangements.

It was still a raw nerve and he had touched it.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

My cell phone is going off

I’m back to writing, sitting at the desk, pad in front of me, pen in hand.

The only thing lacking, an idea.

It’s 9:03 am, too early to start on a six-pack.

To be honest, the last thing I needed was a distraction, and, having forgotten to put my cell phone on silent, it starts buzzing, indicating there are new messages, or notifications from all those social media sites like Twitter, Facebook, WordPress, Blogger…

Then the advice from all the so-called marketing gurus starts to swirl around in my head, and instead of writing, I’m now fretting over my social media presence.

The more I read the more it bothers me that if I don’t have the right social media presence if I do not start to build an email list, all of my efforts in writing a book will come to naught.

That’s when I start trawling the internet for information on marketing and found a plethora of people offering any amount of advice for anything between a ‘small amount’ to a rather large amount that gives comprehensive coverage of most social media platforms for periods of a day, a week or a month. 

I move on to the people who offer advice for a cost on how to build a following, how to build a web presence, how to get a thousand Twitter followers, how to get thousands of email followers before the launch.

The trouble is I’m writing a novel, not a nonfiction book, or have some marvelous 30-page ebook on how to do something, for free just to drive people to my site.

I’m a novelist, not a handyman so those ideas while good is not going to help me.

Yet another problem to wrestle with along with actually creating a product to sell in the first place.

Except I’m supposed to be writing for the love of it without the premeditated idea of writing for gain or getting rich quick.

What am I missing here?

So should l be writing short stories and offering them for free to drive people to my site?  These would have to be genre-specific so it needs time and effort and fit into a convenient size story that will highlight or showcase my talent.

Some time ago I created a website on one of those so-called free sites, but it’s rather basic and not great. Of course, if I want it to be better, all I have to do is hand over a great wad of money I don’t have to make it better. So much for free!

I don’t think I will have a good night’s sleep again with all of these social media problems I’m having.

Oh well, back to the book.  It’s time to have a nightmare of a different sort!

Writing about writing a book – Day 33

So, it seems there’s going to be a few problems at work.  People are dying and no one really knows why.

Perhaps it has something to do with the computer systems and the network.  In the time this novel is set, networking personal computers was in its infancy and a veritable rabbit hole to go down.

We need to throw in a bit more background and involve others, but to what extent should these other people have influence over the storyline?

This is why there are puzzling aspects of Richardson’s death, and why is Aitchison so interested?

Says Aitchison…

…

“I knew the man better than most.  But even if he was going through a bad patch, and he was a little down, he would not have killed himself, not the way it was presented in his office.  The gun was in the wrong hand, his left hand.  He was ambidextrous to a certain point, left-handed in some cases, right-handed in others.  I knew for a fact he could only shoot with his right hand.  Same as golf.  But most people here would have seen him use only his left hand.”

I let his words sink in for a moment.  How could he possibly know what hand Richardson used for what purpose?  Perhaps golf because it was open to Company employees of any level, but shooting?

It came out of my mouth before I could stop it.  “How …”

“..do I know about his shooting hand?  I ran into him once at the range.  I used to shoot a few skeets back in the day.  Eyesight has gone to pot these days, so it’s been a while.”  The last part was related more for his own benefit.

Good enough answer.  I didn’t know Aitchison was a shooter.  The office grapevine wasn’t as extensively knowledgeable as it purported to be.

“Then is it possible someone here killed him?”

“Like the woman he was supposedly having an affair or her jealous husband?”  He laughed, and it wasn’t a particularly nice one.  “The mystery woman he was spending time with was his daughter.  He asked me to get her a job, but not to let on that he knew her.  Didn’t want her to think he was meddling in her affairs, and that anyone else would see it as favors from the executive to certain employees.”

Aitchison’s voice shook, and he poured another drink to try and steady his nerves.  He was agitated, I could see that.  And he had evidence that the police would need to help solve this crime.  Yet, by the way, he was talking; I don’t think he believed any of what he had just told me would be deemed as relevant.

And I was yet to see a reason why this would affect him so.

“Have you told the police this?

“Yes, but the detective they sent this morning wasn’t interested.”

Perhaps he was writing more into it than there was.  I didn’t know what to say and tried to look noncommittal.  Then he looked at me with a piercing stare, like the thought had just occurred to him.  “You two clashed, heatedly at times.  Did you do this?

Perhaps not quite the question I was expecting from him or anyone.

I was innocent, but I had one of those faces when someone puts a question to you rather abruptly, that reddened, either with embarrassment or guilt.  I had very little control over it.

But to be accused of murder?

I had an alibi; I was home alone in bed trying to sleep.  OK.  It was shaky but the truth.

“No.  Why would I?”

If I was going to kill anyone in this place, it would be Benton, or even Kowalski, another thorn in my side.  Richardson was not on the list, and never would be.  He was just old and pedantic, set in his ways.  He clashed with everyone at one time or another.  In my case, he was just cranky because I replaced his pen and paper accounting with a new application on that computer he refused to use.

He nodded to himself.  “I thought not, but I had to ask.”

He stood and went over to the window and looked out.  Taking time, I guessed, to collect his thoughts.  He remained there with his back to me for a few minutes.  It didn’t seem to be a long time.

Then he said, quietly, “It appears there’s something else going on, something that none of us in the Executive know anything about.”

I was not sure I liked the sound of that or the fact he was telling me.  This was not something I should be privy to.  But that still didn’t stop me from asking, “Like what for instance?”

“The existence of another network.”

“What do you mean?”  Another network?  There was only one.  I had seen it installed, and went through the teething process of getting it up and running, as every bit as hard as bringing a new baby into the world.

I would know if there was another network.  Wouldn’t I?

“Apparently there is supposedly another network of computers running in this office.  I have only the word of a policeman by the name of Chief Inspector Gator, a computer expert, and a consultant from Interpol.  How the hell did this information get to Interpol, of all people?”

I couldn’t tell him.  This was news to me.

“What evidence have they got that this ‘other network’ exists?”

“Intercepted telephone calls reporting a connection error to a network system by the name of Starburst.  There was a log entry on Richardson’s computer referring to it, about the time of a power failure last night.  The computer expert is down in the server room now looking for this other network.”

He swiveled around and looked down at me with a thunderous expression.  “You didn’t set anything up for Halligan, did you?”

“No.”

I was surprised he asked.  We had a discussion some months ago about the fact most of the AGM’s came directly to me to sort out their computer issues.  Halligan was the worst of all of them, using his position to browbeat me into doing work that could only be described as off-book.  Whilst strictly speaking, as AGM – Information Technology, Halligan was quite within his purview to make such requests; it was the security aspects that had to be signed off on before executing such requests.  It added a new level of pain to the approvals process and had made Halligan an enemy of both Aitchison and myself, even though I had nothing to do with it.

The problem was, like all members of the Executive, Halligan was his own worst enemy.  Each of their areas of responsibility was like fiefdoms, and none of them like the others to encroach on their territory.  Halligan’s was the only area that had a shared responsibility with security.  Soon after the new arrangements were put in place, and the fact I had been left off the list of people to be informed, Halligan had asked me to do some work, and not aware of any change in procedure, did it.

Then, playing the usual game of one-upmanship, Halligan told the Executive of the new initiative and left a smoldering Aitchison in his wake.  In the end, all it did was cause me trouble, a severe reprimand, and no apology for being left off the distribution list informing of the new arrangements.

It was still a raw nerve and he had touched it.

…

© Charles Heath 2015-2021

A photograph from the inspiration file – 5

I found this:

The innocuous explanation for this photo is that I took it at my grand daughter’s little athletics competition, now most sensibly being held on Friday evenings.

For those who don’t know how the weather can be in Brisbane, Queensland, it is generally hot, particularly from November when temperatures are between 35 and 40 degrees centigrade.

But not only is it hot but humidity, the real problem, is around 100 percent.

So at the moment we have reasonably cool evenings, ideal conditions for the young athletes.

But, where a photo could be innocuous there can a more interesting, if not sinister description.

Lurking in the back of my mind, and perhaps a lot of others, that there might be an unidentified flying object somewhere in the sky.

Of course, there might not be any, but it doesn’t mean that we stop looking, or assume, sometimes that a moving light in the sky isn’t a UFO.

And its been said that humans are quite arrogant in thinking that we are the only people in the universe.

Personally, I don’t think we are, and I keep an eye on the sky every time I’m out at night, perhaps the most likely time we might see one.

The only issue I might have is that if I am that lucky to see one, or that it lands nearby, what I would do when confronted by an alien.

And, yes, there’s definitely a story in that.

Writing about writing a book – Day 31

I’ve been toiling away in the attic putting the pieces together, and continuing to get the story written.

This means I’ve almost got Chapter 2 somewhere near the first draft, or maybe second. I didn’t expect it would take this long, but most authors, I suppose, take a year, or more, to write a book.

It’s been hot in the attic and making it hard to think let alone write, but it is a good background for the steamy jungles of Southeast Asia, and it has given me a few more ideas for the background sequences.

I’ll share one or two of those next.

In the meantime, so far so good.

The following is the first musings of what Chapter 2 might read like:

The first sign of anything amiss was the three police cars outside the building, parked awkwardly on the plaza in front of the building. Their lights were still flashing, and several policemen were standing near them, talking.

As I went through the front revolving door I could see several uniformed and plainclothes police in the lobby. Two were by the door, perhaps to prevent someone from leaving, one on the desk with two of the building security guards, and another near the elevator lobby.

Temporary barriers had been erected, funneling everyone through a narrow gap, where building security was checking ID cards and building passes, both of which I handed to one of the guards. These men were new, I hadn’t seen them before, and, when I took a closer look, saw they were from a different security company.

I guess with the shooting of Richardson, our management had decided the existing building security was not good enough. These new men looked a lot tougher if the number of visible tattoos on each were anything to go by, the sort of men I’d call mercenaries or ex-soldiers.

One of them gave me a good look, at my face to see if it was the same as that looking back at him on the ID card. It was not a good photo of me, and it was no surprise he was having difficulty. I’d cut my hear, I was wearing glasses, and I have the makings of a three-day beard.

I had not intended to shave while I was on holiday, and, given the urgent nature of the recall, had no time to do so before coming into the office. Benton could have warned me of the new security arrangements, but it did not surprise me he didn’t.

He called over a friend, not by turning and motioning to him, but talking into his collar communication device. It was rather pointless, the man he spoke to was no more than 20 feet away. He checked me versus the ID photo and let me pass. Perhaps his eyesight was better.

In the elevator heading up to my floor, 18, I had a few moments to consider the implications. New security meant trouble. It had happened once before, and it caused all manner of trouble for me and my staff. We had been locked out of the server room then.

The elevator jerked to a stop, and the doors opened. Everything looked quiet. I could not see any police or security personnel. But waiting for me in the lobby was Benton’s personal assistant, waiting to tell me that Benton had been dragged off to an emergency meeting, one, she said, that involved share prices or stock exchange announcements. I could not make sense of what she was saying, because his hysteria had become hers. The events of the morning so far had traumatized both of them.

I smiled, trying to be my usual charming self, and then wrote a message on a scrap of paper, and gave it to her to give to him when he returned from wherever he had gone. I was quite sure it was not a meeting. She reminded me Aitchison was still waiting to see me, and then walked off.

I turned and pressed the ‘up’ button, and the doors to the elevator car I’d stepped out of opened. I stepped in, pressed the button for 59, and the doors closed. Once again I was alone with my thoughts in an elevator. I had just enough time to realize that the investigation into Richardson must be more serious than first thought if the police were still here in numbers.

I thought I might visit the 17th floor after seeing Aitchison, and see what was happening. A decision was still pending when the doors opened, and I stepped out into ‘Fantasyland’.
It was the unofficial nickname we mortals from the lower floors called the Executive levels. They were the top three in the 60 story building. The mortals lived on levels 17 through 22.

This level housed all the Assistant General Managers. We had six. Aitchison was the AGM – Security. Goldstein, who was waiting in the lobby for an elevator, was the AGM – Administration. He was a surly chap near the age of retirement and spent more time on holiday than in the office. Preparing for retirement some said. Others were less charitable.

He nodded in my direction as we passed, I came out of the elevator car, he went in. The doors closed behind me and I let the silence envelop me.

© Charles Heath 2016-2021