‘Yeah,’ he droned grumpily. ‘Probably. Just load the BIOS and repartition the…’

‘Tell you what, mate,’ Sam interrupted him. ‘Why don’t you just do it?’

‘Sam!’ Clare whispered; at the same time Patrick, looking offended, spoke.

‘I’m busy,’ he retorted. He turned petulantly and headed towards the stairs.

Clare gave Sam an annoyed look, but he ignored it. He strode towards the teenager and put a firm hand on his bony shoulder. ‘Tell you what, Clare,’ he announced. ‘Why don’t you give me and Patrick a couple of minutes?’ Clare looked unsure of herself, but with a meaningful glance from Sam she disappeared along the hallway and into the kitchen. Sam spoke to Patrick in a low whisper. ‘Here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘Either I go up into your bedroom and make a quick list of all the websites you’ve looked at in the past few hours and show them to your aunt, or you stop acting like a twat and help us out.’

Patrick blushed. He looked as though he was searching for a response, but his angry, embarrassed expression got in the way. ‘Deal?’ Sam asked.

Patrick managed to look, if anything, more surly. ‘Deal,’ he replied.

Minutes later, the three of them were in his bedroom. It was quite a big room, but still managed to be dingy by virtue of the musty, unwashed smell. Two computers sat next to each other, both of them whirring; Patrick glanced guiltily at them, then up at Sam who had to stop himself from smiling. He and Clare took a seat on the kid’s unmade bed, while he took the laptop from them and sat on the floor to open it up.

Patrick’s pallid face glowed in the light of the computer screen as his fingers tapped the keyboard deftly and speedily. There was no sound in the room; just the faint clack of the keys. Sam found himself holding his breath. A nervousness at the pit of his stomach.

Time seemed to stand still. He could feel Clare occasionally looking at him. He ignored her.

The clacking stopped. The glow on Patrick’s face dimmed and a confused expression came over him.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sam demanded.

Patrick pretended not to hear. He just stared intently at the screen.

And then the light returned, illuminating his acne-ridden face just as it had done before. He smiled, then turned to the two adults sitting on his bed.

‘Done it,’ he announced.

He tried very hard not to look pleased with himself as he stood up and nonchalantly handed the laptop back to Sam.

The screen was blue. A couple of familiar icons shone in the top left-hand corner. One of them was yellow and shaped like a folder. Underneath, in rounded white letters, were the words RED LIGHT RUNNERS.

The two adults exchanged a look.

‘What was the password?’ Sam asked distractedly.

‘“Max”,’ the kid replied.

Sam’s stomach knotted.

‘Not a very good password. Should be longer, have a few numbers in it…’ Patrick looked offended that nobody seemed to be listening to him.

‘Let’s go,’ Sam said, closing down the computer and standing up. As he walked to the door, he was aware of Clare fishing in her bag and pulling out a tenner.

‘Give my love to your mum,’ she said, handing the note to her nephew. Patrick grunted. He didn’t show them out.

Sam didn’t speak until they were on the street. ‘We need somewhere private,’ he said. ‘Somewhere to read this. Is there a hotel near?’

Clare shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Probably.’

They hit the pavement, Clare having to trot in order to keep up with Sam. It didn’t take them long to find a hotel – the Abbey Court in a residential road called St James’s Gardens, a shabby, converted house with rooms to rent which reeked of curry. They were eyed suspiciously by an immensely fat Pakistani woman who demanded payment for the night in advance and clearly didn’t believe the pseudonym that Sam gave off the top of his head. The room itself was far from comfortable. A TV in one corner, a lumpy bed with a floral bedspread in the middle. As a hotel room, it was the pits. For their purposes, it was absolutely fine. They sat together on the edge of the bed as Sam cranked up the computer. Using a single finger he entered the password to be greeted once more by the blue screen. He directed the cursor on to the folder, then double-clicked.

A window opened. It contained more icons, perhaps twenty. Each one was labelled with a name. Sam stared blankly at it. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, more to himself than to Clare.

Her hand brushed against his as her fingers searched out the mouse. She directed the cursor to one of the icons at random, then clicked it. A short pause and a grinding from the laptop’s innards. Then a document appeared.

There was a photo at the top, a young man with shoulder-length blonde hair. Beneath the photograph, laid out neatly and stretching far beyond the bottom of the screen so that Clare had to scroll down to see it all, was a startling array of personal information. His name, of course – Paul Harrison – and his address. But also his sexual orientation and a list of known previous girlfriends. His parents’ address and telephone number. His national insurance number. A list of three official police cautions. Parking fines. His Tesco Clubcard number. His likes and dislikes. Every car he had ever owned. Every job he had ever had, and the wage he had been paid. A graphic of his signature. His closest acquaintances – their names and addresses. A link to his Facebook profile and a list of all his ‘friends’. His credit card numbers and certain purchases that he had made. His bank account numbers and security details. Three e-mail addresses and their passwords. The IP address of his computer and the most popular websites visited from that address. Films he had seen, TV programmes he had watched. Music he listened to.

The list went on. Sam and Clare read it in silence. Neither of them commented out loud on the one word that had screamed out to them more than any other. It was written in brackets just beside the subject’s name. It read ‘DECEASED’.

Clare got to the end of the document long before Sam and impatiently closed down the window, immediately opening another. A different picture, different details. Still the same ominous label after the name: ‘DECEASED’. She browsed through more of them, spending less and less time on each one, until finally she brought up a document that made her catch her breath.

‘Bill,’ she whispered in shock. ‘It’s Bill.’

The photograph of Clare’s contact stared out at her. He had black skin with patchy, tightly curled stubble and a gappy smile. Like all the others, he was deceased. But they already knew that.

Sam stood up. He didn’t know what to say or what to think. Jacob was something to do with these red-light runners, he accepted that. But what? And if they were dead, what did that have to do with his brother?

They’ll tell you things, Sam. Things about me. Don’t forget that you’re my brother. Don’t believe them.

But he didn’t know what he should believe. He stared out of the window. It was beginning to rain and the drops slid down the pane, lit up by the streetlamps beyond.

‘Sam.’ Clare’s voice was unsure of itself. ‘I’ve found something else.’

He turned and approached her.

‘Look at this,’ she continued, spinning the computer around on her lap so he could see it. ‘His e-mails. He’s only sent them to one address, each time with one of these documents. There’s only one contact here – the person he’s sent them to.’

‘What’s his name?’ Sam demanded.

‘Alexander Dolohov.’

Sam’s brow furrowed. He had never heard the name before. ‘Any more details on him?’

She turned the computer back towards her and started fiddling, but as she did she shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she murmured. ‘His name and his e-mail address. That’s all.’ She looked up, bright eyed. ‘You could e-mail him!’